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ddarker-dreams · 9 months

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random yan chrollo blurb because i can't stop thinking about him even if i try . 🙏

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“… Are you still sure?”

“I’m still sure.”

“Swear to me.”

“I swear.”

“That wasn’t sincere enough… swear… swear on the Troupe. In the name of their, uh, honor, or whatever.”

“Honor?” The word sounds humorous coming from Chrollo’s lips. “Very well. I swear on the honor of the Phantom Troupe that I won’t go back on my word.”

You sit across from a formidable opponent. Fate has decreed this your lot, so you’ve taken what has been forcibly thrust upon you and sworn to crush it. However, at this stage, you’ve modified your parameters to be more realistic. The new, somewhat more obtainable goal is to leave a dent. Or a scratch, perhaps.

For this dream to be realized, risks must be taken. The risk in this case is a willingness to interact with a man named Chrollo Lucilfer. His is a species defined by its tenacity. Through trial and error, you’ve concluded that typical avenues of escape aren’t in the cards. Nothing concerning the life you lead now is ordinary, so creativity and a solid vision are paramount.

Your adversary sits leaning forward, his elbow on the table, forearm extending upward, and palm open. He observes you with the degree of amusement he always does, content in waiting for you to make the first move.

You take a deep breath. Oxygen floods your being and blood circulates in full force. Every system in your body is primed and ready, there’ll be no better window, so you take it, springing into action.

Contact is made with his outstretched palm. You steady your footwork for better balance, then pull, demanding everything your muscles can deliver and then some. This immense exertion of force is the culmination of your efforts. Hours of scheming by the window, exercising self-control not to pour salt on his strawberries so he’d be more affable to your requests, running mental calculations and simulations…

… Alas, it’s not enough.

You pitched a pseudo arm wrestling competition where you could use any means necessary to make him budge. You didn’t dare stipulate that you successfully pull his arm down, your hubris doesn’t extend that far; but the slightest movement on his part would spell your victory. A victory that’d have him fulfill any request your overactive imagination could conjure up. These terms and conditions were smoothed out in a verbal binding contract.

His countenance is the same as it would be if he were flipping through a book or pulling his phone from his pocket — entirely casual. He isn’t even straining himself to maintain this stalemate. It’s possible that his physical strength is simply beyond your understanding, as is that parapsychological phenomena he refers to as Nen.

“What,” you heave, disbelief coloring your tone, “Is your body made out of?”

“Oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen—”

“It was rhetorical, Mr. Alchemist,” you cut him off.

He simply shrugs and smiles. Somehow, his arm still hasn’t moved an inch throughout that exchange. The thought of this metric gives you pause. An idea is sown and imbued with life in the span of a few seconds.

“Ah, that’s the expression you get before you say something endearing,” he comments, almost dreamily.

You ignore him and straighten up, ready to argue over technicalities like your life depends on it. Seeing that you’ve abandoned your previous scheme, he relaxes back into the chair.

“I have a case. How do we know your arm didn’t move… an atom to the side?”

Chrollo tilts his head. “An atom?”

“Yes. If an inch is a unit of measurement, there has to be something smaller. So maybe your arm didn’t move an inch, but it moved the width of an atom. Are you following me?”

“...”

You barely comprehend it.

One second, you’re standing, the next, you’re sitting, with arms and a familiar cologne engulfing you. You can feel the low rumbling of his chest. He chuckles into your ear and secures you tighter against him upon sensing your instinct to struggle. Scowling, you cross your arms while he regains his composure.

“Don’t be cross with me, dear,” he smooths out your shirt, as if it’d exonerate him of his transgressions. “I’m not laughing at you. You’re just… everything. Everything I need. I’m sorry. Please finish your point.”

“Court’s adjourned.”

“That’s a shame. When might it reopen?”

“Never, you’re sentenced to death. No appeals.”

“I thought you opposed capital punishment?”

“Each second that has passed since this conversation began has regressed my views by a decade each.”

"I'll just have to hold onto you for the time being then."

All you can muster the strength to do is sigh.

#just realized this is the first time chrollo's ever apologized in a story of mine and it's for the dumbest reason here hjrtkmge #yandere chrollo x reader #chrollo brainrot

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crepesuzette2023 · 1 month

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Hello! A slightly different fic rec question if you don’t mind

Who are your fave authors and what do you think are their most underrated fics?

I don't mind at all; I think it's a wonderful ask! ('Most underrated' is both somewhat subjective and relative, of course. Still:)

@stonedlennon: ode to the silver beetles (A conversation between Jim and Mimi. A glass of milk, Mr. McCartney?)

@scurator: Un Interludio (everyone loves Pringo in "Where the Sailors Go," but what about John/ Ringo in Spain, '66...? That's right.)

@pauls1967moustache: When you kiss my lips, I'll get a thrill to my fingertips (Paul/Ringo during the first US Tour; John is busy with Cyn and Paul is overthinking, until...) • Still Mates (Paul/Peter Asher in '68) • Aninut (The Beatles deal with Brian's death).

@dailyhowl: I'm With You (John/Stu, early days, with letters & hot sex!) • Be It Fahrenheit or Centigrade (Paul/Stu) • Crawling to the Car (Paris; 1966. John, Brian, Paul, Maggie McGivern, original male character with dark furry thighs)

@pie-of-flames: In the Night Garden (John/Paul; they trip in '67 and there is no angst, only...sympathetic trees)

@eveepe: Drop Like A Stone (Jane/Linda is what we need; go mount some Margrittes, Paul)

@midchelle: Tell me all my love's in vain (Pattie/Maureen, 1964-1974)

@savageandwise: Red Light, Green Lights, Strawberry Wine (Paul/Linda/Denny in New Orleans, with J/P in the background; Linda POV)

@aquarianshift: On the Avenue (George/Bob Dylan) • How I Was Robert McNamara'd Into Submission (Paul/John/Cyn, sex pollen) • There Once Was a Band From the Sixties (Limericks; with @ilovedig)

@javelinbk: Fair's fair (1964, a helping hand after escalating press conference thigh groping; I hope this is an accurate summary...this one is actually very warm and sweet!)

@bluewater9: Secret Passages (The Lennon McCartney children find naughty homemade movies at Cavendish)

@beatlessideblog: What You See Is Me (I Need You Darlin' extra; Jim's view on John and Paul's bond)

I hope there is something new for you here!

#fic recs #asks #underrated fic recs #mclennon #Paul/Denny/Linda #Mo/Pattie #Jane/Linda #John/Cynthia/Paul #George/Bob Dylan #dylarrison #jim mccartney #lennstarr #pringo #beatles fanfiction #Paul/Peter Asher #brian epstein #John/Brian #Paul/Stu #John/Stu

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candiedspit · 7 months

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Banana Daiquiri

It was summertime; hot tango and swedish malt.

I was twenty five, a lonely space cadet with no return mission. I floated through the mist of pristine, magic light. I wore a cocktail dress to the corner store because I could. Artificial diamonds shuddered on my wrist while a thousand hot words licked the walls of my mind every single second. I was very alive most days.

For work, I took care of Gem, a bright seven year old whose favorite color was a carcinogenic green. The kid was mute. And in lieu of a proper schedule–some of the families I’d worked for before treated their children as hostages to time, every hour had a name–I was given the simple task of entertaining Gem until her parents got home from work.

This meant long walks to the playground, afternoon movies, aquariums, library trips. I liked Gem. Her long sheet of blonde hair which ran down to her stomach and flew in the wind. Her penchant for worms and dirt. I could tell she knew more than I did, picked up on the subtle tones of the universe.

Each morning, I picked her up from her house and we headed out. Out to the avenues. Out to run out fingers along the brisk voltage of morning. Out to the world. It was the third week of June. It had been raining on and off for several days. But at last, the skies were clear and the sun was beautiful, dazzling rays falling to the ground. Gem held my hand.

Gem, it’s a wondrous morning, I said as we walked.

I held her backpack on my shoulder.

It’s the kind of morning you could weep over, I continued.

The kind you dream about when you’ve been inside for too long, marinating in all of your perceived misery piss. The kind you didn’t think you’d ever see again. But here it is.

I love the summers most because every horrible thing you did in the winter is gone. Every tantrum. Every snarl. Every shard of glass. Gone, gone, gone.

Eleven blocks.

We walked until we reached Gem’s favorite park, the one with the long, twisted slide and sprinklers and swings. Gem let go of my hand and ran to the swings. I sat down on a bench and drank from my water bottle. After this, we’d go to get lunch. Strawberry ice cream. Soda, sandwiches sliced down the middle. And then maybe we’d saunter down the boardwalk and play some of the games they have there.

I’ve always gotten along well with kids. I think I understand them. The bossa nova of the world, each little thrill and dissapointment. How you can feel gladness singe your fingertips. How the sun shines for the first time every time.

How confusing the grown ups are.

After work, I usually went to my favorite bar or called the man I’m seeing. Or both at once. It depended on how tired I was, how long the day had been. That evening, I went to the bar. On third street, it was a run-down bar that never had more than twenty occupants. I sat at the bar and ordered my usual; a banana daiquiri. The bartend asked how my day was. I said it was fine and left the conversation at that. I watched the small television above his head. A newscast about the bombings in Turkey and gasoline prices. All things that didn’t touch me. The universe only existed as I could see it. I got one more drink, paid and left.

On my walk back home, the skies were bloodied and vicious and beautiful. Clouds ate at one another like twins in the womb. I was wearing a long blue dress. I felt like taking off my skin. I wanted the wind. I wanted everyone to love me. The buildings seemed enormous, metallic titans left to rot in the ground after some fantastic war. I was living in the land of zero, the peace spread across the land like a woman on a bed.

I got home too soon.

✴

Gem stopped speaking at around three years old.

It was January and outside, snow filled the gaps of the city like glue. It dawned upon her parents as syrup spreads across the table–the silence. No babbles through the hallways. No requests for sippy cup. No mama. When her mother would urge her to speak, she would look into her face with her insect green eyes, and then look away. Gem’s pediatrician said she would grow back into speech. Had something happened?

Nothing happened, her mother said. Nothing has happened.

Gem had always concerned her parents. During holidays–out on the white, dense beach in Spain or with her many spritely cousins at Christmas–Gem preferred to play alone. She could never look at the camera when pictures were taken. And she had this–her parents called it a habit–habit of doing a sort of kangaroo hop when she was excited or nervous or anything at all. Sometimes she wringed her fingers in and out of crooked fists.

But the speaking was different. When Gem’s mother told me, she couldn’t stop herself from getting choked up.

It was like we lost her, she said. Whatever stupid hope I had that she was simply an eccentric kid, that I was the idiot for not understanding the way she saw the world, was killed. And replaced with the fact that we had something on our hands we weren’t prepared for.

When they finally got the diagnosis, Gem was five.

Often in these cases, early intervention was key; but also, girls were typically diagnosed later than boys. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And what mattered was what her parents were going to do next. Therapists moved in and out of the house like business men on a train. Occupational, speech, physical.

But in the summertime, she didn’t have access to therapists. All she had was me and our little ventures into the world. I hoped I was doing good by Gem. That sunflower kid. That cartoon heart. All I could do was try to guide, be her compass in a dark terrain.

I liked living two lives.

One where I filled in the gaps and another where I fell through them.

✴

Sometimes, I have strange thoughts, I told him.

I was in the bed of the man I loved. And I was sure he loved me too. At least, at that moment. He was five years older than I was. But he was fun to be with. I liked spilling out in the dark with him. I liked his giant hands over mine. I liked surprising him.

What kinda thoughts? He asked.

I know what other people are thinking. I know what everything means. There’s an ultraviolet shimmer to the world and I can see through it, I said.

It’s hard to explain, I continued. Happy neons. Dark, frustrated movements. An elevator dropping to the basement. How do you explain a yard to a kid kept in the attic?

You’re a freak, he laughed and kissed my head.

He didn’t understand.

✴

I sat out on his balcony–he was one of those people who had balconies but never used them–at the end of a gigantic, African cigar; one of his favorite pastimes besides television. And me. It tasted like midnight, a rough kind of bark. Ash. I liked letting the smoke out so that it floated above the city like a warning of sorts. Beware, there are people who say they love you and don’t. Beware, there are peep holes even in Heaven. I was high on a pill he’d slipped into my mouth, something small and pink. In combination with the tar and the night air and the fact that I was naked, I felt like a kerosene bomb. I felt like a laughing serpent. A dirty thrill. I began to speak out loud, beneath my breath so that nobody could hear me.

Not anyone besides you.

There aren’t many people like us, I began. Not everyone can see the mess, the vomit and slashes of graffiti and stray dogs and doom, and smile. Not everyone can see that there are fairgrounds in a warzone. Not everyone can touch the music. Not everyone can hear the light from miles away. But we can, Gem. I think we are gods.

I think we are poets.

#my poetry #fiction

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chimielie · 1 year

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honeymoon avenue

summary: Suna x F!Reader. can't stop, won't stop, don't know how to stop.

word count: 2k

cw: suggestive at the end. drinking. par-for-the-course bittersweet suna fluff.

a/n: this was supposed to have about two more parts but who has time or energy for that. not me. just know that reader has a Backstory and is freshly brokenhearted in this for context <3

You get in Suna's car the first time you meet him.

It's a vintage convertible, painted a gorgeous deep red, your favorite color. The color of passion and dreams and strawberries at their sweetest, eaten right before they can go bad. Maybe that's what convinces you, the scent of motor oil seducing you over the side as you hoist yourself in, ignoring the door.

Suna watches you arrange yourself elegantly in his passenger seat, tilting your head back, eyes closed, lips parted to release a soft breath. He's distracted by the slight smudge of your lipstick, the shine of your teeth. He doesn't even notice your eyes fluttering open eventually, catching him staring.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Didn't mean to rob you of the chance to hold the door open for me."

"Wasn't going to," he ripostes, and walks around to get into the driver's seat. He uses the door.

You look back at the party both of you are coming from, wondering if anyone else is coming for Suna's offered joyride, but most of your friends have retreated inside. You guess it's pretty cold without the alcoholic flush that's settled over you. It's one of Kiyoomi's parties, anyway, so most of them have their own fancy cars. You weren't born into appalling wealth and you haven't amassed your own yet, instead gathering fragments of fairytales where you find them, out-the-door-by-midnight-and-one-slipper-left-behind-style.

Kiyoomi is lingering outside the revolving glass door, watching you and Suna, and you're grateful for your friend's skepticism even as you lift a hand and wave him goodbye, signaling that he can return to his guests. He's a gracious host, though his parties are selective and always hosted somewhere he doesn't have to clean up personally. He offers you a slight smile that you can see even from this distance, and dips his chin in return. He's your voice of reason right now, has been for the past week at least, and if he didn't trust Suna with your life, you wouldn't be here.

Maybe it's not a smart decision, but it hardly feels like a decision at all; more like the inevitable conclusion of a partner dance, one step to the party, one to his side, quarter turn out to the car. Easy as anything.

The radio comes to life as Suna starts the car, setting a gentle soundtrack for the ride. You tap your fingers along to the tune, though the soft interior material absorbs the sound.

Suna looks over at you when the car is stopped at a light, the color red washing over your face. Your eyes shine with it as you make eye contact with him, holding his gaze. He watches you right through the green light, puts his foot on the gas without looking at the road.

"You get in cars with strangers often?"

"Don't you start," you say, and with a smile on his lips at your tone, he turns straight ahead. "You're the one to blame. You're sober and you offered a drive." You purse your lips. "...You are sober, right?"

"'Course," he says, "I'm not allowed to drink."

"Good. You play volleyball?"

"With the best of them, babe," he responds. "I don't really like drinking, anyway. Sometimes I get high on the off-season."

"Sometimes?"

"Often." He grins, because the way you say it, the way you laugh to say I knew it without words, you sound like you've known him a thousand years already. You might not be smart for getting into his car, but he's getting the sense that you're wise. "You drink."

A statement, not a question. He saw you downing shots like you were trying to burn a bad taste out of your mouth. He could probably light your sweat with a match.

(The image of you, sweaty, glowing under candlelight, your royal blue dress slipping off your shoulders comes to mind.)

"I do whatever," you say, though that hasn't been true since college. Since—

You shiver, and you didn't think he could see you now, but he cranks up the heat, even as the wind is blowing the hair back out of your face.

"Anywhere you want to go?" He asks. "Home?"

You make a face.

"It's so early," you say, and it's eleven at minimum. Oh, yeah, you're his kind of girl. "Take me somewhere beautiful. Drive me into the sunrise."

"Oh, she's a poet," he teases, but you brush him off with a gesture, smiling so that he sucks in a breath as he steers the car sharply into a U-turn. Osamu once told him, after he met his now-wife (and got the balls to ask her out after months), that he'd know after five minutes.

Know what, Suna had asked, sardonic as usual. Osamu had held his shoulders and given him a severe look, demanding to be taken seriously for once.

That you want someone for real. Maybe not for ever. But you'll know that after the first date.

He thinks about taking you to the bridge, but he doesn't know how steady you are on your feet after a few drinks. Not yet, anyway, and he's not keen to learn if you tumble into the gorge.

"Do you live in the area?" He asks, and you nod. He rules out all the destinations, then, nothing touristy.

In the end, he drives in circles around the main streets of the city until he sees the glimmer of lights in a window. You take his jacket, folded in his backseat, without asking.

It's a bar, sort of, a late-night dessert shop serving drinks that probably have more sugar than alcohol.

The front is bursting with flowers, pink and green dominating the setup, but they seat you in a backroom, barely bigger than a booth, and there are a thousand little lights dripping down the walls. You're in higher relief now than in the street, and he drinks in the gold mantling your skin, your hair.

You make him sit down first, then corner him in, sitting next to him instead of across the table. He shifts a few inches away, but you only follow.

"What is that?" He asks, and watches your confused gaze dart around.

"What?" He takes a moment before he explains himself, dipping his head 'till he's close to your bare neck, taking in a deep breath. His own scent is mixed in with yours, clinging to your stolen outerwear.

"Your perfume," he says, both of you holding preternaturally still. "I like it."

"Thank you," your voice drops, barely audible. Under this guise he leans in further still, listening so, so closely. "Are you sniffing me?"

He shrugs and sits up, and now you follow, the face of a sunflower turning towards the sun. "You'll find no shame here."

"Annoying," you snort, and his gaze drops back to your lips. "Does that work?"

"Does what work?"

"Smelling random women. It seems like a move."

"I'd never move in on you," he denies immediately, knowing his smug smile is giving him away. "In fact, you're the one moving in on me. Getting in my personal space—"

"As if that wasn't in my personal space," you interrupt, though he ignores you.

"Sitting next to me in the booth. I'll let you know now, I can't be wooed."

"Oh," you breathe, and seem to wobble a little bit, putting a hand on his shoulder for stability.

"You okay?" He cups your face, trying to check your eyes. Shit, maybe you're more incapacitated than he thought.

"Yes, thank you," you say, expression suddenly sharpening. Before you even open your mouth, he realizes he's been played. Your voice turns low, husky. "I'm not trying to woo you, Suna. I'm trying to seduce you."

He can't help the noise he makes at that, choking on a gasp. He was expecting it, but it’s more than he thought it would be, more than he was ready to feel. You trace a finger around his wrist, his hands still holding your face, following the line of his forearm up and up and up and curling a hand around the back of his neck.

You linger like that, and he watches your eyelids flutter, coming so very close to closing, the way they would if he just leaned forward a fraction. If he would just bring you up to him, taste the fruit, lick the balm off your lips.

"Good things come to those who wait," he says instead, so close to you you think you feel the words burying themselves in your skin. You take in a deep, ragged lungful of air, and when you look away from the smirking slash of his mouth you find something softer in his eyes. Too soft for you, something you could sink into and get lost in and not be pulled out. He won't kiss you, but he's still holding your face.

A retort comes to you—you're tired of being good. But that's a dynamic you don't want to enter. You lie outside the tired dichotomy of good girls, bad girls. You chortle to yourself at the drunken thought.

"You snooze, you lose," you wriggle out of his clutches, the air suddenly very cold when his touch can no longer be felt.

Give me another chance, he almost says, but no matter how the words shape themselves in his mind, they come out pathetic and all wrong.

"Slow and steady wins the race," he counters. "’Less I’ve been disqualified.”

You hum noncommittally and take a slurping sip of the dregs of your drink.

"That was all sugar," you comment eventually, breaking the silence with a little bit of rasp in your voice. "You like it sweet?"

Suna's limbs suddenly feel heavy, sluggish. There's a smear of red on your chin, where a stray drop was wiped away but left a food-dye residue, makes the effect of your face split into a wry grin all the more striking. He blinks stars out of his eyes.

"And a little sour," he whispers, bitterness already coating his tongue. It's not so unpleasant, citrus bursting with the promise of candy on the horizon.

"I can do that," you say, an admission tempered by the way you sweep out of the booth, offering him a genteel hand to help him on his way out too. Sweet-tart, he thinks, and doesn't let you have your hand back until you get in the car.

The sky is the peculiar shade of night between purple and blue, preparing to lighten by dipping into its darkest moment. It could go on forever. Your head lolls back after you tell him your address, too familiar with the streets to bother observing their passing. Instead, you chase the stars.

"Wait here," he tells you when he parks, and you watch him tuck a hand into his pocket as he crosses to open your side with the other. He bows, mocking, for you, and you fake a stumble in turn, falling neatly with a hand against his broad shoulders, chest to chest. His smart mouth fails him again, just like it did before, as he looks at you with burning electrum eyes. The little that's still intoxicated of you wants to ask what color they are exactly.

Your sober self has more pressing questions.

"The walls of my bedroom are the same shade as your car," you murmur, and he looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes, waits for you to make the leap. He's already caught you, after all. "You wanna see?"

"Love to," he says. "Drive me into the sunrise?"

You kiss him before you even cross the sidewalk to the front door. An improvisation in the choreography, you think dizzily, as he dips you down. Waltz up the stairs. Easy as anything, you loop your arms around his neck, let him lay you out on your bed. Take you to the end of the road.

#suna x reader #suna rintarō x reader #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarou x reader #suna angst #suna fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu!! fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu!! angst #haikyuu!! x reader angst #haikyuu x reader fluff #hq!! x reader #hq x reader #hq x reader angst #hq x reader fluff #hq!! fluff

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boujeeceo · 1 year

Text

2023 looks like

Monthly messages. Monthly trips to the farmers market. Crossing off bucket list items monthly; skydiving, laser tag, ziplining, ice skating, escape rooms, bungee jumping, mountain biking, trampoline park, magic show, city scavenger hunts, concerts, helicopter rides, cruise dinners, champagne & strawberry shortcake. Monthly brunch dates. Weekly violin lessons. Weekly Kickboxing lessons. Weekly ASL, Mandarin and Spanish lessons. Weekly gun range visits. Daily workouts. Daily beauty routines. Daily trips to 5th Avenue and Chelsea.

#corporate barbie #inspo #corporate baddie #gym bunny

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spacecowboyhotch · 11 months

Text

summary: never wanted love, just a fancy car.

pairing: cowgirl!reader x cowboy!din

contents: 18+/nsfw/smut, cowboy au, typical Wild West violence & values (murder, stealing), flirting, pining, perceived unrequited feelings, yearning (if you squint)

wc: 4k

an: part two comin at yaaaaa. these two are so special to me. reader does have a code name in this that she uses, so if your name is scarlet sorry in advance!

series masterlist | writing masterlist

ch 1: takes one to know one

You don’t discuss the logistics or practicality of sticking together, you just do it. After meandering in Strawberry a few days longer to garner more money and supplies the two of you head southeast.

Din has a tent. You’ve gotten used to traveling as light as possible and staying in structures that already exist so as not to draw attention to yourself. But you already feel safer traveling with him. You feel yourself loosening up in the wake of his companionship and competency. And in that, you find a discomfort you’re not ready to unpack.

The town you end up in after dabbling in Strawberry– Cheyenne– is the closest thing you’ve seen to a true city. There are talks and whispers of New York and all the structure and opportunity it brings. Bustling with thousands of folk, buggies, art, and theater. Not to mention proper plumbing. But, settling down isn’t an option right now– or ever—you quickly remind yourself, as not to get your hopes up for something that doesn’t exist. Besides, you’re not sure you could ever imagine yourself working a steady job. Staying put in one place sounds so…stagnant.

Cheyenne is markets in back alleys, crowded streets, and a view of the sea. You’re grateful for the cool, salty air of the coast during this hellish summer. But the city has its cons: mixed in with the salty air is the stench of pollution that comes with such a populated place. Its lawman force— ever present and large— works to you and Din’s disadvantage. The work you do is harder in a place like this but the spoils will last you ten times over than in places like Strawberry or Annesburg.

You and Din have taken a room at an inn close to the edge of the city. You’ve just returned from a bath down the hall, one that was well overdue. Din’s already dressed in sleeping clothes, his hair wet and slicked back from his own bath. For just a moment you wonder what his hair feels lik. If it's as soft or thick as it looks. Whatever spell that is breaks when he closes his eyes as you enter in just a towel, turning over in the bed.

There’s nothing there for him, not that you can pick up. It shouldn’t matter, there’s nothing there for you either. He’s your partner, life has been so much better with him at your side already. It runs smoother, it feels safer. The fuzzy, unfocused picture that you were living in sharpened. Why would either of you even think to jeopardize something that works so well with the simple thought of more? You won’t.

“There’s a big wig in this city. Robert Leroy— folks call him Bobby,” You say to distract yourself from the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“What’s he got to do with anythin’? We’ve got our targets.”

You and Din had stopped at the jail as soon as you’d entered the city, eager to pick up as many bounties as you could. It earns you some trust with the lawmen and gives you an excuse to meander the city at any time, asking questions to get the lay of the land and search for real targets. This time it was easier than that, but it doesn’t mean you won’t maximize your time here, exploring every possible avenue of income.

“Bobby is the reason they’re our targets. I used my charm on the sheriff, he says Bobby’s the one who put the price on their heads. We get them and maybe we get invited to that big fancy party that’s next week.”

You aren’t able to see it, but Din frowns, teeth gritting at the mention of using your charm. He should be used to it by now, and it should never bother him. But in the recesses of his mind, there’s no denying that it does. None of those men deserve to look at you, let alone witness your charm.

“Party,” Din repeats, sounding skeptical.

“It’s at his house. His mansion. The one full of expensive shit,” You explain as you slip into the only thing of your mother’s you have left— an old, scratchy nightgown.

“You’re still not sellin’ it, girl.”

“We can’t pass up all the riches in that man’s house, Din. You’ll have to deal. I’ll charm, you’ll steal and we’ll leave this place,” You insist as you slide into bed next to him, facing away so that your backs are just a few inches apart.

Din’s body radiates heat and despite the sweltering heat, you stay beneath the blanket with him. Sometimes if the two of you sleep close enough to the other, you’ll wake up tangled in his arms the next morning. Neither of you say anything about it, going about those mornings as if they’re any other. And maybe they are.

“Do we gotta?”

“Strawberry’s reapings will only last so long,” You reason, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“You charm, I steal,” He repeats his version of your words and you can hear the mirth in his sandy voice.

“I just said that.”

“Did you? I didn’t hear,” He stretches, snuggling further in the mattress.

“You’re full of shit.”

He snorts, shaking his head, “Go to bed, girl, we’ve got busy days ahead.”

Din was right— the next week the two of you work from sunrise to sunset capturing all the bounties you’d collected from the sheriff. Some are easier than others, frequented black markets or popular bars for folk that run in your lifestyle.

But there’s one that’s tedious to catch; Stagecoach Mary, a notorious cowgirl who you’ve always admired all holed up in her little shack that rests in its own little bayou just outside of the city. The shootout with her eats up most of your ammo, and a bullet ends up grazing your arm. Din gets Mary hog-tied and strapped to his horse before he comes to check on you. He’s deathly quiet like he always is, but you can feel the urgency in his movements. He removes your button-down without asking, using some of the water in his canteen to cleanse the wound before he covers it in salve and wraps it.

“You alright?” He asks quietly as he helps you back into your shirt.

Your eyes go a bit wide at the raw sound of concern in his voice, but you quickly brush it off, “S’just a scratch, I’ll be just fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Din,” You say gently, and though it stings like a bitch, you aren’t going to say differently. The last thing your resolve needs is him fawning over you, worried about your health.

His gaze raises to meet yours, eyes narrowing to appraise you before he sighs and starts towards his horse. Mary is quiet on the ride back thankfully, and when you drop her off at the sheriff’s office, you get exactly what you two have been working so hard for. Bobby himself is there– the sheriff had told him about you and Din, how promising your skills had been so far and he wanted to thank you both personally.

He looks like money, with frills and shiny leather shoes, his hair slicked back with a pomade that smells like pine, ““I can’t thank you fine people enough. She’s been a real thorn in my side.”

You take the hand he’s offered, shaking it daintly, “We’re happy to help Mr. LeRoy, no one should have to leave in fear.”

Leroy squeezes your hand before bending to kiss it, “Please, sweetheart, call me Bobby.”

You giggle softly, batting your eyelashes at him, “Bobby, then. I’m Scar. This is my partner Djarin.”

Din blinks in surprise before quickly schooling his expression into the impassive mask he’s so good at. It's the first that he’s heard of your name. He knows that this is part of the charm, knows that you wouldn’t give this man– or any man– your real name, but curiosity blooms inside of him. Had you just picked it randomly? Did it have any deeper meaning? Is it close to your real name?

“Scar? As in Scarlet? What a precious little gem,” Bobby runs his hand down the length of your arm, turning to look at Din with a glint of jealousy in his eyes. “Djarin, bet you never get enough of this sweet woman’s charm.”

“We aren’t— she’s my workin’ partner, s’all,” Din says firmly, though the way that he clenches his jaw says otherwise.

But who is Bobby to tell a grown man how he truly feels? Especially if he can reap benefits. He grins, turning back to look at you, “Well I’ll be hog wallered, I thought a dime like you’d be taken, Scar. If that’s true…I’m having this grand party in just a few days. Come, the both of you.”

“Oh, we couldn’t Bobby!”

“I insist!”

A sly grin spreads across your face and you smooth your hand over his, “Well if you insist. We’ll be there.”

A few nights later, after spending the days in fitting rooms, shopping (and stealing), you and Din are finishing up getting ready for the party in your inn room. You peek around the partition to make sure that he’s dressed and your mouth goes dry. He’s in a sleek black suit, the silver accents of his belt buckle and cowboy boots glinting in the last rays of sun that flood the small room. He looks incredible, his hair wet and slicked back, skin scrubbed completely clean. You lean back, bracing yourself against the wall as you force those thoughts out of your head. A distraction, you need a distraction. You look down at your dress, toying with the skirts– perhaps your distraction could be in distracting him.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step from behind the partition, holding your arms out as if to present yourself.

Din simply stares at you, and you’re about to tell him to forget it when he finally speaks. “You look—“ He stops, going quiet for what seems like forever before he clears his throat.

“What, is it? I look bad, don’t I? It’s stuffy, but we gotta look the part.” Your head tilts as you turn this and that way, watching the skirt flutter as you twirl.

“You look—it’s good,” He supplies, turning towards the mirror to fiddle with his tie. He swallows, ignoring the way the fabric of his tie sticks to his sweaty hands.

You turn to look at him, frown deepening as you smooth your hands down the intricate corset of the dress, “You sure? I need him to look at me, and if it’s not pleasin'—“

“It’s plenty pleasin’, now finish up and let’s go.”

You and Din rented a carriage, standing out to others invited would just make this evening worse. The ride– like most of your traveling with Din– is quiet, and you fiddle with your fingers, forcing yourself not to pick at the polish you’d gotten down for the occasion.

The mansion is grand, all cream with pillars and statues so delicate they look fit to shatter if you look at them wrong. You’re guided inside by men dressed in impeccable suits, hor devours and glasses of champagne pressed into your hands as you make your way through the expansive foyer and down the stairs into an even large backyard.

This is something you could only imagine in those moving pictures you’ve only had time to see once or twice. There are tables full of food and alcohol, droves of people dressed to the nines dancing and laughing and eating. And while you’re impressed, disgust accompanies it. The excess when there are so many who don’t have enough to make it a week. You’d seen plenty of unhoused folks on the streets as you and Din explored Cheyenne and this party could feed them all for days on end. You swallow your disdain for everyone here by focusing on the goal and painting a smile on your face as you breeze through the crowd. Try as you might, you can’t find Bobby so you park at a table that’s moderately far from the various groups of others.

“Maybe he hasn’t come out yet,” You whisper to Din as you pretend to look over some of the food. It looks so fancy that it’ll make you sick.

“Stay here and watch for’em, I’ll see what I can find out.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he skates through the crowd easily and your mouth turns down in a frown when he’s stopped by a beautiful woman. To your surprise, he doesn’t blow her off, smiling as he begins to talk to her. You’ve never seen Din like this before. In the short month or so that you two have been together, you’ve been the lead on charming as all the places you’ve been in teem with men and their testosterone. You aren’t sure what this feeling is that rises in your chest as you watch the woman Din is talking to throw her head back with laughter. What you do know is that you want to end. Your feet are moving you towards him before you can think logically about it.

“Djarin, could I speak to you for a moment?” You say in your sweetest, most polite voice— emphasis on your southern drawl.

The woman he’s speaking to gives you a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.

Din excuses you both, walking you over to a quiet spot beneath an ice sculpture that is surprisingly intact despite the heat of tonight’s air, “What is it, girl?”

Delicately as not to draw anyone’s attention, you remove your arm from his grasp, mouth pressed into a thin line, “What the hell happened to ‘you charm, I steal’?”

“She’s been in the house before. I was gettin’ the lay of it. You ain’t doing much charming if you’re chewin’ me out, are you? Look who it is.”

Bobby has finally made an appearance.

You narrow your eyes at him but stay silent. Din just stares back, unphased and you eventually give up, slinking off to do your part. To charm. Once you’re by his side, Bobby stays close to you like a bee stuck in honey– it's annoying really but this life has given you incredible acting skills so he’s none the wiser.

Lucky for you he gets distracted by some bigwig oil men who start to throw around some big numbers. You stand by his side, listening politely– gathering the names of these men just in case you ever run into them again– until you grow bored. You excuse yourself to the powder room, assuring him that you’ll return shortly as you leave the sweetest kiss on his cheek. You feel the way he shivers against you, his eyes cloudy as he nods.

Not long after you’d gone to talk to Bobby you’d seen Din slip out of the crowd and into the house. It may be a pain to find him a place this large but if you’re caught it’ll be realistic to play a dizzy, turned-around maiden.

As soon as you’re out of sight you spit, wiping your mouth with your sleeve in a move most unladylike as you try to find Din. The halls are empty, it seems as if Bobby’s staff is either occupied with entertaining guests or off for the evening.

“Up here, girl,” Din calls from above you, and when your eyes meet he holds up a sack that looks fit to burst. The smile that spreads across his face is different than the one he’d given the woman he talked to early, this one is genuine and it makes your heart flutter.

“How’s it going?” You ask once you make your way up to the stairs to stand beside him.

“Good, last room we got left is his office. C’mon.”

You follow after him closely, keeping your steps light like a cat so as not to draw any attention from below. When the two of you turn a corner down the final hall which holds Bobby’s office, there are two guards— one blonde, one brunette— standing outside of the door that is gilded in gold. You roll your eyes at its gaudiness but step forward with wide, guileless eyes.

“I’m sorry you two, it seems we’ve got lost trying to find the powder room. Could you help us?” You bat your lashes at the two men, standing up a little taller to push your breasts out.

“Back the way you came, down the stairs, to the left,” the blonde one says, unaffected by your attempt at charm.

Nevertheless, you try again, getting a little closer to the brunette, whose eyes have had a hard time staying on your face.

You gaze up at him with puppy dog eyes, “Could you maybe walk us? I mean— we are lost.”

You raise your hand to fiddle with the distracted guard’s tie, but the first one’s hand shoots out, wrapping tightly around your wrist. You gasp, looking over at the guard in feigned offense, like you’re some helpless maiden– like you wouldn’t slit his throat if your knife wasn’t buried under so many layers of fabric.

“It would do you best to walk away ma’am or I’ll have to call the lawmen,” The blonde says, his grip tightening around your wrist until it makes you wince.

Din takes a step forward, his voice so low and rough it sends a welcome chill down your spine. You don’t have to look at him to know how terrifying he looks right now, “No, it would do you best to let her go or I’ll have to crush your windpipe.”

“You threatenin’ me, yokel?”

You lean closer to the brunette guard, grimacing as you say, “Well this ain’t gonna end well is it?”

His eyes widen for a moment, flickering behind you and you know that Din is moving, already going in for the kill. You do your best to pry your hand from the other guard’s grip but it is tight, and as you struggle the one in front of you struggles to get his gun. As soon as your hand is free you reach for his neck, planting your feet so that you’ll have the strength to snap his neck. There’s a loud crack from beside you before you can get your hands in the right place, and your glance over to Din, seeing the way he followed through— the man's face is red and limp, the blood vessels in his eyes busted.

You regret getting off track because it seems the guard still alive is successful, getting off one shot that flies up into the ceiling. Refocusing, you knee him in the stomach, and his gun clatters to the ground just as you get your hands around his neck and twist as hard as you can.

“Fuck,” You breathe as the second man’s body hits the floor. His gunshot will absolutely draw attention, you and Din need to move quickly.

“In and out, no safes, whatever is unlocked and out in the open.”

You follow his instructions with no hesitation, stepping over the two bodies and moving through Bobby’s office with ease. There are solid gold paperweights, stacks of bonds, maps of train routes and what they’ll be holding, and even a few stacks of money in drawers. It's a jackpot if you’ve ever seen one and the two of you share a look of wonder before kicking it into gear to get out of there. You can hear the footsteps of lawmen rumbling through the house and give Din the signal to move into the room across the hall– it's another powder room. The two of you squeeze into the shower, listening intently as the lawmen call to each other, trying to figure out where you’ve gone.

You hear a voice say, “They must’ve gotten by us. Comb the streets.”

That works perfectly in your favor, and you grin over a Din, knowing that the streets are not how you plan to escape. As soon as the coast is clear, Din grabs your hand, leading you the opposite way of all the lawmen and house staff that have started towards Bobby’s office and bedroom. The two of you sneak out a side door and make your way toward the bayou in the backyard. You’d already set up a boat there to make an escape— no one would expect it since you and Din had rented a carriage to arrive.

He helps you step in the boat, grasping the hem of your skirts so that it’s easier for you to step in, and joins you as soon as you're settled. He doesn’t know how to row— not well at least— so you grab the oars and get to work. Your horses are strewn up to trees not too far from here and afterward you’ll collect your belongings from the inn and leave Cheyenne for good.

Din has started to count the money he retrieved, thumbing through the bills with his steady fingers.

“I pocketed a few things here and there while I waited for you— mostly watches but some wallets too. This should be a lot, we could rest in the next town for a bit if you wanted,” You whisper into the night.

He nods at you but doesn’t stop counting, pulling out a few gold bars you imagine he got from a safe. Once he’s finished counting he restarts, wanting to make sure he’s right.

“This is enough to get outta this,” He mumbles once he’s finished.

You think you’ve misheard him. “What?”

“This enough to get outta this,” He says again, looking up at you. You’re too busy rowing to gaze back at him and he takes this opportunity to look at you unabashedly, something he never lets himself do. It’s foggy enough that even if you were to notice his eyes burning into you, he could play it off, blaming it on the wispiness in the air.

Though you both look ridiculous, stiff, and dolled up for this party even as you row diligently through the muggy bayou, everything about you still shines through. His eyes are syrupy slow, following the curve of your jaw, the swell of your cheek, the line of your nose.

“Din?”

“Hmm?”

“Outta this profession, you mean?” You repeat the question he hadn’t heard as he got lost in you.

He clears his throat and sits up, staring into the fog, “You can’t tell me you never thought about it. Slowing down with a little patch of land, few animals and crops.”

Sure you had– on your loneliest days you’d let your mind wander. You let yourself dream about a life like that with someone. When Din came into your life, those dreams became a little more specific no matter how many times you tried to push them away.

Your brows shoot up as you finally look at him, face twisted in surprise, “You want to settle?”

“I said I’ve thought about it. This is just enough to get far enough that no one knows us. We’d need a lot of money to get everything for a stead. Not to mention makin’ it sustainable.”

This is the first time you’ve ever heard him talk like this and though you’ve only been doing this together for a month or so, you’d think it was something he would mention before entering into a partnership with someone. But hell— he still doesn’t know your name. It's worked so far, hasn’t it?

You make it to where your horses are, Augustine and Cresida look at you both expectantly, as if they’ve been waiting all day and have places to be.

“You’re serious,” You say in disbelief as he helps you out of the boat.

“There’s no reason for me to lie, girl,” He starts to shed his layers, removing the suit jacket and the crisp white button-down in favor of his long-sleeved undershirt. “You’ve never…”

You fish the pair of jeans you stashed on your horse out, hiking them up under the huge skirt of your dress before you take a knife and cut through it. You easily cut through the fabric of the tight corset, letting out a relieving breath.

“I have. Here and there. Didn’t see a point for it if it was just to be alone,” You murmur, shrugging into your shirt.

He’s quiet for a moment, before whispering into the night, barely heard over the symphony of crickets and cicadas, “Different now, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Everything’s been different since meeting him. As the two of you mount your horses and start off into the night, your mind can’t help but wander back to that key detail— this man wants to settle down with a wild, nameless woman like you. Maybe that says enough. Maybe it’s all you’ll need.

ch 3: eyes full of stars

series taglist: @honeybrowne, @hotchs-bitch, @jazzelsaur, @lesbianhotch, @ivyheliotrope, @campingwiththecharmings, @frogers, @juneknight, @obscurexsorrows

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #cowboy din djarin #cowboy!din #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian fanfiction #not sfw

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