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hier--soir · 9 months

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raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

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

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

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

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

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then two things happen in quick succession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wipe your nose.”

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

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

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

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

“Alone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

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

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

“Do tell.”

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Camille.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is not an option for us.”

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

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

Din Djarin says nothing.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“This is about revenge.”

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

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

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

“Cain—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amélie?”

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

“Wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Celine?”

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

“Wrong again.”

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

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

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

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

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

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

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

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

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

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

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

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

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

“Don’t wear it ou—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was the right thing to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

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

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

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

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

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

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.

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

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

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

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

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

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sundewhasaudhd · 3 months

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I'd love to hear your dsmp headcanons when you have the time!

YES

I have multiple notes on my Notes app for this moment

TW: mentions of suicide, mentions of starving oneself, mentions of self harm

Tommy: aroace, he/him, 17, 6’1”, AuDHD, anxiety, depression, PTSD, prosthetic leg. No voice claim yet. Very skinny and scrawny, like he would struggle to lift a gallon of milk. But also insanely fast. Demi god (through Kristen).

Tubbo: queer, trans ftm, he/bee, 18, 5’7”, AuDHD, dyslexia, PTSD, half blind. Voice claim: David from Hilda. Pretty buff, I’ve also been seeing I good amount of chubby c!Tubbo designs, so I might do that as well. Goat hybrid.

Ranboo: pan, enby, they/them+neos, 18, 8’5”, AuDHD, anxiety, depression, body dysphoria. Voice claim: Freckle from Lackadaisy. The most twink to ever twink, y’know, on account of being half enderman. Half enderman, half love god.

Wilbur: bi, he/him, 23, 6’6”, AuDHD, anxiety, depression, PTSD. Voice claim: Red Guy from DHMIS. Another twink. Doesn’t help that he barely eats most days (most of the time it’s just because of the ADHD, but he has tried to starve himself as an [unsuccessful] suicide attempt). Demi god (through Kristen).

Techno: aroace, he/him, 23, 6’3”, AuDHD, social anxiety, depression. Voice claim: Sun Wukong from LMK. Buff. That’s all I have to say. Piglin.

Phil: bi, polyamorous, he/him, immortal, 5’11”, damaged wings. Voice claim: Bandit from Bluey. Again, same as c!Techno. Buff. Human that was gifted immortality, pointy ears, crow wings, and stick antler thingys.

Jack: bi-curious, probably not cis, he/him, 19, 5’9”, AuDHD, probably physically disabled as well, I need to think about my c!Jack design some more. Voice claim: Gyro from DuckTales 2016. Cyborg.

Niki: bi, demigirl, she/they, 29, 5’6”, AuDHD, anxiety. Voice claim: Bubblegum from Adventure Time. Fat and buff. Half demon, half human.

Fundy: gay, trans ftm, he/him, 16, 6’3”, AuDHD, anxiety, dyslexia. Voice claim: Steven from Steven Universe Future. Half fox hybrid, half siren.

Eret: bi, polyamorous, genderfluid, any pronouns, immortal, 6’3”, AuDHD, dyslexia dyspraxia, depression. Voice claim: Aaravos from Dragon Prince. Pretty curvy. Semi god (child of a demi god, that demi god being Herobrine).

Foolish: pan, agender, he/they+neos, immortal, 7’8”. Voice claim: Raine from The Owl House. Buff. Demi god.

Charlie: aroace, agender, he/it, immortal, 5’9” AuDHD. No voice claim yet. CHONKY :D. Plus sized c!Charlie my beloved. Walking piece of goo Normal human.

Quackity: gay, ambiamorous, trans ftm, he/him, 21, 5’8”, depression, PTSD, half blind. Voice claim: Whizzer from Falsettos 2016. Duck hybrid.

Purpled: ace, polysexual, enby, they/he/star, 18, 5’8”. Voice claim: Louie from DuckTales 2016. Alien.

Punz: bi, agender, he/they, 25, 6’0”, ADHD. Voice claim: Zane from Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts. Gold hybrid.

Ponk: gay, transfem, genderfluid, any pronouns, she/he preference, 34, 5’7”, ADHD, prosthetic arm. Voice claim: Mikey from ROTTMNT. Half lemon fairy, half human.

Sam: omni, male preference, bigender, he/they, 35, 7’4”. Voice claim: Raph from ROTTMNT. Creeper hybrid.

Dream: unlabeled, he/they+neos, 23, 6’2”, ADHD. Voice claim: Macaque from LMK. “Powerless” god.

George: gay, transmasc, any pronouns, they/he preference, 24, 5’8”, autism. Voice claim: Philip from The Owl House. Half mushroom fairy, half human.

Sapnap: pan, ambiamorous, he/him, 21, 5’10”. Voice claim: Finn from Adventure Time. Pretty buff. Half demon, half human.

Karl: ace, polysexual, ambiamorous, he/swirl/pop, 21, 5’11”, AuDHD. Voice claim: Bow from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power reboot. Time noodle (idk wtf to call it).

Bad: bi, demisexual and romantic, he/they/it, 36, 9’6”. Voice claim: Moxxie from Helluva Boss. Demon.

Skeppy: gay, transmasc, demiboy, he/it, 34, 5’7”. Voice claim: Percy from Lightning Thief the Musical. Diamond hybrid.

Puffy: bi, transfem, any pronouns, she/her preference, 31, 6’9”, OCD, prosthetic leg. Voice claim: Annapantsu. Goat hybrid.

Hannah: lesbian, trans mtf, she/her, 22, 5’4”, damaged wings. Voice claim: Katara from ATLA. Rose fairy.

Aimsey: lesbian, enby, any pronouns, 20, 4’11”, AuDHD, uses a walking stick. Voice claim: Hilda from Hilda. Bunny hybrid.

Boomer: bi, trigender, he/they/she, 23, 5’9”, ADHD. Voice claim: Ed from The Owl House. Frog hybrid.

Connor: ace, gay, he/zap/blast, 22, 5’7”, autism. Voice claim: Sea Hawk from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power reboot. Time noodle (still don’t know what to call it).

Schlatt: gay, he/him, 36, 6’3”. Voice claim: Haymitch from The Hunger Games. Goat hybrid.

Michaelmcchill: bi, he/him, 33, 6’2”, autism. Voice claim: Jake from Adventure Time. Panther hybrid.

Eryn: bi, demiboy, he/they/sharp/it, 16, 5’10”, ADHD. Voice claim: Leo from ROTTMNT. Half demon, half human.

CPK: pan, genderfluid, he/they/she/it/swish, immortal, 6’4”. Voice claim: Terry from Dragon Prince. Kitsune.

Callahan: gay, he/him, immortal, 5’7”, mute. Voice claim: no one. He’s mute. Demi god.

Alyssa: lesbian, she/it, 24, 5’5”. Voice claim: Sasha from Amphibia. Some sort of hybrid, I haven’t decided yet.

Tina: bi, trans mtf, she/her, 23, 5’3”. Voice claim: Candy from Gravity Falls. Half demon, half human.

Antfrost: gay, he/him, 29, 5’7”. Voice claim: Adrien from Miraculous Ladybug. Cat hybrid.

Hbomb: gay, he/she, 17, 5’8”. Voice claim: Launchpad from DuckTales 2016. Cat hybrid.

Vikk: bi, he/him, 38, 5’8”. Voice claim: Mr. Boonchuy from Amphibia. Parrot hybrid.

Lazar: probably queer in some way, he/him, 63, 5’10”. Voice claim: Fergus McDuck from DuckTales 2016. Gingerbread man.

Miscellaneous headcanons:

Cuddling with Quackity helps Wilbur sleep.

Whenever Tommy or Wilbur think about death, they play with the white streak in their hair

When Dream was little, he used to draw his smile (TM) on stuff to “claim it”. Like, toys and shit like that.

The Syndicate gave each other hair styling tips.

The reason Quackity always wears a beanie is to cover his ears. For trauma reasons.

Tommy’s cardigan is made of Friend’s wool.

Sometimes Fundy, Foolish, and Sam spend the night at Las Nevadas, so they all have their own rooms there.

When Purpled winks, he winks both eyes on one side.

Karl has a bunch of those goofy ahh socks with like, fruit on them. You know want I’m talking about.

Dream’s birth name is Clay but he changed once more people started arriving in the SMP.

Techno plays violin and is teaching Ranboo.

Dream’s walking speed is the same as the speed walking of everyone else.

Bee duo wears their rings on their horns because Tubbo’s ring finger is busted and they wanted to match.

Fundy calls Eret dad, but not Wilbur. (Rip)

Ranboo’s a soprano.

Aimsey’s hair turns white in the winter.

Burger duo have to keep an eye on each other when they use knifes at the van. For… reasons.

Peer pressure duo practice controlled breathing together.

Techno’s bruh is a vocal stim.

Little Fundy used to jokingly bow at Eret.

Techno has reading glasses.

Techno’s hair gets really tangly if he doesn’t brush it after a day.

Callahan uses ASL to communicate and Alyssa’s his translator.

All of the fandom songs are written by the characters.

Ghostbur put stickers on his guitar.

Tubbo played softball/baseball growing up.

When Dream was in prison, he tallied the days he was there in the shape of a smile.

Wilbur sings and plays guitar to help Tommy fall asleep.

Charlie cries “human bits”.

Bad became really against swearing after he adopted Sapnap.

Wilbur taught Quackity how to play guitar.

Sam just saw George and Quackity all alone on the street and just adopted them.

Dream wears contacts.

Purpled’s UFO crashed on Earth when he was a little, so they don’t really remember anything about his home planet .

Tommy watches Bluey.

Tommy mainly listens to audiobooks.

Aimsey draws on their arm.

Kristen gave Phil immortality so they could always be together, but that caused him to only have one live.

Puffy and Schlatt are half siblings.

Quackity has a Medusa tattoo .

Before Quackity gave everyone in Las Nevadas rooms, Purpled slept in the van with Wilbur.

Boomer watches MHA.

Dream got a spider web tattoo on his elbow after prison break.

Hannah watches Miraculous.

Jack made Tommy and Wilbur matching chats.

It doesn’t matter how much sleep he actually got, Wilbur looks tired no matter what.

Fundy listens to the High School Musical soundtrack.

Karl was/is in the WoF and Warrior Cats fandoms.

Tommy sings Welcome Home and My L’Manburg to himself to help him fell asleep and/or destress.

Niki taught Tommy how to sew after Exile.

Every time Jack loses a life, he becomes more cyborg.

Phil started growing his hair out after Techno died.

Wilbur is that one annoying ass person that sings happy birthday well (everyone knows you’re not supposed to sing happy birthday well).

Wilbur masked for most of his time on the SMP (especially during the elections and Pogtopia) and only really unmasked after the people he was really close with.

Dream has retractable fingernail claws because of his limited shapeshifting abilities.

Sally and Milo are besties.

That’s it. I hope you like em :3

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coquinhacomlimao · 14 days

Text

Here's an OC for diabolik lovers!

Helena Dias

26y

178cm or 5'10"

72Kg

Unknown race

Appearance

She has many tattoos, including in her face (serendipity above her right brown and a tear under the right eye) and neck (a bat stabbed by a dagger). Almost all of them are in old school style.

Also many many piercings on her ears, on the right eyebrow, both sides of the nose and connected by a chain, snake bites, septum and bellybutton.

She is strong and curvy (imagine maki from jujutsu), with very defined muscles an a little fat around her stomach, arms and legs that stayed there after having kids

Her clothes are usually very elegant. Tailored pants, long skirts, fitted shirts, stilleto heels and golden jewelry are her go-to

She does wears much more layed back outfits ah home, mostly jeans shorts, tank tops, flannel shirts/pants, very large t-shirts and sweaters and always with jewelry. Imagine the chicana style - makeup

Her hair us jet black, straight and very shiny. Her eyes are also a deep black and her skin is an medium olive tone.

Personality

To people from outside she is formal, elegant, polite yet firm. She imposes respect, a very cunning woman, listening more than talking and adapting quickly to the social cues.

Her personality drastically changes when it comes to her children, friends, sister and parents. She is sweet, patient, funny and very energetic (aka loud and agitated af). She has no problem being ridiculous to entertain the kids, gossip with mom and younger sis and laugh loundly with her dad. Sometimes she can even be obnoxious, the family is a complete separate world for Helena.

Karl Heinz brings the worst in her. She berates, insults and is honestly ready for a fight, if not bonded by a blood contract she would kill him.

Even hating Heinz, she kind of understand his late wives, and wold not hold hard feelings against them or her children. She thinks of them as victims of Heiz and his plans, just like her. She tries to be kind and patient with the Sakamaki boys, but still hold her limts firmly.

Her biggest flaw is thinking she knows better than other people and ends up not listening. Other things are that she has a hard time acknowledging some aspects of her abuse, she is smarter and more socially adaptable that most people, wich made her believe that because it happens to her is not as bad as it would be with a "normal girl"; Takes too many responsibilities as punishment for her "wrongs" of the past; To her kids, she has her moments, sometimes is kind of childsh and acts more like a older sister, and sometimes is a bit overprotective, it comes from the struggle of becoming a parent too soon, but the kids are well cared, loved and she is working on her problems.

Lore

I'm lazy so i just google translate what i had written lol sory if anything sounds odd.

No beta reading we die like real man AND remember Helena developed much faster than others kids, but it doesn't means she is mature

I lived the first years of my life in a relatively normal way, with my parents, José (Zé) de Santana Meira Dias and Naomi Abe Dias. We lived in the ABC region of São Paulo, in a lower middle class area, and we attended a Catholic church in the region. According to my parents, I was never a completely normal child. I reached my developmental milestones much earlier, despite having normal growth, and I started to be rebellious as soon as I learned to form complete sentences. At the age of 6, I already knew how to run away from home to do whatever I wanted, and sometimes I even ran away from school. Nothing my parents did helped. I even learned how to pick locks, poor things. I also didn't have many friends my own age. I liked talking to much older children and even some teenagers. According to my mother, my favorite group of friends were some kids who smoked marijuana at night in the square near our house. Again, poor my parents.

In 2007, when I was 8 years old, my mother became pregnant with my sister, Sophia, and my parents decided to move to Japan because it was a safer country, and they believed it would be easier to control me. As soon as we arrived, we met Father Komori, who was in charge of the parish that we attended every day when my father got home from work. My sister was born the same year, and we lived in a small, old apartment. My father worked in a car factory and my mother was a housewife until my sister turned 3 and could go to nursery school. This was the time when I became more well-behaved. I remember wanting to help my parents because life was not very easy at the time. Most of my extracurricular activities were at church, so my contact with hunting creatures of the night began. Father Komori noticed my above-average skills when I was around 10 years old. He taught me how to hunt and take care of the church, and by the time I was 13, I was already hunting. From that moment on, all my free time was spent at church or hunting. My parents were happy that I stopped getting into trouble, and the worst thing I did was sleep in some classes. At 15, I had already become a high-level hunter, already recognized in the field. And I was a stubborn child; I truly believed that I was capable of hunting the king of the vampires and becoming the best. Today I understand that I was a child without real stimuli until I became a hunter; it is common for gifted children to misbehave in order to find stimuli. I fell in love with hunting because it was the first challenging thing I had ever done in my life. It was the first time I was truly afraid of failing, and victory after so much anxiety was better than any drug I had ever tried.

My plan and research to find Karl Heinz began in March 2013, and the hunt itself took place in the second week of July, when my school was visiting Osaka. I tracked Heinz to a local hotel and almost killed him. The knife hit him square in the heart, but he used his powers to go back in time and stop me from killing him. That day I almost died. I'm sure Heinz spared me out of curiosity. I was admitted to a local hospital and my little escapade was covered up by Heinz. He made everyone believe that during one of his visits I was hit by a speeding car. In that hospital room, Heinz offered me a deal: I would have children with him, and in exchange he would give me whatever I wanted. At the time, my lack of maturity only allowed me to see the opportunity to acquire more power, and I only calculated enough that Heinz couldn't take it back. I didn't expect that I would truly love my children. Not that I had many options. I'm sure that if it weren't for the deal, Heinz would find another way to get me involved in his experiments, with or without my consent. When I was 16, I got pregnant for the first time, and my parents were desperate. At the time, I told them that I didn't know whose child it was, and that I had been with several boys, but they didn't believe me, especially since I showed no interest in dating or interacting with boys. At that time, they assumed that Father Komori had taken advantage of me, but they had no way of proving anything and knew that pressing the issue could complicate our family's situation a lot. So they decided to return to Brazil.

My sister was devastated. She loved the church and loved Japan. She missed her best friend, Yui, the priest's daughter, and didn't understand why our family had to move so abruptly. But Sophia had always been a very sweet and understanding girl. My parents said that the priest had done something very bad to me and I wasn't safe there. My little sister had always been very sweet to me, and she was a great aunt.

Despite the absolute sadness my parents felt at the time, they welcomed my son, Yuri, with great love. Since there had been no sexual abuse, I wasn't sad either. In fact, I was very excited about the possibility of learning new things, becoming stronger, and hunting better. Heinz began sending me letters through family members. I received several magic books and letters from him detailing how to start learning. With my very religious family, I would hide them under the bed sheets. In return, Heinz received frequent reports about my pregnancy and Yuri's development. As we expected, Yuri was an extraordinary child, but like me, he grew at the normal speed of a human. My recovery and development in magic and my abilities were also absurd, both parties were happy with the agreement. To be honest, I did not immediately become attached to my son, almost all the care in the first years of his life was done by my parents. I barely spent time with him, and my parents believed that this aversion was due to the abuse. I can hardly imagine how much suffering my parents went through because of me. I started to do some hunting in Brazil just for fun and training, but it was enough to draw the attention of other hunters who did not want competition and of vampires who clearly did not want to be hunted. Then, on a summer night at the end of 2015, my house was attacked by a pack of creatures of the night. There were races that should not even be on land, such as Ghouls, waters and vipers. Fortunately, my knowledge helped me protect my family, and I could no longer hide anything. I had to explain everything that was happening. I can tell you it was a long week, my parents had a hard time processing everything. My mother also told me that I am not my father's biological daughter. I always knew that I was not conceived in the marriage, but my mother told me that they broke up for a few months before getting back together and, in the meantime, she got pregnant by a man, but he disappeared and my father decided to raise me anyway. There came a point where they had to accept that the agreement with Heinz was over and my only option was to keep having children until the agreed number. We moved to a new house, I now saving money from my hunting, and we were able to afford a comfortable life. I started to get attached to my children a few months after my daughter was born.

The Kids

Yuri Dias

10y

Has a strong and lean body, a buzz cut and a brigh smile.

My son Yuri is a kind, responsible and very lively child. He likes to take care of his younger siblings and loves them very much. He repeats the positive parenting that I used with him on others and is always willing to help. It is very easy for him to make friends, he is polite with the older ones but still very fun. He acts affectionately with me, and I always make sure to satisfy all of his emotional and physical needs as a child. Our relationship is very close and his clear and calm way of dealing with feelings makes it very easy to be this boy's mother. Despite this, his flaw is that he gives too much of himself to others. He doesn't mind being treated badly if it is good for the younger children, which makes me very worried.

Camila Dias

Lean and tall, runs a lot, is a tom boy and the funniest kid

Camila, like Yuri, is a helpful and kind child, but she has no problem starting a fight to defend herself and her siblings. She is extremely funny, she is the typical child without a restraint on her tongue who doesn't care a bit about what others will say. She is very mischievous and lively, but in a good way, always letting her curiosity lead her to new adventures. I go a little crazy with this girl but also full of pride. She and Lucas are the perfect combination for siblings, Lucas is more relaxed and happy around her, and she is more restrained about what is responsible and what is not.

Nicolas Dias

He is a little short, lean like his older sister

Very shy and introspective, well behaved, loves to be held

Unlike his other siblings, he is quiet, shy and reserved. He is suspicious of others and does not get along with strangers. He also does not like a lot of excitement and prefers to be in my lap, despite this he plays a lot with his older siblings who always try to make sure he is included. He is not an emotional child, basically never cries, does not make noise and rarely complains. However, he becomes much more open with family members and in these moments he lets loose.

Hanna Dias

11 months

Her body is chubby, short and strong

Very moody, energetic, talkative and independent

She is very similar to Yuri, both keep their true feelings to people close to them and do not like strangers, but she has a more irritable personality, she is also restless like her other siblings. Hanna is a funny girl, with people close to her she complains and cries a little as soon as they do something she does not like, but with strangers she screams as if she was being beaten. The girl makes faces of pure disgust at anyone who tries to force contact with her, and hates being held, only accepting it when she is sleepy.

#diabolik lovers #original character #oc lore #diabolik oc

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