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downthe-f4ndom-rabbith0le · 11 months ago

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Always Been You (Dick Grayson x Reader) - Chapter 1

Always Been You (Dick Grayson x Reader)Reader Insert: she/her pronouns Word Count: 3631 Warnings: death, violence, fighting, bloody wounds, angst, infuriatingly oblivious love interest, slowburn Spoilers: Young Justice Seasons 1-3 plot partially, but it ended in 2022 so catch up.

Y/N Prince - miracle daughter of Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor - and Dick Grayson - first adoptive son of the Batman himself - have been best friends since day one. They went to school together, trained together, kept each other's alter ego secret from everyone else, and they founded the Young Justice alongside their friends together.

But as time progressed, Y/N and Dick grew up and Y/N found herself wanting more than friendship with Dick. But he never seemed to indicate that he reciprocated her feelings. And when Wally died and Dick abandoned the team, Y/N realised he never would. So she heads to the one place she knows will help her become a stronger warrior so that one day she can take her mother's place: Themyscira.

Two years after his leave, Dick reaches out to his old friends to help him with a mission. But when he finds out Y/N left too, he chases after her in the hopes to bring her back.

However, when the two finally reunite, it isn't as warm as he hopes. Not to mention Themyscira becomes under siege as they go to war against Echidna, the Mother of Monsters in Greek Mythology, and her army of monstrous children.

Will Dick and Y/N be able to put their past behind them and save the Amazonians' homeland? Or will they fall, unable to tell one another their true feelings?

~~~

(21 years old)

'All right, team,' Y/N Prince addressed her small group of young heroes. 'Good work today. Now go hit the showers and enjoy a nice quiet night in. You've earned it.'

'So crash!' Bart cried with an energetic jump. If anyone were to guess how the team's week had been solely based on Bart's energy, they would've said it had been cruisy. Not that Y/N had led a covert task force over the past week into Bialya to take down meta-human trafficking outposts.

Y/N watched with pride as Bart and Jaime bantered on their way out, followed by Stephanie and Cassie chatting excitedly about something, all the while Tim and Cassie held hands quietly. It had surprised the team a little how, out of the blue, the two of them were dating. But if Wally's death had taught them all anything, it was that time was too precious to waste in their line of work. They'd been together ever since.

Two years, Y/N mentally noted, and suddenly the adrenaline she'd been running on for the past week died as the last of the team exited the entrance chamber of the Watchtower. Exhaustion weighed down on her spent body, but an extra weight now sat in heart. Has it really been that long already?

So much had changed in that time. Like how the Young Justice began working out of the Watchtower alongside the Justice League, having both the Hall of Justice and Mount Justice destroyed by the Reach and the Light respectively. M'gann and Connor were back together, having finally gotten over their differences and accepted their mistakes. Also, Kaldur had been offered a position in the Justice League following the retirement of his king, and so Kaldur took his place as the new Aquaman in the Justice League. M'gann was promoted to new team leader, with Connor and Y/N assisting her as senior members of the team.

Some things had remained the same, however. Like the team's energy and slight dysfunction that always made Y/N feel at home. They weren't perfect, but what family ever is?

Dick was still gone. So was Artemis. She'd, understandably, retired as Green Arrow's protégé immediately after Wally's death, assuming her undercover identity Tigress instead and going off on her own. Neither had stayed in touch with anyone on the team.

You're my best friend. Always have been, always will be...

'Yeah right,' Y/N mumbled bitterly as she made her way to the conference room. No doubt that'd be where M'gann and Connor were waiting for her to debrief the mission.

Upon entering the room with the long table, she was immediately embraced by M'gann. 'Welcome back,' she said, squeezing Y/N tighter. 'We're so glad you're okay.'

Y/N smiled softly as she embraced M'gann in return. 'You ever doubted me?'

'No,' Connor answered, 'but you can never be too cautious right?'

Y/N let go of M'gann to hug Connor as well. Since getting back together, Connor wasn't as emotionally suppressed as he'd initially been. It was nice seeing him this way, more happy and free. The same effect had happened to M'gann, who (only around the team and the Justice League) revealed her white martian self proudly instead of pretending to be something she wasn't.

'You're right,' Y/N said as she released him, then the three of them took a seat to discuss the mission.

The debrief didn't take long, there wasn't much to report on as all out-posts had been hit successfully, putting Queen Bee's meta-human trafficking at least a little behind.

'It's not much, but it's the best we could do with the little information we got,' Y/N admitted. 'I dislike Queen Bee and her minions as much as the next person, but I've got to give it to her, she knows how to keep things under wraps.'

M'gann reached across from where she sat and closed her hand over Y/N's. 'Y/N, the mission was a success,' M'gann insisted. 'And what's most important is that you brought everyone home. Alive.'

Y/N heard the underlying fear in her words, the memory she was thinking of as she spoke them. Y/N twisted her hand over to clasp M'gann's in return. 'I know,' she said softly. 'But I just... we haven't so much as put a dent into the underbelly of meta-human trafficking in the two years it's been running. Somedays... Somedays I just feel so useless.'

'I know, Y/N,' Connor reassured. 'But we've just got to trust that our hard work will pay off eventually. I know it doesn't seem like much now, but every mission counts. Don't be so hard on yourself.'

Y/N withdrew her hand at the comment, hastily standing up. 'Don't be hard on myself? My mother is Wonder Woman, is the Champion of Themyscira, a World War II hero, and had already saved the world once by my age now. My father was a fighter pilot in the Iran-Iraq war and died fighting for his country,' she said angrily. 'And what am I doing? Hiding under the protection of darkness, taking out small outposts that will just be rebuilt elsewhere just as quickly? How can I not be hard on myself?'

At M'gann's taken aback expression, Y/N felt slightly guilty for raising her voice. But they just didn't understand. All her life, she'd been training and fighting for her supposed "destiny". Surely this wasn't it.

'I'm sorry,' Y/N said, forcing herself to calm down. 'I just...'

'You don't have to a apologise,' M'gann interrupted, standing and walking over to Y/N to clasp their hands together. 'After all we've done together, I understand that what we do now doesn't seem like enough. But I can tell you were made for more.'

Y/N offered her a grateful smile and M'gann let their hands drop. 'I should go. Mother and I have patrol in Washington DC tonight.'

'Already?' M'gann asked, face dropping with disappointment. 'But you just got back. Surely she knows that.'

'Unfortunately, even in the country's capital, crime never sleeps. I'm just grateful it's nothing like Gotham,' Y/N said.

'I agree,' Connor said. 'Visited there once with-' He paused for a moment, eyes growing wary as he looked between Y/N and M'gann. But Y/N already knew what he was going to say and gave him a slight nod to continue anyway. 'With Dick. We did patrol once there together. To put it simply, they're all nutcases there.'

Y/N managed an amused half-smile. 'You're not wrong there,' she said, then made her way to the door. Before she reached the doorknob, M'gann called out.

'Maybe when you're free next, you can join us for dinner at home,' she offered, her eyes hopeful as she waited Y/N's answer.

'Yeah,' she eventually answered though it wasn't as enthusiastic as she should've been. 'Yeah, that'd be nice. I'll talk to you guys soon. Don't stay up here too late.'

It had to be close to 7pm in Washington DC at least, so there weren't many people still left in the Watchtower. Just those from the League and her team that were rostered for overnight supervision. Y/N made sure to greet each person she walked by on the way to the Zeta-tubes. But just as she was about to dial in her code to leave, a resounding voice made her pause.

'Wonderess,' Kaldur called. 'Not even a hello before you head off for another mission?'

Y/N smirked as she turned back around to face the new hero of Atlantis. 'I'm sorry, Aquaman,' she said in an exaggerated tone. 'Not all of us can sit around having team parties with our Justice League buddies.'

To anyone else, it would've been taken as an insult. But Kaldur saw her humour and smiled. 'Oh is that what this is about? You know the League do more than just chit chat.'

Y/N shook her head. 'I don't know. The mess you guys left behind in the conference room before I left tells another story.'

As Kaldur approached Y/N, the sarcastic banter dropped as they both embraced each other. Kaldur had grown into a fit, muscular man, and now stood a good head taller than Y/N. His uniform was more or less the same as it had always been, except now both his arms were covered from shoulder-to-finger in gold armour. He certainly was no longer just a young lad, but the man his predecessor saw he could become.

'It is good to see you, Y/N,' Kaldur said softly as he pulled away.

'And you, old friend,' Y/N replied, a genuine smile splitting her lips.

'I heard you went into Bialyan territory,' Kaldur continued. 'I am glad to see you and the rest of the team are unharmed.'

'Well, the team are no longer just children' Y/N said, 'but it was a simple enough mission too. Nothing too dangerous.'

Kaldur's brows furrowed together as he looked over Y/N. 'I sense you are not happy with something. Wasn't the mission successful as I have heard?'

Y/N let out a soft sigh. 'It's not that I'm not happy with the mission's success. Of course I'm happy we all got home okay. I just...' She didn't really feel like explaining herself again, but Kaldur nodded in understanding.

'You feel stuck,' he finished, to which Y/N nodded in confirmation. Kaldur turned so he could look to the giant windows of the Watchtower's entrance chamber. They framed Earth in a way that made it seem both ginormous and insignificant at the same time. 'The League is in a similar position, I am afraid to admit. Some days there is progress. Other days, it feels like I wait so much I am afraid I will freeze in one spot.'

'How do you combat that?' Y/N asked.

Kaldur turned back to Y/N, his face softened with a small smile. 'I train.'

'That's it?' Y/N asked, not quite believing her friend.

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Amongst other things, yes. I train, I go home, I see my family, I laugh with my friends. I do all these things to remind myself why I am here. Why I do what I do. It sounds to me like you need to remind yourself why you are here.'

'Because of the team,' she said without hesitation. He hadn't asked a question, but she felt she needed to justify herself. 'Because I can't just desert them, not when they're working so hard.'

'And yet you feel you are not doing enough,' Kaldur countered, his teal eyes gazing hard at her. 'Why?'

Y/N opened her mouth to answer but no answer came.

'Y/N,' Kaldur continued. 'Why do you feel the need to stay when you don't want to be there?'

'I do want to stay-'

'Don't lie to me, Y/N,' Kaldur interrupted.

Y/N swallowed thickly as she looked from Kaldur, to the conference room door where M'gann and Connor still were, and back to Kaldur. Seeing no escape from his fierce questioning, she caved.

'It's not that I don't want to stay,' she admitted quietly. 'I love the kids, I love the team. I'm just... so tired, Kaldur. Of doing the same thing week in and week out and getting nowhere. But if I leave, I don't want the team to think I'm abandoning them. Not like-'

Y/N bit her lip at the thought of him. No, she wouldn't leave. She just wouldn't.

Kaldur pressed his lips into a firm line. 'Dick needed to reforge his own path. He was grieving in his own way.'

'Well I was grieving, too,' Y/N countered, a sudden surge of anger flaring up inside her. How dare Kaldur defend Dick. 'And I had to get on with my life because the team needed me. We needed him, Kaldur. I needed him, and he just left.'

Y/N bowed her head to collect her thoughts and calm down. That's two friends she had yelled at for no reason. Before she could apologise though, Kaldur placed a hand on her shoulder, and she raised her head to find him looking directly into her eyes.

'I cannot say I am not also disappointed in our friend,' Kaldur admitted sadly. 'I did not expect him to become so closed off for so long. But you've helped rebuild this team from the grief and pain it experienced when Wally died. I think you've earned the right to decide where you go from here, Y/N, without feeling guilty or selfish if your wish is not to stay with the team. In my opinion, you were made for more than this.'

'That's funny,' Y/N said in a flat voice. 'You're the second person today to tell me that.'

'Maybe because it is true,' Kaldur said sincerely. 'You know you still have a place in the Justice League whenever you'd like to join us. I would be honoured and happy to fight alongside a warrior such as yourself again. It would be like old times.'

Y/N offered a grateful smile as she patted Kaldur's hand that still rested on her shoulder. 'Thanks Kaldur, but I'm not ready for that just yet. Besides, you don't need two Amazonians running the show. And let's be real, we would so be in charge of you boys.'

The two shared quiet laughter as Kaldur's hand retuned to his side. 'Very well, then. So what will your decision be, Wonderess?'

Y/N looked to the Earth and space beyond it once more. Her heart and head were tearing her in two. She truly loved being a part of the team, but something inside her agreed with M'gann and Kaldur. Surely she was meant for more. But what exactly that was, she had to go find out.

'I think you're right, Kaldur,' she finally said, turning back to face her friend. 'I think I need to remind myself why I am here in the first place. And that comes from knowing who I am to begin with.'

Kaldur's face pinched in slight confusion. 'I'm sorry, but I do not follow.'

Y/N didn't answer straight away. Instead, she turned to dial in her code to exit the Watchtower. 'B-00: Wonderess,' the computer announced as the Zeta-tube activated.

She then finally turned back to Kaldur. 'I need to know where I've been to then know where I will go,' she said. 'I need to go back to where it all started.'

'And where's that?' Kaldur asked.

'With my mother,' she answered, then spared him one last sweet smile. 'Tell M'gann and Connor and the team I'm sorry.'

Kaldur looked as if he wanted to say something, ask more questions. But Kaldur was always more insightful than the rest of their group. He didn't always need an explanation. He just somehow knew, and so Y/N was grateful when he accepted her words with a simple nod of his head.

'Be safe, dear friend,' he said in farewell. 'May destiny be kind to you, wherever it leads you.'

Y/N nodded her appreciation and entered the Zeta-tube. It was always a weird sensation travelling by Zeta-tube, like a million light pricks into every part of the body. Thankfully the trip was quick to the Zeta tube depot in Washington DC, with Y/N walking out of an abandoned janitor's closest in the post office down the road from her apartment.

She smiled and waved down to civilians as she flew over the busy streets, but she flew as fast as she could to the meeting point.

Her mother casually sat atop the Washington Monument as Y/N approached, floating just in front of her. 'I was starting to worry you had gotten caught in Bialya,' Diana joked as she stood to greet her daughter. 'Welcome home, my daughter.'

'Good to see you, Mother,' Y/N said, and the two briefly embraced.

'Now that you're here,' Diana said, prepping to take off for the usual patrol, 'why don't we get going.'

'Actually, Mother, there is something I wanted to talk to you about first,' Y/N interrupted.

Diana raised an eyebrow. 'Really? And what would that be?'

Y/N took a deep breath in before she spoke the words. But when she did, she had never been more sure. 'I want you to take me back to your home. To Themyscira.'

~~~

Since she was a little girl, Y/N had heard hundreds of stories from her mother about the homeland of the Amazons. How beautiful it was with its architecture, its nature, and the women who ruled the island. She'd always dreamed of someday going there, but her mother said it was impossible to find it.

Except she failed to mention that despite leaving the island and forgetting where it was located, Diana had been gifted a compass that would always lead her back home, but only if she used it. It would not work without Amazonian hands.

So after all the storytelling and all the dreaming, nothing came close to actually witnessing Themyscira in the flesh.

Y/N stood speechless on the beach, looking up at the steps that led up to the first level of the city that seemed to climb higher and higher towards the sky. It was something out of the Ancient Greek text books Diana used to make Y/N read as a child, but even more fantastical and wondrous.

It wasn't just the visuals, though. Since the Invisible Jet broke through the barrier that hid Themyscira, Y/N had felt a pull of sorts towards the island. Now that she stood on its soil, she felt a warm energy wash over her, strengthen her, pull her into its embrace as if to say, Welcome home at last.

An entourage of women in red leather slitted skirts, plated tops, and armour while holding spears followed behind a woman dressed in white and purple robes. Ebony hair billowed out behind her golden leaf crown, the grey strands in between looking more silver as they caught the midday sun.

Y/N knew immediately who she was. Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Her grandmother.

As Hippolyta approached Y/N and Diana, she opened her arms to take her daughter's face into her hands. 'Diana,' she said, bringing her lips to her daughter's forehead in a simple kiss. 'Welcome home.'

'Thank you, Mother,' Diana said, and Y/N could tell by her mother's smile that she was joyous to be home. 'I'm sorry it took me so long.'

'Do not worry about that, child,' Hippolyta reassured. 'You are here now.'

She then looked over to Y/N, and for some reason Y/N straightened up, flattened out her Wonderess uniform, made sure her hair was tucked behind her headband. Y/N was briefly taken back to the time she (consciously) remembered meeting her grandparents on her father's side. All dressed up so as to make a good impression.

Y/N held her breath as Hippolyta walked slowly over to her, grey eyes scanning every inch of Y/N's figure in silence. When she'd done a cursory glance, she then stepped closer and took Y/N's face into her hands. Y/N was unable to look away from Hippolyta as the older woman caressed and poked and prodded at her features.

At last, Hippolyta stopped and her hands dropped to Y/N's shoulders. A kind, joyous smile graced the older woman's features. 'You have my daughter's eyes,' she said quietly, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. 'So kind and forthright. What is your name child?'

'Y/N Prince,' Y/N managed to get out once she caught her breath. 'Daughter of Steve Trevor...' Her gaze flickered to her mother, and the two shared a smile. '...and Diana Prince, Princess of Themyscira.'

Y/N looked back to see Hippolyta tearing up as realisation finally hit her. 'I have a granddaughter,' she said as she finally embraced Y/N completely, to which Y/N reciprocated and the entourage of Amazonians cheered and smashed their shields with their spears in celebration.

Hippolyta let go of Y/N to clasp one of her hands as she went to grab her daughter's hand. She then turned the three of them to face the crowd. 'My daughter and your champion, and my granddaughter have come home!'

More cheers erupted.

'Let us prepare a feast in their honour,' Hippolyta continued, and when the crowd began to disperse, she turned to Diana and Y/N to speak more quietly. 'I am sure you have both come here for a reason, and not just to say hello.'

'You are correct, Mother,' Diana said. 'It seems as though I have neglected our origins as Amazonians for too long and can no longer teach Y/N our ways.'

'I wish to learn who I am,' Y/N added. 'I wish to know where I come from, so that I may know where I must go next.'

'And how long do you believe that will take?' Hippolyta asked.

'As long as it takes,' Y/N answered, more certain than ever before. 'I don't care what I must do, Your Majesty. I will follow your guidance, as my mother once did.'

Hippolyta considered Y/N for a moment, then spared Diana an impressed smirk. 'Well, you taught her one thing, Diana.'

'What's that mother?' Diana asked.

'Your steadfast stubbornness.' Hippolyta looked back to Y/N. 'Very well, granddaughter. You will train among the other warriors. I just hope you know it won't be as easy as you might think.'

'Trust me,' Y/N replied, 'I'm hoping it isn't.'

Hippolyta's smile widened and her eyes sparkled with excitement. 'That attitude is already a good start. Come, we will talk of this later. First, let us celebrate this homecoming.'

That night Y/N ate and drank and danced among women like her, some older, some younger, some taller, some stronger. And she had never felt more at home, more recognised and celebrated. She'd had her doubts if she had made the right decision, but now she had no doubt.

She was where she belonged.

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targaryen-dynasty · 1 year ago

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THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE.

Antichrist!Aemond Targaryen x female Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; dub con, p in v, fingering (with gloves 😮‍💨), dacryphilia, choking, degrading, unprotected sex, power imbalance, female reader

WORDS: 4.7 K

NOTES: Yes, this is based on American Horror Story Apocalypse. Michael Langdon is just so *phew* that I had to adapt it to Aemond. This is so self indulgent, I'm not even sorry. @kaelabear you're getting the special taglist. @arcielee thank you for beta reading this! <3

You have lost track of how many days, months, or even years have passed since your arrival in Outpost 3, and gods, you’d give it all right away to be back in one of the holding cells the government had put you in around the time the bombs rained down over King’s Landing.

Even though you received the status as a purple upon your arrival, therefore placing you to the upper-class elites specifically selected for survival, you couldn’t be worse off. At least there you’ve been allowed to do your own thing – as far as the confines allowed you to.

The nutritional cubes they serve you are rationed, with Ms. Misery announcing they’ll have to ration them even further in the next days, and on top of being hungry and bored, you haven’t had a good fuck in quite the while.

Sexual contact, or any kind of copulation, is strictly forbidden, and you’ve witnessed firsthand what it means to break Miserys’ rules – not that you’d make any moves on the other residents occupying the former exclusive boys school anyways.

It’s only been you and your hand, sometimes even your pillow, from the very beginning on until now, and truth be told? You’re sick of it.

At some point you’ve stopped getting yourself off, only because your body longed for physical contact, for someone else’s body on your own.

And what certainly doesn’t help with your misery is the mysterious man that arrived just a few days ago.

When he introduced himself as Targaryen, you knew his arrival was something that came partnered with power. As much as you would have liked to focus on his speech to campaign himself, you found it was far too difficult to care about humanity being on the brink of failure when the man telling you about it was so, so damn easy on the eyes.

Just the sight of his sharp features, regardless of a part of them being concealed by a black eyepatch, has been enough to make your mouth water. And when your eyes traveled lower, taking in the way his black slacks all but hugged his toned thighs, all was lost for you.

You’ve been grateful that Laenor pounced on him to be interviewed first, wanting to see if he'd be worthy enough to be relocated to the so-called sanctuary, because you certainly would have jumped Targaryens’ bones right then and there.

His alluring aura, the dominance radiating off of him – it all are factors that drive your aching body to insanity. and the nights that followed you found your relief more than once with the image of him flashing right before your eyes.

Some time has passed in which you’ve barely seen him around, only hearing of him through the stories of the other residents that have been interviewed by him; now it’s your turn to warm the large chair standing in front of the imposing Mahogany desk.

It’s the door behind you sliding open that lets your heart drop into the pit of your stomach, and you fidget with your fingers to stop yourself from turning around. You don’t want to be caught staring in the first few seconds already.

You hear your name fall past his lips so smoothly it sends a shiver down your spine. You give in to the temptation and watch him step inside with an air of mellow gratification, prowling around the desk until he eventually sits down in the empty seat across from you.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he purrs, a glint of mischief dancing in his eye.

There comes no reply from you, instead you continue to fumble with your fingers, looking at what you assume to be your file splayed out on the desk in front of him.

It’s the dismissive hum that rumbles in his chest that finally piques your interest, and when your gaze settles on him again, you spot him touch his chin thoughtfully as his eye skimps over the pages, seeming as if he’s reading it for the first time.

The red gloves he wears stand in stark contrast to the otherwise colorless rest of his outfit, your gaze drawn to them like a moth to a flame. He has worn them upon his arrival already; the smooth leather shining in the dim light of the candles makes your mind wander to more indecent things.

He tilts his head up again to meet your gaze, his smooth and calming voice ringing out. “Your genetic profile would appear to be favorable, so you can say that this interview is solely conducted as a… precaution.” Though it’s meant to be reassuring, the deliberate pause he makes doesn’t seem convincing.

His words make you frown. “What for?” you ask, and you curse yourself for how blunt and bold your voice sounds. “Aren’t you in need of relocating the last few people that pass on good genes, now that this is the last outpost standing?”

The genuine laugh he offers you prompts you to lean back in your seat, juxtaposing the way he leans forwards in his. Something in the arrogance that radiates off of him, and the smug smirk he has on his lips, feeds your irritation.

“Doesn’t seem like you can afford to be picky,” you snap back at him.

He licks his lips, and although it’s not longer than a second, your mind immediately drifts off to think about how it would feel between your legs, how he would feel between them. You try to be subtle as you shift in your seat, barely moving enough to soothe the aching that blooms at the apex of them.

“We’re making the selections as carefully as possible,” he counters. The paper of your file is pinched between his index and thumb, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers. “We need to ensure the survival of humanity, and I’m sure you understand that we have to look for a certain level of ambition in the people we choose.”

Even though his explanation is vague, and doesn’t make much sense to you, it is strangely appealing. The word ambition is such a broad term that could mean anything from career-minded to cutthroat, yet you still have to figure out exactly what he means.

The tension grows thicker and thicker with each passing second of silence, and you feel a warm sensation spreading inside of you from his intense gaze – which is perhaps also due to the hint of desire that gleams in his eye as he regards you.

You try your best to ignore the way your heart races, wanting to diminish the warmth inside of you. But to no avail.

When he rises from his seat, your heart drops into your stomach again, and your eyes grow wide with curiosity and intrigue.

It’s a brief flicker of your eyes down his body that has you squeezing your thighs together, far too distracted by how tall he is than to notice the smug smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Would you say that you’ve… settled here?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of something you find difficult to decipher.

He slowly stalks around the desk, the tips of his leather-clad fingers smoothly gliding over the dark wood. His eye lingers on your face, taking you in and assessing your reaction. His expression holds the same edge of darkness his voice does, though he isn’t hiding it as effectively as he thinks he is this time.

Your eyes never leave his frame when he comes to stand next to you, leaning back against the desk. He’s gripping the edge of it, and even in the dim light of the candles, you notice that it’s rather tightly, almost as if he’s suppressing the urge to touch you.

“Well, I suppose I’ve managed to adjust,” you reply.

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. He just stares at you with this cold precision – until you catch his eye flitting lower, trailing over your form.

The purple gown you wear isn’t revealing at all, not that Ms. Misery would allow you to wear anything of that sort anyways. The neckline is squared with raised yet off-the-shoulder structured shoulders that leave little to the imagination – but only if you’ve been touch deprived for long enough.

And, judging by the way his jaw clenches as his eye meets yours again, you can tell it’s also been a while for him.

The thought of it makes your blood run hot, the warmth now spreading to your cheeks. Your gaze falls to your lap, watching your fingers fumble with each other while you feel his bore into your frame.

There’s a hum rumbling in his chest once again, but this time it sounds more like a purr, as if he finds satisfaction in your nervousness. “Are you normally this flustered in front of men… or is it just me?”

A sudden rush of excitement and embarrassment floods your veins as your mind processes his words; your head snaps back up to look at him, and you’re greeted by a teasing grin.

“I’m not flustered,” you reply, your voice only wavering slightly, yet you know that it’s clear to him that you’re not being very honest. He’s well aware of the effect he’s having on you.

He tsks, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I mean, I can see you,” he says, gesturing to you with his hand. “You’re licking your lips, you can’t meet my eyes for more than a few seconds, your cheeks are flushed – it’s clear your body yearns to be touched…” he trails off, smirking to himself as he briefly glances to the ground. “... by me.”

His statement catches you off-guard. A quick exhale from your nose leaves you feeling winded with the sensations of butterflies wreaking havoc within your body.

The silence between you lingers, heavy and thick as you ponder over his words, and you decide to go all in. You glance at him sideways, before speaking. “Is that so?”

His eye darkens at your coy demeanor, and with the corners of his quirking up into a sly smirk, he reveals just a glimpse of the devil that lurks beneath the angelic exterior. “Oh, it is,” he replies with a mocking tone. “I know you’re getting off to the thoughts of me at night, sweet thing. And even right now, you’re dripping for me. It’s almost pathetic.”

He almost seems relieved as he finally reaches to trace a gentle line over your exposed shoulder, starting at the crook of your neck. His light touch and the coldness of his gloves cause you to shiver involuntarily, and makes your breathing heavy.

As if he’s searching for something within yours, his eye narrows, and your mind races with the possibility of what such a look might signify.

“Look at you,” he purrs, licking his pouty lips. “You’re sitting here, just waiting for me to take things a step further – all the while I could smell that sweet pussy of yours ever since I’ve stepped into the room.”

Your mouth goes dry at his words, making it difficult to swallow, and you feel yourself clench around nothing; the urge to squirm in your seat is nearly overwhelming.

“That sweet scent of yours…” he trails off. Mesmerized by his words and confidence, you almost flinch when he pushes himself off the desk, slowly kneeling down to be on a level with you, hovering close to you like a predator pretending to pounce.

Your breath is heavy, and with your body still facing the desk, you’re forced to turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. There are mere inches between your faces now, and you feel his minty breath fan over your lips, swollen from how often you've licked them at this point.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, and heat follows where the cold leather of his gloves ghosted over your skin. “So desperate to be touched… to be filled,” he hums. While embarrassment blossoms inside of you, there’s no amusement laced within his silky voice. It’s as if he’s just stating facts. “Or am I mistaken?” Your name topples past his lips with so much ease, it makes you imagine how it would sound moaned by him.

Your head begins to swim. His scent, his domineering aura, the warmth emanating off of him – it’s all too much and not enough.

Meekly shaking your head, the ‘no’ you reply comes out not louder than a whisper.

He takes in a quick breath of air, relishing in his victory. The way you submit to him, to his power and dominance, feeds something within him; a hunger that’s been growing more and more demanding from the moment he stepped into the room with you.

“Good girl,” he purrs, slowly rising to his full height, stretching his fingers as he keeps his eye locked on you. A flush spreads over your cheeks at his praise, the subconscious urge to make him proud sending a shiver of excitement through your veins, feeding right into your desire to please him.

He’s standing again, letting his eye drift over your sitting frame for a moment too long, trailing down your neck, over the curves of your breasts, and settling in your lap. A gloved hand comes forward to pinch the skirts of your gown between his fingers, an almost disgusted look on his features.

“Take it off.”

“W-What?”

“W-w-what?” he mocks, the scoff he releases filling you with shame. “Take it off,” he repeats. “Or else I will take it off of you, and that won’t be any more pleasant.”

The thought of him undressing you seems tempting. A small part of you wants to protest, to say something along the lines of ‘you can’t just demand something like this’ but the other part craves this. It feels as if it’s quintessential for your body to survive, not able to go one day longer without being touched at all.

Rising to your feet, you smooth out the skirts of your dress before craning your neck to look up at him. He’s towering over you, hardly stepping back far enough to create any space for you to undress.

Having always been a bit of a pain to put on, getting out of the dress was even worse. The tight fit and squared neckline leaves you with very limited mobility, meaning you’re always relying on a servant to help you get out of it. And facing these difficulties, the thought of removing it all by yourself, especially in front of him, seems almost sacrilegious.

A thought pops into your mind, and your body is quick enough to get through with it before you can even think about it properly.

“Care to help me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. Before he can refuse, you brush your hair over one shoulder and turn around, presenting him with your back and the tightly laced corset.

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t refuse, and you say nothing as his fingers find the lacing of your corset, gloves brushing your skin as he slowly undos the laces.

It’s a slow process, one that builds anticipation within you, and has you squeezing your thighs together yet again.

His caresses are light and careful at first, but they grow increasingly firm and forceful. Each tug and pull draws you closer to him, and only when you hear the same dismissive hum rumbling in his chest do you dare to glimpse at him from over your shoulder, seeing him staring at your back with his jaw set with a new purpose.

The fabric is still pinched between his fingers when they suddenly change course, gripping the purple fabric around the lace with a bit more force than necessary. He rips open the corset in a single, harsh motion in a clear display of his impatience, the torn fabric hitting the ground with a thud, and your gown quickly follows suit.

For a moment, you feel relief at being freed from its confines. But it’s fleeting, your skin immediately prickling as you become aware of how much of your body is exposed to him now.

It’s weird to think that this thin layer of modesty has been enough to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, and now it’s peeled away with you knowing he’s gazing at you as if he’s been served his first meal in months.

Easing your trembling legs, you hold onto the desk for support. It feels like an eternity as you crouch forward slightly to steady your uneven breathing, the moment only breaking as he advances towards you, his body leaning against yours and pressing you up against the desk. It’s the only thing keeping you upright, and the moment you feel his hot breath caress your neck, your legs feel like they are about to give in.

His thigh slips between yours, but you can’t feel his hands on your body, assuming he’s clasped them behind his back or kept them at his sides. You can tell that his chest isn’t the only firm thing that presses against your body, his cock rock hard and all but straining against your lower back, clearly finding as much pleasure in the situation as you do.

His proximity is all you’ve thought of for the past days, yet it’s not enough. You need his hands, him, to feel thoroughly satisfied. The urge to whine scratches in your throat, but you manage to swallow it at the last moment.

“Beg for me to touch you,” he drawls, voice laced with a mixture of excitement and hunger.

Exhaling a strained breath, you close your eyes. “P-Please,” you whimper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Please… touch me. It’s been so long.”

“Hm.” You hear it loud and clear, the amusement, the satisfaction, causing your skin to heat up. “That’s all you’ve got?”

You tip your head back in frustration, meeting with his shoulder, a loud huff slipping past your lips. But you’re so close to getting what you want, there’s no way you’re giving up already.

“Please, please touch me… Mr. Targaryen.” His name is spoken with a bit of hesitation. “I-I- please, fuck, need it so, so bad. Please.” That you’re not stomping your feet on the ground like an insolent child is everything, knowing it would push your chance for relief further away.

But it seems to do the trick, because one gloved hand settles on your hip without him saying anything, while the other clasps around the outside of your thigh, his thumb brushing smooth patterns over your hot skin.

He drags his nose along the side of your face, his breath tickling your skin, and you slightly turn your head to lean into it. “Where else do you want me to touch, mh?”

Feeling him on every inch of your body has you far too aroused to be frustrated by his on-going teasing and stalling. “Right…” you pant, peeling his hand from your hip to bring it down between your legs, “... here.”

A quiet whine slips past your lips as his fingers make contact with your sensitive clit, the cold leather of his gloves against your hot skin striking you as a welcome surprise and sending a shiver down your spine. It feels foreign, but nice nevertheless.

You’ve fully anticipated him to pull back again, to leave you high and dry, but he surprises you again, when he drags his fingers through your swollen folds.

“Right here, mh?” he purrs into your ear with a husky voice.

It’s a grazing touch that alone is enough to make your mind hazy, merely humming in return.

He’s not doing more than rubbing your clit and brushing his digits through your folds, but you’re wet enough already for it to be audible. The squelching sounds coming from between your legs are embarrassing, clearly highlighting your desperation for him, and it only gets worse when he slips a finger inside of you.

Taking in a sharp breath, you hold onto the desk again. “God, fuck,” you whine.

His finger is thick enough to be accompanied with a slight burning stretch, intensifying the moment he adds another. You can’t resist the urge to grind against his hand, the base of it applying just enough pressure to your clit to numb any discomfort.

“You like that, mh?” he rasps. “So fucking wet and desperate for my fingers, dripping all over my glove.”

A string of whiny yesses leaves your lips as the pace of his fingers increases, making it incredibly difficult for your hips to maintain the rhythm.

Heavy breaths and pants fan over your flushed skin, spurring you on and bringing you closer to the sweet relief you’ve craved for so long. He seems to sense your impending orgasm, and works you just a moment longer, before he withdraws his fingers from you, making sure the loss would make it even worse.

But there’s no time to whine.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he teases, acting as if he’s completely oblivious to the torture he puts you through, and brings his gloved hand up to your face.

The red leather is covered in your arousal, sticky and glistening even in the dim light. As he spreads the two fingers, a few strings of it connect the leather, and you bite your bottom lip, knowing all too well what might follow.

“Open your mouth, pet,” he commands in a stern voice. “Clean up your mess.”

And you comply, parting your lips and eagerly embracing him pushing them inside. Your tongue swirls around the digits, the leather tasting and feeling completely different on your tongue.

You hardly notice that his other hand has left your thigh, and even less that he’s undoing the zipper of his slacks, pulling out his hard cock. Only when you feel the pressure against your entrance do your eyes widen, and you whine around his fingers as he pushes inside.

Even though you are stretched from his digits, it can not compare to his cock.

He’s filling you to the brim in one, swift thrust, and with you being gagged by his gloved fingers, you can’t do more than mewl and moan. “Fuck, tight cunt taking my cock, hm? That’s it, such a good, little pet.”

Not giving you the chance to adjust to his size, he sets up a reckless pace from the very start, his impatience running thin with the way your tightness embraces him. He fucks you as if it’s a one time thing, as if you won’t make the cut, but something inside of you tells you this is merely the beginning.

Saliva trickles down your chin as his cock drives deeper and deeper, forcing moan after moan past your lips and his gloved fingers. It’s the sounds of skin slapping against skin, his strained grunts and your muffled whines filling the room, and if Ms. Misery were to find out, you would be tortured or killed even before the next day arrived.

Maybe it’s the risk of being caught that drives him to his next step, but he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, gloved hand coming down to rest around your throat instead. He applies just a bit of pressure, merely meaning to hold you upright and steady to make it easier for him to use you to his liking.

You scramble for hold, sweaty palms planted flatly on the wooden surface in front of you, supporting yourself as the man behind you all but fucked every coherent thought out of your brain.

“Look at you,” he grunts, pounding into your needy cunt. The tip of his cock brushes your sweet spot, pushing high enough to knock the air out of your lungs and make you lose yourself. “All you’ve been thinking about was my cock. So desperate to be fucked by me, huh?”

You are so full with him, his scent, his warmth, everything, that breathy whines and yesses are the only things slipping past your lips.

He drags his nose along the side of your face, clearly relishing in the way he’s fucked you dumb with so little effort already, and you almost feel yourself come on spot the moment he presses his lips to your earlobe.

Pushing his hips all the way into yours, he stills them for a moment, bringing up a gloved hand to spit on his fingers and before dragging them harshly over your sensitive clit, and putting you straight into a frenzy.

The tears that were brimming in your eyes now spill and run down your flushed cheeks, hitting the desk he has you hunched over.

“No need to cry, pet,” the man behind you drawls, a satisfaction weaved in his husky voice. “You wanted this, didn't you? Wanted my cock to fuck you stupid? Or do you want me to stop?”

Your blank mind barely processes his words, but just hearing the word stop has you finding your voice again. “N-no,” you whine, arching your back and pressing your ass back against him. “Don’t-don’t stop, Sir. ‘M so, so close.”

“Close, mh? Then fucking come for me.”

With his hand now applying a good bit of pressure to your throat and his fingers strumming your clit in a reckless pattern, you feel yourself getting lightheaded as your release hits you suddenly.

His strained groans are hushed against your neck as you spasm around him, sucking him in hungrily. He works you through it, fucking you as you quiver and shake. Grinding against him, you ride your high out in rhythm with his thrusts, gasping each time his cock pistones inside of you.

His hips falter slightly for a moment, caught off guard by how tightly your walls are squeezing him, but he regains his composure and sets up a brutal pace again. You’re swollen and raw by now, but he doesn't stop.

“That’s it, fuck, I’m gonna get this pathetic cunt stuffed with my cum,” he grunts, pulling his hand from your clit to plant it on your hip.

Each rut of his hips makes your eyes journey to the ceiling, the tears on your cheeks now dry. There are hiccuped breaths spilling from your mouth, and you can’t do more than to hold onto the desk, bracing yourself for his relentless pounding.

With a stutter of his hips and a raspy groan escaping his throat, his cock eventually spills deep inside of you, coating your walls. He fucks it into you with deliberately slow thrusts, the last spurts of his warm release filling you to the brim.

A strained groan is audible as he pulls out, tucking himself back in his slacks, and assumes the cold demeanor he’s had before. The only courtesy he grants you is picking up your dress and underwear he’s torn off you before, holding it out for you to take.

You get the cue, and dress yourself on trembling legs. The blonde watches curiously, leaning back against the desk again. The red gloves now lay on the desk, and you catch a glimpse of his long, ring-clad fingers.

With flushed cheeks, you briefly look at the ground before presenting him your back again. “Do you mind?”

He nods and steps towards you, silently lacing up your corset, and whenever his skin brushes yours, a shiver runs down your spine. His skin is soft, smooth even, and the warmth emanating from them is far more pleasant than the cold leather.

But the moment is fleeting as he quickly moves to sit down behind his desk again, a new file already pinched between his fingers. You smoothen out the skirt of your dress, merely bowing your head once, and make a beeline for the door.

It’s his voice ringing out that stops you in your tracks, though you don’t dare to turn around.

“I expect you to come back for your second interview tomorrow. See it as an opportunity for me to gauge whether or not you truly have the right… ambition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Targaryen,” you mumble in return, a strange sense of satisfaction and anticipation already coursing through your veins.

Hearing your name once again, you turn your head to look at him. “There’s no need to be formal when it’s just us. You can call me Aemond.”

Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui @valeskafics

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almostempty · 29 days ago

Text

prisoner - part 1 (f!reader x din djarin)

wc: 4.6k | other fics | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 | part 2 (coming soon)

summary: this time our fav bounty hunter is the bounty and you're on a mission to capture him and claim your reward

note: big thanks to @wannab-urs for hosting the dmamc25 event !! i'm looking forward to catching up on the other amazing fics!

this was my wip for the campaign but i missed the deadline (not a soul was surprised). i'm splitting it into two or possibly three parts, so the man doesn't get dommed yet, but i still wanted to acknowledge the inspiration for the whole thing <3

tags: 18+, my interpretation of pre-canon younger din djarin aka as they said in the 1991 action/thriller classic Point Break he's "young, dumb, and full of cum" aka moody reckless and virile din, some canon typical violence, one (1) tranquilizer injected by needle, dirty talkin' din, bulge riding, opposite of a virgin kink if u squint? mayhaps a filthy whore kink? (dubcon to come in part two bc of course i would, sub!din djarin will also be coming in part two)

thanks to @syd-djarin @auteurdelabre and @swankyorange for support <3

The first time you see him, he’s in everyone’s way. A blunt, metal block that the crowd on the street parts and weaves around. He stands, scanning for something, oblivious to the vendors peddling their wares. He’s completely uninterested in their lives or their products.

Instead, he forces the world to bend around him.

And when he moves, they move. Everyone gets out of his way–and quickly–hustling and veering around him. Not out of fear or respect, but because he gives them no other choice.

It would drive you nuts if he interrupted your path, but from your viewpoint on the rooftop it’s almost amusing. You stretch languidly, enjoying the warmth of the sun as you watch. You catch the glint of his helmet as his head swivels in search of something. It’s the only polished piece of his mismatched armor. The rest is scraped, dented, or painted over. A testament, you assume, to the brutal and dirty life he lives.

When he surges off again, stiff and hurried, stalking whatever he’s tracking, you’re drawn to the hunger in his movements. His physicality. You expect a Mandalorian to be calculated—efficient. And he is. There’s urgency that bites at his heels.

But there’s something else, too. Something reckless in his movements. The way he shoulders through a circle of street performers without a care. The way his hand hovers near the blaster on his hip, ready to draw at the slightest provocation.

In broad daylight.

It’s like he’s not just looking for something. He’s daring the galaxy to give him an excuse to destroy it.

It’s that volatility that makes you curious. The danger that curls around his edges. It entices you.

You’ve met men like him before. Men that burn with the kind of fury only youth and disillusionment can sustain.

Their drive gives them strength, but they have a glaring weakness.

The second time, you’re closer.

At some rundown, backwater outpost cantina—the kind of place where a fight is as common as a drink. You watch the dust particles swirling in the streaks of light filtering through the windows as you sit at a table waiting. It’s not long before the Mandalorian storms in.

He rocks up to the bar with heavy footsteps, ready to slam down some credits in exchange for answers. Unfortunately, he misjudged the stubbornness and the loyalty of the wiry bartender. He lacks tact.

The barkeep offers clipped responses to the questioning. From under your hood, you can see the Mandalorian’s fist clench. A few nearby patrons snicker as the encounter seems to be futile and his patience snaps.

In seconds, his gloved fist is wrapped in the bartender’s jacket, dragging him halfway across the counter. A glass tips and shatters on the floor. And a few heads turn both toward and pointedly away from the scene.

“Try again,” the Mandalorian demands, his voice loud enough for you to catch. It’s deep, modulated by the helmet but still laced with venom. It suits him, you think.

The bartender flails, his eyes widening before he sputters out something. You can’t help the small grin that curls at the corner of your lips.

The Mandalorian is far from subtle but it works. He drops the bartender and storms off just as pressed as the way he came in, his tattered cape flicking behind him as he disappears.

You stay seated as the chatter picks back up.

The Mandalorian is impatient, you note. Unconcerned with the attention he draws if he gets what he wants.

Your smirk grows wider. It’ll be satisfying to watch him unravel when he doesn’t get his way.

The third time, you’re following him. He’s tracking someone through the city, his strides long and swift, no hesitations. You slip from shadow to shadow, quietly leaving enough room to vanish if anything goes wrong.

When his target fucks up–darting into the wrong alley–you’re almost disappointed. You know what happens next. The fight is over fast. Brutal. Mechanical.

The Mandalorian is pure force, absorbing every counter attack with only the slightest stagger. Until his opponent crumples to the ground, groaning and bloody. The Mandalorian hauls him to his feet muttering something you can’t quite hear.

He drags his prize toward the shipyard, his grip unyielding and his pace unrelenting. You trail along continuing your observations.

The Mandalorian is ruthless.

It’s no wonder the reward is worth your time. You can only imagine the grievances he’s racked up on his violent crusade. You look forward to the payout, considering what you might spend it on as you slip behind another ship. You surveil him long enough to learn one more thing.

He’s restless.

A cloak of unease clinging to him that never fades.

Not when the chase is over. Not when he hands off his mark to the crew of miscreants he flew in with. Not when he’s at rest while the others indulge in their night off.

He’s a raw nerve encased in dented metal.

You can feel it buzzing off of him even when he’s sat still. Vibrating at a similar frequency to you. Resonating.

You’ve watched long enough.

The next time, you’re waiting for him.

Din doesn’t know it, but he’ll find you.

Adrenaline burns hot in his veins, twisting violently in his gut. The day was pure chaos. Betrayals, near-deaths, plans unraveling. He’s on edge. A live wire thrumming with an unspent charge.

He’s only a man, but the insatiable call within him feels more suited to a beast.

He stalks through the dark streets like he’s hunting something. Or daring something to hunt him. His jaw clenches tight, his teeth grinding against the insides of his cheek. The city streets are loud, the nightlife too busy for his liking, but the thoughts ruminating in his head are louder.

Their plan was doomed from the start—but the failure still stings.

His crew had been bickering over who was to blame, the voices a blur of petty insults and clashing egos. Din didn’t care who was right or wrong. He just knew that the first one to point the blame at him was getting put through a wall. Or worse. So before anyone found out what worse could be, he left.

So he continues tromping down the street on a warpath. No plan or purpose. Just fuming with the displaced energy that should’ve been released by now. He’s unsure how long it’s been, or how far he’s wandered.

It’s instinct, more than anything, that leads him to where you’ve been waiting. He’s pushing through the doorway before he even realizes where his legs led him. He’d been too busy wrestling with his anger, and now it’s a physical thing, radiating off of him in waves.

Heads turn when he enters the bar. His presence draws attention. Even with his banged up armor, a Mandalorian is still a sight to behold. The cut of his visor sweeps the room like a weapon and most eyes dart away, unwilling to meet it.

The establishment is otherwise lively. It’s packed with a misfit crowd full of sly glances, nervous shifting, and raucous laughter. There’s tables for games and smoking, dancers—barely clothed in bright shades of magenta and gold, and a band with instruments he couldn't name with a gun to his head.

But he’s not interested in drinking or gambling. He’s looking for something stronger. Someone more potent.

He begins to circle the room when his steps quickly falter.

The dark fabric draped around your curves catches his eye first, the way it shifts when you lift your glass to take a slow, deliberate sip. He’s drawn to the line of your neck, the tender, smooth skin and the soft roll of your throat as you swallow.

And then you look right at him.

Your sparkling eyes pierce him. Snare him. Capture him whole.

You tilt your head toward the open seat next to you. The invitation is subtle, but the pull is magnetic. In a heartbeat, he’s moving in.

He drops into the seat, heavy as a man made of metal, leaning an elbow on the bar. You don’t look at him directly, but he sees the way you adjust your shoulders and the faint curl of your lips. It’s enough to tell him you know. That you’re baiting him. Good. He’ll bite.

The bartender approaches, but Din waves him off without a glance, keeping the full weight of his focus on you. The low hum of his anger begins to ease as he takes in the details of your profile—the sweep of your lashes, the plush curve of your lips, your smooth skin.

You take another sip of your drink before turning toward him. Something wicked flashes in your expression before you acknowledge him with a smile.

“You’re not drinking?” Your voice is melodic, stirring his appetite.

“No.”

You take one last sip from your glass before pushing it across the counter slowly, drawing his attention to your hands. He’s tempted to grab one just to marvel at the size of it in his. So delicate. Focus.

“You want another?” he asks bluntly, curious. “No.”

The corner of his mouth quirks under the helmet. Amused. You mirror his sharp tone without hesitation; you’re not afraid of him.

“The pleasure of my company will cost you more than a drink,” you say, tilting your head slightly.

Ah. His curiosity sharpens.

“Good,” his voice is low, but tight. “Not interested in cheap.”

You’re close enough that the conscious brush of your thigh against his spends sparks through him. Your very existence is temptation and his composure is razor thin.

His body screams at him to grab you–right here–to bend you over the bar and see just how much you’re worth. But he waits, wired and anxious, for your next move.

You bite your lower lip, rolling it slowly between your teeth as if you’re reading his thoughts, and flash him an alluring smirk. The charge in the air between you is alive, pulsing with its own heartbeat.

“What are you interested in, Mandalorian?” you ask, your voice steeped in seduction.

He studies you with the emotionless visor. “What type of company are you offering?”

You laugh softly, a sound that winds around his restraint and pulls tighter. “I know a few tricks you might enjoy.”

Your finger dips into your empty glass, drawing up the last drop of liquid before slipping it between your lips. The motion is intentional and filthy.

His chest tightens. His hands flex. His cock twitches as he watches you drag your finger back out of your mouth, devastatingly slow.

You mistake his silence for hesitance, and decide to turn up the charm. You lean in closer, your breath brushing the edge of his helmet. “But, you’re in luck tonight,” you say, your voice dipping lower, “if you’ve got the credits.”

The next words are glazed with false innocence, cloyingly sweet. “I came to the city to save my family's farm, you see. I’ve not got much to send them yet, so I’m willing to offer it all for the right price.”

You bat your lashes demurely, in complete juxtaposition to your finger sucking move merely seconds ago.

“I’m untouched,” your voice lilts. “Fresh. And now with a warrior like yourself in front of me?” You rest your hand on his forearm, just above the vambrace, along the tougher material of his flight suit. “A Mandalorian? Seems like fate.”

Din shifts in his seat, as if adjusting his weight could relieve the feral itch clawing within him. Your lure is powerful, but the mischief in your eyes gives you away.

“Untouched?” he questions like he’s weighing something. You give your best virginal smile.

“You’re lying,” he decides, in a gravelly, hostile tone.

You feign offense, leaning back with a pout that barely masks your amusement.

But he leans in closer, compressing the air between you until his commanding presence is nearly suffocating. His voice drops lower.

“You better be.”

You huff with irritation.

He curls and uncurls his fist, but his gaze doesn’t waver, locked on yours. He drags one massive hand up his thigh, slowly–ever so slowly, but pointedly–until it’s resting on the heavy bulge between his legs.

“I’d prefer to fuck someone that knows how to take this.”

The air crackles between you at his explicit assertion.

Inky darkness floods your eyes before you smirk, daring him to break the control he’s barely clinging on to. And then you speak, low and sultry.

“Follow me.”

You slip off your seat, sauntering toward the hallway without looking back.

Din rises without hesitation, his boots heavy behind you, his decision already made.

You lead him to a small room–more of a storage space really–hips swaying as you float down the hall like you didn’t just scope it out hours ago.

Maybe he was expecting soft drapes and plush furniture. Instead, there’s a single, worn chair.

Good enough.

The dim light is warm enough to make the shadows dance in the space. The sound of the cantina dampens, leaving just the two of you. You push the door shut behind you, projecting confidence.

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the only seat in the closet-sized room. You see the stagger in his momentum at your order.

His head cocks slightly, the cold shape of his visor locked on you. There’s hesitation, not in fear, but in defiance. You feel his shoulders tightening, his body coiled, ready to strike—or tear your clothes off.

Impatient.

So you push. Hands on the durasteel pauldrons on his shoulders, not forcing him with strength but wielding him with your audacity.

His compliance comes with resistance, his body slow to relent, but he drops into the chair finally. Like he’s claiming it.

The Mandalorian sits, like, well…a man. His legs wide, owning the space despite the walls closing in. His armored body is broad and rigid, all sharp lines and angles.

The testosterone pours off of him, nearly choking you, but you have his attention. His rapt attention.

Your eyes flick to his hands. His fingers flex. Poised to grab, to take, to claim. But your draw keeps him still. For now.

“Let’s see then,” his husky words wind their way right to your core. Molten and sticky.

You straddle his lap without further teasing, adjusting to the cool, firm steel on his thighs, ignoring the faint creak of the chair. You settle closer, shifting your weight, nestling into the cradle of his hips and trapping the rigid length of his erection between you. Your lips part, taking in a sharp breath at the unmistakably generous size of him, even stifled beneath the tactical wear.

It’s an ego trip in having such a powerful figure wound up and straining beneath you. It quickens your heartbeat and makes your cunt throb.

The plates of his armor bite into the meat of your thighs, but it’s the solid mass beneath that has you slanting your pelvis, rocking against him with purpose. His body responds instantly—an involuntary buck of his hips upward that forces a hiss through his helmet. His gloved hands hover just shy of your waist, trembling with the last thread of his restraint.

You want to feel the rush, the untamed strength. Your spine tingles with anticipation.

“What’s the matter, Mandalorian?” you purr, “Afraid to touch me?”

A deep and guttural sound rolls through him and his hands latch onto your hips with bruising force, dragging you tighter against him. The action is rough, desperate, on the verge of losing all civility.

A victorious smile spreads on your face as you grind against him, unabashedly revelling in the friction, you hum in your throat. Each roll of your hips lights a fire beneath his skin. The heat building between you is scorching, even through the layers of armor and fabric.

His breaths come faster, heavier, as he mutters a string of curses. Some of it is in a language you don’t know, but the vehement desire in his tone is clear in any language.

His gloved fingers dig into your flesh, emphasizing the contrast between your softness and his sharpness. It heightens the charge between you, the magnetism that doesn’t relent as you rub against each other like animals.

For a moment, he’s lost in it. Lost in you. His helmet tilts forward like he’s leaning into the touch, and his grip on you is vice-like, pulling you impossibly closer.

Until he forces you still.

A pained look pulls your brows together. You were enjoying that.

“Enough,” his ragged voice is quiet, but commanding. “I want to fuck you now.”

“You will,” you assure, in nearly a whisper. You trail your hands up his chest plate, sliding over the broad expanse before wedging your fingers beneath the cowl around his neck. His body jolts at the skin contact, a groan escapes him, and his grip relaxes.

You resume the dance, chasing the friction, the pressure. Letting a broken moan ring through the air. A sound that overrides his thoughts and sends his hands on a mission. Moving higher, brushing over your ribs to cup your breasts. You gasp, rhythm faltering for only a second. But the raw and unbidden response incites him. He gropes at you roughly, trying to draw more sounds from you.

It pulls a sinful smile to your face as you wrap your arms around his neck.

You’ve got him.

For a fleeting moment, you consider letting it progress. Chasing the release that your body is aching for. Letting him fuck you. Just enough to know, to feel what it would be like. The thought of his thick cock filling you to the brim, driving deeper and deeper, has your pussy clenching. Your thighs tremble. A tear of frustration wells along your waterline.

He grunts with frustration, needing more.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

Your fingers skim the heated skin of his neck again, brushing the edge of vulnerability he keeps hidden. His groan vibrates through you, rich and unguarded. You swear you can hear his real voice beneath the distortion of the helmet.

Din is so engrossed in your touch, your movement, your body writhing in his lap. Drunk off of you.

And then the needle sinks in.

The sting is immediate. His entire body tenses beneath you, the realization dawning too late. His hand flies to his neck, but the tranquilizer works fast. The tension in his muscles melts into dead weight, and his grip on you slackens.

“What the—” His voice is sluggish, slurring before he can complete the sentence.

You hop off of him with ease, sinister smile widening on your face as you strip him of his blaster, then his vambraces, with swift and practiced hands.

“That was even easier than I thought,” you tut.

His head lolls to his shoulder, fighting to keep his eyes on you.

“Disappointing, honestly,” you keep rambling as he fights to remain conscious. “Big, strapping Mandalorian. Fearsome warrior. Nobody would even take the contract.”

You step back, assessing the way his shoulders droop. He’s fading fast. You let loose a heavy sigh, frustrated for more than one reason.

“I was hoping for a challenge.”

A weak sound is choked out of his throat before his tips forward, chin to his chest. Your disappointment was the last thing he saw; a blade carving into his pride as the sedative drags him under.

Din wakes up slowly.

His body is uncooperative and heavy. A dull ache radiates from the base of his neck, through his shoulders and down his spine. His mind is still foggy, clarity flashing in short bursts. He recognizes the sterile hum of a ship.

Din shifts slightly, testing the restraints. Metal cuffs dig into his wrists, holding his arms taut above his head.

“You awake already?”

Your voice slices through the haze, cool and serrated. He turns his head, his helmet amplifying the groan that rumbles out as the movement worsens his headache.

His throat is dry and sore when he tries to respond, but it’s nothing compared to the rage simmering beneath his skin. He knows better than to let his guard down, but he had been careless, reckless.

And you.

You had been such an irrefutable seductress, in ways he doesn’t even have words for. The memory of the way your body felt in his hands, like you were molded just for him, still seared into his senses. The weight of you in his lap, the sounds you made in response to him, the pitiful look on your face when he’d stopped your momentum. It all swirls between the fury.

Because now he’s here. Bound by you. Humiliated by you. Forced to endure whatever ridicule you have planned.

Best he can do to respond to you is a grumbling, “hmph.” Yeah, he’s awake.

You step into his line of sight, arms crossed with a cruel expression on your face.

Seeing you makes it worse. His face is hot. His mind races, thoughts spiraling, berating himself. He fucked up. Let his dick do the thinking. Letting you think you bested him—even if you did.

You lean against the wall, studying his attempts to fight the restraints. The chain scrapes against the ship's hull, each pull more furious than the last. You don’t even bother to hide the gratification. It beams off of you. Like the energy he wastes struggling powers your radiance.

“That’s cute,” you say finally, eyes lingering on his heaving chest. The raw strength he has, useless in his current predicament. “Do you think that’s going to work?”

The rage that flares in his posture is enough to make you laugh. You can picture his teeth gnashing beneath the helmet like a caged animal. Trapped but still defensive, prepared to shred anything that gets close.

“I thought Mandalorians were supposed to be…impressive,” you taunt in a smooth voice as you step toward him. He curses at you—well, you assume, it’s in another language.

You cock your head, assessing him leisurely, taking your sweet time to make sure he knows that you’re detailed, precise. He braces against the cuffs. The chain groans under his force. He’s still menacing. His shape and stature, let alone the outrage emanating from him.

But stripped of his weapons and strung up like a prize, he’s still merely a disappointment. A frustrated, metal clad, man with a foul attitude and a libidinous weak spot. The thought causes you to frown.

He was too easy to catch. Too impatient to actually fuck.

“I thought you’d put up a fight,” you confess.

You slink back just as he lunges toward you, scraping the chains against the hull and no doubt snarling, baring his teeth under the helmet.

“Pity. Most of my bounties are painfully boring. And ugly.”

He juts his chin toward you like an insult. “You lure the rest the same way?” he snaps, disdain ricocheting between you.

“No.” You reply, turning and walking back out of sight. “Was just curious what you’d be like up close.”

He yanks harshly at the chains again, grunting at the exertion. The ugly sound of metal on metal reverberates throughout the ship.

Din wears himself out trying to force his way out of the cuffs, adjusting and tugging trying to find any kind of leverage. He wears out every muscle in his arms and back, taut and bulging, as sweat trickles down the back of his neck. It only exhausts him.

To the point where he’s unsure if he’s drifting in and out of consciousness or hallucinations. When he sees you next, he’s unsure if you’re real or a figment of his madness. A focal point for him to hurl insults and garbled frustrations at.

He’s unsure how much time has passed when he notices you again,sitting on a crate, observing him.

The anger and humiliation still grate on him, and a fresh wave of adrenaline lends him another attempt at breaking free. But he’s weak.

It’s unsuccessful.

You laugh, brightly and sharp as a knife. The sound is torture.

“I should untie you just for the sport of it,” you muse, as if it’s a passing thought. “I could use some combat practice. Something to stroke my ego. It’s terribly anticlimactic to have captured such an overhyped trophy without even breaking a sweat.”

You draw nearer, checking for anything out of place.

“Even worse, we didn’t get to have any other fun first.” His head jerks at that. You imagine an incredulous sneer under the beskar.

A fleeting thought winds through his consciousness about his own unfinished conquest. He clenches his teeth, shoulders stiffening, adopting the proudest posture he can.

You merely prod and taunt him more as you continue whatever it is you’ve come to do. The ache behind his eyes is sharp as needles, and his arms and legs are cramping and stiff.

The longer you keep talking, the shorter his fuse gets. You make one more comment about how you’d wasted time learning about him, doing recon and research, when he fell prey to the promise of something tight to sink his cock into.

His breaths are ragged now, hostility dripping from his pores. Your voice incenses him, ringing in your ears even when you aren’t talking. Taunting him endlessly, like a thousand tiny cuts stinging and inflamed, never an opportunity to heal, you just jab and slice over and over.

And now you step closer. Too close.

“Gloat all you want. There’s no honor in using tricks,” he spits, his voice jagged and venomous, “like a filthy whore.”

The words hang in the air as you pause.

Your breath stills, the mocking glint in your eyes hardening into something severe; dangerous. He absorbs the shift in your posture—how you go perfectly still, save for the faint twitch of your jaw. The silence is blaring, swarming with something that makes his obstinance waver.

“Seemed to me,” you say as you circle him slowly, your boots scraping against the floor like a predator’s growl, “like you were rather keen on filthy whores when you followed me out of the cantina. Does honor only matter when your cock is soft?”

Din seethes with indignation—yet, a shameful thrill spasms through him, too. He ignores it, attributing it to fatigue, or the desire for retribution. He can’t see you. You’re behind him, silent. A retort is on the tip of his tongue, but it never makes it past his lips.

In a blinding flash, he’s slamming into the floor. His knees make a loud thud as they bang against the hard surface. The pain in his joints is sharp; he curses loudly.

His muscles are stiff and screaming after being in one position for so long. His gaze sweeps across the mostly empty space before you step in front of him once more. The pain is familiar, a constant he’s learned to live with. A sensation he almost craves. He swallows it down, along with the exhaustion, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Look at you,” your voice is drenched in condescension. His head tilts up, the visor pointing directly at you. Despite all of his current disadvantages, he’s still a threatening sight. But not to you. Not when you have control.

You crouch, facing him, hands braced on your thighs. Your lips curl with satisfaction and a hint of pride. “You don’t intimidate me.”

You see his fists clenching and the taut brace of his shoulders. All that power and hostility, once again straining–itching–to take it out on you. It’s an addictive rush that makes your blood pump hotter and your heartbeat sink to your cunt.

Your fingers tap restlessly as you stare each other down. You wouldn’t mind seeing him snap. You chew at your bottom lip, maintaining presence of mind. But you let one more thought slip out in a provocatively lush tone. “You look good on your knees, prisoner.”

let me know if you enjoyed this or if you want to fight me over my din djarin interpretation, either way part two is coming

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

tags for babes:

@lovely-vamp-princess

@auteurdelabre

@adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange

@itwasntimethatdidit40

@ivoryandflame

@magneticecstasy

@indiegirlunited

@syd-djarin

@harriedandharassed

@bbyanarchist

@94namkooksworld

@slimybeth69 @yxtkiwiyxt

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #ppcu fanfiction

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ghoulfuckersincorporated · 9 months ago

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🔸 Index Of Works 🔸

Asks and submissions are currently OPEN! Please read the guidelines here before submitting.

🔸 [Long-Form One-Shots]

AO3

☢️ A Week's Vacation in Goodsprings, Nevada

Raul Tejada x Female Reader

One-Shot, Ask Submission (18+) / 9.9K

You're injured during a routine trip because you refused to listen to Raul, and he's none too happy about it. However, the down time you take to heal is also the perfect cure for the tension between the two of you.

☢️ Shoot the Moon

Norm MacLean x Female Reader

One-Shot, Ask Submission (18+) / 30.1K

Vault life has never truly agreed with Norm MacLean. A bit of an invisible outcast thanks to his general disposition, the son of Vault 33's Overseer is growing lonesome as he reaches true adulthood. That is, until a transfer of personnel puts him into the path of someone who finally makes him feel seen. Will the expectations of others get in their way? Can Norm find the courage and strength to live the life he wants to live?

☢️ Carnal Lessons

John Hancock x Virgin!Female Reader

One-Shot, Ask Submission (18+) / 20.0K

John's always had a 'thing' for innocence. When he meets you, a runaway vaultie looking for a new place to belong, that 'thing' gets him into far more trouble than he could have ever anticipated.

☢️ Duplicity

Prewar!Cooper Howard x Female Reader

Ongoing Work (TBC), Ask Submission (18+) / 11.4K

You've been forming a relationship with Cooper Howard over the last several months, one that isn't exactly becoming of a married woman or a man in the middle of an acrimonious divorce. The chemistry between the two of you is undeniable from the moment you meet, but when the alcohol starts flowing and passions flare, will you be ready to fully plunge yourself into an affair with the handsome star? For those who want their prewar!Cooper a little darker.

☢️ As A Dog