#Din djarin romance fic

[larkoneironaut]

My Mandalorian romance fic 🪐Beyond Beskar🪐 is ready to be read! I'm so excited to share it now, I hope you like it, I've put my heart into it 🥹 I will release a new chapter each Saturday, the fic is locked, so you can only read it when you’re logged into AO3!

[letstalkaboutshtufff]

Night on the town

Mandalorian x reader

Pairing: Din Djarin Mandalorian x reader

Warning: mentions of alcohol and some 18+ themes. No minors please!

Summary: Reader doesn’t listen to Mandos warnings about staying on the ship, then wakes up with something new and a bit troubling…

****************************************************

“Don’t leave the ship” those four words had been echoing in your head all week.

For months you’d never really minded following your Mandalorians orders, most planets he landed on for bounties were backwater scugholes whose inhabitants were low level creeps and criminals. You were perfectly fine staying within the safe compounds of the ship normally…but this planet was different.

Ceralis 3 was known for its bustling city full of high quality clothing stalls, the tastiest food establishments, musical performances, and oh how you couldn’t stop thinking about the renowned city square that’s lit up like starlight when the suns go down and everyone gathers to dance. You’d seen so many brochures advertising Ceralis 3 as a top vacation spot. And now you were finally here… stuck on a ship.

“Must be nice..” you mumble head resting flat on your arms watching the suns set from behind the glass of the ships viewport. The twinkling lights in the distant mocking you as if to say “here we are shining so bright and you’re stuck in a dark smelly cockpit”.

Ok so maybe that’s an exaggeration.. but still you were minutes away from going crazy with boredom.

“Don’t leave the ship” he said from the bottom of the ramp like he always does before leaving for a bounty.

Bounty hunting usually doesn’t take a week though… ugh

You lean up on your arms watching the twinkling lights of the city getting brighter. What was everyone doing now? Drinking? Dancing? Having 1000x more fun than you were right now??

You glance at the small data pad that Din gave you. When he was finished with a bounty he usually sent a quick message through.

You checked it again for the millionth time.

No new messages…

What if you just went for a quick look… no

No you couldn’t do that, din would be angry if he found out.

If he found out…

If…

You check the data pad again. Every time he sent a message it usually took him a decent amount of time to get back to the ship, he’d usually stop for supplies and whatnot.

So you had time even if he messaged you while you were out…

But could you break his trust so easily-

*pop pop pop*

Bright strands of fiery light shot up from the skyline in the shapes of flowers.

Well he didn’t need to know everything…

You sprung up practically jumping down the ladder to your small closet.

You smirked pulling out the one nice “out for a night on the town outfit” you owned. A stark contrast to the usual travel outfits you donned.

You applied some light makeup, grabbed your satchel and were off the ship in record time.

You took note of the pathway, and kept the data pad close to your hip in case that all to familiar beep sounded and you needed to rush back..

You gasped nearing a well lit archway taller than anything you’d seen before.

Giddy with excitement you ran in and were immediately overtaken by a rush of… well everything.

The streets were lit bright with lanterns, full of laughing and singing people.

The smells were making your mouth water wondering what on earth could smell so heavenly, and the buildings.. oh the absolutely breathtaking carvings. You didn’t know what to do first!

So you did the first thing that you saw, you ate from several stalls, bought a bunch of jewelry and souvenirs that you absolutely didn’t need, watched a few performances, drank some juice being served on a tray that you didn’t realize had alcohol… and then made your way to the famous square.

Oh and what a sight it was… like someone had the most dazzling dream and brought it to life. Everyone was jumping and dancing to live musicians. You wondered briefly if your Mandalorian could dance. Probably not.. but maybe if you really asked nicely he would.. or if you just dragged him..

You wished he was here.. you usually weren’t separated that long so it’s been a little lonely.

You sighed watching the couples dance and hold each other warmly. Some kissing some just gazing into each others eyes…

Ok more than a little lonely..

Maybe you should head back..

You sipped on your juice walking back in the direction of the ship.

What lovely juice, so sweet and spicy at the same time..

Mmm juicy juice so lovely

Hmm you peeked at a stall in passing, maybe you should get him something? Yeah that’s right, he wouldn’t be mad at you for leaving if you got him a gift!

Maybe you’d get some more juice while you shopped and then maybe——-

************************************************

Ugh why is my head pounding so bad…

You wince sitting up in the cot holding your head with a hand.

You blink slowly regaining your senses, the previous nights memories ending in a blur. You didn’t even remember coming back to the ship…

Ugh you were so stupid, the “juice” was alcohol and you’d had so many of them..

You panicked a bit not seeing your satchel on the hook but then calmed seeing it on the floor.

With a sigh you reached in pulling out the data pad and pressing the button.

*new message*

Oh kriff..

*Heading back. Shouldn’t take more than half a day.*

Half a day… wait when did he send that!?

The sky was so bright outside how long had you been asleep?? You looked down seeing you were still dressed up from last night.

I better change before he gets-

You stumble a bit feeling your leg let out a painful throb.

Oh no was I stupid and injured myself last night?

Quickly you pull up your clothing expecting a bruise or a cut or something but instead what awaited you was infinitely worse.

“Oh maker what have I done…”

You vaguely remember wanting to get something for Din but why on earth did your drunken state think that was a good idea!?!?

Kriff what did I do!?!?

You wobble quickly to the mirror to get a better look at the new addition to your outer thigh.

An abstract outline of your mandalorians helmet with his name cursively written under it.

Oh now you remembered.. bits and pieces as you stumbled into a tattoo stall and scribbled on a paper demanding it be the bestest bestie best tattoo ever, you even remember the guy asking if you wanted to wait until you were sober but then you cried until he did it.

Kill me now…

Ugh Why why why!? How was I going to explain this to Din!?

As if the universe was punishing you even more you heard a familiar beeping and gasped feeling the vibrations of the ships ramp moving.

Of kriffing course he would arrive now!

You quickly pull your clothing down and try to look as nonchalant as you can watching as Din walks up the ramp into the hull.

His bounty blocked your view of him but he was fighting and throwing some curses but Din is quick to throw him in the carbonite freezer.

You gulp as he finally turns around to regard you.

“Welcome back..” you tried to sound like your normal self. Key word being tried.

Din stood still for a moment then his helmet slowly shifted from your face down to your body then up again.

Oh yeah my outfit and makeup…

“You look…nice” he said a bit confused.

Maybe you could spin this…

“Oh well I um wanted to um surprise you… I really missed you Din..”

You hoped your nervousness would be taken as you just being embarrassed to dress up for him.

He tilted his helmet a bit, his stance relaxing ever so slightly and he took a couple steps in your direction.

“Yeah?”

Oh how easy men could be sometimes…

“Yeah” you smiled stepping forward too and wrapping your arms around him. “You were gone a while this time..”

He pulled back a bit to see you but his strong arms were still held firm around you.

“Yeah the bounty was more work than I originally anticipated, sorry you had to be alone so long.”

“It’s alright..you’re back now that’s all that matters…” you smile up into his visor knowing his eyes are deeply peering into yours just as lovingly.

His hands slide a bit and he grips you a bit tighter “if I knew you were gonna dress up just for me, I would’ve forgotten all about the bounty and rushed here..”

“Mm I’ll have to remember that for next time…” you lean up tilting your head to the side to kiss the bare skin just under his helmet. He breathes in, deep and crackley through the modulator.

Your hands reach up about to lift his helmet off when suddenly his head moves to the side.

“Din?” You frown a bit following his gaze then when you do your eyes widen a bit at what you see.

A beautifully beaded tote bag overflowing with items leaned against the wall, a strand of pearls strewn across it along with a shimmery scarf and a bottle of “juice”. Oh Kriff just how drunk did you get last night!?!?

“What’s that?”

“Oh um just some old stuff I pulled out when I was trying stuff on for you..”

He pulled away and you knew you had messed up.

“Din..?”

He approached the bag and knelt down. He picked up the bottle with one hand.

“And you just happened to have an alcohol that’s only produced on this planet in your storage?” His voice had completely shifted from gentle and loving to interrogative typical pre meeting me Mando.

“Well…”

He abruptly stood up with a sigh.

“You left the ship” he stated with a huff.

You bite your lip looking away from the intense stare.

“…”

“What’s the one thing I told you never to do?” You could tell he was angry but was trying to hold it back.

“…go against your orders..”

“Go against my orders and what did you do?”

“I left the ship… I’m sorry but I was so bored and lonely and I just…” maker could you sound any more pathetic and whiny.

He let out a huff of annoyance, “you put yourself in danger because you were bored?”

“Din..”

“You don’t know this planet, and I have a million enemies, I don’t tell you to stay on the ship for the hell of it” he bit out getting more frustrated.

“I… I know… I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking..”

You heard a sigh again and hesitantly looked up. His shoulder relaxed a bit his tone a bit softer but still plenty stern. “I can’t go after bounties and worry about you too..”

Well now you felt like absolutely shit

“Oh Din I’m so sorry, of course you can’t, shouldn’t actually. It was dumb and stupid and reckless and I promise I won’t leave again. No matter how tempting it is..”

He stood for a moment deciding you were sincere in your words, he held out a single arm motioning for you to come closer again,

You do and hug him muttering another apology.

“So you didn’t dress up for me huh..?”

Oh..

You peek up from his chest finding his gaze on yours,

“Well… not exactly but my first thought when I looked in the mirror was how I wished you were by my side to see me… does that count?”

He lets out a scoff and lowers his hands “No”

You pout

“But I know how you can make it up to me”.

His hands are back on you stroking your thighs kneeding them softly when all the sudden you yelp.

He pulls away shocked “what’s wrong?”

“Oh uh nothing just got caught up in the moment…”

His head tilts and boy for someone with a helmet on his expressions were clear as day.

“Wanna run that by me again?”

“I had a cramp?” You lamely ask.

Seconds of silence pass before his hands are reaching for the tips of your dress.

“Ah wait no!”

You jump back not ready now or ever for him to see your latest mistake.

He freezes, now that’s something you’d never done before.

“You hurt yourself didn’t you?” He crosses his arms.

“I did not..”

“Then what are you hiding?”

“….”

He sighs again loudly “you have three seconds to show me before I do it myself.”

Kriff…

You hesitate not knowing what to do.

“One”

Ugh what now!?

“Two”

Maybe you could lock yourself in the fresher…

“Three”

You make a dash for the open door but make it all of two steps before strong arms pull you back.

“Really?” He huffs annoyed.

“Din wait!”

“Just relax what’s the worst it could be?”

No way you couldn’t show him, you catch him off guard by fighting his hold.

“Hey stop that”

“Enough!” His bark cuts through you like a knife and you freeze.

He spins you around, his hands locked onto your arms.

“Din...” you plead but he won’t budge.

He maneuvers your hands into one of his while his other reaches for your dress. You can’t help but try one more time to evade him and use the one move he taught you in self defense,

Of course because he’s who he is all it buys you is three seconds before he has you sprawled over his knees.

How ironic… if only he knew how you’d fantasized about this exact position.

“You really wanna make things hard don’t you?”

“Din please you don’t understand! Just leave me alone-“ and just like that the delicate freshly tattooed skin was exposed to the cool air of the ship and his searing gaze.

Then it was silent..

“I-I didn’t mean to I got drunk by accident and then wanted to get you a gift and for some crazy reason I thought a tattoo would be a good idea and…and…and-“ your nervous ramblings continued until you suck in a sharp breath feeling soft fingers caress the area just around the tender area.

“You did this…for me?”

“W-well yeah…”

You try to turn your head to see him but it’s impossible in your condition.

He silently caresses the area around it as if he…wait no way!?

“Do… do you like it?” You asked hesitantly.

He let out a breath.

“Can’t say I hate it…”

Oh my maker

“R-really?” You question an eyebrow raised.

“Mm” you flinch a bit feeling his fingers trace over the sore area.

He pulled you up so you were straddling him facing his visor.

“Sorry I left the ship…” you say after a few moments of silence.

“Swear you won’t do that again..”

“I promise..”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Yes” he said without hesitation.

“Really? After all the trouble I went through getting you your gift” you smirk a bit wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

His hands gripped your thighs squeezing softly, “Yes…” you smiled knowing by his voice he was all talk. You already had him in the palm of your hand.

“Want me to make it up to you?” You whisper near the side of his helmet.

He makes some sort of hum through the helmet and you take that as a yes, you push him back a bit so the distance between you is closed, your core pressed against him deliciously.

His hands travelled around squeezing and caressing in the ways only he knew how you liked. You’re about to lift his helmet up so you could finally kiss him when he pauses his movements.

Ugh not again

“What’s wrong?”

“You were drunk…?”

Ah Kriff, why did I have to let that part slip out.

“Y-yes but just a bit…”

He looks at you in a no nonsense way,

“Ok maybe more than a bit but it really wasn’t my fault, I didn’t know the drinks had alcohol..”

He sighs

Man if I had a credit for everytime I made this man sigh…

“I know I know, it was dumb and reckless and I won’t do it again, can we go back to what we were doing please? Remember the tattoo I got for you?”

I push his helmet towards my thigh.

He lets out a little laugh, “alright alright I get it”

His thumb strokes it again, “it suits you”

You let out a laugh, “I think it suits you more…didn’t realize you were that type of guy…but honestly it’s growing on me too, he did a good job didn’t he?” You peer down admiring the details. Not realizing Dins fingers had froze.

“He?”

“….”

Oh Kriff

************************************************

I’ve been on a huge Mandalorian kick lately and had this little idea. Hope you enjoyed! Also please excuse the lazy editing❤️

[libraryofneith]

Din Djarin and Y/N getting some *hem hem* alone time before he goes on a long ass mission...

Din Djarin: right let's do this quickly.

Y/N: ugh Din I'm not some fosset you can just turn on and off, you gotta romance me...

Din: *removes single glove*

Y/N: fosset's on let's f*ck.

[lark-of-mirkwood]

Me writing the filthiest smut I've ever written at midnight

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Days Sixteen to Nineteen, Part III

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count: 11K 

chapter summary: Din continues to have a difficult day, Fennec gives Din a piece of her mind, and Marathel makes a declaration 

warnings:  fluff, angst, mention of blood and injury, violence, death and dismemberment, mention of sexual devices, mention of nudity, violence to women, rape, rape aftermath, war aftermath, non-con sexual situations, sexual situations, suicide ideation, description of medical procedures, English and Mando’a cursing, excessive glitter    

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***     

You Were Marked: Masterlist    

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Din looked dubiously at the hatch in the ceiling.  To get to it, he’d have to handle a number of what appeared to be well-used rental sex droids, and he really did not want to touch them, gloves or not.  And these were new gloves too.  He’d enclosed Grogu inside the bag with some sweet seaweed balls again, just to make sure the kid didn’t grab anything either untoward or crawling with … ugh.  He didn’t consider himself a prude, but unexpected bodily fluids — especially out of context — made his skin crawl.  Some of the sex droids were of non-human species, which made Din do a couple of double-takes.  I could have lived my whole life without knowing that Trandoshans had hemipenes.  He also took a quick surprised second look at the female Rodian; his experience with them didn’t involve vaginal tentacles.  Perhaps these were fantasy models.  Perhaps the Rodian females he’d been with didn’t have tentacles.  Don’t know, don’t care, just need to get in the hatch.   

With a shudder, he moved several droids aside to access the hatch.  Damn thing is right out in the open for anyone who gets curious.  Din reached up and pulled the handle, and a cool breeze blew down on him from above as the hatch opened.  Din could see a ladder leading up, and then darkness.  Putting Grogu’s bag across his body and under the cape, Din hoisted himself up.  The clerk must have ambled over at some point, for Din heard a disinterested voice saying, “Have a good climb, Grandpa.”  The hatch was then closed, leaving him in darkness. 

Din flipped on his light and peered upwards.  He couldn’t see any landings, any cross-bridges, just darkness and the single vertical ladder.   He started the climb.   

The ache in his hips and thighs began quicker than he had hoped.  He had climbed past a cross-tunnel a couple hundred rungs ago, and he was approaching another one.  If these cross tunnels are regularly spaced, I’ve gone about … 70 stories.  Resting his helmet against a rung, he cursed himself for getting soft.  And old.  

He looked up again, still seeing no end, only infinite darkness.  Up to the top, said Blewogg.  Up to the kriffing top. The arches of his feet were sore from pressing down on the round rungs.  His fingers were sore from pulling himself, 40-odd pounds of armor and weapons, and 12-odd pounds of kid up each rung.  This is for Marathel.  This is for the woman you say you love, so get climbing, you flabby sack of shit.  He imagined Marathel above him, standing in the next cross tunnel, stamping her foot and yelling at him.  That image got him up to the next crossways level, where he stepped off the ladder into the tunnel, shaking out his hands and legs.   

Din looked around, seeing no one — Grogu was still in the bag and quiet for once — and he pulled off the helmet and brushed back his sweaty hair.  He suddenly heard the clatter of something falling down the ladder.  He hurriedly put the helmet back on, pulled out a blaster, and carefully peered up.  He saw nothing, heard nothing.  He waited.  Still nothing.  He looked down the tube and listened some more.  Okay, now you’re just stalling.  Get climbing. 

With a sigh, Din stepped back onto the ladder.  His feet, buttocks, and quads protested immediately.  He would rather be flying naked with his jetpack on Hoth before having to climb more of this damn ladder.   

Wait. 

Jetpack. 

Dank ferrik, you’re an idiot, Djarin. He smacked his forehead on the rung in front of him with a resounding clang.  His buir would have said, thinking with your dick again, kid? 

It would seem so, buir.  Din looked up again, and then around him to gauge the size of the vertical tunnel.  It was hardly larger than he was, and he did not have a lot of clearance on any side.  It would mean that he didn’t have room for error.  It was still worth a try.  He moved Grogu’s bag to his front and wrapped an arm around it, flipped his cape over his shoulder, and fired up the jetpack as he stepped off the ladder. 

The jetpack didn’t ignite right away, and Din dropped a couple of stories before he got any downward thrust. Unfortunately, in panic, Din had tilted his body to look down, so his trajectory pushed him forward against the ladder as he went up.  After bouncing his helmet over each rung as he passed them for a few meters, he over-corrected backwards and slid up the wall, the jet pack making a screeching sound as it was dragged along the concrete.  He clutched at Grogu in the bag, and he pedaled his feet at the ladder, trying to get himself more upright, only succeeding at hitting his upper arches on every single rung for about 30 stories or so. 

Din switched off the jetpack, and he had just enough residual velocity that he was able to grab the ladder before gravity took back over.  He was just above another cross tunnel, so he hopped down into it, his feet screaming at him.  He had durasteel arch and toe protectors, but the unexpected constant beating against the ladder rungs made the protection more harmful than helpful. 

Din sank down to floor and tried to wriggle his toes, causing intense pain.  He sucked in his breath and muttered, “Fuck fucking fucking fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking FUCK …” 

“FUH!” came from the bag.  “Fuh fuh FUH FUH-EE FUH!” 

Din groaned.  Of all times for Grogu to start picking up on words.  Fuck my life.  He began unbuckling the straps on his boots.  Hissing in pain, he pulled one boot off a shaking foot. He grimaced and carefully rolled down Marathel’s sock to reveal a severely bruised arch and toes.  He did the same to his other boot, mouthing fuck fuck fuck as he bumped a broken toe.  He laid back, closing his eyes tightly as his feet throbbed.   

Grogu squeaked from within the bag, and then chanted “FUH FUH FUH” until Din reached over and opened the bag, digging in it for the bacta spray he’d began carrying — except for the fact he’d had to look for the oilskin bag, and neglected, in his haste, to transfer the bacta canister to this bag.  Haar’chak.    Grogu cooed and crawled out, standing over Din’s helmet. 

“Hey, kid.  I need your help.” 

“Fuh?” 

“No, kid … ugh …first, I really need you to stop saying that.”  Din remembered his buir telling him when you’re my age, you’ll understand why Mynocks eat their young.  “Time is of the essence, here, buddy, and I really need your help.  My feet …”  Before he could continue, there was a clatter, and Din raised his head to see a small incendiary device rolling towards the two of them.  Din lurched up to his feet, ignoring the pain, and kicked the IED into the vertical tunnel.   

Din turned, scooped up Grogu and his boots, and ran away.  The compression of the explosion had been reduced enough by distance that it wasn’t going to kill them, but Din did his best to fold down Grogu’s ears and buffet him with his own body, curled up against the tunnel wall. Once the blast was over, Din’s ears were ringing, his bare feet were throbbing, but Grogu appeared to be okay.  Din turned back to the cross-tunnel entrance and noticed that his socks were on fire.  “MOTHERFU— …”  

“FUH!” 

Din groaned.  The feet would have to wait.  He pulled his boots back on with a pained grunt for each foot.  He put Grogu back in the bag, pulled out his blaster, and crept — well, limped carefully — back towards the tunnel entrance.  By the time he reached his socks, the fire had extinguished, and all there was left was a small pile of ash.  He stared down at the cremains, chest aching.  As Din mourned the loss of the socks, another IED clattered in front of him from above.  Din kicked it down the shaft and hunkered down again for the blast.  He shouted out, “How many of those you got?  Because I’d just like to skip to the end.” 

“Gimmee the coins, then.” 

The voice was above him.  Din moved closer to the tunnel entrance.  “That doesn’t work for me.” 

“Tough titty.”   

Another IED.  Din kicked it again and protected Grogu from the resulting explosion, wondering if the sex shop was destroyed yet.  He’d have to apologize to Auntie Woggy.  Din figured the mad bomber was on the ladder not far above him; the next tunnel up would be too far to accurately toss an incendiary.  He decided to do something incredibly stupid and ran straight for the tunnel entrance.  Diving forward, Din held Grogu tightly as he swung the blaster upwards, firing the blaster in quick succession as he vaulted across the ladder shaft and into the other tunnel.  He twisted in mid-air so that he would land on his shoulder, protecting a squealing Grogu in the crook of his arm.  He must have hit the mad bomber, for he heard a distinct yelp.  “See, I got a problem with handing over the coins,” Din said as he got to his feet, all pain forgotten for the moment.  “They’re not mine to hand over.  They belong to the woman who made the socks you just burned up.  I’m not happy about losing those socks.” 

A pause.  “Why the fuck should I care about your socks?” 

“You don’t need to care about my socks,” said Din as he moved carefully towards the entrance of the tunnel.  “You need to care about how much I care about those socks and the woman who gave them to me.” He could hear the mad bomber struggling up the ladder.  Din peeked upwards and saw that the mad bomber was the skinny miscreant PeeWee had bounced from Blewogg’s shop.  “You see, I love that woman.”  Din knew he was babbling, but he was too pissed off to care.  “And when it comes to love, there are two kinds of men.”  Din leapt on the ladder, and climbed up with alarming speed, catching up to the injured miscreant in a trice.  “A good man will die for love.”  He grabbed the miscreant by his leg, burned by a laser blast, and the miscreant cried out.  “But you see, a bad man, a bad man kills for love.” Din climbed up so that he was standing on the same rung as the miscreant, who was frozen in fear.  Din pressed himself against the terrified miscreant, trapping him against the ladder.  “What you need to care about is whether I’m a good man, or a bad man.”  Din quickly wrapped his grappling cable around the miscreant and shoved his head between two rungs.  “Unfortunately for you, I’m a bad man,” whispered Din, and he stepped off the ladder, going into a free fall before firing his jetpack.  The miscreant’s head popped off like a cork from a bottle, and Din dropped his body down the vertical tunnel. 

Holding himself straight and rigid as possible, Din flew up the shaft.  After several hundred meters, he cut off the jet pack and grabbed the ladder again.  He took a deep calming breath, and then checked on Grogu in the bag.  “Hey, kid.  Doing okay in there?”  Grogu squeaked in assent.  Din sighed.  “I might have gone a bit overboard there.  I mean, they were just … socks.”  Grogu shrugged and spoke his usual babble for a moment.  “True, he was trying to kill us.”  Din and Grogu looked at each other for a few moments.  Din rubbed Grogu’s head.  “Let’s just not tell Mama, okay?” 

“FUH!” 

“Uh, NO. No more of that word.  Got it?”  Grogu pouted, and Din added, “Mama wouldn’t like to hear you saying that word.”  Grogu looked sufficiently apologetic, and Din chuckled.  He turned on his light and looked up the shaft.  The top was just a few more stories up.  Thank you, Frith, and all your not-a-rabbit starspawn.  Din worked up enough energy to hurriedly climb up the remaining ladder and pushed open the hatch at the top.  Something heavy must be on top of the damn door, thought Din as he struggled to open it.  Bright light and loud music filtered through the cracks, and Din finally got enough leverage to push the hatch fully open.  Drawing his blaster, Din burst through the opening to find himself … surrounded by topless burlesque dancers.   

“Oooooh, who had a Mandalorian in the Hatch Pool??” squealed a Zabrak with brightly painted horns.   

Din immediately tried to shove Grogu back into the bag, but a Chiss woman with flaming red hair plucked Grogu out, cuddling him in her arms — and her glittered bosom.  “Oh, he’s so cute!” 

Din reached out to take him back but drew back his hands, stammering, “Miss, please … I’m sorry for the intrusion, but we …” 

“ME!  ME!  I picked Mandalorian in the Hatch Pool!”  In a flash of sequins and feathers, a young leggy woman threw her arms around Din and kissed him on his visor, leaving a bright red lipstick mark. “Quick, Gowiar, get a holo of us!” Another young woman in a matching costume took the holo, and the other dancers shrieked with delight. 

Din sighed.  Oh well. No one will believe it otherwise.  Besides, he was in love, not dead.  He raised the holo function on his vambrace, and called out, “C’mon girls, squeeze in,” as he took a few holos himself, including a good one of Grogu getting kissed on the cheeks by two women at once. 

Shortly after, Din was able to — escape — the dressing room with Grogu.  A security guard just outside the dressing room door asked him, “Have fun in there?” 

“We had a lovely time, thank you.” 

“Hopefully not too lovely, Mandalorian, my daughter is in there.”  The guard flashed a keycard to Din, who took it.  “This will give you access to elevator three on the casino level.” 

“Thank you.”  As Din pocketed the keycard, he asked idly, “So which one was your daughter?”  The guard glared at him, and Din moved towards the casino as fast as his painful feet would let him. Looking down at Grogu, he said, “Not a word to Mama, now, hear?  She does not need to hear about … the … pretty ladies.  Right?”  

“Pree lay-ees?” 

“Right.  Nothing about the pree …”  Din tilted his helmet.  “Pree, huh?  You’ve been calling Marathel pretty this whole time.  And here I thought you only liked her for her cooking.”  So Pree Mahr is Pretty Mahr.  I’ll accept it.  I like it better than Sad Mahr, that’s for sure.   They made it to the bank of elevators, and Din presented the keycard to a porter who looked him up and down dubiously but let him pass to elevator 3.  Din stood with several casino patrons, all finely dressed.  Several high rollers sneered at him, but he held his head high.  He was a Mandalorian, after all, despite being covered in glitter and lipstick kisses.   

“They just let anyone in here these days,” muttered a pink-skinned woman wearing a gown that probably cost more than the Razor Crest.   

“They certainly do,” remarked Din as his lift arrived.  The elaborate scrolled doors opened to reveal a gold protocol droid.  Dank ferrik.  With an inward sigh, he stepped on the lift and turned around to face the doors.   

“Good evening, sir,” chirped the droid.  Din grunted.  If he could be positive the elevator wouldn’t plummet to ground level, he’d consider doing a hasty re-wire of the damn thing, or at least pull a Marathel and hurl something at it.  “The Senator is looking forward to meeting you, sir.”  Senator?  Din grunted again. 

Grogu popped his head out of the bag and stared at the gold droid.  He pointed at the gleaming droid and turned back to Din.  “FUH-eh.” 

Din looked down at Grogu, prouder than he’d ever been.  “You got it, buddy,” said Din, ruffling the boy’s hair.  

After an incredibly long ride in the lift —making Din thankful he didn’t have to climb that far — the car stopped, and the doors opened to a most elegant foyer, and an even more elegant-looking woman stood within.  Her hair was white and exquisitely coiffed; her gown was brocaded and shot through with threads made of precious metals.  If the gown of the snooty woman below could have bought the Razor Crest, this gown was worth a whole Star Destroyer.  Din felt like a ragged, drunken hobo, standing in front of her.  “May I present … the Mandalorian, Senator,” said the droid, and Din wondered if he should bow.  Fortunately, the Senator came forward with a smile and her hand out. 

Din took a few unsteady limping steps towards the woman, took her hand and tilted his head towards her. “Senator.” 

“Former Senator, as this is a new era, so I’m told.  I am Senel Traig.  Are you injured, Sir Mandalorian? You appear to have had … an interesting time reaching me.” 

“On both counts, yes, I have.” 

“Do you require a medic?” 

“I believe I only require some bacta, Madam Wraig.”   

Just then, Grogu peeked out from the bag, and Senel stepped back quickly.  “Maker,” she said, her hand at her throat.  “Is that little one yours?” 

“He is a foundling … and my traveling companion.” 

“You travel with a child and no bacta?  Shame on you,” she said archly, but with a small smile.  “We have some time before we are to meet the Jeweler.  My droid will fetch you bacta … and some washcloths.” 

Din thanked her and bowed slightly anyway, noticing that he was leaving a trail of glitter everywhere he went.  Haar’chak.  The golden protocol droid ushered Din to a side room, and provided him with bacta spray and injections, as well as some cleaning supplies.  After tending to his feet, Din managed to remove the lipstick, but the glitter was a losing battle.  Both Din and Grogu were completely dusted with the stuff.  The droid attempted to assist, but Din threatened it with a blaster, and it scuttled from the room, waving its arms. 

His feet now feeling better, and at least some of the glitter off, Din made his way to the sitting room where Senel waited for him.  She was on a settee, looking like a woman who was unassailable in her role as a leader in high society.  She motioned for him to sit, but Din hesitated, saying, “I have polluted your home enough.” 

Senel laughed.  “I had six children; I am more than familiar with glitter.  Your injuries have been ameliorated?”  Din nodded.  “May I see one of the coins?”  Din sat with Grogu on his lap and handed a coin to the woman.  “Oh, it is exquisite.  Better than any I’ve seen.” 

“May I ask why you want to acquire these coins?” 

“They are a symbol for those of us who were Senators during the Empire.  A reminder that we can’t, won’t go back to what we were before the Rebellion.”  Senel pulled a slender chain from the inside of her neckline.  An ornate pendant hung from the chain, and at the center of the pendant was an Aurodium coin, more than likely of the same vintage as his coin, but of much lower quality.  “I backed the Empire early in the Rebellion.  I regret that I did so.  Unfortunately, there is still much support on Coruscant for the Empire.  Those of us who are loyal to the Republic don’t know whom to trust.  So, we use the coins as a … password for safety.”  She tucked the pendant back inside her clothing and handed the coin back to Din.  “How did you come to possess these?” 

“I received them as a bounty.” 

Senel raised her eyebrows in surprise but did not ask any more questions regarding the coins.  Instead, she held out her hands and said to Grogu, “Would you like to visit me, little one?” 

Grogu cooed, but Din held him fast, saying, “He would get glitter on you.” 

“Nonsense; I’ve eaten more glitter than he has on him.  What is his name?” 

“Grogu.”  Din loosened his grip, and Grogu leapt on the woman’s lap. 

“Charming child.  They are so much fun at this age.  Mine are all … gone now.”  Senel softly ran her fingers through the boy’s hair, and he purred.  “My wife had to do much of the work herself because of my duties in the Senate.  You must find it a challenge.” 

Din was about to answer when his comm.link chirped.  Saying, “Please excuse me,” to Senel, Din got up and moved to the doorway.  “What?” 

“Din.  Where are you?” 

“Fennec?”  Din looked back at Grogu.  “What’s happened?  Is Marathel all right?” 

“She’s with the Reconstructionists.  They wouldn’t take the coins as payment.  I’m on Coruscant; it was the only place I could think of.” 

“You left her alone?” 

“She was fine when I left her, Din, please try to focus here!” 

By this point, Grogu had jumped down and was toddling over to Din, crying, “Mama?  Mama?”  Senel rose and stood in the center of the room, a worried frown on her face. 

Din bent down and picked up Grogu.  “I’m also on Coruscant.  If my contact is willing, you could meet us here.  What are the Reconstructionists asking for?”  Fennec told him, and Din grimaced.  He turned to Senel and said, “I require this amount in cash.  New Republic credits, not Imperial.  Can your contact provide this at our meeting?” 

Senel blanched, and said, “I’ll see what we can do.  And tell your friend to come here.  I will contact the concierge.”  She passed by him and went down the corridor. 

After giving Fennec the information, he said, “Fennec … is Marathel all right?” 

“She managed the trip fairly well, all things considered. She was in good spirits when I left, but quite nervous, of course.” 

“Did she … seem upset about anything?” 

“She had another meltdown about you still having the damned coins.  She went straight to worst-case scenario and convinced herself you deceived her about your intentions.” 

“Not at all.  The covert wouldn’t accept the bounty.  I just … never explained it to her like I should have.  Was she upset about anything else?  Did she say anything … about me?” 

He could hear Fennec sigh deeply.  “Din Djarin, while you have the social and emotional capacity of blue milk, we are all grown-ups, and I refuse to carry on with your childish requests to be a liaison for you two.  No, I did not ask if she ‘likes you, likes you.’  Do it your damn self when you see her next.”  

With that, Fennec clicked off, leaving Din feeling properly admonished.  Din held Grogu close, saying, “Mama is okay.  She’s with the secret doctors.” 

“See-kit.” 

“That’s right, buddy.”  Din felt Grogu’s little arms squeezing him tightly, giving Din the comfort he needed.   

“Is everything all right?” 

Din turned to see Senel standing in the corridor.  “Yes.” 

Senel tilted her head. “Are you sure about that?  You seemed to be quite concerned about this Marathel.  I take it she is also Grogu’s Mama?” 

Din felt discomfited.  “She is not Grogu’s natural mother, but he loves her as his mother.” 

“Is this Marathel in need of major medical care?” Din did not answer.  “She is why you need the payment in cash.” 

“… Yes.” 

“Well, then.  Your friend is on their way?” Din nodded.  “As we now must wait for the Jeweler to prepare the cash you require, may I at least offer you dinner?  You and Grogu may eat in the room you used earlier.” 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” said Din. 

“Thank you for making my afternoon interesting,” replied Senel with a warm smile.  “A Mandalorian and his son, covered in glitter and smelling like a brothel may not be as exciting as my late wife wrangling our six children, but it will serve.” 

Marathel felt very fog brained.  She wasn’t sure if she was awake or not … but she couldn’t seem to form the words to ask anyone.  She was immobilized in a giant chair, strapped down and locked in, only able to move her fingers, toes, and eyelids.  Her head was held at a severe angle by an uncomfortable neck brace, and her hair had been twisted into two braids, not from her temples this time, but hanging loosely from behind her ears. She felt like she was blinking a lot, but then there was a bright light shining right between her eyes.  There was also a rhythmic clicking sound that corresponded with the blinking of the bright light.  The chair itself would move and rotate from time to time, and she had just spent a long time facing downward while the light blinked at the back of her head, her braids swinging. 

Marathel could not see much beyond the light, and looking down at herself, she could only see her forearms from her position.  Her inner forearms bore many multi-needled injection marks, which would bruise, and then fade, and then bruise again.  Many of the injections felt like the spiky pebbles were under her skin again.  Others burned ferociously, while others merely felt like heavy weights were being placed in her arms. 

The Reconstructionists kept asking her to think about things, and half the time, she didn’t understand what they wanted her to think about. Earlier, they had asked her to imagine a black bird standing on a gravestone.  The black bird was easy enough, but Marathel was not knowledgeable about gravestones. This happened several times, until the doctors simply asked her to count certain number patterns, or to name things that began with a certain letter sound.   

This time they had asked her to say words that started with the sound of the letter B. It took her a long while to come up with any words at all, B-words or not.  Marathel was getting frustrated with herself, but the doctors didn’t seem perturbed; they just kept turning their dials and pressing buttons and encouraged her to keep trying.  Finally, Marathel burst out, “Bounty Hunter!” 

Cieroprac smiled.  “That was a good complex word, Marathel.  Keep trying.” 

Marathel squeezed her eyes tight.  She could see the images of things in her mind, but the words were hard to come up with.  She thought of Grogu to calm herself, and then she was able to say, “Boy.  Baby boy.”  Then she remembered, “Black bird.”  The words started to come easier now.  “Bread.  Beach.  Bed.  Berries.  Blue.” Then, “Beatings.  Blood,” said Marathel, her voice hitching on the last word. 

“I think we got it now, Marathel.  Can you try the D sound?” 

“Din Djarin,” said Marathel immediately. 

“Any more?” 

“Dahls. Door. Dreams. Dewback,” she said, remembering that Cobb had pointed out the toy lizard in the market.  “Dilimgau.”  Marathel felt tears in her eyes.  “Death.” 

“I think that’s enough,” said Cieroprac.   

“Yes, Marathel, enough D-words and enough treatment for the moment,” said Eliadu.  “You need some time to recuperate.  How do you feel?” 

Marathel blinked a few times, her eyes dry and itchy from the blinking light.  The chair slowly set her back upright, and the restraints loosened.  She immediately winced: her neck hurt terribly from fighting against the collar that held her from moving her head. “I feel … tired and sore.  Itchy.”  She rubbed her eyes.  

“Hungry?” asked Eliadu.  Marathel nodded.  Eliadu held out her hands to Marathel, helping her to stand.  Marathel felt wobbly, like a newly hatched Dahl kit.  She seemed to have forgotten how to walk, and she muttered apologies to the elegant, blue-skinned woman.  “It’s normal to have some loss of motor control, we have found,” said Eliadu.  At Marathel’s puzzled expression, she clarified, “Feet and hands not quite working.” 

Marathel held up one of her hands, saying, “My hands don’t work so well right now, anyway.” 

Eliadu helped Marathel into the next room and helped her to sit in a comfortable chair next to a table.  “Those splints are clever, by the way.  How did you come by them?” 

“The Modifier.  My hands were … my hands and fingers were smashed.” 

Eliadu sat across from her.  “Where did that happen?” 

Marathel swallowed.  “I don’t know.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“It was … it was a … a Red Room.  I don’t know where it was.” 

“No, Marathel.  There was no Red Room.”  Marathel remained silent.  “No one gets out of a Red Room, Marathel.”  Marathel looked at Eliadu, wary.  She wanted to hide her hands in her sleeves, but she had no sleeves, as she wore only the short sleeveless gown the doctors had provided her.  She remained silent while Cieroprac placed a cup in front of her. 

“Try to drink this, Marathel.  It doesn’t taste the best, but it has a lot of protein and is easy to digest.  You may not be able to handle much more,” said Cieroprac. 

Marathel carefully held the cup in both hands and sniffed the contents.  She smelled nothing, and the liquid inside was an unappealing milky-tan color.  Marathel took a careful sip and found the cool liquid completely unappetizing.  “Ugh.” 

Cieroprac smiled.  “Welcome to Imperial rations.” 

Marathel curled her lip as she drank some more.  “It’s hard for me to eat much with my broken teeth.” 

Eliadu tilted her head.  “Would you like to have your teeth repaired?”  Marathel nodded.  “We don’t do that, but we have a colleague who can.  But first we need to solve your blood clotting problem.  Does anyone else in your family have the same condition?”  Marathel shrugged and worked to swallow more of the protein drink. “Does that mean you don’t know, or that you don’t want to tell me?” 

Marathel drank the rest of the cup contents with a grimace.  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said, hugging her shoulders tightly. 

“No, you don’t … but anything you tell us may be helpful.”   Marathel began to rock, almost imperceptibly.  Eliadu recognized the attempt at self-soothing.  The drink, which had contained a mild sedative — as well as a tiny amount of an Imperial-grade truth serum — seemed to be working. 

Eliadu disliked the use of the serum and would rather draw out the truth by using calm reinforcement. Unfortunately, everyone lied about their illnesses and injuries.  It made the work so much harder, so Cieroprac suggested the truth serum.  She had been an Imperial geneticist and was usually impatient, as she had been required to get quick results.  They weren’t therapists; it wasn’t their job to heal the soul, just the body, she would insist.  Using the most minimal amount of the serum had been their compromise.  They had to compromise often on many things.  Eliadu was thankful that Cieroprac was willing to start treatment on Marathel with only Fennec’s promise to return.  She was most anxious to work on Marathel.  Her genome was bizarre, unlike anything she had personally seen before. The failure of her initial treatment had not disturbed her — in fact, Eliadu had been delighted, for it meant she got to work on Marathel directly, and the data she had received from the Modifier had been highly useful.  He had been a good student of hers, but he preferred to be flashier in his treatments.   

Marathel, meanwhile, felt a bit like she had when she drank the spotchka, or when she had eaten the dreamberry sauce.  She didn’t feel warm and fuzzy — in fact, she felt quite alert — but … she found she wanted to tell everything that had happened to her, every thought that popped into her head.  Her arms began that spiky-pebble-feeling again.  She wanted … she wanted Cobb here; he understood the spiky-pebble feeling and his strong hands had been quite soothing to hold.  His strong arms were pleasant to be held in. She liked his good looks and easy smile.  She liked him.  She liked the attention he gave her.  She liked his hands on her.  He could kiss me, he could be my lover, he doesn’t hide behind armor and a helmet, locking away all feelings and desires until he wants to finger me under the guise of teaching me how to touch myself.   

What in the name of Frith? 

Marathel blinked and rubbed her eyes, startled by her thoughts.  Cieroprac was sitting at the table now, tapping away at a holopad.  Eliadu kept gazing at Marathel with a pleasant look on her face.  “How are you feeling, Marathel?” 

Marathel lifted her hand, confused to see the splint removed, and her fingertips now ensconced in clips with wires leading from them, connecting to the holopad Cieroprac was holding.  Disoriented, Marathel asked, “Did I fall asleep?” 

Eliadu smiled indulgently.  “No, you’ve been awake the whole time.  You were telling us about where you came from.” 

“Was I?”  She could not remember speaking about anything.  She thought she had been thinking about … about …  

“Do you know who your mother is, Marathel?”  

“My mam?  Why is that important?” 

Eliadu pushed a cup in front of Marathel.  “Are you hungry?  This doesn’t taste very appetizing, but it will fill you up.” 

Marathel found she was hungry, so she picked up the cup, which was difficult, as her hands both had clips at the ends of her fingers, with leads going to the blonde woman’s holopad.  Who is that? wondered Marathel while she drank half of the liquid in the cup. As she put the cup down, her hand got tangled in the wires coming from soft pads attached to her temples, which she didn’t remember being adhered to her skin.  The sensors felt very warm, almost too hot, so she tried to pull them off. 

“Leave those alone, Marathel, continue talking about your father.” 

Marathel’s head snapped up.  She may be stupid, she may have scrambled brains, but there was no way in Frith she would be speaking of her da of her own free will.  Who are these women and what are they doing to me?  Where am I?  The blue-skinned woman was now looking at her with a strange look on her face, and then she exchanged glances with the blonde woman. 

The blue-skinned woman — she seems familiar, thought Marathel — leaned forward and gently took Marathel’s hand.  Marathel looked at her hand, now completely bare of clips and wires, the splint apparatus back on.  The blonde woman was gone.  The blue-skinned woman — Eliadu, that’s her name, thought Marathel — softly said to her, “I am so sorry that was done to you.”  

Marathel blinked, and she felt tears on her cheeks.  What just happened?  “I don’t … I don’t remember saying anything, Eliadu.  And where did Cieroprac go?” 

“She went back to the treatment room long ago, Marathel.  And you did say a lot; in fact, you were quite thorough in all your answers.” 

“I was?”  Marathel felt panicked; what secrets did she give away?  Fennec had told her why Din couldn’t come with them, that it would put both him and Grogu in danger.  She could not bear the idea of endangering their lives and had agreed to keep their identities a secret.   

Eliadu smiled.  “We are not interested in your interpersonal relationships, or your secrets regarding them … only of the people who are related to you by blood — your kin and the place you came from.  Although …” — Eliadu raised her eyebrow — “I do believe your bounty hunter and his son hold very strongly to a place deep in your heart, while this roguish marshal merely tickles your fancy.  But take that as you will from another woman who knows you not.” 

Marathel was stunned.  Eliadu had managed to get her questions answered without her remembering a word she spoke.  “Did you get … what you required?” 

Eliadu looked distressed.  “I did.  More than I realized I needed.”  She took a breath.  “Marathel … I’m going to repeat back to you what you told me.  Please, tell me whether I’m correct in my understanding.”  Marathel, pensive, agreed, and Eliadu began to speak.  It took a little while, and she then asked, “Did I repeat what you told me accurately?”  Marathel, saddened to hear her life spoken out in so few sentences, nodded.  “Did I leave anything out?”  Marathel frowned but shook her head.  Eliadu sighed.  “Well, then … it turns out I was correct, even though … I hoped, for your sake, that I was not.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Eliadu began to speak again for a long time.  Marathel listened.  When she had finished, Marathel, confused, quietly thought for a while, and asked many questions, which Eliadu answered.  And as Eliadu continued to speak, Marathel learned that everything, everything she had ever known, how she had lived her life from the moment she had first drawn breath, was wrong. 

Fennec arrived quicker than Din thought she would; she must have have the same idea as he did — that the casino strip was the best place to fence the coins.  Din and Grogu had finished eating and had another attempt at removing the glitter by the time she’d made it up the elevator.  Senel greeted her warmly, and Fennec responded in kind before she stalked over to Din and punched him hard right above his elbow.  “Ow!” 

“Do you know what you have put me through?” hissed Fennec. 

“Do I get to hit you after you tell me?” 

“That emotionally crippled woman is fragile enough without you making … grandiose declarations!  You say you love her, right before she has to suffer who knows what kind of medical treatment?  You — need — to — learn — a — sense — of — timing!” snapped Fennec, punctuating each word with another smack to Din’s arm. 

Senel nodded in agreement.  “For shame, Mandalorian, toying with a vulnerable woman’s heart.” 

Din scoffed, saying, “I needed her to know!  If some …” He went silent.  Both women were glowering at him. He looked down at a frowning Grogu, who was balanced on his hip.  “Don’t look at me in that tone of voice, kid.”  Din sighed.  “Can we go now?” 

Senel took a coat from her droid’s hands.  “Yes, we can go now.” 

They all entered the lift.  Fennec gave Din the once-over and asked, “What’s with all the glitter?” 

“Don’t ask.  It’s been a long day.” 

Fennec made a rude noise.  “Tell me about it.” 

“How many people have tried to kill you today?” sneered Din. 

“Children,” said Senel in the best Senatorial / Mother tone she could muster.  “Behave.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” grumbled Fennec and Din.  Both remained quiet and still for a few floors, until Fennec stuck her tongue out at Din.  Grogu shouted “FUH-er!” as he pointed at Fennec.  Din quickly hushed Grogu, saying apologies to Senel, who had turned around to glare at Din. 

Turning back around, Senel muttered, “I had forgotten about times like this with the children,” under her breath.   Din, embarrassed, was glad he didn’t have six Grogus to contend with by himself.  One was quite enough; six, he’d need someone to run zone defense with. 

The elevator car came to a stop, and the doors opened to a landing platform.  A livery droid met them and escorted them to a large custom luxury speeder.  Fennec and Senel — who was cuddling Grogu on her lap — made small talk while Din silently seethed about being driven by a damn droid.   

They must have been getting close; Senel handed Grogu back to Din, saying, “You must conceal him when we go inside.  Will he be quiet?”  Din gave him the remaining handful of sticky seaweed balls, and Grogu happily went back into the bag.  Senel nodded.  “Bribery.  It always worked for me, too.  When we go in, act like my hired bodyguards.  Give me the coins?”  Din handed the bag over.  “How many are there?” 

“165.” 

“164,” interjected Fennec.  “I had to leave one with Marathel.” 

Senel grinned.  “Good thing you’re asking for only a percentage in cash.  Otherwise, you’d bankrupt the Jeweler’s business.” 

“Who is the Jeweler anyway?” asked Fennec. 

“You’ll see,” replied Senel.  The cruiser came to a stop in front of a gleaming expanse of brass and glass, emblazoned with the shop name Kugerrand.  A doorman leapt forward to open the cruiser door, but Din did it himself, using his imposing appearance to make the doorman retreat to his station at the shop door.  Din handed out Senel, and Fennec let herself out on the other side, making a point of scanning the area as she came around the back of the cruiser.  Din and Fennec flanked Senel as she walked with proud grace through the lead-crystal archway into the shop. 

Someone cried, “Senel!” as they entered.  Several lovely young women scuttled about in tight dresses and high heels, moving in tiny halting steps.  Both Din and Fennec looked around surreptitiously; even though they were here under false pretenses, they did have valuable assets with them and the last thing they needed was for this to go sideways.  Senel moved effortlessly through the jewelry shop, approaching the speaker who had greeted her … a short, thin … Hutt. 

Din was so glad to have a helmet, and he stole a glance at Fennec, amazed at her ability to maintain so expressionless at this most bizarre sight.  It … is a Hutt, isn’t it?  The Hutt had the bulbous head, the slotted nose, the wide eyes … but beyond the folds of skin at its neck, that was where the similarity ended.  The Hutt was wearing a caftan that hung from its bony shoulders, ending above the — knees? — of the usually vestigial legs that it was using to pull itself forward.  “Senel, my darling, my absolute favorite, how have you been, my love?” 

Senel grasped the Hutt’s hands and bussed it on both cheeks.  “Wonderful, Kugerr, now that I’m here with you.” 

“Liar,” said the Hutt with a snort. “Come with me, sweetheart, wait until you see what is coming for next season …” Kugerr led them all into a private salon, the door shutting tight behind them.  Instantly, the Hutt’s demeanor changed.  “Slumming with Mandalorians, are we?” 

“He’s the one who brought us the coins, Kugerr,” snapped Senel, as she pulled out the bag of coins and laid it on the counter.  Din decided to hang closer to Senel; skinny or not, this was still a Hutt, after all.  Fennec remained closer to the door under the auspice of guarding it. 

Kugerr narrowed his eyes at Fennec.  “I believe I know you,” he sneered. 

Fennec raised an eyebrow.  “And I believe you’re mistaken.” She folded her hands, standing at the ready. 

Kugerr harumphed and spread the coins out on the felted countertop.  He looked at two or three coins, and his hands began to shake.  “It can’t be … it can’t be!”  The Hutt glared at Din.  “Where did you find this?” 

Din shrugged.  “Why?” 

“This is the Hoard of the Archbishop of Serenno, you metal fool!” spat Kugerr, nearly apoplectic.  “It disappeared 2000 years ago!  According to legend, it was stolen by the illegitimate sons of the Archbishop who wished to usurp their father’s place.  Is it all here?” 

Din shrugged again, but under his helmet, he was curious about this Archbishop.  “How much is there supposed to be?” 

Kugerr scoffed.  “No one really knows.  Ten coins, ten thousand.” 

Din said, “Before you is all that I have.”  That, at least, was the truth. 

“And what did our mutual friend Blewogg have to say?” 

“Blewogg, that charming woman, said a great many things, none of which I will repeat in front of Lady Senel.” 

Kugerr grinned.  “I suppose now we get to chat about what you want.” 

“So long as you understand that I need that certain amount in cash, now, I am amenable.”  The deal was made quickly and cleanly.  Din wanted away from the freakishly skinny Hutt, and he wanted Fennec to head back to his Marathel.  He wanted to get off Coruscant and make a quick trip to Nevarro to execute part of his new plan.   

Finally, back in the luxurious cruiser, Senel asked Din and Fennec if they’d like a nightcap before they left.  Fennec politely refused, saying that she needed to get back to Marathel, asking that they drop her at the nearest travel port.  Din asked, “So did you know that Hutt?” 

Fennec smirked.  “When he was fat, yes.  The story goes that he was poisoned, which turned into a nasty wasting disease.” 

Din tilted his helmet.  “And you wouldn’t know anything about that.” 

“Nothing whatsoever,” Fennec said.  “Any message you’d like me to pass on to your lady love?” 

Senel, who was cuddling a sleeping Grogu, smiled.  Din rolled his eyes.  “Just that … we miss her, and we hope to see her soon.” 

Fennec smirked.  “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.  I thought you didn’t appreciate being a liaison for my … grandiose declarations.” 

“Well, Mando, I will pass your message along.” 

Din reached over and squeezed Fennec’s hand.  “Thank you.  For everything,” he said quietly. 

“I’ll bring her back as quick as I can,” said Fennec.  “And thank you, Lady Senel.”  Fennec hopped out of the cruiser and disappeared into the night. 

The cruiser went back into the night traffic, and Din watched Senel stroke Grogu’s head as he softly snored.  “You ever wish he’d stay this size forever?” 

“He’s been that size for a long time, Lady Senel.  Like a Jedi you must have seen in the Senate during your service.” 

Senel’s eyes narrowed.  “I do not speak of that time, or of those people.  Ever.”  She closed her eyes for a few moments.  Then, she handed back Grogu, and tapped on the dividing window, looking away from Din.  “You got what you came for.  Now get out.”   

Confused, Din said, “Lady Senel, I …” 

The cruiser stopped.  “I said, get out.” 

“I’m only looking for the boy’s family, if he has any.” 

Senel looked at him, her eyes glistening.  “The Jedi caused me to lose my entire family.  The Empire only began because of them.  I have no love for any Jedi, good or bad.” 

“Your wife and children … all died in the Battle of Coruscant?”  Senel nodded. “I am sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you.”  Senel dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.  “We all might have survived if there had been no such … creatures like them, ensconced as they were, politically.  A religious cult like that has no place in politics.”  They sat in silence for a long time, traffic rushing by as Senel stared out the tinted window.  “If my memory serves me, Mandalorians and Jedi have a … tenuous past as well.” 

“They do,” said Din, looking down at the sleeping boy in his arms.  “I just want to find any kin he might have, for his sake.” 

“It seems like he’s with his kin already,” Senel said with a sad smile.  “I hope you are able to add Marathel to the family as well.”  Senel sighed.  She tapped the window, and the cruiser began moving again.  “Perhaps you could tell me about her while we return you to your ship.” 

Din settled back in the seat, shifting Grigu to a more comfortable position.  “Have you ever heard of a planet called Unmanarall?” 

They talked all the way back to the hangar where the Razor Crest was docked.  Din was surprised that he was so willing to chat to anyone about anything, really.  Having Grogu allowed him to not only have a sounding board to speak to, but he also had a topic of conversation that was practically universal — the parent-child relationship.  But Marathel was different.  His only other romantic relationship — if it could be labeled as a relationship — was with Xi’an, and there was hardly anything romantic about that extended time filled with danger, chaos, and rough, angry sex.  Disastrous would be a better descriptor.  Perhaps even catastrophic; Din felt lucky he got out of that one mostly intact, vasectomy by explosive notwithstanding.  He knew that with Marathel, he was completely out of his element, and would need guidance in maneuvering a relationship with her. 

They had reached his hangar, and Din carefully packed the sleeping Grogu back in the oilskin bag.  “Thank you, Lady Senel.  I wish you luck in your future.  Again, I am sorry for your loss.  You have my sympathies.” 

“Thank you, Mandalorian.  I wish you luck as well.  For your people as well as your lady friend.  Her life will be hard for some time.” 

Din swallowed.  “Any advice?” 

“Love her.  As best you can.  You may not always like her but do your best to love her.  Have patience. Endless, endless patience.  And this may be difficult, as you are a Mandalorian, but kiss her as often as possible.” 

Marathel was dreaming again.  This time, she was outside herself, for she could see her own back as she sat on the large flat boulder on Unmanarall.  Marathel knew that boulder well.  She had sat on it many times, staring in the one direction that led to the edge of the high cliff.  This time, she was wearing dark blue pants and tunic.  They looked relatively new but were badly torn and stained.  Her arms and legs were scratched and splattered with blood.  Next to her, on one side, was a wooden cup.  On her other side was a spear with a broken pole.  Her hair, which hung in a tangled mess, appeared to be much shorter on one side than the other.  Marathel watched herself slowly stand and begin to walk to the edge. Walk, Marathel, walk, don’t run to the edge, sleeping Marathel told her dream self.  I don’t know what you’ve suffered now, but you’re where I want to be. You’re almost finished. I’ll see you soon. 

Marathel’s dream suddenly stopped.  Someone was shaking her shoulder.  Marathel awoke, completely alert with no lasting sleepiness.  She was curled up in a tight ball on the cot she was given to sleep on, forehead and knees against the wall, in the most protective position she could make.  Her arms were wrapped tightly over her chest.  Her stomach and ribs ached.  Her heart hurt.  Her mind hurt. 

“Marathel?  Please get up.”  Eliadu’s voice was calm, entreating, meant to soothe. 

“Why?” 

Eliadu took a moment to answer.  “So we can talk.” 

Marathel was tempted to ask why again, but she knew that would sound childish.  They had told her what her age range was yesterday, which confirmed she hadn’t been a child for quite a long time.  It had taken some time to give Marathel a frame of reference for what those numbers meant.  Marathel decided that she preferred not knowing, but now it was too late.  Now she was spending time trying to figure out how her age related to those people she knew.  Was she older or younger than Fennec?  Cobb?  Din?  Marathel worried that she was an ancient crone in comparison.  A dried-up, worn-out crone. 

Of course, her age was the least of her worries.  She had far more horrific knowledge about herself now.   Marathel supposed she should be sad, or angry, but all she felt was empty.  She had nothing.  

Marathel unfolded herself and got up from the cot, following Eliadu back into the room with the table and chairs.  Cieroprac was already sitting at the table, tapping on her holopad.  Eliadu invited Marathel to sit and provided her with a protein bar and a cup of tea.  Marathel sniffed the cup and could smell only tea.  She took a bite out of the protein bar, wondering why these Imps didn’t seem to eat real food. 

“Marathel …” began Eliadu.  “We’ve heard from Fennec, and she’s on her way back.” 

“Good.” 

“We need to discuss what you want to do.” 

Marathel shrugged.  “It hardly seems to matter now.” 

Eliadu scowled, saying, “It certainly does matter.  You have a long life ahead of you.”  Marathel wondered if that were so.  “Obviously, we want to to solve your blood-clotting problem.  We think we’re very close to that.  You also expressed interest in getting your teeth fixed …” 

Marathel shook her head. “Not anymore.” 

“No?” 

“No. I don’t think it’s necessary.  Yes, solve the blood clotting.  Once that’s done, then the rest can heal properly.” 

Eliadu and Cieroprac exchanged glances.  Cieroprac interjected, “For your exterior wounds, such as the ones on your back, yes.  But we haven’t even touched on the damage done to your vaginal canal.” 

Marathel colored. “I still think …” 

“Those wounds will not heal without some intervention.  The scar tissue alone will make intercourse …” 

“I don’t care about that,” snapped Marathel. 

“Really?” asked Eliadu.  “We were led to believe that you had a romantic relationship.” 

Marathel’s eyes filled with tears.  “Not anymore.” 

“Oh, Marathel,” said Eliadu, her voice full of pity. “You can’t make that kind of decision based on what we told you yesterday.  Your history has no bearing on …” 

“My history has everything to do with my decision.  Make me not bleed under my skin.  Close my wounds.  That’s all I will require for the rest of my life.” 

“Marathel …” Eliadu reached across the table, palm up, silently requesting to hold Marathel’s hand.  Marathel looked at Eliadu’s hand, and pointedly ignored it.  “Marathel, at least, please discuss such a thing with your partner …” 

“I have no partner; he was never my partner.  I’m not his equal.  I am no one in comparison.  I don’t wish to discuss this any further.”  Refusing to answer any more questions, Marathel finally ended up telling herself to be still, and remained in that fugue state until Eliadu asked her if she were ready to get back into the chair.  Wordlessly, Marathel followed Eliadu back into the treatment room and climbed back into the large chair, allowing herself to be covered with sensors and monitors again.  With the collar back in place, Marathel was once again immobilized.  The chair rotated until Marathel was facing downward again.  The light began flashing, the clicking sound began again.  Marathel watched her braids swing back and forth, and tears fell from her eyes to the floor. 

Din was back on Unmanarall.  Or perhaps he was here for the first time.  He was alone, and he was walking down the switchbacks, listening to the crunch of the gravel beneath his boots.  When he got to the sandy path along the grassy meadow, he could see the delicate marks of bare feet in the path.  Din knew he should follow them, that they would take him to where he needed to go, to the person he needed to find.   

He passed the rock outcrop, and a flat-roofed hut came into view.  He remembered it well, yet he had never seen it before.  A woman wearing a yellow dress stood ankle-deep in a gentle stream, back-to, her silver hair pulled into two braids that fell from behind her ears down to her waist.   Knowing she was the one he was looking for, he began to walk towards her, his heavy footfalls announcing his presence.   

The woman turned quickly, her face full of fear, her hair and her dress swaying with her movement.  “Who are you?” she asked, as she quickly dropped her gaze from his helmet visor to his boots.  

Din eyes roamed over the woman in the yellow dress, which was finely woven and nearly sheer; he could see her nipples clearly against the soft-looking fabric, her navel a hollow in her rounded belly, and the shadow of the apex of her legs only barely concealed.  “A bounty hunter,” replied Din. 

“What is that?” 

The breeze shifted to blow directly at her front, and the fabric of her dress hugged her full breasts and heavy thighs, outlining the soft thatch of hair at her crotch.  Din, becoming aroused, said, “I find people.” 

Her eyebrows knitted together.  “Are you looking for me?” 

Din stepped into the stream to stand directly before her.  “Yes, I am, Marathel.” 

Marathel raised her sad eyes to his throat, but no further.  Saying “Fi ng’riad, d’lwch fi, chi yd’w fi,” she dropped to her knees in the stream.  Her hands went under the bottom edge of his cuirass and stomacher to release the belt at his waist.  She sighed, and undid his breeches, lowered his underthermals, and released his erection, hot and hard, already weeping with pre-cum. She began to turn her head away, but Din grabbed her braid and roughly pulled; she nearly lost her balance, but she recovered, opening her mouth and taking his erection within, dutifully, still refusing to look up at him.  When Din had enough of her mouth, he released her braid, flinging it from his hand and hitting her in the face with it. Marathel lay on her back in the stream, the water flowing over her, rendering her dress transparent and adhering it to her skin.  She pulled up her dress to her waist, raised her knees and spread them wide, exposing herself to Din, waiting. 

Din immediately went to his knees between her legs, thrusting into her without preamble.  Over and over, he pounded her, grunting, and she lay there, her only movement caused by him, the water of the stream flowing over her shoulders and breasts with each of his thrusts.  Frustrated by her lack of participation, he gripped her collarbone and said, “Look at me.”  She did not respond, nor did she turn her head.  His hand slid to the base of her throat.  “Look at me!” he growled. 

“There’s no point,” she muttered. 

“Look at me.” 

“There’s no point!” 

Din filled with rage.  His large hand went around her throat, fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her to face him.  She closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head no as he squeezed her throat.  The purple-black color of fresh bruises extended out from under his fingers, deep within her delicate skin, feathering out like blood in water, and his arousal for her grew just as his anger at her did.  “LOOK AT ME!” he shouted in fury as he slammed himself into her, harder and harder, the slapping of flesh against flesh louder than the gentle babble of the stream. 

Marathel’s hand shot up and under the side edge of his cuirass, against his chest.  She cried out, “LET ME GO!” as her fingers dug into the bite mark she had left in his flesh.  

Din gasped in pain, and his eyes opened to darkness, a stabbing pain in the bite on his chest.  He was face-down, with a raging hard-on, only a bedroll below him, his hand clutching not Marathel’s throat, but a stuffed frog toy. 

What the …? 

“Patu?” a timid voice softly called out. 

“Uhnnn … what?” Din shook his head.  “Grogu?  Buddy?  What is it?” 

There was silence for a few moments, and then the little voice asked, “Fawg?” 

Din blinked, and then slowly and uncomfortably got to his feet, his erection throbbing almost as painfully as his bite-mark.  He was glad the damn room was dark. Wait. Can the kid see in the dark?   “Got him right here, pal, he must have fallen.”  Din gently placed the frog stuffie back into Grogu’s hands, then rhythmically stroked Grogu’s earlobe with his thumb.   “You okay?” Grogu didn’t answer.  “Did I wake you?”  He felt Grogu nod.  “I’m sorry, pal, I was dreaming.” 

“Mama?” 

Ashamed of what he had dreamt about Mama, Din said, “Something chasing me.  I don’t remember.  Go back to sleep, ad’ika, Mama loves you.”  Leaning closer, Din whispered, “I do too.”  Din gave the boy a last loving pat, then slipped out of quarters, closing the door behind him.  He made a beeline straight to the ‘fresher, locking himself inside.   

Now alone, he took off his helmet, and leaned against the door.  I raped Marathel in my dream.  I put my hand on her and choked her.  Why am I dreaming about hurting the woman I love? And here he was, standing here, still swollen as a Nevarro cactus after a spring rain, practically cumming in his pants after such a horrible dream.  Din thought about punching himself in his traitor crotch. What a reprehensible thing to dream about, hurting Marathel like that — anyone, really. He really hoped he wasn’t making — sounds as he was humping his damn bedroll.  That was something Grogu did not need to hear. 

The bite-wound continued to throb.  Din opened his flight jacket — he had removed his armor to clean the glitter off it — and pulled down the neckline of his thermal shirt.  The wound was red, angry, and seeping.  Red lines extended outward from the wound, showing an infection as well as some flakes of glitter.  Kriffing hell, that shit gets everywhere.  He sighed and cleaned the wound properly, disinfecting it and covering it with a bandage.  Bacta would heal the wound too well … he wanted it to scar, but he didn’t need infection. 

Those words Marathel said … I’ve heard her say those before.  That wasn’t dream nonsense, that was her old language. 

He wracked his brain for a moment.  It wasn’t what she yelled at him the day Grogu put her in a tree.  That had something to do herbs and virtue, and the other thing she told him to do was to piss up a rope.   

Rhaff Codieh.  I’m not forgetting that one. 

Then he remembered.  His finger was inside her, and he’d said … he’d said … Cyar’e, ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, mesh’la.  She responded in her own language, and she’d said Fi ng’riad, d’lwch fi, chi yd’w fi.  

He didn’t know what she’d said, but he knew now it wasn’t I love you as well.  She’d told  Grogu she loved him when she’d put him to bed that night … but she didn’t say those same words to me.  Din rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.  He needed to get his shit together.  This trip back to Nevarro would get that ball rolling, but … seriously, I’m one kriffing hot mess.   He finally met his own eyes in the mirror, not liking what he was seeing, so he punched himself in the crotch anyway. 

As he was hunched over in pain, holding his knees and regretting that decision, he thought about how he could apologize to Marathel about something he hadn’t done.  What he neglected to consider was why Marathel refused to look at him in his dream. 

 Marathel had not spoken a word for hours.  Fennec had returned while Marathel was resting from another round in the chair, including a session of cauterizing some wounds caused by the Dilimgau.  Both Eliadu and Cieroprac were trying to explain how Marathel was doing. 

“So, she’s refusing most of the reconstructive treatment?” asked Fennec. 

Eliadu nodded.  “She only wants the barest minimum.  But she is very distressed, and it’s obvious her decision-making skills are poor.” 

Fennec sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “Tell me about it.” 

“Perhaps if you can convince her …” 

“Perhaps if you can tell me what happened to change her mind!” snapped Fennec. “If you could tell me whatever this damned great secret is, I could maybe make a difference!” 

Eliadu sadly shook her head.  “I can’t, we can’t tell you.  It’s not for us to say.  Marathel is an adult …” 

“A socially, emotionally constipated adult!  From a cult who stunted her entire growth!” 

Cieroprac, who was standing behind Eliadu, crossed her arms and said quietly, “Then it might be best to only do the barest minimum of treatment for her.  She needs time and therapy, LOTS of therapy, to make better decisions for herself.” 

Eliadu said, “We are not therapists. We cannot heal the soul; we only … work on the body.”   

Fennec watched Cieroprac gently run her fingers through Eliadu’s snow-white feathers.  She knew she was watching a moment of contention between the two women and decided to calm herself. High emotions were not useful at the moment. Fennec took a breath and asked, “May I see her now?  Try to talk to her?” 

“Of course,” said Cieroprac.  Fennec followed her into a little dark side-room.  The blonde woman turned on a light; dim, but enough to see by.  Marathel was again curled up tight, making herself as small as possible.  Her bare feet were folded on top of each other, her toes curled tightly.  Fennec could see Marathel’s fingers tightly clutching her shoulders.  Cieroprac left, closing the door behind her. 

“Marathel?  Are you awake?” 

“I’m glad you’re back.  That means we can leave soon.”  Marathel’s voice was flat, expressionless. 

“I ran into Din when I went to sell the coins.  He asked about you.  He says they miss you.”  Marathel did not respond.  “He also told me why he still had the coins.  His covert wouldn’t take them.  But he managed to find a buyer and got the biggest deal I’m sure he’ll ever get in his life.” 

“That’s good for him.”   

“There’s plenty to fix you up properly with a lot left over.”  Marathel remained silent, and Fennec felt annoyed.  She grabbed the chair next to the cot and sat.  “What is with you, Marathel?  I thought you were on board with these Reconstructionists.  Why are you changing your mind now?”  Fennec rubbed her forehead with her hand.  “Marathel, look …” 

“I’m sorry, Fennec.  I just … can’t.” 

“What changed?” 

“I’m … I can’t say.  Not now. I’m … what did you say?  Emotionally constipated.” 

“I’m sorry I said that …Marathel, please …” Fennec reached out and touched Marathel’s shoulder.   

Marathel leapt up with a shriek, cowering on the far end of the bed.  “Don’t touch me!  DON’T TOUCH ME!” She held out her hands, trying to hold Fennec away from her.  “Just … don’t.” 

“Marathel … honey … what is wrong?” 

“I want to go home.” 

Fennec sighed.  “We will go home, honey, as soon as you’re done here, we’ll head back to Tatooine.” 

“Tatooine?”  Marathel laughed harshly.  “Shithole planet.  That’s not home.  I want to go back to Unmanarall.” 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter->

[kaira-diaries]

Chapter One: A Senators Retreat

Part One of: The Heiress's Dilemma

Note: this story is over on Wattpad under kairadiaries

Warnings: threats of death/attempted SA

story summary: Elara Voss, a former galactic senator, finds herself at the heart of a crisis that threatens her family's legacy and the very essence of their honor. As she grapples with the fallout of her decline in the political world, she's forced into hiding with a mysterious bounty hunter. Together, they embark on a perilous journey to retrieve a relic that holds the key to Voss's redemption while avoiding enemies at every turn. Little did she know, this journey would unlock the emergence of a love she never saw coming and leave her stronger than she ever was before.

****

The scorching twin suns of Tatooine shone relentlessly over the desert terrain, where the ever-shifting sands concealed the echoes of ancient legends and the remnants of forgotten civilizations. It was uncharted, unexplored and your court hadn’t ever found much use in it.

You cursed yourself now, as you rode with purpose on the back of a speeder bike, guided by a cryptic message that led you to the outskirts of a small settlement. Your destination, marked by the silhouette of weathered buildings, appeared like a mirage on the horizon. You flexed your gloved fingers, tightening them on the handles of the bike, weary in fear of the unknown monsters that lurk in the dried elements of the sand dunes.

The heat was oppressive, even at high speeds, offering a consistent gust of wind. You lick your lips, in hope of relieving them of the painful exhaustion of the breeze, only to find them painfully chapped.

You wipe your soaked brow, frustrated.

As the young senator of a newly constructed Mandalore, you were acutely conscious of the risks inherent in your position, accepting the inevitability that one day those risks might escalate to a critical juncture. And maker, did they.

Reflecting on the incident, you recalled the sequence of events that pushed you to the brink..

The elegant corridors of the Galactic Senate echoed with the usual hum of political discourse, but an undercurrent of tension continued as you navigated the complex dance of diplomacy. Your recent outspoken stance on independent capabilities had earned both allies and adversaries, and the shadows of political intrigue had begun to cast a threat over the once-groundbreaking career that continued your family lineage with pride and success.

You championed the strengthening of the independence of the new Mandalore, advocating for a course that emphasized self-reliance and sovereignty.

As the weight of political responsibility rested on your shoulders, the stakes were high. The decisions you made and the path you charted in the turbulent waters of politics weren't just about the fate of Mandalore; they were intertwined with the survival and prosperity of your family name. The honor and legacy of generations rested on your ability to navigate the complexities of the political arena, making every move with the awareness that the consequences reached far beyond the confines of the Senate chamber.

History revealed the tragic chapter as The Empire, hungry for power and resources, swiftly destroyed Mandalore. You aimed to showcase that those oppressed by the Empire could rise up, demonstrating resilience and returning stronger than ever.

The galaxy needed it. Even with the Empire gone, leaving vast worlds in a painful quest of putting themselves back together, witnessing a disintegrated race like Mandalore resurrected would serve as an inspiration for countless others. The resurgence of Mandalorians wouldn't merely be a regional triumph; it would be a symbol of hope, showcasing the spirit of a people determined to rebuild against all odds

Opposing factions within the Senate grew uneasy. Splitting the room in half. The delicate balance and inclusion you sought to maintain became a source of contention. Whispers of dissent circulated, painting a target on your back.

Your heart hadn't understood why, until it did. Hidden agendas. In the intricate web of galactic politics, there were always clandestine forces with their own agendas. However, now, those forces ran counter to Mandalore's independence. These unseen actors viewed you as a threat to their interests. You were wise enough to understand why. Many had sought to control such a powerful culture. They sought to build armies, utilizing such skills to get what they wanted. Yet, in your heart, after years of growing up on Mandalore and witnessing its downfall, you knew Mandalorians were more than mercenaries or hired killers. The essence of Mandalorian culture ran deep, rooted in honor, resilience, and a sense of identity that transcended the manipulations of those who sought to exploit it.

An anonymous transmission reached your quarters the very next day after your proposal. A distorted voice, shrouded in secrecy, warned you of the consequences of pushing for disarmament. The chilling words hinted at a well-orchestrated assassination attempt, sending a shiver down your spine.

In the following days, the threat manifested in subtle but unnerving ways. Unmarked speeders trailed you on your way to the Senate, and ominous messages were left in your private quarters. Mercenaries, clad in armor appeared on the periphery, their intentions veiled in mystery. It became clear that your dedication had disrupted the delicate equilibrium of power, provoking a reaction from those who preferred the status quo of criminal activities.

The heat of the two suns beating down on your head brought you back, no doubt burning your scalp.

Your heart sensed the presence of evil in these sands, a chilling warning that whispered of the nefarious forces entwined with this desolate planet.

Despite your current complaints, you still found yourself on the run, guided solely by coordinates that promised to lead you to the only bounty hunter willing to protect you — for a considerable price.

Approaching the settlement, you couldn't help but observe the paradoxical signs of life emerging from the decay that surrounded it. Amidst the dilapidated structures, a more vibrant building stood out, teeming with signs of life. Hopping off the speeder, you approached cautiously, a silent mantra urging you to maintain your composure.

As you stepped inside, your gaze lowered, and you observed the beeping of your navigation system. It confirmed that the coordinates precisely aligned with the building—a bustling bar.

The pulsating rhythm of the music reverberated through your entire being as you entered. Dancers skillfully adorned tabletops, their energetic performances earning them credits from the inebriated patrons who surrounded them. The ceilings, surprisingly high, were adorned with breathtaking chandeliers that cast a warm glow across the lively scene. A silent prayer passed through your mind, hoping those chandeliers weren't made of glass, as the energetic beats threatened to dislodge them from the ceiling.

Two bar tops came into your line of sight, each stool occupied by customers reveling in the vibrant atmosphere. The incongruity of such a lively scene in the heart of what seemed to be a deserted area lingered in your thoughts, adding an air of mystery to the situation.

The lively ambiance surrounding you seemed to heighten your sense of exposure and vulnerability, leaving you with an unsettling feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The crowd and the thriving atmosphere made you suspicious that a bar like this could be a hotspot for dealings and underground businesses. And the nagging question echoed in your mind: Why did the coordinates lead you to this particular place?

The realization struck you then—self-defense hadn’t been in your skill sets for years, you’d hardly remembered a thing.

A heavy weight settled on your chest, you were on your own right now, making every breath feel like a struggle and fear gnawed at you, the thought of being an easy target for criminals skyrocketed the sense of terror.

You compelled your legs to retreat toward the entrance, and as you moved backward, you collided with a rock-hard chest. A pair of large hands firmly gripped your shoulders, halting your retreat.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" Your body was swiftly spun around, and you found yourself face to face with a man whose eyes gleamed a vivid purple. "You are just darling." His pointer finger traced a line across your cheek. "What's your price, sweetheart?" A gasp escaped you in sheer terror. "Oh, I'm not a—"

He silenced you with a shush, a finger coming to rest on your lips. You recoiled from the overwhelming scent of alcohol that clung to him. "Oh, but we all are, sweet thing. We just sell different parts of ourselves."

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach as he attempted to drag you toward the back room. Summoning every ounce of strength, you will yourself to fight back, pushing him away with all your might. In the struggle, you remained oblivious to the fact that your once-tight long-sleeved tunic was being torn apart by his prying hands.

"There you are," a voice called out. It had a filtered, almost droid-like quality, devoid of any discernible human emotion.

You and the inebriated man turned, your eyes landing on a tall Mandalorian in silver armor that gleamed like a freshly minted coin under the bright lights of the bar.

He approached with large, purposeful steps, reaching out to pull you away by the arm. "I've been looking for you," he said, looking up at the man, "thank you for finding her for me." Your attention snapped toward the man, who seemed to have sobered up instantly at the sight of the formidable bounty hunter. You recognized the unmistakable look of terror in his eyes as he hastily scattered off into the crowd.

Slowing your breathing, you became aware of the rip in the collar of your shirt. Before you could utter a word, the bounty hunter skillfully guided the two of you out of the bar and into an empty alley.

He gripped your shoulders, leaning down. "Are you okay?" You nodded.

He stood back up straight, with a sigh, he said " We need to get out of here.." His eyes scanned the surroundings, vigilant for any potential threats, and you took the opportunity to thoroughly inspect him. His helmet gleamed under the twin suns, reflecting their radiant beams. Clad in the all too familiar beskar armor that shined like it was freshly forged, he looked well-equipped, armed to the teeth with an arsenal of weapons.

After giving careful consideration to staying out of sight, given the bar situation, the two of you navigated the desolate town with caution, making your way towards his ship stationed on the other side. He handed you his soft brown cowl, and you wrapped it around yourself, concealing your face and the large tear in your shirt that exposed too much of your chest.

After what felt like an abundance of twists and turns, you finally arrived at his ship, and it appeared grand—much larger than any ships you'd ever seen back on your planet. The awe on your face was undeniable, and you stumbled up the ramp into the hull. Inside, you observed a spacious armory stocked with just about every gun known to man. Small living quarters, a bathroom, and storage containers filled with maker knows what.

You barely noticed the Mandalorian brush past you. He was swift, shutting the ramp, and climbing up the ladder into what you assumed was the cockpit. A moment of indecision hung in the air—do you follow or stay down in the hull? You didn't want to be in his way, but your curiosity outweighed your judgment, and you found yourself climbing the ladder after him.

The cockpit was compact as you came upon it, adorned with expansive windows that offered the bounty hunter an extensive field of perception. Taking a seat in the co-pilot position, you broke the everlasting silence, "Your beskar looks newly forged." The remark, perhaps could be taken as admiration or scrutiny, acknowledged his pristine condition.

Punching in coordinates and lifting off, the bounty hunter deftly switched to autopilot. Swiveling his chair, he looked at you. "Yes," he affirmed. You hummed, an uplifting smile tugging at your lips, crossing your legs with your hands in your lap- a habit. "I've never seen such a signet. A mudhorn, isn’t it?" You paused, your gaze fixating on the symbol adorning his shoulder. A potent representation of identity, "I'm glad to know after all this time signets still remain," you remarked, expressing a sense of gratefulness. He sat still, his head turned towards you. If he sought to uncover more about your knowledge you hadn't known, he gave no indication. After a brief moment, he swiveled back around, the enigmatic figure maintaining a stoic demeanor.

With his gloved hands hovering over the controls, he remarked, "You're a senator."

It wasn't a question, but a statement that hung in the air.

You hummed. "I was.” The simplicity of your response carried a weight. You dug your chin comfortably into your shoulder, finding solace in the connection between you and the expanse of space around you. The wondrous streaks of starlight zipped by every second, a mesmerizing display.

Continuing, you said,"Until the beliefs I had for the greater good of my planet made me look like a fool..made my family name look weak," you lamented, revealing the profound impact of your convictions on the legacy that preceded you.

"Last I checked, honoring your beliefs is anything but weak," the Mandalorian stated, his voice resonating with a firm belief that underlined the strength found in unwavering principles. His claim reflected his culture, your culture, one that esteemed honor above all else.

"Try telling that to the rest of the Senate. Most of them have their hands so dirty that any threat of exposure to their underground workings will send you six feet under," you remarked, your tone tinged with a cynical acknowledgment of harsh realities. "The greater good of the galaxy means shit to these people." The weight of your words lingered, encapsulating the system where self-interest often overshadowed noble ideals.

Silence rang in the air after that. The Mandalorian sat still as a statue, and you only stared out the windows at the shooting stars, counting as many as you could. What occupied your thoughts, though, was what the future held for you. Your mind bounced a mile a minute from question to question—would you be on the run forever? Would you eventually fall prey to those who sought bloodshed? Would this Mandalorian stay true to the deal? Senator or not, things are different now; alliances change. For the first time in a long time, you felt that sense of hopelessness you hadn't experienced since that night of destruction. The uncertainty of the path ahead weighed heavily on your shoulders, providing a palpable tension in the silent journey through the cosmos.

****

[loveoaths]

i am very weak for a specific kind of din-centric romance that i’ve yet to see anywhere (probably because it would be tedious to write). i want din to have an Arthurian romance where his Creed and his besk’ad are not obstacles for his partner to vault over into his arms, but part of him, more of him to love. i want din to have a romance where they will love him whether or not they ever get to see his face, or touch his skin, because when din said the helmet is my true face he meant it, and when his paramour said they loved all of him, they meant that, too. the Creed is his blood and the besk’ad his skin and his heart the steady tattoo blasterfire and his soul is the manda and to love a true mandalorian is to love them because of the old ways, not in spite of them. din may walk the galaxy’s gray meridian but his faith in the Creed is absolute. to love him you have to love him for that faith, too.

[nerdieforpedro]

Something I’ve learned over months (took way too long to figure out) you don’t always need sex to feel a sense of intimacy and sexual tension. This is a perfect example of that. 🥰 Loved it.

Touch Me Please

Summary: Aftereffects can be painful to work through by yourself, and a little help from your partner can be a godsend.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Unwanted touch from a gross man, initial lack of communication, suggestions of a panic attack. Extended sequence of getting handsy in the shower. Possessive! Din.

I will never tire of writing shower scenes ❤️‍🔥. I love the thought of Mando's partner sometimes going undercover to flush out particularly oily bounties. And I really don't know what came over me for this one's ending...I have to blame my senselessness on the utter chokehold this man has on me hehe.

*Translations of less common words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

"I had it handled."

Din gives no response to your annoyed statement, simply lowers himself on one knee to yank his vibroblade from deep in the throat of the male Twi'lek on the floor, whose body has just barely ceased twitching.

You angrily stalk towards him, wrenching your chain along in one hand, your own knife still humming loudly in the other. "Don't you tune me out, Mando," you warn, using his professional alias as much out of displeasure as necessity. "I. Had it. Handled. But no, you just HAD to have things done your way. And now he's dead and we have to make a run for it."

"Warm or cold, makes no difference," he says gruffly, still not looking at you. He's a little too focused on the prone body of the asset, and you briefly wonder what's bothering him.

He doesn't usually act so impulsively when you're undercover.

With an exasperated snort, you shake your head and turn your attention to your modified slave collar, pressing the hidden release so it falls away, leaving you unchained once more. "This was a waste."

"We got what we came for." He rises and hefts the dead man across his wide shoulders with breathtaking ease, indicating the doorway with a sharp jerk of his head. "Let's get out of here before too many of his lackeys come looking for him."

You sheathe your knife and pull his pulse rifle from its holster on his back. He doesn't object.

He can tell you might need to disintegrate a few lowlifes before it's safe to hold a conversation with you again.

Your escape goes smoothly, more so than the actual mission, ironically, and soon the two of you are standing in the ship's hold, watching the carbonite seal over your latest asset. Din is acutely aware of how close you are to him, all his senses on high alert as his religiously conditioned mind struggles to process how you can just STAND THERE so exposed. Your slave dancer disguise is perfect, as far as it can be called a disguise.

As much as the pair of you shares under cover of darkness, he's never really seen so much of your skin before, bared between little more than straps of leather and the drape of filmy netting. He has to remind himself repeatedly that you consider yourself dar'manda.

He wonders too, if you'd done jobs like this before your partnership. Not once did he see anything in your stride that betrayed your discomfort. Images flash through his head unbidden, of the way you moved before your new "master", of how you remained still and silent even as that crime lord TOUCHED you....

Din Djarin is a controlled man. So his admittedly violent and perhaps unnecessary reaction to seeing that filth's hands straying -- too close to areas of you that belong only to him -- has him slightly shaken, though he'd never say so.

Does he regret having buried his blade in that scum's neck for his sins, for trying to take what's his?

No.

He doesn't.

He finally emerges from his brooding at the sound of your voice beside him. "I'm not angry at you, Din." Everything from this mission has finally caught up with you, drowning the adrenaline in exhaustion. "I just wish you trusted me more. I know I don't look dangerous like this --" you gesture down your mostly unclad form, not seeing the Mandalorian's gaze subtly follow, "-- but I can take care of myself. I had to, for a long time. I was in control, not him."

"I know." His voice comes out cold; he's struggling to keep himself from unloading all his confusion and dismay on you at once. "I do trust you, Cyar'ika. I just...."

You wait, but it's like waiting for a stone wall to open up for you.

Nothing gives.

Normally you would gently cajole that stone wall into eventually breaking down, but you just don't have the capacity to do so at the moment.

"I'll be in the 'fresher if you need me," you sigh, turning away. "I need a shower and a change of clothes."

He says nothing, and you don't invite him along.

For the first time in a while, the silence that falls between you two is taut, barely stretched over spiking emotions that are too rampant to reach the air.

The feeling of hot water pounding into your skin clears your head as it always does, letting your patience recharge and your frustrations bleed away down the drain. Sense slowly begins to reclaim your thoughts, and you let your mind drift as you wash away the scent of smoke and spice, your fingertips trailing absently across your body as new questions rise of their own accord.

You can't understand why you feel disappointed.

The job went well. It doesn't matter in the wider scheme of things whether you were the one to acquire the asset or Din, not really. You both get paid the same.

Were you simply hoping for more of a reaction to your dancer outfit from your laconic partner?

Your hand slips in the water, brushes over your ribcage. It's one of your favorite places to find Din's hands lingering when the two of you are half-awake in bed, your skin sensitive enough there that the calluses on his fingertips still raise shivers from you every time.

But to your disgust, this time it isn't his hand you feel on your body, but the memory of a much different hand, one with overlong nails searching for something that isn't meant for it. A hand that's been dead for over an hour now, but the sensation is still there, and not only there, but trailing down your neck, slithering around your waist, loitering a moment too long atop your thigh, and you can't keep back the sound of horror that forces its way up your throat.

You feel disgusting and helpless with the mere idea of those hands crawling your body.

And all you know is you need it gone now.

Desperately.

So as the sensations continue to heighten unpleasantly, you do the only thing you can think of.

"...Din?"

His footsteps are swift, and he's in the 'fresher before you even need to call for him a second time. You can see his hulking dark form outlined through the frosted door panel.

"What's wrong?" He sounds concerned.

"I...." You pause and take a deep breath. "I need you, Din. Please."

He doesn't protest, doesn't question you. The lights go out and you hear the clack of the beskar as he strips and sets it aside. Scant moments later, he's under the water with you, solid and familiar and radiating heat, and you're suddenly so needy for his touch it's all you can do to keep from throwing yourself at him.

"What do you want from me?" he breathes, water dripping from his hair down to your face.

"You." Most times you're a playful flirt, but this time you have no room left for games. You just want him to remind you who you really belong to. There will be time for other things later. "I want to feel your hands on me, Din. I need to get the feeling of that miserable scum off of me. Touch me, please."

He pulls you into him, a tad more roughly than usual. "Where, Cyar'ika?"

You melt into the welcome haven of his chest, your hands immediately finding their way to some of the more distinctive scars that ridge his skin. "Anywhere you want, my Love."

He's ravenous in his compliance, all but devouring you with his touch, lips joining his hands as he focuses first on your throat and shoulders.

It's as if he's as desperate for the contact as you are, and suddenly his strange actions become clear to you, as his hands flawlessly overrun all of the places where the other man had been.

He took note of every single unwelcome caress, each one still burning in his mind's eye, each movement of foreign hands a wrong against you and him that cries out to be righted.

And so he follows that path diligently, his heated touch obliterating any claim that vermin tried to make on his sacred space, reconquering everything you offer him like the Mandalorians of old.

You're surrounded by him, blind in the dark and the steadily falling water, held flush against his body, your senses reduced to purely touch and hearing as he growls broken phrases in Mando'a into your skin.

"I've never seen you so territorial," you huff out in a laugh.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs against your lips, as his pause in their journey across the landscape of you.

"Why?" you ask the well-loved chamber of his mouth.

"For my actions. I let my jealousy rule me in the moment and I offended you." He lifts you in his arms, your back resting against the 'fresher wall and your arms wrapping around his neck. You settle into the new position with a happy hum, letting your hips kiss his and feeling his hands slide down the backs of your thighs in reply.

"But seeing that son of a Hutt with his hands all over you like that --" his forehead comes to rest against yours. "That did something to me I can't explain."

One of your hands finds its way into his hair as the other gently scratches across his muscular back, making him sigh.

"Thank you, Din."

You can FEEL the curious eyebrow raise.

"For caring so much. For coming to my rescue when I need you -- every time. Next time," you add, mischief creeping back into your tone, "we can reverse the roles, if you'd rather. I can think of a lot of people who'd pay an exorbitant amount for a dancing Mandalorian. Think of that -- you, dressed in that get-up, but with the helmet still on, of course -- that would intrigue any crime lord, all right."

"You sound like you've imagined that more times than you should have," he chides teasingly.

Your only response is a soft laugh, though you do press yourself more insistently against him and give his hair a suggestive tug.

"Hmm. Someone's still not satisfied." He lets you slide from his embrace back to the floor, and you whine with disappointment, though to your relief all echoes of unwanted hands have dissipated.

Now you're just left hungry for more of HIM.

"Hush, Mesh'la, I'm not refusing you." The extra grit in his lowered voice suggests he wants more as well. His thumb brushes across your lips, rough and sensual. "I just think it would be more...pleasant to finish this in my quarters, don't you? Cold water and romance don't always go so well together if the heat runs out."

You nip at his thumb and smirk. "Thinking as always, Djarin."

"About you, at any rate." He falls quiet abruptly as he pulls away, as if abashed that such a flippant admission actually left his lips.

You laugh and duck back under the water. "Go. Get your hair dry and whatever else you need so I don't see your face. I'll get out when I hear you leave."

He starts to open the door, then suddenly thinks twice and is upon you once again, his fingers digging into the softness of your hips and his lips grazing your collarbone.

"You're beautiful," he grates out in a rush. "And I can't stop thinking about you in that costume. I just thought you should know that."

You sigh into his firm hold, a sinful idea taking delightful shape in your mind.

"How about I dance for you then, Din Djarin? Would you like to see that, ner'alor?"

The breath leaves his lungs all at once in a sharp exhale. "Yes, Mesh'la. Dance for me."

When he finally goes, you're left to finish your shower with an overwhelming ache for him and some very tempting plans turning over in your head.

Dar'manda = Not Mandalorian; separated from one's heritage

Ner'alor = My leader/boss

[larkoneironaut]

Little green dwarf and Mirror Man 🐚🖌️

(A scene from my Mandalorian romance fic ~Beyond Beskar~ on AO3)

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Masterlist

Din Djarin x f!reader | 18+ | ~40k words | updates on Wednesdays main masterlist | ao3

summary: When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too.

full fic tags/warnings (spoilers!): modern AU, ballet AU, fluff, angst, flirting, dancing, lots of ballet terms (I’ll define things/link videos/etc. -- see below), misunderstandings, character study, romance, pet names (sweetheart, beautiful), lots of tension, later: smut, kissing, grinding, fingering, p-in-v sex, creampie, each chapter will have its own tags, Din lifts reader (see note below about reader)

a/n: welcome to the Din ballet fic!! I started writing this in April and it’s finally finished! I’ll post a new chapter every Wednesday, there are 14 total. There’s some smut coming but it’ll be a while, folks. See my notes below about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!! This fic is so much better because of you. 🧡 And thank you to @almostfoxglove for reading over it and confirming I didn't forget all my ballet, lol. 🩰

note about reader: in this fic you’re a ballet dancer, first soloist at Nevarro Ballet Theater company. I haven’t mentioned the reader’s body size or shape (or hair) basically at all, even to the point of avoiding clothing (except for costumes), but I understand the image that goes along with ballet – I danced for almost 20 years. Din does lift you many times. Please feel free to picture whatever you want, but I know that this might seem more limited. You also have a best friend named Adrian who is in the company with you. I never specified age, but to make first soloist most would be in at least their early 20s. Din is 27.

Chapter list and notes about ballet under the cut! Comment or reblog to join the tag list. 🥰🩰

Chapter List

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - coming Wed 12/4

...

some notes about ballet: I will share links to videos and such as much as possible, but here are some definitions to get us started – principal, (first) soloist, corps de ballet, variation, and class vs. rehearsal:

Principal - this is the highest level a dancer (of any gender) can reach in a company. Dancers are ‘promoted’ through the ranks. Principals usually have exceptional technique and artistry and can perform solos, pas de deux (partnering), headlining and/or the most challenging roles, etc. (e.g., the white (Odette) and black (Odile) swans in Swan Lake, both usually performed by one principal). Sometimes dancers are hired directly in as principals (like Din, in this fic). Smaller companies might have 5-6 principals, while larger ones could have as many as 20. Nevarro is somewhere between medium and large and has around 14 principals, including Din.

First Soloist - not every company has this rank, but it’s in between principal and soloist. Nevarro has 4 but they are counted among the soloists (12-14ish total). Soloists are often understudies for larger parts, and first soloists would do the same. In this fic reader is a first soloist, just promoted at the start of the season.

Soloist - this is sort of a middle level, for dancers who are doing very well and have proven themselves capable of taking on bigger roles. Many ballets have multiple roles, including supporting roles in the narrative, for soloists and principals to showcase many dancers’ talents. A smaller company might have 5-6 soloists, and a larger company might have as many as 20. (Larger companies also do more shows.) Nevarro is somewhere between medium and large and has around 12-14 soloists, including first soloists.

Corps de ballet - this is the lowest/starting level in a company. It’s where most would start from and has the largest number of dancers – these are the dancers who come out on stage in large groups or form the background unnamed roles in narrative scenes (like a party). Reader started in the corps and was promoted to soloist and then first soloist.

Variation - a solo dance, usually a piece from a larger ballet (e.g., the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Nutcracker). We say ‘variation’ because there are many ballets that have been choreographed differently by multiple people in the ballet world (e.g., there are famous versions of the Nutcracker by Petipa, Gorsky, Balanchine, Nureyev, Baryshnikov… and more). So there can be multiple variations of a solo from a single ballet, and more can be created or altered, etc. But in general the term just means solo.

Class vs. rehearsal - most companies distinguish between ‘class’ and ‘rehearsal’. Class is for the whole company and focused on improving technique. It’s quick and often repetitive and everyone sort of knows what to do. Most people would have ‘their’ spot at the barre and fall into a typical order for going across the floor. After class, most would go into multiple hours of rehearsal, PT, strength training, etc., depending on whether it was a performance day or not. Most companies are rehearsing for more than one performance at a time, so they might have a longer rehearsal for the show coming up this or next weekend, and a shorter one for another performance a bit farther away. But in the days leading up to a show, that show’s rehearsals would probably take over. This can vary by company. On show days, most would have fewer rehearsals with a 1-2 hour break before the call time to get ready.

Season - companies have 'seasons' which just refers to their plan for shows/schedule for the upcoming year. They might refer to like a fall season and a spring season, or the might have a full year schedule with different parts (fall/winter/spring), or they might have only a spring season that runs into early summer. It depends on the company and the size! In this fic Nevarro has a fall season and a spring season, but they tend to think about it as a full year for contracts/etc. They would have 3-4 big shows planned (think Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Giselle, Onegin, etc.) in each part of the season (so, 3-4 in fall and 3-4 in spring). And then they'd fill in the gaps in the schedule with "mixed programs", which are programs with multiple smaller ballets or pieces that feature a lot of dancers. So a mixed program might have a 20 minute Balanchine ballet, a pas de deux, a full corps piece from a larger ballet, and a piece for like 8 dancers. or something. Mixed programs are often when choreographers-in-residence and on staff get to debut their own work.

[freakrenaissance]

I'm so in love with these two! The cuteness! OMG! This entire series is so fabulous 🥰

Lessons in Mando’a | d.d.

Din Djarin x princess!reader

In which Din and his Princess learn two languages

A Cowboy Like Me Drabble

Word Count: ~700

Warnings: None; might need to read Eight: The Dress for context

Author’s Note: Surprise, I love Din and his princess so fucking much.

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me

“Dancing is a dangerous game,” he pointed out, though he took her hand anyway.

“Not anymore dangerous than what we’ve been doing,” she countered, pulling herself close to him. “Do you know how to?”

“No, but if I’m gonna teach you to shoot, I’m sure you can teach me to dance.”

Feeling a bit more bold than he would usually in a situation like this, he sighed and wrapped an arm around her waist. His other held her hand, letting her lead for a few minutes as he figured out the steps. The feeling of her dress against his fingers was amazing, and he wondered briefly how it would feel to pull the pastel fabric from her body. But now would not be the time for that.

Looking into her eyes, he felt a sense of connection that he had never felt before. He wanted to see her eyes –catch the twinkle that they held –and memorize everything about her. Their routine had become so normal, so domestic –and Din didn’t care anymore if it was dangerous. This was what he wanted. This had to be the Way. 

While there was no music, they began to move carefully with one another as Din took the lead. His steps were hesitant at first, but gradually became more confident as he got the hang of it. As he held her close, he felt a rush of emotions flood over him. He knew at that moment that she was someone special –that he was going to live the rest of his life keeping her just as safe as he promised to keep Grogu. 

Din leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers as they swayed to music that didn’t exist. She had closed her eyes at the touch, smiling to herself as her arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum,” he whispered, voice soft behind the visor of his mask.

“You can’t speak another language and not expect me to ask what you’re saying,” she teased, opening her eyes to look up at him.

“I said…,” He teased gently, taking her hand once more and twirled her carefully. The train of her skirts pulled behind her, and she laughed too before he pulled her back in. “That I love you.”

For a moment, she simply stared up at him with wide, surprised eyes. He had never been one for grand declarations of any kind, but in this moment, with this woman –he couldn’t help himself. 

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she threw her arms around him, holding him close. "I love you too," she said, her voice choked with emotion.

“Gar're Pal'vut,” he murmured again, and she giggled at her own lack of knowledge. “I’ll have to teach you Mando’a.”

She nodded eagerly, arms winding around his neck once again. “I would love to learn it. What did you say that time?”

“You’re mine.”

“And mesh’la?” She asked, brow raised. “You’ve called me that before. You never told me what it meant, though.”

“Beautiful.”

She watched him for a moment, a soft, adoring smile coming to her face. Maker help him, Din wanted to be the reason she smiled every day. 

“Where’s that blindfold?” She asked suddenly, pulling away. Din chuckled as she lifted her skirts to hurry over to the bedside to pick up the fabric. “I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

“Is that so?” He asked, taking the fabric from her hands gently.

“Mhm,” she hummed, turning around to face away from him. Din chuckled again but did as she asked. When her blindfold was secured, he lifted his helmet off his head and set it on the bed. Without hesitating, she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck again and pulled him into a heated kiss. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and he melted into the kiss.

He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, and they both felt the intensity of their love for each other. The world around them ceased to exist, and they were lost in each other's embrace. The kiss lasted for what felt like an eternity, but eventually, they pulled away, their foreheads still touching.

It was this kiss –this moment –that Din decided he was going to marry her.

———

Taglist (CLOSED): @r4iner @sgt-morgan @mingeniee @darling1darling @teriolan-blog @venusfalling @double—take @sunshine96 @demisexuallover @mxtokko @ellesvoid @waddafaknik @c-ms1ut @kokoirne @sl-ut @munsons-queen @intense-sneezing @geekrenaissance @dilf-din @tizylish @ruleroftides @aheadfullofsteverogers

[lark-of-mirkwood]

🌑 I'm Lark, a self-taught illustrator, writer and witch (my art blog is @larkoneironaut)

🌒 I love to draw elves who'd treat me right and are cooler than me

🌓 Dragon Age, Middle-earth, The Mandalorian and Baldur's Gate 3 are my passion 🖤✨

🌔 My favorite characters, or rather blorbos, are Solas, Lucanis Dellamorte, Thranduil, Din Djarin

My Thranduil romance fic Rising Iridescence - it's completed and locked, so you can only read it when you're logged into AO3 🖤

My Merrill x Abelas shortfic Whispers of the Crossroads - it's completed and locked, so you can only read it if you're logged into AO3 🖤

My Mandalorian romance fic Beyond Beskar - It's completed, new chapter each Saturday, locked, so you can only read it if you're logged into AO3 🖤

[pedgito]

It's the season of Summer Lovin'—and with the perfect...men. A Pedro Pascal character extravaganza all wrapped up into a series of locations, hidden behind numbers of your choosing and carefully crafted for each Pedro boy. If you're interested, please be sure to read through the following instructions and important information below:

There are 50 moodboards to choose from, first come first serve. (none of these pictures dictate the appearance of reader, this is all purely for vibes and up for your own interpretation) All request need to be sent through my askbox!

There's no maximum word count, but we suggest a minimum of 500 words if you're interested, but that is only a suggestion. Write as much or as little as your heart demands.

(Located under the read more) All numbers are separated by 10 location and labeled 1-5 on each, so when requesting a number please do so in the following manner, [ 'camping, #1' or 'barbecue, #5'] and in the chance that number is already taken, I will message you privately to re-choose.

These moodboards will come with the following requirements: a character, a location, and a quote/sentence that all must be incorporated into the fic, everything else is up to you!

All requests will take place June 2nd-3rd and entries will be due to be posted June 20th-22nd!

BY THE WATER

#1 — taken (@ladamedusoif)

#2 — javier pena x reader, like snow on the beach (@janaispunk)

#3 — dieter bravo x reader, poolside (@ovaryacted)

#4 — taken (@sp00kymulderr)

#5 — oberyn martell x reader, doves in the wind (@beskarandblasters)

CONCERT

#1 — tim rockford x reader, confessions (@wildemaven)

#2 — jack daniels x reader, the cowboy & the thief (@schnarfer)

#3 — frankie morales x reader, it's hell on earth to be heavenly (@hellfire-state-of-mind)

#4 — marcus pike x reader, a fine romance (@doscharolastras)

#5 — taken (@ramblers-lets-get-ramblin)

BARBECUE

#1 — marcus moreno x reader, you see me, i watch you (@iamasaddie)

#2 — taken (@beefrobeefcal)

#3 — lucien flores x reader, met you once saw you thrice (@undercoverpena)

#4 — joel miller x reader, wedding in the apocalypse (@i-own-loki)

#5 — frankie morales x reader, do you feel it too? (@burntheedges)

CAMPING

#1 — taken (@the-blind-assassin-12)

#2 — dieter bravo x reader, cabin down below (@eupheme)

#3 — taken (@pr0ximamidnight)

#4 — frankie morales x reader, bagged & tagged (@inept-the-magnificent)

#5 — din djarin x reader, sway the stars which dazzle like pearls (@lady-of-glass-and-bone)

ROAD TRIP

#1 — taken (@whocaresstillthelouvre)

#2 — joel miller x reader, sunshine (@couldsewyouastitchandsavenine)

#3 — jack daniels x reader, hit the road jack! (@thelastofhyde)

#4 — joel miller x reader, until men fell at their women's feet and asked for forgiveness (@jomiddlemarch)

#5 — dave york x reader, still (@sizzlingcloudmentality)

CARNIVAL

#1 — jack daniels x reader, hot chocolate (@punkshort)

#2 — taken (@starstruckunknown-princess)

#3 — taken (@vivian-pascal)

#4 — max phillips x reader, the eternal night (@ozarkthedog)

#5 — dieter bravo x reader, no solo riders (@missredherring)

HIKING

#1 — taken (@leslie-lyman)

#2 — frankie x reader, beneath the silent boughs, whispers of dangers flow (@joelalorian)

#3 — javier pena x reader, flora and fauna (@hellishjoel)

#4 — dieter x reader, a lesson in nature (@the-orange-tabby-cat)

#5 — joel miller x reader, stranded (@joelscurls)

WEDDINGS

#1 — taken (@amanitacowboy)

#2 — javier pena x reader, una noche en medellín (@luxurychristmaspudding)

#3 — marcus pike x reader, we'll regret this in the morning (@thesluttylittleknee)

#4 — dieter bravo x reader, princesa bride (@rhoorl)

#5 — joel miller x reader, my place or yours (@criticallyacclaimedstranger)

HEAT WAVE

#1 — javier pena x reader, like a fever (@pedgito)

#2 — joel miller x reader, consider it a favor (@chaotic-mystery)

#3 — taken (@quinnnfabrgay-writes)

#4 — taken (@rulexofxnines)

#5 — marcus moreno x reader, a little help goes a long way (@iluvstrawberry)

MUSEUM

#1 — taken (@carusolikey)

#2 — din djarin x reader, a perfect day (@flightlessangelwings)

#3 — pero tovar x reader, moonlight flight (@sawymredfox)

#4 — marcus pike x reader, when's the last time you lived (@avastrasposts)

#5 — joel miller x reader, who we were (@studioghibelli)

Please make sure to tag your entries under #SummerLovin24 and tag either @chaotic-mystery, @amanitacowboy, or myself (@pedgito)! These will all be reblogged through the week of June 20th-22nd!

[psychedelic-ink]

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑼𝑹𝑶𝑹𝑨 𝑩𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑺

pairing: din djarin x fem!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, romance, smut, forced proximity

word count: 2.8k

summary: A friend, lover, then stranger. The last thing you expected was to be snowed in along with the bounty hunter. Tension rises as the past circles you both, trapped in the Razor Crest with no where to run or hide.

warnings: established past relationship, piv, touch starved din, creampie, also this takes place after S2 but the Razor Crest is still here because I love it so much and miss it

a/n: As some people might remember, I had a winter WIP list called 'Psychedelic Winter,' and this was one of the fics that I said I would write. And I thought, 'Hey, what better moment to post this than the day Mando S3 drops?' Enjoy everyone, happy mando day!

When you were thrown onto an icy planet by your so-called colleagues, you didn’t really have a plan for survival. It was your fault really, you were too trusting, too eager to help and be useful. It was a stupid habit that you had since very little, forced to feed yourself in this lonely lonely world. 

However, it wasn’t always like that. 

With a shudder, you hug yourself, your boot-clad feet buried in the snow. The flakes feel like glass shattering across your skin, painful and cold. Even your lungs tremble from it. As you walk forward, your mind brutally reminds you of him. A man that became a friend, a confidant which had quickly turned into something more. Heat pools between your legs at the mere thought of it, the feeling of emptiness and cold prominent. 

The Mandalorian. Mando. Din Djarin. Din. 

You miss him still. You can’t really help it. You loved traveling with him, and after such a long time, you truly felt like you belonged. He became family. He became your everything. Soon after your little family grew, Grogu joining the fray. It felt like a dream, you were finally living out what you’d been searching for. 

But that all changed when Grogu had to return to his own kind. The Jedi. Din grew distant, he pulled away, not responding to you or your touches. You just felt grief emanating from him, something that you couldn’t fix. He didn’t ask you to leave, you just left. Once again alone, once again without a home. 

In your desperate attempt to replace it, you went with anyone who would tolerate your presence. You’ve met some good people, but you’ve met some assholes too—obviously. 

Your lashes turn into cold crystals, stinging every time you blink. In the distance you see a hint of yellow light that bleeds into red, you can feel the warmth of it despite being far away. Like a moth to a flame, you walk towards it, your steps fighting against the cold wind and the snow. You can’t feel your fingertips anymore, or your legs, or your face for that matter. You’re flirting with death. 

You notice that the ship most likely crashed. You press your freezing palms into the metal, still hot, a soft heat spreading throughout your hand and blossoming across your arms. You let out a sigh. It feels familiar like you’ve been here almost. Teeth clattering, you reach the door and give it a loud knock, your fists hurt when you do it, but you manage to muster your last bits of strength. 

The door opens with a muffled hiss and you find yourself immediately staring into a blaster. 

A very familiar blaster. 

You quickly realize why this ship felt familiar, it was the goddamn Razor Crest. Your home—once upon a time. 

The blaster falters, and you stare into the familiar dark visor, he tilts his head. You like to imagine that he’s happy to see you despite the shock. With a crooked smile, you mimic his movement, cocking your head to the side. 

“Hey, Din.” 

Everything is the same. Everything is different. It’s weird to be back within the Razor Crest’s metal walls. The ship creaks with the wind, metal groaning as Din sits across from you, his legs spread and elbows leaning over his knees. You chew the inside of your cheek. Having such intimate memories with someone is an odd thing, your body still remembers what it felt like to be filled so thoroughly by him, to have his large hands squeezing and kneading your ass as you dripped and begged for more. 

Heat settles right below your spine. You wonder if it’s the same for him too. Had he thought of you after you left? Had he rutted into the pillows imagining that it was you instead? 

Probably not. 

“The engines are messed up from the cold but as soon as the storm lets up a bit we should be good to go,” he says, refocusing your focus back on him. “We’re going to be stuck here for a while.” 

You nod, not really knowing what else to say. To be honest, you’re slightly embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this. 

“How did you end up here?” he asks. 

The question surprises you because you hadn’t expected him to make conversation. You can’t tell if he’s angry or not from the modulated voice. He sounds like he always does. You look up to him, wishing you could see his face. 

“Grouped up with the wrong people. You?” 

“After a bounty.” 

“Ah, the same old.” 

“Pretty much.” 

The following silence is uncomfortable, it makes you feel unwelcomed and slightly gross. You don’t know what to say. What can you say to the man you basically abandoned? That was never your intention, but it was what he wanted. He didn’t need you around, reminding him of something important that he’d lost. 

Your mouth acts unfiltered, the horror sinking in as soon as you ask. 

“Have you heard from Grogu?” 

He stiffens quite visibly. His shoulders raise, his visor looks down. You curse your tongue from moving on its own. Din’s anger is physically felt by you, it chokes out the air from your lungs, forces the soles of your shoes to be glued to the floor. Your eyes go wide and you swallow. Your lips are sealed shut when he stands, his figure suddenly larger and taller than what you’ve been used to from your memories. 

“You don’t need to ask about him,” he answers curtly. “We don’t need to talk at all.” 

Din storms towards the back of the ship, his long strides reverberating through the metal walls. His sudden outburst leaves you stunned, your thoughts scrambled like the tangled wires of a circuit board. The sound of sparks and him tinkering with something echoes within the confinements. You’re stunned. Confused. You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do, before the ship groans and shudders again. A loud groan vibrating from your feet to your chest. 

Your feet move of their own accord, propelled by a mix of curiosity and concern. As you approach, the cacophony of tinkering grows louder, the metallic clinks and whirs blending into a symphony of sound. At first glance it looks like he’s doing nothing, crouched over, just occupying his hands. You reach out to touch his shoulder, a hesitant gesture. To your surprise, he leans in instinctively, his body responding to your touch like a magnet to metal.

But then jerks away, as if he’s been burned. 

“What did you mean by that?” you ask, pulling away.

He huffs, his hands falling. “I just said we don’t have to talk.” 

“What if I want to talk? I missed you, Din.” 

It’s an unexpected, sudden confession but you decide to go with it. It isn’t a lie. You did miss him. 

“Miss me?” he hisses out, his head falling back, he stares at the ceiling. “You left.” 

“What? Are…are you blaming me for what happened?” 

“No,” he stands up, his masked face an inch away from yours. You fight the urge to take a step back. He wouldn’t hurt you. He slowly tilts his head as if he’s amused by whatever expression you’re pulling. “I’m stating a fact. Didn’t you go?” 

Your eyes fall to his chest, “I did but—” 

“Then I find you on the brink of death, shivering, helpless,” he lets out a deep breath, chest heaving. “Was it worth it?” 

“I left because you didn’t want me around.” 

Your gaze snaps back up. He doesn’t move, the visor staring back at you feels colder compared to the storm raging outside. The build-up of tears is sudden, overwhelming. Your face controls with anger, your brows pinched and your lips curling down. The rage twists in your gut, you’ve been suffering, doing jobs left and right to feed yourself. And he has the audacity to tell you that it’s your fault? That he never wanted you to leave? 

Bullshit. 

Without thinking you push him away, your hands finding the cold plates that decorate his chest. He doesn’t move. An indestructible wall. Shaking your head, you push at him again, and again, and again. When nothing works, you hammer down with fists. Your heart beats loudly and painfully in your chest. You can’t breathe. You can’t speak. It’s suffocating and cold. So fucking cold. 

Your fists stop mid-air when he holds them, gloved fingers wrapped tightly around your wrists. 

“I never asked you to leave.” 

“You didn’t have to,” your eyes fall, shame heating your cheeks. “You barely spoke to me. Touched me. It felt like I was reminding you of a tainted memory. Something you could never have again.” 

“That’s not…dank farrik—” 

He pulls you in, arms coiling around you with the intent to never let go. The beskar is uncomfortable but comforting. Your hands shake as you return in like, wrapping your arms around him weakly. His hand cradles the back of your head, the other one sliding down to rest against the small of your back. He doesn’t say a word but you know this is his own peculiar way of apologizing. Even if he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. Neither of you are. Luckily, you have a very functional mouth. 

“I thought you wanted me gone after…I didn’t know. I should’ve realized you were hurting. I was so afraid of what you might say that I acted before you actually said it.” 

“I was never planning on saying it,” he answers. “I missed you too, mesh’la.” 

His scent; metal, musk, and something sweet fills your lungs. You take deep inhales of him, grounding yourself back to reality. The hard surface of his helmet presses into the top of your head. The ache between your legs is uncomfortable, you want to touch him, feel his bare skin against yours. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks. 

You answer. “With my life.” 

“Then close your eyes for me. Let me guide you.” 

You do as you’re told. A dance that you’ve grown accustomed to once upon a time. The hiss of a helmet, the touch of his lips, the feeling of his hands cupping your bottom. He slips his tongue into your mouth, tasting you, reminding himself of what you felt like all those times ago. He tastes the memories he hasn’t been a part of, he gets used to the differences. 

When he parts, it’s hard to keep your eyelids from fluttering. You don’t open them, but the tease of the what if always remains. What would happen if you gave into temptation? Would he know you’ve seen him? Would he be angry? Would he never see you again? Would it be worth the risk? 

No, you think, It wouldn’t. 

“Touch me, riduur, I need you to touch me,” the last plea is spoken brokenly. “please.” 

Your hands roam his armor, blindly helping him out of it, touching every exposed skin and muscle. He’s trembling under your touch. You feel the thrust of his hips into yours, still clothed, desperate. Your skin prickles when you feel the hardness, heat pooling between your legs, and tingling. You’re just as desperate as he is. 

He takes your hand and leads you to the bunk. You feel him everywhere. His lips are on your breasts, kissing a trail down and circling the pebbled nipple with the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth wide, fitting as much as he can as he sucks and bites. You arch into him, your hands still touching—tracing his back, cupping his ass, pulling him closer, asking him to thrust against you in the same desperate manner he had not moments ago. 

“Why did you leave?” he asks between wet, needy kisses. “Why did you go?” 

“I don’t know,” you say over and over. “I was scared, I’m sorry, I love you.” 

It was like a song that was whispered for their ears only. It’s a symphony of reminding themselves what they’d lost, and what they’d gained. 

Feeling him inside is a beautiful thing. Din is not a small man, not in the slightest, and he has to cover your eyes just in case when he fills you. It’s a smooth entry, your wetness enough to pull him deep inside. Your walls flutter, the blissful pain of the stretch makes you moan his name. The first thrust is like fireworks in your mind, bursting with pleasure. The second one you feel like ice, melting into the motion of his hips and the warmth of his cock. 

“Harder,” you breathe out. “Harder, fuck me, Din.” 

His teeth sink into your neck, his pacing fast, hard. The sound of skin against skin is loud enough to drown the sound of the snowstorm outside. You push against each thrust, albeit your movements not really doing much, uncoordinated and unpracticed. Din pins your hips down, his fingers like iron branding your skin. He hammers into you, the dark curls stimulating your clit forcing out a gasp from you. 

“Look at me.” 

“What?” 

“Look at me. Open your eyes.” 

His hips slow down into a tortuous grind. Your bottom lip trembles at the thought. You’re scared to open your eyes, and frankly, you’re not sure if you heard him right. His thumb smooths over your closed lid, gently pulling them down.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers. “I want to see you. I want to see the look in your eyes when you come for me. I want you to see mine.” 

“Are…are you sure?” 

Your heart feels like a ticking time bomb, your chest ready to explode, the ticking in your ears too loud. 

“I’m sure.” 

Your eyes open incredibly slow, fearful. Din’s face clears up and you see him smiling down at you, his hair mussed, sticking to his forehead due to sweat. Hesitantly, you place a hand on his cheek, feeling the trimmed down hairs with the pad of your thumb. He leans into your touch. 

“Now, that wasn’t so scary was it?” he asks, you smile and shake your head. 

“No, it wasn’t.”

He kisses you. It’s different this time, softer, slower. He resumes his thrusts, hips snapping into you with the intent of release. His one hand slides between your bodies, thick fingers finding your clit and starting to draw quick, tight circles around the sensitive nub. The skin above your stomach grows tight, your thighs shaking against the broadness of his hips. You can’t get enough of him. Kissing him and at the same time trying to look at him. You engrave his face into memory. 

Din breaks the kiss with a rush, his one hand cradles your cheek, tilting your head up to him. He holds your gaze, his lips parted. You feel your cunt fluttering around him, his cock heavy and throbbing deep inside you. Din spills into you with a groan, his hips stuttering forward. You follow right after, the sight of him too much. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and his eyes roll back, you gush around him, your body convulsing as a silent promise never to let him go. 

When both of you come down from your highs, he kisses you. Again and again. A man starved. A man desperate. Only one plea falling from his lips. 

“Touch me.” 

You wake up with his touch on your shoulder. When you open your eyes memories come flooding back, you and Din, again you had found your home. You wince as you slowly get up, the ache between your legs uncomfortable but missed. You notice that Din is in full armor, waiting for you outside of the cot. 

“Come with me,” he says, voice hoarse. “I want to show you something.” 

He helps you into your clothes and his hand never leaves your waist as the two of you make your way up to the cockpit. The storm had subsided, only snow falling scarcely from the heavens above. He points you to look up, and you do. 

Your breath catches in your throat. The sky is alight with an otherworldly dance of colors - the aurora borealis.

The lights shift and shimmer, painting the sky with vibrant hues of green, blue, and purple. It's as if the entire galaxy has come to life, it’s beautiful. 

Din's arms wrap around you from behind, and you melt into his embrace. The warmth of his body against yours, the strength of his grip, and the steady rhythm of his breathing all serve to ground you in the moment. You feel safe, and you feel loved.

The aurora continues to dance above you, you lean your head back against Din's chest. It's like nothing else matters in the world except for this moment - just the two of you, surrounded by the beauty of the cosmos.

And as you look up at the lights, you know that you are home.

[guiltypleasure-girl]

Omg this fic is everything!! The chemistry between them! The attention to detail! The realistic pacing of it all! I am truly in awe of your talent!!! So so excited to read the next chapter!

Competing For Christmas 3: Jingle Bell Rock

Pairing: Modern Din Djarin x Female Reader

Word Count: 12,097

Rating: M. Language, consumption of alcohol, brief allusions to prior relationships.

Summary: With three events to play during trivia night, you and Din are going to find out whether or not you make a good team very quickly. 

Author’s notes:

Listen, I am SO THRILLED you’re all enjoying this as much as I am. I’m having a blast writing this, and I really hope that even though this one’s a little longer, it doesn’t lose anyone in the middle. Christmas Din is fantastic … and even though Grogu’s not in this chapter, please know he’s happily snoozing under the tree at home while Din goes to trivia night. 

Questions, concerns, comments? My inbox is open! You should all know the drill by now.

To get alerted when I post new chapters/stories, follow @somethingtofightfor-shares​ and turn on post notifications - you can also ask to be added to my tag list (link in bio or at the top of my taglist reblog)

… Check out the masterlist page for three links to the events of the chapter - you don’t have to play along, but they’re fun interactive visual aids! 

Masterlist  / Part 1 / Part 2

You got to the bar fifteen minutes earlier than you’d told Din to be there - not because you wanted to be waiting for him, but because in an attempt to make sure you weren’t going to be late, you’d started getting ready much earlier than necessary. 

It wasn’t a date, and the only place the two of you would be that night was inside of a building with the other teams and random stragglers that were just there to watch - but you’d still taken extra time on your appearance. 

Keep reading

[popcornforone]

PEDROTOBER 2024

I have never done this before & I know it’s technically a drawing challenge set up by @alyssamariag & @norththelemon but I was away on holiday & had some time to write, so I thought why not. Yes I should have worked on WIP & other things but you know this is gonna be fun. I’ve taken some liberties with some but you’ll understand why.

I will be updating this every day in October so stay for the that. Most of these are short with hints of smut but some are well you know all to well.

So please let me know peoples how you find these

Warnings before we start:- some of these fics will not be for those under the age of 18 so please read at your own discretion, also assume consent is used for most of these unless stated & swearing will be included in a few of these. Any other warnings will appear per fic

1) Dreamy (Mr Fantastic)

2) Bromance or Romance P1 (Dieter Bravo)

3) Only the Best (Agent Whiskey [nails prompt])

4) Unspoken (Silva)

5) Be a Good Girl (Detective Tim Rockford[Esquire prompt])

6) Bromance or Romance P2 (Dieter Bravo)

7) Home (Ezra)

8) Smothered (Mrs Flores & a Special guest[Corona Prompt])

9) Think Fink (Frankie Morales [Fink the Fox Prompt])

10) The Casual Campaign (Ted Garcia[Candid/ T-shirt Prompt])

11) Red (Max Phillips)

12) Pride (Marcus Moreno[Rainbow Trousers Prompt])

13) Speechless (Javi Gutierrez)

14) Domestic (Dave York [free choice])

15) Make Me A Match (The Materialist)

16) Laters Doll, Keep Smiling (Agent Whiskey)

17) Handy (Dave York[Arm Sling Prompt])

18) Smitten (Oberyn Martell)

19) Two Faced (Max Lord[SDCC Prompt])

20) I’ll Make an Exception (Frankie Morales)

21) Bromance or Romance P3 (Dieter Bravo[Curls Prompt])

22) The Wait (General Marcus Acacius [Gladiator II Prompt])

23) Safety (Din Djarin)

24) One Last Dance (Max Phillips [Sundance Prompt])

25) Laundry (Javier Peña)

26) Flying High (Javi Gutierrez [Vanity Fair Prompt])

27) Unlocked (Joel Miller [The Last Of Us Prompt])

28) OCTOBER (Marcus Pike [any Marcus Prompt]{part of the Marcus pike Diary})

29) Sweet Like Chocolate (Lucien Flores[The Uninvited Prompt])

30) Roses (Detective Tim Rockford[Awards Fit Favourite Prompt])

31) Spoilt (Mr Ben [SAG Awards Prompt])