Im Glad You Liked It!

I’m glad you liked it! 🥰

When It Rains

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, go on get! PWP, mostly porn but some plot, unprotected PIV(Don't do this IRL, be safe, make smart choices), kissing, fingering(f receiving), cream pie, flirting.

I'm trying to practice smut more, be kind. This is for @undercoverpena's April Showers prompt!

Thank you so much to @notjustjavierpena for helping me with the moodboard and the grammar stuff, @strang3lov3 for editing and leaving encouraging comments, and @beefrobeefcal for also betaing! Don't know what I would do without you lovely people! ❤️

@jay-zzle is my Spanish expert and dear friend who has helped me with a lot of my translations. Plus she's also one of the main reasons I'm trying to learn Spanish 🥰

divider by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

You’ve been assigned the stakeout with Javier Peña at a nightclub, where it’s been rumored that some of Escobar’s sicarios frequent regularly. It’s not a problem per se, but it could just be a tad distracting considering the circumstances. No one, not even Murphy, has seemed to catch wind of what has been going on between the two of you; the late-night meet-ups, the storage closet, the file room, hell - there was even one time late at night in the office the three of you share. You’re professional though, work always comes before play. That’s been the rule since the beginning. 

“Looks like it’s gonna rain,” Javi comments, pushing his head to the car’s window, and looking up, “We could definitely use it.”

You hum in agreement, watching the nightclub like a hawk. As you listen to the pulsing music radiating from the club, watching people file in and out of the building, none seem to be any of Escobar’s crew just yet. The night seems to be growing darker as the clouds glide across the sky, covering the bright moon's light. Soon enough, small drops of rain begin to fall, turning into fat drops within minutes, downpour to follow.

“Fuck,” you hiss, gripping the steering wheel and peering out the dash window, “Of course.”

“Nothing wrong with some rain,” Javi smirks, looking at you.

“Except for the fact we can’t see shit!”

“Maybe we could do something else with our time?” Javi suggests, laying his arm against the back of the bench seat and scooting his hips forward to get more comfortable. His hand creeps onto your shoulder, rubbing small circles against the bare skin there, skimming past the hem of your tank top.

“Javi,” you scold, shrugging your shoulders to get your point across,  “No, we’re working.”

“Can’t see shit in this rain,” Javi grumbles, crossing his arms across his chest, “Least we could have some fun.”

“Maybe it’ll die down,” you suggest, looking at him. He matches your stare with those pleading eyes of his. Those dark eyes, the way they make you want to melt every single time they land on you.

It’s been 20 minutes and the downpour hasn’t relented. After seeing how you wouldn’t be doing something else with your time like he suggested, Javi’s beginning to become restless.  

“When it rains it pours, hermosa,” Javi says, grinning at you. Your pulse jumps at that word. Hermosa. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That’s how it always starts.

“Javi,” you warn, reminding him again, “We are working. You know the rules, work then play.”

He moves closer to you, leaning over to whisper in your ear, “We’ve played at work before, cariño.” Goosebumps pebble across your skin. You hope he can’t see them with how dark it is. You crane your head away from him and grab the binoculars from the dash, choosing to ignore the burning desire between your thighs. You just need to focus on work. You feel Javi lean back in the seat, his eyes boring into the side of your head. You put the binoculars against your face, grunting in annoyance when you still can’t see anything.

“Bebé,” Javier says, grabbing the binoculars from your grip, “Let’s call it night, hmm?”

He throws them into the back seat with a smirk, leaning closer to you, grabbing the back of your neck, and gently urging you toward him. His index finger sweeps against your cheek, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. He smiles warmly at you before dipping his head to meet your lips. Your hands rest against his chest, fingers fiddling with the open V of his button-up. 

You moan against his mouth when he licks your bottom lip, allowing him access to slip his tongue inside. Your tongues caressing each other, your hands move to the nape of his neck. Your lips make their way to his jaw and down his neck, your teeth lightly scrape his pulse point.

“Mira que duro me pones(look how hard you make me),” Javi says, pulling you onto his lap, grinding against your center to let you feel his growing bulge. “Te deseo(want you),” he growls.

You let out a faint gasp. Javi has a firm grip on your thighs to keep you against him, one hand finding its way to your center, palm pressing firmly against your clit through the denim of your jeans. You moan against his throat at the sensation.

“Javi,” you whimper as he flicks the button of your jeans open and begins to tug on them impatiently. “Fuck, Javi. I gotta get my damn shoes off first.”

He grabs your jeans, helping you out of them after knocking your shoes off. Javi brings his hand back to your center, rubbing precise circles against your clothed clit, moving down to pull your panties aside. Javi hums, capturing your lips again, tongue tangling with yours, enjoying feeling the slick against your slit.

“So wet,” he says, teasing two thick digits against your entrance. You hum with a nod of your head, crying out when he pushes them into your wet heat.

“Javi,” you moan, putting your head into the crook of his neck, rolling your hips in time with his fingers. “Fuck.” Beginning to feel the coil in your belly tightening.

“¿Así, bebé?(just like that, baby?)” He asks, moving his thumb to massage small quick circles on your clit. You whimper his name when he curves his fingers just right, hitting that spot he knows you love. His mouth leaving open mouth kisses along your neck, reaching your pulse point he begins to suck lightly. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening more, your walls beginning to flutter against his fingers every time he hits that spot with the pads of his fingers.

“Eres mía(you’re mine),” Javi whispers against your neck.

“So close,” You whine, moving your hips faster, his fingers sinking in deeper with each roll of your hips. He moves his head from your neck to look at you, gripping the back of his neck, crashing your mouth into his. Javi moans, beginning to feel your walls clamp around his fingers. The coil in your belly snaps, shooting white-hot lightning through your entire body. Your hand pulls onto the hair at the nape of his neck, causing Javi to let out a guttural groan, pulling you back down from your high.

“Fuck me,” you sigh against his lips.

“That’s the plan, cariño(honey),” Javi smirks, kissing you again, scooting to lay his back against the seat.

Your hands slide down his chest, popping open the buttons of his shirt. You smirk, leaning into his collarbone and placing soft kisses before biting down gently.

“Fuck, bebé(baby),” Javi says sucking in a breath, moving his hands between your bodies to fumble with his belt, “Te necesito(need you)”

You lift up, swatting his hand away to work his belt and jeans open. He lifts his hips and helps you lower his jeans, his stiff member slapping against his stomach.

“Javier Peña,” you tsk, shaking your head at him, “Commando? Did you miss laundry day?”

“Knew about this assignment for weeks now. Asked to be paired up with you,” Javi smiles, wiggling his eyebrows. “Figured this would happen.”

“Oh, fuck off!” You laugh, playfully smacking his chest.

“Awe, come on now, chica sucía(dirty girl)” Javi says, placing your hands on his chest, “You know it’s—“

You grind against his cock, hands pressing firmly against his chest and he lets out a groan.

“That’s one way to get you to shut up,” you grin, slowly grinding your wetness along his shaft, the tip catching your bundle of nerves with every roll of your hips. Javi shifts up grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you to his lips in a hungry kiss. He moves his hand down to line his cock up to your entrance and you slowly sink down on it, taking it inch by inch. You're no stranger to Javi’s cock but each time feels like the first with how thick he is.

“Estás tan apretada, mi amor(you’re so tight, my love)” Javi growls, against your throat, “No pares(don’t stop)” holding onto your hips as you sink further down on him, ass cheeks finally resting on his thighs. You kiss him, both of you taking a minute to savor the feel of one another, Javi gently rubbing his fingers up and down your spine with one hand while the other holds your cheek.

“You’re so beautiful,” Javi murmurs, caressing his nose against your cheek before capturing your lips again, moaning into the kiss as you tentatively roll your hips. His hand settles on your lower back, letting you take control at a slow tempo, letting you enjoy the way his cock massages your inner walls. You moan feeling your nipples beginning to harden between your layers and his chest.

“Javi!” You gasp when he snaps his hips holding onto your lower back firmly.

“Need to see you,” Javi huffs, moving his hand from your face to your shoulder and pushing you to sit up, breath hitching as you swallow more of his length into your core. He rids you of your tank top and pushes the cups of your bra down. You begin to lightly bounce on his cock, moaning at the feel of his hands on you, fingers from one hand beginning to pinch your left nipple while his other hand slides down your ribs, gripping your waist. “Eres mía(you’re mine),” he growls. You can feel your climax nearing, your thighs beginning to shake, feeling the heat running through your body as you bounce.

“Want to take you out,” Javi grunts, your walls begin to tighten at his words, “Make sure that ev-fuck-everyone knows you’re my girl,” he rambles, gripping your waist tighter, snapping his hips into you. “Eres mía(you’re mine).”

“Javi,” you cry out, wanting all of those things and more, your walls fluttering around his shaft, “Fuck, Javi- yes, yes, yes, yes!” Your walls clamp down on him, milking his cock while your vision blurs.

“Fuck,” Javi whines, hips stuttering, emptying himself inside you. He sits up, wrapping his arms around your back to pull you closer to him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him softly, leaning your forehead against his, trying to catch your breath. Javi looks into your eyes and grins as his softening cock slips out of you.

“I’m serious, corazón,” Javi says, “Want it all.”

“Me too,” You nod, a grin stretching from ear to ear on your face.

“Peña?” You hear the radio chirp against the dash, Murphy beginning to call for you as well. “Anyone there?”

You giggle as Javi leans over, keeping a grip on you in his lap to reach the receiver. “Peña here.”

“The hell are you guys?” Murphy asks, “It’s been raining like cats and dogs for a fuckin’ hour, and no word from either of you!”

“Heading back now,” you say, shaking your head and laughing.

This is beautifully written! My word, I felt those emotions deep in my soul 🥺😭

False God

Ezra x f reader

Warnings: p in v, religious tones, angst, infidelity, he’s a cheater, honestly OOC Ezra (he would never do this, my opinion tho) not beta’d, very lightly edited, all mistakes are mine.

A/n: this is my Taylor Swift drabble for @beskarandblasters challenge! She gave me False God x Ezra. It’s honestly crazy how much I needed this song given my current life and how much I could relate to it lol. I interpreted the song as being in love with someone who doesn’t fully choose you. But you keep going back just to feel loved.

WC: 1719

Loving Ezra was like breathing. It didn’t take long for him to get you into bed after you had first met. His sweet words and beautiful eyes had turned you into putty in the blink of an eye. He never really had to work hard to convince you to take his hand as he lead you back to his place.

His lips on yours, tongues exploring each others mouth, the taste of beer and Marlboro reds forever imprinted on your taste buds. His hands roam all over your body, touching, pinching, filling you up. Once he had you inside his apartment, he took no time in getting you naked, on your back. Didn’t even make it to the bed. Lying on the carpeted floor, Ezra plunged his cock into your wet heat for the first time. His lips on your neck as you both held onto one another as if the other might float away. That night he took you on the floor, on the couch, slowly making your way to his bed before he took you again. The next morning he had you bent over the counter as he took you from behind. He had made a mess of you and you him.

You two had fallen into an easy flow. Soon you were moving in with him, life was fun. It was easy with Ezra. Everything felt natural. Time flew by. From that first night to one month, you blinked and suddenly it had been a year.

That’s when things started to fall apart. One morning you woke up, Ez was still asleep in the bed next to you. His phone buzzed. You reached over to grab it, just to see who was texting him so early.

Her name was Marisol. You’ll never forget her name. Or the messages exchanged.

Your heart dropped into the deep pit in your stomach. Your whole being had gone cold. Shaking with betrayal and anger, you woke him up. Of course he tried to deny it, tried to say it was nothing he was just bored working night shift and she was somebody to talk too.

Eventually you two made up. He made you feel beautiful and wanted. Ezra was your everything, he was all you wanted. You did your best to forgive. You never forgot.

Day after day after day goes by.

Soon it’s been about five months since Marisol.

You found yourself sitting in the car while Ezra ran inside to pick up the takeout you had ordered. His phone sitting on the middle console, face up.

The little screen soon lighting up, a text from your best friend. On his phone.

You knew better than to look. But your gut told you to look. Things had felt weird to you the last time all three of you had hung out.

Now this betrayal broke you. Your best friend. The one person besides Ezra that you told everything too. The one you were gonna ask to be your child’s godmother one day.

He said it was never physical, just texts. Those words cut deeper than any knife. You had left this time, staying at your parents for a couple of weeks. Broken heart and swollen eyes from all the tears. All you wanted was him. You missed him so much. He had become your best friend, your lover, the only one you wanted to spend your life with.

Ezra showed up at your parents house one night with flowers. He begged and pled with you. Convinced you that you were the only one he loved and wanted.

The whole ordeal made your heart clench. As much as you ached, you gave him another chance.

Another year passed. Life had been good, you and Ezra were happy and in love.

Your life was completely intertwined with his. At one point he had used your phone to sign into his email.

Forgetting he had done that, when you got the notification for an email from a Mark, you were confused.

Emails detailing what and how and when. Seeing for yourself that your love was meeting another for oral.

Of course he denied it. Said he never actually met this person.

Emails with this Mark came up two more times over the next couple of years.

At this point you’ve spent six years with him.

He was still the love of your life. Your home. Your comfort. When life got bad, you stayed with him. When your parents told you to leave, you stuck up for him. Even after all the others, you forgave him and tried to work on yourself. Tried to be what he wanted, what he needed. You made yourself sexually available, always saying yes to him so he would be satisfied.

Seven years. Seven whole years. You’ve spent with Ezra. Building a life with him.

Sharing laughs and whispered I love you’s, cooking side by side, having a shoulder to lean on when life gets hard.

The way he strums your body, worshiping you as if your hips were his alter. You, his own goddess, one that he loved and cherished. The love you shared with him became your own personal religion. Your bed became your church. He knew just how to touch you, what to say, knew all the places to kiss to make you melt. Ezra was your whole world. The only name that ever dared to leave your lips, no God to be found. Only Ezra.

The happy, easy days started turning into bad days. It was slow and then suddenly all at once. You aren’t sure what happened or if you said or did something wrong. Ez started acting funny, being more mean and cold hearted toward you. You did your best to brush it off, pretend like it was just your imagination or something. Until you saw the texts. It’s a different person this time. But the words exchanged are the same nonetheless.

The sharp dagger of pain cutting through and piercing your very soul. You knew deep down there was another, again. You also knew this time things were different.

You confronted your love. With tears in your eyes and a soul filled with pain and sadness. You broke things off with Ez.

Unfortunately you couldn’t just move out right away. Having to suck it up and continue to live together. Life was weird. After a couple of months, the two of you were able to sit and really talk about things. It became a little bit easier to breath again. He’s always been your best friend. You missed him, missed having someone to confide in and joke with and enjoy life with.

Things didn’t last long with Ezra and the new person.

One night you had come home after working all day. Frustrated with things, annoyed with people, you needed an outlet. Somewhere to put all the emotions you felt so it didn’t burden your body any longer.

Ezra sensed this. He always knew when you needed to let go.

Standing at the sink in the bathroom, you had dropped your head down as you leaned on the counter. Doing your best to take deep breaths when you heard the door open.

He came in, standing behind you. He brought his hands up to your hips, rubbing circles as he dipped his face in between your shoulder and neck. The tip of his aquiline nose trails up and down the sensitive skin. His breath creating goosebumps that begin to blossom as he gently kisses a spot right below your ear. Letting yourself just feel. No more fighting. No more holding yourself back. This is your Ez. Your love. You let your head roll back, laying on his shoulder as he continues leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck. His big hands engulf your hips, gently pulling you back into him. The feeling of his chest on your back, his hard cock against your ass. A soft whimper tumbles out of your lips.

Letting him take full control, Ezra begins to undress you. His lips kissing every inch of skin as it’s revealed to him. You haven’t even realized he had coaxed you into the bedroom until he gently laid you down on the bed.

You sit up on your arms as you look down at your own God as he sinks to his knees at his alter.

He spreads your legs as he dips forward, his beautiful nose running along your thigh as he makes his way to your cunt.

His lips soon find what they’re looking for. Leaving a soft kiss to your clit, you lay back down as your hands make their way to his hands. Holding hands as he works his tongue around your sensitive spot, working you close to orgasm already.

Oh Ezra

Legs shaking as he takes the sacrament of his God. Your juices quenching his thirst for holy salvation.

He quickly covers your body with his, his lips soon attached to your lips as you taste yourself on him.

Back arching as he parts your holy waters, his cock filling your cunt in the way only he can.

You hold him close to you as he fills you over and over. Each deep stroke bringing you to eternal salvation.

He pulls your hands off his shoulders as he brings them above your head, fingers interlocking with his. Deep kisses in time with each thrust.

Oh Ez Oh oh my -

You chant his name over and over as he brings you higher and higher. No God to be found here, only him. Only Ezra. Your love. Your heart. Your soul.

You know it’s wrong to keep doing this. To keep giving in to him. He’s a drug that’s hard to quit. Ever since then you find yourself giving in to him whenever he wants. You know things are over between the two of you. You know he doesn’t want you in the same way you want him. But you still let him in your temple. You still allow him to take the sacrament freely if only to feel the love you once shared for a little bit. You continue to live, broken and shattered. Feeling whole, even for just a quick moment. You still worship his love even if he was a false God.

A/n: I hope yall enjoyed this, I know how sad this is. To be completely honest, this is literally my story. My last relationship/on going situationship. Um it’s very complicated. But I want everyone reading this to know you are beautiful and deserving of love. You deserve to be picked, to be chosen. To be loved for who you are. If you ever wanna talk to vent or anything, I’m here for you 🩵

I had to stifle my laughter so my husband wouldn’t ask what I was looking at 🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂 I do believe all of these match up!

Pedro Boys tasked with buying your period products.

Someone sent an ask about Pedro boys dealing with their girl on their period... Not sure if this is what you had in mind but I hope you enjoy it regardless :)

Also, this is just for silly fun, don't @ me too harshly in the comments please if you don't agree with some of these, but DEFINITELY feel free to tell me where and why your opinion might differ on some of these choices, I'd love to hear it.

like this post? check out my Pedro Boys Alignment Chart Masterlist here

Headcanons under the cut.

Din/Tim/Dave/Ortega/Clint/Max L - Din is mostly just too shy/embarrassed to ask for help, the rest of these guys are too stubborn, too busy and/or aren't terribly comfortable standing around in this aisle any longer than they have to be.

Ezra/Jack - They're just genuinely confused as to why there are so many varieties. Maybe you WILL be playing tennis tomorrow like this girl in the picture on the box, how tf are they supposed to know? Jack's also a bit of a himbo but it's okay, he's pretty.

Marcus M/Oberyn/Frankie/Marcus P/Joel/Javi P - Some of these boys are 'girl dads' and just know the drill by now. Some are just great husbands (or husband material) who pay attention and some, well... some of these boys just know your p*ssy better than you do and that's all there is to it.

Javi G/Eddie/Zach W - They're sweet, and they're trying. They just wanna be good boyfriends. God bless these boys.

Dieter/Pero/Max P/Lucien - Dieter thought it was an honest question. The rest of these guys are just complete menaces (and honestly, we love them for it).

Love this!!!

a debt to pay

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: you surprise frankie by coming home earlier than planned, answering the door a-la-fake-porn like, making him drag you to your bedroom.

warnings: smut. established relationship. praise kink. minor (and I mean brief) hand necklace. dirty talk. okay, frankie likes to talk kink. cowgirl riding for iwd. and the pizza goes cold (felt it needed a warning) wordcount: 4.8k an: to the wonderful, amazing @morallyinept - happy international women's day! i hope frankie treating you right is what you had on your bucket list for the day. but if not, just know you inspire me, and i'm grateful for your friendship every day. and ily.

Nothing should surprise him.

He’s seen a lot. A thing some could argue is far too much. In some ways, they’re right.

Frankie isn’t sure people who weren’t doctors should know the exact hue of red that blood is—shouldn’t know the pain from a bullet grazing his shoulder, catching flesh and ruining cloth.

Still, he found himself continually surprised—especially the night he met you.

Falling into him, into his life. Disrupting his days from bleeding into the next, knocking things off their axis. Change should be scary, but it was all welcomed, just not in a way he’d ever thought he’d earned.

Somehow, amidst the chaos you brought with you, you also handed him harmony. You made the corners of his world slot together. Slowly, he even found himself anchoring down to brick and mortar, and calling it ‘home’ for the first time since he’d originally left his for battles and fighting.

In time, even as months became a year, your things found their way to be with his, Frankie had assumed he’d seen everything. Happy to accept it, the routine, the complacency. He looked forward to lazy Sunday mornings with his fingers inside yours, toes curling; Thursday nights in a bar, watching a line appear on your brow as you scoured your brain for an answer to the trivia question.

He liked it, adored it.

And then you opened the front door for him.

Flooding him in golden light that makes him squint, before he finds himself reminded, quickly, he hasn’t seen it all. Not even by a margin.

Because you're not supposed to be here, due back tomorrow.

Your voice on the phone earlier muted, low, "I miss you, Morales," as he stares at your untouched, clean mug on the kitchen counter.

Yet, here you stand. All veiled in barely anything except bits of lace and sheer, a sight his eyes aren't able to tear away from even if he tries. Not even the dryness in his throat or the warmth emanating from the pizza box he's holding (attempting to sear his skin to his palm) is bothering him.

"Bab—"

His words are cut short, ended.

"Oh," you gasp. “Let me take that; and how much do I owe you?”

On registering your words, his eyes narrow, staring.

Doing so from one eye to the next. It taking a while, brain firing, ticking over, taking precious seconds as he remains out in the cold and you stand in the warmth in barely fucking anything, before it dawns on him. Crawls up over him as realises what it is you’re pretending to do, what you're reenacting.

Lips lifting, curling into one of his cheeks he steps in through the doorway. Almost over the threshold, easily able to take another step and close the door behind him.

But he waits.

Fingers twitch at his side, Frankie swallows, eyes dropping, tracing up the bare backs of your thighs as you bend over. Because fuck, you're something beautiful. A thing he always thinks, but finds himself reminded in waves as they crash into him.

Raising his hand, he itches across his chin, scratching along the wiry hair there as his gaze drops to the thin fabric protecting the last bit of your modesty as you and the bits of lace spread across your ass—

“I only have card—unless, I can pay you in another way?”

This shouldn’t be real.

You, like this. Him, standing like this. Not even as he steps inside, eyes trained on you—forgetting what words even mean—as you bend over.

A low exhale escapes, lips remaining parted as he fights to place his palm on the back of your thigh—stops himself from hooking a finger in the band of your underwear and dragging it down your thighs, bending you over the sofa, and burying his—

“I would really like to pay you in some way.”

Your words are almost lost due to the way his pulse has quickened in his ears, thundering, pounding. Feeling nothing but discomfort as his cock hardens against the zip of his pants as you bite down on your lip.

Brain quiet, no thoughts, all rendered silent by your appearance. Only able to shift enough to discard his cap, his jacket—folding it over the back of the sofa, eyes drawing out over you as he takes a step closer. Fingers finding his wrist, pinching, making sure this isn't some dream he hasn't woken up from.

But he can smell the present. The glorious cheese and several toppings, even if devouring the pizza are long forgotten. Because his eyes are raking over you, because how could he not—especially now as you straighten up, softly wiggling your hips.

"Is that so?” his voice rough, words catching. Letters clagging at the back of his teeth as though they attempted to glue to his mouth.

He's aware the three words are stained with want—a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips as you turn to face him, knowing it too.

But then, you always do know. Having long figured him out.

Like always, your eyes meet his in a way he can never explain, no words to articulate, to explain—just shared understanding dancing between the two of you.

“It’s only right,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your fingers reaching out to trace his wire-stubbled jawline. “It’s bad of me to order food and not have the money to pay.”

He catches your wrist, gently but firmly. Pulling you close, steadying you with the other at your waist. Hearing it, the gasp, the briefest of indications you'd been caught by surprise, as he brushes his fingers against the fabric, all unable to stop themself. Half-needing to know what it feels like, as his thumb smooths out, taking his time—forcing the tension to buzz in the air as he leans closer. The distance you small, minimal—almost non-existent—as his breath hitches in his throat.

“You know what you’re getting into?” his voice a low growl, strained.

His gaze locked on you, watching you bite on your lower lip. “I really don’t like being in debt.”

It’s low, the way he replies. Short, two words: okay baby, before he’s leading, guiding, pecking kisses on your lips that likely leave you disorientated. It thrumming in his veins, the fact he gets to undo you, peel off the thin fabric you’ve likely had stuffed at the back of the closet—or even purchased with him in mind on your trip, thighs pressed together, wondering, finger and thumb stroking it as you imagine if he'd rip it off or slowly slide it from you.

He's not sure himself.

A part of him wishes to snap it from your frame in front of open blinds and undrawn curtains. To place his palm on your ass and taste your gasp on his tongue.

But another, the part which has missed you, wishes to wait. Make you wait. Wants to drag it out as long as humanly possible, have you soaked, wet, needy and desperate.

Because Frankie wonders if you've imagined this. Or, if you plotted it or it came to you randomly.

He gets an answer to it when the two of you are behind another door—one more private, intimate.

And it feels different in the bedroom than it did out in the living room.

The lighting being one of the reasons.

In here, you had opted for a darker shade when you’d both redecorated. Told him you preferred it, and had given him a shrug and a smile as you did. It had been a while later when he’d learned it was for him. For his eyes, for the sleep he struggled to grasp. It’ll help, I think? Saying it to him as though it wasn’t the kindest fucking thing someone had done for him.

But then, you are a waking dream.

A thing which has shaped itself and made itself real right before his eyes. Sculpted yourself from wishes and wants, shaping until you’re nothing but tangible and real.

He’s not afraid to tell you that either. Spends hours whispering it into your skin, pressing it close to your ear, repeating it over and over what perfection you are as you look at him with lust-blown eyes and lips parted around his name.

Frankie doubts it’s enough.

Least of all now, when you’re painted in soft white light, all gentle in how it rolls over you, as it becomes clear you’ve been home for a while.

You've drawn the blackout curtains—keeping out the evening—and you'd flicked the little bedside lamp on, doing its best to illuminate the room.

Swallowing, he traces his teeth over his tongue, wondering if you watched him reverse off the drive as you waited to make your move. Wondering if you're snuck in, trying not to disturb—dress yourself up, even if you never need to.

Because you’re a vision always.

The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even angry because he's left his tools out or with disappointment etched into your eyes because he’s forgotten something, you’re radiant, a goddess on earth.

A thing he finds himself reminded of as he steps closer to you. Fingers fiddling at his side as begins to close the small gap.

If not for the way he’s looking at you, he might have missed the shiver running through you from anticipation—and he knows it because of his action, due to the hungry look he's sure he's sporting as he raises his hands to remove his outer shirt. Balling it up, throwing it, a thing already unremembered before it even leaves his fingers.

"Frankie..."

"I know, just keep your eyes on me."

And you do, ever obedient. A thing no one would believe him off outside of these four walls. Not when you hold yourself strong and are quick to bite back, all wit and quick-thinking in addition to your brains and beauty.

He hooks a finger under the edge of his t-shirt, dragging it up over his head as he hears it—that little hiss, that slight gasp you do as though you’ve not seen him topless a thousand times.

It feels good. Makes heat rise up his neck and flood his ears. For a moment, he forgets he’s not all that. Because he’s soft, a little thicker around the middle, it feels like a lifetime ago he was trained in combat. But the way you look at him makes him feel like that is the furthest thing from the truth.

Fuck, you make him hard. Make him want. Have done since the moment you’d given him half a chance.

It’s why he's quick to pull you close, desperate to slant his mouth over yours. All fiery, hungry. Aiming to claim and write out all the ways he’s thought of you in the days since you’d been away. How the hours of you being gone and the amount he’s missed you have all balled up into a thing that is now fuelling him—sketching his wishes and desires across your lips, against your tongue, burying them past your teeth so they sit in your throat.

He grasps. Likely leaves marks of it on the perfect skin that covers your waist—because his palm is calloused and worn. Reminders of holding things not half as soft as you. A flicker of guilt almost bubbles in his, as he moves to rest it on your cheek, cradling your jaw and ear in one hand, as he slides the other up your back.

You whimper against his teeth before fingers find the clasp—finger and thumb, pinging it open before he feels fabric scrape against him—then you moan.

His chest being greeted with nothing but warm, smooth bare skin—nipples pebbling in the cooler air before being pressed against him, before he cups the swell of one, thumb stroking, playing a pattern.

“Do this for all the deliveries you get?”

You snort, it blowing out in a breath. “Only the ones with packages I like.”

In the time you’ve been together, you’ve said worse, but this time makes cock harden more than it already is. It's almost uncomfortable, in how it presses against his zipper, wishing to be released, as his index and thumb stroke over your skin. Taking it on how warm you are, how impossibly soft—distantly feeling the tremors from your heart hammering into your ribs.

"Too good for me, you are." You hum, as he seals his mouth back over yours. “But, I don’t take card.”

Purposefully, he drops his hand, fingers dipping, tracing across the lace that covers your slit—finding damp fabric as his ears take in the note of a quiet escape leaving your lips. It trying to bury itself between your two mouths open, breathing it in.

“Guess you’ll have to swipe something else.”

He snorts, and buries it into your neck, teeth grazing your skin—nose catching the scent of your perfume. And the scent almost makes him dizzy from how his blood rushes south. How the moment he’d dropped you off for your flight, it had lingered in the cabin of his truck. Remaining there for the first few days you were gone, before slowly fading. Leaving.

Just there on the coat you'd hung near the door and the pillows he slept beside.

The ones he rested his head against when he’d heard your voice down the phone, tell me to touch myself, Frankie, I need you. His own hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it as you moaned his name, all those miles away, dripping instructions into your ear.

“You're such a dirty girl.”

You grin in response, fingers tugging at his curls—urging his mouth back to yours.

But, he instead traces his tongue over your pulse, circling it, all defiant in bowing to you as his teeth trace over his path. Instead, his finger dips, traces the crease of your thigh with his gaze never leaving yours.

“Missed you,” you whisper.

His hand slides between your thighs, cupping you—feeling the discernible wetness soaked through.

“Can feel it.”

You scoff, but he kisses it away.

Doing so in a similar way to how he makes you forget, how he pulls you from your mind and brings you to the present. It’s also swallowed by another gasp, one made because of his fingers finding the edge of the lace, hooking a finger underneath, sliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen nerves and slick entrance.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the whine you emit. “Feelin’ needy, querida?”

And he can’t take his eyes off you.

Practically locked in, watching as your lips part, and your hips try to shift for more friction. He’s too fearful he’ll miss it, all of it—a slight curve of a brow or a shimmer on your eyes. All things he thinks over when he dreams, when he wishes for replays of moments until the next day when he makes another that easily replaces a good one.

He likes how you say his name when he slips another finger inside you—how it falls all soft, breathless. So much intention in such a low sound. Even as you squirm, mouth pausing over his; little mewls and moans falling as he drags them in and out, all languorous, teasing.

“Want you.”

His thumb brushes over your swollen clit, a hiss escaping. “I know.”

You gasp his name, stifle a moan, teeth biting down on the underside of your lower lip as your lashes flutter. It’s your nails digging into his scalp that keeps him rooted, that keeps him focused—precise touches and strokes that have you rocking against him and keep him tuned in to you.

“Missed how you sound, baby. You're doing so well.”

You’re close. His words make your perfect pussy clench around him. A chorus of moans escaping as he curls them inside of you, finds that spot, the one which makes you babble and turns your muscles into liquid.

He likes that he can do this.

That he can read you and undo you. That it’s a thing he’s mastered when he’d thought he was far from learning. But then, he’d taken great pride in spending hours studying—in alternating between being on his back and on his knees.

And because of that, he knows when he halt you over the edge. Let you linger, not tipping.

Normally, he’d never tease, never make you want—but, today is a different kind of day as he stops. As he retracts his fingers and allows the fabric to lightly snap back into place.

It’s a different whine that cuts into the room then. It pours out from your lips as your eyes dig daggers into him—but, he knows you.

Knows it’s momentary and nothing he can’t fix. Able to hold his ground against it, digging heels into the floor—all refusing to be swayed by the storm rising inside of you, creeping across the formerly tranquil sea. Instead, his hands move to his belt—undoing it, metal clanging and zip sliding down as your eyes break from glaring to stare hungrily at the outline of his cock.

Watching as you walk backwards, the back of your knees hitting the bed before you’re perching—eyes holding his, tip of your tongue sweeping, tracing, as you move further up the bed. The one you’d picked—chosen.

He’s in a trance.

Under a spell when you hook a thumb on either side of your underwear.

It’s not smooth, it doesn’t glide or remove with ease—there’s even a slight kick out of your legs before it flings from your ankle. But, it makes him tighten the hold on his cock. Because it may not be a thing people ever see on TV or in movies, but then they never feel like this.

They don’t feel real, no rawness, no tangling of his trousers he has to step out of as he strokes himself, eyes flicking down to where you’re bare—where you’re glistening—

“Wanna ride you, Frank.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath, hands gripping the base of his cock.

It’s slow, the way he grazes his teeth over his lower lip. “S’that how you wanna pay me, yeah?”

“All I’ve thought about,” you reply, a soft smile greeting him. “Lemme ride you—wanna look at you, wanna watch you come, baby.”

Fuck. He doesn’t fight it.

Instead, letting you guide him, allowing you to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw when he kneels on the bed and groans—because it’s been a long day, querida; he’s not as young as he once was.

“Still know how to be good, though. Don’t you?” you smirk, open mouth leaving a trail down his neck, eyes flicking up when you leave one in the space above his heart.

Hands behind his head, admiring, doing nothing but watching you place your thighs on either side of his as your fingers wrap around his wrists. You pin him, pressing down—aching cock ignored, left to leak against his hip as your lips press to his, over and over, and over until he’s chasing for the feel of them when you pull back.

You only offer a gentle, "I missed you," against the air before you're lining him up, bearing down, sinking, taking him in as he paints a groan against your collarbone.

There’s a beat, maybe two.

Stillness, enveloped entirely by your walls as his mouth wraps itself around your breast, leaving it wet, coated in spit as he groans when you begin to move. Setting a rhythm, slow.

“Not rushing this, Frankie.”

He never wishes you to.

His hands gripping your hips, guiding you. Head falling back onto the sheets as his breath hitches, the sight of you atop him, breasts bouncing—owning him—is a sight he could never grow tired of. One he also never feels worthy of—but he won’t squander, won’t ruin.

Because you’re perfect, head to toe—pussy made for him as it strokes up and down and breaths leave your mouth in short pants.

“Y’so good to me, Frankie. So handsome.”

And he wants to tell you that it's you who is so good—who is nothing but colour in an otherwise grey world. That you’re sunshine and stars, moon and so much more goodness than he can list buried inside of you.

“Go on, querida,” he grunts through clenched teeth, hands squeezing your hips a little tighter as you move a little faster.

As you take a little more. It makes your eyes flutter, parts your lips—watching in nothing short of awe as you use him, as you lose yourself in the moment.

"That's it, just let go. Make yourself feel good.”

It’s something majestic when he sees you nearing release—when he feels you clench and flutter.

“Feels good, y’feel good inside me baby.”

“You need more?”

And you nod.

The green light—the sign—and he doesn’t wait a moment.

Just canting his hips up, making a rush of pleasure spread up his spine. He’s lightheaded, hot—practically dizzy with how good you feel enveloped around him.

The noises filling the air, your slick walls taking him and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It’s drowned by the noises he pulls from you, making a mess of you as your lust-blown eyes land on him.

It almost steals his breath. Thieves it.

Because you’re so pretty, wild—a fucking dream on top of him. All soft and shimmering with perspiration from how good you ride him as he’s bathed in whines, moans and cries of his name.

“You're perfect,” he says, hand clamping on your hip as he shifts, and angles himself before thrusting up into you—watching your eyes squeeze shut. “From your smile to your tight pussy. You know that?”

Studying you as you try to keep the same rhythm. But, you’re nearing your climax—nails digging into his shoulder and neck, half-moons etched there, and he hopes they take hours to disappear.

“Thought about you all week—”

You moan, eyes meeting his. “Thought about you too—missed you. Missed how good you make me feel.”

“Fucked my fist to the thought of you like this. Never thought—fuck—I’d come home to this, baby. Y’fuckin’ perfect.”

Your chin lifts, neck elongating as he spreads his palm across your side, fingers pressing, grasping.

“Love hearing how much you missed me,” he smirks, watching you—thinking nothing but revolving thoughts as to how pretty you look, what a picture you are on top of him—

Then he hears a slam. Heavy boots. A voice he'd rather not hear at all:

“Fish? You home?”

He stops, realisation slamming into him.

A hand drops to the bedsheets, grasping them so hard his knuckles pale, and throb—the bones in his hand aching as he fights shouting and blowing his load right there and then.

The plans he’d made—the ones he’d put into place because you weren’t supposed to be home—all coming back to bite him. How he hadn’t wanted to spend another night alone, another evening in front of the television until you could call and tell him about your day—when he should have. He really fucking should have.

And you’re frozen, hips halted in place—his other hand remaining on your waist, fingers digging in as you both tense, keeping movements paused.

He considers it, the two choices he has and decides.

Leaning more against you—half-grinning, whispering shh as you look at him full of alarm—suddenly aware of the impending actuality that you could be caught like this.

And, then you clench around him. He feels it. Head tilting and eyes narrowing as he takes you in.

"Dirty girl," he mouths, and you look bashful, shy—a look he rarely sees when you’re split open on his cock and the base of him is covered in your slick.

“Fish, where the fuck are you?”

“Getting changed Ben, be a min.”

Your pussy flutters around him at your shout, as he moves to not shout the words towards your ear—feeling you clamp down, muffling a whimper. Another falls as he lifts up further onto his palm, dragging his nose down the valley between your breasts.

He knows you’re close—teetering, a few more thrusts and you’d have unravelled.

Dropping his voice, low—barely above a whisper, “Shh, baby. Or, I won’t let you finish.”

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Can‘t, Frankie—I can’t.”

He nods, finger and thumb holding your chin because he knows you can. Seen you do so much, and been witness to what you’re capable of—before his hand guides your hips to begin moving, thumb drawing soothing circles on your hips.

“Touch yourself for me, querida. Be good for me.”

And you whimper, something akin to his name.

But he’s guiding his mouth away, shouting, “Beers in the fridge, Ben.”

His mouth presses to your chest, hearing the shout from his friend back, but it’s the sound of your fingers on your slick and swollen clit that he tunes into. That he wants to flood his ears. Watching you shiver, shake, tremble from it as you tighten around him, choking his cock as he begins to thrust in and out.

He could keep you here. Should do too.

One week has already been too long. A need to make up for it—to have you pay for all the times you ask him those questions you wait until the lights are usually out for and he’s about to tip over to sleep; have you press yourself against him, nudging your ass into him as you cuddle, but really you want his mouth between your thighs. He should edge you, hang you over the edge of pleasure and watch your eyes dig into him until your lips whisper the word beginning with P.

But he won’t.

Couldn’t.

He likes knowing he pleases you too much.

Your moan bringing him back to it. Seeing how your eyes are clenched shut, trying to keep it behind your teeth. Failing, expletives dropping in breaths before he raises his hand, pressing it to your mouth, muffling it, the moans you have to release before you shake your head and fold into him.

Suddenly, he wants to move the dresser and lock the two of you in here. Wants to let them watch whatever fucking sports they want out there, and him just watch you in here.

You’re his favourite sight, after all. Especially like this. Free, not overthinking or worrying, just present, feeling as good as you should—as good as he always wants you to feel.

And you deserve this.

Hearing the low please fall before he plants his feet down, angling his cock up into you as you let out a muffled gasp. His palm flat to your shoulder, steadying you, as he feels your fingers slide it to your collarbone, resting it, fingers an inch away from the base of your neck.

You flick your eyes open—smothering him in permission, in radiant sunshine and lust, before the softest fucking smirk graces your lips—as his own mouth chokes out your name.

“Not tonight.”

It’s less words, and more a noise.

Because he’s close too—it having risen close to the top. Toes clenched around the sheets, digging in.

But he wants to feel you come first. And it’s there—that familiar sign. Lashes fluttering, gorgeous mouth going tight, slack as you tighten around him, locking up, clamping down as your hips move sloppily and out of rhythm.

You’re so fucking close.

“Shh, be good for me.”

Fingers, trembling and weak, slide around the base of his neck, tugging on his curls that are likely slick with sweat.

“N‘gonna last—let go for me baby.”

“Please.”

“Come for me.”

Spearing up into you with more vigour as you rasp, groan, and hiss—spit coating his fingers as he slides them out, dropping his hand from you as his knuckles press to the mattress as he fucks up into you.

Your body bucks, a cry you bury into his neck—a drag of nails against his scalp—as you come undone around him. Convulsing. Muffled cries vibrating against his pulse.

Frankie is barely able to contain the low growl as his hips stutter—heat raging through him, joined by rabid electricity. It sparking, ripping through, making him both ache and feel alive.

The sight of you and the feel of you drives him to the edge—and then over. A grip on your hip all tight as he thrusts into you one final time, unable to contain the growl. His chest heaves as he spills inside of you, and you tremble against him—panting, all messy and boneless as he pulls you with him as he rolls onto his back.

"You're incredible," he breathes into your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck.

You let out a small laugh, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips. "So are you."

He smiles against your skin, his heart swelling with affection. He may have assumed he'd seen everything, but you—you continue to surprise him, to captivate him in ways he never thought possible. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Pulling his mouth from yours, feeling you ease him out of you, his hand lightly slaps you on the back of your bare ass.

"I missed you, querida," he murmurs, heart still racing in his chest.

Meeting his gaze, your lips purse. "I know," you whisper, leaning in to capture his lips in a tender kiss. "I'm here now."

“Shame you’ll have to sneak out the back and come in through the front door. Otherwise, you’ll be in here all night—”

His words trail off, a sly grin tugging at his lips as it dawns, rises up over your face and makes your mouth fall open. “Francisco….”

“Shoulda' told me you were coming home. It's boys night.”

Narrowing your eyes, you tick your jaw—spine straightening. “Well, I could stay in here—like this…”

Smirking, he kisses your nose. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby.”

Your mouth opens, a smirk gracing his lips in response as he raises a finger to his mouth, moving and pressing a kiss to your knee. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Oh this is adorable! 😍

Too Sweet

A/N: Hi friends. I haven't written anything in a while, as I've been tussling with my mental health and raging SAD from the weather near me. Please accept this Mandalorian drabble? Rambling? Takes place between the end of season two and Din's appearance in the Book of Boba Fett. Tags: The Mandalorian, Mandalorian x Reader, Din Djarin x Reader, Mandalorian x F!Reader, Apostate!Din WARNINGS: None Summary: You've been a safe place for Din Djarin for years. He comes to you at his most vulnerable, but always has to leave before you're ready. Title inspired by the Hozier song of the same name.

Word count: 1.6k+

Hours later, you’re still in shock.

Din Djarin is in bed next to you, sans helmet.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be in your home- hell, it would be more unusual for him not to be there between jobs. Your Mandalorian had spent years visiting, hovering somewhere in between a lover and a partner. He shows up in the afternoon one day, and is gone early in the morning before you wake. When he returns, beaten and bruised, you chastise him for leaving without saying goodbye. The routine was comfortable. Familiar. 

Except every other time he had been there, you had never seen his face. 

It feels like a dance each time he comes. You tend to his wounds quickly but gently, lathering cuts and bruises in bacta before wrapping bandages or slings where necessary to let the medication heal. Once you’ve played nurse, Din secludes himself to your study to eat dinner. And each time, without fail, he leads you to the bedroom to extinguish the fireplace and blow out your candles. His hands find your body, and he ravishes you in the darkness. 

Key word being darkness.

Today was the same song and dance. He’d limped into your cabin without greeting, shaking snow from his armored body and settling himself into a kitchen chair while you fussed. A tube of bacta and half a roll of bandages later, he silently trudged away to eat in the study. There was a distinct lack of little green child with him today, which was a major concern after the past year. You suspected it had something to do with the oppressive sense of sorrow following him through the house. So you carried on with your usual routine, asking little to no questions. It wasn’t until he’d crowded you up against the sink, bowl still in your grip as you rinsed it, that he spoke. 

“Mesh’la.”

Strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, and you leaned back into an unarmored chest. In hindsight, you chastised yourself for not noticing the words lacked the electrical buzz of a vocoder. 

“Din.” You returned.

He only grunts, right hand gliding up your side. It grips your shoulder, and presses until you turn to face him, bowl still gripped in your damp fingers. 

“You know, words are- Din!”

The porcelain bowl shattered as it collided with the kitchen floor. You’d dropped it out of pure instinct, hands flying up to cover your eyes. As much as you’d tried to forget what you saw, it was burned into your brain. Wavy hair, long nose with a scar crossing the bridge of it. Big, brown eyes that couldn’t possibly belong to someone so stern and ruthless. It flashes across your mind, and you almost tear up at the thought of Din breaking his Creed after all these years. 

But he’d pulled your hands away and explained - while your eyes are still pinched closed- that he was an apostate. The Child was returned to his own people, but at the cost of Din’s Creed. It had taken minutes of coaxing and reassurance, but you’d opened your eyes and cursed the universe for being so cruel as to hide such a face. From the set of his brow to the nervous biting of his lip, you basked in seeing so much bare skin. It took less time for him to attach his lips to yours and lead you out of the kitchen.

He’d taken you to bed, and now here you sit. 

Your room isn’t anything special. Quaint and cozy if nothing else, with two small windows that face out over the mountain’s edge. A fireplace flickers opposite the bed, its warmth trickling out to the sheets and heating your toes. Two bookshelves border either side of your headboard, with a nightstand tucked on Din’s side of the bed. On it, the usually extinguished candles burn bright. 

The firelight flickers against Din’s tan skin, highlighting each bead of sweat and curled tendril of hair where it sticks to his forehead. He’s naked, back propped against the headboard and covered in a maroon sheet from the waist down. You’ve donned a short silk robe, black and bordered with laces where it plunges between your breasts. You lay between his legs above the sheets, head on his chest. One of his large hands caresses your scalp and trails to the ends of your hair. The other hand is occupied by a half-full glass of old Corellian whiskey. 

You trace a line of yellow bruises on his hip where they extend below the sheet on his lap. 

“What happened to you?”

His chest rumbles. “I fought an Imperial Moff. And Imperial battle droids.”

Your eyes widen, and you sit up. Din’s hand leaves your hair to grasp at your waist, pulling you to face him.

“Stars, Din.” You reach out to touch a patch of black and blue skin over his collarbone. “No wonder you’re so beat up. I’ll get you some more bacta before we go to sleep.”

He lifts your fingers from his collarbone to his mouth, kissing each fingertip. “You’re too good to me, cyar’ika.”

“You deserve it.” Is your instant reply. 

If there was anything you knew about Din, it was that he never quite comprehended the good he brought to the world. 

The Mandalorian brings the whiskey to his lips and takes a swig. You opt to push an errant curl behind his ear. 

“I’m not a good man,” Your name falls off his tongue like honey. “Spent my whole life as kyramud.” 

You tilt your head at the Mando’a. He’d called you some pet names for years- mesh’la, cyar’ika. But this… kyramud was new. Without his helmet, hearing anything out of his mouth was like a drug. But Mando’a warmed you to the core, building off Din’s comfort and fondness when he spoke the ancient tongue. You yearned to know more. 

“Teach me Mando’a.” You kiss him gently, tasting the whiskey where it lingers on his lips. “So I can tell you why you deserve every bit of kindness.”

Din adjusts your legs so you’re sitting square between his, rear end on the bed and legs straddling his waist. He props you up with the ridiculous amount of pillows lying around. 

“I’ll teach you anything you want.” Din strokes your knee. “Where do I start?”

You chew on your bottom lip. “What am I to you?”

“Ner cyare.” He pauses, debating. The whiskey makes another appearance, and you’re distracted by his Adam's apple bobbing deliciously in the column of his throat. “Naysol uj par ni. Each day I see you is aay’han.”

“What does that mean?”

Din tilts your chin up. “My beloved. Too sweet for me.”

You blush. “What about the end? Ay-hen?”

“Aay’han. Mourning and joy. At the same time.” He finishes the whiskey. “I mourn when I leave you here.”

Much to your annoyance, tears prick your eyes at the reminder that when you closed them, he would be gone before you woke. “Don’t remind me. Please.”

Din leans forward to capture your lips with his. The sensation only serves to make the stinging behind your eyes worse, and a single tear drips down your cheek. He’s quick to kiss it away, large hand curling into your hair. You climb all the way into his lap, suddenly desperate for closeness. His skin is hot and damp, and you’ve never felt anything better. 

“Ni ceta. I never meant to hurt you.”

You sniffle against his neck. “Just promise me you’ll say goodbye from now on.”

He wets two fingers with his tongue and extinguishes the candles before cradling you in strong arms. Two words are murmured into your hair, quiet but sound.  

“I promise.”

You grip him tighter than ever, warmth sadly fading as the dread of morning envelopes you. 

*

The reflection of daylight off snow-covered ground wakes you. 

It bounces in your windows, bathing the room in cool white light. You blink slowly, a heaviness settled on all of your limbs. It’s a familiar soreness that aches from your shoulders to between your legs, dredging up memories of the night before. Din’s bare face, and all the sweet words in Mando’a that he tried to teach you before you remembered he can never stay as long as you’d like. You sigh, letting one of your arms dangle off the edge of the bed. The thought of turning over and seeing the candles, thinking about him blowing them out on each visit was too fresh. It’s easier to lay and stew in your sadness, watching fluffy flakes of snow fall. The clock on your wall reads ‘1457’, another unintentional reminder of your late-night escapades.

You hate to admit that the feeling makes you tear up again. So you lay in bed, curled beneath a thick comforter while the fireplace crackles its last few breaths towards your feet. It’s easier to stare at the snow than it is to close your eyes and think about Din. 

“Damn it.” You breathe. 

“What are you damning?”

You swear that you stop breathing for a moment. Despite the fact that he had already spoken, you ask aloud, “Din?”

The sounds of bare feet padding across the floor nears, and the Mandalorian appears in your vision. Barefoot and clad only in a pair of loose gray lounge pants that tighten at his ankles. His abdomen is without cover, displaying an array of healing bruises and deep scars. You sit up, letting your feet hang off the bed. 

“You’re still here?” You look at the clock again. “At 1500?”

Din smiles, kneeling in front of you. He presses a mug of steaming Caf into your hands and a kiss to your forehead. 

“If it’s alright with you… I might be for a while.”

It’s your turn to smile as he smoothes away your bedhead. 

“No arguments.” You sip at the warm mug. “I’ll keep taking my Caf in bed, though.”

___________________________________________________

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Masterlist | Send me ideas

This made me laugh out loud and I hope no one was looking at me weird on my break at work 🤣😂

low hanging fruit

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo & gn!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: cock and balls and assholes (Dieter's), brief mention of waxing male genitalia, the word "perineum", allusion to past relations between Dieter and PA. word count: 1.9k summary: Dieter Bravo really wants a smoothie. What you want is for Dieter Bravo to put some fucking clothes on.

A/N: you have some thots and shenanigans in @dieterbravobrainrotclub to thank for this one. I cannot remember who first mentioned the assless chaps but here it is lads. here it is. (edit: I am reliably informed it was @bitchwitch1981 I hope you're proud of me bb)

Not for the first time in your employment for Dieter Bravo, you choke on your coffee, spitting the hot liquid down your chin as you round the corner into his kitchen.

"Dee!"

But, for once, he's not actually doing anything unusual. What he's doing is perfectly normal. Dieter Bravo is hinged at the waist, bending low with his head buried in a kitchen cabinet as he reaches for some old gadget he stashed there too long ago to really care about it. Normal.

No. This time, what Dieter is wearing is the thing that has you beating at your chest as you hack and cough up the droplets of coffee you inhaled in your shock.

He's topless - no surprises there - his tan, freckled shoulders shifting as he reaches and tries to balance himself with a hand pressing all his weight into the counter top.

His legs are covered in denim - a little unusual for a man who prefers a cool breeze running through his leg hair at all times, but not in any way shocking. Except, they're not pants. Not normal pants. Why would they be, this is Dieter fucking Bravo.

They're assless chaps.

And he's wearing nothing underneath.

The sight of Dieter Bravo's bare cock and balls dangling between his legs was the very first sight you took of him, mid-morning on a fucking Tuesday, and it damn near sent you into cardiac arrest. And he's shameless about it too, bending low, squatting a little with his legs as he rummages around, showing you absolutely everything he has to offer and not batting a single eye at the fact that you're stood there, right behind him, seeing it all.

Once the burn and rasp of liquid in your esophagus has eased off, you can finally take a few clear breaths. Ignoring the stain on your shirt - scalding coffee now rapidly cooling as it seeps further and further into the fibers of the formerly white fabric - you place what's left of your coffee down on the counter, slapping the mail you had tucked under your arm next to it, and hold on with both hands. What the fuck.

"Dieter, what the fuck."

"Oh, hey sweet cheeks," he shouts back to you, dangling his head between his legs so you have to look beyond the sway of his cock and balls to make eye contact with him. "You've got something on your shirt."

If not for the assless chaps, and the persistent view of Dieter Bravo's perineum, you would be rolling your eyes and stalking off to continue your day, letting him know you'd be throwing your shirt in with his dry cleaning for him to foot the bill as you turned your back on him. But you don't. You're dumb struck and speechless, stood stock still as you stare and repeat the same few words you've already said.

"What... the fuck?"

"I did put that smoothie thing in here, didn't I?" he asks in return, sticking his head back into the cabinet, and squatting even lower. The blood in your body has gone to your face. You can feel the heat of it as it floods your cheeks and rushes through your ears. You can feel it elsewhere too, superheating your body from inside out, burning you up as something stirs between your legs and in the pit of your stomach that you'd rather ignore. You try to tell yourself you've seen it all before, because you have. You've seen every inch of Dieter Bravo in a million different situations, most of which you wish you'd never seen at all, and some you wish you could see again, and again, and again...

Still, all you can do is stare at him. The curve of his spine and the soft globes of his ass cheeks framed by dark denim that climbs up his hips. That soft smattering of hair down his crack and across his balls, hair that you know he once had waxed off because you'd found him crying on the deck afterwards and he had shown you right there out in the sun.

"Have you seen it?"

You've certainly seen some things, you think. You're looking at something right now.

"Seen what..." you mumble, mustering the strength to tear your eyes away from him just as he rises with a groan, resting his hands on the belt at his hips with a frown. The last thing you want is to get caught staring - it'd do nothing but add to the ever growing list of things he'd never let you live down.

"The fucking smoothie thing."

"You have a blender, Dee. It does the same thing."

"It does?"

Pushing your thumbs into your eyes until sparks bloom behind you lids doesn't even make the image of him go away, bent over or stood upright as he is right now, so you release with a sigh and let your vision sparkle back to life.

"Yes. Now, what the fuck, Dee?"

"Fine, I'm an idiot, a blender can do the same shit as the smoothie thing I-"

"No, I mean what the fuck are you wearing?"

He stops, brain rebooting, flapping hands stopping midair and the frown falling from his face, before his eyes positively illuminate and he grins wolfishly at you.

"Do you like them?" he says looking down at himself. His cock is still out, hanging limply between his legs, the waistband around his waist and the fabric covering his legs doing nothing to give him any kind of modesty. In fact, it's doing the opposite, functioning more as a picture frame to highlight the appendage than to cover anything. "Took them from that movie I shot back in September, you remember that western? Found them again this morning."

"That's great, Dee, but I really don't think you're meant to wear them like tha-"

Dieter pads toward you, his feet soft on the kitchen tile, his usual socks and crocs combo ignored for the day, likely with the excitement of finding his new favorite item of clothing.

"It's like I'm covered, but free, y'know?" he explains, wafting his hands around again as if it'll churn the thoughts in the air for you to latch on and understand a little easier. And you do understand. Sort of. You love nothing more than lounging around in your apartment in nothing but your underwear - there is not joy greater than taking off shoes that pinch, or pants that are too tight after a big meal, or -

"And I can just see and touch my dick whenever I want. Do you know how amazing it is to use the bathroom like this?"

There he is. There's the Dieter Bravo you know and love - though you'd never tell him that. Sometimes one to think with his dick, but most often one to think of his dick.

"Dieter, that sounds great, I'm really happy for you, but -"

"Oh, wait!" he says again, before zipping back around to the cabinet and bending into a another low crouch. "Where is it..."

"Dee," you say, deadpan and monotonous as he rifles through the cabinet again. Whether Dieter chooses not to hear you, or he can't hear you over the chaotic whirl of his thoughts, you're not quite sure, but it doesn't matter because he bounces into a crouch your mind short circuits again. And when he raises his ass back in the air, you curse his new found love of yoga and his increased flexibility.

You don't know whether to laugh or throw yourself onto the floor with the spilled coffee, but when he clears his throat, head still in the cabinet, you swear it fucking winks at you and you can't handle it any more.

"Dieter, I can see your asshole."

Still bent over, Dieter stills. Of course, his asshole, cock, and balls are still bare for you to see, but at least now he's stopped waving the fucking things around. And then he's rising, twisting to look at you with a curious look on his face as if he's picking his next words very carefully. If years in Dieter Bravo's service has taught you anything, it's that you divert and distract him in these moments before he can jump to the strangest of conclusions.

"Just tell me the housekeeper hasn't seen your asshole too, Dee."

"Which one?"

"Dieter!"

"They were gone before I even got down here -"

"Dieter, you have to promise me right now that you won't wear those around the housekeeper. Or the gardener. Any of them. And if you do, you better be wearing underwear-"

"Why would I wear underwear with these -"

"You promise me. I'm serious, Dee, you don't need an indecent exposure or sexual harassment lawsuit on your hands. I don't need that on my hands."

You try to keep eye contact with him - something neither you or he particularly liked, but focusing on his face and his fluffy head of hair was the only thing keeping your eyes from wandering down to the perfectly framed picture of his dick. It's a battle of wills now. You know this, and so does Dieter. It's the reason why you'd manage to last so long as his assistant where others had failed. Dieter Bravo was a stubborn and persistent man, but you had him beat on both fronts. You occasionally gave in, to keep him sweet, but mostly you lived with him being grumpy with you until he moved on or you did something so incredible that he didn't care any more.

"Dieter..." you say once more, and you can see the cogs in his brain slowly click through until everything slots into place.

"Fine. I promise."

Letting out the breath you didn't know you were holding, you try to hold your gaze steady, and up, anywhere but down his bare chest - his fucking bare chest - to undoubtedly linger too long between his legs. You hope he doesn't see when you swallow thickly, muttering good with a small nod just as you pick up his mail and what's left of your coffee. If you turn quick enough you can probably get away with not seeing his dick again today.

"What about you," he calls to you just as you're about to make your maneuver. "Do I need to cover up in front of you? If I do that's not fair, you're here all the time, and you've seen it all before, you've even -"

"No." Fuck.

The word is out of your mouth before you even really think. It was a compulsion; your hind brain activating in a moment of desperation and giving you what you really wanted, and you could kick yourself. This is definitely going on the list, you just know it. Along with the ripped pants incident, that time you got far too drunk and ended up leaving a party with the model Dieter had his eye on all night, and whatever was going on with you two before you decided to - well. It was all on this list, and now it was going to be joined by this.

"No?"

"No, you don't need to cover up in front of me."

"Really? Amazing."

He's grinning. You don't even need to look at him to know he's grinning. You can hear the delight in his voice, borderline laughter in his chest as he scrubs a hand across his belly. You can't look anymore. You shouldn't look any more. "I'm gonna go sort this out."

"Because I know how much you like looking at my -"

"Shut up, Dieter."

And so it begins. Dieter bbs: @secretelephanttattoo @sp00kymulderr @schnarfer @freelancearsonist @fhatbhabie @chronically-ghosted