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deardjarin · 10 months

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lost in the fire - kendall roy x f!reader

| masterlist | succession sideblog: @kendollroyco | my kendall playlist

chapter summary: your boyfriend works too much. a oneshot, but if we're being real, i was thinking about kendall and the reader from thinking of a place, because i miss them. pairing: kendall roy x f!reader words: 4.6k warnings: SMUT (18+ only). soft dom Kendall. Somewhat unhealthy/jealous/co-dependent relationship but this is a Succession fic so like…what do we expect? Alcohol consumption - I don't know what Kendall's definition of sobriety is but he drinks a cocktail in this. a/n: i'll get back to tlou but i've had this partially written for like a year at this point. It started out as more of a manic Ken on a power trip type of fic but then it got really soft and fluffy because I am feeling touch-deprived lately so I’m sorry if I didn’t deliver enough evil ken for ya’ll. :/ OOPS!

**ALSO! I got rid of my taglist. Please follow @ftcwriting and turn on notifs if you would like to be notified when I update my works :) **

"We're like the Lewis and Clark of fucking." - Kendall Roy

Teetering down the hallway, you attempt to quell the outrageously loud click, click, click of your stilettos against the marble floor by shifting most of your weight into the ball of your feet and shuffling forward. It only makes it harder for you to balance while you attempt to put on the flashy gold hoop earrings your friend had insisted you’d wear. Of course, being quiet didn’t really matter, because you were the only person inhabiting the Hudson Yards penthouse.

As usual, you are running late. Famously, you always underestimate how long it will take to get ready for social events – your friends could attest to that. It is a bad habit that, despite years of trying to correct, you can never quite shake.

Beelining for the double doors of the multi-million dollar home, you are interrupted by your name being called out in a sing-songy voice. There is a blur of movement out of the corner of your eye, and you turn towards the familiar sound to find your boyfriend rounding the corner, a drink in hand.

The sight of him at home is rare these days, that for a second, you aren’t even sure if it’s really him. Maybe the place is being haunted by an eerily similar lookalike, or it could be some new ridiculous billionaire technology that he’d invested in– holographic messaging, or something similarly dystopian that you’d roll your eyes at when he tries to explain it to you. It’s fuckin’ next level, I’m telling you. I’m a fucking tech pioneer. You can practically hear him trying to sell you on it despite your distaste.

“Ken?” you cling to the clutch under your arm, unable to stop the shit-eating grin that works its way onto your face. “Hey. When did you get home?”

“Hey yourself,” he answers, poorly hiding a bemused smirk behind Baccarat crystal. “I just got in.”

That much was clear, even though his briefcase and coat had already been cleared away from the table in the entranceway, and his suit jacket draped over the back of a barstool. “Are you going out?” He lowers the tumbler and leans against the counter, but still keeps it close, one finger sliding along the rim.

“Yeah,” you approach Kendall cautiously. “...did you get my text? I thought I’d get ready here, we’re going to that place around the corner.”

He’d given you a key to his flat, even though the relationship was still pretty new – but decidedly not that new, given your history. Things were still moving quickly though, if you compare him to your past flings.

Kendall’s eyes close briefly in recognition, his brows pulling together as though he is scolding himself. “Oh, uh-huh, yeah….right.” It’s then, and in closing the space between you, that his haggard appearance becomes clear. You’re one of few who would probably even notice it. To the untrained eye his white dress shirt is impeccable, crisp and stark as usual – save for the lack of cufflinks, which you notice he’s discarded on the counter alongside his drink. His tie is still fastened tightly around his neck in a perfect half-Windsor. But salt and pepper stubble is sprinkled across his jawline, faint red hazy in the whites of his amber eyes.

Work has consumed him in the last few weeks. It’s been nonstop. And he is still home earlier than you have expected, even though the sun had gone down long ago.

Kendall’s hand wraps around your waist and you lean against him, accepting his affectionate peck on the cheek. “Hey, honey.” The cedar notes of his cologne, the acidity of the vodka on his breath, and the weight of his arm around you makes your stomach flip, even as he draws back, releasing you so he can sit on a barstool. It’s probably for the better, as the impulse to throw yourself into his arms and abandon your plans will become impossible to resist if you don’t leave soon.

It would be a lie to say his career hasn’t put a strain on things lately. Business trips, dinner meetings, weekend conventions all seem determined to keep him away from you. For the past few weeks, you’ve been deprived of him, forced to accept only minutes of his time – mostly sweet nothings and apologies whispered as falls into bed beside you, then presses of his lips on your cheek, still half-asleep in the early hours of the morning as he leaves the next day. You have been forced to savor those moments, even though they are hardly substantial. But you know yourself, you aren’t better off with someone else. He has always been what you wanted.

Still, lately you have been thinking about all his failed past relationships. There is certainly a…pattern. You’ve seen enough, and sometimes it feels like you are purposely ignoring the signs – Watch Your Step!, before falling into a pit of daggers.

He needed a break or he’d burn out, but you’ve learned when to bite your tongue and save those suggestions for when you are sure they won’t erupt. And you both aren’t always good at keeping arguments good-natured.

Kendall shifts in his chair so he can look you up and down – this time up close. “Is this what you’re wearing out?”

“Uhhhh, yeah,” you answer hesitantly, feeling your face heat up.

“Turn around,” his resting facial expression is already kind of indignant, but you can tell right now that he’s definitely frowning.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says. “I want to see.”

You shrug, but obey, unable to hide the way your lips quirk when you are back facing him again, hands on your hips. All you have to do is read the look on Kendall’s face to know that he doesn’t approve. And even though there is no way in hell you are going to change, the slight blaze in his narrowed eyes makes you think this is about to become a controversy.

“Do you have a problem?” you ask, feigning innocence, glancing down at the getup. The red dress barely covers your ass – is far more revealing than anything you’d normally wear, accompanied by stiletto heels that lace up your calves. Sure, it’s a lot, but you look good, and you’re going out.

“You’ll definitely be getting a lot of attention,” he conveniently doesn’t answer your question.

If you weren’t wearing lipstick, you would’ve bit your lower lip to keep your composure. Instead, you tilt your head and give him a coy smile. “You should come with me.”

Kendall glances down at the countertop and shakes his head, the comment causing him to drop the subject of your attire entirely. “I can’t. I’ve got a meeting first thing.” To be fair, he avoids the club scene most of the time, so it’s not a well-thought-out offer. Too much temptation. “But you look good,” he concedes.

“A work meeting on a Saturday?” you ask, ignoring the compliment. “Fuck,” you reach to take a sip from his tumbler. The vodka he keeps here is always chilled to perfection, so smooth it tastes like it’s melting off a glacier. “It’s that bad?”

He takes the beverage from your hand when you return it, shrugging before throwing the rest back, then standing to pour another. “Just the usual, la-dee-fuckin-dah….corporate bullshit.”

You frown and stare at your shoes, flexing your foot and inspecting its soles.

“Those heels don’t look very comfortable,” he remarks as he passes you.

“They aren’t.”

“Well then I’ll guess I’ll have to take you shopping to replace them.”

You feel yourself flush. “Let me know when you can fit me in your schedule.”

“Uh-huh,” Kendall ignores your jab, changes the subject. “How’s your job?”

“Same as yours. La-dee-fuckin’-dah corporate bullshit,” you repeat his words from earlier, lowering your voice slightly to mimic his cadence of speaking.

The sound of his warm chuckle makes your stomach flip again. “You want me to, uh, pour you one?”

“No, I should probably get going.” You sigh, pulling out your phone to text your friends that you are running behind, and you hear the clink of ice against crystal.

Then, his voice, deep and husky, directly against your ear. “Who’re you texting?”

You jolt in surprise at his sudden proximity. “Fuck! Sorry,” you clear your throat. “Uh….the group chat.”

Kendall’s arm reaches past you to place his drink on the counter, and you feel his fingertips brush the hair away from the nape of your neck. Then, his lips follow, pressing there gently, his thumb trailing down your arm and then back up again. You shiver at the contact, and it dawns on you how touch-deprived you are.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against sensitive skin. His hands land on your shoulders and begin to knead at the taut muscles there. You try to keep yourself tense, even as you feel your phone slipping out of your hands, the drafted text all-but forgotten.

But instinctually, you shift backwards to feel the weight of his chest pressed against you.“You’re all wound up,” Almost chastising. Every part of your body below your bellybutton clenches. It’s those hands, his hands. Hands that used to wrap around your throat, thread into your hair, hold your wrists in place. Pin you down, spread you open…. While you think about them, you let him work at the tension that he is partially responsible for, nodding and letting out a long exhale.

“Just a little.”

“When are you gonna quit that job?” he asks you.

You first, you want to say, but let the retort die before it could leave your mouth. “Hmmmmm,” you pretend to mull it over, but you’re only half-aware of things he’s saying to you. “I don’t know.”

“What kind of uh, feminist would I be if I let a girl as hot as fucking you have to worry about a job?”

You can’t help but snort, turning your head so his forehead bumps against your own. “Is that how feminism works?”

“Uh-huh,” he chides, breath tickling the shell of your ear. “Fucking whatever. I wish you’d just let me look after you.”

You are unable to find your voice to answer, because you remember through your needy haze that you are running late, and when he says things like that, it certainly doesn’t help you regain composure. It’s only after you straighten, trying to pull yourself out of the trance he’s worked you into, that you discover how close he has pinned you to the countertop.

“Ken-” you try to protest, but the way it comes out sounds more like you’re pleading.

“What is it?” Kendall asks, returning his lips once more to your neck, beginning to work them tenderly up the column of your throat, which makes it impossible for you to finish the rest of the objection. “I’ve missed you so much,” he pulls you back against him by your waist.

“Me too,” you sigh. “But I-,” you’re cut off when he grinds against you, already half-hard, and your pelvis hits the granite lip of the countertop. It hurts, just for a second, but the pain is quickly replaced by warmth. Kendall pulls his hands away and you’re only held in place by his hips, the metal of his belt buckle cool against your sacrum. The dress you’re wearing is so thin it feels like there’s nothing separating him from your bare skin.

“You what?” he prompts when you remain silent. You know him well enough to hear the self-satisfied smirk on his face, and his nails rake up and down your arms.

It’s a little petty, but you are hesitant to give yourself over so easily to him. To abandon your evening, just because he’s finally decided to see you at a reasonable hour. Of course, if your friends knew you were late because you were with him, they wouldn’t care. Kendall had been a well-kept secret until it was impossible to deny his existence in your life. But they were all a little too supportive of the relationship, since it meant they suddenly had guaranteed access to any club VIP section - and you perpetually pick up the bill. Not to mention the first-class, luxury accommodations they get on girls trips.

There was more to it than just being late, though. You had always been willing to do anything for him, even before you were dating. He told you to jump, you asked how far? He gave you one pleading look from underneath those thick lashes – and you folded. And Kendall is very aware that he’s your weakness. So you constantly try to convince him otherwise, lest he get too comfortable. And really, after his neglectful behavior, did he really deserve you without any opposition?

“Kendall,” you manage to turn slightly. “I’m going to be late.” Wriggling some more in his grip, but it’s only enough to bring you face-to-face, looking up into his stormy eyes.

He studies you carefully, like he might let you leave if he senses enough conviction. “I don’t care.”

You might’ve laughed, if it weren’t for how stern he sounds. It almost scares you. Almost. Hoping to soften him, you fit your thumb into the dimpled fabric of his tie, and use it to drag him forward, offering a tender kiss on his cheek. Returning the embrace, his stubble scratches your face as he smiles against you. He reaches behind you for another sip of his drink and his unoccupied hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass through the silky fabric.

You are burning, fire licking up your arms, your neck, your face. It’s too much, to have him so close and not be able to have him. All the tension building with nowhere for it to go. When he pulls back, you lean forward.

It’s a little rough at first, because you are so desperate, tasting the vodka, drawing his bottom lip between your teeth. Kendall is the one who softens you, cradles your jaw to draw you closer, opens his mouth and deepens the kiss, so deliberate and practiced that you’re unable to speak when he pulls away.

“Tell me something,” full lips so close to yours that they brush your own when he speaks, your eyes fluttering shut. His touch coasts up your sides, up your arms, landing on your shoulders. “Who are you showing off for in this?” Kendall hooks his pointed finger around a spaghetti strap of your dress, and lets the elastic snap back against your skin. You savor the sting it leaves behind.

Admittedly, there’s a third reason why you’re being so withholding. He’s so spoiled, so used to getting what he wants, whenever he wants it. Not just from you. And when he doesn’t get it, he becomes petulant, fiery. You’ve learned that if you piss him off just enough, you don’t have to ask him to fuck you within an inch of your life. He just does.

So, you decide to poke the sleeping bear, shrugging and crossing your arms like it’s nothing, giving him a demure smile. “You wouldn’t know him.”

Kendall’s nostrils flare as his hand rises to grip your jaw – tightly. “Uh-huh.” Even if you’re only joking, the very idea of you dressing up at all – let alone like that – for anyone except himself, pisses him off. “Fuck you.”

“You’d like to, wouldn’t you?” you try to keep your voice even, but it sort of loses the steadiness you were hoping for when he hooks a finger behind your knee, dragging it up across the expensive, soft wool of his slacks to peg around his hip.

The bruising kiss that answers is clearly intended to erase the smug look on your face, and it works – your breath hitching, the hand on his tie tugging him closer. Kendall seems to speak without saying anything at all, grabbing your opposite thigh and lifting until you are perched on the edge of the countertop.

It’s getting real, but you still haven’t decided if you are actually going to stick around. The way he looks right now, however, swings the pendulum farther into the side of staying in – red lipstick left behind on his cheek, shirt wrinkled, tie hanging loosely around his neck. You wanted to make him look even more wrecked.

Kissing him again, his hands begin to roam, tugging the dress off your shoulders and freeing your tits. “Shit,” He dips his head to sloppily mouthing at the newly exposed skin. “Knew you weren’t wearing a fuckin’ bra.”

“Ken,” you squirm when he latches onto one of your nipples, pinching the other between two fingers. “I really need to get going.”

“Not yet,” he hums, the vibration of his voice against your skin makes the space between your legs ache. “If you’re going to go out in this fucking dress, I don’t want you to forget who you belong to.”

You squirm in his grip – not because you want to get away from him – but because you want to see if he’ll pin you in place, be even rougher. He does. He is. “Stop that. This isn’t a fucking negotiation.”

Well, okay.

He kneads into your thighs now, one of his hands dipping beneath the skirt of your dress that’s already so short he’s only an inch or so away from your already-soaked panties.

“Fuck,” You tilt your head back to look at the ceiling, like you might find some self-control there, some will to resist him, but it’s about as cold and uninspiring as the rest of the apartment. “Please.”

Kendall lets out a dark chuckle, pushing aside your thong and brushing his knuckles against your damp cunt. He loves to tease, and right now is no exception. His touch isn’t enough to satisfy, so you press yourself forward to seek it out yourself. You don’t dare meet his eyes, which you can feel are watching you intently, admiring how you keen and arch and whimper in frustration. Still, you aren’t quite ready to beg.

Thankfully, you don’t have to. Without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, groaning as he does, his thumb finding your clit.

“Yes, Kendall, that’s–” you don’t finish the thought because you aren’t entirely sure what you actually have to say. His digits curl, attentive, practiced – tuned in to exactly what you like, what you need. You grip at the fabric of his shirt that’s bunched around his elbows. Despite how intense meeting his gaze right now will be, you turn to look at him anyway, surprised by the affection and warmth you find in his eyes.

“You try so hard not to be,” he says while he continues to stare you down. “But you’re always so fucking good for me.”

Your stomach flips, partly in shame, partly because of how good it’s always felt to be seen by him. Throbbing around him, feeling your pleasure build, but he withdraws his fingers from you before it can crest. An embarrassing noise leaves you, squeezing your eyes shut.

The clink of his belt unbuckling immediately snaps you back to reality, and you hike your dress further up your hips, shimmying out of your thong. It’s pitiful, the way you don’t want to delay any longer the feeling of him inside you.

He strokes himself in his hand, lines his cock up, and pushes a piece of hair off your face.

“You want me?” he asks, and you bob your head enthusiastically. “Tell me, then.”

“I want you, Kendall. Please, I want you so bad.”

“Yeah you do,” he mutters, and wastes no time jerking forward to enter you.

Though you’d had him plenty of times you never could quite get used to the feeling – he’s big, of course, and it’s always electric, the blood in your veins buzzing, your hands tightening on his shoulders.

“Relax, honey,” Kendall says, feeling the way your body tenses at the intrusion, placing a hand on your sacrum, one between your shoulder blades to steady you.

He presses his hips forward until they are flush against your own, bottoming out inside you, pausing. It’s welcome at first, a chance to catch your breath, to let out a shuddery exhale - temporarily appeased by the way your cunt stretches to accommodate him, and he’s so close to you after so much time spent away. You’re embarrassed at how badly you’ve needed this, how reliant on him you’ve become, but he always feels so good.

Kendall stays still for long enough that you grow frustrated, and you use his tie to pull him closer, loosening the knot and rutting against him until he presses his thumb into the crease of your hip and thigh so hard you are forced to stop. Once you do, he starts to move, thrusts slow but deep, lips pressing hastily between panting breaths.

“Fuck, it’s been too long,” he laments.

Despite everything, you can’t help but talk back. “You don’t say?”

Kendall doesn’t like that at all, his hips snapping at a punishing pace, which seems more like a reward than anything else, his hand clasping your jaw roughly, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t speak to me like that,’ he warns.

An involuntary, low moan leaves you. It’s overwhelming – always is. You aren’t used to sex with someone you feel so connected to, or with a lover who is so attentive to your needs, who effortlessly strikes a perfect balance between rough, passionate, and tender.

You wrap your legs around his waist, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, anxious to run your hands through the smattering of hair on his chest, feel the warmth of his skin under your palms. Even if it’s not possible, you want to be closer to him. Needy. So needy. You’ve heard it from him before, and would probably hear it again. He is right, and in moments like this, you can never bring yourself to care. You like it.

He’s watching you so intently, and the rest of the city might as well be too. He basically lives in a fishbowl, you’re surrounded by windows that offer panoramic views of the glittering lights of the city. The only reason you have any privacy at all is because of just how high up you are, no one else can actually see you right now. Even if they did, what could possibly happen? Kendall loves to take advantage of this – he’s taken you up against the cold glass windows, has let you sink to your knees in front of him out on his balcony.

“What are you gonna tell your friends when they ask why you were so late tonight?” he asks. “Gonna tell them you were letting me spread you open on the fucking counter?”

“God,” you stutter out, always shocked by the things that come out of his mouth when takes you like this, voice deep and firm, enunciating each syllable like he’s giving a speech – frustratingly collected. It makes you ache that much more. “I missed you,” you whimper, pulling his shirt off his shoulders. As much as you want it fully off, not just hanging loose around his elbows, you don’t want him to release you from the bruising hold he’s got you in. This would have to do.

“Uh-huh,” Kendall answers by fucking into you even harder, his pelvic bone kissing your clit with every thrust, and your nails etching crescents into his biceps. “I know. I’m sorry.”

His head falls to your shoulder in a brief moment of humility, lips working on your neck, and you feel your release fast approaching. In moments like these, you don’t doubt how he really feels. He gives it all away, tries his best to make it up to you, and it’s so easy to forgive him. Kendall’s fist wraps around one of the stiletto heels of your shoes, lifting your leg to hook over his shoulder and drive his cock deeper into you. He’s perfect, feels perfect, there’s no one else who makes you feel the way he does. When his thumb begins to rub delicate circles around your clit, you’re gone.

Your body tenses up for so long, you actually think you might’ve psyched yourself out. And then everything releases. Kendall coaxes you through your orgasm, deep voice muttering things that are either unintelligible or that you wouldn’t dare to repeat out loud, and you cling to him while your cunt pulses in waves. It lasts for a long time, or at least it feels like it does, he slows just to fuck you through it, so you can both savor how good it feels. That’s it. That’s my good fucking girl. When he tries to kiss you, you oblige, but it’s open-mouthed and sloppy since you’re struggling to breathe and can’t stop whispering his name.

“Ken, you’re so good, it’s so good–”

You know he likes to be praised just as much as you do. He cuts you off with a deep kiss, moaning into your mouth and vibrating every nerve in your body as he follows you over the edge, spurred on by your own release. He buries his cock inside you as deep as he can, you feel warm and full and complete.

For what feels like a few minutes, you remain tangled with one another, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You can feel the soft puffs of his breathing against your skin, which is now damp.

Eventually, he draws back, kisses your cheek and tucks himself back into his underwear. You pull the straps of your dress back into place and when you push yourself off the counter, realize your legs are trembling and you wobble.

Kendall reaches to steady you. “Go sit down,” he squeezes your arm and you barely manage to stumble to his couch before you’re slumping against the cushions and struggling to unlace the strappy heels you’ve still got on.

He joins you a moment later, placing a glass of cold water on the coffee table and kneeling to help you out of your shoes. You can only imagine what you must look like, because he looks disheveled, shirt still hanging open, pants unbuttoned, your lipstick still smudged on his cheek. Exhausted as you are, it makes you want him all over again.

He settles next to you, pulls you to his chest, and you wrap your arms around his waist, leaning up to whisper softly in his ear. “Ken,” he turns his head slightly, cheek pressed against your forehead. “I love you.”

From this angle you can only see the corner of his eyes, the way they crinkle as he looks down bashfully, eyelashes nearly touching his cheeks at your admission, words he so rarely has heard before. Words you have vowed to repeat until he believes you – because sometimes you think he doesn’t. Still, he answers. “I love you, too.” You close your eyes a moment, your heart rate returning to normal, and take in one final deep breath. Content.

“I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” Kendall says eventually, hands in your hair, tugging gently so you’ll look up at him.

“Right,” you nod. “Honestly, I don’t know if I even want to go out anymore.”

“But you got all dressed up,” he smirks.

“Look where it got me.”

He laughs. “Uh-huh. You knew what you were doing what you fucking put that shit on.”

You don’t deny it, feeling your cheeks grow warm. It’d be too easy to stay with him, to slide across his lap and kiss him until he takes you again. But your phone dings on the counter, and you know you can’t abandon your friends entirely. You sigh, pulling away from Kendall and looking him in the eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he encourages. “I’ll wait up for you.”

#kendall roy

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deardjarin · 10 months

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miguel o'hara eats pussy like his life depends on it. his tongue is like magic ; always hitting the right places, making you see stars. he loves laying between your legs, arms locked around your thighs as he devours you, never letting you wiggle away. pull his hair and he let's out the most animalistic noises. "pull my fucking hair, baby. use my face." he'll growl out, encouraging you to grind your hips against his nose & waiting tongue. he doesn't stop until your brain is complete mush from cumming so much.

#miguel o'hara

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deardjarin · 10 months

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Touch (Part 2)

Miguel O'Hara x reader

GIF by milesmoralespilled

(AO3 Mirror), Part 1, Main Masterlist

summary: Miguel tries to win you over. It doesn't go as planned.

warnings: pwp!!, light f-dom, praise kink, fem receiving oral, slight m-sub, lots and lots of begging. Miguel is a switchy mess bc i said so. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: I am so normal about him!

wc: 2.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You avoid him like the plague.

The next day, he wakes up to an empty house with you leaving for work earlier than usual. He traipses around the apartment, looking for you before he realises he is chasing your ghost: the traces of scent left on sheets. And he is shameless when he walks into your shared bedroom, rolling around in your heady perfume and pressing the rumpled bedsheets to his nose. Aching, always.

His own work takes him out of the apartment for most of the day, but he makes a point to slip away early. Little things, mostly: the bodega down the street for your favourite noodles, fresh lilies from a florist on the way, and some chocolate and sweet things to say sorry. He sets up in the kitchen, putting the flowers in water; hands flying on the chopping board to make dinner in time for when you come home.

Miguel is a careful man; very particular about the way he lives his life. As such, he hunkers down a plan to apologise, showering you with affection and attention to make up for the past few weeks. He wants to be home when you get back, welcoming and warm before he slips out for his… night shift. His other job, that you are just as important as, a fact he wants you to remember.

He can hear you a couple floors down, the tell-tale click of your heels down the corridor and into the elevator. He scrambles to the front room, lounging on the sofa but ready to take your coat off and ask about your day. To go through the routine you had before all the late nights and lonely evenings.

"Evening, mi vida." He looks expectantly towards you as you walk in. "How was work?"

You kick off your shoes and breeze into the bedroom - without so much of a glance at him. Deflating, he watches as you shut the door behind you. Miguel sinks into the sofa cushions, sighing in frustration.

~~~

And it stays like that for the next couple of days: you make it a point to ignore him. Short curt responses after work; Yes Miguel, No Miguel, I put it on the counter, Miguel. He misses the pout of your lips, the pet names, hell, he'd take it if you shouted and screamed at him to take the edge off. Nary a Miggy in sight. You give him nothing.

Ever perceptive, he notices the little things. You still make his lunch when you can, and leave out food for him when he has a late night and forgets to eat. Small, gentle reminders that you care for him. Not that he ever doubted it, of course.

When he clambers in through the back window, the one you always leave open for him, it's late. He clutches his side, groaning at a nasty bruise at his ribs. His mask comes off in the dim light, and he rubs his temples. Sore and exhausted, he pads through to the kitchen.

Despite the lack of adrenaline, his senses are perfectly attuned. He smells it first: the sticky scent of arousal, so fresh he can taste it in the air. There's rustling, and as he pads closer to the bedroom door, he is almost bowled over by the obscene sounds of your fingers buried in your cunt. The door is slightly ajar, and he watches you on silk sheets with the light of the moon spilling onto your frame. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other curling into your pussy, and your eyes screwed tightly shut. His legs weaken at the knees when he realises you're in one of his sweatshirts, desperately humping your hand for release.

For the past week, you've barely spoken to him, let alone touched him. He's reminded of that when his cock throbs in his suit. He palms himself absentmindedly, the heel of his hand providing juust the right amount of pressure, before catching himself. He feels like a pervert, watching you get off like this, desperate to bury his tongue between your thighs. Space, you need space, and he is trying his hardest to give it to you. Shaking his head, he tears himself away.

Until he hears a heart-wrenching moan erupt from beyond the door, that is. You curse quietly, Spanish swear words you've clearly heard from Miguel. He doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry when you quicken your pace - trying to chase that high. You're frustrated, he can tell, removing the hand at your mouth to squeeze your tits through his sweatshirt.

With a flash of pink tongue, he wets his lips and gently opens the door wider, leaning on its door frame. You are too occupied to notice him watching, hand on his cock through his suit. And he just waits for a moment, eyes hungry as he matches your speed when he rubs himself through the fabric. Your hips arch slightly, making his cock jump.

"Mierda, baby." He breathes and your eyes snap open, as you remove your hand with a hiss.

Miguel stands at your door, windswept hair, beautifully flushed and ruined - all from just watching. He continues to palm himself shamelessly, never breaking eye contact.

"S'not enough, is it?" He says, shakily.

He's right and you know it. You can't cum, no matter how hard you try, because it's not the same. Not the same as your boyfriend's long fingers and thick cock pounding into you, persistent.

He stalks closer and repeats himself. "Not enough for my princesa, hmm?"

You groan, covering your face. "Miguel-"

"-fuck off, I know, I know." He sinks to his knees in front of you, by your side of the bed. "Let me help you, mi vida."

You hesitate. He looks gorgeous in the half light: hair tousled, looking up at you through heavy eyes. Despite your better judgment, you get closer, legs spread and hanging off the edge of your bed.

"You want me to beg? Because I will, princesa, I will. Te necesito tanto, tan desesperadamente. I need you so much it hurts. Look, please," He reaches over to paw at your thighs with big, gloved hands. The scent of your cum is overpowering this close - heady and addictive with his enhanced senses.

"...l-look at what you do to me. Turn me into a mess, can't think about anything else. Solo en ti, princesa. Only you."

You card your fingers in his hair and he is reverent. Migeul babbles in broken English like a madman, barely taking a breath. You feel the familiar heat of arousal in your gut. He's making you wet, without even trying.

Cruelly, you jerk his head into your pussy, and he laps you open with a ready tongue. He moans into it, sucking at your clit and lips as you hump his face. His own hips cant at the same pace you've set, rubbing his tented lower half onto the bed frame for some relief.

Slobbering and messy, he moans into your cunt - hands on your ass to push you further onto his face. He's eating you out like a man starved - and the noises he makes are pornographic. You squeeze your thighs around his head, and he almost cums right then, his hips bucking dramatically upwards with a groan. Watching him unravel is too much to bear, and so you tug at his hair, separated with a wet pop. Head tilted slightly back, chin and mouth glistening with your wetness, he flashes his fangs at you with a lazy grin. You're both panting, breathless from the carnality of it all.

You clench around nothing; so, so close.

He wipes his slick mouth with a forearm, before placing his head by your knees.

"Look how pretty you are, mi sol." He slaps your pussy, watching it pulse in response. "So wet. Is this all for me?"

Hesitantly, you bite your lip and nod. Miguel rubs circles into the meat of your thigh, sucking hickies into the skin.

"I can make you feel so good," He whispers into your skin - so tender it makes you shiver. "I just want to make you feel good. Whatever you want, I'll give it to you. Sé que soy tuyo para siempre mi señorita hermosa. I'm yours… fuck… I-I'm yours…"

You won't be able to wrench him from your cunt; you know that much. When he gets like this, delirious from the heat of your two bodies together in the low light, he turns into something else entirely. Maybe it's to do with his changed DNA, something more than human at the crook of his chest - animalistic and primal.

You cradle his cheek, so he's forced to look up at you.

"I want you in me, Miggy. Want it to hurt."

His eyes flutter shut as he nods frantically, moving to stand up. You help him out of his suit, snug around his crotch until his cock springs free. His tip is an angry red and weeping so much precum it spills onto the sheets. His frame is delicious; broad shoulders and strong arms, stocky with the muscle of his thighs and solid middle. Miguel is beautifully tan, with the prettiest cock you think you've ever seen. Long, thick, and curved to the side. You've dreamt about the way he hits your spongy walls in all the right places.

He helps you out of his sweatshirt, with expert fingers. He practically drools at the swell of your tits, kneading them with one palm as he clambers over you. There's a content sigh as he rubs his cock, sticky with precum, over your slit; head back and hips moving like water. He pulls a moan out of you when he finally - finally - fills you up in one swift movement.

"Mierda, baby, does that feel good?" He croons, rubbing slow circles into your clit. His answer comes when you clench around his cock, creating a creamy ring around its base. He crouches to nip at your skin with his fangs, rolling his hips into yours.

He knows your body better than you do, and it feels good. You claw at his back in pleasure, babbling his name into the crook of his neck. But it's not enough. It's like he knows when you're on the edge, about to come, slowing his hips until they simply grind on your clit, rutting against you. It's cruel, and it causes tears well up in your eyes.

"F-Faster. Please." He just keeps grunting, barely speeding up. A slow, steady, relentless pace, picking up his hips until his cock is almost out of your hole, before filling you in one firm movement.

He keeps going, and going, until your hips shake and your bodies heave with the effort. His back is red and raw with scratches as your pleas fall on deaf ears.

"Harder, Miguel. Please, baby, I need it. F-Faster. Want it to hurt." You sob softly, drunk on pleasure.

He kisses up the tears that fall. "I know, mi vida. But it's not what you need right now, hmm?"

He whispers soft praises into your tits, your collarbone, the fat of your cheeks. Anywhere and everywhere that needs it: so he can tell you how beautiful you are and how much he cares for you. He swallows up your moans with his lips on yours, sending you over the edge. That tight string at your gut snaps, and you cum so hard you see stars.

He doesn't stop, picking up the pace in the aftershock of your spasms. You can tell he's trying hard not to follow, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. When your orgasm subsides, he pulls out with a shaky moan.

"One more, f'me, baby. Una más para mí, just one more."

You hum into his kiss, and he hooks his hands under your knees. Placing your legs over his shoulders, he sinks back into you with a satisfied grunt. Now, he pounds into you - the slap-slap of your ass against his hips resounding in your little bedroom. You make a mess, creamy cum spilling where your bodies connect. You force him deeper, harder, with a hand on his neck.

"M'close, Miggy." You tug the hair at the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

"Good girl, good fucking girl." His hips stutter when he feels you clench at his words. "I want to cum with you, princesa. Can I cum? Please, baby, c-can I cum?"

Gently nodding, you wrap a hand around his throat and pull him in for a kiss - so consuming and heady it makes you want to sink into his skin. You clamp down on his cock, and his pace slurs; before Miguel spills his warm cum deep into your cunt. His hips still, and he curls into you, deepening the kiss.

Exhausted, you separate, side by side. Still sticky with his cum, he wraps you up in his arms, pressing shaky kisses to your temple.

"I love you." He says, gently.

"Doesn't feel like it, sometimes." You breathe.

You both lay there, completely still. He furrows his brow, terse with the words he wants to say but can't. All he can do is pull you closer, and envelope you in the warmth of his skin.

"Miggy?" You say after a while.

He hums.

"I love you too."

#yesssssssssssss needy miguel #miguel o'hara

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deardjarin · 10 months

Note

Request: [Mig + Tall!M!Reader], comfort or smut its your pick

Miguel suffers from uncomfortable side-effects of the DNA alterations (think werewolf where its a full moon-y occurance) that makes him more feral and bitey, Reader comforts him.

relieve me

— pairing; miguel o’hara x male reader

cw: sub!miguel, dom!reader, comfort / soft in the beginning, hand job (reader giving), praise, lil bit of degradation.

word count: 1.1k

miguel seemed more agitated than usual as he bounced his leg up and down in anticipation, unable to keep still in his position. you reached for his head, wanting to brush a few strands of hair off his face but he grabbed your hand before you could do so. his talons dug into your skin causing you to yank your hand away, hissing in pain as you glanced down at your palm. they didn’t pierce your skin but it hurt enough and miguel noticed it, turning his head away in shame.

“what’s this about?” you questioned as you approached him once again, careful with your movements so you didn’t set him off. miguel let out a small huff, still unable to sit still until you put a hand on his shoulder. it seemed to ground him as he began to loosen up, noticing how his body softened at your touch.

he turned to look up at you with sad eyes, slightly intimidated by how you towered over him. you noticed his deep crimson hues as he spoke, “the serum– it’s not working that well right now, it’s suffocating to deal with the alterations,” he murmured, a slight whine becoming apparent in his voice towards the end. you swiftly moved your other hand to run your fingers through his hair, pulling his head toward your body and he obliged by burying his face into your abdomen. soon after, you gently rubbed his back and he hummed in pleasure.

you urged him up from his seat, causing him to groan. “c’mon baby, let me help you” he perked up at your words and stood up from his seat then followed you into your shared bedroom. you sat on the bed and patted the space between your legs as you leaned against your bed frame, finding a comfortable position to stay in. miguel tilted his head before scurrying to find his spot, his back facing you as he laid down between your legs. you massaged his scalp and trailed your hands to his broad shoulders, squeezing at his muscles. a small grunt escaped his mouth as you continued, now focusing on his arms. he leaned into your body and looked up at you, a small pout forming on his face. you chuckled and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, then scattered it all throughout his face.

“you feeling better?” you asked as you held his face in between your hands, your thumbs gently caressing his cheeks. he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, “much better. thank you.. but” he shifted a bit, not paying too much attention to his movements. he gently grabbed your hand and placed it on his crotch, grinding against your palm as he kept your hand in place. “i think this is much better, no?

you let out a sigh as you slowly palmed him through his pants, giving in to his desire. miguel’s breath hitched at the touch and bit down on his lip to prevent himself from moaning. your other hand made its way up his shoulder and then to his neck, wrapping your hand thoroughly around it. miguel whined at your touch as he bucked his hips into your hand, desperately searching for friction to use.

your fingers squeezed in the area right below his jaw and you leaned your face down, only an inch away from his ear. you closed up the space and nipped at the curve of his ear, your hot breath fanning against him which caused a shiver to go down his spine. deciding he couldn’t take it anymore, he put your hand in his pants and forcibly touched himself to feel some sort of relief. you slightly struggled to get your hand out of his grip but once you were able to, you roughly grabbed his face.

“look at you, acting like a pathetic dog in heat” you paused, before tightening your grip further, “how about you be a good boy and listen to me, yeah?” he whimpered at your assertiveness, finding it attractive with how easily you were able to gain control of him. you pressed pressure on the tips of your fingers, reminding him to answer you. he quickly nodded his head, fully surrendering himself.

you chuckled as you pressed your lips to his forehead, before trailing your hand down to his neglected cock. he whined into your touch, lifting his hips just enough to get more friction. “please, please more sir” he begged whilst muttering it under his breath, giving into his wants and pulled his pants down just enough for his cock to be let loose. miguel looked down at your hands, memorizing each movement as you worked on him and soft moans would leave his lips as you progressed.

“mi querido.. look at how pretty you look while i’m touching you, hm?” you coo in his ear, placing a soft kiss to his temple as you stroked his cock and teased his slit with your fingers. miguel moaned at the contact and attempted to move his hips away, but was stopped when you easily trapped him in between your legs. “you’re doing good baby, i know you want this. you want some relief, don’t you?”

miguel couldn’t speak, as moans spewed from his lips and whispers of your name left his tongue. you couldn’t help yourself either at the sight of him like this and began grinding on him, taking whatever friction was there to be offered. he leaned into your body to give you some relief, causing a slight groan to escape from your mouth. “sir, please… i’m so close please let me cum.. please!” he pleaded as he looked up at you, searching for approval.

“how could i say no to you? come on guapo, show me how good you feel,” miguel began to buck his hips up into the air with your words of encouragement, his desperation only growing further.

“please..” he muttered under his breath as he began to shake underneath you, fastening your pace on his cock while your other hand soothed his shoulders. “c’mon baby, come for me” and just with those words, miguel threw his head back into your chest as he coated your hand and his stomach with his cum. a guttural mewl mixed with his desperate moans emitted from him as he came and his chest heaved, attempting to catch his breath.

“you did so well.. good job love,” you placed a kiss on his forehead once again before placing another on his lips, his sharp fangs lightly grazing your lip. he pulled you in for a deeper and more passionate kiss, causing you to moan into his mouth. “more,” he whispered as he began to move against you, purposefully grinding on your bulge. you grip at his waist, holding him in place as he continued.

“can’t get enough of me, can you?”

tag: @anglhrts

#miguel o'hara

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deardjarin · 10 months

Text

like a leopards tongue in the mouth of a snake

roman roy | reader - 3.2k

cw: NSFW, fem.reader, bribery???, scummy roman, fingering, oral (f. receiving), slight power dynamics, office sex

a/n: blah blah intimacy issues, blah blah canon roman is scared of pussy I KNOW but let me have my fun

Outside, tipped street lamps have buzzed awake and shine cones of orange light onto the roads. It’s past hours, the other workers long gone by now. The office is empty, save for the skeleton crew that cleans up when no one else is around, but they’re on the lower levels.

The sky is yawning into night, the dusty blue darkening with each passing minute. You can’t hear the bustle of New York from how high up you are in the tower, the shimmering golden lights of other skyscrapers mimic the stars.

You’d like to go home, like to just go to sleep so you don’t have to deal with these corporate douchebags any longer. But your boss is still here, still drinking in here his personal office like the rest of you don’t have lives. To him, you probably don’t.

He’s said it before, “What? Do you have more important things to do than me?”

Keep reading

#you know how dogs shake toys #that's how i feel about this #roman roy

2K notes · View notes

deardjarin · 10 months

Text

pretend you hate me (i know you don’t)

miguel o’hara x f!reader

miguel is a grouch. you’re pissed off.

words: 2.2k

rating: explicit

warnings: rough sex, degradation kink, oral sex (f and m recieving), vaginal sex

a/n: i told myself i would NOT fall victim to miguel but i did.

⋆⭑✦⭑⋆

You’ve never met anyone grumpier than Miguel O’Hara.

You understand, to an extent, but good god nothing can make him remotely relaxed. You’ve gotten used to his stone-cold demeanor, but it still annoys you. It’s one of those days again, when Miguel is so caught up in his own work that he won’t listen to anything you say.

“You’re being an asshole, Miguel.”

Miguel doesn’t say anything, just continues to angrily punch at the various buttons on the computer. You sigh, louder than you meant to, and Miguel shoots you a glance in response.

“Come on, Mig, have a conversation like a normal person. Whatever you’re doing cannot be so important-“

“Enough,” He snaps, finally turning away from the various screens to look at you. His blood red eyes bore into your skin, and his jaw clenches. You don’t say anything for a moment, stunned into silence, but you decide to keep pushing, because you’ve had enough of Miguel O’Hara.

“What is your problem?” You ask sharply, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re always in some kind of mood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t move a muscle otherwise. Technically you have seen him smile; moments where he doesn’t think you’re watching, a shimmer of admiration crossing his face and his fangs peeking out of his lips. But you’d never tell him that, never give him the satisfaction of knowing you care.

“I don’t have time for this,” He says, your name rolling off his tongue in annoyance. “I have to worry about every single universe, every single Spider-Man. Not you.”

Your blood boils; you’ve had enough of his self-righteous bullshit.

“Fuck off, O’Hara,” You growl, stepping towards him. He tenses as you point at him, then lightly punch his chest in anger. “Nobody wants to watch you wallow in your own loneliness or whatever. Grow up.”

You both fall silent after that, only your heavy breaths and the soft beeping of various technology filling the air. Something shifts between you two, just for a moment, Miguel’s face shifting into something more amused. Suddenly, he grabs your wrist and twists you backwards, pulling you flush against his chest. For a second you swear you can feel something hard pressing against your lower back.

“Do you know what the problem is?” He growls, his hot breath hitting the shell of your ear. “I’ve got all this pent up stress, and no way to get rid of it.”

Your breath catches in your throat before Miguel releases you, pushing you away from him and walking off. You’re frozen in place, his touch burning against your skin. But you push on, not wanting him to win.

“Miguel!” You shout, unable to keep up with his long strides. “Just, fucking—don’t you run away!”

You almost catch up to him, but he turns on his heels and stops abruptly, making you run into his chest with a huff. You push your hair out of your face, gearing up another insult to hurl at him to keep him here, keep him listening—

Miguel grabs your face in his hands and kisses you.

You freeze once more against the rough press of his lips. Miguel pulls back, looking slightly alarmed, mumbling something about how he’s sorry and he shouldn’t have done that.

“Fuck you,” You breathe with a smile before pulling him back down and kissing him again. Miguel hesitated before roughly grabbing your hair and pushing his tongue in your mouth. Grasping onto his broad shoulders, the two of you kiss heatedly and sloppily.

“Baby,” Miguel groans when you both pull apart.

“Are you going to take me somewhere, or fuck me right here?” You ask playfully, chest heaving as you catch your breath.

Miguel grins devilishly.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having an audience watching me put you in your place,” He growls, jerking his hips forward so his clothed cock rubs against you. Your stomach flutters and your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Asshole,” You spit, and in a blink, Miguel wraps his arms around your waist and throws you over his shoulder. You gasp, scrambling to find purchase anywhere to steady yourself as Miguel walks off.

You really hope you don’t cross paths with any of the many, many Spider-People in HQ, but as Miguel approaches his private quarters, your worries are quelled.

Miguel tosses you on his bed as the door slides closed behind him, and for good measure, he shoots webs across the seal. You whine softly, thinking about all the other things he could do with them. Would he web your wrists to the wall so you couldn’t move? Would he let you web him down, so you could ride his cock torturously?

You’re pulled from your thoughts as Miguel slowly approaches the edge of the bed, staring you down. The low lighting casts his face in shadow, only the glow of his red eyes visible. You half expect him to pull you back up and push you down to your knees, but instead he lowers himself to the ground. His fingers ghost over your clothed cunt against the fabric of your suit.

“Take this fucking suit off,” He orders, and you fumble with the zipper of your spider suit, Miguel watching but not helping. You kick the fabric off, leaving your cunt exposed to the cool air, and you spread your legs instinctively.

Satisfied, Miguel drags two fingers through your slick folds, making your hips jump.

“Soaked,” He mumbles, pulling his hand away and sticking his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. “I knew; I could smell you.”

“Bullshit,” You retort, but you’re cut short by Miguel’s mouth connecting with your cunt.

He eats you out like a man starved. He has no shame; he moans as he sucks on your clit, burying his face between your legs. You have nothing smart to say after that. You simply moan and babble his name, tugging on his thick brown hair. He pulls away for a moment, but you don’t let him go very far as you keep him close with your legs. He fumbles with the watch on his wrist and you watch as his suit disappears, and he goes back to work.

“Oh, Miguel,” You moan, twisting your free hand in the sheets of the bed. You feel him smirk against your pussy. You throw your head back when you hear the soft sounds of him jerking his cock. “Oh, fuck, Mi-guel—I’m going to cum—“

You cum with a cry, thighs shaking as you jerk your cunt against Miguel’s mouth. Once you finish, he pulls away, licking his lips and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Shit,” You groan, adjusting yourself so you're sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Finally got you to shut up?” Miguel asks, voice rough. You narrow your eyes, but your expression changes as the man stands up. His cock is huge; thick and long and leaking drops of precum. His balls hang heavy between his thighs, swollen and ready for release. You reach out, splaying your hand against his abs, feeling the thick hair that leads to his crotch. Miguel leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, and the sudden tenderness of it makes your heart skip a beat.

“Now get your mouth on my cock,” He orders, his large hand moving to your throat, pulling you down to his length. You drag your lips down, only lightly touching him, and you hear a deep rumble come from his chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you take him in your mouth, running your tongue along the underside of his cock.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Miguel groans, tugging on your hair once more. Your jaw aches from the stretch. Miguel begins shallowly thrusting into your mouth, making you gag a little bit against the force. “I knew you’d be a slut. Ever since I saw you step through that portal, I imagined you on your knees for me.”

Your eyes sting with tears as you pull off his cock with a pop. You feel the sharp press of nails against the nape of your neck. Miguel stares down at you, brows furrowed. You wrap your hand around his length, jerking it slowly as spit drips down your chin.

“Enough of the chit-chat,” You reply, smearing a bead of precum on the head of his dick. “Are you going to keep talking shit or actually fuck me like a real man?”

That seems to relight the aggression in Miguel, as he surges forward and attacks you with his mouth. He covers your body with his, kissing down the side of your neck. You moan as he sucks bruises on your sensitive skin, shivering when the points of his fangs prick your neck. You wonder what would happen if he actually bit you, but you quickly lose the thought when he wraps his lips around one of your nipples.

“You dick!” You shout, and Miguel barks out a laugh as he pulls away. His eyelids are heavy as he rakes his gaze over your body, admiring his work. Your chest tightens with a new feeling–something foreign, and a little bit scary.

Miguel roughly grasps your thighs, parting them and exposing your cunt. He jerks his cock once, twice, before tapping it against your clit. You shudder, mumbling a curse before Miguel sinks inside. He groans loudly, chest heaving as he bottoms out.

“You, fuck–Miguel,” You breathe. Miguel kisses the edge of your jaw lightly, and you can’t help but cup the side of his face, dragging the tips of your fingers over the deep scar across his cheek. You feel your eyes fill with tears, and you don’t know why, and that scares you. Miguel wraps his arms around you and pulls you tight to his chest before beginning to thrust into you.

“Fuckin’ sweet pussy, tight pussy,” He groans into your ear, panting with exertion. You clench around his length, moaning as he drags against your walls. He speeds his thrusts up, grunting with each push into your cunt. You get lost in the sensation of being filled, of being completely smothered by Miguel’s body weight. You alternate between screwing your eyes shut and staring at the ceiling, but Miguel pulls away enough to stare straight into your eyes.

“Look at me,” He demands, and you do, drinking in the sight of his pure arousal.

You let yourself be manhandled by him; he pulls out, pushing you onto your side and outstretching your right leg. You’re about to ask what he’s doing, but he lies down behind you and sinks his cock back into your pussy. You moan loudly, jerking your hips and pressing your ass back against him. Miguel chuckles darkly and grabs the flesh of your ass, altering his thrusts to hit somewhere deep inside you.

“Will you let me cum inside you?” He asks, a little breathless, kissing and nipping your shoulder. “I bet you’d like that, filling your pussy up with my cum.”

“Yes, fuck yes,” You respond, the pit of your stomach twisting with your approaching orgasm. Miguel speeds up his thrusts, shoving his hand between your legs. His thick fingers rub against your clit, bringing you closer to your release.

Miguel moans your name into your ear before his thrusts falter, cock twitching as he spills his load into you. You’re quick to follow, your orgasm washing over you as Miguel holds you close. You both take a few moments to catch your breath, the room silent.

“Feeling any better?” You ask teasingly, reaching between your legs to give Miguel’s balls a squeeze. He grunts and bites your shoulder in retaliation.

You let Miguel’s softening cock slip out of you, his cum smearing across your thighs. You twist in his arms so you are face to face with the man, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He looks…unsure. Like something is still on his mind.

“Miguel,” You say softly, trailing your fingers down his muscular back. “You can’t keep everything to yourself. It’s causing you way more stress than necessary.” “I…” He starts, trailing off as he avoids your gaze. His voice drops lower, becomes softer. “I love you.”

You freeze, your heartbeat speeding up. You try to say something, anything, but you can’t find the words.

“You…didn’t notice,” Miguel says, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a smile.

You sit up suddenly, laughing softly.

“Of course I never noticed!” You exclaim, but your voice is void of any real annoyance. “You’re grouchy all the time. How was I supposed to know?”

Miguel finally meets your gaze, the corner of his eyes crinkling with a smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You purr, cradling Miguel’s face with both of your hands.

“Then I’ll just look at your tits instead,” He quips, reaching up and squeezing your breasts in his hands.

“Miguel,” You scold, but allow yourself to be pulled down into his embrace. You rest your head on his bare chest. The two of you stay there for a while, just listening to the gentle breaths of each other. After a while, you feel a familiar hardness against the inside of your thigh.

“Ready for round two?”

“Insatiable.”

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader smut #atsv fanfiction #miguel o'hara fanfiction #he's sooooo #raaa #i wrote this in a day because i was so inspired #deardjarin fics

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deardjarin · 10 months

Text

miguel knows he's so big n you're so small compared to him but when he's balls deep in your pretty pussy he doesn't care. he makes you take his cock all the way to the base, laughing when you try to crawl up the bed away from him. "mig- can't take it." you sob, but he's not having that. "don't run, mama, you can take it. you always do." n when you give in and let him push his fat cock into your poor pussy, he’s all praises. “see, baby? knew you could take this dick. love stretching this pussy out.”

#miguel o'hara

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deardjarin · 10 months

Note

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please."

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.

You wince."...F-Fine?"

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.

"You look… wet."

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"

He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.

"Yeah?"

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.

"Huh. I guess they do."

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums.

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name."

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily.

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

#miguel o'hara

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deardjarin · 1 year

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Oberyn please! I miss your Oberyn 🥺

Nonnie, me too! I think this one captures most of the things I love so much about our favourite Dornish love machine, so I hope you enjoy!

Absolute filthy piece of delicious manhood.

Sinfully sweet and absolutely adores and respects anyone that warms his bed.

Powerhouse girl dad.

Eye of the Storm - Oberyn Martell x F!Reader

Warnings/Summary: Completely self indulgent smut - Minors DNI. I just want someone to watch me get absolutely railed by a sexy prince okay? okay. Also, Oberyn has a breeding kink, we all know this. Right?

Oberyn Martell is a storm. He's a whirlwind of power, a force of nature that few can withstand should they cross his path. He has the agility and strength to destroy. To take life. Yet at his very centre there is a hidden eye that boasts a calmness and patience that contrasts his destructive outer shell.

He has a problem with lust, with indulgence, with rage. A problem, in that he has far too much of it. Yet he's also fiercely intelligent, can be calculated, measured - and gods if he is nothing else, Oberyn Martell is affectionate.

When he dines on you in the confines of his silk dressed bed, he doesn't just take a bite of you; he drinks until he drowns. He indulges himself in mapping every cell of your body, appreciating its shape, it's curves, as if he were an architect. Not an inch of you doesn’t feel covered or attended to by the wandering attention of his hands or his lips. He takes his time pulling pleasure from you, stripping back your senses so that even his smallest touch sends shockwaves to your core. He always knows what to do, what to say; when to rock into you slow and savouring, and when to bend you over a table and pound you until you can't speak.

This duality within him served as all the enticement you’d needed to wander into his bed chambers. And by all the gods - it was impossible not to fall in love with him.

He has your face in his palms as he bucks his hips into you at a purposeful pace and angle. You're spread aloft him, sheets pooled at your hips. He moves his hips as though he's trying to reach a place inside of you that he'd never been before.

Your forehead falls against his as you breathe through your pleasure. Oberyn takes the opportunity to relocate his hands to the handles of your hips, forcing himself even deeper inside you, as he drives your movement in line with his own desires.

The door opens behind you.

"Your grace, I-" the voice cuts off as it takes in the scene.

Oberyn side eyes the doorway frustratedly, his chest heaving. He waves a hand dismissively,

"Speak." His voice is direct and commanding.

His advisor begins to tell him a lengthy report on a nearby group of mercenaries that are getting dangerously more powerful and are now of significant political interest. It sounds important, even to your untrained ears.

Oberyn, meanwhile, has resumed his assault on your cunt despite the interruption. He simply recaptures your attention with the heat behind his eyes, leaning forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. He spreads your cheeks with his palms and continues to spear you on his cock as his advisor idly continues and begins giving his recommendations.

Oberyn growls, bites your bottom lip and flips you onto your back. He licks the flushed skin of your neck and pinches one of your nipples as he lines himself up and enters you again.

"And what does Doran think about this?" Oberyn asks as he adjusts his knees to give him more purchase on the bed, and therefore more power behind his thrusts.

"Prince Doran asked that I consult you, your grace. He is currently indisposed."

"Am I not?" He asks, lifting his gaze to the man in the doorway as he slams his hips against yours and forces a loud moan from you.

It would have been louder had he not had one of his large palms wrapped delicately around your throat, locking your head against the edge of the bed, eye line in perfect sight of the interruption opposite the bed.

“Look at him, Dove.” He speaks sweetly in your ear, planting a kiss on your jaw. You force your eyes open, blinking up at the stranger in the doorway.

“You see this, Thorald.” Oberyn continues “You dare tear me away from these eyes. You’re a cruel man.”

Thoralds eyes turn downward and with a guilty inflection he responds,

“My apologies, your Grace. Prince Doran was quite clear that this was an urgent matter and that I was to ask you for your immediate attention.”“Hmm.” Oberyn grumbles impishly “Prince Doran has never been inside this delectable cunt, Thorald. What would he know?”

As Oberyn speaks he thrusts against your walls at a relentless pace. His thumb, from the palm still adorned around your neck, has made its way past your lips and you suck on it lustfully as he uses you.

“You’re welcome to wait, Thorald.” He speaks between thrusts “Sit.”

Thorald is hesitant, his gaze is still firmly fixed on the floor and he seems unsure of the correct course of action.

“I said sit.” Oberyn soon clears this up for him in a commanding tone, one Thorald had heard many times before and knew not to disobey.

Thorald sits at a small table in the corner of the room, attempting to busy himself by counting the number of apples in the fruit bowl in front of him, unable to escape the squeals of pleasure coming from the scene to his right.

Oberyn is a mess, his dual natured desires meet in a storm of growls and harsh grips on your body, pawing at all of his favourite parts of you to force his body against yours closer still. Equally alongside this came a multitude of soft kisses, peppering your cheek, neck, and forehead. An occasional soft hand runs a knuckle along your cheek or over your hairline, and he whispers sweet and adoring sentiments into your ear that drip from him like a poem.

“That's it - give it to me.” He coos as he feels you squeeze around him, strangling his cock “I’m going to fill that pretty hole full of me, Dove. Let's hope it takes this time. I don’t think I have enough daughters already, my love.”

He continues to spew adoring filth in your ear as he makes good on his promise, his words stuttering the closer and closer he got to his release. As he fills you his hardness and desperate edge dissipates and only tenderness remains. Softs breathing, holding your face between his hands to savour you, as if at any moment you could turn into sand and simply slip through his fingers.

“Right, my little dragonfly.” He whispers, a hand gently running the length of your exposed body, adoring the softness of your skin “I am going to go and kill some bandits - and when I return I’m going to fuck my come back into you, and then give you some more. So you stay right where you are.”

“Is that an order, your grace.” you muster a whispered response as you struggle to catch breath.

“Of course.” He smirks “Although, perhaps if you were to disobey it wouldn’t be such a tragedy. I’d like to see you in handcuffs.”

He kisses you sweetly, lingering against your lips. He then plants one palm behind your head and lifts it gently to him, planting a quick kiss against your forehead. Now standing from the bed, bare and covered in a light sheen of sweat, he turns to Thorald.

“Shall we go Thorald? Chop chop.”

#oberyn martell #he’s so

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deardjarin · 1 year

Text

one hundred miles

oberyn martell x f!reader

oberyn comes home.

words: 732

rating: mature

a/n: i am reentering my game of thrones era.

⋆⭑✦⭑⋆

You find yourself walking the length of the Water Gardens whenever Oberyn is away.

Despite living amongst Oberyn’s family and the House’s many advisors, the palace feels empty without your husband. You despise waking up to an empty bed, only able to imagine the touch of your partner. Everything is too big—too grandiose—for just you. But you understand that it’s his duty, even though you wish it wasn’t.

The sun beats down on your skin as you stroll through the gardens. You don’t mind it, though, as the orange fabric of your dress is thin enough to relieve you of the heat. Occasionally, a slight breeze rustles the leaves of the towering palm trees.

You’re studying the colorful fish in one of the ponds when you hear light footsteps. One of the palace assistants, a young man who Oberyn is quite fond of, approaches you.

“My Lady?” He asks, a bit breathless. You smile, turning away from the shallow pond.

“Yes?”

“Prince Oberyn has given us orders to prepare a bath for you. His Highness wants you to soak for as long as you’d like, and-“ He hesitates, cheeks red from embarrassment. “He’d like you to forgo clothing for his arrival.

His request isn’t what surprises you: it’s his return.

“He’s coming home today?” You ask, taken aback.

“Yes, your highness. Prince Oberyn left King’s Landing a few weeks ago. He said you’d pull out your hair from waiting if we told you.”

You curse softly; your husband knows you too well.

“Thank you,” You tell the boy, dismissing him with a flick of the wrist.

Later, the heat of the bath is a welcome sensation, relaxing your tired body. Rose petals float atop the water, filling the room with a floral scent. You take your time washing each part of your body, massaging deep into your skin.

Suddenly, the double doors to your bedroom open.

You cover your bare chest with your hands, prepared to shoo the unwelcome visitor away. But, instead of a nosy guard, your dashing partner emerges from the hall.

“Oberyn?” You squeak in surprise, watching the doors swing closed behind him.

He smiles, and you’re sure it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks. He’s draped in the robe he always wears, adorned with intricate gold designs and tied at the waist. There’s a tension hanging in the air, thick like fog on an early spring day.

“Hello, my dear,” He greets, slowly crossing the length of the bedroom. You drop your arms back into the water, leaning against the edge of the basin.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be home so soon,” You tell him. “I actually had no idea when you’d be returning, because you never told me.”

Oberyn chuckles softly, avoiding your gaze by studying a bottle of wine from the year 285. He always keeps a bottle and two glasses on the vanity, which are perched on an ornate gold plate.

“I never know how long these trips will last,” He says, a bit defensively.

“I’m not mad at you, Oberyn,” You say softly. He meets your gaze, expression soft. “I know you were gone for a good reason. I will be mad, however, if I do not get a kiss in the next few moments.”

Your lover grins, approaching the side of your wash basin in a few wide strides. He lowers himself onto his knees in order to be face-to-face with you, as the wooden basin is quite low to the ground.

Oberyn Martell kneels for no one but you.

“My beautiful wife,” He murmurs, cupping your face in his large hands. His wedding band is cool against your warm cheek. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Oberyn kisses you gently, relishing in the first contact you’ve had in weeks. You lean into the kiss, but refrain from grasping onto his hair. He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away, much to your disappointment. Silently, Oberyn undoes the tie around his waist, dropping his robe to the floor and leaving him in his sleeveless tunic. He reaches into the water, grasping your arm and pulling it to the surface. He lowers his lips to your wet skin, kissing down the length of your arm.

“Oberyn…” You say softly as he kisses your wrist, gazing up at you, his pupils wide.

“Dry off, my love,” He murmurs. “I am going to ravish you.”

#oberyn martel x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #oberyn martell x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #my writing

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deardjarin · 1 year

Text

the space between us | the mandalorian

sometimes i just wish that when you go, you will finally ask me to come with you.

type: one-shot word count: 13.4k (cant help myself) pairing: the mandalorian x afab!fem!princess!reader warnings: mature language and content, mature written sexual content (read at your own discretion), 🔞⚠️ summary: in four acts, a senator's daughter finds her true standing as her mandalorian ally discovers what is truly important, above all else. complete masterlist

act i: the introduction

It was raining. The clouds were dark and hovered over heavily, and the grounds of the landing bay were wet and slippery.

You opted for much more practical clothing today. Dark trousers tucked into your boots, a blade fitted into the sides of both. A warm long sleeve, of soft material, keeping you warm from the elements, with your waist defined by a corseted belt of dark leather. Your hair was up and out of your face, and you wore no jewelry. You blended well with the crew, but they recognized you easily, bowing out of your way as you admired the ships docked.

You pulled your hood up as you stood back a bit to look at a ship you didn’t recognize. It was an older model, archived as far as you knew, but here it sat in all its pre-Empire glory in your landing bay. You watched as a few crewmembers patched up a hole on the side of it, another few tightening loose bolts along one of the engines. The ramp was down, giving you a glimpse of the inside, and you made your way up slowly, your eyebrows raising as you smoothed a hand over the panel by a chamber in the back. A carbonite chamber. Your fingers grazed over a few buttons, and then you left to find another panel, curiously pressing a few switches there. A hiss sounded behind you, and you turned to see a closet, an arsenal, of weapons on display. You stepped closer, admiring them. A few different blaster models, detonators of many sizes. You had fond memories of training with many of them.

You reached for one of the vibroblades. It was crafted carefully, curved from the short handle into a deadly point, with a few inches of serration along the sharp edge. You lifted it off of its holder, twirling the blade between your fingers with ease, letting the weight of it grow comfortable in your hand.

You jumped with surprise when the cabinet doors suddenly swished closed. You turned around quickly, twisting the blade in your hand until the handle was firmly in your grasp. You made a move, swiping over your left, but your forearm was blocked easily. You made another move, swiping at them with your free hand to get your arm loose before using your heel to kick their knee in, forcing them onto their knees.

A modulated grunt of surprise came, but just as quick as you won an advantage, you lost it. Yanking your still out-stretched arm, you were flipped over their armored shoulder, bruising your side before you were slammed onto your back on the floor of the ship. You let out a sigh of discomfort, dropping the blade and putting your arms in front of your face.

“I yield!” You said, breathless. “Stars—” You groaned a bit as your side throbbed. “I yield…”

You dropped your arms, blinking up until you got a better look at the figure kneeling over you. Your eyes were focused on a cuirass of strong steel, colored a curious shade of red. Your eyes raised to meet a helmet made of the same material but in shining silver, a dark visor trained right on you, tilted to the side in an unamused manner. You did not need to see their face to know they were not happy at all finding you here, let alone being swung at with a sharp blade.

“Oh—” You let out a soft breath, relaxing back against the floor. Your side still throbbed dully. “Is this…this is your ship, isn’t it?”

You felt warm with embarrassment, feeling guilty for snooping in his clearly very private space. You were met with silence, but the silence was affirmative. This was indeed his ship, and you were definitely invading his privacy.

You sat up, level with him as he remained on his knee to glare at you up close. You gave him an apologetic smile, trying to ease the tension in the air. You had not meant to meddle in his things; and your reaction was pure instinct, nothing more.

He continued to remain silent. You apologized softly for intruding, holding out your hand and giving him your name to introduce yourself. He said nothing still, and you dropped your hand when you realized this armored man was going to say nothing of value, maybe nothing at all. You let your eyes run over his impressive armor, the collection of weapons that he practically dripped with, and the iconic shape of his helmet. You tilted your head yourself, gazing at him curiously.

“A Mandalorian,” you concluded with a soft voice. “One of the greatest warriors in the galaxy, then.” You raised a brow, looking him up and down a bit. “I don’t know. You fell on your ass pretty easily.”

Silence again. Then he stood, looming over you. He held out his hand for you to take, and you did, wrapping your hand in his and trying not to think about how easily he was able to lift you off the floor. You were level with him now, but it didn’t make him any less intimidating.

“Well,” he quipped. “It wasn’t me who yielded.”

You laughed, smiling wide as you felt the air relax immediately. You hummed in agreement, finally letting go of his hand as you bent to pick up the blade and hand it to him.

“I guess I won’t argue there,” you sighed, your smile staying as you looked around, away from him. “I…I’m sorry for snooping. Your ship is just…I’ve never seen a pre-Empire model before. I was…curious.” You shook your head, “I-I mean it’s old and…it’s definitely seen better days—” He tilted his head to the side in warning, “—b-but it’s such a classic…geez, I’d love to ask you about the—”

“I’m on a tight schedule,” he interrupted you. You pursed your lips, laughing nervously as you nodded in understanding.

“Uh…right,” you shook your head, “yeah, I…you’re super busy. I’ll get out of your way. I’m sorry.” You smoothed your sweaty palms along the front of your pants, meeting the visor again and trying to give him your kindest smile. “It was nice to meet you, Mandalorian. Safe travels.” You reached over and put your hand against his elbow, squeezing the unarmored fabric there. He was warm, you noticed. The Mandalorian dropped his gaze to where your hand laid, fingers curled so gently there. No one ever touched him, not like this; he had only really ever felt hands that wanted to hurt him, choke him, even kill him sometimes. But as quickly as you touched him, your hands were back at your sides, and you were walking away from him.

You made your way out of the ship, careful not to slip on the wet durasteel of the ramp. You waved down the nearest crewmember, motioning to the Mandalorian’s ship.

“Refuel his ship and send him on his way. No need to charge for repairs,” you told him. You did feel bad for invading his space; the least you could do was try not to get on his bad side, even if he was just passing by your planet. You hoped it would smooth over any ill impressions and instead replace it with a sense of hospitality and kindness.

“But—”

You gave the crewmember an amused look, daring him to argue with you. He nodded his head, blushing as he mumbled a gentle apology. You saw the Mandalorian staring at you from the top of the ramp, and you smiled at him again, giving him a little salute. He watched as you pulled your hood up and walked down the length of the landing bay and back towards the palace; he noticed immediately how every crewmember bowed as you passed, acknowledging you even if they were occupied with busywork. He swallowed hard, tilting his head curiously, picking up the scope in his belt and zeroing in on your figure in the distance. There, on your left hand, was a golden ring he had missed, stamped with the signet of your house, the only jewelry you were wearing.

Gods…who the hell had he just met?

act ii: the duel

“Yield! Yield!”

You released the royal guard with a huff, pushing your hair back as you stood up from your position over him. You offered him your hand, and he took it, getting up with difficulty as he grunted with exhaustion. He was bruised, you could tell, holding his side as he leaned against the post next to him in the yard. Your eyes roamed around the yard, watching as the other guards in training had stopped their sparring to watch you. When you asked for another challenger, you were met with silence.

“No one wants to challenge you, Your Highness,” a familiar voice laughed behind you. You turned around, seeing the Senator’s advisor walking into the yard with a recognizable bounty hunter trailing slowly behind him. “The embarrassment alone is enough to make any man think twice.”

“There is honor in being bested in combat,” you replied simply. You turned to look at the guards around you, acknowledging them with nods. “You should never be embarrassed by it. There is no shame. It is an opportunity to learn. To fight better.”

You took a deep breath, looking over at your new company. You smiled at the Mandalorian, a mischievous glint in your eye. He was looking exceptionally pretty today, perhaps he had polished his armor. He leaned against a post in the yard, his arms crossed in front of him as he watched curiously. Your eyes fell over the broadness of his shoulders to the cinch of his belt around his waist, then down to the ammunition around the calf of his boot and back up again. The air around him even seemed to be filled with a bit of smoke and even a little fire. He seemed content here, in the yard filled with the sounds of blaster fire and grunts of scuffles. He belonged, and his posture was one of ease and familiarity.

Stars—the Mandalorian was indeed pretty.

“Hello, Mandalorian,” you greeted him softly. You stood a bit straighter, eyes never leaving where you hoped his were. You liked the staring contest. “It’s been some time.”

He nodded at you, but he said nothing. You continued to stand in the sparring circle, lifting up the staff you had dropped onto the ground some time ago. You twirled it in your hand for a moment, looking him up and down again, this time not hiding the way your eyes roamed him. You wanted him to know you were sizing him up, looking at him; you were certain though, that a man of his skill had already noticed you do it the first time.

“I challenge you,” you offered. “First to yield wins.”

“Your Highness, no,” the royal advisor stopped you. He was about to step further into the yard, but the muddy ground would have dirtied the velvet robes he wore. He laughed nervously, shaking his head. “The Mandalorian is here on official business, a guest of the court—”

The Mandalorian just walked past him, hitting the advisor with his arm as he passed. You smiled knowingly, watching as the Mandalorian stepped into the circle with no hesitation. You liked him even more like this, preparing to spar, preparing to show off what he knew best, the thing about him that came as natural as breathing.

The Mandalorian had warfare in his blood; he slept with a blaster strapped to his thigh, a blade on his person. He had been in this position many times, and it was his consistent winning that had gotten him this far. In some way, it pleased him deeply that he would get to show you just how he earned his reputation. He wanted to show off. He wanted to show off to you.

You could only imagine how Mandalorians spent their days. You did not know much about their culture, but it was no secret that they did nothing but polish their weapons and spar until they could spar no longer. They were fighters from the inside-out, until their second nature was refined combat and a mastery of any weapon they could get their hands on. They gained honor and respect through trials of difficulty and danger, and they took their principle to the grave. Their Creed was an invisible hand that guided them through their life, steering them onto paths of righteousness, noble deeds, and at the end, hopefully, a warrior’s death.

With this knowledge, you knew it would be practically un-Mandalorian to turn down your challenge. You knew he was probably itching under that armor to fall back into the familiar routine of daily sparring, challenging his peers until he heard that sweet sound of their yield, of their plea for him to stop, to know that he had won.

You were in need of a true adversary; he was in need of…perhaps a certain release.

The royal guards who were just watching nearby suddenly showed interest. They seemed to abandon whatever they had been doing to watch as you and the Mandalorian stood across from each other in the circle, marked by a ring of misshapen stones. More guards started to gather around; some of them crowded around the circle, others were perched up along the walls of the palace and watching from the ledges above and around you.

“First to be forced out of the circle or to yield loses,” you said to him. “The only rule.”

“Are you sure?” He tilted his head to the side, standing with his feet spread, his arms at his sides as his hands came in and out of fists. He seemed to gesture to the array of weapons he had strapped to his person—detonators, perhaps a hidden blade in his belt or his boot, the blaster on his hip.

You laughed a bit, “I wouldn’t worry about that.” You licked your dry lips, moving the staff you held from one hand to the other, rolling out your neck. “Would you like to take the offensive?”

The Mandalorian stayed still now, the only movement being the cape draped behind him blowing in the slight breeze. He nodded once in agreement.

You began to walk around the perimeter of the circle. The Mandalorian copied your movement, his visor trained on you as you both began to move. You started to walk towards him, passing by him as your gaze never left his. You almost made it past him, but then you felt his hand wrap around your wrist and yank you backwards. You used the momentum of him pulling you backwards to twirl under his arm, breaking free of his grip. Behind him, you lifted your leg and kicked at his back hard, throwing him forward.

The crowd let out a few gasps and hollers as the Mandalorian stumbled back to his feet, turning to face you. There was a hint of a smile on your face, amusement at his underestimation of your skill. Mandalorians were not the only warriors in the galaxy, didn’t he know that?

You raised a brow with a huff of breath as he came at you again. He threw a fist that you blocked, and when his other arm came under to try and undercut you, you managed to barely knock it to the side after dropping your staff. He was fast for being so much larger than you, and you hadn’t anticipated the quick advances. You struggled for a bit to keep his hands away from you, but eventually your grip loosened enough for him to draw his elbow back and shove you backwards. You caught your footing just in time to catch another throw of his fist. This time, he expected your hold on him. He went for your legs, throwing you off balance and onto your back. He waited, not coming at you again, and it gave you time to grab your staff and knock him over the head with it, forcing him back a few steps so you could scramble to your feet again.

He hesitated. Is it because I’m a girl?

“You’re going soft on me, Mandalorian,” you panted, grabbing another staff out of a bystander’s hand and tossing it at him. He caught it easily. His beskar gleamed, his chest heaving as he realized he had a true challenger and not just an apprentice. “It’s insulting.”

Gods, he looks so good. Full of fire. This is where he feels the most himself, in a ring of few words and pure instinct.

He shook his head angrily before coming at you. He swiped at you with the staff, and you dodged. Left, right, left, and then you caught his arm, swinging under it and twisting it, forcing him onto his knees as you slid with ease until he dropped the staff. He caught the staff with his other hand, using it to knock you backwards, and you let out a growl as you fell to the floor. As he was about to bring the staff down on you again, you rolled out of the way, lifting your foot and kicking at the back of his thigh. His staff met the dirt ground as he lost his balance, and you started to crawl to get back to your feet.

You let out a surprised noise as you heard the swish of some release, a cord wrapping around your ankle and yanking you backwards. As you slid, you flipped onto your back as you watched the Mandalorian reeling you in. You grabbed the cord and yanked, but it did nothing as you neared him fast.

Geez, how many surprises does he have under all that armor?

You ducked under his waiting arm, keeping the momentum and yanking his body with you as you went under his legs. You twisted in your moment of advantage, swiping a leg under his head and forcing him up until both of your thighs could close around the unarmored thickness of his neck, squeezing tight. You tried hard to secure him, but with the cord still around your foot, he retracted it again, forcing your leg off his neck. You rolled off of him with a grunt, but the Mandalorian was too fast. He wrapped both arms around your neck, dragging you back and on top of him as he locked you in easily, threatening to choke you.

“Yield,” his modulated voice growled out. “Yield!”

You were never good at yielding. You abhorred losing, and you abhorred it even more in combat.

And there is some horrid, bubbly nagging inside of me that wants to impress him; and I won’t if I lose.

“Never,” you coughed, using the heel of your palm to knock him upside the helmet and then braced down your elbow against his unarmored side. He let go of you just enough for you to roll off of him, swiping the blade you saw poking out from his boot and sticking it against the side of his neck. If you were able to see his neck, you would have seen the slight cut you had nicked into his skin with the tip of the knife. You panted as you laid there beside him, your eyes lit with vigor and your insides hot with adrenaline, with excitement, with wonder. “Yield.”

The Mandalorian panted just as hard, relaxing against the ground as you both laid there and tried to take deep breaths. You both stared at each other, breathing in the warm air and the searing feeling coursing through your veins. There was nothing like a midday spar to get you right onto your toes, right into that sweet spot of amusement and delight; but you knew this feeling was not just the result of sparring with an opponent like a Mandalorian.

No, that can’t be it. He is not just a silent hunter, a curious visitor—I find his eyes on me often, and he finds mine on him.

You smiled a bit at his silence, and he nodded once. The crowd around you began to cheer, whooping and hollering as you slowly got up to sit. The Mandalorian was up before you, standing as he rolled out his shoulders. He offered you his hand, which you took gratefully. You stood slowly, twirling the familiar blade before handing it back to him. It was the same blade you had stolen from his ship when you first met. You smiled wide, sweat glistening across your chest as you moved your clothes back into place.

Does he know that I look for him when I find out he is here?

“You are a worthy opponent,” you said softly as he took the blade back from you. “You’ll have to teach me some of those moves, Mandalorian.”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” He asked, and you tilted your head to the side, shrugging a bit. You liked the mystery between you. It made each new encounter with him exciting.

Does he know I wait for him when I find out he goes?

“All in due time,” you said, patting him on the chest gently. “I think you have some appointments that I’ve made you rudely late for,” you laughed as the advisor tried to move through the crowd of guards, calling for the Mandalorian to hurry back. “Until we meet again.” You touched his helmet this time, rubbing a thumb along the edge of it before going to grab a drink of water. Somehow, the touch felt even more intimate than the first time you touched him, with your fingers against his elbow, feeling his warmth. You had touched his beskar, caressed it even, and he found his helmet following your finger eagerly, even though he could not feel it. A few of the royal guards patted your shoulders as you walked by, bowing their heads in respect and complimenting your skill. You gave them polite smiles as you passed, shaking some of their hands before disappearing behind a corner.

The Mandalorian could not put a reason to why he felt so warm still, so intense. He didn’t know if it was your intelligence or your quick wit. Maybe it was the glow of your smile or the shine of your eyes or the unique beauty of your features. Perhaps it was the way you held a weapon, how your nimble fingers fought with ease and your body moved with a fluidity and grace in the sparring ring that had his mouth watering with admiration and curiosity and utter heat; the way you anticipated offensive moves and responded with bite when you were knocked down truly had his head on a swivel.

The Mandalorian was watching you, his eyes unable to leave until you had gone from his sight. He blinked rapidly, trying to shake the feeling in his chest. The feeling did not leave him.

It never would again.

act iii: a gambler’s debt

The hallways of the palace were quiet. Black drapes fluttered with the winter breeze, and candle’s wax dripped onto the floor, illuminating the walls in warm yellows and low lights. The solemn that had fallen over the court was not lost on the Mandalorian as he made his way from the landing bay into the yard. Royal guards stood wearing black uniforms, flags flying low as even the guards themselves couldn’t find words to instill conversation.

The guards paid the Mandalorian no mind as he made his way through the yard and the halls with ease. In fact, some of them even gave him cold stares and odd glances. They had been expecting him for a few days now; in their eyes, he was late, much too late. It was not a secret that the Mandalorian was welcome company for their princess, and many in the court had come to appreciate his visits. He had been present for many hardships at court, and he had handled conflict with the ease and control of a true Mandalorian; often times at the aid of the princess the guards adored so much.

But the Mandalorian had been gone a long time; everyone had noticed.

He found you sitting in the grass in the royal gardens. You were leaning over the edge of the trickling fountain there, staring into the flowing waters in silence. There were new adornments on you; jewelry that you surely hadn’t placed on yourself. He knew of your discomfort wearing such things. You complained often that royal jewels were heavy and impractical, and that they only suited special occasions, but you never wore them then either. The most eye-catching piece was the gold headband holding back your hair, the middle of it coming to a point at your forehead with the signet of your house pressed into the metal.

A crown. He had never seen you wear a crown.

Your eyes raised, and you saw him standing there between two large stone pillars of the palace. You lifted your head up, your eyes watering as soon as you saw him. All the feelings of resentment and betrayal and anger began to disappear just at the sight of him. You stood up from where you were sitting, moving towards him. His beskar was your magnet, and your feet were not pulling you fast enough to him. He could see by the way you were hurrying towards him that he needed to brace himself. He was glad he did; as soon as he was in reach, your arms flung around his neck, and you were hugging him tight, your face buried into the space between the helmet and his shoulder.

You were relieved to see him. The past few days had been nothing but solemnity and quiet and fear, and just seeing him calmed the feelings that had been overwhelming you. The Mandalorian made you feel so secure and so safe; he was not around as often as you would have liked, but he always seemed to appear when you needed him the most.

“Din,” you let out softly, your voice breaking. He had not heard his name since he had last visited, and he put one hand on the back of your head to keep you close, to keep his name a whisper against him. You planted a soft kiss on the fabric there, nuzzling your face into him as much as you could. “Din…I-I missed you…”

He smells so good. He smells familiar. He smells like home.

The Mandalorian let his other hand smooth down your back, holding you close to him by the waist. When he had heard of the Senator’s death, a successful assassination on your father and an unsuccessful attempt against you, he never even finished the job. He had tucked the fob he carried into the back of his belt and switched the coordinates on his ship without hesitating.

He had left you a princess. He had returned to a queen.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, your eyes wet and big and sad. You seemed heavier, your muscles tense and your shoulders tight as you felt a deep burden against them. The pressure and the weight felt a little lighter in his arms, but something still held onto your shoulders, something still was biting at your heels.

“What happened?” The Mandalorian asked. He had been itching to know. He had not listened to the transmission sent to him by your advisor long enough to investigate. Between the crackled admission of the Senator—killed and the princess—found—still alive, the Mandalorian had already started the jump back to the Core Worlds to get to you. He had burned through most of his fuel, and he nearly got arrested for flying too close to commercial ships, but he didn’t let anything slow him down. He knew he would not be able to rest until he saw your face. He needed to see for himself that the attempt was really all it had been—an attempt.

It had indeed been an attempt. You had a fading bruise against your jaw and a healing cut above your brow, but you were as beautiful as you had always been, and you were still breathing.

You shook your head, “we knew…we knew we were riling up the people at court,” you admitted. “We got a proposal for excavations along the southern hemisphere, and it was…” You swallowed hard, “it was so much money, Din. More than my father and I have ever seen in many generations. It would make us…we would be a royal force.” You closed your eyes, sighing deeply when the Mandalorian cupped your face with one gloved hand, encouraging you to continue with soft touches. “B-But I begged my father not to. The damage it would cause…the sickness it would spread…I begged him to say no. And…and he did.”

The Mandalorian didn’t need to hear more. Your father had refused a wealth that would make this court rich, hundreds of times richer than it stood now, and you never wavered. No amount of credits or wealth or reputation would make you give up your people, not for anything, and in that moment of true nobility and goodness, your father had seen in you what he had yet to see in any sovereign before him, even in himself. Bleeding the planet dry of its only resources for a lick of credits was not the way to earn respect, to appreciate the place you came from, to live and not just survive. The vultures that resided in your court did not have those burdens on their shoulders. They only had to think of themselves.

None of them carried the selflessness that was required of people like you. If you made the wrong decision, you might not even have a planet to reign over. It would be foolish to look the other way, to let it happen willingly. But no matter how noble the decision may have been, there were people that would lose much because of it. The itch of fame, of power, of money, it sickened people to their cores—it drove them to do unspeakable, inhumane things. Vengeance never truly brought the peace that one sought, but perhaps they could make others wallow in their same misery.

Perhaps they could make a Senator pay for listening to the cry of his daughter’s wishes.

It had come suddenly. Your father had asked you to his study, and you had only spoken a few words between each other when the room was broken into. There were five of them, but there was only one of you. You had fought honorably, but when you had seen your father with his head lulled to the side, the rage had blinded you. For all of your training and your skill, you had never fought with the breath of death against your neck. You were grateful that its presence didn’t slow you down or cloud your instinct—no, you let it fuel you, guide you, consume you until you could hold your father’s head in your lap and pray he would open his eyes.

What remained was only one of you.

“They failed,” you whispered shakily, your eyes running over the Mandalorian’s visor. There was an ire in your eyes, a look of pure indignation and determination that he had never seen before. Normally, you were alight with a sweetness and a playfulness and an innocence that followed you like a shadow. It was gone, all gone. You had not died, but they had killed something in you that the Mandalorian already missed desperately. “They may have killed my father—” You sucked in a deep breath, “but they did not kill me. They failed—” You put your hand over his on your face, soft tears coming down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, kissing the palm of his hand.

The Mandalorian let his hand fall a bit, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he sighed deeply. He leaned closer, the metal just brushing against your skin. If the Mandalorian had been a gambling man, he would bet that if he lifted his helmet just enough, you would let him kiss you. You would let him press his fingers under your chin and draw your face even closer, perhaps even let him lick into your mouth and drown you in the taste of him. If he was a gambling man, he would give and give and give, spend and spend and spend, until he was giving what he didn’t have and spending what he didn’t carry until he was consumed in you and only you.

The Mandalorian was not a gambling man. But he did have just a little to give.

“I will not let them come near you again,” he said lowly. It came out modulated and cracked, but the vocoder did not disguise the anger and the possessiveness in his voice. “They will fail every time.”

If it was any other day, you would argue with him. You were not a damsel in distress, and you never had been. You had held a weapon in your hands since you were strong enough to carry one. There was not a soul you trusted more than your own in combat. There was no need for a protector, for a guard of any kind, because they would never be as quick as you could be. But now, at this moment, this was what you needed to hear.

You needed to hear that there was another being in the galaxy that had your back. The Mandalorian was neither a diplomat nor an advisor. He did not have ulterior motives, he did not care of fame or fortune, he did not lie to you. He was a warrior of the highest esteem, led only by a Creed stressing honor and family and the hardships that shape the most avid fighters, and he was motivated to aid you by nothing more than the way he felt about you.

And stars, what I feel for her…

The unspoken air, the timid area of space that still existed between you and the Mandalorian—it was impossible to ignore yet impossible to acknowledge. The soft kisses you left on his person and the way his hands touched you had only been the first breaks in your distance. It was as if you and the Mandalorian had been dancing around your feelings before one day giving into the small desires that guided your hands. Often, you found yourself kissing his hands, the beskar of his pauldron and the side of his helmet. Other times, his hands would slide over the curve of your back, wrap around your waist, tug your relaxing figure right into his lap. Sometimes, you fell asleep with the Mandalorian at your back and his voice in your ear, just like the time when he was telling you his name for the first time as you sat under the stars.

“Thank you,” you said softly after a moment. You stood up on your toes, closing your eyes as you touched your forehead to his. There was a small clink as the gold of your headpiece touched the beskar, and the Mandalorian closed his eyes as he relished in the sweet kiss you offered him. He wondered, just for a moment, how wonderful you would look with a headpiece of similar fashion, not in gold—but perhaps in the steel that he wore all too well.

He was giving already. He was giving too much, spending all he had, and as he drank in the sight of you and the feeling of you, he realized he was losing when it came to you. At the thought of your life in danger, he had forgotten all sense and found himself not being able to think clearly until you were in his line of sight. All those years of training and discipline and restraint were obsolete when it came to you; you were the one in control, and he was deep in his own crumbling debt as he drew you in as close as possible, until your body was flush against his. His palms pressed against your back, memorizing the feeling of you drawing breath and the warmth of you and the way you molded into him despite the layers between you.

Alive, she’s so alive.

The Mandalorian had no way of repaying the debt he was finding himself in; but the reward was all too sweet.

act iv: the redeemer (18+)

You leaned forward, grunting as the handmaid behind you pulled tightly on the laces of your dress. You closed your eyes as she kept tightening, despite the pained look on your face, fastening the back of your garment until the waist of it was secure. You stood up straight again, letting out a deep breath and smoothing down the fabric at the front of the dress. It really was a beautiful piece. Your father had kept it in a safe place in his closet; the sentiment of it helped make the discomfort of wearing it worth it.

It had been your mother’s dress. It was a bright shade of red made of silky, heavy draped fabric that swept low to reveal just enough cleavage and then tightening around the waist before falling in a flattering, flowing skirt to the floor. The fabric was cut along one leg, enough so that the glittering silver of your shoes could show. They were elegant, with straps that wrapped around your leg, so long the ties disappeared under the high hem of your dress.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as the woman worked on your hair, lifting it up and off your face. You wore no jewels, and now she was painting along your eyes. Swirls of silver that curled over your face beautifully, accentuating the curve of your eyes and the color of them. She had brought your hair out of your face; but oddly, she left your hair bare of any decoration.

You stood when she finished, about to leave, but she assured you that you were not finished yet. She went towards a side table in your bedroom, picking up a small cloth that laid there that you hadn’t noticed until now. She came close again, putting the cloth down and untying it. In the middle of the fabric laid a beautiful brooch in the shape of an animal and a headpiece, both made of a spectacular silver metal that shined like a star, glittering as if it was moonlight. Your mouth gaped open a bit as you reached over and touched the pieces.

“Stars, I’ve…I’ve never seen these pieces before,” you breathed, picking up the brooch. “They’re…goodness, they’re so beautiful. Has this always been in our collection?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the handmaid blushed a bit. “T-These were a gift. F-From the Mandalorian.”

Your head snapped up to her, and you frowned a bit. Just the thought of him had your heart racing, and you found yourself flooded with a plethora of emotions at the sound of his title. Longing, need, desire, tenderness, comfort.

“W-What?” You asked. “W-What do you mean? He’s here?”

“Y-Yes, Your Majesty. He asked if you could wear these tonight, h-he said it was very important,” she told you. She seemed nervous, her eyes deep in thought as if she was trying to remember exactly what he had told her. “B-But he didn’t want to see you until…you were ready. Oh—! And…he…he also wanted to give you…this—” She held out timidly a recognizable vibroblade, the same one you had used a few times against him. You took the blade from her, moving it over in your hand for a moment before swallowing hard.

You were an educated royal. You had studied many cultures and learned the customs of many people. Accepting this gift in particular was a statement for a Mandalorian. You did not hesitate as you hiked up your dress and fastened the blade into your leather holster.

You let out a little laugh, swallowing back light tears, standing beside her as she helped you put the finishing pieces on. She took a loose drape of fabric and curved it over your waist, pinning it with the brooch. It was strong, holding the heavy fabric easily with no indication of moving. You sat again for her to fit the headpiece on. You noticed the headpiece was a bit different than the one you normally wore. There were two points along the forehead, with two different signets—one of your house, and the other of the same shape of the animal that was pinned to your waist. You smoothed a finger over the two symbols before letting her fit it into your hair and secure it.

You looked in the mirror, letting out a shaky breath. The pieces were the perfect touches. You sparkled in them, and you couldn’t help but realize how much more you preferred yourself in silver rather than gold. The silver was so pretty, glistening, and you had no idea how you were going to thank the Mandalorian for making you feel so beautiful.

You had no idea what you were going to say to him at all.

The handmaid bid you goodnight and left the room, and you looked down at your hand at the new ring that sat there now that you were alone. Your father’s ring, a piece handed down through generations of others in your place, and now it was on your finger. You ran your thumb over it before standing, making your way out into the hallway.

The palace was decorated for the celebration. The colors of your house were shades of red, like your dress, and it was decorated to match. Red flowers hung along the walls, fluorescent plants littering along them to light up the hallways. There were red candles lit everywhere, and there was upbeat music playing, coming from the grand hall. You smiled at the guards you passed who bowed in response. Once you neared the hall, you were greeted by the array of guests invited. Creatures and beings of many races and species, all bowing and greeting you with delight as you made your way by them. You had invited many from the capitol city, extending invitations to city residents when you realized there was more room for many.

You took your time, shaking hands and greeting people warmly. You swelled with warmth when you interacted with others, especially your people. They were welcoming and kind and grateful, and when you had greeted everyone you could, you asked a guard to make sure everyone left with sizable gifts to bring home.

You made your way out of the hallway and into the grand hall, where the music was playing, and guests were eating and dancing. You smiled as you greeted more people, shaking more hands and lending your ear to a particular woman who asked you nervously for a favor. You held her hand in yours as she recounted a troubling story about the building she lived in within the capitol, and you put a hand on her shoulder as you assured her you would take care of it. You beckoned a guard your way, asking him personally to attend to it.

“I see you’re handling the new position well.”

You broke out into a smile at the voice. You turned around quickly, your eyes meeting a familiar face—well, helmet. The Mandalorian stood just aways from you, leaning against the wall to watch you. Your smile faded however, into a face of pure disbelief, as your eyes ran over him. It was like seeing him for the first time again; another Mandalorian entirely stood in front of you.

His armor. The Mandalorian did not stand before you in faded red beskar. No—he was glittering practically, adorned in the most beautiful set of silver beskar you had ever seen. His shoulders were broader, his posture stood taller, and his entire figure was more menacing and more intimidating than it had ever been. The sight in front of you had you speechless for a moment, and your lips parted a bit as you took him in again and again. Your eyes were so wide; if you thought he had been pretty before, you were mistaken. The warrior in front of you—kriff, he is so hot.

“Mandalorian,” you cooed softly, finally finding the words to speak. Your body moved before you could really think about it, coming near as quick as your legs would allow you, as if he had beckoned you to him. He was drawing you in without even saying a word. You wanted to touch him, feel him, tuck yourself under his arm and tell him just how pretty he looked. “I-I was looking for you, I—”

You stopped after your eyes fell to the pauldron on his right side and its new addition. There, imprinted in beskar, was the shape of an animal that you recognized easily. It was the same animal you wore at your hip and on your headpiece. You lifted your hand curiously, touching it gently. Beskar was so well-known, a sacred resource of the Mandalorian’s people. It would be impossible not to recognize it, and yet the thought had missed you entirely. You watched as the Mandalorian’s hand reached over and touched the pin at your waist, and you swallowed hard as you met his eyes through the visor.

On the stars…I’m wearing beskar.

“Din,” you whispered, just for him to hear. Your eyes watered a bit, your hand smoothing over the signet on his shoulder again. “What…I’m…I-I don’t understand.”

He tilted his head to the side, his hand skimming past the brooch and resting lightly on your hip. His eyes roamed over your face, the signet that rested on your forehead, the silver makeup that coiled along your eyes and made your skin sparkle. You were a vision in his eyes, and he couldn’t help but feel as if you were dressed and polished just for him.

It was a dangerous and possessive thought, but he let himself simmer in the feeling of it. His hand slid up a bit to rest at your waist, taking in the curve of you. The dress only accentuated all of the parts of you that he admired most, and he cursed under his breath as his gaze went over the swell of your breasts against the silky fabric of your dress.

You were a vision—a vision of elegance, of perfection, of undeniable beauty. The Mandalorian had never been privy to this kind of spectacle. He had never seen you in a dress like this, radiating the refinement and grace and splendor of a queen in her court, but the sight of you made you all the more desirable. He knew just how easily you could overpower him even in the confinement of your corset, and his mouth watered just a little at the thought of you twisting a blade in your soft hands. He thought about the blade he had gifted you and how it matched your dress quite nicely.

There was a strange word hanging off the tip of his tongue. It tasted good.

Mine.

He itched to keep touching you. He ached to lift his helmet and kiss over the soft skin you were showing. He wanted so badly to kneel at your feet, slip his hand under the hem of your dress, and hear your voice say his name as he touched the prettiest parts of you. He could see your leg peeking out of the slit in your dress, and he choked a bit noticing the silver of your heels, how the fabric curled up your leg and disappeared. You had to be teasing him.

She has to be.

“It’s a long story,” the Mandalorian said lowly, finally finding it in himself to speak. “But I have earned my signet. This…is the symbol of my clan.”

You swallowed hard. You had thought the blade a representation of a request of courtship. This was something entirely different.

“B-But I’m wearing it,” you murmured. “I-I…I’m wearing your…” You lifted your hand from his shoulder to the side of his helmet, caressing where his cheek might be. You let out a gentle sigh, shaking your head, “stars, you’re going to be the death of me, Din.” You wanted to say more, wanted to wound your arms around his neck and give him a tender kiss, but there was a gentle tug on the skirt of your dress that had your head turning away from him. There was a small child staring up at you, wearing red plainclothes with a nervous look on his face as he glanced between you and the Mandalorian. You smiled warmly, kneeling to the child’s level as you took his hand to listen to his soft request.

The Mandalorian helped you back to your feet with a firm hand when your conversation was over. You kept holding the lost child’s hand and smiled at the Mandalorian, giving his gloved hand a gentle squeeze.

“Duty calls,” you said softly, intertwining your fingers for a moment. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

The Mandalorian simply nodded his head, taking his place near the wall, comfortable as he watched and waited. You guided the child to the table of food, helping him secure a plate for dinner before taking him to sit at an empty chair. The Mandalorian watched as you soothed the child, wiping his tears and helping him eat as you spoke gently to him. He could see the child relaxing visibly as you talked to him, nodding his little head and even mustering a laugh as you knelt in front of him and kept speaking. The Mandalorian could feel his chest building with warmth and admiration, the same kind that always rested in him by watching you; the way you treated other people despite your station and listened to their problems and addressed them with a sense of importance was a quality that he had not seen in many others. There was a reason you had earned these people’s love and respect. There was no issue too small and no creature less important than another, not to you. There was not a doubt in his mind if he had made the wrong decision. There was not another being in the galaxy that he desired more than you, in every way.

There was not a being more worthy of wearing his signet; there was not an individual more fitting to be a part of a Mandalorian clan.

It was later in the evening when you finally came back to him. He remained by the wall, leaning against it and letting his visor follow your figure shamelessly throughout the night. You adored the way he couldn’t look away from you, and anytime you found his eyes (or at least thought you did), you smiled his way. After a long night of dancing and celebrating and eating, you could feel your toes ache in your shoes and your eyes fluttering closed every so often. The party was far from over, but all you wanted was to be alone with the Mandalorian, to tell him how much you missed him, to ask him why on the stars he had sacrificed precious Mandalorian steel just for you.

His helmet never moved as you walked towards him. When you were within reach, his hand extended, curling around your waist and guiding you to him. You smiled, your palms resting against his chest as you looked up at him.

“Will you escort me to my room?” You asked softly. “These shoes are killing me…”

He nodded once, letting go of you reluctantly. You curled your arm through his, resting your head against his pauldron as he guided you out of the hall. You smiled and waved at any guests you passed, and you did not miss the way they stared at the pair of you in awe. You secretly liked the whispers that sounded.

When the bedroom doors shut behind you, you couldn’t keep your hands off of the Mandalorian. You took his hands in yours, walking backwards until your back hit the wall, and you slid your hands over his forearms and the inside of his elbows and over his shoulders before moving down his chest. You sucked in soft breaths as you leaned up on your toes and put your forehead to his, letting your lips brush against his helmet; you even managed to let out soft whines as his own hands moved along the curves of your waist and your lower back. The Mandalorian had never been anything but respectful, but the ghost of his fingers over the curve of your lower back was cheeky at best.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, kissing his helmet where your lips touched. “Din, it’s been so long…” You closed your eyes, “I was worried. And now you’re here…And gods, Din, you look incredible…” You hooked your fingers into the space under his cuirass and tugged him away from the wall, guiding him until he sat on the edge of your bed. You stood between his thighs, lowering until you were seated on one of them, the beskar of his tassets supporting you as you leaned against him in his lap. You shook your head, “Tell me what happened.”

So he did. With one arm around his shoulders and the other rubbing along the nape of his neck, he murmured in your ear about the long journey he had endured in his absence. He explained how he earned the signet on his pauldron, and he told you of the Child he had found and lost all over again. With your hand on his helmet, he told you, shamefully, how he had removed it and how he was a Mandalorian no more. You listened, never letting your attention falter, not once. Your eyes remained on his, your touch soothed him when his voice cracked, and he found comfort in the closeness of you.

“Oh, Din,” you whispered when he had quieted. “What a lucky child he is…that out of all the bounty hunters in the galaxy, you were the one to find him.” You smiled wide. “If he is as smart and as wise and as capable as you describe him to be—” You put both hands on either side of his helmet, keeping his head level with yours, “—he will come back to you. I should know.” You laughed a bit. “It is impossible to be away from you for too long, Din Djarin.”

A beat passed. And then he said your name.

“I came back,” he swallowed hard, “I came back for you.” You tilted your head to the side, encouraging him to continue. “He…he made me realize what was important to me. And now that he is gone…I-I had to come back for you.” You looked away sheepishly, but he put his fingers under your chin and forced you to look at him again. “There is nothing I have to offer you. I am not even a Mandalorian any longer. All I have is…myself. But I would be a fool not to make this proposal to you.” You hummed softly, smoothing a hand down his chest. “The gifts I’ve presented to you…I…”

Stars, he’s so nervous. I wish I could see his eyes.

“Din,” you stopped him gently. “If you are asking for my hand…” You laughed a bit, “you should know that it’s yours. It’s always been yours.” You squeezed his hand in yours once you found it, then you moved your hands to either side of his helmet and moved his visor to face you. You hoped your eyes were looking into his; the Mandalorian was almost afraid of how quickly you found them when you had no idea where his eyes really were. “If you’re asking me to be a part of your clan…to accept your gifts and wear your signet as well as my own…” You smiled nervously, “well, I…I accept.”

His helmet dropped, the front of it resting against your chest. You wrapped an arm around his neck, holding him there, soothing him quietly. He squeezed you tighter against him, until there was no space between you, none at all.

You stayed that way for a little while, just letting yourselves breathe each other in and find your ground again. You slid off his lap when you finally pulled away, sitting up against the headboard of your bed as the Mandalorian continued to sit on the edge, facing away from you. It was a strange sight to see him so apprehensive. He was a warrior of hardened discipline and seasoned experience in many things; he knew many different languages and never seemed out of place in any situation. But here, on your bed, you could tell this was not a place he had ever been before; he did not know how to sit, where to put his hands, or what to say next.

He's sweet.

“Din?” You called out gently, and he turned his helmet a bit to acknowledge you. “Could you help me?” You reached over and lifted the hem of your dress a bit, revealing the intricately tied heels you were wearing.

An invitation, a bold one. An invitation into your space. An invitation for him to touch you, in ways he had not before.

Not an invitation. Closer to begging.

He nodded, standing and moving to sit closer to you, facing you now. You lifted your leg for him, and you pursed your lips to keep a soft sound from escaping as he smoothed a gloved hand up the side of your leg, looking for where the knot of it was. There was static in your mind clouding your decent thoughts as he did this slowly. He stopped as he met the edge of the slit in your skirt, silently asking for permission. You nodded, and his hand disappeared under the hem, his palm warm against your upper thigh. His fingers found the knot, pulling at the ties gently until the coiled fabric became loose around your leg.

Oh, not sweet…no, not sweet—he’s making my head spin touching me like this.

He bent your leg at the knee, fitting his finger into the swirling fabric and pulling, watching the ribbons fall easily. He took a hold of your ankle, easing the heel off your foot and letting it fall to the ground. You started to breathe heavier as he did the same to your other leg, his touch wandering as he did so. Ghosting over the bone of your ankle, up along your calf, over your knee. His touch was sizzling, raising the hairs on your body as he traced the skin of your thigh. When he found the holster with the blade fastened, he only paused for a moment before removing it. When the other shoe and the holster dropped to the ground with a thud, you both stared at each other, unmoving as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

It was now or never; you decided now sufficed.

You leaned over and took his hand, pulling him enough that he was forced to either let go or climb over you. You hummed when he chose the latter, your eyes on his visor as he moved close enough over you to touch his forehead to yours. The clink of metal made your lips tremble; it was a soft touch of beskar against beskar, and it was such a pretty sound. You closed your eyes, gasping with relief when his gloved hand found the slit of your dress again and wandered under the hem, disappearing between your widening thighs. You were warm and wet already, a heat radiating off of you since the moment you laid your eyes on him and got a look at his iridescent armor, sturdy and new and solid just like the foundations of this new feeling.

Gods, I was so wrong. He’s good at everything; there is no skill that he lacks.

The Mandalorian had no trouble hooking his fingers into the edge of your undergarments and discarding of them. He wadded the silky fabric in his hand and tossed it aside, his other arm moving behind you to wrap around your waist and yank you towards him. You made a surprised yip at the harsh tug, whimpering at how he crowded your space with his broadness. The surprise died into a moan as two of his gloved fingers plunged deep into you without warning.

The Mandalorian never waited for anything. He was impatient, and he was always on the clock. Even now, even with no timer on when this night should end, he couldn’t wait. He had waited too long for this, and not hearing your sweet voice hissing in pleasure for even a second longer would not do. You were a coveted being he had lingered upon for far too long—he would not let his newfound fortune go to waste.

Your hands held onto his shoulders for support, moving up to wrap around his neck as you let out another moan of relief. Your head fell back a bit, your eyes fluttering closed as your thighs closed around his hand. He dropped the hand on your waist to wrap your leg around his middle, keeping you spread for him. His fingers, despite his glove still on, were making you tremble. The slickness of you allowed him the ease of a gentle pace, and he watched the expression of your face as he effortlessly relaxed your tightness as he stuffed you full.

“That’s it,” he muttered, feeling you relent to his touch, and you whined at the sound of his voice. The Mandalorian rarely spoke; the only words he ever said were purposeful and carefully chosen. This slip of a phrase was just a testament to how not in control he was, to how impatient and needy he was becoming for you. His fingers moved slowly, deep and heavy as they slid achingly well in and out. Even through his gloves, the Mandalorian could feel how tight you squeezed him, how your body begged for more of his touch. His thumb waved over a plump, wet bundle of nerves, and you jerked a bit in his arms, pressing your mouth to the front of his helmet and muffling a moan into the beskar. His fingers retracted, and you cried out with need, but you noticed him discard the glove to the side.

Oh, gods—it was like seeing him naked.

You saw his skin for the first time, but you weren’t able to focus on his fingers long enough before they were pushing past your plump bottom lip and sinking into your mouth. You moaned around them, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you sucked gently on them. It was only for a moment, because then his hand went under your dress again, and you were grinding pathetically against the palm of his hand, two fingers deep inside of you again. Like a machine he knew all too well, as if he was tuning up his blaster or tightening a bolt in his ship, the Mandalorian was learning you, memorizing you, claiming you between these four walls. The Mandalorian was well-versed in many things, and he prided himself on these qualities—he would not rest until he held the same semblance of knowledge on you and what places inside of you made you weak.

Mine. She’s mine, she’s all mine, and she will never forget it.

You were flushed now, sweating a bit as you felt the heat and need of pleasure taking over you. The silver makeup around your eyes was smearing a little, littering your face in silver sparkles that was making you glow. The Mandalorian watched with a heavy pant as he moved his fingers quicker, the rising tone of your moans driving him to get you to that brink of ecstasy that you craved so much; it was clear in the darkness of your eyes and the tight grip you had on him that you were not far away. His fingers curled, spreading and moving and letting the squeeze of your walls guide him into a rhythmic pace that had you breathless and staggered—oh—Din—yes, please—!

You came with a frenzied whimper against his shoulder, your legs shaking as you rode out the blissful feeling with a grind of your hips against his hand. You barely let yourself rest, barely let yourself seethe in that heavenly feeling. You wasted no time, not giving yourself even a moment to bask in that pretty afterglow before you were pushing the Mandalorian onto his back, hiking up your dress as you straddled him.

“Wait—” he put a hand around your neck, holding you at a safe distance, but you whined in frustration, sitting yourself down on him and coaxing a harsh groan from him as you circled your hips.

The Mandalorian had no clue how close you were to breaking, how far past your own limit you had strayed. The control, the restraint, the checks and balances you had trained yourself to obey were falling and falling and falling, at a speed you could not keep up with, and you were finished trying to catch up.

If you were falling, the Mandalorian would catch you.

“Din, I swear—” you gasped, “you have no idea what you do to me,” you cradled his helmet between your arms, keeping your hips going at a steady pace against him. He put both palms against you from behind, squeezing the flesh of you. He was hard, so hard, and you angled your pelvis until you felt him perfectly against you, sitting between your folds with nothing but his pants to separate you. You were desperate, the heat inside of you too blistering to ignore, and you needed him to understand that you could not wait any longer. You had thought about this since you had met him, you had thought about how much you wanted to be his and only his and be surrounded by the essence of him until it was all you could ever know.

I want him to fuck me until it’s all I will ever know.

You stopped, slowing your hips and sinking down against him. You moved one hand and grasped his, guiding it up to the laces of your dress. You spoke no words, but he understood; he practically invented this unspoken language, and there was no need to explain.

Especially not when I can see the fire in her eyes.

So he obliged. He sat up with you, foreheads pressed together as he undid the ties at your back. You put a hand to your chest as the dress loosened around you, holding it up so it wouldn’t fall. You used your other hand and put a thumb to the bottom of his helmet, forcing it to tip down as you let go of the front of your dress, the straps falling as it pooled at your waist.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

You unpinned the brooch at your waist carefully and set it down beside the bed before discarding the dress onto the floor. You were bare in the Mandalorian’s lap, wearing nothing but the beskar headpiece he gifted you and a sheen of sparkly silver sweat. It felt almost sacrilegious to be like this with him; his Creed did not allow you to see any more of him, in fact you had most likely already seen too much, and yet you felt like he was wearing nothing at all either.

“Din—” You smoothed a few fingers down the side of his helmet, smiling a bit. “Do you like what you see?” You received a curt nod in response, and then a tight, possessive squeeze of your bare waist. “You’re so quiet…” Your voice fell to a soft whisper. “It’s sweet. But I don’t want you to be sweet, Din.” You raised the helmet with a few fingers, kissing the metal soft. “Not tonight. Not with me.”

So he wasn’t sweet. He unbuckled the utility belt he wore, and with your help, lifted it off of him and put it to the side. You gave him a shy smile as you reached for the cowl tucked into his chest plate, dragging it out and dropping it beside your discarded dress. You pressed your forehead to his as you laid on your back, bringing him with you as you both stared at each other knowingly. He was heavy, still wearing his armor and not even stopping to take off his boots, but the weight of him was not unwelcome. The metal was cold against your hot skin, but if anything, it cooled the desire in you just a little, offering some sort of relief because you were starting to lose your sanity with how badly you needed this man.

I can’t think, I can barely breathe…I barely remember my name, the only one I can really remember is his—

You were on fire. Burning, burning, burning up with need as he dropped his head onto the pillow beside you and sank until his hips were pressed right into yours. Your legs tightened around his middle, ankles crossing at his back as you felt him so deep. You angled your hips up a bit, your head falling back as you let out a cry. But you asked him not to be sweet, so he gripped your face with his still-gloved hand and rutted up into you after just a few moments of adjustment. You squeezed him in response, your body’s own way of telling him yes, more, give me more.

So he gave you more. In the quiet of your room, with no more light than some flickering candles littered about and the low moonlight coming in from the windows, the Mandalorian groaned in your ear and fucked you into the soft sheets of your bed. You kept your eyes where you thought his might be, your nails digging into his shoulders as you tried to keep up with him; but this was a useless attempt. He was so hard, filling you up too well, and he was making you dazed with pleasure as you laid there, helpless and letting yourself succumb to just him, him, only him. His thumb wiped across your face, brushing your needy tears away as he smeared more of that pretty silver makeup along your skin. He rubbed it along your bottom lip, aching to get that silver color on every part of you, even just a little. You were so beautiful, wearing nothing but beskar, and some part of him wished that you could mold with him just like this, beskar and flesh and hot breath and nothing more.

The Mandalorian thought that perhaps he could survive on just that.

“Din—” Your voice brought him back to you. You were close, getting so close, and you whined in surprise as he sat up and pressed you into the headboard, driving into you at such an agonizing pace. You didn’t think he could take up any more of you, you didn’t think he could make you feel any more, but he was hitting deeper, grunting as he used the weight of himself to tower over you and fuck you hard. You held onto him with a tight grip around his neck, sitting back on his thighs as the only sounds leaving you were small moans and the sputtered echoes of his name—Din, stars—mmph!

There was nothing in the galaxy that could convince you that he was a Mandalorian no longer. He was fighter inside and out, a man who only sought to move forward and not dwell on his past; he had faced too many adversities and prevailed when every odd was against him too many times to ever be anything but a Mandalorian. He had too much honor and too much love to give. His word was sacred, his hands were deadly, and he was motivated by nothing but his clan—if he was not considered a Mandalorian, then there was no one worthy of the name.

You could not see his eyes, but every touch of him and every snap of his hips against yours was enough to tell you that he thought of you no differently. There was no man or woman better intended for your station, no person more worthy of wearing Mandalorian steel, no being more deserving of love and stardust. You were perfection in his arms, your voice the song that brought him back to earth, and the way your body was succumbing to him despite the layers between you only convinced him further that he would not find another like you again.

Mine, mine, mine, she’s all mine.

He pledged to make you see stars until you understood the vows of his new life. You were his new life, you were the new armor that would hold him together, and he would have you just like this, under him crying out only his name, until you felt it in your bones.

The Mandalorian let out a satisfied grunt as you pushed on his chest, forcing him to sit back on his heels. You sat up in his arms, looking down at him as you kept up his grueling pace, your hair falling out of place but your headpiece not moving an inch as you became sloppy, unhinged, moving your hips carelessly as you chased your high all over again. Your forehead smacked against his, the beskar hitting each other sounding like a bell around the room as you wept out his name again and again and again.

He was stretching you, hitting the most precious places inside of you, fucking you as if it was a challenge. You yielded, helplessly, letting out the softest whimpers as you went limp in his arms, letting the strength of them hold you up and keep the rhythm. This was how it always would be, you were convinced; if you faltered, he would continue without a beat passing, and you would do the same. The Mandalorian wanted to yank your head back, put your eyes to the stars, and say Mandalorian vows to you right then.

We are one when together.

You cried out loudly, squeezing the skin of his neck as your eyes fell back in your head.

“Din—” You tugged helplessly on him, trying to get him as close as possible. “Din, I-I can’t…”

He reached a hand up, cupping your sweet face in his palm and guiding your eyes to his. Though you couldn’t see them, you could feel that you had his gaze.

“I have you,” he murmured, a low groan finally leaving him. You put your hands against the helmet, nodding wordlessly. “I-I have you.”

We are one when parted.

You pressed your face into his neck, his helmet tilted back to give you space to rest there. You tugged down the collar of his flight suit just enough to kiss him there, your teeth biting down gently as you finally saw stars, millions of them blinding your vision as you let him take you far away. You moaned powerlessly in his arms, your hips chasing his as you rode out some blissful high that left you wordless, hazy, dumbstruck with the taste, the smell, the feel of him. All five senses were Din, Din, Din, and you breathed it in until you could breathe no more.

We will share all. We will raise warriors.

You hissed with delight when you felt his hands squeeze you possessively, his hips faltering as he relaxed. You rested your face against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you settled there in his arms. There was no space between you; there was no force that could break you apart, not right now, perhaps not ever. You adjusted yourself just slightly, and you both moaned, feeling your thighs soak with each other, dripping along your skin and onto his pants, making a mess. You smiled at that, growing flustered as you pulled your head up and stared into his eyes sheepishly. He pushed your hair back away from your face, adoring the sight of you. You were not a royal made of glass; you were a woman made of steel, and he imagined it might be Mandalorian steel—impenetrable, protective, beautiful.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine…she’s mine, and that’s why she’s so pretty, that’s why I can’t get enough of her, that’s why nothing makes sense unless I see her, unless I can feel her, unless I am all around her.

You picked up the discarded clothes around the room, albeit on wobbly legs. You hung the dress up carefully, slipping into another a light silk dress to sleep in as you gathered the rest of the Mandalorian’s things off the floor and set them down on a table nearby. The room was warm, and the starlight was bright, and the sight of the Mandalorian shuffling around your space put you at ease. He belonged here. Not long ago, he seemed unsure of himself in your room; now he took up the places he stood in as if he always had been there.

The Mandalorian saw a reflection of himself in you. He had seen it from the moment you had boarded his ship the very first morning he had met you. The nimble way you held a weapon, the ease and comfort and grace you had when fighting another—he even saw it in the way you put yourself back together when one of your own tried to steal the goodness and kindness of your heart by killing it out of you. Like him, you were molded by grief and difficulty and honor; if he closed his eyes, he might have thought you were Mandalorian yourself. It was the kind of thought that prompted him to commission beskar pieces on your behalf; it was not a sacrifice of Mandalorian steel, it was an offering.

It was only now that the Mandalorian thought of redemption. As he came close to you and put a hand on your face, his fingers tight under your chin to look at you, he began to believe in redemption, in salvation, in the revitalization of who he was at his core. Because in your eyes, he could see the image of himself, the silver of his beskar and the darkness of his visor and all the parts of him that you loved so deeply, all the parts of him that you had no reluctance saying yes to.

“There…there is a way for me to be redeemed,” the Mandalorian murmured, smoothing his fingers up your jaw. Your eyes sparkled, and you put your hand over his, squeezing him gently. “If I bathe in the Living Waters, then I will be Mandalorian again. But…I have a few things to do before I can try.”

Your eyes shined, a smile coming over your face as you stood on your toes, level with his eyes. The Mandalorian saw something new in your gaze. Wonder, excitement, the rush of adventure all blurring into one. You moved both hands forward, touching both sides of his helmet, kissing the metal softly as you silently gave him your permission, your acceptance, your encouragement of starting something over. You had waited a long time for the Mandalorian to come back to you; you had waited even longer for him to ask you to come with him.

There it was, he saw it so clearly—stardust in your eyes and joy on your mouth and silver against your skin. You were a sight all too beautiful. He thought about kneeling, about dropping his head and telling a queen that there was no place in the galaxy, in the cosmos, amongst the stars that he would not go to for you. If the Mandalorian knew how inflated you were with the same feeling, he might’ve lost his balance.

“Well…”

Your eyes were still there, still full of starlight.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

“…then what are we waiting for?”

#din

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deardjarin · 1 year

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8 Days of Christmas — Baby, It’s Cold Outside

pairing: agent whiskey x f!reader

rating: E (18+ ONLY, jack being jack, alcohol consumption, oral sex (m receiving), daddy kink obviously, dom!jack, cock grinding? idk, riding, creampie)

word count: 2.2k

8 Days of Christmas Masterlist

It was a long, cold day at the slopes, Jack having spent the better half of the day trying to teach you the basics of skiing which, more often than not, ended up with you landing flat on your ass. You may have found the day irritating if it hadn’t been for the amount of hearty, full-bellied laughs your clumsiness had pulled from your usually reserved boyfriend.

Now, with a sore ass and sore cheeks from smiling, you and Jack made your way back to the private cabin he’d rented out for the weekend. The two of you had a busy year, only seeing each other at night and on the weekends, except for when Jack was called on by the Statesmen. Both of you deeply craved some time alone together, uninterrupted by the demands of your busy careers, and what better place than in the middle of the snowy woods during Christmas, when everyone was too busy with family to bother you?

“I think my ass is gonna be ice cold and sore for the next week,” you groaned as you finally made it inside the cabin, Jack quick to turn the heater on while you kicked off your snow boots. “Gonna have to take it easy on me tonight.”

“Oh, is that so, sugar?” He chuckled, walking to you in the entryway, his arms wrapping around your waist as he looked down at you with that winning smile of his.

“Mmhm,” you grinned up at him, holding his face in your hands. “You’re not gonna get overeager and start throwing me around like you like to do?”

“Only if you beg,” he winked, leaning down to give you a sweet peck. “How ‘bout you head your fine ass into the bathtub while I whip up some supper?”

“You gonna bring me a glass of wine, too?” Jack playfully rolled his eyes before nodding.

“Of course. Whatever the queen demands.” You leaned up on your toes to give him another peck on the lips, this time letting it linger long enough to earn a hum from your cowboy. “Alright, sugar. Don’t get me all worked up if you ain’t plannin’ on deliverin’.”

“I always deliver, don’t I?” you asked with a smirk, pulling away from him to head off towards the master suite. Jack slapped your ass as you walked past him, earning a hiss and a scolding glare. “Watch it, cowboy.”

“Oh, believe me, I am, darlin’.” He made a point to eye your ass through you snowsuit, making you laugh and shake your head as you left him for the warmth of the bathtub.

One glass of wine later, and you were sat on Jack’s lap at the dinner table, the two of you too needy to sit in your separate seats while you ate. He lifted his fork to your lips, feeding you a piece of perfectly cooked steak before doing the same for himself. You hummed at the taste of his cooking and shook your head.

“I have no clue where you learned to cook so well,” you started as you took a sip of your new glass of wine. “Another woman perhaps?”

“Yep.” You scoffed, swatting his stomach playfully. “I’m talkin’ ‘bout my damn mama, sugar. No need to get jealous.”

“When it comes to you, there’s every need to get jealous. Where else am I gonna find a man that looks this good, treats me like a queen, and fucks me like a slut?” Jack’s eyes widened at your words, chuckling as he lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips.

“That wine gettin’ to ya?” You shrugged, playing coy. “What do you say we take this party over to the fireplace, hm? Get cozy?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Jack walked you over to the sofa, ordering you to “sit your pretty ass down” while he lit the fireplace. You grinned into your wine glass as you watched him bend over, the grey of his flannel pajama pants showcasing his adorable ass while the white of his perfectly form-fitting t-shirt stretched over the expanse of his broad shoulders. Feeling impatient, you uncrossed your legs and slid the hem of your silk nightgown up to your hips, your fingers running up and down your lace-covered slit as he turned around.

“My, my…what a sight,” he praised as he stalked over to you with a winning smile on. “Gettin’ started without me, sugar?”

“Just getting warmed up,” you replied in a pure, tugging him closer by the waistband of his pants. Jack was grinning as he watched you sit up a bit, your eyes locked on his as you undid the tie around his waist, your hands then smoothing over his thighs, purposely avoiding the growing tent in his pants.

“You gonna play with me all night?” he questioned, reaching to smooth his fingertips over your jawline. You shook your head, smirking at him as you brought one hand to his bulge, stroking him through the fabric. Jack let out a soft moan and bucked his hips into your open palm, his head falling back as he allowed you to tease him to full hardness. “Jesus, darlin…”

“Can I take these off?” You lightly tugged on his pants, earning his gaze again. Jack nodded eagerly, pinching your chin before watching you shimmy his pants down until his cock was springing free, the leaking, purple tip hitting your lips. You giggled at the attack and gripped him at his base, staring up into his eyes as you pumped him against your puckered lips. “Mm, you’re teasing me but you’re just as worked up from your whiskey.”

“It ain’t the whiskey, it’s just you, sugar,” he assured, combing your hair back. “Now why don’t you go ahead and have a taste?”

You smiled before sticking your tongue out and flattening it, tapping his thick head against it just to watch his brows crease.

“C’mon, don’t tease,” he begged in a rasp that went straight to your clit. Wrapping your lips around him, you sucked just the head into your mouth, earning a deep growl from your cowboy, his fingers tangling in your hair. “That’s good, baby…keep goin’ just like that.”

You couldn’t help the whine you let out from his praise, sucking him deeper into your mouth until you were kissing your fist wrapped around his girth. Jack’s moans were now given freely, his hand in the back of your head guiding your movements as you bobbed on him, working your throat up to taking him all the way.

“Baby girl,” he cooed, his lips formed in an ‘o’ as he watched you, his head tilted to admire your good work. “That mouth is heaven and hell all in one.”

You pulled him out of your mouth just to smile, spit stringing grin your lips to the head of his cock. Jack couldn’t resist bending down to kiss it away, his tongue sliding into your mouth to taste you. You hummed against him and pulled him closer by his neck, Jack willingly following you onto the sofa. He rested between your open thighs as you laid all the way back, his hands running over the silk of the nightgown he’d bought you last Christmas.

“As much as I love the sight of you in this number, I’m gonna need you to take it off for me,” he husked as his thumb brushed over your nipple, causing your back to arch into his touch. Jack stripped while you peeled your nightgown off and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you only in your red lace thong, his eyes turning black with lust as he took you in. “Look at you sprawled out like a damn pinup.”

“You gonna touch me or just keep looking?” you purred, spreading your thighs for him. Jack’s jaw ticked as he watched you slip the lace to the side, exposing the glistening sheen of your pussy.

“You’re a damn gift to mankind, sugar.” He laid on his stomach, his head resting on your thigh as his mouth remained just an inch from your pussy, his fingers stroking through your slick. “And all mine, right?”

“All yours,” you confirmed with a grin. “Why don’t you go ahead and taste my pussy, daddy?”

“Your pussy?” He questioned with a quirk of his brows. “C’mon, sugar. Whose pussy is this?”

You grinned mischievously, biting your lip. “Mine.”

“Oh, is that so?” He chuckled and kissed your thigh. “Maybe I need to remind you? Or…maybe the best way to remind you is by doin’ nothin’ at all.” He sat back on his ankles, crossing his arms over his chest. You frowned at the absence of his body heat, watching as he raised an eyebrow at you in challenge. “Go on. If it’s your pussy, why don’t you make yourself cum.”

“Jack,” you pouted, sitting up and crawling to him, straddling his lap. “It’s your pussy.”

“Yeah?” He watched as you rocked your hips against his cock, sandwiching it between your pussy and his belly. “I don’t think you deserve my mouth yet, sugar. Not after that.”

“Please?” You stuck out your bottom lip and earned a half-smirk, his hands coming to rest on your hips to guide your movements.

“Get yourself off like this and then I’ll give you my mouth, baby girl,” he ordered and you eagerly obeyed, rocking your hips against the underside of his cock, your clit catching deliciously on his fat tip. “Yes, baby…just like that.”

“Fuck,” you whined, brows furrowed as you looked down at the slick now coating his cock as you worked yourself up to your first climax. “Can I put it inside, daddy?”

“Thought you wanted my mouth, sweet thing?” He chuckled and cupped your face with one hand.

“I want your cock,” you pled, giving him the best puppy dog eyes you could muster through your pleasure. Jack cooed at you, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Please, I’m so close. Want you inside me when I cum.”

“Alright, sugar,” he nodded, pulling your face closer so that he could press his lips against yours. “Go ahead and take it. Take what you need.”

You shivered as you guided his cock into your heat, both of you gasping against one another as you fully sheathed him in your wetness.

“Jesus,” he growled, his hands now gripping your hips as he guided you on him. “That’s fuckin’ good, baby. Riding me so good.”

“Jack,” you moaned, tipping your head back as his cock brushed against your inner bundle of nerves.

“Need my fingers, baby?” He asked sweetly, bringing his lips to the base of your throat. You nodded quickly, nails clawing at his shoulders. Jack smiled against your skin, seemingly pleased with your eagerness as he brought to fingers to your clit, stroking perfectly pressured circles against it.

You shivered with a moan as your high started to slowly trickle through your every nerve, radiating from where he was connected to you to the very tips of your toes and fingers. “Oh, fuck, Jack, baby…god.”

“There ya go…sweet thing,” he cooed, laying you back against the sofa and bringing his body to hover over yours. He ran his hand over your cheek and admired you like you were the most delicate thing he’d ever see. “Ready for one more, sugar?”

“Fuck, yes please,” your hands cradled his neck and jaw as his thrusts turned sharp, hips snapping harshly into yours while he kept his eyes locked on you. “Jack, I love you…fuck, I love you.”

“I love you, too, pretty thing,” he promised, giving you a sweet kiss that was the total opposite of the thrusts he was giving you. “God damn…you’re squeezing me so tight I can hardly pull out.”

You did nothing but mewl, your eyes squeezing shut as he hit that spot inside of you that blurred your consciousness, his shit-eating grin going unseen by you as he watched your face contort with pleasure.

“That it, huh? That’s the spot?” You nodded quickly, not wanting to give him any reason to stop. “Look at me when I make you cum, sugar. I wanna see those pretty eyes.”

“Oh, god, baby,” you mewled, your face scrunched up as though you were in pain but you were deep in bliss as your second high dawned upon you, Jack’s grin widening somehow as you looked him in the eye. “Jack, I’m—“

“I know, I can feel it, baby girl,” he chuckled and leaned in, kissing your chin. “Gonna fill you up now, that alright? If I fuck you full of me, sugar?”

“Yes! Fuck!” You writhed for him as you came, chest heaving and eyes squeezing shut to rise out the waves while Jack’s thrusts turned animalistic, his growls and moans filling the room like your favorite song.

“Oh, shit, baby,” he groaned, pressing his cock as far inside you as you’d take him. You opened your eyes in time to feel his cock pulse inside of you, Jack’s eyes screwed shut, his brows creased, his bottom lip pouted as he let out a string of moans and curses, his hands roaming over your stomach and hips for purchase.

“That was so good,” you praised, raking your fingers through his dark hair. Jack chuckled, finally coming back to earth. He let his weight fall on top of you, hugging you into the plush sectional and remaining inside you.

“I gotta get you wine-drunk more often, sugar.”

taglist: @joelmillerscoffee @ajeff855 @wildemaven @axshadows @sherala007 @browneyes-issac @tooflef @mariasabana @tae27 @kimm4710 @stxrrylunatic @sara-alonso @paulalikestuff @mandomover @chxpsi @auberosier @mashomasho @vanemando15 @wickedmunson @marvel-sw-lover @jediknight122 @harriedandharassed @star-wars-fan-2005 @alwaysdjarin @jalobro @trickstersp8 @mccn-bcys @manuymesut @trinkets01 @tanzthompson @jlmaddinson @hopeamarsu @fanofverymanythings @lovesbiggerthanpride @pinkything @fireproofmarta @littlenosoul @tryonmyworld @pedropascalsx @laureliciousdefinition @rocketrhap3000 @fishingforpike @lexloon @littlemisspascal (please let me know if you’d like to be removed/added to future content!)

#whiskey

1K notes · View notes

deardjarin · 1 year

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Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: a secretary with an attitude problem, a DEA agent with an insolence problem. years ago, you’d stopped hoping for his character to improve, but he’s still gunning to set you straight. it’s the worst day of your life, and javier peña aims to take advantage of that.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content, fem afab reader, mentions of reader having long hair, bratty!reader, brat-tamer!javi, alcohol consumption, smoking, pet names, (so much smoking, I’m sorry but it’s narcos), dubcon (slight intoxication, coercion if you really, really squint)

beta reader: @millllenniawrites that’s BABIE

word count: 10.3k (imsosorry)

no use of y/n in this fic

hey y’all ! i said i had a longer javi fic in store and i was not kidding lmfao !!! slight warning, the reader is a bit of an asshole so teaaaaa. anyhow, don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty, and feedback & comments are always welcome mwah mwah -em<3

ps: to my non-canadian readers, a dart is a cigarette lmao

—

Nothing ever went to plan with Peña around.

It was a curse. A nightmare. You were so careful with your agenda, making sure meetings with the ambassador happened on time, every time, and uninterrupted. When that didn’t happen? It was your ass on the line. And when that didn’t happen? It was always because of agent Peña.

“I can’t let you in, right now,” you hiss, tired of repeating yourself. “She specifically told me not to let people in. Not to let you in,” you add, pointing a finger at his chest.

“Aw, c’mon,” Peña’s murmured supplication rolls off his tongue, “It’s real important.”

You huff indignantly. Keeping your voice low, you retort, “Every time it’s life or death, Peña—”

“Why don’t you ever call me Javier, sweetheart?” A playful twinkle dances in his twilit eyes. “You’ve known me longer than any of the other girls I’m on a first name basis with, here.”

It was true. You’d been working at the embassy for ages, now, babysitting big-headed politicians or power-drunk DEA agents and soldiers. Peña was the worst of them all, solely in virtue of the fact that he knew he could get away with everything. Men loved him because he was tough, charismatic, and capable; women loved him because he was tough, charismatic, capable, and looked like a vintage pornstar. It only took you a month at the job to grow violently sick of hearing his name cherished on the lips of your female coworkers, forced to listen to the gorey details of nearly every. single. office. conquest.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst might’ve been when his ‘informants’ called, their mewling voices asking to leave a message for ‘Javi.’ Or, it might’ve been the culminating effect of his reaping the rewards, time after time, for his insolence, gaining respect, praise, pussy—and all because he never fucking listened.

Years came and went, and somewhere down the line you’d accepted that Javier Peña was simply destined to be a lifelong affliction.

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deardjarin · 1 year

Note

hey kay bb!! hope you're doing well 💖

mando has been on the brain lately so i'm requesting fluffy smut with him pls 🥺😫 (the yearning is *extra* today)

niiiiiiiiik my darling my dear hope you are also well 💗

ok…this got away from me. I blinked and suddenly a plot! exposition! SMUT! (multiple scenes at that) all the things. I’m a slut for Din Djarin and it really jumped out on this one.

(smut below the cut, a full plot, the helmet comes off, a bit of inexperienced!din, reader is kind of a bad ass, descriptions of bodies, unprotected p-in-v sex - wrap ur shit even if ur in space ok)

sleepover saturday

uncharted territory

(word count 9.1k - it REALLY got away from me okay)

gif by @aceofwhump

Then you are a Mandalorian no more.

Din Djarin aches in a way he has never felt before, much more powerful than any injury he could ever sustain. His Creed, demolished. His son, gone. His life, upended. As he staggers out of the Covert, trying to think of where to go next, he cannot shake the feeling of lost that settles around his shoulders like a cloak.

Maybe coming to Glavis was a mistake; maybe he should have stayed back on Nevarro, kept taking jobs from Karga until he finally had enough credits to take the old man’s advice, get himself a camtono full of spice and disappear into the Twi’lek healing baths until he forgot the whole thing.

The truth of it? He knew he could never forget. There wasn’t enough spice in the galaxy to help him forget it all. It wasn’t possible. And the larger part was that Din didn’t want to forget.

His leg aches as he walks. The bacta Paz had sprayed him down with had helped some, but the ache runs deep, and the drills the Armourer had forced him to run with the Darksaber had only made matters worse. He should find a place to lie down, to hide for the night before he decides what he plans to do next, where he plans to go.

Where will he go?

You are a Mandalorian no more.

The echo of the words make his head split, and for a moment, he has half a mind to wrench the helmet off, to launch it off the ring, let space swallow the beskar whole. But he stops himself; it feels as though his armour is all he has left.

His armour, and the Darksaber. The right to the throne of Mandalore.

Maker, he can’t think straight. The ache only worsens, his limp more prominent, and it gets to the point where he can take no more. He falls onto the nearest crate, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. His body feels twice as heavy, his head even more so, and he tips it back against the wall to lighten the load. He’ll rest just a moment, he’ll just shut his eyes for one—

“Mando?”

Din pulls his blaster from his holster as his eyes shoot open. There’s the sound of shuffled steps, something metallic hitting the floor, a murmured dank farrik! He hits a button on his vambrace, turns off the thermal setting on his visor.

“Sweets?”

You look exactly the same as he remembers. It’s been ages, but he could never forget your face. He knows what’s underneath your clothes, too, and the memory speeds to the surface of his mind faster than a pod-racer.

Before he had an in with Peli on Tatooine, the Razor Crest routinely parked and tuned up in Hangar 3-5, he had you. You were well-known within the Guild, had more than a few contracts with different gangs and hunters in the galaxy. If something on a ship broke, you were the one to fix it, and you had enough heavily-armed thugs on your side to make anyone think twice about trying to mess with you.

Some called you the Mechanic, simple and descriptive. Others, those you let a little closer, knew you as Sweets, a moniker earned by your penchant for candies and treats. You’d let your favoured clients off easy if they were short a few credits, but had something sweet from the far reaches of the galaxy to offer in lieu of the missing cash.

Din knew he was one of your favoured clients, perhaps your favourite. Or, had been. You’d crowed endlessly about the Crest, desperate to get your hands on it any time he hauled it in for service, whether it actually needed it or not. Sometimes he genuinely needed something fixed, some times he’d found some candy or sweet in a far off corner of the galaxy that he’d brought back just for you.

Other times, he just wanted to see you.

You were sweet in other ways, too. He knew first-hand. And he knew he was the only client you let into your bed. He’d been drawn to you the first time you’d been introduced — a common contact between you and Din sent him your way when the Crest was in serious need of a tune-up, and you were the closest mechanic he could get to without doing more damage to the ship.

Your knowledge astounded him, to start. You were barely into a diagnostic and you knew exactly what needed to be fixed, what parts you had and didn’t, how many credits it was going to cost him. And you hadn’t even set foot on the ship yet. Your competency drove him wild, only spurred on when he brought you aboard the Crest to give the interior a once-over, eager to see if he’d kept everything original, or if you had any modifications to offer that he might be interested in. Din followed you around the ship silently, answering whatever questions you had, mostly just watching you work. It was intriguing beyond belief.

“That’s not much of a bed,” you’d commented, cocking your head to the side when you hit the button that opened the bunk. “When’s the last time you had a new mattress?”

He just shrugged.

“One thing you should know,” you said over your shoulder, descending the Crest’s ramp, heading back towards the entrance to your shop. “I don’t use droids.”

Din nearly fell over. “That’s not a problem.”

“Good,” you replied, tapping at your data pad, your brow scrunching. “It’ll take longer than your usual hangar; I do everything myself.”

“I’m happy to wait,” he said, dipping his helmet, thankful it was hiding the way he was raking his eyes over you. I don’t use droids. Had someone made you in a lab somewhere, on some backwater planet, just for him? “I know she’s in good hands.”

The grin you’d offered him was sweeter than anything he’d ever seen, and you shooed him out a moment later, muttering something about getting back to work.

When he returned three days later to retrieve his ship, he almost didn’t recognize it. You’d repainted most of the outside panels, replaced all the ones that were missing, and the engines were so shiny Din could see his helmet reflected in them. Inside the Crest was another story; you’d outfitted him with a carbonite cell system, top of the line and primed for use. That meant no more mouthy bounties, no more wasting durasteel cuffs and gags when he could just hit a button and have a quiet ride back to the Guild.

And in the bunk, a new mattress, complete with a pillow, and bolted on the wall, a mount for his helmet.

“You don’t sleep with that thing on, do you?”

“The carbonite system,” he nearly sputtered, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t have the credits, I didn’t—”

You poked the toe of his boot with your own. “Call it a gift, Mando. Let’s just say I shouldn’t have had the thing hanging around to begin with.”

“Is that gonna cause me any problems?”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the p. “Wiped all the identification numbers from the system. No one will know where it came from. Except you.”

He stared at you a long moment. “Except me.”

He was sure to pay you in full, plus the candied flowers he’d found at one of the vendors in the markets. You’d smiled again at that, and while Din committed the sight to memory, he also promised himself that he wouldn’t let it be long before he saw your smile again.

And he kept that promise. The next time he landed the Crest in your hangar, it wasn’t because he needed a tune-up or new parts. He’d struck gold at a black market on Coruscant; his bounty had lead him into the belly of a sweet shop, and after the Gungan had been dealt with, Din did some hunting of his own. He took as many boxes as he could carry, trying to take one of each flavour, a few extra of the ones he’d seen on the shelf in your shop.

“What in Maker’s name are you doing here?” you’d called as soon as he landed, stepping out of the shop and into the hangar, your hands on your hips, cocked to one side. “You ruin my handiwork that fast?”

“Not exactly,” he’d replied, walking down the ramp, his arms laden with goodies. Your eyes had gone huge. “I come bearing gifts.”

“For me?” you cried, gasping as you took the boxes from him, tongue poking between your teeth. “Mandalorian, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

He’d never been so grateful for his helmet at that exact moment. He might have crumbled to dust if you’d seen how red his cheeks were. “I-I owed you,” he stuttered out, “for the carbonite.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” you quipped, swaying from side to side on your feet, staring down at your treats. “I told you, it was a gift.” You gave him one of those smiles again, and Din felt his stomach twist at the glitter in your eyes. “Why don’t you stay a while? I’ll feed you and everything.”

You disappeared into the shop, and Din paused a moment before following.

He saw you disappear behind a dark curtain that had definitely seen better days, and Din followed your further to discover there was an apartment of sorts attached to the shop. Apartment was perhaps too kind a word; it was one large room, a kitchen to one side, a large futon spread in the middle. Trunks and boxes and crates stacked along the far wall, a few grease-stained jumpsuits littering the floor. You stumbled over your feet trying to pick them up, tossing the offending fabric into a nearby crate, before you turned back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

You served him first. Noodles with dark sauce and some kind of shredded meat you thought was bantha but weren’t quite sure. But, as you stated with a shrug, “it’s good, and it hasn’t killed me yet.” After you slid the bowl across the table to him, you turned back to the stove and stayed that way. After a moment, Din wasn’t sure what to do, but then your head turned slightly, your eyes trained directly to the left, not wandering towards him over your shoulder. “I won’t look. Swear.”

He lifted the helmet just enough to shovel the food into his mouth. You were right, the mystery meat was good, and the sauce you’d made to go with it was even better. He nearly inhaled the food, not wanting to keep you too long, and when the helmet slid back down, the mechanism hissing back into place, your head turned again, still not looking at him.

“You’re safe,” he said, sliding his empty bowl back across the table.

You turned fully, serving yourself, and he expected you to sit across from him, keeping a bit of distance between you, but instead, you rounded the table and plunked yourself down on the stool right beside him. You ate much slower than he had, and Din let his eyes graze over you. The streak of engine grease on your cheek, the scar that split your lower lip, the intricately messy way you wore your hair. A silver chain sat around your throat, strung with a tiny silver ring. It disappeared down the front of your shirt most of the time, but right then it sat awkwardly, the chain caught on your collar, the ring sitting in the hollow of your throat. He resisted the urge to reach out and fix it.

The jumpsuit you wore was nearly identical to the ones you’d hurriedly swiped off the floor. Torn on one knee, zipper unfurling beneath your chest, a symbol he didn’t recognize patched onto your thigh. You’d tied the sleeves around your waist like a belt, a dirty rag tucked in at your hip. The Mechanic, herself. Sweets.

He thought you were beautiful. He had a feeling you’d look beautiful in anything.

Or nothing.

Din was distracted by your thumb at your lips, swiping a drop of sauce from your chin and sucking your finger into your mouth. His flight-suit was tight beneath his beskar to begin with, and you weren’t helping matters. “So,” you said simply, reaching for your food again. “Tell me a story, Mando. A good one. Best bounty you ever caught.”

The conversation filtered between you two easily. You were a good listener, easy to talk to, and Din felt like he couldn’t stop talking to you, telling you about his first kill, his first bounty. His first ship, before the Crest. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you about the before, before the Guild, before he was just the Mandalorian, when he was just Din Djarin. A foundling. Part of him wondered what you think, what your reaction might be to his past, but a larger part forced his mouth shut.

At some point, he turned himself towards you on his stool, one arm braced on the table, the other resting on his thigh. After you finished your food, you leaned heavily on the table, your head pushed into your palm, legs crossed at your ankles, swinging slowly, the toe of your boot tapping his shin every once in a while.

He could see you were tired, the way you started covering your yawns and rubbing at your eyes. “I should go,” he said, starting to get to his feet. “You’re tired, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Your hand flashed out quick — not quick enough to startle him, though — and wrapped around his wrist. You’d managed to wedge your fingers right into the space where his glove met his vambrace, and he felt you against his pulse, against his bare skin. “You don’t have to leave, Mando.”

Din. He wanted to tell you. My name is Din.

Slowly, his own hand reached out, hovering in the air, shaking more than a vibroblade. He saw your eyes trace its path, watching until it lowered, dropped until the flat of his palm met the curve of your thigh. His gloved fingers wrapped around the meat of your leg, his thumb pressing towards the inside.

He heard you gasp.

He moved forward an inch, and his hand moved higher, thumb riding the seam of your jumpsuit. You hummed, fingered squeezing around his wrist, and Din moved closer, until he had one leg between yours. He let his hand wander higher, listening carefully to the changes in your breathing, the hitch in your throat. The heat between your legs was almost stifling, and something feral in the back of his brain screamed for more.

Whatever snapped in him, it seemed to break in you at exactly the same time. You both shot to your feet together, and Din’s hands moved to your waist, to where your sleeves were knotted at your waist. Yours roamed his chest plate, fingers tapping along beskar until you hooked them in his cloak. He halted his own hands, ready to help you remove the fabric, but you handled it just fine on your own, finding the hidden snaps with ease.

His blood turned to flame when he felt your fingers along his throat, seeking his pulse in another spot. “You should stay,” you breathed out, your voice barely above a murmur. “Please, Mando, I want you to stay.”

He forced himself to nod, his mind now preoccupied with ripping his gloves from his hands. He needed to feel you, no barriers in between.

He needed to see you, something in him screamed, no barriers in between.

He silenced that voice before it could spur him further. Busied himself with diving his hand beneath the waist of the jumpsuit, the broken zipper catching on his wrist. You were even hotter beneath, and he sucked down a breath when he found you wet, slick coating his fingers.

Your body leaned into him, chasing his touches, and he hooked his other hand around your thigh, lifting you up and backwards onto the table. He could feel you watching, your eyes moving from his helmet down his front, to where his hand was jammed beneath the jumpsuit. He crooked one finger, testing, pressing it into you, and grinned beneath his helmet when you moaned.

Din hooked his arm under your waist, lifting you just enough that he could maneuver the jumpsuit over your hips, down your legs. His cock jolted between his legs at the sight of you bare, leaned back on the table, your chest heaving. Even though the visor, he could see how slick you were, the evidence shining on the insides of your thighs.

He wanted to taste you.

He pushed the thought away again. Another time, when he wasn’t smearing the inside of his flight-suit with precum, when you weren’t keening into his touch as he dragged his fingers against the sensitive skin between your legs, when he could turn the lights off and shed his armour, bare himself to you the same way.

You moaned again when his fingers found your clit, drawing a sloppy circle that had your muscles tensing against his hand, knees closing against his hips. “F-fuck, Mando,” you ground out, tipping your head back on your shoulders. “You’re good with those hands.” Another stuttered breath as he twisted his wrist, curling two fingers just inside your entrance, thumb stretching up to swipe over your clit. “Really good.”

He was grinning beneath the helmet again, eyes glued to your face as he pressed further, fingers threading deeper into you. He could feel everything, the twitch of your thighs, the clench of your cunt. You reached out with one hand, using the other to balance yourself, and closed it around his elbow, your fingers digging into the thick fabric so hard he was shocked your nails didn’t bite right through.

“How do you like it, Sweets?” he asked, leaning forward until he was nearly hovering over you. Your hand moved from his elbow to chest, fingers hooked in his armour. “Tell me what you need.”

Your hand moved again, this time moving straight down his front, past his waist, right between his legs. His cock throbbed as you palmed him, a cat-like grin on your lips as you tilted your head level with the visor. You leaned up slightly, pressed your lips to the beskar edge that mirrored his jaw. Another squeeze, and the slow pace of his fingers faltered, his head nearly smacking into yours. “I need this.”

Din couldn’t hold back anymore. Something in the way you stared up at him, eyes tracing over the helmet, told him you didn’t want him to.

“I like it rough.”

It all happened in one fluid motion. He pulled you closer, right off the edge of the table, and you spun in his grip, leaning forward over the table, planting your hands flat. The jumpsuit slid further towards your ankles and you arched your back, your ass grinding against his hardness, and Din groaned audibly, tilting his head towards the ceiling. Your legs spread as much as the jumpsuit would allow, and Din worked his own zipper down, freeing himself from the flight-suit. You made the most delicious noise as the tip of his cock smacked against your ass, the tip dripping with precum.

Your head turned as he took himself in hand, tapping your ass with his cock again. “Maker,” you breathed out, your eyes widening. “I knew you’d be big.”

Beneath the helmet, Din turned crimson.

He planted his other hand between your shoulders, tipping you forward. You went willingly, eyes rolling back as he pushed his hips against your ass. He could see how wet you were as you bent, slick still dripping down your thighs.

There was nothing stopping him from dropping to his knees right then and there, lifting the helmet just enough to drag his tongue through your cunt. The thought alone made his cock pulse.

But then your hand reached back, twisting in the fabric covering his hip, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He bent his knees slightly, notching himself at your entrance, and pushed inside.

The noise you let out was nearly enough to make him cum right then and there. He knew he wasn’t gonna last, and judging by the sounds you continued to make and the way you were bearing down on him, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, he didn’t think you were either. He set a fast pace, the space filling with the slick sound of him driving in and out of you, your moans echoing each move. Din’s gaze dropped, trained on the sight of his cock disappearing to you. Your hand flapped at his hip, scrabbling for purchase, and he wrapped his fingers around your forearm, groaning when you did the same.

He was right; you didn’t last long, and neither did he. Your entire body clenched as you came, one hand slamming against the table, nails digging deep into his wrist. It spurred his own orgasm, that coil at the base of his spine snapping, and he pulled out, cumming hard across the curve of your ass.

Silence settled over the both of you as you caught your breath. Din couldn’t help himself, rubbing his bare fingers over the expanse of your back, tracing over your spine. You arched a bit into his touch, making a satisfied noise before you lifted yourself off the table. You turned to him, leaned up to press a hot kiss to his bare throat. It made him shiver.

“Think we could do that again?” you murmured, lifting a finger and dragging it along the edge of his helmet. “Maybe you take all the metal off.”

Din cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched, already wanting a second round. “Helmet stays on.”

You stared at him a long moment, smile on your lips. “Helmet stays on.”

He kept close to you after that night. He rarely took bounties that took him to further reaches of the galaxy, loathe to admit that he was always within a few parsecs of your hangar. He brought you a long-distance commlink so he could tell you when he was coming back, so you could contact him if you ever needed him. He didn’t worry about you, per se; you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and he knew for a fact you knew how to shoot the blaster you kept holstered on your thigh when he wasn’t around.

But then the comm went quiet. He called, you didn’t answer. A lead weight formed in his stomach, and he pushed the Crest’s engines are fast as they’d go. Carefully, though — he wouldn’t dare ruin any of your handiwork.

When he landed in the hangar, the lights were all off. It didn’t help his worry, and it only grew worse as he sprinted off the Crest, heading straight for the shop door.

It was locked, but the lock was no match for his vibroblade and a bit of brute force. Inside, the space was empty. no trace of you left inside. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood smeared on the floor or the wall, but it didn’t ease his mind any. What if someone had come for you, spirited you away in the dead of night to some backwater planet? Dank farrik, what if someone had put out a bounty on you? His mind reeled, raced, chewed him up and spit him out.

He never meant to get so attached to you.

Din switched the settings on his visor, finally determining that all the footprints he could make out on the floor were your own. Then he saw it, sitting on the edge of one of the shelves in the kitchen. The commlink, perched precariously, just enough out of sight that no one else would think twice, but not Din.

He thumbed through the screen, saw the icon flashing with a recorded message. Your face lit up the screen instantly, and he stifled the way his stomach clenched. You looked…scared. Not hurt, not injured, but scared.

“Someone sold me out,” you said, your voice distorted and warped. “I can’t give you details. I can’t really tell you anything. Just know I’m going somewhere safe, and I’ll miss you, Mandalorian. Take care of yourself.”

Your eye were shiny as you reached out to cut the recording, and Din’s heart sank into his toes.

He put the commlink in his pocket, and returned to his ship.

He’d watched the message so many times the words were engraved into his brain. The change in your voice, the way you’d blinked harder the more you spoke. The way you paused in the middle, glanced over your shoulder with a shock of fear in your eyes.

And now here you are, standing in front of him, a pile of metal spilling out of a crate tucked beneath your arm, that same streak of fear in those big eyes. Eyes that have haunted him all these years. You nearly drop the crate as you crouch, your gaze zeroing in on the wound on his leg. “Maker, Mando, what the hell did you do?”

“Long story,” he groans out, wincing as you adjust his leg slightly, leaning to the side so you can get a better look. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you reply, getting back to your feet, retrieving your crate of parts. “C’mon, let me clean you up. You look like hell.”

Din goes willingly, not sure what else to do, his mind racing from the combination of the Covert and you appearing out of nowhere. He lets you pull him slowly to his feet, tuck yourself under his arm. “Sweets,” he starts to protest, but you drag his arm around your shoulders.

“Shush,” you whisper, glancing around as you start to lead him in the opposite direction he’d been going. “Lean your weight on me.” He does as you say, nearly crumbling with relief. “There you go.”

The ache only worsens as you go, Din resisting the urge to lean his head against yours. When you finally turn him towards the door, he thinks he may topple over completely, but you’re quicker, producing a remote from your pocket. The door slides open, revealing the inside of a hangar, and you all but carry him through, discarding the crate of parts the moment you’re through, hitting the button again once you’re inside. The door slides shut, and Din lifts his head enough to look around. It looks nearly identical to your old hangar.

Then he hears a curious little beep, and looks down to see a tiny droid scurrying towards you. A BD-1 unit; he recognizes it from Peli’s, though yours is a little more rusty around the edges, the cleaner bits of metal painted grey and yellow. “Not now, Shrimp,” you grit, waving at the droid. It beeps loudly back at you, like an arguing child, and Din stifles his laugh.

“I thought you didn’t use droids,” he mumbles.

“He came with the hangar,” you reply, moving him across the hangar. Shrimp follows a few more steps before darting off, disappearing into a pile of crates. “Couldn’t bring myself to scrap him. Besides, not like he’s much help; tiny thing can’t even lift a socket wrench.”

He laughs out loud this time, and when you pull him into the shop, he laughs again, despite himself.

There’s a shelf of sweets above the workbench.

There’s no curtain between the shop and the apartment, instead another sliding door, another remote. Din lets out a low hum when he sees the apartment beyond. More than one room, furnished with actual furniture. It’s…nice. It’s really nice.

You deposit him on the couch, propping his leg up on the table in front of it. “Wait here,” you mumble, pointing a finger at him before disappearing into another room.

He doesn’t move, but hooks his fingers into the edge of his helmet and yanks it off, depositing it on the couch beside him. He sucks down a breath of unfiltered air.

You gasp as you walk back into the room, nearly dropping the silver case in your hand. “Mando, you—”

“Din,” he says instantly, reaching down, tugging his gloves off, tossing them onto the helmet. “My name is Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you repeat, slowly, like you’re tasting his name on your tongue. The corner of your mouth quirks. “Din…Djarin.”

He just nods. You approach him carefully, like you’re walking towards an injured animal instead of a man, the silver case clutched against your chest.

“Your helmet,” you start, gesturing vaguely. A memory sparks. He told you before — not in so many words — about his Creed, his upbringing. You’d asked, and he’d answered. It wasn’t information he gave willingly. The second time he had you, when you were sprawled out completely naked on that old futon, writhing and moaning beneath him, when he’d shed almost all his beskar, felt the warmth of your body pressed up against all of him. Afterward, when you’d both been sated for the time being, you’d peered up at him from your place on his chest. “Do you ever take it off?” you asked, your voice laced with sleep.

And he’d answered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says now, eyes darting towards the curve of silver. “I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“What?” you ask, your brow furrowing. He wants to reach out, let his thumb ride the space between your eyebrows, feel it smooth over as he kisses the spot. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He trails off. Loaded question. What does it mean? Truly? “My name is Din Djarin.”

There’s still confusion etched into your features, but you don’t question him further. Your brow doesn’t loosen, and you perch on the table.

“What’s in the case?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the silver case still in your hands.

You look at him for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his face, over his features. Like you’re committing him to memory. He’s doing the same, almost scrutinizing your face, trying to remember what it looks like without the filter of his visor, what you truly look like, with no barriers in between.

He could taste you easily now.

The thought catches him off guard, the throb between his legs a welcome change to the pulsing of the wound on his thigh. The bacta the Covert had given him has worn off almost completely, and the pain is climbing.

“B-bacta shot,” you stutter out, shaking your head slightly as you flipped open the case. Your eyes moved to the wound on his leg, peering at the plates of beskar, the flight-suit, the discarded helmet on the couch. “That needs to be cleaned.”

Din just nods.

“Think you can walk to the bedroom?” you ask, shoving the silver case into the chest pocket of your jumpsuit. He recognizes it — the tear in the knee, the patch on your thigh. You fixed the zipper. “It’ll be easier.”

It’s slow-going, getting him back to his feet, shuffling carefully to the bedroom. You ask him if he wants to bring the helmet; he just shakes his head.

What does that mean?

Your bed is unmade, but Din barely notices. The scent of you is amplified in here, and he’s sucking down breaths like he’s been deprived of oxygen. You help him lower to the edge of the bed, and he starts on the armour. You sink to your knees in front of him, setting the bacta shot on the mattress beside him. He removes a pauldron with shaking fingers, and you’re right there to take it from him, your movements sure, setting the metal carefully onto the floor, waiting for the next piece.

“You disappeared,” he says, after more pieces of beskar have been removed, when you’ve moved onto his boots, setting them both carefully at your side.

Your brow had just smoothed out, and it pinches again. “I had to. I left you a message.”

Din pulls the zipper on his flight-suit, reaches into the pocket sewn into the lining, and produces the commlink. “I know.”

Your lips part as you look at the piece of metal, dwarfed by his hand. “You found it.”

“I did.”

Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you look back up at him through your lashes. “It wasn’t safe.”

“You’re safe now,” he says, and you reach for the bacta shot. “Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” you reply, your voice bordering on stern. “Somebody sold me out.”

“I knew that much,” Din mumbles, and you shoot him a glare.

You sigh. “Let’s just say, there were some parts in the hangar that shouldn’t have been there, someone wasn’t happy with some work I did, and then next thing I knew, there were Imps on my tail. So I disappeared.”

“You could have told me where you were going.”

You shake your head. “They were listening. Tracking every message I sent out. I couldn’t let you get roped into it too.”

“You could have gone to the Guild,” he says. He’s too distracted to notice you pull the syringe out of the case. He doesn’t see the needle until you’re pushing it into his muscle above the wound. He grits his teeth audibly, hands curling hard around the edge of the mattress. “Dank farrik.”

“Sorry.”

“I would have come for you,” he says, breath hitching in his throat as you push the plunger down. It feels like his body has been flooded with ice water, his teeth chattering for a moment before the cold turns to a woozy sort of warmth that spreads through his chest like Corellian fire whiskey. He blinks hard, slow, one eye than the other.

“Can you stand?” He nods. Or thinks he does. “The bacta will help, but I need to put a bandage on that wound, at least.” More nodding. He’s vaguely aware of you draping his arms around your neck, your arms sliding around his waist to haul him up. He plants his feet beneath him, forces his weight over his ankles. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s moving through water. You manoeuvre one arm out of his flight-suit, pushing the fabric down his shoulders, until it settles around his hips. The metallic sound of the zipper seems to echo through his brain, and he knows you’re touching his waist, moving the fabric slowly over his injured thigh. But it doesn’t hurt.

All he can feel is you.

You sit him down again, work on pulling the suit off completely. Your hands are warm, soft, gentle against his bare legs, and he nearly buries his nose in the crown of your head when you bend down. Once the flight-suit has been removed, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt, you disappear again, and Din’s not sure if it’s thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

Something cold presses against his thigh, and he flinches. “Does it hurt?” you ask instantly, and your voice is clear, then muffled, then clear again. “It shouldn’t.”

“Nuh-uh,” he slurs out. He hears you laugh, and the sound is like tinkling bells. He wants to hear it again. “Sweets.”

“Yes, Din?” Clear, muffled. His name is a song on your lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“Mesh’la,” he mumbles, and then his eyes fall shut, his body slumps back, and he thinks you laugh again. He’s not quite sure; sleep is too busy yanking him under.

Din wakes to the sound of running water.

He’s disoriented, confused, not sure where he is until he pushes up on his elbows, looks around, drinks in the sight of your bedroom. The memory floods back; the Covert, then the hangar, taking the helmet off, the bacta shot that knocked him out.

But more importantly: you.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. How long was he out? He can’t be sure; there’s a window on the far side of the room, but time on Glavis is different, artificial nighttime and starlight instead of sun. His armour has been moved from the floor, neatly piled on a dresser against the wall, his boots on the floor underneath. His flight-suit is spread out on a worktable in the middle of the room, and he can see from his spot that you’ve tried to mend it, patching the spot the Darksaber had cut open with a square of fabric. It’s looks to be the same kind of material, but the colour is darker. Beneath the sheets, his leg is wrapped in cotton bandages, and there’s no sign of blood seeping to the surface.

His head turns in the direction of the noise of the water, and he pauses, waits for some kind of pain to prick through his body, but it never comes. He feels…good. Well-rested. His eyes follow the sound, and then he sees it.

The door to your bathroom is wide open, and from his spot on your bed, he can see directly into the shower. You’re inside, steam pouring over the top of the glass wall, and Din’s whole body jerks. He never forgot what you looked like naked, and it’s been a long time, but somehow it still feels like the first time. He can feel the blood rushing south, and his hands clench in the bedsheets.

He just stares, watching the water move over you, cascading down your spine, rolling in rivulets over your curves, following the lines of your body. He wants to follow them too, wants to read you like a map only he knows the key to.

Dank farrik, he’s missed you. He hadn’t realized how much.

The water shuts off, and he sees you reach for a towel, wiping your face first. He sinks back down on the bed, wondering if he should feign sleep, feeling like a kid caught doing something he’s not supposed to. But before he can— “You’re awake,” he hears you call, and looks back just as you wrap the towel around your middle. “I thought you’d be out for the night.”

Din coughs, shifting the blankets, trying to hide the tent that’s formed in his boxers. “You don’t close the door?” He doesn’t know what else to say.

You laugh. “I live alone,” you say, stepping out of the bathroom, walking towards the dresser his armour sits upon. “Force of habit.”

He clears his throat. Loudly. Pauses. “…it’s a nice view.”

Your tongue peeks between your lips as you walk over to him, still in just the towel. Your hair is still dripping, water droplets dotting your shoulders. You sink slowly onto the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“G-good,” he spits out, adjusting himself, making more room for you. “Really good.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I’m glad. You scared me, Man—” You catch yourself. “Din.”

A drop of water splashes down from your hair, starts a path down your upper arm, and Din reaches out, catching it on his finger. You watch his hand, lips softly parted, and he continues the path, drawing his hand up and down your skin, the backs of his knuckles against your bicep.

“I wondered where you were, all these years,” you whisper. There’s longing in your voice, he notices; the same feeling sits like a weight on his chest. “I never stopped wondering.”

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he whispers back. There’s something forming in the air between you, thick like the steam that still foams from the open bathroom. Din can almost taste it, and the thought he’d had in your living room resurfaces, making him twitch beneath the sheets. He could taste you so easily now. “It’s a long story.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I got nothing but time.”

So does he, he realizes. He’s without a ship, without his son, without anything anchoring him to one planet or another, to any sort of path. He’d been wandering already, trying to find the Covert, and now he is unmoored once more, yet somehow managed to find his way back to your hangar.

To your bed.

His hand stops chasing water droplets, and he sees your teeth sink into your lower lip. He lowers his palm until it rests on your bare thigh, and he can feel how your skin is still hot from the shower. “I never kissed you,” he rasps. “Before.”

Your head shakes slowly, and you turn towards him more fully. The towel is loose around your chest, your hand holding it in place, and he reaches for it, slowly uncurling your fingers from the fabric, until your grip falls slack, and the towel goes with it. “You should fix that,” you murmur.

“I’m out of practice.”

Your lips twitch again. “How bad?”

“Few decades,” he says softly. “Since before I swore the Creed.”

“You were a child.”

“It was a childish kiss.” He pauses, moves his hand again, brushes dripping locks of hair from your face. “I don’t want to kiss you like that.”

“Just…” Din leans in slightly, tilts his head to the side. “Do what feels natural.” You mirror his movement, and his eyes are glued to your mouth, to the way your lips stay parted even when you’re done speaking, the way your collar lifts with shuddered breaths. He sees your hands move the towel out of the corner of his eye, pulling the fabric away from your body completely until you’re bared to him, head to toe.

You’re just as beautiful as he remembers. If not more.

The tip of his nose drags along the slope of yours, and his hand slides from your thigh to your hip. “I need you closer, Sweets,” he murmurs, and you nod against him, your foreheads tapping together. There’s a bit of shuffling, the blankets moved back, his tented boxers exposed but barely acknowledged as you climb into his lap. He revels in the way you look above him, your knees pressed either side of his hips. You’re hesitant to lower your weight onto his leg, and he guides you slow, giving you a quiet it’s okay as you settle onto him.

He doesn’t feel any pain; he just feels you.

Once you’re comfortable, your hands clutching at his shoulders, he adjusts his grip on you, palms skimming up your spine, mapping out your ribs and the curve of your ass. You make a quiet noise when he squeezes one cheek, the movement propelling you forward, making your hips roll into his, your core pushed against his hard cock. It makes him hiss with pleasure, and he slides one hand up to your hair, knotting his fingers in it and dragging your mouth down to his.

It’s not artful; he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty from the outside. There’s a lot of teeth and tongue, the fumble of hands as he tries to get you even closer. He’s sure you’ve been kissed better than this, and it makes his cheeks heat, makes him pull away, tucking his chin towards his chest. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey,” you say softly, your hands moving to cup his cheeks, tilting his face back up towards you. “It’s okay. Just…follow my lead?” You say it like a question, your thumbs swiping over his face, through the smatter of facial hair along his jaw. “I got you.”

Din nods, lets his lips part as you cock your head to the side, leaning in slow. You kiss his top lip and then his bottom one, giving him just enough teeth that he wants more, wants it harder. He grips your hips as you move, but your kiss stays tender, slow, your tongue a wet heat against his own. He’d dreamed of this, of kissing you, and this one — albeit the second attempt — is everything he ever imagined.

Finally, your mouth grows more insistent. He’s hard as steel between his legs, and he can feel how hot you are, your wetness spreading across his boxers with every roll of your hips. Your mouth is sweet, almost sugary, and he finds himself chuckling against your lips, still trying to get you closer. Your stomach presses to his as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder, your tongue licking into his mouth.

“Sweets,” he grinds out when you start pulling at his undershirt, insistent to get it over his head. He lets you, and when you lower your head again, your mouth moves to his throat instead, and it makes him moan. “Mesh’la, wait, please, I need—”

You pull back instantly, your eyes bright with worry. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I want…” His eyes drop, tracing a path down your body, his throat growing dry when they land on the apex of your thighs, the glistening wetness he knows he’s caused. He lets one hand follow the path his eyes made, rubs his thumb over your clit. Your whole body shivers. “I want to taste you.”

Your eyes go big, pupils blown with lust, and Din uses your momentary shock to his advantage. He’s stronger than you, perks of the bounty hunting lifestyle, and he flips you easily with one arm around your waist, his other hand hitching your thigh over his hip. You squeak as your head hits the pillows, clinging to him until you’re laid out beneath him.

It’s his turn to kiss his way down your throat, and he does, laving his tongue against your pulse as he makes his way down your body. He pauses at your chest, moves to the side to close his lips around your nipple. It makes your back arch, a high-pitched noise falling from your mouth, and he grins against you, giving you just the edge of his teeth before he’s wandering across your chest to give the other the same attention.

You’re a writhing mess by the time he’s settled between your thighs. He can’t keep his eyes still, raking over every inch of you, trying to remember every part. He can see the muscles in your legs jump as he traces his fingers over them, the more sensitive parts of your skin making you keen.

With your legs spread, he can see everything, and his mouth waters at the sight of your wet cunt, walls fluttering around nothing as he teases you with his fingers, collecting your wetness on the tips before drawing them to his mouth.

He moans at the taste. Of course, you’re sweet. Deliciously so.

“Din,” you groan out, propping yourself up on your elbows. He can feel you watching, and his gaze flicks up to yours as he drops his jaw, lowers his mouth to you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, one hand moving to knot in his hair, and Din moans into you. His tongue explodes with the taste of you, sending shocks down his spine, making his hips rolls into the mattress, seeking relief.

Just do what feels natural, your words echo in his head. So he does. He licks into you, wide stripes with the flat of his tongue, smaller kitten licks to your clit. He can’t get enough of your taste, hooking his hands around your thighs, pulling himself deeper into you. And you guide him some, your hand in his hair an anchor of sorts, tugging slightly to get him right where you need him, a gasped oh fuck, right there! reaching his ears.

It’s not before long that you’re smacking at his shoulder, muffled moans on your lips with your teeth sunk into your lower one. He detaches from you, gets one more good look and lick in before he’s following your grip, kissing every inch of you he can reach as he makes his way back up your body.

“I need you inside me,” you slur, your hands reaching down, pushing at his boxers. His cock springs up against his stomach and he groans, the sound growing louder when you wrap your fingers around him. “Please, Din, I want to cum on your cock.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum right then and there, hearing your words turn filthy. And filthier still as he hauls himself over you, plants one elbow beside your head, looks between you, reaches down to line himself up and—

Freezes.

He can feel your eyes on his face, features pinched with anticipation. Your hands have found homes along his ribs, fingers tapping out rhythmless patterns. Hips lifting, you must see something in his expression, because you move a hand to his chin, lifting his eyes to yours again. “Din,” you say, and a shiver shoots down his spine again at the way his name sounds on your lips. “It’s okay. We can stop, if you need to.”

“No!” he nearly shouts, and feels himself flush, lowering himself slightly, careful not to drop all his weight on you. “No, that’s not what I…I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, understanding. You give a soft laugh. “I know you’re not a virgin, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, I won’t say any—”

“It’s not that,” he cuts you off, petting his hand over your still-damp hair. “I want to. I want you. It’s just that…” He chews at his lip. “No one’s ever seen my face, while we…when I…”

Realization slides through your features. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have to look,” you say quickly, skimming your knuckles along his cheek. “I can turn over, if you like, if that’s easier than—”

“No,” he says, not a shout this time, but firmer. “I want you to see, Sweets.” He drops his chin, emboldened by your softness, your understanding. He kisses you soundly. “I want to kiss you while you cum.” His words pull a silky noise from your throat.

He breaks the kiss as he takes himself in hand, pushes into your dripping cunt. You’re hot, clenching down on him instantly, arms draped around his neck as he lowers himself further, latches his lips to yours. He hitches one of your legs high on his hip, drives into you deep. He had you close on his tongue already, and he rolls his hips hard, catching something deep inside that makes your entire body seize.

“Yes, Din, please, oh gods, please, please, please,” you’re babbling against his lips, one hand pressed flat between his shoulders, the other knotted in the back of his hair. “Yes!”

Just as he said, he kisses you while you cum. He feels it pulse through your body, your limbs taut and then lax, still holding him close. Your hips chase his, cunt clenching tight as a vice, and Din’s not far behind you, pleasure lighting a fuse down his spine.

You pull your lips from his just as he starts to spill in you. Your hand moves to grip his chin, and you force his gaze to yours. He gasps and your mouth mirrors his, lips parted in a soft o, turning to a grin as he grinds into you, painting your insides as deep as he can go. It feels like an implosion, his bones rattled in his body, but then set on the softest bed of silk as he collapses into your chest. You hold him close, petting one hand through his hair, breathing deep and slow until his own evens out, matches yours, until your heartbeat syncs with his.

“Mesh’la?” he calls after a moment, cheek still pressed to your sternum.

“Yes, Din?” you reply, your voice scratchy as your nails start to drag along his scalp. His eyes are heavy.

“I missed you.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “I missed you too.”

Din wakes alone in your bed again.

He thinks it’s the next morning — the rest of what he assume to be evening was spent in your bed, both of you naked and wrapped in each other. Again and again and again, he pulled pleasure from your body, let you pull it from his, found your bliss together. By the time you were both too tired to move, sprawled on the mattress, your head on his shoulder, you’d whispered, “You’re a good kisser, Din Djarin.” And then you were asleep, Din not too far behind.

He dresses quickly, boxers pulled back on, undershirt in his hand as he pads out of the room. He finds you standing in the kitchen, a steaming cup of caf in your hands. The droid — Shrimp, he dimly recalls — is perched on the table, beeping out a message to you. You’re nodding along, blowing the steam off the top of your caf, and your eyes flick to him as he steps into the kitchen.

“You know Peli Motto?”

Din’s brow crinkles with confusion. “You know Peli?”

You scoff. “That woman taught me everything I know.”

“You’re joking.”

“Swear on my hangar.”

Din just laughs, walking around the table. He slides an arm around your waist once he’s close enough, leans into kiss the side of your head. You lean into him. “Why are we talking about Peli?”

“She sent me a message,” you say, offering him your caf. He takes a sip, only feeling more confused. “Asking if I had any spare ships laying around my hangar. A replacement for her Mandalorian friend.”

Din balks. He hasn’t told you about the Crest. “Sweets…”

You step away from him, pressing a hand to his chest as your eyes go wide with realization. “Din Djarin, what did you do to that ship?”

“I didn’t—”

“Din.”

“It was Imps,” he says, trying to reach for your hip. “It wasn’t—”

“Where is the Razor Crest?”

He sighs heavily, and reaches out to take the cup of caf from you again. “Now it’s nothing but a scorch mark on the planet Tython. It was the Imps. They took my son.” The words are out before he can stop them.

Your eyes go so wide he’s worried they might pop out of your skull. “Your son?”

“It’s a long story.”

You pluck the caf out of his hands, walk around the table, pull out a chair and sink into it. “I got nothing but time.”

#din

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deardjarin · 1 year

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as the world caves in - javier peña oneshot

summary: shit goes south with escobar and javier feels guilty. you offer to shoulder some of his pain.

warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, rough sex, emotional javier, fingering, swearing, etc. etc.

a/n: this is heavily inspired/derived from narcos season 2 episode 4. pedro really acted the fuck out of that show but that episode in particular got me, and here we are. (also unreleated to my other javi fic)

| main masterlist | ao3 |

Working as Claudia Messina’s assistant, you learned two things very quickly: Javier Peña was much more than anyone working for the DEA gave him credit for, and Colombia was much more dangerous than you had imagined.

Messina was a hell of a boss, nit-picky with her reports and running you ragged most days, demanding coffee after coffee and copy after copy of files you were still learning the system of, filing cabinets that were taller than you. She kept you on your toes, to say the least, but your hard work didn’t go unnoticed. She wasn’t shy about telling you how good you were, and also wasn’t shy about telling Peña and Murphy that they could learn a thing or two from your discipline.

That had earned an eye-roll from Murphy and a barked laugh from Peña. You tried not to take it personally.

You liked both agents from the get-go. Steve Murphy was easy to talk to, if not a little haunted around the eyes. Javier Peña was a bit brasher, his personality harder to read, but you often noticed the partners sharing the same strained gaze, hunched shoulders, and dropped jaws. You’d read enough reports to know the hell they’d seen thus far, and to know that it was far from over.

There were enough rumours floating around — mainly from the other assistants on the floor — regarding Murphy’s personal life problems and Peña’s penchant for sleeping with his informants, so you were careful to keep things light. You brought them coffee without asking, let them bum cigarettes and matchbooks whenever they ran out, copied whatever they needed and offered to pull files when Messina had thrown them through yet another loop.

“You’re good to us, girlie,” Steve would always say, squeezing your shoulder.

Javier was quieter about it, offering tiny smiles and mumbled thank you’s. It always made you swallow hard when his fingers brushed yours, cigarettes moving between knuckles, bodies too close as he cupped the end of one between his teeth and you struck the match. It felt…dangerous. Like kerosene too close to an open flame. Like it could spontaneously combust at any moment.

So, you tried to keep your distance, when you could. You didn’t treat him any different than Steve, you were civil. You were kind.

And he was…Javier.

You weren’t one to deny attraction, but that was only half of it. He was distracting. With his quietly-delivered quips and his disarmingly intelligent way of speaking when Messina tried to call him out. He was good at what he did, there was no denying that, but it seemed like the dynamic duo that was Peña and Murphy couldn’t catch a break. Javier was methodical, but impulsive when it was warranted. It wasn’t even that you just wanted to good roll in the hay with the man; you wanted to talk to him, to listen to him speak, explain things.

So yes, you had a crush. But that was it, just a crush, a handsome man to be admired from a distance. That was all. You knew better, and the rumours the other girls told you about him were something else. You knew, from what actual information you’d gathered, the few hushed conversations you’d had with him, and the extra details Steve had let slip in the office kitchen that you don’t think he had meant to. You knew there was more to Javier Peña than just that pretty face and that I’m kind of an asshole attitude.

The fact that he was wildly handsome was just a bonus. You were more than a little infatuated with the way his hair curled on more humid days, short locks flipping about the back of his neck, only made worse by the nervous way he ran his fingers through it. And the outfits. The different coloured button-ups, the short sleeves leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, the form-fitting jeans doing the same, rendering you almost useless. Especially on the days he wore the teal shirt, one too many buttons undone. Or the red, that made his shoulders look ridiculously broad.

The day he wore the black, you had nearly imploded.

He’d run into you in the kitchen one morning, coffees in hand for most of the team, him and Steve included, and you’d almost toppled over when he inched behind you, one palm coming to rest on your hip briefly. Anyone else, and you would have swatted the hand away, barked something less than pleasant and thrown a dirty look.

But Peña? You didn’t have words. Other than, here’s your coffee, and a you’re welcome barely above a whisper.

You shared an apartment with a few of the other office girls, not a far drive from the DEA office. Usually, you carpooled; one of them had a car and you all split the gas. But that first week, Messina kept you late more than once, and after the girls had all grumbled and groaned at you for being two hours late, you’d told them to head home without you if you weren’t out on time. One of them — Louisa, who you shared a room with — was hesitant, telling you repeatedly she didn’t like the thought of you walking home in the dark.

But she’d gone quiet when you showed her the revolver you kept in your purse.

The night was no different than any other late finish. Messina was still cooped up in her office, where you knew she’d stay until morning, poring over piles of files that Murphy and Peña had already combed through. You said goodnight to her, cleaned out the multiple coffee mugs that had piled up over the course of the day, and grabbed your purse. Murphy had left earlier, mumbling something about a date with his wife — you’d shot Javier a raised brow but he’d just shaken his head — and Javier was still hunched over his desk, cigarette smoke clouding around his face, half a pack’s worth of butts piled in his ashtray.

It took you a moment to realize he was asleep.

Folded forward on his desk, head resting on bent arms, face pressed into the crook of his elbow. You surprised a smile as you walked toward him, leaning up on your toes so the clack of your heels wouldn’t wake him. God, he looked so peaceful, those unfairly full lips softly parted, eyes fluttering with dreams. A lit cigarette balanced between his knuckles, the ash nearly down to his fingers.

Carefully as you could, you pulled the cigarette from his hand, stamping it out in the ashtray. He moved slightly, shaking his head in his arms, and softly, you put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Javi.”

He shot up like a rocket, his chair kicked back and toppling over. You stumbled backward, feet getting tangled with the chair and desk behind you, and toppled to the ground, shouting with pain when your elbow hit the edge of the desk and your back collided with the chair leg.

“Fuck!” Javier spat, blinking hard, seeming to come back to himself, realizing where he was, and then seeing you sprawled on the floor. “Shit, mija, you all right?” he asked, and reached for you, fingers curling around your forearm and hauling you back onto your feet. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, cupping your sore elbow. “It’s fine. Didn’t want to leave you asleep like that, you’ll kill your neck.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Hah. Didn’t mean to fall asleep, period.”

An awkward silence settled over the pair of you, and it took you a moment to realize his hand was still curled around your forearm. He seemed to realize the same moment you did, releasing you quickly, taking a step back and rubbing the back of his neck.

You let out a little laugh, still cupping your elbow, stepping carefully around his fallen chair as he bent down to fix it. “Well,” you said quietly, nodding once. “I’m heading out. Goodnight, Javi.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, mimicking your nod. You turned to leave, but only reached the doorway before, “Hey, wait a second, mija.”

You turned, the nickname making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. “Yes?”

“You’re not walking, are you?” When you nodded, he shook his head, pulling his jacket off the hook and swinging his keys around his finger. “No, I’ll give you a lift.”

He walked towards you at the door and you started to protest, but he raised a hand, a half-smile on his face. “I’ll be fine.”

“Listen,” he continued, reaching for the door handle and ushering you through it, “I’m glad you have half a brain and carry a piece with you, but it’s gonna make me feel better knowing you’re home safe.” You balk at his words — how does he know? Javier chuckled. “Louisa has a big mouth.”

“Shit,” you mumbled. You’d gone out for drinks with the girls a few weeks previous, and after enough tequila, you hadn’t been shy about telling them how delicious you thought Agent Peña was. What else had she let slip around the office?

If he noticed your blush, he didn’t say anything. “You know how to use it, I’m assuming?” he asked, and you nodded. “Good.”

You were both quiet as you made your way out of the building, towards Javier’s blue truck parked at the curb. He opened the door for you, waited till you were safely sitting before shutting it and walking around to get in the driver’s seat. You gave him directions as he drove, trying your best not to stare at his big hands on the steering wheels.

When you reached your building, Javier started to laugh. “I’m right across the street from you,” he said, pointing to the building on the other side of the road. “Steve and Connie, too.”

“Oh,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “That’s good to know. And glad I didn’t make you go too far out of your way.”

“Not at all,” he replied, and reached over, putting his hand over yours. “Listen, you ever need a ride, just ask, okay? It’s not safe around here for a pretty girl like you to be walking around after dark.” He smirked. “Even if you are carrying.”

You huffed a little laugh, your fingers twitching beneath his. Did he just call you pretty? “Thank you, Javi.” Pulling on the door handle, you slid out of his truck, turning to close the door behind you. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

When the operation moves to the compound, things start to change.

Despite the closer quarters, you feel more distance between you and the two agents you’ve come to consider your friends. Since that first night, it became more of a habit for Javier to drive you home after a long day cooped up in the office. Even when you got out on time to leave with the other girls, he’d ask you for a copy or a random file before you could follow them out the door, promising you a ride in exchange for the favour.

Being right across the street from them, you’d even gone out a few times. Steve had introduced you to Connie, and while it was plain to see the strain between the couple, you all got on well enough. Javier had even joined for dinner once or twice, always sitting just a little too close and walking you up to your apartment afterwards, to make sure you get home safe, mija.

With the return of Carrillo, your work seems to double overnight. Messina is running you ragged, to the point where you’re half-sure your bloodstream is more caffeine than plasma. Your hands are a mess of paper cuts, your bottom lip chewed to hell, and you’ve gone through more cigarettes in the past few weeks than you usually would in six months. (Granted, Javier still bums one whenever he walks past your desk — part of you wonders if it’s just an excuse for him to stop and chat with you.)

It’s nice, almost, to have your temporary residence a few floors from your desk, to be able to crash in an almost comfortable bed shortly after Messina lets you go for the night. You do miss the rides home with Javier, but as things start to escalate with Escobar and Carrillo, the distance between you feels more palpable, more tangible. And you don’t like it.

Steve still mumbles his thanks when you slide cups of coffee onto their desks partway through the day, but Javier is usually too engrossed in whatever file he’s poring over to notice. He stops asking for cigarettes, stops speaking to you in general, and while you want to call him on it, you don’t know how.

And then finally, that fateful night, there’s a shot at Escobar.

You’re in the room, taking notes for Messina, having scrambled to find the files Steve and Javier had requested before joining them. Your hair stands on end when you hear Pablo Escobar’s voice on the radio, Javier confirming it’s him without a second thought.

“We have to move now,” Carrillo says, glancing at the agents.

“Yeah,” Javier agrees, reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

“You two are staying here,” Messina interjects, speaking pointedly to Javier and Steve. Your heart sink in your chest. Oh no.

“No,” Javier says immediately, his tone flat. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Crosby finds out you went on another raid,” Messina responds, sinking back into her chair, “we all get a ticket home.”

There’s so much tension in the air you think you could cut it with a knife. You clutch your notebook to your chest, watching Javier’s face contort. Shit.

“Crosby doesn’t have to know shit,” Steve says, his voice sterner than you’ve ever heard it. Javier is rocking against the back of the chair, his hands curled around the metal. His fingers are twitching, and you wonder if he’s about to launch it across the room. Escobar is right there.

“It’s not negotiable,” Messina replies, her voice low. She stands again, and you step into her shadow.

“We’ll be in radio contact,” Carrillo promises, and then turns on his heel to leave.

You hear Javier curse under his breath, a Jesus fucking Christ that makes your chest ache. He puts his hands on his hips, Steve crosses his over his chest, pushing his chin into his hand. Messina gestures to you, starts to walk towards the door, and you feel both agents watching you depart. Before you step through the door, you look over your shoulder, lock eyes with Javier.

I’m sorry, you mouth.

He just shakes his head.

Messina has to you take notes as you listen to the ambush unfold. You’re tucked in the corner of the room, three feet from where Javier is yelling into the radio. You flinch with every explosion that sounds, every gunshot that rings out. Your pen falls to the floor at some point, and Javier curses loudly, covering his face with his hands and stepping away from the radio. The microphone swings on its wire, and part of you wishes you could disappear into the shadows.

Escobar had known they were coming. He’d counted on it.

Messina has a look of horror on her face. Steve looks like he could topple over. And Javier…you’ve never seen such a hollow expression on his face, a far-off look in his eyes. He looks guilty.

The pair of them disappear moments later, to go and sift through the aftermath. Javier is gone before you can even breathe a word, and Steve touches your shoulder lightly before he follows his partner. Your feet twitch after them, moving towards the door, and Messina lifts her head, pinning you in place with her watery gaze. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You shrink back against the wall. “Nowhere, ma’am.”

There are reports to file, and you start transcribing your scribbled notes into something legible, but it’s hard. Your fingers are still shaking, the echoes of gunshots and explosions still making your head ache. Carrillo was a harsh man, sure, but no one deserves to go out in that kind of violence. He’s married, you know, with kids. You can’t imagine the phone call his wife will receive. You only pray it’s not Javier to make the call.

Javier returns alone a few hours later, the expression on his face more haunted than you’ve ever seen it, the guilt dripping off of him like he’d gotten caught in the rain. His gaze meets yours for a moment, crossing in front of where you’re still sat at your desk, Messina bent over your notes beside you. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly as he walks past, ignoring your boss when she calls his name.

You last another five minutes of Messina pointing out mistakes in your notes, stacking another report on the pile for you to fill out. He needs somebody. He shouldn’t be left alone, not now. You push back your chair, startling her, and she just stares at you as you flip the file closed, getting to your feet.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her brow going hard. “We’re not done here.”

“He needs to talk to somebody,” you say, pushing the chair back into the desk. “I’ll finish your reports in the morning. They can wait.”

Messina straightens, crosses her arms over her chest. “And what makes you think you should be the one to talk to Peña?”

“He needs a friend,” you reply, your voice surprisingly calm. “With all due respect, ma’am, you are anything but.”

She says nothing more, and you turn on your heel, disappearing in the direction he went, towards the stairs that lead to bunk rooms you’ve all been sleeping in these last weeks. His door is shut when you approach, but you can see light along the bottom. You knock once, softly, and then again, louder. You hear something mumbled from the other side, and it’s all the invitation you need, curling your fingers around the handle and pushing the door open.

His room looks the same as the only you’ve been staying in; military-grade bunks, desks along a back wall, ancient coffee machines and stacks of files. Javier sits at the desk, the lamplight casting shadows along the walls and over him. There’s already a cloud of cigarette smoke swirling around him, an open bottle of whiskey and a full glass on the desk as well. He sits back in the chair, one leg straightened in front of him, an elbow planted on the desktop and his chin in his hand.

You cross the room slowly, your heels clicking on the floor as you come to stand, facing him, perching on the edge of the desk beside the one he’s sat at. He says nothing, those dark eyes just staring up at you. There’s something…pleading about them, and you swallow back the pang in your chest.

“This isn’t your fault, Javier,” you say, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, resting them on your thighs, your fingers curling around the hem of your dress.

“No?” he asks, and there an almost unkind tone in his voice.

“No,” you repeat. “It’s not your fault.”

His hand curls into a fist at his cheek, and then he reaches for the whiskey, tilting the glass towards you in an almost-toast before he lifts it to his mouth, taking a healthy sip. “I got played.”

“You all got played,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “You had all the information, Centra Spike confirmed it—”

“Stop,” he says, and rubs his fingers across his brow, eyes dropping shut. “Please, just…” He shakes his head, pushing his chin back into his palm. “You know, you come in here, you pretty little thing, you say all the right things, you look at me like I’m not a terrible person, like I didn’t just get a good man killed. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

The ache in your chest is more violent now, and you stand from where you’re sat on the edge of the desk. You take a step towards him, closing the distance slightly. “It’s not your fault, Javi.”

His eyes shoot open again, this time harder than before, but you can see the shine in them. “Shut up.”

“No,” you say, your voice climbing slightly. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shut up,” he says again, slamming the glass down onto the desk so hard you’re shocked it doesn’t shatter in his hand. “I did this.” He gets up and steps towards you, grabs your face in his hands. You nearly stumble backward, surprised by his sudden closeness. “I’m the guilty man here, and you don’t fucking get that.”

“No!” you say again, reaching out and fisting your hands in the front of his shirt. “This isn’t your fault. This isn’t on you!”

He almost growls, the sound rumbling its way up his throat as he steps closer, pushes his forehead against yours, breathes your air. You stare up at him, watching his eyelids flutter. His hands move up, fingertips pushing into your hair, sifting it between his knuckles. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

You have whiplash, from how quickly this has changed, from how hot the heat between you has suddenly burned, how easily you can feel yourself giving into his touch. Distance be damned, you can’t get close enough to him now, letting your hands wander further down, hooking into his belt loops.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, the words loaded as anything, making his eyes open again. “The guilt, the pain, whatever you need. Let me have it.” You reach up, curl your hands around his wrists and slowly move his arms down, sighing into him when his palms land on your hips. His forehead is still pressed to yours, and you feel his hot breath fan across your face, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes and desire. He twists the fabric of your dress between his fingers, the hemline dragging higher up your thighs, and you see his gaze dip, pupils blown wide. “Use me, Javi,” you continue, the words surprising even yourself. “I can take it.”

He shakes his head once, and the dread of rejection seeps into your bloodstream. Shit. “You don’t know what you’re asking, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and half-broken. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Just for tonight,” you counter, the rejection slinking away into the shadows when you realize he’s still holding you close, still breathing your air. “I can take it. Whatever you need, give it to me. Please.”

The tip of his hawkish nose drags along yours and when he speaks, you can feel his lips brush your own. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know, Javi,” you reply, nudging his nose, moving your arms up to drape them over his shoulders. “I trust you.”

He wrenches himself away from you then, your dress falling back to your knees, a heady breath falling out of you when he stalks towards the door. That fear creeps in again, but he doesn’t open the door, doesn’t disappear, doesn’t leave you feeling the fool.

Javier locks the door, kicks off his shoes, and returns to you. You toe off your own heels as he closes the distance, and then he’s on you. Big hands sliding around your ribs, lifting you up and against him as his mouth finds yours. He kisses you slow, lips crushed to yours, dragging it out and sucking hard on your lower lip. It’s intoxicating, the way you can taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel how hard he’s straining against his zipper, the strength he’s withholding while he holds you.

Your legs lift around his hips, and he sets you on the desk, sweeping a hand out to move everything out of the way. You keep him close, one hand moving up to twine in his hair, the other curling in the back of his collar. “You tell me,” he whispers against your mouth, the words spoke between kisses, the one arm still around you pulling you to the edge of the desk. He grabs your thigh in one broad hand, skims his palm along it, head dropping to watch it disappear under the skirt of your dress, “if I’m being too rough, okay?”

You nod furiously, your grip on the back of his shirt tightening, and he kisses harder, teeth grazing your lip, tongue invading your mouth. You take everything he gives, sighing into the way he squeezes your waist, the hand beneath your dress moving to your core, fingers dipping beneath the elastic of your underwear. He drinks down the moan you make when his middle and ring fingers stroke along your clit, index and pinky fingers sliding into the curves of your thigh.

“So wet, querida,” he whispers into your mouth, and his hand moves lower, fingers curling into where you’re dripping, the stretch making you throw your head back as white-hot pleasure seeps through you, turning your blood to flame. “Tell me, how long have you wanted this?”

“Since the first time you asked me for a cigarette,” you admit, and it’s the truth. You release his collar, hand snaking down his chest, flicking over the buttons of his shirt, and you cup him through his jeans, grinning against his mouth when his cock jumps into your touch. “How long have you wanted this?”

“Since the first time I saw you,” he says quickly, and crooks his wrist almost harshly, fingers plunging deep, touching nerves you didn’t even know you had. You squeeze him, fingers reaching for the button on his fly, but he bats your hand away, thrusting his fingers again. It makes you keen, head tilting back again, and he presses his mouth to your throat, kissing your pulse, dragging his tongue along it. “You first, baby,” he whispers.

He’s relentless, and talented with his movements, kissing his way across your collar as you start to climb that peak, that coil inside you growing tighter and tighter. He dips his tongue into the hollow of your throat, drags it straight up to your chin, kissing the edge of your jaw as the pleasure overtakes you, spurred quickly by those dark eyes watching you and a sly grin curving that pretty mouth.

Your chest heaves as you start to come down, limbs loose and white sparks clouding your vision. Javi’s still grinning, slowly pulling his hand from you, making you whine with the loss, but it slides into a moan when he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slips them between his lips, licking them clean before he’s grabbing your chin and kissing you rough again.

“Another night,” he tells you, thumb swiping your jawline, “I’ll lay you out on my bed and lick you till you shake, but right now, I need to fuck you, you understand?”

You nod furiously, hands flailing to reach for his waist, yanking his fly open. But before you can slip a hand beneath his waistband, he’s pulling you off the desk by your hips, turning you in his arms and laying a palm flat between your shoulders. You’re quick to catch on, pushing your ass back as you bend over. He growls for real this time, yanking the skirt of your dress up and then your underwear down, letting it pool at your feet while he skims a hand over your bare ass.

His touch is gone, and a second later, the flat of his palm connects with your asscheek, the smack echoing through the room, your skin stinging, and damn it all if you don’t feel yourself get wetter.

There’s the rustling of fabric, and then you can feel his thighs press into the backs of your own, the hair on his legs tickling your flesh. He holds your hip with one hand, kicks your knees apart with his foot, and you bite your lip when you feel the tip of his cock drag through your folds.

“Hands, querida,” he commands, and you’re quick to obey, folding both arms behind your back. He catches your wrists in one hand, long fingers locking you into place. “So good for me.” You can hear the grin in his voice.

Then he pushes into you, the drag of his cock tight but perfect, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning loudly. He sets an immediate pace, hips snapping into your ass hard, every thrust making the desk quake beneath you, metal scraping along the floor. He’s using his grip on you as leverage, yanking you back onto is cock with every thrust he presses into you.

You can feel the power in every thrust, the emotion he doesn’t quite know how to comprehend spurring every movement. His grunts and groans are laced with that same tightness you’d heard earlier, but as he keeps moving, as he lets himself get more lost in your body, it grows looser and looser, the noises freer, lighter.

You’re almost incoherent, hands flexing wide in his grip, but you take it. You take everything he gives, every relentless pound, every smack to your ass. You’ll have a Javier-shaped handprint come morning, and it only makes your body feel hotter. I can take it, you’d promised. And you will.

He releases your wrists after a while, grabbing your waist with both hands, fingers pressing into the flesh of your ass, still keeping his pace, still setting your whole body alight. You curl your fingers around the edge of the desk, holding on for dear life, feeling your eyes roll back as he somehow manages to fuck you deeper, this time his cock seeking out every pleasure-drenched nerve inside you. Everything in you goes deliciously taut again, toes curling and one knee bending upwards until your heel drags along his calf. He spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and it only makes you cum harder, dropping your face into the desktop and groaning loudly. “Fuck, Javier.”

Everything changes then. His pace slows, he releases your hips, pressing his hands onto the desk on either side of you, leaning over you, caging you in. His hips roll slowly, deeply, the drag of his skin on your making you claw at the desk, groaning into the wood.

You let him keep at it for a while, chewing your lip raw in the process, but then you turn your head, lock your eyes with his, reach one hand back to grip his thigh. “I wanna look at you, Javi,” you murmur, “please.”

In a flash, he’s pulled out of you with a grunt, quickly gathering you up and into his arms, pulling your legs around his waist and returning to his rightful place, angling his hips and slipping back into your drenched heat. Your back arches, chest pressed to his, and he kisses you again, rough and delicious, drinking you down like you’re the whiskey in his glass.

Your shoulders hit the softness of what you assume to be his mattress a moment later, sheets strewn about. It takes you a moment to realize he’s undoing the buttons on your dress, and you reach your own hands up to pull at his shirt, fumbling with the buttonholes until enough are undone that he can reach back and yank the thing over his head, tossing it somewhere out of sight, leaving the board expanse of his golden chest on display for you.

“Gonna rip this fucking thing off you,” he grumbles, struggling with the tie at your waist. You stifle a laugh, both at his tone and the wildness of the situation — the fact that he’s literally inside you, undressing you, touching your body in ways you’ve only dreamed of.

He manages to get the tie undone, and you slither out of the dress best you can, leaving it sprawled on his bed, the fabric wrinkled beneath you, but you don’t care. Javier lets out a strained sigh when he sees your lack of bra beneath, and instantly, he drops his face into your chest, mouthing at your breasts, hips starting up another rhythm, not as fast as before but not as slow as he’d gone either. You cup the back of his neck with one hand, tangle the fingers of your other in his hair again.

You listen, as he fucks into you, listen to the hitch in his breath, the deep groan that rips through his throat when you tighten around him, the stifled gasp he presses into your skin. His hands fist in the sheets, cock twitching deep as he paints the deepest parts of you. He lets his teeth scrape your breast as the pleasure overtakes him, and you hiss, tugging on his hair, yanking his face back up to your so you can kiss him through it, swallowing his moans like he’d swallowed yours, licking into his mouth as his hips continue to stutter.

Spent, he collapses onto you, weight pressing you into the mattress. You don’t move your hands from their places, massaging the back of his neck and sifting his hair through your fingers. He fits his head into the crook of your neck, nosing along the curve of your throat, hot breath fanning across your chest. He’s still inside you, your hips spread wide to accommodate him, muscles stretching. It’s a good burn, his weight making you feel more grounded after you’d just been combing the clouds with the way he’d dragged pleasure through you like a hot knife through butter.

His breath starts to even out, grow slower, and for a moment, you think he’s asleep. You can’t stop moving your fingers through his hair, the silky strands curling around your knuckles. Then he hums, the sound making your chest vibrate, and you freeze.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask, the question half-whispered, and Javier’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowed.

He shakes his head, moving up your body slightly, an arm sliding beneath your shoulder and hand coming to rest at your temple, fingertips tracing your skin. “No, querida,” he whispers, and kisses you once, soft and gentle and full of promise. “I want you to stay.”

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