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i-am-focused · 11 months

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KÖNIG (NSFW Alphabet)

A/N: aaaaa sorry I've been gone for so long this was not intended!! I've just been busy and I'm starting a new job soon. I'll be posting some more stuff soon as I get my thoughts out onto paper, expect some soapghost.

Warning: this should be obvious from the title but 18+ ONLY. This is literally just a guideline for the smut I will be writing about him. NOT PROOFREAD (i wrote this at midnight).

ANYWAY, here we go.

Enjoy :)

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A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He loves it. He is very large (in all ways) and he worries about hurting you so he will thank you and praise you for taking him well and making him happy. He will also probably apologize instinctually because of his paranoia about hurting you.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He’s struggled a lot with insecurities about his own body but he really likes his back and he especially likes feeling you claw at it or leave marks on it in general. He is 100% a thigh man. He loves people who have a bit of meat on their bones and would absolutely love being suffocated between someone's thighs while he’s eating them out.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He can cum multiple times, and often does, and he loves to eat you out after he has come in you because he likes to taste your release mixing with his.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants you to hold a gun to his head while you make him do things to himself and to you. He has grown accustomed to the threat of death and as much as it is anxiety inducing he also does his best work under pressure, and he thinks you would look really hot holding any of his weapons.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Honestly, he gets no bitches. I mean bitches want him, but he is scared of bitches. Essentially in order to get him to engage with you you have to slam him into a wall and make him look into your eyes. He is socially anxious and oblivious (and realistically he’s probably a virgin or close to that, but for the sake of this alphabet we’re ignoring that).

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

He loves it when you’re on top in any way shape or form. He likes to look up at you, it is the only time he feels small and it really turns him on when someone else is in power. He loves it when you’re riding him, especially if he’s tied up and cannot do anything to stop you. Most of the time he is more submissive, but on the rare occasion he takes control, I’d say he would like to have you against the wall. No reasoning really, just vibes.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

I wouldn’t say serious, it’s more that he is so bewildered at what is happening he can’t even form the thought of a joke in his mind. He is just so fucked out of his mind that he cannot think of anything funny or even laugh at what is happening to him.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He is somewhat well groomed just for his own comfort but he is not shaved, it's maintained short but he has a significant happy trail. The carpets do match the drapes and the drapes are dark brown.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He struggles to get into the rhythm of intimacy but once he's in, he really desperately wants to please you and so he takes very good care of you and will do anything you ask him and more to make you happy. He is also in love with you the second you don't hate him so he will be anxious but he will kiss you until he forgets how to speak.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He is VERY loud. This means that he often can’t find time or place to do this while he is working or on a mission (not that he would be that irresponsible anyway…) this means that when he comes back he is pent up. Before he met you he would just take the whole next day to spend purely getting off, thinking of every possible way to make himself cum. Sort of a reward for still being alive. Now that you’re here he doesn't do that as much anymore but he loves to jerk off under your instruction, while you’re watching, while he's watching you, etc.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He loves to be edged and then overstimulated beyond belief. He just wants to be tortured. He likes things to start off fast, then he gets edged, and by the end doesn’t even want to be able to form the words “Please stop”. On the rare occasion that he is more dominant he loves to do no penetration at all (dry humping) or clothed sex. It’s partially out of habit because usually when he gets out of a mission he doesn't even take the time to take off his clothes before he’s all over you.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Secluded locations are his preference because he is extremely anxious but if it is a secluded enough location in public he might be cool with it, or as cool as he can be with you. He would never initiate in public but he also finds it extremely difficult to turn you down.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

He is an absolute fiend for degradation/praise. He loves backhanded compliments like “You're so good for me, it's pathetic.” It’s what he thinks about when he gets himself off. But nearly anything you say can turn him on if it is in the right tone (and if he picks up on it) he also likes it anytime you take control.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He would NEVER hit you. He would also never do knife play/blood play with you unless he was the one it was used on. He does not want to cause you any harm and he would be sick to his stomach if you asked him to hit you for fun and he went too far. He is extremely afraid of his own strength, it is not because he thinks you’re weak.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

This guy will whimper like a mother fucker the second you take him in your mouth. If you ever did cockwarming he wouldn’t last. He absolutely loves it when you take him down your throat and toy with his cock but he loves it equally when you pull his hair and tell him how good he’s being while he eats you out. He loves both and he couldn’t live with one without the other, he's also very good but he will get you absolutely drenched with his mouth so if you don’t like it wet, he’s not for you.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It really depends on the situation. Most of his kinks and turn ons involve foreplay and after-orgasm activity so he likes to get through it fast and rough sometimes to get to the fun part (even that takes time though because foreplay is essential with his size). However… he loves to take it slow, drawing it out is also one of his favorite things to do, or for you to do to him, and he cannot get enough of it.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Extremely rare and he isn't a huge fan. If he's on top it's possible because usually that's when he is full of heated emotions, but he doesn’t enjoy it as much when he’s fast and neither of you are able to get worked up fully. Intimacy is already difficult for him so he likely shies away from this.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He is willing to try just about anything you want to do to him, as long as he's in the comfort of his own home or another safe location where he feels comfortable. He can be a little hesitant to try things on you because he’s already afraid of hurting you but he loves it when you experiment on him.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

As long as you want. Simple as that. He loves to be overstimulated so he will stick around as long as you want. He lasts longer the more often he fucks you, so first day back from a mission might be 10 minutes or less before his first orgasm, but on a normal day without any extenuating circumstances he can probably last a long time. Especially if you ask him to.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He has a bullet vibrator actually, he uses it to edge himself and he usually like to hold it against the bottom of his tip until his cock turns purple from the stimulation (seriously he loves overstim) he has used this on a couple of partners but most of the time he just likes it when they use it on him. Also has a cockring to help him draw things out longer.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn’t tease at all usually, he wants you too bad. But he loves it when you tease him. The only time he does tease you is when you give him a big enough ego boost that he takes over the power position.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He is loud as fuck. He has been gagged by a partner before and sometimes gags himself to make himself keep it down. He whimpers, moans, groans, grunts, everything. He also begs a lot, pleading in both English and German. He cannot shut the fuck up, he breathes heavy too, he cannot be quiet, unless gagged or you choke him and he can’t breath.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

His eyes roll back when he cums. His orgasms in general are somewhat dramatic, there's always him rolling his eyes back, gripping you, thrusting into the air or you etc. but his facial expression is memorable and desperate.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He is long. Girthy for any normal cock but on him it doesn’t look like hes super thick relative to his length. He could hit you in spots you couldn’t reach- and he will. Though it is still very visible even with pants and clothes on, he is a grower.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

He kind of kills his sex drive purposefully after that first day back from a mission, but he will fuck whenever you want, he just won’t ask you to. But he does jerk off (or at least just cum in general) daily.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He passes the fuck out, he does aftercare but then immediately passes out, often on top of you which can be very inconvenient because of his size, but you dont mind it. All of the overstimulation and edging takes a lot out of him and it's really hard for him to not fall asleep after he comes down from his high, especially when he has a nice pillow like your thighs to sleep on.

#konig #konig headcanons #call of duty mw2 #fanfic #konig x you #konig mw2 #cod modern warfare #had some fun with this one #he is silly #konig x reader

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i-am-focused · 1 year

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also this happened because i recently spent all my money on the UCS Razor Crest lego set and my boyfriend has been asking me to watch the mw2 campaign so now i'm here. posting a nsfw alphabet for Konig later maybe....

NEW MEN!!!

okay so I accidentally got really really into cod mw2 so I'm adding him (konig) to my list of characters i will write for, i will also be adding soap and ghost but only in the soap x ghost format because i don't think i could write a reader insert for either of them because ultimately they are gay for each other.

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i-am-focused · 1 year

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NEW MEN!!!

#soapghost #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig #soap x ghost #fanfiction #fanfic

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i-am-focused · 1 year

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II ║ Threads

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part I: Seams | Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: When Joel revisits Main Street Outfitters two weeks later, he finds you on your knees. Again.

Warnings: Very spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.3k

Notes: This crept up on me and happened just as I was finishing up edits. I am so grateful, and I hope Threads is a fitting thank you gift to you all 😘 I’m thinking about doing a sleepover celebration, we shall see!

Joel and Pin are back ❤️ They're back because you guys have been so generous with your love, sending me so many ideas and hyping me up - I can't thank you all enough! This chapter is all thanks to Singer machine anon who bravely (affectionate 😉) shared their story of getting stuck under a sewing machine table. I hope you enjoy this one!

A treadle sewing machine is powered mechanically by a foot pedal that is pushed back and forth by the operator's foot.

If you're not familiar, here is a classic Singer treadle cabinet, which is no way big enough for the purposes of this story, so please exercise your imagination 😉

Joel hovers outside the Jackson Grocer’s, arms crossed, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible in front of the leafy display of butter lettuce heads.

It’s been a few months since he’s settled in, but sometimes he can’t get over how fucking nuts this place is. Looking at the shelves brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables outside, canned food and home goods inside, he could easily be standing outside the 24/7 mart in his old neighbourhood. There are even shopping baskets, for crying out loud - stacked neatly one on top of the other by the door.

A voice pipes up from his left. ‘Didn’t know you ate greens.’

Joel scowls. ‘I don’t.’

‘Why are you loiterin’, then?’ asks Tommy, picking up a couple of apples and examining them with exaggerated care.

‘I’m not loiterin’,’ he spits out the last word as if he’s above it, turning his gaze to the high street.

Tommy tosses him a cocky grin, head tilted at a knowing angle. ‘Yeah, you are. And now you’re makin’ eyes at Bob. It’s disturbin’.’

Glancing across the main thoroughfare at the welder’s shop, where the said proprietor is cutting up wooden planks on the porch, Joel grumbles sarcastically, ‘That’s right. Bob is just my type.’

At that very moment, right next to Bob's, the door of Main Street Outfitters creaks open, and Joel recognises Lucy instantly as she sneaks out on tiptoes. She skips down the stairs and wanders up the street in what appears to be another impromptu work break.

Joel’s already taken two steps towards the shop before he remembers that he’s not alone. Braking abruptly and bringing up one hand to scratch the back of his neck, he feels Tommy’s eyes on him.

He half-turns, and snaps, ‘What?’

The younger Miller brother shrugs, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘Why are you going to the Outfitters again? Didn’t you just get those new jeans a couple of weeks ago?’

‘Thought I’d get a new shirt for your stupid baby shower.’

‘Joel -’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ He throws his hands up in capitulation. ‘Baby showers are not stupid. Especially in the middle of an apocalypse.’

Taking another two steps forward, a thought stops him dead in his tracks again. He can practically feel Tommy smiling smugly at his back.

For fuck’s sake.

He doesn’t turn around this time, jamming his hands into his pockets and asks, ‘Can I bring someone? To the party?’

‘We know Ellie’s comin’.’

Whipping around, he growls, ‘Tommy -’

He laughs. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Joel Miller makin’ friends in town? Maria’s right - you’re fittin’ right in, big brother.’

Rolling his eyes, Joel flips him off and stomps his way across the street.

Tommy calls out at his retreating back. ‘Say hello to Pin and tell her we’d love to have her come over on Sunday!’

When he steps inside, the shop is as empty as it was a fortnight ago. Joel shuts the door firmly, making sure the bell jingles, so his entry doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your voice, though muffled, comes promptly. ‘Lucy! Is that you?’

He heads towards the doorway that leads to the workshop. ‘It’s Joel, actually.’

‘Oh, shit!’

His eyebrows reach for his hairline - you don’t seem to be the type to curse. Concerned, he asks, ‘You alright back there?’

There’s a touch of panic in your reply, ‘Don’t come back here. Did Lucy sneak out again?’

On your instruction, Joel hesitates in the middle of the room, talking to air. ‘Yeah, saw her leave a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Goddamnit, Lucy!’

He shuffles his feet awkwardly. ‘Uh, you sure you’re ok? Should I come back later?’

There’s a resigned sigh, then a pause. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’

One end of his lips tugs upwards in a smile. ‘Why would I?’

‘Promise.’

At your insistence, he humours you, ‘Alright, I promise, sweetheart.’

‘Come on back.’

When he steps into the workshop, he doesn’t spot you immediately. The space is seemingly empty, everything standing still and in order. He sweeps his eyes across the room, starting with the shelving unit and the desk along the near wall, then trailing over the large timber work table in the middle, where a stack of folded shirts stands neatly.

His throat isn’t the only thing that tightens when he glances at the rug under the skylight -

‘Joel?’

Your voice draws his attention to the far corner of the room, where a sewing station is tucked into a little alcove.

Joel doesn’t know much about sewing machines, but he can recognise a vintage Singer anywhere even without the name blazoned across its elegant body. His grandmother had one in her drawing room by a sunny bay window, and he used to watch her work on it when he visited every other weekend. For a disorienting second, he can almost smell homemade cinnamon rolls and black tea.

Little did he know that things were about to get a lot more disorienting than a pleasant childhood memory.

As he steps around the work table, the rest of the sewing station comes into view, fronted by a big window, the light streaming through the glass glancing off the black sewing machine on top of a classic treadle cabinet. What looks like a half-finished dress lies on the wooden work surface, which stands on quintessential wrought metal legs, and between them - his throat constricts with a slow swallow when he realises what - or rather, who - he’s looking at.

The words barely come out, as if his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth, as he makes his presence known. ‘I’m here, sweetheart.’

To be fair, you’re not making things easy by any means. All he can see is your backside hovering in mid-air, the rest of you out of sight under the desk. It has built-in cabinets on each end, the right side of it backed up against the far wall, and a chair is pushed to the side.

Joel stops two measured paces away, staring down at the curve of your ass and the way your top rides up, baring the small of your back. His eyes linger on the soft skin between the shirt’s hem and the waistband of your very tight jeans.

Jesus Christ. Do you always have to be on your fucking knees in this workshop?

Your small voice jolts him from his daze. ‘Well, at least you’re not laughing.’

He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from scoffing. If only you knew how laughing is the furthest thing on his mind right now. ‘What happened?’

‘A spool rolled off and I went down to get it, but I fell on the treadle accidentally - I think my shirt is snagged in the band wheel. I can’t move at all, and this Singer is an antique - I can't risk breaking it.’

Unfamiliar with what you’re talking about, he probes, ‘And where’s the band wheel?’

‘Under the table, on my right.’

You wriggle your hips, perhaps to help him locate where you’re stuck, unaware that you’re not helping. At all.

He swallows thickly and implores you, ‘Stay still, sweetheart. I’ll take a look.’

It’s been two whole weeks since Joel Miller came into the shop. You’ve caught glimpses of him in between - Jackson is tiny, after all. He catches your eye as he ambles down the high street with Ellie, his gruff Southern accent carrying even in the mid-afternoon bustle, too preoccupied arguing with the teenager to notice you on the other side of the road. He’s in the cafeteria a couple of times when you arrive for a late dinner, nodding at you from a few tables over, while you work up the nerve to smile back.

Every time, he’s wearing the jeans you handpicked for him, which makes your chest swell and constrict at the same time with something like - pride.

You picked out the pair for him. You assured him that he looks good. And by the way he’s wearing his confidence on his sleeve, he’s certainly taken your words to heart.

Whenever you see other women eyeing him as he struts about town - which is entirely too often - it awakens an ugly possessiveness in you, one that twists your insides into grotesque balloon animals.

Fourteen damn days. Even in the privacy of your workshop, you can’t escape that man. The simple touch of denim provokes a visceral reaction from you, heat chases beneath your skin every time you pick up the tailor’s scissors. It doesn’t help that most of your daily tasks are not exactly cerebral, which gives this man all the more leeway to lay claim to your subconscious.

If you believed in magic, you would've thought you summoned him with the sheer energy you’ve spent thinking about him. But what kind of witchcraft conjured him up at the precise moment you get trapped like the bumbling idiot that you are?

One minute you’re reaching for the stupid thread, the next thing you know, you’re stuck, unable to move without the mechanisms of the antique Singer groaning ominously at your attempts to free yourself.

But maybe, it’s still better than Lucy finding you. She’d take a hammer to the sewing machine to get you out, no question - patience is not her strong suit - and she’d be laughing at you for days.

You hear the floorboards give behind you as Joel moves into the space, which isn’t much - when you’re sat down at the treadle cabinet, the wall is barely two steps behind.

The wooden table creaks above you as he braces one hand on the surface, and you startle at what sounds like the vicious crack of a vertebra.

‘Um - you okay?’

Joel grunts. ‘I’ll live.’

So you wait, thinking absent-mindedly how your elbows are starting to get numb. There’s a scruff of boots and what sounds like a brief struggle, before Joel sighs. ‘Back’s too stiff ‘mfraid. Gotta get on the floor to see underneath.’

Before you can squeak out a reply, there’s a boney click of what you presume is his knees as he crouches down, and an unexpected brush of denim on your left ankle surprises you. Forgetting where you are, you jump in reflex, hitting the underside of the table so hard that you screech in pain.

‘Shit!’ Joel cusses behind you, one warm hand landing on the side of your hip to steady you. ‘You ok?’

Up until this point, you’ve been too consumed with embarrassment by your predicament to even think about the position Joel found you in. But once the warm imprint of his palm registers through the denim, it hits you like one of those interstate trucks that you used to see out of your window.

You’re leaning on your forearms, ass in the air, and now - he’s behind you, getting onto his knees. You can’t decide if the back of your head or your pussy is throbbing harder as you stutter, ‘I’m fine, just - get me out, please.’

‘Alright, hang on, sweetheart.’

You swallow the childish urge to stamp your foot. He has no right going around dropping sweethearts all over the place.

There’s a throaty exhale as Joel lowers himself onto the floor, his knees bracketing yours to shift closer to you. You know he feels the shudder that chases down your spine when soft flannel grazes your bare back, heat spilling from his solid frame as he looms over you.

‘You say you’re stuck in the band wheel?’

Somehow, you manage to answer, ‘Yeah, to my right.’

He clears his throat. ‘I - uh - I’ll have to lean down pretty close to you to take a look, is that ok?’

You feel all the air leave your body, which is probably why your reply comes out far breathier than you intend it to. ‘Yes, Joel.’

And with those two words, Joel has a problem with his jeans. Again.

They’re too tight. Again.

There’s nothing he can do as his mouth goes dry and his cock hardens with a vengeance, his self-control slipping like sand between his fingers.

He was doing so good - well, he was more or less holding it together, as much as he could be expected to while kneeling behind you. And of course, his damn knees hurt, but so does his bottom lip which is caught in his teeth, trying to regulate his breathing when his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest.

He already has one hand on you, and goddamnit, it’s taking him all he’s got to hold back from gripping you with his other, to grasp the swell of your ass between his palms, to trace your curves up to the dip of your exposed waist, to bow his head and run his tongue along the arc of your spine -

And the jeans you’re wearing - fuck, they’re tight. He wonders idly if you wore them for him. His eyes follow the seam that runs down the cleft of your ass, the way the pockets stretch over your backside has his fingers twitching, thinking about how well you will fill his hands, and how the slow rub of denim will burn his skin.

He wants to hook his thumbs into the belt loops and pull you flush against the zipper of his jeans, where his cock is straining against - rub himself on you, grind on you, his thighs plastered to the back of yours -

‘Joel?’

Fuck.

He sways as he snaps out of his stupor, dangerously close to knocking into you, light-headed from the lack of blood to his brain. He chokes out, ‘Yeah, I got you, sweetheart.’

Get it together, you dirty bastard.

He’s careful to leave a couple of inches between his front and your ass when he bends his elbows and ducks so he can peer beneath the desk. His chest pressed flat against your lower back, he can see the bunched fabric of your shirt where it’s caught.

‘Yup, you’re right, your shirt is snagged tight in there.’

‘Can you untangle it?’

‘Think so, but I’ll need both hands.’ He pauses. ‘I’d better get on my back under you.’

You swear you’re going to black out.

‘Pin?’ he prompts when you’ve been quiet a beat too long.

‘I - um, what do you mean by going under me?’

‘If I’m on my back, I can use both my hands, like a mechanic under a car,’ he explains. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, I can find another way -’

‘No!’ you blurt out, wincing at the desperation in your tone. ‘I mean - whatever is easiest for you. You’re the one doing me a favour here.’

‘Alright,’ he says, placated by your reassurance. ‘On your hands and knees then, sweetheart.’

Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. Oh, come on. Can he hear himself?

Scraping together your last vestiges of control, you push up on your palms to make space underneath you. You have to consciously lock your elbows - your joints suddenly feel like barely set pudding.

‘Move as far to your right as possible so I can slide in.’

Shuffling on your hands and knees until you’re pressed up against the band wheel, you hear the brush of fabric on wood - must be his back against the floorboards as he slides in. To say it’s a squeeze is an understatement. His broad shoulders brush the front of your thighs as he inches in, and then, his face appears under yours, head between your hands.

His lips quirk. ‘Hi, sweetheart.’

Your breath hitches at his proximity, your wrists brushing the soft red flannel he’s wearing today. ‘Hi.’

‘You ok?’ he asks.

You’re this close to pouting. What does he think? There’s a telltale stickiness between your legs that you’re frantically trying to push to the back of your mind while you mmhmm noncommittally, hoping that he doesn’t smell your want in the tiny, claustrophobic space you’re now both caught in.

You can only assume that he’s none the wiser, since the next thing that comes of his mouth is -

‘Climb on top of me so I can slide in closer to the band wheel.’

Someone might as well say your last rites. This is the end.

You’re taken aback when your limbs start to move on autopilot, because your faculties have well and truly abandoned ship. One trembling leg attempts to swing itself over the solid breadth of his body, but it wobbles like jelly, and your knee ends up connecting firmly with his stomach instead of landing clear on his other side.

At his grunted oomph, you panic and bang your head on the underside of the table again, which sends your whole weight sprawling onto his front with a yelp.

Joel cradles the back of your scalp with one hand. ‘Shit, you ok, sweetheart?’

The seams of your lashes sting, your head smarting with the impact, and you blink drily as your gaze focuses on Joel under you. He’s so close that you can see flecks of gold in his brown eyes, his breath hitting your face in warm puffs. Your glance at his lips, and with that one little motion, all goes quiet.

He watches you back, neither of you breathing, and in the stillness you realise that you’re fully straddling him, your palms pressing into the hard floor on either side of his ears. Your tits are crushed up against his ribs, his soft tummy warmly cushioned under you. Lower still, where your hips are nestled into the spread of his thick thighs, something stiff and long and insistent presses into you -

Your jaw goes slack when it dawns on you.

Oh god.

He’s hard.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Joel breaks the silence, a pained frown on his brow as he shakes his head. ‘This is embarrassin’. Couldn’t fuckin’ help it, seein’ you in those jeans -’

Tongue-tied, you can only stare at him, wishing you were brave enough to say something. Tell him that you pulled extra shifts to buy this particular pair of jeans, knowing that they flatter your figure. That you’ve worn them almost every day these two weeks, hoping that he’d swing by again.

But you can’t.

So you pray that he can see what you can’t say by the way you’re looking at him, by the way your heart races wildly in your ribcage against his chest.

His voice cracks. ‘I understand if you want me to go -’

You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cut in, ‘Don’t.’

His warm eyes widen, something like hopefulness in the way he looks up at you. ‘You don’t want me to go?’

You press your body closer into his, filling in the gaps. ‘No. Please don’t, Joel.’

He leans forward, so close that you can feel the phantom burn of his silvered beard, his palms finding the meat of your legs, blunt nails biting into the denim.

He really should be ashamed of himself, at the way his cock pulses unabashedly, nudged right between your thighs as you stare down at him, lips parted. He’s hard enough that he worries if there’s a wet spot of precum on the front of his jeans - he can feel himself leaking through his boxers.

The wicked tip of your tongue traces a wet trail on your bottom lip, and he almost chokes on a half-buried groan deep in his chest. He knows that you don’t even know you’re doing it - and in turn, what that does to him.

It would be easy to close the two-inch gap between you. To kiss you, taste you, lick into your sweet mouth. All he needs to do is to cup the back of your head and pull you down, or crane his neck and press his lips to yours -

And Joel is someone who always follows the path of least resistance.

But - he wants to do right by you. He knows you deserve more than a quick fumble under a table.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Joel steels himself and brushes a chaste thumb over your cheekbone. ‘Let’s get you out of here, and then we can talk, ok?’

It’s almost perverse the way his chest warms at the flicker of disappointment in your eyes as you give a reluctant nod, ‘Ok. Please be careful, the Singer’s really delicate.’

It’s hard to focus - his attention keeps drifting to how snugly you fit into his chest, between his arms, and it’s not a stretch to imagine a soft mattress underneath his back. It's funny how quickly his body has adjusted to creature comforts after months of sleeping on the cold winter ground.

Joel’s mindful that an antique sewing machine will be a pain in the ass to repair without the requisite parts, so he moves carefully, gently coaxing the band wheel back and forth to see how he can extract you. It doesn’t take long to loosen the grip of the metal teeth on your shirt, but he has to reach up and untangle the threads snagged into the mechanisms one by one.

He muses idly that this is not his method. These hands of his, with crooked knuckles that never healed right, where many a dagger, knife, gun, rifle have found a home - they break things, people.

When was the last time someone asked gentleness of him?

He wants to scoff. That’s not what he’s good for.

Despite himself, his throat rumbles with a hum of satisfaction when the band wheel finally lets go of your shirt, the Singer whirring to life as it spins freely. He gives you a lopsided smile. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’

You smile, but don’t seem to be in a hurry to move, which pleases him. He likes looking at you from this angle, relishing in your weight on him. He takes his time running his eyes over your face, his palms coming to rest on your knees.

You duck your head prettily. ‘Thank you, Joel.'

He gives you a playful shrug. ‘Well, I owed you one for these jeans.’

You roll your eyes in good humour. ‘Actually, I told you specifically that you didn’t.’

Joel basks in the lighthearted turn in the conversation, egging you on, ‘Well, in that case, you owe me one for this instead.’

‘That’s hardly fair -’ you chide him, punching him in the shoulder in a half-hearted rebuke.

Taking the opportunity, he grabs you by the wrist, the contact prompting a bodily shudder from you that he doesn’t miss. He smirks, ‘M’fraid I don’t play fair, sweetheart.’

You glare at him in mock sternness, bold enough to demand, ‘Fine - what do you want then, Joel Miller?’

For a split second, he hesitates, woefully out of practice at whatever it is that he’s about to do. Swallowing his self-doubt, he asks, ‘Tommy and Maria are throwing a baby shower on Sunday at their house - do you want to come?’

Your shoulders stiffen. Now, that you were not expecting. Your social anxiety bubbles between your ribs and looms over you like a spector. You sputter, ‘Um, I -’

You start when his fingers draw soothing circles on the top of your knees, as if seeing straight through the source of your apprehension. He reassures you, ‘Lucy is welcome to join too. The more the merrier.’

Your eyes soften. ‘Ok. I’d love to.’

The endearing way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles has you swaying towards him, his nose just brushing the side of yours - when the doorbell rings, cutting through the loaded silence.

In your haste to sit up, you knock your head against the table for a third time.

‘Ow!’ you cry. Even Joel flinches at the hard hit.

Lucy calls out, sounding dangerously close. ‘Pin? You ok, hon?’

‘Shit!’ You start scrambling backwards, bent over awkwardly, convinced that you’re one more blow away from a concussion. You’ve barely scrambled onto your feet when Lucy steps into the workshop, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as blood rushes to your brain.

She watches in amusement as Joel drags himself from under the sewing station, head cocked to one side. ‘Hi again, stranger. You really like our shop, don’t you?’

His shirt is rumpled from where you sat on him, bits of his curls sticking up. He rubs the back of his neck, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘I just swung by to, uh, invite you and Pin to the baby shower. Tommy and Maria’s. This Sunday.’

Lucy crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. ‘And it’s a tradition where you’re from to talk about weekend plans under a table?’

You narrow your eyes at her. ‘Luce -’

She winks. ‘You know what? I don’t need to know the gory details - but I’m in. See you Sunday, Miller!’

Joel huffs a chuckle as Lucy disappears into the front of the shop, leaving you two alone. You smile, suddenly shy for no reason, twining your fingers to stop from fidgeting. ‘Thanks again, Joel.’

He shrugs it off, a touch of boldness in the way he stands, hands in pockets, hips cocked. ‘Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart.’

Instead of heading in the direction of the door, he takes two long strides towards you, leaning down to murmur in your ear, ‘Wear those jeans for me again on Sunday?’

Stunned, you gape at him as he turns with a crooked grin and walks off, dispatching a two-fingered salute at Lucy as he goes. Pausing by the threshold, Joel gives you one last wink that has your breath stuttering - but you only allow yourself to sag against the wall when the door closes behind him, your knees giving.

Lucy wastes no time skipping back into the workshop, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. ‘Alright, time to raid the party clothes rack, girl!’

You laugh - Sunday can’t come fast enough.

Notes: I had the best time writing this chapter - it was fun to flip the tables on Pin, not that Joel comes out completely unscathed!

I definitely have ✨ideas✨ for these two, but I'm enjoying keeping things loose, so I have no plans to turn this into a full-blown series just yet. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, comments/reblogs/asks are so so appreciated as always ❤️

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i-am-focused · 1 year

Text

Seams

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: Joel has a problem. Having settled into some semblance of a 'normal' life in Jackson that no longer involves running for his life and living off scraps, his clothes are getting a little… tight. Self-conscious, he deals with it the way he does most things - he ignores it.

That is until one day, the zipper on his jeans finally gives up after one too many desperate tugs, leaving him stuck. With neither Tommy nor Ellie anywhere to be found to get him out of the tight spot, Joel begrudgingly heads to the clothing store he’s seen in town for help - and a new pair of jeans.

There, he meets you.

Warnings: Spicy thoughts, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, body insecurity, some language, Joel being unkind to himself, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6k

Notes: I haven't written anything this fast for a hot minute. It's both exciting and terrifying, especially as Joel is so new to the fandom. So this is a one-shot as it stands, but I'll be lying if I say I haven't thought about where this story can go. Please be gentle with me, Joel is easily the most intimidating Pedro boy I've written for so far. I hope this doesn't disappoint 🥺

‘TommmMMMMMYYYY!’

His voice echoes in the empty street, gruff with irritation. He can feel eyes on him - he always does, wherever he goes in this damn place - covert stares from behind curtains, peeking out of windows from the neighbouring houses.

The polished wood thumps hollowly under his fist. Head bowed in surrender, his forehead makes contact with the surface of the door with a dull thud.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters under his breath.

Trudging back to the house that’s been allocated to him - he still struggles to think of it as his - he slams the door shut behind him so hard that the sound rings in his ears. Well, more in his left than his right.

Tossing the keys onto a chest of drawers in the hallway, he yells in a last-ditch attempt, ‘Ellieeee!’

The house is silent.

The one time he needs either of them, neither can be found anywhere. Even Maria has made herself scarce - not that he’d ask her for help for this.

This being these stupid fucking jeans.

His trusty jeans that he’s worn for years, other than on laundry days, which were few and far in between. They’ve literally seen him through thick and thin - the knees are so worn he can almost see the web of white thread beneath the denim.

Tess had gotten him these jeans. Stole them, if he remembers correctly. Once upon a time, he needed a belt to hold them up, or they’d hang down to his ass crack. By the time Ellie came into the picture, they fit well enough to render the belt redundant. He could still easily fit things into his pockets though, like a map or a switchblade.

But now -

Now he’s stuck, and he can’t get them off.

If he’s being honest with himself, the jeans haven’t fit for months. The jobs in Jackson don’t come anywhere close to the backbreaking work in the QZ or being on the road with Ellie. The food is plentiful even during the harsh winter, and as much as he looks down his ideological nose at it, Maria deserves credit for the thriving commune.

He had a late start this morning. Ellie had already vacated the house by the time he came to. He was on autopilot, distracted by his thoughts about the porch steps that have rotted and need to be replaced.

He was making plans in his head to nip down to the workshop to get the wooden planks when he started getting dressed. Stepping into the legs of the jeans, he pulled them up, hopping to stretch them over his thighs. Out of habit, he sucked in his belly to button them up, the waistband seemingly even tighter than usual.

He relegated that to the back of his mind, the same way he’s ignored the fact that the jeans have been uncomfortably tight for months - to the point of hindering his movement when he lays bricks, or cuts off his breathing when he sits down. But he’s gotten used to it, like he does everything else. He’s Joel Miller with the stiff upper lip, after all.

The zipper was next. As usual, he met resistance about halfway up. Baring his teeth, he gripped the tongue of the zipper and yanked upwards.

Except this time, it didn’t budge. Grumbling, he pulled harder, feeling the burn in his biceps -

It happened so quickly that he wasn’t even aware until he was wheeling backwards from the force, his arm flying up in an arc - and a metallic clink behind him registered faintly in his good ear.

Disoriented, he glanced down at the zipper. The slider had come clean off.

‘Fuck,’ he swore and turned to the full-length mirror on the wall to inspect the damage. Running an experimental finger along the seam, it was clear that the zipper had somehow snagged on the denim. It was stuck. Dead stuck.

Turning the house inside out, he couldn’t find a single pair of scissors, and there isn’t enough space to fit a knife in without slicing himself open, at which point he left on his ultimately fruitless search for reinforcement.

Joel scrubs a tired hand down his face. He’s never been a vain guy - Tommy is that sibling. But he’s never needed to stress about his looks either, with contracting keeping him in shape before the outbreak, and the fight for survival after - until now.

Grabbing his jacket, he shrugs it on, hyper-conscious of whether it’s a tighter squeeze than usual (fortunately not) - and heads into town.

Main Street Outfitters, the only clothing store in Jackson, sits in the middle of the high street, sandwiched between the pub on one side and the welder’s on the other. For the most part, residents come in to trade in old clothes for new ones, but there’s also a nicer selection for the occasional party that one can barter for.

You’re in the workshop at the back, the afternoon sun filling the room through the skylight.

With your skill in thread and needle, you were the obvious candidate for the job when you arrived in Jackson. Over the years, it has become your sanctuary. The walls are lined with wooden shelves, where neat - though mismatched - boxes of buttons, trimmings, thread and trinkets slot perfectly into place.

You spend the days checking over incoming clothes after they come back from the laundry, making sure they are in reasonable condition and mending those that are not. The shop also charges for adjustments and repairs, and the tasks easily fill your working hours.

It’s a Tuesday, and it’s usually quiet this time of the afternoon. If you’re lucky, you can be undisturbed until you clock off at five - which is why you’re surprised when you hear the tinkle of the doorbell.

The footfall is heavy, it sounds like a strong work boot. You hold your breath and your fingers hover mid-air as the door shuts with a slam. You hear the customer clear his throat - definitely a man - as you wait in vain for the front of house to greet him.

But of course Lucy has sneaked out again. She’s a sweet girl, but manning the counter has always been too dull for her.

‘Hello?’

The voice is deep and gravelly, and despite your reluctance, it doesn’t sit well with your work ethic to keep a customer waiting. Sticking the needle into a pin cushion, you noiselessly rise from your seat and make your way to the front of the shop.

Your first glimpse of him is his back. Standing in front of a rack of jeans, the grays in his hair catch the light streaming through the shop front windows. You study him for a minute, curious eyes running over the width of broad shoulders under a beat-up, khaki jacket. Lower, his jeans are… well-worn, to put it kindly. And from sight, a sitting a bit tight on his hips -

You must have shifted your feet without you noticing. At the minutest creak of wood, the man whips around, one hand reaching behind him in search of the butt of a loaded gun or the hilt of a knife. It’s your good fortune that you see neither on him. The intensity of his gaze is just as effective as a blade on your neck to pin you to your spot.

There’s no question that he’s a newcomer. You’ve seen the same kind of intensity in everyone who’s braved what’s out there to get here.

But even if that didn’t give him away, you already know who he is. He’s Tommy’s brother. Joel, if you remember correctly. Maria approached you for some clothes a few months back when he arrived with his kid for the second time. They’ve been the talk of town since - not that you listen. In fact, you try not to, but you can’t help it if someone talks loudly enough at the next table in the canteen to interrupt your lunchtime reading.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles as the tension in his body recedes. ‘You’re very quiet.’

You duck your head. ‘Sorry.’

‘You work here?’

Wringing your fingers nervously, you nod and take two timid steps towards him, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremour in your voice. ‘How can I help?’

You’ve heard things about Joel Miller. The words most frequently whispered as he ambles by in town include ruthless, cold-blooded and steer clear.

You can’t exactly reconcile the man in front of you with those particular words right now.

There’s nothing that speaks to ruthlessness in the way he averts his eyes and shuffles his feet, the blunt tip of his shoes catching the wooden floor. You also find it hard to believe that a truly cold-blooded person would willingly cross the country and all its horrors in search of his brother, or take a teenager under his wing.

You might not think much of yourself, but you know that your judgement of character has kept you alive so far. And your instinct isn’t telling you to steer clear of this man - quite the opposite, in fact.

But that’s neither here nor there.

He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable with your scrutiny. ‘Just lookin’ for some new jeans.’

‘Alright,’ you reply, taking the remaining five steps to the other end of the jeans rack, a safe distance away from him. ‘What’s your size?’

To your surprise, he huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘At least one up from whatever I have on right now.’

Sucking in a breath, you gesture vaguely at him. ‘Um, do you mind if I take a look at uh - you? So I can guess what size will fit you?’

You’re used to being the most awkward person in the room wherever you go, but this man is giving you a pretty good run for your money right now. While you divert your gaze as he unbuttons the front of his jacket, he fixes his somewhere over your shoulder to the right, grinding his teeth, as if he wishes he was anywhere but here.

Dragging your eyes back to him, you take stock of your customer as he sweeps the lapels of the jacket to the side. Underneath, the green flannel cuts off at the top of the jeans, and you see the soft pouch of his abdomen beneath the fabric. While the shirt is well-fitted, the jeans are obviously too small. The waistband bites into his sides, you can see the subtle overhang of his love handles. Even by the way he’s standing you can tell he’s uncomfortable, packed in way too tight in the denim.

And then… you really shouldn’t, but you stare at the front of the jeans. Now, you know for a fact that the fit will be just as snug there even if he goes a size up…

‘Sorry, not much to look at,’ he grunts, breaking the silence.

Taken aback by the self-derision in his voice, the words leave your mouth before they register, sharper than you mean them to be. ‘Don’t say that.’

He blinks at you. ‘What?’

You gape at him. Does he really not see? His tall, solid frame? The strong columns of his thighs? Is this man blind on top of being frustratingly attractive -?

But of course you can never say that. Instead, you pull out three different pairs of jeans in quick succession and all but throw them at him, heat prickling the tips of your ears as the disbelief that you spoke to a customer like that sinks in.

‘The dressing room is there,’ you squeak, pointing at the far corner. ‘I’ll be at the back if you need any help -’

You turn on your heels, in a hurry to get back to your workshop, but you only get halfway through the spin. It takes you three seconds to realise why - his calloused palm is on your wrist, holding you in place.

‘Actually, I do need help - I broke the zipper, and I’m stuck in these damn jeans.’

You ignore the clench of your stomach at the way he spits out the word damn. You’re not big on swearing, but the cuss word sounds good rolling off his tongue in his Southern twang.

To your horror, a giggle bubbles up your throat before you can slap a palm over your mouth.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ you apologise profusely, heat flooding your cheeks.

You stare in consternation when those broad shoulders of his quake, a half-smile on his lips as they part in a scratchy chuckle. ‘Trust me, I’m glad I found you first. My brother or my kid would have given me a much harder time. Probably would’ve pissed their pants laughin’.’

Despite yourself, you smile back with a weak attempt at a joke. ‘I mean, I’ll try not to -’

He smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘That’s all I can ask for.’

You lead the way to the back of the shop and Joel follows three polite steps behind, pausing by the doorway. Running practised eyes over the space, the contractor in him appreciates the well-built skylight and the sturdy furniture in the room, pieces that were clearly built to last. He places the jeans you picked out for him on the big work table, made of strong timber and aged with time.

He picked up a change in your demeanour the moment you crossed the threshold into the workshop. There’s a quiet confidence in your measured steps, the way you move speaking volumes - this is clearly your place, and you’re so much more comfortable in your skin here.

You point at the spot marked by a round, cosy rug directly beneath the skylight. ‘Could you stand there for me?’

Doing as he’s told, he startles when you march straight up to him, sliding your palms under the shoulders of his jacket to push it off. Your front brushes his chest briefly when you reach around to catch it, but not brief enough for him to ignore the soft swell of your breasts pressed up against him.

Joel is all too aware of his pulse going from zero to a hundred at the fleeting touch, the collar of his shirt suddenly a bit too tight. For fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since his head has gone anywhere near there, but of course it has to happen at the most inconvenient moment.

At least you don’t seem to notice, draping his jacket over the back of a chair before retrieving a pair of tailor’s scissors from one meticulously organised drawer.

Just when he thinks he’s gotten a handle on himself, you hit him with a non-sequitur. ‘Are you wearing underwear?’

Only when Joel splutters wordlessly does the full weight of the question seem to hit you. You stutter, ‘Oh god, I didn’t - I mean - I only asked because if push comes to shove, and I have to cut through the jeans, I don’t want to ruin any underwear you’re wearing -’

You trail off, and it’s his turn to stammer, scratching an invisible itch on his elbow as he struggles to remember what he usually does with his hands.

‘No, no, I get it. I’m ahem -,’ he pauses with a cough. ‘I’m not actually wearin’ any underwear right now. Not out of habit, it’s just that I’ve been barely squeezin’ into the stupid jeans even without it.’

His honest answer seems to put you at ease, and you purse your lips. ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

He shrugs. ‘Have been for months.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He arches an eyebrow. ‘What for?’

‘That you’ve been uncomfortable. That’s one thing clothes shouldn’t be.’

Not quite knowing how to answer you, he watches you grab a velvet cushioned footstool from under the work table and place it squarely at his feet. Then, without further preamble, you sink onto your knees in front of him, knocking the air clean out of his lungs.

As he stares down at the crown of your head, your nose at the level of his waistband, he muses that he hasn’t seen this view for a long time, a very long time. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he closes his eyes, fighting the base instinct to cup the back of your head in his palm and to pull you close -

He breathes out hard through his nostrils and clenches his jaw, casting his gaze heavenwards through the skylight as he actually prays for the first time in years.

Don’t you fucking dare get hard, Miller.

You chew on the inside of your mouth as you consider what’s before you. It’s tricky. The jeans are unbuttoned and zipped up most of the way, but the denim has been caught tight in the metallic teeth, and the handle of the zipper yanked clean off.

Cocking your head to one side, you think out loud. ‘I think we should at least try and unsnag the zipper before cutting. But we’re going to need some lubrication, and we’ll need to give it a really good, firm tug -’

The man chokes on nothing above you, and you frown up at him in a question.

Clearing his throat loudly, he asks through gritted teeth, ‘Do we have to?’

‘I mean, I can just cut open the jeans, but then you’ll definitely have to trade in something extra to cover the costs of the repairs -’

He interrupts, ‘That. Let’s do that.’

‘Alright, your call,’ you say with a nod. ‘Can you hold up your shirt?’

You try not to gawk when he draws up the tails of his flannel, revealing his soft stomach underneath. The mid-rise jeans cut off beneath his belly button, and you eye the trail that sneaks full and dark under the waistband. He’s obviously sucking his tummy in, and you catch yourself wishing he doesn’t feel like he has to.

You bite your bottom lip. ‘Do you think you can fit a couple of fingers into the waistband so I can slide the scissors in? They’re sharp, I don’t want to cut you.’

You watch as he tries, first his index finger, then his middle, but he can barely squeeze in beyond the nail, which turns completely colourless from the pressure. He sighs in surrender. ‘Mfraid you’ll have to, sweetheart.’

You have to close your eyes for a moment, your head swimming. You’re not sure whether it’s from the sweetheart, or the fact that he wants you to stick your hand down the front of his pants.

Well, not exactly that he wants you to. And not your hand. But still.

You squeak. ‘Do I have to?’

He pins you a sarcastic arch of his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you’re sure that you won’t cut my dick off -’

Your face heats up at his blunt words, falling back onto your haunches. ‘Great, now you’ve got me worried -’

Palms up in apology, he shrugs. ‘Sorry -’

‘No, no, you’re right. I don’t want to accidentally castrate you,’ you sigh. ‘Are you - um - well adjusted in there?’

‘I’d go down the right side of the zipper,’ he answers diplomatically.

Taking a deep breath, you ask, ‘Ready?’

‘Whenever you are, sweetheart.’

The first contact is the brush of your knuckles against his stomach, the skin warm and soft on the back of your fingers. You don’t dare look up, but you can feel his eyes on you as you burrow your index finger under the waistband. Though it’s a squeeze, you manage to wriggle in nail side down, creating a small gap - still not quite enough to get the scissors in without nicking him.

Talking more to yourself, you mumble, ‘Better safe than sorry. Let me just get one more finger in -’

Joel chokes so hard that you almost jump back in fright, frowning at him as he catches his breath. ‘Are you okay? Do you need some water?’

His voice tight, he shakes his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

You wait a beat to make sure he doesn’t go into another coughing fit. When the coast is clear, you gesture at his jeans. ‘Can I just -’

‘Get one more finger in?’ he finishes your sentence in his raspy baritone.

You finally hear it when he says it like that. And oh god, your ears burn as you stare up at him, lips parted, torn between outrage and a very disorienting arousal. ‘You - you -’

A wicked smirk tugs unexpectedly at the corner of his mouth. ‘I already tried, sweetheart. My fingers are too big to fit inside.’

The touch of playful condescension in his tone has your jaw going slack, and your brain practically short-circuits at the thoughts of where else they are too big to fit inside of -

So as it turns out, you’re brave, or just downright stupid, when you’re turned on. Next thing you know, you hear yourself telling him off. ‘I could just leave you in those jeans you know.’

Joel smiles wider, and retorts, ‘I don’t think you would.’

‘Just because I’m shy doesn’t mean I don’t have a mean streak,’ you shoot back.

He seems pleased to have lured you out of your shell, grinning down at you. ‘Believe me, I’m shakin’ in my boots, sweetheart.’

It’s really unfair that he looks this good from where you are on your knees. His eyes are hooded, curls flecked with grays sweeping his forehead. Even though the apocalypse has left its marks on him in wrinkles, frown lines, and smudged bags under his eyes, it has clearly not taken away from that proud nose or plush lips -

Steadying yourself with a deep inhale, you shake yourself out of it. With an in, it’s slightly easier to push in your middle finger into the waistband to widen the gap. Happy with the quarter inch of space, you hold up the scissors. ‘I’m ready to cut if you are.’

He nods his acquiesce. ‘Do your worst.’

Opening up the scissors and carefully fitting the blade beneath the denim, you carefully begin snipping away. They are sharp, but the fabric is tough and you’re conscious of the very tight fit, so you take it slow.

You pause when you’re a couple of inches in, when Joel lets out a groan of relief. Absent-mindedly, you run a soothing thumb over the angry, red indents the waistband dug into the soft pouch of his tummy, sending a shudder through him.

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, snatching back your hand as if he burns you.

Too preoccupied with the relief of being able to breathe, Joel shakes his head. ‘Don’t be. Just keep going. Please.’

Why is that one word - six letters - making your breath hitch?

Gripping the top of the now open fly and pinning it against his body so you don’t accidentally see anything you’re not meant to see - whether you want to deliberately is a completely different matter - you hunker down and keep cutting along the zipper.

Each snip gets easier as the jeans release their death grip on him. The right side of the fly falls away as you cut, the denim peeling back slowly to expose the skin underneath. Your eyes drift to the curve of the pubic bone that’s now completely in view, and it’s taking everything you have to not lean over and run the broad of your tongue along it -

How long has it been since you’ve been with a man? When was the last time you had someone stand before you, pants unzipped and hanging open -

With tremendous fortitude, you tear your eyes away to check on him, ‘All good?’

The grunt of respite that he lets out is almost guttural, going straight between your legs. ‘Feels so fuckin’ good to breathe.’

‘Before I keep going, do you want to - uh - rearrange yourself?’

You expect him to turn around, or at least give you a second to turn around to give him some privacy, but he’s obviously been too deprived of oxygen to think straight. One big palm snakes down his front, right in your face, and he cups himself through the denim.

You stop breathing, eyes wide as he adjusts himself.

Holy fuck.

When he’s done, he gives you a thumbs up. ‘All good.’

This is it. You’re not making it out of this alive.

You can barely get the words out, your throat suddenly drier than sandpaper. ‘Can you, um, hold up the other side of the fly?’

When he does, you stare at his hand next to yours. How is it so big? The veins are prominent on the back, leading down to thick fingers, the nails neatly trimmed and clean - but you bet there’s residue gunpowder underneath.

There’s still a slither of skin peeking through the V of the fly as the scissors slice through the denim, following his happy trail. The lower you go, the thicker and darker the curls, and goddamnit - what is wrong with you - all you can think about is burying your nose right in there, nudging through the hair, lower and lower and lower still -

A sharp pain on your left finger makes you yelp, the scissors falling from your other hand to the floor with a loud clang. A small bead of blood wells up on the tip where the sharp blade nicked it, and in a panic, you let go of his jeans.

‘Shit,’ Joel curses and covers himself up quickly, his brow furrowed in concern. ‘You okay?’

You nod in embarrassment while you get on your feet. ‘I - my hand just slipped. It’s nothing, the smallest cut, I’m fine -’

Well, to be fair, you were fine - until he grabs your left wrist, brings your hand up to his face and sucks your bleeding fingertip into his mouth.

As if it’s the logical thing to do.

Your knees buckle, and you collapse into his front, but he doesn’t even budge, as if you weigh nothing. Taking a deep breath - wood smoke, simple soap and man fill your lungs. Peering up at him through your lashes, you spot the silver flanking the hinge of his jaw, leading down to a peculiar bare patch on the left side of his beard.

He watches you back as he releases your finger with a wet pop. Tracing his bottom lip with his tongue, he pronounces, ‘Just a small cut. You’ll live.��

Will you though? Because it feels like you’re on the verge of expiring from breathlessness.

He glances down at his front, which he’s still holding up. ‘I guess I can get out of these now.’

It takes you three seconds to catch up before you stumble backwards. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’

‘Thank you for freeing me,’ he says with a lopsided smile.

You duck your head, unable to meet his gaze all of a sudden - hypocrite, you had no problem perving on him a minute ago - and nod at the jeans on the table. ‘Why don’t you try those on?’

He clears his throat. ‘I, uh, should probably put on some underwear first.’

You barely manage to hold back from smacking yourself on the forehead. ‘Of course. We do have some in stock. Boxers or briefs?’

He looks amused. ‘What do you think, sweetheart?’

You hesitate, but you force yourself to be brave and venture a guess. ‘Boxers.’

He winks, and you grin back.

Joel hovers uncertainly in front of the mirror in the fitting room, having exhausted all the angles he can see twice, and wonders if he’s been dithering for too long. He’s not even sure what he’s looking at anymore, so he bites the bullet and draws back the curtain.

‘How do they feel?’ you ask.

He was counting on some hint from you, but you give nothing away. So he shrugs, hands on hips. ‘I honestly can’t tell you.’

‘May I?’

At his nod, you step into his space, and he watches as you hook your fingers into the belt loops on either side of the jeans and pull them up, as if gauging the size. He holds his breath as your hair grazes the front of his chest.

‘They’re a bit loose, to be honest,’ you tell him.

He scoffs self-decrepatingly. ‘Probably not for long at the rate I’m going.’

You take a step back and level him with a glare. ‘Stop it.’

He frowns, hackles rising. ‘What?’

‘Stop putting yourself down.’

That he didn’t expect. He protests, ‘I’m not putting myself down -’

‘Yes, yes, you are,’ you interrupt him with a boldness that has his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. With fire in your eyes, you go toe to toe with him, poking him in the chest with a firm finger. ‘You’re alive, you’re safe here, and you’re fit as hell. If you’re going to make fun of yourself for putting on a bit of healthy weight, you can go ahead and get out of my shop.’

Warmth blooms in his chest as Joel stares down at you, breathing heavily after your little speech but showing no intention of backing down. You don’t know him, but for some reason, you’re fighting his corner.

That shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

Pursing his lips, he towers over you as he teases, ‘You think I’m fit as hell, sweetheart?’

With a roll of your eyes, you walk backwards to the shelves, rummaging through the sizes before returning with a pair of dark wash jeans. You quip, ‘Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unbecoming.’

You snap the curtain shut in his face with a flick of your wrist before he can answer, and he chuckles to himself as pulls on the jeans you picked out for him.

When he pushes open the curtain again, Joel doesn’t miss the way you pause as you stare.

The waistband sits on his hips without cutting into his stomach, and he’s pleased that he can comfortably slide his hands into the pockets. The denim wraps firmly, but not tightly, against his backside, holding his thighs comfortably and falling straight down to the ankles. The wash is dark and flattering, smarter than his old ones.

When the silence has stretched on long enough, Joel shifts on his feet and asks, ‘Well?’

You turn the question back at him. ‘What do you think?’

He shrugs. ‘They’re alright, I guess.’

With a tilt of your head, you prompt, ‘You can say it, you know.’

‘Say what?’

‘You can say that you look good.’

Joel huffs, shaking his head and catching his reflection in the mirror as he does. At your look of insistence, he reluctantly parrots back, ‘Alright. I look good. Happy, sweetheart?’

Then you smile, really smile, and he feels himself soften - his eyes, his face, his mouth, his fucking old, rickety knees -

Suddenly, the bell over the door rings and a woman bustles in. ‘I’m so sorry, Pin! I know I’ve been gone a long time, but I got your favourite tea to make it up to you -’

She stops abruptly when she spots him. ‘Hey! You’re Joel Miller, aren’t you?’

Before he can answer, she crosses the shop in a bundle of energy, sticking her hand out. ‘I’m Lucy, I’m a friend of Tommy and Maria’s. It’s so nice to finally meet you.’

He lets her shake his hand, then she continues without skipping a beat. ‘How are you settling in? You got that house in the street near the stables right? It’s great, it’s quiet but not too far from everything -’

Since she doesn’t seem interested in his participation in this conversation, he doesn’t. But he notices, with regret, the way you start to retreat, the shyness making a return in the shadow of her clearly more outgoing friend - like a bad habit.

He’s suddenly aware of a lull, and that Lucy is looking at him expectantly, like she’s just asked a question that he didn’t hear.

‘Yeah sure,’ he replies dismissively, stopping you with a hand on your wrist just as you try to slink away unnoticed. ‘Hey, wait a second -’

To Lucy’s credit, she picks up on the snub and the energy between the two of you at the same time. Instead of taking offence, she gives you a knowing look and points towards the back diplomatically. ‘You know what Pin, I just bumped into Maria and she asked me something about our fabric inventory, so I better go check it out. I’ll see you around, Joel.’

With a wink in your direction, Lucy makes herself scarce, leaving the tea on the counter for you.

Joel’s quiet for a beat when you’re left alone again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to run off your friend, but I just wanted to uh - thank you. For all this.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Like she said, I’m Joel. Probably should’ve introduced myself before I asked you to cut me out of my jeans.’

You quip, ‘There’s always next time.’

He chuckles, and asks, ‘Did your friend just call you - Pin?’

‘It’s just a silly nickname,’ you explain. ‘As in pins and needles, for obvious reasons.’

Then you give him your real name and your hand, his palm warm and calloused against yours as he shakes it firmly. When he lets you go, you notice the watch on his wrist, the veins of broken glass on the face catching the light.

Nodding at it, you ask, ‘Do you need that fixed? There’s a repair guy down the road who can fix anything.’

Confused for a moment about what you’re referring to, Joel pauses before realisation dawns on him. His answer is suddenly polite, a stark contrast to the light-hearted conversation just now. ‘No, I - I like it this way. But thanks.’

You don’t miss the emotional weight behind his words, and the air thickens with unspoken meaning, but you know better than to ask.

‘I understand,’ you say simply.

Everyone has something like the watch is to him. God knows you do. A moment of quiet understanding passes between you, one that needs no words.

Breaking the silence, he says, ‘So, you mentioned I’ll need to trade in something else for these jeans -’

You dismiss that notion with a wave of your hand. ‘Oh no, it’s ok. I got it.’

‘You don’t have to -’

You shut him down. ‘It’s not a big deal, it will take me two minutes to replace the zipper.’

He hesitates. ‘And the boxers -’

Passing him his jacket, you insist, ‘Seriously, Joel, don’t worry about it.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes it from you and shrugs it on. You try not to look too conspicuously when the bottom of his shirt draws up, flashing a bit of tummy, but it’s gone too quickly. With a nod, he concedes reluctantly, ‘You really shouldn’t, but thank you. I owe you one.’

You roll your eyes with no real exasperation as you walk him towards the exit. ‘I know you haven’t been here for long - that’s just how things work around these parts. We do things for each other, you don’t owe me anything.’ Pulling the door open, you give him one last grin. ‘Welcome to Jackson, Joel.’

‘Thanks, Pin,’ he says as he crosses the threshold. He pauses on the porch and looks around the high street slowly, as if he’s taking it in for the first time. He then turns to you with a parting wink that is charged with easy confidence. ‘I think I’ll like it here.’

You linger by the door, leaning against the frame as he jogs down the front steps with a swagger, watching in appreciation at the way his new jeans frame his backside. You smile when he slides his hands into his pockets as he walks away, the afternoon breeze ruffling his curls and the sun warming his broad shoulders.

You think you’ll like him here as well.

Notes: As I was writing this, I couldn't help thinking that it reminded me of Grays 🙈 What can I say? I want to give middle-aged men in need of self-love all the reassurance that they need. I hope you enjoyed Pin and Joel's meet-cute, I'm honestly so nervous about this fic I had to stop myself from compulsively over-editing.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated as always 🥰

P.S. Apparently, there is a Main Street Outfitter in the game, so I ran with it.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

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i-am-focused · 1 year

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INTROOO

Hiii :-) I’ve been writing stuff like this for a while, both for myself and for friends, but I finally decided that I wanted to try posting some of my work. I am very new to Tumblr so certain things may take me a second to get the hang of. Pretty much everything I write will be reader insert stuff, and usually AFAB gender neutral reader. Other than that, I’m honestly not picky about who or what I write for (men, women, smut, fluff, angst, etc.). If I have a feel for it, I’ll be able to write it.

Here’s a short list of characters I’d be down to write for. Characters could be added later, this is just what I’m rockin’ with now:

Cassian Andor (Star Wars)

The Mandalorian (Star Wars)

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

Matt Murdock (Daredevil, except I’ve only seen a single episode of Daredevil and write purely based off vibes and edits lol)

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw (Top Gun: Maverick)

That’s pretty much it. I plan on hopefully posting my first work later this week and would like to post relatively constantly to help with my writing. I also am more than happy to take certain requests or prompts later if anyone sends any. I’m excited and interested to see where this goes :-)

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i-am-focused · 1 year

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I Owe You One

Mandalorian x reader (it's from his perspective)

Summary: The Mandalorian hates Hoth, it's cold and his armor can only keep him so warm but he has a bounty that's there. In the search for this bounty he finds you half dead from the cold and brings you back to the Razor crest to warm you up, and he does.

Warnings: 18+. smut, thighjob

Word count - 2.1k

There was almost nothing he hated more than the cold. So of course, his next bounty had to have gone to Hoth. After a narrow escape from Maldo Kries it seemed yet another ice planet was his destination. Cold weather was one of the times other than battle or interrogation that he was actually very thankful for his armor, insulated and heated, it helped him stay relatively warm beneath the beskar.

He had considered declining the bounty just to avoid the planet altogether; it wasn't a high reward, just a runaway with rich parents, some prince or son of a lord. At least it wasn’t too difficult to find people here, using the visor’s thermal vision meant it would be fairly easy to see any life on the nearly entirely barren planet. Scanning the planet's surface as he flew over, the remains of Imperial walkers stood out against the landscape, wreckage that someone looking to hide out would probably head towards.

After landing the Razor Crest roughly a hundred yards from the potential hideout, he exited the craft, scanning the area of the abandoned war machine for any heat signature other than ice and metal.

Just about ready to get back out of the freezing wind and seek shelter on the heated ship, he saw a glimpse of something, a little bit of red in the otherwise blue tones of the thermal setting. He walked slowly towards it, clutching his blaster and trying to soften the crunch of snow under his boots.

He was barely five feet away from the outline of a figure in the cold when he realized that something was off. He wasn’t having much luck keeping quiet, even with the howling wind muffling his steps, and the figure hadn’t moved. Additionally the body heat that was present seemed weaker than it should be, if the heat he saw was the bounty, he didn’t know if he was even still alive. But at least it would be easier to capture him.

Taking in a breath he rounded the corner to see you sitting there. Curled up and unconscious.

It looked like you had just wandered into the first shelter you saw and passed out. But you definitely weren’t the bounty. You were covered in snow and your whole body was shaking violently with hypothermia. Cursing to himself, he dragged you back to the ship, laying you on the floor and engaging some security protocols to prevent any unexpected visitors while he was trying to keep you alive. You might have information on the bounty and he needed to get off of this Maker-forsaken planet.

He pulled you into the refresher, he wasn’t exactly comfortable with removing your layers of frost covered clothing, but if he didnt you would certainly die. He removed everything except your tank top and underwear, fetching some other clothes he had lying so as to not leave you exposed on some strangers ship, one of his own shirts as well as some shorts that had somehow found their way onto the ship.

Once you were no longer covered in snow and damp clothing, he wrapped you in a blanket and laid you on his cot, setting up a heater nearby and layering another blanket on top for good measure. You were still shivering, but he was at least mostly confident you’d make it through. He was also mostly confident that whenever you woke up, you were probably going to be more than a little freaked out. He sighed. He was tired, he didn’t need you waking up and killing him before he had the chance to stop you, so he cuffed your wrists and closed off the cot before heading up to the cockpit to attempt to catch a wink of sleep.

******

He had probably been asleep for about an hour before he was awoken to the sound of clattering and pounding against the metal door that sealed the sleeping pod. He made his way down to the hull, standing in front of the doors and preparing himself for whatever you were going to pull when he opened that door. Sighing, he pressed a button on his gauntlet.

When the door slid open he saw you sitting there, staring at him with wide eyes, still shivering from hypothermia.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“You first.”

He wasn’t in the mood for any sort of game, he just needed this bounty.

“Where am I? Where did you take me?”

“Hoth.”

You paused, seeming relieved that he hadn’t taken you off planet. Bizarre considering his own thoughts about the planet, he almost wished someone would shove him in a ship and take him just so that he could leave.

“Why am I on your ship?”

“You were dying, so I brought you here.”

“Oh yeah? So just a good samaritan huh?”

“Nope, just looking for a bounty,” He took the bounty puck out of his side pocket, showing you the face of the man he was looking for, “Seen him before?”

“Oh yeah, I saw him at the cantina yesterday, can I go now?”

Your sarcastic tone made him almost regret letting you onto the ship, wasting resources on someone that apparently wanted to die alone in a snowdrift.

“Yes, you can leave now.”

He opened the ramp, letting in a freezing wind chill that made you flinch. He gestured at the exit, welcoming you to leave back into the same situation as where you were before. Except this time, you didn't have boots, socks, pants, a coat, damn near anything you had before. You looked at him, frustrated and unable to come up with a quick enough retort. After a few seconds he closed the ramp.

“Okay. So now I hope you see your situation. I saved your life, you’d be dead in a snow drift if it wasn’t for me. You owe me, so let’s cut the attitude since you're not dead, you’re on my ship, and in my bed.”

You looked at him blankly. He held up the bounty puck one more time.

“So, have you seen this man?”

“No.”

You settled back into the blankets. Giving up on fighting him anymore and reluctantly accepting your current situation.

“Now that you’re awake, get out of my cot.”

Sleeping in the pilot's seat was not an enjoyable experience and he didn’t feel so bad now that he knew you were rude and that you would be fine if he cuffed you to a chair with a heater nearby.

“No.”

“Yes. Get out or I’ll make you get out.”

“Why can’t you just get in? I’ve been sleeping on rocks and snow for almost a week, I don’t take up the whole cot anyway.”

He didn’t want you in the cot, but he didn’t know what you were capable of and he would probably be more comfortable having you where he knew you couldn’t get out of the cuffs and steal his ship anyway. He sighed and turned away into the refresher. Closing the door he checked on your clothes, still damp. He couldn’t kick you out yet. He wasn’t that cruel, no matter how annoying you were. He left the refresher and headed up to the cockpit, you just watched silently as he moved throughout the ship. He shed his armor, minus the helmet, before re-entering the hull and sliding past you into the cot. It was cramped, but there was enough room for both of you.

You sat at the foot of the cot, he tilted his head at you.

“I’m kicking you out in the morning, you might as well sleep, there’s room.”

He wasn’t sure why he was being nice to you, you had been an asshole after he had saved your life and let you onto his ship. But maybe he was just feeling generous. Or maybe it had just been a while since he had any company on the Crest. Probably since whoever had worn those shorts.

You laid down next to him. Squeezing between him and the wall. You were cold compared to everything else in the small compartment, he was almost sweating because of the warmth generated by the heater and the blankets, but you were freezing. And tired. You passed out almost immediately, at least you didn’t seem awake. He lay there on his side, stiff and rigid so that he didn’t wake you up or make any… uncomfortable contact.

That didn’t last long.

Apparently you move in your sleep. It seemed involuntary but the shifting had brought your back flush against his chest, your body fitting into his. When it started he could ignore it, the shifting movement against him. But it got harder to ignore, seeming almost intentional the way you were damn near grinding against him. Fuck. It wasn’t long before he was hard against your ass. It had been a while since he had felt anyone rub against him like this, friction creating just the right amount of sensation to make him swallow small sounds that wanted to escape his lips.

It had to be intentional.

He didn't know what to do.

He listened, trying to catch any indication that you were awake. That was a mistake, he heard your breathing, heavy and desperate sounding as you rubbed against his cock through the flightsuit, it only made him want you more, but you were asleep. You were dreaming.

Shit.

He couldn’t actually do anything, but he stopped trying to resist it. His hips moved with yours, he let one of his arms slip around your waist.

It was probably 10 minutes before you let out a groan, pausing your movements as you woke up. He froze, waiting for anything to indicate what he should be doing. But then you tilted your hips into his once again, starting to slowly resume the movements. He could feel himself leaking precum, the erection trapped under his clothes begging to escape. He pulled you further against him, pressing his hips into you and allowing a grunt to escape from under the helmet. You quickened your pace against him and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep going.

“I owe you one, Mandalorian”

You whispered through small gasps for air, it caught him off guard, but that wasn’t it. You stopped grinding into him, leaving his length throbbing for more, he almost begged you to keep going before you raised your wrists, shaking them slightly so that he knew you wanted them unlocked. He didn't hesitate, quickly releasing the cuffs and letting them fall onto the thin mattress.

You reached behind you, sliding your hand beneath his layers of clothing to pump his cock in your palm, rubbing the dribbles of precum around his tip before he quickly pulled down his pants just enough to free him from the confines of the fabric.

“Fuck- I’m glad I didnt kick you out,”

You released him, sliding down your own shorts and underwear before once again taking him in your hand.

“So am I.”

His thoughts were blurry, the pleasure clouding his mind as it came and went with your movements, pumping his cock as he bucked into your fist. He was close to his own release when you started to guide him, sliding between your legs, slick with your arousal.

“Shit, Maker you’re soft, fuck-”

He gripped your hips, moaning breathily as the warmth of your thighs wrapped around his length. He slid against your lips, earning him some of your noises as the friction brushed against your clit, and started to thrust between them. His hand drifted from your hips down to rub circles around your clit. You clenched around his length the added pressure working him further towards his release.

“So close, just like that-”

Your moans were gaining volume with his, the thrusts and friction against your clit was driving you over the edge while he was barely clinging to reality, feeling his eyes want to roll back into his skull with the sensation of your thighs squeezing around his cock.

“Shit, shit, shit- you’re such a good fucking slut-”

He was cut short by his orgasm and yours, his hips bucking through his peak as the modulated moans fell from his lips, expletives filling the small space along with sounds of his pleasure. He could feel your center pulse against him as you lay there, both catching your breath as his cum dripped down your skin and onto the cot.

Neither of you moved, blissed out and immobile from your simultaneous release of pleasure, falling into sleep once again with him still squeezed between your thighs, pressed up against you.

AN: MANNNN just as i wrote this i realized this would be the literally perfect setting for cockwarming, but it's too late, actually maybe i'll write a part 2... also thanks to @greensweatergreenplaid for proofreading this !!!!

#the mandalorian #din djarin #fanfiction #fanfic #star wars #pedro pascal #razor crest #this is the way #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mandalorian fanfic

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i-am-focused · 1 year

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You're kidding me right?

Din Djarin x gn(ish) afab reader

Summary: You're a mechanic on Naboo, and you see the Razor crest crash. The Mandalorian reluctantly lets you help him repair the ship but you're interrupted when some weird ass pollen has you both very ... affected.

Warnings: Fem pet names but non specific pronouns only, smut, sex pollen, Dubcon kinda, Helmet comes off but you don't see his face, p in v penetration, begging, din is a little submissive, he's not experienced but a quick learner, pretty much everything is in here tbh

Word count - 8.9k (jeez this got away from me)

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

It was a warm afternoon, as was the norm on Naboo. Business was slow, all of your usual customers either found someone else to do their repairs or you’re just so good at your job they don’t need any. So here you found yourself, wandering through the trees a few miles from your ranch. Trying to stick to the overgrown and winding trail through the forest but as you continue it seems to be less and less defined, splitting off into many smaller and narrower trails where people have given up on it. You know you aren’t too far from the coast, if you keep your current pace you could probably spend around a few hours relaxing in the sand by the lake before it gets too late for you to head back, it’s been a long time since you had any time to yourself.

You continued your hike through the roots that almost seemed like they were intentionally trying to trip you, but as you paused for a moment, taking a sip from your canteen, you saw a ship heading towards you. Well, kind of a ship. It looked like it was falling apart, the engines in flames as it rapidly lost altitude before disappearing behind the trees. You estimate two miles ahead of you. Whatever, might as well check it out. It’s on the way to the coast anyway.

As you approach the crash site the air is smokey, there were some scattered parts around the clearing where the ship had crashed. Walking up to the wreckage quietly, you wonder if there were any survivors. Sure it wasn’t the worst crash you’d seen but it was still bad, you almost found yourself backing away because you knew it would be hell to fix even if there was someone remaining to help. Might as well get a new ship at this point. Peering through one of the several holes in the ship’s hull, you can't see much except shrapnel and smoke. Seeing no signs of life you shrug, turning around to return to the trail. There’s still time to go to the coast-

“Hold it,”

You hear a voice from behind you, weirdly mechanical but very clearly living. You freeze where you are, raising your hands up to your head slowly. “Drop the bag and turn around slow,”

You follow the instructions, you’ve dealt with plenty of rough customers considering that that’s your primary base of clients. Turning around you’re greeted with a taller man, head to toe covered in beskar armor, a Mandalorian. You’d only seen a couple Mandalorians before, seeking smaller repairs to weapons or smaller ships. Now facing him he had his blaster raised to your head, not a great sign, but in his other arm there was a small bundle…a… child? You hadn’t seen any mandalorian children before, this child wasn’t wearing any armor and was not of any species known to you. As you stared at the bundle, a voice from behind the visor recaptured your attention, “Hey, don’t look at him, look at me.”

He continued, “I could kill you right now. You with a group? Why are you out here?”

You stumbled over your words “I, um, I was just going to the beach. I’m a mechanic, ‘live a little bit away from here and I saw your ship go down. It’s just me.”

The helmet didn’t move, the blaster still steadily aimed at your head. You swallowed, the fear slowly building in your chest. Keeping your hands raised, you tilted your head towards the bag on the ground next to you, “Listen, you can check the bag and me,” Giving him your name and a brief introduction you continue, “I don't have any weapons other than a knife in the bag but you’re making me wish I did, I am a mechanic, there are tools and stuff in there. And not to be presumptuous but you seem like you might some help.”

You glanced over toward the burning ship. Praying that the very shiny and intimidating man didn’t shoot you where you stood, you mustered up your best friendly-and-harmless smile. Silence fell over the clearing for a moment before he started to step towards you. Walking up to you he said “I’m checking you and your bag for weapons. If you’re lying, you’re dead.”

He knelt down, setting the child down next to him before rummaging through your bag, pulling out tools and emergency clothes. You were somewhat embarrassed when he pulled out your underwear and other spare clothes and quickly tossed it to the side before he stood up in front of you. He began to pat you down, checking for holsters or anything you may have hidden on your person, this was also awkward but hey, if it stopped you from getting killed in the middle of nowhere? No complaints.

“Am I a clean officer?” You said jokingly, not really knowing if you were on good enough footing to be making jokes. He grunted, “Yeah, you’re fine to continue on your way or do whatever.”

You were shocked, I mean was he stupid? Obviously you were to be trusted because your business was primarily from less than New Republic approved sources, but he didn’t know that. Your smart mouth always got the best of you. “Seriously? What if I told the New Republic you were here? Or I was just completely lying and I am actually part of a group?”

The visor snapped towards you, Dank Ferrik, now you were the stupid one. Were you trying to get killed? I mean seriously, what is going through your head where- “I’m sorry?”

The Mandalorian slowly steps toward you, your heart drops. This is it. This is where you die. All for a witty comment. His helmet has to be less than a foot from your face as you try and quickly spain away your stupid and untimely comments, “I didn’t mean- ah yikes- I-”

His voice seems lower, it's almost a whisper, “Let me just say this once. I don’t know if you’re trying to be funny or if you’re just plain stupid, but if you ever say a word about me or more importantly-” he tilts the helmet towards the small creature below you, “Him, then I promise you, you won’t even get the chance to start running.”

The Mandalorian turns back towards the child simply saying “Go.” before kneeling down and inspecting the damage to the ship

Whoops, touched a nerve there. He was close enough for you to smell the woody scent of his soap and feel the heat off his body. How about you make it worse because you just cannot stop yourself? You let out a small chuckle. This is probably the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. “You’re kidding me right?”

You can’t help but let a smile creep onto your face as the Mandalorian once again turns slowly towards you. You were playing games with life and death and he was truly and deeply baffled. “Do I need to repeat myself? Are you seriously smiling right now?”

“No, no, I heard you. I’m just wondering how you can possibly think you’re getting this thing back off the ground.” You pause briefly, he’s a statue in front of you. He probably thinks you’re crazy, and you probably are. “I mean I’m sure you know the ship, but seriously, a Razor Crest? It's been quite a while since those went up in the sky, ‘had to come down at some point. Surprised it made it this long.”

“I’ll be fine.”

This time you can’t help but laugh. “Listen, this ship is not gonna be up in the air anytime soon, especially if you just let the only mechanic for miles around just walk away and have a nice day at the beach.”

This time you don't get a response. He begins walking around the ship, extinguishing the fires before boarding the ship to get a very scorched looking toolkit. He acts like you’re invisible, setting up a small ladder next to one of the engines. You stand there watching as he starts to shed some of his layers, the cape that you think is just a little dramatic, as well as the jetpack that was hidden underneath it. Then you stand even more baffled as he removed his pauldrons and chest piece, setting it aside. Your jaw has probably met the ground by the time you get a handle on yourself, could Mandalorians even do that? I thought they never removed their armor.

“You like to stare at strangers that are already tempted to shoot you?”

Choking a little bit on your breath you cough, not quite sure of how to respond so you decide to avoid the question. “You know, I’m not expensive,” Maker that did not come out how you wanted it to, “I mean, I can help you fix the ship. I don’t have any other customers right now and I’d maybe even give a discount if you keep up this friendly demeanor you have going on”

You gesture toward the Mandalorian, you can’t see his face but you doubt he is that enthused by your sarcasm. This is then confirmed by no more than grumbles and muttering from under the helmet as he turns back to the engine. You take a moment, continuing to stare at him for a minute, he’s… kind of handsome. I mean you can’t be sure because obviously his face is covered- but he's definitely attractive. Your train of thought is cut short when he looks back down at you again, annoyance radiating from him.

“I have a mechanic, on Tatooine, she can-”

You cut him off, “Well unless you have a secret ship I don’t know about…” You squint and pretend to peer around, “Yeah no, I don’t see one, I also don’t see how a mechanic on Tatooine has any way of helping you with your ship crashing on Naboo.”

With that statement he ignores you entirely. Maybe he has noise canceling in that helmet. Because if he could hear anything you said, he certainly wasn’t letting it show. You look at the sky. Eh, you can go to the beach anytime, but you could potentially have a new customer here if you play your cards right. So you play the long game. Starting off you just get comfortable amongst the wreckage whipping out a small tablet from your bag and pretending to do work, clicking buttons and tapping around for about half an hour before you decide it's time to move on to other tactics. Next you try walking up to the ship, closely examining panels and wires hanging down mangled from the wings and hull, you don’t say anything or even lay a finger on the ship. Only saying a quiet “Hm..” Scrunching up your face looking concerned before moving on to another damaged portion of the ship.

This served your purposes well, after a few times you started to notice the helmet shift slightly towards you in your periphery as you snooped around. It was also easy for you, you are a mechanic after all. This is what you do for a living, and examining all of the parts of this truly ancient hunk of metal that some call a ship would just end up helping you when you finally made him cave and ask for your expertise. This went on for what had to be at least an hour, the sun had begun to set and darkness started to gather over the clearing. As you had almost made your way in a full 360 around the ship you ended up back next to the Mandalorian.

You stood quietly behind him as he lay, half under the ship with his legs sticking out next to the tool kit. You heard a deep sigh before he slid out from under the ship and looked up at you, first glancing at the kid who was playing with some scrap metal a few feet away. “Okay. I can’t pay you much, but I can give you a few hundred credits and then I’ll pay you more later.”

“It’ll do.” You replied, a slight smile appearing on your face with your triumph over the stubbornness of your handsome armored guest.

So you worked, the Mandalorian focused mainly on getting the engines in order while you rewired the inside consoles and welded paneling back together, occasionally stealing glances over to your fellow mechanic as he worked, praying he didn't see you staring underneath his darkened visor.

*****

Several hours went on, welding, hammering, wiring, and screwing the ship back together piece by piece was no easy task. It definitely would not be completed tonight. He was reluctant but very glad to have your help. Unable to help himself, he occasionally took breaks from doing actual repairs, switching to fake ones so that he could watch you work. Often he wished he could take off the helmet, but there were times like this one when he was glad to have it. He knew you had no idea where his eyes were under the visor so he didn’t look creepy when he glanced over at you. He had noticed you staring, every once and a while. But that happened a lot, ever since the purge it wasn’t so common to see Mandalorians. It was mainly just the covert that survived, at least that he knew of.

His arms were burning now, holding them up to the engine for the past couple hours had managed to exhaust him. He finally decided to step down from the ladder, Damn, he cursed himself. The kid was outside, still playing in the grass happily making gurgling noises and smiling, it was way past his bedtime. Tilting his head toward you he says, “I think I’m done for the night, gonna need to be in the ship for a little bit.

You nod back at him, hurriedly packing up your tools before walking out of the ship, there was a strange nervous energy around you that he noticed, probably because he had threatened your life multiple times earlier, he thought to himself. He picked up the kid, carrying him onto the ship and settling him into his small floating cradle. He didn’t take long before he was asleep, the Mandalorian closed the shield on the cradle, taking in the view of the inside of the ship.

The hull was kind of a mess but most of the paneling on the inside of the hull was repaired, He chuckled, impressed. Stepping up a rung on the ladder up to the cockpit he peered in to see the console, it looked fully rewired, it was by far the cleanest part of the ship. Beneath the helmet he smiled, shaking his head. He stepped down the ladder, taking the time to clear up his belongings that had been scattered about the floor in the crash.

As he was cleaning his mind wandered. It had been quite a while since I had been able to talk to another person, let alone someone that was… like you. It had been a few years on the run with Grogu now, he shook the thoughts from his head. He didn’t have time for that kind of stuff before, let alone now, with the kid? The Empire chasing him down? No.

But you were … something. Certainly frustrating, very stubborn, but he knew he wasn’t one to talk. You also happened to be very attractive, he noticed when he first saw you. Your feisty personality had only made him more interested. Damn it, what had happened to controlling his thoughts huh? He cursed himself. Glancing down the ramp to see you sitting a log nearby, determined to start a fire. Were you going to stay?

*****

Finally getting the lighter to catch on the sticks you had arranged in the dirt, you looked up at the ship. The hatch was open, the Mandalorian looming in the doorway, leaning against the wall. As you met his gaze he stepped out, boots landing heavy on the earth as he reached the log and sat down next to you with a sigh. You stared at the flames, avoiding the strange tension that fell between you as you waited for him to say something.

“You do good work” he admitted, turning to face you. You blushed slightly at the compliment, “Thanks, just doin’ my job.”

Maker, you hoped that didn’t come out too snarky, but you heard a small chuckle from the modulator in response before you both returned to silence. He shuffled slightly next to you, clearing his throat before he spoke again, “You’ve got some grease on your face.”

“Oh,” you used your shirt in an attempt to scrub your face clean of the grime, allowing some of your midriff to peek from under your shirt. The helmet didn't move away from you, it was a little bit off-putting. You settled back into the decomposing log, moss and fungus eating away at the wood. “It’s still there”

You began to raise your shirt to your face again, before a gloved hand grabbed hold of your arm, “It’s alright, here, let me get it.”

You stared at him. He took off his gloves and grabbed a rag from his pocket. He reaches out to your face, using one of his hands to cradle your right cheek while he uses the rag to remove the stubborn grease from the side of your nose with his other, being surprisingly gentle with your face. His hand is rough and calloused, your mind blanking, looking into the visor and feeling his skin warm against yours.

If asked, you couldn’t say how long you stared into the visor or how long he took to clean your face. He probably thinks you’re strange, considering the fact you just stared at him for an indeterminable amount of time. You were zoned out, not even blinking. Of course, you would be wrong, he wasn’t thinking you were weird, he was just praying that you didn’t take notice of the nervous energy enveloping his body. You’re positive your whole face is bright red. He’s so soft. His hands are rough for sure, but he was so delicate with you. “So what brought you to Naboo?”

He broke the silence as he continued to rub your face with the piece of cloth. “Oh um,” you needed to come back to reality, “I’m from here originally, I mean not from out here though. I’m from Theed.”

“Capital city? Seems fancy for you.” He teased, or at least you think he was. It’s kind of difficult to tell with the modulator and the lack of facial expression. The cloth tickles your nose, “Sorry.”

“No you’re fine", you reassure him. It takes everything you have in you to not lean into his hand, he feels so comfortable. “Yeah no, you’re right. That's partially why I left. I mean when the empire was in power, I don't know. I guess it gets difficult to work on illegal ships in the middle of a city swarming with troopers.”

You let out a small laugh before his hands are removed from your face. There is a reluctance to his movements as he settles back into the log , stretching an arm out behind you against the moss, “It’s gone now. That crap sticks, sorry about that.”

“No it's fine, thanks for getting it off me.” You smile, still blushing but hoping he thinks you’re just naturally that pink in the face. You lean back, accidentally leaning into his arm, he doesn't move, so neither do you. He continues the conversation, asking you questions about Naboo and your clients and your job, how you got started as a mechanic, it was strange. He seemed different, not so cold, talkative even. Nothing like the man that had essentially told you he would hunt you down if you ever said a word about his existence.

*****

You were sweet. Kind for someone that worked with almost exclusively criminals and those who were wanted by the new republic. The tough crowd you ran with almost seemed like it hadn't rubbed off on you whatsoever. He found himself staring again, watching your eyes light up and your lips move as you talked about your life and Naboo. He could watch you talk for hours, it took everything in him to not try and lead you back to the Crest with him for the night. Snap out of it. He couldn’t. He just admired you, only asking the occasional question, nodding in agreement at everything you told him. You talked for what had to be 45 minutes before it started.

He was definitely infatuated with you, but this was different. He felt very warm, and he wanted you. He started to fidget around, adjusting his seating position to accommodate the growing erection in his pants. He prayed you wouldn't notice, he covered it as best as he could. Then the thoughts came. Flowing through his mind easily he thought about you, about what was under the layers of fabric you wore, and about what he would like to do to you if he could. He resisted at first, but he couldn’t for long before he was lightheaded. Unable to struggle against his desires anymore.

Even just the fabric of his pants rubbing against him when he moved was overwhelming, he bit his lip, barely resisting the desperate noises attempting to escape his mouth. His vision was hazy, the world around him appeared rosy, you looked perfect. Seeing you- Dank Ferrik- He was taken back to all of the desires he had earlier, on the ship, watching you work. He had to say something.

*****

The Mandalorian had become fidgety beside you. You wondered if he is feeling the same nearly indescribable heat that you feel. Warmth radiating from your chest and between your thighs. Sweat began to form on the back of your neck and other wetness began to form at your center. You froze yourself in place, doing all in your power to not alert the Mandalorian to the desire enveloping your body. He turned towards you, it had taken him a moment. He had been asking questions whenever you fell silent but in the last 10 minutes there were long pauses, like he was distracted, “Hey.. do you feel strange at all? I feel a little bit warm,”

“Mhm,” You nodded your head, clenching your jaw to restrain yourself before you began to speak, “Yeah I feel really warm actually.”

You looked around, eyes eventually falling on the log behind you, you noticed small floating particles in the air around you now, and the thin coating of a pollen like substance on your skin and clothing, same on the Mandalorian, but he had the helmet. “Do you think this stuff has anything to do with it?”

Drawing his eye to the pollen he looked closely at it, and then the plants that were producing it. He let out a small wince. “I don't know really- shit,” he took in a small gasp of air, “Sometimes plants, or fungi like these. I mean they- in the past, I’ve seen them produce spores that… have effects.”

“What do you mean… by, um, effects?” you ask, a concerned expression etched across your face. Squeezing your legs together was not helping the feeling go away, and if he didn't already notice your fidgeting he would almost certainly notice your desperate attempt to push the feelings away, which you were not succeeding at.

“They can act like a very, very, powerful aphrodisiac.” He swallowed, saliva had been pooling on his tongue as he looked at you. “It’s bad. I’ve seen people be out of it for days. I hope that this isn’t what that is, but I'm not confident.”

“Hey, Mando,” Nickname slipping from your lips, you weren’t thinking clearly anymore, “I- I think that's what this is. I mean I don't know how you feel right now but…”

Lightheaded you were barely holding on, clasping your hands together, away from the warmth of your core. “Yeah, me too.”

“I think we need to separate. As quickly as possible,” That's not what you really wanted, but you were clinging to the last logical thoughts you had. Maker, he was handsome, you could see the muscles in his arms and shoulders through his shirt, how he was pulling the shirt over his hips to conceal what you suspected was very visible there.

“Agreed” he quickly stood up. “I’m going to go on the ship, I have a cot there”

He turned to leave before he paused, the shirt couldn’t conceal his hardness anymore, and him trying was just drawing more of your attention to it. Your mouth began to water. “I have an extra cot, I don't know- I mean, if you don’t want to stay out here.”

You stood up, simply following his lead up the ramp of the crest. He pointed you left to a narrow cot in the corner of the hull before he nearly scrambled over to the other side of the hull. Shit. No walls. Whatever, you didn’t even care anymore. You nearly tear your pants as you peel them off of your thighs, feeling the wetness between your thighs begin to drip down your legs, you can hear him making quite the commotion as he rips the armor off of his lower half, you see it tossed to the side on the floor barely in view. Then you hear him start, whimpers turning into breathy moans as you can hear him pleasuring himself a mere 10 feet away from you.

You feel almost like you have no control over your limbs as you reach down to your own warm center, the slickness soaking your fingers as you begin to rub circles around your clit starting slow, losing control as you hear the Mandalorian’s moans become deep and raspy, you move faster. Unable to keep yourself from imagining how well he would fill you, thinking about how desperate he must be, the thought of helping him towards his release fills your mind as you slide your hand down pushing your fingers into the void you feel inside of you. As you begin to pull the pleasure out of yourself your quieter, breathier moans gain volume and desperation as you get closer and closer.

This increase in your volume clearly has an effect on the Mandalorian, you can hear the slapping of his skin as his groans become almost pained, like he is begging for his release, then you hear him slow down, the moans coming from his side of the hull quieting, devolving into low growls after he reaches his climax. His sounds send you over the edge, you feel warmth overwhelming your body, pulsing waves radiating throughout, you let out a long satisfied groan before the hull is filled with an exhausted silence.

This exhaustion remains only for a few minutes before you feel the urge creep up inside of you once again. You're tempted to make your way over to him as you hear his breath begin to pick up slowly as he begins to feel the same second wave. Your head feels light as you imagine the feel of his skin on your’s and the taste of his cock leaking on your tongue. You can't handle it. Legs shaking you rise from your cot, quietly making your way over to the opposite side of the hull, you near the edge of the slightly wider cot that he rests on.

You step out in front of his cot, unbuttoning your shirt to free your chest, the heat is overwhelming, beads of sweat on your skin making your shirt stick to your breasts as you strip it off. The Mandalorian just freezes, an inability to tell where his gaze rests on your body only brings more warmth to your face. You kneel down onto the edge of the cot, you can see almost all of him right now, he’s so exposed, vulnerable to your touch. He's… gorgeous. Golden skin fully exposed, you watch his chest rise and fall as you look at him. A trail of hair leading down his stomach straight to-

You set your eyes on his thick girth. Your mouth begins to water, you can see beads of precum leaking from its head. Reaching out you stroke his thigh, he twitches under your hand, letting out a quiet and needy sound as you move your hand closer to his length.

“Do you want me to help you?” you ask boldly, waiting intently for a nod from the helmet.

“I-yes, please, yes.” he gives in to his temptation, taking a firm grip on your arm as you grasp him tightly and begin to stroke him up and down. His head tilts back letting a deep groan escape the helmet, the modulator making it even more gravelly. He's already slick with the release of his previous orgasm, he glides through your hands easily, his sounds become broken and pleading as you move your hand faster around him, you hear broken moans trying to form your name. Honestly you’re surprised he remembered it, but you’re glad. You like hearing your name roll over his tongue.

Lowering your head you run your tongue along the bottom of the head, catching him off guard, making him thrust upwards into your mouth as you come down on him. You feel his hand release its tight grip on your arm as it moves to your hair gripping it tightly to keep you in place as he bucks his hips up into your mouth. He ignores your gag when he pushes a little too far.

“Fuck- yes,” His breath becomes more and more labored with each thrust until he slows, allowing himself to burst onto your tastebuds. He tastes delicious, you stay locked onto his length until he stops his small jerks upwards. You lift off of him, gulping down the warm substance before moving up the cot. Positioning your hips over his cock as he lays back, panting, staring up at you with longing, still hard as though nothing at all had transpired.

He grips your hips stopping you before you sink down onto him, behind the visor you can’t tell what’s going through his head, his breath tells you he’s desperate for more but his voice, deep and modulated, sounds almost hesitant or anxious, “I don’t have much… experience”

He stumbles over his words hesitantly as he lowers your hips onto his, his length sliding up against your aching heat instead of entering it. You let out a small groan as it moves against you, “Do you want me to stop?”

He pulls your face closer to his helmet, “No- Kriff- please no.” he replies, unable to stop himself from grinding into you as he struggles to get his words out. “I just- Fuck- want to hear you say my n-name”

He says breathlessly, the aching in your stomach hurts with how much you need him inside of you,”It’s Din- that’s my name- Fuck, cyarika”

Running his hands through your hair and down your back, he encourages your movements. You sit yourself up with your hands on his chest, lowering yourself onto him.

“Sweet girl..” he breaths. You let out a whine as he sinks into you, sliding gently deeper as he stretches you around him. As soon as you reach his base he begins to thrust into you, ignoring the almost pained moans you let escape as he fucks roughly upwards, barely giving you time to adjust to his girth, he was unbelievably thick. Just the right length to hit that spot inside of you, the thrusts sting so good as they change from slight pain into pure ecstacy.

“Din- Maker- you’re so fucking big,” You feel a pressure building inside of you, feeling like you could already cum before he even reaches down to find your clit. He’s a fast learner and finds it fairly quickly, likely due to the moan you let loose when his fingers brush up against it. “Yes-“

He’s good. Ridiculously good. You’re going to cum. The combination of his deep and needy thrusts and his fingers rubbing fast circles around your clit is too much. His modulated moaning graces your ears as he wraps his arms around you pulling you to his chest. “Din, Din, Din, Din- Fuckkk“.

You can feel his heartbeat race underneath his skin and his chest rise and fall as you both close in on your peak. You kiss him up his chest and collarbone and settling on his neck. He can’t think, overwhelmed by you clinging tightly around him, dripping and pooling at the base of his hard cock, his pace pushing you over the cliff of your orgasm. Your lips on his throat drive him over the edge. His thrusts quicken as he chokes on your name, only able to gasp for air he mumbles between groans as he pumps into you. Your spasming heat choking his throbbing cock as he fills you with his heat, still thrusting into you as he comes down from the high. Fucking his load deeper inside of you.

He gasps for air, panting and running his hands over the curves of your body as you melt into each other. His breath slows, relaxing as you rest on top of him. He whispers in your ear, “This is so perfect, you’re fucking perfect. Thank you, you- you made me feel so good,”

Even with the modulator his voice sounds warm and fluid. Neither of you lasted more than 5 minutes, not that it mattered considering whatever aphrodisiac had found its way into your systems seemed to never end. You know it’s not over. You lie there on top of him for a while, your head nestled into the crook of his neck, listening to his heartbeat, he keeps whispering to you, but it changes. It goes from sweet compliments to a lower, raspier tone to his voice. “I’ve been wanting you all day, thinking about all the things I wanted to do to you, I know you have too, mesh'la.”

You hadn’t intended to, but you’re a terrible liar and it probably seemed like you had been with all of the glances and smiles and blushing. He started to sit up, laying you down on your back on the mattress. He, reluctantly, pulls out. Watching as his cum begins to leak out of you. He pauses for a minute, before saying “Stay there.”

Standing up, he moves over to the wall across from the cot and presses a button, the hull goes dark, all you can see is pitch black surrounding you before you hear footsteps returning to the bed. You feel him take a seat again on the bed next to you, soon after there is a heavy clunk of metal against the floor. Did he take off his helmet? Your heartbeat quickens.

As he stretches out on the narrow mattress you take your queue to once again straddle him, you’re about to reach down and put him back inside you when you feel his palm against your back encouraging you to move upwards towards his head. Eventually he grabs your thighs, directing you to your new seat, directly over his mouth. “Let's get you cleaned up first”

He kisses the inside of your thighs as he moves upward toward your burning center, you let out a gasp as you feel his lips and tongue against your skin. You can feel the graze of stubble against your thighs, his curved nose, his soft lips warm against you, you start to groan as he gets closer. There’s a pause, broken by his lips kissing over your folds before that long anticipated tongue licks up the full length of your slit. Your breathy moans fill the hull as he moves slowly, teasing you, waiting for you to beg him for more. You gladly oblige, taking hold of his hair and giving it a slight pull, you plead “Din, please- please. I need more”

Only then does he indulge you, parting your folds and honing in on your clit, licking around it in circles before finally sucking it with his soft, wet lips. He loves the way you taste, he especially likes the taste of him inside you. The pleasure of his mouth on your pussy bringing more of your wetness to mix with his cum, he’s addicted to it. He never imagined this would be the reason he would take off his helmet. But he’s thought about this loophole for a while, and when he first saw you, dripping wet and begging for him, he knew he was going to have to take advantage of it. He was anxious that he wouldn’t be able to make you feel as good as he wanted you to feel, but it felt so natural to have you in his mouth, your sounds telling him when he was doing something well made him desperate for you to cum so he could thrust back into you again.

“I’m getting close, you’re- Shit- you’re doing so good” That was too much, he couldn’t stop himself anymore. Removing his hand currently wrapped around your left thigh he began to stroke himself, he tried to go slow but couldn’t resist your praise. He was so sensitive, the pollen had made it easy for him to continue even after he came multiple times, but he felt like static, all he could feel was pleasure as he massaged his hand around his thick length, lapping up the taste of you as he grunted between your legs.

Fuck. He’s too much, too good, too fast. All you can think about is how he wraps his lips around your clit, flicking it with his tongue as you hear him moan into you. You were nearly screaming his name, it felt out of your control as he kept edging you up to the summit of your arousal. It was torturous, the way he sucked your clit before removing himself completely where the only sensation was his hot breath below you. Rinse and repeat. But it felt so good. It felt like he was analyzing your flavor with his tongue the way he devoured you.

He was building you again, you prepared yourself for his pull away, for your pleasure to be cut short. But he didn’t stop, he held on. A rhythm of licking, fluttering, and sucking you that was more than either of you knew what to do with. You pulled his hair, releasing a growl like moan from him as you couldn’t keep yourself from bucking your hips on his face as he stimulated you. A shaky and depraved sound escaped your lips as you came. Your thighs clenched around his head and you gave a second quick tug on his hair, both of which evoked deep groans of satisfaction from him as he drank in your orgasm. Heat flushed your body until you couldn’t tell where you ended and his mouth began. Sweat coated your chest as you panted, he continued to savor you with his tongue.

Yet another reason he was grateful for you straddling his face, was because it muffled all of the embarrassingly loud and desperate sounds he was making while he was getting himself off on your undoing. When he felt you clench down on his face it was over for him. He felt his hot release splatter onto his stomach and drip down his fingers as the only thoughts running through his mind were about how tight you squeezed around him when he was buried inside of you. The frantic jerks through his fist slowed as the aftershocks gripped his body. Letting go of himself he concentrated on you, despite your hitching breath every time he touched you clit.

He seemed to ignore your arching back and trembling thighs as you ran your fingers through his hair, unable to form words as you lost any remaining composure. Reaching behind, you grabbed hold of him, following the thickness of his shaft up to the tip, where you focused your attention. This made him cease contact with you entirely. Trying to catch his breath, his gasps just turned into whimpers as they met the air. Long drawn out expletives as he twitched under your hand.

His words were broken, cut off with whimpers and moans as you touched him where you knew it would feel the best, or the worst, depending on your perspective. But you got the gist of what he was trying to say, “Pl-lease, t-t-t-“ “C-Can’t t-take”

He was begging you. Melting completely, moldable to your will. Seeing him like this was different, you were more turned on now than you had ever been. Watching his hips writhe beneath your grasp…He wanted you so badly.

Reaching down he ripped your hand away from him before he could begin to spill himself once again. Still panting in an attempt to recover from the stimulation, he moved you off of his face and laid you down on the mattress so that he was leaning over you. The warmth exuding from his body felt like a heat lamp, the air between you just felt like a continuation of his skin. Distracted by the tension you jolted when he began to slide his cock up and down your folds. His attempt at hiding his soft and breathy whimpers as he rubbed himself against you was ultimately a failure. You desperately wanted to see his face, his jaw clenched around nothing just trying to hold out for you. You couldn't help yourself. You took hold of him and shoved him back inside of you.

He was so thick, the dripping warmth coating your walls as you stretched to accommodate him. It felt like you were whole with him inside of you. He moved slowly, trying so hard not to cum again so soon, you squeezed him in just the right way, he was sloppy in the way he fucked you, his rhythm slowing down and speeding up randomly, pulling too far out and having to reenter.

You surprised yourself when you reached your hand up to his throat, giving it a light squeeze he let out a labored moan. “Fuck me”

You looked up at where you guessed his face was, it almost sounded like a challenge exiting your lips. He listened. His thrusts became consistent, targeted, a solid rhythm. But along with this came his volume, he was so loud, nearly yelling your name in between his whines, only taking time to lean near your ear and mutter to you while he tried to catch his breath. Your grip on his neck was loose, lazy, only tightening when he slowed down.

“You’re so good, you’re so fucking good- Oh shit- Fuck-, so sweet- Maker, I love the taste of you on my lips, you’re so soft for me. I want to cum for you so bad- Please- Oh Maker- PLEASE”

It hurts how ready he is to cum, he’s been ready for 5 minutes. He had some experience, but as he had told you, not much. Certainly nothing like this. He actually can’t tell if he already started to cum or not. He’s blind, he can only focus on the heat and the wetness between your legs. He’s completely lost control of his mouth. Saying anything that came to his mind, just trying to keep his throbbing, aching cock from stopping before you cum. No, no no no no no no- his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, pulling himself out of you before painting your chest with his cum as he milked every last drop he had from his cock. Shit.

Honestly, you knew how hard he was fighting to hold on, the way he had fucked you right then was so relentless, that Din finishing before you were able to get there was something that was difficult to be bothered by. It felt so good. Him pounding you into the mattress, it had actually taken you a second to realize you hadn’t finished. But it was evident that Din was disappointed, the silence, you could almost imagine his furrowed brow trying to figure out what comes next. So you guided him, grabbing one of his hands. You led him down your torso and between your thighs, trusting him to know what to do next.

Putting his weight on his remaining arm and his knees, he caressed your heat, wetness letting him glide over your lips. Your breath quickened as he began to work you open with two fingers, feeling them enter deeper inside of you on each thrust, your muscles tensed as he massaged inside of you till he found a spot that made you sink your nails into his arm while he touched you. Crying out you started to roll your hips into his movements, your cries turned into sputtering wails as he began to rub his thumb over your swollen clit.

“Din y-yes” you rasped, “just like that- Fuck”

You sounded so good with his name on your lips, he rewarded you, quickening the rhythm of his pumps. He was merciless, chasing your climax with his hand. This you could tell he was experienced at. The ache between your thighs reaching its precipice, gripping his arm and the sheets you let out a long low cry as you spasmed around his fingers. Going limp under him as you let out a shaking breath.

Din reached his fingers up to his mouth, licking them clean of your orgasm before stroking the hand up your side, murmuring into the darkness around you, “Good girl…”

You sensed the warmth he radiated, got closer to your skin before you felt his tongue, drift flat over your chest, gathering the pooling cum in his mouth. He flicked his tongue around your nipples, taking a moment to suck and nip at your flesh making you run your fingers through his hair before tracing you with his tongue up to your throat. He relaxed his weight onto you as he crushed a passionate kiss into your mouth. Parting your lips, his tongue carried his flavor into your mouth, the fluid he had collected from your breasts now finding a home in your mouth. His sloppy kisses pausing long enough for him to take a breath and for you to swallow his premature orgasm before his lips closed back onto yours.

*****

His lips against yours, obsessed with the way you feel against him. His hair being pulled between your fingers drives him wild as he crushes you into his body. The world never felt so perfect to him and he didn’t know how he could ever feel this good again. His thoughts were so light in his head and the weight on him for the last couple years with the kid seemed to temporarily dissipate. Kriff. He wants to stay like this forever. He stayed, tasting your mouth with his tongue, pulling lightly at you with his teeth, until he felt you pull his hips into yours, lightly rubbing against him.

It ignited him once again, he ached for you as if he hadn’t just spent what had to have been an hour devouring your body in any way that he could, exploring every dip and curve of your form, yet he still couldn’t be satisfied. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He had been satisfied, several times now, but his brain was fuzzy and light, and when you rubbed against him he could only crave more.

“Shit- I want you Din.” Your words were almost painful, he ground his hips against yours. Moving his lips down your neck leaving marks on your flesh that would be open for view in any of your usual clothing. His humming turned into low growling as sliding against you became easier, slickness leaking from him. Arching his back he felt you take hold of him. He held his breath as you slid him downwards, directing him into you. Please yes- He gasped as he slid into you.

Slow, gentle, yes- he took you delicately, thrusting in and out so that he knew you would feel every bit of him as he moved inside of you. He moaned softly into your ear matching the pace of his movements. You felt so good. So tight against his length. He loved the feeling as you ran your nails over his back, he knew you wanted more, but he couldn’t help himself. He continued to pace his movement selfishly wanting to savor every pump into you, draw your pleasure out for as long as possible before it crashed.

This went on, his controlled, almost romantic, rhythm. Combined with his continued bruising of your neck he knew you had to hate him for making you wait. He whispered praise in your ears, “Yes, take me like this. You’re so good- so fucking good to me… such a good slut.”

He hadn’t meant to let it slip out of the privacy of his thoughts and onto his tongue, but you didn’t seem to mind, at all. He felt your nails down his spine until they reached his hips, your grip settling around them and nearly forcing him to quicken. Your hands guided him in and out, faster. It you were so wet, soaking him, the push and pull inside you made such a filthy noise. He loved it. Drinking in the sounds of his cock burying itself deep inside of you was enough to make him lose all remaining sense in his mind. Sensation of you around him, brushing of your skin against his, it was impossible to stop himself from fucking pounding you into the cot.

*****

You had lost your damn mind. He was so thick, stretching you even after he had already been pounding you full of him for Maker knows how long. He was so close to you, you heard every hitch in his breath, every whimper, moan, growl, pleading gasp. He was so talkative. It was like he couldn’t stop himself from spilling his guts while he was inside you.

“Yeah? You like me calling you that? Mmmm- is it because it's true?” There was jealousy behind his words, but he sounded almost turned on by it. To be fair, it wasn’t not true. You had your fair share of escapades, maybe even with other customers when times were tough. But this… this was nothing like that. Kriff, he was thick. The way he spoke, fuck, you knew he could probably make you cum without laying more than a finger on you. His words alone made you rut your hips up into his. Apparently the pleading sounds exiting your mouth were not answer enough to his question.

“Mhm, I bet its true,” he paused, small grunts leaving his mouth, “But you know what else I bet- I’ll fuck you the way you need it, sweet girl…”

A smile forms across your face as he says it. “If you had crashed here sooner I wouldn’t have needed all those other co-“

He cuts you off, slamming into you harder than he had the whole night, he wraps a hand around your throat leaning in close so you can feel his breath against your neck, “Maybe you should come with me, I’ll keep you s- shit- satisfied, you would like that right? To be right there when I get back with a b-bounty,”

“So I could fuck you down into this cot every night.” He said it surprisingly smoothly for how he was handling you, the smoothness of his voice contrasting with the roughness of how he thrusted into you and the jealousy he knew was unreasonable. Was he serious? Fuck. Neither of you are in your right minds. Loosening his grip on your throat the small whimpers that escape your lips fuel him to cause more of them. Dragging his tongue along your chest his lips close around a nipple as his hand winds its way down to your clit “Fuck- Din- I want you,”

Your senses have been overloaded almost since the start, pleasure so constant it was difficult to distinguish when you came for him. His name tasted so sweet on your lips. Your orgasm snuck up quickly, his hips curving into you. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling his weight onto you so that his face was buried against yours and his skin clung onto you. Rolling your hips into him and arching your back you clenched around him vision blurry as the aftershocks made your muscles squeeze him inside you. You let out a long low moan, his name finding its way out of your throat until you could barely speak. He dissolved into you, spilling himself inside you again before falling limp on top of you with a guttural groan into your neck.

His heart rate slowed against your chest as his head tucked away into the crook of your neck. His breath slowed from whimpers into sighs as you felt him fall asleep in your arms, still twitching inside of you. Your eyelids became heavy, you wondered if he was serious about having you on the Crest with him. I mean you had a job, a thriving business, he had met you mere hours ago. Probably not. Everyone says things when, well, you know. But you were content, his body draped over yours, you stroked your hands along his back, his biceps, as you drifted into unconsciousness.

AN - This is my first work I've ever written or posted anywhere, I hope you guys liked it, I know its long so if you made it this far i salute you. I'll definitely be posting more stuff on here soon because i have a backlog of work in progress stuff (not just for din) so follow if you liked this one :) also if this seems like its inspired by @no-droids work, that makes sense. Rough day was the first mandalorian fanfic i read!

#the mandalorian #din djarin #fanfiction #fanfic #star wars #pedro pascal #razor crest #this is the way #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mandalorian fanfic

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