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ienjoywritingfilth · 2 months

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a sinner i am part ii

You should regret what you did. . . so why don't you?

trope: Boyfriend's Dad PP character: Joel Miller x f reader / Shawn Miller x f reader chapter summary: It's the day after your encounter with Joel you should both regret what you did, right?

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you wanted more of this story so i'm gonna give it to you!!!!!!!!!! i have a whole story plotted so i hope you stick around and reblog and review and all that good shit. - IEWF

warning: 10/10 on the sexual tension scale, fantasy oral, lotsa guilt, public masturbation, male masturbation, cheating on your bf (but it’s cool, cuz its with Joel and everything is fictional in this universe), alternative universe b/c daddy miller stays alive and hates golf and he has a son named Shawn, no Sarah. rating: E

words 6.3k

part ii: fun in the sun

I am good, but not an angel. I do sin, but I am not the devil. I am just a small girl in a big world trying to find someone to love. - Marilyn Monroe

You lay in bed the next morning, eyes on the ceiling and a deep ache in your stomach. You glance to your left, looking at the sleeping form of Shawn, his thick hair falling onto his cheek as he inhales and exhales slowly. The light hits his golden skin, making him glow. His sharp nose leads into his pouty mouth, always so soft against yours.

He looks so much like Joel.

Is this what Joel looked like at this age?

You feel bile rise up in your throat as the thought skitters across your mind like a beetle. You throw yourself out of bed, rushing into the bathroom. You tug the door open on your side, making it to the sink in just enough time to vomit.

As you continue regurgitating last nights kaleidoscope of alcohol you hear the door creak and the visage of Shawn appears in the mirror, coming up behind you with a concerned look on his face.

“You okay, babe?” he asks, coming to pull your hair back from your face into a loose ponytail as you spit.

“Too much to drink at dinner I think,” you offer between gags.

“Let’s hop in the shower,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your shoulder when you’re finished brushing your teeth minutes later.

The two of you undress and you welcome the water that coats you. You imagine it washing the sins of last night from your body. Shawn washes your hair tenderly, making sure to scrub at your scalp how you like. You soap up everywhere, as well as his body. He’s hard when you get to his cock, his mouth in a sultry smile.

“We just got clean, but I think I wanna get dirty,” he grins.

“I just puked,” you say, trying not to look disgusted.

“Don’t need your mouth,” Shawn says with a playful grin as he kneels in front of you. He kisses your lower abdomen softly, his eyes trained on your face. You gaze at him there, supplicant and sweet and guilt washes over you.

“No, its okay,” you say shooting him a wobbly smile. “I’m still not feeling great.”

“Is this because of last night?” Shawn asks, concern on his features when he pulls himself to stand. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t in the mood.”

“No, it’s not that at all, I promise.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I was just being a bitch last night, because I drank too much. Forget anything I said, I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

The water sluices over the two of you as you hug him to you, your eyes shut tightly. He hugs you back, murmuring that you’re not a bitch, that he loves you, and that you’re both going to have such a fun time. The entire time all you can focus on is how his body feels slighter, softer than his fathers.

------------------------

The two of you exit a short while later hand-in-hand. You’re wearing your denim shorts and a cute t-shirt over your new bikini. Shawn is dressed in the cut offs and blue Hawaiian shirt you bought him the week before as a pre-gift.

You hold your breath when you step around the corner into the kitchen and see Joel standing there in shorts and a similar shirt to Shawn’s but in burgundy. He’s working on making an espresso with the machine; his head rising when he sees you two enter.

“Mornin’ lovebirds,” Joel offers in a sleepy, morning voice.

That voice has your thighs clenching together as you remember his moan in your ear from last night. What the fuck is wrong with you? How could you think those things about a man twenty years older than you? Your boyfriends father?

You can’t even look at him. You just look at the refrigerator over his shoulder.

“Mornin’, let’s get some breakfast,” Shawn suggests. “I’m starvin’.”

“You two go on,” Joel says plastering a smile on his face. “I’m a little slower this mornin’. Musta drank too much last night.”

“You and this one,” Shawn says slinging an arm around your neck and tugging playfully. “Don’t know how to handle your liquor.”

You and Joel laugh uncomfortably. A buzzing sounds and Joel pulls his cell from his pocket.

“S’Tess,” Joel says reading the number. “Gimme a sec.”

Joel moves past the two of you to head outside. You feel his shoulder brush yours and you stiffen but he doesn’t seem to notice. You watch him raise it to his ear as he steps into the sunlight, a handsome smile crossing his face. You look over at Shawn.

“Tess?”

“My dad’s girlfriend,” Shawn says after he swallows a sip of his dad’s coffee.

“Oh right,” you nod. “You mentioned that.”

That’s right. If this secret gets out it’s not just your relationship that will be blown up, but Joel’s as well. You feel a little more relaxed at that, knowing that it’s not just your life on the line so to speak.

You sneak another glance at Joel as Shawn finishes off his dad’s drink. Joel’s hair is beach and curled in parts, woven with silver streaks. His neck is long, his hands large and his biceps curl lusciously as he holds the phone to his ear.

His voice is muffled through the closed door, but you can still hear snatches of it, low and deep and rumbling. You exhale shakily, trying to muffle it behind getting a glass of water. But your eyes remain on Joel as Shawn, oblivious to everything, pulls out his phone to check out something on his fantasy football WhatsApp group.

As if he can feel you looking at him through the glass window of the door, Joel’s eyes cast in your direction. You quickly spin, feeling your heart pound. You hear the squeak of the door opening and you see Shawn smile at his dad.

“How’s Tess?”

“Good,” Joel says, quickly darting a look at you before looking back at his son. “She was just lettin’ me know that her flight gets in around eight tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Shawn says. “Are we still plannin’ on bookin’ some excursions today? Wanna get to the desk before everything gets filled up.”

The three of you walk along the stone pathway that leads to the main resort. Women in large sunhats and men in ball caps with lobster red sunburns wish you a good morning. Staff in blue polo shirts embroidered with the resorts logo tell you to have a wonderful day.

The sun beats down from above, coating your shoulders in delicious, warm rays. You tilt your head back a bit, letting it touch your face. You want to enjoy your time here, despite everything that happened last night.

“Just gotta stop at the washroom,” Shawn says with a guilty look as you all walk into the air-conditioned resort lobby. “Dad’s espresso isn’t exactly sitting well.”

“You can’t handle my caffeine level, son,” Joel says with a grin. “Still just an amateur.”

Shawn rolls his eyes and moves through the crowd of chattering people to hit the washroom. You watch him leave, suddenly very aware that it’s just you and Joel standing there by the planters alone.

“S’a real gorgeous day,” Joel offers after a beat.

“Mhmmm. I can’t wait to go swimming.”

The two of you fall into an uneasy silence and you hold in the urge to cry. Joel has always been a safe, comfortable person to be around. This new withdrawn man that stands so stiffly beside you is like a stranger. You twist your fingers together anxiously, wishing Shawn would hurry the fuck up.

Joel clears his throat.

“I gotta say one thing and then we’re never talkin’ about it again.”

You feel your eyes widen at his words. You crane your neck over your shoulder to make sure you have privacy before turning back to face Joel. The man who is normally so cool and casual looks like a wind up toy on cocaine. He’s jittery and nervous looking.

“I just need to make somethin’ real clear, somethin’ that’s been botherin’ me since last night,” Joel says, licking his lips nervously. “You gotta know I never saw you like that or had feelings like that. All those times you were in my house over the years, I never thought about you like that. Ever. Not just because you’re my son’s girlfriend, but because you were so young. And that’s not my type, I mean, I don’t like younger women.”

It comes out of him in an awkward mess of tripping over his words and wincing. You can’t say that you’ve ever seen Joel with women even close to your age. The youngest maybe in her late thirties.

You never even considered that Joel could have been attracted to you until last night. He wasn’t a lecherous older man leering at you during family dinners or hugging you too long. He’d always kept a respectable distance, always made sure he looked at you with respect. When you dressed up to go out with Shawn for special dates the most he said was that you looked elegant.

Joel still looks agitated. When he takes your hand in his it’s firm, like a handshake.

“And I’m sorry I took advantage of you. I never shoulda let it get that far, even if I was a little tipsy.”

Surprised, you blink up at him. Joel thinks he took advantage of you? It’s almost laughable. You were the one who initiated everything.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Joel,” you assure him, feeling sympathy vibrating against your bones. “I wanted to do it. It felt good to do it.”

Joel’s eyes sweep your face, concern and something else in them. You wonder if you should have not said the part about it feeling good.

“I hope we can go back to how things were before,” he says. “I like how you and Shawn are together, you’re a good couple. I don’t want a stupid mistake to fuck it all up.”

You feel a relieved smile slide over your lips. Yes, that’s exactly what you want.

“Me too.”

Joel smiles relieved at you, his eyes taking on that familiar chocolate brown warmth. Joel’s hand drops yours.

“He’s comin’ back,” Joel says quickly. “We’re never talkin’ about this again. Ever.”

“Okay,” you reply quietly, feeling chastised by his tone of voice.

Shawn comes up to you both and slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close. You smile up at him.

“Let’s go book some fun shit!”

After a breakfast in the resort dining room and a stop at the excursion desk your week of Hawaiian paradise is loosely mapped out. Guided hikes, snorkelling, Dole plantation, museums, a luau on your last night. Most days have at least one activity and you’re looking forward to most.

But you left off the turtle swimming. You felt embarrassed about it after Shawn’s reaction yesterday.

Besides, you could use the money you saved for it on other things like souvenirs for your brother and parents. They’re all together this Christmas back in your hometown, sad to miss you but excited for you to have an adventure.

‘You work so hard, you deserve a little luxury,’ your mom had said when you told her.

“Tess loves hiking,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes as the three of you head to the pool. “I’m sure she’ll have us all up at sunrise for that.”

“Not me,” you say with a laugh. “I hate hiking.”

“C’mon,” Shawn insists, “you gotta go on at least one. Promise me.”

“Ugh, fine,” you say dramatically. “But only if you promise me a great view.”

“It’s Hawaii,” Shawn shoots back. “You can’t throw a rock around here without hitting a great view.”

Joel stops at the little hut next to the pool, telling the two of you to grab towels from the staff. When you and Shawn return Joel is smiling behind his sunglasses, telling you both to follow him. You’re excited, skipping behind Shawn with a huge smile on your face. Things can get back to normal now! You’ve talked with Joel, you’ve smoothed over the issue and you can pretend like it never happened.

You follow the man in the blue polo to a nearby private area, one with teak wooden areas sat side by side along a shallow pool of water. Gauzy curtains hang blocking out the wind and several lounge chairs with plush white cushions. On the low table is a bowl of fresh fruit and several bottles of water in glass tumblers. A hammock is tied to one side, colourful pillows inside.

“Here you are, sir,” the man in blue polo says to Joel, motioning to the large wooden cabana on the end, the one with the best view of the ocean in front. “We will be back to take your lunch order soon.”

Joel thanks the man, slipping a fifty into his hand before he looks over at you and Shawn.

“Thought our first day should be one to remember.”

You squeal before throwing your tote bag onto the hammock. You toss your towel in along with it before your hands go to the hem of your swimsuit cover up, a cute little crochet piece that you happily throw onto the towel.

You glance behind you to thank Joel when your mouth runs dry. He’s got his book and phone on the lounger, but he’s shrugging off his Hawaiian shirt, hanging it on one of the hooks. He wears only his navy swim trunks and without a shirt on he’s fucking delectable. Gold all over, broad shoulders and a back that ripples with power as he pulls the lounger out of the sun. His body is firm, but his belly has just enough softness to suggest comfort. There’s no way he’s gonna be fifty in a few years, how can that be?

He slides onto the lounger as Shawn takes off his own t-shirt, slipping it onto the same hook. You have to admire Shawn’s body, trimmer, leaner, and sexy as fuck. Shawn works hard on his muscles, but he’s not broad in the shoulder or chest like Joel. He’s the kind you find in the gym, with strong arms and calves to die for. You look at your boyfriend’s biceps that bulge when he grabs a water and take a sip and you muse like father, like son. They’re both so fucking sexy for vastly different reasons.

Stop. Stop thinking that Joel is sexy.

The ocean is calling your name and you must answer. You dig in your back for your sunscreen as Joel and Shawn settle themselves into the two loungers side by side, talking lowly about something back home with the business.

You squirt suntan lotion into your hands, rubbing together and then sliding your slick hands down your arms and shoulders. You hate burning, and you want to avoid skin cancer, so you’re diligent in putting lotion on. You get every inch of your front and your legs, turning to ask Shawn to do your front.

You catch sight of Joel from the corner of your eyes, finding that his head is tilted slightly in your direction, despite scrolling on his phone. It’s impossible to see where Joel is looking due to his mirrored sunglasses, but there’s this strange part of you that’s certain he’s watching you lotion up. You can’t be positive of course; perhaps it’s just your own paranoia. . . or desire.

Why does the thought of him watching you turn you on so much?

You don’t know what on earth is guiding your actions next. You squeeze the lotion into your hands, rubbing them together before coming to your throat, sliding your coated hands down. You move sensually over the exposed mounds of your breasts, exhaling softly as they dip below the hemline and under the straps. Your nipples are hard, both at the sensation of your fingers grazing them over top the fabric, and the thought that Joel might be watching. You finish with your heart pounding in your ears as you imagine Joel watching you caress your chest.

Stop it. This is not you. This is your boyfriend’s dad. You’re fucking disgusting.

You walk over in front of Shawn, blocking the sun from his face.

“Will you get my back?” you ask Shawn, your eyes back on the ocean in front of you. “I’m dying to swim.”

Shawn takes the lotion from you, parting his legs so you can sit between them on his lounger. You move your hair over your shoulder, letting him squeeze the lotion onto your back. You shudder a bit, its cold on your sun-warmed skin.

It makes you wriggle in your seat, making Shawn pinch you lightly on the side, murmuring “stop squirmin’.”

Joel’s head tilts in your direction and you feel your stomach clench pleasurably. Is he watching you? You arch your back slightly, sighing as Shawn gets your shoulders.

You have to give your head a shake at your sick thoughts. Why would Joel be watching you? He already apologized for everything; he wants things to go back to normal. And you want them back to normal! You don’t want to live with this guilt.

Shawn kisses your shoulder and announces he’s done, snapping the lotion bottle closed as you jump up. When he doesn’t make any move to join you, you stop, looking down at his supine pose and frowning.

“Aren’t you gonna come?”

“You know I don’t like swimming,” Shawn says with a smile.

“Back home in the pools,” you pout, pulling your sunglasses on and straightening. “But this is Hawaii.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna sit here and read my book while I enjoy watchin’ you swim.”

You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re no fun.”

“Dad, you like swimmin’,” Shawn says, patting your bottom playfully. “Will you go with her?”

You clock Joel tensing up as he unbuttons his Hawaiian shirt. He darts his gaze from his son over to you and you try to keep your voice from wobbling.

“No, its fine,” you say quickly. “I’m probably gonna be quick anyway.”

You turn and quickly make your way down the sand, grateful at how isolated this section of the beach is, thankful that you don’t have to stay there with Joel looking at you.

Joel watches you saunter down the sand, trying not to focus on how your ass jiggles deliciously in your swimsuit. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to swim with you right now because he’s not sure he could keep from getting hard.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. You’re off limits, you’re his son’s girlfriend and you’re so much younger than him. He doesn’t know why something in his brain suddenly transformed you from his son’s girlfriend into a sexy woman with curves in all the right places. He’s never looked at you like that, never seen you as anything but an extension of his son. But now? Now it’s like you’re a stranger to him, a stranger he desperately craves to touch again.

Watching you lotion yourself up was like his own personal hell, trying to convince himself not to watch you while trying his best not to brick up. He exhales softly, watching as you dance along the edge of the water, dipping a toe in to test the temperature.

"Dad how did you know you wanted to marry mom?"

Joel looks to his son in surprise, seeing the reflected insecurity in the question. The topic of Shawn’s mother is one that is often avoided, or brushed under the rug. Joel doesn’t like to ruminate on the past, he doesn’t like living in that time when money was tight and his son was going to the first grade without a mother. He doesn’t like remembering the long nights trying to build up his business while he made cupcakes for school bake sales.

But perhaps he should thank her. Without her absence maybe he wouldn’t have striven so hard for success. Without her absence perhaps he would have grown complacent being a foreman instead of running his now incredibly successful company.

"Couldn't imagine a life without her," Joel finally answers honestly. "Didn't want to do anything without her by my side."

He takes a large gulp of the drink, thankful for its cool and refreshing taste as the sun warms the sand. He doesn't like to think of his ex wife very often. Maria was a kind woman in many ways, a fun wife but a terrible mother.

Shawn looks nervously at you in the water, his lips thinning. You’re prancing in it now, it’s up to your waist and you’re splashing it in front of you, maybe trying to scare off an insect. Joel watches as you spin, holding your breath and finally diving in.

You emerge seconds later, your hair slicked back and your body glistening with water. It sluices down your body in rivulets as you stride back to shore, your body shining, your swimsuit clinging to you and from here Joel can see your nipples hardened.

Fuck.

"And how did you know things were over for you and mom?"

Joel forces his attention from you over to where his son is looking anxiously at his hands.

"I didn't really. I was still in love with her until she took off. But she just wasn't cut out for bein' a mom. She never really took to it."

Shawn hates hearing that, hates knowing that his mom never really took to him. He nods, looking a little broken. Joel feels the familiar guilt of not being enough washing over him, like the waves on the ocean.

"It was never about you, son," Joel assures him. "Your mom just had a lot of demons."

He sees the way Shawn is looking at you, a curious mixture of love and something else. You’re coming closer, a smile on your face as you wave at Shawn. He returns it with a smile and wave of his own.

"Why?" Joel asks. "You thinkin' of ending things-"

"It's nothing," Shawn says shaking his head. "Never mind."

You enter into the cabana, washing your sandy feet in the shallow pool of water outside the cabana.

“It’s so nice and refreshing,” you tell them both, drying yourself with the towel before hauling yourself into the hammock. “You’re missing out, Shawn.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

You’re a little wobbly at it but finally you right yourself and sink into the comfortable canvas. It’s not long before you look drowsy, a yawn escaping you. The three of you fall into a comfortable silence, reading books, swaying in hammocks, listening to the waves of the ocean.

“I’m gonna get a beer,” Shawn announces when the sun is directly overhead. He glances over at you while standing up and pulling his t-shirt on. “You want anything babe?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Dad?”

“Bud if they have it,” Joel replies, leaning back and putting his book over his face to block some of the sun.

“Be right back.”

Joel listens to his son leaving the cabana, his sandals slapping as he makes his way back to the resort. Joel could have called over one of the staff, but he has a feeling Shawn needs moment to think. He’s always been like that since he was a kid, a chronic over-thinker.

There are some in the nearby cabanas, Joel can’t see them but he can hear them. Some chuckle throatily, others snore. He glances over at you, seeing the way the sun glistens off your skin. You must be parched.

“You want some water?”

Joel realizes that you yourself have joined the land of the sleeping when you don’t answer him. And despite everything he said to you this morning about making things go back to normal, he can’t stop himself from taking in your body.

Your breasts are practically spilling out of your suit, at least a size too small for you. As you breathe they rise and fall invitingly. He would only need to push it down an inch to have your sweet pink buds there, waiting for his tongue and teeth.

That’s your son’s girlfriend.

Joel exhales before tilting back in his lounge chair.

Shawn's a good kid, a damn fine son. They've been through a lot together, a seamless bond, a friendship as well as being father and son. Joel knows so many other parents who can't wait for their kids to leave the house, who roll their eyes when their kids hang around.

Not Joel, he loved when his son came home from college all wet behind the ears and excited about his classes. Joel loved having a mini-me that was just as passionate about the same things.

He loves him so much that sometimes it cleaves his heart, making it ache and always has. He remembers the pain of taking Shawn for his inoculations, of kissing his first scraped knee, of holding him when a girl turned him down to the high school dance.

Shawn had always been more sensitive than Joel, more even-tempered. Joel admired that in his son, hell sometimes he was even a little jealous. But to know that his own flesh and blood wouldn't stand up for his partner puts a bad taste in his mouth.

Joel remembers when Shawn was born several weeks premature, he remembers his wife asleep in the hospital bed as beeps and hushed voices sounded. He remembers going to see his tiny son hooked up to wires, fighting to live. Joel remembers so vividly begging on his hands and knees to the entity above to spare his child, that he would give him the best life possible.

And now that same father who would have sacrificed anything for his son sits with his thick cock aching as he watches that son's pretty girlfriend gently sway in the breeze.

It's bad enough he's looking, bad enough that you're with Shawn. But Joel is with Tess, the sexiest subcontractor he's ever met. A woman who takes his cock with gusto just as easily as she berates insolent employees. She's tough, she's beautiful, and she’s his.

And yet he frittered that all away on a stolen kiss with you.

Why?

You make a soft sighing sound in your sleep and Joel feels his cock twitch. You twist in the hammock, nestling more on your side. Your breasts press heavily together and Joel swallows a moan when he sees the sweet blush of your nipples poking out at the top.

Joel feels like the most lecherous person on the planet as he sits next to you in the cabana, watching you nap in the hammock from behind his glasses.

He should throw a towel over you. You talked about this. If was a mistake. A onetime drunken mistake. But it's like it unlocked something in Joel, something feral and dark. Something that demands to be fed and it only costumes lust.

He watches as you continue to sleep on, your curves touched by the sun sending skittering sunbeams along your gorgeous body.

The desire in him is overwhelming.

Joel glances behind him, noting that it's still fairly secluded. No one around to see him

I could be fast.

His hand slides down his stomach, over his swim trunks, coming to graze the aching cock as he watches those sweet little buds poking through your bathing suit. You're fast asleep and you have him rock hard.

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he squeezes the head of his cock through his trunks, groaning a bit to himself as he recalls the kiss last night. Fuck you'd felt good in his arms, all supple and sweet. You'd wanted him bad, your pussy practically a magnet for his cock.

Would you have let him touch all of you? If that splash hadn't startled you both would you have let him finger you, your head thrown back and your body jolting against his palm? Or maybe you'd even have let him fuck you against the nearby palm tree? Your arms around his neck as he fucked into your sweet velvet clench, holding you possessively and telling you exactly how to come for him.

He's stroking himself through his trunks in earnest now, his breathing coming out in short little gasps between his plush parted lips. He imagines you on the shore, crawling to him in your swimsuit, your breasts swinging heavily as you grin up at him.

That's right, pretty girl. I'd make you cum right on this cock. Make you beg me on your hands and knees to fuck you harder.

Joel's hand moves faster, jerking himself through the fabric as you sleep unaware that you're the star in his debauched daydream. The sound of the waves and rustling of his trunks are all that can be heard.

Fill you full of my cum, makin’ you into my own little fuck toy. Yeah you'd like that, goin’ all whiny because I won't let you cum when you want. Have you slobber around my cock like a filthy little slut.

Joel's getting carried away now. His hand slides under his swim trunks, swallowing a groan when his wide grip finds his hardened length, weeping at the tip. Before he can stop and think rationally he's begun jacking himself off underneath his shorts.

He's all red faced, breathing through clenched teeth. He wants you to wake up and see what he's doing but at the same time he doesn't. Fuck he's losing his mind. He feels out of control, like he can't help himself. He's not this guy. He's not this guy but you're so fucking sexy and you kissed him and he could make you feel so good, he knows he could.

Bounce that sweet body in my lap, c'mon babygirl, make daddy cum. Make him-

Nearby whistling causes Joel's blood to run cold. It’s followed by the telltale sound of sandals slapping the sand. It's Shawn on his way back from the bar.

The fuck is wrong with me? Joel thinks to himself, tugging his hand out of his swim shorts. I'm fuckin' sick.

He wills his cock to soften, terrified that Shawn will see. In a panic he grabs the nearby towel, throwing it over his crotch and placing his book over top. Shawn rounds on the cabana, passing his father the cool bottle.

"They didn't have bud. Hope Corona will do."

"Yeah, that's great, thanks."

Shawn collapses into the chair beside his father. If he thinks the towel over Joel's lower half is odd, he doesn't remark on it.

"She's passed right out," Shawn says casting a loving gaze your way as you away in the breeze. "She could sleep anywhere."

"Yeah?"

Shawn nods. "She fell asleep on the subway when we went to New York."

Joel grins at that, imagining you there, eyes shut as tourists walk by you on the bustling train.

He's known you for years and he has seen you fall asleep in some comical places. His favourite was last summer when the three of you went to a symphony because Joel was gifted tickets from a client at work.

You'd been excited, wearing a beautiful dress and knotting your hair. Joel had thought you looked so elegant, feeling strangely proud of the woman his son was with. You were intelligent and funny and warm and beautiful. You reflected well on Shawn and subsequently Joel.

You were sat between the Miller men, your eyes luminous as the concert began. But before intermission had arrived Joel felt your cheek against his shoulder. He glanced down to see your eyes shut and your body slack with sleep.

That was back when things were simple. When he just thought you were a sweet little thing that made his son happy.

Desperate to change his clouded imagination, Joel turns to his son.

“You still enjoyin’ school?” Joel asks, tipping the beer into his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Shawn nods, taking a long pull from his own bottle. “I just kinda wish I coulda done the Computer Science program instead.”

“I figured with you takin’ over the company one day, you’d wanna focus more on the business end of things,” Joel muses, his eyes still taking in your sleeping form from behind his mirrored glasses. “I guess I didn’t see how a degree in computers was gonna help.”

Shawn looks uncomfortable, “It’s a Masters of Science in Computer Science, dad.”

“Okay, still.”

“I don’t see why I need to take it over anyway,” Shawn mumbles. “You got Uncle Tommy and his son.”

“Your uncle Tommy didn’t build the company from the ground up,” Joel says darkly.

Shawn hates talking about the future of the Miller Company. Hates the thought that he’ll have to carry on the legacy that his father built from the ground up. Hates that his own interests and passions have to be pushed to the side. Hates that yet another part of his life needs to be shut down.

“Dad, it’s my vacation,” Shawn says sighing. “Can we not talk about this stuff now?”

Joel frowns before nodding, looking back to the ocean. He’s irritable and tired and he’s so pent up he could scream. He takes one last look at you before announcing to Shawn that he’s going to swim. Shawn nods, looking at his phone.

Joel moves quickly into the water, thankful that not a lot of people are around. The sun is beating down and he swims quickly, his long arms slicing through the waves until he’s a good distance away. From where you and Shawn rest in the cabana you only see Joel’s head.

He looks out into the endless blue, his mind a jumble. His cock is hard again, just remembering how you looked coming out of the water. He glances around casually, still ensuring the scattering of couples are nowhere near him and then he pulls out his cock underwater, stroking it quickly.

His eyes shut as he bobs in the water, trying to keep his motions subtle. But despite the lag of the water he has it at a good pace, the pleasure easily building in his body.

He imagines you both in the cabana alone, the two of you naked. His hand sliding up your ankles, your calves before tracing along your soaked slit. In this fantasy your eyes flutter open and you smile sweetly as his hands slide up and begin to grope your breasts.

‘Feels good’, you tell him. ‘Feels so good. Don’t stop.’

He sees your cunt getting wetter, your head falling back. You’re arching for him, desperate before you’re suddenly falling to your knees in front of him, noticing his hard cock. You lick the tip, moaning as you gaze up at him with a fucked-out expression.

‘Please daddy? I want your cock.’

Joel taps the head of his cock onto your waiting tongue, satisfied that you sit there waiting.

‘Yeah, babygirl. Make daddy cum.’

Your fantasy self urges his cock into your mouth, eyes on him as he fucks into your mouth. His balls tighten and he floods your mouth while you moan around his girth.

“Fuck, fuck,” Joel hisses as he erupts under the water, sending ropes of watery cum shooting into the waves, quickly evaporating as he swims in the other direction. Disgust fills him immediately as he realizes what he’s done and who he thought about.

He races to the cabana, pulling his shirt from the hook and grabbing his book from his lounger. You’re awake, talking to Shawn. You both look over at Joel in confusion at his rapid movements.

“You okay, old man?”

“Headache,” Joel replies to his son. “See ya back at the room.”

Tomorrow Tess will be here, he tells himself as he walks back to the unit. Tomorrow things will be better.

It’s just that he has no distraction, no outlet for these weird feelings. He hasn’t been laid in over a week, that’s all. And you’re just there in front of him. It could be anyone.

He’s hard again by the time he gets back to his bedroom.

He rushes into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He’s about to get in when he spots the door to your bedroom cracked open. He can’t stop himself from moving in, eyes darting around the space. Your suitcases sit side by side by the closet. Your dress for dinner tonight is hung on the back of the chair before the mirror. Shawn’s baseball cap, forgotten this morning, rests on the ledge of the window.

Joel continues this strange voyeuristic adventure, seeing that you don’t make your bed in the morning like he does. Your vitamins sit in a plastic pack beside your phone charger on the bedside table. Your makeup is on the table by the mirror, along with your perfume. Joel pops open the cap, inhaling the sweet aroma of violet and black coconut. Its how you smelled last night, your sticky body pressed to his, your lips so soft and desperate for him.

His cock twitches at the memory.

Don’t fuckin’ do it, man. This is crossin’ so many lines.

He can’t stop himself. He sprays it onto his wrist before placing the bottle back on the vanity. His cock is throbbing now and he throws himself into the shower, tugging his cock furiously as he holds his wrist to his nose.

It’s like you’re there in the shower with him, begging him to fuck you. He inhales the sweet floral scent as his hand jerks quickly, causing the pleasure in his spine to run the length of his body. His cum hits the tiles seconds later, your name echoed in the space.

He feels absolutely disgusting when the last vestige of his arousal slips from him, along with his cum down the drain.

When he hears Shawn and you come through the doors a short while later he tells his son through the door that he’s not feeling great, that he thinks its sunstroke and gonna stay in his room for the night.

Tomorrow when Tess is here things will be better. Things will go back to normal.

They have to.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #joel x reader #au joel miller #joel miller #joel miller x original character #joel the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou joel #i want him so bad #i need him #joel miller is a daddy #joel miller x you #summer

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avastrasposts · 10 months

Text

A Baker's Dozen - Two

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

I'm so overwhelmed and grateful for all the lovely comment you all left on the first part of A Baker's Dozen! I'm having so much fun exploring what it's like to write for different Pedro boys and finding their voices.

For those of you who are new, we've got twelve Pedro boys, twelve short stories, each set in the same bakery.

It's fluff and sweetness, lots of food and flirting. Series Master List

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring

The glare is what catches your eye first, sunlight bounces off the shiny metal surface and hits your face through the window. You shield your eyes and glance at the door as it swings open, for a second you can’t see who steps through, you’re almost blinded, but as the door swings closed, he, or she, comes into focus.

“Hi, welcome!” you say, trying to keep your voice steady as the imposing figure takes a few tentative steps into your bakery.

“Heading for a con?” you ask, glancing up and down the impressive outfit.

“A con?”

The voice that comes through the helmet is deep and resonates through what almost sounds like a speaker. It’s definitely a man, if the sheer size of the body didn’t give it away. He’s tall, broad and made even broader by the metal pauldrons on his shoulders. A heavy belt hangs around his narrow waist as if to emphasize the sheer build of this hunk of metal that’s standing in the middle of your shop, looking somewhat lost despite the fact that you can't see his face under a solid looking metal helmet.

“Yeah, like a convention, where people meet and dress as their favorite characters from tv-shows and stuff. Are you going to a con?”

“No,” comes the short answer.

He looks around the bakery, the black T of his visor seemingly scanning the selection of bread and cakes you have for sale today.

“Something smells…good,” he says, turning his helmet back onto you and you can’t help but smile.

“Thanks, yeah, I had a pretty tasty selection today, but most of it’s already been sold,” you wave your hand over the mostly empty display cases, “Do you want to buy something?”

“I…don’t think I have credit,” he hesitates but he takes another step into the shop, glancing down at the croissants stacked in a basket next to the till.

“We accept cash too,” you reply, “you don’t need a credit card.”

“No, I mean, I don’t have the right…currency for your world.”

“Oh…” you frown, did he just say ‘your world’?

You mentally shake your head, a misunderstanding, surely.

“I mean, I could let you sample something, then maybe you’ll come back with the right currency,” you say, smiling at the man. He sounds a bit confused and your customer service persona kicks in, unwilling to let someone leave without trying something that’ll get them to come back.

“I don't know what you sell here,” he says, “I have never seen food like this before.”

“Oh, really? What kind of baked goods do you have where you’re from?” you ask, surprised, you were sure pretty anyone would recognise at least a muffin and a cookie, both on display in your cases.

The tall metal man comes closer, standing next to the counter and looking at the selection, “We have many baked things where I’m from, but I have never tried any of them.”

“You’ve never had dessert?” you ask incredulously, “I have dessert every day, it’s a must!”.

“I’m Mandalorian, food is only energy for our bodies, we don’t indulge in it,” he straightens up when he says it, his hands falling to his hips. He looks imposing, like a warrior all of a sudden, and his voice takes on a serious note.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t know that was a thing, a mandalorian, huh” you raise your eyebrows, this guy doesn’t even seem like a cosplayer. Or he’s really in character.

“Are you not allowed to eat dessert at all, or is it just like, not an everyday kinda thing?”

“I can eat what I want but I’ve never had a need for dessert,” the voice coming through the helmet is a rich baritone, but holds a guarded edge, like the owner is trying to navigate something unfamiliar.

“I mean…technically there’s never a need for dessert, but I eat it everyday anyway. A good dessert is sometimes the only way to fix a bad day,” you give him your warmest smile, trying to make him feel a bit more at ease as you go back to straightening up your counter for the end of the day.

“What’s this?” The man points to the croissants on the counter and you pick one up with the tongs, holding it out to him.

“It’s a croissant, a French type of pastry. It’s not sweet, just has a metric ton of butter in it. It’s really flaky as you can see. Go on, try it.”

“I don’t remove my helmet in front of other people,” he replies and your eyebrows shoot even higher up into your hairline.

“What…but why?” The second the question comes out of your mouth you regret it, “Sorry, don’t answer that, it’s none of my business.”

“You can ask, I don’t mind,” he says and you think you hear a slight smile from behind the helmet. “I’m Mandalorian, it’s my religion, and we don’t remove our helmets in front of others, it is the way.”

“So you only eat alone?” you ask, curiosity overtaking your embarrassment and he nods.

“Yes, we never share a meal with others.”

“How sad, for me I mean,” you say, “One of the best parts about being a baker is seeing when others eat what I’ve made, I love seeing their reactions. If you try something, I won’t know what you think about it.”

“I can just turn my back to you and lift my helmet a little,” he replies, and you can definitely hear the smile in his voice now. It changes the tone of his voice, as it comes through the helmet, makes it warmer, softer, and you smile back at him.

“What do you want to try then?” you ask, “If you’ve never had dessert then I have to give you something special to try.”

“I don’t know,” he looks around the cakes and cookies on display and shakes his head, “I can read your signs but I don’t know what cinnamon or vanilla tastes like, or this one.” He points to a stack of millionaire’s shortbread, “I have never heard of peanuts.”

“Well, in that case, just in case you're allergic to peanuts, let’s not start with them,” you grin, “the last thing I need is you passing out from an allergic shock in my shop. That armor looks a lot heavier than what I can lift.”

The Mandalorian looks down at the plates that cover almost every part of his body, “It’s made from beskar, it’s a metal from my home world.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. The metal is polished and rich looking, a light gray color that catches the light as he moves, “It’s a very beautiful armor.”

“Do you want to hold a piece?” he asks, looking over at you again, or at least you think he’s looking at you, it’s hard to tell with the helmet.

“Is that allowed?” you ask, “I don’t want you to break any rules in your religion.”

“There is no rule against this,” he says, reaching up and taking off one of the shoulder pauldrons. It has the image of a dangerous looking animal that you don’t recognise, and as he hands it over, you see him reverently brush his fingers over it. Carefully you take it from his gloved hands, the metal warm to the touch, and just as heavy as it looks.

“It’s warm!” you say surprised and he nods.

“It holds my body heat easily, good for cold climates.”

You don’t know why, maybe because you can’t see even a sliver of skin on the man, but the thought of holding something that’s been warmed by his body heat, makes you slightly aroused. He could look like anything underneath all that metal and cloth, but his voice, his rich, low voice through the helmet, and his sheer imposing presence, makes you almost subconsciously attracted to him.

He comes around the counter and stands close as you turn the pauldron over in your hands, tracing the outline of the animal, feeling the warmth of his body.

“What is this animal?” you ask, looking up at your own reflection in his visor, “I’ve never seen one like it before.”

“It’s a mudhorn, it’s the mark of my clan.” He traces his fingers along the animal too, brushing against yours as you marvel at the intricate work.

“Thank you,” you say, handing the pauldron back as the touch of his fingers against yours becomes too much to handle, “Thank you for letting me hold it.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice lower now that he’s standing next to you. You watch as he clicks the pauldron into place on his shoulder again.

How do you flirt with a man whose face you can’t even see? you wonder as he turns his visor back on you. It seems like he holds you in place for a few seconds before you slowly have to turn yourself away from him and the intensity of his sightless gaze.

“So you’ve never had dessert and you don’t know what any of this tastes like?” you say, giving your own cakes a critical look.

“No,” comes the voice from the man beside you, “Maybe you can choose for me?”

“Hmm…that’s a big ask. Your first dessert has to be something really special, but maybe not too overwhelming, and not too sweet either because if you’re not used to it, then sugar can be a bit too much. And it has to have the right combination of textures too so that you get the full experience and then maybe it should be-” you cut yourself off and look up at the man who’s shifted his weight, leaning against the counter and looking at you with his head cocked to the side. “Sorry, I’m rambling, I went into full baker mode.”

“No, go on, I enjoy hearing you analyze my first dessert experience,” he says, encouraging you to go on by putting his hand on your arm. The little touch makes you tremble slightly and you pray he doesn’t notice through the soft looking leather of his gloves.

“Really?” you ask, “Because I have an idea but I’d have to bake something for you, are you in a hurry?”

“No, I’m waiting for someone and they won’t be here until tomorrow,” he says, dropping his hand from your arm, “What would you make me?”

“Do you mind if I keep it a surprise? Only, I want you to have the best possible first dessert experience”

“I usually don’t like surprises but I’ll make an exception for dessert. And for you,” there’s a small chuckle from behind the helmet and it makes you smile.

“I’m honored,” you say, “come into my kitchen, I think I have what I need for what I was thinking of making.”

You sidestep him, making him turn sideways as you brush past him, and you don’t miss the way his hand comes up to the small of your back as he walks just behind you into the kitchen.

Your kitchen is big enough but the metal clad man takes up a lot of space as you direct him to stand by your workbench. He looks around it as you start going through your stores.

“I’ve never been inside a professional kitchen before,” he says, “I can see that you’re used to a lot of metal.”

You glance around at all the stainless steel counters and shelves that line the walls, stacked high with stainless steel pans, bowls and baking trays, and then the big shiny door that leads into your walk-in fridge before it hits you.

“Did you just make a joke about your armor?” you snort. But the man behind the helmet remains motionless and soundless as the giggle dies in your throat, afraid that you’ve somehow offended him. You look at him, your cheeks heating up, and then he chuckles loudly.

“Yes.”

“Oh fuck off, you’re terrible,” you exhale in relief, but smiling again, “I thought I’d insulted your religion or something.”

“No, jokes are allowed,” he says and you hear the mirth in his voice clearly this time, behind the visor he must be grinning widely.

“No more bad jokes, or you won’t get my dessert,” you give him a mock scolding look but he just tilts his head sideways.

“There’s another joke in that sentence,” he says, still a smile in his voice, “but I don’t want to miss out on your dessert.”

The innuendo is heavy and you have to bite back your grin, there’s no doubting his flirting tone, and instead focus on pulling lemons, sugar and butter from your stores.

“If you say so,” you huff and he chuckles, coming to stand next to you while you start prepping.

“So can you tell me what you’re doing at least?” he asks, picking up one of the lemons and turning over in his hand.

“I’m making you a pie, I already have the dough ready for the crust so I’m just going to roll it out and blind bake it before I make the filling,” you say, bringing out the rolling pin and the slab of pie dough you had in the fridge.

“I’ve never had pie,” he replies, “but I’ve seen them sold.”

“What do you eat?” you ask and you see him shrug, shifting a bit.

“Just…well, mostly freeze dried stuff that I can just add water to when I travel,” he says, “bone broth is nice too.” He shrugs again and you shake your head.

“You need to live a little, try some different food, life’s too short to live on freeze dried camping food and bone broth. Doesn’t your wife cook for you?” The last thing slips out without you thinking, your mouth racing ahead of your mind and you bite your tongue, apologizing again.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, or assume that you’re married, or that a wife should cook. Or that it would be a wife, just ignore me, I’m alone too much in the bakery,” you ramble, trying to catch up with yourself.

Beside you the Mandalorian shifts and stands with his hip leaning against the workbench so that he’s looking directly at you, he’s crossed his arms and cocked his head and it shouldn’t be that sexy, you can’t even see him, but it’s making your heart rate speed up as your cheeks go warm again.

“No, no wife,” he says, his voice somehow even lower than before, “no one to cook for me, and I wouldn’t expect my wife to cook for me either,” he shifts his weight, putting one hand down on the workbench, the other on his hip, “But it would be a wife.”

You refuse to look at him, it won’t give you anything, just that stupid shiny helmet. But you can hear the smirk in his voice, so you just nod your head.

“Good to know,” you press out, very much focused on rolling the dough to a perfect circle which isn’t strictly necessary.

“And you?” his asks, his low baritone vibrating the air around you as he seems to step even closer. His chest plate isn’t touching you but if you turn your head, your breath will fog on it. “Anyone to cook for you at home?”

“Uhm…no,” you stutter, “just me.”

If this was a normal man you’d expect to turn your head now and look at him and he’d ask if he could kiss you, or he’d lean in closer and just do it. But the helmet is in the way, how the hell is he so flirty with that damn helmet? He does know how to kiss, doesn’t he?

“I’m ju-just going to put this in the oven,” you say, trimming the edges of the pie crust, leaving the scraps of dough on the bench.

“Ok,” he says, still with a smile in his voice, watching as you line the pie with a sheet and then baking beads, before sliding it into the oven.

“What’s next, the filling?” he asks and you nod.

“Yeah, I’m going to zest and squeeze these lemons,” you pick up the one he’s left on the bench and show him how you get the zest off into a bowl.

“Have you had lemons before?” you ask and he nods.

“Yes, I think so, or something similar. But it was very sour,” he bends forward and looks closely at the zest you’ve mixed with some sugar. “It smells good though, do you often use them in pies?”

“Yeah, and they’re amazing in anything baked, as long as you have enough sugar.”

“I trust your skills as a baker,” he says and you smile at him.

“Thanks, I think you’ll really like this.”

He stays still a beat as you turn back to the lemons, “I already do,” he says, a whisper, just loud enough to escape the helmet. For a second you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it, and you let your hands continue squeezing the lemons before giving him a quick glance. It tells you nothing, the man might as well be a statue.

You start separating the eggs, letting the egg whites slip through your fingers, holding onto the yolks, until all five are neatly laying on the bottom of your mixing bowl. The silence is stretching between you and the man, still standing still, leaning slightly on the edge of the workbench. You can feel his eyes on you behind the helmet, watching as you stir together the filling, lemon juice, zest, sugar, corn starch, it all comes together.

“Can I ask you something?” You look up at him, slowly stirring the cubes of butter into the lemon mixture. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to though, it’s kinda personal.”

“Ok,” he says, cocking his head to the left.

“How…h-have…h-ow do you kiss if you can’t take the helmet off?”

He doesn’t move, the blank front of the visor steadily trained on you.

“Nevermind, it was a stupid question, don’t answer that,” you mumble, dropping your gaze back to the filling.

“No, it’s not a stupid question,” he says, and you feel the soft leather of his gloved hand under your chin, tilting it up, back to him. “There are…loopholes…in the creed. I’ve kissed someone, when they couldn’t see my face. But it requires a lot of trust.”

You’re staring at your own reflection in the visor, trying to discern where his eyes are. You wonder if he’s looking at your eyes or your lips, and you wonder what his lips look like.

What they would feel like.

“Does that answer your question?” he asks, that rich, warm baritone, distorted by whatever lets him speak through the helmet, makes your heart flutter, your breath catches in your throat.

“Y-yes…thank you,” you stutter, “yes.”

You bet he’s smiling at you again, as he lets go of your chin and you look back down at the filling.

“I’m going to fill the pie now, and then make the meringue that goes on top.”

“Ok,” he says, “I don’t know what that is but I bet it will be irresistible.”

It makes you smile, at the filling, as it pours, golden and thick, into the pie crust. It settles into a smooth layer, ready for the last step and you place the pie to the side and reach for the egg whites.

“Can I ask you a favor?” you ask and he nods.

“Of course, what is it?”

“The ancient looking mixer, up there, can you reach it?”

He steps behind you, over to the shelf and effortlessly lifts the heavy old Husqvarna machine, it looks almost weightless in his hands. Those hands, inside the soft gloves, are big, almost dwarfing the mixer and the thought crosses your mind, to have those hands on you, wrapped around your waist, or grabbing your thighs, lifting you up as effortlessly as the machine, placing you on the bench, pushing your legs apart and-

He carefully puts it next to you, and moves to stand on your other side. But his hand gently brushes over your back, just a small touch, but it makes you wish it lasted longer, and wasn’t so gentle.

The mixer is loud as you start it, whipping the egg whites into stiff peaks in just a few minutes.

“The trick,” you say, detaching the bowl, “is to whip them until you can hold the bowl upside down over your head and the meringue stays put.” You hold out the bowl to him with a grin, “Do you trust me?”

He chuckles behind the helmet and takes the bowl from your hand, “I guess I do, but you’re polishing the beskar if this falls on me.”

He carefully tips the bowl, holding it over himself, and the meringue stays put, not a drop falls on him and you give him a wide grin.

“I passed the test.”

“You did. Pity, my armor could do with a clean,” he says, his voice serious, but you can hear the smirk in it this time.

“Cheeky,” you laugh, “clean your own armor, I’m making you pie.”

You grab the bowl from him and start scoping out the thick meringue on top of the filling, creating swirls and peaks with your spoon. “It just needs to set now,” you say, taking the pie, “Could you open the fridge door, please?”

He takes a few long strides and works the handle, holding it open for you as you go inside and place the pie on a back shelf.

“I have never seen so many cakes before,” he says, coming in behind you, looking at the shelves of cake bottoms that are defrosting in preparation for your weekend orders.

The door behind you slips closed and the fridge is thrown into darkness.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that the door needs to be wedged open, the light broke in here and I haven’t gotten round to replacing it,” you say, fumbling towards the door with your hand on the shelves, “I’ll get it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got night vision in my helmet,” he replies matter of factly, and you hear him walk to the door.

“You have night vision in your helmet?” You’re not sure he’s joking or not but judging by how quickly he moves across the small space, he must be seeing something.

“How does the handle work?” he asks as you hear the handle click and catch on something.

“You just pull it against you and it should open,” you say, carefully walking towards the sound of his voice.

“It’s not opening, it sounds as if the handle isn’t latching on correctly”.

“What? No, the door has to open!” You say, panic creeping into your voice, “I can’t…try it again, it has to work!”

You bump into him and his arm comes out around your waist, “Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” he says, his voice suddenly very close to you, steady and soothing, and it calms you down a little.

“Sorry, I’m- I’m not good with small places I can't get out of,” you mumble, holding onto his arm.

“The handle isn’t working, but I promise you, I can very easily get us out of here, don’t be scared.” He must’ve let go of the handle because his other hand comes up to rest on your cheek, the gloved thumb caressing your face with smooth motions. “Don’t be scared, mesh’la,” he says, his voice soft. If you move you think you’ll bump your head against the metal of his helmet, so you close your eyes and focus on his hands. One on your back, the other on your cheek, you take a long steadying breath.

“H-how can you get us out?”

“I have tools for it, in my belt, don’t be scared, I’ll get us out in no time…but…” he trails off, a small hint of uncertainty suddenly in his tone.

“I trust you,” he says, “and I want to kiss you.”

“You’ll take your helmet off?” you ask and in response you hear a low chuckle from inside it.

“Yes, it would be very difficult otherwise.”

“You don’t know that, maybe I’m used to making out with metal,” you say, biting your lip, and you’re rewarded with laughter in the darkness.

“Using my jokes against me, clever,” he smiles as his hands leave you. There’s a click, the soft hiss of air escaping, and you guess his helmet has come off. You feel him bend down, placing it on the ground next to him and standing up again.

“Ca-can you take your gloves off too?” you ask. “Yes,” comes his voice in the lightless room and it makes you inhale. Unfiltered it’s much richer, warmer, but somehow rougher, slipping around you, making you break out in goosebumps as you shiver, no voice has ever made you shiver before and now you want him to keep talking to you, to feel his voice in all your senses. It makes you lift your hands to find him in the darkness but he finds you first.

The soft sound of leather hitting the floor is the next thing you hear before his warm fingertips brush across your shoulder, finding your neck and trailing up over your chin.

“I’m as blind as you now,” he whispers, leaning closer, “tell me where your lips are.”

“Here,” you whisper in reply, taking his hand and guiding it to your mouth. He traces his thumb over your bottom lip, then the top, and you feel his hot breath skim over your skin.

His lips are soft, gentle, as he presses them against yours, a slight tickle of facial hair before he pulls away a fraction.

“Touch me,” he mumbles, “please,” a pleading tone to his voice.

“Where?” you ask, lifting your hands from your sides and searching for him, finding cold metal and a rough flight suit.

“Everywhere, my face, my hair, please touch me.”

He leans his face into your hand as you find his cheek, your other hand slipping around to the nape of his neck, the longer hair winding around your fingers. It’s messy and curly and so silky to the touch that you hum under your breath.

“You're so soft,” you say and it feels like he shakes his head.

“No, you are, can I kiss you again?” he whispers but you don’t reply, just find his lips with yours and he groans into your open mouth, your tongue coming out to taste his lips as he parts them, and you feel his tongue lick against yours.

His kisses are slow, and you match his pace, moving in the same lazy way as him, his tongue exploring and tasting every part of yours. Soft hands have come up to hold you close to him, his fingers in your hair, not letting you move from where he needs you. And it feels like a need, his soft presses turning needy, a soft moan escaping you as he pulls you closer, your whole body pressed up against his hard metal exterior. The contrast makes you feel disembodied, your legs, stomach, chest resting against cool armor, your face, your hands touching, and being touched by warm skin, soft hair, his demanding tongue growing in confidence by the second as he groans under your touch.

He suddenly takes hold of your waist, moving you without effort, pressing you against the door with his whole, tall frame.

“Your kisses are…” he pants, “please, I don’t want to stop, I…I…can’t.”

He’s mumbling between insistent kisses, his tongue dipping into your mouth, tasting, groaning as he needs more with every second that passes. And you would give it to him, you’re moaning into his mouth, pressing into him as eagerly as he’s pushing you up against the door. If he wants to fuck you on the floor of this fridge, you’d let him. His soft lips, rough hands, his heady groans, and when he finally gives in and grinds his hard cock into your hip, it makes you lose all sense of where you are, who you’re with.

“Mesh’la,” he mutters, another kiss on your lips, “Tell me to stop, mesh’la, I can’t stop on my own.” His tongue slips between your lips again and you thread your fingers through his hair and hold him close, keeping him from pulling back again.

“Don’t stop, keep kissing me,” you gasp, his thigh is between your legs, rubbing firm at your aching core.

He growls, his hand coming down to grab hold of your thigh, lifting it up onto his hip, and the door flies open. With a shriek you feel yourself falling backwards, crashing towards the hard kitchen floor. But his arms catches you, you hear the loud clunk as his metal covered legs and arm hits the surface beneath you, the other arm secure around your waist. “Don’t open your eyes,” he snaps, panic in his voice, and you squeeze your eyes shut, they almost flew open as he caught you. “I won’t, they’re closed, they’re closed,” you pant, the air knocked out of you.

“I’m going to put you down and then get my helmet, don’t move until I say so,” he says, still close, gently lowering you down to the floor.

“Ok,” you nod, staying still. But you don’t hear him above you, and his arm is still at your side. When he does move his chest comes flat against your own, his nose brushing over your cheek, bumping into yours, and then his lips are on yours again. Soft, warm, pliant, his beard tickling you, open mouth and gentle tongue, tasting and exploring with a low hum in his chest. When he finally pulls away and pushes himself up, you feel the loss of his lips like an imprint on your own, your fingers come up and trace across them, touching where he just was.

From the fridge you hear the click of his helmet being put in place and then his footsteps come back.

“You can open your eyes again,” he says, “thank you for keeping them closed.”

You blink your eyes open and look up at him, his face again hidden behind the visor, his expression unreadable. But his voice is soft and he holds out his hand to you, his gloves not on yet. You take it and he helps you to your feet, one arm around your waist as you find your balance again. Looking down at the hand holding yours, you trace your fingers along the thin white scars that crisscross the back of his tan skin. His hand is rugged, the pads of his fingertips rough and well used. It’s hard to imagine that these hands could touch you so softly in the dark.

“I…I hope I didn’t ask too much,” he hesitates as you keep touching his hand, holding it between your own, “I never kissed anyone like that before.”

“I liked it,” you mumble, looking up at his visor, his hand still between yours. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before either. And I don’t even know what your name is.”

“Din,” he says, his voice low, like he’s telling you something guarded, “My name is Din, but I don’t tell many people that.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you say and he nods, placing his hand on your cheek again. “Thank you, mesh’la.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Din,” you say, trying to find his eyes behind the black visor.

“I don’t think there’s any of my kind on your world,” he says with a small chuckle and you frown. “What do you mean, ‘your world’?”

He shakes his head, “Don’t think about it, it doesn’t matter, I just want to try your dessert now, like you promised,” his hand slips down to yours and he takes it, tugging you back towards the fridge, “Is it done yet?”

“Uuhm…yeah, I just need to torch the top a bit,” you say, confused, as he opens the fridge door again.

“I’ll hold it open this time,” Din tilts his head down towards you as you pass him, his hand trailing over your hand as you let go of him. The pie jiggles slightly when you tap it, so you pick it up and carefully bring it to the workbench again. Din closes the fridge door behind you and follows you back.

“I’ve never smelt anything like it,” he hums as you reach into your tools and pull out the small blow torch.

“Just wait until you taste it,” you smile, turning on the gas and igniting the torch. Din’s hand flies up to grab at your arm as the flame comes out but stops as he realizes what you’re doing.

“I have one of those too,” he chuckles, “But mine’s a bit bigger.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve used yours,” you grin and he shakes his head.

“It would’ve burnt down your kitchen, it's not really meant for this delicate work,” you can hear the smirk as he leans forward and looks on as you carefully caramelize the top of the meringue, painting the white swirls in toasty brown.

“There, it’s done,” you say as you turn off the blow torch and put it aside, “you’re very first dessert, a lemon meringue pie.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” he replies as you take down two plates, spoons and your sharpest knife.

“How do you want to eat it?” you ask, cutting a generous slice for him, bigger than you would serve to the customers. He looks at the pie for a few seconds and then cocks his head and looks at you. “I trust you,” he says, the smile in his voice evident under the unreadable helmet, “we can sit back to back and you can at least hear my reaction.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with,” you hold out the plate to him and he lifts it up to eye level, looking closely at the bright yellow filling and white meringue on top.

“I’m sure, I trust you. And I want you to be happy when you hear my reaction.”

“I hope you like it then,” you laugh, “Or this is going to be very awkward.”

“If it tastes only half as good as it smells, this will be the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he takes your hand and pulls you down onto the floor, you begin to protest that you have chairs but he just shrugs and sits down, crossing his legs with his back against you. You sink down behind him, crossing your legs too. “Lean against me, mesh’la,” he says, “and don’t turn around.”

“I won’t, I promise,” you rush out as you hear a soft woosh of air from the helmet.

“I know,” he replies, his voice unfiltered and rich again, a low baritone that seems to send a shiver down your spine. The spoon clinks on his plate and he seems to hesitate.

“I just put my spoon in it?” he asks and it makes you smile.

“Yes, just get some of everything, and tell me what you think.”

You hear the rustle of his flight suit as he seems to move around a little, it’s almost as if he’s trying to figure out how to tackle the slice on his plate. Eventually you hear the spoon scrap over the plate again as he cuts off a bite.

You listen intently, wishing you could see his expression, as he silently tastes the pie.

“Maker…” he breathes out after a few seconds, the spoon clinking again against the plate and you hear him take another bite.

“Maker….” his mouth full and the word is muffled, “this is…” the spoon scrapes over the plate and you hear him take one more mouthful. His head leans against yours as he tips it back, sighing deeply.

“Maker…I’ve never tasted anything like this before,” he groans, “It’s fresh and rich and sweet, how have I never tasted something like this before?”

“Because you’re a fool, obviously,” you laugh, taking a bite for yourself. You know this pie is good but Din’s reaction makes you feel giddy. Behind you, you hear him take another spoonful, humming as he savors the flavors.

“I am a fool,” he says after swallowing down another bite, “this is like nothing else. I want to eat only this for the rest of my life.”

“That might not be the healthiest choice,” you chuckle, “and wait until you try chocolate, that’s on a whole other level again.”

“Thank you,” he says from behind you, his hand reaching back and finding your arm, “Thank you for making this, I’m grateful.”

“No trouble, I like seeing how much you enjoy it, especially since you’ve never had dessert before, you strange man.”

At that you hear him laugh, “I’m not that strange, just maybe on your world, mesh’la.”

“What does that word mean?” you ask, “Mesh’la?”

“I’ll tell you, if you give me more pie,” his voice is so cheeky it makes you laugh out loud.

“I’ve got you addicted it seems,” you reply and he chuckles behind you, “I’ll keep my eyes closed and you can take as much as you want, take the whole pie.”

“I can’t do that,” he says as you feel him shift behind you, getting to his feet.

“Of course you can, you should take it, I can make another.”

“I would argue with you, but the pie is too good,” he sinks down behind you again and this time you hear his spoon scrape over the metal of the pie form.

“Din?” you ask and he stiffens.

“Yes?”

“Are you eating straight from the form?”

“Is…Is that wrong?”

“No,” you laugh, “just a very good review of my pie.”

He chuckles again, relaxing against your back as he takes another mouthful. Together you sit in silence, eating the pie, cross legged on the floor of your kitchen. Yours is soon gone and you happily listen to your strange guest hum and moan as he all but seems to demolish the rest of the pie. Maybe you should tell him to pace himself, but he seems to be enjoying himself immensely.

After a few more moments the pie form is placed on the floor and Din groans, “I’m so full, but I want to eat more.”

“I should’ve told you to go slow,” you smile, “but just take whatever you didn’t finish with you.”

“Hmm…I…I ate the whole thing,” he says sheepishly and you giggle.

“You might feel a bit sick in a while, but don’t blame me. But I really love how much you loved it.”

“I’ll come back for more pie whenever I can,” he says, finding your arm with his hand again, “Please keep your eyes closed.”

“I’ll make sure to have it on the menu all the time then,” you smile, your eyes squeezed shut.

Behind you, you feel him move and turn, his warm hand coming up to cup your face, a thumb sliding over your cheek. His lips are soft and gentle as he brushes them against yours, his tongue slipping out, your mouth opening. He tastes of sharp lemon, sugar and butter, and underneath, his own self. He lets himself linger for a few moments, his nose stroking over your cheek, before he pulls back, your eyes still firmly closed. The click of his helmet lets you know that he’s once more covered up and you open your eyes, slightly sad that he can’t let you see his face, you’d love to see what those soft lips look like.

“I should go,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice, “I have other things I need to see to before I leave.” He takes your hands and helps you stand, the remains of the pie forgotten on the floor as you follow him out to the front of the bakery.

“This….was wizard…” he mumbles in a low voice, yet again standing by the door, “I’ve never…experienced something like this.”

“Me either, Din,” you mumble, suddenly very sad that he’s leaving, “Promise that you’ll come back some day.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise,” he says, his hand, gloved now, comes up to caress your cheek one last time.

He turns and puts his hand on the handle and something hits you, “Wait, hang on, just wait there.”

You rush back behind the counter and grab one of your bread bags and quickly put four croissants into it.

“Here,” you say, holding it out to him as you get back to the door, “For the road, or whatever you’re doing.”

He takes it, cocking his head to look down at the bag before he looks up at you again, “You’re going to make my armor fit very tight.” “Hey, I didn’t tell you to eat the entire pie in one sitting,” you grin and from behind the helmet comes a low chuckle.

“I still blame you for baking something far too irresistible.”

“Take care, Din, I hope I see you again sometime.”

“Me too, mesh’la,” he says, giving you a nod and opening the front door.

Part Three

If you want to try Din's Lemon Meringue Pie, here's the recipe I used!

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #the mandalorian

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