AHHHH AS SOON AS I READ THE TITLE I KNEW IT WAS GONNA BE GOOD

AHHHH AS SOON AS I READ THE TITLE I KNEW IT WAS GONNA BE GOOD

I forgot to post this here, but here's a thing! Updates Saturdays.

This must be how it happened

I'm beating my chest like a monkey and running around screaming this was so fucking GOOD AHHHHHHHHHHHH

Mutual

Pairing: Sex worker!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 7.2k Warnings: smut, sex work, first time p-in-v for reader, first kiss for Mando, fingering, unprotected p-in-v Summary: You pay a visit to the Mandalorian for your first time. Notes: Written for an anon request. The perspective shifts back and forth between Din and the reader.

Thank you so much to @thefact0rygirl and @fisforfulcrum for reading this over for me! xx

perfect gif by@bestintheparsec

DIN

In the beginning, Din is conflicted.

It’s such an appealing idea, though, that he can’t shake it once it occurs to him. There’s no question that he’d make more money and make it faster. He’d even be able to stay in one place—fuck, the absurd luxury of that simple prospect—and that would mean fewer credits spent on overpriced fuel and less time wasted in hyperspace.

Still, he feels hesitant. There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s been to brothels before, with no shame whatsoever. But there is no denying the fact that sex work would be a nontraditional choice for a Mandalorian, and that’s putting it lightly.

I could stop at any time.

Then, he realizes how readily the clients line up—and how much they’re willing to pay—and Din finally appreciates the nuanced effect his armor and mystique have on people. He’d always thought it was pure intimidation. He thought of himself as scary—as too menacing—and he did what he could to mitigate that in friendly company. He kept his hands in everyone’s line of sight. He moved slowly and carefully. He announced his intentions. He unclipped his Amban rifle and propped it against the table. He spoke softly, politely.

But now? He knows that in some cases, there is a healthy dose of attraction mixed into that fear. The staring, the stuttering, the lingering glances that trail down his metal-clad body, the inability to meet the severe gaze of his visor?

It turns out, for many, fear and lust share a blurred edge, and Din can make thousands of credits playing in that murky in-between space.

So he settles into it.

His average client is wealthy and adventurous. They’re senators and merchants and sometimes even royalty. A thousand credits an hour mean nothing to them. They want novelty. They want danger—or, really, the illusion of danger. Some want hunter/bounty role-play, some want restraints, some want gun or knife play. He’s open to it all.

His Creed remains intact: the helmet always stays on. Most clients insist that all of his armor stay on, in fact. They want the full experience. So he pleasures them with his fingers and his cock, and no one ever complains. He knows the reason for that is twofold: how can they be upset when they’ve cum six times? And who’s going to complain to a fully armored Mandalorian?

So now, Din spends his days in high-end hotel rooms on plush feather beds. He’s well-rested and well-fed all the time. He sends an obscene amount of money back to the covert.

It’s ridiculous how much better this life is—there’s no contest between being run ragged from hunting and this. He doesn’t chase credits anymore; clients come to him. And for him because he is excellent at this job. His endurance and attention to detail easily transferred between occupations.

The one disappointing constant though, the one thing about hunting he hasn’t been able to shake, is the loneliness. There’s little companionship in being a companion, he’s found.

*** YOU

This is a great idea.

This is a terrible idea.

You pace back and forth in front of the hotel room door, eyes fixed on the sleek metal floor under your feet, trying to control your frantic breathing.

You can’t believe you’re actually here…about to blow half your savings on a night with a Mandalorian.

You heard about him through your wealthy clients at work. They rave about him—about his attention, his hands, his shoulders… his armor, his cuffs, his voice. His cock. They whisper—loudly, purposefully—about their multiple orgasms.

You’ve been hearing about him for months. Getting hornier by the fucking minute.

Just do it.

You’ve already paid, credits wired over this morning, so you might as well get your money’s worth. I’m ready. You’re completely sure of that.

You stop in front of the silver door and reach out to swipe the key card across the scanner when another wave of embarrassment hits you—not because you’re here but because you’re going to have little to no idea what you’re doing.

And he’ll know.

That’s too much to take. You turn on your heel and stride away, but you’ve only taken two steps when the door slides open behind you.

“Hi.”

Fuck.

You whip around, your face set in a guilty smile. “Hi.”

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his elbow propped over his head, the other leather-clad hand tucked into his belt…casually, as if he hasn’t just stepped directly out of your filthiest daydream. He’s tall, broad… the black t of his visor fixed on your face, head slightly cocked, his silver armor glinting in the dim light. You can’t decide if you’re more intimidated or more turned on. He trails his gaze down your body, and you decide it’s definitely the latter.

“Are you here to see me?”

Shit, they were right: his voice is fucking sexy.

You take a steadying breath and say, “Yes.”

He steps back, gesturing you inside with a gloved hand. And that’s enough to make up your mind for you.

There was no way you were leaving once you saw him anyways.

*** DIN

The first thing he notices is that you’re just his type. If he met you anywhere else, he’d pursue you. That’s irrelevant though.

The second thing Din realizes is that you’re not his average client.

You look... normal? You’re not some heiress or politician. And you seem nervous in a very different way than he’s used to. Usually, his clients are excited, often a little apprehensive and awkward at first. You, on the other hand, look legitimately worried.

You immediately make your way to the bed and sit on the edge, looking anywhere but at him, your hands fussing together in your lap. He stands, watching you for a moment, his thumbs tucked into his belt.

He hasn’t encountered a you yet, but he knows what to do.

He turns and takes a seat on the couch across from the bed, a low coffee table between you, pointedly giving you plenty of space. He studies you for a moment, and raptorial interest stirs in his chest as he moves his eyes over your body—your parted lips, your gorgeous tits. Din tamps that down and focuses on the job, on getting you comfortable.

“What’s your name?”

You look up quickly and tell him, then ask, “What’s yours? They just called you The Mandalorian—”

“Mando is fine.”

“Right.”

He rests his arm on the back of the couch and lets the silence simmer for a moment. Then he gets the most important thing out of the way: “My helmet always stays on. No exceptions, no touching it.” You nod solemnly, and he continues, his voice low and smooth: “Tell me about you, what you like.”

“What I like?”

“Mhmm.”

“I don’t—uh—I don’t have anything in particular in mind,” you say, still not looking at him. “Just…” you trail off, gesturing vaguely at yourself and then at him as if that will explain. “I’m just—I’m not sure—well, okay so...here’s the thing—”

He can’t help but smile behind his helmet. You’re cute when you’re flustered.

“I meant in general, not just sexually.”

“Oh…right.”

You seem surprised but relieved to start somewhere easy. To his immense satisfaction, Din watches the tension leave your shoulders as you walk him through your job and your hobbies. He asks follow up questions throughout, and soon enough, you’re actually looking at him, eyes trained directly on his visor.

“What about you?”

“Me?” He’s not expecting you to turn it around on him.

“Yeah,” you prod, “tell me about you.”

So he tells you some general things about how he used to be a bounty hunter, and you listen with warm attention, leaning back to brace yourself on your palms. Every time he thinks you’re going to be ready to move on, you prompt him with another question.

You like his voice. He can tell.

That’s not uncommon, but usually clients don’t want to spend their valuable time listening to him make small talk. He indulges you though, enjoying the way you seem to be defrosting, relaxing. Soon, you’ve slipped back to rest on your elbows, your shoes kicked off and feet hanging off the edge of the bed.

Finally, you let the conversation dwindle, and you seem comfortable enough that Din decides to move forward.

“Tell me about why you’re here.”

You sit up a bit, some of the discomfort returning to your posture. You consider his request for a moment then blurt: “I’ve never had sex.”

The words hit Din like cold water, and everything makes sense—everything except why you chose him for this. People come to him to add spice to their sex lives not to begin their sex lives. Who chooses a Mandalorian warrior for that?

“This is your first time,” he states bluntly, trying to process.

“Yeah...it is.” You shift around on the bed and meet his visor again. “I mean, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been with men, just not…all the way. Is that okay?”

Din isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s never had to make this decision. He doesn’t know if it’s okay, doesn’t know if he wants this responsibility.

What he does know is that every time you look vulnerable, his hands itch to soothe you.

“Are you sure you want it to be with me?”

You look him dead in the eyes, even through the barrier of shadowed glass, and say, “Yes. I’m sure.”

For someone who came into the room so tentatively, with quiet steps and wringing hands, you look completely self-assured now. Your shoulders are squared and eyes clear. Din’s own uncertainty dissipates, and his gaze lingers on your slightly parted lips. Something primal nudges at his hindbrain, and a realization drips down his spine like warm honey: he decides he’s going to like the privilege of being your first time. He’s sure of that.

He nods.

That seems to embolden you because you stand then and cross the small space to sit next to him on the couch. Close. Almost touching.

You look up at him with bright eyes and ask, “Can I touch you?”

He chuckles quietly at the unexpected question. “Yes, you can touch me.”

You smile wryly at him, and he ignores the urge to brush his thumb over your bottom lip. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and places it on his knee in an effort to break the ice, but you don’t leave it there. You bring it up and trace the severe curve at the side of his helmet with a feather-light touch, your eyes fixed on his visor.

It catches him off guard, and Din stops breathing. He feels unnerved by your direct gaze—pinned and laid bare—like you can somehow see his eyes even though he knows it’s impossible through the dark tint of the glass.

His thoughts slow, and he sees in you what he sees in himself: you’re looking for intimacy, for closeness. What surprises him is that the barrier of his beskar doesn’t seem to be preventing you from looking for that—for finding that—with him.

You run your finger back up the arched line of metal, and somewhere vague in the back of his mind, he knows he should reach up and catch your hand in his, like he always does when someone tries to touch his helmet. Instead, he abides. He couldn’t tell you why if you asked. Maybe it’s because he feels sure you’re not going to try to remove it. Your expression is open, curious—reverent, even.

“Oh, fuck,” you curse suddenly, pulling your hand back like you’ve been burned by the cold metal. “I’m not supposed to touch your helmet. That’s your main rule—I’m sorry, I just—I got caught up. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Oh, right. That is a rule.

He nods, catching your hand and holding it between his. He wants to say it’s okay, to reassure you, but he knows he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be okay.

He brushes one hand over your cheek, and your guilty expression gives way to a smile. You scoot closer, your knee nudging his thigh. You’re quiet, your face serious, as you run your hands over the lines of his armor. Din watches your face, his helmet cocked as he studies you.

“Can I take this off?” you ask, looking up at his visor as you trail your fingers idly down his chestplate.

“Yeah, I can—” he reaches up to start the long process of undressing himself.

“No,” you say, stopping him with a hand. “Can I do it?”

“Yeah,” he says, “sure,” and shows you the complicated releases for his armor.

In general, if a client wants him naked—and they usually don’t because the armor is a large part of his appeal—they wait expectantly and impatiently for him to undress, knowing their time is ticking away as he removes each piece of beskar. So, undressing is typically a harried process of Din stripping as fast as he can while a client waits, tapping their fingers restlessly.

With you, the process is slow and intimate. You take your time to remove each plate and set them neatly in a row on the coffee table before moving on to his bandolier, his belt, his cape, his cowl. The last things to come off are his gloves, and when you spend a long time admiring his rough hands, he doesn’t know what to do or say. He lets you continue.

When you’ve stripped him down to his duraweave, you surprise him again by climbing directly onto his lap—asking, “Is this okay?” as you go—and settling in with your back against the armrest of the couch, your legs laid over his thighs, when he nods. He reacts on instinct, slipping an arm around your waist to hold you close.

You’re soft, your weight reassuring, and for some weird reason, his throat feels a little tight when you slide your arm around his shoulders and rest your head in the crook of his neck. He sets one hand on your thigh, the other rubbing reassuring lines up and down your back.

You stay like that for a long time, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. Din is not acutely aware of the passage of time like he usually is when he’s with his clients.

“Okay,” you proclaim unexpectedly, extracting yourself from his embrace and getting to your feet to stand in front of him. “I’m ready now.”

To your credit, you do look about a hundred times more relaxed.

But he likes this languid pace; he wants to maintain it. So he reaches out to catch your wrist and guide you back onto his lap, this time facing him on your knees, straddling his thighs.

“We have all night, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”

Din already knows you like his voice, but he watches the word sweetheart wash over you and realizes how much you like it. Your gaze softens, and your pupils dilate: some heady mixture of affection and lust shivers down your spine.

Din feels his own answering interest pulse through his veins. His vision narrows, and all he can focus on is your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to swipe across your lower lip. He’s grateful you’re perched over him, so you can’t see the very immediate effect you’re having on his lap.

It’s partially selfish—this desire he has to take his time with you. Some part of him feels a little guilty because he wants to take care of you because it feels good for him. It’s both, though. He wants it for you, and he wants it for himself too.

He cups your face, and you melt into his touch.

“Will you let me take care of you? Let me take my time with you?”

You close your eyes and nuzzle against his palm like a pleased cat, going supple and yielding in his hands. “Mmmm, yes.”

For the first time, Din thinks he might be in over his head.

*** YOU

The anxiety dissipates. You forget to be nervous. The acute feeling of cortisol singing through your veins is replaced by a pleasant haze, by a low thrum of pleasure, and you’re keyed into every place Mando is touching you. The sensations are overwhelming. They swallow you whole: his large, warm hand sliding up the back of your shirt, his cold helmet leaned against your temple, the pads of his fingers skating down your spine, the press of his muscular thighs against the insides of your legs.

You want more.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

Mando nods and reaches up to undo the short set of buttons at the top of his shirt, then pulls it up and over his helmet, tossing it somewhere on the floor.

Yes, this.

You splay your hands wide over his pecs and scooch backward on his lap to get a better view of the expanse of skin underneath you. He’s so warm and real, so human under all that metal, and all at once, you’re desperate to feel his skin against yours. You reach for the hem of your shirt, but before you can pull it off, his hand stops you. You look up at him, and he quirks his helmet.

“Can I?”

You nod.

You keep expecting to get acclimated to his voice—for it to stop thundering through your nervous system like a cloudburst of warm rain every time he says something in that low, rolling bass—but apparently that’s not going to happen.

He undresses you with careful hands, easing your shirt over your head. He urges you to stand, and he unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips, your hands resting on his bare shoulders.

Something about his concentration and care makes you even more needy—even more ready. When he has you down to your underwear and bra, he pulls you back onto his lap, and you melt against his solid chest, your lips finding his neck. You place a tentative kiss there, and he wraps his long arms around you and holds you close. Emboldened by the quiet hitch in his breathing through the modulator, you work your mouth over his neck while your hands wander, trailing over the thick, corded muscles of his arms, down the dark hair dusting his sternum, across his soft stomach.

The anxiety returns, hitting you like the wide side of a bantha, when your hand pauses between his legs. Shit. You pray that he’s fully hard because if he’s not…there’s no way anything bigger than this is fitting inside you.

The want running through your veins, however, is much louder than the fear.

*** DIN

Din feels it the moment your uncertainty returns, and he covers your hand where it’s sitting in his lap with one of his.

“We’re only going to do what feels good for you,” he reminds you gently. “Whatever you want.”

You nod against his neck then pull away to look into his visor, your fingers tightening around his cock. “I want this.”

He hums deep in his chest, his eyelids drooping closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your hand on his aching cock. He can’t help it—he wants you to want his cock. He knows he can make it feel good for you. He gives your hand an encouraging squeeze where it’s wrapped around him.

“I can make it feel good for you. I promise.”

You press your face back into his neck and make a sound of enthusiastic agreement—something between a hum and a whine that makes his cock throb.

Din’s control is slipping, and he knows it: that carefully constructed wall he keeps between himself and his clients seems to be ineffective with you. Or maybe, he’s tearing it down himself.

“Have you cum before?”

You tense a little under his hands. “Yes.”

He hums again, his mind flashing to a vision of you with your hand between your legs, panting and arching. His mouth waters. “Good. Are you ready for me to make you cum now?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He pats your thigh. “Let’s move to the bed.”

*** YOU

You lay out on the big bed, Mando kneeling beside you. He eases off your last layer, blindly tossing your bra and underwear over his shoulder, his helmet glued to your bare body. That black t rakes over you, raising goosebumps in its wake—down and back up—and stops on your face.

He watches your expression to gauge your comfort level as one large hand cups your breast, the other trailing down your body. You gasp—in relief and pleasure—when his palm rides the curve of your mound and he dips his fingers into you with a groan.

“Already wet?” he asks with a cocky little jaunt of his helmet.

You’re gearing up to reply with something sassy when he puts a sudden pressure on your clit—not moving his finger, just keeping it still and steady—to silence you.

The words die on your tongue. You drop your head back on the pillow and close your eyes. He waits a moment then circles his finger firmly, and your eyes snap back open, your mouth falling open in a soundless exhale.

He continues like that until you’re writhing and whining—pleading with gasped words and wide eyes—and he slips one… and then two thick fingers inside your slick cunt.

He takes you apart—once, twice—with expert precision, with care.

You watch his hands as he does. You can’t help but fixate on them when they’re wringing so much pleasure from your body. One works relentlessly between your legs, the other providing a grounding weight over your sprinting heart.

The hand splayed on your sternum rises and falls in tandem with your rapid breaths, the obscene spread displaying the range, the reach of him. His hands are big, wide—you study the meandering blue veins that fork like rivers between the mountains of his knuckles. His fingers are long and thick, his nails blunt and well kept. Utilitarian.

He presses up against something inside you that radiates pure bliss. You arch for him; you keen.

And you’re so caught up in the intimacy that your imagination runs wild: you can envision his hands doing other things—his palm smoothing over your fevered temple, brushing away a bead of sweat with aching care, just as much as you can see his knuckles split and bloody from the pure lust of possession. You want that. You want him to possess you, to leave someone else black and blue for coveting what is undeniably his.

The weight of his warm palm leaves your chest, and he glosses his knuckles over your bottom lip, dragging it slightly, opening your panting mouth a little more so your humid breath fans over his skin. The black void of his visor is fixed there, and you can feel the want in that gesture—the need. And for a moment, you can see past the helmet with perfect clarity.

He wishes he could be touching your lips with more than his hand.

You feel completely sure of that.

He shifts and leans into you, collapsing onto his side to spread out along your body, pressing his cold helmet into the space between your ear and your shoulder. You gasp and flinch back at the initial shock of contact but bring a hand up to keep him in place when he tries to move away.

You want him close—like having him here in your space as you cum around his thick fingers for the second time—but you can’t help but wish—

“Fuck, I want to kiss you,” you breathe against the curve of beskar.

As soon as the words are floating out there, though, you realize that’s a shitty thing to say to him when there’s nothing he can do about it.

He goes completely still and grunts through the modulator, and for the first time, you have no idea where you stand. You realize he’s been keeping you tethered this whole time—with his calm demeanor, his directness—because suddenly you’re adrift.

“Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know it’s—”

Before the words of your apology are out of your mouth, though, he’s pulling away from you, sliding off the bed and striding to the other side of the room. Panic surges through you. He’s been so good to you, given you everything you need, and still you asked for more.

You scramble to the end of the bed, perched on your knees. “I’m sorry, I won’t say it again, I promise—”

You hesitate when he stops in front of the small, square control panel on the wall by the door, punching several buttons. Before you can wonder what he’s doing, every light is extinguished, and the blackout curtains on the other side of the room close with a swish. You whip your head around at the sound, watching as the last sliver of the blinking city lights is doused.

You look back to where he’s still standing. “What are you—?”

His silhouette is imposing in the dark. The mattress dips when he sits beside you, and he reaches up, slipping his thumb under the lip of his helmet. There’s an unfamiliar hiss, and you watch in astonishment as he eases the black shadow off his head and tosses it carelessly on the bed.

Your heart stops.

You’re shocked into silence, staring at Mando’s dark outline.

You’re not sure who’s more surprised by this turn of events—you or him. You can tell he has stunned himself by the stiff way he’s sitting, completely frozen, all his ease and confidence gone. You feel a surge of affection at how human and vulnerable he suddenly seems. You can see the outline of his tousled helmet-hair, and you’re desperate to soothe him, to hold his hand and guide him through this softly.

Just as he was doing for you.

*** DIN

Suddenly, the roles are reversed. Din’s breath is shallow and shaky, and it feels like the basic control of his body has shifted from autopilot to manual without his permission. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. They’re sitting uselessly in his lap, and his arms feel unwieldy and long.

He’s lost.

And what’s even worse? He knows that you can tell he’s lost, even in the complete darkness.

Is this how you’ve been feeling all night? He’s struck in that moment by how brave you are for staying because after feeling this way—this untethered and unarmored—for about thirty seconds, he is on the verge of vaporizing.

He’d ripped off his helmet in a fog of overwhelming desire—of reckless, desperate passion. You’d whispered that you wanted to kiss him, and it felt like a sign. He had been fixated—possessed by—the same thing, and the tight space inside his helmet became unbearably thick and suffocating. Years of denying himself suddenly weighed too heavy on his shoulders, so heavy that his resolve splintered…but now reality is crashing down on him.

He’s supposed to be the professional here. You paid him for this, and his job is to know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s supposed to be making sure your first time is good for you, and he just let his own needs—his own wants—take the driver’s seat.

You slide closer to him on the bed, one of your palms settling reassuringly on his chest, and Din is acutely aware of how obviously his heart is pounding.

“It’s okay,” you say, your hand sliding upwards over his pec. “Can I—can I touch your face?”

He should say no. That’s too dangerous, too familiar. It’s not worth the risk. His heart hammers irregularly under your fingertips.

“Yes,” he says, and your soft hand cups his cheek. He shudders, leaning into your touch. It’s overwhelming. It’s electric—the sensation is so good and acute that it burns. He wants you to touch all of him, to kiss every plane of his face, to sear away the pain until all that’s left is pleasure.

Right on cue, you lean forward, and Din remains completely still, paralyzed by this unfamiliar feeling of being totally out of his depth. Some panicked part of him is convinced that if he doesn’t move at all, at least he won’t have done anything wrong.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” you whisper against his stubbly cheek. “I’m totally fine with just—”

The only thing he’s sure about is that he wants this.

He covers the hand on his chest with his own, his other large palm cradling the back of your neck, keeping you in place, and he can feel you smile against his cheek. He wants to tell you I want this—please kiss me, but he knows if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll hate the waver in his voice.

“Let me take care of you,” you say, reflecting his words back to him, and the ice in Din’s chest thaws. You’re sweet and soft, and he knows that even if he fucks this up, you’ll still be kind to him. In a way, he thinks he might be giving you exactly what you want. What’s more intimate than vulnerability?

It feels safe to move again. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, and holding you gently in place, he tilts his head and fits his lips against yours.

He starts slow—gentle and tentative. You’re patient with him: you let him acclimate to the sensation, grounding him with the steady presence of your hand over his stuttering heart, the other framing his jaw. You press a few light kisses to his lips and start to lean away, to give him some air, but he doesn’t want air—he wants this. He wants the vacuum of space, asphyxia.

Din curls his fingers firmly around the nape of your neck to lock you in place. He leans in and kisses you harder, pressing his mouth to yours until your front teeth click together. He huffs out his embarrassment and adjusts, but you’re unfazed. You venture further, parting your lips to deepen the kiss, sliding your tongue against his when he does the same, and Din is immediately addicted to your mouth.

He wants it everywhere.

He wants your tongue teasing his nipples, your spit dripping down the length of his cock, your teeth set against his neck, your lips mouthing over his balls.

He wants.

*** YOU

Mando moans against your lips, and you feel like you’re being given a gift with the raw sound of his unmodulated voice.

The kiss goes from sweet to needy, and you both feel it. All at once, you’re pulling him on top of you while he’s pushing you back on the bed. Awkwardly, without interrupting the kiss, you scramble backward together, feeling your way through the darkness until your head hits the pillow. He’s braced over you, a muscled thigh situated between your legs, his newly bold tongue in your mouth.

He pants against your lips, forcing the words out between kisses and labored breaths: “Are you ready for me, baby?”

Something inside you turns to liquid when he calls you baby.

“Fuck—yes, please—”

You can hear him working at the fastenings on his pants, freeing himself. Despite how wet you are and the fact that you’ve already cum on his fingers twice, you're braced for some amount of pain. You’ve heard it hurts. And his cock is massive—he shucks off his pants, and it’s resting heavy and thick and long against your inner thigh—so you’re convinced it’s going to hurt even more than you anticipated. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to focus on how good it feels when he kisses you, but you’re sure he can feel you tensing beneath him.

You’re desperate for him to fill the empty ache inside you, and you’re also scared.

The pad of his thumb smooths over your furrowed brow, and he pulls away: “Relax,” he purrs. “I promised to take care of you, remember? I’ll make this good for you.”

You nod in the darkness.

He presses his lips to yours again, and your entire body unclenches. Approval rumbles through his chest, and he kisses you deeply as two of his thick fingers sink easily inside you again. He pumps them languidly before easing a third in alongside them.

It’s so good and not enough.

“I think you’re ready for me.”

“Yes,” you breathe against his lips, “I’m ready.”

“I’ll go slow. Tell me if you want me to stop, if it hurts.”

You nod again, and he swipes his cock through your folds before he fits the blunt head against you. You cling to him, one hand around his neck, fingers tangled in his messy hair, the other flat on his back. He eases his hips forward, pushing just the tip inside, and you know he’s going agonizingly slow for your benefit.

Oh yeah, it’s fucking tight.

He murmurs brokenly against your parted lips as he slips inside: “That’s it. Tell me if it’s too much. Ngghh—you’re doing so good for me.”

It doesn’t hurt though. There is no pain. It’s uncomfortable for a minute. The stretch is new, and the pressure feels foreign, and then he’s all the way inside you, his hips flush against yours, and oh fuck—

He lets out a deep, desperate groan, and you whine loudly against his ear, but you’re so overcome with the feeling, with the sheer fullness that you aren’t even embarrassed by how needy you sound, rendered wordless by pleasure.

His voice is strained when he asks, “How does it feel? Are you okay?”

“Yes—you feel so good—so big—please fuck me,” you slur, and you can feel him smile as he huffs against your cheek.

He holds you close to his chest—to his beating heart—while he fucks you slowly, deeply, and the end of each one of his strokes touches something inside you that aches in the best way. He takes his time with you, just like he promised. You pant in the dark together—for minutes? Hours? Days?

“Tell me,” he prompts again, his voice a hoarse whisper, “tell me how it feels.”

You wish you had the right words for him, wish you could string together the requisite poetry. Instead, he gets a mumbled, “Fuck—mmm—Mando it’s so good—yes, like that—”

The way he sets his teeth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and moans makes you think he gets it anyway.

When the pleasure gets so acute that it requires remedy—when it’s so good it’s almost unbearable—you start to meet each of his thrusts, canting your hips up to chase the sensation, the fullness. He grunts lowly and responds to you: he pulls back to reach between your bodies, trailing a hand down your stomach, to start rubbing attentive circles over your clit.

“Knew you could take me—now you’re gonna cum on my cock.”

He starts to fuck you faster, and you do; he coaxes it out of you.

You pulse and tighten around him, and it’s different than what you know— a widespread pleasure, bone-deep and all-encompassing. You arch your back, nails digging into the skin of his neck, and let the heat roll through your body while he gives you his cock, again and again.

When it starts to fade, you melt into the blissful haze, muscles going warm and slack. You drop your hands over your head, and Mando reaches up to pin your crossed wrists with one huge hand, his elbow braced on the pillow beside your ear, as he follows close behind you.

After a few more punches of his hips, he rips himself away and cums across your stomach—warmth spattering across your skin—pumping himself with a broken groan.

You’re flattened, sweaty and panting, lost in the afterglow of the best orgasm of your life. He disappears into the ensuite refresher and returns with a warm washcloth, carefully cleaning you off as you catch your breath. When he returns again, he braces himself over you to kiss you deeply—and the press of your bodies, of your lips doesn’t feel new anymore. It feels familiar, comforting: like warmth and intimacy cultivated over time.

He rolls onto his back, slumping beside you on the pillow, your breathing a quiet chorus in the darkness.

You hear the muted rustle when he turns his head to look at you, so you do the same, admiring his dark silhouette.

“...are you hungry?”

“Starving,” you breathe.

And you both laugh, a long breathless laugh that has very little to do with the fact that you’re both hungry and everything to do with how easily your hands find each other in the dark.

Before you can ask what you should do about this conundrum, he’s rolling out of bed and sliding his helmet back on. You try to ignore your answering surge of disappointment. Of course it makes sense that he’d put his helmet back on.

He clicks one of the dim lamps on, and for the first time, you’re treated to the full view of him.

Your jaw drops shamelessly.

“What?” he asks, frozen.

The words are out before you can really consider them: “Stars, you’re pretty.”

He scoffs, shaking his head—the warm, golden lamplight skating over the mirrored surface of his helmet—as if you’re kidding. You’re not.

He extracts a datapad from the drawer of the bedside table, and the bed dips when he lays out beside you. He clicks it on and navigates around the interface, asking you what you want. While you decide what to order together—selecting enough food to easily feed four people—you admire the long spread of him, his wide shoulders, the hard lines of his hip bones, and the soft curve of his belly in this slightly hunched position. And all you can think about is how much you want to taste all of him.

When the food is ordered, he clicks the datapad off.

“How long will the food take?” you ask.

“Not long, probably half an hour—”

“Perfect,” you reply, a wicked smile on your lips, as you sit up and throw a leg over him to straddle his thighs. “Plenty of time.”

He tosses the datapad somewhere on the bed and pulls you down on his lap. “Oh yeah?” You can hear the smile in his voice. “For what exactly?”

“I’ll show you,” you purr. You lean forward and suck a hard kiss under his jaw, and he runs his hands up your back.

The long, low sound that emanates from his chest makes you think he likes this just as much as you do.

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t give you a hickey,” you laugh, sitting back on your heels to look into his visor.

“Mmm, I don’t mind,” he says, lazily tipping his helmet to the side and guiding you back in with a hand on the nape of your neck.

“Oh well, in that case…”

*** DIN

He shouldn’t let things go any further, shouldn’t let them spiral. It’s already gotten out of hand. Din knows he should leave his helmet on for the rest of the night and focus on the fact that this is a job.

…but he’s hungry. And he’s already taken it off once in your presence. Would a second time make it worse?

No, he decides, not worse.

And so he lets things bleed a little further into a muddy, unprofessional territory. Control slips a little further out of his hands, unspools.

Even though he should, he doesn’t really mind that feeling anymore. What felt like a loss of control is starting to taste like…joy?

You sit back-to-back on the bed, lights low and his helmet staring blindly next to his thigh, and chat while you eat. An hour passes easily like that, maybe two. He finds himself telling you about his life—his real life—when you ask. And you tell him about yours—about your past relationships, how you’d found companions and potential lovers but no intimacy, so you’d left each one and searched on.

That hits him somewhere deep in his chest.

When you’re done eating, you offer to close your eyes so he can turn the lights off again, to keep his helmet off. He should say no, thank you and put his helmet back on. He should leave it there—in its rightful place—for the rest of the night.

But he can’t take back what’s already happened—he doesn’t want to.

So he lets the line go a little more slack. And it feels good.

He agrees and shuts all the lights off, climbing back into bed with you and pulling you to his side. You don’t even have sex again. It doesn’t come up. You just lie together, close, always touching, and talk. You kiss, taking turns initiating long stints of making out, of mapping each other with your lips, but the rest of the night is largely not even sexual. Just… intimate.

His arm slung around your shoulders, your face settled in the crook of his neck. His head resting in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair.

For the first time in a long time, Din doesn’t feel alone.

It’s a night of firsts, apparently, for both of you. In addition to his first kiss, it’s the first time he falls asleep in the presence of a client. It feels natural though: his eyes drift closed late into the night, your head on his chest, your fingers laced through his.

*** YOU

When you wake in the morning, Mando is gone, the bed cold. You knew he would leave when the time you paid for was up, but the hopeful, sensitive part of you—the part that thought maybe, just maybe, he’d also felt something for you—still feels stung.

You stretch, and your body is the tiniest bit sore, but mostly you just feel just fucked-out and relaxed, warm and lazy. Some part of you wonders if it was a bad idea to have him be your first. You’re pretty certain it’s not ever going to be better than that.

Too late now.

You sigh and sit up, looking around for your clothes. You know you left them strewn all over the room, but now, you find that everything is folded in a stack on the dresser.

You slide to the edge of the bed, and that’s when you notice a note written in neat, squared-off letters on the bedside table.

It says what must be his real name, Din, and underneath, the digits of his personal com.

I'm foaming at the mouth barking. I can't wait to see Joel's Pov

title: my tears ricochet | part i

pairing: husband's best friend!joel miller x female reader

rating: chapter - t; full work - explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 7k

summary: after moving from new york to texas with your fiance, you expect to jump right into wedding planning with his help. when he claims to be too busy, he suggests asking his best friend, joel miller, to help you instead.

you weren't supposed to fall in love with him.

author's note: this story is a three part fic inspired by the song "my tears ricochet" by taylor swift. this first part is reader's POV, part two will be joel's POV, and the third part will be dual POV. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging or commenting!

chapter tags: modern au, infidelity, emotional abuse, the fiance is shitty, no use of y/n, single POV (reader), wedding dress shopping and other wedding planning activities, angst, arguing, alcohol consumption/mention, kissing, no smut. please let me know if i've missed any!

major work tags: modern au, infidelity, explicit sexual content, character death

You stare out at the manicured yard, watching as guests move about the grounds and waiters in black uniforms carry trays of food and drinks through the crowd. Your boyfriend -- wait, no, fiancé -- Alex laughs boisterously with your father, a hand on his back in easy familiarity. You know you should be down there with him given that this is your engagement party, but you were starting to feel overwhelmed by the constant smiling and greeting strangers and showing off your shiny new engagement ring that you needed a break.

The door opens and a man you don't recognize steps into the room, pale blue dress shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and a pair of wrinkled dress pants. He runs a hand through his messy dark curls.

"Sorry, I didn't think anyone would be in here," he says. As he looks you over, his brown eyes go wide with surprise. "Shit, you're the bride!"

You smile at him. "That's me," you reply. You hold a hand out towards him as you give him your name, his rough palm sliding against yours as he grips it firmly.

"I'm Joel Miller," he tells you. You know the name well, being that he's your fiancé's best friend. "Didn't mean to make our first time meetin' so awkward."

"No, no, it's not your fault. I've just been feeling a little overwhelmed with all the," you wave your hand towards the window, "festivities. It's great to finally meet you."

"I don't blame ya. They can get pretty stuffy down there. Congrats, by the way."

"Thank you." He lets go of your hand. "So, why are you hiding?"

He laughs, deep and full bellied. "Alex's mom doesn't like me much. I'm sure she was hopin' that we would stop bein' friends when he went to school on the other side of the country, but I’m like a stubborn tick."

"How could she not like you, Alex told me that the two of you have been best friends since kindergarten!"

"There may have been a few mishaps in high school," he says. "You ever tried eggin' your principal's house?"

"Can't say that I have," you reply.

"Well, it doesn't end well if you get caught." He looks out the window with a smile on his face. "We got arrested. Alex's dad had to bail us out. Probably had to throw some hush money around so that it wouldn't show up on his record when he applied to school."

"He's never told me that!" You say, laughing hard enough around the words that your stomach hurts.

The door opens and this time, Alex himself steps into the room. His serious expression morphs into a smile when he sees you and Joel.

"There you are," he says, crossing the room to kiss your cheek. He greets Joel with a hug, patting his back roughly. "What are you two doing in here?"

"I just needed a minute alone," you tell him.

"And I crashed her minute alone. Told her about the time we got arrested in high school," Joel adds. Alex's jaw tenses, his smile tight as his eyes flick to you, like he's worried about your reaction. "She laughed. It's all good."

"Right. Well, I came to find you because its time for the toast and dinner," Alex says. "Let's get back down to our guests."

A hand at the small of your back urges you towards the door before you can reply.

"Alex, are you listening to me?" You ask. Your fiancé looks up from his phone.

"I'm sorry, baby, I was finishing an e-mail," he says. He sets his phone down on the table, dark screen facing up, and gives you his full attention. "What were you saying?"

"I wanted to schedule the cake tasting. Do you have any free time this week?"

He grimaces. "I don't think I do, sweetheart. Your dad's got my schedule pretty packed."

"I can just ask him to--"

"No," he says sternly. "You know I have to make a good impression with the rest of the firm."

"But--"

"Babe, no. I can't do this week. Why don't you ask my mom? Or Joel?"

While your future mother-in-law is kind enough, you don't have much patience for the way she tries to take control of your wedding planning. Joel, however, might be a good idea. He knows Alex well enough to be a stand in for a decision like cake and icing flavors.

"Could you give me Joel's number?"

Alex smiles, seemingly pleased that he's off the hook as he takes his phone in hand and sends you his best friend's phone number.

You meet Joel at the bakery that week. To your surprise he's there before you, dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt and he smiles brightly at you as you approach.

"Hey," he says. "Ready to eat some cake?"

"I think this will be my favorite part of planning this whole wedding," you reply. He laughs as he pulls the door open for you to step inside, following in behind you.

"Welcome to Buttercup Bakery! Can I help y'all with anything?" A young woman with a name tag reading BEVERLY asks from behind the counter, pink and white apron tied around her waist.

"I have a cake tasting appointment," you reply, giving her your name for the reservation.

"Excellent! If you want to go ahead and take a seat anywhere you'd like, I'll bring out the tasting options and we'll get you squared away in no time!"

She disappears through swinging doors as you and Joel take a seat at a pink acrylic table with matching chairs. He looks around the shop with interest.

"What made you pick this place?" He asks.

"Had the best reviews," you say with a shrug. His brow furrows.

"Alex didn't suggest it? He helpin' you at all with this weddin'?"

He says it with a laugh, but the question makes you dig your fingernails into your palm. "He's just really busy with work. I've been doing a lot of the planning."

“What about your uh, what are they called? Bridesmaids?”

“They’re all back in New York. It’s just me.”

“I thought your parents were here, too? Isn’t Alex workin’ with your dad now?”

“It’s just my dad, he’s back in New York. His partner opened a firm in Austin and Alex is working with that office. He’s hoping to make partner soon, too.”

Joel nods, eyes scanning your face but you keep your expression as neutral as possible. The swinging doors open and Beverly returns with a marble tray, bites of cake artfully arranged on the surface. She sets it on the table between you and Joel.

“Okay! These are our six most popular flavor combinations for you to start with and if there’s something more custom you have in mind, we can totally make that happen,” she says. “Starting at the top, we have classic vanilla with vanilla buttercream, chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and chocolate buttercream, our signature champagne cake with strawberry buttercream, lemon cake with lavender buttercream, caramel cake with caramel mocha buttercream, and white chocolate cake with raspberry jam and white chocolate raspberry buttercream.”

Joel grins at you. “This might be the best thing anyone has ever asked me to help with.”

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Beverly says with a wink, walking back to the counter.

“I don’t know which to start with,” you say, eyes scanning the selections.

“That chocolate one is callin’ my name,” Joel replies, spearing one of the chocolate cake bites with a fork and taking a bite. He hums appreciatively. “Oh yeah, that one is a winner.”

You choose the vanilla to start, taking a bite of the moist cake with buttercream that tastes strongly of vanilla bean with a hint of cinnamon. The simplicity makes it good, but overall the flavor doesn't stand out to you. Joel continues to take bites seemingly at random while you opt to go around the tray in the order that Beverly introduced the flavors.

"Any of them stickin' out to you?" Joel asks when you've reached the half-way point.

"They're all delicious," you reply. "I think Alex would probably like the vanilla best, though."

"I didn't ask what Alex would like, I asked if there were any that you liked." He spears the remaining piece of white chocolate raspberry with his fork and holds it up to you. "Here, try this one next."

You eye the fork dubiously. "I don't think--"

Joel slips the bite of cake into your mouth despite your interrupted disagreement, smiling at you triumphantly. You chew the bite begrudgingly.

"I think that one and the chocolate one are my favorite," Joel says as you swallow.

Beverly returns at that moment, a notepad in hand as she pulls up a third chair to the tiny bistro table.

“So? What are your thoughts?”

“I think I’m going to get the vanilla,” you tell her. Joel’s jaw ticks, almost like he’s upset you’ve chosen the flavor that you said Alex would like. “But, could I get alternating tiers of the white chocolate raspberry, too?”

Joel’s lips quirk up in a small smile and you try to ignore the way it makes your stomach flip.

Joel: Have you picked flowers yet?

Not yet.

Joel: I know a place. You busy today?

You stare the at the message in surprise. You weren’t expecting to hear from Joel again, but his name on your screen has you fighting back a smile.

I’m not busy. When did you want to go?

Joel: They open at noon. Here’s the address.

“Baby, have you seen my blue tie?” Alex calls from upstairs. You drop your phone to the counter like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“Which one?” You reply, pressing a hand to your chest.

“The plaid one!”

“Should be in your tie drawer!”

“It’s not here!”

You pinch your nose, making your way to the stairs to join him in your shared bedroom. He’s standing in front of his tie drawer, hands on his hips as he stares at the contents. You peek over his shoulder and reach into the back, pulling out the neatly folded blue and green patterned tie.

He takes it from your hand. “That one should be towards the front. Can you remember that next time you put away dry cleaning?”

“Sure.” You bite your lip to hold back the sigh that threatens to spill. “You want me to tie it for you?”

“No, thanks, I need it to be perfect. Big meeting,” he says, his lips tilted in a smile that feels condescending. He leans into you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” you murmur, watching his back as he enters the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

Joel is waiting outside of a dark green storefront when you arrive at the address he’d sent you. He smiles when he sees you, a true one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, and it gives you this strange feeling of emptiness because you can’t remember the last time Alex smiled at you like that.

When you’re close enough, he pulls you into a hug that envelops you in strong arms and the scent of woods at nightfall with a hint of citrus. Your eyes flutter shut as you hug him back and breathe him in.

He releases you and immediately you feel a chill in losing his warmth despite the oppressive Texas heat. You look at the shop as he steps back, taking in the gorgeous floral arrangements in the window and cursive script painted on the glass that says PETAL TO THE METAL.

Joel opens the door to the shop, a brass bell ringing to announce your entrance. A man at the counter in the center of the store looks up and grins at you both.

“Joel! Nice to see you,” the man says. You watch as they shake hands with familiarity, the man behind the counter smiling kindly. “You must be the bride. I’m Frank.”

You give Joel a look of surprise before introducing yourself and shaking Frank’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you two know each other?”

“Joel’s an old friend of ours.”

“Ours?”

A back door bangs open, someone emerging with their arms so full of potted plants you can’t see their face. A deep voice let’s out a series of curses.

“This is my partner, Bill,” Frank says. “He’s not much of a people person. Great with plants, though.”

“A little help would be nice,” Bill grunts. Frank rolls his eyes but leaves the counter to take a couple pots from Bill’s hands, revealing a man with long brown hair and a grizzled expression hidden amongst a thick beard. Frank leans in and kisses his cheek.

“You need only ask,” Frank says. Bill’s cheeks turn pink beneath his thick facial hair. Despite the annoyed expression on his face, his eyes are soft as he watches Frank. “Let me grab you the event portfolio and we can talk about your wedding. Have a look around.”

As Frank leaves and Bill busies himself arranging the new plants, you and Joel wander the shop and take in aisles and shelves of different flowers with little gold name cards in their pots or on their buckets.

“So,” Joel says, “How are you liking Austin?”

“It’s…hot,” you reply. “Really, really hot.”

“That’s the south for ya, sweetheart.”

Your face grows hot at the endearment and how it seemed to just roll off his tongue. “Have you lived in Austin your whole life?”

“Texas born n’ bred,” he says proudly, puffing his chest out.

“You never wanted to live anywhere else?”

“I’ve always thought Wyoming sounded nice. A farm that I built, some sheep, no neighbors for miles,” he says wistfully. “Maybe someday.”

“Building a farm, huh? You good with your hands, Joel?”

He blinks at you. “Y-yeah. I mean, I’m a contractor. I gotta be.”

“That’s impressive,” you tell him, biting your lip to hold back your laughter at his flustered response.

Frank approaches, lifting a heavy book in his hands. “You ready to pick some flowers?”

Joel holds the door open for you as the two of you leave the flower shop an hour later. He waves goodbye to Bill and Frank with a promise to visit them for dinner soon before following you down the sidewalk.

“You wanna get lunch?” Joel offers. “My treat.”

You pull your phone from your pocket to check your messages and finding none from Alex, you think to yourself, why not?

“Sure,” you agree.

That's how you find yourself sitting on a bench in the park with Joel Miller, your husband's best friend, talking to him about everything and nothing as you eat street tacos from a food truck nearby. He makes you laugh so hard you choke on birria, the sauce dripping down your chin. He reaches out, wiping the mess with a brown napkin while he smiles so bright it puts the sun to shame.

Later that night, while you're in bed, you can't help but think today was the best day you've had in a long time.

And you're not sure what that means.

You begin texting Joel regularly. You ask him for his opinion on things that Alex can’t be bothered with — the suit colors for the groomsmen (navy blue), the invitation stationary (the linen finish), and favors (miniature bottles of hot sauce - Joel assures you this will be a hit with the Texas crowd). In between those conversations, he sends you pictures from his construction sites or asks you how your day has been and whether you had gotten the chance to check out that show he recommended.

When you tell Alex about the wedding decisions you've made, leaving out the extent of Joel's help, he hums and nods at the appropriate intervals, feigning attentiveness while his thumb moves rapidly across his phone screen. It should bother you, you think, that your future husband is so uninvolved with planning his own wedding, but then your own phone lights up with Joel’s name and a goofy photo he sent from a construction site, his hard hat askew on his head and his eyes crossed, and your annoyance with Alex fades into background noise.

There’s one last item on your checklist that you’re more nervous to ask Joel for help with than the others — dress shopping. You could probably fly back to New York and be with your friends for the momentous occasion but you’re certain that Alex wouldn’t appreciate your absence for something he considers so frivolous.

Not that you say anything when he’s gone for his golfing trips.

You’re staring at Joel’s contact screen, working up the nerve to call him and ask him if he’d be willing to come dress shopping with you, when it lights up with an incoming call, his name at the top of the screen like just your thoughts summoned him. You answer on the third ring.

“Hey, I was just about to call you,” you tell him.

“So that’s why my ears were itchin’,” he laughs. “You need somethin’?”

You take a steadying breath. “I just have one more thing I need help with and then you won’t have to deal with me.”

“I don’t mind helpin’ you, sweetheart.” You stomach flutters at the nickname and he clears his throat to fill the loaded silence that follows his words. “Now, tell me what you need.”

“Could you come dress shopping with me?”

“That all? Just tell me where and when,” he says. You breathe a sigh of relief, giving him the details of the appointment you made at a local boutique. He promises to meet you there this weekend before hanging up.

The word sweetheart in Joel’s deep voice echoes through your mind for the rest of the day.

Joel looks hilariously out of place on the pristine white couch located in the middle of the dress boutique, a dainty glass of champagne held in his large hand. You sit beside him, your legs touching as you watch the sales associate flit around the store, pulling hangers of dresses from the racks.

“That’s a lot of dresses,” Joel comments, taking a sip of champagne.

“You not up for the challenge?” You tease. He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his wide smile.

“Trust me, I’m up for the challenge. We’re goin’ to find you the best damn weddin’ dress Texas has ever seen,” he promises.

“Alright, I’ve got some gorgeous choices here for you,” the associate announces, holding up a handful of ivory hangers draped in all types of fabric from satin to chiffon. “You wanna follow me and we’ll get started?”

You follow her to the fitting room and she sets the hangers on a rack, fanning out the dresses so that you can get a better look. There’s five of them in a variety of styles, including an impressive ball gown boasting layers of tulle that trails to the floor.

“I’ll try that one first,” you tell her, pointing to ball gown.

“What’s your fiancé’s name?” She asks as you undress, taking the gown from the hanger and arranging it on the floor for you to step into it.

“Alex,” you reply. She drags the bodice up and instructs you to hold it to your chest while she laces up the corset back.

“I think it’s sweet that you’ve brought him with you.”

“Oh, no. That’s Joel, he’s my husband’s best friend.”

“Really?” She asks, the strings tightening around your waist. “The way you two look at each other, I would have bet money he was the one marrying you." You're about to ask what she means when she finishes tying off the bodice and says, "Wow, this dress is stunning on you."

Her comment retreats to the back of your mind as you look at yourself in the mirror. The strapless white gown hugs your chest and waist, flaring out into a layered skirt with lace appliques. There's beading on the sweetheart neckline that trails down the bodice in intricate patterns that catch the light of the fitting room. The dress is stunning.

Marnie leads you back out to the showroom, helping you step up onto a raised platform in front of a trifold mirror that shows you your reflection from multiple angles. You twist and turn, taking in all the details of it before finally facing Joel.

"Damn," Joel says. "That sure is one hell of a dress."

"It's...a lot." You twist your hips from side to side, the heavy skirt swishing across the floor. "I feel like a cupcake and I don't know if I'll be able to dance in it."

"You wanna test it out?"

He's standing before you can respond, reaching a hand into yours to guide you down from the pedestal. When you're on the floor, he wraps an arm around your low back, pulling you close while swaying side to side.

The world around you goes a little blurry and the only thing in perfect clarity is Joel. The feel of his hand in yours, the weight of his arm at the small of your back, the clean smell of soap and citrus, everything is just....Joel.

"How's it feel?" He asks, voice low. You tilt your head back to look up at his face.

"Huh?"

"The dress...dancin'...how's it feel?"

The question drags you back to reality, where you're currently dancing around a bridal salon with a man who isn't your fiance. You pull away from him, returning to the pedestal as the bridal associate joins the two of you again.

"Uh...I don't think this is the dress for me. Can we try the next one?"

You try on two other dresses in quick succession, neither of them leaving a lasting impression. It's the fourth dress that really gives you pause as you look at yourself in the fitting room mirror.

"Honey," the associate says, adjusting the off-the-shoulder sleeves of the dress, "This dress was made for you."

The scooped neckline highlights the lines and curves of your neck and shoulders, the corset bodice hugging your curves in satin folds. The skirt fans out from the waist, similar to the silhouette of the ball gown without all the additional weight and fabric and a thigh high slit allows for some extra movement.

She leads you back out into the showroom and helps you once more onto the pedestal. You grin at your reflection as she fixes the skirt into place.

"Well?" You ask, catching Joel's eye in the mirror. His mouth is set in a serious line, brows pinched together and his arms crossed over his chest. You own smile falters. "You don't like it? What's with the look?"

He shakes his head, his serious expression morphing into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You look..." His voice trails off and he clears his throat. "Alex is a lucky son of a bitch."

You laugh, lifting the skirt so that you can step off the pedestal. Joel's eyes drop, his gaze fixing on the skirt as you walk towards him.

"You think so?" You ask quietly, stepping in close.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs. A single finger runs down your arm, goosebumps erupting over your skin in its wake. "I know so."

With the wedding plans finalized, your attention returns to your work as a web design consultant. Your client portfolio starts to build once more, keeping you busy in the months leading up to your big day. Alex remains focused on his work at the firm, working long days and longer nights that have him arriving home well after you've gone to bed, the two of you just ships passing in the dark. You would feel lonely, you think, if not for Joel.

The two of you still message each other frequently, though you don't see him again until a month before the wedding, when Alex invites him over for dinner one Saturday night.

The doorbell rings just as you put the chicken in the oven and you wipe your hands before going to answer it, your heart racing. Joel's sweet smile greets you when you open the door and seeing him across the threshold has the tension in your shoulders easing the slightest bit.

He steps across the threshold, strong arms wrapping around your waist in a tight hug. Footsteps on the stairs have him releasing you far sooner than you would have liked.

"Joel, my man! Glad you could make it," Alex says as he reaches the first floor. "Honey, is the table set?"

"No, not yet," you reply.

"You need any help?" Joel asks. You open your mouth to respond, but Alex jumps in to say, "No, she's got this. Let me give you the tour."

You watch as Alex leads Joel upstairs, commanding his friend's attention. You swallow down the anger that rises in your throat at your fiancé's dismissal and return to the kitchen, gathering the place settings and arranging the table to his liking.

"It's a nice place," Joel says as the two men enter the living room, which opens to the kitchen and dining areas.

"All that work finally paying off," Alex comments. You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to mention that you were the one who fronted the down payment for Alex's choice of home in Texas. The oven beeps and you pull out the chicken parmesan that had been baking.

"Smells good," Joel comments. You look up, catching his eye. A wordless understanding passes between you, a quiet appreciation that makes your blood run hot.

You plate the food while your fiancé uncorks a bottle of wine and pours it into the wine glasses at each place setting. Alex settles in at head of the table and Joel takes the seat to the left, leaving you with the seat to Alex's right, across from Joel.

The three of you make small talk between bites of dinner and sips of wine. Alex asks Joel about the contracting work he's been doing, Joel asks him about his work at the new office and how he's settling in, being back in his home state. It's halfway through dinner that Joel looks to you and asks, "Are you excited for the wedding next month?"

"Of course," you reply, fingers tangling in the cloth napkin resting across your lap. "Planning it was a labor of love."

"Right, thanks for helping her with the cake, man," Alex chimes in.

Joel chuckles. "Helped with a lot more than just the cake."

"What do you mean?" Alex asks, glancing between the two of you.

"Well, I helped get the flowers, the cake, pickin' out the stationary. Dress shoppin'," Joel clarifies. Your stomach drops as Alex's jaw grows tense, his brow pinched as he nods and pastes on a forced smile.

"Wow, I didn't realize you'd been so involved," Alex says. He removes the napkin from his lap, setting it on the table. "Would you excuse us for a second?"

Alex stands, looking down at you expectantly. You smile at him and Joel in turn, but the expression feels hollow and you taste bile in the back of your throat. As soon as you're on your feet, Alex has a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, urging you along behind him as he makes his way towards the stairs.

Once he's reached your shared bedroom, he turns to you, eyes filled with rage. “What the fuck is that about?”

“What do you mean?” You ask. He laughs, the sound devoid of any humor.

“He helped you pick out your dress?” Alex paces the length of the bedroom like a caged animal and for the first time in your relationship with him, a frisson of fear courses through your veins. “You can’t possibly be that fucking stupid?”

“Excuse me?” You snap. “You told me to ask him for his help!”

“With the cake!” Alex shouts. “Not the entire goddamn wedding! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“You weren’t exactly offering much help, Alex!”

His eyes narrow. “I thought you would be perfectly capable of planning shit on your own, but I guess that was giving you too much credit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask. “Why are you being such a fucking asshole right now?”

“Because you’re my fiancé, not Joel’s!” He steps in close, towering above you as he hisses, “Did you fuck him?”

“No!” You shout.

His eyes search yours and whatever he finds seems to extinguish his anger, his coiled muscles loosening. He grips your shoulders, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you head back downstairs and I’ll stay up here for a minute to cool off, okay?”

The sudden switch leaves your head spinning but you manage to nod. Alex kisses your forehead and you take that as your cue to leave, escaping the confines of your room. In the hall, you grip the banister of the loft that overlooks the living room and take the first real breath in what feels like ages, your eyes squeezed shut as you try to calm your racing heart.

You return to the kitchen and Joel’s head snaps up when you enter. He rises from his seat at the table, rushing to your side.

“Are you okay?” He asks, low voice filled with concern, his brows pinched with worry. “What the fuck was that?”

“Just a misunderstanding,” you murmur, pushing past him.

“That’s bullshit,” he hisses. “Is he always like that?”

“Like what?” You sigh.

“An asshole. Yellin’ and threatenin’ you.” His fists are clenched at his sides. “He ever hit you?”

“What? No, of course not.” You take a deep breath, beating back the wave of tears pressing at the corners of your eyes. “He’s just got a lot going on with the move and work and the wedding.”

Joel is quiet, watching you with keen brown eyes that you, for once, wish weren’t focused on you. He steps close, voice low as he says, “Be honest with me, sweetheart.”

“I’m fine, Joel,” you tell him. The lie claws at your throat and sends your stomach into a tailspin. “I promise.”

Footsteps echo on the stairs and you step away from Joel, busying yourself with loading the dishwasher, clearing the counters, anything to keep your hands occupied and stop their shaking. Alex enters the kitchen with a sharp smile.

“Hey, man, sorry about that,” he says, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “I think we’re ready to call it a night. Ain’t that right, honey?”

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Alex as you smile and say, “Yeah, baby.”

“Let me walk you out, Joel,” Alex says. “Honey, say bye.”

“Goodbye, Joel.”

Joel: Hey

Joel: You having a good week?

Joel: Been a while. You doing okay?

Joel: You’ve been quiet

Joel: I need to know you’re okay.

Joel: Just let me know

Joel: Please

“Just two more days until you’re my wife,” Alex says, pressing a kiss to your lips. He smiles at you and you mirror the expression as best you can.

“I can't wait,” you reply.

"I gotta get going," Alex says. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he passes where you're sitting at the bar. "Love you."

"Love you," you repeat, out of reflex more than affection.

The front door slams shut and quiet settles over the house. All you want to do is crawl back into bed and pull the covers over your head in the hopes that it protects you from the way time continues to creep forward despite your uncertainties. Maybe, if you lay there long enough, time will move on without your involvement.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. You’re not sure who it could be — your dad is scheduled to fly into town in the late afternoon and your friends arrive early tomorrow morning and you’re fairly certain you don’t have any deliveries scheduled. Sliding from the bar stool, you leave the kitchen to answer the door.

Joel stands on the other side of the threshold, haloed by the morning sun. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’re dreaming.

“What are you doing here?” You finally ask.

“Can I come in?” He replies, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I need to talk to you.”

You step aside and allow him to enter the hallway, shutting the door behind him. You avoid his gaze as you return to the living room with him following behind you. The silence that settles between the two of you makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

"Why haven't you been talkin' to me?" Joel asks. He takes a step closer, brown eyes searching yours for an answer you try to keep hidden.

"I've been busy," you say.

"Cut the bullshit," he snaps, surprising you. "Is it because of what happened at dinner?"

"No," you reply. Joel must sense the brief hesitation, hear the weakness in your voice. His eyes go soft, full of pity, and you can't fucking stand it. "Don't look at me like that."

"Look, I've known Alex a long time, and all those years weren't exactly peachy," he says cryptically. "I love him like a brother but even family ain't without faults.” He steps in close, his hands cradling your face in a delicate grip. “Tell me this is what you want," he demands. "Tell me that you're happy with Alex. Tell me that there's nothin' here between us."

The words are there, right on the tip of your tongue, but nothing can bring them to life. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm against your ribcage, the rush of blood in your ears the only thing you can hear. He leans closer, eyes dropping to your lips and you know what's about to happen next but you can't bear the thought of stopping him as he closes the scant distance between your mouths.

For the briefest moment, you allow yourself the chance to just feel. No thoughts, no panic, no worry. Just Joel's warm lips moving against yours, the trace of his palm from you cheek to behind your head, pulling you closer even though you're already tightly pressed to him. It's slow and deep, like he's trying to convince you down to your marrow that this is where you're supposed to be.

But it's not.

You push him away and he doesn't fight you, but the look he gives you damn near shatters your resolve. His eyes are dark, jaw tense, hands flexing at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach out and pull you back, damn the consequences. Your eyes and throat burn with the effort of holding back the tears that threaten to spill.

"You need to leave," you whisper. "You can't do this, we can't do this. I'm getting married in two days, Joel!"

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling on the strands in frustration. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't lay awake at night thinkin' what a fuckin' asshole I am for fallin' in love with my best friend's fiancé?!" He shouts.

"This isn't love, Joel--"

"Don't," he snaps. "Don't you lie to me. I know it, you know it, hell, the fuckin' lady at the dress shop knew it!" He takes a deep breath. "I'm showin' you my whole hand here and you won't even lay down a goddamn card!"

"There is no card!" You shout.

"You kissed me back!" He counters.

You stare at each other for a long moment, like two scared, wounded animals. Eventually, one of you has to back down, retreat, lick their wounds until they've healed in a messy pattern of scar tissue that will serve as a painful reminder of what could have been.

Joel sighs, another pass of his hand through his hair as he says, "You know what? Fine." He turns to leave, the line of his shoulder lower, his head low.

A glutton for punishment, you call out, "Joel?"

"Yeah?" He asks, weary. Bone tired. You feel it, too.

"Will you still be there tomorrow?" You ask, unsure of which answer would be worse.

Another sigh. "Yeah. I'll be there."

The door slams shut behind him.

Your rehearsal dinner is torture.

This should be one of the happiest events of your life but all your energy is being directed at avoiding Joel like the plague. He moves through the crowd comfortably, having known many people in attendance for most of his life, and you feel like an unmoored boat, hoping a wave doesn't crash over you.

Alex sits beside you, drinking from a glass of whiskey as he talks to one of his uncles that has been praising him for landing the opportunity to work with such a prestigious law firm right after college. A dizzying rotation of people approach you through the night - friends who chatter excitedly about the big day tomorrow, aunts who ask when you think you'll have children, uncles who tell you that they're proud of you for landing such a successful, promising young man. It's those last comments that have you hiding a frown in your champagne glass.

It drags on forever, this constant stream of polite conversation and forced smiles. When you finally return to the hotel that you're staying at for the night, you start to feel like you can breathe again. You have a suite separate from Alex's for getting ready early in the morning and he walks you to your room, hand on your low back, a smile on his face.

"I'll see you in the morning," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. "My almost wife."

The sentiment has bile rising in your throat and as he turns to leave you're blurting the words, "I can't do this."

"Sweetheart, you're just nervous," he says, voice surprisingly calm. He squeezes your shoulders. "You just need to sleep it off and everything will be fine in the morning."

"No," you tell him, shaking your head. "No, it won't be fine."

His smile drops, like a mask has just been removed. "Where is this coming from? Everything was fine at the rehearsal."

"Everything was not fine at the rehearsal!"

Alex takes the room key from your hands, unlocked the door and ushering you inside. He flicks on the light to the sitting area and takes a seat on the couch.

"What's going on with you?" He asks, exasperation dripping from his words. "What do you mean the rehearsal wasn't fine? Did you not like the food or something?"

You stare at him incredulously. "The problem wasn't the food, Alex! The problem is us!"

"There's no problem with us," he says. "Unless there's something you want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?" You ask.

He stands, coming close. "Is this about Joel?"

"No!" You snap, perhaps too quickly. "This isn't about Joel."

"Then what is it? Because as far as I know, we're a perfectly happy couple."

"Perfectly happy? Alex, you didn't even help me plan this wedding. Not a single minute of it."

"Not this again," he groans. "Sweetheart, let it go. I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you need to hear?"

Your jaw aches with how hard your teeth grind together as he dismisses you so easily. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth steadies you enough to say, "I'm not marrying you."

"Baby, please," Alex says. For the first time, he sounds panicked. "Don't make any rash decisions, alright? Whatever this is, we can work through it. If I lose you, I lose everything."

Maybe he's right. Maybe the stress of the last few months has just caught up to you.

"Okay," you whisper. He breathes a sigh of relief and presses another kiss to your temple.

"I love you," he says. "Everything will be okay after tomorrow. You'll see."

You don't say anything back, and he doesn't wait around for a response. He leaves your suite, the click of the door shutting loud in the late night silence. You stand there for who knows how long, wondering if he's right. Would everything be alright after tomorrow? Could you sweep those lingering feelings for Joel to the side in favor of the life you'd been building for the last few years?

You know what the safe choice is, but is it the right choice?

It's the morning of your wedding day and you've been poked and prodded with makeup brushes and your hair has been perfectly styled for the occasion. Flashbulbs have been going off on the cameras that are documenting your special day, capturing moments like your bridesmaids helping you into your dress and your dad's first look, a handkerchief clutched in his hand as he smiled at you.

For the first time in hours, you're alone in your suite. The makeup artist and hair stylists have packed up and taken their leave and your friends are downstairs, waiting for the limousine. You told them you would be just a minute longer.

A soft knock at your door has you realizing that you may have taken too long and you shout an apology as you rush to answer it. But it's not one of your friends on the other side like you had expected.

It's Joel.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. His hair is styled, curls smoothed and slicked back into submission. His white shirt is a stark contrast to his navy blue tuxedo, matching bow tie tight around his neck. His boutonnière is slightly crooked where it sits pinned to his jacket lapel. He looks you up and down with a small smile.

"You look beautiful," he says. He reaches for your hand, fingers tangling with yours. Never quite folding together, but never quite letting go, either.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Are you ready?" He asks. You wonder if he knows, if Alex told him or if he can just see it on your face.

"Yes."

It's a lie, one you've been repeating since your alarm went off this morning after a night of tossing and turning. His smile falters, but doesn't drop.

"Good, that's....good," he says. His hand leaves yours, and you feel like you've had an entire unspoken conversation that's left you both defeated. "Lets go get you married."

Joel Miller masterlist

All masterlists

divider graphic by @saradika-graphics.

Me crossing my fingers and praying: please be a series please be a series

eyes on the monitor

pairing: mike schmidt x f!reader

summary: mike catches something on the security cameras that really shouldn't be happening at a family-friendly pizzeria—even an abandoned one

warnings: 18+ MDNI, stranger!reader, submissive!mike, trespassing, smut, m&f masturbation, public masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, squirting, finger sucking, cum eating, looming danger

word count: 3k

Mike has seen a lot of things on the security monitors in his three short nights working at Freddy's. 

Old animatronics that still roam about like they're possessed, cryptic messages written on dusty windows and mirrors. But he can honestly say he never saw this coming.

As the cameras shift from right to left, one of the screens glitches and crackles, and then there's you, tucked into a booth like you belong there. Except you don't. He's not even sure how you evaded his notice, let alone how you got into the building.

Don't you have any idea what's lurking in these halls? The dangers that patiently wait behind the curtained stage not even ten feet from where you're sitting? From where you're...

Fuck.

There's no way you possibly can because you're still lounging there without a care in the world, your legs spread wide and your jeans dangling off one ankle while you fuck yourself on your fingers. Two of them, your ring and middle, pump a steady rhythm in and out, dribbling slick all over the vinyl beneath you. You're so wet, even the camera's picking up the refracted light from the prize counter glinting off your pussy.

He should be panicked. He should be halfway to the auditorium by now to stop you, to drag you out of the pizzeria before the unthinkable happens, but—

But he can't bring himself to move or stop watching. He can't stop himself from palming his stiffening cock through his pants, either. Your head lolls back onto the booth and your body readjusts, giving him the perfect view of your languid movements. Now, it's almost like you're on display just for him.

And suddenly, he doesn't care about Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, or Foxy. He definitely doesn't care about his job or whatever else that career counselor said on the phone. The only thing Mike cares about is getting his dick out as fast as humanly possible so he can match the calculated press of your fingers and your frustratingly unhurried pace. 

You're thoroughly enjoying your pleasure—that much is clear—and it would be so easy to just...join in. He'd planned on sleeping through his fourth night, but now that you're here, there's nothing else he'd rather be doing than spending his shift fucking his fist and pretending it's you.

It'd be wrong. So, so wrong, but as you continue on, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil, he can feel himself getting harder and harder. There's a growing wet patch on the front of his sweatpants that's getting difficult to ignore, and he nearly moans as he grinds the heel of his hand into his lap for relief.

His gaze trails down your figure, surprisingly clear on the aging monitors, and he watches, dry-mouthed, as your unoccupied hand snakes up your body to tweak a nipple through your shirt. 

Fuck it, he can't take this anymore.

He yanks his pants down so fast, he's shocked he doesn't knock himself onto the floor, and hisses out a breath the moment his fingers wrap around himself. It aches with how good it feels, but he only allows his eyes to roll back for a split second before they're locked back on you. 

And you're sexy as hell. Your shirt's been tugged up and tucked under your chin to reveal that you decided to forgo a bra, in addition to the rest of your inhibitions, and he's thanking every deity he doesn't believe in that he doesn't have to imagine the plush curve of your tits and how they'd look sucked into his mouth.

Crap. He can't keep thinking shit like that if he wants to last longer than a few minutes. Ignoring the angry pulsing against his palm, he starts to stroke himself in time with your thrusts, diligently following your lead. But you're moving so slowly like you've got all the time in the world in this abandoned wonderland you've claimed for yourself, and Mike's time is limited. 

The longer this night goes on, the more restless they become, and it won't be long before those curtains open and you're interrupted. For good. There must be something seriously wrong with him, because he doesn't give a shit about that, either. They can wait. He's got another job to finish, and he needs this.

It's been so long since he last allowed himself to let go, and even longer since his body actually wanted to. He's harder than he's ever been in his life, and it's confusing and a little painful, and yet he hopes he lasts until his alarm goes off at 6 a.m., teetering on the edge of nirvana right alongside you. He wants you to make him cum so badly, and he knows you will, even if you don't know it yourself.

Tiny, hushed pleas escape him as your fingers speed up, begging you to coax him, to encourage him to be good for you and follow your every move. His office is too far from the auditorium for his words to carry, but he continues to moan them anyway, desperately. Obediently.

His eyes flutter closed as he succumbs to the fantasy of your lips grazing the shell of his ear, giving him firm instructions and praising him when he proves how well he can listen.

Such a good boy for me, Mike. A little faster, not too much. Nice and tight, just like that.

"Fuck. Like this? Is...is this okay?" he whimpers aloud, thumbing over the tip on his next upstroke. 

His hips buck into his hand at the sensation, and he grits his teeth, anticipating an admonishment that never comes. He's more than a little disappointed. 

That is, until he hears it, crystal clear as it filters through the cracked door and reverberates through his entire body. A needy, perfect moan, rising in pitch and volume with each passing moment. Yours.

You must've heard him, somehow. It's the only explanation. He has no idea how long he's been babbling, drunk on the tight, slick slide of skin against skin, but you're responding to it encouragingly like he's only ever imagined in his wettest dreams.

Mike's eyes shoot open, darting back to the monitor, and he has to grip the base of his cock tight to keep from cumming then and there. You're staring directly at the camera now, your chest heaving as you fuck yourself with three fingers, and he winces at how quickly his balls start to tighten.

He's going to cum. Shit. Shit.

But you didn't tell him he could. You're not even aware of the power you hold over him, and yet—

"You sound close, baby. You gonna cum for me?"

He sees your lips move and then your voice rings out a moment later, breathy and labored, and...how the fuck did you end up in this place? Who are you? He fucks into his fist frantically, leaking precum all over his fingers, and he can feel sweat matting his dark curls to his forehead, pooling where his aching wrist meets his hip bone. 

Maybe it doesn't even matter how or why you're in this pizzeria, not anymore. He can't stop anyway, not when you're urging him on and calling him baby. He feels delirious, blind to the rest of the security monitors and newly flickering lights. To the purple curtain slowly opening behind you.

Right now, it's just you and him. The familiar, searing heat in the pit of his groin, and the wet squelch of your fingers stroking your convulsing walls and rubbing tight circles into your clit—you're both so close, he knows it. He just needs you to say it. He needs your permission.

"Only if—," he gasps, belatedly realizing that his other hand is cupping his balls, squeezing reflexively without his permission. "—only if you say I can."

He watches your jaw drop, and your thighs begin to quake in response. Quicker than he can process, there's a sudden shift, and your gaze darkens mischievously to match the subtle quirk of your lips. You're in control now and you know it. You like it. He does, too.

Your pace doesn't slow at all and, instead, your hips begin to swivel into your touch, grinding into the sticky vinyl bench for more friction. 

So, that turns you on, huh? If he strains his ears, he swears he can just make out the squeaking of a diner booth being pushed to its limit. He's never been more jealous of furniture in his life.

That could've been him, if only he'd manned up and done his damn job. He could've had you bent over that table or bouncing on his cock; felt you gushing around him, clamping down on him. You would've wrung him dry.

Turns out you still do, just from a little further away. 

"Still hanging in there?" you coo from the other room, but the teasing in your voice is undercut by something headier. You sound wrecked.

His eyebrows pinch together, his expression almost pained, and he can feel that telltale pressure building, building.

"Y-yeah, but I...fuck, I can't hold it anymore," he whimpers, unable to keep his hips from snapping up into his hand. His thrusts are getting sloppier and tears are beginning to gather at the corners of his eyes. He wishes you could see him right now. "C-can I? Please."

Your fingers stutter and, for a second, he thinks he might've pushed you over the edge, but you recover just long enough to give him one final push. To tell him the one thing he's been longing to hear since he tugged down his pants and started playing your little game.

"Such a good boy," you repeat from earlier, a murmur that just barely reaches his ears, except this time it's really you and not just a fantasy. "Cum, baby. Let me hear you."

Then, his mind goes blissfully blank.

Mike doesn't just cum, he bursts. Soft whimpers taper into something guttural and animalistic as thick spurts coat his security vest and dribble down his length, soaking into the thick fabric of his sweatpants. He moans his way through it, nearly giving himself a friction burn with the intensity of his grip and speed. And he's loud, just like you told him to be. Much louder than he should be.

For a brief moment, his vision whites out, and he almost misses what he's been looking forward to all night. He blinks away the lingering spots obscuring his sight, and that's when it happens. Bathed in flashing green and yellow fluorescents, your entire body curls in on itself, shaking as your orgasm overcomes you and soaks the floor. 

His cock jerks pathetically in his hand as you work yourself through it, your eyes heavy-lidded and still locked on the camera. After a few more pumps, you slump into your seat and remove your fingers from your cunt, sucking them wetly into your mouth. 

He should get up. He should walk right into that auditorium with his dick still out so you can clean him up too, but he feels frozen in place. The skin at the back of his neck prickles and erupts into goosebumps and it feels like a warning, yet he still can't bring himself to look away from you. 

So, he doesn't notice the purple curtain opening just a fraction more in the background, and the curved, silver hook that peeks out from behind it. The blood rushing in your ears and steady heaving of your chest masks the metallic rattling, leaving you dangerously in the dark, too.

But Mike's eyes on the monitor are just enough to keep the pirate in his cove, and you're captivating enough to ensure they stay there. 

Sticky fingers twitch in his lap and, as if you can tell, you smirk around your own before pulling them free with a lewd pop. His mouth waters at the thought of what you must taste like and, unbeknownst to him, you're thinking the exact same about him. Since you're not there to help him yourself, you ask him to be good for you one last time.

"It's your turn," you laugh teasingly, swirling your tongue around your fingertips. "You should probably clean yourself up before you head home. It's almost six."

Heat curls low in his stomach and compels him to obey again. A cursory glance down at his watch tells him you're right—his alarm will go off soon, way sooner than he expected, and he's still covered in sweat and his own release. He could pop out of the office to the bathroom and be back before any real damage is done, probably. But that's not really what you're asking for.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he calls out, not bothering to hide the neediness in his voice. He's never experienced anything like this—like you—before and he's not sure he'll get the opportunity ever again.

"Lick it off. All of it," you instruct, dropping your fingers between your legs to swirl around your clit before popping them back into your mouth. Slowly, you show him exactly what you want, and he's a little horrified to realize he's getting hard again. "Can you do that for me?"

He nods quickly, forgetting you can't see his approval, but it doesn't matter, anyway. He's sucking the drying cum off his palm and fingers faster than he can reply, and his muffled responding moan tells you everything you need to know. After everything that's happened during this unexplainable night shift and everything you've made him feel, he'd likely do anything you asked.

"Such a good listener," you continue, ceasing your ministrations to lazily slip your underwear and jeans back into place. 

He's hit with a sudden wave of panic. This can't be over yet. There's still so much mystery shrouding you and whatever connection you have to this place, and if you leave now, he'll be left wondering forever. He wants answers, but disappointingly, you only leave him with more questions.

"How did I get so lucky with you, huh? The other security guards weren't nearly this fun," you smirk, dropping another bomb he never saw coming.

Oh. Oh. He freezes as he finishes laving the remaining wetness between his thumb and index fingers, the reality of the situation finally making itself known. This isn't the first time you've done this. It's probably not even the second or third. This is a habit, and he's not the only unwitting participant to fall prey to your seduction.

Fuck, he knew you were too good to be true. He hates that his body's still fighting his rationality while you sit there genuinely believing you've done nothing wrong. So innocent and, yet, still such an enigma. No one's ever made him cum that hard but, thankfully, his head is finally clear enough to put a stop to all of this. It's time to do his job.

The opportunity presents itself almost immediately. The flickering lights that have progressively gotten worse since his shift started reach a fever pitch, and the familiar figure in the corner of the screen reveals itself, wrenching his attention away from you. 

Mike barely has enough time to warn you before the screens start to glitch—every single one of them—and display nothing more than lines and lines of meaningless code. 

"You have to go. Now," he yells, struggling to be heard over the tinny screeching and jarring sounds of children's laughter crackling violently over the intercom. "Just—get out of here. Run, you have to run!"

He doesn't wait for a response, operating on autopilot as he wrestles his pants up and shoots out of his seat to the breaker box across the room. Terror and adrenaline pump through his veins, puppeteering him through the instructions left for him by Mr. Raglan.

Pull the lever down then back up, reset the power, and wait for the monitors to reboot. All he can do now is hope the machines don't deem you a threat and let you go. The room is plunged into darkness and the speakers go eerily silent.

Then, the systems come back online just like they're supposed to. But you're gone. He frantically searches the monitors for even a trace of you, evidence that you ever existed at all, but there's nothing. The only relief he's granted is that there's no blood or pieces of you scattered across the building. There's nothing at all.

Bracing himself on the desk in front of him, he breathes in desperate lungfuls of air, crashing from his adrenaline-fueled high and giving in to exhaustion. Just one more night. One more night at Freddy's, and he'll take that paycheck and never look back.

After a while of waiting for his panic to subside, his watch starts to beep, signaling the end of this night from hell. Fighting to ignore his conflicting feelings and lingering confusion, and even more so the phantom heat still licking at the base of his spine when he lets his thoughts stray back to you, he grabs his backpack and all but speed walks to the breaker to cut the power again.

As his fingers close around the lever, the intercom suddenly crackles to life. Something akin to hope blooms in his chest, and he whips around to see your image picked up by the camera at the entrance, radiant and unharmed under the morning sun of a new day. 

You're smiling, and he can't find it in himself to care that he's smiling back. You turn to leave, then think better of it.

"Same time tomorrow?" 

He scoffs, shaking his head at how ridiculous his life has become since he started this gig. If not even haunted animatronic mascots and the looming threat of death can't keep you away, then who is he to try? 

Yeah. He'll see you tomorrow.

thanks for reading!

🌗✨TONIGHT ✨🌗