Dieter Pretending To Be The Hallmark Boyfriend For Her?! YES. PLEASE.

Dieter pretending to be the Hallmark boyfriend for her?! 😍😍😍 YES. PLEASE.

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

Softer

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader

Summary: Joel’s feeling a tad self-conscious

Warnings/Tags: Humor, No outbreak AU, Tommy being an asshole in a brotherly way, fluff, pregnancy, sympathetic pregnancy, blended families, strip tease, nothing bad happens to Sarah ever and Ellie's your kid, and I think that’s it?

A/N: Thank you much @strang3lov3, @whocaresstillthelouvre, @jay-zzle for your eyes and Jai also for the moodboard!!! 😍🥰😘

This is for @beefrobeefcal’s Joel Sat on Me challenge! I hope you laugh at this as much as I did writing it 😅

Masterlist||AO3

Divider by @saradika-graphics

The gender reveal/baby shower was going off without a hitch. Maria was making sure people knew where to put gifts, Tommy was helping Joel at the grill, while your mom was helping you put the Boy or Girl banner around you. You hate this kind of attention but Maria and your parents both wanted to make a show of it. Despite your arguments on tradition being only for the first baby.

“Well, it’s you and Joel’s first baby together,” Maria deadpanned, all while your mom nodded along.

“Can’t beat that logic!” Your dad grinned.

“Fine,” you relented, rolling your eyes, “Good thing it’s the last one too.” 

Joel smirked, his palm caressing your thigh, “It’ll be fine,” he whispered in your ear, “Least there will be cake,” he added with a shrug. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Can’t beat that logic!” You reply mockingly, sticking your tongue out.

—

“Mom!” Ellie shouts, “Sarah’s trying to sneak into the cake!”

“Quit being such a narc!” Sarah laughs, playfully smacking Ellie’s arm, “You want to know just as much as I do!”

“Girls!” Joel hollers. “Come help your uncle Tommy set up!”

Both girls walk to the grill, helping Tommy carry hamburgers and hotdogs to the table.

“Alright everyone!” Maria announces, raising her voice to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s eat! Parents-to-be first!”

“Hey momma,” Joel grins, meeting you at the food table and placing a soft kiss on your temple, “What ya in the mood for?”

“More like what is the baby in the mood for?” you grumble, trying to adjust the sash around your body. “I hate this fucking thing,” you hiss.

“Just gotta eat, cut the cake and get through presents then I’ll kick everyone out,” Joel reassures.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you mumble, grabbing a plate and staring at the food. The baby decided it wanted corn on the cob, a burger with all the extras, potato salad, and a small salad with more ranch on it than lettuce.

“Jesus Joel,” Tommy laughed when you both got to one of the tables. “Your woman’s the one eatin’ for two not you!”

Everyone looked at Joel with his plate piled high with two burgers, two hotdogs, and plenty of sides to feed a small army. You saw the flush creeping up his neck as he sat next to you. Joel opened his mouth to say something but Maria interrupted.

“Oh hush,” Maria said, smacking Tommy softly on the shoulder.

“Probably going through that sympathetic pregnancy thing,” a guest piped in. “My husband did that too!”

“Sympathetic pregnancy?” Ellie asked with her mouth full of potato salad. Your mom begins to laugh, shaking her head at Ellie.

“Ellie, gross,” you hiss. “Finish eating before you speak.”

Ellie makes a show of swallowing her food before speaking again. “What the hell is sympathetic pregnancy?”

“Ellie,” you groan. “Language! I haven’t spent the past 13 years raising a hellion!”

“And just think, you’re starting over!” your dad laughs.

Joel, meanwhile, keeps pushing the food around on his plate, taking smaller bites of the sides.

“Okay, googled it!” Sarah announces to the table, wagging her phone and clearing her throat. “Google says, c- cou- nevermind, I’m not even gonna try. Sympathetic pregnancy is a proposed condition in which an expectant father experiences some of the same symptoms and behavior as his pregnant partner. These most often include major weight gain, altered hormone levels, morning nausea, and disturbed sleep patterns.”

“That why you were asking for Pepto the other day at the site?” Tommy asks, nudging Joel’s shoulder before sitting down. “Dealing with some morning sickness as well?”

“Damn it Tommy,” Joel growls, balling up his fist. “If you don’t cut it out-“

“Alright, alright,” Maria hisses. “Enough.” She adds pointing at Tommy.

—

Joel stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself. Marriage had been good to him. His mental health and financial stability had improved, and he seemed overall a happier person. The only drawback seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline the moment he got you pregnant. He hadn’t thought about it before but Tommy got in his head. Especially when he announced to everyone at the party it made sense now why Joel had to move his tool belt to the next hole for it to fit.

“Whatcha lookin’ at hot stuff?” You smirk, standing in the doorway of the adjoining bathroom with your toothbrush in hand.

“Thinkin’ I need to go on a diet,” Joel huffs out, turning towards you with his hands on his hips.

“The fuck would you do that for?!”

“Tommy’s ri—“

“I swear if the next words out of your mouth are Tommy’s right.” You pout, trying your best to not let the toothpaste escape your mouth as you move back into the bathroom, spitting into the sink, “I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

Going back to the bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed, watching Joel find his pajamas for the night. Sure, he’s gotten thicker in the middle since you got pregnant. His pants fit a bit tighter around his thighs. His chest, oh god his chest, the way your hands grip onto the meaty pecs he has now. You make a small noise at the memory of this morning before the girls woke up, and how you rode him as best you could with your swollen belly in the way, slick pooling in your underwear.

“What?” Joel asks, turning to look at you, noticing that feral glint in your eyes. He’s seen it more and more as the months have gone by. Sarah’s mom was nothing compared to you at this stage in pregnancy. Revved up and ready to go 24/7 these days.

“Tommy’s got it totally wrong,” you grin, “I love the way you look these days Joel.”

“Yeah?” Joel smiles shyly, rubbing the back of his neck, turning to face you, “what.. uh.. what about it?”

“Dad bod through and through,” you hum, adjusting on the bed to sit a little further back. “Was thinking about this morning, how I can hold onto your chest a little better with your pecs being a little softer.”

“Yeah?” Joel grins, watching your eyes track his fingers as they open the first couple buttons of his flannel, his chest barely peeking out through the fabric, “Should I put on a show?”

“I wanna see my man!” you let out a breath nodding your head eagerly.

“Feel like we need some music or something,” Joel says, letting out a shy laugh, trailing his palms down the front of his shirt, popping open more of the buttons. You begin humming 70’s porno music, “No thank you, that’s enough.”

You shrug letting out a giggle as he continues unbuttoning his shirt, his strong chest and thick belly being revealed as he rips the flannel shirt back in a dramatic fashion, spreading his legs wide and tilting his head to sway his curls behind him.

“Jesus Christ, Napoleon Dynamite. Ya gonna take it off or what?”

“‘Scuse me?” Joel asks, straightening up, pinning you with a look, pulling his flannel back over his shoulders, “Listen, I’ve never done this for anybody. I’d ‘preciate if ya didn’t make rude comments.”

You clear your throat and lean your arms back against the bedding to prop yourself up, “Sorry, horny goblins took over, proceed.”

With his flannel shirt open, he starts flipping his belt open, stalking towards you, nodding your head at this new development, sliding his belt out quickly from his belt loops causing a gasp to escape your lips.

“Mmmm,” you moan softly, thighs squeezing together, and squirming on the bed “Joel. You look so fucking good like this.”

Joel spins around to show you his backside before slipping one shoulder of the flannel off, turning his head to the side with a smirk as he slowly slides it off his arm, followed by the other. You hear the button and zipper of his jeans sliding down. He begins teasing you with his jeans, dropping them some before pulling them back up and swiveling his hips, he puts one foot on the opposite leg to try and help pull the leg out.

“Fuck!” He yelps, as he falls back sitting on you, “Shit that wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“Ow!” You groan, smacking his ass to get him to move. He rolls off you to lay beside you on the bed.

“You good?” Joel asks, laying on his side next to you, placing his palm on your belly.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you grin, placing your hand on top of his with a sigh. “No Magic Mike in here, but for your first attempt that was good Miller,” you add with a smirk.

“Fuck you,” Joel grins, leaning up to kiss you.

“Fuck. Please!” You groan, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him in for a deeper kiss.

First time writing for Din and you killed it!!!

🥵🫠🥵🫠

Sex Pollen Din Djarin one-shot

rating: 18+

pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader

a/n: Okay y'all, I heard you loud and clear and I couldn't focus until I got this outta my tippy tappy fingers. I don't really know much about Din Djarin so sorry if the characterization is all over the place. I also don't know anything about star wars or the show so I'm sorry if there's incorrect lore there.

This is also submission for the 2024 TROPE-OFF

Giving In

You start awake when you feel the rumble of approaching earth, rubbing at your tired face as you watch the Mandalorian seated in front of you guide the ship safely over the ground. 

You barely got any sleep last night, so excited for today's destination. You wince as you shift in your seat, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"Sorry, must've fallen asleep." 

Silence greets you as it often does. The Mandalorian says little and rarely answers your questions. The clang of the ship settling onto the sandy terrain draws your attention to the small window at your right. 

It's a barren backwater planet if you have anything to say about it. Barely populated except for what appears to be a dense section of foliage in yellow and purple. 

There's the echoing of Grogu babbling downstairs in his cubby, falling asleep. As the mechanical staff of the razor crest for the last two months you have no responsibility to the child. Nonetheless like most you were charmed by his sweet disposition and face. 

His father on the other hand...

He may not be a cruel man, but he's certainly an irritable one. Barely talks to you, is often arrogant, grunts at you when you make suggestions on repairs. Sometimes he ignores you altogether. 

You've been with him for two months. two solid months since Karga suggested you for his Crest repair when he visited Navarro. 

Two months since the Mandalorian decided you were worthy of being onboard his ship to do repairs (not that he ever complimented your work) for his sojourn in the outer rim to make good coin. 

Two months of ship repairs, planets, mutual disdain and pog soup eaten in separate parts of the ship. You know he only keeps you around because he refuses to have a mech-droid on board. His infamous hatred of droids is legendary in certain circles. 

"Are we close to Borr'rha?" You ask, sighing heavily when he continues to press buttons on the console while ignoring you. 

Borr'rha is where he'll refuel and where you'll be officially disembarking. You've been counting down the days. You're time as his employee is rapidly coming to an end and you couldn't be more thankful. 

Your personalities don't mix. You're jovial and prone to smiles. He's a buzz kill, annoying and so stringent in everything from his beliefs to arranging exactly where you'll sleep (he sleeps with the child in a comfortable looking cubby) whereas you have a makeshift room designated by curtains. You sleep on a lumpy mattress with thin blankets and flat pillows. 

And you put up with it because you're an orphan with no familial attachments. Because you don't care what planet you visit as long as your purse grows heavy with currency. You don't blink when be brings aboard snarling bounties that growl at you because for every body thrust in Carbonite, your life on Borr'rha is coming nearer and nearer into sight. A childhood dream finally coming to fruition. 

You can't wait.

You've already picked out the sweet little place you'll be buying. When you close your eyes you can picture it there, bathed gloriously in sunlight from the twin suns. 

"Detour."

It's the first thing he's said in hours. His voice is rough and raspy through the modulator. Images of your perfect home become vapor as he speaks. You frown at his back. 

"What? You told me we were going to Borr'rha today." 

Mando doesn't reply. Just stands slowly and when he does he towers over your seated frame (and your upright frame for that matter). 

He's so... big. Broad shoulders, thick beskar covering his body, big feet covered in wide boots. Every part of him seems built to withstand anything. Not one part of him peeks out, not one slice of flesh. He's a mystery both in attitude and looks. 

"You lied to me, Mandalorian." 

You never call him Mando. You've never heard his real name. You don't like to think of him as a person, just a creature that ferries you from planet to planet silently appraising your repair skills. You enjoy that he wears a helmet at all times, it's helps aid in this belief. 

His dark helmet tips down and you know he's staring at you. You obviously can't see his face under the helmet so you don't know if your words have any impression on him. 

They likely don't. 

You know he doesn't like that you talk back to him. He's likely never had to put up with people unafraid of him. You don't think there's actually anything he likes about you. He's so cold to you, so quick to take Grogu from your arms when you play with him. He's made it clear that he doesn't want you ingratiating yourself into his life. 

You take a steadying breath. 

"I'm supposed to be purchasing my own property there today."

"It'll have to wait." 

You bite back your anger. You know for a fact that he holds all the currency. You also know that as per the agreement you signed on, if he doesn't complete all bounty retrieval within your contract time, you receive nothing. These weeks will have been for nothing. 

You watch him approach the hatch of the door, ready to go and retrieve his latest bounty. You slump back into your chair, irritated beyond belief. There's nothing you can do. 

"Don't die," you spit sarcastically over your shoulder at him. 

 It's a habit at this point. Something you started saying your first day and never seemed to let up. You don't know why you bother saying it, other than your own selfishness. If he doesn't come back there's no way for you to leave the planet.

His reply is the same as it always has been since that first day; a tip of his helmet and then he's gone. 

He doesn't mince words. Rarely shares them. His tone always holds affection for Grogu, that never wavers. But for you? His on board employee? There's no warmth, no fuzzy feelings.

You first told yourself it was nothing personal, he's just not someone who needs others. You're his staff. He's your employer. But as his coldness grew you came to realize the Mandalorian held nothing but contempt for you.

And that works just fine for you because you feel precisely the same way about him. 

Din moves through the dense forest, pushing back the large leaves that sweep along his body like loving caresses. He steps into a puddle of mud. He pulls out with a grunt, kicking the excess from his boot. 

He's irritated today, more than usual. You're driving him up the ships walls. It was bad enough when you were talking back to him about repairs, it's quite another this last three days. 

You knew that your destination was fast approaching and your work had grown sloppy. He saw a censor mark flapping back there, improperly secured. It made him irritated. 

It also made him angry when you talked to Grogu about leaving, dancing with the little guy in your arms as you sang about your new life yesterday. Don't you get that it hurts Grogu to think of you leaving? 

Din thinks he can hear something in the trees. The sensor on his helmet shows nothing by heat, but he's sure he can hear something. 

He flinches when something brushes his arm. He whirls to find nothing but a collection of flowers he doesn't recognize. 

He growls in anger as the beeping increases at his hip. The quarry is close, his credits in his account about to increase. That's the reason for his detour, he wanted to make sure to send you off with as many credits as possible. 

You may think he's a monster but he believes in securing you for a profitable future. You'll thank him when you're in your new home, free of financial worry thanks to him. Not that you'll thank him, that's not your style. 

No, your style is laughing loudly, smiling at everything unless you're focused on work. Your style is leaving the fresher floor wet and the mirror fogged. 

He can't wait to be rid of you. 

A sudden flash of color darts between the tree line and Din snaps into action, his long legs silently slice through the tall grass, cutting the creature off. 

He tackles the Zelton easily, a prisoner on watch for stealing an imperial ship. He's run into her before; she must have just broken out of prison. He remembers how hard she fought him last time and he's almost amused that she’s right back being captured. 

He hovers above her, his thighs bracketing her red belly. 

"Hello again, Lummi," he snipes sarcastically. 

He aims his blaster against her forehead between her eyes, noticing belatedly that her scarlet cheeks are puffy, like she's holding something in her mouth. He doesn’t register what’s happening before she gives him a wink and spits directly into his face. A stream of pink shoots up into his mask, through the filtration system. 

He crawls off of her, startled, shaking his helmet from side to side, trying to dislodge the liquid. The filtration system is good, but not good enough for particles that small. A pink blur is blinked from his eyes in the helmet. 

"What was that?" 

She stands and looks at him with infinite amusement.  

"Luxuria Veveritas," she says with glee as she stands, grinning ferally down at him. "Think of it as a little gift from you to me. I always thought it would do you good to get your bolts rattled.”

Din doesn’t recognize the name, but he does feel strangely warm. She prepares to walk away from him and he growls out at her, keeping his voice steady.

"Take another step-"

"In about two parsecs you're not going to be able to stand let alone shoot."

Din is about to prove how wrong she is, raising his arm when a sharp stab goes through his lower belly. He lets out a grunt, dropping to one knee. She laughs cruelly at him, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder in smug victory.

"Better luck next time, Mando."

Lummi scampers off with her long hair bopping behind her. Din tries to aim his gun at her retreating frame but he can't focus properly, the image of his escaping quarry doubling as his vision blurs. 

Pain goes through his abdomen again and he staggers to a stand, his body heavy. He knows he can't head after her; he needs to get back to the ship. He needs the med kit on board. He turns and quickly makes his way back to the ship, his breathing labored as his long legs scissor through the forest. 

There's a strong smell in his helmet, almost choking him. It takes him a few jogging moments before he realizes it's that sweet scent of the oils you use in your hair. Both must be from the same flower. 

It's one of the few things he doesn't mind about your company. On the nights you apply this oil the ship is scented faintly with the aroma of vanilla and jesmin. It's usuallly a calming scent, but this much concentrated in his helmet is making him gag. He's confused when his cock begins to thicken between his legs as he runs for the ship. 

The pain is throbbing below his navel, making his body flame. The brush of his trouser fabric against his cock is making it leak, causing him to groan with every step. 

He needs to get to the ship, he tells himself, to safety, to the med bag he keeps on board. And then an errant thought that slips in, loud and pulsing: 

He needs to get to you. 

You sit with Grogu in your lap, talking to him about the furnishings you'll pick out for your new home. 

"It's going to be so great, finally putting down roots, maybe starting a family," you muse, bopping him up and down playfully on your knee. 

Your confused when instead of his customary grin, he wears a sad look of disappointment. His big ears sinking and his large eyes blinking and wet. 

You feel a strange pull at you, a sadness you weren't anticipating when you thought about leaving. Yes, leaving means saying goodbye to the Mandalorian, but it also means saying goodbye to the tiny baby in your arms. 

You're going to miss him. 

"But you can come and visit as often as you like," you promise him, tickling him under the chin. His large ears perk up at that. 

You're thinking of how you can convince the Mandalorian to bring him by every so often when a clanging startles you. It can't be The Mandalorian, he's been gone too short a time.

Despite this you go to the door with the child in your arms, waiting for the customary knock he taught you before unlatching it. 

Mando at the outside, bent over at the waist. When he hears the door creak open lurches in, pushing past you and falling to the ground. You close the door after him in case there are those in pursuit of him. 

You lock it, moving past him kneeling on the floor in order to get by him with the nervous looking Grogu. 

You put the child back in his cubby, not wanting him to see his father suffering like this. The door swishes closed and then you're back at Din's side, speaking softly. 

"Are you okay?"

No words. Just a sharp shake of his metal head. Instinctively you want to reach out to him to soothe him but that's not how he works. He's not soft and cuddly. Touching him would make things worse, you're sure of it. 

Tears are leaking from his eyes, he can feel them sliding down his cheeks behind the mask. He rarely cries. Hasn't since he thought he'd never see Grogu again. 

But this isn't emotional pain like that. This is an overwhelming throb that aches everywhere, especially between his legs. It makes him double over, his knees hitting the floor of the Razor Crest with a thud. 

Fuck. 

"Can you stand? Can you make it to the cockpit?"

The cockpit has room for him to lay down if he needs to and it's also where the emergency tools are. Bacta, bandages and more. 

Din doesn't move for a moment, his breathing heavy. It's like all he can smell is your skin, all he can hear is your voice and all he wants to taste is your skin. Thoughts that he's denied himself these past two months, pushed to the recesses of his mind because you irritate each other so much. 

You can hear tiny grunts coming through on the modulator. Then he nods, following you up the ladder. 

You verbally urge him into the jump seat, your eyes on his crumpled form. He's doubled over as if he's eaten bad cushnip. He's breathing raggedly, unable to look at you. 

He presses something on his helmet and all the sounds are erased. He's turned off the mic, something he does when he needs to be quiet hunting quarry. Now all you can hear is your own shaky breathing in the cockpit with him. You stand away from him, still unsure of yourself in his presence. 

"Were you hit?"

Din shakes his head abruptly, hands in fists, his head tilting forward. 

"Was it an animal?"

Shake. 

"Do you have any idea what happened?"

Another strained shake of his head and the button at the side of his helmet is pressed again. You hear his ragged inhale. 

"Why is it so warm in here?"

You glance around the cockpit in confusion, raising your hand to test the air. You scurry over to check the temperature control panel when Din groans at you to. 

"It's the same temperature that it always is." 

"It can't be." 

"Focus," you say sharply, confused when he shudders at the sound. "What happened out there?"

"Quarry got me." He groans again. "Spit something on me and--- kriff its too hot in here!"

He drags down the cowl to relieve some of the heat building under his clothing and helmet. And you want to focus on the issue at hand, but the sight of this sliver of flesh has you momentarily immobilized.

Spice.

That's all you can think. His skin is like spice; golden and beautiful. His neck is slick with sweat, dripping down below the fabric. It makes you swallow. 

"I can't breathe." 

You begin gazing around the cockpit for something to help him. You don't have access to any ice or anything that will cool him down. Bacta won’t do anything. You're about to say that, turning just in time to see as Din tear at the cowl around his neck before growing frustrated. 

You watch in silence as Din begins to tear the large gloves he wears from each hand. The leather slaps against the crest floor and all you can focus on is his hands. They're broad, deep shores between knuckles and long fingers. 

Those large hands continue to pull the cowl around his neck and you let out a sharp cry when Din rips the fabric from around his neck. 

"I need .. I-I -it’s so hot," Din stutters, his hands going to tear off his beskar armor piece by piece. You watch in awe as beskar falls to the ground, clanging. Despite this he continues tugging the leg plates, the vambrance, all piling at his feet.

Is he going to get naked in front of you?

Your entire body flushes at the thought of all that golden skin bared to you. It's been a while since you've been taken to bed, you tell yourself, and it’s only natural to respond this way to an attractive body. 

You're distracted by these thoughts as Din carelessly tears away his wrist gauntlet. It flies through the air, slamming into your ankle. A stripe of white hot pain travels up your calf at the sensation of the thick metal and you cry out. 

"Ow!"

You crumple to the ground, holding your ankle in pain, holding in a shriek. You rub at it, tears starting at the corner of your eyes. Your tunic has ridden up, leaving your ankle bare. You see the bruise already beginning. 

Din rushes over, his voice tight with panic.

"I'm s- Are you okay?"

He drops to his knee beside you on the floor. His bare hand comes to touch your ankle, fingers curling around it, but you're pissed off and in pain. 

"Don't!" You say, pushing against his warm hand. "It's fine." 

The second you touch his skin he lets out a hiss, pulling his hand sharply back. You're so taken aback you momentarily forget the pain. 

"What?" 

"Get away from me," Din growls at you, his arms banding around his abdomen. You're confused when you see that the front of his pants have a wet spot. What the fuck just happened? 

Here's tugging the shirt over his head leaving him in only his mesh pants and helmet. For the first time you see him as a man, not some quiet creature that shuttles you from planet to planet, annoying you. He's so broad, his shoulders wide and his waist tapered. He's strong, his arms muscular, his body sturdy. 

He's beautiful. 

Din feels like he's on fire from the inside. Despite coming only moments before at the mere touch of your bare skin, his cock is twitching in his trousers in need. He needs to fuck you. He needs to feel the sweetness between your thighs.

You're standing to one side, eyes wide. You look so concerned, your throat bobbing as you swallow. His eyes follow down the line of your body, watching your breasts lift as you move to survey him. Your nipples are straining through the tunic. 

His body is sweating everywhere, the longer he goes without coming again the more the pressure builds. He needs to come inside you. 

Now.

He's breathing deeply, his glistening chest expanding, making your pulse flutter. He's making breathy whimpers under his modulator, his neck tilted back. You need to help him, you need to focus. He's overheating. 

"The fresher!" 

Din can barely think straight. He's starting to panic that if something isn't resolved soon his brain is going to melt. You seem to sense that he's out of control because you bark at him again. 

"C'mon! Follow me!" 

He lumbers after you like an oversized obedient tooka, letting out small sharp exhales of pain every few steps. You reach the fresher and immediately reach inside the shower, twisting the knob. You test to feel the temperature and then you turn back to him, holding out your arm to indicate he should enter. 

"Get in!"

He's shuddering, feeling that familiar pressure building. Your arm is wet from the water, droplets glistening on your skin. He needs to taste your skin. He steps towards you. 

"What are you doing?" 

He's panting so heavily, his chest heaving and his fists curling and uncurling at his sides. He’s fighting so hard, so hard but he can’t stop. He’s compelled to touch and taste and fuck. Its taking everything in him not to force you to your knees.

"I'm sorry," he whispers through a groan. He turns his face from you, his mask in profile. "I can't... I can't stop this."

He's trying so hard not to touch you, not to do this. He's stronger than this. You don't deserve to be forced into touching him.. You don't deserve to be forced to fix his mistake. 

"What can I do?" You ask, your hands flying to his bare neck.

As soon as your skin touches his all his resolve is gone. 

"That. More of that," Din begs, his husky voice dragging along your spine. "Please."

You've never heard Din ask for anything. But this isn't him asking. This is begging. He's begging you.  

"Please, please," he's murmuring, his hands taking your wrists and tugging you closer to him.  

"What? What do you need me to do?" 

"Touch me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

Everything in him is attuned to you, the need for you overpowering his common sense, his duty, his creed. You watch in shock as he depressurizes the mask, tugging it off and throwing it to the ground. 

You don't even have time to register what he's done or what you're seeing because his hands are gripping your face, his lips smashing against yours. Your cry is muffled as his tongue invades your mouth, desperate to taste every inch. Every swipe feels like cool relief to his searing flesh. 

You cry out in shock, pushing him off of you. Your mouth is wet from his saliva, lips tingling. You breathe shakily and finally your mind registers that there he is, bare-faced and his eyes are so beautiful and so pained that you almost lose your voice. 

He reaches for you again and you shove his bare chest with all you might, startling him and sending him backwards into the icy shower. He grips onto you instinctively for balance, dragging you into the water with him. 

You yelp at the cold sensation pelting against your thin tunic. But he doesn't let you go, he twists you until you're backed up against the metal wall of the shower, your bodies drenched. He's rutting against you, whimpering lowly before his mouth is at your jaw, sucking lightly.

"Mandalorian!" 

"Din," he groans against your temple, "my name is Din."

Din.

This takes your breath away. He's given you his real name. He's touching you in a way that makes you want more. You're confused because he's so irritating to you but he's also so sexy you're having trouble remembering that he shouldn't be touching you like this. 

You can admit there had been a curiosity about him, an attraction you denied to yourself. You thought it was because he was so cold and sharp, but here he is warm and soft and you want more of him. You want to see his face again. 

Now you willingly touch him, hands at his cheek pulling him back to face you. At the sensation of your hands on his flesh Din's eyes roll back in his head and he stops his thrusts against your thigh, trying to hold off the inevitable. You retract your grip.

He's so exquisite, even moreso like this with flushed cheeks, soaking wet, his full mouth dripping with water from the shower. He has facial hair, you see. Dark brown, thicker above his upper lip. His brows saddle and you see the pain and anguish in his face. 

"You're not thinking straight," you inform him. "This... Whatever it is, it's making you lose your faculties."

Din groans, nodding. One hand is above your shoulder, palm flat to hold him upright. You stare into his face, your eyes locked on his. It's there, a building pressure for you at the realization you want to feel more of him. 

But you can't. 

You're sopping wet, your tunic clinging to you, your hair stuck to your body and yet you try to affect a look of leadership. 

"Think for a second," you instruct him. "did the quarry say anything about what she gave you?" 

"L-luxuria Veve-verritas.” Din feels his cock throbbing at your nearness. It takes everything in him to stop from rutting against you. "I've never heard of it."

But you have. Your friend back home took it for over a year. You groan, hands scrubbing your face. Din's brows furrow. 

"What? What is it?" 

"It's popular on Navarro," you explain with a sigh. "A fertility drug. You're going to be like this until you come."

"I have!" Din roars. He points at the soaked trousers he still wears. "I didn't even have to touch myself!"

"Not by your own hand," you sigh. "The drug was invented for impregnation. You need to... Come inside…someone." 

There is a hideous silence, the only sound the still running water from the showerhead. Din swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. 

"How long will it last if I don’t?"

"Twelve hours." 

Din's eyes widen. "Twelve hours of this?" 

"That's only if you don't die before then," you say with a wince. "It's happened before. The blood temperature and..." 

You trail off. Din's eyes rove your body, his intention obvious. You frown. 

"You can stop right there if you think I'm going to let you have your way with me," you snap. "I'm your mechanic, not your Pleasure Droid." 

Din is trying not to touch himself, but he keeps rustling against his pants and it keeps catching the head of his leaking cock. His eyes are fixed on your mouth, your nipples poking through your thin tunic, your sweet face, he can't stop what's about to happen.

He lowers his mouth until it's almost grazing yours as he rolls his hips inside his trousers. His cock rubs against the stiff fabric. He cages you in against the wall, arms on either side of you. You're suffocated by his warmth, the scent of his soap and sweat, the length of his damp curls.

"Say my name," he urges, his voice on the thin edge of demanding and begging. You're hypnotized by the endless galaxy of his eyes.

"Din, I-"

You watch in mute fascination as he throws his head back, groaning lowly as his hips stutter against the air. He shudders, fucking the empty space between you, careful not to touch you as he comes in his trousers once more.  

His head sags forward and he's panting heavily next to you, his warm, bristled cheek almost touching yours.

"You have to stop doing that," you tell him when you find your breath. "Every time you do it makes it worse." 

"I can't help it!"

Din looks and sounds fucked out, his eyes heavy and his skin flushed. You take a moment to formulate a plan. 

"I'll tie you up so you can't move at all and then I'll lock you in here," you reason, trying not to notice how close he is to you. 

"You can't," he rasps, his mouth inches from your face. "It's getting stronger, this feeling."

"So?"

"So I know you're here on the ship," he rumbles. "On the other side of that door. And I promise you nothing is going to be able to keep me from snapping out of my restraints, breaking down that door and fucking you until I'm satisfied. Even if you left the ship I'd easily find you."

You shiver at his words, you’ve never heard Din swear like that. And he said this not to scare you but you let you know the severity of the situation. Your eyes go to his mouth, flicking there and then back to his heated gaze.  

"Carbonite!" 

Din blinks.  "What?"

"I'll get you to the Carbonite chamber! We'll pop you in there for twelve hours and you should be fine when you get out!"

Relief finds its way to Din's face and he nods. It's a long shot but he's desperate. The two of you scramble out of the shower. You pad towards the Carbonite holder in the back of the ship, the both of you dripping along the metal floor. 

But it's building too rapidly, the pull at Din's lower belly now clouding his mind. You're almost at the Carbonite chambers when you feel his strong arms around your middle, dragging you to the nearest wall of the ship and caging you there between his arms.

"What th-"

His wide hands pin your wrists to the wall above your head, his desperate mouth wedging between your jaw and neck. 

"I can't stop," he whines before sucking against your jaw. "Forgive me, please." 

"Din you don't want this," you say, humiliated as well as aroused. 

He hates you! On any other day he would gladly throw himself in Carbonite if it meant not speaking to you. 

"I've wanted to touch you for so long," Din murmurs more to himself than anything. You're confused by this, his mouth still nibbling the flesh of your neck, hands unpinning your wrists to travel along your body. 

"What?"

 "I fantasized about how soft your skin would be but this... " His thumb drags over your pebbled nipples under the damp tunic. "This is better than anything I could have imagined."

Din is rubbing his hips against you, his body feverish with need.

He wants this? He can't be lying, not in his condition. 

You want it too, a voice whispers in your mind.

The one you ignored on the nights you touched yourself to images of his beskar-clad self.  Those you denied when you felt your heart trip when he got a little to close to you during repairs. The feelings you told yourself couldn’t exist because you were so frustrated by him.

And yet now your thighs part willingly, allowing him to nestle between them as his hands explore your body. You encourage it, head tilting back so he can kiss you there more easily. 

But he wants to taste your mouth again, wants the cooling sensation that comes with your tongue dabbing his. He groans as he licks into your mouth, his hands gripping your ass, forcing it against his rolling hips. He's so close to coming again but he needs to do something first. 

His fingers curl up under your tunic, feeling your cunt slick and ready. Through the haze of lust he's shocked at this ready response from you. His fingers marvel at the softness there, the warmth as he slides two inside your dripping slot, the thumb circling your clit. 

You arch back immediately, gasping so raggedly you think they might hear you on the next planet. Pleasure, acute and sharp invades your entire body. 

"I'm sorry," he groans as his fingers begin to thrust in and out of you, mistaking your gasp for pain. "I'm sorry I can't stop." 

"Don't stop!"

You whimper, arms curling around his shoulders. The sound of your whimper makes him need something else entirely. The knowledge that so much has been deprived of him - taste, touch. This is likely his only chance.

He drops to his knees, his fingers still working inside your velvet clutch. He moves his mouth down your body, nipping as he goes. You gasp when he urges your thigh over his shoulder, his mouth coming to envelop your cunt. 

"Din!" 

He flicks his tongue against the pearl of your clit before his fingers and tongue begin to work in tandem, bringing you to the precipice of pleasure. You look down your body to see his dark eyes gazing up at you, pupils blown out, and his vision glassy. 

"For me," he growls between licks as he stares up at you from between your legs. "This is all for me."

You nod, making soft little mewling noises and then with a shuttering cry you come, hips rolling against his pouty mouth, hands gripping his hair as he drinks you down, feeling the heat in his body cooling slightly. 

You're still recovering when he pulls you into his arms, making his way to your makeshift bedroom behind the curtains. 

"I need more of you," he tells you, his growl making your body quiver. You stare up at him as he carries you to the mattress, struck with the intensity of his focus. 

You allow him to take you to the makeshift bedroom. He deposits you in the center before shucking off his trousers and letting them fall to the ground. You can only stare at his beautiful body, the perfect size of his cock, the glow of his tanned skin. 

He urges your tunic off, letting it fall with a splat on the floor of the ship. You're bared to him and Din feels his brows saddle as he crawls on top of you. 

"Mesh'la" he breathes, not thinking. 

You're so fucking beautiful. So perfect for him as you lay there, flushed and ready for him. He wants to take his time licking and sucking every part of you, but time is of the essence. His tip is already weeping. 

He pulls back only so that one hand can snake between legs, lining his aching cock up with your sex. But something of his inner strength stops him, gritting his teeth as he looks at you. You’re flushed, gazing up at him with all the trust in the world. It makes his chest flutter.

"Tell me to stop," he groans, his eyes fiery. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll manage the twelve hours, I'll-"

"Do it," you interrupt him with a breathless nod. Your thighs part, urging him. You need to feel him or you're going to go insane yourself. 

That's all he needs. With your faces inches apart he feeds his cock into you, your eyes locked. The both of you offer little groans against each other's parted mouths as the pleasure ignites. 

"Oh, oh it's," your words aren't there. 

"Good?" 

"More than good." 

Din smiles for the first time and you feel your heart hiccup in your chest. He has a dimple in his cheek, his eyes warm, his nose strong and- 

You cry out as he withdraws and then slams himself to the hilt. He cringes at the force of his need, looking down at you with concern. You're staring up at him, eyes wide, hands splayed loosely above your head on the mattress. 

"Are you-"

"Again," you breathe, hips undulating. "Harder."

Your hands tug his neck and bring his face to meet yours. He exhales in delight as your mouth finds his. He kisses you with need as his hips rock into yours brutally, the slapping sound echoing off the ship walls. You're so wet and warm, he can’t slow down. 

And you take him so well, your legs crossed at the ankle around his middle, your flesh recoiling with every snap of his hips against yours. He moves back on his hands, eager to watch your breasts jostle and your body respond to his.

He plunges into you again and again, the pleasure building. It starts at the base of his spine and the top of his head, a sparkly tight feeling that increases as you bounce under him. 

You can only watch as he tilts back, both sets of eyes going to where you join. You're both slick with sweat, your bodies glistening. When he withdraws you both see him glossy and thick. 

“Need it deeper,” he grunts.

He urges both your knees to crook up over his shoulders, almost bending you in half. He wants to see everything and from this angle your pussy looks juicy and delicious. He wants to taste you again, but the need to come inside you is overwhelming. 

He's never done this without his mask, never in the light. He can see everything and when he thrusts forward and sinks into you from this angle the both of you groan once more at the sight and sensation of him burying himself within you. 

"We look so good together," he breathes, not quite believing it. "So perfect.”

This draws a shaky sigh from you, both in pleasure and delight at his response. Your hand cups his cheek, strangely moved. He grins down at you again and his tempo increases, his eyes fluttering shut. 

"So good," he moans, sending the mattress bouncing as he fucks deeply into you. "Knew you'd feel so good." 

"You've thought about this?" You ask, curious even as your eyelids crash together in pleasure. 

"I’ve thought about fucking you every day," he admits, feeling you tighten around him. "Since the day you came aboard." 

You want to ask him more, but he's hitting that perfect spot and you can feel all rational thought leaving you, replaced with a blissful pleasure that floods your body. 

You come on his cock, your body twitching as you arch up from the mattress. Din watches this in awe of your beauty and open desire, grunting as he continues at that same pace, watching you fall apart for him. 

He feels your walls start fluttering against the head of him and let's out a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Your eyes crack open, your expression a lazy pout. 

"Please Din," you beg, your body coiled. At the sound of his name he moans, you feel his cock piston between your legs in a fervor and then... 

He tenses and comes deep inside you. He floods you, his groans of your name and how good you are are muttered against your mouth. His arms wrap around you and yours around his neck. You kiss him fiercely as he empties himself into you, hips stuttering. 

You take him, and it feels like forever until he shudders to a stop, his leg twitching before he sags against you. Concerned he'll crush you, he rolls back onto the mattress. 

You lay there in silence, noting that he finally appears to be softening. He takes the blanket at your feet and pulls it over the both of you, aware of his modesty. 

You suddenly feel very naked, not just in body. You're desperate to focus on anything side from the fact that your arms touch as you both gaze up at the ships roof, your cunt aching and full of him. 

"How do you feel?"

"Good," he says through a frog in his throat. "The pain is gone."

He turns to look at you and you feel compelled to stare back. 

"Okay good. I'm glad I could help." 

He nods slowly in understanding. You can't stop looking at his face, concerned that he's so beautiful you're never going to be able to forget.  You think of his words only moments before, his hushed confession.

I’ve thought about fucking you every day. Since the day you came aboard.

He looks at you gently, amazed at how beautiful you are. The beauty he's tried to distance himself from through cruelty and isolation. The beauty that distracts him when he should be focused on finding quarry. 

"Wait here."

Din watches as you roll out of the bed, grabbing a towel from your chair to cover yourself and walking away. Left with his thoughts Din feels a strange anguish overtaking him. You’re leaving him, you’re leaving the kid.

He doesn’t want you to go.

You return seconds later with his helmet in your hands, grunting a bit with the strain of the beskars weight. 

"Here," you say awkwardly holding the helmet out to him. "I won't say anything."

Din takes it with gratitude, concern swelling in his belly. He sits up on the bed, the helmet on his lap. You come to sit cross legged on the end of the bed, watching him. 

"Thank you for everything." 

"Of course."

A strange sadness is creeping into your body, a feeling you weren't anticipating. 

Din is crushed, knowing that your time is at an end. You'll never want to talk to him after this. Tomorrow he'll take you to Borr'rha and you'll never see one another again. He tries very hard not to look defeated. 

"I better get back to the cockpit," he rasps. "I know how eager you are to get to Borr'rha."

You watch as he raises the helmet, about to replace it when you lean forward, hand reaching towards him. 

"Wait."

Din stops, letting the helmet fall back to his lap. 

"What is it?" He asks gently, his heart picking up speed as you crawl over the mattress to him. 

He hastily moves the helmet to the side so that you can perch yourself there on his lap. 

To your relief you feel him begin to swell under the sheets when your arms wrap around his neck, a gentle smile on your lips. 

"Just one more kiss?" 

tagging those of you that showed interest!

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @almostempty @bitchesuntitled @honestly-really-magnificent @dindjarinsonlyfans @joeldidnothingwrong @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @eff4freddie @sjc7542 @lizzie-cakes @almostfoxglove @getitoutofmymindwrites @realmamabear79 @cuteanimalmama @djarins-cyare @burningfieldof-clover @swankyorange @thischarmingmandalorian @ashleyfilm @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @cozylittlepigeon @tobethlehem @pastawench @docharleythegeekqueen

Dividers provided by @saradika

Well well well! This was a wonderful treat!

🥵🫠🥵🫠

sickening desire

joel masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: stepdad!joel miller x f!reader summary: you and your stepdad don't have much in common, but you always try to keep things friendly. back home for college break, he's not making it very easy. word count: 2,7k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied & wears a skirt, big ol' age gap (reader is nineteen), food mention, joel is big & beefy, stepcest, cheating, fucked morals all round, pet names, joel's a disgusting dirty perv (i'm so serious), smut, grinding, mentions of m & f masturbation, unprotected p in v, cockwarming, 1 spank, creampie, dirty talk, sprinkle of daddy kink, praise kink, panty kink a/n: written for @beefrobeefcal's MARRIED JOEL SITS ON YOU prompt - i got to witness the birth of this on discord, and thought how can i make this cute idea deranged instead, so here we are. idk how all this happened. this is stepcest, you have been warned. if it's not your thing then pls scroll on, no hard feelings in here <3 not beta'd

After weeks of phone calls, texts and endless hounding from your mother, you caved and decided to come home for your college break. She was missing you like crazy, and apparently you had aunts and cousins who were just dying to see you after so long, no doubt ready to bombard you with questions about the life of a college girl as if you were the first of the kind.

So, you came home to your mom and her new-ish husband, Joel Miller. You can count the number of times you’ve met him on one hand, one of those occasions being their wedding. You’re not sure how they make it work, but then opposites do attract…

Marriage has been good to Joel, his mental health and financial stability have improved, and overall he seems a happier person — not that you could tell from looking at him, with a permanent scowl etched on his face. The only ‘drawback’ seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline — his jeans now too tight around his thighs, the seams visibly strained, and his tummy poking out past his belt. They no doubt add to his eternal pissed-off facade, but he’s far too stubborn to admit he needs to buy new ones.

Your mom reminds him, often, how much he’s filled out in recent times, and judging by the bitterness in her voice, she clearly doesn’t approve. You’re not sure why she disapproves, but you’d never admit that.

From what you know, he’s neither an overly good nor a bad guy, he’s just… Joel, and the two of you have nothing to talk about, so you keep your distance out of courtesy. At least, you try to.

Since you’ve been home, you’ve caught him staring a few times but pin it down to aged eyesight. Most days he greets you in the kitchen with a husky ‘mornin’ sweetpea’, and makes a point of brushing up against you, half hard and warm in his threadbare sweatpants. He’ll place a hand on the small of your back when he stands beside you, pinky wandering down to toy with your waistband.

You cover up the way your breath catches and stop yourself from clenching your legs together every time — either he doesn’t have a grasp on personal space, or he’s doing this on purpose. The way he watches you move around once he’s sat down says all you need to know. You try not to think about it.

-

You’re flicking between channels one night when the front door clicks open, the heavy stomp of workboots echoing down the passage and into the room. Joel waltzes in, dumping his keys and without a word, sits directly onto you.

“What the fuck?”

“This is my chair, sweetpea. Not my fault you’re in it.”

You try pushing him off you, a losing battle with the extra kilos he’s put on since tying the knot with your mom. He mumbles something to you, his words lost underneath the TV and your strained grunting.

“What?” You huff at him, growing more and more agitated.

“I asked, you gettin’ off on this like you did sittin’ on my lap?”

Your mind swirls as you try to pinpoint what he means. It’s just when you’re about to give him lip and ask him what the fuck he’s on about, that you remember — and suddenly you wish the world would just swallow you whole.

-

During Sunday’s roast lunch, you were surrounded by extended family, filling in the blanks and avoiding the painfully personal questions; Joel spent the day with his standard disgruntled look and your mom was overzealous in her storytelling — everything and everyone just how you remembered.

Everyone broke off into smaller bubbles after lunch, and you stared at Joel as he unbuckled his belt and slumped back on your aunt’s couch — he stared right back at you, head cocked to one side as he weaselled his way into your mind with just a slight smirk and a wink, large hand resting teasingly over his crotch. You left the room, intentionally distancing yourself from him the rest of the day.

It was late afternoon by the time you begrudgingly hugged each family member goodbye and settled in the backseat next to Joel, some extras tagging along for the free ride back to your neighbourhood. With your headphones in and all other passengers occupied, you tried to nap the rest of the way home and regenerate the energy siphoned from you throughout the day. You had no complaints, up until now.

You sat up when your mom stopped off at a different house with just over half the trip still to go. Her heart of gold meant she’d offered a lift home to too many people for her one car, so being the youngest, she suggested you just squash up or sit on someone's lap… Which is fine when you’re nine, not nineteen.

And not just anyone offered up a place, no, Joel lifted his hand in the air and said you could sit on him — with no other way to get home, you pinched your eyes and cringed, but did it anyway. You were fine for the first 15 or so minutes until the road became uneven, and you realised just how fucked this whole thing was — when you first sat down on Joel, he wasn’t hard. You took a breath to try to steady yourself without drawing extra attention.

It was just a… natural response? God, that doesn’t make it any better.

You shifted forward, tried to reposition your weight over his legs and knees and told him you were just getting stiff — wrong fucking choice of words as you became even warmer than before.

Your mom stopped off to refuel along the way, everyone climbing out of the car to stretch, and you made a beeline for the bathroom, splashing yourself with water to cool down.

Joel watched as you came back to the car and you tried not to stare when you saw he was fully hard in his jeans; you felt mortified when you saw the damp patch you’d left on the fabric.

Back on Joel’s lap for the rest of the trip, everyone else was asleep with your mom still driving, radio turned up and blissfully unaware. You’d be able to forget about this, lock the memory away and move on if you hadn’t been so fucking turned on.

What’s worse, you making your stepdad hard, or him making you wet?

-

Joel snuck his hands onto your hips and you tensed, caught off guard by his touch.

“Keep ya steady,” he muttered, fingers digging into your skin.

Holding onto the seat in front for balance, he felt you were trying to lift your weight off him. He tightened his grip on you, slowly pulling you down onto him completely. There was no going back — he was fully hard by now, so he may as well get the most from this.

He pulled you to lean into his chest, his voice quiet in your ear, “S’alright sweetpea, almost there.”

Your head was turned to watch your mom the whole time, and Joel should have cared, but he just couldn’t, not when you were all warm and sweet on top of him. You stayed taut the entire trip home, Joel’s hands on your hips and bulge pressed deliciously against your core. He shifted you atop him every so often, and you desperately wanted to hate how good it felt.

When you finally arrived home, you clambered out of the car and left everyone to fend for themselves, darting for your room. You were about to close the door when you caught Joel staring again, the front of his jeans damp and darkened from where you were perched. You unpacked your clothes, sorted out your washing, and even took a shower but the incessant ache was still there. You finally gave in and shoved your hand between your legs.

-

A loud advert plays on the TV and brings you back into reality, Joel still firmly on top of you.

“Don’t act all fuckin’ innocent on me now, I know those panties of yours were gettin’ all wet with you grindin’ down on me like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were real quick to run off to your room that night, you had to stick your fingers up in that cunt of yours to get yourself off?”

“Fuck you, Joel.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love to. I know you dream of gettin’ fucked real good by your daddy, huh?” He twists to look at you, the motion pushing more of his weight onto you. “No point in arguin’ with me, I heard you that night… I’ve heard you on a lot of nights since you been home, always callin’ out for me.”

You don’t talk back as you keep pushing to get him off of you — he has enough leverage just from hearing you at night, he doesn’t also need to know that you are enjoying having his weight on you like this, unable to fight back or do anything about it.

“Now you got nothin’ to say?” He lifts himself slightly and gestures for you to get up, grabbing your wrist before you can walk away. “Did I say I was done talkin’?”

He faces you towards the TV, standing you between his now spread legs. Skating his hands up the back of your legs, goosebumps rise on your skin as he moves higher and higher, lifting the hem of your skirt as he goes. He kneads the swell of your ass, sliding his thumbs under the edge of your panties.

“These the ones you had on that day?”

“Huh?”

“Barely touched you and you already can’t think straight. Are these the panties you had on when you sat on my lap?”

“Uh, no? I don’t know, Joel.”

He pulls your panties up to expose more of your skin, smacking a hand down on the side of your ass. You jolt forward at the impact, a fresh wave of arousal seeping out between your folds.

“‘S a real shame, I bet they were soaked right through, huh? Soakin’ ‘em right now, the way you’re droolin’ for me. You wanna know somethin’, sweetpea?” You don’t bother answering, lost in the feeling of finally having his hands on you. “Never used to enjoy doin’ laundry before you came to visit, but now… Well, now I get to see all the pretty panties you have. And I always know when you’ve been thinkin’ of me, they get extra dirty.”

He reaches up to grip your hip, his other hand twisting to push in between your legs. Your hips jerk as he traces his fingers along your damp panties, pushing up into you against the fabric.

“Seems like you actually were gettin’ off on havin’ me on top of you…” You crane your neck at the clink of his belt buckle and watch as he drags his zipper down. He stares up at you the whole time. “But now you’re gonna sit on me again.”

Pulling you backwards by your waist, he keeps your skirt lifted and hooks a finger into the gusset of your panties, tugging them aside. He runs his fingers through your folds, already sticky with need. You clench your legs when he pulls away again, and he sighs, frantic and satisfied; turning around again you see he’s taken his cock in his hand, thick and hard, coating himself in your slick.

He guides you down onto him and a gasp slips from you as he drags the head of his cock through you to line himself up. Your gasps turn to a strangled moan as he pulls you to sit, sheathing himself completely — it’s a delicious stretch without any prep, and again you find yourself wishing you could hate this, hate him for doing this.

He lets your skirt drop down again as you settle on his lap, and picks up the TV remote with one hand, the other a vice grip on your waist. He flips through the channels, ignoring the fact you’re sitting firmly on him.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? We’re watchin’ TV, sweetpea. And you’re gonna be a good girl for me and sit still. With all the starin’ and whinin’ you do, this was only a matter of time.”

“And all the staring you do?”

“As if you don’t fuckin’ love it.” You clench around him at his words and he sniggers at you. “You’re real tight, sweetheart. Now sit still.”

-

You’re not sure how long you sit like this — Joel staring deadpan at the TV with his hands wrapped around your waist, and you aching for relief as you hold back from squirming on top of him. The initial sting has subsided, replaced now with a steady and simmering burn as you leak around him.

Your breathing deepens as you fight with yourself — do stay composed and try to win, or give in and let Joel make you feel good?

“Won’t lie, sweetpea, I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you.” His low voice draws you from your inner conflict. “‘Specially now that you got me in you.”

You can practically hear the shit-eating grin on his face, and he punctuates himself with a lift of his hips, rolling you on him. Fuck it, just give in. Whimpering as he repeats the motion over and over, it’s the most he’s done the entire night.

“You wanna know somethin’ else?” He keeps grinding your hips against him, the stretch of his cock and the strain of your panties against your clit bringing you closer and closer. “Dunno if you’ve ever noticed your panties go missing? S’cause I took ‘em, sweetpea. I take your pretty panties and I use ‘em to jerk off, dirty or clean, doesn’t matter to me, s’long as they’re yours. I smell ‘em, I wrap ‘em around my cock, I picture you wearin’ ‘em when I come all over ‘em.”

At some point in his rambling, he’d snaked a hand around to your front and under your skirt, and shoved his fingers in your panties to circle your clit. Just like a lot of things lately, you’re trying to hate how much you love it.

“That’s it sweetpea, come all over your daddy.”

Your legs tense, trapping his hand as he works you through your high, murmuring praises in your ear as you writhe on top of him — unfortunately for you, it’s the hardest you’ve ever come. He doesn’t give you time to think, wrapping his arms around you to lift you up and bundling your arms behind your back.

“Stay there, ‘m not done with you.”

Steadying yourself by leaning on his jean-covered thighs, he starts pistoning up into you, over and over as he uses you for his own high. Squeezing your hips, he pulls you down to match his thrusts, the room filled with his grunting and your whining and the obscene squelch from between your legs each time he fills you. It’s not long before he starts shuddering underneath you, pulling you down hard as he spills into you with a groan.

He holds you, almost affectionately in his arms as he relaxes, warm breath being puffed into your neck as he nuzzles against you and his hands smoothing over your clothes. Turning to look at him, his lips are just parted and his pupils are blown wide. You try to discern the emotion behind his eyes, surging forward to press your lips to his instead, afraid of what the truth might be.

It’s soft, it’s sweet, it’s almost pure, the way he kisses you back, the hairs of his beard and moustache prickling your skin as a hand comes up to cradle your face, the other still held around your waist. You pull back from him, and he has that usual deviant glint in his eyes when he opens them again.

He stands you in front of him, just like you were before this, and he pulls your panties back over your core. He waits and watches as his spend starts oozing out of you and gets absorbed into the already damp cotton.

“Definitely gonna make good use of these ones, sweetpea.” He winks as he stands up, tucking his softening cock back into his jeans, still sticky from both you and himself. “Next time you can wear ‘em, just like I told you.”

tagging some friendos from the wip wednesday snippets, Imk if you'd like to be taken off <3

@luxurychristmaspudding @whocaresstillthelouvre @milla-frenchy @clawdee @burntheedges

@greenwitchfromthewoods @yopossum @evolnoomym @mountainsandmayhem @bubble-pop-eclectic

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

WIP WEDNESDAY

Heyooooo I actually DO have WIPs to share this fine Wednesday! Thank you for the tag @whocaresstillthelouvre 😘

Dieter Time Travel for @burntheedges’ Roll-A-Trope:

He needed to find somewhere with air conditioning, maybe it’s the heat finally getting to him. Standing outside a store called Vixen’s. Huh, he thought, a sex shop would be the perfect way to distract his mind. There’s a ding when he enters the store.

“Good afternoon!” A cheery feminine voice calls out from the back, “I’ll be right with you.”

AND

Parents to Lovers - First Date:

It had been this back and forth constantly since the class ended, trying to figure out what time would work best to go on a date. The first actual try got interrupted by Nora getting sick and the second attempt got shot down when Missy caught what Nora had.

NPT: @strang3lov3 @noxturnalpascal @beefrobeefcal @almostempty @ace-turned-confused @covetyou

Jealous Javi?! 😍

may i verily please request an angst + smut with Javier peña please? I've been on Javi brain rot so much I can't get him out of my head 😭

ask and you shall receive x

i'm yours (javier pena x f! reader)

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

my asks are open for requests all month!!

Rating: 18+ (explicit, minors do not interact)

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: your coworker/friend with benefits javi catches one of your idiot coworkers trying to hit on you. during a trip to the bathroom, javi shows you how you're his and nobody else's.

Content: Implied age gap, angst, explicit smut, fingering, dirty talk

Javi did not look happy. 

Javi didn't look happy most times that you or Steve drug him out to a round of drinks with the whole team. The only things that could lure Javi out were Steve buying him a free beer or being able to end the night with you, head buried between your thighs and making you writhe and moan his name.

But tonight, Javi's jaw was stiff with tension, and his eyes were dark and broody as he sat in the bar, pretending to listen to bullshit work stories while your clueless coworker John ghosted his hand lower and lower down your back, trying to pluck up the confidence to wrap it around your waist. 

John was a sweet kid - yes, you were the same age and in the same department but you always felt older than him. Maybe it was his baby face or his lack of facial hair. Maybe it was the fact that he was always following you around, like a lost puppy that was desperate for you to pay attention to him. You knew your limits and boundaries and that he was way too chicken shit to actually touch you without asking, so for now you didn't mind. 

But the way Javi's eyes were burning into you now was enough to send a shiver up your spine. He had no right to get so angry with you - he had never claimed you or said you were exclusive. He never wanted to talk about it. So what gave him the right to be staring daggers at you right now? 

He watched you excuse yourself from John, and walk off in the direction of the singular bathroom. He knew exactly where you were headed and waited a minute before excusing himself, heading off after you.

You were in the bathroom, washing your hands when you heard a knock. "Someone's in here."

"I know," Javi growled and stepped in, locking the door behind him.

"What are you doing?" you huffed. "Someone could need the restroom, you know."

"Why are you letting that little asshole touch you?" Javi demanded, standing in front of you, towering over you with his imposing frame.

"Why do you care?" It was a loaded question. You knew why. You've known why. But none of that is important until he says it.

"Because," Javi started, grabbing your waist. Once again, trying to shut you up with his body. You almost give in, your body sliding into him like a missing puzzle piece and his hot breath fanning your neck as he tries to lean down. 

But you step back.

"You're not my boyfriend. I'm not yours," you interrupted. "We're just...whatever we are." He fidgets his left fingers on his side clearly having phantom pangs for a cigarette. He looks down for a long moment, avoiding your gaze.

"Well, what if I want you to be mine?" He says softly, finally looking up at you.

Your heart starts to hammer against your chest. As many times as you'd picture this scenario, you didn't expect him to ever say that. Especially not while you're locked in a seedy bar bathroom.

"What's in it for me?" you asked, taking a step toward him, a challenge.

"Anything," he breathed out, pulling you in, hands tightening on your hips, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. "Whatever you want. I'll be good. I'll treat you good, baby. Just, fuck. Be mine. I can't watch that little twerp try and touch you anymore its driving me crazy."

"It's not my fault that you were too slow," you teased, inching up towards him. "What if I wanted him to touch me?"

"You don't." 

"I could," you challenged, pressing yourself against his hard chest.

"He doesn't want you like I do," he whispered, his strong nose brushing against yours, his hands sliding down your hips and cupping your ass, groaning when he felt your bare cheeks underneath your dress from your thong.

"Javi," you breathed out, tilting your chin up, trying to connect your lips, but he pulled back.

"Tell me you're mine, cariño," he said, squeezing your ass tighter, spreading your cheeks and making your hips rut into his. "I'm the only one who gets to touch you, huh? The only one that gets to feel you grind onto me? That gets to feel how bad you want my cock? Tell me, cariño. Tell me you're mine."

You bit back a moan, grinding yourself harder against his crotch, feeling his hard bulge in his jeans, his grip on your ass tightening, helping you move.

How were you supposed to know this wasn't a game? That it wasn't just a drunken confession that he would walk back in the morning over pillow talk? That this wasn't all because he was jealous, and it wasn't going to be like every other night. That he would want you again and again like you wanted him constantly. 

"You're gonna have to make me, Javi."

You didn't even have time to comprehend his next move before he spun you around, bending you over the sink. Your breasts pressed into the cool ceramic as his hands hiked up your dress, pulling your panties down to your ankles.

"This?" Javi said, running his finger up your soaked folds, gathering your arousal. is mine." He sucked the finger into his mouth, humming.

He pulled you towards him, his chest pressing into your back. He bent over you, his scruff tickling the shell of your ear as his hand snaked around to cup your breast. His fingers teased the nipple through the fabric of your dress and bra, twisting it.

"These are mine," he said lowly, nipping your earlobe. He kneaded at your breasts, squeezing and releasing, tugging and pinching, his teeth worrying your neck.

"This?" he asked, pushing his knee between your legs, nudging your feet apart, widening your stance. "Is mine," he said, his free hand moving to cup your mound.

“Javi” you whined, arching your back, trying to grind his fingers down and ride them, desperate for them to hit that spot that would give you the release you're aching for.

"Tell me, cariño," he hummed, his thumb flicking across your clit, his fingers teasing in and out of your hole. "Tell me."

"Fuck Javi," you whimpered, pressing yourself into him, grinding against his knee, feeling his clothed bulge hit the back of your thigh. "I need it so bad. Fuck me."

"Mine," he repeated, slipping his fingers deeper into your pussy. "Tell me, baby and I'll let you come all over my fingers and my cock. I wanna feel you cum, baby so bad. All for me. My pretty girl. I want the whole bar to hear you. Tell me, baby. Who do you belong to?"

You wanted so badly for this to be real and not a game. You'd toed the line all night, testing him, seeing what he would do, if he'd stop you and confess that he had feelings for you. But now you were done playing.

"You Javi," you moaned, leaning back into his chest, reaching your hand behind you to grip his hair, holding his head to your neck as he sucked a mark there. 

You heard him exhale a deep breath as he worked his fingers faster, rubbing at your clit with his palm. You let out a loud moan at the sudden change of pace.

"Good girl," he mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to your neck. "Cum for me, baby. Let them all hear how nobody can make you cum like me. Nobody else gets to see how gorgeous you are, the way you look so gorgeous when you fucking fall apart. Cum for me, cariño."

"I'm yours Javi, fuck, I'm yours." You let out a sharp cry as you came, your knees buckling, but Javi held you up, working his fingers slowly to draw out your high, whispering praise in your ear as you pulsed around his fingers.

"So good for me baby," he hummed, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to your lips. "Taste how good you are, pretty girl."

You moaned around his fingers, tasting yourself, sweet and salty. His fingers left your lips with a soft 'pop'. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, a deep moan rumbling in his chest. The two of you looked at each other in the mirror, his eyes blown black, and a smug smile on his lips as he bent down to kiss you. 

"So..." You sheepishly bit your lip, turning around, pressing your back into the counter. "Does this mean we're a thing now? A real thing?"

Javi nodded, staring into your eyes in earnest.

"A thing that we tell people about? We won't sneak around? Cause, Javi, I like you. I like this."

"Me too, cariño," Javi breathed out, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close. "I'm sorry it took so long. I just, I don't really do this, you know? This is different for me."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another long kiss.

"We can figure it out, Javi," you mumbled into the kiss.

"Now, cariño, we still have an issue. When we get back out there, what are you going to do about that little shit, John?"

You laughed and rolled your eyes. "I think I can manage."

"Better. I don't share," Javi winked, swatting your ass as the two of you walked out of the bathroom, your hand intertwined with his.