#din ofc

[dindjarinandlysakane]

The Sweetest Taste | Chapter 15 - Seeing Red

When Din Djarin meets a beautiful cake seller from Nevarro, do you think he’s just going to stand back and let her suffer at the hands of her abusive boyfriend? After a lifetime of heartache and pain, Lysa Kane realises she’s not on her own any more and finds an unlikely friend in the Mandalorian. And Din Djarin does not like men who treat women like that, not one tiny bit. Friendship/comfort and maybe something more…

Masterlist

Chapter 15

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A week passed slowly.

Din and Grogu had spent four of those days off planet, tracking down a bounty on behalf of the New Republic.

But even that had done nothing to distract Din Djarin from his own thoughts. From his own painful recollection of what had happened on that stormy night.

Playing it over and over in his mind, desperately wishing he had done something differently.

Just said something…

Anything…

To stop Lysa leaving.

Din’s heart hurt.

Right now there was nothing in the galaxy Din wanted more than her.

But he had missed his chance, been too cowardly to tell her how he felt.

He wasn't sure if it was fear of rejection, or humiliation that had driven Din to just stand there silently and watch as Lysa had fled his home, running out into the night alone.

But just the way she had been so defensive of Crix. The man that seemed, to Din, to take all the light out of her eyes every time she spoke about him. 

And that hurt.

To think that she could love a man that treated her that badly.

Din had pondered this, and only this, for the past week.

And despite them being due a delivery from Lysa today, he knew it likely would not arrive…after how they had left it the last time he had seen her.

Despite how sweet and truly delectable the sweet treats that Lysa had dropped off last time were, Din had not been able to even stomach a bite of it, instead allowing Grogu to eat it all. Which his son had of course revelled in.

Grogu however, had not been completely oblivious to the tension felt between Lysa and Din. The child had bleated a little after she had left on that stormy night. And every landspeeder or similar they had passed on their travels ever since, Grogu had stared quickly at, as though hoping to see her.

Din would be foolish to think that Grogu hadn't noticed how happy Din seemed around her. It was rare that anything bar his son could get Din to laugh, but around Lysa laughter and happiness felt easy.

It was a bright evening, the still sun high and hot in the sky - a complete opposite to the weather a week ago.

Din was sat on a low bench just outside his cabin, fixing a stuck trigger on one of his blasters, as Grogu played beneath a tree a little way from him - his favourite spot.

The blaster wasn't even one of his favourites, but he was fixing it more as a distraction than anything. Just something to keep his mind from Lysa.

But that was a feat that Din Djarin was about to find impossible, as a flash of something shiny in the distance caught his eye.

He glanced up through his beskar helmet, seeing a vehicle speeding across the lava flats towards them, a vehicle that he recognised almost immediately.

Din’s heart began to pound as if on cue, his entire body suddenly numb.

His stomach lurched with apprehension and excitement as he saw Lysa Kane’s landspeeder zipping quickly down the long path towards his and Grogu’s cabin.

Din had no clue what to say to her.

Would she be angry…upset? Would she drop the package and leave without a word?

Din let out a shallow breath and got to his feet, his cape billowing behind him in the breeze, watching as the vehicle drew nearer.

Grogu’s ears pricked up, only just noticing the sound and turning, getting to his own little feet.

As was usual, the landspeeder wound its way down the makeshift path towards the cabin.

But today, instead of parking up near to Din’s large N-1 Starfighter. Curiously, the battered old speeder came to a sudden stop a little way away, down the path.

Behind his mask Din gave a light frown.

Grogu, who let out an instantly happy chirp, obviously recognising Lysa, waddled away from the tree and over towards the little speeder.

From here Din could just about make out Lysa’s face, just about visible behind her yellow tinted visor. 

And rather than hop quickly out of the landspeeder like she usually did, Lysa remained there for a long few seconds.

Din’s heart ached to think that now she didn’t want to see him. Maybe she didn’t want anything to do with him. Perhaps she was as embarrassed as he was.

But dank farrik he was a Mandalorian.

And so pulling himself together, Din decided to be the bigger man, walking slowly down the dusty path towards her.

But as though spotting him, Lysa lifted herself quickly from the speeder, looking a little stiff.

“Hi,” she called over in a friendly tone.

But she didn’t look at Din or Grogu, nor did she make any move to remove her helmet. Instead moving hurriedly around her vehicle and pulling their small wrapped parcel from the basket at the rear.

Today she was clothed in a grey jacket, covering a pale green shirt and breeches. But it was certainly odd for her not to even make a move to remove her helmet.

She kept her back to the pair of them as they came to stand just a couple of feet away. Waiting for her to turn…

But Lysa didn’t. Instead, passing Din the parcel with a quick swivel of her hips, keeping her face turned away.

Grogu at Din’s feet gave an expectant croak. But there came no response from Lysa as Din took the parcel from her grasp. He tried to catch a glimpse of her expression, but from where he was standing could not see one.

“I can't stop,” she said quickly, her voice sounding a slightly higher-pitch than normal. “I’m running behind on some deliveries today.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact and friendly. 

But there was something behind it that made Din feel uneasy.

Was she feeling uncomfortable about what happened last time they saw one another?

No, thought Din, eyeing her as she fiddled with a buckle on the basket. This was something else…

Again from the floor. Grogu gave a croak as though asking her to turn around, to give him the attention he wanted.

But still she remained turned away, helmet on.

Din bristled.

Something was wrong.

“I’ll see you next week,” she muttered, turning back to the driver's seat and making to hop up and swing her leg over the side, when Din suddenly spoke. 

“I still need to pay you,” he said, his voice sounding stark, as Lysa froze, fingers tensed around the rim of the speeder. “I actually owe you for two deliveries.”

Din eyed her as best he could through her visor.

Why was she in such a hurry to get away?

Lysa’s foot dropped back down to the ground,  causing black dust to puff up into the air between them.

She was quiet for a second or two before she finally spoke, turning his way for maybe the first time.

“Of course,” she said lightly, flashing Din a half smile through her visor. Though he noticed that her eyes still couldn’t quite meet his.

The frown at Din’s brow deepened beneath his beskar, as he reached into his belt pouch extracting six credit chips, before handing them to her.

But as Lysa reached out to take them, her shirt collar shifted slightly and a flash of something dark against the paleness of her skin caught Din’s eye immediately.

Din stopped still, staring, his heart suddenly thudding hard…for another reason entirely.

But Lysa caught his look, hurriedly shifting back and making to turn away once more.

But there was no way Din was going to let this slide. Not this time.

“Lysa,” he said in a sudden low voice through his modulator.

She froze again and Din could see her breathing become suddenly very shallow and very fast, her eyes widening through the yellow plastic of her visor.

“I-I’m late..I’ve got to go,” she said hurriedly, a sudden panic in her voice.

But Din reached out before she could move…his gloved hand catching around the top of Lysa’s arm.

He instantly felt her flinch beneath his grasp, as she turned towards him, suddenly looking terrified.

“Show me,” uttered Din in a sudden serious voice. A voice he reserved usually for bounties alone.

But to him, now, this was a job. A job where someone would be punished for what they had done.

Din could feel Lysa trembling beneath his grasp now, as she stared up at him.

He could see the fear and reluctance in her now tearful eyes…

She knew exactly what he was talking about.

Din took another considered step closer to her, letting go of her arm, and carefully reaching up with his gloved hand… gently pulling her shirt collar down by an inch or so….

…revealing a large blossoming bruise covering the expanse of her collarbone and neck. And how far it went beyond that point was anyone's guess.

In an instant, Din clenched his jaw hard, sheer fury filling every crevice of his body.

And before Lysa could do a thing to stop him, Din had turned and made for his N-1.

“Din-” she said, her breath hitching, sounding fearful. “Please don't-”

Right now she knew full well, that Din knew exactly what had happened. What was still happening.

That bruise was fresh. And must have been excruciatingly painful.

And for someone to do that to Lysa…

Right now Din felt more angry than he had done in a long, long time. 

Seeing red. Hopping up into his ship as Lysa approached.

“Din-” she tried again. He could see tears falling from her cheeks now, behind her visor, as she shook her head, almost pleading with him not to do this.

But Din was too far gone to listen to her. Furious.

“Stay here,” said Din commandingly. “Both of you.”

He looked to his son who was staring up at him from the ground in confusion. He would explain everything to Grogu later.

But right now Din Djarin had only one thing on his mind.

One priority above anything else.

To find Crix Val’shif.

---------------------------

What did you guys think? Do you want more?

If anyone would like to be tagged do let me know.

[ledgersmountain]

And that's why i don't like reading fanfics or imagines with real life people, especially smut or stuff like that, not anymore bc it's just... weird

I don't see a problem with fictional characters because, obviously, they don't exist, but writing a scenario where a real person, who has a family, a job, relationships, etc, fucking you or doing whatever, is already absurd to me (my opinion)

It seems that people see these public figures as an object and not as a REAL person that should be respected.

Edit: if pedro already feels uncomfortable with some thirsty tweets about his person imagine the fanfics

[varpusvaras]

Idk I just had the thought for the most unhinged time travel au.

It's just the entire gang of Leia, Luke, Han, Din and Boba (yes because he's ba'vodu Boba okay-) and they get transported back to the clone wars.

They're like okay. First things first we need an inside man. Luke wants to go talk to the Jedi but then is like mmmh. that might cause some more problems if we just march in and expose our father. Leia doesn't care about Anakin but agrees otherwise.

She thinks about going to her parents, of course, they're royalty and pretty close to Palpatine at the time, but that would be too obvious as well.

Then she thinks of Fox. It's a risk, of course, but he could make a good ally to them, and be a bit less noticeable at first.

Okay, sure. Let's go and try to talk to him. Boba, you go. You're a clone, too, so you go. Din can go as back up.

Things go- not so good. Somehow they all end up in the middle of a whole fight alongside Fox, and Fox gets knocked out during it, and when the rest of the Corries come running in, they see two full-kitted Mando's standing with a bunch of bodies and very out-cold Fox and they are very ready to shoot live ammos.

So Boba and Din go alright time to get out of here, and just fly off, and manage to lose the Corries, and-

"....you took the Commander?"

"What? We did all of this to get him to talk to us in the first place"

"We are so dead"

So in short, they just end up kidnapping Fox by accident, and they have to continue kidnapping him because how the hell do you explain this anymore without absolutely everybody getting to know what is going on?

[scrambledslut]

haha ʳᵉᵃʳʳᵃⁿᵍᵉ ᵐʸ ᵍᵘᵗˢ

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

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

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

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

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

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then two things happen in quick succession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wipe your nose.”

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

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

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

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

“Alone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

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

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

“Do tell.”

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Camille.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is not an option for us.”

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

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

Din Djarin says nothing.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“This is about revenge.”

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

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

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

“Cain—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amélie?”

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

“Wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Celine?”

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

“Wrong again.”

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

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

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

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

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

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

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

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

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

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

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

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

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

“Don’t wear it ou—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was the right thing to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

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

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

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

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

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

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

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

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

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

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[commanderry]

my favorite types of fics are the ones where luke goes “i have to confess something… my dad is darth vader” and din is like “who??” cause that bitch doesn’t have a clue what’s going on in the galaxy

[dindjarindiaries]

You reblogged that starter list and before I even saw your message, this one SCREAMED Din to me:

❛ if i could be a different person, i promise you, i would be.

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: "If I could be a different person, I promise you, I would be."

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

You looked up at the expanse of stars overhead and let out a soft breath. The slight sting of the night's chilled air nipped at your nose, but the way it filtered through your lungs felt relieving. This was the open air; it was much more freeing than the ship you had started to feel trapped within.

It was that ship's boarding ramp you were sitting on, and as you took a quick glance over your shoulder, you saw its owner watching you from within the cargo hold with a worried tilt to his silver helmet. Having been caught in the act, his armored chest rose and fell in a breath as he started to walk towards you. Your gaze returned to the sky above as you sensed his approach.

"I thought you were charting another course," you said as Din took his place alongside you. "We can't spend too much time here."

Din shrugged in your periphery. "An extra rotation won't hurt."

Your head snapped towards him as your lips parted in disbelief. "A rotation?"

Din's visor was stuck on the stars, but after a moment of you staring, he returned your disbelieving glance. "What?"

You chuckled and shook your head, returning your attention to the night sky. You closed your eyes as your heart began to beat more rapidly. The question you wanted to ask screamed within your mind, but it came out as a mere whisper. "Why?"

There was a pause before Din responded. "Why what?"

You reopened your eyes and kept them on the stars. Looking at Din would make you lose your resolve. "Why are you bending your rules?"

When Din remained silent for a long moment, you quickly glanced over at him. His visor was fixed on his gloved hands as he picked the orange-colored material on his fingertips. "We can afford the time, for now." When he continued, his modulated voice was even lower than before. "And you're happy here."

You furrowed your brow at him. "I'm happy regardless."

Din gave his helmet a brief tilt. "Sure. But..." he paused, as if musing upon something, "not like you are on planets like this one."

You didn't know what to say to that. The sweet inhale of the crisp air you took was enough to prove his words true. As you continued to stare somewhat dumbfounded at Din, he added more.

"You don't like being on the ship."

You instantly shook your head and willed the words to come, but they wouldn't. Your throat had closed up around your wildly beating heart as the truths you tied to each atrium and ventricle came closer and closer to freeing themselves.

Din took your silence as a much more disappointing reality. Even his modulator couldn't hide his hurt. "You don't like being with me."

"No." You couldn't have gotten the word out faster if you'd tried. "That's not true."

"It's okay. I understand." Din's arm rested upon his propped-up knee as he looked at the stars yet again. You watched his visor reflect them with fond admiration. "My lifestyle isn't meant to keep people around for long." He nodded, as if he was still convincing himself of such a truth. "I've grown used to it."

His words, a genuine and honest reflection of himself, shattered your heart enough to let the shards escape through the barrier your throat had attempted to create. Each beautiful truth began to spill out in a stained glass mosaic of the image you had crafted over the past few months. "Yet I'm still here."

That caught Din's attention. His visor found your gaze as you pieced your art together.

"I've felt trapped, yes, but not by you or your ship." You exhaled and watched your hand as you set it on the metal of the ramp beside you. It was just inches from Din's own. "It's a feeling. One that consumes me, really. And while it's centered on you, it's not because of you that I feel so trapped. That's only because I know the truth. I know your guard has to stay up."

You huffed and shook your head at yourself.

"It sounds ridiculous to say out loud, honestly, but... you deserve to know." The corners of your mouth pulled up in a sad smile. "Even if there's nothing you can do about it."

Din's visor never left you as he sat in the heavy silence that followed. Eventually, his visor lowered, his focus moving to his gloved hand as it closed the distance to your own. Only part of his hand covered yours on the boarding ramp as he spoke in the most beautifully honest tone you had ever heard from him. "If I could be a different person, I promise you, I would be."

You shook your head, your gaze also fixed on your hands as you did so. "If you were any different, you wouldn't be the person I've grown such feelings for."

You were delicate in the way you laced your fingers through his, allowing him to pull away at any point if he so wished. He made no such move, instead letting his armored chest rise and fall in a careful breath as your hands became fully entwined. After a few more quiet moments, he spoke up once again. "I can learn."

You looked back up at his visor and hoped your expression wasn't betraying your strong glimmer of hope. Din offered a determined nod.

"I will learn."

Your smile couldn't be stopped as you looked upon him much more favorably than you ever had the stars. "Yeah?"

Din nodded once more, resting your entwined hands on his armored thigh. "Yeah."

[bearsbeetsbeskar]

Din Djarin cock worship drabble (din djarin x you)

pairing: din djarin x f!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit descriptions of smut, (assumed age gap maybe???), the armour stays on except for when din eats pussy (which is 24/7 in this universe), overstimulation wc: 1.4K a/n: hello lovelies, this is just a part of something that has been cooking in my brain for the last week. I was ignoring my schoolwork and other responsibilities as usual and rewatching mando, and just thinking about how that modulated rasp makes me melt, and how I would give anything to tie Din Djarin up and suck the soul out of him to hear those moans. that man deserves his cock to be worshipped, and I think about that on the daily tbh . this is unfinished but i hope to complete it this weekend!

Impenetrable beskar steel forged under sweltering heat that could rival Tattooine’s binary suns. Stealthy, calculated, choreographed skills of a warrior, so innate to his being, an exoskeleton similar to the armour he wore.  An unshakeable creed that represented devotion, honour, humility, and strength.

Powerful, weathered strength. Strength that shouldered hundreds of bounties, countless days of survival in the harshest planets, and so many physical injuries he’s lost count at this point.   

Din Djarin was a humble man. He never boasted his abilities or displayed a cocky nature. He had no reason to. Growing up in the covert, competing drills and sparring with other Mandalorians, he let his combat skills speak for himself as opposed to his words. Din would never deny his strength however. He knew he was strong, despite his age, and despite the aches and pains that permeated his body after each hunt. It was a quality that he could always pride himself on- at least that’s what he thought up until this point. Until he met you.

It turns out the stoic facade of strength that the hardened warrior so heavily relied on, crumbled the instant you could get your hands on him. Well, your hands and your mouth. 

Nearly 3 months had passed since you joined the mandalorian And the child. Three months since you offered your skills to help him with his bounties and take care of the child when he was off on his hunts. 3 months since your relationship progressed from just ship mates and acquaintances coexisting in solitude and monosyllabic answers, to partners that shared each others bed every night. A cacophony of grunts and deep groans to catch your breathless whimpers and keening whines filling the hull of the razor crest. 

You soon learned how much of a pleasure dom that mando was. Well, Din to you, now that he had entrusted you with his name. Once he learned what made you tick, what made you scream out his name as your eyes rolled into the back of your skull, he was fucking insatiable.

Most nights he wouldn’t fuck you until he made you cum on his tongue or his fingers at least twice. And even then you’d be a mess. Squirming and sobbing as you pushed his head off your dripping sensitive cunt. Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, you could feel the heat rolling off his broad body as he caged you against the bed.

“It’s okay, you can take it cyar’ika,” he would coo at you as he fed his thick cock into your warm wet heat. “Need this tight pussy nice and wet before I stretch you out on my cock.” 

You never lasted long, your orgasm crashing over you as you pulse around his length, writhing into the bed sheets. 

He reveled in being able to take you apart. Pushing you to the limits of your pleasure that it almost became painful. He fed off of it. 

It was rare however, that Din ever let you return the favor. Whenever you attempted to take him into your mouth, to show him your desire and appreciation, he would bat your hands away. Or he would only let you taste him for a minute or two before he’d manhandle you back onto the bed, legs spread by his massive palms, as he beheld you like a deity he wanted to worship over several lifetimes. His ferocity to have you usually outweighed his usual firm patience. 

You doubted that you were bad at giving head or that he didn’t enjoy it. Din was vocal, that much you were surprised to learn. As vocal as that modulator in his helmet would allow. Nothing rivaled the groans and curses you were rewarded with as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, eyes never straining from the T of his visor, taking him deep in your mouth, sucking on the head. You could only bask in the glow of his praise and delicious sounds for so long before Din became impatient and hauled you off his cock, the desire to be deep inside your warm wet heat his sole focus. “Need to have you now meshla,” he groaned, “can’t fucking wait any longer.”

Tonight would be different, you thought to yourself earlier that day as you watched Din stroll down the ramp of the Razorcrest, eager to begin his hunt for the next quarry. You had landed on Trandosha near dawn, and while the lush landscape of the planet appeared inviting Din had made it clear that you and the child couldn’t explore while he was gone.

“The quarry hasn’t exactly been covert about laying low, so it shouldn’t take long to track him down.” He explained as he restocked his munition and triple checked his weapons. 

Something about the methodical, almost choreographed manner in the way he loaded the pulse rifle bullets in his bandolier, reloaded his blaster, secured his vibroblade on the inside of his boot made you ridiculously horny. Watching the weathered faded leather of his gloves, caress the barrel of the rifle, mold around the handle of the blaster, those same gloves that molded to the curves of your body. You felt your throat go dry as he kept talking.

“Are you listening cyar’ika?”

Two leather clad fingers settled underneath your chin, urging it upwards to meet his visor.

“Huh?”

His helmet tilted to the side ever so slightly as he appraised your glossed over gaze, not before letting out one of those deep sighs that you had come to know and love. 

“No leaving the ship while I’m gone, under any circumstances. Got it?” The fingers under your chin shifted as his hand curled around the nape of your neck, thumb rubbing gently over your jaw.

“Trandosha may be a decent planet but Trandoshans are ruthless hunters, and they wouldn’t miss an opportunity to capture a sweet thing like you, or the child.”

The thought didn’t scare you. Having been around Trandoshans before, you knew they were cunning hunters, but the large reptilian species were slow on foot and clumsy with weaponry. They were nothing in comparison to Din’s prowess and perfected combat skills. 

Humming in response, you walk your fingers up the cool beskar of his chest plate, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Good thing I am traveling with one of the most ruthless and equally feared bounty hunters in the galaxy hmm?”

Burying your fingers in the curls peeking out from underneath his helmet and tugging slightly, you reveled in the shaky exhale he let out. 

He leaned down, resting the forehead of his helmet against yours.  A quiet rumble leaving the depths of his broad chest. 

“Ruthless huh?” His strong arms snake around your waist, pulling you flush against his broad body. You basked in the warmth emanating off his armour. While he appeared a mountain of metal, it sent a thrill through you upon feeling the humanity coursing through his body, the life exuding from underneath his beskar shell.

“Yes Din.” You replied with a smirk as you arched your back, smushing your breasts against the cool, hard angles of the chest plate.

“Ruthless in catching your bounties, ruthless in destroying your enemies,” you look up at him from under your lashes, “ruthless when you fuck my pussy and make me cum so many times I lost count.”

He lets out a noise, between a groan and a growl, as his hands slithered down to grip your ass, tightly cupping your ass cheeks, trying to pull you impossibly closer than you already were. It wasn’t enough to be pressed up against you, he needed to be inside you. That much was evident as you felt the hard outline of his cock, nudging against your lower belly. 

“Damn fucking right I am. That tight little pussy is mine.”

It was your turn to shiver as your eyes fell shut and you bit your lip. Stars, the power that this man had over you. How he was able to make you fall apart with just his words, that filthy fucking mouth hidden underneath his unreadable halo of steel.

He leaned down till the helm of his helmet was beside your ear. “No leaving the ship,” he repeated in that delicious rasp. “I’ll be back soon okay?”

Little did Din know the surprise you had in store for him later.

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 7

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Four)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

Chapter Summary: Our heroes fuck around and find out.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.1k+

Content / Warnings: smuuuuuuuuut, dirty talk, inner conflict, outer conflict, jealousy, dog grogu, the mandalorian au, fascist propaganda, not beta read

Notes: Ayooo! This “day” is gonna be split into 2-3 parts, which will conclude the story arc for Wyoming, then I’m taking a small pause from writing this to finish another ongoing series (Designated Person). This series is going to be ginormous in terms of longevity (I have at least 20 more chapters plotted out and fully intend on completing them) so pls don’t worry, I am not abandoning them. Also I switched the POV from 2nd to 3rd person and will be updating the backlog of chapters to this POV.

—

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—

Din feels around blindly for the alarm clock and presses the big SNOOZE button, releasing a sigh into the sudden silence. 

Someone else’s body heat sticks to the edge of him. He shifts onto his side and tugs at the warmth, huddling closer. It mumbles something into his chest, but trails off, weight going slack against him. 

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—

Din unravels to turn off the alarm clock, then rolls back over, letting his arm fall loose over the lump beside him. The warmth wiggles closer with a groggy hum. 

Prying open heavy lids, he blinks until his eyes start to adjust to the dark motel room. His surroundings come into focus gradually. Stiff sheets and body heat and a nest of blonde hair. 

He draws back to look at her face, studying her peaceful dozing features. The curve of her lips and the dip of her Cupid’s bow. From this distance, he can map out all the tiny freckled constellations smattered across her face. 

He syncs his breath to her quiet snores and absorbs the steady rhythm of her pulse. 

Just for a few more seconds, or a minute. 

It might be the only time he gets to see her in this way, so defenseless in such close proximity. Mona Lisa without the protective glass, she is precious and vulnerable. 

If that much is true, who is he? The thief sent to rip her from her frame? The night guard posted to protect her? Or both, or neither, or does it even matter? Because here she is, a real life enigma, and all he can manage to be is the awestruck witness who stumbled upon her. 

She starts to stir, burrowing into the crook of his neck. He should wake her up. Separate himself, at least. 

It feels wrong to hold her this way. 

It is wrong to hold her this way. 

‘Unprofessional,’ he reminds himself, as if that were the only reason and not just one of many. 

She stirs again.

This time, a yawn expands her rib cage and puffs hot down his collar. He pretends to sleep, closing his eyes as her lashes flutter against his thudding pulse. 

Shit. 

He braces for impact. Waits for her to come to her senses. To shove him away or pull back. 

But she doesn’t. 

Instead, she nuzzles closer and yawns again. On the exhale, she relaxes into him. 

Her weight and warmth melt through him, unclenching muscles he never knew he had. She curls and uncurls her fingers against his chest, a gentle affection that flickers up his spine. Her touch wanders to the elbow draped over her waist. It slowly roams up his arm, lulling him into a trance-like state as she skates along his bicep, then his tricep, rounding his shoulder to trace his collarbone.

When her fingertips graze his neck, heat swells at the very center of him and spills over the edges, reverberating through his body. A groan scrapes his vocal cords and his cock throbs against her belly. 

Traitor. 

Before panic can call him to action, Charlie arches towards him and releases this sweet, quiet gasp that empties his mind of reason. 

He tightens his arm around her waist and rocks his hips, blood burning when she pushes back. 

Rolling onto his back, he pulls her on top and they both moan at the weight of their hips settling together. She wastes no time working herself against him, huffing and whining in his open mouth. 

He has enough sense not to kiss her, but not enough to keep his uncuffed hand from slipping beneath her shirt to explore her soft, warm skin. 

“Oh fuuuck,“ she moans, body tensing as she speeds to a frantic pace. 

His eyes roll back at the violent rush of stimulation. He finds the small of her back and pins her hips to his so all she can do is wriggle and whine with frustration. 

“Slower,” he pants, grinding the damp fabric between their bodies, “Feel that? Just like that.”He softens his grip to guide her, nodding when she matches his indulgent momentum, “There you go. Fuck, that’s perfect.”

“So fucking good, holy shit—”

Sucking in air through gritted teeth, he starts to gather her hair in his fist. Her hand follows on its short leash, clinging to his handcuffed wrist as he pulls her hair taut. She moans and melts against him, but her hips never miss a beat. 

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, spurring her faster when she chokes out a guttural noise. 

Every time she slides up and down his swollen cock, a hunger inside him deepens. 

He wants to feel the heat of her in every conceivable way, to explore the aching need simmering between them. He wants to strip her bare and count her freckles and fuck her senseless. He feels her panting breath on his and desperately wants to kiss her. How pathetic. He wants and wants and wants, and yet, he knows there’s no time for all of that. 

Not with the way she starts to sputter and shake, heating his blood with second-circle hellfire. When he tightens his grip to wield her body against his, assuming control, she doesn’t resist in the slightest. 

“Din—fuck, it feels sofuckinggood, don’t stop. Don’t stop—oh my god don’t stop don’t stop—”

“Are you gonna come for me like a good girl?” 

She whines and digs her nails into his wrist, nodding frantically, “Yes yes yes yes yes—”

All her muscles go tense and gasping steals her breath. It returns to her a moment later with a choked sob and shaking limbs while his heartbeat pounds through his body, thick and hot, growing louder and louder until it consumes him completely. 

He groans, hips stuttering against her as the warmth of ecstasy washes over him. 

They go slack-limbed in the moments that follow, liquefying into a throbbing, panting puddle on the mattress. 

It’s what heaven must feel like, he thinks. Blissed out and serene, the weight of her ironing out every adversity he’d ever faced into a single flat line leading to this. Leading to her. 

The saccharine thought sours on his tongue.

What the fuck am I doing? 

—

What the fuck am I doing? 

Charlie pokes at her half-eaten cheese omelette a few times before wrinkling her nose and pushing the plate aside.

As she folds her legs up in the squeaky wooden booth, she allows herself to glance across the table at Din, whose aviators are fixed on her. She doesn’t know that he’s looking at her but she does all the same. No proof except whatever gnaws at her stomach lining. 

“Just like that… There you go. Fuck, that’s perfect.”

Heat rises to her face. 

Averting her gaze, she searches for words to start idle chit chat, but comes up blank. Her mind keeps wandering back to the ghost of his touch. 

“Are you gonna come for me like a good girl?”

She squirms a little, then buys herself some time by taking a slow sip of lukewarm, watered-down coffee. 

This silence isn’t normal. 

She needs to act normal. 

Make conversation. Just don’t mention what happened, because it couldn’t have happened. There’s no way she would allow… that. This.  

No. Not a chance. It didn’t happen. 

It was a dream, that’s all. 

A really really hot dream. 

Drawing a deep breath, she tries on this new version of truth and finds enough comfort to let her shoulders fall away from her ears.

RULE #5: Live in the now. 

Onward and upward. 

Today I will paint the sign and play a show and take every moment as it comes. 

She digs the notebook from her rucksack and pulls the pen from its spine. Flipping to a blank page, she finally breaks the silence. 

“How big would you say the Giddyup sign is, ten by five?” 

Din takes a sip of coffee, then shrugs, “Ten by eight.” 

“Ten by eight?” She frowns, visualizing both ratios on the paper, and concedes, “Ok, yeah. That seems about right. Thanks.” 

Using her thumb as a benchmark, she sections off the page in a rough 5:4 grid. While outlining her design, she watches Din at the edge of her vision, who scans the cafe between sips of coffee. 

“So after this, we pickup clothes from the laundromat, pick up the pup, and head over to Paul’s?” 

“Yes.” 

“My first set starts at eight. Figure I can get most of this done by… pfff, I dunno, five? Maybe six, depending. I’ll have to make myself presentable, eat something, then we can head over to Outlaw.” 

He doesn’t respond. 

“Got any song requests for me?” 

She looks up at his silence and finds his aviators fixed on something across the room. Right in his crosshairs, the waitress jots down a bald man’s order. 

Of course he’s enamored with the waitress. Why wouldn’t he be? 

She has a kind, gentle way about her. She’s delicate and ladylike. She has long, shiny hair and a contagious smile. She probably showers every day. She probably reads the Bible and young adult novels between assigned texts for her nursing school program. She probably has childhood friends and a five-year plan and regular communication with her family. 

Most people are into that sort of thing. 

So sure, it makes sense that he perks up like a dog earning table scraps every time she stops by their table. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

It doesn’t matter that he likes the waitress. Not in the big scheme of things, anyway. She should utilize his tongue-wagging, not detest it. 

The logic is sound, but the feeling inside her doesn’t change. 

Cloying and desperate. 

So fucking stupid. 

If she were traveling with him under her own volition, she would’ve parted ways with him before this had a chance to germinate. 

Yesterday, probably. 

This morning at the latest. 

Right after she woke to find her body curled up against him, his arm draped over her side. His skin felt so warm and good on hers. Comfortable. 

I should have killed him when I had the chance. 

Din shifts. 

She looks up from her gridlocked mountain range in time to see him pull his shoulders back and puff his chest out. 

Predictably, the waitress approaches their table and begins picking dirty dishes off the table, “Can I get y’all anything else?” 

“Just the check is fine,” Din answers. 

“Excellent.” She props the stack of plates on her hip so she can pull the bill from her apron. Placing it face down on the table, she smiles at him, “No rush, just whenever you’re ready.” 

“Thank you,” he nods. 

Charlie gives her a polite smile when she departs, then watches Din’s attention follow.

Red flares through her, a bull in a china shop. 

Fuck. This. 

She flips her notebook closed and tosses it in her rucksack, “You should invite her to the show.” 

His focus snaps back to her. “Why would I do that?” 

“I dunno,” she shrugs, taking out her wallet to evaluate its contents, “Seems like you’re sweet on her. Might as well give it a shot.” 

He draws back and frowns, studying her too close for comfort. 

She grabs the check, doing some quick math before teasing, “Wow, you’re a cheap date.”

“What are you doing?”

“Buying breakfast.“

“There’s no need—”

Waving him off, she wriggles out of the booth and swings her bag over her shoulder as she starts towards the cash register. 

He catches up with enough time to hiss in her ear, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“All set?” The waitress smiles between them. 

“All set.” Charlie hands her a stack of fives under the check, “The change is for you.”

“Oh, well thank you. I appreciate it,” she punches the total into the register.

“Yeah, of course. It was delicious. And the service was excellent, obviously. But, umm… Hey, you know, if you’re not busy tonight, I’m playing a few sets at Outlaw. You should come.” 

Din’s glare burns a hole in the back of her head, lending her a sick sense of satisfaction. 

The waitress blinks up at her, eyebrows jumping a little, “Oh, are you guys in a band?” 

“No, just me and my guitar. He’s security,” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at Din, but doesn’t dare turn around. “Anyway, no pressure or anything if you have plans already. But if you don’t, it’ll be a good time.” She leans in closer and drops her volume, “Between you and me, I think he would like it if you came.” 

The waitress chuckles a little, glancing at Din before tucking a wave of hair behind her ear, “I have to check to make sure I don’t have plans, but… Yeah, maybe.” 

“Perfect! Oh—My name is Charlie, by the way,” she nods over her shoulder, “The big guy is Din.” 

“I’m Marla.” 

“Marla,” Charlie repeats, trying to regulate her manufactured enthusiasm, “We’ll see you later, then, yeah?” 

A coy smile spreads across Marla’s face, eyes flicking to Din before she nods, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

—

In the swollen silence of the laundromat, Charlie plucks a freshly-toasted shirt off the clean clothes pile, glancing at Din’s sharp movements beside her as he does the same. 

She swallows the frantic buzzing in her chest that urges her to smooth the tension. 

It was the right thing to do. There needs to be enough distance between them for her to find the escape hatch. 

Discomfort is temporary. This discomfort is necessary. 

She cannot let it get to her. 

RULE #3: Keep your wits—

Din chucks a balled-up shirt back into the pile and spits, “Are you taking this seriously?” 

“The laundry?”

“I told you we need to keep a low profile.” He He faces her, all rigid and puffed up, “First it was the show, then the sign, now you’re trying to get us in with the locals—”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way. I got you a deal with Paul and a date with Marla, plus I’ll get spending cash—”

“We shouldn’t even be in public, let alone keeping a social calendar. You don’t understand how dangerous it is for us to be visible.” 

“Do you really think Marla from The Pantry Cafe is going to ping my location to all your buddies?” She scoffs, trading her folded shirt for her crumpled up pair of jeans. “I highly doubt anyone here gives a shit about me.” 

“That’s not—” He sighs, propping a hand on his hip, “If someone from the guild picks up your trail, they will come for you.” 

She rolls her eyes and tucks the folded jeans in her knapsack, muttering, “What then, you won’t get your finder’s fee?” 

“It’s not about that, it’s about your safety.” 

A voice at the back of her head reminds her she’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar. 

She almost listens to it, too. Until Din opens his trap to drive his point home further.  

“I know what these people are capable of—”

“Kidnapping and murder, I assume.” 

“There are worse things.”

She turns to him and blinks, “Scare tactics, Din? Really?”

“Not a scare tactic. A reality check.” 

“Oh my fucking—”

“You’re being reckless and you know it.” He squares his shoulders, jabbing her chest as he grinds out, “Tighten. Up.” 

Swatting his hand away, she scowls up at her reflection in his aviators. Her fingers twitch with the impulse to rip them off and stomp them to pieces. 

“You know what? Fuck you.” Searching his face, she envisions barbed wire and life sentences. She hardens to stone and doesn’t dare fucking flinch as she speaks. 

“You keep acting like you’re doing me some big favor because you’re not an absolute fucking ghoul to me. You fucking stand there and say it’s about my safety like you’re protecting me or something, but you’re not. You are protecting an investment. Din. The dollar sign attached to my head. You said it yourself, I am nothing to you but a payload.” 

A bitter laugh escapes her, resentment bubbling up from an old crack in her heart, “You don’t give a shit about my well-being. My fucking safety? Fuck off. You’re delivering me to the same fucking slaughterhouse they would.” 

Every visible sign of anger sloughs off him like dead weight, leaving him with this raw, deflated expression that undermines her certainty. 

As she stares at him, bracing for a response, her own self-righteous fury withers up and dies in her chest. It turns to a plea. 

Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s not about the money. 

Taking a step back, he turns and starts shoveling clothes into his backpack. “Let’s go. We’re already behind schedule.” 

It shouldn’t feel like a punch in the gut, but it does. 

She nods solemnly, then falls back into place helping him clear the folding table. 

—

Din crosses the vacant road from Jackalope Motel to Giddyup Auto, holding Grogu’s leash taut at his side so he can’t wander.

Dawn begins to eat away at the night sky, dusty orange fading to light blue, leaving only a tiny sliver of dark over in the west. Daylight dyes wispy eastern clouds blood red and banishes morning fog, drying up the damp that collected overnight.

Ahead of him, Charlie’s dusty green knapsack sags from her squared shoulders, swaying back and forth like a pendulum with each purposeful stride. She keeps her spine straight and her eyes forward and an invisible yardstick between them, as she has since their spat in the laundromat. 

The distance is necessary, though. For both of them. 

Somewhere along the way, he allowed the line drawn between them to become blurred. He lost all definition. It never should have happened in the first place. 

He should be grateful she had enough sense to pull the trigger this time. 

Grogu perks up and lets out a small, “Boof.” 

Din tears his eyes away from Charlie’s backpack to see Paul emerge from the shop, waving at Charlie, who walks up to greet him. They both look back at Din, then Paul tells her something that makes her snort with laughter. It’s strange, he thinks, how she can flip her demeanor at the drop of the hat. 

As he draws closer to the conversation, his ears attune to her voice.  

“… this is the easy part, honestly. I should be able to finish up before sundown.”

Paul grins, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his coveralls, “Seems we’re runnin’ on the same timeline then.”

“Oh. You mean…?” Charlie shuts her mouth and glances at Din when he comes to a stop within their circle of conversation. 

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Paul teases. “I was just telling Miss Charlie here that the rig should be finished up quick, long as I don’t find any surprises.” 

Din frowns, “By tonight?” 

“That’s what it’s lookin’ like.” 

“I thought it would take longer.” 

“Made good time,” Paul shrugs. “Figured y’all would be itching to get back on the road.” 

Grogu starts whining at Charlie, who crouches down to pet him. The dog heels and pins his ears back, lapping at her hands as she gives him all her attention. 

Din clears his throat and gives Paul a nod of appreciation, “How much do I owe you?” 

“Lookin’ at twelve hundred, give or take. We can settle up later.” 

“Hey Paul, can I grab your tall ladder?” Charlie gives Grogu a pat before rising to her feet, “Oh, and do you have an extra stereo I could I borrow for the day? I don’t want the big guy to chat my ear off.” 

Paul cackles while she shoots Din a teasing look that makes his blood pressure spike. 

“Come on, I’ll see if I can’t find one for ya.”

—

CEO Pushes City to ‘Clear Homeless from the Streets’ in Open Letter to Portland Mayor. 

Amidst recent controversy surrounding the growing homeless population in Portland, one local businessman speaks out on behalf of property owners. 

In an open letter to Mayor Ed Kneeler released this morning, Tom Bucheron, CEO of Empire Property Management, LLC, calls for the Mayor Kneeler to “take action against the epidemic of homelessness in Portland,” which, he goes on to claim, presents undue financial burden on Portland property owners.

Din follows the link to a PDF of the letter, looking up from his screen to observe Charlie as it loads. 

On her perch at the top of the ladder, she paints while singing along to some 80’s power ballad on the radio. The blonde bun at the crown of her head, lops from one side to the other as she bops around to the beat. 

With her constant squawking and beak of a nose, she sometimes resembles an ill-tempered bird. This only solidifies the likeness in his mind. A yellow cockatiel whose domesticity never took. She screams and nips at those who dare try closing her cage door. 

She glances back over her shoulder, so he drops his eyes to the screen of his tablet. 

Mayor Ed Kneeler: 

I call upon you today to take action against the epidemic of homelessness in Portland. 

In recent years, we have seen a dramatic rise in homelessness, drug-related and violent crimes, and overdoses. We have also seen property values plummet as of late. I have been residential property management and real estate investment for 34 years. I’ve seen property values ebb and flow with the market, and can say with certainty that our current state is unprecedented.

Homeless encampments are epicenters for crime and disease, sprouting up through the cracks of our beautiful city and spreading at a disastrous rate. Property values suffer. As such, the real Portland citizens suffer. Those of us who have families and homes here. The real Portland citizens, we invest in our community through fellowship and commonwealth. We are the lifeblood of this city and we are suffering dearly. Dually so are Portland property owners. Our property values plummet with the blight of homelessness. Not only that, but we also foot the bill for welfare and social programs with our taxes so that the City can enable the miscreants that come in droves to suck up our resources. 

In a lineup of cities comparable in size and population density, Portland stands out for all the wrong reasons: low property values, high crime rates, high taxes, and an epidemic of homelessness. Cities that rigorously enforce vagrancy laws reap the benefits of higher property values and lower crime rates. 

It couldn’t be clearer. The City should strive to eradicate homelessness in Portland, not enable it. Today I ask that you enact a citywide ban on vagrancy and start disbanding encampments. 

The only reason I ask this of you in such a public forum, Mayor Kneeler, is because I question your motives for not addressing this matter sooner. 

Do you act on behalf of the real citizens of Portland, or in your own self-interest? If your peers in the Democratic Party frown upon law and order, does that affect your decision-making? While pondering whether or not to act on this problem, what holds more weight? Potential backlash to your career, or the burdens suffered by real citizens of Portland? 

Please do not let your pursuit of legacy destroy our beloved city. Step up and do what’s right. 

Sincerely, 

Tom. 

Din saves the PDF and checks on Grogu, still curled up in a ball beneath his chair. He looks up at Charlie, who went quiet when the radio started warbling the weekend forecast. 

As she rolls green acres onto the sign with quick, short strokes, her fluffed-up bun still bops back and forth like she’s dancing with just her head. Probably singing to herself. 

Did she tell him the truth about what happened in Portland? 

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Whether it’s true or not, she was right. He’s delivering her to the slaughterhouse. 

Normally he finds comfort in this ambivalence. This time it settles like lead in his belly, heavy and poisonous. 

He digs the phone from his pocket and dials Karga. 

“Din! Just the man I wanted to speak to.”

He frowns, “Why?” 

“The client is looking for an update on the asset. You still have it, correct?” 

“Yes.” 

“When can they expect your arrival?”

His gaze wanders to Charlie, painting away without a care in the world. Guilt twists his stomach raw. 

“What do they want with her?” 

A beat goes by before Karga responds. 

“They didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. Neither should you, if you know what’s good for you.” 

Din looks down at the gravel and nods. “I’ll have her there by Sunday at the latest.” 

[dindjarinandlysakane]

The Sweetest Taste | Chapter 25 - "You should stay"

When Din Djarin meets a beautiful cake seller from Nevarro, do you think he’s just going to stand back and let her suffer at the hands of her abusive boyfriend? After a lifetime of heartache and pain, Lysa Kane realises she’s not on her own any more and finds an unlikely friend in the Mandalorian. And Din Djarin does not like men who treat women like that, not one tiny bit. Friendship/comfort and maybe something more…

Masterlist

Chapter 25 - You should stay

----

The blue flash of the Marshal’s landspeeder siren illuminated the tears that still clung to Lysa’s trembling cheeks, with every rotation that it made.

Standing at the bottom of the small porch once again, Lysa could only stare out at the darkness of the flat desert landscape that surrounded them.

Fear now consumed her.

The idea that Crix was still out there somewhere - a terrifying concept.

Two of the peacekeepers had already gone out on their speeders to try and track Crix down. But despite his injuries, the lava flats were vast and covered in large rocks and peaks - plenty of places for a person to hide in the dark and stillness of the night.

All she wanted now was for this to be over, but it felt far from it.

Din had been furious of course, stood there now arguing with the Marshal, telling him where they needed to search first, and what they needed to do next.

Lysa chanced a glance over at him.

She was more grateful to him than words could ever say.

Everything he had done for her. Being there when she had needed him, feeling his strong arms wrapped around her. Finally feeling safe for the first time in years.

And she couldn't now ignore what he had so purposefully uttered.

Those tender words, with so much meaning behind them.

Lysa gave a swallow, gazing at him. At the man who had freed her from a lifetime of hurt and pain.

Lysa knew how she felt about him now.

But feeling a sudden tug at her skirt, Lysa looked down quickly, to see Grogu at her feet staring up at her with large dark eyes.

Swiping the tears from her cheeks, Lysa gave a small smile, bending down and picking up the small child, cuddling him into her arms.

“I haven't thanked you yet,” she said looking down at him and giving a small sniff. “I don’t know what you did-”

Lysa shook her head, lifting her hand and stroking Grogu’s cheek gently.

“-but thank you…for saving my life.”

At her words Grogu cooed up at her sweetly, as Lysa held him close to her.

Lysa had met a Jedi with powers like Grogu once before…on Coruscant…a long time ago.

But in that moment that Crix had fired the blaster, Lysa was certain that that had been the end. And to blink her eyes open and see the blaster stream hovering in mid-air like that…

…she had never seen anything like it in her life.

She looked up now to see Din and the Marshal droid IG-11 approaching.

“The Marshal has agreed to call on more peacekeepers from the City to help with the search,” Din said promptly, coming to stand close to Lysa.

“We’ll find him, Miss,” came the monotone voice of the IG-11 droid, swivelling on the spot before marching off to speak to some of the other peacekeepers who were patrolling the immediate area, guns clasped in their arms.

Lysa turned to Din.

“What if they don’t find him?” she asked in a worried voice. Pressing herself close to him, her green eyes searching his beskar-covered face. “What if he comes back?”

“They’ll find him,” said Din with a nod, but Lysa’s eyes were already worriedly scanning the dark horizon, as she chewed hard on her lip.

“Hey look at me,” said Din suddenly, lifting a gentle hand to her chin and coaxing her gaze back to him. “They’ll find him.”

Lysa stared up at Din for a few seconds before giving a nod, as he let his hand fall.

She hoped he was right.

“The device has been disarmed,” came the voice of one of the peacekeepers behind them, speaking directly to IG-11 as a second man came out carrying a crate with the detonator now sitting inside. “We’ve also done a sweep of the building. All clear.”

Lysa turned to look as the Marshal addressed Din.

“Your home is safe,” he said in a monotone voice. “I will set a patrol across the lava flats tonight to keep lookout.”

Din nodded. “I also have an R5 droid I can use to monitor the perimeter,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll get an alert if anything tries to pass through.”

“That would be useful,” replied the Marshal before dipping his metal knees and lowering his head in what Lysa could only presume was a sort of nod, before making his way toward the Peacekeepers’ large landspeeder.

Lysa gave a swallow, watching him as he went, not quite knowing what to do.

Crix was still out there. And now he had a vendetta against all three of them. A vendetta much more deadly than he had had just a few hours before.

So lost in worry, Lysa didn't even notice Din turn to her.

“You should stay here,” he said in a gentle voice through his modulator, causing Lysa to look his way. “It’s not safe for you to go back to your home tonight.”

Lysa, who hadn't even thought about the risks of going back to her apartment, let out a shaky breath, before nodding.

In her arms Grogu let out a yawn, drawing the pair's attention, as he snuggled into Lysa’s breast.

She cradled him tenderly, allowing the sweet moment to distract her from the feeling of worry that seemed to flood her every pore.

“I think he needs his bed,” she commented in a quiet voice, allowing Din to reach under Grogu’s arms and pull him carefully from her grasp.

He held his son with the care that Lysa expected of him now.

With Din, there was no malice.

Only a gentle kind of patience and calm which seemed to emanate from him.

Behind them the Marshal’s landspeeder pulled away, leaving just a plume of black dust which puffed up into their for a moment, before falling back down in the darkness of the night.

Without the flashing lights any more, the area around Din’s cabin seemed suddenly incredibly  eerie and dark, and Lysa couldn't help but flinch as she heard the sound behind her. Which turned out to only be the wind, rustling the leaves on a nearby tree, almost invisible now in the dark.

“Come inside,” said Din in a firm voice, as Lysa turned back to him, giving a silent nod and gathering up her skirts in her hand, heading up the porch steps and into the warmth of Din’s cabin.

As soon as she entered, ahead of Din, her eyes scanned the floor where Crix had laid bleeding. Only to see that it was now clean of his blood, the peacekeepers and their pit droids having done their job well.

But for a long moment, Lysa couldn't help but stare at the spot, a fear washing over her.

She knew full well what Crix was capable of…and to have him out there…on the loose…it frightened her more than anything else in this galaxy.

She only hoped the Marshal and his team would do their jobs well and find him before dawn came.

She felt Din come to stand beside her, his tall form a welcome comfort.

“I have some bone broth in the conservator,” he said in a kind voice. “You should eat.”

But Lysa shook her head.

“I-I’m not hungry,” she said, giving a small frown, before looking Din’s way quickly. “But thank you.”

Din said nothing in return, just carefully manoeuvring past her and heading through a door to his left - Grogu’s bedroom.

Lysa lingered just outside the doorway, watching as Din gently placed Grogu down onto his small bed, dropping a small blanket over his middle.

But her eyes flitted swiftly away, darting over the living space she was standing in.

She felt safe here, with Din. More than she had ever done in all the time she lived with Crix.

All the pain he had caused her through the years, still there in the tiny scars and bruises that, even now, littered her skin.

But the sensation of Din’s strong arms around her had stirred feelings in her that Lysa had not been privy to for years. A feeling of warmth. Of love. A feeling that there was someone here who cared about her. Willing to sacrifice everything to protect her.

She lifted a hand and ran it down one side of her exhausted face, pressing her eyes tightly shut.

She was more tired than she had realised. The adrenaline and the shock of it all, the only thing keeping her so wired these past few hours.

Now she knew she needed rest. More than anything else.

She turned suddenly, feeling a presence behind her, to find Din emerging from Grogu’s room, the door behind him sliding shut.

Lysa peered up at him in the quiet of the night.

She could hear her own breath now in the stillness of everything, as he lingered near to her, tall and close.

There was so much now that Lysa wanted to say to him. To thank him for all that he had done.

But she could only swallow hard, tilting her head, as her eyes searched for his, behind his helmet.

Right now she wished that his armour wasn't there…just so that she could look into the face of the man who had freed her.

The man that caused her chest to constrict and her heart to pound just that little bit faster when he was near.

It was Din that spoke first, his voice low and husky in the lateness of the night.

“You can take my sleeper.”

Lysa parted her lips gently, blinking a couple of times at Din, before speaking.

“W-Will you-” she began, but Din cut across her.

“I’m going to stay up and keep a lookout,” he said stoically, giving a nod.

Lysa nodded quickly in return, her face flushing slightly.

For a moment she had hoped that he would stay with her. Not wanting to be apart from him now. Feeling so safe in his presence, it felt like it would break her to be apart from him again.

But she cursed herself for being so transparent, given everything going on.

What must Din think of her?

She held back and let Din open the door to the next room, beside Grogu’s. A room that Lysa had never been inside before.

Inside was a room exact in size to Grogu’s next door. But in here sat a larger bed, that almost filled the entire space, pressed up against the wall on one side, beneath a window. Leaving only a tight walkway around the left hand side.

Almost immediately Din moved to the sleeper, rearranging and smoothing down the rumpled sheets so that they lay neat and flat. She could almost sense his face flushing as he turned to her.

“If you need any more blankets-” he said quickly.

But Lysa offered him an attempt at a smile, the best she could manage given all that had happened tonight.

“I’ll be fine,” she said in a gentle tone. “Thank you…for letting me stay…and for…”

Her eyes searched his beskar-covered face almost desperately now. There was so much she needed to say to him. But for some reason she just could not find the words.

“...for everything.”

In the quiet of the space, Din seemed to still for a long moment, lingering there in his room just a foot or two from her.

And Lysa felt her heart begin to pound hard and fast, so many emotions coursing through her at this very moment. Not quite knowing if Din truly knew the impact of all that he had done for her.

He had saved her.

When she believed her life was far beyond saving.

A man she would never have met had it not been for a dust storm in the desert. A single decision to take a different route to avoid it, changing the course of her life forever.

Had it not been for that dust storm, Lysa would have never come upon the road that led to Din’s cabin. She would never have met Din or Grogu.

And she would never have felt that pull on her heart that she had felt every second of every day since the first time she’d met the Mandalorian.

What he had said to her tonight…surely those couldn't have been the words of a man who felt nothing for her in return…

But despite Lysa having made her decision…despite her having stood up to Crix…his words still slid through her mind like a venomous snake…constricting around every single good thought or feeling she had…making her doubt herself.

Causing her to question whether she would ever be good enough for someone like Din.

And despite their close proximity now and Lysa’s desperation to be close to him, she found herself lowering her gaze, letting it slip swiftly away from his.

And obviously taking that as his cue to leave, Din grazed past her, only stopping again when he reached the door behind her.

“Get some sleep,” he said in a gentle voice, through his modulator. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

And with that he was gone, the door sliding shut behind Lysa, leaving her alone, with only the starlight outside the shuttered window for company.

She let out an unsteady breath, dropping slowly down onto the edge of the bed, closing her eyes, as one final lone tear slid down her cheek.

No matter where Crix was now, Lysa was safe.

Finally safe.

----

Din cursed himself as the door to his Sleeper slid shut behind him with a hiss.

His heart was hammering a drumbeat inside his ribs and his breath felt non-existent in his lungs.

Why after everything that had just happened, after he had been so close to losing her, could he not manage to say what he wanted to say?

He let out a long huff of frustration, clenching his jaw beneath his beskar.

Out there, after everything, Din hadn’t been able to help himself. Professing how he felt to her, in his own stupid way.

But in amongst the chaos of everything, he doubted it was even something that Lysa had picked up on? His confession of just how much she meant to him, had been as enigmatic as everything spoken by the Mandalorains in his Creed. And Din hated that he had not been more blunt. Instead telling her exactly how he felt about her. Telling her that he -

Din gave a hard swallow.

He doubted now that she even felt the same. Din’s beautiful goddess of the sunlight. Of warmth. Of hope.

The embodiment of everything he had never known he’d so desperately wanted, until he’d met her.

These days he barely went a second without thinking about her. And even while he slept, his dreams seemed to be filled with visions of Lysa.

She meant more to him than he could ever manage to put into words.

And after all that she has been through tonight, Din so wished that he had just swallowed his pride, and his fears, and just held her until morning. Not wanting to let go.

But he knew now that she likely needed space now. A chance to ruminate on all that had happened to her tonight.

It was a shock to think that just half a day ago, Din had seen Lysa in the marketplace whilst with Karga, still certain of the fact that she would never leave Crix.

And yet, Din had seen her tonight, firing a blaster into Crix’s shoulder. And knew that, had she been more skilled with a weapon, Crix would be alive no longer.

More than anything, Din hoped that she was ok, throwing one last look over his shoulder at the closed door to his Sleeper room…

…letting out a hard sigh as he did so.

------------

@its5-15wakeup @thecraftyartist @crazypaine @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @marysucks-blog

Would you like more soon?

[kenobiwanx]

din djarin x oc commission ✨️

[lokischocolatefountain]

Guess

Fandom: Star Wars, The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: PG13, fluff

Word count:

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

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

“Stop scowling.”

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

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

“I was not.”

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

“I do say so.”

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

Dinny Bear when she was intoxicated.

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

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

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

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

“Stop looking so grumpy.”

“You cannot see my face.”

“Yeah but you look grumpy.”

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

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

“Play with Grogu.”

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

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

“A drinking game.”

“Drinking is a game now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have….big green ears.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No moustache.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I meant!”

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

“You’re kidding,” she said, scoffing.

“I’m not known for my humor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, no. A deal is a deal.”

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

“Lights out.”

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

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

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

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

“I am. Are *you* sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[thefrogdalorian]

While researching Mando'a for a fic, I found out that Mandalorians call droids 'Beskar'ad' and it's just thE CUTEST THING EVER!

In Mando'a, Beskar means iron and ad means son/daughter... so droids are literally iron sons/daughters and I just:

It's sO sweet, especially when you consider how much value Mandalorian culture places on children. The fact they think of droids as iron sons or daughters is so precious!

Silly [affectionate] warrior culture that I adore :')

Also, I would do anything to witness Din Djarin's reaction to learning that information. His protectiveness towards children and hatred of droids would be the two wolves fighting inside him!!

but that won't happen because a show literally called The Mandalorian seems determined to ignore thEIR LANGUAGE

[whxtedreams]

Oath Broken and Soul Bound Masterlist

A WItch Hunter!Din Djarin x OFC!Witch Series

Tales of witch meetings, gruesome and horrific, were used to fan the flames of fear and ensure the harsh punishment and persecution of those accused of witchcraft. The subsequent actions born out of the fear and hatred for witches were far worse than the stories that inspired them. The persecution and killings of those accused of witchcraft were not just ruthless, but often downright brutal.

**Blurb is subject to change until i begin writing**

Astaria Lowell had sworn to never take a life. So when Astaria is staring down at the Kingdom’s deadliest Witch Hunter that she had nearly killed, she must do what she can to save him. Which involved bringing the Hunter into her coven… full of Witches. As his health returned, Astaria realised three things. Din Djarin had not killed her. He was now wanted by the Lords for breaking his oath and she was to be tried as a Witch. They were both set to burn for their crimes. They needed to escape the Lords, but they couldn’t do it alone.

A Witch with forbidden magic. A Witch Hunter turned oath breaker.  A pathological liar nobody trusts. A Dragon Rider without his Dragons. A grieving father with a trigger happy finger.

Five unlikely… friends, all needing a way out of the Kingdom for their own selfish reasons.

One impossible task they might be able to complete if they don’t get each other killed in the process. Or rather, kill each other.

Main Current Tags

WItch Hunter!Din Djarin, OFC!Witch, witch hunts, violence, author has researched but is still learning, forbidden love, Third person POV, fantasy AU, world building, pirate!Ezra, Dragon Rider!Frankie, Joel Miller just wants to be left alone,

Chapter List

word count // 1.8k

Part 1

1. The Hunter // 1.8k

Part 2:

Part 3:

Part 4:

Part 5

Part 6

the one shot that inspired this - The Hunter and His Witch

Other

Character Study

Notes

I am currently in a writers course and this is the story I'm writing for it. I am learning more as I write and may come back and edit things from time to time. The cover is hand drawn, don’t look at me - I tried. I was very hesitant to write an OC! instead of reader insert since I’ve seen a lot of people say they tend not to read them, but you will love Astaria I swear. She’s pretty cool. NOT doing a tag list for this series. If you want updates, you can subscribe to my AO3 and you will get emails when I upload.

[hier--soir]

raising cain | series masterlist

spy!din djarin x spy!ofc

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

ONE - RAISING CAIN

TWO - SKULDUGGERY [coming soon]

THREE - BURNED

[the-mandawhor1an]

WIP Wednesday!

(this is a scheduled post, if any of my moots tagged me, I hope you know I love you all very much)

Well well well look who it is, the same Wolke that wrote some actual filth last week has more to show. Haven't seen the filth? »click here«

This time it's for #gbtscbtf again. What is it?

She felt his rough hands discover every part of her body, gently caressing her skin. His lips would ghost over her neck, her shoulders, her chest, to land on her lips. They’d kiss greedily, his groans guttural and primal. She couldn’t see him, but stars, it felt so real, especially when he’d whisper sweet nothings in between moans. His fingers were buried in her hips, holding onto her while taking her like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

I have one more, a certain general wants to say hi.

MORE FILTH? 👀

nah it'll take a little while longer

He stared at the marble bust in disbelief. It had his armor, it looked similar to him, but still, what you were telling him didn’t make sense to him. You watched him from the side and were actually impressed, how well the sculptor had managed to capture his features. His prominent nose, the strong brows, the serious look on his face. Even the fullness of his hair they had somehow managed to simulate in the light stone.  »What do they say about me?« he asked. »You were a fierce warrior, but deep down you were a broken man, yearning to be reunited with your lover. You fought like you never feared death, in fact you would have embraced it, but the gods didn’t grant your wish.« A frown crept up to his lips with the mention of his wife. As much as the characterization fit, he hated that he was known for the pain he endured, and the pain he caused. »How did I die?« 

Tagging ALL of the moots this time. No pressure as always, babes.

@pedgito @burntheedges @whocaresstillthelouvre @user-kramer @tonysopranosrobe

@rivnedell @jksprincess10 @joelmillerisapunk @morallyinept @clawdee

@studioghibelli @evolnoomym @jennaispunk @penvisions @beefrobeefcal

@guiltyasdave @xxhypersomnia @joelsgreys @mrsmando @pedroswife69

@thefrogdalorian @zaddymandalorian @colleenispunk @djarins-cyare @djarins-wife

@roughdaysandart