Thank You For Including Me!

Thank you for including me! 😘

Friday Fic Rec Week Two

What a successful second week of fic recs! Thank you all again for submitting your recs and for sharing your love of others' work with me, and the tumblr-sphere!

Personal recommendations 💜 Personal recs but also suggested by y'all 🌸 Self-Rec because I'm a classy slut~ ♦️ My fics y'all Recc'd 🫠

In order of submission:

Stars too Far - Ch 1 | Mandalorian x fem reader | @foomoosworld

Beach Walks | Continuation of Night Walks Perv/Creep!Joel x Reader | @toxicanonymity 🌸

When I move You Move | Pre-outbreak!Joel x F!Reader | @ghotifishreads

Wildflowers | Joel x F!Reader Drabble | @tightjeansjavi

I know it When I See it | Pornstar!Joel x Pornstar!Reader | @bageldaddy 💜

Over Again | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @burntheedges

Liminality | Frankie morales x F!reader Werewolf AU | @something-tofightfor 🌸

Beskar and Kyber | Din Djarin x F!Reader | @penvisions

Yearling | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @justagalwhowrites

Sweet Child O' Mine | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @macfrog

Ch4 of Devotion | Cult Leader!Joel Miller x F!Reader | @noxturnalpascal 🌸

No Shortage of Sordid | Joel Miller x F!Reader + extra | @covetyou 💜

On The Waterfront | Dark!Chubby! Frankie x F!Reader | @beefrobeefcal 💜

Strangers | Dave York x F!Reader | @wildemaven

His Clothes Fit you Better | Joel Miller x Reader | @holacia3

The Day Before Was Always Difficult | Dieter Bravo x F!Reader | @nerdieforpedro

Need | Din Djarin x Cobb Vanth | @theywhowriteandknowthings (Me aha) ♦️

Fix your sink Frankie | asshole!Frankie x F!Reader | @theywhowriteandknowthings (me aha) 🫠

The Dark Side of The Moon | Vampire! Marc Spector x Reader | @melodygatesauthor 💜

The Ghosts of Babylon | Joel Miller x Reader | @sixhours

Hold Fast | Frankie x F!Reader | @jeewrites

Dirty | Mystery P!Boy x Reader | @bitchesuntitled

The winners circle | dieter brave x f!reader | @popcornforone

Usually I am not a fan of period pieces that go to the way back of cowboy days… but this?! Holy shit! This is SO good!

A Strange Fate

Masterlist

pairing: young Silva x f!reader

summary: Practically forced into a marriage with a handsome stranger, all you want is to be wanted by him. Unfortunately, all he wants is something he isn’t sure he can have.

warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (about 8 years); reader is 17 (which was not all that young for the time period), naïve & inexperienced; unprotected p in v sex; oral (f receiving); fingering (f receiving); some slight fluff(?); some drinking; some angst; use of American Old West terms (lil glossary at the end)

word count: 6136 (ish)

Important a/n!: First off, the age issue: reader is 17 at the beginning of this fic. Please keep in mind that during this time, marriage at that age wasn’t all that uncommon, particularly in the Old West. I decided to make her this age rather than 18 on purpose to emphasize the situation in which she finds herself. If that creeps you out, no biggie - just scroll on by.

Second, I’ve always been interested in women’s side of things, both in history and in literature, when things were written from men’s points of view and gave very little regard to women’s perspectives (i.e., all the goddamn time). Obviously, at some point, Silva had someone in his life with whom he had a son. Since his son was with him rather than absent from his life, I think it’s safe to surmise that he likely had a wife (as opposed to just having gotten a prostitute pregnant). I decided that I wanted to tell the story of that woman, if only to satisfy my own curious mind. This is not intended at all to take away from the very complicated story of Silva and Jake, nor is it meant to be any kind of commentary whatsoever on Silva’s sexuality.

Finally, I intend for this to be a two-parter and I have a portion of that written but no real timeline as to when it’ll be posted.

Kisses & affectionate spankings to my girls: @for-a-longlongtime @arcanefox207 @pink-whiskey-woman @magpiepills @exquisiteserotonin @legendary-pink-dot @sparklefarts38 @redhotkitchen

divider: @cafekitsune

You were fifteen the first time you set eyes on him, sixteen when you met him, seventeen when you married him four months later. It wasn’t by choice. There was no romantic courtship, no sweet proposal, no joyous wedding. Girlhood dreams of romance and warm, comforting love leading to you in a white dress, your future husband at your side, gradually destroyed by a series of uncontrollable events.

Once your mother died, her husband - your former uncle - didn’t know what to do with you. Your father was killed when you were three, leaving your young and frightened mother the little red ranch home, the horses, and acres upon acres of land to tend to alone. Your father’s older brother John swiftly swooped in, playing savior to her and you. United in their grief, he swept your beautifully sad mother off her feet. They married quickly, giving you a replacement father figure and her the security and safety she craved. Then, last winter, just before your fifteenth birthday, your mother became sick. A storm had made travel difficult and killed the majority of the crops in your small garden plot. Her fevers wouldn’t break and the doctor couldn’t make his way to treat her. You nursed her as well as you could while John, useless in his worry and premature in his sadness, nursed one of the last bottles of apple jack. She passed a week after, and everything of hers became his: her land, her home, her horses, and you.

He could’ve kept you around to tend the house and care for him, but his sorrow had convinced him he needed to escape. He’d heard tale from other drunkards in town that there was still gold to be found in California, and he set his sights upon those golden dreams. Dreams that didn’t include you. He put the little red ranch and the acres of land up for sale. Grief can be selfish, and when you asked in a panic where you were to go, he paused, seeming to consider you for the first time.

“You’re smart and capable. I’ll take you into town and you’ll find your way,” he’d said. At your age, you knew you would be fated to become one of the soiled doves in a saloon, having your youth and innocence used up by men of all ages, most of whom you’d never see again.

Then, one day, Silva came to purchase. He’d been to your homestead a year prior to buy a horse from John. Too shy to speak to him that time, you had watched him from among the sunflowers in your garden, admiring the shape of his body from his broad shoulders down to his narrow hips. Eight years older than you, he was handsome, with a trim, dark mustache and golden skin. Tall and lean, he walked with the self-confidence just shy of a rooster’s strut. You wondered why he hadn’t married already.

He had lovely dark hair and strong, capable hands that made your skin tingle with the thought of them on you. A foreign feeling rose low within you as you observed him, and your cheeks heated when he happened to turn and notice you, the timid girl with the sad eyes among tall and proud sunflowers. The corners of his mouth turned up, revealing a dimple in his right cheek, and he tipped his hat in your direction. That foreign feeling in your belly surged south. That night you lay in bed, unable to sleep with thoughts of the way he had glanced back at you as he guided the horse away, the red clay dust swirling about him until it swallowed his image from view and he was gone. You let your hand slip under your nightgown, instinct and desire guiding your fingertips through the warmth between your thighs, and imagined your touch was his.

Silva drove a hard bargain for the ranch from what you could hear of the conversation. Even harder when John asked about one of his horses. You had felt his eyes on you while you toiled about at the stove, your already-heated skin flushing deeper under his gaze. You sneaked glances at him, taking note of his soft brown eyes and full lips, his exotic accent like a melody.

It didn’t take long for their discussion to include you. “She can read and write, smart as a whip, taught her to shoot so she can protect herself, but she’s biddable ‘n does what she’s told.” Then, quieter, “a real piece of calico.” John spoke of you as one would a prized horse, but then he probably would have treated a prized horse with more consideration and respect.

Silva turned to you, pausing before he addressed you with a softer tone. “Would you like to stay here and live with me?”

You studied him, blood coursing ice cold through your limbs. You didn’t know him from Adam, didn’t know what kind of man he really was, but what choice did you have? Service one man you’d seen but never met before in your own home, or many men who were strangers while also paying a madam in a bed-house?

“I can provide for you,” he continued. “I will need a wife to tend the home, cook.” He took a step forward. “I have no bad intentions toward you.”

You glanced over at John who wouldn’t even look at you, pathetic barrel boarder he was. Resigned, you nodded.

Silva gave John a few days to pack his things and leave before making your home his own. You never saw him again. For the days that followed, you moved around each other in a dance of domesticity. He slept on the small bed in the corner of the bedroom that had been yours and allowed you the larger one. You noted his morning routine: rise early, make coffee if it was available, feed and care for the horses, tend to the much-needed repairs on the homestead. You arose once he went outside, made his bed and yours, fed and gathered eggs from the hens, prepared breakfast and more coffee for him, and kept house. You mended his shirts, polished his boots, laundered the clothing and linens. You ate together, mostly in silence, save for a polite exchange here and there, though there was no unpleasantness. You simply went about your business and he his own. When you did have some semblance of a conversation, he never mentioned family but sometimes spoke of a man, a friend named Jake, with whom he worked. You didn’t meet Jake until after your wedding.

Two months passed, and the nights became cooler. The fire burning in the stove wasn’t enough to drive away the chill. Meekly, you requested that he join you in your bed for warmth. He was reluctant but quickly agreed once he heard the chatter of your teeth between words spoken through shivers.

He took the old threadbare quilt from his bed and draped it over you before sliding in behind you. Tentatively, he rested his arm around your waist, careful not to touch you anywhere too intimate. You tucked yourself back against him, instantly warming your body. A few shivers passed through you, and you heard his breath catch as your body moved against his.

“Better?” he whispered in the dark.

You nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

While you were now warm, you were unable to sleep. He had invaded all of your senses: his scent filling your space, his solid body and strong arms around you, the sound of his breathing behind you. A strange sensation settled low in your belly, like what happened when you watched him tend to his horses, his broad back and shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. This time, however, the sensation grew and built upon itself. You shifted your hips to relieve the not-unpleasant ache, and as you did so, you heard Silva inhale sharply behind you.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. You felt something solid and heavy against your backside before he moved away just slightly from you.

He sighed, deep and slow. “It’s fine. Just go to sleep.”

When morning broke, you woke alone. A note left on the modest kitchen table told you he had left for town and would return in a week. Though it wasn’t the first time you’d been left to fend for yourself, you had become accustomed to the feeling of security that a capable male presence provided. You found yourself missing his company.

Shortly after lunchtime exactly one week after he left, you heard the distant galloping of hooves approaching. Expecting only Silva but hearing the sound of at least two horses, you snatched up your rifle and peered out the window. In the distance was Silva, sitting tall and proud on his favorite chestnut horse. Riding a few paces behind him was another man, older and lined with age under his derby, sporting a badge that flashed in the desert sun.

Putting the gun down, you stepped out onto the porch to greet them. Silva arrived first, dismounted and tied up his horse, giving it a few soft rubs on its velvety nose before coming to you.

“Who is that man?” you asked as the man tied up his horse and withdrew a Bible from his satchel.

He gave a cursory glance at the older man and turned to you. “It’s time we marry. We’ve been living too long together without you being my wife. This is Justice Rogers, he’s come to marry us here.” Silva’s words came tumbling at you, so much all at once and so matter-of-fact, devoid of the romance you’d come to expect from the proposals in the few novels your mother owned. Most of those engagements lasted more than a few minutes, though.

The justice tipped his hat at you. “Miss. Mighty fine home you keep here.” He smiled warmly at you, seemingly in an attempt to provide some sort of comfort.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

At the same time, Silva suggested, “Why don’t we let the Justice come in and have a drink and some lunch?” He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the door.

“Oh… yes, come in, please.” You weren’t sure of the proper etiquette for such entertaining. No one had ever taught you, so you did your best, mimicking what you could remember from the few times your mother welcomed guests. You found yourself wanting to please Silva, perhaps even impress him.

While he and Justice Rogers talked, you busied yourself reheating the remainder of the cornbread and stew you’d made for supper the night before. You were considering whether you should change from your day dress and apron to something more presentable and appropriate for a spur-of-the-moment wedding, or at least put on the one pair of stockings you owned, when you were addressed by Silva.

“Hermosa, pour us two whiskeys, will you?”

Hermosa. You’d never heard the word before and didn’t know what it meant. He’d only ever referred to you by name if he referred to you at all.

“Oh, none for me, thank you. I will have coffee if you have it?” Justice Rogers smiled.

You retrieved Silva’s whiskey and began brewing Justice Rogers’s coffee before serving the men their food.

Justice Rogers took a bite and hummed his appreciation. “So, about your wedding,” he began.

Silva interrupted him, “No wedding. Neither of us have family. We only want something more official than common law.”

Justice Rogers looked over at you for your assent.

Looking first to Silva for guidance, you spoke when he nodded to you. “Yes, that’s correct. We would like for you to marry us today. Please.”

“And how old are you, dear?” the Justice asked.

“Seventeen.”

The man hesitated, his lips pursed. He opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off.

“My parents are dead, sir. He is all I have.”

He sighed and frowned but ultimately acquiesced. “Very well then.” He stood and motioned for Silva to stand beside you. “Do you have rings?”

You looked at Silva who pulled a single small brass band from his pocket and held it in his palm.

The Justice began reciting marriage vows, which you each repeated. Silva put the ring on your finger and squeezed your hand gently.

“You are man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Your eyes darted to Silva’s. He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to yours in a chaste kiss.

Silva paid the man, and with a congratulatory handshake to Silva and a nod to you, he left.

If it was uncomfortable between the two of you before, it was downright awkward now. You knew what was expected of wives. Were you supposed to do that now? Later? You resolved to allow him to take the lead. You assumed he would know; most men his age visited the saloon girls often, or so your mother had told you.

Silva simply stared back at you, his soft brown eyes moving from your eyes to your lips and back. Feeling bold, you decided to kiss him again, keeping your hands to yourself and pressing your lips to his. This time, his mouth opened more and his tongue darted out to swipe over your lips. You’d never been kissed before, and you found it heavenly with the way he placed his hands softly on your waist and pulled you closer as his tongue danced around yours.

You could’ve kept kissing him for hours, but he pulled back from you, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

You shook your head. “No, I liked it.” The warmth of a blush spread over your cheeks.

He reached out and touched your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

You expected to. Even more, you expected him to want to. You sort of wanted to. “I thought…”

He interrupted you with a clearing of his throat. Stepping back, he shifted on his feet, suddenly nervous. “Right, well…” He gestured toward the window. “Looks like a storm is coming. Need to take care of the horses.” With that, he turned on his heel and went outside.

The remainder of your day was spent tending to the house, wondering if you’d done something wrong or if you weren’t to his liking somehow. Had he found your kisses distasteful? Was your eagerness to kiss him again too forward? He remained out of the house, busying himself with outdoor tasks. When the sky dimmed and thunder rumbled among the mountains, he sat in the rocking chair on the porch, his worn and dusty boots propped up on the railing, and stared into the distance until night fell and the rain began to pour.

As you did every other night, you prepared dinner, this time making an extra effort by lighting more candles and setting the utensils like proper folks would. It was your wedding night, after all. When he came to sit down, he took note of your efforts but gave you only a brief tight smile. To your dismay, you ate dinner in silence, drinking too much of the wine you had poured for both of you. You didn’t even like wine, but it proved a warmer and more willing companion than your new husband.

“It’s very good.”

“Hmm?” You’d barely heard him, lost as you were in the way your head had begun to feel light on your shoulders.

“The food,” he said. “It’s very good.”

“Oh.” You looked up at him but looked away quickly. He was so handsome, dashing even. Whether it was the wine or the novelty of being his wife, you weren’t certain, but tonight, he was nothing short of beautiful. Something in the way the candlelight cast over the curve of his nose and the fullness of his bottom lip, highlighting the slight dip in the middle, made your heart race and your breath hitch. His skin, so brown compared to yours so fair, was lit golden.

His brow furrowed and a smile began to spread across his mouth. “You seem to be enjoying the wine more than the meal.” He winked when you looked up at him.

Your cheeks burned in embarrassment and you cast your eyes down at your lap. Now he likely thought you a drunkard and fool of a girl. Before you knew it, tears you couldn’t hold back fell to your skirts. You didn’t know how to be a wife. Why had you ended up with this life? You should’ve resigned yourself to the saloons in town. At least you would feel wanted there.

Silva rose from his chair and knelt next to yours. His hands, so much larger than your own, took hold of your own. He brushed his thumb over the thin band now adorning your finger, then tilted your chin up to look at him. You tried to avoid his eyes but he tilted his head until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Would you like to dance?” He brushed away an errant tear near your jaw with a calloused knuckle.

“There’s no music,” you sniffled.

“Of course there is. Listen.” He pointed up, where the rain was battering the roof and random rumbles of thunder accompanied flashes of lightning. “That’s music enough,” he said, smiling softly. “It’s our wedding night. We have to have our first dance, yes?” He seemed sincere but how could you really know?

“You’re teasing me.”

You stood from your chair to begin cleaning up, and he rose to his feet before you. Without saying a word, he led you to the middle of the room and pulled you into his arms. He guided your hand to his shoulder and held the other in his own. Goosebumps rose over your skin as his other hand came to your waist. He began leading you through a slow, swaying dance. Still embarrassed and feeling timid, you couldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead you studied the small tear in the seam of his plaid shirt, teasing it with your index finger and making a note to mend it for him later.

He, however, kept his eyes on you. He admired the way strands had escaped from your pinned-up hair just so, casting a glow about you when the candles’ flames chased away the shadows from your face. He had found you lovely from the moment he first saw you a year ago, hiding among sunflowers that only served to enhance your own fairness. In between then and now, your features had sharpened the way they often do as girls turn into women. Now he found you beautiful.

Although he was still young, he believed he knew what love felt like. He believed he loved Jake, though that love hadn’t yet been expressed and was still confusing to him. He didn’t yet love you, and he was positive that you didn’t love him, but he felt that with time, perhaps you could at least grow to care for one another. From the beginning, you managed to move and work around each other like a well-practiced couple. You mostly kept to yourself and kept a good home for him, as was promised. You provided everything a wife should, save for his baser needs. Those were easily satisfied by the women he met on his travels, the whores and barmaids in town. He was only sullying your good name by remaining in a home with you without being married.

He wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want, but you were going to have to consummate the marriage sooner rather than later. He would also be lying if he said that he didn’t want to be with you in that way, or that he didn’t want his lineage carried on through children. It was all he could do not to touch you beneath your nightdress on that unseasonably cold night that you requested he keep you warm in your bed. He was certain you could feel him become hard as you nestled your body against his. And when, once pressed against him, you arched your hips even closer, he thought maybe you also wanted to touch him.

Now, holding and moving with you gently to the music of the desert in a spring storm, the desire to know you as a husband knows his wife swelled within him. He had intended only to make you stop crying, as there was nothing more uncomfortable for him than a weeping woman. He didn’t realize that you would react in such a way to his gentle teasing about how much wine you had. Now you wouldn’t even look at him, although your fingers gripped tight to his shoulder and hand.

You seemed to warm to him with every sway and, clearing your throat, you asked quietly, “What does ‘hermosa’ mean?”

He found it endearing that you attempted in earnest to pronounce it the way he had. He asked you to repeat your question so he could hear it once again.

“‘Hermosa’. What does it mean? You called me that this afternoon.”

He moved his hand tentatively from your waist around to the middle of your back and guided you closer to him. “‘Beautiful’. It means ‘beautiful’.”

Your face tilted closer to his. “You think I’m beautiful?”

In place of an answer, he let go of your hand to tilt your face to his. Your eyes looked to his lips, full and slightly parted, and he took that as an invitation to press them to your own. He was gentle, his hands coming up to cradle your face and his kisses soft and easy. He pulled away, but you chased his mouth with your own, kissing him with more urgency. You put your arms around his neck to keep him close. You never wanted to stop kissing him, enjoying the way it made your stomach feel like you’d swallowed butterflies and your lower belly fill with warmth.

His hands went to your hair, pulling out the two pins that held it in a loose bun and letting it fall around your shoulders. His lips changed course, moving to a spot just under your jaw and eliciting a sigh of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, still feeling too shy to thread them into his soft, dark hair, but wanting to pull him nearer and nearer.

He, however, knew exactly what to do with his hands. As he distracted you by making his way down your neck to your shoulder with kisses, his hands traveled around to your ribs, thumbs teasing the undersides of your breasts. When you didn’t object, they traveled further up until they grazed and circled over your nipples through your dress.

The sensation was so new, creating a deeper want for him within you. You wanted his hands everywhere, all at once, and you struggled to find the words and the courage to tell him so. Instead, all you could muster was a soft sigh.

Mustering up every ounce of courage within you and emboldened by want, you reached behind you to unbutton the top of your apron and untie it, letting it drop to the floor. You reached out for the buttons of his shirt, but he took easy hold of your hands.

“We should go to the bed.” He took two of the candlesticks from the table and blew the others out. He started toward the bedroom and stopped, turning to face you. “Bring the wine,” he said with a smile. You would later be glad for the suggestion.

He poured you another glass and slowly took off your dress. You stood watching him in your camisole and pantaloons, still sipping from your glass as he removed his boots and shirt. He took the glass from you and finished what was left before setting it down on the little table beside the bed. He kissed you once more, and directed you to lay down. Removing his belt and trousers, he lay beside you in his drawers. You could feel him, solid and heavy against your hip but you didn’t dare look or touch yet. Your breaths caught in your throat as he reached over to untie the bow at the neckline of your camisole. The three buttons on it followed, and he splayed the fabric open. A chill coursed over you as his fingertips ghosted over your collarbone, your chest, and finally your breasts. He spiraled around your nipple before leaning down to take it into his mouth.

You took a deep, shuddering breath and arched up to him as if on instinct. He took your movements and quiet gasps as permission to proceed, treating your other nipple to the same attention while his hand grazed over the soft skin of your stomach. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, deciding to keep them occupied beside your body by taking hold of the quilt beneath you. He looked up at you before sliding his hand just beneath the waist of your pantaloons, leaving just his fingers beneath the white cloth with his thumb soothing back and forth over your skin. Assuming he was checking on your comfort level, you nodded to him and lifted up to kiss him.

His hand slid lower and teased at the hair there between your thighs before moving lower. The very tip of his middle finger ventured between the lips of your sex, parting them just so and grazing over some small part of you that made you inhale sharply, your hips jerking unintentionally.

“Shhh,” he quieted you with a smile. “It’s OK, just relax.” He placed his hand on your inner thigh and eased your legs apart further. You felt his whole hand cover you softly then, two fingers simply caressing up and down, applying more pressure as they made their way up.

You focused on the way his body warmed your right side, the feel of his breath drifting over your bare skin, and the delicate attention he was paying to your pleasure. Your lips parted and you felt your muscles tense ever so slightly with every pass of his touch. Soon, your hips rocked gently into his touch. He chose that moment to ease you open, parting you further and swiping his fingers through the wetness gathering there.

He kissed up your neck and flicked his tongue over your earlobe, earning him a shiver from you.

“Open your eyes. Look at me,” he instructed.

You obeyed, gazing into his warm brown irises, and he smiled. Caught up in realizing just how much you adored the dimple in his right cheek and just how beautiful you found him to be, you didn’t notice the increased pressure to his touch between your thighs until he steadily slid a finger inside you.

“Ohh…” was all you could manage as he moved it in and out of you. It was a foreign and different feeling, but with every slow slide in and out, you found you needed more, although of what you weren’t exactly sure.

“Please,” you requested, wanting whatever he believed you needed.

In response, he added a second finger, stretching you more than you had felt before. You had tried two of your own in the dark desert quiet of night once, but your fingers were much smaller than his. His own provided a fullness altogether intense and incredible.

He moved slowly, in and out, in and out, letting you adjust to the feeling. You were already so wet for him, so he bent his fingers just barely as he moved, trying to beckon your release forth. He knew it was unlikely you would be able to come your first time taking him, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to last within you, so he resolved to try to make you feel it at least once by his hand.

“Does that feel good?” he asked in a whisper, noting that your hips had begun to move in time with his hand.

It felt incredible. So incredible that you were at a loss for words, so you only nodded, eyes closed and lips parted. Soon, you felt his mouth on you again, tasting the skin between your breasts and moving lower and lower, over your stomach, beside your hip bone. He removed the rest of the clothing keeping you from him, instructing in a whisper that you also remove your camisole.

As you lay back down and opened your eyes to meet his gaze, he gave you a sly grin. He bent his head, nuzzling his nose against the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. Instinctual shyness and ingrained shame made you try to close your legs and make him stop what he was about to do.

“No… wait… you don’t have to…” You didn’t really want him to stop but you thought this was how you were supposed to act. You weren’t supposed to have the same want for him that he had for you. You’d been taught it wasn’t proper.

He looked up, concerned. His hands soothed up and down your bare thighs gently, but stayed where he had moved to kneel between them, keeping them spread. “Does it not feel good?”

Pausing, you took a deep breath and told him the truth. “It… it does. It feels very good. I just…” You weren’t sure how to explain how you felt.

He took your left hand in his, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a wife now. My wife. You’re allowed to have this. If you want it, of course.”

“I do.”

“Then let me make you feel good. It will… help. For later.” He gently pushed your legs apart, exposing you fully to him. He seemed to study you there for a moment, then lowered his head once again and placed a kiss between your thighs.

Your sharp intake of breath accompanied the rushing warmth coursing down your body. He tasted you, his tongue smoothing over you, dipping inside you, his lips sucking and kissing at one little spot that made your toes curl. Your hands gripped the blanket beneath you when he grasped one of them and placed it in his hair, silent permission to guide him and direct him back to areas that felt best.

You chose to keep your eyes closed and focus on how he was making you feel. He kept up a rhythm, triggering your hips to rock against him, and you felt him slide his fingers back into you. Everything felt so right, so complete that you wondered how you’d be able to carry on without him filling you in some way. His fingers moving in time with his tongue was all so much. You felt something building, sensations piling up and muscles gathering tight until, all at once, they released inside you.

It was unlike anything you’d felt before. A climb to a precipice then a dive, the feeling of falling, a blood rush to the very center of you. Your hand had tightened involuntarily in his hair, and he groaned into you, sending little shivers and pulses through you when you thought it was ending.

He eased your hand away from his hair, looking up with a smile. “You’ll scalp me if you’re not careful, querida,” he chuckled.

You barely heard a word he said. Placing your hands to his face, you urged him up to you and kissed him. He tasted of you, of wine, and something distinctly him. All you knew in that moment was that you wanted him. You wanted him so badly. Unsure of how to articulate it properly, you resorted to pushing at his remaining clothing, wanting to feel all of him against all of you.

Once you were skin-to-skin, he took your hand and placed it on his length, wrapping his hand around yours. He guided your hand up and down, and a moan escaped his parted lips. His eyes closed briefly as he tightened his hand around yours. You marveled at how velvety his skin was while also so solid. When a bead of liquid gathered at the tip, you instinctively swiped your thumb over it.

He turned your head to the side and pressed his lips to the spot just below your ear. “Are you ready for me?” he asked.

You nodded, not completely sure what he meant. “Yes.”

He reached down and lifted your knee up high on his side. You moved your other the same way. Soon, you felt him, solid against your soft, sliding up and down, and then inside.

You soon felt a pinch and gasped, whining quietly as he pushed forward slowly.

“Shhh,” he soothed, but didn’t stop. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he continued and the discomfort intensified. “It’s OK,” he said. “Just a bit more… just take it.”

Take it you did, resisting the urge to push him away from you and holding your breath to keep tears at bay. Soon, he was fully seated within you, and he held still though his breathing was ragged. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, and bent to kiss you. As he did, he started to move, and what had been painful and sharp became pleasurable. It felt right, like no one else would ever be able to give you what he could. Now that you were married, it was unlikely anyone else ever would.

His hand came to the back of your upper thigh to hoist your hips higher as he drove into you faster and deeper. In turn, you smoothed your hands down his back, enjoying how his muscles moved beneath your palms as he took you.

He cursed in Spanish under his breath and his rhythm stuttered before he withdrew and finished on your lower belly. He held himself over you to catch his breath, kissed your forehead, then got up and left the bedroom. Curious, you dipped a finger in what he’d left behind on your skin and brought it to your lips. Your nose wrinkled at the taste, salty, musky and somewhat bitter. He returned just as you pulled your finger from your mouth, and gave you a strange look but said nothing.

He’d retrieved a small bowl of water and a washrag. You watched as he cleaned himself off, noting the light pink tinge to the water when he wrung the cloth out. He wiped his spend from your belly, then moved to swipe gently between your legs. You placed your hand over his to take over.

“Let me,” you said. His eyes flicked up at you, but he let go, nodding once. When you finished, he took the cloth from you, blew out the candles, and lay back down next to you. He fit his body against yours, and you turned onto your side to face him, wincing at the slight ache between your thighs.

“How do you feel?” He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead.

You shrugged. “I’m alright, I suppose. Sore. Tired.” Your limbs felt heavy, your body exhausted. At the same time, your feelings were confusing to you. Everything was so new to you, being with him this way was so new, that you were unsure as to how you should act and what you should feel. You wanted to cry, laugh, wrap yourself around him and never let go, let him have you in every way possible.

“It’ll get better each time,” he said with a smile. “C’mere.” He pulled you into his arms. Too tired to think too much about it, you slid your bare leg over his and snuggled yourself against him.

Silva stared up at the ceiling, listening to the rain batter the tin roof. He felt your body relax further into his own after a while and heard your breathing deepen as you fell asleep. He looked down to your left hand resting over his heart, at the wedding band now present. A brief wave of panic jolted through him when he considered what he’d done, and then how he would explain it to Jake. Would he need to explain it? He hadn’t even really made his feelings for Jake known yet. There had been glances, insinuations, hints given, but that was all. The part of him that told him that’s all there should be reminded him that he was now married and that he needed to abandon any fantasy of a life with Jake. It could never and would never happen.

Still, as his eyes began to close and sleep started to overtake his body, there was only one person on his mind, and it wasn’t you.

~~~

American Old West terms & slang

soiled doves - prostitutes

biddable - docile, obedient

a real piece of calico - a girl or woman, usually an attractive one

bed-house - brothel

barrel boarder - a bum, no-good

apron - not a traditional apron; a sleeveless layer that usually buttoned at the neck and either tied or buttoned at the back of the waist & was worn over a woman’s day dress

camisole and pantaloons - women’s underwear/undergarments

drawers - men’s underwear

Truth!

I can’t fix him but I could fuck him.

Oh my word! 😭 I knew this was gonna be an angsty emotional ride but did not expect for it to be THAT much of one! Poor Joel, I wanna wrap him up in the softest blanket I own and tell him everything will be alright ❤️

The Rite of Movement | part five

“something I’m not, but something I can be”

A/N: big disclaimer for this chapter: I do not know if this is actually how the porn industry functions. And while Brazzers is a real porn site, I don’t have any knowledge of how they run things on their site. For the sake of fiction, and the storyline, I wrote Joel’s era in Brazzers as a very very toxic work environment. Please heed the warnings. This takes place pre-miller-co. Joel and baby love have not met yet. Joel does however have a girlfriend during his time at Brazzers. Oh, and I listened to what was I made for on repeat while I wrote this 🥺 thank you to @itsokbbygrl for betaing and being my little cheerleader through this series 💗 and thank you to all my other friends for your endless support on my silly lil stories! (Y’all know who you are and how much I love you!)

~word count: 3.1k~

Summary: it’s Joel Miller’s 30th birthday. 30 years of existing, 12 years working for Brazzers, and what does he really have to show for his life outside of being a pornstar?

Pairing | pornstar!joel x pornstar!female reader

Warnings: angst, implied smut, toxic work environment, implied workplace abuse, mentions of the porn industry, misogynistic comments/behavior towards women in the porn industry (not by Joel), feelings of body insecurity, shame, mentions of smoking, grief, resentment, language, mature themes, +18 minors dni!

series masterlist

Los Angeles, CA. September 26, 2009

An alarm clock blares on Joel’s nightstand, the shrill sound pierces his eardrums, sending his arm flying out from under the covers, smacking the top of the device, silencing it with a heavy groan rumbling up his chest.

6:00 a.m. the sun has barely just begun to peek over the mountains, the bustle of LA traffic, late-night goers returning home, early-morning risers preparing for another droning day.

The big 30: The age where you were expected to have your shit together. No more making foolish mistakes, no more job hopping, you should be married with kids and have a house with a white picket fence and drive a minivan. You should be invested in the stock market, your lawn should be properly trimmed, maybe you even make enough money to own a vacation home.

Joel hadn’t a fucking clue what he wanted out of life. He wasn’t married. He didn’t have any kids. He lived in an apartment with his brother Tommy, splitting the rent between their paychecks. LA never felt like home to him. He liked the palm trees and the beach. He hated LA traffic, smog, and that stupid Hollywood sign that alluded to a lifestyle that only the ‘chosen’ members of high society would get to indulge in.

City of Angels? Not even close.

30 years old, and feeling like he had nothing to show for his life outside of being a pornstar. A branding identity that shamed him more times than he was willing to admit. Is this all I’m good for?

Brazzers was the bane of his existence for 12 years, and yet every time he would try and put his foot down and quit, he was lured right back in. He loved sex just like anyone else. He loved the intimacy, the closeness, the connection to another human being. Above all, he loved making his partners feel good. To make them come, fall apart on his tongue, fingers, or his cock. To hear their pleasured cries, high-pitched real moans of his name.

It was euphoric for him, to make another person feel so good that they completely lose themselves in the moment, in the feeling of the rite of movement. He used to think that this was enough, that the act of sex and unbridled pleasure was all viewers would want to see. He thought he was enough.

But in the adult film industry, sex was never just enough.

He didn’t like being told how he should fuck.

Yank her hair harder.

Slap her around a little.

Squeeze her cheeks till she cries.

Choke her.

I want to see bruises on her ass, Joel.

Fuck her like you mean it, like you hate her. Like she’s your bitch. Your property.

Are we making a porno here or what? Don’t wipe her tears. That’s not what men want. They want to see a cunt being pounded. C’mon, Joel. This is supposed to be a male fantasy!

He learned how to dissociate and remove himself from the scene entirely. He worked on autopilot, tuning out the jarring voices that demanded more from him and his partner(s). And when the passion faded, he struggled to stay hard and on top of his game.

And even with the warm, wet mouth of a fluffer sucking his soft cock, he wasn’t turned on. Not in the slightest and he could feel the shame creeping up on his neck as the director barked at him to get his shit together.

“What do you mean you’re not able to get hard, Miller? You got a hot piece of ass under you, man! What the hell else do you want? Y’know, would it really hurt for you to be more like your brother?”

“She’s got a name, you know.” Joel bit back, grinding his jaw back and forth. The blatant disrespect that women faced on a day to day basis was downright disgusting.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. You make pornos, Joel! Or did you forget? Stop acting like a fucking sissy and do your goddamn job.”

“I need a minute,” he gruffed out and gently pushed the fluffer's mouth off of his cock. He strode past the director and the rest of the set crew and pulled his boxers on in a haste.

“Fine. You get 10 minutes, Miller. And when you get back, I expect you to be fucking ready, and hard.”

Joel didn’t respond as he shucked on his shorts and threw on his hoodie, grabbing his phone and pack of cigarettes to stuff in his pocket. He averted making eye contact with the director, shoulder checking him on his way out of the room.

10 minutes, Miller!

Fuck you is what Joel really wanted to say as he walked at a fast past towards the nearest exit in the long hallway.

-

The sun was blinding the moment he stepped outside into the back alley. He whipped his phone out, nervously pacing back and forth as he dialed Tommy’s number, listening to the dial tone ring and ring.

“Hey, you old fart! Feelin’ 30 yet?” Tommy said playfully.

“Yeah. I’m feelin’ 30 alright.” Joel grumbled, sinking back against the side of the building.

“What’s up? I know how much you hate your birthday, but why do you sound so—”

“I’m fuckin’ quitting, Tommy. I can’t do this shit anymore. I can’t fuckin’ do it. I’m about five seconds away from stormin’ back in there and beatin’ the living shit out of the director.” He snapped, carding his fingers through his hair, gripping the roots tightly. “I’m throwin’ the towel in, and I ain’t lookin’ back.”

“Woah, woah, woah! Hold on now, what the fuck happened? Are you sure you just want to—”

“Tommy.” Joel warned him, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t start this with me, okay? I need to know if you’re with me on this because I sure as hell ain’t leavin’ you out here on your own.”

“I ain’t a kid anymore, Joel. If you want to quit for your own reasons, that’s fine, and I support you, but that doesn’t mean that—” he sighed deeply, weighing out his words in his head before he said, “of course I’m with you on this.”

“I’m not gonna force you to quit, Tommy. I jus’ don’t think this cesspool is fuckin’ good for either of us. Talked to a few others that were thinkin’ of quitting, but no one has pulled the trigger yet. We can do some amateur work till we find our footing again, and I want to move back home, Tommy. I want to move back to Texas. I fuckin’ hate this state. Everythin’ is too damn expensive.”

“I’ll follow you wherever you go, Joel. You know I will. But what about…Carmen and Sarah? You jus’ gonna pack your shit up and not tell her?”

Joel felt his heart twist and clench, knocking the air from his lungs because for the first time in his 30 years of life, his heart was going to be broken, and there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable from happening.

“She’s never gonna accept me for who I am and my job, Tommy. She resents it, I know she does. And Sarah will eventually resent me too. She’ll grow up and feel ashamed that her stepfather is a fuckin’ pornstar. They both deserve better than what I can offer them. It’s not like I can just start over and get a respectable job! What established company is gonna hire a guy who’s CV consists of a highschool diploma, a year of working construction jobs and 12 years in the adult film industry?”

Tommy felt his heart break for his brother, splitting right down the middle. “Joel…” he trailed off.

“Her friends treat me differently, and everytime I’ve brought up the potential of meeting her family, she changes the subject on me, Tommy. And you know what? I don’t blame her. Who the fuck would want to introduce their pornstar boyfriend to anyone, let alone her family? I jus’ figured I’d cut her losses sooner rather than later. And even if things were to work out, and I get a new job, a new life, am I just supposed to accept the knowledge of knowin’ that the entire time we have been together, she’s resented my job? Some things just aren’t meant to work out, and that’s fine. I’ll let her go and she’ll meet a nice, normal, man with a good stable job who doesn’t fuck for a living.”

Joel Miller. Paging, Joel. You’re needed on set. Hurry the fuck up—

“Fuckers.” Joel muttered under his breath as he rose to his feet. “I gotta go, okay? I’ll text you in a bit.”

“Wait, Joel,” Tommy started, trying to think of what he could possibly say to his brother that would make the situation better. “Everythin’ is gonna be okay. It’ll all work out in the end.”

“Yeah, sure.” He replied flatly. “I’ll see you.” he ended the call, shoving his phone back into his hoodie pocket and pushed open the exit door just as his name was called over the intercom again.

This time he was going to put his foot down for good. He wasn’t going to be lured back in. He was done. His mind was made up and there would be no turning back.

-

“Fucking finally. I said 10 minutes, Miller. You’re lucky I even gave you that.” The director scoffed and snapped his fingers at the fluffer to do her job.

Joel stopped her with a gentle hand along her shoulder before he made direct eye contact with the director. “That won’t be necessary.”

“What the fuck do you mean that won’t be necessary? We were supposed to be wrapped up with this shit already. I have a freshie to introduce to you afterwards, so if we can just get a move on—”

“I said, that won’t be necessary.” Joel calmly reiterated as he grabbed his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder.

“Boy, you better fucking start talking. What do you mean that won’t be necessary?!”

“It means that I quit. And I hope that freshie and every other woman here fuckin’ quits while they still have the chance.”

The atmosphere in the brightly lit room immediately shifted and the tension was palpable. Joel’s onscreen partner was shocked, the fluffer was shocked along with the rest of the film crew.

“You have gotta fucking joking me right now.” The director laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You got some fucking nerve, Miller.”

Joel shrugged, glancing around the room before he turned towards the door, grasping the handle in his palm and pushed it open. He paused, looking over his shoulder, giving his onscreen partner a small, reassuring nod, “oh, and just a little word of advice? If you want sex to sell, and for Brazzers to not tank like the fuckin’ stock market, start by treatin’ women in the industry with respect. Jus’ a little food for thought. Pass that onto the CEO, and then tell him to shove it right up his ass.”

He walked out after that, listening to the director holler his name and something along the lines of, you’ll be back. They always fucking come back!

And on his way out, his shoulder gently made contact with another body rushing up the stairwell. “‘S’cuse me.” He rasped.

You didn’t get a look at the stranger's face on your way up. You were too focused on the fact that you were running late, and couldn’t afford to be potentially fired.

He didn’t get a look at your face either.

-

Joel opted to be alone for the rest of the day, sitting on the hood of his car, smoking through an entire pack of cigarettes while he watched the clouds roll by, and tourists stop to take pictures of the infamous Hollywood sign. He thought about his life up until this point.

30 years on this shithole we call earth. 12 years spent in the adult film industry, and never had he felt so lost and alone. Hours away from ending his first ever long term relationship and leaving the past behind.

Fuck 30. He thought to himself.

The inevitable settled into his bones as the sun slowly began to set behind the mountains, creating stunning hues of pink, oranges and purples in the sky. His phone buzzed on the exterior of the hood of his car, tearing him away from his thoughts when Carmen’s name popped up on the screen.

Hey, birthday boy. Are we still on for Thai food tonight? x.

Hey, baby. Yeah, of course. Can’t wait to see you.

5 missed calls from Tommy

10 messages from Tommy.

What happened to fucking calling me later, Joel?!

Why is your phone going straight to voicemail!

Can you just let me know that you’re okay?!

Joel.

Dude.

Pick up your phone!

And you call me the bad texter?!

This isn’t funny.

I didn’t sign up for the silent treatment!

If you’re dead in a ditch somewhere I’m gonna fucking kill you!!

He typed out a quick message to his brother informing him that he was in fact still alive and that he would be home soon.

What he wasn’t expecting was Carmen and Tommy to host a surprise birthday dinner at his apartment. He wasn’t mad at his brother for not giving him a heads up, and it wasn’t like Tommy could tell Carmen a simple, hey, by the way, my brother is going to break up with you and he wants to move back to Texas!

But all Joel could feel now when she pressed her lips to his in a sweet kiss, and planted a silly little party hat on his head, was guilt. An overwhelming tidal wave of guilt and shame for what he was going to do. And throughout the evening his guilt began to fester like an untreated wound. Bubbling pus leaked from his heartstrings like a broken faucet when he opened his unexpected present from Carmen.

It was a pocket wrist watch with an olive green strap that fit his wrist perfectly.

“You’re always misplacing your phone, so I figured that this would help you tell the time better? I know it isn’t much—”

He interjected softly, looking over at her with a small smile tugging on his lips, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” I’m so sorry.

And when Tommy stepped outside for a smoke and to give Joel and Carmen a bit of privacy, the energy shifted and Joel could feel the thread between them being pulled tight, threatening to snap at any given moment.

“Joel, is everything okay? You’ve hardly said a word to me tonight.”

And instead of responding, he got up from the couch in a haste, trying to keep his nerves at bay, but truthfully? He was panicking and it was written all over his face. “I’m fine, Carm. I jus’—I need some air.” He walked the short distance to the little balcony, pulling the door open as he stepped outside into the cooling night air.

Lights shimmered in the distance, palm trees swayed from a breeze off the coast. 30 years old and he felt like the biggest fucking asshole on the planet. Can I fix this? Can I make it work?

He stared down at the watch on his wrist, the tiny spokes ticking away as he rested his forearms along the paint chipped railing, listening to the soft squeak of the sliding door being pulled open as the blood rushed in his ears.

He tapped his foot nervously, jaw ticking under the fading light at the realization that there was no turning back.

“Do you love me?” He suddenly spoke, teeth grinding down on the inside of his cheek, the taste of copper bursting on his tongue. A reminder come morning when he would awake to the same soreness in his mouth that he feels in his heart.

“Joel…” she trailed off, standing alongside him, rubbing her arm as a self-soothing gesture.

“Do you love me…unconditionally?” His question hung heavy in the air, and when she didn’t immediately answer, tears began to prick the corner of his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision.

“Baby, please…why are—”

“Please don’t call me that right now, Carmen. Please.” he sniffled, staring back out over the railing at the shimmering mirage of Los Angeles. “If you did love me unconditionally, you would have answered me right away. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. I jus’—I know you resent me for being a pornstar. I’ve known about it for a while,” he said softly, feeling a tear rolling down along the side of his nose and drip down over his lips. His dewy eyed gaze met hers briefly, before he looked away. “And I also know that you would never ask me to quit, but you and I both know that’s what you want from me.”

There was no point in trying to deny it any longer. There was no bad blood, no bitterness. Just two adults facing the reality that is life. And sometimes…relationships don’t work out. The passion fades and resentment rears its ugly head.

“And no matter how many times I have tried to earnestly explain to you why I chose this career path, you will never understand. And I would never try to force you to. But it’s not fair to you, myself, or Sarah to continue this relationship when you will never accept me for who I am, Carmen.”

“You’re right, Joel.” She said quietly, her own tears beginning to brew along her waterline. “I’m so sorry.”

He swallowed the lump growing in his throat and the sob threatening to leave his lips, “I am too.”

There isn’t much left to say as they hug for the last time. She wishes him well in life and he does the same. There’s a new ache in his chest at the thought of him no longer being involved in Sarah’s life anymore. But he believes she’ll be better off without him, too.

And when she leaves his apartment for the last time, taking almost 3 years of memories along with her as the front door clicks shut, and her echoing footsteps down the hall become softer and softer, he lets out the sob he had been suppressing, sinking down to his knees in defeat.

Tears stream down his cheeks as a car horn blares below on the street.

Fuck you, asshole! Get out of the road! The owner of a sleek BMW yells with the window rolled down to a teenager crossing the street on his bike.

30 years old and heartbroken. So much for having his shit together.

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Oh my word! This was absolutely beautiful! I’m craving more of them 😩

salted wound (din djarin x f!reader)

summary: the mandalorian places his trust in you, and you both reap the rewards.

notes: this is my first time writing for din/the mandalorian, and whilst i always welcome constructive criticism, please be kind. fic name comes from the sia track i listened to whilst writing this 🫶🏻

warnings: typical bounty hunter violence, canon divergence (sorry grogu ily), sensory deprivation (?), so much kissing, fluff, cursing, smutty thoughts & happenings, din is taller than reader & can lift her. 18+, mdni.

this is for the wonderful @hellishjoel who requested this & gave me the confidence to write for this man ✨ tysm to my beautiful beta and light of my life @frannyzooey, and my cheerleaders @macfrog @swiftispunk @joelscruff 🫶🏻

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want this.”

“Din.. You know I-”

“Tell. Me.”

“Maker,” you breathe. “Yes, Din - fuck. I want this.”

A beat of silence, broken by the slow, steady thrumming of the Razor Crest’s flight instruments. Din’s breathing, modulated and heavy, digesting your response. Calculated and careful, as he always is. Tone insistent, face concealed by beskar.

You can’t quite believe this is happening.

You’re no stranger to disbelief by now, though. The mysterious Mandalorian has shown you vast galaxies bursting with bright starlight, planets thick with lush greenery and barren sands. He’s broadened your horizons more than you’d ever dreamed of, taken you on adventures nobody back home would ever believe.

The Mandalorian never asked anything of you in return, and you basked in the glow of his quiet companionship. You’d grown accustomed to his deep, rasping voice, the way his head would tilt beneath the helmet when his interest was piqued by something you said. One night as the starship soared through hyperspace, silver light bouncing off the observation shield, he’d wrapped his name in a whisper and gifted it to you.

Din Djarin.

There was no denying the way you felt about him after that revelation. You’d tried to bury it somewhere deep at first, choke it to death with the knowledge that those feelings would - could - never be reciprocated.

But, something was brewing below the surface: the close proximity the two of you shared, the budding, nervous flowers of a friendship. The way you’ve caught his hidden gaze lingering when you leave the fresher each time, skin bare and dripping. Din’s huge, gloved hand on your lower back as he guided you through the markets, the chuckles you elicit from him with your childlike wonder at every new species you met.

You dare yourself to dream. What it would be like to be by his side forever? This cold, stoic man; this bloodthirsty bounty hunter. You’re slowly cracking Din’s emotional armour as the days begin to pass in a blur. You hear that slow laugh rumble through his chest when you coax stories of his life from him in the depths of hyperspace, feel his protective gaze tracking you when you’re just out of his reach.

He’s funny, sarcastic in nature, fiercely proud of his heritage. Maker, you want him: those broad shoulders beneath the pauldrons, thick thighs and strong chest encased in beskar. You think of Din every night as you sleep metres apart, wondering how long you can stand your torturous, permanent state of desire for him.

You’ve never felt closer to Din. And yet, you’ve never even seen his face.

You’re stood in the hull of the ship together, now, your hand laid flat on his vambrace, anchoring him to you. Something had gone wrong today: he’d returned to the Razor Crest with no bounty, no murderous or thieving criminal whimpering at his feet. Din was wound tightly, frustration radiating off of him in waves that crashed over you in a torrent as soon as he boarded the ship.

You don’t ask what’s happened; you don’t care to know the story. You just want to help him. You want to relieve the pressure, give yourself to him, know him in the way you’re so desperate to. You fear his cold rejection - perhaps he’d turf you out on a backwater planet with no way home. You think you know, though, in your heart: he won’t.

“Please, Din.”

“I don’t think-” he starts, but you shake your head. His thick, gloved fingers grip your wrist; his touch is so delicate in a way that surprises you, warm blood pooling in your belly. “Let me help you,” you tell him, voice laced with desire. You tilt your head in search of a sign - anything, any flicker of indication - from beneath his darkened visor.

“Yeah?” he rasps, finally. “You want that?”

You nod, eagerly. So eagerly.

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want this.”

“Din.. You know I-”

“Tell. Me.”

“Maker,” you breathe. “Yes, Din - fuck. I want this.”

“Okay.”

You feel your eyes widening, his acceptance triggering a fresh course of need through your body. There are no nerves to be found, which surprises and excites you in equal measure. You’ve wanted him for so long, and judging by the way his helmet dips as he sizes you up, he feels the same.

“One rule,” he tells you, and your breath hitches as Din towers over you. You look up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. His hands come to frame your face, thumbs skirting below your brow bone, and you understand. You close your eyes, instantly shrouded in darkness, and make your promise to him.

“I won’t look, Din. I swear,” you tremble, and you hear him exhale, long and heavy. His hands leave you, and you wonder, for a fleeting moment, if you’ve made a mistake. Suddenly, the clang of beskar on the ship floor makes you jolt, and you fight the intense impulse to open your eyes.

You don’t.

Din takes your hands in his, and you feel him for the first time. His bare skin: the rough callouses of his palms, soft fingertips. “Maker..” Din breathes, and your knees all but buckle. His voice. Fuck. Clearer than you’ve ever heard it, free from the modulator. It’s so rich, so deep. You bite into your bottom lip to stop yourself whimpering.

He brings your hands upwards, and you collide gently with his face. You’re trembling as he places one either side, a mirror image of what he’d done to you. You feel his jaw in your palms; coarse hair along the sharp edges. You try to steady your breathing, harness your excitement. You worry of doing too much.

The weight of the trust placed upon your shoulders is not wasted on you. You so desperately want to gaze upon this man, drink him in for real. Your thirst is unquenchable, insides set ablaze the moment he touched you.

You get bolder, tracing your thumb over his soft lips. Din groans a little; you feel hot breath fan over your skin. Your fingers seek out his nose, running your digits over the beautiful curve. You slide them into his hair, thick and dripping over onto his forehead. “You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, without even thinking, and he laughs quietly.

You feel Din step away from you and divest himself of more armour. Softer sounds, too, like his tunic falling to the floor. You picture it: pulling that dark shirt over his head, shoulders bare, skin warm to the touch. He grasps your hand again: you’re not expecting it, so you jolt a little. “It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and sure.

Din places it on his sternum: you feel his heartbeat beneath your touch. Rapid, just like yours. It gives you satisfaction to know you’re unravelling him, too; empowering you once again to explore. Hair decorates his pectoral muscles, strong as durasteel. You glide over the planes of collarbones and along to his upper arms, digging your nails into his biceps, delighting in his sharp intake of breath.

“Can I touch you, cyar’ika?” he asks, sounding almost pained. “Please,” you whisper, fumbling blindly for the belt around your own tunic. Din steadies you, halting your movements. “Hold still for me,” he murmurs, pleasure dripping down your spine at the request, and you relent.

You feel him, then, press a kiss to your forehead. He moves to the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks, tilting your head back to expose your throat to him. Din is everywhere: you feel the trail of him all over your skin, wet and messy as he leaves kisses on every part of you he can reach.

You’ve given up trying to control your reactions. You’re openly groaning at his ministrations, your remaining senses overloaded. You feel his teeth nipping at your earlobes; you gasp as he takes your fingertips into his mouth and sucks. “Stars,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

You wonder, for a moment, how you must appear to him. Needy, panting, wanton. You’ve buried your true emotions for so long, admiring him from afar. You think you’ll wake up soon. It has to be dream - your wildest thoughts woven into a tapestry of his soft touches. You know what those hands have done: he handles you just as expertly as a blaster, shooting to kill.

He guides you again, and you come into contact with his deliciously soft belly; your nails scraping his skin, Din hissing through his teeth in your ear. You smile, then, slipping a finger into the waistband of his trousers. The hair grows thicker against your knuckles, and you find yourself daring to go lower, lower, until -

He’s kissing you. Properly.

It’s a clash of tongues, bitten lips, wandering hands, desperate noises. Your own tunic discarded, lids still squeezed shut. You taste him, sweet and heady, as Din fights for dominance, claiming your mouth as his own. He lifts you into his arms and you squeal, unprepared, but wrap your legs round his waist and hold him close.

Din backs you into the wall beside the fresher, hungrier for you with each passing moment. He growls, a noise low in the depths of his chest, huge hands gripping your ass like they belong there. You seek the hair at the nape of his neck, aim for the curve of his jaw, mouthing at his skin.

“I‘ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, and you slow your movements, bumping your nose gently against his. “You have no idea,” you confess shyly, fumbling to press your lips to his once more. You feel him grinning back at you; like it’s a secret only the two of you will ever share.

“Mesh’la,” Din whispers, his voice soft yet so commanding. “Open your eyes.”

🫠🫠🫠

neck + chest appreciation post ✨️