#din djarin x ofc

[beskarandblasters]

Stonecatcher

Chapter Two: It's Strange What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do

Din Djarin x OFC Athalia (Second Person POV)

Artwork: The Lovers by René Magritte Gif: @cherubispunk Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Series summary: An up-and-coming bounty hunter and a promising arms dealer cross paths on Dantooine. What starts as a business relationship quickly becomes more. How long can you bury your emotions and be a stonecatcher for someone else before you finally snap?

Series warnings: pre season one of The Mandalorian, instant smut but slow burn romantically, Athalia is able-bodied but other than that has no physical description, angst

Chapter summary: The Mandalorian returns, leaving with more than just a blaster, of course.

Word count: 2.7k

Chapter warnings: finger sucking, dirty talk, fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve seen the Mandalorian. You remember that night fondly but not because of the sex. No, you remember that night fondly because of the sale you made. It was your first sale to someone not local to here. While it was only an eight-credit sale, you had to start somewhere. 

Business has been doing good, though. For some strange reason, Casia has seen an influx of travelers lately. The inn has no vacancy and the cantina is busier than ever. Sheva’s been working more hours to accommodate the boom in customers, which leaves you to your own devices. And while you do miss spending time with her you also haven’t had much to think about it. With the amount of people passing through you’ve been able to make even more sales, and gain more inventory. Mando was just the beginning. 

To capitalize on all of the business Casia has been seeing, the cantina is having an event tonight. String lights hang from the roof and tables are set outside. It’s a bit of a risk having the outside by the river instead of inside the cantina. But it was all intentional. 

You’re helping Sheva put wildflowers in vases for the party, sitting at a table by the water's edge. It’s golden hour and the party is set to begin at sundown. It’s the first quality time you’ve had with Sheva in a while and she’s catching you up on her escapades over the past few weeks. 

“I told him to meet me out back after my shift was done,” she says, putting together another vase. 

“Well, did he?”

“He did,” she says suggestively. 

“You never told me what he looked like.”

“What does it matter? He’s long gone now.”

“Was he a Twi’lek?”

“Maybe…”

Maybe it’s the scenery and or the fact that you’re reconnecting with her, but either way, you’re feeling grateful about where you are for once. It almost feels like everything is falling into place on its own time. 

“You and your Twi’leks,” you joke, getting up and setting a vase on each table. 

“Oh yeah?? How about you and your Mandalorians,” she retorts. 

“That was one time.”

“You never told me how that was by the way,” standing up from her seat and placing a hand on her hip.

“I didn’t?”

“No, you just told me that he bought a scope and then you had sex.”

“That’s basically what happened.”

“…But how was it?” she says.

“Hot… but also kind of awkward. That’s usually how one-night stands tend to go,” you say, setting a vase on the last table. 

“And you’re okay with that? I didn’t take you for a one-night stand type of gal.”

“I mean… I’ll never see him again.”

She’s standing in front of you, the river behind her and the wind catching her hair. She doesn’t respond to you right away, looking past your head and wearing a smirk. 

“What is it?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Sure about what?”

“Turn around.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him, walking towards you. The sunset reflects off his helmet and the scene is almost… surreal. You were just talking about him and all of a sudden he appears. It’s like a scene straight out of a romance novel. 

Until he opens his mouth. 

“I went to your house and I couldn’t find you. I need something else.”

“…Okay? What is it that you need?”

“A blaster.”

“Alright…” you say, turning back to Sheva, “I’ll be back later, I guess.”

“Have so much fun,” she says smugly, waving at Mando. 

You walk back to your house side by side, silence hanging in the air which leaves you with your thoughts. 

Why is he here?

Dantooine is on a trade route but the planet itself is out of the way and so is Casia. 

“Why are you here?” you ask. 

“I already told you. I need a blaster.”

“You can’t get that anywhere else?”

“Are you saying you don’t want my business?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m just wondering why you came here specifically. Where are you from?”

“Currently I’m on Nevarro.”

Maker, that’s far. It doesn’t make sense for him to come all this way for a blaster. 

…Unless he came here for other reasons. 

You think back to the one-night stand and while it was a little awkward it was still hot. Maybe he feels the same way. 

“That’s quite a ways away from here, Mando,” you point out. 

“Your prices are fair.”

“Right…” you say, opening your front door. 

Luckily, the smell of gas has dissipated over the past few weeks. Not that it mattered to him. But if this encounter is going to end like the last one, it’s nice to not have to smell that while Mando’s pounding the living daylights out of you. 

Your front room is crowded, filled with boxes and all sorts of weapons lining the walls. He looks all around the room, not sure what to focus on first. 

“I’ve… accumulated a lot more stuff since you’ve been here.”

“I see that,” he says. 

“What kind of blaster are you looking for?”

“Standard pistol.”

“Gotcha,” you say, searching one of your shelves. You find one he might like– black with a tiny amount of silver. You grab it off the shelf and turn around to show him. 

“How’s this one?”

“Perfect. How much.”

“Four hundred credits.”

“Not a bad deal,” he says, taking it in his hands. He examines the blaster carefully, the orange fingertips of his gloves running up and down the barrel. His hand wraps around the grip with his finger ghosting the trigger. He aims it at the wall, and for some reason, this is doing something for you. Is this how he felt when he watched you clean his rifle?

“Feels good?”

“Feels good,” he affirms. 

“Okay…” you start as he attaches it to his belt, “Do you need anything else?”

“Actually,” he says, helmet snapping back to you, “Do you have any of that… oil you used on my rifle?”

“Wow. Are you actually going to clean your shit?”

“…Yes.”

“You don’t want me to do it for you?”

He shifts his weight between both feet just like he did the last time he was here, fidgeting while he thinks of a comeback. But his mind draws a blank. Instead, he sighs and says, “Just get on your back already.”

Your mouth falls open but you can’t let him know of your bewilderment. So you quickly say, “Thought you’d never ask.”

You turn on your heel and lead him to your bedroom, swaying your hips as you walk. He wastes no time, grabbing you by the waist and pushing you down on the bed. You help him out, pulling off your underwear for him. He hesitates for a moment and you just assume it’ll be the same as last time, you spit into your hand and he shoves his cock inside you. 

But this time he stands by the bed, hands on his hips, and says, “Get up.”

“…Okay?” you say, wondering where he’s going with this. 

He grabs your waist again and turns you around so your back is towards him. 

“Bend over,” he growls in your ear. 

So that’s how this is going to go. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you say, bending over your bed for him and turning your head to the side, cheek resting against the mattress. 

He hikes up your skirt and caresses your ass with his gloved hand. Just when you think you know how this is going to shake out, he surprises you. 

He tosses his glove beside your head and it takes a second for you to register that he took his glove off. Your mouth falls open and he mutters, “Good girl.”

He leans forward, bending over you, and says, “Close your eyes.”

You do as you’re told, closing your eyes while his gloved hand grips your chin, keeping your mouth open while he places two fingers inside. 

“Suck,” he commands, closing your mouth shut around his fingers. 

Kriff, that’s hot. 

You swirl your tongue around his fingers, putting on an obscene performance. And although you can’t see it, he cocks his helmet to the side, watching you act like such a good girl for him. Once he decides you’ve done enough, he pulls his fingers from your mouth. You make sure to keep your eyes closed as you anticipate what he’s going to do next. 

His fingers tease your entrance, softly playing with you until he slides both of them inside you. You gasp at the sudden girth, taking a second to get adjusted.

“If you can take my cock, you can take two of my fingers,” he reminds you, curling his fingers against your walls. 

“I-I know,” you breathe out, voice high pitched. 

He’s incredibly skilled with his fingers. You’re already on your way to your first orgasm. It makes sense since he can’t take his helmet off. And you’re certainly not complaining.

The tension built up in your core spills over and your release gushes out of you, running down your thighs. Waves of pleasure course throughout your body and you’re shocked at how soon he got you there. 

He pulls his fingers from you, grabbing your shoulder with his other hand. You feel his cock enter you, splitting you open and leaving you writhing. His other hand grabs your waist as he fucks you like you’re nothing but a toy to him, an object made for his pleasure. Except the way he fingered you tells you otherwise. 

You’re too cock drunk to formulate a coherent thought about that. Instead, you focus on the immense pleasure you’re feeling. Everything from the tips of your ears to your toes feels like they’re set aflame, mind going fuzzy with nothing but thoughts of him. 

“That’s right. Take my cock like a good girl,” he says, voice all sultry and modulated.

You whimper in response, the words you were going to say caught in your throat and coming out as mangled sobs. His grip on your shoulder tightens, holding you in place as he rails you. Stars dance in the black backdrop of your closed eyes, tears would surely spill over if you opened them. But he said to keep your eyes closed and you intend to listen to him. He didn’t ask you to do that last time. Could it be because his glove came off? Because he revealed his skin? You’ve seen his cock but for some reason his hand is off-limits. How strange. The added element of anonymity during a time so intimate excites you. It only makes you grow wetter; more aroused. 

Before you know it, you’re coming again. This orgasm is deeper and stronger than the first one, all thanks to his impressive size. Your cunt clenches and releases his cock in a way that triggers his orgasm too. He holds you steady as he spills his cum inside you, a feeling you didn’t know you missed in his absence, a feeling you didn’t know you’d ever experience again. 

He pulls out of you when he’s done and it isn’t until you feel him sit on the bed beside you that you open your eyes. His glove is back on his hand and he sits with his thighs spread wide, a space that looks so inviting to sit. He takes a moment to rest after the energy he just exerted before rising, waiting for you to pull yourself together.

You stand before him, smoothing down your skirt while looking at anything but the visor of his helmet. He stands stiff as a board, hands balled up into fists at his sides. A thought crosses your mind. You could ask him to join you at the party at the cantina. It seems kind of pointless considering he can’t eat or drink in front of others. And he doesn’t seem like one for dancing. 

But you want to ask him just so you can be seen out in public with him, other than bringing him to your house. That feels a little insane, a little possessive even. You’re not in any sort of relationship. You’ve only had sex twice now. And you’re developing an inkling of feelings. This can’t be good. 

Come on, Athalia. You can ask him. 

“What are you doing now?”

“Probably heading out soon.”

“I was just wondering if…” you trail off. 

He tilts his helmet, looking directly at you. You finally meet his visor, taking a deep breath and asking, “Do you want to come to the party at the cantina tonight?”

“That’s a nice offer. But no thanks.”

“That’s okay…”

He turns to leave but you can’t let him go just yet. 

“Wait! Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“Why did you come all the way here? You could’ve gotten that blaster anywhere.”

“Your prices seemed fair. It looks like it was worth it, too. Your inventory has grown.”

“Right… Let me get you that cleansing oil before you go.”

You slide past him in the door frame, heart fluttering at being so close to him yet again. His visor watches you the whole time and you imagine it’s still fixated on you as you lead him to the front room. You open the cabinet and grab the cleansing oil while he fishes for the credits in his pocket.

“How much?”

“Ten for the oil.”

You turn around and hand it to him. He places the credits for both the blaster and the oil in your hand, nodding at you with the slight tip of his helmet before walking to the door. 

But he stops himself before he leaves. He turns around and says, “I never got your name.”

“Athalia.”

“Thanks. I’ve got some contacts looking to come this way but I wasn’t sure who they should be asking for.”

New customers.

“That’s nice of you!” you say, fiddling with your hands, “I guess you could call it… Athalia’s Arms.”

“Athalia’s Arms… Got it. I’m sure we’ll meet again,” he says, before opening the door and setting off into the night, cape billowing in the wind. 

He claims he was just here to buy something but… Could that be a lie? Is he feeling an inkling of something more like you are? He did turn down your offer to go to the party tonight but if it were really just about the blasters, wouldn’t he have gotten that literally anywhere else? Coming here must’ve cost him so much in fuel. 

Maybe just maybe there’s something there, crossing the line between a business owner and customer relationship, turning into something deeper and more meaningful. 

That’s exactly what’s happening. Because deep down you’re a little butthurt that he didn’t say yes to the party, that he didn’t even stay with you for a little bit after the sex. 

You shouldn’t care. He’s just a client, just a customer… Right? 

Wrong, he was never just a customer. He was always something more and he’ll remain something more if you don’t put a stop to it before you only get yourself hurt. 

You need to talk to Sheva about this, so you decide to pop back into the party alone. It’s well past sundown now and it makes you wonder how long you were with Mando. There’s a breeze in the air that leaves goosebumps on your skin and there’s not a single soul around. 

As you get closer to the cantina you see that… the party’s over. Everyone has left. 

For once, you don’t want to be alone and yet it’s like the universe is forcing you to. Sheva’s either at home sleeping or hooking up with someone from the party. And Sulee has been in bed for hours at this point. 

You sigh and turn around to head home, head hanging low while you’re left to reflect. He crossed the galaxy to buy a standard blaster and to bury his cock inside you. And that just has to mean something. 

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Tag list: @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @freelancearsonist @djarins-cyare @survivingandenduring @littlegrungegirlaf @pamasaur @chiyo13 @pedrostories @schnarfer @burntheedges

#stonecatcher #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian x oc

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

#i know the fire brigade probably gets called when you hit the emergency stop in an elevator #but this is a fantasy land where i get to make the rules #my writing #fic: raising cain #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin au fanfic #din djarin x ofc #din djarin smut #din djarin fic

[lokischocolatefountain]

Guess

Fandom: Star Wars, The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: PG13, fluff

Word count:

Summary: A game of guessing goes right in every way for you and Din, your kind of friend, sort of boss.

A/N: Day 1 of my fic advent calendar and my first Din Djarin fic on here! Credits to my friend @lokislittlevalkyrie for co-creating the reader character and for our long conversations about her and Din. Keep checking the advent calendar Masterlist for more fics dropping this month. And leave me a little comment to encourage me to keep the fics going 💜💜💜

“Stop scowling.”

“I’m not scowling,” he lied, trying his best to keep his tone neutral even though he was surprised that she knew he was scowling. Lucky guess, he told himself. But how many lucky guesses could one person have about his facial expressions?

“You so were!” She insisted, sinking further back into the novelty ‘chair’ she bought on their last stop. It was a sphere half filled with tiny soft particles that molded itself to the user’s shape. She slouched on it as she continued watching one of her holodramas, something with a murder or speeders (or both) at the heart of the story.

“I was not.”

“If you say so, Din Can,” she said, using her nickname for him. He chuckled reflexively, unable to control his responses to her. Thankfully, his helmet filtered the sound out, saving him the embarrassment of finding humor in the humiliating nickname. He smiled, glad she didn’t know just how many times she’d made him laugh whether by mocking him or making clever remarks in general.

“I do say so.”

She was beautiful. Taking up the creed meant hiding one’s own face from others. To hide what would serve as the basis of others’ first impression of you so that your valor and your character would serve as your defining features. Vanity was not something he was raised with. Yet he knew beauty when it stared him in the eye and called him Din Can everyday. Or Tin Djarin. Buckethead when he really pissed her off.

Dinny Bear when she was intoxicated.

Blood rushed to his cheek when he thought of the last time she did that. She’d gotten very comfortable around him in the months they’d been crew mates. All her initial jitters and jumpiness around him had gone and been replaced with her stubbornness, strange sense of humour, and a level of confidence she didn’t have with him before.

He had to chase her down to even get her to accept the job he was offering her as a travelling mechanic. He’d never heard of one before. And she was quite frightened of him after the kind of interaction they had at Peli’s shop. But he needed a mechanic on board. With the kid in his hands now, it became hard to juggle a failing ship with hunting bounties and caring for a mischievous kid who waited for the moment he took his eyes off him to cause chaos.

It helped to have a mechanic on board at all times. She was wonderful and came approved by Peli. Over time, she became more than his mechanic. A friend, he would be brave enough to say. If he were braver with women, he would say that he’s caught her sneaking glances at him. That he felt her twinkling eyes rove over his armor every now and then. Sometimes he was confident of it. At others, he convinced himself that his mind was clouded by his desire for her. By his desire for her to desire him too.

The matter of his expressions came up once again later after dinner.

“Stop looking so grumpy.”

“You cannot see my face.”

“Yeah but you look grumpy.”

He grunted, turning away from her to focus on the controls. They were on hyperspeed. There was nothing he needed to do with the controls. But to come face to face with her when she told him exactly what he did underneath his helmet was…too much.

“Heyy! Let’s play a game?” She asked, her voice bubbling with excitement.

“Play with Grogu.”

“He’s asleep. And this is not a game for little potatoes.”

He chuckled softly at the nickname and looked up at her again, awaiting her proposal. “What would that be?” He asked.

“A drinking game.”

“Drinking is a game now?”

“Dank farrik! I missed when you used to be quiet. Just listen to me. I’ll guess what your face looks like under your helmet and if I get it right, you should take a sip of your drink. And if I get it wrong, I take a sip. Let’s do it with the Silver Elixir,” she said, getting up from her seat to fetch the bottle from their liquor cabinet they kept locked to keep away from wandering little womp rats.

She returned with the bottle, two glasses and straws. They’d recently taken to drinking together. She bought him a straw a begged him to join her, using her sweet eyes and her adorable pout to convince him. She said she only had drinks with friends and that drinking alone on the razor crest made her feel lonely.

He gave in to her, just like he gave in to their little green crewmate.

She didn’t need to use a straw, of course. Yet she did. When he asked, she said it was so that he didn’t feel lonely drinking through a straw like a kid. Even in her insults, she managed to be sweet.

“Start guessing,” he said impatiently as she sat next to him and looked intently at their glasses to see if they were filled equally.

“Sure, sure… You have dark hair,” she said, passing his drink to him. “Dark brown.”

“A little too obvious, isn’t it?” He asked, knowing she had definitely seen his hair in the trash after he gave himself haircuts and shaved his facial hair.

“Drink up, old man!” She said, lips wide in a grin as she knew already that she was right.

He snorted, but followed through, taking a sip of the strong liquor. “Alright. Next.”

“You have….big green ears.”

“Wrong,” he huffed, smiling nevertheless at her sense of humour.

“Damn it! I should’ve known they wouldn’t fit inside the helmet,” she said, taking a sip. She was smiling too, and unlike his, it was out in the open and as bright as the stars around them.

“Those were two descriptors. Big and green. Take one more sip,” he argued. He didn’t particularly want to get her drunk, but he liked how adorable she was when intoxicated. One of their drinking sessions ended with her snuggling up to him because she couldn’t find the kid to snuggle like a children’s stuffed animal.

“What? No! It was one guess, so it’s one sip.”

“Again, you guessed the size and color of my ears and they were both wrong. Take a sip.”

She rolled her eyes, but complained, taking another sip. She leaned close and narrowed her eyes at him, as though focusing on his helmet would reveal what was underneath. He smiled unconsciously, taking in the beauty of her from up close. The light in her eyes, the way her eyebrows knit together when she was in deep thought, lips that impressed him with the wittiest remarks… Lips he wanted desperately to pull to his, to devour and make moan his name.

“No moustache.”

“Hmmm….” He hummed, thinking of how he could sort the point for this. He *did* have a moustache, but that was only now. There were times when he shaved it off completely. “It’s complicated. I have a moustache now, but I change it quite frequently. So, half a sip.”

“If I have to take half a sip, so should you.”

“No, I don’t,” he scoffed at her warped logic. Here he was, being nice and giving her some credit even though she was wrong. But she was trying to take advantage of it.

“Yeah you should. If I’m taking half a sip because I was half right and half wrong, you should also take a sip because you’re half right and half wrong.”

“No. That’s not how it works. I have facial hair now, which means you are wrong. I should’ve made you take a full sip, but I decided to make a concession because I am sometimes fully shaven.”

“Dank Farrik! You’re such a lightweight. Just say you can’t handle your liquor and I’ll let you go,” she taunted, a smirk plying at her lips.

“Oh please, I can handle my liquor much better than you can. Here,” he said, drinking the strong undiluted alcohol like it was water in a few big sips. He slammed the glass against the control panel surface and shrugged. “See, I’m good. You are the one who gets drunk after one portion of the Silver Elixir and terrorizes the kid.”

She gasped, as though he made a much bigger accusation. “I don’t terrorize the kid! I just give him extra cuddles and kisses. He enjoys them very much. It’s called affection, Tin Can. Ever heard of it?”

He tilted his head at her in the way that sometimes made her swallow audibly. “So you think that because of my way of life, I have never experienced affection?”

She opened and closed her mouth quickly, as though her mind and lips were in disagreement about whether or not what they were about to say was appropriate. He smiled under his helmet, proud of himself for stumping her. She talked a lot. Since he was a quiet man, everyone else was talkative in comparison. But she was the voice he heard the most as they lived together on the Razor Crest and their other occupant communicated mostly in coos and squeals.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Say what. Since the drinking thing was already disproportionate anyway because I’m not guessing your features and I can handle my liquor much better than you do….lets change the rules.” He took a deep breath, afraid of the consequences of his words but unable to miss this opportunity. “For each correct guess you make, I’ll give you a kiss.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, scoffing.

“I’m not known for my humor.”

She took a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes, making his heart skip a beat. Kriff, the things she did without even knowing! He thought he could die from the anticipation of hearing her next guess. Would she guess something ridiculous like big green ears to make sure she doesn’t have to kiss him? Or would she make a very obviously correct guess?

“You have…” she trailed in a softer voice, looking at him almost coyly. “…pink lips.”

Not the most obvious guess. Not all humans had pink lips. And he could easily not be human. He didn’t remember telling her he was… But if she was going for something for a higher likelihood of being correct… Kriff he hoped she was. “Do you want me to turn the lights off or blindfold you?” He asked, conveying indirectly that she was right.

“Wh-whaaat? Why?” She sputtered, looking at him with those pretty eyes, vulnerability brimming in her expressions.

Did he get the wrong idea? Maybe her obvious guesses weren’t because she wanted to be right so she could kiss him… Maybe it was just the product of her usual playful nature.

“Because I will have to take my helmet off when I kiss you,” he proceeded to say, even as his heart beat faster with the anxiety of how this could go. They were adults. It it was a misunderstanding, he would simply get over it and do his best to not make it awkward between them. “And you cannot see me.”

“I…” she trailed off before letting out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Again. Not known for my humor,” he said, letting a smile seep into his words. She was so kriffing adorable, looking all nervous like a blurrg stuck in a doorway. “You don’t have to, of course. I can give you something else. Ten credits, perhaps?”

“What, no. A deal is a deal.”

“Then tell me, my dear mechanic. Lights out or blindfold?”

“Lights out.”

Pity. He was hoping to see her pretty face when he kissed her. Not moving from where he was, he pressed the buttons on the control panel, turning all the lights out. In the pitch black of outer space, he could see nothing. Perfect.

“What can you see?” He asked, just to be sure.

“Nothing,” she said, in her voice so low and soft that it was swallowed up by the darkness. What entity wouldn’t want to swallow up something his pretty mechanic put out? Every word she said, every touch of her fingers against the trees and rocks and flowers. If he were air, he would luxuriate in her scent. If he were water, he would caress her skin and play with her hair as he cleansed her. If he were fire, he would creep into her skin, warm her up when she needed. But he was nothing but man. So, he would have to satisfy himself with a kiss from her lips.

“Are you sure?” She asked as he stepped forward to her.

“I am. Are *you* sure?”

There was silent for a moment before she said, “Yes. Kiss me.”

Needing nothing else, he took his helmet off and placed it carefully on his seat. His heart thudded against his ribs, and his breaths grew labored. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

In all his years, he had never kissed anyone. It was not part of the culture of his people what with the metal barriers that kept them from it. He remembered the sweet kisses on his forehead and cheeks from before he took the creed. But that was not what his heart desired. He wanted the kind of thing she watched on her holopad, all the holodramas with characters who showed their desire through an intense kiss that left their partner speechless.

He reached forward and found her hand. She gasped softly, the quietness of the ship letting him in on her soft sounds. He caressed up her arm, enjoying the slight tremble of her skin beneath the tips of his fingers. He stopped at her neck and allowed himself to cradle it in his hand. He felt her lean closer and he reciprocated, taking the final step. He tilted his head to his right feeling that she tilted to her right.

As he closed the gap between them, he felt her warm breath on his skin. He swallowed, his lips parting from how nervous he was. What if he was no good? What if he didn’t have good breath? What if he’s such a bad kisser that she— he gasped softly as she pressed her lips against his. In an instant, she quietened the sounds his head. The fast beating of his heart, he realized was now from the effect of proximity to her more than his insecurities.

She placed one hand on his shoulder and wrapped her other arm around his waist. He let out a shaky breath at the intimacy of their contact and let his other hand trail down her back. She pressed herself closer against his beskar clad chest, making him wish he had the forethought to toss that bit of his armor too. He wanted to feel her. Every bit of her that she was offering up to him like she truly believed he was deserving.

Her lips were soft, just as he’d dreamt them to be. He’d never kissed before. It was an act saved for married couples in the covert, as only your spouse could see you with your helmet off. He had married friends who waxed poetry about the magic of kissing. How they felt like nothing and nobody mattered other than your partner. How it turned you into putty in their hands. He thought it was exaggerated… Until now.

He cupped her cheek, her face fitting in his hand and making him feel a new sense of protectiveness towards her. He’d protected her before, sure, but this felt different. This was something to do with a need to be gentle with her. To cherish her and treasure her. She licked his lips and he parted them instinctively, letting her tongue between his lips. He shuddered as her fingers threaded through his hair. He whimpered and pulled her closer to himself in the moment of vulnerability, using her as a crutch to support him. He’d never been touched like that before…

Her fingers explored his hair and he allowed himself to relax in his arms, even letting himself give her comforting caresses of her back. He felt her melt into his arms as their kiss deepened. She tasted of the silver elixir first, but when they were both a little along the way, he began to taste something that was distinctly her. Something sweet, mixing with the fragrance of her citrusy perfume to further dull his senses.

It was soft, but electrifying. He poured his passions into the kiss, exploring her with his tongue and luxuriating in the sweet little whimpers she let out. The technicalities stopped mattering. He was here, holding the girl he’d been pining for, lips connected as the unlikely result of a stupid game. That moment was all that mattered and her sounds of satisfaction told him that he wasn’t doing so bad after all.

She pulled back in a while and they let out the breaths they’d be holding. She let out a laugh and he smiled, comforted by her job. He didn’t even know he’d been holding his breath. He’d forgetting the necessity for breathing as he found her lips.

“You have…a big nose,” she said, confusing him.

“Huh?” He asked, his mind still clouded from her kiss.

“I get another kiss if I’m right, Dim Djarin,” she teased, pointing to his obliviousness when it came to things of this nature.

“Right,” he said, grinning as he kissed her again. He needed to play games with her more often.

#din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fluff #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x original female character #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fluff #inexperienced!din #din x reader #din x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mando fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #am i a star wars fic writer now? #din dijarin x reader #din djaren #din dijarin fanfiction #all that i've inflicted on the world

[kenobiwanx]

din djarin x oc commission ✨️

#fanart #artists on tumblr #digital art #drawing #illustration #my art #art #artwork #digital drawing #pedro pascal #din djarin fanart #din djarin x oc #din djarin #din djarin x ofc #not my oc #drawing commisions #commission #the mandolorian fanart #the mandalorian #din and grogu #fanfic #din djarin fanfiction

[jennaispunk]

Gift of a Friend

Summary: An unlikely meeting leads to something unexpected.

Pairing: Din Djarin x OFC (Talia)

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: none. This is just fluff (sorry not sorry). A “This is how they met” story. It’s just two people who could use a friend finding each other. Maybe it might lead to more…..

Notes: I wrote this for the @swiftiscruff friendship exchange. This is for you @sawymredfox!!! I hope you like this. Thank you for being brave and reaching out to me. Look at us, two introverts making a connection lol. You are too sweet and my world would be a little less bright without you in it. Love you. 💜💜

The title is from a Demi Levato song.

Thank you @fallingforthearch for being my beta.

graphics and support banners by the amazing @saradika-graphics

The sounds of the bazaar filled her ears: children laughing… vendors calling out sometimes in their native tongue and sometimes in basic, peddling their fruits and vegetables or homemade goods. The sun beat down on the dirt as she made her way through the bustle and cacophony, looking for a few things to make up her dinner for the evening.

Another long shift at the hospital had come and gone, mainly assisting with patching up drunken patrons from the cantina whose mouths had earned them a fist to the jaw or the nose.

Gathering the last things she needed, she headed to her small home, ready to finally relax and maybe start the new book she’d been dying to read. The sound of babbling behind her caught her attention. She looked down to see a small green creature looking up at her. His big dark eyes looked up at her curiously, almost as if he knew her. He babbled again and reached his arms out to her.

“Hey, little buddy…. Are you all alone? Where’s your mama?”

Her eyes darted, searching the crowd. He was an unusual looking creature. Not a species she had ever seen before, but so adorable. Surely, someone must be looking for him.

His ears twitched, and he made a sound that sounded almost like a whine. He instantly lifted his arms again, and she scooped him up. The little creature babbled happily in her arms. She stared at him, feeling a sense of comfort and peace with this little guy she hadn’t felt in a long time. She felt he was trying to communicate with her, even though all his sounds were only gibberish.

“Do you speak Basic?” Talia asked. “Can you tell me where your parents are?”

The little green creature babbled again, tilting his head. His little hand reached out to touch her face. She softly gasped at the unexpected contact but relaxed as she felt the warmth and comfort wash over her.

“There you are…”

Her eyes shot up to behold a broad man clad in armor and a helmet. She recognized his armor immediately; he was a Mandalorian. She blinked rapidly at him, her tongue briefly peeking out to wet her lips.

“He's yours?”

“Yes…he belongs to me.” His voice was devoid of emotion through the modulator. He stood rigid and tall, an unmoving statue. The sun created an almost halo-like ring around him, making him look like some ancient god she’d read about in a novel.  

“Friendly little guy, isn’t he?”

“He doesn’t usually like a lot of people.” His response was short and to the point.

A puff of air escaped her lips as the little green creature babbled in her arms. This mysterious Mandalorian was so hard to read and apparently not one for conversation.

“Come on, Grogu. It’s time to go home.”

Her brow ticked skyward. It was an interesting name. The little guy completely ignored him, continuing to coo and play with strands of her blonde hair swirling in the gentle breeze.

He exhaled loudly, his right knee jutting out slightly as his hands went to his hips.

“Grogu…”

The tone of his voice made Grogu’s ears droop slightly and he pouted for just a moment before leaping from her arms and returning to his Mandalorian.

He scooped Grogu into his arms and turned away without another word. She huffed. Was he just going to walk away without a word? She opened her mouth to insult him, but Grogu’s high-pitched noises stopped her. The Mandalorian stopped as well, keeping his back to her but turning his head to the side.

“Thank you…for looking out for him.”

She called out to his retreating form, her arms crossed tight across her chest. “You’re welcome.”

“Mudscuffer.” she added under her breath.

Din walked away with Grogu babbling in his arms, reaching back toward Talia. Din shook his head, a strange feeling in his chest. Something about that girl intrigued him. Maybe it was how sweet she was with Grogu. Perhaps it was the way she called him a Mudscuffer when she thought he couldn’t hear. She had spunk, and he found himself wanting to see her again.

Halfway through the bazaar, she realized her mistake. The shopkeeper offered his son to carry the packages home for her, but she refused, her pride overruling common sense. She’d been saving for months to buy this easel and canvases, and she didn’t want another set of hands all over it. Besides, she’d made it this long on her own, and she could do this too.

“Dank Farrik!”  she groaned, adjusting the packages in her hands, determined to make it back home without dropping them.

Din watched her from a distance as she struggled, silently chuckling to himself. She was a stubborn one, too damn prideful to ask for help. His heart stirred at the sight.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

Taking the packages into his arms with little effort, he looked down at her, his helmet hiding his smirk.

She stared at him, opening her mouth to speak then closing it again. She hadn’t expected to see him again, although he had managed to find a way into her thoughts over the last few days.

 Before she could speak, Grogu took the opportunity to jump into her arms.

“Hello, little friend.” She laughed as she booped his nose.

“Which way?” he asked. The glint of his armor caught her eye as he shifted his weight.

“Oh, uh…. this way.” Her hand jutted out in the direction of her place.

An awkward silence fell over them like a heavy fog as they walked toward her house, neither one willing to break the tension. His boots softly scuffed the dirt in a steady rhythm, lulling her into a strange sense of comfortability.

“Do you have a name?” Her voice cut through the silence. “Or should I just call you Mando?”

One of his shoulders raised slightly.

“I figured you’d just call me Mudscuffer.” His chuckle was like a soft whisper through the modulator.

She swallowed hard and fixed her eyes on the road. She couldn’t believe he’d heard her say that. She thought he was out of earshot when she let that slip.

“My name is Din.”  

“Talia,” she offered before he even had a chance to ask. His head turned slightly toward her, giving her an almost imperceptible nod.

He sat the package down in her living room and straightened, admiring the small space. It was sparsely decorated but cozy—like a home. A worn bookshelf stood tall in the corner, filled with books and a few small trinkets. He wondered what sort of books lined those shelves and if she imagined herself in those worlds as she read them.

She watched him standing in her living room, the sun beaming in and reflecting off his Beskar armor. She found herself wanting to know more about him…. anything about him, really.

“Thanks for your help.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. Grogu shuffled around on the floor, fascinated by the space.  His coos filled the air, punctuating the uneasiness between them.

“You’re welcome.”

She opened her packages and set up her easel by the window, adjusting it a few times to find the perfect angle to catch the light. The canvases were stacked neatly into the corner under the small shelving holding a small assortment of paints and brushes.

“You paint?”

Din could almost imagine her sitting by this window; tiny speckles of paint freckled across her cheek, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked. The sunlight streaming down, illuminating her golden locks, would have been breathtaking.

“I’m getting back into it again. I had to save for a while before I could afford a new easel and a few pieces of canvas.”

He quietly cleared his throat, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to talking to people. He couldn’t remember the last time he had an actual conversation with someone. Talking to her was…nice. His cheeks flushed under his armor, and he was grateful she couldn’t see his face. He was a bounty hunter and a trained warrior, not some little boy with a crush.

“Would you and Grogu like to stay and have dinner with me? It’d be nice to have some company for a change.” Her cheeks burned with heat as she asked the question. Her heartbeat quickened with every moment he was silent.

“Thank you for the offer, but Grogu and I should be going.”  He didn’t know how to explain to her that his creed forbade him from revealing his face to anyone but his riduur. That was a conversation for another time. He’d broken that vow once and endured too much to redeem himself to risk it again.

Her chin briefly tilted toward the floor before she returned her gaze to his helmet with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

 “Sure…. maybe another time.”

His chest tightened as he collected Grogu. This feeling was strange to him—this feeling of wanting to connect with someone. He’d spent his whole life without any real attachment to anyone until Grogu. Now, he found himself wanting to be in her presence, wanting something with her that he always longed for but denied himself: a friend…and maybe something more.

Without thinking, he stopped in the doorway and turned back to her.

“Our home is just outside the city. If you’re ever interested, there’s plenty of good lighting and landscape to paint.”

The words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them.

“I’m sure Grogu would like it if you came to visit sometime when you’re free. He seems to like you.”

Her smile could have lit up the deepest mines of Mandalore. This mysterious stranger had her completely captivated. She’d realized how much she missed having someone to just be with… someone to fill that void of loneliness she tried to ignore for so long.

“I’d like to visit Grogu sometime, too.”

#gift of a friend #ppcugiftexchange2024 #ppcufriendshipexchange2024 #din djarin x ofc #the mandalorian #jennaispunk #it’s fluff

[dindjarindiaries]

The Rising Phoenix - Chapter One

series masterlist • main masterlist • ao3

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pairing ➵ din djarin x fem!oc rating ➵ mature (18+) tags ➵ enemies to lovers, fluff & angst, emotional & physical hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, injuries & blood, trauma, eventual/mild smut, strong language, sexual references word count ➵ 3.847k chapter summary ➵ This year's team of Mandalorian recruits embark on their journey to Kyrbej, their home for the next brutal cycle.

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CHAPTER ONE

I tie off my right boot and stand up, facing the reflection of myself in the long piece of reflective transparisteel. The leather of my training gear groans at the movements. I bite my cheek. That will take some getting used to.

Damn. I look disproportionate as hell with my beskar helmet and absolutely no other armor joining it. That will be another thing I’ll have to get used to.

Not that there will be any mirrors for me to see myself at Kyrbej. The training grounds on the other side of Concordia’s surface are known for their practicality, not any type of luxury. Certainly not anything more than what we already have in our stronghold. If I want to look at myself, I’ll have to bring my own shard of reflective transparisteel.

Given Linessa’s warnings about how the next cycle will go, though, I’m fairly sure I won’t want to look at myself, anyway.

I’m only able to heave one more breath before there’s a rapid knocking at my door. “Rhi! Hurry! You’re barely giving me any time to say goodbye!”

I swallow the sudden knot my twin sister’s words tie in my throat and pick up my rucksack. It’s heavy as hell, but given the fact I’ll be living out of it, I’m surprised it’s not even heavier. I slide my door open and Rowyn’s standing there, her emerald helmet adorned with gold embellishments flashing in my gaze as she lunges forward to wrap her arms tight around me.

The rucksack falls to the floor as I hug her back. For the first time since we were younglings, our paths are diverging. It’s the Way, as Mom has reminded me so many times before, as the Ancestors have called us each to our own unique paths.

“I’ll see you soon.” I say the words to Rowyn with confidence, even if there’s a wide-open chasm of uncertainty in my chest. I’ve been preparing for this for years, ever since I slid this beskar over my head. My hand cups the back of her helmet. “You better have a full suit ready for me when I get back.”

Rowyn manages a short laugh at that. “First of all, I’m not in charge of giving you armor.” She pulls away and holds my own emerald helmet between her hands, though I can see the white accents I added to each curve of the beskar reflected in her visor. “Second of all, I’m gonna need more than a cycle to learn how to make a full fucking suit.”

I laugh with her. Our helmets touch, silence sitting between us, before I step away and hold her hands in mine. “Tell the Armorer to go easy on you." I squeeze her hands. “I know how easily you blister.”

“I could say the very same about you.” Rowyn’s thumb runs over my palm. “But I think I’ll have it easier over here than you will over there.”

I scoff. “Have you met the Armorer?”

Rowyn can’t laugh this time. I don’t need to see her face to identify her concern. After years without seeing a single person’s face, it’s easy to spot emotions in other ways, especially the people I know best. “Just be careful, Rhi.”

“I will.” I give her hands another squeeze. “You’ve seen how well I can kick ass.”

Rowyn’s helmet tilts, her substitution for a smile. “Yeah, that makes me feel better.”

I chuckle and sigh, going in for one last hug. “I’m gonna miss you so fucking much, Row.”

“I’ll miss you too, Rhi.”

“Rhiane,” Mom’s voice calls for me further down the corridor. “It’s time to get going.”

Rowyn and I step away from each other at the same time. I pick up my rucksack and nod at her, taking in the last of my twin sister before I turn and start to walk towards Mom. Rowyn, however, adds one more thing over my shoulder. “And Rhiane!”

I whip my helmet around. Rowyn jogs to get closer to me, lowering her modulated voice so only I can hear.

“Kick Din Djarin’s ass for me.”

I huff at that, as much as the sound of his name alone sets my chest aflame with deeply planted bitterness. “Easy.”

“Rhiane.” Mom’s voice is more stern now. I wince and turn to face her again, her battle-worn emerald suit of armor serving as a warning rather than an inspiration right now. “Let’s go.”

I look at my boots as I follow her out of the part of the stronghold I’ve called home for twenty-two cycles, now. Hopefully, Dad’s waiting outside, or else I won’t have a chance to say goodbye. There’s no way Mom’s going to let me back inside, and I can’t blame her. The last thing I’d want to do is either hold up the whole group of this cycle’s recruits or have to run like hell to catch up to them.

The maze of the stronghold soon gives way to Concordia’s swirling atmosphere, and as I look up, I can see the distant image of Mandalore. The familiar ache of curiosity and nostalgia I have no need for hits at the sight of our people’s homeworld. I wonder if earning my place as a warrior will ever grant me permission to visit our history there. Even Mom and Dad seem to miss it after running a few missions there when I was little.

Speaking of Dad, he stands with the other parents of my fellow recruits, who will see us off as we head to Kyrbej. There are less parents here than there are recruits, even if there aren’t that many of us. I push the unnecessary observation away and focus on the last goodbyes I have to make.

“You’re late, Rhiane,” Dad greets me, his gloved hand tapping the side of his helmet—and no doubt powering down the chrono within his visor.

Mom offers him the answer. “Rowyn.”

Dad nods in understanding. He approaches me and sets a strong hand on my shoulder. “You’ve been waiting a long time for this day, verd’ika.” I smile to myself at the nickname. I’ve had it ever since I tried to force Rowyn into wrestling matches when we were kids. “I know you’ll make us proud.”

“Thank you.” I nod, maintaining my composure and respect in light of the fellow Mandalorians who surround us.

“The Fighting Corps isn’t ready for you.” Mom speaks up next. She presses her hand against the back of my emerald helmet to make it meet her own. “But you are damn sure ready for it.”

My eyes start to sting, my nose prickling and my throat tied up in a spikey knot. Shit. I told myself I wouldn’t get emotional, even if my beskar could hide it—but I hadn’t expected my parents to show me anything more than tough-love in front of others. “Thank you.” I force the words through my tightened throat.

“The cycle will be over before you know it.” Dad steps towards me when Mom gives him room to, his helmet also meeting my own. “You’ll be a full-fledged warrior next time we see you.”

“Just a full-fledged recruit, Dad.” I manage to maintain my usual smartass tone even amidst my emotional struggle. Dad huffs and steps away. I look between my parents and lower my helmet in love and respect. “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way.” Their comforting voices are a chorus that wrap around me like a sweet embrace as I force myself to turn my back on them. I join the group of recruits and get in formation, falling into the empty space in the two-by-two line that’s been saved for me.

“It’s about time your ass turned up.” The recruit at my side’s tone is full of nothing but amusement as she tilts her purple helmet at me. “I was starting to think you were having second thoughts.”

I shoved my shoulder against hers. “Fuck off, Sahra.” I tilt my helmet back at her. “As if I’d be the one between us to stay behind.”

I could almost feel the hot waves of Sahra’s embarrassment warming my black leathers. “That’s different. Since Thiio’s due for his training next year—.”

“—You’ll be spending two cycles apart, not just one. I know.” I find her hand and give it a squeeze. “But this will be good for you two. You’ve been inseparable ever since they moved his family’s wing closer to yours.”

“And?” Sahra’s curt response is almost a challenge.

“Selfishly, it gives me more alone time with you.” I let her hand go and shrug. “Plus, who knows. Maybe training will bring out something new in someone that you’ll like.” I gesture with my  helmet to the path we’re about to take. “There’s gonna be a lot of extra adrenaline we have to take care of out there.”

“Fair point.” Sahra becomes more amused again as she crosses her arms over her chest. “And who exactly do you think you’ll be choosing for that task?”

I shrug again. “I’ll have to wait and see.” I spot a familiar shine diagonally across from my position, about four rows of recruits ahead. “I do know who I won’t be choosing, though.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” My visor snaps over to Sahra. She dramatically fires my own words back at me. “Maybe training will bring out something new in someone that you’ll like.”

“Fuck no.” I find the silver helmet again, the only one in this entire group that hasn’t been painted, and tighten my jaw. “That doesn’t apply to him.”

“Really, Rhiane?” Sahra is using the tone of voice that makes it hard to tell if she’s being serious or not. “I always thought you two would be a power—.”

I shove my elbow hard enough into her ribs to make her lose her breath for a moment.

“Damn, fine then. Comm received.” Sahra rubs her hand over her ribs. “No more jokes about Djarin.”

The sound of his name causes his silver helmet to turn over his shoulder. I don’t let my visor stray from his, instead challenging him to look away first. My hands curl into fists at my sides and I wish I could swing them in his direction. I’ve already sparred with him enough times to know, though, that I won’t win—but neither will he.

The question now, then, is who’s going to win this staring contest of ours.

“Recruits!” A booming voice announces from the front of the group.

Another draw it is. We look away from each other at the same time, focusing our attention to the black-armored Mandalorian ahead of us. Captain Hosnan has been running the Fighting Corps’ training for cycles, even before more than half our ranks abandoned the Way during the Clone Wars.

“You’ve been training for cycles to see this moment. You’re now mere minutes away from embarking on this journey, a Mandalorian tradition that’s been in place for thousands of years.”

My stomach twists with nerves I’m not used to having. The historical weight of this training isn’t lost on me, especially when I remember who my ancestors are. Settling for anything less than the goal I’ve made for myself in my mind is unacceptable.

“You’ve sworn the Creed. You’ve earned your most valuable piece of armor: your helmets.” 

Each one of our helmets is unique in some way, all adorned with special colors and embellishments—except for Din’s. For some reason, it makes my blood boil even more.

“Now, you will go on to earn each piece of your full suit of armor with each challenge you undertake. It won’t be easy, but the generations before you have proven it can be done. I’m the first captain to have no deaths reported at Kyrbej in three-hundred years, so don’t be my first.”

I swallow hard. No pressure.

“But don’t be mistaken. This isn’t because I’m softer than the other captains.” Captain Hosnan crosses his arms over his cuirass. “It’s because I’m tougher, and that toughness yields results. So, if any one of you feels you’re not up for the challenge, do us all a favor and walk away now while you can. As for the rest of you…”

Captain Hosnan lowers his arms to lift his fist to the center of his cuirass, right over the kar’ta. 

“Welcome to the Fighting Corps.” He lowers his helmet. “This is the Way.”

We all mirror his gesture, crossing our right arms over our chests and lowering our helmets. “This is the Way.”

The family members beside us are the last to say the phrase. “This is the Way.”

Captain Hosnan turns and begins to walk forward, and our group of recruits follows in obedient formation. I pull the straps of my rucksack higher on my shoulders and give Sahra a look. “Are you ready, Private Auren?”

Sahra tilts her helmet at me. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Private Voss.”

▼▲▼

As it turns out, the hardest part of our cycle at Kyrbej is fucking walking there.

After endless hours of non-stop travel across this desolate moon we call home, Captain Hosnan has finally allowed us to make camp. We don’t have the supplies to pitch tents, so we settle for various alcoves in the nearby rock structures that have defined Concordia ever since it was settled—or, at least, mined.

My feet are throbbing and my legs nearly give out when I sit down beside Sahra at our makeshift fire, but at least this walk is breaking in my boots. I chew on the ration pack Rowyn helped me acquire from the kitchen of our wing, sliding the material in the gap between the lip of my helmet and my skin. There’s no chance I’m gonna be able to hunt something out here.

The recruits are scattered throughout the alcove in their small friend groups, the ones made long before Kyrbej was even on the horizon. I’m well aware these groups will be drastically different by the time we all complete our training, and not just because of Linessa’s warning. It’s common sense. The shit we’re about to go through this cycle changes people from the inside-out.

“I’ll be right back,” Sahra speaks up into our comfortable silence. She stands and brushes the dirt of the alcove off her leathers. “I’ll let you know if I find a decent corner of privacy for relieving ourselves.”

I snort with amusement and watch her as she strides away. I’m not on my own for long, though, as another person soon comes to take her place. I don’t bother fighting the snarl underneath my  helmet or the roll of my eyes behind my visor.

“Voss.” Din’s modulated tone is curt as he stands over me.

“Djarin.” I all but bite his name out.

His arms cross over his chest. His broad chest. Shit, does that tiny detail really matter? “You seem tired.”

I scoff. “What a fucking compliment.” I sit up more and tilt my helmet. “Are you not exhausted from walking for at least six hours straight?” When he starts to reply, I hold up my hand. “Wait, let me guess. You’ve somehow been training for this specific part along with everything else.”

Din tilts his helmet back at me. “You’re catching on.”

Frustration pumps through my veins like hot, molten lava. “Well, what the hell do you want? Or did you just come over here to be an asshole?”

Din doesn’t waver at my hurled insults. “You tell me. Your friend was the one who said my name earlier.”

I narrow my eyes at him and hope he can somehow see their wrath behind my visor, even if it breaks the Creed. “Can’t live with the fact your name’s said in conversations you’re not a part of, Djarin?” I let out an amused huff. “Because I hate to tell you, people are allowed to say your name when you’re not around.”

“I would’ve been content to leave you to it.” Din shifts his weight to one hip. “But you were looking at me, so… naturally, I assumed you had something to say.”

“Nope.” I’m suddenly grateful for the Creed again that keeps my warm, embarrassed face from Din’s line of vision. Ancestors, forgive me. “Consider it a mistake.”

Din’s helmet straightens. “Let me give you some advice.” He gestures with his helmet to the view of Concordia outside the alcove. “There’s no room for mistakes at Kyrbej. Even one could move you down the ranks, and fast. My advice, then?” He drops his arms back to his sides, conveying his severity. “Don’t let it happen again.”

My anger becomes so volatile that I’m relieved I don’t have a metal suit of armor covering me. It would just melt into my skin. “So now you’re giving me orders?” I shake my helmet. “Hell no. And you say that as if I don’t already know.” My anger unties a cruel knot within my throat and unleashes its full wrath. “Unlike you, I have a fucking legacy to maintain.”

Din stiffens, but it only lasts for a moment. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but it’s not an unusual action for him. “Good.” He nods at me, having the audacity to remain civil after my harsh bite—and making me feel like the asshole here. “I expect it won’t happen again, then.”

He turns his back before he can see my middle finger extended up at him. I curse under my breath and wrap my arms around myself for more warmth, glancing at the unfinished ration pack on my lap. I’ve lost my appetite, and I could use the rest for breakfast, anyway.

No. I am not letting this man make me eat myself alive because he was the one who approached me in the first place. He’s trying to get to me mentally, since he can’t beat me physically. I won’t let him win.

Sahra returns and sits even closer to my side than she had before. “Damn, what did I miss?” Her visor gives me a once-over. “You’re tenser than a lariat.” She points at my unfinished ration. “And I expected that to be crumbs by now.”

“What do you think happened?” My visor’s glaring in Din’s direction, even though he’s become lost within the fray of recruits. I find his silver helmet amidst a group of other foundling recruits. He’s the biggest of them all.

“You mean, who do I think happened?” Sahra huffs. “It’s not really a question.”

“He was an asshole for coming over here, and then he made me be an asshole back.”

Sahra tilts her helmet at me. “He ‘made’ you?”

I finally turn to face her. “He wanted to know why you said his name earlier, before we left.”

I hate the way I can practically see Sahra’s purple helmet grow brighter, as if the fire suddenly got more powerful. “Yeah? And what did he have to say about my brilliant joke?”

“Your brilliantly fucking stupid joke? Yeah, he doesn’t know about it.” I huff in indignation. “He just threatened me not to make the ‘mistake’ of using his name without telling him about it again.”

Sahra’s shoulders tense at that. “What the hell?”

“Exactly.” I rest even further against the smooth slab of stone supporting me.

“So, how exactly were you an asshole in this context?”

I cringe, squeezing my eyes tight behind my visor in embarrassment. “Don’t judge me.” The only person who knows the Creed better than me is Din himself. The man’s a stickler for the rules and customs of our people. The foundlings are the future.

“Let me guess.” Sahra’s fingers tap over her thigh in unnecessary concentration. I already know she’s going to get it right on the first try. “You made a jab about him being a foundling?”

I palm my helmet with one of my hands. “Why am I such an ass about that sometimes, Sahra?” I shake my head.

“It’s the only leverage you have on him.” Sahra shrugs and pokes at the fire to keep it burning. “He’s not the most open about his life before his rescue, and he’s definitely not the type to tell anyone how he feels about it—or anything else.”

I stare at the fire. “That doesn’t make it right. He just…” I clench my hands into tight fists, “shit, he makes me so damn angry sometimes.”

“It may not be right, but it’s understandable.” Sahra nods at me. “You were predicted to be the top of our cycle from a young fucking age. Then Djarin just comes in, and… well, he’s the only one who can threaten that.”

I exhale deeply and close my eyes, feeling the weight of this day and situation upon me. “I don’t want to think about that day anymore.”

Sahra’s hand gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I understand.” I hear her shuffling around as she leans back next to me. “Get some rest. I have a feeling Hosnan’s gonna have us up and at ‘em as early as possible.”

Sahra’s right. It feels like I’ve been asleep for all of five minutes when the sound of beskar-on-beskar rings throughout the alcove.

The rest of the recruits and I jolt awake, looking to see Captain Hosnan with his gauntlets crossed over each other. “Morning, recruits! You have five minutes to fully put out your fires, pack your rucksacks, and relieve yourselves before we continue on!”

I groan and let my helmet hit the stone behind me for a moment. We’re not even at Kyrbej yet, and I already understand why I’ve trained like hell for this cycle.

But we will be getting to Kyrbej today, and that excitement alone is what gets me moving faster than anything else.

Once we’re all back on our feet and in our two-by-two formation, Captain Hosnan continues on our path to Kyrbej. Sahra’s quick to notice the sudden hop in my step. “What’s got you so excited to walk another six hours straight?”

I shoot her an incredulous look. “Kyrbej.”

“Right.” Sahra’s visor rises to the swirling sky for a moment. “I almost forgot the destination.”

“I’ve only been training my whole life for it.” I smile to myself, experience my first true wave of joy since leaving the stronghold. “Plus, I’ll finally get to see Linessa.”

Sahra’s helmet snaps back towards me. “Oh, shit, that’s right. She was team leader last year.”

“Damn right she was.” I tilt my helmet towards her. “She’s a Vizsla, after all.”

Sahra snorts. “If Paz was my older brother, I’d work my ass off to be team leader, too.” She gives me a knowing look. “But I’m not even gonna try when I know who it’s going to.”

I bite my cheek. “You don’t know that.”

“By the Ancestors, Rhiane, don’t lose your confidence already.” Sahra nudges my arm. “Your jab at Djarin may have been brutal, but it’s true. Even if he could possibly manage to beat you out in skill, when was the last time they made someone who’s not tied to a clan or a house a fucking team leader?”

My jaw remains wired shut. She’s right. The revelation floods relief through me. “Fair point. I’ll give you that.”

I don’t have another option; I have to believe her. Failing to become team leader isn’t an option. I won’t be able to face Dad, Mom, or even Rowyn if I don’t earn the title.

The hours go by surprisingly quickly, either because of the haziness of my exhaustion or because of the verbal games Sahra and I play to keep ourselves entertained. That haze, however, is quickly replaced by shocking clarity as the adrenaline kicks in at the sight on the horizon.

The unmistakable pillars of Kyrbej frame a tight group of Mandalorian warriors, those who will be serving as our officers, leaders, and teachers for the next cycle. I’m already searching for Linessa’s telltale blue helmet, but as much as I love the woman who’s like another sister to me, she’s not the only reason why my heart is racing with excitement.

After cycles and cycles of waiting, I’m finally at Kyrbej. I’m finally facing my long-awaited destiny. Not even my doubts about Djarin or team leader can quell my pure anticipation.

I don’t have to be Force-sensitive to know that I—and Kyrbej itself—won’t ever be the same after this moment.

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series masterlist • main masterlist • ao3

#i am SO excited for this one!!! #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x female reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the rising phoenix #dindjarindiaries

[nerdieforpedro]

This is the Neighborhood Din Series

Din Djarin (Modern AU) x Sierra Harris (plus size OFC)

This fic is for readers 18+ MDNI

Warnings (general list - will be individualized each chapter): Burns, scratches, Blood and Injury, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Matchmaking, random Star Wars characters, trying to describe mechanical engineering (poorly) and describe teaching (also poorly)

Chapter One: Yes ma’am I’m your neighbor

Chapter Two: Finally Away

Chapter Three: Can we talk for a minute?

Chapter Four: Dinner with plans for the Leftovers?

Chapter Five

Din Djarin/ The Mandalorian Masterlist

Main Masterlist

A03 Link (updated here as well)

#pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x ofc #din Djarin x plus size ofc #This is the neighborhood din

[penvisions]

of beskar and kyber {chapter 8}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: You're slowly getting back to a semblance of yourself after being given a life altering choice.

Word Count: 4.2k (it's a short one, apologies)

Warnings: WE GOT SHIRTLESS DIN Y'ALL, canon typical violence, canon typical fighting, trauma, ptsd, nightmares, illness, reader throws up, allusions to past SA (not detailed), gun violence

A/N: this was a rather hard chapter for me to crank out, i wasn't sure how much of reader's personality would immediately show after the events of the last chapter, but i think i managed to do a decent job that doesn't make it feel like it's a different character altogether. she will come out of her shell more throughout the next couple of chapters as she gets used to traveling with our dear mandalorian as an equal

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist

The clearing was silent as the sun made its rise into the sky, displaying an enticing view of warm pinks and deep oranges that bled into the soft blue of the still waning night sky. Your gaze was locked with the visor across from you, so far and yet still closer than anyone had dared to approach you, with an offer no one had dared to extend to you before. But it didn’t feel real, it felt like a ploy despite the fluttering in your stomach at learning the name of the man who you had spent so much time with.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick, Din Djarin?” You spoke with more control than you truly had, voice strong despite the waning tears that now stained your face and left your eyes tinged with a telltale pinkness of their occurrence. Mind working to calculate the situation playing out, an edge of clarity to your eyes now that the high emotions had all but rushed out of your lips in outraged pleas. A new facet of who you were, of how you survived for so long, taking it in and mentally checking it, much like you were doing with the man across from you.

“My name… I have not spoken it aloud since I was a boy. I have not shared it with anyone,” Din took a step toward you, your body instinctively took a step back despite the fluttering in your middle at the confession. It was a warm feeling akin to the heat thoughts of him blazed underneath your skin in the darkness of night, but far more innocent. At the part of him he was willing to give to you, even after you threatened to kill him. “I…. want to share it with you, to prove to you that I will not harm you and give you something in return that could harm me if it were to leave the two of us.”

This was all so new, different sides of the alluring mystery you both posed to each other.

“You saved my life twice, when you had no reason to.” His words were strong, though there was a caressing of emotion in them you had only been allowed to glimpse before. “You deserve the same, you deserve to be saved, given a choice.”

It was hard to believe him, believe the words, the offering he was extending to you. You were sure he could pinpoint the conflicting emotions as they passed over your face. Positive in your very soul that he could tell you had never been handed a choice before and were confused over, especially coming from someone initially hired to capture you.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“As is this.”

“You- you want me to travel with you?”

“Yes, I would be honored to have you aboard the ship.” His tone was solid, with no hint of hesitancy or fraud in his words as they sounded in the air. “You are a strong fighter, a survivor.”

“Free?”

“You are free, I will do my best to ensure it until you wish to part ways.”

“What…what if I do something you don’t like or speak out of place?” The words you wanted to say died in your throat to allow for those ones to come to life. The confession of wanting to remain with him until he no longer wanted you around nearly slipping from your lips as the conversation continued. Because that’s what it was, a conversation. You weren’t being talked at or down to, he was talking to you, with you. He had begun to do so the second you had boarded his ship, even knowing the dynamic that he had initiated by taking you from that compound.

“I will not raise a hand to you, I’ve promised you that already.”

“I’m annoying, I say things under my breath, I-I-I…I’m selfish.”

“Then we can be so together.” A deep chuckle decorated the air of the clearing, making your heart stutter for a reason other than fear and anxiety for the several times since he entered your life. The sound was beautiful, and your selfish tendencies were already returning to you. You wanted more of it, of that sound, of being able to draw that sound out of him.

“Y-yes.”

He closed the distance of the clearing and came up toward you with his hands at his sides as he approached, the rising sun catching his amor in a mesmerizing way. He walked past your still form toward the wall of trees surrounding the space, retrieving the heavy pack he knew you had hidden in the brush. He hauled it onto his shoulder, his cloak billowing more with the weight resting along the upper part of it along his back. “Let’s get everything back on board before some food. Then we can rest after traveling all night.”

You felt a shy smile come over your lips, liking the sound of ‘we’ after being alone for so long. You reached for one of the trunks and hauled it up, following his lead back toward the ship. His steps faltered as he looked over his shoulder and saw the expression. You quietly asked him if he was alright, getting a nod from the man in response.

The hammock from your new pack was secured to the walls of the ship, off in the corner opposite of Din’s small personal quarters, near the wall that made up the back entrance to the ship. Your bag was atop it, heavier now with the other items you had purchased while in town with the villagers just yesterday. A time that felt so long ago, when you were worried about having to bide your time and make a run for it, run away from the man you could feel crossing the space of the hold toward you.

You jumped clean off the floor of the hold when a crate was set down with a loud thunk and you spun on your heels to face the sound. He was rather close as was the sound and your hand was tight around the handle of your saber, instinctually reaching for it. It should alarm you how used you were to his presence that it didn’t register how little distance was between the both of you, but you pushed that thought down to inspect at a later time.

You turned in time to see him using his right leg to scoot in neatly underneath the space below the hammock. There was enough room beneath it and the top of the storage to accommodate the weight of your body while resting.

“For you, for your…things.”

You nodded at him, aware of the weight of his visor taking in the small space you had claimed for yourself. Worry flared for a moment, worry that you had chosen a bad spot or infringed on his space in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It all tapered out of you in a shaky exhale, hands letting go of your weapon as you realized you had clenched your hand tight around it, your knuckles creaking with the effort and your fleeting, overwhelming emotion. Turning back around, you began to unload the pack into the open space of the crate with a small ‘thank you’.

“There…is a small cabin behind the flight room.” He reached out and his gloved hand gently turned you around, so you were facing him fully. You let him do so, your heart hammering in your chest at the casual contact, at his words. “We can make it your own space, more privacy than here in the hold.”

“I don’t want to intrude-“

“You wouldn’t, yours if you want it.”

Your body betrayed you at his words, at the phrasing. You felt your skin tingle as a whoosh of desire flared hot in your middle and your mind decided to recall the feel of his bare hands. You ducked your head, unable to keep a somewhat shared look with him as you pulled slowly from his light grip on your arm.  His hand lingered, brushing down the side of your arm to blossom comfort with his touch, as if he was aware of the waring emotions you were experiencing.

“I’ll…think about it.”

He leaned in close, helmet coming to rest on your forehead in another comforting action. Fingers reached out to wrap around his elbows before you realized you were even moving, reaching.

“I asked you to stay, mesh’la. Please don’t feel like you’re unwanted here.”

Lifting your eyes to gaze into the visor, you felt a shudder of something faint make its way down your spine. You were sure the man could feel the way your body reacted to it, this close to you. You could only nod in response to his words, your own too jumbled in your chest to voice.

With a slow nod in return, he was back over on the other side of the space, taking a seat at the makeshift table. The Child was atop it, exploring the food packages around him with excited gurgles. You felt a soft smile pull at your lips as you watched him, so excited with such a simple thing.

“The village packed us a lot of food, you’re welcome to any of it.”

“Oh, um, I…ate in town.” You shuffled on your feet, turning back to the small corner and began to unpack the items you had purchased in the village. “I wasn’t sure when I would get to eat next.”

It was quiet for a few heartbeats, the man focused on opening some of the wrapped bundles.

“You were going to run, even if that transmission hadn’t come through.” He wasn’t asking for confirmation, he was stating it as if he had been privy to the way your mind had been running, like it was second nature for him to know about the things that had occurred in your mind and influenced your actions. Maybe it was, to an extent. Having traveled with him for some time now.

“Yes.”

“I was going to leave a note.” You admitted, eyes falling closed as you gathered yourself. You didn’t reach for anything as you sat atop the other makeshift seat of a crate. Hands in your lap as you spoke, eyes still trained on the Child and his many noises.

Your lips quirked up when his small form turned to you with an outstretched hand. He was clutching a kebob in his little claw, cooked krill pieces skewered onto it. When you reached a hand out to take it, he fussed, shaking his head with a grumble. A soft laugh bubbled up as you opened your mouth and leaned closer to him. That seemed to be what he wanted, and he giggled freely as he watched you tear the topmost piece away with your teeth and began to chew it. Bringing a hand up to cover your mouth, you exaggerated a nod at him to let him know you liked the taste.

He turned his attention to Din and held his hand out once again.

A shake of the helmet made him frown, a little angry grunt sounding from his chest. He mimicked Din, shaking his head and then brandishing the kebob at him in a wave. He bumped it against the front of the helmet, right where Din’s mouth would be. And again, and again. It was making the only noise in the ship other than the odd beeping sound or so that signaled things were up and running.

With a deep sigh, one of Din’s hands came up and pressed something just underneath the front of the helmet, where it settled over his chin. The hiss of the helmet decompressing startled you and your heart thudded in your chest as froze in place across the makeshift table. Surely he wouldn’t just expose himself so casually…? The Creed of the Mandalorians forbade the removal of the helmet, and while that wasn’t the case for all of them, it was a rather important factor in the practice that Din took part in, that he was raised in. The hint of a strong jaw covered in dark scruff was visible as he quickly leaned forward and took a bite from the offered stick.

Just as quickly as the helmet had been lifted ever so slightly, it was set back in place.

The Child’s happy giggles echoed off the walls. He turned back to you with a large, toothy smile. Willing your heart to calm down, you returned the smile with a soft one of your own.

A shout ripped from your throat, and you were thrashing around as your mind was ripped from its stream of unconsciousness. Heart thudding painfully in your chest, panting with the effort to catch your breath, you sat up from the hammock, swinging your legs over the side of it. It was swinging with your harsh movements, the supports of it groaning with the actions. The door to the personal quarters across the hold slid open and Din’s form filled the doorway, a blaster in his hand.

You were shaking, body humming with adrenaline as your mind had decided to replay a rather harsh memory from your captivity. The roaring in your ears prevented you from hearing Din cross the space, moving toward you in nothing but his helmet and a pair of sleep pants. His gentle hands on your knees startled you and you kicked out at him, sending him stumbling back onto his backside and palms to catch himself.

“It’s me, mesh’la.”

You shook your head, bringing your hands up to cover your ears. Your throat constricted and the words you were trying to say warbled out incoherently.

“What do you need?” Din’s voice was dulled, as if you were hearing things through a tunnel. Your vision was blurry as you opened your eyes, blinking away the remnants of the nightmare. It was then that you realized you were crying, tears spilling over your lash line to race down your cheeks. They dripped off the end of your chin, splattering to the floor.

“W-water.” You managed to choke out, your skin feeling so caked in filth and the phantom touches from the men who had held you captive. Poor choice of words, you mused as Din moved to gather a pouch of water from atop the makeshift table. You were shaking your head as he turned back around with it in his hands. He could see the way your muscles twitched even from the short distance, your body reacting strongly to whatever your mind had decided to conjure up during your sleep.

“I need to clean. I feel- I feel their hands all over me.” You were pushing up from the hammock, holding a hand to your mouth as nausea roiled hot in your middle. Rushing across the hold toward to fresher, the door hissed shut just as Din caught sight of you crumpling to the floor in front of the toilet basin and heaving the contents of your stomach.

The sound of the shower running had Din standing in front of the door to the fresher with a change of clothes for you in his hands. He had gathered one of his shirts, recalling the way you had held the first one up to inhale his scent back on Sorgan. A small comfort he could offer you when words failed him, as they so often did, but especially in the wake of what just happened. The knock that sounded from his bare knuckles had you jumping underneath the spray of hot water raining down on your body.

Pausing in your frantic scrubbing, your head shot up and focused on the door through the frosted glass of the shower stall.

“Got you a change of clothes.” Din’s voice sounded muffled through the metal of his helmet and the shut door to the small room. “I can set the helmet to another setting and place them on the sink for you.”

“Th-thank you.” Hopefully he understood with your minimal response that what he was saying was alright with you. He seemed to understand, because the door hushed open, and his broad form filled the space of the room. You watched through the glass paneling as he placed a bundle of dark clothing down atop the sink. His helmet never turned toward you despite knowing he could feel the weight of your own gaze upon him. He left as swiftly as he had appeared, allowing you to finish your shower in privacy.

When you emerged from the fresher with damp hair and a new outfit that consisted of a baggy shirt and pants, the hold was empty. There was a single light left on the wall that held the ramp settled into while it wasn’t activated, illuminating the space in soft light. Your eyes landed on a steaming cup of something left on the table, watching the wafts of heat climb into the air. Smiling to yourself, you moved to take a seat and reached to cradle the hot ceramic in your hands.

You were nestled back in the hammock after finishing the warm broth, the liquid helping to sooth your settling stomach. Despite the comfort of an added blanket and the relaxing residual warmth from your shower, you couldn’t help but wring your hands where they rested atop your middle. Din had checked on the ship’s course before returning to his own space. The hush of his door nearly shutting closed the space off and left a weighted silence in its wake.

Settling down further into the blankets, a muffled sob made its way through your body, and you quickly clamped a hand down over your mouth to stifle it. Eyes darting to the small sliver of space that Din had left his door open to see if it traveled across the space toward him. Nothing akin to fear or worry or the instinct to run washed over you as a bulb lit up and his hand bare hand suddenly appeared and was shoving the door open with swift motions. He was across the space in a few long strides, the fabric of his sleep pants swishing around his legs with the speedy, tempered movement.

As soon as he was close enough, he was leaning over to place his hands underneath the curve of your knees and along your upper back, your hands going up around his neck as if they were made just for that. The blanket fell away from you as he lifted you into his arms, turning away from the set up you had made for yourself.

He carried you across the space back toward the door and it shut behind him as he settled you both into the small bed atop the cot that took up a majority of the space. His body was a warm line beside you, your arms loosening from around his neck to fill the space between your bodies atop the mattress. His hands busy pulling the discarded blanket up around you both, letting it settle around your hips.

Eyes trained on him across from you, breath labored as you took in the bare expanse of his chest. Nearly all of his bronze skin was on display in the dull light that probably needed replacing. Fingers twitching in an effort to not cross the space and run them over the temptation that was so close. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes closing to shield yourself from the want. As he spoke lowly to you, the rumbling timber of his voice caressed over you in a muffled sound.

When you opened your eyes back up from a long blink, the confusion in them let him know you had no clue as to what he had just said. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath and deflated as he let it out in a sigh.

“San,” The sound of your name had you focusing on the visor of the helmet looking down at you as he sat partially up on his elbow. His other arm reached out for you, hand encompassing your cheek as he repeated his soft-spoken words. You leaned into his touch, something you couldn’t find it in yourself to be ashamed of or embarrassed about at the moment. It just was, it was right, there was no thinking about it. “Do you want me to turn the light out?”

You reached out tentatively, fingers still twitching with the effort it was taking to restrain yourself from lunging at the man and wrapped your arms around the broad expanse of his bare chest. Fingers digging into his shoulders as you clung to him. Nodding in an answer to his careful question as you buried your head into the crook of his neck. His body moved around and underneath you to turn the light out, shrouding you both in darkness.

The helmet hushed against the fabric of his pillow as he laid down completely beside you. His strong arms came around you and pulled you flush against him, his legs tangling with your own beneath the blanket. Eyes already fluttering shut, you let out long exhale that faltered near the end. You were feeling completely at ease in the wake of that horrible nightmare, safe in this enclosed space, wrapped up in his arms, surrounded by the scent you associated with him.

The feeling of his even, steady pulse humming through his skin where your face was pressed into his neck lulled you into a peaceful sleep.

“I’ve got you.”  

The next morning, or what you assumed was the morning, due to time being hard to keep track during long space travel. It was something you weren’t sure you would ever get a handle on, not having much experience with longer space travel with the focus of seeking out hideaways. The ship had just dropped out of hyperspace, Din having set a random location in order to rest for the night with less threats. He was currently in the cockpit and you quelled the minor nerves at seeking him out after the breakfast you had made an effort to down alongside the Child.

You were cradling him on a hip as you climbed the ladder leading to the partial upper floor, his happy babbling announcing your arrival to the armored man before you physically entered the room. Setting him down in the chair to the right of the door, you turned your attention to the front of the room.

“I chose Tatooine, a few years ago.” Your voice was quiet, nearly a whisper as you walked up behind the pilot’s chair. Eyes trained on the hologram display of nearby planets. “My hideout should still be intact if the sands haven’t swallowed it. I had just installed new moisture farming equipment before…”

Tatooine looked much the same way as it did all those years ago when you picked it out of all the options you had assembled for a good hideout. Washed out and pale as you gazed at the display of the planet before you.

“That’s where….I thought we were when you took me from that compound.”

“Its an easy mistake to make, both are mostly open desert.” He was watching you as you flipped through the rest of the planets displayed as possible locations for the ship to land next, though he had already programmed it for Tatooine. The ships settings displaying as much when you checked the flight path. You could feel the weight of his visor on you as you boldly did so, not having asked to enter the control room let alone mess with the things he was organizing. You turned to face him with a deadpan look, punctuated by a single raised brow and mouth tight in a firm line.

“A fool’s mistake.”

“You’re not a fool, those kriffng bandits were.”

“Landscape here is more limestone, red rock more prominent on Arvala-7.” You gestured to the display with a wave of your hand.

Any other conversation to be had was put on hold the second a warning alarm trilled from the control panel. It was only a second’s notice before blaster shots landed on the starboard side of the ship. Your legs tensed as you tried to keep your balance through the turbulence, hands going out to grip onto anything within reach. It happened to be the armrest of the pilot’s chair. Your head swiveled around to see the Child’s frantic look, eyes wide and sounds of upset falling from him in a steady stream.

“Dank ferrick, we got someone on our tail. Sit down and buckle up, mesh’la.”

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[beskarandblasters]

Stonecatcher

Chapter One: Working for the Knife

Din Djarin x OFC!Athalia (Second Person POV)

Artwork: The Lovers by René Magritte Gif: @cherubispunk Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Series summary: An up-and-coming bounty hunter and a promising arms dealer cross paths on Dantooine. What starts as a business relationship quickly becomes more. How long can you bury your emotions and be a stonecatcher for someone else before you finally snap?

Series warnings: pre season one of The Mandalorian, instant smut but slow burn romantically, Athalia is able-bodied but other than that has no physical description, angst

Chapter summary: An introduction into our main character, Athalia, the people around her, and the world she lives in. And the fateful night she crosses paths with a certain Mandalorian.

Word count: 3.5k

Chapter warnings: sonic = shower, descriptions of nausea, taking medication, drinking, dub con/consent under the influence, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of birth control (implant)

Gas hangs heavy in the air, permeating the small room and suffocating your senses. Your hands are slick with the thick substance as you fill-up the cartridges, getting ready to load them into the blasters. Every so often you stop and look away, blinking and holding back tears from the fumes. It’s painstaking work, often messy and tedious but you suppose it’s better than working in a brothel or even a cantina like your friend Sheva. 

But eventually, you need a break, pulling yourself out of your chair and stepping out back for some fresh air. Your house is located on the edge of Casia, a small village on Dantooine. There’s not much here yet but the influx of travelers leads you to believe Casia will be much more than a primitive village one day. 

Your house overlooks the rolling hills and grassy knolls. The rainy season just ended which made the brown grass tinged with a shade of lavender. In the distance, there are a few blba trees, branches shaking in the gentle wind along with the blades of grass. The afternoon sun is shining and the air is invigorating, a harsh contrast to the stuffy gas-filled interior of your home. Moments like this where you’re appreciating the little things are few and far between lately. Your business has consumed everything– your thoughts, your time, your social life.  

You take one final deep breath, closing your eyes as you do as if the stress will just melt away. If it only were that easy.

“Are you stopping by tonight?”

You startle with a jolt, turning around to find Sheva, standing with a smile and a hand on her hip. She’s wearing her work uniform, stopping by your place on the way to her shift tonight. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she chuckles. 

“You’re fine,” you sigh, “But to answer your question, I think so.”

“You think so??”

“What?” you shrug.

“You should get out more often.”

“There’s not much to do in this town to begin with.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Still, there’s plenty more to do here besides sitting in your house all day, huffing blaster fumes.”

“I’m building my business!” you protest.

“Mhm, sure.”

“Hey, once I gain a more steady customer base I can afford to get those gas cartridges pre-filled.”

“I am just waiting for the day,” she says sarcastically.

“I’ll be there tonight, I promise.”

“Holding you to it,” she says, turning and saying goodbye over her shoulder. 

Once you head back inside to get ready for the evening you’re immediately sent into a coughing fit. A pounding headache follows soon after. Maybe Sheva was right…

Fresh air spills in through the windows of your front room as you open them one by one, but it’s not enough. The sonic might help. You turn on the water, shedding your clothes as you wait for it to heat up. The steam fills the small room, alleviating your headache just a tad. But as you wash the gas off your hands, you realize there’s one thing that’ll actually do you some good; a trip to the Apothecary. Medication will quell your headache but a conversation with Sulee, the owner, is perhaps the most healing thing on Dantooine. You’ve known her since you were a child and she’s watched you grow up. She’s been there for you through everything– every test you took in school, every breakup, every fight with Sheva. She’s watched you through every stage of your life and somehow she always knows just what to say when you’re feeling lost and in need of guidance. 

Once you’re out of the sonic you dry off and look over your outfit choices for tonight, thumbing through your closet for the perfect thing to wear. Nights out are scarce lately now that you’re so dedicated to the business and it feels like you have endless options to choose from, all outfits from your younger, wilder days. But then you finally settle on one of your old favorites– a simple black dress with matching boots before locking up and heading to the apothecary.

It’s golden hour now and the village is cast in a hazy red glow. Now’s the time when people start pouring into the cantina because there’s nothing else to do. It’ll be a miracle if you get a seat at the bar or even talk to Sheva throughout her shift. She’ll just push you to try and meet someone and you fight back, telling her there’s no one to meet here, that this town is too small for dating. And then you’ll drink too much, filling up on revnog before going back to your fume-filled house, that’ll only contribute to the killer hangover you’ll have the next day. Sounds like a blast.

The Apothecary is located in the center of the village, a modest-looking building decked out in the same earth tones that match Dantooine. Spring is coming to an end but the flowers planted out front are thriving, blooming in a lavender color similar to the blades of grass. Sulee takes pride in keeping the outside of her building presentable, making sure the weeds are pulled and the flowers are cared for. But in her old age, it’s hard for her to get down on the ground by herself, finding herself stuck until someone walks by to help her up. You try to help her when you can but it’s been getting more and more difficult for you to help when the business has occupied all of your time. It makes you feel guilty, flaking out on someone who’s been there for you your whole life. You try not to think about it that much, only letting the guilt eat away at you at night when you’re alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling and telling yourself you can do better, you can be better. 

Now’s not the time for guilt.

The Apothecary smells heavenly when you step inside but it’s also impossibly warm. Spring is transitioning into summer and there’s no need for the wood-burning stove to be on. But she’s old so she gets a pass, even though you can feel the sweat already building up on your back. 

“You look sick, Athalia,” she says, not even looking up from the pot she’s stirring on the stove.

“I am not!” you say defensively, just as your headache pangs again.

“You don’t go outside anymore,” she sighs, looking up at you from her stool, “You know the sun is good for you, right?”

“You sound like Sheva. You two conspiring against me or something?”

“Just looking out for your best interest,” she shrugs, “Do you need anything?”

“I just have a headache.”

“Knew you looked sick,” she tuts, “Let me get you a pill.”

She goes to rise from her stool but you stop her, helping her sit back down.

“I’ll get it. Just tell me where.”

“Top shelf to the right,” she says, pointing to the shelf behind the counter. 

You head behind the counter, glancing at the notepad open on a page with a to-do list on it. A quick glance at Sulee lets you know that her back is towards you still, giving you a moment to snoop. You look over the page, focusing less on the contents of the list and more on the state of her handwriting. It’s shaky and barely legible. You’re reminded again of her declining health and how absent you’ve been lately. 

“Did you find it?” she asks, still facing the stove. 

“Yup!” you lie, spinning around and scanning the top shelf.

You find the bottle she was talking about, downing a couple of pills before setting it back on the shelf. 

“Have fun tonight,” she says, looking up at you as you walk to the door.

“I didn’t even tell you where I was going.”

“The cantina. Where else would you be going?”

“You’re right.”

“There’s nothing else to do in this town,” you both say simultaneously. You share a laugh and start to feel a bit better for once. 

“See you later!” you call over your shoulder before leaving the Apothecary. 

The cantina is on the other side of Casia, on the side of the village where the river sits. It’s sort of an unfortunate place for the cantina to be considering that many travelers will drunkenly stumble and fall into the river. Luckily for Casia, charging travelers rescue fees is one of the village’s largest sources of profit. 

The cantina is just about as busy as you thought it would be. Many of the townspeople are packed into booths lining the outer edge of the room. But there are also a few people you don’t recognize, mainly humans but also a few other species such as a Trandoshan, three Twi’leks, and a Sullustan. The free-standing tables are full but luckily there are two seats left at the bar.

Perfect. You can stay close to Sheva like you had hoped to, enjoy a few rounds of revnog, and turn in early. 

You shuffle past the sweaty bodies, the smell of smoke hanging in the air. Being here isn’t too far off from being home, given the smell. The only different thing is the noise. There’s an uncomfortable stillness in your house that’s present all the time.

Sheva spots you at the opposite end of the bar from where she’s at. She makes eye contact with you and stops talking to the customer she’s standing in front of, much to his dismay.

“What?!” she says, raising her hands in a faux defensiveness, “I’ll be here all night. Don’t get all clingy on me.”

She turns and grabs a glass, pouring your first drink for the night. She slides it down the countertop to you, mouthing the words “help me” and gesturing to her overbearing customer.

You take the glass and shrug, shooting her a smirk before taking a sip. Looks like you’re on your own until this schmuck decides to leave. 

-

It takes another three rounds for this guy to leave. And thank the Maker he did because he was occupying all of Sheva’s time. She finally makes her way to you, sighing and slumping against the bar. 

“New boyfriend?” you tease.

“Don’t start.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Tatooine. Don’t know what he’s doing here but to each their own.”

“Wow. Left one shit-hole and came to another one.”

“What a sad life.”

“Hey now. He traveled all this way to see you! Don’t be rude.”

She groans again while you erupt into a fit of laughter. 

“Hey, sweetheart! I need another round of Spotchka,” a man three seats down from you calls out.

“Duty calls,” she says, standing up straight and putting on her best customer service smile.

“Sweetheart? Is that the best you can do?” she pretend-jokes, grabbing a glass for him.

You nurse the rest of your drink, getting ready to wind down for the evening. It’s a shame you didn’t get to see much of her tonight but it’s the weekend. At least you got to spend time with Sulee, even if it was brief. 

Just when you’re setting your credits down on the bar, you sense a presence beside you. You turn your head and startle a bit. It’s a Mandalorian. You’ve only seen less than a handful of them in your lifetime. His helmet is silver but the rest of his armor doesn’t match. Instead, every piece of armor is a different earth tone, peppered with scratches from cycles of wear and tear. His gloved hands rest on his belt and his cape is black, also showing signs of wear. 

“...Can I help you?” you ask, starting to feel the revnog. Your face feels hot as you talk to him. There’s something attractive about him even though you can’t see his face. 

“I’m just passing through town and I’m wondering where’s the best place to purchase a part for my rifle.”

You don’t care if you’re slightly drunk. You’re not going to miss an opportunity to make a sale.

“What are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

You half expect him to chastise you, a woman offering to help a big scary man with his rifle. But he doesn’t.

“I’m looking for a scope for my Amban Rifle.”

“I’ve got plenty of those,” you say, standing up from your stool, “Follow me.”

You lead him out of the cantina, stumbling a bit as you walk. His hand rests on the small of your back and butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

“You alright?” he asks behind you.

“Mhm,” you call out, taking a deep breath of the cool nighttime air as you step out onto the street. 

Silently, you walk side by side to your house. But deep down you’re excited at the prospect of a sale and potentially a new recurring customer. Until you remember he’s not from around here. 

He follows you inside and your nose is still met with the smell of gas. You hope that he doesn’t smell it. Maybe he can’t with his helmet. 

“How much are you charging for it?” he asks. 

There’s that hurdle. The price. 

You hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. It’s your first scope sale. 

“Twenty credits?”

“...That’s it?”

Kriff, that was probably too low. But you can’t go back on your price now. 

“...Yup,” you say, closing the door.

“I’ll take it.”

“Great. Can I see the rifle?”

He pulls it off of his back and hands it to you. You take it in your hands and look at the scope he has attached to it currently, checking for the size he needs. The glass of the lens is cracked.

“How’d you manage this?”

“Broke it during a scuffle.”

You look up from the rifle and raise your eyebrow, silently wanting more information. He gives it to you.

“Bounty gave me a hard time.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?”

“Mhm.”

You return your gaze to the rifle, running your fingers down the barrel. It’s… filthy. 

“When’s the last time you cleaned this?”

“Uhh.”

“Don’t worry. I got it.”

You turn towards your cabinet behind you and open the door, searching for oil and a pad. Meticulously, you clean his rifle, starting at the barrel and working your way down. There’s an uncomfortable silence looming over you two as he just watches you clean his rifle. You notice he’s shifting between both feet, almost like he’s nervous. His hands clench and unclench at his sides and that’s when you spot what’s making him fidget so much; the bulge in his flight suit. 

This man is getting hard watching you clean his rifle. Maker, you’re going to have fun with this. 

Once you’re done you set it on your table, getting ready to search for the right size scope. Turning and bending over a box in the corner of your front room, you rifle through the jumbled mess. Bending over while wearing a dress was intentional but not being able to find the scope was not. And now you fear that you look like an idiot, an idiot who’s barely cut out to run her own business. 

“Do you need help?” he deadpans.

“Uhh…”

You hear him walk closer towards you just as you’re trying to lift the box from the floor. And before you know it his crotch collides with your ass. You stifle a giggle and he sighs. Kriff, that was inappropriate and you normally wouldn’t laugh. But in your drunken stupor, you thought it was funny. 

“Do you have it or not?”

“What if I don’t?”

He lets out another exasperated sigh. 

“Are you just gonna let this little trip go fruitless?” you press, wondering if he’ll catch your drift. 

“No,” he practically growls, his hand cupping your ass, “I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not taking anything if I’m willingly giving it to you,” you chuckle, backing into him further. 

He grabs you by your hips, dragging you over to the table where you do your work. He shoves the rifle aside and you hop up on the table, lying back and hiking up your skirt, spreading your legs for him. 

“So eager,” he teases but in a way that actually feels mean. It doesn’t hurt, though. 

Instead, you shoot back, “Says the one who got hard watching me clean his rifle.” He huffs as his hand palms your inner thigh and you press further, “What’s the matter, Mando? Got all hot and bothered watching a woman handle your blaster?” 

He leans forward, bringing his helmet above your face. You stare into the visor, lips curled into a smirk. 

“Shut up,” he says, most likely through gritted teeth. 

“Or else what?” you counter. 

“Or I’ll make you.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

He jerks his groin into you, bulge pressing against your underwear-clad cunt. You sit up and sigh, doing the work for him and tugging off your underwear. You toss it on the floor and lie back down, telling him, “If you’re going to have your way with me then just do it already.” 

You spit in your hand and reach between your legs, getting yourself nice and slick for him. He pulls his cock out of his flight suit and you can’t help but want a look. You prop yourself up on your elbows, inching upright to sneak a peek. It’s as big as you thought but that was a given considering the saunter in his step. But it’s also thick and uncut. Seeing the head of his cock makes you wonder if the shade matches his lips. It doesn’t matter, though. Something about not seeing his face makes this even hotter. 

He takes his cock in his hand and strokes it a few times, spreading the pre-cum that’s built up at the tip down his shaft. He hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you into him, thrusting his cock inside you. 

Your breath hitches at the sudden girth inside you, his cock buried down to the hilt. 

“You can take it,” he says.

“I-I know,” you breathe out, still getting adjusted to his size. You’re not about to let him get a rise out of you, even now when he’s balls deep in you. 

His hands move to your waist, holding you steady as he draws his hips back and thrusts into you again. With each one you get more accustomed to him, your pleasure builds and core muscles grow tense. But he’s determined to make a mess of you. He brings his hand by your cunt, thumb rubbing your clit as he pounds into you. 

Your moans grow higher in pitch and your front room is filled with the lewd, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. With the noise you remember that you opened all the windows before you left for the cantina tonight, meaning that anyone walking by can hear Mando railing you. 

Your back arches and your orgasm spills over the edge. Stars dance in your vision as he fucks you through your release, thumb still rubbing your clit. 

“That’s it. Cum on my cock,” he says, keeping the same pace. 

You’re too blissed out to come up with a witty response. Your walls clench his cock and the sensation triggers his own orgasm. His cum spills inside you and you panic for a second at the accidental creampie until you remember you have an implant. It’s just finally useful for once. 

He pulls out of you when he’s done coming and you sit upright on the table, avoiding eye contact with each other.

He puts his cock back in his flight suit and after a beat of silence you say, “You still want the scope, right?”

“I do.”

You slide off the table and smooth down your skirt, walking over to the box of parts and crouching down. You find the scope and stand up, holding it out in front of you. 

“Told you I had it.”

He sighs again as you attach it to his rifle. He reaches into his pocket, grabbing a handful of credits, and placing them in your hand. 

“Here’s twenty-five credits. Keep the change.”

“Thanks, Mando,” you say, handing off the rifle. 

He nods with a tip of his helmet and gets ready to leave, walking to the door and giving you a final look before disappearing into the night. 

That was… hot. And certainly not how your business transactions normally go. It’s a shame he’s not from around here, though. 

You close your windows, deciding that you gave your neighbors enough of a show tonight, and head to bed. You’re not one for one-night stands, but for an experience like that… you’d make an exception any day of the week. 

End note: Today’s the one year anniversary of my first fic! Thank you to @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @clawdee for letting me talk out this series this y’all + being my beta readers 🤍🤍

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Tag list: @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @freelancearsonist @djarins-cyare @survivingandenduring @littlegrungegirlaf @pamasaur @chiyo13 @pedrostories @schnarfer @burntheedges

#stonecatcher #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin x reader

[hier--soir]

raising cain | series masterlist

spy!din djarin x spy!ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni series summary: over fifteen months and three different cities, two lonely souls keep finding their way back to one another. leading fragile lives of solitude, of violence, both Cain and Din Djarin can't help but be drawn to the familiarity in the other's embrace; the feeling of another person truly knowing them, in a world where not many can. as their lives begin to unravel, the two are faced with a choice between trusting, or having it all end in bloodshed. series warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, violence, descriptions of blood and injury, murder, too many dirty martinis and sweet cosmopolitans, explicit sexual content, not quite enemies to lovers but... something like that. also this is an au and thus it is my interpretation of din if he were not a man in a helmet from a galaxy far far away, okay? but also he is still sexy and catches baddies for a living. to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. explicit warnings included in each part. main masterlist

ONE - RAISING CAIN

TWO - SKULDUGGERY [coming soon]

THREE - BURNED

#my writing #fic: raising cain #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin au #din djarin smut #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fic

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 5

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)

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Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.8k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.

Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto. 

The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish. 

Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front. 

Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office. 

An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”

“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.

He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.

“We need a room. Two nights for now.” 

The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”

At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements. 

“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him. 

His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”

The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.” 

Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”

He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs. 

“What brings y’all to town?” 

When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”

She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.” 

“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.” 

“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.” 

“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?” 

“Annie.”

“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”

She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.” 

“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.” 

“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?” 

You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.” 

“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?” 

She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”

“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.” 

“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you. 

The room smells of bleach and water damage. 

Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.” 

Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval. 

You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person. 

“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes. 

You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home. 

You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”

He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.  

“That is your name, right?”

“It is.” 

A smile spreads across your face. 

The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you. 

“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.” 

“Maybe I do.” 

Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome. 

RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him. 

He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter. 

Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?” 

“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.” 

You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom. 

Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed. 

“Can I at least shower?” 

When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?” 

“There’s a window in the bathroom.” 

You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window. 

In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.” 

He just stares at you, unmoved. 

Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground. 

“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?” 

Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”

“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.” 

He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”

“How long will this take?” 

From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.” 

The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.” 

His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again. 

He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it? 

I am not a good man. 

Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little. 

Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin. 

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.

It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it. 

Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.  

You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?” 

“Yeah.” 

The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.” 

Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.” 

Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?” 

His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.” 

“So?” 

“He’ll stink up the room.”

You snort, “You’re already doing that.“

Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?” 

You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”

He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle. 

“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.” 

Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine. 

“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.” 

Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention. 

“Hello handsome boy!” 

Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub. 

“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?” 

He barks. 

Din protests, “Don’t—”

“Ok, ready, here we go.” 

Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot. 

“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!” 

Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?” 

The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.” 

Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack. 

“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?” 

He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.” 

You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser. 

“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.

The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!” 

Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom. 

Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell. 

“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other. 

“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom. 

His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze. 

If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out. 

Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?” 

“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. 

“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”

He tilts his head at you. 

Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?

His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?” 

Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes. 

“Finding anything fun?” 

He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”

“Anything you like?” 

“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.” 

Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape. 

After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed. 

“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”

He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?” 

“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?” 

His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to. 

You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position. 

“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”

“Is that what I think?” 

When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?” 

He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin. 

“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.” 

His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?” 

You look at his black leather boots. 

He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.

"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay." 

Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”

Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now. 

“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”

He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be. 

His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow.  An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really. 

He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them. 

Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio? 

He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele. 

Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless. 

“—So, what do you think?”

Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful. 

Goddamnit. 

“You stay right next to me the whole time.” 

“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge. 

The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.” 

Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.” 

The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world. 

You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere. 

The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it. 

Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”

“Might help if you stop daydreaming.” 

“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“What’s that?” 

You glance over at him. 

His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?” 

“Can’t say I have.” 

“What made you pick it?”

He shrugs, “Long run time.” 

“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?” 

His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort. 

He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?” 

His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually. 

“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.” 

“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”

“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle. 

The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed. 

The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.

Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves. 

“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.” 

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door. 

The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation. 

As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.” 

All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back. 

It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response. 

You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless. 

Something happens inside you. 

A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t. 

Need it, that is. 

Liking it, however…

If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore. 

An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”

“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.” 

Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”

He nods once, “It is.” 

She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.” 

As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine. 

He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything. 

This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing. 

But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it. 

Your face heats even more. 

The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him. 

“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?” 

“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile. 

She nods, then looks at Din. 

“I’ll have the same.” 

“Two waters, anything else?”

You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.” 

“Be right back.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?” 

“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin. 

He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options. 

Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon. 

The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood. 

Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way. 

The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue. 

As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon. 

“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly. 

“Who says I’m not?” 

You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?” 

“I am.” 

This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”

With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent. 

Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?” 

“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.” 

You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?” 

“I take it I do not get a treat?” 

Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.

If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music. 

You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between. 

For that, he’s grateful. 

The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling. 

He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm. 

Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune. 

Heat wells up in his chest. 

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”

“Stop it.”

The music cuts immediately. 

He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol. 

“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.” 

Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard. 

“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?” 

You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.

He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob. 

The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.

Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.” 

Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?” 

As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that. 

“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.” 

“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?” 

He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.” 

“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.” 

He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”

The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion. 

“Do you have a preference?”

“No.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.” 

Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him. 

“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.

In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.

You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.

It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it? 

Live in the now. 

To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left. 

Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable. 

He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier. 

It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second. 

His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.” 

He wants to take it back. 

It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary. 

While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk. 

It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him. 

Ironically, it makes you feel worthless. 

You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you? 

Of course you were. 

You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say. 

Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog. 

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs. 

His voice is low and syrupy. Warm. 

Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. 

Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care? 

You should fucking know better.

This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it. 

“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?” 

You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod. 

He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut. 

God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.  

This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough? 

He would be with me.

Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you. 

On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.” 

“Is this an apology?” 

“No, it’s chocolate.” 

You blink at him and cross your arms. 

His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.” 

You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him. 

A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off. 

Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.” 

Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing. 

You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud. 

“What?” Din asks.

“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?” 

“Are you?” 

You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?” 

“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.” 

“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.” 

You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes. 

Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds. 

When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”

You nod and hold your right arm out to him. 

His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free. 

He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”

“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”  

You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath. 

You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

“Goodnight.” 

#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #passenger

[lokischocolatefountain]

Daddy Issues

Other fic(s) in this series: Guess

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: PG13 for some smutty talk

Word count: 768 words

Summary: You and Din have Daddy issues— your dad hates him— but you both get past it for now.

A/N: Characters co-created with my friend @lokislittlevalkyrie. Check out their amazing Din fic. 💜

You kissed the top of his helmet, the cold beskar familiar to your lips. You shrieked as larger hands pulled you into bed and held you tight like you were one of Grogu’s soft squishy toys. You giggled at his enthusiasm and placed the box of food you’d brought him on your side table before settling into your mandalorian’s warm embrace.

“I brought breakfast,” you said, looking up at him from his chest. “Dad made a mixed vegetable fry.” From your vantage point, you saw a patch of the beard that still made your skin burn from how he kissed you. The bulge in his neck that wobbled when he spoke. His skin… Oh his skin that was soft and rough at the same time. All things he allowed you to see despite his strict adherence to The Way.

“He cooked for me? It’s definitely poisoned,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep.

“Oh, not you too!” You chastised, slapping his beskar clad chest lightly so as to not hurt yourself. Your dad had made it clear that he did not like the man you brought home. He was charmed by Grogu, as was your mom and little brother. But on the Din front, he was strongly opposed.

“What? He’s made it clear that he hates me,” he said, shrugging it off. You sighed and agreed with him, knowing he was right. The first thing your dad had heard about him was you sobbing into his chest over your break up. Things had gotten better and the two of you were back together. But your dad’s rage only continued to grow.

“Eat, okay? I’ll be back when you're done.”

“Don’t go…please,” he said softly, his vulnerability melting you.

“You need to eat, Din,” you attempted to reason even though you knew you would eventually give in to his request. Your separation had not been easy on either of you and now that you’d found each other again, you were determined to make the best use of every minute you had together.

“I’ll eat you,” he said, hand crawling up your thigh and sending shivers all over your body that made every hair on your arm stand up. “Your dad made you too and you’re definitely my favorite out of his creations.”

“Din!” You squealed, somehow shocked by his brazenness though all he had been throughout your relationship was brazen. A giggle escape you unconsciously but turned into an unattractive snort, making you bury your face in his chest.

“I need to have you, sweet girl,” he said as he explored your body. “I’m starving.”

“You had me last night, you sex fiend!”

“So?” He asked, head tilted. “Want you everyday. Twice. At the very least.”

“You won't have time for anything else,” you said, reasoning him out of his sweet delusions.

“That’s alright by me…” he trailed before removing his hands from you abruptly. You whined at the loss of contact even though you’d been the one who was trying to get him to eat so he would leave you to go eat with your family.

“Close your eyes,” he said, and you followed, eyes shutting out the world at his command as they’d become accustomed to do. It was a familiar one. You knew what came after. Shuffling, heavy metal against a surface— wood, your side table.

“Blindfold me,” You said, elated that he trusted you this way, yet doubting yourself. What if your curiosity got the better of you and you looked? What if you opened your eyes accidentally? You were never in control of your senses when you were drowning in his passion.

He returned with a piece of cloth, presumably from your wardrobe if you had to guess from his footsteps. He wrapped it around you, covering your eyes, and tied a knot in the back.

His lips found you and you kissed him back eagerly, searching his lips for your love, for the soft heart behind the hard beskar. He did not disappoint, pouring his passion into you, electrifying a part of you that you’d never felt before with anyone else. With the kiss, the insecurities of the past few hours melted away. It did not matter that you’d separated once. You found each other again. It did not matter that your dad did not like him. He would come to like him soon. It did not matter that he would be off-world to rebuild Mandalore and you would be right here, on your planet, far away from him.

Nothing mattered except the present. And at present, you were in bliss.

.

.

.

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin fluff #din dijarin x reader #din djaren #din dijarn #mando x reader #mando fic #mando fluff #mando x y/n #advent calendar #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #all that i've inflicted on the world

[secondsineternity]

Pretty Brown Eyes

It’s date night, you’re drunk, and you think that Din Djarin’s big brown eyes would be just too pretty to not say anything about them.

A new lil oneshot about our favorite Mandalorian! Enjoy!!

#fanfiction #star wars #din djarin #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x you #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars x reader #din djarin fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x female oc #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x oc #din djarin fluff #pedro pascal fluff #din djarin crack #din djarin crackfic #pedro pascal crack #pedro pascal crackfic #pedro pascal characters #crack #crack fic

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt: chapter eleven

well it's love, make it hurt series

eleven: cut me up gently

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Word Count: 3k

Summary: After recovering from your injuries, you and Mando close in on your target.

Warnings: BDSM, established relationship, dom/sub dynamics, dom!Din Djarin x sub!reader, soft dom Din in that he's tender and loving service dom but also, sadism, spanking, pussy spanking, rough oral, oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, canon-typical violence, graphic violence, description of injury, no y/n

also on ao3

3 ABY - Winter

You wake up with Mando’s cock still in you. You’re swollen and sore, but it feels so fucking good that you can’t help but rock back against him a little.

He’s a light sleeper, so it doesn’t take long for him to stir and meet your motions halfway. “Good morning,” he murmurs, slinging his other arm around your waist to draw you closer.

You press a kiss into the soft flesh of his arm under your neck where his sleeve has ridden up. The new day hangs low in the dark bunk. Outside, the sun has begun to rise, but in here, in this place that’s just for the two of you, it’s unmoving.

Time is slow and syrupy, and so is the way you move to meet, hips rolling with the sole purpose of finding one another. Neither of you chase the pleasure. You’re not sure you’ve ever fucked him like this before.

The bunk grows warm with each moan and exhale, a thin layer of sweat gluing your bodies together, as if there was space between you to begin with.

His hands don’t wander. He doesn’t grope at your breasts or dig crescents into your hip. You wrap your fingers around his forearm where it stretches across your chest.

When your orgasm comes, it rolls through you from your cunt, stuffed full of him, to shudder through your body. He holds you and soothes you through it until he can’t take it anymore.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and it’s the only warning you get before his helmet is discarded somewhere behind him on the shelf. Your eyes are shut tight, and he wastes no time before pressing his lips to your neck, soft kisses peppered up and down the line of it with reverence, pulling little gasps from you.

He moans when you tilt your head, burying your face in his arm and giving him access to all of you. His arm around your stomach comes up to hold your bicep, thumb rubbing back and forth as he kisses behind your ear.

You crane your neck, twisting and blindly seeking him out. He catches on and catches your lips with his. It tingles, and you moan, surging forward, wrapping your arm around the back of his head to pull him closer.

When he licks inside, it sends another orgasm through you in reverse, bursting from where he bites at your lip and spreading through you like the first sip of morning caf. His hips stutter when you clamp down around him, and you cry out into his mouth as he cums.

You kiss him through it, swallowing down his moans and weaving your fingers through his curls.

He can’t help it, can’t hold it back. It’s whispered into your lips between bites and kisses. He had promised himself he wouldn’t, promised not to push you, or back you into a corner where you’d inevitably run or lash out.

Thankfully, it slips out in Mando’a. “Ni kar’tayli,” he whispers, burying it beneath another moan as an aftershock of your orgasm squeezes his softening cock.

You don’t ask. You never do. He’s grateful, really, but a small part of him stings. He doesn’t know how to tell you he wants you to ask. He can’t say it, can’t explain any of it on his own, it sticks in his throat, but if you asked, he’d tell you everything.

He indulges in a few more kisses before pulling his helmet back on, nuzzling against you. You are content to lay for a moment, but the stillness jitters down your spine and sends your knee bouncing, and feet wriggling. He gives it about a minute before you’re up and moving.

“Well,” you say, rolling onto your back and examining your chrono. “We got lucky. He took the ship with the tracker.”

“Not luck,” Mando murmurs. “I put trackers on the other two when we got there.”

You grin. “Oh, good,” and you press a kiss to the helmet. “At least one of us was thinking realistically. I really thought we’d get him.”

“I had a bad feeling,” he says.

You sit up on your knees to examine his bandages. “Next time, have a bad feeling before you’re going to be stabbed, so we can leave,” you say. It comes out less playful than you mean it to.

There’s a bit of dried blood, but when you peel his bandages back, the skin is shiny and raw, but nearly healed. You press a kiss to it without thinking, and when you sit back up, he’s watching you in a way that makes your chest too tight, heart too rabbity, so you get up and get dressed, brain whirring away at a plan.

As you feared, Vanda fled to Imperial territory, but only as far as Radhii, which had the advantage of being nearby, and the occupancy was small. Your plan was to secure lodging in the capital city and gather information, steal an ISB uniform and passcard, and kill him right under their noses. You didn’t need to smuggle out the whole body, after all. Just the head would do.

Mando did not like your plan. Namely, because it kept him on the ship until you made your move, and then still separate.

You weren’t having it. “What are you going to do, put on one of those stupid hats and pretend to be an officer?”

“I could still be nearby; we should stick close.”

“Yes, you won’t stand out at all here.”

“Cyar’ika, I’m just worried. What if something happens like last time, and I’m too far away?”

“It’s a risk we have to take. Have taken before. Will take again.”

“I don’t like it.”

You step closer, smoothing your hands over his shoulders and wrapping them around his neck. “You don’t have to like it.” You pull his helmet to your forehead, and he sighs, draping his arms loosely around your waist.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

You wait. He knows you’re coming, now, and he’s locked up in a tower of a still-functioning ISB unit on the western side of Tavuu. You don’t know where he is, exactly, but you do bribe your way into a copy of the schematics. The locals tolerate the Empire (particularly given that most operations are kept to the eastern side of the city), but they certainly wouldn’t complain if they were removed.

The bartender at the cantina has loose lips and looser morals. “They’re bad for business,” he says, and you feel a little bad that you’re not planning on taking out the whole operation.

But no, it’s heavily staffed. As much as you’re sure the pair of you could handle it, you’re none too eager for a repeat of your last encounter.

Instead, on the day you select to execute the op, you enter the tower using the uniform and passcard of Myria Halcorr, a communications officer who had the unfortunate luck of matching your build.

Mando had tried to convince you to leave your comm line open, but you were glad you had refused when the passcard doesn’t open the lift door. Luckily, you’re able to sweet talk a young man into agreeing that, yes, it’s quite unfortunate that your unit has such run-down equipment, and yes, he’s had issues with his card, too, it’s the darn reader. He lets you into the lift without a fuss.

You acquire a cart of datapads and communicators on the third floor and make your way to the topmost 18th level without more than a passing glance from your temporary coworkers. You work your way down, offering a demure apology and request for any malfunctioning equipment. Your cart starts to fill up, and you can’t help but laugh to yourself.

You find Vanda on the 15th floor.

“I didn’t call for service,” he says, reclining back in his chair and reading a report on a datapad.

“No, I imagine you didn’t,” you say, shutting the door carefully with the toe of your boot and finally open the line for Mando to listen in.

He looks up. “Excuse me,” he begins to complain, but stops as you unhook your jacket.

It’s a good distraction, but really, you just want easier access to your weapons. When you shuck it off and reveal your tactical vest and small personal armory, he opens his mouth to yell.

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Turn around.”

He turns and spots the red laser dot on his chest through the open window. Mando’s rifle doesn’t even have that function, but you appreciate his flair for the dramatics.

Vanda turns slowly back to face you. “Who’d I take from you?” he asks. His voice is quiet but not soft. It lilts along with the hint of a curve to his lips. “A sister? A daughter?”

You don’t take the bait, but you do match his smirk with a sneer, hand curling around the handle of your blade. He was waiting for you to lose control, but you don’t. Won’t.

Mando, however, twitches, and then there’s a hole smoldering in Vanda’s shoulder, a mockery of your own injury at his hand.

Vanda clutches his wound, quick to change his tune.

“Don’t kill me,” he gasps. “Don’t, please, I’ll tell you anything you want. They’re planning something, please—“

“You’re not wanted alive,” you lay the faux apology on thick.

“I swear what I can tell you is worth far more than the price on my head. Moff—“

His words are efficiently snuffed by your blaster.

“Fucking finally,” you sigh, lowering it and snapping it back into your holster. “Would you like the honors?” you say into the comm, hoping Mando will volunteer to remove the man’s head. He does.

Extraction is a little less quiet, given the attention drawn by your blaster fire, but he gets you both out via grappling cable like some foolhardy hero in an action holo. You almost throw up when you’re back on the ground.

“Different plan next time,” you pant, crouching with your hands on your knees and head down.

The relief of finishing the hunt gives way to the crash once you’re back on the Crest. Back safe at home with the ramp sealed and Vanda’s head in carbonite (which you have to admit is almost comical to behold).

Luckily, Mando seems to be feeling it too. After you’re in the air again, he comes up behind you as you put your weapons away, sliding his hands around your waist and leaning close to your ear.

“Can I hurt you?” His voice is wound tight, betraying the depth of his need.

The words alone draw a moan from you. He’s never been so blunt about it, always charming and disarming, as if it’s a natural part of his nature.

You had taken the collar off for the hunt, but it’s gripped in his hand now, dangling from where he holds you.

“Please, sir,” you whisper.

“What was that, cyar’ika? Speak up.”

“Yes, please, sir,” you try again, and it morphs into something on the edge of desperation.

“Please what?”

“Ah, fuck, please hurt me, please.” You bounce one hip, biting your lip against the urge to whine.

“Hurt you how, sweetheart?”

You do whine a little, this time. Mean, he’s being so mean, can’t he tell you’re barely holding on?

“Anything,” you turn to face him and wrap your fingers into his cloak. “Please, anything you want to do to me.”

“That’s a generous, dangerous offer, ner kar’ta.”

“I know what I’m asking. Use me however you’d like, sir,” you blink up at him through your lashes.

He swears, bringing the collar up and wrapping it around your neck before grabbing you by it. “Yeah? Is that what you want?” His voice is thick and breathy, and you’re practically vibrating with excitement and excess adrenaline.

“Does it really matter what I want?”

He takes the bait, plays your game. It’s a topsy-turvy rush, the artificial power he’s extending you. The real power underneath, of course, is always present—you could stop him with one word. But the tension you create together is heady.

“Of course not,” he murmurs. “You’ll do whatever I want. Take whatever I give. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Knees,” he snaps, and you’ve hit the ground before he finishes speaking.

There’s no ploy, no ritual, no toy, no pretense. He wraps his hand around your throat and squeezes while he pulls his cock out with the other. When you gasp for air, he shoves it into your mouth and moans when you gag.

His fingers wind into your hair and pull, the hand on your throat not letting up. He fucks into you with no rhythm, no finesse. He’s in no rush to cum, just to enjoy as you struggle to keep up, tears leaking down your cheeks.

He pulls out and slaps you across the cheek, sending your head spinning, hardly able to keep up as he smacks the other cheek with his cock a couple times before pushing it back down your throat. You moan around it as he fucks into you.

When he feels too dangerously close to his climax, he pulls out and yanks you up by the hair. You scramble to your feet only for him to shove you down, bent over the makeshift sofa.

“This what you needed, huh?” He punctuates the question with a hard swat to your ass. He can’t help himself, and gives you a staccato series of hits, landing the last few on your cunt.

You cry out and whine into the sheet, hands fumbling to find purchase.

He grabs your wrists in one hand, holds them against your back, and hits you again. “Answer me when I speak to you.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” It leaves you in a sob that you swallow, forcing the tide back down. You’re not ready to fall apart just yet, yearning to be present for whatever he uses you for.

“Good girl,” he says. “Eyes closed.”

You gasp. He’s never removed the helmet twice in one day, hardly even twice a month. You squeeze your eyes shut without hesitation, afraid to draw attention to it by being overeager. He releases your hand to squat down behind you, and you yelp as his hot tongue parts your folds.

He pulls away, and you whimper, only to be cut off by a firm slap to your already swollen pussy. A few more follow before his mouth is back on you, licking and kissing the hurt away. He carries on until he draws an orgasm from you, permission granted with his lips against your clit.

When he pulls away, he keeps a hand on your cunt, spreading your lips wide so he can deliver the next set of slaps right on your clit. You howl, squirming, and he sucks your swollen bud into his mouth as soon as he’s finished.

He's insatiable. It carries on over and over, cycling between the brutality and the soft devotion of his lips. You're gasping to catch your breath when he slides the helmet back on and helps you roll onto your back, legs dangling from the edge of the crates. He hoists them up onto his shoulders and runs the tip of his cock over your clit until you finally snap and start to cry.

“Please,” you sob.

He looks down at your sweaty, flushed body and runs a hand down your side. “You’ve been such a good girl. Would you like a break?”

You cry harder, shaking your head, and he grants you the mercy of sliding his cock between your swollen lips and pressing until he’s seated as deeply as possible.

He wipes your tears with his thumb before setting a slow and exquisite pace, letting you feel the drag of every ridge and vein against your soft, overspent walls before snapping his hips back into you.

“I want another one,” he says, thumb on your clit though he can tell you’re exhausted. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

All you can do is plead, over and over through gasping sobs, and reach a hand to his. He lets you guide his palm to settle on your breast, and you peer up at him through the tears.

He brings the other hand up from your clit to cup your neglected breast, groping and pinching as he starts to pound into you. The sobs are subsiding, and your lips are parted as each thrust knocks a small ah from your sternum.

He watches you, watches your eyes linger on his visor, and is almost overcome with warm pride and affection as you don’t hide away, as you let him take in the rawness etched into the crinkle of your eyes and the furrow of your brow.

You whine, and he smiles. “I know what you need. Be patient, pretty girl.”

Your eyes roll back at the praise.

“You’re my pretty girl, you know,” he murmurs. “All mine.” He brings one hand up to your face and presses his thumb into your waiting mouth, moaning as you hollow your cheeks around it, sucking hard and caressing it with your tongue. He pulls it out and wipes the saliva on your nipples before he grabs tight to each and twists cruelly, tugging as if he might pull you toward him.

“Go on, cyare. Cum for me.”

It doesn’t take anything more for you to fall apart, and the clench and pulse of your cunt is all he needs to join you, twitching and throbbing inside you. He releases your tits, rubbing a soothing thumb over your nipples, and crooning soft praise and affection as you ride out the aftershocks. To his delight, the words turn it into another rolling orgasm.

After you’re cleaned up, Mando insists that you both eat, but you’re exhausted. Maybe more than you’ve ever been before. He seems to agree, settling for ration bars in lieu of anything that takes more than thirty seconds to throw together.

“Sometime after we drop him off, can we take a day off? Maybe somewhere pretty? Or just not awful,” you ask quietly in the dark of the bunk.

Mando’s not sure he’s taken a day off. He suspects you haven’t, either. But his “yes” is immediate and rewarded by your happy sigh brushing over his chest.

*title from "Cut Me Up Jenny" by Taking Back Sunday

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #din djarin x ofc #dom din djarin #make it hurt verse #mando fic #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian smut

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

Din Djarin | Masterlist

Series:

Heart of Beskar - Ongoing [AO3]

Catch me if you Can - Ongoing [AO3]

Worlds Collide - Unfinished, on hold [AO3]

One-Shots:

Kinktober day 17(Thrill of the Chase) | Smut, established enemies to lovers. [AO3]

Taungsday's am I right? | Tentacles, Sex Pollen, read the warnings. [AO3]

Hazy Dayz | Sex Pollen, breeding kink, read the warnings. [AO3]

Din x Cobb

Need | M/M DinCobb oneshot - Din needs to be with Cobb, it's eating him alive. [AO3]

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #din djarin #mando #the mandalorian #masterlist #fic masterlist #din djarin masterlist #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #theywhowriteandknowthings #theywhowriteandknowthings masterlist #theywhowriteandknowthings din djarin

[justagalwhowrites]

Celestial - Part of For You - A Collection of Requests Benefitting Palestine

Din takes his beloved to see something special.

Event Terms: Commissioners could choose to donate between $15 and $50 via Ko-Fi for one fic of 1-2k words to be written by April 1, 2024. Payment due after completion of the fic. Donation with a match by the author was paid to PCRF on April 2, 2024 in honor of Pedro Pascal's birthday ❤️ Commissioners had the option to choose to keep a fic private and all fics may not be shared here.

Pairing: Din Djarin x OFC!Maddy

Warnings: None! Straight fluff :)

Length: 1.6k

A/N: Just a sweet, fluffy little trip to a (completely made up) outer rim world in celebration of the eclipse this week. Written by request for @mboogie3 :)

Din was in unfamiliar territory. 

Not physically, of course. He was well traveled, there was little in the galaxy that surprised him anymore. Years of chasing bounty skippers from one end of the galaxy to the other showed a man a lot of the universe. 

But one thing it hadn’t done was put him in a position where he wanted to impress a woman. 

At least until he met her. 

It had started simply enough. Din was looking for jobs that he could take and fly under the radar of the guild, not on great terms with everyone there after taking off with the child. The job was a good one. Take a large shipment of medication from Coruscant to an outer rim world that was facing an outbreak of disease. Traveling with the medication was Maddy, a woman who was meant to ensure it got where it needed to go. 

But the second Din saw her, he knew that’s not all she would be. That was impossible. Her kind smile, the depth of her dark eyes, the way her hair framed her lovely face. These were things he was not going to be able to move past, even once the shipment was safely delivered and the medication - along with its beautiful escort - was left on a far away world that Din had little reason to stay on. 

But the situation on the planet had been far more dire than either Din or Maddy knew. An Imperial remnant had gotten there just before the two of them had. The Imps tried to intercept the medication and they almost succeeded, Din and Maddy barely escaping with their lives. They managed to hand off the medication to a local leader before taking off, not able to risk staying after putting a target on their backs. 

That’s what Din liked to pretend made things permanent. He couldn’t, in good conscious, leave her there. Not when the Imps knew who she was and had a reason to go after her. It wasn’t safe, it made sense to bring her along. For protection. 

Protection he was all too happy to provide, especially as her presence on his ship made it feel more like a home than it ever had before. Just being around her was a comfort, something constant and kind that he felt like he could fall into. So easily, he could fall into her. 

He’d given into that urge months ago and now, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever fought it. Yes, she made him vulnerable in ways even the kid didn’t and opening himself up to feeling something for someone who he could lose was painful. But she was so worth it, the months they had spent together and all the ways she made his life better made that risk the most worthwhile one he’d ever taken. It made him want to do something special for her after she had done so much for him. 

She had told him once that she’d always wanted to see an eclipse. A real one, not one caused by the positioning of ships or a recording of one on a data pad. 

“Why?” Din had asked when she’d mentioned it while reading the child a story. “You see the stars all the time.” 

“I know,” she smiled a little, his son sitting happily on her lap. “But that’s something else, this is a coincidental thing that makes a world look so different for a time, something that we can’t control no matter how hard we try. Wouldn’t that be incredible to see?” 

Din decided then and there that he was bringing her to an eclipse. He just needed to find one. 

It had been trickier than he expected. He’d heard of eclipses but never seen one himself. He’d never been that worried about seeing one. But, when he started looking for one, he learned that they were rare, remarkable. Much like Maddy. 

The sun and the moon needed to be just the right size. They needed to be just the right distance from each other and from the planet. Their orbits needed to work in tandem in just the right way. And even then, you had to time it exactly right, the phenomenon changing the entirety of the sky for only a short while. 

But, eventually, Din found a planet that met all the requirements, the intersection of orbits happening not in dozens of years but just a few weeks. 

Din did all the research he could with her there aboard the Razor Crest, something that was surprisingly difficult when trying to surprise someone living in such close quarters. He waited for her to be preoccupied, usually playing with Grogu or reviewing star charts with a small frown on her beautiful face. He was almost caught in the act a week before the big day, reading something about the solar festival when she came into the cockpit. 

“What’s that?” She asked from the doorway, Grogu propped on her hip. Din scrambled to close the hologram before she could actually see it. 

“Information,” he said quickly. “About where the next bounty is.” 

“Oh,” she deflated a little. 

He frowned below his helmet. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she went back to smiling. “It just looked like fun is all. We could use a little fun.” 

“Patu,” Grogu said. 

She laughed. 

“Yes, especially you.” 

Din smiled to himself. She had no idea. 

“If this hunt goes well, cyar’ika, maybe we can take a break after, go somewhere you want. As long as we can lay low.” 

Her face brightened, a sparkle in her beautiful brown eyes.

“I’d really like that,” she said. “We’ve never had a chance to just take a break.” 

After that, Din was determined to give her exactly what she wanted. After all her kindness to him and Grogu, all the three of them had been through together, she deserved everything she wanted. 

He wasn’t able to keep his plan a secret for long once they were on planet, though. Even the spaceport was covered in decorations, dark banners with glowing white coronas in the middle of them, a smattering of stars around the edges, small lights that were dark in the middle and bright around the rim hanging everywhere. 

She looked around almost cautiously, Grogu held close to her chest as the three of them left the ship. 

“Din…” She frowned, her brows knitting together as they emerged from the spaceport and onto the streets of the city, where decorations and stands celebrating the eclipse covered everything. “Din, are we…” 

“You said you wanted to take a break,” he said. “And you said you’ve always wanted to see an eclipse. So, cyar’ika, I thought we could do both.” 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her look quite so happy, the arm not cradling his son going around his neck as she stretched on her tiptoes to press herself against his armored frame. 

“I can’t believe it!” She almost squealed. “I never… this is amazing! I can’t believe we get to do this!” 

Din just smiled and watched as she made her way through the town, stopping at all the stands, running her fingers over the delicate keepsakes and traditional ornamentation before stopping for one of the fluffy, light pastries coated in thick, dark frosting. 

“Where are we?” She asked, mouth full, as they stopped to watch musicians playing in the street. 

“Deasu,” Din said. “An outer rim planet. There is a full solar eclipse here every five years and it’s been celebrated by the people here for centuries.” 

“That’s incredible,” she said, taking another bite of the pastry. “I didn’t even know there was anything like this in the whole galaxy.” 

“Well,” he said. “I’m glad we were able to find it.” 

The three of them spent the day exploring the festivities, Maddy even dragging Din out to dance as the sun was setting and the spotchka set in. 

Din made sure they had a prime spot to watch the eclipse the next day, settling in at the edge of a lake as the celebration spilled over from the town and into the open space just outside it. Musicians played, children ran, people danced. Maddy sat close to Din, the two of them watching Grogu play with the bugs in the grass near the water’s edge as the eclipse drew closer and closer. 

As the moon began to blot out the sun, she put on the special glasses and watched as the light changed and the air grew colder. The light on the ground shifted, becoming speckled crescents that scattered over the grass and the water. Maddy leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin propped against her palms, an utterly enraptured look on her face as the moon blotted out the sun. Things went almost eerily quiet as the phenomenon neared totality, the sky looking closer to night than midday. There was a moment of silence as the perfect, slender ring of light formed around the moon. Light and darkness, in perfect harmony. Then, there was a cheer, the celebration going from nothing to everything in just a moment. 

Maddy laughed and took the glasses off, looking in awe at everything around her. Din was sure that whatever she was seeing was beautiful but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her smile was wide, her eyes were bright and she looked happier than he had ever seen her. His view was better. 

“Isn’t this the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?” She asked, looking up at the darkened sky. 

“Yes,” he said, still watching her. “It is.” 

#fanfic #mandalorian x oc #for you #the mandalorian x original character #din djarin x ofc