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[rnarvelboi]

Hard Landings

Summary: Everybody in the kriffin galaxy seems to know you...Except for Poe.

He's not really dealing with that well.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: ~12.5k

Warnings: lots and lots and lots of pining, idiots in love, bit of grumpy x sunshine, angst, fluff, the reader is described as having scars, Poe being a literal absolute sweetheart about everything

A/N: My first star wars fic! Please be kind to me I tried my very best! If anything is inaccurate, no it isn’t and you don’t see it. And please, please, please (as always) let me know what you think! And a big thank you to miss @velvetofyourheart I’m glad you got to meet Poe through this fic, hopefully I did his character justice.

Poe would never admit it to a soul, but he’s a little bit obsessed with you.

The obsession comes on slowly, it creeps in and roots down in his veins before he really has a say in it, before he even meets you.

Maybe obsession isn’t quite the right word.

He has an interest.

A vested interest.

As a commander in the resistance.

Yes, that’s it.

That’s definitely how it starts, at least.

An interest.

Your name is mentioned casually to him one morning in the mess, a name he doesn’t recognize and one that is suddenly everywhere.

Repeated and repeated and repeated.

Until he wants to burst, because who are you and shouldn’t he know and why did everyone else know you and not him?

He hears about you for kriffin weeks.

Black Squadron adores you. You make an impression on Rey and Finn and Rose.

Yet, Poe never sees you.

You’re never around when he is – off doing some other thing, always just out of the room, just moved, just – not around.

It goes on for so long, that he starts to suspect you’re avoiding him. Or, that it’s an elaborate prank that’s went on for far too long and no one knows how to tell him the truth.

That you simply do not exist.

He starts to suspect you aren’t real.

He knows everyone on the base, can pick out most people by name and face and has talked to all of them at least once, in passing, in the mess, in debriefings. 

Not you.

You are a faceless mechanic that came from nowhere, that has charmed people quietly and quickly, that has a supposedly famed and wicked aim (if he has to hear about how you only hit the bullseye on the holodarts board at the cantina again he’ll lose his mind – really). 

The holodarts thing only bothers him a little – mostly because Poe has never seen you at the kriffin cantina. 

People whisper that you’re kind, that you’re quiet, that you’re stubborn, and that you’re hiding something. 

Even BB-8 knows you. The droid that almost never leaves his side, somehow knows exactly who you are.

Poe has no idea what world you come from, what led you to the resistance. He supposes it doesn’t really matter, and the fact you hadn’t offered that particular bit of information to anyone not unsurprising, considering that the things that led people to the resistance were usually traumatizing.

Poe is intrigued by you.

He has no good reason to be, really.

And at the end of the day, you are just one of the many mechanics. You’re just one of the many people that live and work on D’Qar, that’s a part of something bigger than yourself. 

But Poe? He’s never really been good at letting things go, letting it lie. He’s stubborn, he knows that, and usually he can work that to his advantage.

Not this time though. This time he feels like he can’t do anything but dig his heels in.

Poe isn’t used to being…left out. He isn’t used to feeling left out, like someone just doesn’t want him around.

He’s…well, the poster boy, the golden child, Leia’s favorite – the leader everyone looked too when things got tough.

Poe hits his breaking point when Rose mentions that you were at the cantina the night before. 

Again. 

And that he didn’t see you. 

Again. 

“What? What do you mean? I was there the whole night! And I never – ,”

“Left right before you got there,” Rose shrugs, looking to Finn for backup. “You got there later than the rest of us – the debriefing with Leia?”

Finn nods, glancing from Rose to him and back again, lifting a brow at Poe’s slightly distressed tone. “Yep. It went late, remember?”

Poe sits with that for a moment, scratching a hand over his jaw, nodding slowly. “Why doesn’t this person want to meet me?”

Finn and Rose share another concerned look. “I don’t think it’s on purpose, Poe – ,”

But Poe decides that’s enough. “Right,” he says, standing, making an effort to clear the irritation from his voice. “I’ll go introduce myself now.”

Before anyone can stop him, before he can think it through and stop himself, he’s striding away, through well-known halls and familiar corridors, BB-8 trailing along at his heels whirring and beeping as he goes.  

“I know, buddy,” he says, glancing down at the little droid. “I know it’s not on purpose.”

But it kind of feels like it’s on purpose – like you know something about him or heard something about him that makes you stay away, that makes you avoid him. Something that either isn’t right, or he needs to correct.

You aren’t avoiding him, right?

You don’t even know him.

Why are you avoiding him?

His stomach twists, because there’s always the possibility you know him from his spice runner days. “Can you lead me, Beebee?”

Really, he should have done this weeks ago. It was his responsibility to be familiar with the other pilots and mechanics.

BB-8 rolls ahead of him with a whirr, leading him toward the one of the hangars.

Another series of beeps.

Uneasy. Cautious.

Poe frowns, stepping quickly behind the droid, to the entrance to the hangar. The smell of fuel and oil and something slightly charred greets him like an old friend. It’s a smell that’s as close to home as Poe feels he’ll ever get these days.

It’s a smell that’s like flying and falling, like stars and sky, and hope.

Most people are in the mess for dinner at this time and so the usually chaotic hangar is quiet, only a couple of people lingering, quickly finishing up whatever they were working on to get to dinner too.

BB-8 races around a banked ship, Poe following closely when he pulls up short.

He watches BB-8 cross the duracrete to you and knock into your ankle.

Poe has definitely never seen you before.

He would remember someone like you.

You smile, immediately stooping down to run a hand over BB-8’s side. You have a wrench in your hand, a smear of grease on your forehead. You’re working on his x-wing. Poe does a lot of the maintenance himself, but not all of it, not these days, not with the responsibilities that weigh on him.

He can’t figure out how to put one foot in front of the other suddenly, struck a little bit dumb from where he watches you attempt to communicate with his droid. It’s obvious that you don’t understand binary, but that you’re trying to interpret his beeps to the best of your ability anyway.

You frown, furrowing your brow, mouthing something under your breath. The movement of your mouth pulls at a scar that spiderwebs over your jaw and a portion of your cheek.

Kriffin hell.

He hadn’t expected you to be so pretty. He hadn’t expected you somehow. Even from where he stands, he can see the long flutter of your lashes against your cheek, the curve of your bottom lip, the delicate knob of bone in your wrist.

You touch the droid’s domed head softly, your voice finally carrying over to him, “– sorry, honey, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

With a series of exasperated beeps, BB-8 rolls away from you, back toward Poe.

You glance up, your gaze like mourning flowers, like the sharp points of rocks at the bottom of a whirlpool, like raw burning grief. Something about you is overwhelming, something about your gaze is like tumbling through open space, like free falling in a star shower.

For a moment, he thinks you won’t spot him, but then your eyes snap to his and those fathomless, unknowable depths soften just a bit.

You lift a hand in greeting, still crouched on the floor, the corners of your lips lifting in a smile.

Beep. 

He looks down at his meddling droid.

Another sassy beep.

Go. Over.

But he can’t get his feet to carry him over to you.

So, Poe just waves, smiles back at you. He feels dopey and stupid. Black Leader, Commander Dameron, afraid to approach one of the kriffin mechanics. 

You lift a brow, dusting off the knees of your trousers as you stand.  

“Sorry for bothering you! Don’t know what’s gotten into him!” He settles on calling over to you, pointing down at BB-8 like it was his fault, like Poe didn’t ask him to lead him to you (the droid gives an indignant little whirr at the implication), before he turns on his heel and marches away, like he has somewhere important to be.

Poe Dameron is not a coward, but what he sees in the depths of your eyes scares some part of him he didn’t know existed.

Well, at least he knows you’re real.

And he now, now, he can say he’s obsessed.

Because Poe’s never backed away from something that scared him. 

~

A crash sounds to your left, makes you jump, your bad ear ringing. 

You glance up and around just in time to see your toolbox slipping to the floor in a cascade of metal. The only thing you can do is watch as your carefully organized madness spins across the floor, the noise catching the attention of a few passersby. Despite the usual chaos and noisiness of the hangar – it still attracts attention.  

A final wrench pings to the floor and you trace the orange flight-suited legs behind the new mess up, until you meet the eyes of Poe Dameron.

He’s cringing, his face contorted into a pained expression before it eases into the relaxed smile he usually sports.

Maker, he’s beautiful.

He’s unfairly attractive actually – soft dark brown curls with eyes to match, a kind of warmth behind his gaze that couldn’t be faked.

You lift a brow when he stoops down to sweep your tools back into the box, haphazardly piling anything that would fit back into the box.

The carefully organized compartments are all but ruined, it’ll take days to sort them right again. “Sorry about that,” he says, righting the box on a stool as his ever-present droid beeps at him, a little orange and white BB unit that most people adore.

Including you. 

You’re more familiar with the droid than you are with his owner.

BB-8 had a strange habit of periodically checking in with you. 

Still, you’re surprised to find Dameron in front of you at all. That day he stared at you from across the hangar is burned into the back of your mind, the way he’d looked at you like he was seeing a ghost. 

Or something worse. 

He couldn’t wait to be out of the same room as you.

Everyone who mentioned him had nothing but kind things to say, even when they were criticizing him - a little hardheaded, a little reckless. But a good leader, a good man. 

You resist the urge to reach a hand up and cover the scars that stretch across your jaw and cheek, anxiety beating through your chest. 

“It’s okay,” you answer, only a little bit of carefully controlled despair dripping through your veins, despair at your things being knocked about, despair at having been so swiftly judged by someone so supposedly kind. 

His presence is a reminder of that day, that odd little lie he told, the rejection you’d done nothing to earn but lift a hand in greeting. 

You had precious little, your things were your touchstone when everything else disappeared, when you no longer felt safe, or like yourself. Some of those tools had been with you since –

You force yourself to take a breath. 

They’re just things, you remind yourself, things that could be rearranged and replaced. 

The droid whirs and beeps again, sounding a bit irritated.

“Right,” Poe stands and sends you another overly charming smile, like he’s trying to make up for something other than your upset tools. “Beebee is right. That was a bad apology. I’m sorry for startling you and I’m really sorry about knocking over your things. I can help you reorganize them, if you want,” he offers, sheepishly rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. 

You blink at Poe, a little bewildered at his offer, more than a little baffled by his sudden presence.

Maybe you’d caught him at a bad time that day, maybe he’d really been rushing somewhere.

The droid swivels to look up at you, chirping excitedly, apparently now satisfied you’d been properly apologized to. You can’t help but smile and crouch down, reaching out to pat BB-8 who happily rolls forward into your hand like he always does. “Does your droid always scold you?”

“Only sometimes,” Poe says, smiling again, the crinkles by his eyes pulling at his cheeks. You’ve never seen anyone smile like that before, with their whole face, like they were putting effort into it.

If it were anyone else, you might still be a little bit irritated, but Poe’s inflection is one of total earnestness.

That, and you can already tell he’s the kind of person that it’s impossible to stay angry with.

It only helps him a little that he’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever laid eyes on. His energy is infectious, too, and you suspect that even if he wasn’t a pretty boy, he’d still be able to charm whoever he talked to, that he’d still sound like sunshine radiated right out of his veins.

You both glance at the messily assorted tools. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, some tension rolling out of your shoulders. “They needed to be sorted out again anyways. No harm done,” you say, partially to reassure yourself. “Is there a reason you’re here knocking over my things?”

Why are you suddenly talking to me now? Your real question goes unspoken.

Poe scrubs a hand through his hair, curls artfully threading around his fingers, messy but like it was supposed to be that way. “Well, word around base is that you can fix pretty much anything.”

You frown at him, cocking an eyebrow up.  

Were people saying that? It’s verifiably untrue. There are plenty better mechanics than you. You preferred tinkering with more delicate things anyway, smaller machinery than the ships that surround you. 

“I can certainly try,” you answer cautiously, still patting BB-8. “But I gotta ask – who told you that? I think I’m a pretty average mechanic.”

You don’t know much about Poe Dameron, besides the popular, regular gossip about him.

He’s hotheaded, he’s reckless, he’s a great leader, he’s the best pilot in the whole kriffin galaxy, he’s the poster boy of the resistance, he’s kind, he’s a flirt, he’s –

He’s staring at you guiltily, like he’s been caught doing something bad, and you have a feeling that his sudden interest has something to do with the day he avoided you.

It’s a miracle you hadn’t seen him before that day, especially considering how much you interacted with Jessika and Snap and Finn and so many others. Because Poe knows everyone, is friends with damn near everyone.

But you haven’t really had cause to speak with him yourself before he so boldly strode over and knocked your tools to the floor, before he stared at you from across the room and sent little bolts of panic racing around your veins.

It had been hard not to notice Poe, to wonder about him, even if you didn’t interact with him yourself.

“Finn and Rose. Rey too. Which, if Rey is saying that you can fix anything…well, I thought she was the one that could fix anything.”

You tilt your head and straighten, BB-8 rolling back to Poe’s side as you do. “What is it that you need help with exactly?”

Poe stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he recovers himself and reaches out a hand. “Poe Dameron, by the way, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

You don’t take his hand, nodding back at him, locking your fingers tightly together behind your back. “No. You were in such a hurry the other day,” you say, watching as Poe winces, testing your theory of guilt. “But everyone seems to know you around here,” you let him off the hook a bit and tell him your own name, though he clearly already knows it.

He lowers his hand, doesn’t make a big deal about you not taking it.

Which you appreciate.

“Everyone knows you, too,” he says. “Except for me.”

“I really doubt that.”

“No, really!” He exclaims. “All of Black Squadron – all they talk about is you. Kriffin hell, if I have to hear one more time how you’ve never miss the bullseye in holodarts...” he trails off, shaking his head. 

You blink, just a bit surprised. Though you see all of the pilots quite a lot, you didn’t think they talked about you, thought about you outside of your brief conversations with them, your very occasional outings to the cantina. 

“Maybe that’s just because I keep them from falling out of the sky,” you say to Poe before you can really think your words through.  

Poe laughs, and it’s a nice sound, even if it startles you just a little.

Maker, how did anyone bare being around him for more than a few minutes? When he looks the way he does and smiles like that and laughs like that?

Poe is the kind of person who burns, scorches the world around him. His energy is like an exploding star and you can already feel yourself getting sucked into his orbit. 

He nods you in the direction of his x-wing which you’re more than familiar with. You frown as you approach. “Something happen in flight? It was fine before.”

There had only been drill flights earlier so you can’t imagine something drastic could have happened to it. 

Poe maneuvers behind you, brushing a friendly hand across your shoulders as he passes you. You stiffen and the hand is retracted, but he doesn’t call attention to it, just works at removing an external panel of the ship while you stand by, arms crossed over your chest as you watch.

He lifts the panel, chattering on at you about some of the wiring.

You frown and watch him, the flutter of his lashes, the movement of his throat, the bit of warm brown skin that peeps through the open collar of his flight suit.

The problem he claims to be having with the wiring is so simple a child could have fixed it. You narrow your eyes and watch Poe Dameron lie straight to your face about not knowing how to fix it, about not even knowing what was wrong in the first place.

Stars, he’s a bad liar.

But when he turns to you with those wide, brown eyes, you don’t have the heart to call him on it.

Though you have to wonder why.

Why pretend?

Why pretend not to know what the problem is? How to fix it?

Just to speak with you? Surely not. 

You glance down at BB-8 who stares up at you, like he knows what’s going on too and is begging you not to mention how stupid it all is.

A laugh bubbles to the back of your throat, one that you have to bite your lip to avoid leaving you.

Poe feels guilty about the other day, you would guess, and this is his in to talking to you, making it up.

Like he couldn’t have just approached you under the guise of introducing himself.

Its profoundly circuitous and you find yourself warming to him because of it.

So, you just reach out, point out to problem with the wiring. “There’s your issue. Here – ,” you step forward and make quick work of righting the issue, holding back a grin as you do.

This is certainly not something you expected from Poe, he seemed like a more direct person to you.

Like the day he’d marched into the hangar, clearly with the intention to talk to you, only to back away and lie.

Maker, he does feel guilty.

He’s smiling at you again, watching you with rapt attention.

BB-8 rolls slow circles around the pair of you, engulfing you in your own personal bubble with Dameron.

“So, are you heading to the mess now? For dinner?”

You tilt your head, “Sure, Poe.”

“Wanna eat together?” He’s not looking at you, there’s a tracery of pink on his neck, creeping up his throat. He knows he’s been caught.

“I promise I won’t tell Rey,” You say, just to watch him blink over at you in surprise, just to watch the pink spread and turn red. “That you would think she can’t fix something like this.”

He laughs, the sound loud and unrestrained. “Thanks. Guess I should have made up a real problem.”

“Should have,” you chirp. “Something really complicated. Next time, rip out this,” you suggest, pointing to a panel. “That’s a real problem. No steering.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he’s grinning like a fool at you.

Famous charm, famous flirt.

You shake yourself, wonder at how quickly you were sucked in by him.

You clamp that feeling in place, ice it off, seal it away. You won’t, can’t, get attached to anyone. And you don’t like the feelings bubbling up in you. “Glad we finally got to talk, Commander Dameron. I don’t think I’ll be able to join you at dinner.”

Before he can ask, you walk away.

But you feel that burning gaze, the weight of his eyes on you, until you turn a corner out of his sight.

~

Poe tries to right his wrong.

Of course, it backfires. Of course, he decides to do it in the stupidest way possible.

Beebee doesn’t let him forget it. 

He’s still a little bit afraid of you and the things that lie in your eyes, but that only fuels his interest, his obsession. 

But approaching you after that first encounter – casually – seemed like a bad idea. He didn’t want to mention how he’d basically fled the room – Maker, he can only imagine what you think of him because of that.

Having a reason to approach you, like needing help with something, seemed so much better.

“So, you’re going to lie to her?” Rose had asked him. “Why? Just introduce yourself, Poe. I thought you did that when you marched off the other day.” She’d seemed disgruntled. “It’s not even a good lie!”

And Poe was notoriously bad at lying.

Still, he hadn’t been able to regret it as he watched you replace the couple of tangled wires he’d hastily tugged out of their respective panels. Not when you were so close to him, not when you smelled like engine fuel and something distinctly earthy, not when he could see the swoop of your lashes against your cheek and the webbed scar that extended down your neck into the collar of your shirt.

The way you hold yourself, upright and proud, but guarded, makes him want to peel back the layers of who you are.

So even if the excuse is stupid, even if he pulled those wires out himself, he’s glad he did it.

Even if you turned down his offer to eat together, it gives him an opening into your life.

Whenever he has time, which isn’t much, he makes a point to seek you out.

Anytime he sees you in the mess, he makes a point of sitting beside you and talking to you, even if it’s just to watch you grumble about how close he is.

He notices that you don’t like to be touched, that you seize up like you’ve been electrocuted. You try not to tell him things, but some things slip out, some things are just hard not to notice about you.

You’re afraid of flying, your home world was warm year-round and you don’t like feeling even a little bit chilly. You like those blasted holodramas that Poe thought no one in the galaxy actually watched, you read maintenance manuals in your spare time. The tools you use have undue importance to you, he catches you cataloguing a couple of them more than once, just to check they were still there. He notices that your hearing isn’t as good on your left side, that you’re more easy to startle if he approaches from that way, and so he always goes to your right.

Poe brings you cups of caf until he realizes you don’t really like how bitter it is, your face screwing up with the bold flavor of it. So, he starts bringing you something sweet instead, something warm. It makes him happy because he likes sweet things too, he always found the caf too bitter too.

He hunts down a jacket for you, one of the ones with fur on the inside and leaves it on your workbench.

He has a feeling that if he gave it to you in person, you’d never wear it.

Poe isn’t sure why you’re so closed off, especially with him, but eventually you stop frowning when he appears, you smile and greet him and ask him how his day has been.

Poe doesn’t think you realize it, but one day, one of the days when he’s lost people and things feel hopeless and he still smells like kriffin fuel after washing for so long his skin feels raw, you pass your cup back to him – filled with that something sweet.

It’s still warm, and he likes to think maybe he can taste the shape of you on the rim of the cup.

“I heard what happened,” you say. “I was waiting for you.” You don’t offer any platitudes, and he’s glad for it. It just makes it sting worse, when people say things like – I’m sorry and It’s not your fault.

It’ll always be kind of his fault.

That’s just who he is, what he does.

But you don’t seem to realize what you’ve admitted. That you wait for him, think about him while he’s gone.

And before Poe can think about that too much, you’re passing something else to him. “They had them in the mess while you were away. Saved some for you.”

You press a koyo fruit into his hand, your skin carefully not touching his.

You smile and take the cup from him, sipping from the same place his lips had just touched.

Instead of saying thank you, like he should, like he wants to, he asks for something else from you. Some deeper part of who you are. He slides his thumb across the skin of the fruit, reminded of home. His throat is tight with gratitude when he asks, “Why don’t you like to fly?”

You blink long at him, fingers tightening on the cup until he worries you’ll hurt your hand.

He waits, is about to tell you that you don’t have to say it, not ever, but you nod, and loosen your grip on the cup. Instead of speaking, you gesture to the scars that disappear into the collar of your shirt.

Poe just nods.

“What about before?” He asks, probably against his better judgement. “Before that?”

“Nothing better than being in the stars,” you answer easily, gaze distant. “Maker, I loved flying.”

He can’t help the grin that pulls over his face.

~

Poe Dameron easily becomes a menace in your life.

A nuisance some could say.

He starts appearing in your life, in your carefully created little bubble, anytime he can.

Really, he’s got no good reason to.

Still.

He starts finding reasons to be in your presence.

Poe becomes your problem, and your solution.

True to his word, even when you tell him he doesn’t have to, he helps you reorganize your tools.

He sits with you at your workbench any free moment he has, brings you cups of caf and then replaces it with a sweet drink you can’t name, makes probing small talk, tells you about his home world.

You learn a lot about Poe, about his life. He talks about flying a lot – a romantic edge in his voice that doesn’t fit with being a pilot in a war. You let yourself imagine Poe as a different kind of pilot, the kind that could just go, be, explore.

But you can’t figure out why he tells you these things, you offer hardly anything in return. He shouldn’t be interested in you, he should have given up on you a long time ago, he should have gotten bored of you a long time ago.

You don’t tell him how your home world was destroyed, you don’t explain your fear of flying even if you do let that information slip out.

Poe’s eyes go round when you tell him that, like he can’t imagine it, being afraid of something he lived for, loved more than anything.

He doesn’t ask why in that moment, though he does eventually.

And when he does, you tell him.

You tell him, and he accepts it for what it is.

A sneaky little, “You should let me show you how to love it again,” slipped in before he left you that night, koyo fruit in hand.

You do not want to know Poe Dameron. You don’t want to care about him. You don’t want to care about any of these people. Caring about people just complicated things, just made everything worse, when something inevitably took them from you.

And you’re starting to rely on Dameron, you’re starting to care about him. Really care about him and weather he made it back in that banged up ship of his.

You never meant to make an impression on them, never meant to make them think about you more than they should. Never, you never should have gone to the cantina with Black Squadron when Jessika Pava invited you. And you certainly shouldn’t have gotten sucked into a game of holodarts – something which apparently lived in everyone’s memory just because you happened to be a good shot.

Dameron is the worst of all – always around, always smiling, always cracking jokes. He’s also the one who leaves the most, who comes back to D’Qar singed and beaten and who takes far too many risks.

He makes you nervous, not just because of the way he flies – like nothing can touch him, like he’ll always make it out alive – but also because of his penchant for digging himself into your skin, burrowing himself inside you and becoming a part of your life, your routine.

You want to hate him so badly.

You want to stop caring about him, but Dameron is determined to be in your life, he’s determined to assault you with daily kindnesses.

And so, you start to care about him, to like him, to wonder about him and find your thoughts occupied with the ways you could make him smile on the days where he can’t.

The world always feels like its ending. The war feels never ending. Something life altering is always happening, always just around the corner.

You hate it.

Poe is talking to you now, rattling on about something or the other, and you can’t focus because it’s hard to breathe – it’s hard to breathe when you have to stand by and watch him climb into the x-wing you take meticulous care of, and stick that stupid helmet over his head.

“I’ll be okay, you know,” he says, grinning down at you. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

Maker, let that be true, you think.

Instead, with acid on your tongue, you say, “I’m not worried about you, Poe.”

“I’ll come find you when I’m back.”

Like you wouldn’t be waiting anxiously the entire time, like you wouldn’t go sit out on one of the bluffs hidden by the trees and stare up at the stars, imagining you might be able to see his ship if you looked hard enough. 

“You don’t have to do that. I probably won’t even notice you’re gone. It’s not like I send all my time thinking about you.”

Poe laughs at your tartness, “Okay. I’ll be thinking about you though, so I’ll still come find you.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed that it makes you happy. “Bye, Beebee, stay safe,” you say to his droid instead of him, walking away before Poe can say anything else, the noise and commotion of the hangar too loud for you to hear anything else anyways.

Despite your best intentions, you think about Poe while he’s gone. You save some of those blasted koyo fruits from the mess because he always acts like he’ll die when he misses out on them. They’re native to his Yavin IV and remind him of home even if he doesn’t say it. His mother had planted a koyo tree when he was a child, and they grew in their yard.

You’re always one of the first to know when he’s back. People make sure to tell you, even when you don’t ask.

You never touch Poe, but you sit close to him when he gets back, and give him those stupid fruits, and share a cup. He still smells like fuel, but you don’t mind, because its Poe, because he’s alive.

And you admit to him that night that you were waiting, that you always wait for him, if only to see him smile.

He makes you feel like an idiot, he makes you feel uncertain, because he is so very certain.

Despite it all, Dameron is there, and if he can’t be, his droid is.

He invites you to dinner whenever he can, and once you go, just to watch him beam like sunshine, just to watch him hold court, make everyone in the mess his best friends for an hour.

Hope, Poe had a way of inspiring hope, of making people laugh when things got tough, of making them believe in something better.

You grow a little bit attached to him, find yourself waiting for him from time to time, even when he’s not away, before you catch yourself and feel that ice around your heart shiver and spiderweb and crack.

Maybe you should stay away from him, but you can’t – not when the sun of him feels so nice, is melting the ice.

Not when he looks at you with eyes softened by something unknown, something you don’t want to see or recognize. 

Because you can’t have the inside of you exposed to the light again.

But you can’t quite bring yourself to make him stop either.

~

“Here.”

You glance up, squinting into the low light. “Poe,” you say, not at all surprised. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

He rolls his eyes, smiling. “Just take it will you?”

You grin back, flip your magnifying glasses above your forehead and peel off your gloves before taking the cup Poe is offering you.

“Do you ever stop?”

“Do you?” You counter easily, sipping at the sweet drink as Poe sits on the spare chair across from you at the workbench.

He shakes his head, “Guess not. Hard for me to sit still. There’s always something else to do.”

You nod, yanking the glasses off your head and tossing them onto the bench. You haven’t seen him in a while, you want his attention. “It’s late,” you comment, trying to hide a yawn.

“I know.”

There are purple circles beneath his eyes, creases at the edge of his cheek, like he’d accidentally fallen asleep on something.

“Why don’t you go get some sleep then, Poe?” You ask gently.

He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes. “When I haven’t seen you in weeks? Never.” 

You snort. “What, you need me to put you to bed or something?” 

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” he hedges. 

“Of course you wouldn’t.” 

He peeks one eye open at you, “Is it so surprising that I like being around you?” 

You look away, fidget with your fingers, the edge of your jacket. A jacket you know is a gift from Poe. “A little bit. It’s hard to imagine why.”

For a moment, you don’t consider continuing, you don’t even think of it, because there’s nothing more to say. It really is hard to believe. Why should he? When you give so little of yourself in return? When Poe burns brighter than the sun and you are but a faded star?

But before you can think of something to say, of the words to describe how you feel, before you can get your next words out, Poe leans forward, right into your space, the smell of him, the scent of clean soap, the fresh smell of the shampoo he used, the cologne he put on, invading every part of you, diving down into your veins, like sunshine on ice. “I like you,” he says softly. “That’s why.”

His gaze is warm and open. Big brown eyes staring at you from beneath thick lashes.

You blink at him, “I like you too, Poe.”

And you do, you like him too much, maybe to your own detriment. 

But you don’t say it the way he does, with teeth and grit and meaning. You say it like you don’t understand what he means, what his constant presence means, what his patience with you and you only means, what the jacket left on your workbench means, what the cups of something sweet, and always approaching you from the right side means.

Poe likes you. And he wants you to know it.

Poe doesn’t smile at you, just watches you for a moment. “You don’t get it do you? What do I have to do to make you get it?”

“Poe…” You trail off, not sure what to say to him. “I don’t understand why.”

“Does it matter why?” He sounds a little bit offended. “Why is it such a surprise anyway? I’m not…I don’t really know how to be subtle,” he offers. “I’m telling you. I like you.”

You bite your lip, worry at the hem of your shirt. 

But there are things he doesn’t know, and there are things you aren’t sure you can give. 

And because he could have pretty much anyone he wanted and yet he wasted his time here with you. Because the world is always ending, and you can’t lose everything again.

And Poe, he’s sort of becoming everything to you.

Instead of answering, you drain the rest of the drink, flick out your light, and switch off your datapad. “You need sleep, Dameron,” you say. “It’s making you delusional.”

Poe stands, following along after you without complaint, rounding a corner into an empty corridor.

“So, it doesn’t matter why?” he chirps, smilingly upbeat again, like you didn’t just reject him without explanation.

You roll your eyes, following a well-known path to his quarters. “Of course, it matters.”

“It shouldn’t. You could just accept it.”

You reach his door, automatically punching in the code, stepping back to wave him in ahead of you. “Poe,” you stop him, standing very close to him in the low light of his room. You can see every lash against his cheek, the bruise darkening along his brow. “It’s better this way.”

“I don’t think it is,” he says, obstinate about it.  

You sigh, exasperated, opening your mouth to respond when he cuts you off. “No. You’re wrong about this. It’s not better this way.”

“Poe,” you say again, growing frustrated. “You don’t know anything about me. I give you nothing in return for all you do. You should hate me. I can’t even touch you. I can’t even look at you when you leave. I can’t even say goodbye.”

You stop, press your hands across your chest, ribs aching with the pressure you exert. You wait for him to get it, but Poe just says your name, so quietly and sweetly it makes you want to crumble. “Baby,” he coos, and you know he’s thinking about reaching out to you, about how much easier it would be if you were an easier person. Your throat goes tight with the sound of that pet name on Poe’s lips, directed at you. “Baby,” he repeats, palms open, eyes like little galaxies of their own. His lips twitch up into a gentle grin, “I know you. You’re easy to know.”

And Poe repeats the things he knows about you. That you like it warm and come from a warm world. That you don’t like bitter things. That you’re meticulous with your tools and work, that you preferred to be alone when you worked but you like to have company when you eat. That you’re easily annoyed by loud noises and that your left ear is sensitive. That you pretended to think the koyo fruits were too sweet but that you now look forward to them just as much as Poe does.

“You tell me things. You just don’t realize it. I like who you are.” Poe steps away from you, toward his bed, slumping down to yank off his boots.

The circles under his eyes are in sharp contrast with his skin in the low lighting of his quarters. You stand there, not sure what to say, not sure if you want to say anything. Not really sure how to say anything.

“Poe,” you say softly, his name on your lips making him pause, glancing up at you with eyes that are such a rich warm brown, you’d gladly lie there forever, gladly lie in that shade and sleep. “Thank you.”

His brow softens, that little pinch smoothing out, and he holds out a hand to you.

You hesitate, not sure the contact won’t kill you, won’t end everything you know.

“C’mon, you’re tired too. Stay with me,” he lays back, scoots as far away as he can. He doesn’t say it, but you hear it anyways. I won’t touch you.

You pull your feet out of your shoes and kick them away, and you lie down beside Poe as he flicks out the light. He turns to you in the dark, the shine of his eyes the only thing visible to you before your eyes adjust and his features come slowly into focus.

He’s beautiful, unreal in his beauty.

Poe smiles. “Are you going to stay?”

“Sure, Poe.”

“Good.” His eyes flutter shut and you have to tangle your fingers together to resist the urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to trace the arch of bone.

You shut your eyes instead, and listen to Poe’s quick breathing, the shift of him on the bed, still fully clothed and above the blanket.

You tilt closer, wriggle closer.

You want to press your nose into his shoulder, into his bicep, you want to dig your teeth into him, to consume him.

Because he’s just so…Poe.

He’s everything you don’t really deserve.

The scent of him overwhelms you – forest pine and rainwater, the lingering smell of fuel that you’re starting to become addicted to.

Just before you fall asleep, you press your nose into his shoulder, you feel the briefly light touch of his hand against your cheek. The feather light touch is immediately retracted, jerked away, a reprimand unto itself.

But you wish it would linger.

~

You don’t make things easy on him after that night, like you regret falling asleep so close to him.

He should have known better than to fall asleep too, he was a clingy sleeper, and he hated the panic in your eyes at finding his skin against yours when you woke.

There had been a moment, between waking and realizing, where Poe had been blissfully happy. It had been a long time since he woke up touching someone else and he was loathe to let that feeling slip away, it was only a bonus that this person smelled just like you.  

But then he’d opened his eyes and found you really there, a look in your eyes like you were deciding whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Instead, you mumbled an apology and stumbled out of bed, out of the room.

There are some days after that when Poe just can’t find you, no matter where he checks, no matter what he does.

He thinks about the way your hands sometimes shake, about the times where you look like you haven’t slept in days and days and days, the scar that trails over your jaw, the circles under your eyes, the haggard, drowning look in your gaze. Like something is tormenting you. 

He wonders sometimes if he should just let you be, he wonders if he is the thing that’s tormenting you.

Your eyes haunt him, the look in them still scares him. 

But he doesn’t want to look away, he doesn’t want to give up on you, not for anything. Poe doesn’t give up, doesn’t look away from things that are difficult. And you always come around eventually, looking for him but pretending that you aren’t, quietly sitting down beside him or waving to him from across a crowded room.

There are times that things keep him away – he’s off planet, he’s on a mission, he’s participating in kriffin diplomacy. He misses you like a part of himself has been lost. 

And ever since you came around, he can’t focus on anything else, can’t think about anyone else. 

No one else can warm his bed, not even for a night.

He doesn’t consider anything more with anyone else because –

Well, because they don’t bring him koyo fruits and sit out and stare at the stars when he’s away and tells BB-8 goodbye and not him because it’s too painful, it’s too close to losing too much.

He wishes you would just let him in. 

~

“You’re going,” Poe says, standing with his arms crossed at the threshold of the mess. He’s vaguely sweaty, a black mark across his forehead and down his cheek, a frayed kind of burned smell emanating from him.

Half the buttons on his shirt are undone and you want to hate him for it. You hate that expanse of skin, the ever present chain around his neck poking out. Another piece of himself he’d given you, why he wore the necklace. That his mother’s ring is looped on the end. Poe had let you see it, let you fist your hand around it, trace the edge of the ring.

He’s back from a mission, something, you don’t know.

Your brain goes all fuzzy, blanks out the specifics of what goes on with the actual flying in the sky part of things. You don’t like to think about it, don’t like to know the details of what he does, what any of the kriffin pilots do. 

Maker, to be afraid of flying in a place like this was like being a bird with its wings clipped, defenseless and easy to be left behind.

You wrinkle your nose and turn away from him. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Dameron.”

Poe strides forward and takes the seat across from you. “Cantina. Tonight. You’re going. We had a very successful mission,” he beams at you, clearly proud, satisfied. He doesn’t offer details, knows it makes you anxious. “And you’re coming to the cantina.”

You don’t care about the mission, you’re just glad he’s back. 

But all you say is - 

“Nice try. I don’t respond to pressure,” you refocus on your datapad.

“I command – ,”

You groan, “No – ,”

“Yes! As Commander Dameron, I…” he hesitates, clearly trying to think of a synonym for command. You lift a brow, and he continues with much less zeal and gravitas, “ –command you to come with me to the cantina tonight. I can finally watch you beat everyone at holodarts in person.”

“That really hurts your feelings, doesn’t it?” You snort. “It’s just darts.”

He pouts at you, an exaggerated expression that makes you laugh. “Yeah, it does actually.”

You shake your head, reaching out to adjust the collar of his shirt a little bit. Poe stops breathing, his shoulders tense, as you smooth the fabric back. “What happened to your flight suit?” You ask, silently begging anyone listening for him not to mention your fingers against his shirt.

“Had to look my best before I came to see you,” he recovers quickly, his eyes on your hand as you withdraw your touch, brows ticking up. “Didn’t I?”

You wrinkle your nose, “Stars, this is your best?”

“Hey!”

You bite down the smile that threatens to overcome you. “You definitely didn’t hit the fresher before you came here.”

Poe rolls his eyes, “Are you going to come or not?”

“Sure,” You agree. “Just this once.”

He blinks, surprised, because you’ve never gone with him. “Really?”

You pause, watching him, “Kriff, Poe, do you want me to go or don’t you? I can change my mind – ,”

“No! No, no, no, you’re coming. You already said yes.” he’s beaming at you, just sitting there looking at you, eyes flicking over your face, smiling like you’ve agreed to something much more important than going to the cantina. “I missed you,” he says suddenly, the words bursting forth like they no longer fit inside his mouth.  

“Right,” you agree, sliding your gaze to your datapad again, not acknowledging his words, “Just come find me after you’ve found some soap.”

You should tell him, you think. You should tell him what happened to you.

There’s something like hardened trust between you and Poe now, something deeper than that too, something you’re afraid to name.

He deserves to know.

And selfishly, you want him, you want him to touch you again, you want to touch him again without surprise pulling over his features, you want him to keep bringing you cups something sweet and you want to keep hoarding koyo fruit for him. 

You owe him the truth, the core of you, in exchange for everything he’s given you, so he can make a decision about you. 

~

Poe finds you exactly where he left you earlier, hunched over a datapad in the now nearly empty mess, brow furrowed as you review schematics, make notes on them, absently twirling a stylus.

He plucks up the datapad and switches it off.

You glance up, your fathomless mourning eyes brightening when they fasten on him. “You look nice,” you say in a rare moment of openness, like you can’t help but let the words tumble out.

A heat he doesn’t expect crawls up his neck, traces over his cheeks. “Let’s go. We’re holodarts partners.”

You wrinkle your nose as you stand, carefully wrapping your hand around his elbow, your fingers avoiding direct contact with his skin. But he can feel the warmth of you through his shirt and that’s enough. “Who decided that?”

“Me.”

“So I’ll be carrying our team then.”

“Ouch,” he lies his other hand against his heart, trying not to disturb your touch on his arm.  

The pressure of your fingers at his elbow feels so good, warm and heavy, and Poe thinks he’s actually starting to become a bit touch starved. Never has indirect touch felt so good.

He’s normally a touchy person, and it’s been a bit of a challenge to remind himself that touch scared you. He hugs his friends, sure, and the pilots are a strangely tactile bunch, but there was something deeper he craved, something only a partner could really give, something that he hasn’t had since he’s gotten hung up on you.

Poe isn’t really even thinking about sex, just touching, just holding you, any part of you, of being allowed to hug you when he sees you, kissing you, holding your hand.

He fantasizes, sometimes, about getting to hold your kriffin hand.

You’re gradually coming around to careful touches though.

Even a couple weeks ago he could have never imagined you willingly tucking your hand against his arm.

Once at the cantina, you refuse to play holodarts with him, claiming it isn’t fair. “Black Leader should have to fend for himself, shouldn’t he?” You say quietly over the rim of your drink, not looking at him but grinning when everyone starts to heckle him.

So it ends up that everyone is partnered but Poe.

You sit out the games, instead chatting with Rey, the two of you bent over your glasses, talking lowly about something. What you might be talking about, Poe can only guess. But it’s distracting enough that he loses every single game.

Finally, after all this time, you’re here at the cantina together, and you don’t want anything to do with him.

You laugh at something Rey says, your eyes crinkling at the corners, fingers laced together over the tabletop as you lean closer to listen.

It’s only much later, when you’ve had a few drinks that someone fits a dart into your hand and nudges you up that he gets to watch your famed aim. You refuse at first, and so adamantly that people start to complain, and Poe has to warn them off it. You’re a little bit tipsy but you’re still game, still willing to indulge them a little.

They make you stand much further back than normal, make you spin in a circle a few times, until you’re laughing and dizzy and Snap has to catch you gently when you almost trip. The others are trying to test you, to see if you really have skill or if you’re just particularly good at holodarts.

You barely take a breath between shots.

Every single dart meets its mark, dead centered on the glowing board across the room. Drunken cheers erupt and coalesce around you. You look vaguely embarrassed, like you don’t want the attention. Your smile is tense, your fingers tight on the next dart, eyes flashing to his gaze where he hoots along with everyone else.

“Someone needs to get a blaster in your hand!” One of the recruits says, jostling an arm around your shoulders.

Your smile goes, tight, hard, panicked – and you gently extract yourself, laughing, brushing your fingers over your arms before you cross them tightly across your chest.

He starts to move toward you, but someone else is already there. Rose and Finn pulling you toward the bar, away from him again.

Poe misses the searching glance you direct back at him.

~

“Hey,” you press your hand against Poe’s back hours later, squeezing in next to him at the bar. Poe immediately turns to you, beaming like sunshine incarnate. He tilts his head down and your breath stalls for a moment, your mind curiously blank.

Touching Poe, you’ve found, is nice. Your skin doesn’t crawl with the sensation, pain doesn’t echo inside you with the warmth of him against you. It’s so nice, and you want more.

That first time had scared you so badly, you were conditioned to find pain in touch, and it was only after you abandoned him in his quarters that you realized you felt none of those things. It had felt good, warm and safe, like being bundled up against a cold wind.

“Hey!” he answers, a curl of his dark hair feathering along your forehead, his nose nearly touching yours. “You havin’ a good time?”

“Yes,” you answer, your fingers still against the back of his shirt, curling into the fabric. “But I miss you. You left me,” you echo his words from earlier in the evening, the ones you couldn’t make yourself parrot back to him in that moment.

“I’m right here,” he smiles at you still, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks tired, exhausted, older than you’ve ever seen him.

His skin is warm through his shirt, and you have to resist the temptation to lean into him, to press your nose to his throat and inhale. The smell of his skin is coppery with sweat and his cologne, the breath of something very Poe just beneath. “Sorry I wouldn’t partner with you earlier.”

“S’okay,” he says, eyes dark and framed with lashes that make you jealous. You want to touch them, count each little hair.

He’s pretty, so very beautiful, and you’re angry with yourself for wasting your evening anywhere but right here. His shirt is unbuttoned, the chain he wears around his neck peeking out, the length of his throat, the twist of tendon in his neck, mesmerizing.

Poe tilts his head closer to you, carefully not touching you, eyes fluttering shut, lashes long and dark against flushed golden skin.

You laugh.

He’s a little bit drunk and it shows.

You tighten your fingers into the back of his shirt again, tugging gently, “Poe,” you say, breathing his name out softly. “Poe, will you come with me?”

He doesn’t even ask where, just nods and follows you when you step away from him.

You let go of his shirt and watch him frown at you, like he just realized that your hand had been on him at all and now he’s missing the feeling. “C’mon,” you nudge, “It’s a secret.”

“Secret,” Poe echoes, an excited smile tugging back into place on his face. “Okay.” You start to trail away, through the thick forest greens that make up D’Qar, and Poe follows closely behind you. You glance over your shoulder to make sure he’s still there but Poe does you the service of talking your ear off, so you don’t have to constantly check he’s still there, rambling on about whether or not droids have souls, stomping loudly through the dark forest, your path lit only by the light of D’Qar’s moons.

The dry swell of his voice is comforting, the rumble of it pitching upward when he gets particularly excited about something.

You drop back to walk next to him, pushing aside verdant undergrowth as the ground begins to slope upwards. Poe doesn’t question you, just follows, climbing up the hillock until the trees thin and a cool breeze slips through the hanging vines.

The edge of a cliff looms ahead.

The bluff isn’t that high, and there’s a small waterfall that feeds into a pond. You think it’s beautiful, lush emerald below and the flight of stars overhead, the glow of two moons. But Poe turns to you with a frown, a worried line appearing between his brows. The spray of mist from the fall rises around you both, cocoons you in itself.

A light breeze shifts the collar of his shirt, all those undone buttons, the breath of exposed skin and the chain that hangs around his neck.

And before Poe can say anything, to you or about you or about this strange little world you’ve brought him to, you lose the courage you thought you had – the courage to tell him, finally, why. And what happened. And what you feel.

Before you can change your mind, you step around him and leap into the void.

~

When he looks over the edge of the cliffside, he imagines the spikes of rocks in the water below.

The swirl of the water reminds him of that thought he had about your eyes the first time he saw you. Grief like the sharp tips of rocks at the bottom of a pool.

Poe gets that feeling again, the same one that had bubbled up in him when he first met your eyes. Fear rakes through him, but he’s never backed away from something that scares him, not even you. With his heartbeat loud in his ears, and an unknown feeling tugging at the back of his throat, Poe watches you jump.

He lets out a strangled gasp.

You hang there for a moment, suspended in space, light from the moons crystalizing around you, threading through your hair. And Poe thinks, Maker, save me, because you look like a falling star, you look like all the stars in the galaxy raining down.

And then you drop and fall into the pond, sinking so deeply he loses sight of you.

You disappear from sight and Poe curses, not hesitating to follow you, jumping over the side too, without hesitation because all he can think about are the blades of rocks.

The water is dark and something darts by his ankle, but when he surfaces, you’re already there, smiling at him, your teeth shining in the light of the moons. Any warmth he felt from the glow of the drinks settled in his veins has evaporated. “Kriffin hell, what were you thinking – ,”

You bob closer to him, the falls a distant roar, your lips dipping below the surface of the water. His breath stutters to a halt, through the cool cut of the water, your warm hand tangles with his.

For the second, third, fourth time tonight, you’re willingly touching him, and this time it’s your bare skin against his.

You stroke your thumb over the back of his hand, “I do it all the time. It’s fine.” You point up at the cliff, water trailing down your arm, “That’s where I watch for you.” Your arm ticks out, pointing at the stars now.

Poe catalogues that information for later, his brain short circuiting at the thought of you at the top of that cliff alone, waiting and watching the stars.  

“A little warning would have been nice,” he huffs. “You know there are predators in this forest.”

“And yet, I’ve always been fine.” You ghost your other hand up his arm, fisting in the collar of his shirt. “Jumping…It’s the closest feeling I get to flying these days.”

Poe doesn’t know how to respond for a moment, watching beads of water pearl and drip down your face, over the line of your nose and curve of your jaw. “What happened?” He asks the question he never dares to.

You hesitate for only a moment, sliding your hand down his arm. The moment is surreal, the warmth of you like walking on the surface of a sun, like flying through fire. It’s only made more intense by the cold water around you, binding you together. “What happens to everyone, I think. I’m not special.” You shrug, the whites of your eyes blinding in the dark quiet world you’ve brought him to. “The First Order came. I was the only one left. After.”

The way you say it is breathless, like you’re breathing through pain, an old injury.

“It’s more than that,” he says, stubborn about it. “There’s more.”

You blink, water webbing in your lashes. “And I want to tell you, Poe. Will you listen?”

~

You tell him about the destruction of your home world.

“I raced,” you say hollowly, sitting next to him in the sand that rings the pond. “I used to race. I always won. I was really good at flying, Poe. I can’t remember ever losing.”

Poe squeezes your fingers, the sensation of finally getting to touch you muddling his brain just a bit. “What did you race?”

“Anything,” you say breathlessly. “Anything that I could. Anything that would fly.” You pause and clear the tightness from your voice, “Anyways, we didn’t have much of a resistance presence and no connections. So, when the First Order came…” you trail off and don’t continue for a long time, turning your forehead into Poe’s shoulder, the crown of your head heavy against his arm.

“It was over before it started. But we had to try. I thought I could fly anything. And I could. But it was just me and a few others and it was…there was no way…” you swallow. “I was the only one left, and I crashed.”  

There are a lot of details you’re leaving out, that’s clear. But the pain in your voice makes him keep his questions to himself. Instead, Poe strokes his hand along your temple, the curve of your cheek, swipes away the tears before they can really escape.

You only continue when he wraps an arm around your waist. Those eyes, your mourning flower eyes, like the deadliness of unseen depths, like something sharp and angry and deep, flash open.

You still scare him, but he never wants to look away, he never wants you to look away. Those pierced, shattered bits of you stare back at him. “I crashed. And there was nothing and no one and – everyone was gone.” Dead, you don’t say. Everyone was dead. “And I didn’t even have a medpack. No food. Everything hurt. It still hurts sometimes, like I can feel how raw my body was for so long. That’s why…the scars. The wounds weren’t treated and so I scarred really badly. And the pain never really goes away. It’s worse when people touch me because it wasn’t over. That wasn’t the end of it.”

You close your eyes, “They found me. But I didn’t know anything because I was just some kid with a ship and guts. They thought I knew some kriffin resistance secret.”

Poe goes still.

You were tortured.

“What happened?” he asks, instead of lingering on that thought, on those dreadful memories that swarm up the back of his throat.  

“I wasn’t worth killing. Or maybe they thought I was as good as dead, or already dead. They left me. Somewhere. I don’t remember. Until I was found and healed. I don’t really remember by who. I don’t remember where I was. And then I didn’t know what to do for a long time. My memories are…they come and go. Eventually, I joined the resistance because what else was I supposed to do? Everything I knew, it was all gone. All I had were a couple of spare tools from my ship.” Your eyes flash open, “But now I can’t even look at a ship without – ,” you stop, jaw clenching.

“It’s why I worry about you and why I don’t want to say goodbye and why I tried so hard not to let you see me. Why I didn’t want you to touch me, for anyone to touch me.” The words spill out of you in a torrent, like you can’t get them out quickly enough. “Anyways. Now you know.”  

Poe doesn’t have any words to offer you, nothing that can take away what happened to you. He pulls you close, tucks your head under his chin, and you lean into his shoulder, nose pressed to the fabric of his shirt.

It’s quiet for a long time, so long the sky starts to lighten, and he knows you both need to head back to base. He’s already been gone too long. The only thing keeping him from going is that fact he hasn’t been commed.

If something drastic happened, someone could always contact him.

Your fingers tighten on his before you release his hand and pull away and lumber to your feet. You open your mouth, blink at him, an amused expression pulling over your face.

You reach down and brush a hand through his hair. “You’re covered in sand.” You show him your hand, a lot thin layer of sand coating your palm.

Maybe sitting on the sand in your entirely soaked clothes hadn’t been the best idea.

He wouldn’t change it for anything.

Poe grins, “You are too. We’re about to have a reputation.”

“Okay,” you shrug. “I’m okay with that.” You don’t look at him when you say it, eyes turned toward the horizon instead.

His heart shutters, his lungs seize, at the meaning behind your words. “Oh, yeah? Y’know gossip goes around quick.”

“It’s not really gossip, is it? More like an announcement.”

He grins, takes your hand when you offer it to him and pulls himself up, smearing more of the sand down your cheek and over your neck as he does, leaning into you, pressing his nose to your cheek, because you let him. You squirm, trying to pull away. “C’mon,” he laughs, stooping for another handful of sand, “I thought you were okay with this!”

“Poe…” you warn, a smile finally jerking into place on your face as you back out of his arms and away from him. “Don’t.”

“Too late!” he starts forward, and you dash backward, crashing into the copse of trees and out of sight.

When you finally make it back to the base, both of you covered head to toe in sand, Poe finally catches you.

He doesn’t hesitate in kissing you for the first time, doesn’t mind that it’s gritty and kind of gross. You taste like D’Qar, like stars and evergreen. You tilt your head up, smooth your fingers up his arms.

Poe tilts you back into the nearest wall, not caring who sees or what they think. It’s an open secret that he’s in love with you anyways, so if any reaction was warranted, he feels it’s cheering.

Besides, what better what better way to announce yourselves?

Your fingers cup around his wrists, mouth soft and giving beneath his. A sigh slips past your lips, the breath of you against his chin.

Poe can’t help smiling, grinning, into you, knocking his forehead against yours. “This is okay, isn’t it?”

“You would have known by now if it wasn’t, Dameron,” you say. 

“I mean,” he thinks back to your words, “You’re not in pain? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You can’t, you wouldn’t,” you murmur, tilting your head to the side, eyes wide and open, those unknowable depths just a bit less grief stricken. His gaze trails down your neck, over the soft skin, the bump of scar tissue. You have sand there too. “How did you get sand inside your shirt?” Your fingers slide against his chest, inside the open buttons, fitting right in above his heart.

He closes his eyes, jaw clenching.

You trace the vein in his neck, cup his cheek, press a kiss to his nose. “Sorry,” you say. “Sorry it took so long. Sorry I ran out of your room that day.”

“It didn’t take too long,” he blinks at you. “But I will be making up for lost time.”

Poe mirrors the grin that spreads over your face.

~

“ – well, but, baby, if I’m the one that’s flying,” Poe whines. “Would that be as bad?”

You glare at him from your workbench, huge eyes staring at him from behind those magnifying glasses you use to work on delicate equipment. “Yes. It’s still in the air, isn’t it?”

“What if we have to suddenly evacuate?”

“Guess I’ll be standing out front with a blaster,” you snark. “Waving goodbye to your ship.”

Poe rolls his eyes, “You're gonna have to fly again someday. Why not with me? For a start?”

“I absolutely do not have to fly again.” You ignore the rest of his offer.

“So, you’re planning to stay on D’Qar…forever?” He pauses, “How did you get here?”

You frown at him, taking off the glasses and tossing them on the table. “By ship, and it was horrible. And so what if I am? I like it here.”

“Well,” he approaches your place at the bench, circling an arm around your shoulders, “hopefully one day this war ends.”

You don’t look at him, but you do tilt your body into his, warm and pliant against him, scrolling idly on your datapad. Poe catches the way your fingers shake a little bit. “Hopefully,” you intone, scooting over on the bench so he can sit next to you. “That doesn’t mean I have to go off planet.”

Poe decides to drop it, instead leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve never crashed you know,” he says against your skin. 

You grin and glance over, “That is a lie, Poe Dameron.”

“Only a little one.” He presses a hand to either side of your head, tilts your face up. “You look pretty today.” He swipes at the line of black grease down your cheek. “Really pretty.”

“Just today?”

“Everyday. But especially today,” he presses a long, lingering kiss to your mouth, likes the way you follow his lips when he pulls away.

“Poe?” You say against his lips, and he hums back at you, nuzzling his nose against yours.

“Yes?”

“I’m not going in that kriffin x-wing with you.”

He sighs, standing to pick up his helmet, “Worth a try. Are you going to come say goodbye?”

“Of course. I’ve never let BB-8 leave without telling him goodbye,” you hold out your hand to him, folding your fingers between his.

You smile and brush your thumb across the back of his knuckles.

~

Poe wears you down one night.

About the flying thing.

He doesn’t let it go, like he can’t let anything go, though he tries to be gentle with you about it.

“Baby,” he says into your skin, and you melt, and sigh, and you’re mad, because he knows what he’s doing. You’re vulnerable because he’d come back this time in a limping ship, had been regulated to the medcenter. “For me.”

His skin is warm and still bruised under your touch.

Kriff, you hate him.

You open your mouth to refuse him again, when he says, “Don’t you miss the stars?” And your throat goes tight, “I mean, you used to race. Do you remember what it was like the first time you left orbit?” His voice goes dreamy, and soft, “I do. I never wanted to land.”

You tangle your fingers into his hair, prop yourself up on one elbow. “If you could live in the stars, would you?” You tug on a curl and then settle your chin on his chest, feel the tips of his fingers draw over your bare shoulder blades, he’s tracing your scars, but you don’t mind. You close your eyes, the feeling so nice after so long without even casual touch.

“Yeah.” And you think he’ll leave it at that but of course, Poe is sickly romantic. “But only if you’d come with me.”

“Poe,” you wrinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut tighter. “You’re horrible. Maker, you’re just – just kriffin awful. How does anyone say no to you about anything?”

“They try,” he chuckles. “Doesn’t really work.”

“Ugh.”

“So, c’mon, do the easy thing and say yes.” You don’t answer, only look at him, at the bruise on his cheekbone, the home you’ve found in his eyes. “I’m taking this as a yes.”

You frown at him, “You’re very cruel. Asking me this after you crashed back onto this planet.”

“I’ve never crashed. It was just a hard landing.”

You scoff, poke the bruise, turn your cheek into his chest. “Uh huh, hard landing. Worst landing I’ve ever seen.”

His chest rises and falls with a few long breaths, and you think he’s finally fallen asleep when – “So…is that a yes?”

You roll your eyes and groan, “Yes, Poe, it’s a yes.”

Poe tucks his arms around you, breathes against your temple for a moment, before you find yourself on your back, his mouth trailing down your neck, along the ridge of your shoulder. “I’m so proud of you,” he says excitedly, like he really is, like it means something to him that you’d let him take you up in that stupid ship. “We don’t even have to go anywhere. Maybe you can just sit there? Get used to the cockpit again. Beebee can keep you company – ,”

“Won’t you be keeping me company?” Your throat is a bit tight, your voice strained.

He frowns down at you, ignoring your hand on his bicep, the light way you trail your fingers over his chest. “Are you okay?”

You cup his face between your hands, not really sure how to answer him. “You are unbelievable.”

He frowns, opens his mouth –

But you kiss him again, you don’t know how to tell him what it means, that he’s proud of you even though you haven’t done anything, that he stuck with you even when you tried hard not to fall for him, that he always comes back even if he sticks some hard landings.

[rnarvelboi]

cutting it close | the mandalorian

mando x fem!reader

word count: 11.4k

warnings: ADULT CONTENT MINORS DNI (oral f receiving, mxf intercourse) swearing, canon typical violence, din clubbing deserves its own warning guys.

a/n: a labour of true love. i wrote half of this so long ago, but was inspired by an incredible source to continue.we are really living up the the user name in this one bc WE ARE GRIPPING BESKAR FOR REAL. shoutout to @everybirdfellsilent​ for being the BEST person to bounce ideas off, catching all of my grammar errors (there were many) and helping me figure out how someone whispers in a helmet. you are a real one and i love you!!!!! okay enjoy goodbye. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Are you sure he’s in there?” You ask the Mandalorian, who even through his helmet looks as uncomfortable as you are. He just holds up the tracking fob and it beeps rapidly, hardly making a sound over the thumping of the bass in the club in front of you.

“Guess so.” He yells over the sound. If you can barely hear him out here, you don’t even want to imagine what it’s like inside. The sound vibrates through the concrete and you can hear the high pitched sound of girls singing somewhere in the back, blue and red lights flicking out underneath the door you both stand in front of.

“I’ll go. You can wait out here. Your shiny head’s gonna reflect the light too much and give me a headache.” You go to take the tracker from him but he yanks it away. Rolling your eyes, he just leans and opens the door for you, and there’s no point in arguing as you walk inside, the music instantly flooding your senses.

Keep reading

[rnarvelboi]

Honey-Do [joel miller]

It’s Sunday, chore day, and Joel has a honey-do list item of his own: get his girl pregnant.

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: pre-outbreak joel, married!joel, pure fluff and smut, slight au, body worship, some cock worship, handyman!joel, malewife!joel, joel “my wife doesn’t lift a finger in this home” miller, vague daddy undertones, overstimulation, joel miller is a munch, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected PIV (wrap it up unless you’re joel), creampie, breeding kink, actual breeding, talks of pregnancy, pregnancy kink, domestic bliss, joel’s love language being acts of service and by that i mean putting a baby in his wife, competence kink

word count: ~ 10k (someone stop me)

read on ao3!

a/n: hello, lovelies!! i received this ask ages ago and the idea inevitably snowballed because who is self-control?? does she go to a different school? anyway, this fic is pure plotless domestic fluff and domestic smut (is that a thing? yes!), so i really hope you all enjoy! pre-outbreak joel is very special to me xoxo

HONEY-DO

Your shared bedroom looks out over the eastern sunrise. A mutually-assured vigil, keeping one another safe—and timely. 

In the mornings, the golden light spills through the break in the curtains. It will peek slowly inside and gently warm your body awake, testing the limits of its power. When you roll over and make a soft groan of protest in your sleep, seeking more warmth, the little strip of sunlight will widen, directing you. You will find the body next to yours, nuzzling close, your nose bumping his bare chest, and settle happily against it. In return, his body will seek yours, symbiotic exchange, a greedy arm pulling you closer.

In frustration, the sun grumbles it way higher in the sky, shining brighter and spreading wider.

It takes a couple tries to get it right: to shine in just the right way to make you blink rapidly awake, squinting in the glow. You gradually come to life, your lungs sucking in the first deep breath of morning air, your naked body stretching like a cat in the sunspot. Dust hovers lazily in the air, heralding a Sunday occupied by chores. The room is still, silent, and kissed by morning rays. Peaceful.

You examine him in the light: tanned skin sparkling gold, plush lips slightly parted, broad chest rising and falling. His hair is pleasantly tousled from sleep. There are patches of silver beginning to thread through his dark brown beard, and in your self-sustaining state of affection, you gently put your lips to one of the patches of skin where hair does not grow. 

Your persistence grows with every second he refuses to wake. It may be a bit petulant, your lips smattering soft kisses across his jaw, beneath his ear, down to his neck and all its veins, but it begins to work. He stirs, groaning softly, turning onto his side and wrapping both arms around your waist. He does all of this without opening his eyes, resting his head on your belly and nuzzling against you as if he could get any closer—sated, for now, his body knowing nothing but the pull toward you. 

You comb your fingers through his messy hair and listen to him breathe while he listens to your heartbeat. 

“It’s ten,” you whisper.

“Hmph,” he says against your belly. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet; if you didn’t know his breathing patterns like they were mapped out in the lines of your palms, you would think he’s still sleeping. 

“We slept in,” you point out. 

Joel gently bumps his forehead into your stomach as if he were banging his head against a wall. “Shit,” he grumbles. 

You laugh as his moustache tickles your skin. “Do you want to get up now?”

Another grunt, accompanied by a shake of his head. Big, strong arms pull you closer. 

“I’ll make you breakfast,” you coo, stroking his hair away from his face. “Eggs… bacon… coffee…”

Joel presses his lips to your belly. “Don’t go takin’ my job, now,” he says, his voice groggy with disuse. “No girl of mine’s gonna run around gettin’ her own damn coffee.”

“Hmm. Means you have to move, Romeo.” 

This earns a playful smack to the side of your thigh, his big, callused hand kneading your flesh while he wakes himself up with mouthfuls of your scent—linen and vanilla—and gulps down the sunlight glowing on your skin. 

“Never mind,” you sigh, dreamy and complacent under his attention. 

His eyes finally crack open, peering up at you, honey-brown pools touched by the golden light. He rests his chin on your belly and keeps his arms wrapped around your hips. His fingers trace shapes up and down your lower back. “You got a honey-do list?” he asks with a crooked grin.

Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “That depends. Can I get you to mow the lawn without a shirt on?”

“What do I get if I do?” he teases, his hand moving to your hip, contouring his hand to the shape of you. 

You lift a brow, easing your legs apart underneath his body, letting him feel the warmth between your thighs. Like a moth to the goddamn flame, his eyes wide and eager, Joel crawls down your body with his mouth on your belly. Pausing just above your naked cunt, he blows cool air onto your clit and watches you squirm. 

“After,” you gasp. “After chores, honey. We’ll never get up if we start now.”

“Don’t think I can make my woman come in good time?” he challenges, his palms keeping your thighs spread. Your pretty pussy glistens before his eyes, better than any fuckin’ breakfast. He begins to salivate.

Your head falls back into the pillows. “I never said that.”

Joel isn’t listening anymore. He kneads your thighs as he peers at you above your belly, your tits, to the curve of your jaw as you lie comfortably. Good. His baby ain’t about to get herself worked up on a Sunday morning. 

He lowers his face just enough to let you feel his lashes tickling your lower belly, and you giggle his name, the sound pure adrenaline to his blood. You're so soft and supple under his fingers, moulding to his touch, letting him take care of you. You may be in charge of him, but this is where he takes control. 

He presses a soft kiss to your clit and you sigh, your head turning toward the direction of the sun. It warms your face while your husband slides his tongue through your wet slit, lazily and sleepily, as though he's operating on instinct alone. Gathering up your wetness on his tongue, he groans, his fingers dimpling your thighs. 

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering. “Baby…”

That sweet little whine is poison. He cannot do anything but continue to drink you down, flicking his tongue against your clit. He's a sucker and he's always been. Your pretty fuckin’ smile from across the bar that first night; your tight black dress and the too-sweet cocktail you smooth-talked him into ordering that had his adenoids prickling; your instinct for sensing others’ troubles and your uncanny ability to make them feel like they have none at all. He never stood a chance. 

He knows for a goddamn fact every man in the bar that night wanted to do to you what Joel is doing now: lapping up your juices with his tongue, spit mingling with arousal, warming his body between your thighs under the watch of the mid-morning sun. But he got you. Joel. He bought you a drink and he took you on a date. He got to taste your pretty pussy and he got to sit you on his dick—after the second date, that is. 

He's the one who gets to wake up with you, share matching gold bands around your fingers, kiss you freely. As far as he's concerned, he's the luckiest guy on the fuckin’ planet. 

He feels particularly green when your back arches, your lips parting around his name, relishing in the feeling of his mouth on your clit. You're unashamed to take pleasure, never shy about telling him Oh, fuck, yes! Right there, honey! Joel, yes, that feels so good, baby. 

Joel preens with pride. His hot tongue glides over your clit, smooth and wet, easily coaxing you to a languid high. The golden spotlight through the curtains shines on you. You're the starlet and he's the adoring fan. From the first day, he knew he'd do anything to make you notice him. 

“This wasn’t your first bar fight, was it?”

Plucking pieces of glass out of his bloodied knuckles, you looked up through your lashes at Joel, who had been staring at you since you sat him down in the bathroom. Okay—a little longer than that. 

He shook his head. 

You just smiled at him and gently shook your head. About as much reproach as he would get. “This might sting. Just hold on tight if you need to.” 

“Like the sound of that,” he said quietly, and if you heard, you didn't comment. You guided his hand under the warm water and washed the rest of the blood from his knuckles, gently smoothing the pads of your fingers over his rough worker’s hands. Capable, you thought, idly watching the blood swirl into the drain. He barely winced when you put his hand under. 

“Wanna tell me why you did it?” you asked him, your tone soothing and sweet. 

Joel shrugged. Big, broad shoulders. Humbly strong, until someone made him show it. “Ain't manly to touch a woman like that.”

You lifted your brows. “But it's manly to beat the shit out of the guy who touched her?”

Joel studied your face. Cherry-red lip gloss. Gently flushed cheeks from a healthy couple drinks. The instinctual rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the lighting shifting gently over your collarbones. It was fascinating just to watch you breathe. Even cleaning his bloody knuckles, you slowly circled the pad of your thumb over the back of his hand, like an innate urge to comfort. Your eyes had an old wisdom to them; a particular gleam a person gained when they were familiar with the hardships life had to offer. 

He wanted to ask you. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to do more than beat up some asshole who thought he could get away with pinching your ass. 

But he would earn it. A real man earned what he got. 

“Didn’t beat the shit out of him. Just roughed him up,” he says. 

He watched you bite down on a smile. “You're a little twisted, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, eyes flicking to your dewy lips, coated with that gloss. “Think so?”

“Yeah.” You licked your bottom lip and he wondered if you tasted like cherries. “But I'm going to ask you on a date anyway.”

Your fingers curl in Joel’s messy hair, making him groan into your pussy. “Oh, baby,” you gasp, cracking your heavy eyes open to watch him lap at you, practically petting his hair away from his face as his big brown eyes remain fixed to yours. 

He purrs, suckling your clit between his lips, his eyes eagerly drinking in the sight of your flushed, tightening body. Making you come is one thing. Watching it is another. Your back arches and your fingers pull on his hair. Scalp prickling, Joel grips your thighs tighter. He’d let you peel away pounds of his flesh if it made you happy. He’d go eagerly to the grave knowing he had put some good into the world, put some light in your eyes. 

“Joel, I’m… I’m coming—ah!” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, your sensitive clit pulsing under his tongue as your pussy contracts around itself, seeking something nice and big to grasp onto. His cock is aching, his hips grinding idly against the mattress for relief, his head fuzzy from the pleasure of making you feel good. Your body slowly melts into the bed, your limbs twitching as the tension in your muscles loosens, your lips parted permanently around his name. 

Eyes drooping and teary, you try to find him between your thighs, gently stroking his hair away from his face as it begins to fall into his big brown eyes. “Need a haircut,” you croak.

Joel hums, his head listing to the side, using your soft thigh as a pillow. He nips you playfully, your skin a golden path he intends to follow to the end. His hands caress your hips, helping you come down to Earth. You admire the delectable convex slope of his nose, the way it curves deliciously against your skin when he kisses, bites, inhales. He’s freckled and indented with the signifiers of a lived-in life; a good life. His is a likeness you could trace with your eyes closed. 

It’s eleven o’clock, and your stomach begins to grumble. 

Joel chuckles, pressing a long kiss to your belly. “Gettin’ up now,” he says. “Promise.”

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, tucking his hard cock away to be dealt with later. Padding down the stairs, Joel is quick to tend to your needs, putting on a fresh pot of coffee. After so long together, his mind operates on autopilot, steering him from the cupboard to the refrigerator and back to the steaming pot, occupied with the menial task of making a good cup. The gentle clinking scrape of the spoon as he stirs your milk into the cup wakes him up until he feels practically revitalised. He keeps his coffee black.

He hears the soft tread of your feet behind him, feels the warmth of your body as you crowd his space, smiles at the way you smooth your palms over the planes of his muscled back in unadulterated admiration. His shoulders are wide, tapering down to the soft belly you’ve nurtured through years of cooking. He’s sturdy and strong and all yours. The sight of him always makes you a bit giddy. 

“So handsome,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face between his shoulder blades. The buffed claws of his woodsy pine scent hook into the spaces between your ribs. 

Joel lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the wedding band on your finger, the engagement ring above it. “Sit down, baby. Coffee’s ready.”

You grin against his back, nudging your nose into his tanned skin. “Mmm. That sounds good. But I wanna stay here. ‘s nice and warm.” 

“Girl of my dreams,” Joel murmurs, reaching around his back and patting your ass. “C’mon, I’ll keep you warm.”

You grumble your way to the little circular table in the kitchen, tucked into the alcove at the front window. It’s a souvenir from your parents' garage sale when they decided to sell their home and move to Austin. As a girl, you’d draw, scratch, and paint on that table, endlessly entertaining yourself by marking things up. Even now, there are remnants of your childhood in the worn grooves and chipped varnish. It fits nicely into your home, perfectly suited to two. It could even fit one more. 

You ruminate as you watch Joel carry two mugs to the table. He knows which cup is your favourite: green ceramic decorated with tiny flowers, perfectly contoured to the shape and size of your hands, warming your palms just nicely between sips. Joel’s mug shows its age: white but slightly yellowed from years of use, bigger than yours. The steam of the coffee gently curls into the air, a dance of silvery ribbons in lock-step. They twist together as you purse your lips and blow. The rich, smooth caramel hue of your coffee contrasts the tar-black of Joel’s. 

Since you dragged yourself out of bed on shaky legs, you shrugged on the navy T-shirt he tossed aside last night to give his greedy wife access to his chest. You'd carved some decent marks into his skin, now that you're properly looking: tiny bruises sharpening to purple, faint pinkish scratch marks that you don't remember making. 

“Baby, I don’t mind,” he says, watching you scan his chest with a frown creasing your brow. 

“But it looks painful, honey. You should let me—”

“You don’t gotta do anything,” says Joel, “‘cept come over here.”

Your brows lift coyly, your body sliding out of the chair and into his lap, legs bracketing his strong thighs. His hand finds a home on your lower back, bunching the hem of his shirt up to find your ass bare, your wet cunt sitting nice and pretty on his hard cock. You gasp when the generous length meets your puffy clit with heavy pressure. “Joel…” 

Your voice is a mere whimper, a soft little plea for more, or for mercy. Joel’s always had better restraint than you. 

“Warmer now?” he asks, like a real arrogant asshole, slipping his hand under the shirt on your body and splaying his fingers over your ribcage, thumb grazing the underside of your breast. 

You do feel warmer, crushed up against him like this. You reach behind you and grab your coffee mug, taking a small sip. Your other hand winds around his neck and scratches the tousled hair at the nape of his neck. Joel hums, leaning close, nuzzling his face between your tits. 

“Gimme the list,” he says, voice muffled. 

You keep on stroking his hair and drinking your coffee between list items. “Mow the lawn. Clean out the eavestrough. Fix the sink.”

“Hmm, easy work,” he says, his other hand sliding up and down your back. It makes you melt into him even more, giving him the chance to tease a nipple between his teeth through the fabric of your shirt. You huff, wiggling your hips, but he's a brick wall. He does not budge. “Gimme yours, baby.”

You recall the items on your own list. “Vacuum the house. Go for groceries. Touch up the paint on the front door. Do the laundry. Cook dinner. Cut your hair,” you add with a playful smile. 

Joel frowns against your chest, pulling back to look up into your eyes like a grumpy, needy dog. “You put all that down for yourself?”

You try to placate him with a kiss on his nose. “You work so hard, sweetie. I could use some hard labour once in a while.”

Joel shakes his head. “You aren’t doin’ all that by yourself.”

“No?” You lift your brows. “Wanna buy it off me, Mr. Miller?”

“I’ll win ‘em from you,” he says, tilting his head back to kiss your jaw. “Name the price.”

You bite your lip and chase his mouth, plush and soft under that dark moustache. “I’ll think on that. Meantime, you can get to work on that lawn while I watch from the comfort of the front porch. That sound fair?”

Joel’s old Southern values rear up every now and then, imparted by his mother and his father’s mother before. Putting in an honest day’s work will make his wife comfortable and happy. He doesn't want you lifting a finger around this home if he's perfectly capable of doing the job himself. He works with his hands all day, gets dirty and sweaty. You shouldn't have to—not when you work so damn hard every other day of the week. 

Joel nips your chin. “Fine. But I ain’t gonna forget that I owe you.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, baby.”

Joel finishes his coffee, but you take your time with yours, changing into a short blue sundress while Joel, regrettably, puts a pair of jeans and a shirt on. Curling your legs up on the porch swing, you watch your man start the lawnmower, enthralled by the rippling of his back muscles with every pull. You know that some of it’s for show—knowing you're watching makes him want to impress you. Sometimes, he's still the man with the teenaged crush on the girl, doing everything he can and going out of his way to make you smile. It works. 

He’s methodical: making lines up and down the lawn, shearing away the too-long blades of grass under the motor. As sweat begins to bloom under his collar and his brow, he wipes his forehead with his forearm and you lick your lips, saliva pooling in your mouth at the thought of running your tongue all over his strong, naked body. Jesus. You finish off your coffee and force your eyes away from your husband for a moment. It isn't too hot from where you sit on the wraparound porch, but your chest feels sticky. 

You rush inside to fill up a glass of water for him, hastily scrubbing your mug clean and putting it back in the cupboard. Maybe you should be occupying yourself with your chores today; you worry nothing will get done if you continue to watch him work in the Texas sun. 

He’s just finishing when you shoulder your way back outside, his neck glistening with sweat and golden noon-hour light, warm and tempting. You set the glass on the railing and wait for him to come your way, squeezing your thighs together as your eyes trail up and down his body. 

He's always been a capable man, broad and tall—so good at his job that he was offered a promotion after a few months. But it isn't just his strength or his doggedness when it comes to getting his work done. It's the way he’s so eager to finish things, to check off the items on your list, to please you. He frowns at the idea of you doing too much work. He parades you around town with a puffed-up chest, as if to announce, This is my wife. I’m her husband and I’m fucking proud. He takes your pleasure so seriously that it feels like a competitive sport—always outdoing himself, always striving for more. He loves selflessly, and yet he loves just selfishly enough to make sure the world knows you're his. 

He’ll be a good daddy.  

You glance down at your belly and let yourself picture it: swollen and round, ballooning big enough to fit a new life inside. You imagine smoothing your hand over a growing bump, Joel’s warm palms feeling the undulating kicks of a little baby inside, half of him and half of you. You picture back aches and swelling feet and insatiable cravings and expended energy. And not a part of it deters you. Not a speck of your willpower wavers, the way it would have mere months ago. 

Something has changed. It may have been gradual and it may have been sudden. But it's new, all the same. It’s been this way since a week ago, when you looked in your nightstand at your little pink pill organiser labelled by weekday, and decided: No more.

Watching Joel make his way back to you, shielding his eyes from the light, you idly place your hand on your belly. Something new. A welcome change, you think, to have someone new sitting at our little table. 

Joel climbs up the steps to the porch and gulps down the glass of water. “Thank you, baby,” he says, wiping his mouth. Your lips part as if to taste the air around him, to chew, to savour, relishing the richness. 

Your pupils expand, taking in more of him, and Joel notices, placing a rough hand over yours where it rests on your belly. “You’re lost in thought, honey. Wanna tell me what's in that pretty head?”

“Just…” Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “Thank you for doing that. I know it's a big job.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” says Joel, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Got any idea how I can win those chores off you?”

Hands grasping your hips, sliding over your sweat-slick spine, saccharine noises slipping from your throat onto your tongue and out into the open air. Fingers imprinting permanent fixtures into your ribs. The heady weight of his big, fat cock wrenching you open, as it always does, slow until it isn't anymore. Desperation kicking in, a switch flipped, pummeling and brutal and unforgiving. Uncompromising. Hips pressed flush to your ass, nothing spilling out. Not a drop. 

Everything sealed in tight as promises are exchanged as whispers in the dark. 

“I want you to put a baby in me.”

All right. You could have been more delicate about it. Not precisely how you wanted to approach the topic, but it seems to get the job done. 

Looking down at you, Joel slowly lowers the empty glass, mouth opening as he searches for words. “What?”

There’s no point in shyness or hesitation. You know your body, your mind, your heart. You thread your fingers through Joel’s and let them stay connected over your stomach. “I want you to give me a baby, Joel Miller,” you say softly, your gaze locked to his. “That's my price.”

Joel swallows thickly, his mouth still gaping. “I heard you,” he rasps. “Just… you… you mean it?”

You try not to melt over the tone of his voice: low, bordering on desperate, wanting. There’s hunger in the sound of it. “We’ve talked about it,” you offer, conciliatory. “Lots of times.”

“Yeah, we have.” Joel steps closer, his eyes dipping from your eyes to your mouth, your throat and collarbones, to your belly. His hand flexes. “You gotta be sure. You gotta know it's what you want.”

You cup his face and give him your best smile. It's the sort of smile he remembers from the very first night you met. The sort of person who is unashamed to show their joy on their face. “Honey, I want it all with you.” Your fingers squeeze his. “We’ve waited so long and I don’t want to wait anymore.”

His ears are ringing. All Joel can do is sweep you into his arms and grin into your throat, his hand firm on the back of your head, curling around a fistful of hair. “Girl of my fuckin’ dreams,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’ll make you a momma. Give you just what you want. Everything you want.”

As you close your eyes and open your ears to his ramblings, your erratic heartbeat settles. Serenity finds the pair of you, locked together on your front porch, and the next part of your life begins. 

“Don’t think this gets us out of doing chores,” you tease. 

“You aren’t gonna lift a goddamn finger,” says Joel fiercely, his lips still littering kisses all over your neck. “You’re havin’ a baby.”

“Honey, I’m not pregnant yet,” you laugh. “I don't need to get all lazy right away.”

“Yeah, you do, and you will. I’m gonna make you the laziest momma in Texas,” says Joel, smiling into your throat, the scratch of his moustache making you dizzy with laughter. “Gonna look so fuckin’ beautiful with a baby in you. Gonna glow like a goddamn firefly. Shit, we need to paint the spare room. I need to build a crib, get time off work—”

“Joel,” you coo, scratching your nails up and down the back of his neck. “We’ll have time to do all of that.”

He pulls back to look down at you, eyes so buttery-soft in the shade of the porch that you impulsively reach for his cheek and run your fingers through his patchy beard. “What’s next on my list?” he asks, holding you around the waist. 

You tap your fingers gently against his cheek as you recite each item over again. Joel’s arms tighten, pulling you closer, pupils widening. 

“And then what?” he says gruffly.  

You beam, and he's so fucking in love that he may keel over, doubled by the intensity of his affection. “And then, you're going to take me to bed and put a baby in me.”

This phenomenon should be studied: how quickly Joel Miller speeds through his chores when he has enough incentive. The anticipation of bending you over on the mattress and wringing every drop of cum from his balls until your stomach swells drives each flick of his hand as he touches up the forest-green paint on the front door, weathered slightly by morning sunlight over the years. The image of his hips pressed flushed to you as he grinds deep, spilling his cum into your womb and forcing it to take, motivates every turn of the steering wheel as he drives you to the grocery store in his clunky Chevy. 

He’ll need to drive to Benny’s, get the suspension fixed up; no way in hell he's going to let his pregnant wife sit on the old bench of a bumpy pickup truck, not with the speed bumps dotting the neighbourhood. At least there's a good preschool nearby. He pictures taking his baby to school and he preemptively feels the inevitable first swoop of dread into his gut knowing he'll have to watch his little girl disappear behind those doors. He knows, somehow, that it’ll be a girl. There's not a doubt in his mind. 

“What are you thinkin’ about?” you ask him, playing with his fingers as he holds your thigh. Joel is a great driver; he steers so easily, one palm sliding smoothly over the wheel, his eyes alert and his speed under control. It’s a little sexy, and it makes you antsy from where you sit on the bench. Sure, there are chores to do and there’s dinner to make, but it’s getting harder to push your innate needs to the back of your mind. You don't know if you can wait all day to get him inside you. 

“Names,” he says. “Got lots of ideas.”

“Yeah? Fire away.” 

“Well, I like Eleanor. Good, strong, classic name, y’know? Little wordy, maybe. Then there's Mary, Marie, Hannah, and I can tell you don't like any of ‘em,” he finishes with a laugh, squeezing your thigh. Your silence has always been a tell.

“They're very sweet names,” you concede, “but they don't feel like my baby.” 

Joel’s hand slides up to your belly and warms you beneath your dress. “Maybe we’ll feel it,” he says, “when we make her.”

“Think it’ll happen on the first try?” you wonder aloud, watching the scenery whiz by outside. It's a sunny, temperate day for Austin. You think about taking your baby for a walk, lounging lazily in a stroller while you say words that fall on deaf ears, but will resonate in due time nonetheless. You think about a little girl that will cling hard to her daddy’s leg when she gets scared of the storms outside, the way you did when you were little. You think about long nights shushing your sweet baby girl to sleep, about those same nights spent nestled into Joel’s body, the three of you dozing idly on the sofa. A unit. 

“If it doesn’t, I’ll just have to try again.” You watch his fingers creep back down between your legs and snap the waistband of your panties. 

You smack his hand. “If you keep playin’, Mr. Miller, you're gonna have to take me right here, in this truck. You want to give your wife a bad back?”

Joel grunts, patting your thigh. “Dirty play.”

“That's what I thought.”

Back at home, Joel vacuums the house while you manage, some-fuckin’-how, to convince him to let you do the laundry. He fishes debris and runoff out of the eavestrough, then gets down on his bad knees to tighten the plumbing underneath the sink. 

“Let me help, sweetie. At least hand you a wrench or something. You'll hurt your back again.”

“I got it,” he grunts from under the sink. “Just a loose pipe. I’m peachy.”

You just sigh and let him carry on, the stubborn bastard. When he stands, the job done, he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and you get a generous glimpse of his belly, the trail of dark hair directing your gaze down, down—

“Joel?” you squeak, wringing your hands together. 

He drops the shirt back over his abdomen and steps closer. “Yeah, baby?”

“Are you, um… Are you hungry?” 

He understands the particular glint in your eye, the telltale widening of your pupils, the hollow of your throat dipping as you swallow, your lashes fluttering gently. Blood surges down to his cock and it begins to fill out his jeans at the thought of taking what he's waited for all day. “No,” he says, licking his bottom lip. You eye every minute movement with meticulous precision. “Think dinner can wait.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” you say, crowding him and tugging at the hem of his shirt. He watches you prowl slowly toward him, gaze locked to the heady pull of your eyes. His cock twitches with a vested interest in the body now pressed up against him. Joel cannot look away from the siren now calling him to sea. 

“That so?” he rasps, bunching the fabric of your dress so it rides up your hip and gives him a good look at your panties. “You dressed up all pretty today. For me?”

You're as coy as a flirtatious schoolgirl, trailing your fingers up and down his muscled bicep. “Always for you.”

“That’s right, baby. You like me lots, don't you?”

“Mmm, I do,” you purr, your hand sliding up his abdomen to his chest, admiring the hard planes of his strong body. “So handsome, strong, generous…” You get lost in your exploration, eyes dipping to his throat, your lips instinctively seeking the delectable vein that pulses with every beat of his heart. “Such a good man. Gonna be such a good daddy.”

Joel’s breath shudders out of him when he feels your soft, warm mouth on his neck, indulging in the taste of him. “Jesus,” he croaks, gripping your hips hard. “Jesus, honey, you gotta go easy on me. Lemme take it slow—”

—or I swear to God, I’ll blow a load in my jeans. 

“You wanna undress me?” you say, like a real fucking tease, pulling away and tugging playfully at the straps of your dress. Joel’s nostrils flare, and he’s walking you back into the wall, cupping the back of your head to protect it, and slanting his mouth over yours. 

He’s salty with the sweat that drips from his temples and he still smells of fresh-cut grass. He’s all Joel, all yours, the first gulp of air you breathe in when you wake and the last sigh you exhale before you sleep. 

You moan into his mouth as he parts your lips and dips his tongue between them to taste yours. You taste like mint and coffee and he clutches you tighter, wrinkling the fabric of your pretty little dress in his fist. The sunlight filters through the windows, intrusive, bleeding into the moment as if taking a snapshot. Joel kisses you so deeply that your throat feels stained with the gasps of breath you exchange. 

You're sweet enough that it makes him ache, bending your back to fit you to him, craving more. Closeness is not enough—he needs possession. 

Joel’s kisses are bruising, unforgiving, merciless, but they are also slow, careful. He isn't sloppy; he does precisely what must be done to get you riled. And when he breaks away, his forehead resting against yours, you tug his hair with a pitiful whine. 

“I wasn't done,” you tell him. 

Joel pouts, mocking. Fingers pull at the straps of your dress until you're watching it pool at your feet. His big hands find your tits immediately, squeezing out all his frustrations, tweaking your nipples and lowering his mouth to your throat. 

Your fingers curl into his hair, glueing him to you while he marks your throat, sucking blood to the surface, retribution for the hickeys all over his chest. His warm palms explore your tits the way he likes, and you curve into him, giving him all the access he wants. “Joel, honey—”

Your voice is nectar, warmth from a fire on the Fourth of July, the stomach-cramping laughter around the flame. Joel groans, blindly searching for your hand with his face still nuzzled in your throat, sucking a particularly aggressive bruise that you’ll scold him for later. But he threads his fingers through yours and feels the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands, and your sweet, wispy sighs have him grinding absently against your thigh. You don't have half the mind to get mad at him for a goddamn thing. 

He pulls away with a great yank of his self-restraint, still holding your hand. “C’mon, baby.”

You follow dutifully, staring up at your husband with the same moony eyes you gave him on your wedding day. The third stair creaks a bit, the way it always does. The bedroom door is first on the left, and it's a good fucking thing, because Joel can't wait any longer. 

He walks you to the edge of the bed, stalking, a predator on prey, focused solely on his task. “Goddamn beautiful,” he says to himself, scanning your mostly-naked body and feeling his eyes droop in arousal. 

“Think so?” Your hand drops between your bodies and palms his erection over his jeans. “Yeah, you really think so.”

His nostrils flare. “Sit.”

You lower yourself onto the mattress, primly placing your hands on your thighs and straightening your spine. Joel hums appreciatively, approaching you and slotting himself between your legs. There's a dark wet spot pooling in your panties. “Sweet thing. So needy all fuckin’ day.”

“So were you” is your retort, packing little punch due to the way you push your tits toward him like a fucking whore. 

Joel presses his big, warm hand to your sternum. “Remember what you said to me the first time I got you in bed?”

“‘Let’s go again’?”

“The other thing.”

“'Let me suck your dick’?”

“Try again, baby.”

“‘Wrong hole’?”

Joel snorts, shaking his head. “Goddamn smartass,” he mutters. “Told me you wanted me from that first night. Told me you woulda let me fuck you against that bathroom mirror.”

His hand begins to move, rolling your nipple between his fingers like a cigarette, playing with you the way he likes. “Said you’d let me do whatever I wanted,” Joel says quietly, not meeting your eyes, transfixed by the way your body seeks the touch he gives you. “That still true?”

“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” you tell him, pulling your lip between your teeth. “I’m yours, Joel Miller.”

He tilts his head slightly, satisfied. “You got somethin’ you wanna ask me?”

You hook a finger in his belt loop. “Can you get naked now?”

He laughs, guiding your hand to the buckle on his belt. “Go on. Do what you wanna do, baby.”

He belongs to you. He’s yours to mould the way you want. 

Your fingers do away with his belt, whipping it out of the loops and hanging it around your neck. Joel’s hands flex at his sides as you toy with the hem of his shirt, bringing it slowly up his torso with your palms flat to his tanned skin. 

You imagine you're sculpting him like clay, bringing your hands over the contours and admiring the work when all is done. It’s the artist’s pride of finishing the work and none of the self-reproach when something comes out wrong, because it’s Joel, and wrong becomes negligible. 

You bring the shirt over his head with his assistance, lifting his arms for you, tossing the thing aside with little care. His eyes haven't once wavered from you. Next are his jeans, the scrape of his zipper and the delectable anticipation of hooking your fingers in the waistband and guiding them slowly down his hips. 

His cock springs forward, thick and heavy and so hard it must ache, as you shuck his jeans down with his boxers. He grunts above you, his cock bobbing at the sight of your pretty lips parting. But you don’t take him into your mouth. You grasp the base of his cock and gently nuzzle your cheek against his length. Something like a strangled whimper leaves his throat. 

“Baby,” he chokes. 

“Yes, honey?” you say sweetly, looking up at him through your lashes. 

“Jesus,” he says through his teeth. “You’re so fuckin' sexy. Fuck.”

You hum, slowly stroking your hand up and down as your tongue darts out to lick his balls. Joel’s hips stutter, his hand flying out to catch himself on the bedpost. “Goddamn. Jesus—”

Your coy smile knocks him askew, your lips pursing as you spit on the head of his cock, spreading your own saliva around the tip with your thumb. “I just wanna thank you”—a soft kiss to the tip has a rumbling groan crawling out of his throat—“for everything you do for me. I just want you to know how much I love you.”

Joel exhales hard, struggling to remember how breathing works when he's got his wife playing with his cock like it's your favourite toy. “How much do you love me?” he demands. 

You wrap your fingers around the head of his cock and twist your hand up and down his shaft in a couple slow strokes. You're driving him fucking crazy. His vision is whiting out. 

“I love you,” you purr, licking a broad stripe up the underside of his length. Joel’s chest is heaving with the effort of holding back. “Love you so much. Love you enough to make you a daddy.”

Joel caves, threading his fingers through your hair at the nape of your neck and stroking his thumb along your jaw. “Fuck, baby. Please…”

“Do you love me?” Batting your lashes, you scatter measured kisses from his tip to the base, teasingly licking his balls. 

“Christ, I—” His hips jut forward instinctively. “I love you. Fuckin’ love you, baby.”

You flick your tongue against his slit and relish his groan, revelling in the sight of his flushed chest, his pink cheeks, the sweat on his brow. His jaw is tense, his nostrils flaring. He’s trying not to take control. 

You slap his cock twice on your tongue and finally take it past your lips, sealing your mouth over the head. Joel moans, white-knuckling the bedpost, his other hand now stroking your hair. You fondle his balls in your free hand while the other grips him at the base, and he’s going to come embarrassingly soon if you keep looking up at him this way. 

Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock while your lips seal tight, greedily suckling at his tip. Oversensitive, skin prickling with salty sweat, Joel practically breathes through his teeth. “Gonna kill me,” he manages. “You’re gonna kill me, honey.”

“Mmmm,” you reply, happily taking him deeper, his length sliding along the warm wetness of your tongue. Joel’s fingers tighten in your hair. 

“Fuuuuck. You love this cock.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Love takin' me into your mouth like a little slut.”

“Mmmmph,” you agree, pushing your tits out. 

His hand drifts down to the belt hanging around your neck and he wraps his fist around both ends, tugging so you’re forced to take him deeper. You splutter, breathing hard through your nose, your arousal dripping onto the mattress. 

The sloppy sounds of your mouth working his cock send his head spinning. Drool dribbles from the corners of your lips, your eyes squeezing black tears from dewy lashes. And when you take him down your throat, the sound of your choked moan leaves Joel with little choice but to pull out before he comes. 

You whine, squeezing your thighs together. He swipes his thumb underneath your eye and shows you the black smudge from your mascara. “Doesn't take much to get you cryin’. You like me that much?”

You bite your bottom lip and beam up at him. “Did I do okay?”

Your faux-innocence makes his dick twitch in your face, and you flick your tongue out to lick at the tip once more. Joel grunts, grasping his belt and tossing it away. 

“‘Did I do okay,’” he murmurs, tweaking your nipple between his fingers. “Got no idea after all these years. No idea what you do to me.”

“I just wanna take care of my man. He works so hard, you know, keeping me safe and happy.” You run your hand over his soft belly, the trail of hair that leads down to his cock. “He’s always liked to give me things.”

Joel backs you farther up the bed and crawls over your body, lowering his head to bury his face in your throat. You smell fresh and sweet as vanilla, and when he playfully bites into your skin, your saplike laugh has him grinding helplessly against your thigh. 

He loves to give—always has. It’s all he knows. It took a long while for you to get him to unlearn some of his blind selflessness, to let you take control sometimes and care for him instead. Your Joel provides; he does not take. And the prospect of getting to give his wife a baby is turning him to putty in your hands. By the time he gets to work, he’ll be dead-set on his task, hard-pressed to pull out of you. He’ll want to get the job done on his first try, refusing to see you upset if the test comes back negative, but the id will still scratch and claw for another chance to fill you up. 

Joel sucks a hickey into your neck and soothes the mark with his tongue, the slow, soft pleasure compounded by the way his warm body covers you, your fingers carding through his locks. 

Your voice oozes, honeyed, down his spine. “I love you, Joel.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and crushes his nose in your throat, his hand smoothing down your hair. “I love you.”

“You want to make a baby?”

He rears back slightly, his nose bumping against yours. “Yeah. I really fuckin’ do.”

You grin, lacing your fingers together at the back of his neck. “Will you fuck me? Please?”

Joel brushes his thumb across your chin. “Use your words.”

“I want to be a mom, Joel.” You give him a long, gooey stare, eyes warm and soft as running water. A look like that will make a man give you the goddamn galaxy. 

He nods, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. “I know, baby. I’ll help you. Hands and knees, now.”

The gentle direction moulds your body to the shape of the words. You go easily, your back arching as you rest your weight on your forearms and spread your thighs. The bed dips behind you as Joel settles in, his hands grasping your ass and making you jump. 

Your body trembles with excitement. You’re going to be a mom. He's going to get you pregnant. You feel dizzy, bending deeper at the hips and shaking your ass at him, deluded with your own arousal. 

But Joel doesn't fuck you right away. No, he bumps up against the backs of your thighs, warm hands branding your skin, and rubs two fingers over the wet spot darkening your panties. 

“I do this to you?” he says smugly. 

“You know damn well—”

“Wanna hear you say it.” The no-nonsense command triggers a submissive response. “Who did this to you?”

Your body melts against him, presenting your pussy to him like a needy whore. “You, Joel. It’s you, baby. Only you.”

Your babbling makes him squeeze handfuls of your ass, spreading your asscheeks apart to get a good glimpse of the way your pussy drools into your panties. Shuffling backward and lowering himself to his knees on the floor, Joel’s tongue darts out and licks you through your underwear. 

“Ohh, fuck!” you gasp. “Joel…”

He hums, tasting your tang through the fabric and finding your puffy clit, sucking gently. You cry out, your fingers grasping the sheets, and Joel moves your panties aside to slather his spit all over your dripping pussy. The languorous movements of his tongue are indulgent, achingly slow; he loves the taste of you as much as you enjoy having his mouth on your cunt. 

“Oh my God, Joel… fuck, honey, please—!”

Your thighs are trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up, the strokes of his tongue turning your muscles to soup. He stops to take your panties off, guiding them off your legs, and by now, you're so wet that your juices glisten halfway down your thighs. Joel dives back in and licks up the rivulets of arousal from your skin, all the way back up to your weeping hole. 

“So goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, kneading your ass in his hands as he flicks his tongue over your clit a few more times. 

“Joel, I’m…” You’re drooling, grinding pathetically into his face, already close to an orgasm, and he isn't fucking letting up. 

He wants you as wet and needy as possible, his own cock leaking onto the bedsheets at the prospect of sliding into your creamy pussy. 

Your cheeks burn and your muscles lock as Joel makes out with your pussy, his tongue laving over your pearl in slow, aching circles. He drowns in the pleasure of making you feel good. He soaks himself in kerosene and lights the match. 

“Oh, fuck!” Your thighs shake around his head and your toes curl, ears ringing with the force of your high. Grasping feebly at the bedsheets, you try not to list, but Joel isn’t fucking stopping, cleaning you up with his tongue like you're a piece of goddamn pie. 

His fingers dig into your ass, rapacious as his mouth, and you climb high to a space that transcends the sky, feeling nothing but the linen underneath and the man above, softly kissing your poor, used clit. 

He doesn’t let up until you reach back and gently shove his head away, grasping his damp curls. “Baby, let me rest,” you gasp, “just for a second.”

Regretfully, he pulls away, pressing a kiss to each knob of your spine, dragging his nose up your back. “‘m so fuckin’ lucky,” he murmurs against your skin. 

“Lucky you didn’t kill me.” You laugh breathlessly, your hips already sore from keeping your ass in the air. 

“Makin’ sure you’re ready,” he says innocently, sliding his thick fingers through your slit. You gasp, trying to escape his grasp despite yourself. He just clicks his tongue in reproach. “Nuh-uh, baby. You're gonna stay right here, let me make it good for you. Hmm? Wanna feel good?”

You nod your head frantically. “Yeah, yeah, I do. Wanna be good.”

“Mmm, now, you know that ain't your job tonight,” he says in a mock scold. In the meantime, his fingers soak themselves in your wetness. “Don't think you're ready for me yet.”

“No! No, I’m ready,” you pant, grinding against his erection. Joel grunts, holding your hip in place. “Baby, please, I’m ready for you. Need you so badly.”

“Shhh, sweetheart. I'll give you what you need. Just be patient.” Hands smooth over your ass, between your thighs, and then two fingers are teasing your hole. Joel tilts his head to watch the way he spreads your folds wide. “Gonna fill this up.”

A strangled noise spills from your mouth, your cheeks burning hot at the way he exposes you so tenderly. “Please,” you croak, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow. 

He grasps himself and teases the already-wet head of his cock over your pussy, spurting precum onto your hole. “You want a baby?” he asks, low and dark. You luxuriate in the velvet-soft tone. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want a baby,” you whisper, “please. Please give me a baby.”

He readies himself at your tight cunt and the excitement briefly overcomes him, forcing his hips forward and pushing past the wet, gummy seal of your pussy. You gasp, held in place by his hand on your hip. 

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“I want to make you a daddy!” you sob. “I want to have your baby and make you a daddy.”

“You want to be a momma?” he says through his teeth, tunnel vision narrowing his focus to the way he slowly guides himself into you, wrenching you open. At this angle, with how wet you are, the glide is delicious, white-hot, his balls heavy with the need to empty inside you. “That it? Want everyone to know who put a fuckin’ baby in you?”

Your husband is so fucking big, so strong, and the way he pins your body down feels close to primal. “Yes! Yes, Daddy, yes! I want to be a momma. Please give me a baby.”

The words put a chisel to his self-restraint and crack down. He’s gone, baring his teeth, pulling your hips toward him and impaling you on his cock, relishing the give of your tight walls and the way he sits snug against your cervix. You mewl, reaching back to find a purchase on his hip. “Joel, fuck…”

He establishes a punishing pace, driving your body farther up the bed with every thrust. “That’s it,” he groans, sliding his palm up your spine. “Gonna look so goddamn beautiful with a baby in you. You were fuckin’ made to take this cock.”

Your moan is syrupy and pitched low, your cheek buried in the mattress, letting him fill you up again, again, again—

“I’ll get you fuckin’ pregnant,” continues Joel, panting through his words, sweat beading on his brow as he runs his hands over your skin. “Stuff you so goddamn full you'll always feel me.”

“Uhhh!” you moan, fisting the sheets, your body practically folded in half to accommodate your husband’s huge body, his thick cock.

Joel wants this, too—has for a long time. It’s hard not to notice the little details. He places his hand on your belly when he isn't even paying attention, his lips finding the soft skin there when he first wakes in the morning. You knew he would have dropped everything to give you a baby the second you demanded it, but you realise you may have underestimated his need. 

Joel is growling like a dog, sweat dripping from his temples and back pinching with effort as he holds your body close, glueing you to him, his cock reaching deep, deliberate, mind going numb, intent the only tangible feeling he can grasp onto. Intent and the white-hot drag of his cock against your walls. 

You’re going to grow swollen and round with his baby. He will watch your tits grow heavy, your belly bulge, your cheeks take on a ruddy, dewy glow, the telltale mark of his success, his devotion. He’ll wake up every morning wrapped in the scent of your body, your hormones, his palm finding sanctuary on your soft, warm belly. He’ll bury his face in your throat and you’ll smile and the sun will warm the golden spot where a new life grows. 

Fuck, he’ll never let you do laundry again. You could hurt your back. 

Your head spins at the wet slap of his balls against your clit, the obscene squelch of your pussy around his impressive length, the way he grabs at you. He’s greedy, hands mapping each rib, each vertebrae, every curve and contour that makes you. 

Your pussy sucks him in, just as needy, breathless moans and squeals punching out of your throat as you croak out pleas: Joel, baby, please. I want a baby so badly. Wanna have your baby. Please, please, fill me up! And Joel listens, his palm sliding around your waist and down your belly, rubbing your sensitive clit with two fingers. 

A real man gives his wife everything she wants. 

He moans at the feeling of your cunt squeezing him, his fingers wet and insistent against your little clit, coaxing you toward your climax. “C’mon,” he grunts, “come for me, baby. Fuckin’ choke me. Wanna feel it. Come and I’ll give you the baby you want so goddamn bad. C’mon, baby.”

His words seep into your bloodstream, an uncontrollable tremor racking your body, your arms giving out as he bends over you and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Ohhhh, God! Oh my—!” 

Joel’s hands squeeze your tits, his entire body covering yours, a warm, protective blanket, slick with sweat and heart thundering against your back. His lips are on your skin, feverishly kissing and nipping. You can’t breathe, can’t move, and it feels so fucking good. You soak his cock, muscles seizing, pinned down by his strong body. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Goddamn, keep on squeezin’ me like that. Not gonna leave this tight pussy until you're fuckin’ pregnant.”

“Joelllll,” you whine, your orgasm prolonged by his words, his unrelenting thrusts, the jolt of his balls slapping your clit. “Want it so bad. Wanna give you a baby. Come inside me, please. Please give me your cum, oh, God—”

The broken sound of your voice, weak and raspy, goes straight to his dick, and his balls are pulling up, his head bombarded with the smell of sex, perfume, linen, you. He rests his forehead between your shoulder blades as you milk his cock, turning his thrusts sloppy and desperate. He needs to come. He needs to make it real. 

Your orgasm leaves you pliant and loose in his arms, and he fondles your tits, squeezing them hard in his hands as he pictures them growing, swelling heavy with milk he’ll feed your baby. His baby. Idly, you moan, letting him use your body to get off, his teeth grazing your neck. 

“Gonna come. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, give you a baby. Gonna—Jesus, goddamn—”

Maybe it's the pent-up frustration of not having come all day. Maybe it's a renewed sense of purpose, knowing he's got a job to do, keeping every drop safe inside you. Maybe it's the sheer fucking excitement of getting to give his wife what he's wanted to put in you for so long. But when he comes, hips flush to your ass, he comes so much, for so long, that the rapid rush of blood from his cock back up to his head has him nearly keeling. 

Kissing your cervix, the head of his cock spurts rope after rope of hot cum inside you, and you mewl, your back arching to deepen the angle, luxuriate in the liquid warmth. Joel isn’t so loud now, not so cocky. He’s reduced to strained groans and whimpers as your body depletes him, greedily taking every drop of cum he has to offer. 

It feels like minutes before it finally stops, but with your ass up in the air, none of his cum spills out. Your hips are sore, your ass bruises from his hands, your tits still sitting warmly in his hands. The cool kiss of his wedding band soothes the too-hot press of his body on top of yours, your doubly-slick skin meeting indecently. His lips are on the back of your neck and he thrusts shallowly, wringing the last of his cum from the tip until he's wholly empty and bordering on oversensitive. 

You're the first to speak, your throat clogged with drool and some of your own tears. 

“Thank fuck I was at the bar that night.”

Joel’s laugh scrapes down your spine along with his beard as he drags himself upright, knowing he’s crushing you. “Never would've had to patch me up”

“Mmm, you're sexy when you're mad,” you point out, your thighs twitching as he carefully guides you onto your side, back to his chest, his cock still acting as a plug for his cum. You’re deliciously full, and you hum happily at the feeling of his warm belly against you, his big arms cradling you close. 

“Shouldn't enable violence,” he grumbles. His lashes flutter against your shoulder. 

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He chuckles. “You feel okay?”

“I feel good,” you muse, running your fingers along his forearm, the prominent veins under his skin. “I feel excited.”

His grin curves against your skin, the scratch of his moustache sending a shiver up your spine. Outside, the sun begins to dip, and your twin golden rings glimmer in the fiery light. 

“Me, too,” he whispers, and you lace your fingers through his, squeezing, both of you practically giddy. 

There’s a lull, and for a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep. The sun creeps behind a home across the street, and its watch ends for another day. 

“Hey, Joel?”

His mouth meets your throat in a sleepy kiss. “Yeah, baby?”

“I like the name Sarah.”

THE END.

tags: @cavillscurls @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @cupofjoel @northernbluess @tieronecrush @joelmillers-whore @bastardmandennis - thank you all so so much for showing excitement for this fic!! kisses for you all 🫶

[rnarvelboi]

baby, it's cold outside | joel miller

Summary | Patrolling with Joel is always easy, he's your friend after all, but when a snow storm forces you to stop halfway, you're both faced with feelings that you'd both rather ignore, but with nothing but time, talking about them is your only option.

Word Count | 4.2k

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings | Explicit 18+. A snow storm and a cabin with a nice, warm fireplace. Unspecified age gap. Explicit smut - unprotected PiV (don't do this, pls be smart), oral sex (F), size kink if you squint, dirty talk, two idiots who love each other, some negative feelings towards the holidays but nothing else I can think of!

Authors Note | A huge thank you to the wonderful @hellishjoel for setting the 12 days of Pedro up and asking me to take part - this was so much fun to put together and I hope you all love it as much as I do!

12 Days of Pedro Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Thank you to the wonderful @saradika for the divider!

Despite having lived in Wyoming for years now, the winters were still a surprise to you. Icy cold winds, frosted windows every morning, thick downfalls of snow almost daily and a struggle to get warm no matter how many layers you wore. Some would call it picturesque, and you suppose you could see it, everywhere you turned in Jackson at this time of year, even though it was against the backdrop of the end of the world, it looked like it could adorn the cover of any Christmas card or be the setting for any Christmas movie. It didn’t matter, because you hated it either way.

When the tree went up in the centre of town, and the lights got switched on, it only served to remind you how solitary you were. How you existed mainly entirely on your own. No family, barely any friends, always the talk of the gaggle of girls who would whisper to each other whenever you passed and start laughing to each other, or the boys who always wondered why instead of hanging around with people your own age, you opted to spend it alone, or with someone who was pushing sixty.

Because if there was a single person in this Godforsaken town that you could class as a friend, it was Joel Miller. Quiet, closed off, unapproachable until you chipped away at his hard exterior, just like you in so many ways, it was actually sickening really. You liked Joel, ever since Tommy had put you two together for patrols when Maria had given birth, it was like you’d found someone who finally understood your need to be alone.

Patrolling outside the walls gave you peace, let you leave your loneliness behind for a while, just you and the ground beneath your boots, the feeling that you were doing something wrong, were less of a person because of your lack of friends and relationships left behind at the gate. You’d proven yourself capable more than enough times for Tommy to realise you were an asset. You’d saved more than enough people with your good aim and quick trigger finger, been ruthless in getting rid of raiders who strayed too close to your safe haven, and he knew your need for solitude, which is why he trusted you on these longer routes, on the more complicated patrol rotations, the ones that would get you out of Jackson for a week.

You surmise that’s probably why he chose to pair you up with Joel. In the two years you’d patrolled together, you’d come to realise that he needed that solitude just as much as you did. A way to leave behind being a father at the gate and remind himself of exactly who he was before. Out here, walking side-by-side next to you, he wasn’t Ellie’s dad, he wasn’t the man who still woke up in cold sweats remembering the heavy weight of his dead daughter in his arms, or that man who had lost almost everyone he’d ever cared for along the way, he was just Joel. Joel, who was more comfortable cradling a rifle in his arms than he was his infant nephew. Joel, who preferred comfortable silence instead of filling the quiet with talk. Joel, who, even when you suspected he hated you at the start, would have protected you to the death no matter what.

You were similar, far more than you’d like to admit, and as the weeks and months had drawn on, and you’d moved into being more comfortable with each other, he really was one of those things you’d wanted for so long. A friend. Someone to rely on, someone to drink with at the end of a hard patrol route, someone who made sure you ate when it was the last thing on your mind, someone who fixed the hole in your roof and put new planks of wood on your porch when you almost fell through it one day, someone who confided in you about how hard he found being a parent again, someone who opened up to you when things started to sour with Ellie. A friend.

He was also someone, in the last six months, that you suspected wanted to be more than your friend. It had started small, with things any good friend would do. He would offer you his arm when you walked during the winter so you wouldn’t slip, started packing double lunch so he knew you’d eat when you’d go out together, but then it was the hand on the small of your back through town, or the way he’d sit close to you in the bar, knees knocking against yours just so he could put a hand on your knee to apologise for getting too close.

And it’s not like you didn’t see that in him either. For a man who was almost sixty, he was incredibly handsome, able to do unspeakable things on patrol that neither of you would talk about to anyone else, strong in a way you didn’t think you’d ever seen before. Sure, his hearing was shot in one ear, his middle soft with age, and his hair and beard peppered with grey hair, but Joel Miller was a sight.

But, what if you’d read his signals wrong? What if his kindness and that warm hand on your knee was just him being a Southern gentleman? You throw yourself at him and he doesn’t feel the same, what happens then? You lose one of the very few friends you’ve ever had, and that’s somehow worse than knowing you’ll never know what the feel of his skin is like under your touch or what it sounds like when he moans your name for you.

The patrol route is brutal this day, wind and snow making it hard to see anything in front of you. You and Joel had to shout loudly to each other in order to hear anything, so when you stumble across the cabin, halfway through the route, you both decide that it’s best to head inside, get warm and wait out the worst of the storm before carrying on. Safer that way, is what Joel said, but you think it’s got more to do with the cold on his joints than the safety. Even at your younger age, your bones were certainly aching.

The wind whips a flurry of snow into the abandoned cabin when Joel pushes the door open, ushering you inside quickly, shutting the door quickly behind the two of you before more snow can follow you in. He sets his rifle down near the door and his backpack on the worn, moth-eaten couch, kneeling in front of the fireplace.

This particular cabin is a regular stop on this patrol route, an agreement between the residents of Jackson who frequent it to keep it stocked with firewood during the cold season. You silently note to thank whoever had patrolled before you for stacking the fireplace so all Joel really needs to do is set fire to the scrunched paper dotted through the wood to get the warmth of the fire flooding the small front room.

“Reckon we’re here for the long run,” Joel grumbles, holding flat palms up to the flames to warm his hands, “Ain’t no way we’re walking anywhere in that.”

And he’s right, the light of the day is fading fast and even in daylight, the blizzard had been a nightmare to traverse. It’s not like you’re wanting to rush back though, you sometimes wish you could pack everything up and come out here for good, live in your solitude until the end of your days, but for now, just a few more nights away from the place that reminds you just how alone you are will do.

You settle down on the couch, trying to burrow further into the coat around your body, not bothering to take your gloves or your hat off until the flames of the fire are stronger.

“Come sit closer,” Joel murmurs, motioning with his hand for you to sit on the floor next to him, “Warm up a little.”

You slip down from the couch and scoot along the floor until you’re sat next to him. Joel reaches over and takes hold of your wrist, gently pulling off your glove, “They’re damp,” He states, reaching for your other hand to do the same, “Take your coat off too, you’ll get a chill otherwise.”

Working to unzip the front to pull it off, whilst Joel throws an extra few pieces of wood on the fire, you settle a little bit closer to the flames, feeling the warmth start to seep through your other layers. He stands, taking your coat and his, hanging them on either end of the fireplace to dry out a little, then he sits back down next to you, although a little closer than he had been before, so close that you can feel the heat of his body next to you.

You take a moment to steal a look up at him, his body larger than yours, towering a little next to you, but in the glow of the flames he’s fucking breathtaking. You get lost in tracing his jaw and the hook of his nose with your eyes that he’s turning his head to face you before you can turn away from him. He catches you with that small smile that is saved only for his family normally, Ellie, Tommy, sometimes Maria, and now, more often, you. So you smile back at him, let the warmth lick through your body, and before you realise it, he’s leaning his, broad shoulders bumping yours as his face gets closer, and God, it would be so easy to let him do it, move your face towards him, press your lips to his and burn it all to hell, but as he inches closer, that pit is opening in your stomach, bubbling anxiety and dread, so as he inches closer, you have to stop him.

You bring one of your fingers up to press against his lips gently, watching as he purses them against your touch a little, but then his eyes open when you speak, so softly, so quietly that he almost missed your plea, “Please don’t.”

It’s like you’ve burnt him with the way he not only drags his face from you, but his whole body, putting so much distance between the two of you that you almost cry. He clears his throat, running his hand over his face, “Right,” He mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” You insist, not meeting his eyes though, “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Stupid of me,” He shakes his head, “Just thought-” He sucks in a breath and pushes it out on a sigh, “Thought maybe you’d feel the same, but it was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid, Joel,” You sigh, finally turning to him, “It’s okay.”

“Makes sense,” He shrugs, eyes boring holes into the flames in front of you, “I’m old, too old for you to want me.”

“It has nothing to do with you being too old for me Joel, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that.”

You expect him to drop it, like he often does with these kinds of conversation, the ones that involve feelings, but he doesn’t.

“Then what is it?”

“Well, it has nothing to do with your grey hairs or your creaky fucking knees, that’s for sure.”

He’s looking at you with a look that says to get fucked, hurry up, tell him the real reason for all this.

“I could be shit in bed for all you know.”

“Well that’s easy to rectify, just need a little practice.”

It makes you snort, “Can we be fucking serious for a minute, Miller?”

“You’re the one who said it first.”

“What happens when it goes tits up?” You ask, “When you get bored of me, or realise I’m not what you thought I was, what happens then?” He opens his mouth to respond to you, but you beat him to it, “I lose my best friend, that’s what happens, the only person in this Godforsaken world that I have, and I don’t want that, I don’t want a world where I’m without you.”

“Who says it’s going to go tits up?” He counters, “Baby, I’m old, I ain’t gonna go running off, I just want somethin’ good, somethin’ happy, and I want that with you,” Just like you had done before, he starts talking again before you can add something, “Put your faith in somethin’, darlin’,” He’s moving back towards you now, shifting closer, “Put your faith in, me.”

It sounds so easy when he says it like that, because you had once before, without even realising. Let him in, let him get close, to know everything you’d been through, share everything he’d been through. You let him sit with you late at night in the summer, strumming his guitar on your porch, he lets you share his whiskey when you need it.

“I’m still gonna be your best friend,” He urges, that warm palm resting on your knee, “That ain’t gonna change, we’re just gonna add to it.”

And for some reason, it snaps, all of your good judgement and everything that was holding you back. His face is cradled in your palms before you know it, your body straddling his lap as your mouth slants over his, a surprised gasp swallowed by your mouth as his lips open against yours, his hands coming to rest on the globes of your ass through your jeans, pulling you closer, chest flush to chest as you soak this in.

Hands dropping to the collar of his shirt, you start to slowly unbutton it, mouth still against his, tongue tasting him as your fingers push button after button through their holes until you can push it from his shoulders, drag his arms from it, drag his undershirt from it’s place tucked into his jeans.

Joel gasps when your hands make contact with the skin under it, fingers still slightly icy from the cold, but that too is swallowed by your mouth, as is the moan that drags from your throat when he bucks his hips into yours.

He pulls away from your lips, forehead pressed to yours as you both breathe deeply, “Don’t seem shit in bed so far.” He chuckles.

“I was fucking with you Joel,” You smile, punctuating it with a roll of your hips into his, “I’m a delight in bed.”

“Prove it.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“This is the floor Joel,” Which earns you a squeeze to your ass, “I’ve never fucked someone on the floor before.”

Before you know what’s happening, he’s flipped you over, your back pressed to the dusty wooden floor, his body looming over yours, fingers picking the button of your jeans apart, pulling the zipper down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down your legs, underwear along with them too, before they’re thrown behind him somewhere, forgotten as he parts your knees, legs spread, exposed to him, and you think you might die from the way he looks at you. You bury your head into your shoulder, trying to escape his gaze as he drags his thumb along your folds, growling when he feels how wet you are just from his mouth on yours.

You’re vaguely aware of the sounds of his feet hitting one of the armchairs behind him as he lowers his chest to the floor, hands pulling at your hips, your back dragging across the wooden floor as his mouth presses a single, feather-light kiss to your clit. The smallest of touches to your body has your back arching into him.

How long has it been? Not since you fucked someone, because in the grand scheme of things that hasn’t been too long. No, how long has it been since someone actually made you feel good? Years, you think. Too long. Too long since sex was anything more than just stress relief, pressed against the brick wall by the Tipsy Bison, letting someone fuck you so you could feel something, giving them the bragging rights of fucking the town outcast in return.

This is different. So different. Joel is slow with it, parting you in front of his face with his thumbs, tongue swirling through the slick you’re not even embarrassed about now, tasting you, drinking you in, before he drags his perfect mouth up, lapping gently at your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“Taste so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” He coos against your skin, his praise making you preen, hips chasing the feeling of his mouth on you, he chuckles at your desperation, “How long’s it been since someone made you feel good, huh?”

Your fingers tangle in the curls on his head, dragging him back down to your cunt to silence him, “Too long.” Is all you offer as he feasts on you.

Tongue swirling, lips suckling, fingers digging into the skin of your hips, dragging you slowly but surely to the edge, the fire in your blood no match for the fire against your skin. He’s fucking good at this, knows exactly how to listen to your moans, the way you pull at his hair when he does something you like, collecting the little gasps and hip movements until he’s working a pattern on your pussy that makes you feeling like you’re going to explode, combust, maybe even die a little.

“Don’t stop,” You urge, breathless, sheen of sweat settling across what skin of yours is exposed to the flames near to you, “Gonna - fuck Joel - gonna cum.”

That’s when he pushes two of his fingers into you. Hooking them up inside of your cunt, your legs dropping open further than you thought possible as he works you and works you. You’ve gone quiet, letting out only short breathes when holding them in makes your head light, fingers so tight in his hair that you think it’s probably hurting.

Then, you think you find God, right there on the dirty, dusty floor, when the coil snaps inside of you. Your back arches off the floor, thighs clenched around Joel’s head as his tongue continues the flicks against your clit, ignoring the high-pitches whines of too much, Joel listening instead to the movement of your legs, the way your entire body convulses until you truly are spent for him.

Joel pushes himself up onto his knees, dragging his undershirt over his head, pulling his belt through its loops as you’re sitting up, dragging the upper portion of your clothes off, naked on the floor for him, the flames from the fire keeping you warm, even if your nipples do pebble and peak against the cold.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Joel breathes out as your hand settles on your pussy, fingers dragging through the slick to lazily move over your clit, “I wish you could see yourself right now, baby,” He crones, pushing down his jeans, cock springing free, immediately clasped in his fist, movements slow as he watches you touch yourself, “Pretty as a fuckin’ picture.”

His body falls forward, coverings yours, but this isn’t what you want. Hand on his chest, you’re pushing him back, “Wanna ride you, Joel.” You whine.

Like a kid on Christmas, he’s on his back in seconds, jeans and underwear pooled around his ankles because if you’re not sinking down on him in the next few seconds, he’s going to scream. You settle your thighs on either side of his hips, his cock, heavy and throbbing against his stomach. He’s watching you, as you take the base of him in your hand, line him up with that aching core of yours, head notching into you, where you just keep him for a moment, let him stretch you as you ground yourself with palms on his chest, sinking down, inch by inch until he’s fully buried inside you, warmth wrapping around him, just like the warmth from the fire against his skin.

You start moving your hips, his cock so deep in you he swears if he put a palm on your lower belly, he’d feel himself through your skin with the way you’re grinding against him, head thrown back, mouth dropped open. He wishes he could take a photo of this. He doesn’t think he’s seen a nicer sight in his life.

“It’s a lot, ain’t it baby?” He coos, hands on your hips, guiding your movements, he knows he’s big, been told enough times through his life, but the way you’re slow, getting used to him inside him, has him on the verge of spilling inside you already.

“So big, Joel.” You whine, leaning back now, hands on his knees which have moved up, his feet planted on the floor now, and God alive, if he thought you were a sight before, you’re a fucking masterpiece now as you start bouncing on his cock.

He can’t help himself, he is only a man after all, his hands trailing up the curves of your side, taking hold of your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, listening to the way you sing for him. Somehow, he finds core strength from somewhere, pushes himself up, one hand behind him to prop him where he is, as his mouth sucks a nipple into his mouth, rolling that pebbled peak with his tongue, your arm wrapping around his shoulders to steady yourself against him, hips still working against his, finger tangling in the curls near his neck, keeping his mouth anchored right where it is.

Joel pulls off you, a wet smack from his lips as he looks up at you with those beautiful brown orbs, “Feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” He praises, “So tight around me, like you were made for me.”

“Wanna feel you,” You moan, head dropping against his shoulder, “Wanna feel you come for me.”

He’s wrapping his arms around your back, dragging you down with him as he rests himself back on the floor, your chest pressed to his as he finally takes control. Feet planted on the floor with your teeth digging into his shoulders, he fucks up into you, the cabin filled with nothing but breathy moans and a lewd smack of skin as he pounds himself into you. In an ideal world he’d focus on making you come again, feeling you clench around his cock as you fall apart would be incredible, but he thinks there will be time for that later.

He’s so fucking close, you can feel it, the way his fingers are gripping t every inch of skin they can reach, the way his hips are faltering and how your name is more of a feature on his lips. You let out a surprise squeal as he flips you both, your back now to the ground as his cock slips out of you, his fist replacing the wet heat of your cunt as the warmth of his cum splashes across your lower belly, a howl, not unlike an animal, falling from his mouth as he paints you, claims you as his own with those ropes of cum across your skin.

When all is said and done, and he’s taken in the sight of your skin splashed with his spend, the two of you lying in front of the fire, one blanket dragged from the bed on the floor to soften the harsh wood, another pooled around both your hips, this feels like home. Both you and Joel, led on your side, watching each other, and the flickering light of the fire bathes you both in orange, in warmth.

His hand traces your face, thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he leans in to kiss you. Hours later, with harsh wind and snow still swirling outside, he brushes a thumb across your nipple, your hand reaching down between you to find him hard again. He puts you on your back this time, creaky knees be damned, slides his cock into your aching cunt once more, fucks you slowly, the entirety of his weight pressed against you. That orange glow almost convincing you that this was before, when things were normal, romantic even, as his lips leaves tiny bruises across your skin.

When he’s marked you once more as his, cum splashed from your pussy to your tits, he lies back down, the broad expanse of his back to the dying embers of the fire, your back pressed to his front, his arm snaked under your neck, urging you to sleep, and as you drift off, Joel’s hot breath against the skin of your ear, his other arm draped loosely over your waist, you pray that the snow is just as bad in the morning, because if it were possible, you want to return even less now, want to remain huddled next to Joel, on the floor, for the rest of your life.

[rnarvelboi]

the end of the world- a joel miller x reader

summary: you had a strict relationship with joel that stuck to the rules. fuck, leave, repeat. it was only a matter of time until feelings were dragged into the mix. when joel leaves at the first sign of love, you're left wondering what you had done wrong. (rated explicit, 18+, mdni)

warnings: post outbreak!joel, jackson!era, implied fwb relationship, heavy handed on the angst, a whole lot of pining, a lot of flashbacks, and smut. (unprotected piv sex, fingering, clit rubbing, masturbation?, dirty talk, pet names, allusions to slapping/rougher sex, brief biting, a tiny bit of daddy kink.) ended with a bit of fluff

note: i think this is my favorite thing i have ever written. i guess i was in some sort of mood or sumfin. also i absolutely hate spell checking so sorry for any errors. enjoy!!

Joel used to be rough.

He used to imprint his name upon your skin through heavy handed grips and crescent shaped nail marks, left deep into the supple skin of your thighs. Like hieroglyphs on a wall of sandstone, he made sure the world would see what beauty he had left etched into your skin, like a canvas that only he had the privilege of painting.

He used to take you by the throat and kiss you with biblical fervor. He would kiss you so hard the taste of his spit lingered on your tongue for the days following, reminding you who you belonged to, if only for a few hours.

He used to sink his incisors into your neck, suckling at your skin like a vampire in search of an artery. He would leave deep patches of purple beneath your ear, the mark of a man who knew just what you wanted, the mark of a man who was more primal, more animalistic, than he was human.

Then, something changed.

Soft was he, on one fateful night, where his rough palms dragged across the side of your body, gentle waves of pleasure heaving, heaving, heaving, washing over you until you were a shell drowning in an ocean tide, consumed only by thoughts of him.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

A mantra, a promise, a prayer.

Soft was he, his lips molding to yours like cement stuck in the cracks of sidewalks, unwavering and unbreaking, filling you up to the hilt.

Soft was he, as he slipped his cock deep into your pussy, deep and gentle, hitting against every inch, every spot, that made your legs quiver just for him.

Soft was he, as he cradled your face in his rough hands, eyes boring in to your own, the curved bridge of his nose pressing into your rounded cheek, coaxing you, asking you, begging you, to cum for him.

Only ever him.

His hand's had done irreversible damage, taken many lives, and he pushed back the guilt for those crimes long ago, but Joel figured that perhaps holding your face in his hands was worth all the blood, the sweat, the grime and decay. Perhaps touching the skin of an angel was enough to bathe him clean from his past sins, enough to purify the monster which lurked within.

And then one day, he swore you off.

"Can't be around you anymore." He snarled, hand dragging down his face, heavy and hot with the burning poker of shame.

"Says who?" Your voice was cracking, the angry prick of tears stabbing at your eyes, like daggers dripping with bitter venom.

"Me. This ain't.... right. We should never have done this."

"Why isn't it right?" You were begging, trying your hardest to coax put a semblance of an answer from him.

"You're too young for this. For-for me. I ain't good for you."

"Where is this coming from? Just two nights ago you were making love-"

"That's the problem." Joel hissed. "Makin' love." He scoffed spitefully, shaking his head firmly. "It's the end of the fuckin' world and I'm worried about makin' a woman cum, makin' your eyes roll. I should be out fightin', I should be out makin' rounds and doin' my work. Ain't thought of anything like that since I've been with you. I have duties. Responsibilities. I'm too old to be sleeping around like some teenager."

You hated yourself for allowing a tear to slip, hated yourself for showing weakness in his presence. "What about your duty to me?" You cried out, hands tangling into tight fists. You felt your veins pumping with venomous resentment, wondering how you could have been so stupid to allow him respite behind the walls of your soul, sanctuary from the world around the two of you.

"I don't have no duty to you. You're not my wife, not my girl. You're just somebody I was fuckin'."

That was two months ago. Two long, grueling months.

This winter in Jackson was particularly brutal. Perhaps nature had been in tune with your heart, rocking and shaking and screaming in unison with your thoughts, angry and vengeful. Like Poseidon wreaking havoc on the ocean, like Zeus bringing hailstorms of lightning, like Zephyrus playing his hand in an assailing wind; you felt your rage through the soil, the packed snow, the shaking pine needles.

Everyday you would trek to your shop, sit behind the counter, and patiently wait for someone to stop by, wait for someone to ask how your day was (which you would inevitably lie about, tell them how good you were), and wait for someone to barter or trade with you.

A dozen chicken eggs for a woven blanket, a few sprigs of rosemary for some pencils, a handful of sheep's wool for some freshly pressed paper.

It was the same every day.

Rise, work, sit, cry, sleep, repeat.

For the past two months you had lurked around the corners of Jackson with a heavy gray cloud hanging over your head, and each day for the past two months you despised yourself for being so caught up with Joel fucking Miller, for being so upset he left you.

You lived in the smallest house in Jackson. There was no reason for you to take up a big one, no reason for you to have two stories, no reason for you to have a big open kitchen or spacious living room. What was the point? No husband, no children, no nothing.

You had tried to make it yours, and you had tried to make it happier since that horrible, awful, nasty thing happened between you and Joel.

You had bought a thick and oversized crocheted blanket the color of sand with a harvest worth of kale, thrown it over a soft and lived-in suede couch to curl up under. You had bartered a basketful of gourds for two knitted pillows, a brown dachshund stitched into one, and a ginger cat stitched into the other. You had picked up a backpack full of books on a run into the nearest town, settling on classics that you used to read as a young girl, in hopes you could feel that golden peace so often felt during childhood, when the only pressing matters on your mind were untied shoelaces and what mom was cooking for dinner.

A life long ago. A life you could barely remember. You were a small child when the world went to shit, barely starting school, with gaps between your teeth and messy, unruly hair. Still growing out of your sneakers, still biting your nails, still picking up worms from the rich soil with amazement and wonder bubbling in your eyes.

When everything happened, when the buildings were bombed and fields burnt, you were forced to grow up. Forced to toughen up, to be someone you never planned on being at such a young age. You ditched the sparkly backpacks and trips to the library for switch blades and look out towers, for uneasy silence and stale dinners.

Then you met Joel, many years after it first began, and everything seemed a little bit better. It started fast and rough, as though you both thought the world would implode the following morning. And then, when the realization that this was life, that nobody was going anywhere, things grew gentler, softer, more meaningful.

Joel's kisses grew deeper, his touches dragged out for longer, his mouth imprinted upon your soft and lithe skin like droplets of dew on blades of morning grass, gentle and ethereal. His words became breathless, sweet, full of desire and thick with honeyed praise.

"Look at you, such a pretty little thing. Shakin' like this, all for me. Who's makin' you feel like this, sweet girl?" Joel's middle finger was buried to the knuckle in your tight pussy, thumb gently tapping at your clit. A string of saliva strung from your nipple to his lips, where his plush mouth had been covering your hardening bud in gentle bites, sucking like a man on a mission.

"You." Your voice came out as a mewl, quiet and shaking. "You, daddy."

Joel grunted a primordial, brutish grunt that rumbled through the sturdiness of his chest, adding a second finger as his head ducked down to your neck, where his kissing resumed upon the blades of your collarbone. "Good fuckin' girl. Good girl. So fuckin' good, a god damn dream. You know that?"

The wall in front of you was covered in framed images you had found on your travels around Jackson. Some original art you scored in the back of a desolate thrift store, some vintage movie posters you found huddled in the dusty corners of a theatre, some polaroid photos you had taken with old friends.

You blinked the memories of him away.

With each day, you tried to convince yourself it was for the best. With each day, you tried to make yourself understand where he was coming from, why he did the things he did.

"You're just somebody I was fuckin'." You remembered his words like sandpaper grinding against the track of your throat, burning their fiery syllables into your tongue. How true his statement actually was, you weren't so sure.

Joel's forehead was pressed to yours, eyes fluttering open and shut with each deep thrust, hands entwined into your own. Your palms were pressed rigid and unyielding into his, Joel's thick fingers wrapping and molding into your smaller ones, chest rubbing against yours with each masterful movement of his hips.

His hot breath, soaked with the sweet smell of whiskey, fanned across your face, coating you with the ache he felt for you, the love he knew he had growing deep inside for you. Each breath he took was a promise. He was never going to leave you. How could he?

"Joel." You chanted, head thrown back in ecstasy, eyes full of stars.

"What do you want from me, darlin'? Say the word and its yours." Joel's voice was breathless and throaty, coating you in the sweet nectar of his affection, seeping deep into your pores until it filled your soul with yearning,

His cock, thick and veined, was slowly pumping as deep is it possibly could within your walls. You fluttered and ached and wept against him, bodies meshing into one, tight and close yet flowing and gentle, like the Bernini sculptures you saw in an art encyclopedia, a long time ago in Boston. Joel filled you to the brim with his length. You felt full of him, wrapped and wanting and wanton. For his eyes only. Only ever him, always.

"Right there." You begged, nails dragging down the length of his wide, sturdy, strong back, marking him with the love caked beneath your fingernails. That unspoken love that weighed heavy on your shoulders, like a wool blanket in the dead of winter.

When Joel's eyes met yours, hitting against the spot you begged him to touch, he had that gaze glossed over his irises, that heavy, awfully gentle look threaded within the chocolate umber of his orbs, the stare that only a man in love ever carried with him.

The memory stuck to your mind like glue on a school project, drying there with no hopes of ever coming loose.

That night, with Joel so heavy on your mind, you treaded heavily to your record player, sifting through the record's you had collected over the years.

"That'll do." You mumbled with dejected finality, putting the vinyl on the player as you lowered the needle.

Why does the sun keep on shining?

Why does the sea rush to shore?

Don't they know it's the end of the world,

Cause you don't love me, anymore?

As you listened to the sweet voice of Julie London, you looked around your kitchen, the pile of dishes only stacking up, higher and higher. With your hands on your hips you walked over, forcing yourself to do something with your night. You couldn't sit and mope, you had already spent too long doing that anyways.

You let the hot water fall upon the backs of your dainty hands, watching with glass eyes as it fell and dribbled off your fingers, the soapy suds filling the porcelain bowls. You cupped them in your hands, breathing in the citrusy scent, closing your eyes.

Think. You begged yourself. About anything else but him. Think.

Why do the birds go on singing?

Why do the stars glow above?

Don't they know it's the end of the world,

it ended when I lost your love.

You pricked the tip of your finger with the sharp point of the butcher knife, gently twisting it soft enough to only make the hint of an imprint, thinking to yourself. You had lived your entire life fighting, fleeing, hiding, escaping, yet it only ever felt like the end of the world once you lost him.

"Damn you Julie London!" You shouted, voice mellow dramatic and emotive, face planting into your arm which rested on the wooden counter.

"What'd Julie London ever do to you?"

The voice, raw and rough, startled you, awakening you from your trance. Before you could catch it, a puppy like yelp escaped your mouth, sharp and nasty against the ears.

You knew who that voice belonged to. The voice that lulled you to sleep, the voice that whispered sweet nothings as you lay naked and bare on linen sheets, the voice that called you good girl and sweet angel and pretty princess whilst crammed deep into your cunt.

Joel.

Turning so hard you nearly snapped your own neck, you saw him standing in the doorway of your home, tall and brooding, filling the heavy air with the familiar scent of pine needles and bergamot. He held a basket in his arms. A basket he had bought from your shop, many moons ago.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Your voice was nastier than you meant it to be, but you couldn’t help the emotion rising within the confines of your chest, beating at your ribcage like a wild animal locked in a zoo.

“I did knock. You didn’t answer. Took the liberty to walk on in and check on you.” He shrugged, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, and slowly shut the door behind him.

“To check on me?” You scoffed bitterly, turning your back to him again as you resumed your cleaning. You heard the vinyl come to a stop, the air silent and palpable, moulding to your rage. You took in a deep breath, looking down at the sponge you were grasping ahold of a little too tight. “Two months go by, and suddenly today- of all days- you decide to take the liberty to come and…. check on me?”

Joel’s sigh, burdened with what felt like guilt, swirled through your ears. “Yes.” Was all he said, simple and plain.

Oh, you had a lot more to say than one meager word.

You were too nervous to meet his gaze, too worried your tears would come flooding, soaking through your skin and deteriorating until you were nothing more than a puddle of nothing on the wooden floorboards.

“I….” You struggled for a long moment, tongue twisted and stuck in your own throat. “I don’t know what to say to you anymore.”

You heard the sound of dense boots against the ground, felt the weight of the air behind you shift. He was close. His scent was coated around the inside of your nostrils, fogging your mind with past memories you swore you’d never ponder on again.

“I know what you want to say.” Joel’s voice was quiet, barely a whisper in the wind. “That you hate me. That you never want to see me again. That you hope I’m ripped limb from limb by clickers. Gunned down by raiders.”

Tears welled within your eyes. You didn’t speak for a long beat, sniffling as quietly as you could possibly muster. “After everything, you know I-…. even after you broke me. I-I don’t wish for that. Never even thought of that.” You admitted your terrible secret with a shaking voice, hand tightening so deeply around the sponge, your middle finger sunk straight through the material.

Joel’s fingers gently traced down the small of your back. An offer. You heard a gentle thump as he set the basket down, followed by his other hand pressing flat into your side.

“I’m scared.” His voice was full of emotion you had never once heard from him. “That’s why I left.”

“What?”

“I’ve lost everyone, ‘cept Ellie. Tess, Bill, Frank, Sarah.” His voice cracked, trailing off. “I couldn’t lose you, too. I can’t watch you…. can’t watch you fall victim to this world.”

You shook your head, dropping the sponge against the metal sink, tilting your head to look out the window which stood in front of you. The night sky was sparkling with millions of stars before you, snow flaking down from the heavens, coating the glass window pane with a copious layer of delicate snowflakes, each so different and unique. It was beautiful.

Joel’s left arm slowly wrapped around you. You wanted to fight him off, wanted to scream and banish him from your home, wanted to promise if you ever saw him again you’d kill him on the spot. But you couldn’t. Not when he was so vulnerable, so warm, so willing.

You shifted against him, leaning back until your bodies were close together. His hand rested taut against your belly, his other arm soon finding solace beneath your shirt, pulling you even closer.

“I’m sorry.” He finally broke the dizzying silence, chin nuzzling into the blade of your shoulder. “I didn’t know what else to do. I- I still don’t know what to do.”

You blinked away new forming tears, taking in a deep breath. “You could start by warming me up.” You were so meek, you were unsure if he heard your words.

Joel’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, pressing gently into the skin of your tummy, fingers massaging into the supple skin of your waist, your love handles, drawing circles into the line of skin right above the hem of your pants. Your back fell deeper into his chest as he touched you, felt you, as if he had never known your body before.

You could stand there and argue with him, cry and rage and scream at the universe, or you could let him apologize the best way he knew, let him make it all up to you.

“After this,” you managed to choke out, “am I still going to be somebody you just fuck?”

He wasted no time shaking his head. “You never were. You were, are, the light of my life. I don’t know what I was thinking.” His breath was hot against your neck, his lips pressing kisses, scattered like constellations, into your skin.

“You weren’t thinking.” You moaned a breathless laugh, head tilting to allow him access.

“No, I wasn’t.” Joel’s fingers slipped into your pants, palm cupping your pussy, hot and wet with the promise of his touches. “Damn baby, this horny already?”

“Haven’t been touched in two months. Sure you understand.”

He chuckled a deep, endearing chuckle, nudging his nose into your cheek. “Think I should do somethin’ about this?”

You nodded quickly.

“Words, pretty baby. Use your words.”

“Yes. Please, do… do something about it.”

“That’s my good girl. I’ll give you what you want, I promise.”

You felt butterflies brewing within your belly as his middle finger traced the middle of your green cotton underwear, rubbing where you swollen clit gently poked against. He knew you like the back of his hand, like a map he had spent years memorizing. Giving you pleasure, knowing where and how to make you cum, had become second nature for Joel.

“Don’t be ‘fraid to lean against me. Let daddy take care of you.”You groaned softly at his words, falling back into his body. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you up, bicep thick and muscled against you. “Push those down for me.”

You wiggled out of your pants and underwear, bottom half open and exposed for him. His fingers dragged across your mound, brushing against the outside of your pussy that cried out for his touch.

Joel slipped his index finger between your outer lips, finding your clit, slowly drawing circles around your aching bud. You sighed out, once again meshing in to his chest as he touched you, feeling the silkiness of your pink, throbbing cunt.

“I missed this pussy. So wet for me, so needy. You like it when I touch you? Like it when I make you feel good?” His words were hot in your ear, melting into your senses like dripping candle wax.

“Oh, I love it. I love it so much. I love you so much.” You were too caught up in pleasure to understand the weight of what you just said, head rolling against his shoulder as he teased your pussy.

Joel let out a quiet moan at what you just admitted, his hold on you tightening. He was never going to let you go. He sunk his middle finger into your tight opening, slowly hooking it against you G-spot, thrusting it up and down the way he knew made you cry for him.

Your knees were shaking, yet you had no fear of falling. As foolish as it may have been, you had complete trust in Joel Miller. You knew he wouldn’t let you drop. Your walls fluttered around his finger, clit begging to be touched once more. You lowered your hand, gently flicking at your swelling button, moaning out as he added his ring finger to your cunt.

“That’s it baby. Rub that pretty pussy. Cum on my fingers.” Joel whispered m, gently biting down on your ear lobe.

You felt your thighs quivering, belly tightening as your orgasm drew closer. Joel watched you with hawk like vision, relishing in the way your fingers traced and danced across your clit. Before you had the chance to announce your climax, you found yourself cumming on his digits, coating them in you sweet, slick arousal, screaming his name as thought it was the only word you ever had the chance to memorize.

When you came down from your high, Joel slowly removed his fingers, bringing them to your soft lips. “Suck.” He commanded gently. You did, wrapping your mouth around them as you gingerly took them in, all the way to the hilt, sucking them clean and dry, free from any of your cum. “That’s my good girl, my pretty darlin’.”

You shivered against him, your head falling back. Joel gently tapped the counter. “Jump up there.” He whispered.

You did as you were told, grabbing the collar of his flannel, pulling him closer.

“Kiss me, Joel Miller.”

And kiss you he did.

His lips found yours with the passion of ten thousand soldiers, sickly sweet and supple against your mouth. Joel was consuming you with this kiss, torridly leaving his mark into the soft ridges of your pouted lips, blanketing you with the desire he had for you that he so often tried to push down. Your fingers found his graying hair, legs wrapping around his waist until the bulge breaking at his jeans was pressed right into your bare pussy.

You grinded against him, clit still sensitive and aching from the power of your last orgasm. Still, you dropped your hands to his zipper, tugging them down swiftly.

“Want you to fuck me.” You whispered against his mouth, tongue sliding across his. “Want you to cum inside me. Make me yours.”

“You’ve always been mine.” Joel muttered, hand slipping down to remove his boxers. “I was just bein’ an idiot.”

“Then make it up to me.”

The tip of his cock found the slick lips of your pussy, and he slowly pushed himself in through on graceful movement, filling you to the top until your clit was pressed against his stomach. Joel felt your pussy clench against him, and he groaned, letting his head fall to your shoulder. He sat there for a moment, relishing in the warmth being inside of you provided, arms wrapped around you like a belt, pressing you hard into his chest.

You gently placed your hands on the back of his head, pulling away to look at him. Tracing over his features, you took every inch of him in. That Aquiline nose you had grown to love so much, the patchy beard littered with charming speckles of silver, that stray curl in the middle of his forehead that never stayed put. Joel Miller was beautiful. He was an enigma of a man. Stoic, masculine, tender, intuitive, full of emotions and worlds unknown to everyone. Everyone but you. He was a crazy, deep, beautiful paradox of a human, and he was all for you.

Joel slowly pushed out from you, before pumping himself back in. He did this a few more times, his eyes never straying from your own. His fingers slipped to your clit, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb against it.

“Think you can cum on my cock?”

You nodded.

A smile lifted the right corner of his mouth. “Tha’s what I like to hear.” He leaned down, kissing you again as he began fucking you, deep and slow, each move methodical and well planned, as if he knew just what he wanted to do to your body.

Your hands fell to his broad shoulders. His broad shoulders. That alone could have made you cum. The tanned slope of his beautiful, beautiful shoulders, collarbones thick and jutted out just right, followed by patchy chest hair, down to his soft belly that pressed into yours so perfectly. He was beautiful. You traced your fingers down the trail of his biceps, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch, straight to his wrists, lacing with his long, skilled, well worked fingers, palm rough and calloused, tough as leather against the softness of your sweet, smooth hands.

You drunk his figure in like a lovesick fool. Oh, you were, weren't you? So full of love and affection for this brute of a man, well aware he struggled with his emotions. You watched the crows feet by his eyes crinkle as he clamped his eyes shut, watched the line of his neck pulse as he threw his neck back in pleasure.

He was a Baroque portrait of lust standing before you, dark and brooding, thrusting into your cunt as if it were the sweetest thing in the world for him. He growled into the air with each pump of his hips, nails digging into your skin as he held you close, never to let go.

"Joel." You whispered softly, burying your face in his chest as your second orgasm fast approached. You weren't sure why you said his name, not sure what you wanted exactly, but Joel knew. He always knew. He just cradled the back of your head with his right hand, his other gripping ahold of your waist, pounding faster, deeper, harder, hungrier. You were all he wanted, all he ever wanted, all he ever needed.

Joel bit down onto your shoulder softly as he twitched inside you, and you knew his orgasm was soon to come. He kept the same pace on your clit until you were putty in his hands, legs tightening as pleasure washed over you. You both came in harmony, moans mixing and melding into the air which surrounded you. His cock painted your walls with thick, hot ropes of white, and your tightening walls milked every last lick of it out as your came hard, head dizzy with thoughts of him.

He whispered your name softly as he slowed to a stop, pillowing you against his body. "God, I missed you."

You nodded in agreement, sticky skin pressed together like two puzzle pieces. "I missed you." You pulled away, holding on to him for support as you slowly stepped off the counter. You gently pressed your palm into his chest, feeling his cum dribbling down your thigh. You smiled softly at the feeling before glancing up at him. "More than you know."

Joel gently ran his palm down your back as you slipped your underwear on, quickly following suit.

"What's in the basket?" You asked, pointing to the item he left alone on the living room rug.

"Oh. It was s'posed to be a peace offerin'. Makin' up with you was easier than I thought." Joel joked, and you gently slapped his shoulder.

"Whatever." You giggled, walking over to the present.

Inside were some paintings Ellie had made you that Joel never had the courage to send before, some sprigs of dried herbs they were growing in their back yard, some handmade goats soap from a lady down the street, and a long, narrow velvet box. You picked it up slowly, turning to look at him.

"Now if you don't like that I might as well go out and die in the woods. Took me fuckin' weeks to find." Joel admitted, rubbing his neck nervously. "I remember you sayin' you wanted one of them."

You slowly opened it, met with a shimmering string of pearls. A necklace. A necklace you had spent your whole life yearning for. Your lips parted with surprise. "I-I've never seen one in person. Only in those old magazines they had back at QZ."

Joel walked towards you, nodding a bit. "Spent a whole weekend with Tommy, all the way in Cheyenne. Almost got me killed." He chuckled, hands falling to your hips.

"Oh, Joel. It's beautiful. It's.... I've never seen something like this before." You whispered earnestly, gently sweeping your hair up. "Put it on me?"

He smiled a soft, rare smile, gingerly clipping it around your neck. He took a step back, admiring you, soaking you in, memorizing the way it looked on you. "Yeah, that was worth the trouble."

You smiled happily, falling into his arms. He held you tightly to his chest, fingers sweeping through your locks of hair. "By the way..." Joel murmured into your head, pulling away slowly as his fingers found your chin. Your eyes met in a searing gaze, full of summertime warmth that fell over you like golden sunlight. He stared at you long and hard, and you saw something like tears gloss over his gaze.

And when he spoke, his voice was calm, steady, devout:

"I love you, too."

[rnarvelboi]

Do You Like It Here? (j.m. oneshot)

Pairing: Joel Miller x afab!Reader

Rating: EXPLICIT. MDNI W/C: 2k MASTERLIST

Summary: Joel contemplates shaving his beard. You are absolutely against that idea, and he makes you explain why.

Content/Warnings: Pics above are for aesthetic purposes only. Neutral descriptions of an AFAB reader (“your top”, “your shorts”, “your breast”, etc.). No use of “y/n”. Joel can carry you but there are no other descriptions of reader. Implied age gap if you squint. Joel being big and burly. Joel being a menace. Hints of body worship. Dirty talk. Reader liking facial hair for dirty reasons🤷🏻. Joel on his knees for you…. ✨Bathroom counter✨ Cunnilingus. Tongue fucking. Face grinding. Hair pulling (m receiving). Joel’s fucking nose deserves a warning😵‍💫 Allusions to further sexual activity. As always, let me know if I’ve missed anything!

A/N: Can we tell how much I think about Joel eating pussy?💚 My sweet sweet Roman Empire. Enjoy. :-)

Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs to know when stories come out!

“Should I shave it off?” 

You choke on your own spit, eyebrows hitting the ceiling. “What?”

“My beard. All this scruff. Should I shave it?” Joel asks you, his thumb and forefinger rubbing against his jaw, his eyes surfing his jawline in the mirror much too critically for your liking. 

“Do you want to?” You reply back, curious to understand what is going on in that chaotic mind of his. 

“No? Yeah? I mean,” he breathes. “I dunno. A lotta white is startin’ to come through, ‘n I feel like it makes me look… raggedy.” 

You frown. “Baby,” you say softly. 

You woke up before Joel, last night’s activities knocking him out cold right after you two cleaned each other up. Unfortunately for you, no matter how hard you fell into your slumber, your body always woke you no later than 7am. It was a blessing and a curse. You decided a shower was in order. 

As soon as you finished and got dressed, your burly, grumpy and sleepy baby of a man stumbled into the bathroom. Wanting his presence always, you hopped up on the bathroom counter, your legs hanging off the edge, and stayed with him as he continued his morning routine. It was after he brushed his teeth and washed his face that he posed his question to you. 

You place your hand on his jaw and pull him closer so he’s standing in between your legs. The light press of your fingertips never leave his face. “You don’t look raggedy,” you scold. “You look… well, you look fuckin’ sexy, for one. I love this look on you,” you admit, a little sheepish. Your eyes scan his facial hair once more before you glance at his eyes, then to his lips. Your finger traces his bottom lip. “So fuckin’ sexy,” you mutter, emphasizing your claim.

You don’t have to look into his eyes to know his demeanor shifted. You can feel the way his gaze darkened. He pulls himself closer to you, his knees knocking the cabinets. His hand starts on your knee, dragging it up your thigh and up your side until it settles on your jaw, his fingers grasping your chin to make you meet his eye. “Oh, is that so, darlin’?”

You gulp, your head softly nodding at his words; unable to speak as your eyes gloss over. “What else d’ya love about it, darlin’?” He pushes, his fingers tightening on your chin—words, he’s telling you. 

You can feel every part of your body heat up. “It…it…” you stutter. His eyebrow flicks up with a faintness only you’d catch. You clear your throat in hopes it makes you speak up. “You- you’re already so big ‘n broad, ‘n this… the scruff… it just adds to- to you,” you tell him shakily, your brain starting to flood with just how much you love his facial hair. “P-plus, it- oh my god,” you whine, unable to stop the spew of shit that’s about to fly out of your mouth. “It feels so good when it rubs against my thighs ‘n my-” you gasp. You don’t remember when it got there, but his other hand is gripping your thigh, his strength tightening at the last words that fell from your lips.

Slow, tantalizingly slow, he leans in. He places a lengthy kiss to your lips; your eagerness gets the best of you as you try and deepen it, but he’s already breaking away—moving down. His lips grace your jaw, your neck—more open-mouthed and needy these ones are, and he pauses. “Ya like how it feels here?” He says against your neck. Then he’s moving lower. 

He peppers kisses along your shoulder and the exposed parts of your chest your top shows. He licks and sucks at a particular sweet spot atop your breast. A breathy little moan escapes you, your arms falling limp to your sides—and out of his way. He pauses his kiss to breathe you in. Lavender. Vanilla. The shower you just finished still clinging deliciously to your skin. “Ya like it here, too, don’tcha?” He places one more kiss on the mark he just gave you, not giving you a moment to respond. 

Then. He’s falling to his knees. Today was supposed to be a lazy day for you two, so you settled on solely a pair of sleep shorts. Nothing more. His hands settle themselves underneath your thighs, scooting you as close to the edge as possible without making you off balance. He’s so tall that on his knees, his nose is belly button level with you. 

He pushes your thighs open. Starting at your knee, he places a swift kiss there. The higher he goes, the wetter and slower they become. A drop of sweat beads down your neck. His hands make their way to your sides, fingers dancing along the waistband. He meets your eyes for a silent confirmation. Planting your hands behind you for stability, you lift your hips for him, a whimpered please leaves your mouth. 

He pulls your shorts off slowly—the wetness staining the center of your shorts peels off of you, the cold air interacting with your slick sends a shiver down your spine. Joel lets your shorts fall to the floor beside him, his eyes darting to your glistening sex. “Fuckin’ wet,” he growls. “All worked up from my white beard? My old age?”

“‘S not what I meant,” you sputter, the kiss he places to your mound throwing you off-kilter. His hands grab onto your waist and he’s angling your hips forward, giving himself a full view of you. He does it again—kisses your sex—but this time, he puts his whole face into you as he uses his tongue to aid him, his scruff tickling all around, on your thighs, your clit. Your hips buck into his face at the sensation, a louder moan reverberating against the bathroom walls. 

“Oh,” Joel smirks. “Right there, huh. Ya like the way it feels right there? Right there on that sweet, perfect fuckin’ cunt, huh? Drives you mad? Wild?” He teases. 

You lament at his words, conflicted between which you want more—hearing his mouth or feeling his mouth? You're pulled from your internal battle when you feel yourself become impossibly wetter: a glob of warm spit lands right where you need him most. Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah okay, you want to feel him. 

One hand behind you leaves from its place and reaches for his curls in an attempt to pull him into you. “Joel, baby, please,” you cry. 

His head doesn’t budge no matter how strong you are. “Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Tell me what I wanna hear,” he tells you. “Tell me what I wanna hear first, and then I’ll give it t’ya exactly, baby. Just be the good girl I know y’are f’me.”

“F-fuck. Fuck. Please, Joel, please-” you say impatiently. “I love the way it feels when I grind my fuckin’ pussy all over your face, baby, I love how it feels when it starts to burn against my thigh, the way it nudges and scrapes every part of me- it makes me feel like I’m on fuckin’ fire, baby, please,” you rasp.

“Atta girl, darlin’,” he coos, licking his lips before his hands pull you flush against his face, his tongue flying straight to your seam, licking a messy path that sends your slick and his spit everywhere. Instantly your head flies back, your hand curls into the roots of his hair once more as you moan and squirm against his grasp. 

Joel loves spending his time down there, but regardless of the fact, you’ll never get used to how fucking good he makes you feel. Joel is ruthless when it comes to eating you out—always making you see stars even in the light of day. 

“F-fuck, j-just like that, baby,” you pant, your one arm keeping you up threatening to lose balance at the greedy touch of his skillful tongue. He drags his muscle from your entrance and up to your clit, running circles and figure eights on it for a moment before he latches onto you—his lips completely wrapped as he suckles and continues to flick where you’re most sensitive. His dominant hand leaves your hip and he drags his fingers to your opening, his middle finger sliding in with ease—the sensation sending you to the edge of something white, hot, and all-consuming. 

“I’m- I’m gonna cum, Joel, shit, I’m gonna cum-” you squeak, your entire body feeling flushed at his actions. 

He pulls his finger out of you, his hand finding its rightful place perched against your hip as he pulls you impossibly closer once again, your ass nearly hanging off the bathroom counter, his grip the only thing keeping you up. Your arm loses its strength and you fall limp, your head thumping against the bathroom mirror, completely at the disposal of your man as he ravishes your sobbing pussy.

He lifts off your clit momentarily. “Give it t’me, sweet girl,” he tells you in a frenzy. His mouth is on you again, his tongue going straight to your hole—his tongue pushes inside of you as much as he can, his face pulled tightly against you. He begins moving, advancing his tongue in and out as you mindlessly begin grinding against face. With every upward push of your hip, his nose nudges at your clit and the pure ecstasy that washes through you is evident in the way you’re practically mewling above him, your obscene moans and gasps enough to make Joel’s hips thrust into nothing on their own accord in an attempt to seek some kind of relief. 

More arousal pours from you, and Joel is quick to drink it up. You can feel the way his tongue flexes as he gulps, and fuck, that is what sends you reeling. You yank onto his hair tighter, driving your hips into his face at a ravenous pace—practically fucking his face—and then it hits you. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as your back arches in this awkward angle, your orgasm hits you hard. It’s without warning, heart-pounding, toe-curling, addicting, and everything Joel. 

Your lips are babbling nothing coherent, the occasional drop of his name escaping your mouth as he continues to fuck you through your high. He’s moving much slower now, much more precise—as if he’s doing this solely for his benefit now, not yours. Which, you don’t mind. Even as you start to slip into overstimulating territory, you don’t want him to stop. 

You’d lay at his mercy for him to use you in any way he pleases if it meant you got to experience what it means to be loved by a man like Joel. With him, it’s all or none—none of that half in, half out bullshit. No, when Joel loves, he loves hard, and it’s evident in everything he does for you. Especially when it comes to your pleasure. 

A particular lick to your clit causes you to yelp out in a pleasurable pain, so Joel finally rises again, kissing your spent cunt one last time before he pulls you up, rubbing up and down your spine to ease the uncomfortable position you were in. 

“You okay?” Joel asks, slight concern and slight amusement on his features as he looks at your face. Pure bliss and contentment fills your features; he can still see the fog clearing from your head. 

“Yeah,” you mutter softly, a lazy grin plastered on your cheeks as you look up at his shiny face. Weakly, you bring your arms up and wrap them around his neck, pulling him in to kiss you. He takes the hint, and he bends down, letting your lips meet in a soft yet enthusiastic embrace. You love the way you taste, especially when it comes from his mouth. 

Pulling away breathless, both your and Joel’s eyes are aflame again. 

“Don’t shave, baby.”

“I won’t, darlin’.” 

You kiss him once more before he wraps your legs around his waist and carries you back to bed. 

You were wrong. It’s going to be a busy day after all.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope it made your private parts tingle you enjoyed💚 If you’d like to be notified for upcoming fics, follow my notif blog!

[rnarvelboi]

Slipped Through

Summary: There is one tiny, silly little caveat to Joel’s insane, old man endurance.  Word Count: 2,182 Pairing: Joel Miller x F! AFAB! Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, p in v sex, cowgirl, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, premature ejaculation, frottage, no use of y/n

If one thing is for certain in the post-apocalypse, it’s that Joel Miller fucks. 

You find this out a few months after he and Ellie settle in down the street from you. 

He’s handsome, built like a brick shithouse, all bulky muscle from years and years of hard-fought survival. He’s also shy. Everyone else in Jackson thinks he’s aloof, rude, scary. 

But not you. 

You see the same scars on his skin, the same clenched jaw and stony gazes as everyone else. But to you, he’s just a tired, scared, sad man in need of some TLC. 

He gets it, too. 

It took a while for him to warm up to you, your timid advances, your dropped hints. But as soon as he let you in, it was like a forest fire, one single spark caught by the wind and engulfing everything in flames. 

He fucks. 

He’s been around a few decades and it shows. His stamina is incredible. He can fuck you for hours without stopping, make you come on his cock over and over again until you’re begging for him to give in to his release. 

He takes you from behind, while you’re on your knees or while you’re his little spoon. He takes you while you stare up at him on your back, a hand between your bodies to put delicious pressure on your clit. 

Once he even took you up against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist. Only once, though, because he had to call in sick for patrol, and Tommy wouldn’t let him rest until he told him what he’d done to pull his back so badly. 

He’s incredible. A selfless lover, so focused on making you feel good, his orgasm always second (or usually third or fourth) to yours. And he’s sweet, he calls you pet names and kisses you breathless and hands out praise like it’s expiring. He cleans you up after, and fetches you water, and holds you and strokes you until your shivers are gone and your breathing is back to normal. 

You have no complaints. But. There is one tiny, silly little caveat to Joel’s insane, old man endurance. 

He cannot keep it together when you ride him. With a gun to his head, you’re pretty sure he still couldn’t last long enough to get a solid session in with you on top. 

It’s not a bad thing, per se, but you like riding him. You enjoy taking a bit of control, letting him relax and ease his back after a long day. But he just… can’t last.

-

Joel’s cock is in your mouth. You love this part. You love breathing in the mixed scent of homemade soap and Joel’s natural smell as you nuzzle the wiry hairs. You love looking up at him and seeing his aroused grin and dark eyes staring back down at you. You love the way he feels so hot and thick against your tongue. You love getting him sopping wet so it’s even easier to take his girth when he fucks you. You love the feeling of his huge hand on the back of your head, tangling in your hair.

“God damn, baby, you suck dick like an angel.” 

You love that too— the praise, the wicked shit he says that completely negates how shy and timid he is outside of the bedroom. 

You hum around his cock and take him deeper. You’re never able to take him all the way, but when he nudges the back of your throat, you make swallowing motions and feel yourself contract around the thick head of his dick. His hand tightens in your hair, almost painful but not quite. 

“Jesus, your mouth, darlin’. Criminal.”

You hum again, and arch your back like a dog in heat, aching to feel him stretch you open. 

“C’mon, give me your pussy, baby.” 

His words are grunted, and maybe it’s a little mean of you to suck the life out of him before you plan to ride him. You think you like it, though, just being a little mean. 

He makes to move when you finally pull your lips from around him, but you hold him steady with two hands on his broad, sweaty chest. 

His pretty brown eyes widen in question, and his hands grab your hips hard as you hover over his cock, but he doesn’t say anything. 

He wants to. You can tell. His jaw clenches and his eyes fog over a bit as he looks down at your soaked center. But he stays silent as you line yourself up, stroke him through your folds a few times before letting his cockhead catch on your hole and sink in. 

The deep groan he lets out sounds pained. You coo at him, remove one of your hands from his chest to run through his silver curls. 

“Fuck.”

It’s gritted through his teeth, clenched together so tight you’re afraid they’ll crack. When you’re fully seated, you wiggle your ass and clench around him. 

“Baby,” he whimpers.

“Thought you wanted my pussy? Don’t you like it, Joel?” 

You lift up until he nearly falls out of you, and then fall right back down. A sound escapes your mouth, deep from your chest as you rise and fall again, throwing your head back at just how deep he reaches at this angle. 

His fingers grip your hips even tighter now, bruising and stinging. His breath whistles violently through his nostrils, stuttered and heavy. 

“Like it too much, darlin’, please.”

You spare him for a second, grinding down in his lap, swiveling your hips to help him simmer down. You rake your nails across his scalp in what you hope is a soothing gesture, but you can’t help the way you clench around him as you watch him struggle underneath you. 

Seconds pass as your hips grind out the smallest circles against him. His breaths are loud and warm against your nose and cheeks. He looks incredible like this, at your mercy, your devilish grin reflecting in his inky, wide pupils. 

His grip loosens the tiniest bit, and you watch his jaw clench and unclench as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You can take it, can’t you? For me?” 

You pout and rock your hips slowly, all the way up and back down, reveling in the familiar stretch and friction that’s torturous and not quite enough. You feel his chest expand with a shuttery gasp right under your palm, broken and ragged, and it makes you just that much wetter. 

“Sweet christ, the mouth on you tonight.”

His tongue pokes out to wet his red, bitten lips. When his eyes open back up, they’re all pupil, black and glossy and shining. Your cunt flutters around him at the sight of him so far gone, undone because of you. 

You squeeze your fingers in his hair, tugging, and he winces and you love it, this proud and powerful sensation coursing through your veins. You understand, now, how Joel feels when he fucks you, when you’re completely at the mercy of the pleasure he gives you. Why his lips always seem to lilt into a smirk, why that satiated smile doesn’t leave his face for hours, and why his gaze still feels so hungry no matter how many times you’ve gotten each other off. 

It’s addictive. 

His face untwists itself as you lighten the grip on his hair, but it screws right back up as you start to bounce on his cock. He curses, and you set a quick pace at the angle that makes you clench around his prick. 

“I can’t– Darlin’, I can’t.” 

His voice sounds panicked, so you lift up, let him slip completely out of you. You peer down to watch his glistening cock jerk wildly as his hips cant up into nothing. The muscles in his thighs tense something fierce, and you’re sure his nails have broke skin on your hips. 

“You can, baby. Just let me take care of you for once. Just enjoy it,” you say. 

His breath shutters in something akin to a sob, a warm gust across your heated cheeks. You let your hand trail up to his neck and goad him to break his staring contest with his jerking, weeping cock.

“You’re evil,” he tells you. 

You smirk. Your nails scrape over his stomach, the patch of curly hair there and the skin that pulls taut as his muscles strain against your touch.

“I think you like that.” 

Your hips tilt to align yourselves once more, and this time you sink down slowly until you’re seated on his thighs. For a moment, he gets a wicked glint in his eyes, dangerous looking. It vanishes as soon as you clench your walls around him. 

“You feel so good,” you whisper.

You catch his lips in your own. Distracted, he can’t kiss you back. The tight line of his mouth is frozen as you nibble on his plush bottom lip and rock your hips up and down. His noises are muffled this way, cut-off, like he wants to keep them from escaping. The softest whines, and the most beautiful music to your ears. 

You set a rhythm to match, and for a moment you think he’s managed to gain control. His palms are warm and sweaty on your hips, and then your ass, and you’re confident as you rise and fall. You’re working yourself up, too, as his prick supplies a delicious friction to the perfect spot inside you. Like it always does.  

But as you gasp and moan with your head thrown back, the calloused palms on your skin turn into sharp nails, and Joel’s sounds falter. 

“Off— get off,” he gasps. 

You do, rising up quickly, looking down between your bodies to watch Joel’s cock strain and throb in the cool bedroom air. You wait patiently for him to calm down as a second passes, then two, then—

“God dammit—”

Your eyes widen as you watch— in shock and horror and amazement and arousal— thick, white stripes shoot up to paint Joel’s chest and stomach. His abdomen pulls taut and his hips quiver with each wave of his climax.

“Shit—”

You’re frozen in time as Joel shakes with the intensity of it. And he just keeps coming, spurt after spurt making his dick jolt and twitch, until the last of it dribbles out of him and his poor cock gives one last gasping breath. 

“Fuck you,” he pants, squeezing your hips, but there’s no heat behind it. There’s nothing at all behind it as he slumps into the mattress, boneless and defeated. 

It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Which may not be saying much, since your pre-apocalyptic life was fairly short-lived, but it’s the truth. 

This man, sturdy and hardened and full of grit, reduced to a mess of a puddle underneath you. You’re throbbing, all because of him, because of what you’ve done to him. 

“So fucking hot, fuck,” you breathe.

You give him no chance at all to recover, so overcome by your own needs. You shift your hips and trap his prick between your folds and his stomach. 

It’s slippery and perfect, and even the feeling of Joel’s cock growing softer as it presses against your clit turns you on. 

Almost as much as his noises, the nearly pained whimpers as you grind against his overstimulated dick, the way he shudders and squirms underneath you. Still, he encourages your thrusts with two sweaty and firm hands on your hips, and the way his fucked-out gaze is focused on you taking your pleasure from him. 

Riding the adrenaline high, it takes virtually no time at all for you to reach your peak. Your nails dig into the skin of his pecs and the back of his neck respectively, as you near the inevitable. Your nose finds where his shoulder and throat meet, biting, hiding your whimpers in his sweaty skin. The hiss he lets out and the accompanying jolt of his hips is more than enough to send you over the edge. 

Atta girl, that’s it, get what you need.

His voice sounds far away, gritted through his teeth, as you pant against him and ride out the last of your orgasm. 

The following silence is quite loud, just heavy breathing and the odd creak of the bed frame. 

Joel must feel when your lips fail to suppress a smile against his shoulder, because he responds with a huff almost instantly. 

“Real pleased with yourself, huh?” 

You giggle, nip at his heated skin with playful teeth. 

“I really am.”

He grunts, and you finally lift up to look him in the eyes. He creases his brow and shakes his head at you. But then that dimple you love so much rears its head as he bites back his smirk, and another giggle bubbles up out of your chest. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, Darlin’.”

He sounds quite remorseful, looking up at you with those puppy eyes, and you cradle his stubbly cheek in your palm. 

“Just gotta train you up, cowboy.”

[rnarvelboi]

sweaty hands, reluctant hearts

Pairing: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x Fem!Reader

Words: 13685 (god this wasn’t supposed to be this long I’m actually sorry this time)

Warnings: Angst and Smut (my fav). Hurt/Jealous Mando -> Touch Starved/Rough Mando -> Fluffy Mando -> Shy Mando. Penetrative Sex. Oral Sex. There’s lot’s of sweat because exertion yall. Breeding Kink 😏. Slight Exhibitionism. Overstimulation and slight slight non-con because of oversensitivity. Umm, squirting 🙃. Dirty/Sweet talk. Spanking (ass and hoohaa).

Summary: He never thought the day would come when he’d hear you saying you wanted to leave him. Yes there was an understanding between the two of you that you were hired to help him care for the Child and to somehow keep the Razor Crest alive and working. And he knew it made sense for you to find work elsewhere now that the Razor Crest was destroyed and the Child was with his own kind. But he just assumed you weren’t going to leave considering it’s been a couple of months since he’d given the kid to the Jedi and you never brought it up. It hurt hearing you say those words, especially when he realized he wasn’t meant to hear them and that you were confiding in Cobb Vanth of all people. Turns out, all Mando needed was to see the Marshal eye-fucking you as you fixed the new ship and overshared your thoughts for him to snap and finally make a move. Hopefully he can change your mind…

A/N: Yall, this is post Season 2 so sadly Grogu is not here, hence the angst! Umm, this was a lot to handle because you know, that gif here. Enjoy ☺️

Keep reading

[rnarvelboi]

keep my hand in yours - joel miller x f!reader

summary: and then he found you.

warnings: explicit; smut, angst, violence/horror typical of the show, soft!joel, talk of grief and depression, possible spoilers for tlou game/s1

wc: ~4k

a/n: a follow-up to this, but can be read as a stand-alone. no beta, just throwing this out to the universe before i start overthinking it.

masterlist

~

You were at work when the world ended. 

A packed bar wasn’t unusual on a Friday night, but this felt different. Like something was about to happen, but you couldn't place your finger on it. There'd been chatter about a health crisis in Indonesia starting to make its way overseas, but you hadn't had much time to sit down and watch the news. You only had so much between work and finding time to spend with your boyfriend. 

It’d only been six months officially, but you were pretty sure you'd fallen in love with him. Joel Miller really was everything you'd ever wanted--funny, reliable, caring, and ridiculously gorgeous. The fact that he was a loving and devoted father didn't hurt, either. 

You had met Sarah a few times before this, introducing yourself as Joel’s “friend,” but she was too clever for that. She'd apparently even insisted Joel invite you to a birthday dinner tomorrow night. You'd been uneasy at first, not wanting to intrude on a tradition, but he'd reassured you so many times you had no choice but to say yes. Tonight was them, he'd said, so don't worry about it. 

You were still worried, but for something else entirely. 

Tommy was here, which was usually a good thing, but the larger crowd and uneasiness in the air made some of the more casual folks bolder and handsier. Tommy ended up in the back of a police car after he took down a guy reaching up one of your servers' skirts. He apologized as he left the bar in handcuffs, but you waved him off. The guy deserved it. 

Joel didn't answer when you stepped away to call him, though, and as the night wore on you almost forgot about it entirely.

It was hell getting everyone out, but through sheer force of will you managed. The last vestiges of summer held tight to the muggy September air as you stepped into the dark parking lot. You sent all the other employees home as soon as the bar closed, making a mental note not to mention that to Joel. It was easier to close up yourself after a night like this.

About halfway to your car, you heard it. Growling first, then slurping, followed by low, pained moans hidden somewhere in the dark. It could have been anything, but your gut told you to pick up the pace. 

Don’t run, it whispered. 

One thing you learned from growing up in a rural area was that if you run, it will chase you, and it is almost always faster than you. Sirens screamed in the distance, dozens of them, and you walked briskly to your car, keys gripped tight in your shaky hand. 

The noises grew louder, and for a moment you thought to turn your head toward the darkness and look. The curious part of your brain--the part that lacked the genetic memory of a natural predator cloaked in the night--wanted to investigate. Your gut, however, was louder, screaming now to get in the car and lock the fucking door because you were in danger.

Your little car started without fuss like it knew this was no time to fool around. The parking lot exit was directly adjacent to where the noises were coming from. The hair on the back of your neck stood up as your headlights lit up the trees. 

Bodies. 

Bodies sprawled on the ground, legs twitching, arms flailing weakly toward figures crouched above. Blood pooled around them, leaking into the parking lot in long rivulets. Your throat tightened, jaw clenching to keep yourself from screaming, and you jumped at the shrill ring of your phone, hitting your head on the roof.

You didn't have to look at the screen to know who it was. Joel was the only reason you got the damn thing. He worried so much about you working late, and the Nokia currently lighting up on the passenger seat had been a compromise. 

The figures didn’t notice you, too distracted by what you'd realized were their meals, and you drove by without incident as you answered your phone with shaky hands. 

“Joel?” You squeaked, voice trembling. 

“Thank fucking Christ, baby, are you okay?” He asked, more frantic than you’d ever heard him. 

“I just saw some people—I think they were eating each other—” 

An ambulance screamed past you and plowed headfirst into a light pole before you could even finish slamming on your brakes. You flicked your eyes to the rearview mirror--the crunch of glass and metal had not drawn the attention of the figures from the parking lot. 

“Fuck! Fuck, Joel, what the fuck is going on—”

“Listen to me,” he said, redirecting your attention to his voice. “Get to your house and lock your doors. I just got Tommy outta lock up and I gotta get Sarah. I need you to wait for us, okay? Don’t go anywhere. Wait. Get as far inside your place as you can.”

“Okay,” you said. “Okay. And you’ll be there soon?”

“Maybe an hour,” he said. “I promise. We’ll get outta this.”

You wanted to tell him you loved him because something horrible was happening, and what if this was your only chance? But your phone cut out, an automated voice telling you to buy more minutes.

“Fuck!” You threw the phone to the side, hands still shaking on the steering wheel, trying to remember where you lived and how to get there. The back roads were less crowded, but people slammed on their horns as you passed them—maybe to tell you to turn around, you didn’t know. 

The radio told you there was news of a virus like rabies making people violent, but rabies didn’t make you eat other people.

By the time you got to your neighborhood, you had no more information than twenty minutes before. It was quiet there, just a couple of dogs barking in the distance. All the lights in all the houses were off. 

You found your dad’s old shotgun and a few bullets you kept just in case, grabbed your house phone, and locked yourself in the interior bathroom, and waited. 

And waited.

**

You never really let anyone again after that. Not even after you met up with Tommy about five years later just outside a quarantine zone in Oklahoma. 

You’d mourned them all so long ago that it shocked you to find tears rolling down your face when he told you about Sarah. 

“And Joel?” You asked. 

He shook his head and smiled sadly. “I don’t think you’d recognize him now. Don’t reckon that’s something he’ll ever come back from.”

But he was alive. 

How was it easier when he’d been dead?

Tommy kept in contact by radio and stopping in when he was around, eventually inviting you to the settlement he maintained with his wife in Wyoming.

It took a few years to take him up on the offer, but eventually, you made your way to Jackson to run a little watering hole and sleep (almost) soundly for the first time in fifteen years.

People come and go from your life like the tides now, conversations gently lapping at the edge of your existence as you clean glasses and mix drinks made from dried rosemary and small batch vodka.

You keep to yourself, making small moments here and there with the community members, but you don't have enough in you to pour into anyone. You exist now because you trust no one else to take care of the herbs you grow in the community garden.  

There is no processing grief when the world ends. There is no therapy, no understanding shoulder to cry on. It spreads like an infection so much more insidious than cordyceps. Slow and steady until one day you can’t remember the last time you felt sunlight on your face, even on the clearest summer days. 

It sits so heavy that some days simply breathing hurts. 

You’ve thought a million times about giving up; about staying in your bed until you starve or some infected finds you. But you get up and move on because the rosemary needs tending.

Some things bring you hope. There’s a school at the end of the main street with enough children to fill it up. They learn to read and write and do basic math. Older teenagers shadow the teachers, apprentices to something you assumed would die out. Who needs to read in a world like this? 

It’s late autumn when someone new gets into town. You don’t pay much attention—an older man with a teenage girl, from the whispers you pick up here and there. Lots of new people come into town, more than you think is strictly a good idea, but you’re just the barkeep. The town is as well-guarded as any place outside of a fascist dictatorship can be. 

You pay the man and the girl no mind.

**

When he steps into her bar she goes still. Her mouth drops and she swallows harshly, blinking fast like there’s something in her eyes. He’s the last thing she expected, and she makes it known. 

“Joel?” She whispers. He raises his hand to the back of his neck and rubs it, trying to figure out why he came here. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Her face hardens and she grits her teeth, setting an empty glass down hard against the wooden bartop. She’s still beautiful, even after the unkindness life poured on her. 

“What do you want, Joel?”

It’s a good question. He wasn’t good with words when they were dating and he’s not good with them now. There’s no sense of obligation here, really—he just wanted to see her alive. He wanted to see her breathing. 

He wanted to lift some of that guilt that he’d left her to fucking die after telling her to wait for him. It’s not an altruistic visit, not really.

And she knows it. 

“I wanted to see you,” he says, and it’s not a lie. He did want to see her. He wants to explain that he was coming for her and then everything fell apart; that once he got downtown everything went to hell; that when his daughter died in his arms he didn’t have room for anyone else. He wants her to understand.

He steps closer, and she moves back. 

“Well,” she says. “You saw me.” 

“You gotta understand—” He starts, but she puts up a hand. 

“I understand. Tommy told me everything that happened. I know y’all did what you had to do.”

“But you’re angry,” he says. 

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“You ain’t mad at Tommy.”

“No, Joel. I’m not mad at Tommy.” 

He nods. “I just—I gotta go do something. Don’t know if I’m coming back. I needed to see you before. In case.” 

She sighs. “So you want me to absolve you of your sins, is that it?”

“No, I—”

“Because I won’t. You told me to stay and I did and you left me there and I almost died. A million times, I almost died. That happened. I understand why it did, but it still happened. I have nothing for you, Joel. Just go.”

“If you’ll—”

“If you think I don't still keep a shotgun behind my bar, you'd be wrong," she warns. 

Something squeezes tight around his heart, and his shoulders slump as he put his hands in his pockets. Just apologize, something screams in his head. Apologize. Acknowledge her. But he can’t. He’d done what he needed to do, and it was stupid to apologize for it. 

Even she said so.

“All right then,” he says. He turns around and leaves. Ellie waits for him outside, looking into the brightly lit building. 

“Is she okay? Who is that?” She asks, and Joel glares down at her.

"Stop gawking," he says. 

"The windows are wide open! I'm not supposed to look inside a building? You know her from, you know? Back then?"

“What’d I tell you about askin’ questions?” 

“Whoa, okay, someone’s grumpy,” she says, squinting into the window. “She’s pretty.”

Joel sighs. “Yeah. That’s one thing she is.” 

“Old girlfriend?”

“Ellie,” he warns. 

“Fine, geez.” 

“You ready to go?”

She raises her backpack and pats her hip. “Yes sir!” 

He takes one last look back at the bar, but she’s gone.

“Cheer up,” Ellie says. 

“Let’s go," he says, ignoring her.

**

Winter passes, then spring. 

Summer yields berries and herbs, and you mix them into drinks like little potions. Sometimes when you let yourself drift it’s like playing pretend in the backyard again. Winter had been long and cold, and for the first time in years, you allowed the feeling of loneliness to sink deep into your bones, almost as bitter cold as the draft came seeping through the broken windowsill in your bedroom. 

You snapped at Joel because he’d been a dream your whole life. There’d never really been a good time for the two of you, and that was fine. 

You need it to be fine. 

He’s at your door again in midsummer, and this time, you don’t tell him to leave. “Got somewhere we can talk?” He asks. 

Above the little bar is an apartment that you’ve made your home. The worn furniture wouldn’t have been your taste before the world ended up, but it’s more than enough for you now. You spent years sleeping in tents and on dirty frigid concrete. This might as well be the Ritz. 

Joel’s demeanor has changed. His hand hasn’t twitched even once, and he’s calm. Slow. There’s something about the way he holds his face that’s softer. 

He’s a stranger in front of you, even more so than the last time he was here. You carried him around all these years, the sharp lines of his jaw growing fuzzier around the edges as time passed. Were his eye brown or hazel? Was his hair dark brown or black? Did he have a beard? 

He stands in front of you now in sharp relief, and you can’t say he looks like your Joel. 

But you probably don’t look like he remembers, either.

“You want some coffee?” You ask, and his eyes light up, and the smallest bit of who you remember shines through. 

“You have coffee?” 

“Don’t go telling everyone about it,” you scold lightly as you move to put on a pot in an ancient drip coffee maker. “Got it off some people who came through town not too long ago. It’s not the freshest but it’s better than nothing.”

“Thank you,” he rasps. He’s quiet as he watches you putter around the kitchen until you lean against the counter and fold your arms across your chest. 

“I came here to apologize,” he says, and it takes you a moment to register his words. 

“For what?” 

“Lotta things, I guess. I’m sorry it went down the way it did, but I did what I thought was best—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Joel—”

“Please,” he says, and he’s crossing the room, standing in front of you and holding your hands in his. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind. I was comin’ for you. I thought about you every day, spent a year trying to find you. I thought you were dead, or infected, and it was my fault. When Tommy told me you were here…”

“He wasn’t supposed to,” you say, but you don’t pull away from him. Instead, you let him crowd against you and hold your hands to his chest. 

“I know. He told me to leave you alone.”

“And you didn’t.”

“When did I ever listen to Tommy?” 

“Just once, if I remember right,” you murmur, squeezing his hands gently as a faint beep tells you the coffee’s ready. “Still take it black?” 

It’s a joke—there’s no sugar or creamer to put in it these days—but you teased him in another life for his preference. And he’d shrug and grin at you, pull you into his arms and kiss you so deep you’d forget to breathe. 

“Yep,” he says. “Thank you.” Joel barely lets it cool down before he takes a sip. “I need you to know, darlin’, I would have come back for you if I could.”

“I know. I know you would.”

“Me and Ellie…she’s my…” He trails off. “We’re settling down here for a while. A good while. I wondered if I could come around every now and then.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think that’d be fine, Joel.”

**

He comes around a lot, actually, just looking for things to do. Ellie settles in with the other kids, and she doesn’t need him quite as much. It hurts him more than he lets on, but you don’t push him to talk about it. 

You put him to work because he’s aimless without something to do. That broken windowsill won't fix itself.

And maybe that’s how you find yourself in this position of giving in and falling in love with him, little by little. He’s broken and distant, but he’s trying. Every time he calls you "darlin'" with sweet, sad eyes your resolve to keep him at arm’s length for a while crumbles just a little more. 

It feels like you might have enough of yourself back to give him, after all. 

It’s the shower that does it. 

He spills oil all over himself fixing something in the kitchen. You have no idea where it came from, but now it's everywhere, including him.

“Goddammit,” he gripes, turning to look at you in his ruined t-shirt and oil-smeared hands. 

“Oh, shit,” you groan. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s all right,” he says, but he’s grumbling. He’s being as close to nice as Joel Miller can be. 

You help him off the ground and he tries to hide the grunt that comes from the knee pain he thinks you don’t know about. 

“Come on,” you say, leading him to the shower. “You take a shower and I’ll find you some clothes and clean this mess up.”

He stops in front of the door and looks down at you, and he’s so, so close to you again. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs before he moves away, leaving you standing there, heart thundering against your ribs.

You’ve just about got it all cleaned up when he comes out with his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, rolling up the sleeves of a flannel shirt he has yet to fully button. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve shamelessly gawked at him—it’s not even the first time today—but there’s something intimate about him having used your shower. 

“You look nice,” you say, and he looks up with a half-smile as you approach him. 

“Shirt fits okay,” he says, because he’s already said “thank you” once today. “You make those soaps yourself?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod. Waning sunlight pours through your window. Dusk looks good on him. 

He smells like you. 

Maybe that’s why you don’t pull away when he drags his scarred knuckles across your cheek and tips your chin up to look in his eyes. 

“You gonna let me kiss you now?” He asks, and you nod. 

You can’t remember what his lips felt like twenty years ago, but they're soft and tentative now. He seals his lips to yours, gentle until you let out a quiet whimper. His hand lands on the small of your back, pulling you into him as he deepens the kiss.

You protest when he pulls away, but he cradles your face in his hands.

“I made a lot of mistakes. Got a lot of regret from not…telling people how I feel. I don’t know how this’ll work, or if you want me like that at all, but I have to tell you, darlin’, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his eyes moving over your face as he backs you against the bed.

“I always wanted you like that,” you murmur. 

Twenty years is a long, long time, but he seems to remember how to make your body sing with just a featherlight touch. His hands are more calloused now as he undresses you, laying you out in front of him, eyes raking over your body. 

He winces as he inspects the scars on your body that weren’t there the last time he did this. You’re more concerned with what age has done than those. Gravity still takes its toll, but he doesn’t seem to mind that a bit.

Joel wraps your legs around his hips and takes your breast in his hand thumbing your nipple as he just looks at you.

Part of you wants to squirm out from under him--you're too vulnerable, too exposed, naked underneath him while he's still dressed. But his gaze is worshipful as he runs his hands over you, breathing heavily as you shiver underneath him. 

"Goddamn, sweetheart," he says, unbuttoning the shirt he just put on and slipping out his pants. His hand snakes between your legs to find you needy and aching for him, and lets out a sinful moan as he rubs long, lazy circles around your clit. 

You don’t remember the last time someone did this to you. He’s warm and shower-damp above you, watching your face as he slips one thick finger inside of you and groans again at the gasp you let out.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs. You run your hands over his back, fingernails scraping lightly, delighting at the goosebumps erupting on his skin. You want to touch him, too. He grunts as you palm his half-hard cock. His cheeks turn red. “Sorry. I…”

“I’m in no rush,” you reassure him, moaning at the way he’s still touching you. “Just wanna feel you. Missed you, Joel.”

He buries his face in your neck. “Missed you, too,” he says, but it’s muffled. You’ll take it. He puts his mouth around your nipple and sucks as soft as he can, harder when you ask for it. 

Your pussy hasn’t been this wet in ages. He slips in another big finger, but you’re so turned on it doesn’t feel like much of a stretch at all. 

His cock is hard in your hand now, weeping precum, and you need him so, so badly. “Joel,” you whisper. “Joel, fuck me, fuck me, please.”

He growls, pulling his fingers out and shoving them in his mouth, groaning loudly as he tastes you.

“Say it one more time for me, baby, please,” he begs.

“Fuck me,” you beg right back, and he pushes himself in you, his fingers still circling your clit. He’s slow and soft—not like he was before. But maybe that’s just because he’s determined to feel you. 

Your legs shake as he rubs up against a perfect spot, your back arching toward him. “That’s it, sweetheart, come on. I need you to cum for me. I need you to feel good for me,” he says, and the velvet purr of his voice brings you even closer. “Makin’ me feel so good like that.”

Your orgasm is soft, gentle; shaking around him as he moans at the way your cunt clutches him. “Fuck. I’m sorry, fuck, I’m gonna—fuck—”

His hips stutter as he cages you with both arms, kissing you and kissing you and kissing you. You swallow every tiny noise he makes. There is no declaration of love, but you can feel something like it pushing itself deep into your heart through his lips.

You remember this feeling now, the way he’d hold you like this, his mouth hot against yours like he meant to connect to every part of you he could. You melt under him, letting his tongue explore your mouth as he softens inside of you. 

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he whispers and all you can do is smile softly at him. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m…I thought I’d last a little longer,” he admits sheepishly. 

“We can go again, Miller,” you tease. He looks at you like he hadn’t thought of it. “Unless you got somewhere to be.”

“Never leaving this bed,” he growls, catching your lips again. “Never leaving you again. I promise.”

“Shouldn’t make promises you don’t mean,” you murmur, but he shakes his head.

“I got no intention of not keeping that one,” he says, but he’s begging you to believe him now. “I swear.”

You run your hand over his bicep, up to his patchy beard, thumb resting in the spot hair never did grow. “I believe you.”

[rnarvelboi]

weakness pt II (joel miller x female reader)

summary: Back in the Boston QZ, you confront Joel about what happened at Bill and Frank's place.

pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

warnings/tags 🏷️ 18+ only. Two idiots in love, one idiot is in denial, I am sure you can guess which of the two idiots it is; a bit of confrontation, more confessions. SMUT. Not super graphic, but definitely still smut so proceed with caution. Reader's first time, oral sex (female receiving), p in v, no protection is used or mentioned (always practice safe sex, pls and thank you). Joel being soft, gentle, caring, almost loving? Like in the first part, implied age gap where Joel is in his early-ish fifties and reader is mid twenties.

word count: 6k

a/n📝 First Joel smut and I am NERVOUS as hell. But here you go. I am going to run away now.

*gif does not belong to me, please see the username below it for credit.

You splashed several handfuls of warm water onto your face, making sure to be as thorough as possible as you rinsed off all the suds from the cleansing soap that you’d used to wash off the makeup from your face. You had also changed out of the dress that Frank had you wear for his special lunch earlier that afternoon and back into a much more appropriate outfit for your pending return to the Boston QZ with Joel; as always, Frank had kindly encouraged you to take a peek through a number of cardboard boxes full of women’s clothing in your size that he’d collected from the boutique and insisted that you go on and help yourself to whatever your heart desired out of them. After plucking a pair of dark wash blue jeans from one box, a long sleeved olive green blouse from another box, and a matching, white lace underwear set from a third box, you’d gone into the bathroom and started making the transition back to your usual appearance, minus the dirt and the grime for the time being.

There was a part of you that was relieved to see yourself looking a lot more—well, looking a lot more like yourself. On the other hand, there was another part of you that almost grieved the short lived feeling of what it had been like to look like a normal woman. Perhaps that’s the reason why, instead of putting your hair back into its usual braid, you decided to leave it down, loose around your shoulders.

“I told you it suited you,” Frank stated with a little grin. Affectionately, he ran his fingers through it one more time before pulling you into his arms for a warm hug.

After you and Joel had said your thank you and goodbyes to Bill and Frank, you started the journey back home. Not that the QZ was really a place that you wanted to consider home, but it was where you had spent the better part of the last six years. The truth was, you couldn’t stand living in the Boston QZ, but it was probably the closest thing to a home you’d ever have again. And it only felt like that because of Joel.

He’d crossed your path when you first arrived to Boston after Providence had been overrun with infected. Like most of the other survivors, you had found yourself in Boston, as it was the closest operating QZ and only about fifty miles away. It was a rougher crowd in Boston than in Providence and you’d found that out the hard way on your third night when you’d been walking back to your quarters after that day’s work assignment had run late into the evening.

You had been trying to get to where you needed to be before it went past the set curfew hour and you remembered being so preoccupied with trying to avoid a disciplinary lockup that you hadn’t noticed the two goons who had been following you from the work site.

It happened in the blink of an eye—one minute you were walking and the next you’d been shoved into some empty alleyway. They roughed you up, and although you had tried to fight back, you ended up being overpowered and found yourself pinned down to the ground on your back by one of the assailants; meanwhile, his partner in crime eagerly unbuckled his belt and reached for the button of your jeans. Before it could go any further than that, the sound of a much older man’s deep voice threatening the promise of two broken jaws sent them running as fast as their trembling legs could carry them.

That was the night you’d met Joel Miller. The one man in Boston that nobody in their right mind would ever dare fuck around with.

He’d scolded you for being stupid enough to walk the streets alone so close to curfew hour and then took you back to his apartment where he’d cleaned up all of the cuts and scrapes on your face with a cotton blue handkerchief and some cheap whiskey. The two of you hadn’t been apart from each other since that night for longer than a day, if that.

So, the bottom line was that Boston wasn’t home. It never was home, and probably never would be. It was Joel. He was home. 

It didn’t matter where you laid your head to sleep at night. Whether it was on a clean pillow in Lincoln or on that old, shoddy mattress that you’d noticed was starting to sprout bits off fluff through open tears in the QZ—hell, you could lay your head down in the dirt at night and as long as Joel was there by your side, you wouldn’t give a single shit about it.

Gripping the straps of your one hundred liter pack, you glanced up at Joel, your eyes meeting his own pack that he carried on his back. For a majority of the walk back, he’d stayed at least a few steps ahead in front of you. He hadn’t really said much of anything to you since your shared kiss in the middle of Bill and Frank’s living room.

Somehow, even several hours later, the feeling of his lips on yours still lingered and you had to wonder, did Joel feel the same? Was it on his mind too? Or was he trying to forget that it ever even happened now that you two were heading back into the cold, hard reality of living in the QZ?

You’d be lying to yourself if you said that it wouldn’t devastate you if that were actually the case.

The two of you made it back just after nightfall. You and Joel snuck in past the authorities and despite the fact that it was well after FEDRA curfew hour, you managed to make it all the way back to your shared apartment without being caught. Being thrown in lockup would have put quite the fucking damper on what had otherwise been one of the most decent days that you’d had in a while.

Joel’s silence towards you held on pretty strong as he shoved his way through the front door, dropping his heavy pack with a loud thud on the floor. He walked over to the couch and dropped down onto it; his legs and feet were aching from the long, nearly five hour trek back to the QZ. Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel leaned his head back and then closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling steadily with each breath of recovery that he took.

Taking off your own pack from your shoulders, you set it down beside his, and then walked over towards the couch too. However, instead of joining him as you usually did, you stood in front of it—in front of him, and although his eyes were still closed, you knew damn well he could sense you standing there. And yet, he refused to acknowledge you.

Shuffling from one foot to the other, you wracked your brain in search of something, anything to say; though you knew he was exhausted, it was still incredibly obvious that there was a tension that lingered over the both of you. In reality, it had followed you and Joel the entire way back from Lincoln, but at least out in the open, it hadn’t seemed that bad. Now that you were back in the apartment and confined to such close quarters together, it could be sliced with a fucking machete.

Finally, you spoke, saying his name softly. “Joel?”

“Hmm?” came his reply, his head still resting back on the couch.

“We should—um, we should probably talk.”

His eyes snapped open, but he fixed them on the crumbling ceiling of the apartment. “Talk ‘bout what?”

“About the fucking weather outside,” You answered, flatly.

Joel lifted his head from the couch, raising an eyebrow at you. “Oh, is someone feelin’ like being a smartass tonight?”

You sighed irritably. You should have known better than to think Joel would actually make this easy for you. “Listen, about what happened back at Bill and Frank’s house earlier today—”

He was quick, too quick, to cut you off. “It was nothing.”

You felt your heart drop down deep into the pits of your stomach. “It was nothing?” You repeated after him, wondering if you’d looked just as stunned as you had sounded. “Really? It was nothing?”

Joel gave a subtle, but curt nod. “We both know it was nothing. Best we just forget about it. Pretend like it never happened.” He stood up from the couch and kicked off his worn, faded black boots. “It’s late. We should get to bed.” He pushed past you and started towards the bedroom.

You spun around on your heel, and while your words were nothing but gentle, they hit him in the back like a ton of fucking bricks. “It wasn’t nothingto me, Joel.”

He stopped abruptly in his tracks and froze, his shoulders squaring.

“And you know what, I don’t think it was nothing to you either.”

Slowly, Joel turned around to face you. “You listen here. I ain’t exactly too sure where you went off and found the fuckin’ balls to even think you can speak for me, but I’m gonna need you to go put ‘em the fuck back right now or else we’re gonna have a problem.”

A chill ran up the length of your spine. Though he kept his voice calm, there was a slight, dangerous edge to his tone that almost made you back down; somehow, you willed yourself to stand your ground. “You said it to me yourself, Joel.” You lifted your chin slightly. “Earlier. You said you don’t want a life without me. Remember that?”

Joel’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t deny the exact words that had come out of his own damn mouth, now could he?

You took a careful step towards him. “Am I your weakness, Joel?”

Instantly, he dropped his eyes away from yours, his voice lowering as he asked you, “Now where the hell would you get an idea like that?”

“Frank told me—” You stopped as he let out a scoff, shaking his head. “He did, Joel. He said that I’m your weakness.”

“Did he now?” Joel’s eyes were now on the floor.

He couldn’t even look at you.

“Yeah. He did.” You took another step forward, and then another. And even when you stood right in front of him, your body just mere inches away from his, he forced himself to keep from meeting your gaze. “Joel?”

He stiffly shook his head. “Don’t,” he uttered through tight lips.

You tried again. “Joel?” Knowing he would be too stubborn to give in, you bent slightly at your knees, crouching down in front of him just a few inches or so; low enough to place yourself into his view. You then slid your index finger underneath his chin and lifted it, forcing him to look at you as you drew yourself back up to your normal height. Your expression softened once you saw the battle he was fighting behind those tortured dark brown eyes of his. “Just tell me the truth, Joel. Am I your weakness?”

Joel reached up with his hand, his fingers wrapping around your tiny wrist. He tore your hand away from his face and held it down at your side, but didn’t let it go. “Why the fuck are you askin’ me that?”

“Because,” You replied, the gentle tone of your voice causing his grip around your wrist to tighten. “You sure as hell are mine.”

Your eyes glazed over his parted lips, and before you could even think about making another move, Joel released your wrist and both of his hands flew to either side of your face as he brought his mouth down to meet yours. Just like back in Lincoln, you thought he would attack you, devastate and ruin your lips with his; though he kissed you with a sense of fervency, you could feel that he was being careful, almost as if he were afraid he would break you into pieces if he became too rough with you. You almost wanted to speak, let him know that there was no need for him to hold back, but you were far too busy getting yourself lost in the taste of him.  

Desperate to be even closer to him, your arms found their way around his neck and you closed the remaining gap of space between the two of you by pressing your body against his.

This caused Joel to suddenly break away from you, your name falling from his lips in the most delicious way you’d never heard before.

“What?” You questioned him, breathlessly.

When he said nothing back to you, you took a step backwards, away from him, and lifted your hands to the buttons of your blouse. Slowly, almost seductively, you undid the first top button and then moved on to undo the second one. When the third one came undone, you used your index finger to move the material of your blouse aside, revealing your bra underneath; the white lace sat delicately on the soft curve of your breast, causing a fire to light deep in Joel’s lower belly.

Though he longed to let you finish so he could see more of you, Joel caught both of your hands in one of his halfway down, stopping you from going further. “Don’t,” he warned you, his voice strained. “Don’t go doin’ somethin’ you’ll regret.”

You tilted your head slightly, giving him the most innocent face he’d ever seen in his entire fucking life. “You think I’ll regret this?”

Joel could only nod helplessly at you as you tugged your hands out of his and turned your attention to his shirt instead. His breath caught in his throat as your fingers started working on the buttons of his brown plaid flannel. Heart hammering painfully in his chest, he looked down at you as your hands moved on from one button to the next. He had become borderline intoxicated by the sweet, sweet scent of whatever shampoo you’d used back in Lincoln to wash your hair, and it was causing him to lose his grasp on what very little common sense he had left.

Joel felt the heat flood to his face when you pushed his shirt off of his shoulders and took a long moment to admire him. Sure, his physique may not have been what it used to be now that he was in his fifties in comparison to his younger days, but he was still in decent shape. His upper body wasn’t ridiculously built or muscular, but thanks to hours of physical labor in the QZ, he still had this broadness to him—Joel’s back, his shoulders, and his arms; fucking hell, those arms of his that you could just melt right into, arms that you would feel so safe in, no matter what.

Your eyes drank him in, and you found yourself memorizing every last distinguishing mark on his upper body.

You made a mental note of every single freckle you saw, of each and every one of the battle scars that he possessed. You were certain that most of Joel’s scars had come from this life, but you had to wonder if any of them had come from his past one. His first life.

“I ain’t a pretty sight,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly.

“Says who?”

“Says me,” Joel replied without missing a beat. He inhaled sharply as you reached out and placed the palm of your hand on his chest.

You could actually feel his heart slamming against his chest wall right against your hand. “Your heart is beating so fast,” You whispered. You stepped towards him and gingerly pressed your lips against his neck, causing him to draw another sharp breath of air.

Unable to fight his desire to touch you any longer, Joel reached out to finish undoing the rest of the buttons on your blouse. He discarded it on the floor along with his own shirt in one quick, swift movement.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, as soon as his hands met your bare skin.

The contrast of his rough and your soft just about drove him wild. He leaned down, claiming your mouth with his once again, and although he tried to keep himself from being too rough with you, Joel couldn’t help how hungry his kisses were coming—he almost felt as if he were a starving man who hadn’t had single crumb to eat in weeks, and you were a meal that had miraculously fallen into his hands. He wanted to devour you, and yet, Joel used every ounce of strength he had in him to show at least a little bit of restraint. He knew you weren’t delicate, but he feared that if he wasn’t careful, you would shatter in his hands much like a doll made of porcelain.

His teeth lightly nipped at your bottom lip, his silent demand for more and you gave it to him. He slid his hands up and down your sides, and while his touch was doing inexplicable things to your body that felt so fucking foreign, it also felt so fucking good. And you wanted more. 

So, so much more.

Joel groaned into your mouth as you raked your fingernails down the front of his bare chest. “Baby...”

Your heart skipped an eager beat.

Never in this lifetime did you think Joel Miller would call you that. But then again, never in this lifetime did you think you two would ever be in this position. Half naked, wrapped up in each other’s embrace.

“Baby.” He said it again, pulling away slightly.

“What’s the matter?”

“If we don’t stop right now…” Joel trailed off mid-sentence, letting his two hands continue to roam and explore your upper body. He found it in himself, finally, to push the delicate straps of white lace down your arms; you decided to lend him a hand and reached around your back to unhook the lingerie, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the linoleum floor. Pulling you flush against his chest, Joel groaned again and then tore his lips from yours, moving them down to the sensitive flesh of your neck.

As he did so, you started to guide him back towards the bedroom.

“Careful,” Joel mumbled against your skin, causing you exhale a tiny, breathless little laugh.

Somehow, even with his arms wrapped around you and his lips fused to your neck, the both of you managed to get around the wide, single wall that divided the bedroom from the rest of the apartment. As Joel felt the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress—the very same mattress that you two had been sharing for the last few years—he let out an odd noise, something in between a groan and a sharp exhale of breath. He snaked an arm around your waist and turned you so he was able to carefully lay you back onto the mattress; he followed suit and crawled on top of you, his body hovering over yours.

“It ain’t too late, you know.” Joel paused and brought a hand to your face. He brushed a lock of your hair out of your eyes and tucked it behind your ear, his finger grazing your cheek as he did so. “It ain’t too late to stop.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to stop?”

“Yes.”

Your heart sank. “You want to stop?”

“No.”

A puzzled expression crossed your features. “But you just said—”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t even fuckin’ know.” He closed his eyes, furiously shaking his head.

“Joel. Look at me.”

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Joel obliged. His pools of intense, dark brown swam with an array of different emotions, from lust and desire to concern and fear. “Things won’t be the same,” he told you, shaking his head again. “We cross this line and there’s no goin’ back for us, do you understand that?”

You chewed nervously on your lower lip. Your hand was at the back of his head, your fingers anxiously toying with the hair that curled at the nape of his neck. Of course you knew that there was no going back—but hell, you didn’t want to go back, not if it was to a time where you went about your days thinking that you meant nothing to Joel. Not to a time where you didn’t know what it was like to be kissed by him, or to be touched by him.

Finally, you willed yourself to reply to him.

“Is it shitty of me to say that I don’t care that we’re crossing a line we can’t come back from?” You asked, quietly. “It doesn’t fucking matter to me, Joel. I want this and I can tell that you do too.” The same hand that had been in his hair moved to the side of his face. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Losin’ you.”

You honestly hadn’t thought that he would actually give you a reply, at least not one that contained the truth, so when he did, it took you completely by surprise.

“You won’t lose me,” You assured him, though you knew better than to make a promise you weren’t absolutely certain you could keep in a world like this one. Joel had lost people, you had lost people, but you would do everything and anything that you could possible do to keep from losing each other. “It’s like I told you in Lincoln, okay? We are in this together. I’ll never leave your side, Joel. Never.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

Joel leaned down, letting his forehead rest against yours. “I want to. I want to believe you, I swear it. More than anythin’ in this world, I want to believe you. But my mind is sayin’ there’s just no fuckin’ way.”

You delicately touched your fingers to his chest, feeling his heartbeat again. “What about this, what does this say? This thing in here that I can feel racing against my fingertips as we speak?”

“It’s tellin’ me to make you mine.”

Propping yourself up on your elbow, you tilted your face up towards his for another kiss; this kiss was different from any of the others you two had shared that day.

No, this kiss was softer, it was tender—sweet like honey.

Loving, even.

“Then do it,” You encouraged against his lips. “Make me yours.”

“Only if that’s what you want.”

“I do. More than anything, Joel.”

With your reassurance, he finally released any hesitation he had, and Joel gave a subtle nod of his head, one you almost didn’t catch.

He gingerly pushed you back onto the mattress and kissed you lightly on the lips one more time before he then began to trail his way down your neck. He continued to move down your chest and stomach, and as his nose skimmed against your skin with each kiss, Joel could still detect a hint of soap from your shower earlier afternoon. As soon as he reached your waist, his hands reached for the button and zipper of your jeans, undoing them both with ease. He lifted himself up on his knees, silently beckoning for you to lift up your hips so he could slide your jeans down your legs. You’d never been more grateful that you’d chosen to a pair of pretty lace underwear instead of the usual cotton shit that you wore.

Joel hooked his index finger underneath the elastic waistband, slowly pulling them down your legs as well before tossing them aside. He let his eyes lock themselves on every part of you, his burning desire for you only fueled by everything that he saw.

You flushed a little, but much to your own surprise, you weren’t all too shy. There you were, lying before him completely bare; Joel could see everything, but you couldn’t care less about any freckles, any stretch marks, any scars, or any other so called imperfections on your body.

He’d let you see him—now you were letting him see you.

Joel would be lying if he said he’d never thought about this—thought about you like this. He had often tried his best to keep those thoughts at bay considering how much older he was than yourself, but fuck, he could never deny the fact that you were the prettiest damn thing he’d laid his eyes on since the world had gone to shit. Joel often imagined that every inch of you was nothing short of perfection and hell, he’d been right. He brought himself back down over you and let his mouth make its way back down your body.

“Joel.”

The sound of your voice as you said his name was unrecognizable, to both you and to him. It was low, husky, and like music to his ears.

“What is it, baby?” He asked you as he stopped right in between your legs. He glanced up at you for a brief moment. His gaze met yours, as if looking for permission to proceed; the instant he received your nod of approval, Joel started to plant another trail of burning kisses along the inside of your thighs, going back and forth from one to the other.

His beard scratched the delicate skin there as he carried on, moving slower and slower the further he went up your legs in an effort to get your anticipation built up. You only found this agonizing and were just about ready to lose your goddamn mind. The moment you opened up your mouth to tell him to cut it out with all of the teasing, Joel dipped his head, his mouth finally moving to the apex of your thighs.

You gasped out his name, your back arching involuntarily off the bed.

Joel moaned into you—something about how he just knew you would taste so fucking sweet—and let his tongue swirl around your arousal, eliciting the most heavenly noises from you. He switched off between using long, firm strokes of his tongue and taking you into his mouth, his chosen technique causing your hips to buck upwards, asking for more. He hummed against you and lifted his arm, draping it across your hips to hold you down in place. The sounds escaping you, every curse word, every whimper, every little cry of pleasure, bounced off of the paper thin walls of the apartment.

Even though you were certain your neighbors were getting an earful, the truth was that you couldn’t give two shits as to who heard you or not. Hell, there was a woman a few doors down the hallway who often threw suggestive glances at Joel when she saw him and you prayed to the heavens above that she could hear what he was doing to you.

You could feel the beginning of an orgasm coiling up inside of you in your lower belly. It was tightly wound, mere moments away from just snapping and springing forward. With no sheets on the mattress for you to grasp, you clenched at air, trying your best to fight it in a futile attempt to draw the pleasure out for as long as you could. You never wanted this to end. Joel hadn’t gotten the memo and he kept on at it, and before long, his lips and tongue had sent you tumbling over the edge.

As you cried out his name over and over again, his mouth continued to keep at it slowly, helping you ride out the high. Once the sensation of the intense climax began to subside, you dropped your head back down onto the mattress and focused on trying to catch your breath.

Joel looked up at you, forcing himself to bite back his groan.

It was dim in the room, but the moonlight that filtered in through the window illuminated what had to be the most stunning sight he’d ever fucking seen. Your skin was flushed, coated with a thin sheen of your own sweat and your mouth was plump, swollen from his kisses. Your hair cascaded around you almost like a halo—he hoped that from this point on, you would wear it down more often, at least around him in the privacy of the apartment.

Joel pulled himself back up to you. His mouth met yours, letting you get a taste of yourself. He then let his thumb graze over your bottom lip, asking you, “You alright?”

“Just a bit breathless is all.” Suddenly, it dawned at you—what came next. Up until this moment you had been fine, and now, your nerves had been lit on fucking fire. You swallowed harshly, knowing you had to tell him. “Joel?”

Sensing the sudden shift, he frowned. “What’s wrong?”

 “Joel, I’ve never…the thing is, I’ve never...”

You stopped, clamping your mouth shut, unable to say it out loud.

It took him a second or two, but he finally understood.

You had never been with a man before. Not like that.

“As much as I want you, we don’t have to go any further than this,” Joel assured you, his nose skimming lightly against your cheek. “You tell me to stop and I’ll stop. No questions asked.”

And you believed him.

You knew he would only take what you were willing to give him.

At this point, you were willing to give him everything.

Your hand reached down between your bodies, brushing against the waistband of his jeans. “I don’t want to stop,” You told him. “I really don’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Are you—?”

“Damn it, Joel! I said what I fucking said, now can you please get rid of these? Or am I going to have to do it for you?”

Joel dropped his face into the crook of your neck for a second, letting out something mixed between a scoff and a chuckle before he finally obliged to your request.

He stood up from the mattress just long enough to unbuckle his old, worn out leather belt; he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them off before climbing back over you.

You placed a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards you.

As you did this, you felt him brush against the inside of your thigh.

 “Joel,” You gasped out his name, the slickness pooling between your legs all over again.

“Askin’ you one last time, sweetheart.” Joel’s mouth ghosted over yours. “You sure about this?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” You hoped you didn’t sound as desperate as you were beginning to feel. “Please, Joel. I want you.”

You couldn’t have been anymore sure that this was what you wanted.

Still, that didn’t exactly stop the wave of apprehension from washing over you as you felt him settle himself between your legs and against your entrance. Joel must have sensed your nervousness, because he paused, pressing his lips against your forehead. He let them linger for a moment, as if silently reassuring you that he would take it easy. He pushed himself inside of you, slowing down the further he went in. It hurt, at first. It was a sharp feeling of discomfort unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Painful. You couldn’t help the small cry that escaped you, causing Joel to abruptly stop his movement. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel murmured, taking your hand. He laced his fingers together with yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. He remained still as he waited, willing his body to listen to yours before picking up where he left off.

It took you a minute to adjust to him, and while the discomfort didn’t completely go away, a new sensation joined, one of searing heat and the sudden urge to feel more of him.

Joel’s opposite hand was curled into a fist at the crown of your head, and he found himself having to silently remind himself to get a grip. As much as he wanted to take you the way his body was telling him to take you, he refused to do anything that could potentially hurt you; though he’d given you his hand for the sake of comforting you, he found it ended up being more for his benefit than for yours. He held it tightly as he gave another gentle, almost experimental thrust.

“Joel, move. Please. I need you to move.”

“Baby—”

“Please,” You all but pleaded him. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed your hips forward, wanting to feel every inch of him that you could.

“Fuck!” Joel cursed out in a moan. As careful as he wanted to be with you, he knew that if you kept it up, that would all go out the fucking window.

Any discomfort or pain that you might have felt initially vanished completely, having been replaced with nothing but explosive waves of ecstasy that came with each and every single one of Joel’s thrusts.

There wasn’t one single part of you that wasn’t lost in just the most heavenly haze as he picked up his pace and delivered swift, smooth strokes. Just when you thought it could not possibly get any better, Joel dipped his head and begin whispering into the hollow of your neck. “You feel so good, baby. Fuck, I’ve been dreamin’ of this for years now, you know that?”

“Joel,” You whimpered his name.

“You’re mine, you understand me? You’re all mine,” Joel whispered breathlessly. He continued to pick up the pace as he demanded, “Tell me you’re mine. I need to hear you say it.”

Biting your lip, you looked up into his eyes and nodded your head, managing to find your voice in between your moans. “I’m yours, all fucking yours, Joel.”

You were close and so was he, you could feel it.

“Fuck!” Joel cursed out as his entire body began to shudder. He gave you one last, deep thrust that brought you both to come at the exact same moment.

Joel collapsed beside you onto his back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath and recollect himself.

You were in a similar state, though perhaps a little more shaken.

“C’mere.” Joel pulled you close to him, tucking you into his side. “You’re tremblin’ a little. You alright?”

“I’m alright.” You looked up at him and nodded. “Are you?”

He remained silent, as if thinking over his answer.

Your throat went dry—he didn’t regret it, did he?

“Joel—”

“Earlier, you asked me if you were my weakness.”

You nodded again. “Yeah…”

Joel pulled you so that you were laying across his chest. He held you close, squeezing you as if he were afraid someone would just come along snatch you of his grasp. “Pretty sure you know by now that you are,” he said, his fingers subconsciously running themselves through your hair. “You’re my weakness, my Achilles’ heel, whatever the fuck you wanna call it—all I know is that if somethin’ ever happens to you, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Joel.”

“What if I can’t keep you safe?”

You frowned. “Joel, I’ve been by your side for what, six years now? And you’ve always kept me safe. Hell, you saved my ass on the night we met. If it hadn’t been for you showing up and scaring those guys away…” You stopped, shoving the thought of what could have possibly happened to you that night out of your mind. “I told you. I’m the safest when I’m with you. I know I am.”

“But—”

You silenced him with a kiss. “Joel, stop looking for a reason to push me away.” You tossed him a small, exhausted smile. “Besides, I think it’s a little late for that now anyway, don’t you think?”

You laid your head back down onto Joel’s chest and he continued to run his hand through your hair, over and over again. He surely must have known that he was lulling you into a deep sleep.

“Joel?” You said his name, drowsily.

“What is it, baby?”

“You’re not going to lose me,” You mumbled into his chest. “Ever.”

Joel held you closer, trying with every fiber of his being to set aside his fears as you drifted off to sleep in his arms.

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[rnarvelboi]

Red Light [landlord!joel miller x f!reader]

The men you keep bringing home are no good for you. It's up to your landlord Joel to protect you from heartbreak. 

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: AU - no outbreak/modern day, obsessive!joel, dark!joel, but also soft!joel, landlord!joel, violence, death, murder, stalking, jealousy, truly creepy behaviour, unprotected sex (lead by example; just not mine), creampie, dubious consent, reader’s serious lack of self-preservation, sexual tension, abuse of power, spanking, spitting, squirting, praise kink, degradation kink, joel is a munch, somnophilia, possessive behaviour, dirty talk, a smidgen of gaslighting, the general filth you should expect from me by now, a spoonful of genuine intimate connection™️, implied age gap, submissive reader, dominant joel, daddy kink, knives, mild torture, light anal play, voyeurism, unreliable narration, inappropriate use of a necklace, panty sniffing, ambiguous(?) ending

word count: ~ 15.8k (uh, oops!)

read on ao3!

hello, all! this fic has been tossing and turning inside the proverbial sheets of my head for a while now. when i tell you it's darker than anything i've written, i mean it, so please, please mind the tags. this story does not depict a healthy relationship; joel is a total creep and both he and reader are heavily delusional. with that said, please enjoy this (super long) one-shot!! xoxo

PREFACE

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires. — Macbeth, I.IV

~

THE TENANT

You're beginning to think it’s a built-in bad luck charm. A microchip implanted in your skin or a flaw you have yet to pick out. Every single one of your prospective boyfriends has disappeared off the face of the Earth since you moved into town. 

It isn't you. It's not. There is nothing wrong with you. It isn't your fault that either they decide after one date that you aren't worth seeing again, or they stand you up before the date can even begin. Your profile pictures are decent. You followed the rules meticulously: a shot of your face, a group picture to show you have friends, a selfie, a candid. You've examined them time and time again for flaws and find none that a man would care about. You're pretty. Sexy. Confident. They're just intimidated. Fuck, you're turning into your mother.

And yet—

Since moving into this apartment—this beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime deal of an apartment—your luck with dating has abruptly ended. 

It's a lovely building. A stout brownstone with wrought-iron stairs and an old, but functional, elevator, it's traditional and charming. Perfect for a single woman. 

Six months. This is your first second date in six months. David is just fine. He's handsome in a frat-initiate kind of way, with a nice smile and a good sense of dress. He doesn't ask many questions about you, and he's a little pretentious about films you don't give a shit about, but he likes you. You didn't have a horrible time on the first date: he wasn't afraid to spend his money on you at the nice restaurant. And he has a car. 

Raised as an optimist, you learned to see the good parts of a situation. David can work out. 

On the way out of the elevator, you spot your landlord Joel speaking to the concierge. You instinctively smooth down your hair and wave at him as you walk by, shrugging your purse onto your shoulder. “Hi, Joel. Hi, Sam.”

Sam the concierge waves back, but Joel puts his back to the conversation and gives you his full attention, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. Your heart leaps and your head goes fuzzy with nerves. You barely manage to force a giddy giggle back down your throat. Relief coats your bones when Sam excuses himself to take a call.

Joel Miller’s an older guy, his tousled dark hair threaded with silver on his head and in his beard. One look at him and a person could know that he works with his hands for a living; he’s broad-shouldered, strong, with big arms and a capable air about him. He’s proven his mettle a hundred times over already with the miniscule repairs he’s made to the building. He turned it into a good place to live; he even trims the hedges outside and polishes the doorknobs when they get rusty. 

He’s wearing a green T-shirt today, which is another member of the typical summertime circulation of blue and grey T-shirts, and a pair of jeans. “Evening,” he says, his rich brown eyes sparkling. Sometimes, you can see him smile when his mouth isn’t showing it. It’s charming. Enthralling. “How’s that new lock workin’ out for you?”

You grin. He remembered. Joel installed a new deadbolt on your door last week, since the chain on the last one broke. “It’s perfect,” you tell him. “Are you in a chocolate or lemon mood this time?”

His gaze flickers down your body, taking in your yellow dress, before meeting yours again. “Lemon,” he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Talking to a handsome man feels like tossing your heart in the air and trying to juggle. Flirting with a handsome man is like toeing a tightrope between two mountains and forcing yourself not to look down. Your stomach swoops with the path of his eyes over your body, and you cannot convince yourself that you imagined it. “Lemon squares it is. Thank you again, Joel.”

“Just my job to keep my tenants safe,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. You can see a pair of keys in his pocket along with his cell phone. The mere sight of his belt makes your cheeks hot. Why are you looking at his belt? You’re going on a date with another man, for God’s sake. Relax.

“Helps when I like my tenants so much,” adds Joel, and you forget why you were scolding yourself in the first place. 

“Yeah?” You tilt your head to the side. “Maybe you should be baking for them, instead.”

Joel steps away from the desk, working his jaw as he seems to fight down a smile. “It’s for the best this way, believe me. Can’t cook for shit.”

“Big, strong man like you can’t work a stove?” you tease. Don’t look down. 

“I only fix ‘em.” There’s a crooked smile on his face now, and your heart beats your ribs to shrapnel. “You look real nice. Goin’ somewhere?”

That simple validation calms your nerves more effectively than a half-hour of repeating affirmations into the mirror before leaving your apartment. You give the skirt of your sundress a little swish. “A date, actually,” you say, feeling sheepish. Your landlord certainly doesn’t need to hear about your track record as of late. “He’s taking me to Sunfest, in the park.”

A minute twitch of his brow is the only reaction he gives to the news. “That so?” he says. “Lucky man.”

“More like lucky me,” you say with a small laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. Stop talking, you plead to yourself. Too much information. Shut up, kindly excuse yourself, and leave. 

Joel shakes his head, and now is the first time you notice that his eyes haven’t once left you. It warms your body. “He’s the lucky one. Trust me.”

“Okay. I concede.” You chew on your lip for a moment and, sure enough, his gaze hones in on your mouth. The air in the lobby crackles white-hot. You clear your throat, turning your head to find David’s car parked on the street outside. “I should go. But I promise I’ll get started on those lemon squares soon.”

It’s a possibility that you only imagine Joel’s eyes flitting from the car outside back to you when you turn your head back to face him. “Do me a favour?” he says, a scrape to his deep drawl. 

“Anything, Joel.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Be safe,” he says. “You have my number if anything goes wrong.”

You give him a grateful smile. “I’ll be safe, Joel. And if I’m not, you’re the first person I’ll call.”

“Good. That’s…” He trails off, still watching you, his eyes trained in their path across your face. “You’re good. Smart, beautiful, good. You deserve to have somethin’ real.”

The simple, small praises melt your bone marrow and recast it in the shape of him. The old chandelier hanging from the ceiling casts him in a soft light, stark against the hard muscles and profound depths in his eyes. He's breathtaking. You've always known it, but…

He sees something in you, too. 

David honks his horn and makes you jump out of your stupor. You walk backwards out of the lobby just to keep looking at Joel for as long as you can. “For the record,” you say, “you’re a good man, Joel.”

“Don’t be so sure, honey,” he replies, his tone playful. 

You laugh, hurrying out to David’s car as the door closes behind you. 

“This place is beautiful,” you said to Sam, the concierge working the front desk of your prospective apartment. The appropriate paperwork was in your arms, your eyes scanning every inch of the old building. Of all the places you'd seen in and around the neighbourhood, this was the most promising. You hoped to get a glimpse at a unit before you signed, though. Assuming the landlord even wanted you to live here. 

Sam smiled at you. “Lots of people just see the cracks.”

“There's so much character,” you replied, admiring the crystal chandelier. The walls were a calming, aged white, the floors genuine hardwood. The lobby was decorated with plush chairs upholstered with burnt orange fabric, the corners filled with real potted plants. 

The door opened behind you, and you turned to see a handsome stranger, dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and mud-caked shirt, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Behind you, Sam said, “This is Joel Miller. The landlord.”

“Oh!” You were flustered, floundering to stretch out your hand to shake as you introduced yourself. “I’m sorry to catch you at a bad time. This building is gorgeous. You've done a great job with it, Mr. Miller.”

The landlord did not once look at Sam, his eyes fixed solely on you as he wiped a hand on the cloth slung over his shoulder and shook your hand. His hand engulfed yours, warm and rough. The touch jolted you like an electric shock. Your hands must have been clammy and shaking with nerves, but the contact steeled you. 

The intensity of his gaze, however, made you shift on your feet. He didn't waver, didn't stray, like a man set on a mission. Nothing about him was shy. He drank in the sight of you, indulging without shame, his eyes travelling to the next destination once they'd had their fill. It made you feel stripped to the bone.

“It's nice to meet you,” he said. “Sorry for the dirt. Just finished weeding.”

You shook your head in dismissal. “You really take care of this place.”

“It's good work,” he said plainly. “Serves me well. I like gettin’ my hands dirty, fixin’ things.”

“Where were you when my sink broke every week at my old place?”

“Fixing the sinks in this one.”

You laughed. “Well, for what it's worth, the outside is beautiful, too. Not a weed in sight.”

“Pleased to hear it,” said Joel, his dark eyes glittering under the chandelier. 

“You're from Texas!” you said suddenly. Oh, God, kill me now. I sound like a stalker. 

But Joel smiled, a raspy laugh leaving his mouth. You wondered if he laughed often. He looked like a serious man. “You familiar?” 

“I was born there,” you supplied. “Left when I was young, but my dad lived there all his life.”

“Lookin’ good on you already,” he said. “It’ll be nice havin’ another one of us around.”

“Does that mean you're considering me?” you couldn't help but ask. Fuck, you wanted this apartment. 

“I've already considered,” said Joel, his eyes sweeping your body. “You're the only applicant.”

Your hands were trembling and your heart thrummed with excitement. “Oh, God, thank you!” you gasped. “Joel, thank you.”

You could swear his chest swelled a bit at your graciousness. “I can show you the unit, if you’d like. It needs some TLC, but I’m happy to help with the process as best I can. Unless you have someone to…”

You realised what he was hinting at and shook your head. “Oh, no, it’s just me. I’d love to take a look.”

You noted the slight drop of his shoulders and followed him into the elevator. A part of you was surprised to see there was no gate that closed you in; they were plain, somewhat modern elevator doors. “Fixed it last month,” Joel said, looking sideways at you. “Just in time, apparently.”

You grinned at him, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Nice to see there's no creepy operator in here.”

“Just me.” He punched the button for the third floor and rode with you to the top. 

This was the start of your new life. 

You shut the passenger’s side door and situate yourself inside David’s Lincoln. He’s dressed in a pair of black shorts and a clean Henley. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss you across the console. 

You hum, smiling against his mouth. “You clean up nice, too.”

He places a hand on your thigh and pulls away from the curb. He's a touchy person, which is perfectly fine considering how long your latest dry spell has lasted, but at least he isn't inching his way up your dress to cop a feel while he drives. 

The festival is bustling with people, tented stands, and the smell of fried dough and beer. It’s almost dinnertime, and your stomach growls. When was the last time you ate? You spent hours agonising over what to wear until you were sweating and had to shower all over again. You wish you’d snuck an apple into your purse. 

David pulls you into him as you both walk through the winding paths between vendors. “It’s a beautiful night,” you say breezily. 

David squeezes your waist. “Mmm. You’re beautiful.”

A bit too corny for your taste, but you let it slide. “Don't tell me you're allergic to powdered sugar, because I’ve been eyeing the elephant ears.”

“God, if I eat that shit, I think it’ll set me back a month at the gym,” he laughs. “Let’s get one for you, though.”

Great. Now you're the expensive date who eats while her date watches her stuff her mouth with an elephant ear. “Uh. Maybe later.” 

You stop at a jewellery vendor and spend a good while eyeing up a beautiful gold necklace and the heart-shaped pendant dangling from it. David doesn’t notice your staring and breezes by with your hand firmly in his. “Let's check out the grand stand. My buddy’s band is playing before the fireworks display.”

“Sure,” you say, turning your head to watch the necklace disappear slowly from view. 

The gigantic domed stage houses a group of musicians currently tuning up their instruments. David sidles right up to the front and releases your hand to execute an elaborate handshake with his friend, who’s fine-tuning his bass. 

“Hey, man,” greets the bass player. “Good to see you. Who’s this?”

You open your mouth to introduce yourself, stretching your hand out, but David says, “My date for tonight. Baby, this is Ray, of Uncontrolled Bleeding fame.”

The bass player shakes your hand politely. “Very nice to meet you.” 

Because it doesn’t seem to matter much to David, you decide it’s worth the time to tell Ray your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray. I’m excited to hear you play.”

Not that you've ever heard of a band called Uncontrolled Bleeding. Still, Ray seems nice enough, and you're on a date. You should give them a chance. 

David squeezes your waist and kisses you lightly on the temple. “You mind if I go backstage for a bit to say hi to the other guys? Won’t be long.”

What?

“Oh!” you manage to eke out over the great swooping nosedive your heart has just performed. He’s here to see his friends. He’s not on a date. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll just… walk around.”

David departs with Ray for a personal backstage tour while you bite down on your tongue and turn back in the direction of the main strip. A few vendors catch your attention, and you take your time because God knows David is taking his. A little bit of you revels in your own petty victory when, a half-hour later, Uncontrolled Bleeding begins to blare their metallic, screaming anthems across the park and you haven’t returned to the grand stand. 

You find your way back to the jewellery vendor to ponder over your favourite necklace some more, but your night gets worse when you find that it’s disappeared from the headless display mannequin. You solemnly slide your wallet back into your bag and pause when you hear your phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” It’s David’s voice, presumably, though it’s so loud on the other end of the line that you can barely make out his words. “I can’t… where… left?”

You plug one ear and look vaguely in the direction of the grand stand across the park. “I can’t hear you very well, David.”

“… afterparty… downtown… going… Uber home?”

You press your lips together and look down at the ground: at your pretty sandals, your new dress. Your entirely wasted potential on a guy who wanted you to find your own way home. “Yeah, David,” you say tightly. You don’t particularly care if he can hear you. “You have fun with your friends.”

“Can’t hear… talk later… okay?”

You hang up and wander back toward the vendor selling elephant ears. 

~

“Miller.”

“Hi, Joel.”

“Honey, it’s loud. Can barely hear you. Are you safe?”

“I’m safe, Joel, I promise. It’s just—Uncontrolled Bleeding.”

“What?”

“No, I mean, the band. They’re really loud. I hate to ask, and I know it’s late, but—”

“What do you need?”

“I, uh… I need a ride home. I can’t get a cab, and all the Ubers around are taken, and the busses are rerouted all the way—”

“I’m comin’ to get you. You just wait for me at the entrance, okay, baby girl?”

“Thank you, Joel.”

“You know I said you could call me for anything. I meant it.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh! Wait—”

“What? What is it?”

“Do you want an elephant ear?”

~

Joel is white-knuckling the steering wheel when he arrives to pick you up. Despite the congestion around the festival grounds and the fact that your apartment is at least fifteen minutes away, Joel makes it to you in a mere five.

“Did you blow every red light to get here, Mr. Miller?” you ask with a playful smile as you secure your seatbelt and settle on the truck bench.

“I was in the area,” he says with a crooked smile, looking your way. “May have pushed forty a couple times, though.”

You sheepishly extend a cardboard takeout box filled with fried, powdered dough. “Will you take this as my sincere thanks, or will you expect a separate batch of lemon squares?”

Joel answers by dipping his head and taking a bite of the flattened, doughy bread. You watch every minute movement, his strong jaw working as he chews, indulging you even though he’s already done far too much to get you out of this rut. He doesn’t once break eye contact while he eats; you begin to chew subconsciously on your bottom lip.

“Ain’t bad,” he declares at last, and your shoulders deflate with a kind of relief, “but if you let me take you for some real dinner, I’ll forget about that extra batch.”

You tentatively reach for his mouth and swipe some powdered sugar from his moustache with the pad of your thumb. You feel his eyes scanning your face all the while. “Look at me, the lucky girl,” you say softly. “One date goes wrong, and there’s a strong, handsome man waiting to take me on another.”

From the very first day, Joel Miller has always taken his time when it comes to looking at you. It’s a penetrative stare that makes your skin heat up from the tips of your ears down to your chest. His eyes are so dark, pools of warm melted sugar, and you feel yourself leaning, trancelike, slow, into that cavernous gaze. Your body is not your own. It seeks the subtle warmth, the familiar scent—sawdust, coffee beans, rich, dark cologne—and the violent torrent of sensation that erupts from the contact point when he cups your cheek in one hand. 

You’re in the throes of attention, warm as a candle weeping fat waxen tears.

“Told you before,” says Joel, his thumb sweeping fondly across your chin, “you deserve somethin’ real.”

“Yeah,” you sigh happily, feeling all-too complacent under the touch of his rough palm, “maybe I do.”

Behind you, a car honks its horn, and Joel curses, pulling away from the curb. He takes you to Turner’s, a bar by campus that would be crawling with students if it weren’t for the festival. Joel comes around to the passenger’s door and opens it for you, helping you hop out with your hand enclosed in his. His palm is a steady weight on your back as you both walk inside the dim, stuffy bar. 

The back is bustling with activity—drunk folks playing pool or watching the Huskies’ football game or splitting their attention between both—but the bar itself has enough spaces open to fit the two of you. Here, the light is burnt orange, and it makes the strands of grey in his hair shimmer gold. His eyes observe his surroundings with a military precision before they flit back to you, magnetic.

“Shame to waste this dress on that asshole,” says Joel, sweeping his gaze down, back up, barely perceptible. “You’re too goddamn pretty for any of ‘em.”

You’re deliciously abuzz with the incisive way he compliments you. It feels like being punctured down to your very soul; you will never forget the shape of the stain his words leave. “Do you spy on all my dates, Joel?”

He smirks. “Don’t need to spy on ‘em, baby. They’re a bunch of obnoxious kids.”

You huff, resting your cheek against your palm. “I just don’t get it. I thought David was just fine. Then, he takes me on a date just to abandon me for his friends and tell me to find my own way home.”

Joel shakes his head, scoffing as he runs his fingers through his beard. He does that when he’s frustrated sometimes, and you wonder if his hair is soft or coarse. “Piece of shit doesn't know how good he got it.”

“You must know something I don’t,” you say mirthlessly, watching the bartender approach from the other end of the long honey-oak block. “I haven't been able to get a second date since I moved in.”

Joel is silent, eyes still firmly fixed to you, until the bartender arrives, a charming middle-aged woman with a particular Texan twang you could recognise from a mile away. “What’ll it be, Joel?” she asks, giving him a sweet dimpled smile. “Hi, honey. This old man botherin’ you?”

“Only in a nice way,” you reply, squeezing his shoulder. 

Joel hides his grin with a swipe of his fingers over his bottom lip. “Coffee for me, Rina. Drivin’ home.”

Rina’s eyes slide to you, and you ask for the same. You don't want to drink alone. She reappears moments later with two small, chipped mugs of dark roast in her hands. Setting them in front of you, she takes your food orders: a BLT for Joel and a veggie burger for yourself. It’s almost ten o’clock now, too late to eat, but your eyes droop sleepily and your stomach growls for a taste of real food. The powdered dough, shockingly, did not suffice. 

“You ever miss Texas?” Joel asks once you're halfway into your respective meals. You notice that he only digs into his sandwich when you aren't eating, and abstains briefly to watch while you take your bites. It's an exchange of energy, a steady vigil by your side, the hypnotic pull of his warm body. You cannot scoot any closer to him, but your leg brushes his where you rest your foot on his barstool. 

“I wish I remembered more of it,” you tell him. “I grew up a big city girl. Even lost my accent a year into being away. My dad would tease me about it all the time. Said I’d been gentrified.” You fondly shake your head. “Miss him like hell.”

“I can still hear it sometimes,” says Joel, tilting his head to the side, “when you get all passionate about somethin’. Like the time I installed your deadbolt and you tried to explain away your Backstreet Boys CD.”

You put your head in your hands. “Oh, God. I thought you'd forgotten.”

“Nuh-uh, baby, you ain't easy to forget. And I like when you get excited. You get this look in your eye.”

“Yeah?” You slide your foot up his ankle and bring the leg of his jeans with it. Up, down, you keep going, letting the relative darkness embolden you, his sweet little pet names and his silent adequacy enabling what is most definitely inappropriate behaviour. “Tell me about this look, Joel.”

He rests his elbow up on the bar and squares his broad shoulders to you. They eclipse all the other patrons behind him. “You've got pretty eyes,” he tells you. “First thing I noticed when I met you all those months ago. Saw how they lit up when you smiled. Heard your happiness when you told me about Texas. It was nice to be the reason you smiled, ‘n’ I just wanted to make it happen again. I couldn't say no to you. Don't know how any man ever could.”

The revelation stuns you in your seat. His expression telegraphs little save for his attentiveness, his posture locked parallel with yours, singularly focused on the way you react to him. 

You try for a joke. “And I was the only applicant.”

It crumbles, sand in your mouth. Something has shifted. Joel isn't the type to shy away from a conversation, but his gaze hasn't once shifted from your face. It feels like flames licking your cheeks, the heat of that look pushing in on both sides, inescapable. You find that you enjoy the way his attention makes you preen; you want him to look at you. 

He thinks you have pretty eyes. 

“You know that ain't the reason why,” he says, whisper-quiet and gruff amid the vague chatter in the bar. 

“Why, Joel?” you ask, spine straightening, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. As you suspected, his eyes flick down your face, lashes obscuring the precise shade of his irises. 

His Adam’s apple dips. “‘Cause I like you,” he says, the feeling of it like the slide of suede down your spine, “and I wanna keep you safe.”

You shrug slightly, giving him a smile. “I feel pretty safe.”

Joel’s hand drops to the bar top and his fingertips brush yours. The touch jolts your sleepy mind awake. “You're too good for every single one of those assholes you bring around. You know that, right?”

“I’m beginning to understand.” 

“You deserve someone who's gonna be good to you. Give you all the attention you need. Make you… happy.”

You swallow thickly, the candle flame pressing in, sucking the oxygen from your lungs. “Thank you, Joel.”

His fingers begin to creep up every ridge of your knuckles, slowly turning over your palm so it faces the ceiling. The rough pad of his thumb traces the long lifeline inside. 

“Repeat it.”

His eyes lift to yours, and for a moment, there’s something in them that ignites an instinct inside you to flee. There's danger in those eyes: the careful, measured restraint of a man who knows more anger than he lets show. A flicker, brief but incandescent, passes through your head, an electrical current. 

He’s the reason you never had a second date. 

It disappears the instant it comes, the Paterian glimpse of an idea in its entirety fleeing for the horizon, and the instinct recedes in favour of the warm, melting sensation his fingers disseminate through your bones. 

“I deserve someone who will be good to me,” you repeat, like a mantra. “I deserve someone who’s going to make me happy, and keep me safe.”

“That's right,” says Joel, brushing his thumb along the veins in your wrist. You feel the shiver, but you're locked to him, your eyes unable to take in any information apart from the way he feels, looks, smells. “You're a good girl, baby.”

Your lashes flutter and a sweeping rush of pressure descends on your core at the way those words sound on his tongue. You picture him directing you to your knees and calling you a good girl while you take his big cock between your lips, imagine the way he would hiss through his teeth, good fuckin’ girl, that’s it, baby girl, while he fucks you from behind, merciless. Hands and tongues and limbs would mould into one another, amalgamate, becoming indistinguishable. 

He would be good to you. You know it. He’s always been good to you. 

“Joel?” 

“Hmm.” Fingers still make idle patterns on your forearm. 

“I think you should take a look at my sink when you get a chance. It might be broken.”

No amount of coy suggestion could make him ignorant to your desire for closeness. You can feel your body screaming for it, grasping at him with buffed claws. Joel smirks, looking down at your foot making a path up and down his ankle. 

“I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

~

It’s two o’clock in the morning when a shuffling outside your bedroom door guides you out of a decent sleep. In total silence, the most minute noises can be deafening. But it sounds, to your sleep-addled brain, like the hasty retreat of footsteps. 

You blink awake, shifting onto your other side to peer above the darkness of your doorway. Through the bleary haze in your eyes, you notice a tiny red light in the upper corner of the room.  

You squint, rubbing your eyes furiously to pry them open wide, but your vision is the static grain of an old television, and your eyes refuse to adjust. Instead, you grumble, pulling your comforter over your head, and go back to sleep. 

You’ll tell Joel tomorrow.

THE LANDLORD

He cannot wait until the morning.

The nighttime, he discovered long ago, is a friend. It’s the gentle descent of darkness, the horizontal fall of the golden-hour sunlight scanning the entirety of the apartment before it at last succumbs to silent, tar-black night. Occasionally, a car will pass below, or the honk of a horn will tear jaggedly through the quiet, but most times, Joel can sink comfortably into the dark and assume his post.

Six months ago, he showed some restraint. 

Of course, the connection was instantaneous—the pretty girl standing in his foyer with a radiant smile on her face, drinking in the chipped paint and ancient railings and furniture imprinted with years of use, arrested all movement of his heart. You wore a white dress and a pair of strappy sandals, not suited whatsoever for walking the city but perfectly tailored to make an impression. You arrived punctually, all smiles and handshakes and Southern politeness despite your insistence that you'd left it all behind. You shone. And when Joel slid his rough, work-worn hand into yours, dipping his gaze to watch the way he dwarfed your fingers, he felt a tremor roll gently from your body to his, thunder over a mountain. He wanted to chase the next lightning strike. 

It began leisurely, like a hobby, something he could go to when life got a little much. He watched you come home, examining the way your shoulders rounded slightly when you were upset and the way you wiggled your fingers in a wave to those passing by when you were happy. He watched, typically from the garden out front, as you pranced about your balcony on cool mornings to the electronic croonings of Britney Spears, curled up in a chair with a blanket over your legs and a coffee mug warming your hands, or watered your thriving plants from where they hung in the direct morning sunlight. Your day-to-day became his day-to-day. 

And then, he was doing more than merely watching. He was following. 

Your favourite coffee place by the apartment building, just a block away. He lingered far behind that first morning, his fingers twitching in your direction before the rest of his body steered him. The neighbourhood wasn't so great back then, prone to muggings and the like. He wanted to keep you safe. That was all.

You ordered something cold, too sweet for his tastes, and sat for a while as you worked. The barista spent the rest of your time there eyeing you up whenever he could. Joel scoffed. He wouldn't know what the fuck to do with you. Just a goddamn kid. 

He followed you to work and back, on those rare days he wasn't occupied maintaining the grounds. You sat in a corner cubicle with a decent amount of sunlight and typed away on your laptop all day. Joel monitored the company’s publications just so he could have a glimpse of the way you wrote; he wasn't interested in makeup, but he bought a subscription to Viva because he wanted to trace his fingers over your name in those small italic letters. MANAGING EDITOR. 

Your writing is clean, efficient, and smooth. It reads like velvet. He keeps a pile of magazines and newsletters tucked in the back of his bookshelf. For the August edition, they printed your interview with a local prizewinning novelist; you beamed in the picture, photographed in your favourite coffee shop, so happy and so generous, sharing your talent with others. 

He was so fucking proud. 

Five months ago, he watched you bring a date home for the first time. 

It blindsided him. He could not prepare, plan, or sabotage. He could not do a thing as you guided the man—a fucking kid with a too-big ego, grinning smugly for his imminent conquest—inside the elevator. Joel could only watch helplessly, wiping his brow from his precarious place on the ladder, as you walked past him with no more than a soft, sweet smile. He never forgot the painful imprint of that smile on his eyelids. It still burns his eyes late at night, when he stays awake inside his office, monitoring his dual screens. He will pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes just to replay the memory of that look. 

The kid left the next morning, before you woke. He never contacted you again. You trudged into the lobby that day, a weariness in your eyes that did not match the vibrant colour of your dress. You spoke idly to another woman in the elevator about your broken thermostat, hugging yourself to keep warm. 

It was working perfectly a few hours later, and there was a bouquet of roses waiting for you at the concierge’s desk. Fiddling with the red ribbon, tears welling in your eyes, you asked who the admirer was. Sam shrugged his shoulders, but when you turned to look out the front windows, you saw Joel tending to the red roses in the garden bed. 

It earned him the first taste of your baking. Biting into one of those moist, warm brownies felt like melting a little piece of you down and moulding it into the shape of his mouth. It felt like taking a piece of the girl he’d coveted for weeks and rolling it over his tongue, keeping it. Swallowing it down. There it rested inside his stomach until the next time he did you right. 

He wanted to tell you no. To insist that he would do anything to make you feel good even if you wanted nothing to do with him. To make it clear that he did everything for you, not for some feeble professional relationship between a landlord and his tenant. He breathed you. He needed you. 

So, four months ago, he began to watch you through the cameras.

They’re small, discreet, tucked into holes in the wall that have been spackled over, repainted, re-sanded. He ran the wiring while you were at work, listening to your CDs on loop to get a better sense of the earworms you hummed on your way out the door every morning. One in the living room, one by the entrance, and one in the bedroom. 

He could keep you safe this way. This way, he would know if those men you brought you home were treating you right—fucking you like you deserved. 

You were so goddamn pretty when you came. For months Joel had sat in his office, slicked-up cock in his hand, jerking himself hard and fast to the pictures of you in Viva. For months he’d spilled over his fingers, on his belly, on the glossy pages of the magazines. The heady, cloying scent of his own sweat and cum stuck to his nostrils. It wasn’t enough. He could imagine wrenching open your tight little pussy all he wanted—the slow, heavy drag of his cock between your hot, wet walls and the sweet noises he’d steal from your tongue—but it wasn’t the satisfaction he needed. 

Joel needed you. Your body, your smile, your voice. He needed to wrap you tight around every vein, a tourniquet, squeezing until all feeling was lost.

You would be his, in time. He just needed to make it so.

The first time he watched you pleasure yourself, rain pattered gently against the window panes and thunder echoed in the distance. A couple grids had already lost power, and Joel had a backup generator if the apartment was next, but you did not seem to mind one bit that the storm drew closer. You clicked off the television, retired to the confines of your bed and its soft white linens, and slipped your hand beneath your flimsy shorts. Joel sat upright, his back creaking in protest, his knuckles white around the edge of his desk as he watched, unblinking, the way your fingers gently circled your clit. 

He didn't touch his cock once that night, no matter how deeply his own need tugged at him. He couldn't look away from the camera feed for fear that he may miss the moment you reached your orgasm. 

When it arrived, it was delicious to watch. Your back arched, your lips parted, and your eyes fluttered shut, fingers rapidly rubbing your slick pussy as you seized under your own ministrations and slowly settled, melting into the mattress. He needed to see more. He needed to be there. 

You were a chiaroscuro of savoury, sultry magnetism and the ichor of the morning sunlight. You were kind and thoughtful. You were gentle, patient, attentive. You were one hell of a baker. You were so fucking sexy it made his tongue prickle with the prospective taste, the anticipation of touching your soft skin engulfing any sense. Reason had no place in Joel Miller’s mind when it came to the sweet girl upstairs. 

Three months ago, you had recovered from the evident betrayal inherent in expecting more from your date than a one-night stand. The next man was older, a partner at a law firm, and took you to dinner at a nice restaurant. He asked questions about you and reciprocated your enthusiasm for good cuisine. He was kind and treated you well. But an incendiary rage ignited in Joel at the sight of the bastard’s hand on your lower back. Another man was touching you. Another man was getting close to you, making you smile, whispering in your ear. Another man was attempting to claim what was rightfully his. 

Joel followed your date home that night instead. He lived in a high-rise downtown, the sort of building that had a doorman and a valet. 

Joel followed him down to the underground lot with a lead pipe in hand. 

“‘scuse me.”

He shut his car door and turned around, giving Joel a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”

A calculated sheepish scratch on the back of his head. “Just… ah, shit, I don’t mean to bother, but my engine isn't turnin' over and my phone died. Mind if I used yours?”

He patted his pockets for his cell and gave it enthusiastically. Joel did not take the phone. He used the proximity to pull the man close and bring the pipe down across his head. 

Blood bloomed, pretty and potent and rich as the roses he planted for you. The body made little noise, the skull shattered upon impact, the legs crumpling. It could never have been much of a man, going down so fucking quick. Should've put up a fight. 

The man must not have liked you very much to let himself die. Joel, whose eyelids were tattooed with your radiant smile, would have crawled his way back out of a certain grave. Joel loved you. You belonged to him. This was a necessary consequence. 

The pipe was dented by the time he was finished. Joel sank to his knees once the body fell, bringing it down again and again, the meticulous arc of the rusted metal uniquely stirring. It felt so fucking good, battering the skull to pieces, blood and brain and bone fragments accumulating on the ground and the pipe and his face. It felt good knowing he had kept another man from betraying you, hurting you, fucking you only to leave in a blur. He was being altruistic. He was becoming a good man for you. 

Joel, kneeling in the pool of warm blood until his jeans were soaked crimson, rubbed his hand down his face and smeared the blood across it. Chest heaving, he let the grin stretch his face. 

He had found his calling. 

Two months ago, he slipped inside your apartment while you were asleep.

You had a rough day. Your boss insisted the company could not afford to give you a raise despite skyrocketing share prices and all the fucking work you’d done for them. The rain started just before you left the building, holding back tears, and a car splashed icy, muddy water on you during your walk home. Salt in the wound. You were sniffling as you let yourself into the apartment, your hands trembling with the effort of shouldering your bag and your misery. Joel approached you from behind and lifted the bag onto his shoulder. 

“Hi, Joel.” Sad and soft and still so polite despite it all. 

“Hey.” He opened every door for you on the way to the elevator and rode it up with you for good measure. “Wanna talk about it?”

You just shook your head and sidled up next to him, your cheek resting on his shoulder. He held his breath, overcome with the sensation that if he moved an inch, the spell would break, and the comfort you sought from him would slip between your fingers. Your arm brushed his, your dewy lashes fluttering as you finally let yourself relax. Joel inhaled, and the scent of you cleaved him down the middle: rain and perfume. 

“Would you give me a raise?”

He looked down at you and smiled. “For a batch of those cupcakes, I’d give you whatever you like.”

It was a half-truth. He’d give you whatever you wanted, cupcakes or no. The sound of your laughter dripped into his bloodstream, saline. It cleansed him of the wrongs he'd committed. He was doing what needed to be done. The world had to realise it turned for you, and then all would be right. 

Hours later, when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, shrouded by distant skyscrapers, he sneaked his way inside. His master key made easy work of the lock, but he had to pull the chain lock off with a pair of pliers because his hands could not reach between the gap. He made clinical work of it and stepped inside. 

There was a chair in the corner of your bedroom for days you felt like reading by the window. Joel lowered himself into it and began his vigil. 

It was a science to study the way you slept. He began to learn the patterns of your breathing, the minute movements of your limbs and how they translated to the moods of your dreaming. The amount of times you turned around, groaned, or hummed correlated directly to the sort of day you'd had. He began to map your tells in his head, drawing them out, formulating blueprints of the simple things that made you. 

To Joel, it was like connecting a red string between thumb tacks, like pouring the varnish over a finished painting, sealing a promise, closing an envelope. He enjoyed the satisfactory slotting of each puzzle piece into place, creating your image, finally knowing you.

By then, he’d caught the virus. He’d let himself get close, and now he was infected with it—that insatiable need to be near, to watch, to admire from mere feet away. 

He continued to acquaint himself over the weeks with your sleeping self to supplement the time he could not spend with you while you were awake. On more than one occasion, he got careless, letting himself succumb to sleep in that corner chair, joining you in the dream world. In those dreams, you were wrapped up in his body, warm and soft and tight, and he was taking. He was behind you, on top of you, beneath you, forcing you to look in the mirror as he spread you open on his cock and wrapped his fingers around your throat. In those dreams, your eyes rolled back and your lips moulded to the shape of Joel, yes, oh my God, and he'd whisper back to you—my sweet girl, my good fuckin’ girl, all mine. 

And you were. You were his. 

Tonight, he followed you to the festival. 

He watched you make a beeline for the necklace you wanted only to pout when you saw it had disappeared. He watched your face fall as David’s rejection sank bone-deep. He reeled in his own gnawing rage, pushing deep down that urge to storm right in and rip out the asshole’s throat with his goddamn teeth, and waited until you called him. 

He knew you would. You trusted him. You needed him. You needed a strong, capable man to take care of you the way you deserved. So he waited inside his truck by the phone, happy to at last hear your sweet voice on the other end of the line. 

Thank you, Joel. 

He tucked those words under his ribs, letting them flower and spread. Those words gave him purpose, made him buzz with erratic energy, validated all his actions. He was doing everything right. 

Your dress was so fucking pretty. Jesus, he wanted to slip his hands under the hem, finger the waistband of those pink panties he knew you were wearing, and bunch the fabric up around your hips as he stuffed you full of his dick. Fuck, he would fill you up with his cum and tuck your panties back over your abused pussy, keeping all of him safe inside. You’d be so happy. You’d get drunk off his cock, begging for it, crying for it. He’d give you everything. 

You do feel safe with him. You said it yourself. 

Now, leaning against the doorway in your bedroom, Joel turns the heart-shaped pendant over and over in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the smooth gold surface. It’s cool and quaint and will kiss your skin beautifully. But he needs to wait for the right time. He needs to make sure you’re ready. 

The sense memory of your fingers on his skin, gracious and gentle, the way you always are, is pushing at the edges of his control. 

There's no one like you. He’s never been more certain of anything. 

You're so goddamn sweet in those tiny silk pyjamas, your body curled up on the bed and your leg slung over a large pillow. You may feel cold and lonely at night, but that's only for now. He won't let you feel alone much longer; his body calls to you, singing your name. He has only so much restraint, and he's been waiting for six months. 

Your lips are slightly parted, your face smooth and serene under the spell of sleep. You're the reason he fixes what's broken. The world needs to be better for you. It needs to be safe and bright and perfect. 

He planted tulips today. You’ll appreciate them, he thinks. He wants you to wake up to vibrant colours every morning and go to sleep knowing that he thinks about you. 

You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft moan leaving your mouth as you hug the pillow closer. Joel straightens in the doorway, wondering if your mind can sense him nearby. He doesn't know what he would do with himself if you were dreaming about him. His eyes move from your pretty face down your chest, barely concealed by the tiny top you're wearing, to find the apex of your thighs, temptingly spread on the mattress. 

He won't. He can't. You’ll never trust him if he loses himself to desire. Joel grits his teeth, his cock achingly hard in his jeans, and unbuckles his belt as silently as he can. He pulls out his dick and squeezes himself at the base, staving off what he knows will be a too-fast orgasm. You move again, your body stretching out on the bed. Joel spits into his palm and begins to stroke his cock. 

He can see a sliver of your waist where your shirt rides up, half of your ass where your leg is slung over the pillow, and your tits smushed together just over the hem of that scrap of a top. You're all of his fucking fantasies rolled into one. Joel breathes hard through his nostrils, his fist tight around the tip of his cock. 

He wants to shuck down those little shorts and put his face in your pretty pussy. He wants to grab your hips and guide his cock inside you. He wants to slide into your addictive cunt until you forget your name. Until you forget every name but his. Your soul will be stained with him. His has never forgotten your shape.

God, your tight pussy would feel so fucking good around his cock. He jerks himself roughly, bracing his hand against the doorframe when a little whimper leaves your mouth. Fuck, he mouths, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw begins to ache. He fucks his own fist, sloppy and unrefined, eyes fixed to your waiting pussy between creamy-soft thighs. His cock dwarfs your slit, eager to spread you open—he’ll fix so nicely once he gets you ready. 

Joel feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up, his jaw taut as he brings himself to a high over your body the way he has so many times. He switches so he can jerk off into the hand around which his gift to you is coiled, spilling his cum all over his fingers and the necklace as he bites into the heel of his palm. His spine decompresses and his cock slowly softens in his hand, the tension briefly relieved. His fist gradually loosens around the cum-slick necklace; the heart has imprinted its shape into his palm. 

You stir, turning over in your bed, and Joel hastily departs, tucking his cock back into his jeans. He has enjoyed this brief interlude, but he has work to do. 

Besides, he’ll see you in a few hours. He knows damn well the sink works just fine, but he’ll take any excuse to see you again. And it seems you’ll do the same. 

~

Joel keeps him in a spare apartment in the building, one whose walls have been padded for soundproofing. 

Joel’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he's occupying the chair across from David, who's taking his sweet fuckin’ time waking up. Joel’s been pacing for a half-hour, rubbing his fingers over his bottom lip, contemplative, but the bastard won't move. 

So Joel takes a seat, grabs a fistful of the kid’s hair, and yanks it forcefully so he’s staring him right in the face. 

One eye is already blackened—Joel got a little carried away. The sedative worked perfectly, but David has a punchable face. It took all he had not to keep going. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” says Joel as the kid slowly blinks awake, bleary and unfocused. “Eyes on me, now. Don't want you slippin’ away again.”

David only stares for a moment, gears grinding gently to life in his brain Once that animal instinct kicks in, the kid starts writhing against his restraints, bucking hard in Joel’s unrelenting grip. It's useless, of course. He’s tied by the wrists and ankles. Helpless. 

Good. 

“What—why the fuck… let me fucking go, man, please,” groans the kid. 

“You made a mistake, David,” says Joel. “Think I’m gonna forget about that?”

David whimpers, flexing his hands subconsciously as pain undoubtedly prickles his scalp. Joel hasn't let go of his hair. “Please just let me go, man. I swear I didn't do anything. If you want money, I’ve got money.”

Joel smirks, a scoff slipping out. This is rich. The delectable flame licks up his throat again, indistinguishable from the pleasure of a good meal, a good fuck. It's craving. It’s darkness. He sinks deeper. 

“You think it's manly to leave your date for your friends and leave her to find a way home herself? You think it's funny to treat her like a little toy and then leave her when you're done?” Joel sneers. “You didn't even call her back, David.”

He whines out another please, his ankles ineffectually kicking out. “I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Just let me go. Fuck, it hurts.”

“You don't know,” says Joel, repeating it, slow and savoury, rolling it around in his mouth. “You wanna know the most insulting part, David? You don't even care. You made her upset, and you didn't get on your goddamn knees to beg her forgiveness. You didn't do everything in your fuckin’ power to get her back.” Joel brings the knife from his pocket and idly pushes the tip into David’s cheek. “You think she ain't worth that, David? Tell me the truth, now.”

David shrieks, hysterical, the terror and pain so fucking delicious that Joel gulps it down and yet still wants. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? No bitch is fucking worth it. She was cute, but that's it, I swear. I didn't know she had a boyfriend. I wouldn't have—”

The knife digs, gouges, splitting skin and prodding muscle. Joel can feel the edge of the blade slot between the kid’s teeth. He howls, screaming for help to nobody that can help, not quite gone enough yet to realise his utter hopelessness. Joel will have to rectify that.

“Oh, I ain't her boyfriend yet,” Joel says calmly. “But I am hers, way she's mine. And you hurt what's mine. I can’t forget that.”

The knife retreats to admire its handiwork. The cheek is split, the edges jagged, spitting blood. The kid’s tears slip down his face and dip into the wound, salty enough to hurt. He screams and he cries and it’s beginning to get on Joel’s nerves.

“Please stop,” he cries, watching his assailant rear back and grip the knife tight, like an ice pick. “Please… fuck, please—!”

He’s getting real sick of that word. Please. A mere please can’t excuse the look he put on your face last night. A please will not absolve him of the cardinal sin. 

No one—no one—makes you frown. 

Joel sinks the knife into David’s knee, using both hands to drive it to the hilt. The kid’s face is ashen, white and grey as clouds rolling in, and his frail screams begin to peter out; he’s losing consciousness. Joel won’t have that—not until he’s finished.

“Stop whinin’, David. A real man falls in front of his woman and makes things right. A real man fixes what's broken. And a real man”—he twists the knife, gorging, glutting on the feeling of making amends on your behalf—“does everything in his power to show her he loves her.” 

“Please…” The final, feeble attempt of a doomed man to return from the cliff’s edge. 

Joel stands, adjusting his grip on the kid’s hair, and brings his knife just beneath his chin. When he drives it upward, he can see the shimmer of the blade through David’s slack, open mouth. 

“I told you to stop whinin’.” 

~

He’s in your bedroom again. 

He felt the need calling to him, vibrating with a particular intensity he could not ignore. He rarely comes to see you twice in one night, but now that he's here, he knows it was the only way to settle his nerves. 

You're asleep, lips parted against your pillow and a piece of hair fluttering in front of your face with every exhale. Joel approaches your bedside and tucks it safely behind your ear. You don't wake, but you hum sleepily, hugging your pillow closer. Joel smiles, satisfaction sinking deep and assured into his core. He's done right by you. You’ll go happily to him. Moth to a gemlike flame. 

He wanders around the edge of the bed, gaze lazily indulging in your body as he goes. His cock twitches again with a need he cannot yet meet, the desire to move your panties aside and fill you with him. He does not. He kneels at your bedside, closest to where your legs have scissored apart beneath your sheets. The temptingly sweet call of that warm place between your thighs has Joel shifting your comforter aside and ghosting his fingers across the soft skin of your calf. 

Your breathing deepens slightly, like you're sucking in a long mouthful of air, and then you settle. It's the only indication you give that you can feel his presence. And then it’s gone, and he’s hooking his fingers in the waistband of your pretty panties and bestowing upon himself what he's only seen through screens for months. 

You're spread open and glistening, an indication of some preceding dream or fantasy playing out in that keen, busy mind. Your body is wholly pliant, so soft and glowing in the faint silvery light streaming in from the window, and it would be so easy to—

No. He will not taste you. If he does, he won’t stop. You need to trust him. There is blood on his hands that hasn’t yet washed clean, and he will not imprint those rust-red fingerprints on your body. You’re his world—what kind of man willingly imparts such pain onto a world he loves?

Some infinitesimal fractal lodged in Joel’s head obliged him to return to you tonight, to cleanse himself of the events that transpired under the illicit cover of night. The very sight of you reminds him what he’s doing this for. He crushes his nose into the wet spot that darkens your panties and inhales deeply, acquiring some sense of what you will taste like. The smell makes his head go fuzzy, intoxicated, tang and sweetness and impending gratification. In your sleep, you sigh, melting against the mattress.

Joel brings your panties back up over your pussy and thinks, Tomorrow. 

THE TENANT

You're miserable when Joel knocks on your door the next day. 

“He hasn't called me,” you tell him, letting yourself stew, sulking from the feeling of yet another man deciding you weren’t worth a follow-up phone call. “Am I repulsive? Am I a total freak? Is it something in my perfume?”

Joel looks down at you, lips parted as if on the precipice of a response, sweeping his gaze up and down your body. You’re wearing a simple sweater and skirt, but fuck, he can make you feel naked. His gaze penetrates deeper than flesh. It’s only then you realise he’s holding coffee. 

Two cups of coffee. 

“Oh, Joel,” you sigh, licking your bottom lip. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he says with a crooked smile, his voice a bit raspy, as if caught off-guard. He hands you your favourite drink—caramel macchiato, double espresso—from your favourite place down the block, and you could kiss him with how good it feels to hold the cool, condensation-slick cup in your hands. Your entire body deflates with the first sip. 

“You’re my hero,” you tell him. “I mean it.”

Joel shakes his head fondly. “You got a funny sense of heroics.”

“They taste exactly like this,” you say playfully, tracing the rim of the plastic cup. “Thank you, Joel.”

He swipes his thumb across your chin. “It’s only coffee, baby.”

Since last night, something is inexplicably different. A new, once-forbidden boundary has been crossed. It may be technically inappropriate for your landlord to bring you coffee, touch you so intimately, call you baby. But it makes you feel like warm melting honey, and who is to say a feeling like that is wrong?

He’s wearing a blue T-shirt today. His hair is tousled like he slept on it, and your fingers tingle with the anticipatory sensation of how it would feel to take fistfuls of his locks in your hands. He’s stunning. And you catch yourself staring too late, tearing your gaze away the way one retracts their hand after burning it on the stovetop. Your heart skittering, you direct Joel to the sink and plan some excuse in your head for why it has miraculously fixed itself overnight. 

But he doesn’t even spare a glance toward any of your appliances. He’s only looking at you. 

“I got somethin’ else,” he says, almost shy, reaching into his pocket for a tiny box. 

He grimaces when your eyes, wide and obviously panicked, meet his. “Jesus, I didn’t really think about how this looks. I’m not… proposin’, I swear.”

You both release a nervous laugh, but you cannot deny that your nerves are still fluttering at the sight of that simple suede box in his big hands.

He opens the lid and you gasp. It’s your necklace—the very same heart-shaped pendant you had been eyeing up at the festival. It’s shiny and polished and precisely, undeniably, the same one. “Oh my God,” you whisper, gently sliding your finger over the cool golden pendant. “It’s beautiful. Joel, how did you…”

“Turn around,” he says softly, the gentle direction guiding you better than any hand could. You obey, and Joel steps forward until his hard chest is flush to your back. He’s warm and sure and smells so good—cologne and coffee and mint and something potent, like iron—and all your questions fizzle to sparks in the air. You can no longer grasp for them. You reach out and you only find him.

His touch is careful. The heart-shaped pendant settles against your breastbone and shimmers in the afternoon light. Your chest briefly shimmers with the thought that you were made to wear this necklace. His large, rough hands ghost across the back of your neck as he secures the clasp, and you shiver. A single knuckle trails slowly down your spine, bumping every vertebrae on the way. 

“It ain't your perfume.” His deep, grumbling voice is equivalent to the scratch of his beard against your temple as his jaw moves with each word. “And you're nothin’ close to repulsive. Look in that mirror and tell me what you see.”

There is a mirror, a full-length one by the entrance to your apartment, and it's surreal to watch your own body turn to face it, to watch yourself defer entirely to the man behind you. It feels nice to just let him steer you every which way. 

“I see you,” you tell him, your hand lifting to the pendant on your throat. “And this.”

Joel clicks his tongue, his nose sliding up your temple. “What else do you see?”

You watch your lashes flutter, your head listing slightly to the side. “I see myself.”

“Hmm.” It’s a sound of approval, his palm now sliding around your waist and his arm banding across your body. He presses his hand to your hip bone and pulls you back against him. “Such a beautiful girl in that mirror. Ain't that right?”

“Joel, I…” You can feel his swelling erection prodding your ass and your head feels hazy with a heady, lustful desire you can no longer ignore or dismiss. “I don't think we should be…”

“No?” His mouth curves against your temple and you shiver at the coarse scratch of his moustache on your skin. It feels deliberate, premeditated. “I won’t tell a soul,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your hip right where the hem of your sweater begins to inch upward. You can see a strip of your own bare stomach in the mirror. He’s making your eyes droop, your lashes flutter, your body light up from one nerve ending to the next, a closed circuit.

Oh, God. His touch is measured, gentle yet barely restrained. It is dipping a finger into the water just as it nears its boiling point. Months of staring and dreaming and retreating to your bed to touch yourself to thoughts of someone you cannot touch have led you here: his necklace, his gift to you, sitting prettily on your throat, his capable hands moulding you slowly to the shape of him. He’s touching you. 

“You like me?” His voice rubs hard on your ears, sanding you down, smoothing the rough edges. He lets you linger on the precipice, a firm grip on your hand, letting you make the choice: to let go, or to reel yourself in. 

“I like you,” you whisper, snapping the tether and plummeting to the warm, wet earth below.

You watch Joel’s eyes close in the mirror, something like a prayer falling from his lips. It does not take the shape of words—it is gruff and yet soft, hardly loud enough to discern over the ringing in your ears—but it’s so reverent that you can picture yourself falling to your knees at the sound of it. 

His hand skims up your waist until he finds your throat, gently pinching your jaw so he can direct the turn of your head. You go easily, tilting your gaze back to rest your temple on his shoulder, as his other hand slides up from your hip to your ribs, grazing the underside of your breast. “You like me enough to touch you like this?” 

You gasp, finding an anchor in the deep brown—nearly black, now—of his eyes. They’re warm  but they’re dangerous; once you look, the cage door slides shut, and you’re trapped. 

This must be one of your many dreams.

“Yes, Joel.”

“Mmm.” He smirks, teasing his tongue across his plush bottom lip. You watch the movement and feel yourself tightening, want want want a chorus in your ears. “You wanna kiss me, baby girl?”

Silently, you nod, your fingers gently sliding through his silky locks while your other hand seeks the strong balancing force of his shoulder. His smile sobers to a deep, stunning severity, and you cannot think to let it frighten you when you’re already slanting your mouth over his. 

It starts slowly. His mouth is soft, his hands deftly returning the fervour with which you hold him, cupping the back of your neck with his other hand warming your ribs. A small gasp escapes you, and a rumble of satisfaction passes from his chest through yours, and it flips an ineffable switch inside him. 

Joel turns you in his arms, his chest pressed to yours, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall as he walks you back toward it. Sufficiently cornered, you let your body melt into him, his palm now warming your lower back, his tongue feverishly seeking the seam of your lips. You let him pry you open, tasting the coffee and mint on his breath and inhaling the rich scent of him, sticking it with greedy hands to the walls of your brain. You’ll never tire of him, of this. 

He kisses you like a glutton seeking more fulfilment, like an aesthete seeking that exhilarating, fleeting moment in time, desperate and unwavering and famished. Tongues slide together, hands grope and wander, fabrics shift. You can feel your sweater lifting at the same time your fingers finally find the hem of his T-shirt, but he beats you to the chase. You’re dizzy by the time he breaks away to remove your shirt, but you dutifully lift your arms to help him. 

You seek his mouth again to resume the kiss, but Joel is decidedly feeling pious. He kisses his way down your throat, the necklace dangling from it, your sternum, your belly, sinking to his knees as he goes along. His hands are firm on your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place, while his mouth draws a map of you, eliciting the honeyed sensation of warm water dripping down your body.

“Oh, God,” you whisper, your head knocking back against the wall. It's so much. You've never been the object of attention quite like this, the marble statue at which the devout kneel, obsessive in their worship. You've never had a man fall to his knees to put his mouth all over you. 

Has he wanted you as long as you’ve pined for him? 

Joel grunts, his lips dragging open-mouthed kisses from one hip to another, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your skirt and yanking it down. You yelp, grasping his shoulders. 

Joel only growls into your skin, his hands dropping to your ass and kneading you while he continues down past your hips. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he grumbles. “So goddamn pretty. Don’t know how I waited this fuckin’ long. Jesus, baby girl, you're perfect. Goddamn perfect.”

His ramblings are poison. Every word infects, squeezing out your healthy cells, replacing them with the delicious scrape of fire against the ceiling of a room. The scratch of his beard. The sweet nurturing sound of his voice. The cared-for sensation of being kissed and touched and spoken to like you're someone worth a second date. Like you're worth the price of all the world and a couple stars, too. 

And so the words slip out, shy and whisper-quiet and your cheeks burning hot enough to blister. 

“Please, Daddy…”

Joel’s hands tighten on your body, a fractional movement that kicks up the frantic beating of your heart. He tilts his head back to gaze up into your eyes and you feel more naked with that single stare than ever before. 

“That what you need, sweet thing?” he says, pressing his lips to your inner thigh. “You need Daddy to make you feel good?”

“Mhm,” you whine, the pitch of your voice pathetic and needy. You watch him crush his nose into your inner thigh, nipping at your sensitive flesh, and his name leaves your mouth in a sob. 

“‘m gonna need words,” he commands, biting you again in reproach. “Talk to me, baby girl. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to make me come,” you plead, grasping his soft greying hair in your fingers. “Please.”

“You gonna call me what you wanna call me?” he prompts, smacking your thigh. “C’mon, baby, lemme hear it.”

“Daddy!” you cry out, your hand tightening in his locks. “Fuck, Daddy, please make me come.”

Joel growls, bringing your soaked panties down your legs. Your knees nearly knock together, but he’s shouldering his way between them, bringing one up onto his wide shoulder. You're spread open like this, bared plainly for your landlord to feast upon at his will. The sight of his lips parted, waiting and ready to take your pussy into his mouth, has you trembling. 

He gives a slow, experimental lick, sliding the flat of his tongue through your wet slit. You shudder, your head lolling against the wall. One teasing drag of his tongue and you’re butter, humming and whimpering for more, Daddy, please as he takes his fucking time tasting what you have to offer. 

“Goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, his blunt nails digging crescent moons into the flesh of your ass, pulling your body flush to him. “Waited so fuckin’ long for this.” You watch the fire ignite from red- to blue-hot in Joel’s eyes, his gaze shuttering as he loses himself, devoted entirely to the process of unravelling you. 

The next time he dips his tongue between your folds, he does it deliberately, calculated, as if he has already memorised your shape and now seeks to pry you open. He parts your lips to make way for his mouth, hot and soft against your clit. Softly, you cry out, watching as he presses a featherlight kiss to your pearl. You try to grind against his face, needing more, but a resounding slap to your ass stops you dead. 

“No takin’ what I don’t give,” he says. “You understand me?”

You pout, but you nod your head anyway. 

He decides it isn’t good enough and abruptly takes your clit between his teeth in a scolding bite. 

“Repeat. It.”

“I’ll only take what you give,” you tell him. “I’ll be good.”

Apparently satisfied, he hums, diving back in and finally—finally—sucks on your needy clit. “Oh!” He’s eager, sure, but he’s practised. He’s meticulous in the way he applies pressure to your clit, lapping at you greedily and pulling back to draw your pleasure into measured tidal waves. You crest only to recede from shore, and then his lips suction to you again, his hand snaking around to your front and pressing down on your lower belly. 

“Fuck!” you squeak, your stomach tightening as the dizzying pleasure overcomes you. “Joel, I’m gonna—!”

The orgasm pulls you under, drowning you with a forceful hand, your lungs sucking in mouthfuls of air. You seize, your heel digging into Joel’s muscled back, your fingers fisting his hair, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing, begging to be filled. Joel keeps his mouth on you all the while, licking you through your high, and you think it’s a benevolent act until your orgasm gently fades and he continues to make out with your pussy as if it never happened.

“Ah! Joel, please—” It’s so much. Too much; your pussy contracts relentlessly at the endless attention from his tongue, happily licking your clit and relishing the faint throbbing underneath it. It’s like he’s starved. His eyes are closed, his beard glistening with your wetness, his fingers dimpling your flesh as he pulls you right along to another high. 

Two thick fingers gather up the juices you’ve leaked onto your thighs and push them back into your hole, insistent in their desire to enter. You gasp, your heart in your fucking throat: “That’s only two?”

He chuckles, but the vibration only makes you jump, letting his fingers sink inside your cunt to the knuckle. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Daddy, that feels so good, please make me come again, I need it, please—!”

Joel groans into your pussy, curling his fingers toward him so they press against a spongy spot inside you that sends your head spinning, your mind folding in on itself. All you know is the next orgasm, the best way to get him to give it to you, the fastest way to reach that indelible place once more, just once more—

Joel’s hand applies more pressure to your belly, and you scream, clawing desperately at his shoulder as you give yourself over to something much, much stronger than an orgasm. It’s foreign, the creeping sensation of an invader taking up residence in your body. You cannot see, cannot hear. It assumes control, tearing a cry from your mouth and locking all your limbs tight and splashing your wetness all over Joel’s chin, beard, shirt. 

You think he only stops because you begin to list; he catches you around the hips and presses a soft kiss to your used little clit. “Mmmmm,” is vaguely how you manage to thank him, your eyes peeling slowly open. 

“I know, baby girl,” he says, stroking your hip bone with his thumb. He litters kisses all over your thighs, coaxing you through the minute twitching of your muscles as they relax. “You did so good for me, pretty girl. So fuckin’ beautiful. My sweet girl.”

You shiver in his grasp, watching as he makes his way back up your body. He swipes his forearm across his wet beard and you moan a little at the sight. “Nobody’s ever…”

Joel crowds you, his hand cupping the back of your neck so he can guide your gaze up to him. “That's what you don't understand, sweetheart,” he says. “You can try to find another man to make you happy, but he won't be me. I’m the only one who’s gonna treat you right.”

“Joel…” Sense begins to push at the edges of your brain, but you only slump further into his touch, letting him secure your hair behind your ear. “This isn't right,” you whisper. “I pay you every month to live here. People will know. People will talk about me.”

“People have suffered worse for a hell of a lot less.” 

You have no time to decode his words because he grabs your hand and presses your palm over his chest. Beneath the shirt and the warm, tanned skin, you feel a strong, rapid heartbeat, hammering away at his ribs. He maintains eye contact, the gaze incisive, peering right into the cluster of wiring inside your head that calls his name. “You feel my heart and you tell me this ain't real. You think this ain't love? You think it's obsession? Infatuation? Think I can’t see you lookin’ at me the way you do?”

His words pin you to the ground. They’re possessive, covetous—jealous. He wants you, and he knows you want him. All these months, he’s wanted you the way you’ve craved him; all the comforts and the roses and the baked goods in lieu of payment for substantial repair jobs; the times he’s let slide some late payments because I know it’s tough sometimes, the inexplicable kindnesses in your everyday. 

Joel Miller dedicated himself to you the second you arrived to see the prospective apartment. 

“You’re mine,” he says, his thumb stroking your jaw. “And I wanna hear you say it.”

People will call you a whore. They’ll think you’re pimping yourself out for cheaper rent. They’ll send you filthy looks. But the man in front of you makes you feel wanted. Desired. You’re better than all the dates that failed. You’re better than a shitty boss who won’t give you the raise you deserve. Joel is good to you. He’s always been.

“I’m yours, Joel Miller,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Now please take me to bed.”

He grins, taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. You get grabby straight away, fingering the hem of his shirt with a pleading look in your eye. You can still see the evidence of your orgasm staining the collar. “You can take it off, baby,” he says with that cocky smile, letting you lift the shirt over his head. In the sunlight, the grey in his hair shimmers, and his chest is bared to you. You lick your lips, placing your hands on his broad shoulders just to feel the way your palms contour to his dips and curves. 

You lean in and put your lips to his neck, tracing the shape of him down to the hollow of his throat, He tastes faintly of fresh air and sweat, and he smells like you. Your hands admire the warmth and strength underneath them, his body so tangible when only yesterday it was a distant dream. He lets you indulge, though his hands flex at his sides, and your fingers fumble with his belt buckle. 

“Help,” you mumble against his chest, bumping your nose into him. Joel chuckles, relieving you of your burden and shucking off his belt. It clinks along the floor somewhere nearby, and you can unbutton his jeans to bring them down, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. 

Your mouth waters at the sight. He’s thick and slightly curved, the tip leaking precum onto his belly, his balls heavy with the need to come. During those long nights after long days of work, you would imagine, for hours on end, what lingered just below his belt; the little trail of hair leading down his soft belly to your destination; the way his wide shoulders would bracket your body, shelter you from all the tough shit you could possibly suffer. You would picture all the ways you could thank him. You bite your bottom lip and ready yourself to sink to your knees, but Joel is having none of it. He attacks your mouth, kissing you deeply, his hands sliding up your back as if he's trying to count every vertebrae. He doesn't relent even when your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapse backward onto the mattress. He only crawls over you and pins you beneath his hard body. 

“So pretty like this,” he says, lowering his head and nudging your chin upward with his nose to give himself better access to your throat. He sucks and nips at you all the way down, pausing at your heaving breasts. His fingers gently toy with one stiff nipple while his mouth occupies itself with the other, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. You moan softly, content to watch him explore your body, squeezing your tits before he migrates downward. 

“Daddy,” you whisper, stroking his hair away from his face, your head falling back onto the pillows as his fingers part your folds once more. “Fuck, please, touch me. I need you inside me.”

Joel settles in between your open legs and takes his cock in his hand. You mewl for him, determined in the face of his big cock to fit it nicely inside you. “Mmm, you ready for me, baby girl? You need Daddy to fill you up, use you like a pretty little toy?” 

You’re nodding frantically, the words igniting you. “Please take me.”

Joel slaps the head of his cock against your clit, once, twice, watching your thighs twitch. Spreading the slick wetness from your pussy onto the tip, he finally guides himself to your hole and notches just inside. 

“Jesus,” he utters. “Jesus, you're a fuckin’ dream.”

“It’s real,” you pant, “I’m real.”

He begins to disappear inside you, wrenching you open, your poor pussy disused from going so long without decent sex. You feel the pinching pain give way to a delicious pressure in your core as he eases into you, taking it slow despite his taut jaw, his gritted teeth. Your cunt forms a tight seal around his length, your arousal lubricating his entry, and you feel lightheaded. He’s so fucking big—and he’s still going.

“Oh, my… Joel—”

“I know, baby.” He brings his thumb to your clit and helps you relax with every circular swipe. “I know what y’like.”

You keen up against him, your thighs squeezing his hips. He's only halfway inside you and it feels like being filled up to your throat, choking on the air you breathe. Your head falls back, your hands flying up to your tits and squeezing. 

“Daddy…”

One of Joel’s hands overlaps yours where it grasps your breast. “That’s my girl. You can take me. Always knew you could.” Still, he's panting with the exertion of holding back. 

“You thought about me?” you say coyly, trying to pull him deeper inside you. He obliges, if only because you're being so petulant, and his hips finally knock into yours. You release a bone-deep sigh of relief.

“All I do”—his hips thrust shallowly, baring his teeth as he paws at your thighs—“is think about you.”

You cry out at the angle, the depth he reaches, how thick and heavy he sits inside you. Your pussy sucks him in, begging for more, and Joel obliges by hooking his hand in the back of your knee and pushing your thigh toward your chest. 

Your vision whites, a ragged cry leaving your mouth. “Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, yes, that feels so good—”

“‘s right, baby girl. I’m the only one’s gonna fuck you this good,” Joel grits out, dragging his thick cock along your walls, spreading you open, forcing himself to fit. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust, measured in their intensity, just enough to drive you up the goddamn wall but never enough to sting. “I’m the only one you want.”

Your mouth is open and his pounding urges a steady rush of ah, ah, ahs up your throat. Joel leans over you and tilts your head back with a hand in your hair to slant his mouth over yours. He lets you pour your cries into his mouth and he swallows them down, fucking you so hard that your hips begin to ache. 

He smatters your jaw with sloppy kisses. You lift your hand to his face and trace the patches in his beard, your brows drawn together in your perpetual haze. 

“I dreamed about you,” you whisper, taking his earlobe between your teeth to make him growl against your skin. “Touched myself thinking about you.”

“I know,” he says, his hips grinding hard against yours, rubbing up against your used clit. He answers your gasp by nibbling your throat, and you keep him fixed to you with your hand at the back of his neck. His soft hair is matted with sweat and you want to bury yourself here, etch the shape of him into your stone. He's strong, capable, so present in this moment that your heart begins to throb to the beat of his. 

Joel surges upward and takes you with him, forcing you to sit on his lap. At this angle, his cock reaches deeper, somehow, your mouth falling open and your forehead dropping to his shoulder. His palm is a soothing presence on your sweaty back as he tells you things that make you flush from your chest to your ears. 

“Thought about takin’ you on the goddamn bar last night,” he grunts, guiding your ass in a rolling rhythm along his lap, his cock gliding slowly along your walls. You moan, your thighs shaking around his hips. “Thought about spreadin’ you over my desk and fuckin’ you dumb with my cock.” 

You sob into the crook of his neck, grinding down on his cock, the pressure of his navel against your clit sparking hot in your lower belly. “What else?” you ask, nipping at the strong muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. Your tits are pressed up against his chest, his warmth engulfing you, your body slowly lowering over him as he guides you the way he likes. 

His palm coasts down your spine until he finds your puckered asshole. His name is jagged and rubbed raw on your tongue. 

“Shhh, baby girl.” The pad of his finger teases your hole with just enough pressure to ooze electric ecstasy down your spine. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

Fuck, his voice is so gentle, so knowing. You curl your fingers in his hair, your nose tickled by the locks that curl over his ears. 

“Mmmhmm,” you mewl, lifting your hips as best you can despite the growing aches, telegraphing your desire to be touched by him—played with. 

“Thaaat’s it,” he coos, his nose nudging your cheek as he turns his head. His finger continues to prod your asshole while his hips buck up into you. “Openin’ up for me like a good girl. You’d let me take you wherever I want, hmm? Whenever I want?”

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you moan, your mouth perpetually open against the skin of his neck. You can’t think. You can't breathe. You can only drink down mouthfuls of him and let your body succumb to the delicious weight of his cock inside you. “Yes, I’ll be your little slut. I’ll be whatever you want. You make me feel so good.”

He seems pleased with your babbling, grinning into your cheek as he keeps you spread wide and pounds up into you. His finger continues to tease your tight hole until he feels your body contract around him and apparently decides that he isn't quite through with you. 

“Turn around. Hands and knees.”

Who are you to refuse?

You lament the brief loss of his cock as you shift into your knees, resting your forearms on the bed and teasing him with a wiggle of your ass. Joel hums appreciatively, sidling up behind you and grinding his hard cock between your asscheeks. You jolt forward, but he catches you around the waist and warms his palm at your ribs. 

Something warm and wet lands in a glob on your asshole, and you realise he fucking spit on you. Your head spins, dizzied by your own arousal, and soon, the warm, wet head of his cock slips back inside your hole, and you relish the refuge of being taken by him all over again. 

“You wanna know what else?” He begins to fuck you hard and fast and almost angry in its intensity. His thrusts knock against your ribcage and rattle the bars, your heart floundering for a way back to the surface. “I thought about knockin’ on your door every goddamn day and putting my dick in this pretty fuckin’ pussy. Thought about your tight fuckin’ body every single time I saw you walk by and a long time after. I thought about the noises you'd make and Jesus, I was right. So goddamn sweet.”

You’re drooling onto the pillow, your eyes rolling back in your head, your fingers uselessly clasping handfuls of your white sheets. Joel is an animal, mounting you from behind and taking you hard, deep, the slick squelching noises of your coupling so crude and indecent that they burn through your ears like a lit fuse. It's wrong. You never should have kissed him. But wrong shouldn't feel like this. 

Wrong shouldn’t taste like mint and coffee, shouldn't smell like roses and sawdust. Wrong shouldn’t feel like his cock sitting snug inside your pussy, some obscene jigsaw, seeping saplike pleasure down your spine. 

This must be right. 

His hands are rapacious, one wrapping around your hair and the other guiding the bend of your back, arching you perfectly to fit him while he takes you the way he likes. “Such a tease in those pretty dresses. Such a prim and proper girl ‘til she gets the right dick. You’ll get on your knees for this dick, baby girl, won't you? You’ll beg for it like a goddamn whore.”

“I will!” you moan, your cheek pressed into the mattress. The force of his thrusts have you travelling up the bed in minuscule movements, his thighs slapping hard against yours. “Fuck, I will, Daddy! Please, Daddy, I wanna make you feel good, I’ll do anything.”

“You're doin’ such a good job already, sweet thing,” he says, using his leverage on your hair and your waist to yank you upright, his chest pressed to your back, your ass now firmly sat in his lap. You moan long and low at the new angle, your back arching and your toes curling. 

Joel groans against your jaw, his mouth travelling along the line of it in sloppy kisses that indicate he's about as close as you are. “Yeah, baby. Fuckin’ drunk on my cock. Fucked you good and dumb, hmm? Fucked you so good you can't even think.”

You can only manage a low whine, the sound of it a fleeting puff of air from your lips, the oxygen in your lungs depleting and replaced with the smell of him. You try to bounce on his dick—you really do try—but you cannot remember how to work the muscles in your thighs. You cannot remember what you had for breakfast nor the colour of the skirt you wore today. You can only vaguely understand the shape of the man behind you, the name that belongs to him, the way you curve and fit into him. You’re falling, the technicolour world outside your window fading to the sound of soft, beating wings—that may be your heart, fluttering in your ears—as you seize, yielding to the pleasure. 

You will not recall the sounds you make when you come, grasping blindly at his thighs to keep yourself from falling over, your ears ringing. You feel his moustache scratching your jaw and his cock working you through your high, slowing his thrusts to help you land softly on solid ground. You may cry out his name, and you may call him something else entirely. But it's vibrant. It's radiant as the sunlight now dipping behind the distant buildings. It tastes just as sweet as the golden hour. 

Joel does not stop fucking you when your body goes limp in his arms. No, he resumes his brutal pace, using you like a fucking toy to get himself off. You happily take it, your head lolling back against his shoulder and your eyes drooping. 

“Nnh, fuck… I’m gonna… Jesus—oh, fuck—”

His hips press flush to your ass and he nuzzles his face into your throat, depositing kisses and love bites all over your skin as he pumps shallowly into you, his hot cum filling you up and leaking generously around the seal of your cunt. You gasp, your fingers threading through his already-tousled hair, keeping him glued to you as he flexes against your body and comes hard enough to double himself over. 

He collapses on top of you, forcing you to bend at the hip, little puffs of air escaping his mouth and seeping into you. You whine, your sore hips battered and bruised, your pussy deliciously abused as you pulse continuously around his dick. “Joel, please…”

He comes slowly back into his body, his lips trailing down your spine as he lifts himself upright. “Shit. ‘m sorry, baby girl. You feel okay?”

You hum happily, letting yourself pant into the mattress. “Feels so good.”

Joel pulls out, savouring the tight drag of his cock out of your pussy, hissing through his teeth and watching his thick cum dribble slowly out of your hole. “Such a fuckin’ pretty sight. My sweet girl, all used up.”

You drop your face into your forearm and giggle. Joel smooths his hand over your lower back. “What's so funny?”

“Just…” You sound a bit hysterical as you continue to laugh. “I’m going to be late on rent this month. I put a down payment on a car.”

Joel lowers himself next to you and gently pulls you into him, his moustache tickling your cheek. “Planning on gettin’ the hell outta dodge?” he says playfully, nipping your earlobe. 

Your eyes droop and you sink into him. “Think I’ll stay here for a while.”

“I know you will, baby,” he murmurs.

“Joel?”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you for the necklace.”

~

It’s night when you next wake, and Joel is next to you. 

For someone so stern and strong, he looks utterly serene in his sleep. His lips are slightly parted, half his face pressed into the pillow, his hair curling around his ears and his arm lazily draped over you. You gently sweep a lock of hair away from his face. 

Through the dark, the red light beams, and the arm around your waist tugs you closer.

THE END.

[rnarvelboi]

'𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐰.

pairing: contractor!joel miller x f!reader

genre: no outbreak au, modern au, explicit smut, minors dni

word count: 3k

summary: joel is used to asshole clients, and when one of them calls him an old man and basically demands him to finish his girlfriend's kitchen in time, he expects you to be the same. But you're the opposite. when he learns how you've been treated, he comes up with a plan to get back at your boyfriend.

warnings: hints of reader being in a toxic relationship, age gap, daddy kink, piv, dirty talk , revenge sex and filming it, infidelity (reader cheating on her bf), praise kink

a/n: This was completely spontaneous, normally I was going to finish one of the haunted hoedown entries but I saw a ✨ s p i c y ✨ video and instantly got up to write this because that video was something else I tell you. Sucks that they don't credit those things on twitter so I can find more of the guy he was also older hence the age gap fgbgfbf

thank you to @johnwatsn for beta'ing this (and sorry for all the typos lmaodfbfg) and thank you to @pedrorascal for the stunning gif 💜

“I’m not paying extra if you do overtime, old man. You said a week and you’ll finish in a week. I don’t care if your knees hurt or you have a heart attack in the middle of hammering a nail—you finish my girlfriend’s kitchen in time. Got it?”  

Joel had a lot of unpleasant customers. John was just one of many but his comment had stuck with him. And it wasn’t the rude comments or the tone that basically told Joel that John thought of him as dog shit; no, it was none of that. It was the old man that had bugged him. The hissed comment of his age slithering under his skin and agitating his body. 

Joel knew that it only bothered him because it was true. He was an old man. His daughter in her last year of college, doing her absolute best and growing while he was getting old. His skin creasing at the eyes every time he laughed and his hair more salt than pepper. 

The thoughts continuing to swirl in his head, with a sigh, he knocks on the door of John’s girlfriend, expecting a woman as equally as unpleasant and demanding. 

You’re far from what he expected. Your smile is bright, your eyes kind and lips looking soft and shiny. Joel has trouble gathering himself when you extend a hand, not a care in the world. His eyes drop to where your sweetheart neckline pushes your breasts together, slightly spilling over the fabric. His mouth goes dry, cock twitching under the denim. 

Guess some parts of him didn’t get the memo that he was an old man now. 

“Joel, right?” you ask, voice unsure and timid. Your eyes gradually take in the height of him, moving to explore the broadness of his shoulders and stopping at his eyes. “John mentioned you.” 

Joel’s stomach suddenly turns sour, it’s enough for him to snap out of the sudden lustful gaze he found himself in. He grabs your hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “That’s right. Joel Miller at your service, ma’am.” 

He might be imagining it, but he swears your breath hitches just a little when he takes your hand. 

“How chivalrous,” you smile and move to the side. “Come on in, Mr. Miller.” 

“Joel is just fine,” he grunts, reminded of the old-age comment. How young were you, he wonders. Late twenties, early thirties? He has no idea. He’s also not sure if he wants to know. 

You close the door behind him and nod, “Alright then Joel,” you step in front of him, walking towards what he assumes is the kitchen. Joel dutifully follows. “I’m sure John told you about what needs to be done, so hopefully you don’t have any questions.” 

He raises an eyebrow at that, confusion swirling in his expression. You don’t turn to look at him, entering the kitchen, you continue, “I had something else in mind originally but he told me to trust him so... I guess that’s what I’m doing now.” 

“That don’t sound right,” Joel mumbles. He gives the area a once over, he sees a lot of pink, clean, and polished furniture. The windows are large, allowing the sun to bathe everything within. He vaguely remembers John mentioning a dark, minimalist look but he wasn’t really listening at the time. “Isn’t this your kitchen?” 

Your shoulders raise at his question and you finally turn to face him, kind eyes now tainted with a hint of sadness, “It’s going to be our kitchen soon. He probably thinks it’s too girly.” 

“That’s no reason to leave you out of the design process,” Joel answers, taking a step closer. You smile helplessly with a shrug, your eyes dropping to his lips before averting them. His pulse races, something wicked forming in his head. He stops an inch away from you, a mere breeze would’ve been enough for your bodies to touch but he keeps still and so do you. You’re flustered, he can tell. “You wanna tell me what you had in mind?” 

Your eyes briefly go wide, something like shame crossing your face but the expression is quickly replaced by understanding, “Oh the design,” you murmur, voice barely a whisper. “I honestly would’ve loved some more counter room since I love to bake.” 

“Well, you’re in luck darlin’ because I don’t remember much of the details your boyfriend gave me,” he smiles when your brows furrow with confusion. “Meanin’ you have to lead me with the design.” 

He swears your smile is the brightest damn thing he’s seen in a long while. 

It’s the last day of the constructions in your kitchen but you’re not thinking of the new kitchen counter or the new cupboard, all you’re thinking of is Joel’s proposition, and how you were soaked with just the mere thought of it. 

You and Joel had grown close during the time he fixed up your kitchen. Surprisingly, you actually went with the design you initially wanted and not the one John had in mind. You knew it would lead to a fight and some part of you was glad—John was meant to be perfect but it was only on paper. He was a dream boat when in public and amongst friends, but alone? Not a chance. He belittled you, hated almost all your hobbies and always made unnecessary comments on what you looked like. 

Despite yourself, you had blabbed all of that to Joel. He made you feel safe, and the fact that he was very pleasant to look at helped. He didn’t say much but you could tell that he was livid, which secretly made you pleased. It was good to see that how John treated you wasn’t actually the norm. 

You loved watching him work. The way sweat would slide all the way down to his neck and how his muscles would tense, straining the fabric of his shirt. 

He told you about how John had treated him, confessed he thought you would be the same. Your insides had boiled with anger. You apologized profusely and he just shook it off, saying it wasn’t your fault. 

Then the kiss had happened. 

It had happened on a particularly bad day. You were upset, filled with negative emotions to the brim and all you wanted was unconditional comfort. You kissed him, he didn’t stop you until your hand reached for his belt. 

“I wanna show that asshole how amazin’ you are,” he had said. “Will you let me?” 

At the time you hadn’t known what he meant by that. 

But now you do. 

“Look into the camera, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth pressed against your ear. You shudder, your bare body feeling good against his, like you were made for him. Your pussy throbs and drools all over his cock that slides agonizingly slow between your folds. You try to do as he says but it’s just too hard when your eyes are constantly on the brink of rolling back into your skull. He drags his lips down your neck as his large hands knead your breasts, your nipples achingly hard. “Don’t make me say it again, honey. Don’t make me be mean when you’re such a good girl.” 

“Oh, fuck—” your body shudders, lashes fluttering as you stare right into the camera with a lost expression. You see yourself, Joel right behind you. You don’t know how but he looks even taller while his body splays over yours, bending you over. He presses his palm over your forehead, forcing the arch of your back. Your inner thighs are soaked, his cock moving between your legs. You see the flash of the glistening head every time he rocks himself forward. 

He looks into the camera and your entire body clenches with want, “Look at that,” he hums, laving your neck in open-mouthed wet kisses. “Your girlfriend already going stupid with my cock. Not so bad for an old man huh?” 

Joel’s lips stretch menacingly, eyes shining  with amusement. Letting go of your forehead, he pushes both your tits closer to the camera, thumbs moving over the pebbled flesh. You moan loudly and your legs quiver. 

“Sweet thing over here tells me you don’t let her ride you—I thought you were a dumbass before but now I think you’re a downright moron. Fuckin’ hell, who wouldn’t want such an eager thing jumpin’ up and down his cock.” 

You whimper, eyes going teary. Your heart races wildly in your chest. “J—Joel, please. . .” 

“Hear  that, John,” he growls, the tremble of each word reverberating into your skin. “She’s beggin’ for my cock. Ain’t that right, darlin’?” 

You nod but it’s not enough for him, not enough for Joel. “Don’t be shy now, tell him. He ever got you this wet?” 

“N-No,” you breathe out and maniacally shake your head. “N-Never.” 

“Poor thing,” he clicks his tongue. “Poor poor thing. Don’t worry, daddy’s got you now. Doesn’t he?” 

“Yes,” you slur, pushing back your hips. “Fuck me, fuck me—Fuck me, daddy, please.” 

“Say it again,” his teeth sink into your skin. “One more and I’ll fuck you.” 

“Daddy,” you moan, eyes rolling back. “Daddy, need you, need your cock. Fuck me, please.” 

He hums in satisfaction, “Well, since you asked so darn nicely,” Joel kisses your temple and his lips move over your skin as he speaks to the camera, “Looks like she’s my girl now, my good girl.” 

When he buries himself into you, inch by inch, your jaw goes slack and your nipples go tight. You forget about the camera, about John who’ll see this. You only think of him. He stretches you to your very limit, his cock thick and hard. It takes you everything not to move your hips. You want Joel to tell you what to do. You want him to fuck you so good that your mind will go blank as you start bouncing on his cock. His one hand grips your waist firmly as the other remains underneath your breast, the sensitive flesh spilling over his hand while holding you. 

“How does it feel?” he murmurs into your ear, his cruel teasing from earlier gone. 

“Good,” you whimper, squeezing him tight. “So fucking good, the biggest I’ve ever had.” 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he kisses the skin behind your ear. “Such a filthy mouth on such an innocent lookin’ girl. You were wasted on that jackass.” 

He knocks the air from your lungs before you can answer. The drag of his cock like lightning searing your skin. He fucks you hard, almost angrily, but you know it’s not directed at you. Never at you. The smack of his balls against your ass fills the bedroom, and you’re positive the phone is recording every wet, filthy sound. It doesn’t take much for Joel to reduce you into a withering mess, every word forgotten, his hips relentless as he fucks deeper and deeper into you. 

Then suddenly you’re tilting back, his arm an anchor around your stomach as you find yourself between his thighs sitting on his lap. Your eyes move to the screen, you look perfect between his legs, the muscles tensing and flexing as he grinds his hips. Your skin pleasantly burns. 

“Come on, sweetheart, show him what he’s been missin’ out on.” 

Joel leans back, palm planted firmly on your mattress with pretty pink flowers that John hates. 

Your body takes control, your brain swimming in a fog of lust and pleasure. You grip his thick thighs, bracing yourself, you begin to move up and down his cock. He fills you beautifully. His gaze is fixed on the tiny camera, staring directly into it as you try your best to please him. Arousal coils tight in your stomach. Your breasts sway with your every move, your body coating him in shiny slick. 

“A throne for a princess,” he groans, eyes moving from the camera to your reflection on the screen. Fire burns down your spine. His gaze and presence alone choking the air from your lungs. You twist yourself to get a better look at him, catching his gaze momentarily, you moan wantonly at the sight. Him only sitting, relaxed while you’re breaking down sends jolts of electricity up and down your spine. You sit wholly, grinding down while keeping his cock buried deep inside, searching for that devastating spot inside you. 

The world around you becomes a bright white when you do. 

Your ears start ringing, and you begin to shake, legs clamp together as you shudder around the length of him. A choked sound between laughter and bewilderment tears from your throat. Your body moves of its own accord now, helplessly bouncing on his cock, the bulbous head grazing against a certain spot that just makes you want more and more and more—

“Yes yes yes yes,” you chant. Joel’s head disappears from view everytime you move up. You hear his moans, they become louder and louder, his southern drawl becoming prominent the more fucked out he gets. 

His sounds only spur you on, making you ride him harder, sweat beading at your tailbone. Your pussy swallows him hungrily, every inch of him without protest. While you’re absolutely lost on his cock, you notice him tilting his head so he’s in view again. You hold your breath. His mouth parts, the tip of his tongue touching the corner of his lips, he gives the camera a taunting look. Joel’s expression turns into a half smile and he wraps his arms around you. One going over right above your breasts and the other around your stomach. His hand cups the side of your neck. He drags his mouth down and up your cheek. 

“Come on, pretty girl,” he rasps, kissing you. You look to the camera, hips slowing but not stopping. “Yes, pretty girl, just like that,” another kiss. “Look at that pretty girl getting fucked.” 

Joel squeezes your breast as  his arm comes down, both of them now tight around your stomach. You feel him pulsing deep inside you. His voice is thick with arousal. “Look how beautiful you are on my dick. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” 

You nod and grind against him, loving how deep he feels. He kisses your neck, tongue tracing shapes into your skin as both his hands come up to your tits and squeezes them, the plump flesh spilling from between his knuckles. His lips move down your shoulder and back up your neck, following the same path over and over again, decorating it with slow kisses. 

Joel gives the camera one last look before disappearing behind you,  fingers sprawled over your stomach and down between your legs. You feel the rough hairs between your shoulder blades first, then the softness of his lips follows through. Your eyes flutter closed and your head falls back, his mouth is so goddamn soft, the skin tingling and burning at the same time. 

His hips snap up, and with the sudden movement, a fresh wave of wetness coats his cock. You lean forward, face closer to the camera, while he lays back, watching hungirly at the way your ass moves. 

“Yeah, just like that,” he groans, smacking both your asscheeks simultaneously. 

Then before you know it he’s moving, pressing you fully over the table in front of you, the phone shaking as he begins to hammer into you. You can’t even see what you look like anymore, your head dropping, you cry out his name. If it wasn’t for his hands on your hips, you would’ve collapsed to the ground. 

“That’s it, come on my cock,” he nips at your shoulders. “Fuck, you’re so fucking wet—can you hear that? Can you hear how fuckin’ soaked your girlfriend is on an old man’s cock?” 

It takes you a second to realize he’s not talking to you, but the camera. You flutter around him, squeezing him tight enough that he moans, hips slowing. “Daddy,” you gasp. And with that, you finally let go, cunt gushing around him, coating him with slick. Joel peppers your back with soft, quick kisses, whispering praise between every kiss. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, bet you never came that hard before. Good girl—my good fuckin’ girl, wettin’ my cock so well.” 

You tighten and gush around him a second time, you swear by how hard you’re clenching your insides most likely have taken the shape of him. 

“Where do you want me?” he whispers into your skin. Words coming muffled and hoarse, dripping slow like molasses. You push back against him, looking into the camera with a small smile. 

“Inside me, daddy, please.” 

“Oh shit—” he picks up the pace, the thrust of his hips sloppy and needy. “Shit shit shit—so fuckin’ perfect, so good for allowin’ this old man to wreck her good—So good for tellin’ me to fill her up—fuck—” 

You’re blindsided by how honest he suddenly is, the rasp of his voice going straight between your legs. His hips stutter and Joel comes with a loud, thick moan, spilling into you. You moan right alongside him. He continues to rock into you with shallow thrusts, laying kisses on every patch of skin his lips can reach. 

While you’re lost in complete bliss, he reaches around you and grabs the phone, stopping the recording before collapsing back to the bed, pulling you along with him. 

“You feel so good,” he says, cock softening inside. You feel his come trickling down from between your thighs and shiver. 

“You feel good too,” you say, wrapping your arms around him and covering his lips with your own. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.” 

“Guess this old man still has some tricks up his sleeve,” he chuckles weakly and you press another kiss, this time on his cheek. “We don’t have to by the way.” 

“Don’t have to what?” 

“Send the video.” 

You stare at the phone for a second, brows furrowed as you think. Then with a quick shrug, you turn back to him. “Nah, let him see it. I could’ve forgiven how he treated me but not you.” 

He clicks his tongue with disapproval, “You shouldn’t forgive him for how he treated you either, darlin’. You deserve better.” 

“Well, I guess you’re just going to have to prove it me then,” you smile and with a sudden impulse, boop his nose. He laughs, nipping the pad of your finger. 

“I guess I will.”  

[rnarvelboi]

Din Djarin: Copy That

1.5k

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader (afab/she/her)

Excerpt: “Did you hear what I said, mesh’la?”You waited, heart pounding in your skull.

“We’re all alone. Now I can talk your pretty head off all to myself.”

Warnings: MAJOR dirty talk, swearing, depictions of sexual bodily reactions, praise kink on both ends, Din’s a bit dom in some parts but so is reader, probably incorrect spaceship talk, and Din Djarin just cannot keep it in his pants

A/N: First fic of 2023, and definitely not a pregame before the epidemic (pun intended) that I can only presume Joel Miller is about to have on me and my writing. I hope you all enjoy :)

Pedro Masterlist

If you’d like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be greatly appreciated <3

(GIF gotten from Pinterest (I think))

You felt his breath heave and his thighs clench as he lifted you into the air and—delicately—placed you into the pilot’s seat of his brand-new ride. You knew it was brand-new because you had hammered in the last panel seconds before 

“Mando—”

“You get first drive,” he said, setting you in the seat and buckling you in. 

“But, I have never—"

“My new ship, my rules. This is happening.”

Keep reading

[rnarvelboi]

Significant

Summary: Din has been calling you riduur for months. You finally find out what it means, and get a little more than you bargained for.

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!Reader

Word Count: ~5.1k

Warnings: pining, absolute FOOLS in love, bit of grumpy x sunshine, lil angsty, possibly incorrect lore, fluff, lots of Mando'a (translations for the Mando'a at the end)

A/N: Happy Mandalorian Eve!! This is based on a short drabble I wrote, which you can find here! It's not necessary to read it first, though of course I recommend it! The reader and Din have been traveling together for a long time, and after removing his armor in front of the reader for the first time began calling them riduur.

“Riduur.” 

It may as well be your name, the way you turn at the sound of that word. 

“Din,” you return, adjusting the child’s little sleeve which had fallen down past his hand.

“Are you ready?” He asks as he tilts his head to the side. 

You smile and turn back to Grogu. “Dad’s impatient today, isn’t he?” The child coos up at you, lifting tiny arms, ready to be picked up. “Yeah, he is.”

“I’m not impatient,” Din grumbles lowly.

You raise a brow at that and lift Grogu into your arms. “You’re always impatient, Mando.” His head jerks to the side at your assessment.

You have to bite back a laugh. In truth, he is incredibly patient. Most of the time, and especially when it came to you and Grogu. The only time you’ve seen him truly lose his temper was with the Jawas, and really, that couldn’t be helped. 

The child reaches for Din when you turn back to him, and the Mandalorian immediately holds out his arms to take him from you. You deposit the little green baby there before grabbing your shawl. “Yes, we’re ready,” you finally answer. 

The baby gets tucked into the pouch at Din’s hip, before he descends the ship’s ramp out into the desert air that awaits you. 

You roll your eyes gently. 

Not impatient, but not entirely patient either. 

You follow, wrapping the light material around your shoulders. 

It’s subtle, but he does wait for you, his pace slower than if he were alone. His right elbow ticks out a fraction, and you smile before cupping your hand there. He would never ask you to take his arm, still the offer is usually there if he can accommodate it. 

He relaxes a little when you fit your hand against his bicep. “Supplies only,” he reminds you, ever practical. 

“Supplies only,” you agree. “Unless I see something for Grogu.” 

“The child is becoming spoiled,” he complains lightly. “We won’t have enough room in the ship soon.” 

You shrug and tighten your grip on his arm. You like the way he says we. So, you return with, “That’s just because our child deserves the best.” 

Din’s spine straightens a fraction and his shoulders tilt back. 

He’s somehow both stoic and incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. You can tell, just by the slope of his shoulders or the exact angle of the helmet or the precise way he stands or walks, exactly what and how he’s feeling. 

Or, maybe you’ve just spent too much time around him. 

Maybe, you just know him too well. 

And right now, he’s swollen with pride. Though you don’t know if it's because you’ve complimented the way he takes care of the child or if it were something else. Something in the way you said our.  

It’s not long before you reach the market, and Din sighs as soon as it comes into view. It’s much larger than the ones you normally frequent, a riot of color and sound that you both know you won’t be able to resist. The town seems to be in the midst of some kind of festival. 

The smell of fried food greets you before you’ve even breached the perimeter of the town, and your mouth waters. Something better than rations awaited you there. 

Din is single minded though, and you know he’ll immediately make for the most boring of the stalls and shops. 

Supplies only, after all, is what you’d come for. 

“Mando,” you remove your hand from his arm and he immediately halts at the loss of your touch and turns to you. “I’m going to go look around.” 

He stares at you, helmet tilting down. He doesn’t like telling you no, and knows it wouldn’t matter if he did anyways. But, he worries and so it takes a moment for him to reply. “Don’t go far,” he advises. “Do you have a comlink?”

“Yes.” 

“A weapon?” 

You pretend to search your person, “Hm, what’s that again?” 

“Riduur,” he reprimands your teasing. 

That word makes the inside of your skin light up pleasantly. Riduur. If only you knew what it meant. 

You’ve started to assume it means something similar to cyare or cyar'ika. But he’d had no problem telling you what those words meant. Darling and sweetheart and beloved. He’d had no problem telling you he was calling you beloved. 

But he no longer calls you cyare or cyar'ika. Since the first time he’d called you riduur, the day he removed his armor in front of you for the first time, he’d solely begun calling you riduur. 

Even your name is becoming a rarity from his lips. 

“Udesii! Yes,” you cross your arms. “You know I took care of myself for a very long time without you and nothing ever happened. I’ll be okay.” 

Din doesn’t answer, just sighs and gives a curt nod and marches off towards a shop selling medical supplies. 

The dramatics of it all makes you giggle. You like teasing him, especially because he thinks he hides how flustered you make him well. 

Although you enjoy traveling with the Mandalorian, alone time has become a complete rarity. You were always with Din, or watching your little green menace.

You eat your way through a couple of different stalls selling food, bundling up second and third servings to keep for Din and Grogu. 

Din wouldn’t think to get anything beyond rations. Both you and the child like a little more variety, where Din treats the act of eating like a maintenance routine. 

You drift past stalls hawking trinkets and jewelry, fending off the sellers as you crunch something sweet and sour you’d picked up at the last food stall, not entirely sure what it is.  

Textiles are next, bolts of cloth you run your fingers over but mourn not being able to afford. Still, it's nice to browse, nice to feel normal. The Mandalorian isn’t hunting someone for once, and you aren’t trapped in the interior of the ship, stale recycled dry air burning your nostrils. 

A little supply stop has become a little welcome relief. It’s giving you the chance to stretch your legs, to explore. 

Still, your mind drifts back to Din, the way he calls you something he would not name to you.

You’ve searched before, in other markets, on other worlds, for the answer to your question. What does that word mean and why won’t Din tell you? 

You’d tried to convince him once or twice, with gentle words whispered in his ear, when the helmet was off and your hands were pressed against his skin, the contours of his face still a mystery to you. 

Once, you’d felt the skin of his cheeks go hot beneath your hands when you told him he used his tongue so prettily, couldn’t he use it to tell you what riduur meant? 

He’d mumbled something else in Mando’a but had not explained himself. 

You can understand most of that he says now, but because he’s the only other speaker, you have to rely on him to tell you what new words and phrases mean.

Because the Mandalorians are such an insular people, you never come across any other speakers you could ask. There are no dictionaries to Basic that you could download and peruse. 

It’s frustrating, especially since the word seems to be laden with something heavy. Din says it with reverence, with a softness that doesn't cut through the rest of his words. His voice is softer when he speaks Mando’a anyways, but that word is held with a reverence on his tongue, like it’s precious. 

The only other time you had heard him use that tone was when he once called Grogu ad’ika, which meant child. 

You’ve almost given up on knowing, resigned to that fact that you may never know and he may never tell you.

Whatever it means, you’re sure it's important. You just don’t know why.

The market is loud, boisterous and colorful. Music floats through the air, shouts and laughter. 

It’s nice, it makes you smile and you wish you’d taken the child with you because you’re sure he’d have much more fun with you than with Din picking out rolls of bandage and rations and pulse rifle cartridges if he can find someone that has some. 

You stop suddenly in your tracks when you hear a conversation in a language you immediately recognize, the familiar syllables cutting through the afternoon chatter. 

You spin and find two men in robes speaking gently to each other in Mando’a. Before you can stop yourself, your feet have already carried you to their table where they sit sipping cups of caf. 

“Su cuy'gar,” you greet. They both look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at you. “Sorry to bother you. You speak Mando’a?” 

One smiles, “Yes. Of the few outsiders that do, I think.” 

“Were you foundlings?” It’s the only way, you think, that they could have learned it. 

“Once,” the older of the two says. “This one learned it at a university.” 

You can’t help the curiosity that burns through you, “At a university? Really?” 

“Only the very barest basics. From a woman being courted by a Mandalorian,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was a long time ago. Really I learned from him.” He gestures between himself and the other man. 

You shake yourself, “I’ve just never met another aruetii that does.” Let alone two of them, you think dizzily. Two outsiders who spoke Mando’a. 

“And how did you learn?” 

“My…” you trail off. 

Your what? You aren’t sure what exactly Din is to you, or what you are to him. You never have been. He treats you like you’re more precious than beskar, yet everything between you remains undefined. 

“My traveling companion. He’s a Mandalorian.” You swallow, “I wonder if you could tell me if you know what a certain word means? It’s one I’ve been curious about.” You don’t want to tell them that you’re seeking it out because it's something he calls you. That feels too private, too close to the chest. “He said it once and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” 

“It would wound my pride. He’s already taught me so much. He overestimates my fluency.” 

They laugh and the man who was once a foundling says, “Yes, ask us then.” 

“Riduur,” you say, carefully pronouncing it so they don’t mistake it for another word. “Riduur,” you repeat with more confidence. 

The men glance at each other, brows raised. “Well, it has several meanings,” the more grizzled of the two says, “But I suppose it's all the same in the end. Spouse would be the most overarching translation. Partner, wife, and husband all work too.” 

For a moment, you can’t breathe, you’re sure your heart has come to a leaping halt in your chest. “Truly? Riduur?” You say it again, just to make sure. They laugh and nod and you decide to have your meltdown away from their table. “Well, thank you for clearing that up. Sorry again to bother you.” 

You turn away from them, a roaring in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest. Riduur. He’s been calling you his partner, his spouse, for months? That word so softly spoken to you - to tease you, to call for you, whispered to you in the dark, said over and over, more than your own name. It meant partner, spouse, wife, husband?

Something inside you lights up with pride. The shape of it is warm, firm in the clasp of your lungs. Riduur. It’s a living, breathing kind of word, one that takes up space inside you. One you’re proud to bear the weight of, the title of. 

Spouse, you think, doesn’t carry the same gravitas as riduur. There’s something heavier and deeper in the word that a translation couldn’t really carry over into Basic. 

You start back down the road, smiling to yourself, but only make it several paces when Din steps up beside you silently from between two stalls. “Dank farrik,” you gasp, stumbling back. “Where did you come from? You scared me.” 

He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t even tilt his head towards you. You may as well have not spoken at all. 

“Mando?” 

Still, he doesn’t answer you. 

You raise a brow but don’t say anything else as he herds you gently out of the market, desert dust swirling around your calves. Eventually, when you reach the edge of the town, he asks, “Did you find everything you need?” His voice is flat, rough. 

“Yes, I got some food for you and Grogu to try. A little feast for you tonight, since it won’t hold.”

He merely grunts and you frown. “Is something wrong?” You glance over your shoulder. “Did something happen? Are we being followed?”

You glance around his legs at the baby, still securely in the brown canvas bag, who’s peering up at both of you with anxious eyes, big ears drooping. 

“No.” He answers curtly. 

The walk back to the ship is silent, and tense, and you aren’t sure why. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of the mouth of the ship’s ramp, with the baby in your arms, that your irritation spills over. “Are you upset with me? I didn’t wander. I stayed close and had a weapon and -,” 

Din’s hands go to his hips, helm tilting at an angle as he regards you. His voice is agitated when he finally speaks. You expect him to tell you that you wandered too far, that he commed you and you hadn’t picked it up, that you’d unknowingly wandered into danger. And you expect to have to tell him once again that it's all fine, that you are fine, that you’d traveled without him for years and things always turned out alright. 

Instead, he says, “You should not call yourself an aruetii. That is not what you are.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t register with you what he’s talking about, that he’d clearly overheard your conversation with the Mando’a speakers, likely eavesdropped on it. 

All you are, for a few seconds, is confused. “But…I am an aruetii. I am not a Mandalorian.”

Din’s shoulders go stiff at your words. “That does not make you an outsider. You…you are far from an outsider,” he growls and suddenly spins away from you, his footfalls heavy and loud when he stomps across the hull.

He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and disappears, leaving both you and the baby alone, still standing on the ramp up to the ship. “He’s angry with me,” you say in disbelief, glancing down at the child in your arms, not really understanding why. “We’ll let him cool off,” you decide, bouncing the child against your waist. “Hungry?” 

The baby coos and you smile, worry biting into you as you settle with him in the mouth of the ship. The sun is setting on the sand, the air warm, casting red shadows over the world. There’s nothing around you but sand in any direction you glance, aside from the town from which you’d come on the horizon. 

In the distance, fireworks from the town explode in the sky. You point them out to Grogu, gently feeding him bites of food that you’d gotten at the market. He makes a sound that you suppose is a giggle, big eyes focused on the colors dissipating in the sky. He holds a tiny hand up, like he’d like it to fly to him. 

You curl a hand over his. “None of that,” you say with a laugh. “Those are meant for the stars, not you.” 

He goes back to eating, already distracted. 

A weight settles over your chest.

If Din heard you call yourself aruetii then he knows that you now know what riduur means. 

Maybe that was the true source of his irritation, that you’d gone behind his back to figure out what it meant when he clearly hadn’t wanted you to know.

You rub the tip of Grogu’s ear between your fingers and sigh. 

Any warm feelings you’d had are gone. 

Riduur. 

He’s been calling you that for months. But he hadn’t wanted you to know that he was calling you his partner. For some reason it stings. 

The Mandalorian is not cruel, not the type to play with another’s feelings. But, nonetheless, it feels like he might have been. Teasing you in a way you couldn’t begin to guess at. Or, like he could pretend without actually attaching himself to you, and you’d be none the wiser. 

You shake those thoughts away, listening to the music echoing over the sands. 

When Grogu falls asleep and the sun is just disappearing behind the horizon, you secure the ramp of the ship and carry the baby up into the cockpit. 

Din sits silently in the pilot’s chair, and doesn’t look at you as you tuck the child into the floating pod. 

You fidget with his blanket, not sure what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” he breaks the silence first. “Ni ceta.” 

“Din,” you perch next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone poking around where I don’t belong. I’m sorry.” 

His head tilts toward you, the visor impenetrable. You swallow when he doesn’t answer, an inexplicable lump forming in the back of your throat. “Don’t belong?” 

“I shouldn’t have asked them what riduur meant. You didn’t want me to know.” 

Din stands and holds out a hand to you. You take it carefully and let him pull you to your feet. “That is not why I-,” he stops. “Do you really not know?” 

“Know what?” 

“I should have been…honest about the name I’ve given you.” He tilts his head and releases your hands. “I’m upset because-,” the Mandalorian pauses and seems to consider his next words for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and simply repeats, “You’re not an aruetii. By definition you can’t be.”

You stare at him for a long moment, before shaking your head. “I don’t understand.” 

He huffs, helm ticking to the side again. “Would you call Grogu an outsider?” 

“Of course not,” you answer, horrified. “No.” 

“And why is that? He’s not a Mandalorian either.” 

You don’t have to think about it, shaking your head before he’s even finished speaking. “He’s your child.” 

Din steps forward, close to you, but doesn’t say anything. “Our child,” he corrects eventually. “I am upset because you don’t seem to know you are a part of our clan. Even after knowing what I’ve been calling you. Riduur, ner riduur, for months. You still don’t know.”

Oh. Oh. 

“Osi'kyr,” you murmur softly. “How could I know that, Din?” 

He stands silent and still before you, so still you aren’t sure he’s breathing. “I thought it was clear,” he says stiffly. “I thought it was clear I was courting you.”

Something pleasantly warm settles in among your heart and lungs. “Maybe you should explain your customs to me more thoroughly,” you joke lightly. 

He doesn’t laugh, shoulders tense, hands curled in anxious fists. 

“So why not tell me what the word means?” It seems a bit past courting to you, to call someone riduur. It seems to you he’s already chosen you. 

He shifts from foot to foot, the movement somehow laden with vulnerability and worry. “If you did not…want the same - I’m not sure I could bear that.” 

You stare at him, not entirely sure what to say to that. “So, what,” you start, “you expected me to one day just realize you considered me your-,”

“I would have told you,” he interrupts quickly. “One day.” 

“Told me-,” 

“What riduur means,” he corrects. “And asked if you’d like to be that.” Din takes your hands again, “Just know that you are part of this clan, whatever your answer is.” His voice is so sincere, it breaks your heart a little. “Whether you want to be attached to me or not, you have a place in this clan. You are not an aruetii.”

You tilt your head at the same time he does, the nonverbal cues you both habit in reflecting between you. “I’m just a bit confused. Was that your idea of a proposal?” You smile so he knows you’re teasing him. 

Din gives a long suffering sigh. “Mandalorians do not propose.” 

“Oh. So what do you do then?” You lift a brow, sliding your hands to his wrists so you can work on tugging one glove off at a time. 

“We make an agreement,” he says, not trying to stop you. His voice is hoarse. “We make vows.”

You don’t look up, tucking the gloves in your belt before tracing your fingers along the veins in his wrists, the lines of his palms. “Oh. And did you make vows to me that I wasn’t aware of?” 

You’re still joking, but Din takes your words to heart. He shakes one hand loose from yours and presses it beneath your jaw, tipping your head gently back. “I did. I make vows to you everyday.” 

All the air seems to get sucked out of the ship. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out as you struggle to find words. He chuckles, low and breathy beneath the helmet. You imagine he must be smiling. “Now you see how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe.”

You finally manage to take a breath, lifting your chin away from his fingers, threads of embarrassment beating under your skin at his teasing. “You could have told me, you know.” 

“It was too large a risk. I wouldn’t risk you.”

Maybe you should hesitate in your next words. 

But you don’t. 

You’ve never been surer in something. 

“Din,” you step close to him. “I would take those vows.” 

“They…they are heavy vows. Not meant to be taken lightly. They’re bonding vows.”

He thinks you don’t get it, that you still don’t understand. “I understand what kind of vows they are. What are the vows?” You step even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours. 

He smells like sun, like spices from the market and oil on beskar. It makes you dizzy, the usual scent of him is much cooler. Evergreen and pine. 

The cockpit is dark, the very last dregs of light on the horizon gone. The contours of the helm are shadowed, the flicker of lights from the control panels reflecting in blinking lights over the visor. 

There is no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks. 

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.” 

You mouth the words, doing your best to translate them. 

But he’s spoken too quickly, and you only understand part of it. He waits for you to ask for him to translate, giving you a moment to attempt it instead of immediately telling you. 

“I only understand part…We are one together and-,”

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” he says easily. “We are - we are all of those things already. I have kept the promise I made.” 

Your throat is dry, and you can’t think about how that’s true. “We’re raising warriors?” You attempt a joke. 

“Would you not call the child a warrior?”

“I would,” you agree. “I would also still take those vows, now knowing their meaning.”

There’s a long pause in which you can feel the Mandalorian’s stare. His gaze is intense, assessing, hot against your skin. You patiently look back, waiting. “You don’t have to.”

“You think I don’t want to.” 

He huffs, “I…don’t want you to believe you have to make vows to me. You are a part of our clan no matter what.” 

“Would you still call me riduur?”

“If you allowed it,” he takes a breath. “Yes.” 

The lip of the helm drifts up and you can sense he’s no longer looking at you, embarrassed. “Din.” His head snaps back down. “I know I am not an outsider.” You wait for him to digest those words. “I know this is my clan now. I still would like to make these vows to you.” 

He reaches up and presses his palms to either side of your jaw, the crown of the helmet pressing softly against your forehead for just a moment when he dips his head. “If you’re sure, repeat after me. We’ll say them together.” 

“Elek,” you agree. 

“Mhi solus tome,” he starts, reverence and disbelief lodged in his voice. 

In the distance, more fireworks explode in the sky. The colors reflect in the glass of the ship’s front window, sparking over the reflective helmet. “Mhi solus tome,” you say slowly, careful to pronounce each word exactly right. 

You’d never imagined yourself as someone who would get married, and certainly not like this. 

But that was before you knew Din. And all this feels to you is right. It’s both sudden and not. 

This was meant to happen. All your years with the Mandalorian lead towards this. 

You repeat the rest of the vows after him, slow and deliberate. 

When the final syllable rolls off your tongue, a muted kind of joy overcomes you. You’ve been a part of it for a long time, but you feel it now, the belonging to a clan and people. 

Din releases you and leans back. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You close your eyes and reach for the edge of his helmet. 

You want to kiss him at the very least. 

But when your fingers skim over the release, he captures your wrists in one hand. You let go and Din reaches up with his opposite hand to take it off himself. 

You expect him to kiss you right away, but he doesn’t. You can only feel the lingering touch of his gaze. 

“Open your eyes.” 

“What? No-,” you begin to protest. 

“Yes. You can now, riduur.” The word rumbles out of him proudly, heavy in his mouth. 

You tilt your head and frown. “Are you-,” 

“This is the Way.” His voice warbles, just a little. 

“Are you sure?” You get the entire question out this time. 

Now it’s his turn to tease you. “No,” he says dryly. “I’ll change my mind after you open your eyes.” 

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “You’re very funny.” 

“Open them.” 

You think you might be more nervous than him to see his face. You honestly never thought you would get to, and you had long ago made peace with that. It didn’t matter to you what he looked like, you knew his heart and that was more than enough. 

You’ve tried to picture him before, from tracing your fingers over his face, but the image is only half formed and without detail. It felt wrong, somehow, too, to try to picture the face of someone who deliberately hid it. 

 Slowly, you peek your eyes open at him. Whatever you had pictured is nothing compared to the man you find yourself gazing at. 

A sense of vertigo sweeps through you, because it's almost like looking at a stranger. 

You have to resist the urge, for just a moment, to tear yourself away from him. 

His hair is darker in color than you thought it would be, but just as feathery and lightly curled as you imagined. Din’s eyes are dark, a deep brown that you’d like to spend lifetimes memorizing, falling inside. You were right too, from your explorations of his face with your hands, about the shape of his nose, his mustache, the patchy beard. You’d pictured his eyes all wrong, the shape of jaw.

One thing you couldn’t have guessed at is the naked expressiveness in his eyes. 

It makes sense though, he’s spent a lifetime without the need to school his features into anything other than exactly what he was feeling. 

You wonder how many times he’s looked at you with such longing, and you never knew. 

He says your name, a question mark tagged onto the end of it, his voice wrecked and strange without the modulator muffling his voice. 

The sound of his voice rips the upside down feeling away. It’s his voice, it’s him. Not some handsome stranger. 

Your eyes flit up from where your gaze had lingered on his lips, the pink shape of his mouth against golden skin. “I was right.” 

He frowns, eyes soft and worried. It shocks you again, just how open his emotions read in his eyes. “About what?” 

“I knew you were pretty. You are pretty,” you tease, pressing yourself against him, the hard contours of him biting into you. You fist your hands into the fabric at his sides. “Mesh’la.” 

Din frowns at you. “I told you that means beautiful, didn’t I?” His voice is playful and doesn’t match his expression. 

You nod and don’t answer, reaching up to cup your hand against his cheek. Din’s arm settles easily around your waist, dragging you closer, the weight of his helm in his hand heavy against your hip. Normally, you’d let him close the distance between you but you can’t quite manage to let him now, gazing instead at the planes of his face. “Mesh’la,” you tell him. “Ner riduur.” 

“That’s my line.” 

“Not anymore,” you tease. “Husband.”

You tip your chin into his and wait for him to meet you there. 

He gives a slight smile before leaning into you. “Not husband. Riduur.” 

“Right,” you agree, because really, it isn’t quite the same. It can’t be. “Ner riduur.” 

The kiss lingers long on your lips. He’s savoring you, a warm passion that doesn’t quite extend into heat. Din’s tongue meets yours briefly, the groan it tugs from his mouth sending flashes of lightning all the way down to your toes. 

The fireworks outside are no rival for the feelings clawing up the back of your throat. 

You want to tell him you love him, but you think he already knows. 

He breaks away to set his helmet down. When he turns back to you, his hands roam over you, free in their movement, tugging at the band of your trousers. 

You can’t stop staring at him, suddenly overwhelmed, drinking in the sight of him, the naked expression of him, everything he’s thinking spread over his face like a well loved language. 

All you’d wanted was to know the name he gifted you, instead - this. 

You map your hand over his face, tracing the divot between his brows, the curve of one sharp cheekbone. “I never thought I would see your face,” you whisper. 

Those soft, vulnerable eyes meet yours, arm wrapping around you again, as his bare forehead presses to yours, “And I always knew you would.” 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!

If you want more of Din and his riduur, Significant-verse drabbles can be found here!

Translations:

Riduur - spouse, partner, wife, husband

Ner riduur - my spouse, partner, wife, husband

Cyare - beloved

Cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart

Udesii - Relax, take it easy

Ad’ika - little one, baby

Su cuy'gar - Hello

Aruetii - outsider, foreigner, traitor

Ni ceta - an apology, rare

Osi'kyr - exclamation of surprise

Elek - yes

Mesh’la - beautiful

[rnarvelboi]

Din Djarin: Oxytocin

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Request: via @feministfanboi  “ Shut up shut up shut up this is SO HOT I need moreeeee I need the hunt riling him up so that she asks him to use her to let off team (steam) and then once they wind down a bit he takes his time making her come undone more the way he wants to treasure her (bonus points if the armor stays on the first round but he walks her through taking it off him afterwards). I’m so happy I found your writing and can’t wait to read everything you’ve written for the hottest tin can.”

Excerpt: “The granite was cold against your legs, causing you to release a small gasp. Din sat you down quickly and held you by your waist, pressing his chest against your own. The metal was lukewarm through your shirt.

“Tell me you don’t want me to stop,” he whispered, using one hand to keep you steady and the other to pry open his weapons belt.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you replied, and his belt dropped to the floor. He began removing his pants next.“

Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.”

“Good,” he responded, a husk already in his voice. “Because I fucking need this.”

Warnings: smuuuuuut, dom din but actually dom reader, rough sex, unprotected sex, kind of a size kink, descriptions of scarring and concussions, swearing, very off canon, zero foreplay, probably unsanitary fingering, a soft ending.

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: Thank you for your patience on this request @feministfanboi I hope you like it.

Pedro Masterlist 

If you would like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

You had known the Mandalorian for a decade, but Din Djarin for only a month.

And it had been the best month of your life. 

Keep reading

[rnarvelboi]

Keep It Down

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut/Angst with some fluff sprinkled in there ✨

Warnings: Self pleasure, caught in the act, jealous/protective Din, 18+

AN: some good ol Jealous!Din for the girlies 😌 It's such a stereotypical fic gang I'm gonna be so real with you lmao. It's also a long one so prepare for the worst typos you've ever witnessed.

PS I haven't seen S3 yet but I got back into the hype 💁‍♀️

18+ minors dni

It had been quite some time since you were able to have a moment to yourself. So long, in fact, that you couldn't remember the last time you did anything for yourself that was even remotely relaxing. You had been stuck on one mission for months, scouring the corners of each galaxy for a specific target with an unreasonably high bounty over their head. Din kept telling you it would be worth it in the end, but you were beginning to doubt that sentiment about two months into the search.

After a very pleasant visit to Alderaan, you were able to snag something for yourself to help with some much needed "stress relief".

You did your best to hide it from Din, considering you really didn't want him to know you'd just purchased a vibrating self massager. They were hard to come by, so when you found a merchant that sold them discreetly, you knew you had to take the chance. After it was all said and done, and Din asked where you'd been while he was busy getting information about the target, it was hard to explain to him where you'd gone.

"And where have you been this whole time?" He asked as you approached him outside of a local bar.

"I was, um, chatting up some locals," You lied, trying to maintain some semblance of composure as he stared you down. "Wasn't able to find anything about the target. I don't think he's been here."

"Well, while you were busy wasting your time, I was able to find one of his distant relatives," He explained, "Turns out he has such a high bounty for more than just murder, he's a real piece of shit in the eyes of his family. She said she knows where he might be."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Tatooine."

You scoffed. "That's not far."

"Which means we need to leave soon," He explained, "There's a crew heading there in just a few hours."

"Okay, so who's the crew?" You asked, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why can't we just go on our own? The ship could make it."

"It could, but not that quickly," He sighed, "Their ship is a little more advanced. It'll get us there faster."

You shrugged, raising an eyebrow at him. "Have you talked to them?"

He nodded once and began to walk off, likely in the direction of the meeting place. "I have. That distant relative? She knows these guys, let me talk to one of them over her communicator. They said they'll take us there, no questions asked."

You followed closely, trying to match his pace. "I find that hard to believe."

"You find a lot of things hard to believe," He teased, nudging your shoulder with his own. "It's kept us out of a lot of trouble. Always liked that about you."

You tried not to react to the compliment- the last thing he needed was an ego boost- but internally, it made your heart flutter and your stomach feel heavy. You opted not to respond to this, hoping he wouldn't press.

Unfortunately, that only made it worse.

"Would it kill you to take a compliment every once in a while?" He asked, his tone annoyed.

"It might," You replied with a smile, "Never done it, so I don't know."

"Maybe you should try it some time," He scoffed back at you, causing you to roll your eyes.

Your relationship with Din was complicated to say the least. You knew from the start you had some kind of attraction to him- what kind, you weren't sure, but it was strong and unrelenting. His voice was dangerously enticing, leaving you shivering any time he spoke just above a whisper, and the mystery of his face only added to the excitement. You had no clue what he looked like under that helmet, but you didn't care at this point. It never occurred to you to fantasize about his appearance- the way he carried himself, his voice, his confidence, everything about him struck you more.

But you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little bit curious about the color of his eyes.

When the two of you finally arrived at the crew's headquarters, you gave him a skeptical look. The warehouse before you was old, rusting and decaying in every corner. It was discolored, looking to have once been a pale green. The roof had caved in in several places, and the stairs to the roof were a death trap waiting to collapse on any unsuspecting victims. Din took note of your expression, waving his hand once to dismiss it.

"Not a word," He commanded, "I don't want to hear it."

"All I'm saying-"

"Don't make me tell you twice, Y/N. I already know what you're going to say, so zip it."

Frowning, you folded your arms over your chest in a pout. You followed him inside, passing through a creaky metal door that you were sure would be better off as scrap metal. Din led the way, checking corners and keeping one hand close to his blaster. As you entered the warehouse, the smell of burning rubber invaded your nostrils, causing you to make a face. As you rounded a corner, a large, shiny silver ship sat in the center of the large open space.

It stood out like a sore thumb, clean and sparkling among the rubble. You both exchanged looks, watching as three people stood around the ship and chatted away. They didn't seem hostile, but you knew better than to underestimate them. You approached carefully, keeping an eye out for any others who might be hiding nearby. One of them took notice of you as you stepped under a light, giving you away.

"Hey, the Mandalorian is here!" He called out, waving excitedly at the two of you. The man was tall and thin, barely any meat on his bones but a smile that was charming in its own way. "He's got a friend! Come on over, you guys!"

Din glanced over at you slowly, and you returned his look with a shrug. As you walked over to the group, you took in the remaining two of the crew; a woman with short, dark hair, several tattoos, and a frown that would scare off anyone. The other, a man of similar stature to the first, wore round, thick glasses, and was covered in what appeared to be oil.

"Lera said you'd be coming soon," The man said, "What are your names? I'm Dom, that's Starsei, and this guy over here is my twin, Arus."

"Y/N," You greeted, offering a small smile, then gesturing to Din. "He won't tell you his name, just call him whatever you like."

Din nodded, affirming your words. Dom watched the two of you for a moment, a huge grin still plastered to his face. A fourth member of the crew emerged from underneath the ship, covered in more oil than Arus. His dark, straight hair clung to his forehead and his mouth hung open as he breathed heavily. Oil stuck to his bare torso as he offered the two of you a wave.

"And that's Nox," Dom said, an annoyed tone to his voice.

You couldn't help smiling at Nox- he was handsome, likely more handsome than most- with a wide jaw, dark stubble, and his body toned similarly to that of a God. You shifted your weight as he locked eyes with you, shooting you a half smile that gave you butterflies. Din stood beside you, moving closer as he noticed the tension that hung between you and the mystery man. Nox took note of Din as well, offering him a full smile.

"Have any trouble getting here?" He asked, his voice just as dreamy as he looked.

"No," Din said simply.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as the two of them held each other's gaze, as if a silent conversation was happening just between them. You cleared your throat and looked over to Dom, giving him a warm smile. "So, um, when do we leave?"

"As soon as you're ready," He replied, "We were just finishing up repairs on the ship, so you're welcome to head inside and make yourselves at home. We'll all be roommates for the next two days, so we'll do a big dinner tonight to get to know each other better."

"Sounds great," You said, your voice as friendly as you could muster. There was a clear rivalry brewing between Nox and Din, and you were trying to do everything in your power to alleviate the tension. "We'll head inside."

Din ignored you, still staring at Nox. Irritated, you grabbed his upper arm and began dragging him toward the ship, smiling at the others along the way. Nox caught your eye again and you smiled, hoping he wasn't intimidated by Din too much. Once inside the ship, you all but slammed Din against a wall once you were out of earshot of the others.

"What is wrong with you?" You asked.

"What's wrong with me?" He replied, his voice filled with anger. "What's wrong with you?"

"I haven't done anything wrong!" You said, shouting in a whisper. "You're the one acting crazy!"

"Oh, I'm the crazy one?" He laughed, "I'm not the one making doe eyes at strangers."

Your mouth hung open in shock. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Y/N," He went on, "This is serious. We don't know them. If he tries something because you couldn't help yourself, and everything goes sideways, this was all for nothing."

"Why do you care?" You asked, becoming annoyed with his reasoning. "He's hot, give me a break! I'm allowed to think people are hot, Din!"

He let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "We're on a mission, Y/N. This isn't the time."

"Well, it's been a long mission," You huffed, raising an eyebrow at him. "And I'm bored. The least I can do is have a little fun."

In truth, you hadn't even been planning on doing anything with Nox other than admire his good-looks. Your feelings for Din ran deep, and you weren't about to ignore those feelings for one good looking guy. If anything, you were hoping this would show Din that you weren't his, and that he had no claim over you. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough for him to come clean about his own feelings.

If he even had any for you, that was.

Once everyone was loaded up onto the ship and you'd set off, you found yourself relaxing on a very comfy couch in a very cramped lounge area. The ship was dimly lit, offering little light to help you find your way around, so you opted to sit down and wait until someone told you to do something. After a while, Arus found you, and decided to sit with you.

"So, uh, is your partner, um... Okay?" He asked quietly.

"He's fine," You said, waving your hand.

"What was he so angry about?"

You shrugged, trying not to give away what was really going on between you. "Beats me."

You decided to get to know Arus a bit, finding out that he and Dom were engineers that escaped from the Empire many years ago after faking their deaths. You learned that Starsei is their pilot, and she seems standoffish because she doesn't often speak. She was a prisoner of the Empire, who helped Dom and Arus escape many years ago. Nox is their newest recruit; also an engineer, but mostly specializes in communications. He also used to be a smuggler.

After a while of chatting back and forth, Nox joined the party, sitting between you and Arus.

"Seems like the Mandalorian isn't having a great time if I'm not mistaken," Nox joked, glancing over at you. "Thought he was gonna slit my throat after I saw him in the hall just now."

"He'll warm up to everyone eventually," You said with a small smile, "He's a little hesitant about new people."

"So, how long have you two been together?" Nox asked, wiggling his eyebrows at you. Shock took over your features and you laughed awkwardly at the gesture.

"We're not together," You stated, "We've been working together for a long time now. Maybe a year."

Nox seemed to ponder your response for a moment as Dom entered the room, knocking on the wall to get everyone's attention.

"Arus, we need you up front," Dom said in a soft voice. "Star could use some help."

Arus excused himself, leaving you with Nox in silence. You tried to relax, sinking into the sofa as much as you could to appear as non-threatening as possible. Nox did the same, leaning back and yawning as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. The only sound was the rush of the ship, shaking softly as it dove through space.

"I want to know more about you," Nox said after a moment, turning to meet your gaze. His green eyes were soft, but lidded. "Who is Y/N, exactly? Other than the Mandalorian's pet, I mean."

"I am not his pet," You scoffed, laughing slightly and hitting his upper arm before looking away. "We're friends, that's all."

"You might want to check on that with him," He replied, "He was ready to kill me earlier just for looking at you. I don't think that's a normal thing to do for someone who's just a friend."

Nox's hand came to rest on your knee, his palm open fully and his thumb gently stroking back and forth. "If I'm being honest, I think he could tell why I was looking at you, and I think that pissed him off."

When you met his gaze, a pit formed in your stomach. Nox was handsome, and charming, and clearly making a move on you. But... Something was wrong. It felt wrong. There was something about the way his hand felt on your knee that made your skin crawl, his voice made you cringe, and the entire setting was uncomfortable. It was hard to pinpoint exactly why, until you thought a little harder about it.

He wasn't Din.

"I... Think I should go," You said, standing from the couch and turning back to face him briefly. "Look, you seem nice. But I'm... I'm not interested."

He smirked up at you. "I knew it. You totally have a thing for each other."

Dom appeared in the doorway again, a huge grin on his face. "Who's ready to eat?"

-

After what felt like hours, you were finally able to step away from dinner to your quarters- Starsei showed you the way- closing the door behind you. You removed your gear, tossing it to the floor and sighing in relief at the loss of the heaviness. Removing the massager from your pocket, you walked to the bathroom and gave it a good wash, not trusting it after being in your pocket all day.

Once you returned to the room, you actually took in what it looked like. Star had told you that you and Din would have to share one room, which hadn't bothered you until you realized there was only one bed that sat in the center of the room, facing the door. It looked big enough for both of you, but still, you knew it would be an awkward conversation to have once he arrived.

The room was dimly lit- much like the rest of the ship- one wall light sitting above the door and casting a reddish glow over the entire room. The bed looked uncomfortable, with a thin, gray blanket sitting atop the mattress and two equally thin pillows where your heads would rest. It wasn't home, by any means, but it was a place to sleep.

With that, you laid down in the bed, shivering from anticipation. It had been a long time since you'd had enough privacy for something like this. Not bothering to remove your pants, you slowly lowered your hand past the waistband and sighed softly as the blue silicone material grazed your skin. With one press of the button, you felt yourself melting into the hard mattress, all of your worries fading away with the soft sound of buzzing.

Your breathing began to pick up in pace and you wriggled slightly as the sensation became more and more intense. It was getting hard to suppress the sounds you were making, so you bit down on your lip to try and stifle whatever noises threatened to come out. A shaky breath managed to worm its way out of you, hitching in your throat as it started to escape.

Thoughts of Din infiltrated your imagination, and you didn't try to suppress them as they came. You thought about the sound of his voice, talking you through the pleasure and egging you on. A wave of energy passed through you and went straight to your core, wetness beginning to pool. You thought about his hands pinning you down as he had his way with you, panting and sweating above you. It was almost too much, and it felt like the room was spinning.

Closing your eyes, you began to focus on finding release, waves of pleasure flooding your body with each passing second. Your breathing picked up in pace, and it was getting harder and harder to stop the tiny moans that escaped your throat. With a flick of your wrist, the massager hit the perfect spot, pulling a sharp gasp out of you. Just as it left your lips, a large, warm hand clamped over your mouth.

Terror filled your body and replaced all sense of satisfaction, forcing you to rip your hand out of its hiding place and your eyes to shoot open. Din hovered over you, one hand covering the lower half of your shocked face while the other pressed into the mattress beside your head. He was missing most of his armor, his helmet the only piece that remained. Adrenaline shot through your veins, and you struggled against his hold.

"Sshh," He shushed you, holding a single finger up to the part of his mask where his lips would be. "Everyone in this quadrant is gonna hear you if you don't keep it down."

Confusion replaced the shock, your eyebrows drawing together as you breathed heavily through your nose. He seemed to see the questions in your eyes, and you could swear you could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again.

"I could hear you from down the hall," He explained, "Thought maybe you were... With someone. But it looks like I was wrong."

You shot him a glare, thinking back to the evening you spent with Nox and how it must have implicated something different to Din.

"I don't have to help you, if you don't want me to," He reasoned, the hand covering your mouth beginning to lessen the pressure it was applying. "I just don't want you to get caught by the others. Just say the word, I'll walk away and we'll never speak of this again."

You wished you could see his face to make a better decision about what his intentions were, but with the helmet in the way, it made it impossible. You thought back to the feelings you were having just minutes ago, and felt excitement bubble up in your gut. Despite the surprise, you wanted this. Your expression softened under his gaze, and you felt your body relax under his touch.

"The way you're looking at me... Should I take that as a yes?" He asked, tilting his head to one side. "You want me here? You don't want me to go find your little friend, do you?"

You shook your head slowly and a soft, amused laugh filtered through his helmet, sending a shiver down your spine.

"You wanna give that thing to me?" He asked, gesturing with his head toward the massager. You lifted your hand and placed it in his, your body beginning to shake at the idea of what was about to happen. "That's my girl."

His words sent a shockwave down to your middle, causing a soft whine to escape from behind his hand. His girl. Remembering to keep you quiet, he pressed down on your mouth again, shaking his head.

"As much as I want to hear every little sound you're going to make," Din said, his voice sounding strained. "Can't have anyone else listening in, got that? You're mine tonight."

You nodded.

"Glad to see you can follow orders somewhere, at least," He joked, the laughter in his voice making you shiver.

With one hand he managed to remove your pants, lowering them to just below your knees, the cool air hitting you and making you shake. He took note of this and pressed the massage straight against your clit, keeping it there, but not turning it on. Frustration began to build as he teased you, running the material over the spot slowly and gently. Your brows drew together at this and you gave him another deadly look.

"Give me a break, I've been waiting for this for a long time," He said, sounding breathless as he looked you up and down. "You have more scars than I thought you would. Still, you're as perfect as I imagined."

With wide eyes you wiggled free from the hand that covered your mouth. "Are you saying you've thought about me like this?" You asked, your voice strained.

"Quiet," He commanded, shoving you back down into the mattress with his free hand. "I already told you, the others might be listening."

"Seriously?" You questioned, exasperated. "Did you think I wasn't gonna react to that?'

"I knew you would," He replied, gripping your jaw with his fingers. "I just wanted to distract you so I could do this."

You opened your mouth to respond, but were quickly silenced by his hand once more as he pressed the button on the massager, effectively turning it on. A hearty groan filled your throat as your head fell back, Din's hand keeping you in place. Your knees shook as he worked you over, circling the massager before pressing it against your clit again. Whines and moans were easily muffled by his hand.

Without thinking twice, you reached out and gripped his bicep, your fingertips digging into the soft flesh that hid beneath his shirt. He grunted at your touch, lowering his face closer to yours as you squirmed beneath him. "Eyes on me, yeah? Keep your eyes on me, Y/N."

With that, you reached up to touch the side of his helmet- a silent plea for him to remove it. You begged with your eyes, since you couldn't with your mouth, hoping he would give you what you wanted so you could look him in the eye. He hesitated, his movements slowing as you pressed your hand to his helmet. Sighing, he removed his hand from your mouth, instead placing it to your cheek. "I can't, you know that."

"Please," You blurted, all dignity vanishing from your body as you begged him to show his face. "You know me-"

The massager hit a rather sensitive spot, causing you to cry out and lurch upwards. Just as it began to leave your mouth, his hand was quick to silence you.

"You've gotta be more careful than that," He scolded, pressing it harder up against you. Your back arches off the bed, causing your chest to graze his. Sighing shakily, he kept the massager stationary, sending wave after wave of pleasure washing over you. You'd all but forgotten your desire to lock eyes with him, your climax on the horizon and taking up all priority in your brain.

"That's it," He encouraged, drawing out each word. "You're being so good for me."

Broken whimpers spilled past his hand, and he didn't stop them this time. Instead, he doubled down, maintaining the same position that was driving you closer and closer to the edge. It was within reach now, just a few seconds more and you'd be coming undone beneath him. Din could sense this somehow, his face mere inches from yours.

"I know, I know," He mewled, breathing hard behind his mask. "Be a good girl, now. Give me what I want."

His words were the tipping point, sending you flying over the edge. Your climax crashed through you, your head falling back against the mattress as several stifled moans filled the air. Din hummed as you finished, as if satisfied by his work. He never wavered, his helmet stationary, a sure sign that he watched your face the entire time. His hand abandoned your mouth and you gasped, gulping in air as you came down from your high. The buzzing ceased and your body fell limp, your muscles relaxing.

Din helped you redress yourself, taking his time and tracing his fingers over your exposed skin before it vanished beneath your clothes. "So that's where you went today," He laughed gently, turning the massager over in his hand. "I knew you weren't talking to locals. You've never been a good liar."

You groaned and rolled onto your side, facing away from him. Embarrassment flooded your body, the realization of what had just happened setting in. Despite the fact that he entered the room, saw you as you pleasured yourself, and still felt the desire to help you get off, you couldn't help feeling vulnerable.

"Y/N."

His voice sounded... Different. It wasn't metallic, it didn't sound muffled or altered in any way. It was organic, and soft, and hung in the air like gentle music to your ears. The realization hit you like a brick.

His helmet was off.

As you tried to turn back around, he was quick to stop you, moving you back onto your side as he laid beside you in the bed. His breath hit your neck, whispering past your ear like a soft breeze. The sensation made you flinch, drawing in a sharp breath as his arm wrapped around your middle from behind. He pulled you close, the center of your shoulders pressing into his warm chest.

"I hope you know I did that by choice," He mumbled, his lips grazing your skin. "I didn't embarrass you, did I?"

"No, no, it's not that," You said quickly, "I just... didn't think you'd ever want to do something like that. I thought it was against your creed. It took me off guard, I guess."

"It is," Din sighed, "But if I'm breaking the rules for anyone, it should be you."

"Are you still mad at me?" You asked, a hint of playfulness in your voice.

The quiet laugh that left his lips was enough to make anyone crumble at his feet. "I was never mad at you. I could tell you were getting... Frustrated, to put it mildly. I didn't blame you for being attracted to someone else. It was him I was mad at."

"You barely knew him," You replied.

"I know," Din agreed, leaning in close enough to kiss your jaw. "But he was looking at my girl."

[rnarvelboi]

Sweetness

the mandalorian x reader

i had this idea that, when given the chance, my guy mando really enjoys going down on his girl. so! let’s all thirst for the hottie with a helmet on ;)

words: 2.6k

warnings: smut, female receiving oral, blindfold use, slight bondage, naked female, clothed male

—

The early morning light is splayed over her body, dots of golden light sprinkles her skin and the light grey sheets of the bed, the thick and heavy comforter pulled back and forgotten it hangs from the edge of the bed.

The Mandalorian takes in the sight, his bare hands curved around her thighs, thumbing the soft skin in smooth circles. Without the helmet contouring his vision, he sees everything so clearly, the intimate details of her, the way her reddened lips part in soft sounds, her wrists crossed and twisting in the soft bounds he’d looped around only moments before, her soft hair against the worn pillow, the arches of her back, pushing her chest upwards as her body is moving without thought, only chasing the closeness he so promised her.

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