#and the bass keeps runnin runnin runnin runnin runnin and runnin and runnin runnin runnin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gretavangroupie · 9 months ago

Text

Enrapture

Word count: 13.2k

Pairing: Daniel Wagner x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Alcohol, Smoking. Smut: Kissing, Touching, Oral M!Receiving, Fingering, Oral F!Receiving, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Biting, Spanking, Blood, Blood Play, Cum Play, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex. Fluff.

A/N: Hey! Welcome back for the second installment of the four part Valentine's Day Mini Series I've been working on along with my best pal, @sacredstarcatcher! We've had so much fun writing these, and we hope that you enjoy Daniel's story! There's only two left now, and we can't wait to share them with you! See you real soon!

You’ve been waiting for this night for weeks, marking off the days on your calendar with a pink highlighter since the end of December. You got the call and immediately said yes, not even taking into consideration the day. It wasn’t hard to get the rest of your band mates to agree to it, only one of them even in a relationship. February 14th was really just another day, and tonight your band was set to play.

It took some careful convincing but everyone knew that opening for The Foxies would be, to date, your biggest opportunity yet. You put the finishing touches on your outfit, waiting for the rest of the band to pick you up in the van. You zipped your black chelsea boots, and straightened your black lace corset top against your jeans as you fluffed your fingers through your freshly blown out hair. You gave yourself a look in the mirror one last time, the shine of your lip gloss catching in the bathroom light.

The time on the clock is quickly ticking by, and you’re starting to get nervous that it's well past your pick up time. Thankful that they already have your guitar in the van, you know that as soon as they pull up you will be jumping inside as the van continues to roll.

About fifteen minutes and a few anxious walks around your living room later, you hear the horn honking outside. You grab your coat and your keys and dash out the door, sending a quick text to your friend letting her know you’re running late.

“Late to our biggest gig yet?! This looks bad, guys.” you screech, slamming the door shut behind you.

“Chill, we'll make it. Van wouldn’t start, but she's runnin’ now.” Carter barks from the front seat, patting his hand on the dashboard. You roll your eyes and buckle your seat belt, listening to them chatter as you anxiously await your arrival.

—

Rushing down the basement steps with your gear, you wade through the decently sized crowd making your way to the side of the stage. You can tell the opening band is almost finished and you rip your guitar case open to check the tuning.

From the corner of your eye you see your best friend sauntering up to you, camera in hand just like she promised. You try to give her the quick rundown of the set so she can plan her shots but you can tell her head is elsewhere as she peers over her shoulder scanning the crowd. You wonder if it has anything to do with the boy she was talking to as you walked in.

“Foxtrot, you’re up!” you hear the coordinator shout, and you know it’s time to take the stage. You throw your arms around your friend's neck, kissing her cheek and taking your leave for the stage. “Wish us luck! Make sure you get my good side!”

With your guitar slung around your shoulder, you wait for Carter to cue you in on the drums, ready to play to this rowdy crowd in front of you. Your eyes scan the audience as Steff starts to sing, spotting a few familiar t-shirts with your band logo on them. A smile crosses your face as you enter in on the next song, seeing your friend down below you as she works her away across the stage snapping photos you hope to use for the band's socials. Your fingers are dancing along the frets, keeping perfect time with the drums and bass as you look out into the crowd again.

When your eyes sweep the room you notice a guy leaning against the brick wall, drinking from a beer can as he nods his head along in time with the music. His eyes are on you, dark and piercing. His dark curly hair frames his face beneath his hat, turned backwards of course in the darkness of the room. You see a smirk pull across his lips as you make eye contact, and you feel yourself blushing so you look away.

You wish that you hadn’t abandoned his gaze when you look away and spot your ex on the other side of the room, about four rows back, with his eyes on you. You knew there was a chance he would be here. You’d been dodging his calls for weeks, and rightfully so. He betrayed your trust and that was that. You didn’t have time for the back and forth, and to be honest, he wasn’t what he portrayed himself to be anyways. You cut your losses and you have been significantly happier since. As he stands here in front of you, you feel a sense of dread wash over you, knowing this is an issue you’ll have to deal with after the set, on Valentine’s day no less.

Your attention is snapped away from him, watching as your friend and her camera go flying over a rogue cord on the ground. With her eye to the lens she missed it, tumbling into the hands of a familiar stranger. You laugh under your breath, working your way into the next song, and letting your eyes flick back to your curly haired admirer.

You’re pretty sure you know who he is, his appearance definitely fits the description, though you didn’t realize how cute he would be in person. He was known to pop up at these shows, always looking for the next great thing, adding names to his ever expanding catalog of local bands. You hadn’t come across him at any of your gigs yet, but it looked like tonight was your lucky night.

—

After the show you find yourself accepting compliment after compliment, hugs and encouraging words coming from almost every familiar face in the crowd. Between conversations, you try to make your way to the kitchen for at least some water, but for a solid 10 minutes, you’re stuck hosting a receiving line.

As anticipated, your ex makes his way towards you. He’s got a look on his face that tells you he’s had a few drinks and that doesn’t bode well for you.

“Look at you,” he coos, physically pulling you in for a hug with a hand around your upper back. You grimace, politely accepting the inappropriate greeting. “Gotta admit, it’s pretty cool to see my girl up there knowing she’s–”

“Not your girl.” you say, immediately cutting him off. “Thanks for coming.” You try to get away but he grabs your forearm and makes it difficult.

“Hey hey hey, what’s the ruuush?” he slurs, stepping into your line of sight again. “You can’t still be mad.”

“I’m not mad, I just don’t want anything to do with you.” You try to pull yourself out of his predatory grasp but he’s effectively cornering you.

“I miss you, baby. Look at me and tell me you don’t think about me. Something deep down in there still wants me.” he says, poking you gently in the chest.

“Fuck off, Brent.” You snap, shooting him a look that could kill. Right as the tension bubbles over, you feel a warm hand on the back of your neck.

“Hey, got you that drink you wanted.” Turning to look over your shoulder, you’re met with the same pair of striking, dark eyes that were watching you from the back during your performance.

Brent immediately looks disgruntled, sizing up the tall stranger who is placing his arm around you.

“Do I know you?” Brent asks.

“Oh, hey, names Danny. Nice to meet you.” He lifts his arm back over your head, then offers his hand to Brent for a sarcastic handshake. You watch the two interact with wide eyes and realize that this Danny character noticed you were in distress and decided to step in.

“Didn’t think I needed to introduce myself, sorry about that. Most people here have at least some idea who I am.” You turn to look up at him, a little dumbfounded at the way he’s radiating smug confidence strong enough to disarm your asshole ex.

Brent gives a few slow nods as his eyes move between the two of you. He seems to put the pieces together, deciding to take his leave.

“I’ll see you around,” Brent says to you with a terse smile, pushing his way through the crowd and out of sight. Once he’s gone, you turn to fully face your savior, giving him a relieved smile.

You had heard about Danny Wagner. Drummer, Nashville local, party boy, general good time. He’s a little too famous to be at a show like this, so you can’t help but ask him why.

“Thanks for stepping in. I could have handled it, but… you really expedited it. So thanks.” You say, a little guarded, but appreciative nonetheless.

“He seemed like a real prick, and I had been waiting to come over and introduce myself anyway.” Danny says, his smile sweet and disarming, but you’re not going to let yourself fall into the trap you know many women have fallen into before.

“I thought you didn’t need to?” you quip boldly, opening the beer he handed you.

“Well, do I?” he responds quickly, laughing softly.

“It’s only polite…” you muse.

“Daniel Wagner. I really liked your set.” he says, tipping the bottle of beer back and licking his lips clean after he takes a sip.

“That’s very kind.” you say, polite, but a little cold. Your eyes scan the room quickly, a little concerned about what others may think looking at this conversation from the outside. Danny’s reputation is less than great, and you wouldn’t want anyone attributing the slight amount of success you would say tonight was to him.

“Can I ask what you’re doing at a basement show, though?” you prod, giving him a bit of a suspicious look. He takes it in stride, his confidence never faltering.

“I was supposed to be on my way to New York, but due to some…unforeseen circumstances, I found myself at home on Valentine’s day. Seeing as most restaurants are booked, bars are full of schmucks on dates, and all that… I figured I would drop in. Stay up to date on the local music scene. You know.”

You raise your brows at him. You actually don’t know, so you crack a smile.

“I see. How kind of you to grace us with your presence.” you snark, trying to suppress a grin.

Danny lets out a big laugh at that, almost choking on his beer. You laugh along, glad he’s not too offended. There’s no way he hadn’t heard the murmurings about him, so it’s nice to see he’s a good sport.

“I’m gonna–” You start to tell him you have to go load up your equipment when you’re interrupted by a random voice.

“Hey! Can we get a picture?”

That’s your cue. You sneak away towards the stage, starting to pack up alongside your bandmates. Every few minutes, you glance back towards Danny, caught up with some excited fans. It’s not that you’re avoiding him, because if you’re being honest, there’s something about him that’s drawing you in. It’s the gnawing worry at the back of your mind that’s telling you to tread lightly.

Crouching down, you peel up the tape from the makeshift stage. As you stand and follow the trail, pulling it from the floor, you’re brought to a pair of bright white Adidas stepping on it, keeping you from going any further. Straightening up to stand at your full height, you realize it’s Danny.

“Need a hand?”

“Oh, no, you’re fine. It’s a little complicated, so…” You try to brush him off.

“I’m sure I can figure it out.” he says, a little snarky. “The faster you’re done the faster you can have fun, right?” He’s proving to be a persistent guy who definitely likes a challenge. Something about that brings some color to your cheeks, but you try to keep a level head.

“If you really insist…” you tell him with a smirk, stepping aside so he can unplug the cord you just freed from the stage.

The room is still fairly loud so as Danny helps you get packed up there aren’t too many words exchanged. You feel his eyes on you though. It’s difficult not to steal a few glances his way too, watching as he bends at the knee, his broad shoulders flexing while he maneuvers around equipment.

Carter pushes away with the last road case and then there’s little to nothing left to do.

“Thanks for your help. You seriously didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s all good. I honestly miss doing some of the more hands-on stuff. It felt like riding a bike.” He gives you a genuine smile, his comment making you reconsider your preconceived notions of him. He seems to be a sweet guy despite his sizable ego and cocky presence. You brush your hands off on your thighs and offer Danny a grateful smile. As you do so, you feel the key to the van in your front pocket.

“Oh, shit. They’re probably out there waiting for me.” You jump into motion, heading for the door you came in through. Danny follows your quick footsteps with relaxed, large ones of his own, shifting to squeeze through the crowd with you. You’re surprised to find him behind you when you get out into the cold, but decide not to question it this time. You just smile and jog down the stairs.

He proves to be incredibly helpful, lifting and stowing the heaviest items without more than the occasional grunt. Your eyes are constantly darting between your task at hand and his arms- the fabric of the athletic quarter zip he’s wearing is stretching around his biceps and it’s enough to make your heart pound.

“You really didn’t have to do all that.” you murmur with a warm smile as Danny shuts the door. He lets out a big breath, his shoulders relaxing a little.

“It’s really nothing. I’m happy to help.” He goes on speaking but you’re distracted as you look over his shoulder, seeing your best friend and photographer over at her car, talking to a guy who’s within awfully close proximity. You can’t see his face, but he’s in a red beanie and a sweater. You have a feeling your plans to hang out after the show tonight are about to go to the wayside as you watch them talk and bump elbows.

“It’s freezing out here. I’m gonna… head inside?” you say, a questioning lilt to your voice. You don’t directly ask him to come with you, but you assume he’s going to.

“Yeah, let’s get you another drink. I lost track of it when you put it down on one of the amps.” he says, leading you back inside with a hand on the small of your back.

You immediately feel nervous as you walk back through the door and a few pairs of eyes find you with Danny trailing almost too close behind. You worry they’ll think the worst, which you can’t imagine would be good for your possibly blossoming career, but he’s been charming and helpful thus far and it wouldn’t be fair to write him off.

“I’m gonna find the bathroom. Don’t go anywhere, alright?” he says, leaning in close to say the words in your ear, making sure they’re heard despite the next band starting to warm up. You nod and he walks off while you search the kitchen for something to drink.

You crack open a can of beer and sip the foam that starts to bubble up. As you’re doing so, a petite dark haired girl approaches you. She seems young, her skin a striking olive shade. You swallow the foam in your mouth and lift your head.

“Hey...” she says, looking over her shoulder, then back at you.

“Hi!” you return, wiping your mouth. You go to speak again, intending to ask if she liked the show, but she cuts you off. She steps a little closer, since it’s incredibly loud.

“I just wanted to give you a heads up. About Danny?”

You retract a little, surprised that she thinks you need a warning. Had the two of you come across as having that much chemistry? You nod and lean forward again for her to continue.

“I’d just be careful with him if I were you. He really doesn’t have the best reputation, or a shred of respect for women. Don’t let him fool you.”

You scoff a laugh, a little annoyed and insulted that this girl thinks you don’t have good judgment or can’t fend for yourself.

“Oh, great! Thanks for the tip!” you quip, watching her eyes cut just a touch, as you feel a hand brush across your lower back.

“Tori…” his voice is smooth, as he takes his place next to you. “Can’t say I didn’t expect to see you here.” he pauses, dropping his hand from your back to step a little closer. “You’re always just kind of… here, aren’t you?” He sips from his fresh drink as he waits for her response.

“Actually, Daniel, I was just leaving.” she replies, tossing her hair over her shoulder pretending to be unaffected.

“Ouch, the government name…” he feigns hurt, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Well, thanks for coming out!” you say, an air of faux enthusiasm in your voice. She rolls her eyes subtly as she walks away, and you smile turning to face Danny who is wearing his own cheeky grin.

“So, what were you two talking about?” he asks, peering over the edge of his beer can.

“Oh, she was just… complimenting the set, nothing really.” you lie, biting your lips together.

“Who, Tori? She probably hasn’t even stepped foot into the basement! She’s here for one thing and one thing only and it’s not the music, I can assure you.” he says with a huff of annoyance.

“Oh, can you? Assure me?” you smirk playfully.

“No! Well, I mean, god. Okay yes, I can. But also, that’s not why I’m here, and it wasn’t that night either. Okay?” he stammers over his words, you’ve caught him in the act and you can tell this doesn't happen often.

“I’m just messing with you.” you say, watching a blonde girl pat him on his back as she walks behind him. “Hi Danny…” her syrupy sweet voice says.

He turns to her to say hello before quickly turning back to you. “Sorry bout that.” he says, refocusing on your conversation, stepping a bit closer.

Just as you go to speak, you hear someone call his name from across the room, grabbing his attention yet again. He lifts a hand and waves two fingers back at the girl, before lowering it back down and into his pocket.

You raise your eyebrows in question, and he lets his face grow a little softer.

“I can let you get back to the party, I don’t want to keep you–”

“No, listen, you wanna…You wanna go somewhere else? Not here? A bar or something?” he asks, sincerity lining his voice.

“I thought they were full of schmucks…” you quip.

“They are…Never said I wasn’t one…” he smiles back with the raise of his brow.

“What’s wrong? You worried the ghosts of girlfriends’ past are gonna ruin your chances, here?” you quip, offering him a tiny wink.

“So you’re saying I do have a chance…” his eyes are shining in the dim house lights, a few stray curls falling from beneath his baby blue trucker hat. He bites his lip nervously waiting for your response and you can feel the butterflies swirling in your stomach from just his gaze alone.

“Mmm, I haven’t decided yet.” you answer, taking a pull from your beer.

“So let me take you for a drink, then. You can decide after if I’m really as bad as they say.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit concerned about people talking? People have seen us together all night, and I’m sure half of Tori’s social circle knows at this point, and have found me on Instagram already.” you smirk.

“No, fuck all those rumors. They are completely out of hand. People get mad when you cut them off. If they can’t talk to you, they’re gonna talk about you. It’s all they have. I don’t let it get to me, I know it’s not true.” he answers, and you feel a little surprised to hear something so noble come from him.

You tap your finger to your chin pretending to decide, but you already know you’re going. You just don’t want him to know that yet.

“Where?” you question.

“Somewhere in East? I know a few quieter places.” he answers, really trying his best, you can tell.

“Hmm… You’ll drive me home after?” you ask.

“Of course. Just say yes, just one drink.” he pauses. “I’ll be on my best behavior.” he says, patting his hand over his heart.

You suck your teeth and pivot on the heel of your boot. “Alright, one…”

He smiles, and you're positive that had he shown that perfect smile from the get go, you’d have been a goner from the jump.

“Only because I live over there…” you smile.

“Oh, no other reason?” he grins, sending you a wink.

He places his hand on your back again, causing a shiver to run up your spine. You feel good walking out with him, despite the glares you can feel from across the room. He leads you through the crowd, heading towards the door but before you can reach it, a girl jumps out in front of you commanding your attention. You can tell she is drunk by the haziness of her eyes and the blush of her cheeks. Well, that and the drink sloshing out of her red solo cup.

“I'm sooooo sorry t’bother you…” her words are slurring together and you know this is probably not the first time Danny has had to deal with this.

“No no, no bother, what’s up? How are you?” he asks, his demeanor suddenly shifting.

“I just– I have to tell you how much I love your music, it like literally changed my life…I’m like your biggest fan ever.” she slurs, falling over onto her starstruck friend.

“That’s awesome, thank you so much for listening, we really appreciate you guys.” he answers.

“Can we take a picture with you?” she asks, pulling her phone from her back pocket. You can tell he doesn’t want to, but he would never tell them that.

“Yeah, yeah no problem, hold on let me just–”

Before he can step closer to her, she is holding the phone up as she moves back, crashing into him and sending her drink flying. Danny is doused in the sticky liquid, what you think is probably vodka and Coke.

His pullover is soaked through, and you watch his jaw clench with anger. He stays calm, however, consoling the very embarrassed fan as if nothing ever happened. “It’s all good, no worries at all. Happens all the time. But hey, we were heading out, great to meet you.”

He quickly ushers you through the crowd, letting out a few mumbles of anger as you walk towards his car.

“That really happen all the time?” you smirk, watching him smile as he shakes his head.

“It’s usually not that messy. Literally and figuratively.” He says, clearly in a bit of a huff. He pulls out his keys and unlocks the Jeep that you know is his once the lights flash. You head to the passenger side and hop in, happy to be safe from the wind. You see him standing outside the door for a second, tapping his phone screen before holding it up to his ear.

“Where’d you get off to?” He asks, his voice muffled. He opens the door, sliding into the driver’s seat as he listens to whoever is on the other line.

“I’m fine, yeah, just checking in. Didn’t know you left. You bag that chick you were chatting with?” He starts the car quickly once he realizes you’re cold, his hands messing with the dials and turning on the heat for you. You give him a little smirk at the locker room talk you’re sitting in on right now and hope he doesn’t say a word about you. He smirks as he goes to speak once more.

“Hell no. Neither is Jake. You’re stuck with Josh and his girl. So, have fun with that.” Danny says, getting adjusted and buckling his seatbelt. He laughs at whoever is on the other end of the phone and the sound of his laugh brings a little warmth to your otherwise freezing body.

“Yeah, yeah. You too. See ya.” He hangs up and tosses his phone into the center console. When he’s done, he lifts his hand to push some hair behind his ear and there’s audible proof of how sticky it is.

“Hang on,” he starts, shifting sideways to look at you as you buckle your seatbelt. “Can we actually stop at my place and have a drink first? I just… I need to change and maybe rinse this shit out of the ends of my hair.” He seems pretty annoyed and you feel for him, so you can’t help but nod.

“Totally fine.” You smile in an attempt to quell a little bit of his anger bubbling up under the surface.

He aggressively shifts into drive and all but peels out of the spot he’s parked in, probably leaving tracks in the grass of whoever’s house this is without a care. You smirk as he leans forward to look around the bend of the road before he pulls out and picks up a significant amount of speed.

The song playing picks up where it must have left off when he arrived, and you think you recognize the familiar sound of the Foo Fighters. He turns it up a little as he starts to sing along, softly and maybe even subconsciously as he concentrates on the road. He’s a bit of a reckless driver, and you find your hand reaching for the handle on the door subtly.

The chorus comes in and he drums along on the steering wheel as you approach some main roads, slowing down just a little.

“Give me some rope, I'm coming loose, I’m pulling for you now…”

You smile as he seems to let go of whatever anger was brimming and his charming smile comes back as his enthusiasm grows. Eventually, after a particularly loud, “YEOW!” towards the end of the song, you have to let out a laugh. He glances over at you once he hears it, his eyes flickering between you and the road for a moment before he bites his tongue between his teeth in a playful way that makes your stomach flip. The song ends and another one starts, this one softer, a sweet melodic undercurrent as he drives. Danny taps his fingers softly against the wheel along with the melody like he’s listened to it a few times.

You know the distance never made a difference to me…

It’s getting brighter as he drives, heading past the restaurants and bars lining the streets of Nashville, crowds and lines and not a single parking spot to be found.

I swam a lake of fire, I’d have walked across the floor of any sea…

You listen, not feeling the need to make any conversation, taking these little insights into his taste in music and running with them, putting the pieces together. You find these tidbits more valuable than if he were to outright start talking about himself directly to you.

As you steal glances at him, you look around his car too. There are a few rubber ducks on the dashboard. One is a leprechaun, another is solid blue. There’s a bigger one that’s white with cherries. There’s one you think is Frankenstein, but you can’t quite tell.

He has some chapstick in the center console under his phone, a stick of Palmer’s cocoa butter lip balm. He has a friendship bracelet tied to the wrist closest to you, and the opposite has a thin gold bracelet and a smart watch of some sort. His jeans have a little faded indent that shows where he usually keeps his phone.

He flips on his blinker and pulls onto a side street, driving slower now through the suburban streets. As he pulls into his driveway, he turns the music down a little, looking at you while he shifts into park.

He reaches for his phone, then the chapstick. He puts some on quickly and then offers it to you, holding on to the cap. You accept, swiping on a little before wordlessly handing it back. He secures the cap and then speaks.

“Shall we?”

You open the car door and jump out, fixing your clothes briefly before closing it behind you. He wraps a warm arm around you as he leads the way down the pathway to the front door of his house.

“God, it’s fucking freezing.” He says, eventually taking his arm back so he can use both hands to put the key in and turn the knob.

As you wait for him to unlock his front door you can smell the sticky sweetness radiating from his clothes, mixing with the masculine scent of his cologne. He smells warm and clean and you want to bury your face into him to escape the cold. The wind is whipping your hair around, and cutting through the fabric of your corset top, sending shivers through your body. He pushes the door open and you’re instantly met with the heat of his home, bathed in warm amber lighting.

He flips a few light switches and plugs his keys into a Marshall key rack, before kicking his shoes off and locking the door. He takes off his hat, and peels off his liquor covered pull over, giving you the smallest glimpse of the dark hair peeking from the top of his jeans. He tosses it onto his kitchen counter and it's then you see the thick black bands inked across his bicep. His t-shirt is tight across his chest, adorned with birds and a sunset motif, as he reaches for his hat, placing it back on top of his dark curls letting out a sigh of relief before looking at you.

“So, drinks. What do you um– What would you like? I think I can make most anything.” he says, walking over to a small wooden bar cart against the wall. You unzip your boots and leave them at his front door, happy to finally have them off after all this time.

“Anything?” you ask, leaning your hip into his kitchen counter. “How confident are you in your mixology skills?”

He gives you a smug grin, “I’d say I’m pretty confident. I’ve been known to pour up a drink or two. No complaints so far.”

“Can you make a Martini? A good one?” you ask, pushing off the counter and walking over towards him.

“Vodka or Gin?” he asks, sliding both of the bottles from their respective places. “Wait, are you a dirty girl?”

You send him a self righteous smile and lean against the cabinet next to him. “What do you think?”

“Okay. So, Gin it is.” he says, twisting the lid from the bottle.

“Lucky guess.” you answer, watching him walk to the fridge to retrieve a jar of olives. He grabs a cocktail shaker and a few ice cubes on his way back to the bar cart, setting the items down to begin the process. You watch intently as he adds the Gin and Vermouth to the shaker, adding a healthy splash of olive brine to the silver cup. He places the lid on top of the shaker and starts to shake the mixture together over the ice. His arms flex as he does so, and you can’t seem to take your eyes off of him and his perfectly tanned complexion.

After a few seconds he stops, pulling the frosty lid off and straining the mixture into two waiting martini glasses. He works precariously to skewer a few olives through toothpicks, dropping them into the glasses and extending the first one out to you.

You take a sip from the cold glass, tasting the saltiness on your tongue.

“Well, dirty enough for you?” he asks, sipping from his own.

“Mmhm. Just right.” you murmur.

He leads you over to his couch, a firm black leather number with a few throw pillows and a blanket or two strewn about. You both sit, sipping at your drinks as he reaches over to grab a remote, turning on a stereo system that's clearly wired through the whole house.

“Any preference?” he asks, pulling out his phone.

“Surprise me.”

Music starts to play through the house, something much softer than you expected based on what he’d played in the car. You definitely didn’t take him for a folk rock kind of guy, but the more you think about it, he’s been full of surprises all night.

You can feel your chest growing warm as the gin works its way into your bloodstream. His cheeks are a little more pink than they were, and since the removal of his jacket you notice his arms are a little flushed too.

You look around his living room, noticing pictures on the wall of what you can only assume are his bandmates and he in various cities and countries. A few framed albums hang on the wall along with some artwork for color. However, the entire back wall of his living room is lined with guitars.

“You play guitar…” the words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“Yeah, yeah. I do. Was my first instrument, though now I’m a drummer. Guitar was really my first love. What about you? How long you been playing?” he asks.

“Oh, since I was eleven. Got one for Christmas and my parents got me some lessons. Just kinda clicked you know?” you answer, “Which uh– which one is your favorite?” you ask, gesturing your glass towards the guitars hanging.

“Oooh, probably– Um, probably the yellow one, far left. I find myself reaching for it the most. Good little thing, lots of power if you know how to wield it.” he answers, sipping from his glass.

You nod and look back at him, “So you love guitar but you’re the drummer?” you ask.

“Yeah, I know, sounds backwards but, my brother, Jake, he’s…He’s way better than I’ll ever be. I fit on drums, you know? It works for us. Obviously.” he laughs, a dimple peeking out on his cheek.

“Yeah, yeah I understand I almost played bass in my band.” you quip, tossing back the rest of your drink. You pull the toothpick of olives from the glass and pop one into your mouth.

“Are these blue cheese olives?” you ask.

“They are, yeah. I like them in a Martini.” he answers confidently.

“They’re really good. I love olives.” you reply, setting your glass on the coffee table.

“So, you had your one drink. It’s the moment of truth…”

“Hmm… Might need another to make a really good solid decision, you know?” you say playfully, resting your head on the couch cushion and letting your eyes flick up to meet his.

“I think I could do that…” he says, snatching your glass from the table and returning to the bar cart.

“You know, you guys sounded really good up there. I was into it. I’m glad we got there when we did.” he says, shaking the silver shaker.

“We?” you ask, wondering who he left at the show.

“Oh, yeah. I came with my buddy Sam. The one on the phone earlier. He’s the bass player in our band.” he says, pouring up the drinks.

“I see, so you left him there...” you joke.

“You heard for yourself he seemed preoccupied…” he laughs, and he’s right, he definitely sounded busy.

“So you two are like, best friends outside of the band?” you ask, accepting the glass from his hand as he rejoins you on the couch, a little closer this time. He grabs a thick blue blanket from the back of the couch and tosses it to you with a gentle smile as he answers your question.

“Yeah, I mean we were best friends before the band ever really existed. Just kind of solidified our friendship. Been quite a few years of craziness together.”

“And the others…They’re all brothers, right? Or is that just a rumor?” you ask.

“Yeah, all brothers, twins and then Sam who is a couple years younger. My age.” he says, sipping from his glass with a loud exhale.

“Is that…weird?” you ask, a little hesitantly.

“Not at all. I’m practically their brother too. Known ‘em my whole life. Wouldn’t be able to do this crazy on the go life with anyone but them, I think.” he says, letting his walls down just enough to let you peek in.

“How many months out of the year do you guys tour?”

“Shit, a lot. We’re gone more than we’re home these days. Probably eight or nine I’d say. Either in the US, Europe, Mexico… Fuckin’ everywhere now. It’s crazy.” he says, staring off into the distance, his eyes locked on the small flame flickering in his electric fireplace.

“So you guys are pretty famous then...Touring that long… Even have random girls spilling their drinks on you at parties just for a single photo…” you wink.

“Oh, do I detect a hint of jealousy from Miss Y/N?” he asks.

“No, I’m not jealous… I mean, I’m the one sitting on your couch drinking Martini’s aren’t I?”

He laughs and shakes his head, tipping his drink to his lips. “I had to work for it, but… you sure are, sweetheart.”

“Did you think I wasn’t gonna say yes to drinks?” you ask, your eyes locking in on him as the alcohol swirls through your system. You can tell he’s feeling it too, letting himself become a little more flirty.

“Wasn’t sure, was kinda touch and go there for a minute. I hoped you would agree. Could hardly take my eyes off of you all night. Saw you and… Yeah, I just had to talk to you.”

“You use that line on all the girls?” you ask, sipping the last of the frosty drink.

“No, guys too, I don’t play favorites.” he smirks, biting the olive off of his toothpick with a wink.

Fuck…

You smile and nod, biting your lip between your teeth as you feel color rush to your cheeks.

“How does it feel?” he asks, his eyes trained on your lips, watching as you release it.

“What?” you breathe.

He swallows harshly, “Nothin’...Nevermind.” he says, shaking the thoughts from his mind. “Well, drink two…Have you made up your mind yet? Am I as bad as they say? Are you dying to get out of here?” he asks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. He’s inched a little closer to you and you can feel the warmth radiating off of his body.

“What if I say yes?” you ask, leaning forward just a touch.

He repositions himself, taking your glass and placing it with his on the table. He moves a little closer, mirroring your body as he rests his head on his hand on the back of the couch.

“Well, then I’ll get us some water, get my head on straight, and take you home. Is that what you want?” he asks, his dark eyes boring into yours as he tilts his chin down.

“And if I say no?” you answer.

“If you say no, then I…Make us another drink and we can keep talking and…see what happens…” he says, his voice trailing off, hoping you will take that option, and there’s no doubt in your mind which option you’re going to pick.

“What were you thinking about a minute ago? …Tell me.” you say, pulling your legs up and tucking them under you.

He rubs his hand over his chin, nodding his head in agreement. “Your lips.”

“What about them?” you ask, feeling your heart start to pound.

“I don’t know, they’re just pretty. Wanted to know how it felt… watching you bite them.” he admits. He grins, unabashed. “Your turn…What’re you thinking about?” he asks.

“I’m thinking…another drink.” He grins when he realizes you’ve made your decision.

“I’ll make you another drink… But only if you tell me what you and Tori were actually talking about.” he counters as he stands, grabbing both of your glasses. As he walks away, you snicker softly.

“Why do I feel like you already know?” you ask, standing to follow him to the kitchen island. He shrugs, his broad shoulders flexing a little in a way that catches your eye. You walk by him, exploring his kitchen.

“I’m certain I was the subject, but something tells me her interpretation of what happened between her and I has become a bold departure from the truth…” he muses in a smooth voice as he pours.

“It was a warning really…” you begin, standing in front of his refrigerator. There’s one pizza menu, a mostly unused magnetic notepad, and some photos. “She was letting me know that you’re very charming and convincing, but underneath it all, you apparently have zero respect for women.”

He chuckles as he gently places the olive skewers in your drinks, unbothered by the retelling of Tori’s dramatic warning. You look at the photos on his fridge, realizing that most of them are of his family. They look pretty wholesome.

“Tori and I ended badly because I felt that she was a bit too… immature, emotionally. She puts a lot of stock into social media and status and things like that, which just isn’t how I am. My life is on display enough already.” He says truthfully, pushing your drink towards you.

“You have a sister?” You ask, looking over your shoulder, then back to their Old Navy catalog-esque family photos.

“I do, yeah. She's my best friend… much to Sam’s dismay.” He says, sipping from his own glass and retreating to the couch.

“That’s sweet…You two seem really close.” you say as you turn to grab your drink, following him as he takes a seat.

“I’m not all bad.”

He looks up at you, a devilish smirk on his lips. He tugs the brim of his hat a little, as if he wants to see you better. Taking a big gulp of your drink, you remove the olives and hold the toothpick between two fingers.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, shifting his hips a little so his thighs are spread wide on the couch and patting his thigh. You flush from the combination of his eyes on you and the alcohol hitting your system. You put your glass down, figuring you’ve had enough, and delicately straddle him where he sits. Watching as he takes a sip of his own drink, you let out a little huff.

“Oh, I didn’t get to eat my olives.” you say, a little disappointed, turning to reach for your drink.

“Here.” Danny’s voice is suddenly delicate as he speaks. You look back into his eyes and he’s got his own toothpick between his fingers. “Open.”

You open your mouth tentatively, then bite down on the bottom olive once it’s in far enough. He pulls the toothpick away and you chew gingerly, your smile a little coy.

“S’good?” He asks, his voice still soft. You nod your head. “I feel like olives are hit or miss for a lot of people.”

“I love a good salty treat…” you say with a shrug, which earns you a boisterous chuckle from him.

“You were a tough nut to crack but… you’re pretty fun.” He says, watching as you take a sip of his drink to wash the olive down since you can’t reach your own. You smile, your eyes slightly narrowed, wordlessly confirming that yeah, you’re fun when you want to be.

As if he sees you’ve gotten a little bit of a big head over it, he decides to trip you up. He leans back and puts his drink on the end table before he speaks.

“Why don’t you come a little closer and give me a kiss? I know you’ve been thinking about it.”

You lick your lips, a little nervous. He’s telling you to make the first move.

“Let me just get my pen…” you say, looking around.

“What?” He looks genuinely confused.

“Oh, for the NDA. Right?”

As soon as you deliver the punchline, he’s pulling you in for a hungry kiss so fast you barely get a laugh out. His massive hand is on the back of your neck to keep you in place while the other has a grip on your forearm, again, keeping you in place. You moan softly in surprise but let yourself lean into him, steadying yourself on his chest with your free hand. You feel how damp his shirt still is from the drink he had poured on him.

His lips are perfectly soft, reminding you of the chapstick he so graciously shared with you in the car. You tug softly on the grip he has in your forearm and he releases it, allowing you to push up for a breath of air.

He, however, doesn’t seem to need any. He quickly buries his face in your neck, his mouth latching onto your throat, his tongue pulling the delicate skin between his teeth before he bites down with a bit of force. You can’t help the way your hips roll forward, your mouth releasing a sound you don’t even recognize.

“Yeah?” He says, his smirk audible.

“…Yeah.”

He does it again and again, moving down your neck towards your clavicle, then the fullest part of each of your tits, leaving red bites and splotches as he goes. You’re breathless by the time he looks back up at you, his lips swollen and his eyes a little wild. He grins, his perfect, sharp teeth flashing in the dim light of his living room.

You capture him in another kiss, this time lacing your fingers in his hair, carefully making sure not to pull at any of his perfect curls. You feel a little bit of the stickiness from the spill earlier and pull your hand away gently as hair gets stuck to your fingers. He breaks the kiss, taking a few shallow breaths as you watch the way his chest rises and falls.

“…I’m a fuckin’ mess. What do you say to helping me wash this out of my hair?” He mumbles, his eyes looking over you in a way that implies he knows you’re going to say yes.

“Oh, yeah. It looks like a two person job. I’m happy to help.” You giggle softly before he pecks you on the lips. You lift from his lap, feeling your balance waver slightly as you get your footing. He’s on his feet quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind to steady you.

“Think you’ll make it up the stairs?” He jokes, his voice soft, his lips against the shell of your ear. You laugh as he squeezes tight around you, leaning your head against his.

“You do make a strong drink… but I’ll be okay.”

He kisses your cheek, sending you forward with a quick smack on your ass.

You ascend the stairs, Danny following close behind. You can feel his eyes on you as you reach the top, and turning over your shoulder only confirms it. He looks up and meets your eyes, giving you a guilty smile.

He puts a gentle, possessive hand on the back of your neck as he guides you into his bedroom. It’s dark until he flips on the lights, the switch controlling two lamps on either side of his bed. He doesn’t stop there, though, continuing to guide you towards the bathroom.

Once inside, you’re met with a sparkling clean bathroom, an impressive shower that’s about as big as your bedroom, and a dual basin sink. He turns you around for another kiss, this time sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth biting softly into the skin. When he hears the whimper it conjures from deep in your chest, he does it again with more enthusiasm before breaking the kiss and leaving you wanting more.

He steps into the large open concept shower, flicking the handle to start the water. There's chill bumps spreading across his skin from the coldness of the water and the tile beneath his feet. He walks back out as you lean against the bathroom wall, watching him as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a fairly chiseled physique. His skin is pretty tan for February but you chalk it up to traveling and don’t think much of it.

He presses the button on a portable speaker hanging from a towel hook behind you, powering it on. He slides his phone from his pants pocket and turns on the same music that was playing downstairs, before tossing his phone onto the counter and stepping over to a closet to grab another towel. He hangs it on the hook next to his and you wish that the sight didn’t make your cheeks grow warm.

Steam starts to rise from the streams of water in the shower, and as you remember just how cold it is outside, you shiver wanting nothing more than to be standing under the scalding hot water. He breaks your trance by stepping in front of you, sliding his hand around your neck and pulling you in for a kiss. He pulls your bottom lip away from your teeth as he pulls away from you, releasing it with a grin. He runs his warm hands over your arms, feeling the chill bumps that have taken up residency.

“You cold, sweetheart? You wanna get warmed up?” he asks, sliding them back up to your shoulders. His fingers hook into the the straps of your top, pulling them down over your shoulders to rest gently on your arms.

“Yeah, got any ideas?” you answer playfully, toying with the button on his jeans. You free the button from the hole, and slide his zipper down before pulling them away.

“A few right off the top of my head. Why don’t you take this off for me…” he says, sliding his finger down the center of your top. You reach for the zipper on the side, slowly pulling it down until the fabric breaks free. You let it fall to the tile floor, leaving you in just your black jeans. His eyes dart down to your chest and he sucks in a deep breath before letting his eyes meet yours. They are darker, deeper, and completely blown out with lust.

He lets his knuckles just barely graze over your skin as they travel up your stomach and over your sternum, sliding across your collarbone and down around the fullness of your tits. His thumb just lightly grazes over your nipple, feeling the pebbled flesh beneath his finger tip.

Your eyes flick to his lips, full and pouty as his fingers trace over your skin. You let your hands wrap around his torso as you press your lips to his, feeling his hands grip into your chest, with a firm squeeze. A whimper leaves your mouth and you can feel the smile on his lips.

“These too?” he says, sliding his hand to the button on your jeans.

“Mmhm…” you hum, letting him pop the button. You shimmy out of the tight black pants, just your thong between you and his hands now.

“Red…How festive.” he snarks, sucking hard into your neck again. You roll your eyes but he can’t see, still it makes you feel better.

You slide your fingers into the front of his open jeans, silently asking him to join you. He pulls his pink lips away from your skin and kicks his jeans off, pausing and looking at you for a moment before sliding his dark colored boxers over his hips and down to the floor. Your eyes don’t leave his, but from your peripheral you can see that he is fully hard, and hanging heavily between the two of you.

You swallow thickly, and he seems to notice, letting a smug grin spread across his face as he licks his lips.

“Still a bit uneven, hm?” he says, hooking his fingers into the sides of your thong, and sinking to his knees before sliding them over your hips. When they hit the floor you step out of them, kicking them to the side. You feel his hands slide up the front of your legs, circling around to rest at the back of your thighs as a deep hum leaves his chest.

His lips connect with your hip bone, kissing and sucking at the skin until a deep purple mark is left behind. You can feel yourself practically dripping with want for him, and you know if you two don’t get into the shower quickly, he will be your undoing without even properly touching you.

He stands, grabbing your hand and pulling you into his large stone tiled shower, a freestanding tub just to the side. The second the water hits your skin you let out an audible groan, the goosebumps quickly disappearing.

“Yeah? Not too hot?” he asks, pulling you under the spray.

“Not hot enough…” you quip, raising an eyebrow.

“Any hotter and we’ll descend into hell, babe.” he laughs, twisting the handle a bit further.

As he steps under the spray to wet his hair you take the time to look at him. The subtle contours of his body, the way his muscles ripple as he moves, the stretch of his tattoo as he rakes his hands through his curls. Your eyes flick to his groin, taking in the sheer size of him, and of course you’re caught in the act.

“S’not polite to stare…” he smirks. “You wanna hand me that body wash right there?” he asks, nodding his head to a shelf of products. You grab the amber colored bottle, ready to hand it to him but instead squirting the masculine smelling shower gel into your own palm.

You rub it between both of your hands before pressing them both to his abs, starting to slide the soapy bubbles across his skin. “This okay?” you ask, locking eyes with him.

“Fuck yeah, baby.”

You continue sliding your hands around his body, traveling up and around his broad shoulders before sliding back down his slender frame. He presses his tongue into his cheek every time your hands slide a little further down, and after a few teasing attempts you let your hand circle around his fully hardened cock.

He swallows heavily as you slide your soapy fist up and down his shaft, your eyes never leaving his.

“Yeah baby, just like that, feels so good. C’mere…” he pleads, pulling your face to his and pressing his lips to yours. His tongue swipes against your lips before pressing into your mouth, your tongues playing a game of cat and mouse as your hand continues to work him. He groans as he pulls away from you, letting the water wash over him and rinse away the suds. You press a kiss to his chest, sucking the skin into your teeth to leave a mark of your own, but he stops you, pulling you away with a smirk.

“No, no, no…Can’t this time, gotta wear a sheer shirt in three days. Gonna have to mark somewhere you can’t see.” he says, tilting your chin up with his thumb.

You purse your lips together before raising a brow. You sink down to your knees, feeling him brush your wet hair away from your face. You grip his cock in your fist once again as he leans against the cold tile behind him, his hand coming to rest in your hair.

You lean forward, pressing a wet kiss to the tip of his dick, locking eyes with him before letting him slide past your lips and into your mouth. His jaw clenches as you stroke him, letting your tongue slide up and down the underside of his cock as the water pours down around the two of you. You slide your hand up his thigh, cupping his balls in your free hand as you take him as far down as you can. You swallow around him, and his hips jerk forward, a groan leaving his chest.

You blink up at him, and seeing that he’s enjoying this is making you all the more aroused. His eyes flutter closed and you whine around him, causing his eyes to fly back open.

“Oh, you want me to watch you, baby?” he asks, his hand gripping into your wet hair. You blink at him as the wet sounds of your mouth echo in the large shower.

He clicks his tongue, “Of course you want me to watch you. I saw you on the stage tonight…Everyone fawning over you. Feels good doesn’t it, sweetheart? Having everyone’s eyes on you? It’s addicting huh, baby?” he pauses, jerking his hips forward, earning him a gag from your throat. “Fuck… It gets better you know… Bigger crowds, more people, more pressure. People fucking dying to meet you everywhere you go. My eyes are on you now baby. You’ve got my full attention.”

He fucks into your mouth again, a grunt leaving his chest as his words falter. Water is dripping from the ends of his hair down onto your face as his eyes stay locked on yours. “You looked so fuckin’ hot on the stage tonight, but you’re so goddamn pretty right here just for me.”

He slides his hand from your hair and cups your jaw, letting his thumb and fingers press into the hollows of your cheeks. You’re positive he can feel his cock sliding against his fingers as he moves in your mouth, and you feel like you might cum from this alone.

“Fuck…” he groans, pulling himself from your mouth and quickly grabbing your hand to pull you up from your sore knees.

“But I wanted–”

“Don’t worry baby, you’re gonna get exactly what you want…” he says, pulling you under the spray to warm you body for just seconds before spinning you around to face away from him. He pulls you tightly to his chest, his hard cock resting just beneath your ass. His right hand slides around to your front, his fingers sliding between your folds, feeling the wetness collected there.

“You sweet little thing, you like sucking my cock?” he asks, swirling two fingers over your clit. “Answer me.” he says, before sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You jump at the contact and you feel a rush of wetness sweep over you.

“Yes…” you breathe, unable to form a coherent sentence. You want him to do it again. You want it harder.

“You did so good, might let you do it again…” he says, sliding his middle finger inside of you.

“Oh goddamn, you’re so tight…” he groans, adding another finger as his palm works over top of your clit.

“Danny…” you breathe, feeling your nerves come alive.

“Yeah? You want more?” he asks, your heavy breathing echoing in the shower.

“Bite me… Again…” you beg, “Please…”

“Oh, so sweet with your tight pussy and your manners.” he taunts.

His lips brush against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to the skin, letting his tongue swipe over it before sinking his teeth into you again.

“Oh, fuck…” you cry out, clenching around his fingers as his tongue laps against the fresh bite mark.

“Yeah? You like that? Want me to mark you all up, claim you as mine?” he asks, “Your pussy says yes, but what does that sweet mouth say?”

“Again…” you beg.

A hum leaves his chest, “Step forward, put your hands on the edge of the tub for me, gorgeous.” he says, pulling his fingers from you, and smacking your ass with his wet hand.

You grip your hands into the white porcelain, feeling him step up behind you, admiring the red handprint he left behind seconds ago. You feel his hands grip into your ass, rubbing over the round flesh before sinking to his knees behind you. You feel his breath hot against your core, a shiver of anticipation settling deep within your bones.

His hands grip into the meat of your thighs before his mouth connects with your core, his hot tongue lapping at your entrance. The sounds echoing off the walls are lewd, but the euphoria washing over your body is all consuming. His tongue flicks over your clit and you find yourself arching your back to grant him easier access. His hand travels up the inside of your thigh, his thumb finding your clit and flicking across it as his tongue toys with your opening. You groan into the empty tub below you, your knees growing weaker with every movement of his tongue.

“Danny…” you plead, knowing your orgasm is approaching.

The wet sounds of his tongue on your pussy are growing louder, and with a particularly loud suck you find yourself screaming his name. He hums against you as your legs start to shake, feeling his lips pull away from you and move to the inside of your thigh, he presses a kiss to the sensitive skin, before again sinking his teeth into you.

Lighting strikes through your body, and you know your release is within reach. He runs his tongue up the inside of your thigh, pressing a kiss to the tender bite before returning his mouth to your core.

“Danny…Danny please… please…” you beg.

You feel him smile against you, “You sound like my fans, baby…You don’t have to beg…” he pauses, sucking your clit into his mouth.

He brings both of his hands to your ass, squeezing the skin as he lets his teeth gently graze your clit, sending you straight over the edge. A string of indiscernible curses leave your mouth, strung together beautifully with his name woven inbetween.

He holds you against the tub, not letting your body crash to the ground as it so badly wants to do. He works you through your release, his tongue slowing as he feels you start to come down.

“Guess I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of a rockstar cumming on your face…” he jokes, running his nose up your spine as he stands behind you.

You huff out a laugh, still trying to catch your breath. “Yeah?” you pause, “And which end do you prefer…”

“This one.” he says, delivering a harsh smack to your ass cheek. You yelp in surprise, and feel another rush of wetness to your core.

He kisses your shoulder again, breathing in deeply as he fists his cock behind you. “Wanna fuck you, baby…”

“Last chance for that NDA…” you joke, quickly feeling him press you back down onto the ledge of the bathtub, the head of his cock brushing at your entrance. He presses into you, sliding in quickly from the wetness accumulated.

Your once playful demeanor has rapidly changed gears at the fullness you feel inside you. You tighten around him as you feel his groin pressed to your ass, the coarse pubic hair at his base brushing against your opening.

His hand rests on your shoulder as you feel him start to pull out just long enough to slam back into you.

“Oh, fuck…” he breathes, the tightness of your pussy suddenly a little too much for him. He slides his hand down your back, both hands now gripping into your hips as he moves in and out of you, setting a fairly quick pace.

Your tits bounce against your chest as your hands grip into the tub, whines floating from your lips as his cock crashes into your cervix. You gasp each time, and you think that's what's spurring him on, but by this point he knows that you may possess a few masochistic tendencies.

“Goddamn you’re so gorgeous, perfect fuckin’ body, perfect tight pussy…” he grunts, the hot water still streaming down over the two of you.

“Tell me what you want.” he demands, “Want you to cum on my cock.”

“Harder. More…” you plead, the sound of your wet bodies slapping together, inching you both closer.

He leans over you, his hands sliding up your back to rest on your arms. You feel his lips trail up your spine, kissing into the soft skin at the juncture of your neck. “Yeah, you want more?” he growls against you, biting into your skin harder than he has.

You feel his perfect teeth sink into you, the harsh sting sizzling through you like fire. He groans into your neck with his lips still attached to you and you feel a rush of warmth trickle down your skin. A drop of crimson red blood drips onto the tile below you, quickly washing down the drain.

A whine leaves your chest, the pressure in your groin building as his tongue laps over the broken skin, hot and wet. His hips snap into you a little harder and a little tighter, and it’s evident to you that maybe he has a few kinks of his own.

You feel a rivulet of blood trickling down your back, his hand coming up to spread it across your wet skin for only him to see, that is until his hand grips into the white porcelain next to yours. His hand is tinted red, and as he pulls it away to grip back into your hips, it’s a smear of bloody fingerprints that's left behind.

“Fuck…I’m– Hold on to the tub, don’t let go.” he says, spreading his stance a little wider behind you, but bringing one foot up to the edge of the tub for leverage. He drives his hips into you harder, a groan leaving his chest with each pointed thrust. “Baby…” you whine, only thoughts of him floating through your mind.

“Yeah…Come on…” he grunts, his hair dripping onto your back.

“I’m–”

“Yeah, give it to me. Cum for me so fuckin’ sweet and pretty, god I love it…” he says through gritted teeth.

“Danny–” you warn, fluttering against him.

“Yeah right, there, oh fuck…” he whines, as you clench around him.

A loud cry leaves your mouth, his cock still working against your g-spot as you fall apart around him. You feel like you're floating around the room in a thousand pieces, falling back down perfectly into place as he moves inside of you.

“Danny…” you breathe.

“So fuckin’ beautiful, gonna cum, baby… You want that? You want my cum?” he asks, his hips starting to stutter.

“Please, yes… My mouth… In my mouth, I want you…” you plead.

“In your mouth…Fuck…” he says, still pumping into you. “I want your pussy so fucking bad baby, but god you’re so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” he pauses, “Fuck it, get on your knees.” he says, pulling out of you, and continuing to rapidly stroke his glistening, wet cock.

You drop to your knees again, ready to take what you were promised earlier. You pull him into your mouth, your eyes rolling back in your head as you fill your throat full of him.

“Mother fucker…” he groans, snapping his hips into you. His hand reaches down palming at your tits, rolling your nipple between his fingers. You whine against his cock, and that pushes him to his finish. He swiftly pulls himself from your mouth, pumping his fist over his cock as you peer up at him with your mouth open, and your tongue presented to him.

“You want my cum, fuck… Take it… Fuckin’ take it.” he grunts, his hot release shooting into your mouth, landing on your tongue. It drips from your lips, rolling down your chin in bitter salty streams, and as he stares at you with a heaving chest you know that both of you need more of each other. Your mouth is full, his hot cum dripping down your chest as he releases his cock from his hand.

He cups your chin, rubbing his thumb over your cheek with a smirk, before letting it drift into your open mouth, nodding at you to close your lips around it. You close your swollen lips and swallow down his cum with a flutter of your eye lids. It's warm as it slides down your throat, the taste of him unique, causing you to hum. Your tongue toys with his thumb and he pulls it from your lips with a pop.

He drags his thumb up your throat and over your chin, collecting the drip that had fallen, before returning his thumb to your lips, and smearing it across the puffy pink skin. You lick your lips in response, and you watch as he crouches down in front of you, meeting you at eye level.

He presses his lips to yours, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, tasting the remnant of himself on your skin. His hand settles on the side of your neck, pulling you in a little closer and deepening the kiss before pulling away.

He stares at you with a satisfied smile, and you’re sure you’re looking just as blissed out as he is.

“Stay here, tonight.” he breathes, rubbing his thumb over your throat.

“You sure?” you ask, placing your hand on his wrist.

“I’ll wash your hair and we can order a pizza?” he smiles, trying to sweeten the deal, as if you’ll say no.

“With pineapple? Or is that a deal breaker…” you counter.

He smiles his perfect smile and kisses your forehead, helping you stand and escorting you back to the streaming hot water.

—

After an ironic heart shaped pizza, with pineapple, a glass of red wine and a few laughs, you find yourself being ushered back upstairs with the swat of his hand. He leads you into his bedroom before disappearing back into his bathroom, his queen size bed perfectly made with fluffy beige sheets and feather pillows, and you want nothing more than to melt into them. He was kind enough to lend you a t-shirt and a pair of sweats after your shower, but as you make your way towards the bed you find yourself wanting to slip out of the clothes all together. You kick off the sweats and are left in just his t-shirt and a pair of his boxers.

He emerges from the bathroom, his curls disheveled around his face without any product to keep them together. “I uh, I don’t know if you want this… I dug around in my cabinet and found this from the last time I went to the dentist, but it’s new, and I am honestly shocked I found it, but it’s all yours if you want it.” he stammers, offering you a toothbrush.

You take it from his hands, pulling it from the cardboard packaging as you follow him into the bathroom. He places himself in front of the sink, grabbing his black electric toothbrush, and the tube of toothpaste. He wets his toothbrush, and unscrews the lid, ready to squirt the paste onto his brush, but stopping and turning to you first. You hold out the toothbrush and let him squeeze a line of toothpaste onto the bristles, giving him a smile before he turns back to his own.

You stare at yourself in the mirror as you brush your teeth, reading the letters ‘CME’ on the gray t-shirt, and smiling because you’ve always wanted to go there. You catch his eyes in the mirror, watching him brush his own teeth, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he stands in just his black sweatpants. Your eyes flick down to the V of his waist and you find yourself brushing a little harder as you recall the events of the evening.

He smiles around his foamy toothbrush, likely having the same thoughts, before turning the water on to spit into the sink. You do the same, rinsing your mouth with water and placing the brush on the counter.

“Do you want me to toss this in the morning or…” you ask.

“Oh, no, you can uh… You can just use it next time I guess. I can keep it here or something.”

“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” you snark, raising your eyebrows in challenge. Your eyes suddenly catch sight of the bloody handprint left on his pristine white tub, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Should I call my lawyer back? I already had him working on that NDA.” he says through a laugh, turning off the bathroom light and smacking your ass as you cross the threshold into his bedroom.

He pulls down the comforter, letting you slide into the ice cold sheets before sliding in after you. You shiver a little, but not for long. He snakes his arm beneath you, wrapping it around your shoulder, and pulling you to lay half way on top of him. He twists his legs with yours, and you can feel his semi hard dick hiding just beneath his sweats. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he laughs.

“I’m not sorry, who knew you would be so fucking cute brushing your teeth in my t-shirt?” You roll your eyes and lay your head down, the amber glow of his lamp illuminating the room.

“I mean it, though. I’d like to do this again.” His voice is almost boyish as he looks over at you from his side of the bed. You grin, nodding in agreement as your heavy eyelids make your blinks long and slow.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, and turns down the brightness. As he unlocks his phone you see the background is a photo of his mom, his sister, and himself, on a beach somewhere.

“They don’t live here…” you ask, but it’s not a question. You already know the answer.

“No.” he answers, his voice solemn. “They’re in Michigan.”

“You miss them.”

“Yeah, but I’ll see them soon. I think they’re gonna come down for a show. Just been too long this time. Gonna take my dad golfing, I think.” he says, opening his texts, and though you're trying not to look, you can’t help but notice that his inbox that you assumed would be full of unsaved numbers and girls names, isn’t. In fact there’s hardly any.

He clicks on an unread message, laughing as he reads it.

Jake

7:05pm: You still coming over later?

Jake

8:11pm: You prick how the fuck do you have plans, we aren’t even supposed to be here

Jake

9:17pm: Nevermind 😎

“How many friends did you ditch tonight?” you laugh.

“Ehhhh, listen… Jake– He– I would have been stuck there until 3 in the morning if I went, I much prefer how my night turned out.” he giggles, sending back a skull emoji.

He opens the next thread and sighs, clearing his throat and rubbing his fist into his eye as he responds.

Sista ✨

9:34pm: Happy Valentine’s Day, miss you! Love you & see you soon!

Danny

1:04am: Happy Valentine’s day, love you 💐

You feel your heart warm a little at the message, and you realize that maybe these girls that warned you, really didn’t know him like they thought they did. Sure he has a bit of an ego, maybe he’s a little cocky, but you kinda like it. He gives you a run for your money, and apart from the insanely hot sex earlier, he’s been a perfect gentleman. Kinda the best of both worlds if you think about it.

He locks his phone and tosses it on his nightstand, rolling over to his side and pulling you into his chest. You can smell the body wash you washed him with earlier still lingering on his skin, and as you breathe in the smell of him, and feel the warmth of his body against yours, he wraps his arms around you kissing your shoulder atop the deep red mark that his perfect teeth left.

—

When the morning comes, you’re woken up by the natural light in Danny’s bedroom and a dull throbbing in your head. He’s rolled over, facing away from you as he sleeps peacefully on his clean, white sheets.

Reaching for your phone, you suppress a groan at the soreness that radiates through your body. It's late morning and you have a few texts waiting for you already. The first is from your best friend, who you’re assuming went home with the guy she met. There’s an attachment and from the preview you see it’s a film strip, so you assume it’s a sneak preview of the photos she took of you at the show.

When you open the picture, you quickly realize you’re wrong. There are a few strips laid on the table, the first of which are a few provocative photos of her in a bralette and then wrapped in a scarf of some sort. The strip underneath has pictures of people you don’t recognize at first, but as you zoom in on the third frame, you see… Danny? Then, a text comes through asking if he was the guy you were hanging around with the night before.

Danny starts to stir in bed next to you, stretching and rolling over. He seems relieved when he lays eyes on you and sees you’re still there. You roll a little closer to him on your side, holding up the zoomed-in photo.

“Is this you?”

He lifts his head a little, craning his neck and squinting his eyes to get a better look.

“Uh, yeah. Where’d you get that?” His voice is hoarse and sleepy, and you wonder if he’s feeling as rough as you are after the night you shared. You can’t help but smile as you look harder at the photo.

“I think my best friend spent the night with yours?” you say, pinching the screen and zooming out. There isn’t anything too lewd on the photos she sent you, but when he sees them, he puts the pieces together too.

“Oh, shit. How’d that happen?” He asks, putting his arm behind his head and laying back. You see the underside of his tattoo that wraps all the way around his bicep, your eyes drawn to the muscles you can see shifting under his skin.

“She was the photographer last night. In more ways than one, I guess.” you snicker, looking at the frames again.

“If I would have known it was like that, I’d have taken some photos of my own…” he says, his morning voice making your stomach flip. He sees the way color rushes to your cheeks and he grins, rolling on top of you and sliding his hands up under the t-shirt you’re borrowing. You hum as he peppers your face with kisses, pulling the duvet over the two of you, in no rush to get your day started.

Join The Taglist Here

Taglist: @ageofcj @britney-gvf @bladenotblaze @gretavanfan @peaceloveunitygvf @highway-tuna @anythingforjtk @klarxtr @itsafullmoon @myleftsock @gretavanmoon @aflame4goinghome @ascendingtothestarssasone @jjwasneverhere @sparrowofrhiannon @gvfstuddedmajesty @kiarraaldarondo @oliver-mf-reed @notjordie-gvf @starshine-wagner @starcatcherchords @sadiechar @spark-my-nature @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @mackalah @stardustofman @eyelinerjake @farfromthehomelands @abby-gvf @writingcold @fleet-of-fiction @stardustjake @sinarainbows @gvfsstardust @ageoflou @jarmonicasweat @jakekiszkasmommy @bubblyjake @jakeygvf21 @starrymoonslut @takenbythemadness @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @m0uthfl13s

275 notes · View notes

nicad13 · 2 years ago

Text

Iron and Kyber

Chapter 3: Riduurok

Chapter summary: Din tends to a wound in his soul before he joins it to another’s.

Mandalorian weddings are simple. Just you and the words. Din strips away everything that isn’t necessary. But he also adds an element he can’t resist.

---

He looks at his first tattoo in the mirror. The lines are clean and smooth. The fresh ink in his skin reminds him of the paint he’d added to his helmet months ago. Two red lines on beskar for the birth family murdered out from under him. One gray line on beskar for the blood family denied to him. Now, black ink on skin for the found family he will, at last, get to keep.

Tags: Tattoos, edging, religious conflict, disassociation

Rating: Mature

Notes: Link to AO3 in the source at the bottom. If you like what you see, please leave a comment! If you have constructive criticism, please leave a comment! I'm having trouble stringing the last third of this story together and could use some inspiration...

---

Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet And a freight train runnin’ through the middle of my head Only you can cool my desire

Bruce Springsteen, I’m on Fire

---

Rayne breathes as Din presses the needle through her skin.

The tattoo of his mudhorn signet takes shape on her right shoulder.

They’re out on the balcony as he works, the cool breeze of a warm day keeping the wind chime in motion, its soft, bass, metallic tones relaxing them both. He is in what he has come to think of as “balcony” attire – t-shirt and shorts. Unarmored. Unhelmed. Her breaths are steady despite the continuous penetration of metal and ink through her skin, and it helps to keep him focused. She’d mostly known what to expect, though her other tattoo, the Rebel Starbird on the back of her left shoulder, was done by a professional with modern equipment. By the time Din had gotten a quarter of the way through the mudhorn, she’d determined that poke-and-stick is more painful by a small degree, but nothing she can’t handle. She sits with her head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, his hand pressed against the flesh of her shoulder with the slight give of relaxed muscle.

Din had proposed their union hours after he was granted citizenship on Genesaria, a day after he’d had enough of the helmet being used against him, a day after they’d confessed their love for each other. They knew it was true, knew they were, at the very least, cemented together through their bonds with their son. He had seen no reason to wait. Rayne’s urge for patience nearly broke his heart until she’d asked to bear the signet of their clan, asked his permission to have it made permanent on her skin. Her request had healed him in an instant, and in that moment, he realized he wanted one of his own. Inasmuch as the signet on his pauldron is welded to armor that he considers his second skin, having it inked into the skin he was born with is another thing entirely. An indelible mark. A brand. A thing that cannot be taken away with ease. A score of permanence that will mark them as clan for the rest of their lives and beyond, until their very flesh is no more.

They had decided to gift the ink and the effort to each other, with their own hands. Rayne had copied the Armorer’s design from Din’s pauldron and cut the stencil out. Din had traced it to her shoulder with a marker to begin with. When Rayne checked it in the mirror and gave her approval, Yadier decided he wanted the same treatment, managing to cast his robe off and waving his arm in the air. So, she had drawn a small-scale version of it with the marker, free-handed, on his shoulder. He’d skipped around the flat with it until he wore himself out, and is now dozing in his crate under the wind chime.

So Din works, sticking with a shallow depth, only enough to push the ink through her skin. He traces the outline of the stencil first, then fills it in with a steady hand. Never once does he draw the blood of the woman he will marry. She has already shed too much blood for him and their son. She is sure to shed more in the future. The least he can do in these moments is to not take any more, to be as gentle as possible while he brands her with the icon of the animal that had brutalized him to within an inch of his life. The animal that his son had lifted from the mud, pawing and enraged, the animal he had killed with a single stab and twist of his knife.

Prone to flashbacks, he pauses for a moment, letting himself remember, letting it wash over him. Thrown into the air. Crushed into the mud. Pulling himself to one knee, drawing his knife, lowering his head, and hoping it would be enough of a warrior’s death to be bested in battle by such a ferocious beast. He breathes through his past even in the moments when he is taking steps toward his future.

Rayne notices the break in his work, opening her eyes and turning her head, otherwise remaining as still as possible. Din’s eyes are open but unseeing, brow furrowed, lips parted just a little in the middle, chest rising and falling with his steady breaths. She knows this expression, has seen this before with the same sense of him being somewhere else behind that distant, mournful gaze. Only now, she knows what to do about it. She slips out of her seat with delicate care, not wishing to startle him, the proximity with which he currently holds a sharp, ink-laden needle to her shoulder only one concern of many. She ducks inside, grabs an ice cube from the freezer, then comes back out to crouch next to him.

“Din,” she says, her voice low, tone gentle. “Din, it’s Rayne. We’re home. Can you hear me?”

He blinks, but his gaze remains unfocused. Still, his lips move, ghosting over a single word. “Yes.”

“Can I give you something? Put something in your hand? It’ll be cold. It’ll help bring you back.”

His only response is the barest head-tilt of a nod.

She slips the ice cube into his free hand. His fingers tighten around it and he pulls in a breath, short and sharp.

“Tell me what you hear, Din.”

“The windchime,” he says. He blinks again, and he’s able to focus his attention on the ice melting in his grip. He swallows. “My son. Our son. He’s snoring.”

“Yeah. That’s good. We’re on the balcony. Yadi’s asleep in his crate. We’re safe. We’re home and we’re safe, here. You’re safe with me.”

His eyes return a few moments later, dark brown irises rising to meet her watch. The same haunted eyes coming back from a past that insists on pulling him away from the present.

“Welcome back,” she says.

He blinks again, dropping his gaze down to the needle in his hand. “Sorry. I’m… here.”

“Okay in there?” she asks.

“Yeah.” His features relax back into an easy smile, eyes crinkling at the outer corners. He motions to his half-finished work on her shoulder. “Holding up?”

“Yeah,” she says, returning to her seat and closing her eyes once more. “Stings a lot, but that’s how it is. I’m good to keep going if you are.”

“Yeah.”

He continues his work, inking his signet into her skin with one hand, wiping away the small amount of translucent fluid that seeps back out with a towel held in the other. When he’s done, she checks his work in the mirror in the fresher as he places the needle in a sharps box, takes the medical gloves off, and gathers them along with the unused ink and paper towels lining the table for disposal. She’s finished cleaning her skin by the time he’s done and comes to see his work reflected in the mirror.

He takes a breath.

Seeing his signet on her shoulder… does things to him. Turns out it triggers more than just flashbacks. “Looks good on you,” he says.

She smiles, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “You did an excellent job.” Indeed, he has. The lines are even and the fills are complete. A testament to his steady hand. He helps her with the bandage.

They take a break.

Yadi wakes from his nap, Din changes into the armor, and it’s off to the playground down the street. Mother and father sit on a bench in the shade as their son bounces around with the other children. Their family is well-known in the neighborhood by now. The Jedi with the short chestnut curls, the Mandalorian with the rust-red armor, their tiny green toddler with the enormous ears. Yadi has made fast friends with the other children, even if his parents have been slow to do the same with the adults, but they’ve made a number of friendly acquaintances. They’re on a first-name basis with the other parents who have come to learn that small talk will get them nowhere with the newcomers, but conversations about battle strategy or starship engine design are greeted with more enthusiasm.

They let Yadier go at it for as long as he wants, and two hours pass before he finally gets tired, playing his way through four shifts of children who come and go from the park. The kids are generally independent from the parents, checking back for the occasional gulp of water or quick break. A few signs of sorcery are present, when one child slips off the bars and is caught in mid-air by another, or when a child launches themselves to an unnatural altitude and lands with unnatural ease. They are all well-behaved, and those who wield the Force appear not to hold it over those who don’t. When Yadi comes back for the final time, he waddles to Din’s boot, hugs his father’s leg, then falls to his back and lets out an exhausted raspberry. As clear a hint as any, they scoop him up, place him in the birikad, strap the harness to Din’s chest, and stroll home. They pick up some lunch from the street vendors on the way; several varieties of mystery-meat-on-a-stick and some fruit. Meiloorun is in season and Din is over the moon about it in his own quiet way. Rayne and Yadi share one of the meat sticks for the duration of the walk, and they consume the rest of it on the balcony once Din changes back into something more casual.

Played out, belly full, Yadier conks out for another nap, and his parents lay him down in his room.

They make love in their bed, the afternoon sunlight warm on their skin. They have the time, so they take it, and their movements are gentle, slow, and languid. Din wants to make up for the pain he’s caused Rayne, and she wants to bank his pleasure to make up for the pain she is about to cause him.

The dark, curved lines of his signet on her skin under the transparent bandage makes him grow hard as he tastes the rest of her, knowing it’s just one more step in the formalization of their union. He has grown more aggressive with his mouth and face in their time together, often using his nose to turn her head to the side so he can reach her neck with his lips. Often using his mouth to turn her knee out so he can nibble the inside of her thigh. He tastes her until she’s swollen and ready, aching and glistening at his touch. He can’t help but think of the needle penetrating her skin when he penetrates her flesh with his own. How he had used the needle to deliver the mark of his family. How he is now in the process of a different kind of delivery, one often used to build a family. It doesn’t matter that it will find no counterpart to join with in her; it doesn’t matter that they cannot add to their family with their own blood. Their one child is enough. Instead, he uses this penetration only to deliver and receive pleasure.

Neither of them wants any games in these moments. No intrigue. Life outside has enough of that. Here, they want nothing but honest sex. Desires are simple. Fulfilling them is easy.

Which is not to say that teasing is off-limits. Today, they have the time, and they agree to take it. She lets him into her mind just enough, just enough for him to know how far along she is. And when she reaches the brink, when she’s right there, he backs off. He stills. He feels her wave crest, hold, and then recede. And then he builds her up again. He edges her three more times until they inevitably miscalculate and her wave crashes, so he brings her home. He shuts her out in this moment, using the Force resistance training he’s gained over the last two months. He wants to feel the Force wrap around his spine and push through his throat and sink into his mind when she finds release, wants to let that all drag him with her immediately after.

But there’s one thing he wants even more, today.

They pull apart and he gives her time to wind down, takes pleasure in her soft sighs as he runs his hands over her, runs the tip of his tongue along the lobe of her ear.

And then she pushes him onto his back.

And she’s just as good with her mouth as he is with his. She wields as much power over him as he does over her. She can keep him on the edge just as well as he can keep her.

Now he lets her into his mind, lets her read him, just enough to know. She’s gentle with him, her mouth is hot and wet and soft, her hand is firm but not too tight. He’s close to start with, and it’s less than a minute before she pauses, softening her hold, dropping her jaw to pull her tongue away. They breathe together and he battles it back, letting it settle back into him, down low and deep. She starts again. She pauses again, and he lets the ache build. Again and again, and the ache creeps up his belly and up his spine and down his legs. Once more and he can stand it no longer and he pours himself into her and she takes every drop of him.

He runs dry and she slides back next to him. He turns his head to her and she kisses him and he tastes them both, the heady mix of himself and what of her that had been left on him. The meiloorun fruit he’d eaten with lunch has taken the edge off what he knows can sometimes be bitter. Symbols carry heavy meaning for Mandalorians, and he relishes all the symbols of their union. The taste of them together in his mouth. The mudhorn inked into her skin. The one that will soon be inked into his. The vows they will soon exchange. The beskar casings they both wear. Even the little boy who brought them together, displaying their mutual influence with his initial forays into learning to use the Force and understand Mando’a. Din cherishes all of it, holds all of it close to his heart, and when Rayne takes his hand and places his palm flat to her sternum and looks him in the eye and whispers the truth of her love for him, the weight of it all nearly crushes him. He reciprocates the gesture, pulling her hand to his chest, whispering the words. He can’t quite maintain eye contact when he says them, but she understands, and her eyes are there to meet his when he opens them once again.

They rest. She falls asleep and he lets her nap, and his hand roams her body as she twitches with oncoming dreams. She’s mostly muscle and bone and sinew, soft only in the few places that nearly all women are. Fifteen minutes pass like this, and then he kisses her awake.

His turn under the needle has come.

They shower together, exchanging a few more lingering kisses as the water rains down on them, and she scrubs his shoulder, the first step in the preparation of his skin.

Mother and father regroup outside on the balcony once more. The peach-fuzz hair on his shoulder is shaved away, skin disinfected, and Rayne applies the stencil, draws the pattern, inspects it, and asks if he’s ready. He responds with a quick affirmative, turns his head away, and relaxes as much as he can as she sets to work. This tattoo is his first and he doesn’t quite know what to expect. The sting of it builds and levels off, but she is gentle with him, as always. The wind chime’s tones distract him with the breeze, and he manages to stay in the present. Even more, he slips to the future, thinking about the possibilities for the day they will exchange their vows, when they will speak the Riduurok. He smiles despite the pain as the ideas come, and soon enough, he is branded with his signet of the mudhorn.

He cleans his shoulder in the fresher while Rayne picks everything up outside, and he looks at his first tattoo in the mirror. His betrothed was just as gentle with him as he had been with her, drawing not a single drop of blood. The lines are clean and smooth. The fresh ink in his skin reminds him of the paint he’d added to his helmet two months ago. Two red lines on beskar for the birth family murdered out from under him. One gray line on beskar for the blood family denied to him. Now, black ink on skin for the found family he will, at last, get to keep.

Something in his chest tightens with the thought. He’s noticed it more and more since first stealing Yadier. It doesn’t scare him as much anymore, now that he knows what it is. He stands with it, lets it settle down in towards the pit of his stomach, and his chest releases as he pulls a breath in and lets it back out.

Rayne steps in and inspects her work. “Happy with how it turned out?”

“Yes,” he says, meeting her gaze in the mirror, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Good.” She pulls a bandage from its package and smooths it over the ink. “No turning back now,” she says, returning his smile.

---

Din stands before a monument of Tarre Vizsla, watching the Mandalorian war banner flutter in the breeze at its base, the red mythosaur skull on a white field.

Tarre Vizsla, the first Mandalorian Jedi. The creator of the ancient weapon clipped to Din’s belt. Indeed, the Darksaber itself is immortalized in stone, its square-edged hilt carved at Vizsla’s hip. The monument stands before a modest temple. A place of congregation for Mandalorians brought to or born on a Jedi asylum world through some connection with Force-sensitives.

Two such temples exist on Genesaria. One for those of the New Mandalorian persuasion, the pacifists, those who had stood against Mandalore’s history of bloodshed and sworn off all violence. Another for those who seek a middle-ground between the New Mandalorians and Death Watch, those who wish not to glorify violence, but feel it unwise to cast away all manner of defense. Followers of the two coexist peacefully enough, here. Indeed, willingness to coexist in a multicultural society is a prerequisite of living on Genesaria.

Din stands before the temple of second group.

His feet are rooted to the ground, unable to move forward.

Doubtful.

He’s never seen a Mandalorian temple before. The chances they won’t accept him here are high. They will likely deem him too fundamentalist when he won’t remove his helmet. They may even demand the Darksaber before they turn him out, in which case he will transfer custody of it to them and leave.

Something about the weapon puts Rayne off.

They had sparred together with it on a few occasions, the Darksaber against her lightsaber, the two blades now coming together in friendly combat after their first battle to the death. Din still isn’t used to the odd weight balance, both in the blade itself and the way it seems to want to throw him off his own feet. When he’d offered it to her for inspection, she had frowned, turning the hilt over in her hands while it was deactivated, handing it back to him after only a few moments. “Weird vibe” was all she’d said. He’d offered to leave it on the Razor Crest, but she’d said that wasn’t necessary. It only gave her the heebie-jeebies when she touched it directly. When he pressed her further, she said that Tarre must have altered the kyber crystal to get the emitter matrix to produce the light-absorption properties of the blade. Altered kyber disrupts the Force around it, and most Force-users find it disturbing. Paired with the similar ways that Sith alter the crystals in their sabers to turn the blades red, it all adds up to a discomforting sensation that she does not care to experience.

“Din Djarin.”

A voice to his side startles him and he spins, hand dropping to his blaster.

A man he guesses to be about ten years his senior stands in the courtyard ten meters away from him. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, but he holds his hands open away from his sides, the Mandalorian signal meaning that he does not have a weapon in hand and does not intend to draw one.

Din feels a little less perturbed about being snuck up on given that it’s another Mando. Instead, he feels a little ashamed of himself for being caught off-guard.

The man moves one hand before him, palm down. “Easy, Mando. No threats exist for you on this world.”

You have no idea what I went through my first week here. The two trials of Force he endured flicker through his mind, but he tamps them down and forces himself into a more relaxed posture. “Sorry. I’m still not used to being addressed by name.”

“I gathered that.” The man lowers one hand and extends the other. “I’m Tarmont Berend.”

Din accepts the gesture as they grasp forearms. The greeting of warriors. “Are you a… member of the covert that… worships at this temple?” He stumbles over the words, not sure if they’re the right ones.

Indeed, Tarmont raises an eyebrow. “Covert isn’t quite it. We have no need to hide on a world that is already a secret from the rest of the galaxy. Worship probably isn’t the right word, either. It looks like a temple, but we call it a Forge. But yes, I am a member, inasmuch as I am a Mandalorian, and we come here to observe many of the Mandalorian traditions of old. Many of us come here for school as well.”

Din gives a slight nod, then turns to face the temple… the Forge, again, unsure of the appropriate means of asking for entry. Showing up unannounced at a Death Watch covert where no one knows you is a tricky affair. Presenting a mythosaur pendant gets you in the door, but you’ll still have a blaster in your face until your intentions are made clear, or you’ll get thrown back out if you’re lucky. Killed if you’re not.

Din’s pendant still hangs around his son’s neck. He couldn’t bring himself to remove it so he could have it with him this morning.

“Would you like to come in?” Tarmont asks. “I’m having some upgrades done on my helmet today. I can introduce you to our Armorer if you like.”

You wear armor? You have an Armorer? You have a working forge here? The questions flood Din’s mind and get jammed up at his mouth; he refuses to let them all tumble out as if he’s a child. Instead, he allows himself only a simple, “I would.”

They enter the Forge, and it bears no resemblance at all to the coverts that Din is familiar with. A high, multi-colored stained-transparisteel ceiling scatters rainbows of light along the floor of the main hall. Cubist artwork adorns the tapestries that hang on the walls. The bright colors and airy spaces laugh in the face of the dark mines and cramped sewers he had called home for decades.

Din stands in the middle of it all, his posture somewhere between awed, frightened, and insulted.

“This… this design… is Mandalorian?” His tone is incredulous.

“Yes,” Tarmont looks around, smiling. “It’s modeled after the temple in Sundari. Before they had to dome the city.”

Din’s shoulders drop, helpless against his ignorance of a culture that had nonetheless consumed him. “I’ve… never been to Mandalore.”

“Let me guess. You were raised on Concordia. Underground.”

“I was there for three years before the Siege.”

“And after?”

Din shrugs. “We fled to Katraasii first. Never stayed on any one planet for longer than a few years after that.” Never enough time to build. Never enough time to think of anyplace as “home.” Just skipping from one hovel to the next, staying one step ahead of the Imps, not always with success.

Tarmont looks at him with a frown, and Din can’t tell if it’s confusion, pity, or both. It makes him feel hollow, like the only parts of him that are truly Mandalorian are the armor on his body and the weapons strapped to his hip. He knows next to nothing about Mandalore; much of what he does know outside of religious training and the Resol’nare was provided by Alaria’s parents. They had told him some about Mandalorian art – the cubist form which he knows he is looking at right now. Shared some tales from their own parents of what Mandalore had been like before they had been exiled to Concordia, though the word exile had never quite been used. Hell, he’d not even known about the Darksaber until Rayne told him. His enemy sorcerer betrothed knows more about Mandalorian culture than he does, inasmuch as it intersects with such intimacy with the Jedi.

Who is he fooling? He was literally raised in sewers for the latter part of his childhood and all of his adolescence. A war rat. A child soldier. Nothing but Fighting Corps gun fodder. Always put on the front lines when the Imps came knocking from the day he swore the Creed.

The Fighting Corps kids weren’t taught about Mandalore. The only god they were taught to serve was the god of war. To fight and lay down their lives for their brothers and sisters.

Their clan-born and clan-adopted brothers and sisters.

The foundlings were the future, but only insomuch as they could sacrifice themselves for the others.

He hadn’t been meant to make it to adulthood. He’d been taught the Resol’nare, the six ways, just enough to keep him in line. Any cultural education beyond that would have been wasted on him.

“Djarin?”

Din snaps his head up, realizing he’s been staring at the floor for far longer than is socially acceptable. “Sorry… I… I don’t think… I don’t belong here.”

Tarmont tilts his head in confusion. “Why not?”

I’m dar’manda. I’m gun fodder that didn’t know how to die. I sold my baby to Imps. His mouth hangs open and he’s caught between confessing all his sins and fleeing entirely and thank the Maker the helmet hides it all…

Indeed, all Tarmont sees is the slight upward tilt of the T-visor, and he guesses that Din has lost focus at a point somewhere over his left shoulder. He does, however, hear the wet-sounding breath through the modulator. Tarmont had attended school in this Forge as a youth and sends his own children here. He is well-versed in Mandalorian history, and Genesarian scouts had brought back much information about Death Watch over the centuries. He had served as a scout himself, in his young adulthood, and he knows trauma when he sees it. He has seen the trauma that Death Watch had inflicted on its victims and its own people. The man before him now is truly disturbed. The savior of the Lost Son is no more than another shell-shocked Mando, coming here for help but not having the slightest idea of how to ask for it.

“How about I take you to the sanctum? I find it a good place to collect my thoughts sometimes. You can have a few moments to yourself while I get the Armorer.”

It takes a second or three for Din to respond. “Okay.”

Tarmont leads the way down a winding staircase to a basement hallway. The lights are dim, but the air is warm and Din hears hammering somewhere nearby, and he realizes he feels the warmth from the Forge proper. They stop at a wooden door with the Iron Heart carved upon it – the diamond shape at the center of all Mandalorian chestplates. “I can’t go in with you at the moment,” Tarmont apologizes. “The sanctum is one of the few places here where we do require full armor to enter.” He points to the Iron Heart. “Any door with the kar'ta beskar carved on it marks such a place. But please, go in. Have a seat. Relax for a bit. I’ll have the Armorer join you shortly.”

Din stands before the door. Looks at it for a few moments. It’s an ancient design with a handle. He pulls it and opens the door. He sees that it’s even darker than the hallway in there, but not entirely, and calling up the infrared on his HUD, confirms that no one else is present. He turns to Tarmont. “Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

Din sits in the near-darkness and looks upon the carved triptych of the three ancient gods of Mandalore adorning the front of the sanctum.

Hod Ha’ran, the god of fickle fortune. A reminder that life is not fair.

Arasuum, the god of sloth and stagnation. A reminder of what not to be.

Kad Ha’rangir, the god of war and destruction. A model of what to aspire to be. The god he had been trained to emulate. The god in whose name he had been taught to dedicate his weapons and his life to.

He feels the heat of the space seep down into his bones, but the air is dry, and he does not sweat. The weight of his helmet pulls his head forward and his eyelids down.

Din Djarin is a devout man. His parents had been devout. The very name they gave him means “Faith” in the language of the first settlers of Aq Vetina. They had raised him with a spiritual upbringing until their demise. Swapping out the religion of his childhood for the religion of the Mandalorians had been easy. They both had gods. They both spoke of an afterlife of sorts. They both spoke of a soul. They both spoke of sin.

And his sins are unforgivable.

He hears the door open behind him and he opens his eyes. The sanctum brightens just a bit, then darkens again as the door is closed. The mineral smell of freshly forged beskar reaches him as the Armorer sits on the bench next to him, a few feet away.

“I was wondering if you would come to us.” Her voice has a slight rasp to it, making her sound a little older than the Armorer on Nevarro. He’d always found it strange that the Nevarro Armorer had a strong central-core accent. This one’s accent is more reflective of a native Genesarian. Middle-of-the-road Outer Rim, like his own when he speaks Basic, more casual than the haughtiness of the Core, but formal enough not to drop the Gs and clear enunciation on the Ts.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he says.

“What brings you here today?”

“I was raised by Death Watch.” It’s as good an explanation as any. It seems to be general knowledge among Genesarian Mandos anyway, given his conversation with the woman at the Mandalorian restaurant not so long ago. In a place like this, the translation is something akin to I’m lost. I’m lost and I need a path forward.

The pause that follows is heavy. When the Armorer breaks it, her tone is strong, but gentle. “You were kidnapped by Death Watch.”

“Yes. They murdered my parents.”

“You worshiped Kad Ha’rangir.”

“To wage war is divine.”

“You were taught that in the Fighting Corps.”

“This is The Way.”

Everyone is on the same page, now.

“Your beskar is newly forged. Not much more than a year old. All of the pieces are the same age, save your helmet. Highly unusual for a Death Watch captive. How did you come by it?”

Oh, boy, here it is… “My Foundling. You call him the Lost Son. I… sold him. To the Imps. I stole him back, but I sold him first. The payment was this beskar.” Din’s voice cracks at the memory. “The beskar belongs to my son. I bought it with his life. Be sure he gets it when I die.”

The Armorer nods. “I will make note of it in our registers. I or one of my successors will see to it ourselves.”

“Thank you.”

“I sense there is more.”

Din dips his head in an abbreviated nod. “The child… before I turned him in… the child saved my life. Stopped a mudhorn before it could kill me.”

The Armorer pauses again, and this silence is uncomfortable. When she breaks it this time, her tone is less gentle. “You sold a child to whom you owed a life debt to Imperials?” The fact that she is more concerned with this than the fact that the baby stopped a mudhorn reminds him of where he is, and he is glad to no longer have to explain such things.

Leaves more time to get right down to the guilt.

“Yes.” The confession that comes out is broken and miserable. Confession with no hope for forgiveness. Confession that will take more than a lifetime of redemption to heal.

“What were you thinking?”

He remembers how much it all hurt. He remembers how much pain he was in. He remembers the woozy headache of a severe concussion. He remembers thinking that he must have hallucinated what had happened with the mudhorn. That his vision of the tiny baby with his arm outstretched appearing to lift the giant rampaging beast was exactly that – a vision, generated by a delirious recipe of days without sleep, dehydration, near-starvation, and way too many hits to the head.

But the alternative was that he’d beaten the mudhorn on his own. The furious mother defending her egg, three tons of pure rage bearing down on him after already beating him to within inches of his life, having him dead to rights, only to lie down and let him stab her through the artery along her neck?

Not fucking likely.

He’d been… confused. So confused. Nothing had made sense. A fifty-year-old baby. His ship stripped to the girders. A floating mudhorn. A whole entire camtono of beskar. Things that do not exist. Things that do not happen. His mind had started to unhinge, and the things he doesn’t remember alarm him almost as much as the things he does. He has no recollection of how he got from the mudhorn nest back to the Jawa transport. He doesn’t remember the trip from Arvala-7 to Nevarro. He doesn’t remember walking from the Razor Crest to the Imperial safehouse. One moment he was in one place, the next, he was somewhere else. Had he eaten? Slept? Had enough water in his bloodstream to so much as take a piss? He has no idea if any of those things happened during any of those intervals.

He vaguely remembers having a flashback of his village, Aq Vetina, getting destroyed while in the Forge. The fight with Paz just before that.

He does remember flipping through the Razor Crest’s start-up sequence, reaching for the thruster lever, noticing the knob off to the side, and his brain coming back to life with a slow creep as he screwed the knob back on.

He had known damn well he owed a life debt to the child, that the child had become his the moment the mudhorn had been stopped. Defend your family was one tenet of the Resol’nare. Another tenet was to wear armor. Din had broken one to support the other. He’d sold his baby for the beskar. Somehow, he’d placed a higher value on the armor than on the child’s life.

How had he done such a thing?

Because he’d had to keep his word.

He’d had to honor the contract he’d agreed to. One of the many overlapping Mandalorian and Bounty Hunters Guild values – keep your promises. Do what you agreed to do.

Through his unhinged disassociation, his duty to his contract allowed him to ignore what the child had done for him, ignore the very treatment of Foundlings that he had believed saved his own life once upon a time, ignore that bond of family. He remembers shoving it away. He remembers rejecting it. He remembers rejecting the six families who had tried to take him in as a child. He remembers his belief that he was unworthy of having a family of his own as an adult. He remembers rejecting the notion that the child was his, his Foundling, convincing himself that the baby was nothing more than a bounty. A contract to be fulfilled.

And as his hand had hovered over the lever, the slow dawn of horror had risen in his mind.

Oh dear god what have I done?

Oh dear god what do I do now?

Din hears the clink of armor next to him and realizes, again, that he’s spaced out. Two or three levels deep, this time. How can he possibly explain it all? How can he possibly put the whole mess into words? He doesn’t even care about forgiveness – he doesn’t deserve it and he doesn’t want it. He just wants to make someone understand that he’d been… broken. Wrong. Foolish in his prioritization of conflicting demands. He just doesn’t have the words.

“You do not necessarily need the words here, Djarin,” the Armorer says. “I can see well enough for myself.”

“You’re Force-sensitive?”

“To a small degree, yes.” She inclines her helm just a bit. “You would be well advised to remember that you are on a world populated by many who are helpless but to see and hear what you broadcast. They do not mean to pry, but your mind is… loud.”

He sighs. Rayne has told him as much. “The volume of my mind is inverse to its usefulness. I am dar’manda as a result of my actions – I swore the Creed to the people who murdered my parents and I sold my foundling. I was raised by a terrorist organization but I am somehow the father of a powerful sorcerer baby and I am about to marry his Jedi mother. And I have no idea what to do with this.”

In his frustration, it’s all Din can do to keep himself from slamming the Darksaber down on the bench when he unclips it from his belt.

The Armorer takes a deep breath. “I was told that you understand little of Mandalore. Do you understand what it means to possess this object?”

“Leadership of an entire world as determined by winning a weapon in battle seems… less than legitimate.”

“A valuable insight for someone raised in a religion that worships weapons.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I have no clue about what I’m doing.”

The Armorer considers for a moment, parsing through the storm of confusion before her, then comes to a decision. “Do you still hold to the Resol’nare?”

Din swallows. “I’ve… started taking the armor off at home. Including the helmet. My son and the woman I will marry see my face every day. But I speak Mando’a to our son. We intend to raise him as both a Jedi and a Mandalorian. We defend ourselves and each other. We provide for each other.”

“And if you are called upon by the Mand’alor? Will you rally to the cause?”

“If the cause is worthy, yes.” His gaze falls to his feet. “Do we even have a Mand’alor at the moment?”

The Armorer picks the Darksaber up from the bench. She tests the weight of it in her hand, a reverent breath sighing through her modulator. She hands it back to Din. “No.”

Apparently not.

He takes the ancient artifact and clips it back to his belt as if he’s perturbed to be stuck with it once again.

“As far as the practices of this Forge are concerned, your application of the Resol’nare is adequate,” the Armorer says. “You may consider yourself a Mandalorian and practice under our banner if you so wish. You must understand, however, that you are the only vod to wear armor and openly bear weapons beyond these walls when not on missions. Such actions would normally be considered aggressive on a planet of peace, and many here have suffered at the hands and blasters of those wearing armor that is an homage to our own.” Din thinks of Rayne’s discomfort with his armor and his gut tightens at the realization of her response on a global level. “But allowances are made for you because you have brought the Lost Son home. For better or worse, you now represent all members of this Forge, and any aggression against any citizen of Genesaria will reflect poorly on all your sisters and brothers here. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Will you speak the Ridurrok when you make the Jedi your wife?”

“Yes. We both will.”

“Very well. As for the state of your soul, creeds sworn by pre-teens under false pretenses after brainwashing by their captors are non-binding under this roof. The honor you declare for your parents in the color of your armor is backed by your break with Death Watch.

“The matter of selling your child to those you knew to be evil while in his debt weighs much heavier. A sin such as this can only be rectified by a lifetime of utmost service to your child. You are not to abandon him. You are not to deem yourself unqualified and relinquish your responsibilities to another. You must continue to earn the honor of wearing your clan signet. Your devotion to your son must never waver. You are his father, as you must always be until your dying day. Only then will your soul be granted entry to the manda. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“As for our ancient gods,” she nods to the triptych, “we keep them merely as allegorical reminders. Fate is fickle and unfair. We must not allow ourselves to become stagnant. But we must also be cautious in our application of destruction and change. Noble hunters are selective in their kills. They take only enough to remove excess. Trim back to allow new growth. They are the dark that balances the light. No wanton slaughters. No violence for its own sake. And be very, very careful with revenge. Do you understand this as well?”

“Yes.” Damned if she hasn’t seen right through him. The three pieces that are left of him when his soul shattered under the weight of discovering the circumstances of his capture. The piece that wants to love. The piece that wants to run away. The piece that wants to destroy. She’s taken the last two and pinned them directly to the first. The fractures are still there, the pieces still very much their own, but they are now stuck together. They are now in the position to heal. “I understand.”

“Very well. Come with me. I have something you may be interested in.”

---

The Mandalorian and the Jedi stroll through the market, picking up what they’ll need for tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast as they go. They decide on shrimp pasta for dinner, much to Yadier’s delight, his memory of the massive amounts of krill he consumed on Sorgan not forgotten. Din has mixed feelings about shellfish in general – something about boiling an animal to death in the armor it has grown around itself and then prying it out to eat it unsettles him, but even he must admit that they’re tasty, so he rolls with it.

The thought reminds him of something else.

“May I borrow your bow for the weekend?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says. “Going hunting?”

“Yeah.” He shifts the sack of groceries over his shoulder. “They have an open season on the deer species here. Their natural predator got wiped out by a virus and the deer population exploded. The Mandalorians here set up a hunting management program.”

She looks up at him, her pace slowing. “There are other Mandalorians here?”

“A few. Yes.”

“And you’re in contact with them?”

“Yes.”

She’s hard-pressed to contain her surprise. “It’s going okay?”

“I found a Forge. They’re… moderate. They only wear armor for ceremonial and certain occupational purposes. You wouldn’t recognize them outside if you don’t know what to look for.”

“How does that sit with you?” She doesn’t seem at all perturbed that he hadn’t told her outright. Her questions are driven by curiosity, and it steadies him. Grounds him.

“They’re… very accepting.” He breathes a sigh. “So far so good.”

“Do you want to take Yadier there?” She brings her free hand to the baby’s belly, but her tone is, again, one of curiosity, not of defense.

“Eventually, maybe. We’ll see how it goes for a while first.”

She nods. She has sensed that he’s felt adrift since he’d removed his helmet before her, a feeling that has grown more pronounced after he’d found out about Alaria’s death and his daughter’s existence. Unsure of where he belongs, how he can fit in, what it means to be a Mandalorian on a planet of Force users, even with the work they are starting. He needs a foundation he’s familiar with. This seems to be a good one and she’s glad he has found it. With that sorted, she gets back to his original request. “Out of all of the weapons in your collection, you don’t have anything appropriate for game hunting?” She gives him an amused smile.

“Oddly, no. Everything I have is geared for close-quarters defense or long-range disintegration.” Even if he switches out the disruptor shells to conventional slugs for the Amban, the rifle itself is so high-powered that anything he hits with it will get blown to smithereens.

He’d brought down a deer with her bow during their time on Methuselah, where the use of firearms was prohibited for game hunting as a noise-reduction measure. She knows he can use it effectively. “Sounds like a good opportunity.” She brushes the back of her hand against his and he looks down to catch her glance for a brief moment. “You need a break from the daily grind of civilized life. This’ll be good for you.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” She catches his glance again and winks. “We share all.”

He swallows at her mention of the vow they will swear in a few more weeks, and hooks a finger around hers, giving a short squeeze before letting go.

Yadier hums with satisfaction as he gnaws at his meat stick. His father has brightened over the last few days. Less like he is in three slightly different places at the same time and more like he is in one place. More solid. A welcome change from the slow descent his father had been experiencing before. Floundering. Like he’d misplaced himself, somehow. Lost. But lately, the glimmer of hope is back. The darkness has receded for now, and Yadier is happy.

His mother is battling a darkness within her, though. Her understanding of it lies just outside of her awareness. She almost notices it, the bitterness of misplaced jealousies, the hollow age-old loneliness, but not quite. Like an immune system fighting off a pathogen before the symptoms have really set in, heralded by precursors noticed only in hindsight. He’s resolved to keep an eye on it. See if he can fix it later, for he knows it’s far beyond his current abilities. The thought of losing his mother… he won’t let his mind go there. He just got her. He’s barely had her for any time at all. He can’t give her up already. He won’t. Another darkness he knows he should avoid. His mother and his teachers have shown him how to identify it, how to evade it. They have urged patience – he is too young to confront it directly now. But later, he knows he will be strong enough. Later. Grow first. Grow strong.

He’s doing the best he can. Being here, on Genesaria, on a world that exists in a peculiar nexus of the Force, surrounded by other Force users, has helped. He feels at home here. Not quite the place he was born, a place he can’t quite recall, the memory dimmed with time and the primordial state of his mind when it all happened. But Genesaria is close enough. It’s home enough. The Force flows through him here, and he grows strong. His parents give him love, and he grows strong. He’s making new friends, and he grows strong. He wants to be strong. Be strong for his buire.

The rift between his parents is almost closed, now, and for this, he is joyous. Their love for each other has grown. Their fear of each other has dimmed. They still have a little way to go, but for now, they are on the right path, and are forging it together.

The bonds of his family are growing stronger, and he grows stronger with them.

---

Din had marked the date on the calendar hanging in their kitchen when Rayne had agreed on “ask me again in three months.” She had also agreed to Mandalorian vows. Mandalorian weddings being what they are, nothing more than a private sharing of vows, the asking and the vows would happen in quick succession.

She has thus far given every indication that her answer will be “yes.” He has no reason to doubt. His signet is inked forever into her skin. She’s been low-key quoting bits and pieces of the vows for weeks, now.

Even so, when he wakes on the morning of the presumed day of their wedding, his heart skips a beat when he discovers he is alone in bed.

The sizzle of first meal cooking out in the kitchen puts him at ease, and he forces a deep breath.

Yadier is half-way through a decent-sized plate of bacon by the time Din makes it out, popping a whole raw egg into his mouth as Din pulls a t-shirt on over his head. Rayne slides a plate of bacon and eggs in his direction as he takes a seat next to his son at the counter. The bacon is just on the meaty side of crisp. The eggs are over-easy and runny. The toast is almost burnt and drowning in butter.

Exactly how he likes it.

They’ve been working their meals around managing his high blood-pressure, but he’s allowed a cheat-day every now and then. Today is as good a day as any to indulge.

“Nervous?” she asks.

“A little,” he admits. “You?”

“Nope.”

In all fairness, this is not Rayne’s first rodeo in these matters. She knows what it means to pledge her soul to another. She knows what it means to commit herself to another. She had sworn “until death do us part” before.

And death had parted her from the soul she had sworn to.

She is ready to swear it again.

Din is in the fresher a little later, trimming his beard. He’s experimented with various configurations over the last few months, all of them including a mustache in one form or another. Some were honest failures – Rayne had thought the chinstrap was hot, but its thin lines were unforgiving of the bald patches on his jaws. Some were blatant failures – the lambchops never stood a chance with his sparse growth pattern, and the handlebars had earned him the hardest eyeroll he’s ever seen in his life – totally worth the time spent in having to shave it all back down and start anew. In the end, he’d settled on something a little fuller around his jawline than the chinstrap, down to a short stubble that de-emphasized the bald patches, a little longer in the mustache, the patchy areas on his cheeks taken down all the way with a razor.

He’s left the door open, so Rayne comes in to brush her teeth. Finished with his beard, he runs his hands through his hair, three months out from the last time he cut it on Methuselah.

It’s a shaggy mess.

Hers isn’t much better.

He offers her the clippers. “Wanna give it a shot?”

She looks at him in confusion. He’s been cutting his own hair since swearing the Creed and doing a… passable job at it. He’d actually done reasonably well with cutting hers on Methuselah, but she’s never done it before and has no idea what she’s doing. Frankly, he’s tired of doing his own. Tired of trying to reach the back of his head with the clippers. Tired of grabbing fistfuls his own hair at the top of his head and mowing it down with scissors.

They bring a chair in from the kitchen so he can sit and she can reach everything. She follows the same technique he had used with her before, starting with the biggest gate and working her way all around his head, then moving to the shortest he figures he can get away with without being prickly under the helmet for the back and sides, then down to the smallest for the edges and around his ears. She manages the taper well enough, and when she is done, he looks remarkably clean-cut. Shorter than what he’s used to, but it will still lay well under the helmet and he likes it well enough.

When her turn comes he uses the same big gate for the top of her head. He runs it through once and has to pause when a memory flickers through his mind. Not an image, but a feeling in his hands. Something that had begun with practice in the light, then happened only in the dark after swearing the Creed. Braiding.

He used to braid Alaria’s hair in the dark.

He closes his eyes, lets the memory of her hair in his fingers play out until it slips away on its own, and then he opens his eyes once more.

He returns to his work, running the clippers over Rayne’s head, only her hair is so curly it seems to “thin out” more than actually get much shorter. He’s reminded of the time he happened to see a farmer shearing sheep and he can’t suppress a chuckle. “Stop,” she says, half-serious, knowing what he’s laughing about, subjected to the image he can’t help but project from his mind. “Knit a sweater with it if you think it’s so funny.” Her tone is light and she runs her finger up the back of his knee, familiar with all of his ticklish spots. He squirms out of her reach and then settles down. He uses a shorter gate for the back and sides on her than what she’d used on him.

He notices…

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he doesn’t think so.

Running the clippers over the back of her head, shearing off several months of hair reveals new gray behind both ears. The salt-strewn patches seem larger than they should in their sudden revelation, rather than the subtle intruding creep he’s noticed in his own hair over the last few years. He says nothing, pausing to look at the tuft of silver curls in his fingers.

“What’s up?” she asks.

Not knowing what else to do, he hands it to her over her shoulder.

She’s silent for a moment, as if she’s staring at her own mortality in her hands. “How much is there?”

“A lot.”

They both suspect the same cause.

The Force blowback of pulling down an Imperial starship as it exploded had, in fact, killed her. A new patch of gray hair should not come as a surprise, even if it is a shock.

She lowers her hand, dropping the tuft for it to join the rest on the floor. She takes a breath. “Are you still okay with… moving forward today?”

“Yes. Of course.” His response is immediate and firm, and he grips her shoulder, locking her gaze in the mirror. “That’s how you earned this,” he says, indicating the mudhorn inked there. “It’s just another kind of scar. We’re both riddled with them. We’ll both earn a lot more before we’re done. You know I understand this.”

She takes another breath, relaxing, and he watches her reflection as she nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Soon enough they are done.

They look in the mirror together, gifted haircuts looking pretty reasonable all things considered, and Din looks a little less nervous. She places a kiss on his shoulder, over the signet she had inked there.

They’re ready.

---

Rayne sits on the rock slab in the sun at the point on a bluff, the view of the valley below unfolding for miles before her. Her legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles, amber shades masking her eyes.

They’re rimmed with tears.

She’s taking some time to reflect back on her late husband.

On Hayes.

She misses him dearly.

Like Din, he had been a man of few words. Unlike Din, he had been prone to silliness and managing to spit out only a portion of the words he ever meant to say. She misses his silliness, which had always made her laugh and set her at ease, and she hadn’t minded having to interpolate the words he spoke. And so it was that when he proposed to her, the words had come out in a stumbling laugh, some of them missing, and she’d forced herself to respond with a clarifying, “Yes, I will be your wife. That’s what you were asking, right?”

He had brought a carefree joy to her life. He had made her feel secure in her place in the world. And when he was gone, he’d left a gap in her soul that she thought would never be filled again.

Din doesn’t quite fill that gap, and she doesn’t expect him to. He is an altogether different shape. Larger in some dimensions, smaller in others. He lacks the carefree joy, bringing focused intensity in its place. Not better, not worse, but very different.

And she is glad to have him.

When Din reaches the edge of the clearing, he takes one more moment to gather his thoughts, getting the words set in his mind. The serious possibility of saying them had never crossed his mind until he had met Omera. She had cracked something open in him, shone the light on a life that was so different from the one he had always led. It had turned out to not quite be the right time, she was not quite the right woman, and Sorgan was not quite the right place, but the possibility had finally been illuminated. He knows he owes the fact that he is even capable of pledging his life to another to Omera.

He had done his best to close the door on it, told himself he was an idiot, told himself that his inability to either join or form a clan by his age was clear evidence that it was not, in fact, possible for him. He was a loner. Always had been. Always would be. All he had to do was get the kid somewhere safe and be done with it.

And then it became clear that he was incapable of doing it by himself. After that, it became clear that the kid was more than a responsibility. The kid was his son. Another truth he had tried to close the door on until the Armorer ripped the doors off and put it square in front of his face. Cara’s pre-emptive rejection of his offer to come along on the heels of that, followed by having to bury Kuiil with his own hands offered up a whole new pile of heartbreak.

And then, Rayne.

Another widow, like Omera. The galaxy is full of them, the machines of war chewing through families and spitting out the mangled remains. Yet he’s only occasionally thought of Rayne as such, lacking the constant reminder in the form of a half-orphaned child. Lacking the mannerisms of one who has any idea of what being part of a family is like. Yet offering protection had come easily for her. Offering comfort, almost as easily. Offering love… had been a clear struggle. One that he shared. One that he, if anything, had exacerbated. Love does not come easily to Mandalorians steeped in violence and loss. And he knows well the echoes in the empty places that Hayes left behind, his name murmured in the dead of night, playing out in Rayne’s dreams and nightmares.

But here she is. Waiting as promised. His words are ready. He steps forward.

She turns her head at the crunch of his boots along the trail and stands to greet him. He takes her hand and leads her to the shade of a tree so he can move her shades to the top of her head without blinding her. He wants for both of them to look each other in the eye for this. “Are we alone?”

“We are.” A small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

In this one thing, they will not include Yadier. His place in their lives is already carved in stone. In this one thing, they will go alone. Together.

He lifts the helmet from his head and places it on the ground, then takes his gloves off and stuffs them in his belt. His hands tremble as he takes both of her hands in his, but his smile is steady. “You have been the mother of my son for five months, now.”

“You’ve been the father of my son for much longer.”

The next words are ones he hasn’t quite found yet, but he plows ahead anyway. “If I… find my daughter. If I find her and she’s still alive… will you… if she…”

“Yes. I will accept her in whatever form works out best for the both of you.”

“Will you also be my wife? Will you be my riduur?”

“I will, if you will be my husband.”

“I will.” He pauses, then says “Right now,” as she knew he would.

“Right now,” she agrees, as he knew she would.

He tips his chin up, looking over her shoulder. “In the forest.” As she knew he would.

“Okay,” she smiles. She leads him along a path for a short distance, then steps off, and weaves through a maze of boulders strewn through the pines, stepping down into an isolated hollow. A blanket is spread on a thick bed of pine needles. A warm breeze sighs through the trees above, surrounding them with the scent of pine. She had asked if they could consummate their vows outside and he had agreed, so long as the location was remote and protected. She turns to face him. “Does this work?”

He looks around, taking it all in. “It does.” He places his helmet on the corner of the blanket. Then, he detaches the pauldron from his right shoulder. The one with their clan signet. He holds it in his hands, looking at it for a moment, then looks back up at her. He tips his head to the left in an invitation for her to remove the other pauldron.

Her brow furrows in confusion. She’d assumed he’d want to say their vows dressed in full armor with the exception of the helmet. He smiles, knowing he’s thrown her a curveball, and holds his hand out. She steps forward to take it in hers. “Nothing between us,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow. “Oohh…” She hadn’t expected this, but… why not? Once again, she is reminded of the importance he places on symbolism, and the importance of shedding all barriers before speaking the vows that will make them one makes perfect sense. She helps him remove the armor now as she so often has, removing the pieces on the left as he removes the pieces on the right, helping with the chest and back plates. Clothes come next for them both, and soon enough, it’s just them, wearing nothing but the beskar casings at their throats, the symbols of shared parenthood that they never remove, the symbols of their first connection through their son.

The breeze is warm against their bare skin, and Din is… Din is ready.

Rayne takes him in her arms and kisses him, presses herself to him, thankful that the vows are short, because seeing him like this, touching him like this, having his skin against hers like this, warm and firm and trembling, makes her ready, too.

When he pulls his lips away from hers, he catches her gaze once more, heart pounding. “Connected,” he says.

It takes her a moment to figure it out. “You want… while we’re…”

“Yes.” He can’t help the half-smile that pulls at one corner of his mouth, his face otherwise hardened with desire.

He wants to say the vows of the Riduurok while making love in the forest. He wants to establish the link between their souls through the link already formed in their flesh.

Good god, this man.

They sink to the blanket. The ground is soft. Rayne watches the trees sway above them as Din maps the topography of her body with his mouth, the breeze sighing through the needles as she sighs her anticipation.

Even now, even out here, they take their time. He trusts her senses, trusts that they will not be disturbed. He listens for the pace of her breath, notes the pressure of her fingertips along his spine, the arch of her body against his, the glide of her tongue along the edge of his ear. But still he waits. He continues to give her what she needs, holding off on giving her what they both want, holding off until he hears the words.

“Please,” she whispers. “Din, please…”

And they begin.

They indulge themselves with a minute or so of movement, lips pressed together, slow, deep motions. Din takes Rayne’s left hand in his right, fingers intertwined, and presses their hands to the blanket by her head. He plants the rest of his weight on his other elbow. “Open your eyes.” His voice cracks over his pleading demand.

She does, and finds herself pinned beneath his dark brown gaze. Their eyes, their hands, their flesh. Their connection is complete. “I’m ready,” she whispers. She has studied the words. They are easy enough, and there aren’t that many. So when he begins, his voice low and steady, she joins him, and they say them together, in unison, gazes locked, each line punctuated with a slow easing of flesh.

“Mhi solus tome.” We are one when together.

“Mhi solus dar’tome.” We are one when apart.

“Mhi me’dinui an.” We share all.

“Mhi ba’juri verde.” We will raise warriors.

He presses his head to hers and kisses her, long and deep and hard. They can’t help themselves and they do not last long. He welcomes the Force of her release as it grips him and he follows immediately after, and once again she welcomes his warmth as it blooms in her mind. They are, at this moment, linked in every way.

He lets his weight sink to her and they stay that way for a long time, breaths transitioning from damp panting to relaxed draws, savoring the moment, savoring each other. Understanding that this is just the beginning of the next chapter of their lives.

For him, a chapter he thought would never be written, now suddenly open to a fresh, blank page in the story of his life that had taken such an unexpected turn more than a year ago.

For her, a second chance, a sequel to a story she had once feared ended and forgotten on a dusty shelf.

Theirs is the same story, now, and they are ready to write it together.

He traces the mudhorn tattoo on her shoulder, remembers it taking shape under his own hands, remembers the sting of it when she had given him his. The indelible symbol of their union inked into their skin, now made official, sealed with the sacred words, consummated in love.

She holds her lips to his ear. “My name is Rez. Rez Rohan. I’d rather that didn’t get around too far, but I won’t hide from you anymore.”

His breath catches in his throat, understanding that this is how she had wanted him to know, this was how she had told Hayes, the only other person who had known. And yet, she makes it uniquely his moment at the same time, mirroring the phrasing of how he had first told her his name, five months ago. He brings his lips to her ear in turn, and mirrors the response she had given him then. “Good to meet you, Rez Rohan.”

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu

3 notes · View notes