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Five Runs - Run 3: The Other Throne Room

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Title: Five Runs - Run 3: The Other Throne Room (3.2k)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

His voice isn't breaking so much as shutting down, his vocal cords unable to keep up as his words tumble over one another. You catch another fragment that contains you and something that might be did this but it's nothing as coherent as a sentence, and then he gives up all together and you're halfway launched into an open cabinet as he slams into you, wrapping his arms around you in a bruisingly tight hug that seems to surprise him at least as much as it does you.

Description: A series of drabbles all sharing one theme: you've decided to run away from your Mandalorian. On purpose. For his birthday. Listen, everyone's got their kinks, and his is bounty hunting (sort of. Mostly, it's you.)

Series: Part 3 of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, object insertion but probably not in the way you think, oral sex, manual sex, implied penetrative sex, brief mention of somnophilia, canon what canon, no betas we die like men [warnings are for all drabbles.]

Tropes: established relationship, the helmet comes off, hurt/comfort, fluff, adventure

Author's note: When I finished Easy Mark, I wanted to write something adventurous and fun next, something that lets these two show how much they really do enjoy each other's company. Each drabble is set during a different time in their relationship but it's all after the Mos Eisley incident mentioned in Distractions.

***

RUN 3: THE OTHER THRONE ROOM

The third time, he's impressed: “When I said run, I didn’t mean run to the nearest available warlord."

“Yeah, but I saw the puck Karga gave you. Seemed convenient. Easiest way to kill two banthas with one knife.”

Din's having this conversation with your knees as he looks up at you on your perch. The aforementioned warlord's throne had been a comfortable spot from which to watch your bounty hunter do what he did best, but the dais at your feet is now splattered with blood from the bodyguard that had been unwise enough to challenge him to single combat. The warlord himself is bound and gagged on the floor, cuffs clattering as he shifts impotently against the flagstones. No one had noticed you, the lowly installer tech, sneak in the back door and take the throne for yourself in the commotion.

"How in the hells did you even get in here? I lost a whole day figuring out how to get over that shield wall." He had, you'd watched him do it, secure in your position as the backwater outpost's newest employee. You'd been repairing a HoloNet hard line that stretched across the cluster of low rooftops surrounding the courtyard and therefore had an excellent vantage point as the gate guards flatly refused to let an armed Mandalorian into the keep. You'd even given him a cheerful wave when they weren't looking, nearly certain Din wouldn't start a massacre in a yard full of civilians just to get to you.

"That's because you showed up all hot and bothered and waving a blaster around. I came in looking for a job, and when they got a taste of my talents, well, they couldn't wait to hire me."

The helmet makes a spluttering noise. "Tell me you didn't-- what does that-- what did you do?"

You laugh. "Relax, Mando. You don't need to avenge my honor yet. All I did was flirt. And to be fair, I do know how to upgrade a HoloNet connection. The amount of channel competition on their mesh network was awful. I had to dig around in a lot of very dusty attics." You reach behind the base of the throne, feeling blindly for the sack you'd brought with you.

"Still sounds better than climbing over a--" Din starts, but his words are cut off as he catches the heavy canvas bag you fling at him, the hardened knuckle guard of his glove making a chiming sound against the contents even through the cloth.

"Open it," you command imperiously from your perch. Din does, giving a low whistle through the modulator. He pokes a fingertip inside, using it to rifle through the contents, and you can tell he's counting under his breath. You'd done the same when you'd found it, the pile of credits big enough to make your eyes widen and your brain briefly go to static.

"Where did you find this?" he says at last. "This is more than the last four jobs put together."

You can't contain yourself any longer. You come out of your seat, stepping off the raised dais and dropping down to stand next to him. "I know.” The giddiness you feel leaks into your voice. "That's enough for repairs and refit. That's enough for the rations the womp rat likes. That's enough for everything we need all at once and a new sleeping pad." You put a hand on Din’s vambrace, hoping he can sense your excitement. "And that's not all. There's something more. Something important."

"Nothing's more important than a pile of hard credits," Din retorts, but you can hear his smile. He nudges the still-struggling warlord with the toe of his boot. "We'll find a nice closet to stash him in on the way. Show me?"

***

You’d found the treasury room on one of your installation jobs, replacing old fiber optic in the interstitial spaces between the outpost's wooden ceilings and its hardened steel roof. You’d been following the cable when it took a sharp drop and terminated in a comms panel that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. Next to it was a nest of other, much newer electronics: a scomp link port backed up by a biometric authenticator; a localized security computer inset just beside the reinforced door frame; a series of seriously intense magnetic deadbolts. Every component was tied to an alarm system that had been state of the art in the Core ten years ago. Out here it had probably cost a small fortune.

The setup caught your attention immediately. Anything behind a security system like that had to be worth getting to. You ditched the rest of the day's work immediately, knowing no one would miss the tech with the sling full of tools they'd last seen crawling into a maintenance hatch. Most of the people in the building probably don’t even know this corridor exists, let alone the door that now beckoned to you enticingly from its cradle of locks.

It had taken you most of the day to get through. Scomp links were easy to clone if you had the right tools - which you didn't - or access to the original - which you also lacked. It was a slow and fiddly job, sliding the thin sheet of transparisteel you always carry in your kit between each of the scomp link receptor's teeth and waiting to hear the right kind of click. So many unsuccessful attempts would have certainly triggered the alarm if you hadn't shorted it first, wiring the sensor array into the old fiber optic line to keep the circuit closed before cutting the connection to the door. The security computer was off-network, a straightforward way to keep it out of reach of an override code from a central control room, but that also meant it couldn't do more than blink impotently at you as you tried to rekey the biometric scanner. And then tried again. And again.

By the time the magnetic locks let go with a final-sounding clunk, you were past tired and halfway to exhausted. "This had better be good," you said aloud to the empty corridor, and waved one hand in front of the sensor until the door hissed open.

It was better than good. It was like a dream, or maybe a fairytale. You'd heard stories about places like this one, local heavies on the Outer Rim who'd taken the fall of the Empire as a sign and converted all their wealth to metals and other materials for war or barter. You'd never believed they were true.

The room is small but tidy, crates and shelving units stacked one on top of another. Several of the lower drawers are partially open and you can see the glint of gold, the subdued shine of platinum. One shelf is occupied entirely with white-grey ingots of doonium, while another holds a small rack of crystals you can’t identify. You step inside, shutting the door behind you and feeling as though you've just walked into a tacky holonovel, and kneel to rifle through the crates. Your mind is racing through the possibilities. Two nights, plus travel time to reach the outpost. Throw in another few hours while you persuaded first the gate guards and then the warlord's administrative flunkies to take you in, and it’s been just under two and a half days. That means Din will find you in the next twelve hours - almost certainly sooner. You need a plan.

You start pulling open drawers methodically rather than randomly. Most of the cache is no good to you: no practical application for either you or your bounty hunter, useful only in quantities too heavy to carry or too rare to fence quietly. There are exceptions - you shove a small spool of something you think might be very thin cortosis wire in your bag, and in one well-thumbed drawer you find a sack full of credits that's worth more to you than anything else in the room. Credits spend without fuss and they can't be easily traced. That alone makes the time you spent slicing your way through the door worth it.

Two boxes left, the inert lockpads thick with dust. They're both small, shoved into a corner as though someone had kicked them there in a hurry to get to something else. You reach to inspect the first, easing up the lid, unsure of what it might contain.

You almost laugh when you realize what you're looking at. The small rectangular space is packed tight with flashing metal and precious stones, strung into delicate and decorative arrangements. Jewelry - as if the treasury room really is a pirate cave from a children's storybook. You balance the crate on one of the cabinets and card your fingers through it, letting the tangle catch and gleam in the dim light. It's an absurd thing to find on a planet like this one. Jewelry. As if a pretty necklace would mean anything when a renegade dropship blew through the shield generator.

You leave the jewelry scattered across the cabinet top in a tangled drift like a tidal pool and lean down to pick up the last crate. It's heavier than you anticipated and you wrestle it into an open space on the floor with a surprised oomph. Not just earrings in this one then. What could be that heavy but got pushed aside as though it were useless?

You flick open the latch. For a moment you don't recognize what you're looking at. It's just more metal, grey and dull, stamped with the Imperial cog this time instead of the emblem of the New Rep—

You slam the crate closed again, heart hammering in your ears, and frantically catalogue your options for jamming the treasury door behind you so no one else can get in. You have to find Din. You have to find Din.

***

Your Mandalorian unceremoniously dumps his bounty in a heap in the disused corridor, not bothering to find a closet. There's enough chaos throughout the building that the warlord’s shouts for help, muffled by the gag Din forced between his amateurishly sharpened teeth, are unlikely to attract attention. It takes you no time at all to get back through the treasury room’s security system, having already bypassed the scomp link and reprogrammed the biometric lock to open at the touch of your hand.

You push Din in ahead of you, narrowly avoiding slamming into his armored back as he takes two steps inside and then stops. "Maker. How did you find this?" His gaze is sweeping the room, assessing, completing the same inventory you had when you'd first realized what it contained.

"Running cable," you answer. "Doesn't matter." You'd stashed the little crate with its plain ingots in one of the cabinets, shoving it to the back to keep it safe in case anyone else came looking. It was unlikely that even the warlord's most trusted bureaucrats would be able to get through the door after you were done slicing the security system, but you couldn't risk it. You open the cabinet and push a box of what might be aurodium ore out of the way, finding the crate exactly where you left it. You lift it out with both hands and set it on the table next to the pile of jewelry.

There's probably a correct way to do what you're about to but you have no idea what it is. So: "Din," you say, to get his attention - you never use his real name in public, not even when you're alone - and the helmet whips around to stare at you in surprise. Then you unceremoniously pop the lid and shove the crate towards him.

Whatever reaction you'd expected, it wasn't this. Din goes absolutely still for a moment, every movement under the armor stopping at once like a droid having its power cut. You can't tell if he's examining the contents of the crate or you, and his lack of motion makes a tiny spark of fear shoot up your spine, some deep animal part of you recognizing the quiet focus of a predator.

The visor finally tips to look directly at you. "It’s beskar. Do you know what this means?"

"Uh-- not really," you respond lamely. His reaction has made you strangely unsure of yourself. "I know it's... important. I know it belongs with you." He hasn't moved any further and the twinge you'd felt is rapidly consolidating into a nervous twist in your gut.

"It's beskar," Din says again, and you open your mouth to shoot back something stupid like no kidding, but he's still talking. "Beskar that was stolen from Mandalorians. You found it and now you’re just giving it back.” He's accelerating now, as if it's vital that he tell you this information before something terrible happens. "Beskar is our future. This is enough to feed everyone in the covert-- every adult, every foundling-- for a year. Maybe more. You-- I--" His voice isn't breaking so much as shutting down, his vocal cords unable to keep up as his words tumble over one another. You catch another fragment that contains you and something that might be did this but it's nothing as coherent as a sentence, and then he gives up all together and you're halfway launched into an open cabinet as he slams into you, wrapping his arms around you in a bruisingly tight hug that seems to surprise him at least as much as it does you.

You yelp as your head misses the corner of a crate by a scant inch but Din doesn't seem to care, his vambraces digging into your ribs, his bandolier smashed against your breasts. It's an awkward embrace, maybe the most awkward thing you've ever seen him do, and somehow it’s the awkwardness that drives home how much his gratitude is horribly, crushingly sincere. You're not handling the moment any better: you can feel your cheeks burning with chagrin and your mouth is squashed into his shoulder, muffling your protests. "I didn't do anything," you’re compelled to say to the gap in his armor between breastplate and pauldron. "I was just curious. All I did was break in and it was here."

"Shut up," Din says savagely, and then just as abruptly lets go, pushing you away, tearing at his gloves. The second his hands are bare he reaches for you, running them over your jaw, your neck, the open collar of your tunic the same way another man might feverishly kiss you. Din's touched you enough that you can feel that this time is different, the warm roughness of his grip conveying something new and meaningful that you can't quite decipher yet. It doesn't stop you from leaning into him, offering more of yourself, as his hands dip under your shirt and start to slide lower.

Your shared moment of mutual embarrassment is dissolving into something urgent as Din drops to his knees in front of you. His intention is clear, but as much as you want this, want to explore whatever threshold you've just crossed, common sense dictates otherwise. "Mando… Mando. Din," you say again, trying to interrupt the reverent path of his hands unbuckling your belt. "We can't– we don't have time– we have to go." If you'd read the situation correctly, you have about an hour before word of what just happened spread outside the outpost. As soon as it does, a power vacuum too powerful to ignore will pull in every local thug who fancies themselves the next warlord, all of them gunning for a chance at the Mandalorian who'd deprived them of the last man to hold the throne. Din had won the contest with the bodyguard at least forty minutes ago. You need to be well on your way to hyperspace by now.

The uncomfortable press of the cabinets against your back lessens as Din does his own mental calculation and arrives at the same conclusion. "You're right," he grumbles, getting to his feet. By the time he stands you can tell he's back to his usual sardonic self, but whatever's changed between you is still simmering under the surface. He's holding something back, waiting for the right - or at least a safer - moment. "Sorry, mesh'la. I'll make it up to you later."

"Shouldn't I be the one saying that?" you tease, glad that his awkwardness has dissipated. "It's your birthday."

Din huffs indignantly. "That's right. It's my birthday. And I want to make it up to you later." He slaps your ass as you move toward the door, like a rancher herding a recalcitrant blurrg. "Get going," he commands, as if leaving wasn't your idea. "The sooner we get back the sooner I can show my appreciation."

The countdown timer on your wrist goes off as you're sprinting back to the spaceport, Din half-dragging, half-carrying his bounty and your legs unsteady with the added weight of the beskar.

Both of you ignore it.

***

Your escape goes as smoothly as can be expected. Which is to say you make it to the ship alive and with cargo in tow, even if you’re both bloodied and sweating by the time you hit the loading dock. Your Mandalorian is unusually quiet once you reach the relative safety of open space. Less than talkative even after he puts the bounty in carbonite and then promptly hauls you off to his bunk to pleasure you in every way permitted to him by his Creed. You enjoy yourself anyway, his solemn attention to your body steadfast as you moan and quiver under him, although you miss the hot litany of filth from him that frequently accompanies such occasions.

He doesn't say anything beyond the strictly necessary until you're eating dinner together in the cargo bay - or rather, you're eating and he's watching you eat, as has become your routine during meals. The beskar ingots are stacked on the makeshift table between you in tidy lines, as though Din can’t quite believe they’re real and needs to confirm for himself by handling them. You shift a little in your seat on the floor, curling your legs, bunching more of your loose tunic under yourself as a makeshift cushion. Certain parts of you were not just tired but outright sore by the time Din was done demonstrating his... appreciation. You hadn't had time to restock on supplies, so you raided the freeze-dried rations to put together something resembling a meal. You've just snagged another bite of reconstituted fungal protein when he picks up one of the ingots and turns it over.

"I wonder what clan this came from," Din says, partially to you and partially to the metal itself. "Whoever they were, they're probably all dead. You said you found it running cable?"

"Yeah. Happened to see the security system from the attic. I got lucky," you say around a mouthful of food. "The door was there and it looked interesting."

"You didn't just get lucky," he objects. His tone is still absent, as if thinking about something else. "I got lucky. I got very..." but the rest of the sentence trails off. You lift your head from your noodles to find the helmet pointed directly at you, as though he was waiting for you to look up.

"I got lucky. I am lucky," Din says, softly but firmly, and reaches across the beskar to take your hand in his.

THIS BLOG IS DEFUNCT DUE TO A GLITCH IN TUMBLR'S SYSTEM. PLEASE FOLLOW @weird-writes INSTEAD FOR UPDATES.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #reader insert #star wars

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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like it's MY fault my love language is acts of service and all i know how to do is kill

#oh boy this is just Din all over hunh #din djarin

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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#listen i love tubes and i’ll fight you all about this #benthic #andor #rogue one #benthic two tubes #IT’S TUBES HE’S MY MAN #fanart #star wars

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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it seems people don't understand. a GLUP SHITTO is a character in a very popular piece of media (like star wars) that if you asked a random person or even a casual fan, they wouldn't know who the fuck that is. a BLORBO is just your little guy. can be any kind of character they're just your little GUY. a POOR LITTLE MEOW MEOW is a villain, usually with a sad backstory, who you are defending and woobifying. they've done WRONG. not everyone can be a poor little meow meow. just because they're pathetic doesn't mean they're a meow meow that mf had to commit CRIMES. if you want a pathetic little fucker of any moral persuasion that is a BABYGIRL. usually male, doesn't have to be. just has to be kind of fucked up. get your terminology CORRECT

#YEAH

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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i hate how much i’m enjoying writing monsterfuckin’

whoops

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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Stumbles out of google docs covered in blood

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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#about me

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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Five Runs - Run 2: The Throne Room

THIS BLOG IS DEFUNCT DUE TO A GLITCH IN TUMBLR'S SYSTEM. PLEASE FOLLOW @weird-writes INSTEAD FOR UPDATES.

Title: Five Runs - Run 2: The Throne Room (700)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

He might have found you, but this won't be like the last time, when he woke you in the dark and that was the end of it. First, though, you have to be absolutely sure that your bounty hunter's brain is occupied with something other than the victory conditions of your little game. You lean forward, crowding his space, making sure he's getting a good view of how little of you is covered by the flimsy outfit. "Boba also said we could borrow the throne room for an hour once you found me. If we were quiet. And promised to clean up afterward. Since it's your birthday."

*** Description: A series of drabbles all sharing one theme: you've decided to run away from your Mandalorian. On purpose. For his birthday. Listen, everyone's got their kinks, and his is bounty hunting (sort of. Mostly, it's you.)

Tropes: established relationship, the helmet comes off, hurt/comfort, fluff, adventure

***

RUN 2: THE THRONE ROOM

The second time he’s exasperated: “When I said run, I didn’t mean run to my friends!”

“Why not? I knew they wouldn’t tell you. Fett thought it was hilarious.” He had. You'd explained yourself when you'd turned up at his door, looking like a starved lothcat after having crossed most of the Northern Dune Sea amidst the controlled chaos of a blurrg drive. The riders tending the herd had been happy to take you on when you'd told them you needed to see the daimyo of Mos Espa - and when you'd flashed both the credits and the revnog that you'd brought with you for exactly such an occasion. Boba had been half out of his throne with laughter by the time you finished your tale, delighted by the idea of you baiting your Mandalorian with what he did best.

Din is already moving on from the news that one of his closest colleagues is happy to be on your side. You're under the steady lights of the hallway now as he steers you toward the exit, and his attention has clearly been caught by the obvious change since last time he saw you. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh, do you like it? Fennec said I could have it, one of the cantina girls left it here when she got a job off-world." You've covered the timer on your wrist with the silvery bangles of the costume, hoping it might distract Din when he inevitably found you. Even with all the heavy jewelry the costume doesn't hide much - which you also hope will distract Din long enough to give you a fighting chance. You use the pause in his stride to draw closer, trying to shimmy your hips in emulation of the graceful dancers you've seen on Coruscant but succeeding instead in shaking your ass like a Canto Bight club kid.

Mercifully, Din doesn't laugh. He slides a finger under the silver chain that connects one side of the skirt to the other instead, lifting and tugging the links while watching the smooth silk ripple over your thigh. "It doesn't suit you," he observes, and your pride is just about to absorb that blow when he adds, "It's far too impractical. You look incredible. Did Fennec say you could keep it?"

You blink at him, off-balance for a moment from his trademark conversational whiplash. Then you preen a little. He does like it. "She did. Fett and his crew were very kind. I looked a lot worse when I first got here," you admit.

He chuckles. "Running blurrgs. Clever, mesh'la, but not clever enough."

"I guess not." You're willing to concede the point in this moment, but your plan is far from over. He might have found you, but this won't be like the last time, when he woke you in the dark and that was the end of it. First, though, you have to be absolutely sure that your bounty hunter's brain is occupied with something other than the victory conditions of your little game. You lean forward, crowding his space, making sure he's getting a good view of how little of you is covered by the flimsy outfit. "Boba also said we could borrow the throne room for an hour once you found me. If we were quiet. And promised to clean up afterward. Since it's your birthday."

The helmet dips, considering. Then Din pulls on the chain at your waist again, thoughtfully, as though judging how much weight it might hold. "The daimyo is an excellent friend. After you."

***

You're on top of Din, his breathing still uneven and his cock not even soft inside you yet, when the timer on your wrist under the bracelets goes off. His resigned groan sends you into fits of laughter so strong some of the evidence of your latest adventure slides out of you as you spasm, making a mess of his armor, the throne, and the folds of the skirt you're still wearing. You try to discard it as you leave Mos Espa, the light fabric showing every detail of the stain, but Din convinces you to keep it.

***

THIS BLOG IS DEFUNCT DUE TO A GLITCH IN TUMBLR'S SYSTEM. PLEASE FOLLOW @weird-writes INSTEAD FOR UPDATES.

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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first base is wound tending second base is hand touching

#tropes #🤷‍♀️

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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i can do three better mandalorian episodes in three minutes. ok.

episode one: din’s stuck on tatooine because his ship is out of gas and no one will loan him any money. fennec shand tells him about an underground fight club she goes to sometimes. the pot is 1,000,000 credits. din has to put up his ship as collateral because he can’t afford the entry fee. he gets the shit kicked out of him and loses the ship.

episode two: din calls greef and gets a job but it’s a couple planets over. him and grogu sneak onto overcrowded public transport. while they’re on the ship there’s a murder!!!!!! they find out din’s a stowaway. he negotiates that if he can find the murderer before they get to their destination, they won’t send him to jail for skipping the fare. din tries to get grogu to help with the force but grogu still doesn’t really speak basic.

episode three: they’ve arrived at greef’s job. it’s winter. din caught the sniffles on public transport and has a ton of tissues stuffed up his helmet. he’s having the worst time ever. the puck is for a bonnie and clyde style assassin duo who are playing spy vs spy with him in the forest. grogu gets left behind in town and makes friends with a bunch of burly frontiersmen who ride to the rescue when din gets captured. no money.

#god i wish #the mandalorian #let Din be the loser dirtbag he was born to be

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weirdsociology-writes · 2 years ago

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Five Runs - Run 1: Doors (The Mandalorian, E)

THIS BLOG IS DEFUNCT DUE TO A GLITCH IN TUMBLR'S SYSTEM. PLEASE FOLLOW @weird-writes INSTEAD FOR UPDATES.

Title: Five Runs - Run One: Doors (2k)

Series: Part 3 of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Tropes: established relationship, the helmet comes off, hurt/comfort, fluff, adventure

***

RUN 1: DOORS

The first time it's a surprise: “When I said run, I didn’t mean from me!"

You slam awake with a start, your adrenaline catapulting you out of bed and halfway toward your blaster before you realize the exasperated voice is familiar. You'd know that intimidating shadow anywhere, and one pale finger of moonlight reaches through the patchy roof to run itself along his armor. Your heart rate drops immediately, soothed by the silvery shine of beskar: no threat here.

You collapse back on the narrow cot you'd rented for the night, brain churning into gear. Din had found you, as you'd known he would. The only question now is if he’s really as annoyed as he sounds.

"In my defense, you were non-specific," you retort. You take a moment to scan the door and windows of your dingy little room. All closed - and not just closed, but locked. How the kriff did he get in here so quietly? Trust your Mandalorian not to leave you an easy exit; he clearly checked the escape routes before waking you. Next time you'll have to rig some sort of alarm.

"Yes, because when someone says run they obviously mean run away, change all your clothes, and hide in the back room of a scrapyard." The helmet renders his tone unreadable but you can't see any sign of anger in Din's broad shoulders. It's hard to tell in the dark but his body language seems relaxed, halfway to cocky even, like when he’s dragging a particularly tough bounty through an admiring cantina crowd. Your pulse picks up again, thrumming with interest, but for a very different reason than when you'd thought there was a stranger in the room.

"I sent a message," you shoot back. "I didn't have to. I could have just vanished instead." You would never just vanish on Din, and you both know it, but you also know exactly how to bait his ego.

He scoffs outright at that. "No you couldn't. No one can just vanish. Not from me, and especially not you." You were right, he's wearing his presumed victory over you the same way he wears the prospect of a tricky blaster shot or a fight against improbable odds. His confidence goes straight to your head like spice, and you feel the slumbering heat between your legs sit up and take notice.

It's his brash attitude that makes you decide to push your luck just a little more. You love it when Din gets like this; it feels like an invitation to misbehave in ways only the two of you know how. "You liked the idea--" you make a show of checking the timer on your wrist, "-- thirty four hours ago." He'd found you with a full day and more to spare, of course, but the timer is still nestled in its strap and if you play this right maybe you can -

One big gloved hand clamps over your arm. You can feel the heat of him even through the leather. "Time's up."

***

You'd been waiting for the perfect opportunity, the right alignment of distraction and circumstance to take off without Din noticing. It needed to be on a job, his awareness of you too great at other times, whether you were doing something as civilized as drinking spotchka or as crude as wading through a swamp, Din hoisting the Child's carry sack overhead to keep him out of the mud. Din's right about that much: when you run with a bounty hunter there's no such thing as slipping away.

There had been a few times when you'd thought you might try for it, credits already tucked in your bag, blaster on your hip. But each time you'd found a reason not to leave him: the situation was too chaotic and he'd worry you'd been hurt; you didn't like the town, too many inquisitive strangers; you didn't want him to hunt you with the kiddo in tow. The excuses were reasonable but eventually you were forced to admit to yourself that your delay was simply because you didn't want to leave him. You'd been traveling together for so long you weren't sure you remembered how the galaxy felt without his solid bulk at your back or his dry, modulated humor in your ear.

Today, though, was too good to pass up, the slap of blaster fire from around the corner announcing that Din had found his quarry at the same time his quarry's hired muscle had found him. You had planned this part out in advance together, leaning conspiratorially over schematics in the cargo bay, his helmet bumping affectionately against the crown of your head as you showed him how to use what you'd made. You may not share his Creed but you speak the same reverential language when it comes to certain things... like explosives.

You know your own role too, which is why you pop up from the stack of crates you've been waiting behind and shove your fingers in your mouth to give a piercing whistle. Your other hand drops to your holster. You draw and fire in quick succession, sending a bolt ricocheting over the heads of the contract guards. Two of them whip around, surprised by the noise and incoming fire from another direction, which buys Din enough time to slap the little ball against the blast door blocking his way. He must have hit the primer button at the same time because you hear his shout even through the helmet: "Got it - run!"

You take off down the alley, jinking around one corner and then another, putting as many walls between yourself and your latest experiment as you can. Din will be fine, the Rising Phoenix on his back doubtless already taking him out of harm's way, but lesser mortals like you have to rely on brick and steel and meters and meters of distance. You're lucky this district is mostly abandoned, full of empty warehouses and docking bays. It's the perfect testing ground for your latest experiment.

You're halfway down the next street when there's a sound from behind you that makes your eardrums pop like you've been plunged into deep water. It's less a noise than a sudden sharp pull against the air, jolting you as the ground lurches sickeningly. It's followed by another sound, this one like a shuttle crashing into a brass band. You can't help your grin as you slow your steps toward the intersection to avoid attracting attention and join the stream of traffic headed toward the market. It worked. That blast door won't be giving your Mandalorian any more trouble, and if you're lucky the shock wave will have cleared out the security-for-hire too.

There's a tavern ahead with an open space in front of it roofed with leafy vines for shade. You pull over into the pleasant coolness and stop, rummaging in your pack for the comm link you always carry planetside. You'd spend all last night thinking about what to say when this moment came. Your message has to make it clear you're not being kidnapped or under duress. It has to be obvious that it's an invitation that he can say no to if he wants. It has to be intriguing.

Oh, and of course, it can't interrupt him while he's killing people.

You dictate what you want Din to read into the little microphone, using the careful wording you'd finally settled on this morning. The ship is parked only a few klicks away and is well within short-distance meshnet range, so you bounce your message through the navcomp’s HoloNet connection as opposed to direct, flagging the data priority level as low. This means it will show on Din's display as text rather than a missed connection attempt, and he will also know that whatever you’re trying to tell him can wait until he's done with the bounty. When he finally has breathing room to check his comm, you know what will blink out in blocky letters on his screen:

Got away from them, and now I’m getting away from you too. Find me? 72 standard hrs, Motok only, no beacon. Happy birthday.

Your interface beeps a notification. Message successfully relayed. It makes you feel better to know it's waiting for him, your words a thread tethering you together even as you spool its length away from him across the city. It's only three days at most, and you have a suspicion the reunion will be worth it.

You tuck the comm back into your bag and get moving, sliding through the crowd toward one of the larger booths. You’re going to need a cloak or a change of clothes if you don’t want him to catch you immediately. Something that will alter your silhouette and cover your hair. Probably a change of shoes to fool his tracking algorithm. Hell, maybe you should buy a new perfume, too - you still have no idea what the helmet of his is really capable of. You spot a stall selling thick bolts of local fabric; surely the garment district must be this direction. You steer your steps towards it, and it's not until you're halfway there that you realize you're absently and happily humming to yourself.

***

It’s less than an hour later when your comm chimes again. You've already bought your disguise, swathed in the long hooded cloak that is common for locals in this sector. It takes you a moment to reach your bag under the yards of lightweight synthsilk that now shield you from prying eyes. You have a missed message, high priority.

Are you serious?

You send back. Yes.

A few minutes after that there’s an insistent buzz from the inner pocket of your bag. Din isn’t bothering to relay messages through the HoloNet anymore - he’s comming you directly.

You pull it out and thumb the button on the side of the unit. “Mando?”

“What is this?” There’s no sound of blaster fire in the background, so however the situation you’d run out on resolved, it’s clearly over. And Din sounds curious rather than concerned, which is a relief. You'd been almost sure your gambit would play well, but there was no way to be certain - any game like this would run the risk of miscommunication, of hurting rather than delighting him. You couldn't know in advance if he'd like the idea, but you do know that if you'd misjudged, your partnership is now strong enough to withstand it. Coming to that realization, finally acknowledging that your connection with Din is secure enough to gamble a little for both your enjoyment, had filled you with an emotion you couldn't quite describe.

Though whatever it was, it had led to some spectacular sex.

You've waited too long to answer him. "Mesh'la?"

You shrug even though he can’t see you. “When you put my tracking chip in, you said you missed stalking me.”

A chuckle. Another good sign. “That wasn’t a hint.”

“No, but I thought it’d be fun. Like old times. And if we need to find each other in a hurry for some reason you can always use the beacon.”

“Three days.” Din’s tone is even more thoughtful. "I did say I wanted to spend some time in Motok. Although I was hoping it would be with you."

“Three days, and you did,” you confirm. “And it can be with me. If you're as good as they say. There’s a timer unit on a cord on my wrist. Get it before then and you win." He won't be able to resist a challenge like that, not from you.

“And what do I get if I win?” His voice through the modulator has dropped, far too dark and intimate for your public surroundings. He must be able to hear the crowd noise through the comm interface. He just doesn’t care.

You're grateful that the hood you're wearing will cover your expression from anyone passing by. You’re suddenly a little lightheaded, adrenaline from the impending chase mixed with a giddy excitement at what you might be asked to give up if you lose. You do your best to sound innocent when you answer. “What do you win? Why, Mando, anything you want. Anything at all.”

Your meaning is clear despite your casual tone. A growl comes through the comm link, then: “Don’t tire yourself out, cyar'ika. You’ll need your strength. See you in forty-eight hours - maybe sooner.”

And the comm goes dead in your hands.

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