Work Text:
The Room Above the Bar (with Natalie Portman)
Consensual, M/F
The rain in County Kerry never really stopped; it just changed its mind about how hard it wanted to fall. Tonight it was a soft, persistent mist that turned the single street of Kilmore into a black mirror under the sodium lamps. Natalie Portman pulled the hood of her oversized black raincoat tighter, the fabric already heavy with water, and pushed open the door of O’Malley’s Pub.
Inside, the air was thick with peat smoke, spilled Guinness, and the low murmur of Irish voices that rose and fell like waves. A turf fire crackled in the corner hearth. Three old men played cards at a scarred wooden table. A younger couple argued quietly in the booth by the window. Behind the bar, a tall man with dark hair and a week-old beard wiped glasses with a rag that had seen better decades.
Natalie slid onto a stool at the far end, away from the light. She kept the hood up for the first minute, then pushed it back. Her face—famous, unmistakable—was bare of makeup, eyes red-rimmed from twelve-hour days on set and from the bottle of Pinot she’d finished alone in her trailer two hours earlier. The shoot for *The Hollow Year* was a disaster. Critics would call it “pretentious navel-gazing.” Her co-star hated her. The director kept rewriting scenes that made no emotional sense. And back in Los Angeles, the ink on the divorce papers from Benjamin was barely dry. Forty-four years old, Oscar winner, mother of two, and she felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
The bartender noticed her immediately. His eyes—green, sharp, amused—flicked over her once, then again with recognition. He didn’t make a scene. He simply set a heavy tumbler in front of her and poured two fingers of Redbreast 12 without being asked.
“On the house,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. “You look like you’ve earned it, love.”
She wrapped both hands around the glass. “That obvious?”
“You’re the only person in Kilmore wearing a three-hundred-euro raincoat and staring at the whiskey like it owes you money.” He leaned on the bar, forearms corded from years of hauling lobster pots and kegs. “Thomas. Thomas Byrne. I own the place. And the room upstairs if you need somewhere that isn’t a trailer that smells like damp carpet.”
Natalie took a long swallow. The whiskey burned clean down her throat and settled warm in her stomach. “Natalie,” she said, even though he already knew. “And I’m not here for small talk.”
“Good. Neither am I.” Thomas poured himself a matching measure and clinked his glass to hers. “Sláinte.”
She drank. Then she drank again. The mist outside turned to proper rain, drumming on the slate roof. The old card players left one by one. The arguing couple made up and left hand-in-hand. By eleven-thirty the pub was empty except for Natalie and Thomas.
She was on her fourth whiskey. The room had softened at the edges. Her shoulders had finally dropped from their permanent hunch. The stress of the divorce—Benjamin’s cold silences, the custody schedule that felt like a spreadsheet, the way he’d looked at her the last time like she was a problem he’d solved—felt distant, blurred. The movie felt even farther away. Tomorrow’s 5 a.m. call sheet could burn.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Thomas said, refilling her glass without asking. His accent curled around the words like smoke.
Natalie laughed, short and bitter. “I’m always thinking too loud. That’s the problem.”
He came around the bar, leaned against it beside her. Close enough that she could smell rain on his flannel shirt and the faint salt of the sea that clung to everyone in Kilmore. “Film’s not going well?”
“It’s a fucking catastrophe.” She spun the glass. “I took it because I thought it would be art. Now I’m just a forty-four-year-old woman pretending to be deep while the director yells about motivation and my ex-husband texts me about soccer practice schedules. I’m exhausted.”
Thomas didn’t offer platitudes. He simply reached out and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the shell of it. “You’re allowed to be exhausted, Natalie. You’re allowed to be human for one night.”
She looked up at him. He was taller than she’d realized—broad shoulders, strong jaw, eyes that didn’t flinch from hers. Not a boy. Not a fan. Just a man who ran a pub in a village of four hundred souls and looked at her like she was a woman, not an Oscar.
The whiskey made the decision for her.
She leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry—teeth and tongue and months of pent-up frustration. Thomas made a low sound in his throat and cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through her wet hair. He tasted like whiskey and smoke and something darker, something alive. She slid off the stool, pressed herself against him, feeling the hard line of his body through his shirt. Her hands found the buttons, popping them open one by one until she could slide her palms over warm skin and the faint scatter of hair on his chest.
Thomas broke the kiss just long enough to mutter against her mouth, “Upstairs. Now. Unless you want the whole village talking tomorrow.”
She laughed into his mouth. “I don’t care.”
He did. He locked the front door, killed the lights except for the low glow of the emergency exit sign, and took her hand. They climbed the narrow wooden stairs at the back of the pub, footsteps creaking on centuries-old boards. The room above was his—simple, masculine: a double bed with a dark quilt, a single lamp on a nightstand, a window that looked out over the rain-slick harbor. No photos, no clutter. Just a man’s space.
The door shut behind them and Natalie pushed him against it, kissing him again, harder. She shoved the flannel off his shoulders. He was built like someone who worked with his hands—broad chest, defined arms, a faint scar along his ribs from some long-ago fishing accident. She traced it with her tongue. He groaned, hands sliding under her raincoat, under the thin sweater she wore beneath, finding bare skin.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“Not from cold.”
He peeled the layers off her slowly, reverently. Raincoat. Sweater. The plain black T-shirt she’d worn under it. Her bra—simple black lace—hit the floor. When her breasts spilled free he cupped them, thumbs brushing her nipples until they tightened into aching points. She arched into his touch with a soft gasp.
Thomas dropped to his knees right there on the worn rug. He tugged her jeans down her legs, taking her soaked panties with them. She stepped out, naked now except for the rain still clinging to her skin. He looked up at her—eyes dark, hungry—and pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh.
“Been thinking about this since you walked in,” he said, voice rough. Then he licked a slow stripe up her center.
Natalie’s head fell back against the door with a thud. “Fuck—Thomas—”
He was relentless. Broad, flat strokes of his tongue, then focused flicks right on her clit. Two thick fingers slid inside her without warning, curling, stroking that spot that made her knees buckle. She grabbed his hair, hips rocking shamelessly against his face. The whiskey made everything brighter, hotter. Every lick sent sparks up her spine.
“God—yes—right there—don’t stop—”
He hummed against her, the vibration rolling through her core. His fingers pumped faster. She came hard and sudden, thighs clamping around his head, a sharp cry tearing from her throat that echoed off the low ceiling. He kept licking her through it, gentling only when she started to shake.
When he stood, his mouth was glossy with her. He kissed her, letting her taste herself, and she moaned into it. She could feel how hard he was through his jeans—thick, insistent, pressing against her stomach.
Natalie dropped to her knees in turn. She freed him with shaking hands. He was big—long and heavy, the head already slick. She took him into her mouth without hesitation, swirling her tongue around the tip, then sliding down until he hit the back of her throat. Thomas cursed in Irish, one hand braced on the door, the other gentle in her hair.
“Jesus, Natalie… your mouth—”
She sucked him deep, hollowing her cheeks, stroking what she couldn’t fit. Saliva dripped down her chin. She looked up at him through her lashes and the sight of him—head thrown back, throat working—made her wet all over again.
He pulled her off before he could finish, breathing hard. “Bed. Now.”
She crawled onto the quilt on all fours, looking back at him over her shoulder. The invitation was clear. Thomas stripped the rest of the way, cock jutting heavy and red, and climbed behind her. He ran his hands over her ass, squeezing, then slid two fingers back inside her just to feel how soaked she still was.
“Tell me you want it,” he said, voice gravel.
“I want it. Fuck me, Thomas. Hard.”
He lined up and pushed in—slow at first, letting her feel every inch stretch her open. She was tight, still pulsing from her first orgasm. When he bottomed out they both groaned. He stayed there a moment, buried to the hilt, hands gripping her hips.
Then he started to move.
Deep, powerful strokes that rocked the old bed against the wall. The headboard thumped a steady rhythm. Natalie pushed back to meet him, meeting every thrust, moaning openly now—no need to be quiet, no trailers next door, no assistants listening.
“Harder—fuck—yes—Thomas—deeper—”
He gave it to her. One hand slid around to rub her clit in tight circles. The other tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back. The angle changed; he hit that perfect spot inside her with every slam. She cried out, loud and broken.
“Coming—oh God—I’m coming again—”
Her second orgasm ripped through her, walls fluttering and squeezing around his cock. Thomas fucked her through it, pace never faltering, until her arms gave out and she collapsed onto her elbows, face pressed into the quilt.
He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and climbed between her legs again. This time he hooked her knees over his shoulders, folding her in half. He drove into her slow and deep, grinding against her clit with every thrust. Sweat slicked their skin. Her breasts bounced with every impact. She clawed at his back, nails leaving red lines.
“Look at me,” he growled.
She did. Green eyes locked on brown. The intimacy of it—stranger, local, man who’d poured her whiskey an hour ago—made something inside her crack open.
“I see you,” he said, voice rough. “Not the actress. Not the ex-wife. Just you.”
Natalie came a third time with a sob, legs shaking, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes from the intensity. Thomas followed seconds later—burying himself deep, hips stuttering as he spilled inside her with a guttural groan, pulsing hot and endless.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard. Rain lashed the window. The pub sign creaked outside in the wind.
Thomas brushed damp hair from her face and kissed her softly this time—slow, lingering. “Stay the night,” he murmured against her lips. “No one has to know. The room’s yours till morning.”
She nodded, too wrecked to speak. He pulled out gently, rolled beside her, and tugged the quilt over them both. She curled into his side, head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart under her ear.
For the first time in months the noise in her head—the divorce, the bad movie, the weight of expectations—was quiet.
Thomas’s hand stroked slow circles on her bare back. “You can come back tomorrow if you want,” he said into the dark. “Or the night after. Or every night till your film wraps. No strings. Just… this.”
Natalie smiled against his skin. “I might take you up on that.”
They made love once more before the village fully woke—slow and lazy in the morning light, bodies moving together like they’d known each other for years instead of hours.
The first pale fingers of dawn were just beginning to creep through the thin curtains, turning the small room soft gold and dusty rose. Natalie lay on her side facing Thomas, one leg draped lazily over his hip, their bodies still warm and sticky from the night before. His green eyes were half-lidded with sleep and renewed hunger as he looked at her. No rush this time. No whiskey-fueled desperation. Just the quiet intimacy of two people who had already torn each other open and somehow wanted more.
Thomas’s hand slid slowly down her bare back, tracing the curve of her spine before cupping the swell of her ass and pulling her closer. Their foreheads touched. She could feel him already hardening against her thigh, thick and heavy.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough and low, the Irish accent thicker with sleep.
“Morning,” she whispered back, smiling softly.
He kissed her then — slow, deep, unhurried. Their tongues met in a lazy slide, tasting the remnants of last night. Natalie sighed into his mouth, her hand roaming over the solid planes of his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her palm. His fingers traced lazy circles on her hip before slipping between her thighs. She was still slick from earlier, still tender, but when he gently parted her folds and circled her clit with one calloused fingertip, a soft moan escaped her.
Thomas broke the kiss to watch her face as he touched her. “Still sensitive?”
“Very,” she breathed, hips twitching toward his hand. “But I want you again.”
He smiled, slow and wicked, and rolled her gently onto her back. The quilt pooled around their waists as he settled between her spread thighs. This time he took his time exploring her with his mouth. He kissed down her neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point until she shivered. Lower still — across her collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts. He lavished attention on each nipple, sucking one into his mouth while his thumb teased the other, rolling and pinching until both peaks were tight and aching. Natalie arched beneath him, fingers threading through his dark hair.
When he finally moved lower, kissing a wet trail down her stomach, she was already breathing faster. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, opening her completely to him, and pressed a soft kiss right above her clit before dragging his tongue slowly through her folds.
“Fuck… Thomas…” she gasped, hips lifting.
He hummed in response, the vibration sending sparks through her. His tongue worked her with patient, devastating precision — long, broad licks from her entrance to her clit, then focused, swirling circles around the swollen bud. Two thick fingers slid inside her easily, curling upward to stroke that perfect spot inside while his mouth never stopped. The morning light made everything feel softer, more intimate. She could see every flicker of pleasure on his face as he tasted her, eyes half-closed in bliss.
Natalie’s moans grew louder, unrestrained in the quiet room. Her hands fisted the sheets as the pleasure built in slow, rolling waves. “Right there… oh God… don’t stop…”
He didn’t. He sucked her clit gently between his lips, flicking his tongue rapidly while his fingers pumped in a steady rhythm. Her thighs began to tremble around his head. The orgasm crept up on her — deep and powerful rather than sudden — until it crashed over her in long, shuddering waves. She came with a broken cry, back arching off the bed, walls pulsing around his fingers as fresh slick coated his chin.
Thomas gentled her through every aftershock, licking softly until she was whimpering and pushing weakly at his head. Only then did he kiss his way back up her body, settling his weight between her thighs. His cock — thick, heavy, and leaking at the tip — rested against her slick entrance.
He looked down at her, eyes dark with want. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want you,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Slow this time. I want to feel all of you.”
Thomas groaned softly and pushed in — inch by thick inch — stretching her open with exquisite care. They both moaned when he bottomed out, fully seated inside her tight heat. For a long moment he stayed still, forehead pressed to hers, letting her adjust, letting them both savor the connection.
Then he began to move.
Long, lazy rolls of his hips — deep, grinding strokes that let her feel every ridge, every vein. No frantic pounding. Just a slow, rhythmic rocking that built heat gradually between them. Natalie met every thrust, her hands roaming over his broad back, nails lightly scoring his skin. Their bodies moved together like they’d done this a thousand times instead of only hours.
The morning light grew brighter, painting golden stripes across their joined bodies. Sweat began to sheen their skin. Thomas’s pace stayed unhurried, but each thrust went deeper, grinding against her clit on every downstroke. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth — whispering filthy, tender things against her lips in that low Irish rumble.
“You feel so fucking good… so tight around me… taking me so well…”
Natalie whimpered, legs tightening around him. “Harder… just a little… please…”
He gave her what she asked for — shifting the angle slightly so every stroke hit that perfect spot inside her while his pelvis ground against her clit. The pleasure coiled tighter, hotter. Her moans turned into soft cries, breath coming in short gasps.
“Thomas… I’m close again…”
“Come for me,” he growled, voice strained with his own building release. “Let me feel you.”
She did — the orgasm rolling through her in deep, powerful waves that made her clench rhythmically around his cock. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she cried out, trembling beneath him. The pulsing squeeze of her walls dragged Thomas over the edge right after her. He buried himself as deep as possible, groaning her name as he came — hot, thick pulses filling her, hips stuttering with every spurt until he was spent.
They stayed locked together for a long time afterward, breathing hard, hearts slowing in sync. Thomas kissed her temple, her cheek, her swollen lips — soft, lingering kisses that felt even more intimate than the sex itself.
Eventually he pulled out gently, both of them hissing at the loss. He rolled onto his back and pulled her against his chest, stroking lazy circles on her bare back while their breathing evened out.
After a few peaceful minutes, Natalie pressed a kiss to his chest and slipped from the bed. “Shower,” she murmured, smiling down at him.
Thomas watched her walk naked to the tiny bathroom, appreciation clear in his eyes. “I’ll start breakfast.”
While the hot water cascaded over her, washing away the evidence of their night and morning together, Natalie felt lighter than she had in months. The stress of the film, the ache of the divorce — they were still there, but muted. Manageable. Here, in this tiny room above a village pub, she had found something unexpectedly real.
She came downstairs a little while later, hair damp, wearing nothing but one of Thomas’s oversized flannel shirts. The sleeves swallowed her hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and the faint scent of him clung to the fabric. The smell of frying rashers and eggs filled the pub, along with fresh coffee.
Thomas stood behind the bar in just his jeans, the top button undone, looking ridiculously handsome in the morning light. He set a full plate in front of her — crispy rashers, eggs sunny-side up, thick slices of brown bread with butter — and slid a strong mug of coffee beside it.
“Eat,” he said, voice warm with affection. “You’ve got a long day pretending to be deep and meaningful on camera.”
Natalie laughed softly, stealing a piece of bacon from his own plate as he sat across from her. For the first time in what felt like forever, the day ahead didn’t feel like a burden.
She was already counting the hours until she could come back to this bar, to this man, and to the room upstairs.
The shoot wrapped three weeks later. The movie was still middling at best—critics called it “ambitious but uneven”—but Natalie carried herself through the press with a quiet confidence she hadn’t felt in months. When the wrap party ended and the cast scattered, she didn’t fly straight back to Los Angeles.
She drove the winding coastal road back to Kilmore instead.
Thomas was waiting behind the bar when she walked in, hood up against the ever-present drizzle. His face lit up the moment he saw her—no fanfare, no cameras, just a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes.
“You came back,” he said.
“I told you I would.”
He came around the bar, pulled her into his arms right there in the empty pub, and kissed her like he’d been counting the days. When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Room’s made up. Fresh sheets. And I stocked that fancy red wine you like.”
Natalie laughed, the sound light and free. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything about that first night.”
They climbed the stairs together, hands intertwined. In the little room above the bar, under the same quilt, they made love again—slow and sweet and full of promise. No rush. No hiding. Just two people choosing each other in whatever way the world would allow.
Over the months that followed, their relationship grew in quiet, stolen pieces. Natalie flew back to Kilmore whenever her schedule allowed—sometimes for a long weekend between projects, sometimes for two full weeks during school holidays when the kids came with her. Thomas met them eventually—first with careful politeness, then with easy warmth as he taught her son how to tie fishing knots and let her daughter help pull pints (non-alcoholic ones). The children adored the village, the harbor, the man who made their mother laugh in a way they hadn’t heard in years.
The press eventually caught wind—tabloid headlines screaming about “Natalie’s Irish Secret”—but by then it didn’t matter. She released a simple statement: she was happy, she was seeing someone kind and grounded, and she asked for privacy for her family. The storm passed faster than expected. People moved on to the next scandal.
Thomas never asked her to give up her career. She never asked him to leave his pub and the village he loved. They built something flexible, real, and deeply loving: weekends in Kilmore when she could, summers in Los Angeles when he could get away, quiet Christmases where the kids decorated the tiny tree in the room above the bar.
Years later, when Natalie won another award—this time for a small, intimate indie film she’d produced herself—she dedicated it not to the usual list of agents and directors, but simply: “To the man who reminded me I’m allowed to be happy off-camera.”
Back in Kilmore that night, Thomas poured them both a celebratory whiskey in the empty pub after closing. He raised his glass to hers.
“To happy endings that don’t need a script.”
Natalie clinked her glass against his, eyes shining. “To us. To this room. To every morning after.”
They climbed the stairs hand in hand, the familiar creak of the old wood sounding like home now. In the little room above the bar, with the harbor lights twinkling outside and the rain softly tapping the window, Natalie Portman—actress, mother, woman—fell asleep in the arms of the man who had given her back something she thought she’d lost forever.
Peace.
Passion.
And the simple, profound joy of being loved exactly as she was.
Several Weeks Later…
On April 17, 2026, the world woke up to the news: Natalie Portman was pregnant with her third child — her first with French music producer Tanguy Destable. The exclusive Harper’s Bazaar interview had dropped that morning, complete with warm quotes: “Tanguy and I are very excited. I’m just very grateful. It’s such a privilege and a miracle.”
“The baby… I took more tests. The timing matches our first night perfectly. The dates don’t work with Tanguy. This child is yours, Thomas.”
Thomas was stunned by Natalie’s e-mail. She explained the public announcement had already committed to the Tanguy story for her image, career, and family. “You’ll know your child privately. But publicly, it stays his. Our secret forever.”
In the pub, Thomas stood alone — the only person who knew the truth: the baby that Natalie's baby was his, not Tanguy Destable’s.
The End.