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netherfeildren · 4 months

Text

At the Restaurant

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It’s three days til Christmas, and you’ve never known want like this, and his eyes are glossy with emotion and everything he won’t ever let himself tell you or anyone else, and you so badly want to tell him that it’s only that it’s hard to be casual when your favorite bra lives in his dresser, and also that you’re in love with him.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Modern AU; Christmas fic; Angst; Fluff; Miscommunication; Emotionally unavailable idiots; But also idiots in love; Toxic relaationships; Situationship; There is nothing well adjusted about any of this pls don’t come into this house if that’s what you’re looking for; Trigger warning for man with an avoidant attachment style; Condolences to all my fellow victims of The Situationship; Size Difference; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Frankly some pretty pathetic behavior; Girl stand UP; Fuckboy Din; Plan B and Delusion as a form of birth control; Pull and pray baby pull and pray; Possessive Behavior; Jealousy; Insecurity; Trigger warning for Right Where You Left Me by Taylor Swift references

A/N: Hello and welcome to my contribution to the holiday fic pool! This is not at all what I was planning as my holiday piece, but I woke up a few mornings ago and was just completely taken hold by this. Much love and thanks and gratitude and all the kisses in the world to my friend @f0rlornmyths for all the help on the idea and brainstorming and for the gorgeous edits she made for this little story. Mai baby, this is all for you, and I know it's not the Christmas gift I promised you, but I swear, one day that too will get written.

I’m wishing you all the happiest and most relaxing of holiday seasons. I think of you all constantly and wish you all the best always, and I hope you’re taking care of yourselves during this time ❣️🎄✨

Word Count: 8.2K

Read on AO3

He gets this sparkle in his eyes when the bar’s extra busy, cheeks flushed and curls damp with sweat and this shine that speaks; that tells of all the things he does that make a woman belong to him whenever he’s giving her his singular attention. Eyes that laugh and crinkle at the edges with happiness. Eyes that tell you how much he does or does not want you at that specific moment. And he’ll laugh and blind the room into seduction under the Christmas lights, and then he’ll turn, suddenly remembering you’re here for him, and look at you all serious-like, while you sip on your tequila soda, with two limes always because he knows that’s how you like it, and it’ll be a serious, cool look for just a second before it blooms into the best smile anyone’s surely ever had in all history, and you love him.

It’s three days til Christmas, and you’ve never known want like this. You’ve never practiced restraint of this kind either. A restraint that suffocates and kills and could probably be taken as a form of self harm were you in a righter, more clear mind, but it’s the only thing you have left against him. Din. A control over yourself that falsely feeds you the illusion of power. You never call him. Never. Any interaction, any late night fuck, any time he comes over and comes inside you, it’s always, always because he calls you, he looks for you. You never beg, not with words at least, and you never text first and you never ask him if you can see him, and it’s the only way you tell yourself you maintain even a semblance of control. And at night, when you’re alone and it’s dark and you’ve only got the cat for some sad company, or you’re crying in bed because he hasn’t called, and you know he’s not at work and he’s obviously not at home, so he’s somewhere you don’t want him to be, that false sense of control that says you’re never the one reaching out, it’s always him coming around so surely that must mean something… it’s all you have at the end of it.

He’s not your boyfriend. He never has been. And there’s always been that excuse you use to soothe yourself with of, well, we’ve never really talked about it, and he’s not really my boyfriend, so it doesn’t really matter. Does it? Doesn’t it? You’re sure you don’t know anymore. And you tell yourself, lie to yourself, comfort yourself, whatever it is your tired heart needs in that moment, because it truly is so tired, the push and pull is the most exhausting game in the world, that if he’s coming to you it’s because Din’s choosing you. Even if just for a night, even if just for now, even if tomorrow he’ll be with someone else, he chose you for tonight, and so surely that must mean something. It’s the worst thing you do to yourself, but it feels so good in the moment. You just can’t help yourself.

“Another one?” He calls over his shoulder with a smile.

You’d had a little bit of a… well, you don’t really know what to call it. A falling out, perhaps, because the two of you never have fights. You never fight, you never discuss the things the two of you should discuss, like feelings or anger or resentment or boundaries and wants and needs. Nothing. Nothing that indicates anything that might define what it is the two of you’ve been doing for two years with each other now. Fights are something couples do, and you two are not a couple. But up until three days ago, you’d not heard from him for two weeks. Two weeks of nothing, of hearing from your friends that they’d seen him out with his friends and other girls who you know probably mean nothing, even less than you do, but still. It’d made you insane. A little bit irrational, and so when you and your friends had gone out over the weekend, picked up a group of guys at the new bar you’d chosen for the night, since Din’s bar was off limits at the moment, and brought them back to your apartment at your roommate, Bo’s, insistence, well, you’d thought you’d give him a taste of his own medicine. After a slightly tipsy, teary eyed rant, explaining to your new friend for the night, a one Toro Calican, who had a very nice smile and very pretty eyes and not at all bad arms, all about your terrible situation with this man who you were not really in a relationship with, but who you have sex with, and only with him, regularly, unprotected, enthusiastically, but who is still not your boyfriend and not even anything close, he’d arranged himself very nice and cozy-looking in your bed with your twinkly lights sparkling in the background and your pink pig stuffy which Din loved to make fun of you for, and you’d taken a very tasteful, in your opinion, picture of him for your Instagram story. Again, a taste of his own medicine.

Din had been at your front door forty five minutes later, angry. Angrier than you’d ever seen him before, and not at all trying to hide it. Pushing past you and into your apartment all tall and broad and wearing your favorite dark blue hoodie he knows you love, curls mused as if he’d been pulling his fingers through them in agitation. There’d been a sneaky, smarmy little devil inside of you doing a happy dance at that moment, and his eyes when he’d turned to glare at you after giving poor, Toro – casual, entirely unbothered, Toro with his big smile stretched across his handsome face as he’d looped an arm over Bo’s shoulders where he’d been sitting beside her on the couch – a look that said Din had half a mind to take him outside and wipe the floor with him. But your new friend had laughed him off, taking Din’s terribly cocky onceover, the sort he liked to set people down with, in stride. All arrogance and the sort of self assuredness only a man who knew what he was made of and how to take care of himself could possess. He was too hot for his, or your, own good.

And when he’d turned and pushed you into your bedroom, a little tipsy, a lot desperate and pleased and wet, because yes, finally you were getting exactly what you wanted, exactly as you’d asked for it, and he’d flipped your skirt up and ripped your panties down and buried his face in your cunt from behind, all: this pussy’s mine, what the fuck was another dude doing in your bedroom? You’d been nothing but pleased giggles and hiccupy little moans as you’d come on his tongue just as he’d demanded of you.

It was wrong. The two of you were wrong and maybe even bad for each other, but also, and this was only your own personal, fanciful discernment, addicted. A mutual addiction. The way he fucked you, hard and deep and possessive, like you belonged to him. Tugging you up by the hips and pulling you back onto his hard cock, the wet slap of your pussy dripping for him so that it surely echoed through the thin door of your shitty little apartment for the man who’d threatened what Din saw as rightfully his could hear exactly what was happening in here. You should have cared more about this ridiculous display of a pissing contest. You should have been bothered by it. You absolutely were not. And when he’d gone harder than stone, shoved deeper than you could comfortably take him so that you were coming around his cock one last time from the stretch and sting of it, and he’d filled you to leaking without even asking, you’d not even blinked at it, had been nothing but contented sighs.

It was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Even worse, you’d never been on birth control. It made you sick, tired, moody, and the two of you worked around it… sometimes… kind of. Condoms when you remembered, usually ripped off mid fuck, pulling out… also sometimes. Never very responsible or dedicated to the practice of safe sex and level headedness, more focused on how fucking good it always felt when he was inside of you like this all bare and wet and hot and his. And if he fucked other girls, well, you tried not to think about that. Got tested, told yourself you were the only one he didn’t use protection with because you were special when they were not. And if there was, that last horribly misguided whisper that said, well, if he’s taking this risk with you, then obviously that means something too, right? Then so be it.

Again, like you’d said, bad for each other.

But he always gave you so many reasons to be stupid, delusional, like the way he’d kissed you before he’d gone the morning after, while you were still sleepy and warm and a little sweaty from where you’d been pressed together so close through the night, wet and sticky between your legs from his come. He’d wrapped his arms around you and pressed you so, so close to his chest, nipples bare and tight against hard muscle and wispy hair. The musky sleep smell of him as he’d started at your shoulder, mouth slow and damp, kissed and nibbled his way up your collarbone, your throat, your jaw, settled at your ear to taste that soft place behind, pressed his tongue there to feel the echo of your pulse moving through your whole body, the flutter of his long lashes against your skin because he’s just that close. Your toes had curled and spasmed, little and cold, bracing against his hairy shins and big feet, hard cock nestled between the warmth of your thighs. And he always makes the best sounds, you know, deep and rumbly and all man. Familiar sounds that you’re able to replay again and again in your mind afterwards when he’s gone, sounds that make it easy for you to pretend he’s yours because you know them so well, and you want to keep him so bad it makes your stomach hurt. Gotta go get the kid, he’d said, by way of explanation for why he wasn’t pushing up into your come soaked cunt and having you one more time again, but he’d stayed and kissed you. And when he’d finally found his way to your mouth, sipping on you, tasting behind your teeth, along the wet of your tongue, that was all that really mattered anyway.

Sometimes, he kisses you like he loves you, and it makes you hate him.

He hadn’t called in the three days since then, but he’d been kind enough to DoorDash you a Plan B and a bag of your favorite Dove dark chocolate bites, and you want to hate him and maybe even run him over with you car, you really do, but then tonight, out of nowhere while you’d been at home telling yourself you weren’t going to cry, tired and sweaty from lying under your duvet for too long, fingers slippery between cunt and cotton, too many unsatisfying orgasms and a tear worthy film already chosen as your excuse for later, he’d sent a: come to the bar tonight, baby, I want to see you. And well, he’d come looking for you, right? He’d texted first. So really, this was all him wanting you and choosing you.

You need help, electroshock therapy, a lobotomy, anything. But you’d gotten your butt up and dressed, begged Bo to come out with you, and now here the two of you sit, good friend that she is, waiting for him to finally come over and say more than three stringed together words to you. Shaved, lotioned, perfumed, pathetic little ass sitting at the end of his bar in a too sticky, too uncomfortable stool waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

You shake your head no at him and his proffered next round. No you don’t want another fucking drink. What you want is his attention.

And the worst part is, probably the worst, for there are so many bad parts to this, is that you don’t truly think he’s a terrible person, Din. He’s just so… he’s just– you don’t know. Sad, busy, exhausted, selfish, overwhelmed, so many things. But not bad, not actually a bad person. You’re sure of it. And it might look so differently from the outside, like you’re nothing, like he uses you, and sure, in ways, he does. You’re not so stupid or naive to not see this for what it is, because if there is one thing that is crystal clear here, it’s that you’ve always known what this is and what it is not. But you also see him. You also know him, as hard as he’s tried to keep you at arms length, to not let you see, to not let you in, you’ve weaseled your way inside anyways, or, better said, and something you don’t let yourself dwell on too much for the things it makes your stupid brain and heart feel, he has never been very good at not letting you see him. Because despite all the truths of how this thing between the two of you is, or is not, there is also something, as small as it may be, that is real here.

So no, Din is not bad, or not all bad. And it’s easy to call them excuses, but you’re not so sure that’s the only thing they are, the ways in which you justify his behavior or yours. Because there is also context to him, and his life, and the things that drag his attention away from you when you so desperately need and want it, why you know he won’t commit to one single thing because he knows how easily lost a good thing can be.

You take a pull from your straw, paper, and it’s already coming apart in wet flakes on your tongue because this dumb bar he works at pretends to be swanky, and paper straws are obviously a signifier that it’s not the cheap, shitty dump it actually is. Mean, but you’re in a bad mood tonight. Peli, the owner, had him string up multicolored lights and decorations everywhere for the holiday season, and it sort of looks like Santa threw up in here, but it’s also nice. Cozy or comfortable or welcoming, something happy and cheerful about the crowd surrounded by the sparkle of the holiday and loose from the heavily poured liquor. Or maybe it’s just that you know he put up the decorations. That he’d been good and patient and helpful as the older woman, eccentric and curly haired and a little stern and potty mouthed as she is, but always kind to him, had directed him as she pleased. Giving orders so that the bar could look as lovely and warm and cheerful as it does now. He always looks at her with such care and warmth, and you alway see it, as much as he tries to hide it.

He’d added a splash of sweet grenadine and a maraschino cherry into your drink tonight, and called it your slutty Shirley Temple, said you looked like you needed something sweet followed by one of those cocky little winks he thinks make him look hot, they do, but you tell him only make him look like an asshole. All of which you know is only his way of telling you, without actually telling you, that he’s going to be shoving his cock down your throat later tonight. Something sweet… yeah, sure. There’s nothing sweet about him.

He always tells you so many things neither of you want the other to know with his eyes. The stupid things, the silly things, the real things, it doesn’t really matter. He can’t ever help it.

The first time he’d told you about his parents, you’d thought: this is it, this is something real. The come down had been a singular type of devastating you don't think you’d recovered from to this day. They’d died in a home invasion, a robbery gone terribly, terribly wrong, when he’d been two months shy of eighteen; left him with too much responsibility and too much grief for a boy of seventeen to bear, to ever be able to grow into without growing a little bit skewed in the process. When he’d introduced you to his little brother, the first time, you’d been better prepared, better in control of yourself and your expectations. But still, still you’d let a small, small part of you let it mean something. Grogu, Greg, but they used to watch this cartoon together about this man, a warrior, a space cowboy of sorts, who finds a little green baby, more frog looking than baby looking, called Grogu and takes him in as his own, bringing him along on all his adventures through the big, wide galaxy. They’d always joked that Greg looked like the frog baby, and so, Grogu.

The first time he’d asked you to come over, you’d forced yourself to not throw up as you’d seen the text come in, had to force away thoughts of this has to mean something, please, please, let this mean something more. And the kid had been asleep already anyways when he’d smuggled you inside, quick and quiet, locking the door to his bedroom behind you, messy and lived in and Din, Din, Din everywhere, pressed you into his rumpled mattress, and fucked you til you’d cried and bit your tongue until you’d tasted blood to keep in all the things you had inside to tell him. And in the morning, when he’d made you a cup of coffee and oh, isn’t he nice for that? The kid had stumbled out of his bedroom, dinosaur pj’s and sleep rumpled curls the same warm mahogany shade as his older brother’s turned pseudo father, and he’d had his waffles while you’d sat there between the two of them as Din’d clucked around making lunches, sipping from your mug trying as best you could to be a good girl and not whip around and scream at the man that this has to mean something more, please.

The kid had eyed you skeptically, as if you’d had two heads, little fuzzy brow cocked high up towards his curl covered hairline while he chomped loudly on his waffles. More syrup than bread, but who were you to judge?

“Are you Din’s girlfriend?”

And rather than drop dead on the spot or bear the devastation of hearing the refusal come out of his older brother’s mouth, the second you’d seen Din’s own eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, mouth falling open to probably tell him no, absolutely not, she’s nothing even close to being my girlfriend, you’d said as easy as you could manage, “No, we’re just friends.” Even added in a fake, tepid smile as you’d said the words. And now, as time’s passed since then, when you think back on the memory, you tell yourself that you’d imagined the frown and scowl that’d pulled Din’s face down into something that looked a little like annoyance or anger or confusion. He’d never done anything to make you think you were anything otherwise, and so what good did it do to dwell on the maybe false memory of his look of disappointment at your words? None at all, surely.

But you’re pretty sure you’re the only girl that’s ever been let into their space like that.

He’s at the other end of the bar now, engrossed in a conversation with someone who’s too sparkly and too pretty and too blonde to be anything but trouble for you. His tall, deceptively lanky form that you know beneath the dark baggy, long sleeved tee he’s wearing is strong and muscled and warm as a furnace, curved over the lip of the bar to lean further towards her. They’ve been talking for about five minutes now, yes, you’ve been counting, and your heart is doing that horrible thing it does where it hurts so bad it feels like it’s ripping in half all on its own. You want to look away, especially as you watch the long, gorgeous form of his hand, big, strong hands that you know exactly what they feel like wrapped around your throat, clutching your breasts, lift slowly towards the glowing Christmas lights necklace the girl’s got hanging around her neck, the cheery red and green lights nestled deep in her cleavage. He plucks at the necklace, giving it a little tug and says something to her that has her throwing her head back, and she sparkles, she really does, with those sort of laughs that tinkle like bells or something equally fucking ridiculous.

“We should just go, babe,” Bo says from beside you, glaring down at him so intensely you’re shocked he hasn’t keeled over dead at this point.

“Just a little bit longer, Bo, please.”

“God, I can’t watch this shit anymore.” She pushes up and out of her stool with a roll of her eyes, but passes a loving hand down the back of your hair as she goes. “I’m gonna go try and pick up that red head sitting in the back. She’s been eyeing me all night,” she smirks at you.

“You cannot date another ginger. That is too much ginger for one household.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re in love with the devil, I can do whatever I want. And I can’t watch him anymore, I don’t have the stomach for it.”

You try and protest as she walks away from you, tell her that you’re not in love with him, that he’s not the devil, that you don’t have the stomach for it either, but she’s gone before you can muster your lies. When you turn back towards the bar he’s abandoned his Christmas lights blonde and is pouring drinks for a group of frat guys, checking I.D.s and making easy, charming conversation. He’s strange in that way, quiet and reserved by nature, which you know now because you know him, but he puts on a face in here, in Peli’s bar in front of the customers and the pretty girls and the people expecting him to perform for them, making nice and pleasant. It’s just one more thing that feeds your delusion, the fact that you see his smile for what it is, the too handsome, too shiny version you know isn’t the real one.

You know that despite the fact that Bo loves you, she also thinks you’re a little sad, a lot weak, when it comes to him. Maybe even, and you know she’d never say this because she’s a good and loving friend, but maybe even a little pathetic or desperate. And maybe you are, or definitely, you don’t really care about the details of it at this point, but maybe there’s also something about him that’s slightly desperate too. Desperate for love or attention or companionship. Maybe that’s why he always feels the need to search for it in so many different places. Maybe he wants it so bad he’s scared of it. Or maybe he’s just easy. Maybe he’s just a whore.

You don’t know if the why’s of it all really matter anymore.

He serves the group their shots and beers, all of them clinking their glasses together loudly, hooting and wishing each other a Merry Christmas, and you want to snap that it’s not Christmas yet, it’s still the twenty third, it’s a special day that should be remembered, but you turn away. Try to swallow the heat in your face and throat, take deep breaths. Bo’s right, the two of you should go, but when you turn to search for her, she’s deep in conversation with the red head, gorgeous, strong and tall and just her type. Their two heads huddled closely together beneath the red lights that turn their hair both brighter shades of auburn. And you know you can’t interrupt. At least one of you should have a good night tonight. But when you turn back around, ready to join the frat bros in on their shots, he’s there.

You swivel in your stool, catching yourself on the lip of the bar, digging your nails into the wood grain until it hurts, staring at him in silence.

“What?” he asks with that slightly provoking smile he forces on you when he knows you’re bothered and refuse to open your stubborn mouth and just speak up.

“Nothing.” Stubborn, sullen. Terrible.

He hums, laughter dancing in his eyes that pisses you off. He knows you’re bothered, knows you won’t say anything about it either. “Want another?”

“Sure.” You might as well get drunk if you’re going to have to watch him be a jackass all night long.

He starts to move about, gathering the things for your cocktail. “You like the grenadine I added?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

He looks at you with a half smile and a cocked brow as he measures the shot. He never makes your drinks as heavy handed as the others, says you’re a bad drunk. Whatever. “Yeah? You like the Christmas decorations?”

“They’re nice.” He hums again at your sullen tone. And you want to be nicer, happier, peppier, whatever it is that would be enough to make this all right and better between the two of you, inside of you, but you just can’t. You can’t force yourself into a shape that’s okay with being without him, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend it’s something you’re capable of.

He adds your two limes and tops the drink off with a Santa printed mini umbrella Peli had gotten an order of in bulk, pushing the glass into your hand. He braces his hands against the bar edge, watching you as you bring the drink up to taste, peering over the edge to keep your eyes on him. The lights twinkle over head, washing him in a glow of greens and reds and warmth, and his eyes do that terrible sparkle you hate in return.

Sometimes you think he likes it when you’re pissy. Turns him on or something which sickly, stupidly, in turn, riles you up, knowing he’s turned on by your anger.

You take a long pull of the fizzy, mildly sweet drink, licking your lips of the tang and bubbles when you pull it away, and watch as his eyes go a little hazy, glassed over as he watches the wet of your tongue peek out to lick up the drops of sweet liquor. You watch a swallow pass through the strong column of his throat, and his gaze is still on your mouth when he cocks his head at you. “C’mere,” he murmurs, eyes shifting to take in the crowd, the customers and the status of their drinks before he’s tugging at your hand over the bar, drawing you out of your seat and along the length of it from the other side.

“To where?” You whisper at him, nerves of excitement, of want, fluttering in your belly and throat all fizzy and sweet. He tips his chin at the cracked open door of the stock room, the warm glow from within peering out, and then back again once over at the crowd before you’re at the end of the bar, and he’s tugging you inside after him. You tip your chin over your shoulder just before he kicks the door shut behind you, taking in Peli’s knowing look and the laughing shake of her head, and then it’s just the two of you. Hungry and hurried as he’s pulling you into himself, big hands immediately cupping your ass to tug you up into him with a cracked groan. “Want to fucking kiss you so bad,” he licks into your mouth, tasting like the coffee he drinks too much of and the cinnamon gum you know he’s always chewing.

“Din–” and you’re about to protest, say that everyone’ll have seen the two of you come in here, Peli, the blonde Christmas light girl, that the whole bar is going to think he brought you in here for a quick fuck, but you and he both know you don’t really care if anyone thinks that. That probably, if you’re really honest, you’d be glad for everyone to think you’re his that way. So you kiss him back. Arms looping around his neck to hang off of him, fingers twining in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, the hair there so silky smooth, cool at the ends but warm and damp at the roots. And this is what you were talking about, when he kisses you like he loves you which makes you hate him. All tongue and teeth and desperation. His mouth sliding against yours, spit slick and heat heavy. Big hands kneading at your ass, clutching at the short skirt of your dress, pulling it up so he can shove his palm between the nylon of your tights and your warm skin and cup you over the wet mound of your cunt.

“Fucking warm and soft for me, baby.” He kisses his way down your neck, licking at your cleavage, tugging at your ear. “You smell so good,” and he squeezes you against himself, dragging his palm back and forth over your pussy as best as the constricting tights let him. “I can’t wait to fuck you later.”

“Me either, Din,” you say because there’s nothing else to say besides, I love you. Please, love me back. He groans into your mouth, pressing you back into a little arc hooked over his arm, something frenzied and a little sloppy about the way he kisses you like he wants you so much he can’t control himself. And when the two of you stumble out a few minutes later, hair tousled and flushed with heat, the shine of your lipgloss transferred onto his own lips and those sparkly eyes of his cranked up to blinding so that the whole bar can see what it is the two of you have been up to in the stock room, there’s nothing but sweet, fizzy pleasure suffusing your belly. Even if it isn’t real, everyone else thinks it is, maybe for tonight that can be enough.

“The tree’s really cute,” you say as he helps you out of your coat, unwrapping the scarf from around your neck, round and round until he lets it slither from his hand onto the messy floor of his bedroom.

“Yeah, well, G wanted a real one so… my ass went out and got him a real one.”

You reach up to card your fingers through the floppy curls falling over his forehead, pushing them back to twist in your fingers and pull his head down towards yours. “Good brother,” you murmur against his mouth. You want to ask him if he remembers what tonight is; wanted to ask him all night but kept your mouth shut for fear of that utterly vacant look in his eyes when he’d have no idea what you were talking about.

He settles into your kiss, knees bent to come down to your level, sighing deep and long as he licks at you slowly, sucks on your bottom lips, a gentle nip. “Looked so pretty for me tonight,” he says, and he’s such a good kisser, and all you can say is a breathless thank you, trying to swallow the immediate lump in your throat back down because the only other thing to say would be you’re right, it’s all for you, or I hate it when you say these things to me, I hate it when you’re nice to me and then turn around and act like I’m a stranger, like I’ve never meant anything to you at all. You press up higher, insistent, on your tiptoes, trying to get closer, more of him. He runs his hands up the length of your spine, one arm banding around your waist, the other coming up to twist in your hair, tugging your head back sharply and pulling your mouth from his.

“What do you want, sweet girl?”

And what a cruel, terrible question. You, is what you should say. Ruin the moment or the false magic, glass shattered on the white cloth. And so, “Fuck me,” is all you say instead because that’s all this is anyway. He peers down at you, fathomless look on his face, no more bright sparkle in his eyes, something more like an ember. You think you like this look better, it’s more for you, and there's something satisfying about that.

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.”

He pulls your clothes from you slowly, and he can be so tender sometimes, slow and precise in the things he does, the way he moves. Sometimes he fucks you hard and fast and sloppy. But not always. Other times he does it in a way that is much, much worse. Slow and deep and intentional. He lays you out across his messy bed and spreads you open for himself. Starts at your feet, kissing the soles and the creases and marks over the arches and around your ankles from your tights and boots. Up the slope of your calf, teeth dragging sharply, a little too hard over the muscle. He kisses the backs of your knees, a place only he has ever thought to kiss, and you won’t cry, but you’d like to. His tongue along the soft of your thighs, stubble chafing and tickling, and when he finally gets to your cunt, soaking wet, glossy with your slick for him, his tongue drags up your slit slow and teasing one second, deep, fucking inside of you the next. He makes you come on his face twice before he even thinks of being nice and letting up. Sucking on your clit, taking each soft lip gentle, gentle between the edge of his teeth and tugging so soft you almost don’t feel it. He licks and licks and slurps up your wet, and you know he enjoys this because of his own sounds. When he rips his t-shirt over his head because he’s steaming with sweat and want, the zip of his jeans ringing so that he can get his fist around his cock and jack himself while he licks up the splash of your second orgasm.

He kisses you everywhere when he’s had his fill, twists and turns you this way and that, groping and kneading and taking every inch of you in so that no spot of skin is left uninspected or untasted. Pulls you up and under his arm so he can peer down at you from behind, lemme look at that little asshole now, he says all nasty the way he gets sometimes, and spreads your cheeks apart. You brace yourself against the column of his throat and hold on to the bulge of his bicep and try and breathe through your mouth and pray for control and temperance and the will to not spill all your truths to him. Difficult, when he manhandles you like this, when he pets and licks and kisses you all over and tells you how pretty all your holes are for him.

His cock is so hard when he finally settles on his knees between your spread thighs, on your back again so that you can see his pulse in the tiny, subtle beat of his erection as it stands up, curving towards his flat belly. No condom, and you want to say thank you for letting you feel him like this.

He pushes your knees wide and grips his cock, twisting his fist around the sticky glossed head, flushed red almost purple. You love it when he’s this hard, when you know it’s all for you, when you know you’re the only one in this moment that can fix it for him.

“Get it wet for me,” he nods his head at your slick cunt, parted and bared to him just like he likes. You dip your fingers into the well of wetness, play in it, watch the shiny string of slick stretch between your pussy and fingers, and no one makes you as wet or as desperate as he does, and like he can read your mind he tells you, no one makes me as hard as you do, and you do not tell him that that isn’t something you want to hear, that that isn’t something that makes you feel good. The reminder that there are others.

You wrap your slippery fingers around his cock, coating him in yourself and when you pull him towards you, notching him at the mouth of your cunt, and finally – finally, I’ve been waiting for this all night, and you can’t even tell who says it – it’s so fucking good that all the rest of it is worth it for this singular feeling right here.

He pushes in, in, in, heavy balls pressed against the wet curve of your bottom, and you’re so soaked it’s slid down between your ass, marked his sheets with you, swings his hips back all smooth and wet and shoves back inside. His mouth is at your tits, folded over you, caging you in, biting and sucking on bare, tight nipples he tells you belong to him, cunt he fucks hard and deep he tells you also belongs to him.

He pulls an ankle up over his shoulder, changes the angle and drills into you hard and fast, other knee hooked over his elbow so you’re pressed and folded and presented to him just how he likes and needs, and he makes you say his name over and over, tells you exactly how he wants you to come on his cock just for him. His pelvis bumps your clit on every push forward, too thick cock wedged inside your cunt so that you’re stretched around him and no matter how many times you do this, it always hurts just a little. Like everything else the two of you do together.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans. “You take it so fucking good. Don’t come yet– don’t come. With me– wait for me. I want it together.” And you do cry at that, when he changes the angle once more and shoves in hard against your g-spot, the fat tip of his cock punching against it over and over so that there’s heat pooling at the base of your spine, stars flashing behind your closed lids, your breasts going hot and heavy and tight, stomach clenching with the effort to stave off your orgasm and do as he asks. He breathes into your mouth, and it’s all hot and damp skin and your sweaty limbs sliding against each other, open mouth to open mouth.

“Now,” he says, pulls you onto him deeper with a tight grip on your ass, long fingers wrapped over the curve so that he can feel the wet, stretched place where he takes you, makes you his. “Take the whole fucking thing,” he whispers against your lips, and as your cunt goes tight as a knot, painful in that way that only he can make it, that’s so good, that way that always keeps you coming back for more, you finally start to cry real tears. Not just from his cock but from the whole of him, from everything he does to you. Your heart beats fast, fast, fast, and you count the days in the month til your period, the little game you like to play with yourself when the two of you are bad like this, and then decide you don’t really give a fuck as he starts to fill you with the heat of his come.

He stays inside of you for too long after the last throb of his cock. Rubbing his lips all over your neck and shoulders and tits, tasting you and giving you too much time to memorize the pattern and cadence of his breathing. And when he pulls out and pulls back to look at the slick, puffy sight of your cunt full of his come, he bends to lick you clean like he always does. Gives you one more orgasm, the last nail in the coffin or your heart.

Sated and spent, you glance at the clock, and it’s officially Christmas Eve. You know he goes all out for Grogu, milk and cookies for Santa, stockings and gifts, the works. He is an exceptionally good brother, all a child could need in a father figure, and there had never really been any chance of you doing anything else besides loving him.

When you pull the gift from your bag, heart in your throat and halfway to regret but more resolve than you’ve ever had in his presence, you tell yourself that if this brings on the end of everything, that you’ll find a way to be okay with it. If you’ve gone too far, done too much, you’ll accept it, count your losses, and what great losses they’ll surely be, but you’ll move on as best you can.

You’d picked some pretty, baby blue paper with little red robins on it, a soft gold ribbon tied around the package. The sight of it makes you want to cry. You’d tried so hard, you really had.

He’s quiet when you put it into his hands, staring down at it like it’ll reach out and bite his head off if he blinks even once. Swallowing several times before he says, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know. It’s– it’s for the both of you, kind of.” Him and his little brother.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“No– that’s okay. I know. You didn’t have to.” Your voice comes out all breathless and full of nerves. You should’ve put your clothes on before you did this, made for a quicker, easier get away if necessary.

He pulls the wrapping apart slowly, gently untying your ribbon, long fingers carefully picking at the little pieces of tape at each end so that he doesn’t tear the paper and disturb the robins.

“Where did you get this?” He says when he’s finally unwrapped it, his voice telling you instantly that you’ve made a terrible mistake.

“It– it was in your drawer. I–”

“You went through my stuff?” He says, eyes snapping up to yours, finally looking away from the photograph you’d copied and framed for him. A picture of him and Grogu and his parents. Grogu, a baby, Din, a boy of maybe eight, gap toothed, cheesy grin and messy curls between his smiling parents. They looked, very much, like a deliriously happy family, and you’d thought it such a shame it was stuffed in his sock drawer when you’d found it, left to be forgotten. You’d only wanted to do something nice for him.

“N–no. I mean… not intentionally. I was looking for my extra clothes – the ones you told me to leave here – and I–” your lashes flutter, overwhelmed. He suddenly looks so angry. “I saw it in your drawer. I didn’t mean– I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, I–” You don’t know what to say. All of your falsely held control in tatters at your feet and tears in your eyes as you take in the horrible look on his face. Shocked, angry, hurt, but his gaze leaves the photograph again, shifts back to your face at the crack in your voice.

He presses forward, as if to reach for you, realizing you’re about to cry. “It’s fine.” I’m sorry, Din, you murmur again. “It’s just–” He shakes his head, a frustrated noise in his throat, his voice all graveled and cracked like yours. He seems so much like a boy in this moment. A child confronted by a past he was too young to lose when he did, forced into the shape of a man too soon. “You know that this–we–” He motions between the two of you.

“Yes. I do,” you cut him off quickly. Assuming what he’s going to cut down here between the two of you before he gets the words out. He doesn’t need to say it, not out loud. He doesn’t need to be that cruel. The strength it takes the both of you to bite your tongues in that moment, as you take each other in, swells to a near painful pressure, and there is something so sick here between the two of you. His eyes are glossy with emotion and everything he won’t ever let himself tell you or anyone else, and you so badly want to tell him that it’s only that it’s hard to be casual when your favorite bra lives in his dresser, and also that you’re in love with him.

“Thank you,” he finally says quietly, and you can’t answer, looking away out at the dark night through his murky paneled window. It looks like it’s about to snow, all the ingredients for a perfect Christmas at play. The room is so warm and his bed is so comfortable, and you feel so full of fragile and soft things inside. “You’re going to see your family tomorrow?” He still has the picture frame in his hands, fingers smoothing methodically over the edges, thumb swiping gently over the happy faces inside.

You clear your throat, “Yeah, tonight. I’m going to my parents house, spending the night there.” And it’s on the tip of your tongue to invite the both of them to come too. You know your parents would love to have them, you would love to have them there, him, but the words stick in your throat with the fear of his rejection, and the two of you fizzle awkwardly into a heavy silence.

You look out at the window again, too much of a coward to look into those bright eyes, but you can feel his gaze on you, singing the side of your face, and suddenly you feel him scoot over towards you. Deep sigh, dragging the duvet with him, wrapped around his bare shoulders all messy hair and flushed cheeks still steaming from your sex. No one should look like he does. No one. It’s the most unfair thing that’s ever happened to you in your whole life. He grips you around the bend of your bare knee, pulls you halfway into his lap, and your eyes are still fixated out on the night, the dark much safer than anything that lives inside this room.

“You remember when we met?” He says. The tears are back. “It was tonight.” Two years ago.

You tip your chin at the window. “At the restaurant…”

“...Down on eighty seventh street. Two years ago.”

“Yes.” You finally look at him. “I remember,” you whisper. Your mouth feels so dry, your heart so flinty.

“The place had all those string lights put up, and we sat at that table outside in the back behind that group having their Christmas work party. You remember?” Of course you do. You only can't believe he remembers. He’d been wearing an olive green half zip sweater, and he’d smelled of laundry detergent and whiskey and cinnamon gum when he’d kissed you for the first time.

“I had the best old fashioned I’ve ever had at that place. We should go back. And it was so cold, you remember? You never stopped shivering.”

“Yes, Din. I remember.”

“That was a good night.”

“Sure it was,” and it comes out with a bite you can’t help, for so many reasons you can and cannot explain.

He gives one of those non committal hums he loves to provoke you with, that little glint back in his eyes. “Sure it was? What?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there something you wanna talk about?” The white elephant in the room, come to ruin everything, shatter all the glass, disturb the dust in your hair and break your heart.

He tips your head back by your chin, two fingers holding you there, never letting you go. You shake your head at him caught up in his grasp like that. “No. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

And he gives you the strangest look, and for one second you wonder suddenly if that look you’ve always taken as provoking is not so much teasing, but more pleading, more knowing. “No…” he says, chews on his thoughts, strong, scruffy jaw with the heart shaped patch moving side to side. “I know you don’t,” and leans forward to press one single soft, chaste kiss to your open mouth. “You know what you are?” He says then, and the look is now entirely unknowable, confusing.

Your eyes flick back to the window. “What?” Back to him again, breathless.

“You’re my girl.” And out of the corner of your eye, you can see that there, finally, is the Christmas snow.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#vic fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin AU #din djarin modern AU #the mandalorian AU #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #pedro pascal characters #din djarin angst

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ladamedusoif · 8 months

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Tempered in the Fire (Blacksmith!Din Djarin AU) - Masterlist

With his hammer in his hand/He looked right clever… (‘The Blacksmith’, British or Irish folk song from the early nineteenth century)

Series Summary:

Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798 was brutally suppressed. In this seemingly quiet part of the country, the people work the land and stay quiet about the recent past. You are an unusual woman in this little world: married, but living alone; a widow, with no certainty that her husband is dead. You have made your own life since he vanished into thin air, managing the smallholding you live on and making some extra money through your skills as a seamstress.

This is a time when the local blacksmith is at the heart of any rural community. One such smith is a man of few words, whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals, but whose skills with hammer and anvil have rendered him indispensable. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel on to this man’s forge - and are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure…

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (series); Explicit (eventual chapters)

Content: Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to domestic abuse; period-appropriate terminology and misogyny; anti-Travelling people discrimination; alcohol; strong language; explicit smut (eventually); technical infidelity; almost certainly incorrect depictions of blacksmithing; some slightly dodgy history (I literally took advanced seminars in this topic but come on, it’s fic); most likely some not quite correct Irish language content (again, I studied it for years so forgive me and move on).

Cross-posted to AO3.

Author’s Note: I spotted a sign at Disneyland for ‘Rose’s Forge’ and @julesonrecord and @lunapascal were immediately on the “which P boy would be a blacksmith?” train. And there’s only one answer, isn’t there? It’s Din.

This is intended as a short series of around four chapters - essentially a chance for me to scratch the blacksmith!Din itch, while also indulging in some historical fiction set in my homeland. In part, it’s inspired by the image of the blacksmith in eighteenth and nineteenth century popular culture and their role in supplying rebel weaponry in the 1798 uprising against British rule.

And it’s also inspired by the image of Din sweaty and beautiful at an anvil, because why the hell not?

The image I’ve used for the header image, by the way, is a wonderful engraving from about 1833 by the French artist Eugène Delacroix, who’s one of my absolute favourites. It’s called ‘Un Forgeron’ (A Blacksmith) and you can see it in all its glory here. (Yes, it’s hot as fuck.)

Chapter List:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #din djarin fanfiction #new fic announcement #fic coming soon #historical AU #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian fanfiction #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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mgparker · 3 months

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the bodyguard- din djarin

din djarin x f!royal!reader

summary: the princess makes it her mission to know what’s really behind that rigid suit of beskar.

warnings: fluff, mando/princess bonding, nothing crazy happens tbh, hopefully not too ooc, unedited as fuck

<<last chapter! | masterlist!

ੈ✩‧₊˚. iii. a suspect *.ੈ✩‧₊˚.

You step out of your meeting with a relieved sigh, resting your forehead against your palm, leaning back against the double doors of the great hall.

Inside, you could hear the Council quietly disputing their next topic of concern, some trade with a far-off planet.

Between your fingers, you see the Mandalorian standing a small distance away. Straight with a hand on his belt, dutifully aware.

“You didn’t tell Phex about the other night, thank you,” you tell him gratefully.

The Mandalorian nods as always.

You take the lead, breezing past him and heading through the passageway. It held large open windows, from which you could see the village and your people.

A child suddenly stops with a bucket of water, staring right at you with wide eyes and you give him a graceful smile.

Then you make a show of waving in a very childish manner.

It was unladylike of you, but it made the child wave back with triple the enthusiasm. A wide toothy smile on his young face.

He tugs on the dress of who you assume belongs to his guardian. The woman looks down before following his little pointer finger to you. Her eyes widen just as the little boy’s did and she instantly drops into a curtsy.

You nod your head softly, still smiling.

A hand on the base of your spine makes you jump and tear your eyes away from the village. You almost glance behind you but a voice speaks close to your ear.

You freeze.

“Your Highness, we should keep going.”

A flash of irritation makes you purse your lips. But you do as the Mandalorian says, the spot where his hand was touching you beginning to burn.

Your cheeks feel warm, not used to physical touch from anyone in this way.

Maker, you feel delusional.

“Why must you usher me away from my people?” You ask hotly, as soon as he shuts the door to your quarters.

“I—”

In a very uncharacteristic manner, the Mandalorian suddenly stumbles over his words. Seemingly looking for an excuse.

Eyebrows knitting together, you attempt to put two and two together.

“Do you… do you have a suspect? Is that why you don’t want me lingering around others?”

He’s silent.

“You believe it’s one of my people? But why—?”

“I have many names to cross before I can determine who wishes to inflict harm upon you. For now, we must take every precaution necessary,” his raspy voice modulator replies. His stance shifts, hip jutting out a bit. You follow the movement despite yourself.

To your surprise, your sharp tongue fails you.

Retreating into your private quarters, you half expect him to follow you but he stays put in the antechamber. In your position by the vanity, you can still see him clearly.

“You know, I don’t really know much about you,” you pick up a journal and pen. “We spend nearly every waking moment together and I don’t even know if you’re human.”

The Mandalorian makes a sound you can only perceive as a huff. “I can assure you we’re both made of the same flesh and bone.”

You can’t spot a single spot of revealed skin on his person. Every inch is covered by beskar or fabric.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’ve heard of few warriors on Mandalore that choose to conceal their faces to any other living being. Do you belong to this group?”

“You mean the Children of the Watch,” he rasps through his modulator. You make your way further into the antechamber, sitting upon the settee. The Mandalorian stands by the foyer.

“Mhm,” you confirm.

“I simply choose to wear my helmet because it makes my work a lot easier. It keeps my identity concealed.”

“Doesn’t it make you stand out more?”

“Does it?”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you think this is a trick question to boost his ego.

“I’d say so. I can’t go anywhere without whispers following behind.”

“Maybe they’re about you.”

You shake your head. “Oh, I doubt it. I am to be their queen but I’ve only ever lived in the shadows since-since—”

There’s a heaviness in your gut as you think about your parents. You try your best not to, dismissing any reminder of them so that you can try to maintain a level head.

It upset you too much.

“You said it yourself,” injects the Mandalorian, sensing your struggle. “You’re to be queen soon. You were born to be their ruler. And you’re kind.” He says it as though it’s the most shocking thing above all. “Perhaps too kind.”

“Are you suggesting that a ruler should be cruel to their people?”

“No,” the Mandalorian rasps. “But it can make you more vulnerable. You see the good in people. It can blind you to the bad.”

You eye him for a few moments, wishing you could read any part of him. But it’s like trying to identify feelings in a brick wall.

You think over your response and begin slowly. “I’m aware many rulers across the Galaxy are tyrants. Leaders of their worlds, but terrorists to their people. Like ants under the shadow of a boot. But I refuse to be like that. And if it means there will be more attempts over my head, then I’m glad you’re here.” You sigh. “I won’t change. Not for anyone.”

The Mandalorian is silent for a minute.

“Then maybe you’re what this Republic needs.”

You stare at him, trying to see past that pitch black helmet. You wonder if he truly means what he said, wishing you were better at handling more serious topics like these.

“Don’t say that around Phex,” you joke as you fight off the warmth blossoming in your cheeks at his comment. “He’ll try to rope me into the Senate more than royal duties require.”

There’s a puff of air that catches onto the modulator of his helmet. Like a chuckle.

It makes you smile a bit.

“You’re still upset with the Senator.”

Your smile drops. You briefly wonder how he knew about your ire, before realizing he had heard your confession in the abandoned tower nights ago.

“No. No, I know why he did what he did.” A certain blacksmith had something to do with that. “But you must know I’m not trying to be difficult. I just—all this fuss, it’s rather complicated seeing as I haven’t been harmed... it is those around me that have met the fate Phex believes is intended for me. My last guard still lies in the infirmary and my handmaiden barely survived an attack outside these quarters mere months ago…”

He squares his shoulders. “I’m quite good at my job, Princess.”

“Yes, but don’t you see? I’m not worried about myself,” you urge desperately. The twinges of discomfort are impossible to hide, you want to outright say it but you find yourself too humiliated.

He reads between the lines. “Princess… it’s not your job to worry about me. I’m skilled in every form of hand-to-hand combat, I wield the strongest armor in all the galaxies. There’s few that have gained the upper hand against me. It hasn’t happened in years.”

Something builds in the room. It gets more serious than you would like. You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Is that a hint of smugness I sense in you, Mandalorian?” You ask as cheekily as you can manage, trying to ease the tension before it gets more uncomfortable.

He stays silent, as if he hadn’t just said more words to you in the last few minutes than he had in the two weeks since he’d been assigned your protector.

You sigh, a small part of you wants to get him to talk again. “In years?” You try.

The Mandalorian bows his head. “Well, as children, you have to fall before you can learn to stand. In combat, the same applies.”

You fight a scoff. “You haven’t lost since you were a child?”

“In training,” he nods.

You knew of the rumors. The Mandalorian was a formidable force, undefeated in his fights. He had deep scarlet red in his ledger, gushing and flowing from his past. Something you’d only managed to learn about through hushed gossip in the village. Nights, before the threats began, when you would dress in a disguise, hidden beneath layers of cloaks, slowly gliding through the marketplace with sharp eyes and even sharper ears.

Even now, as a work-for-hire bodyguard, the Mandalorian managed to rack up quite a reputation. Hefty in price but matchless in his service.

There’s no one better in the field.

Apparently.

You suppose he’s already proven his skill in tracking, staying hidden in the shadows, keeping a watchful eye on you. But you’ve never seen him fight…

Hopefully, you’d never have to.

The soft glow of the sun catches your attention through your windows. They’re sealed shut again, the rope tied beneath your bed reluctantly discarded but you didn’t want the Mandalorian to watch you more than he did already.

You suddenly remember the journal and pen in your grasp and open the book gently.

Flipping to the next empty page, you scribble a few things you’d discussed with Senator Dameron this morning. It’s important for your future plans once you are crowned…

You don’t realize how long you’ve been writing until your hand begins to ache and your eyes have to squint from the lack of light to your parchment. As if he’d been watching your every single minuscule movement, the Mandalorian suddenly crosses the room and lights a wall torch with a device you hadn’t noticed he had strapped to his arm.

The heat of the flames lick at your skin even from the distance between you… the dusk pulls a yawn from deep within your chest. The long meeting with the Council exhausted you.

You longingly eye your bed and then turn to face the Mandalorian again. He stands there like a statue.

“I think…” you’re hesitant to end this comfortable silence you’ve both fallen into so soon. “I think I’ll retire for the night. I’m exhausted.”

The Mandalorian simply nods.

You stand from the settee and glance around the antechamber. Everything was in place, just as you’ve always left it. Nothing out of the ordinary other than the disarray of pillows from where you’d been sitting for the better part of an hour.

Curiosity got the better of you. “Erm— where do you sleep?”

He’s silent.

You absolutely hate it and you knew you couldn’t go back to the stoic figure of beskar you’d been living with before.

You push again. “Do you sleep?”

“It’s my duty to ensure no harm comes to you, your Highness.”

The heavy weight of guilt settles deep within your gut. You frown at him, feeling quite bad about the fact that he was sacrificing his own well being just because you couldn’t be trusted.

Because of your rebellious nature.

In this entire day, you’ve learned a few things about the Mandalorian. Mostly, that he’s attentive. He thinks, despite the lack of sleep you’ve caused him, that you’re kind. He knows about your ire with the Senator despite the mask you’ve carefully constructed around others… and he was able to decipher the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Despite the fact that technically he was forced to be with you, he still cares enough to get to know little bits of you.

And you feel a deep desire to know him.

“I won’t be sneaking out in the middle of the night, I can assure you. I won’t be making that silly mistake again,” you try to assuage any doubts he had. You want him to rest.

His stance shifts apprehensively.

You take a few steps closer to him, ignoring the childish temptation to hold out your pinky finger.

“I promise,” you tell him genuinely. “Which is a big deal. I don’t tend to make those.”

And slowly, he seems to relax just a bit, his shoulders falling slightly from where they’d been standing tall. His hand leaving its usual spot on his belt. A small puff of air escaping the modulator of his helmet.

“Feel free to make this room your own,” you motion toward the settee which could expand into a decent sized bed.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You back up a few steps before spinning around and heading toward your bedroom, only stopping before the archway.

“I wish you a good night. Please do get some rest,” you say genuinely, loosening the ties that held your curtains apart. It separated your private chambers from the rest of your quarters.

“You too, Princess.” There’s a new warmth in his tone even the modulator couldn’t filter out.

Satisfaction blossoms in your chest.

A mischievous thought comes to mind, a perfect way to end your night.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to become a bit more acquainted now? Maybe take off your helmet?” You smirk, half joking.

You keep a cheeky smile on your face so he doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

Surprisingly… he gives you a warm chuckle, full bodied and his chest moves up and down.

You shake your head with a small laugh, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks and ears. The small nerves that came with a new friendship rising in your tummy.

As you shut the curtains and climb into your bed giddily, you don’t fight the elated smile that’s been threatening to spread across your lips all evening.

And it’s only then that you realize how suggestive your comment might’ve sounded to the Mandalorian and you stare at the wall with wide embarrassed eyes. You try to dismiss the thought, hoping he didn’t think anything of it…

Just as you begin to doze off, the small click of beskar echoes from the antechamber, followed by a hiss and then an unfiltered sigh.

Your heart stops, clinging to the sound of your protector’s voice. Or rather the air leaving his lungs.

The raw sound of it sends a chill up your spine.

It replays in your head until you fall asleep.

don’t worry, pals. the next chapter is where the real drama starts. ;)

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#mgparker #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars #din djarin imagine #pedro pascal x reader #the bodyguard #the bodyguard din djarin #star wars royal au #star wars au #din djarin x princess!reader #the mandalorian x princess!reader #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian series #the mandalorian/reader #the mandalorian x reader

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stealyourblorbos · 1 year

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TBC?...

#so theres this din x imp!reader au I wanted to draw for ages #this is a part of a huge spreadsheet and I regret nothing #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanart #the mandalorian au #din djarin imagine #din djarin #pedro pascal #digital comics #comicart #fan comic #fanart by poison

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emmster · 11 months

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Dinbo Masquerade for the prompt game on our discord server

#dinbo #bodin #bo katan kryze #din djarin #the mandalorian AU #the mandalorian #Star Wars AU #my art #digital art #art of tumblr #procreate #artists of tumblr #fan art #visual development #procreate art #yes it’s the pose from pride and prejudice #I took inspo from it ok like Darcy and Elizabeth have the same energy

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irkinsblog · 6 months

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THE STUMBLING BUCKET

This is an illustration for this Dincobb fanfic.

This is what started my passion for fanart this year - the kick that brought me back to the hobby of drawing. I read it a little over two months ago, and even then I was planning to draw my favorite scene from there. And here I am. Two men are holding one bucket. I do not know how absurd the scene may look to the ignorant. And I didn't even mean something about Homestuck, really. (though thinking about it makes me giggle)

#the mandalorian #din djarin #cobb vanth #dincobb #my art #art #fan art #marshalorian #the mandalorian au #modern mandalorian au

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rainontherooftops · 1 year

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Looks can be deceiving

Summary: In order to get over the crush you have for your roommate, bountyhunter Din Djarin, you accept an invitation to a date from a colleague at university. When everything goes pear shaped, he is there to pick up the pieces - and tell you exactly how looks can be deceiving.

Fandom: The Mandalorian - Pedro Pascal as Modern! Din Djarin Genre: Romance, Tooth Rotting Fluff, New Relationships, spicy, Roommates to Friends to Lovers Pairing: Modern! Din Djarin x f! Plus Size Reader Triggers : Mentions body shaming, nervous breakdown, mentions of violence and sexual content Rating : M

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

Looks can be deceiving.

Din Djarin was not what you had expected your new roommate to be. For one thing, you had never thought you’d share accommodations with a professional bounty hunter. Secondly, sharing rooms with a man who was so handsome and way out of your league was unexpected.

Nine months into your cohabitation, (after the trailer he had lived in had caught fire and burnt down), you had yet to find him bring a man or a woman over.

You liked living with Din.

He was a silent type, but honest and strong and kind. No wonder you had developed a crush on the handsome bounty hunter. Some of his charisma and charm must have rubbed off on you, because a colleague at the university you worked at had asked you out on a date. And you hadn’t been on a date since, well… in forever.

Going out and having some fun would be the perfect opportunity to get Din out of your system. Or so you thought.

As you closed the door to your room, you heard a whistle from behind you. “Someone looks dashing”, Din said. “Going somewhere? I didn’t know you own a dress.”

He was sitting at the living room table, his weapons laid out on it. He was wiping and polishing everything down. ‘You look dashing yourself’, you thought as you took him in, his dark grey shirt and black jeans hugging him in all the right places and enhancing his muscles perfectly.

You looked bleak compared to him. Normally you were sporting jeans yourself and ridiculous shirts or jerseys. This dark green number was the only dress you owned and made you look less like a geeky bookworm and more like a desirable woman – or so you thought.

“I have a date”, you finally admitted.

The frown on Dins face astonished you. “A date?”, he asked, inquisitively – and it stung.

Like so many people, including your mother, you would have expected him to say: “A date? You? How’d you manage that?” But his look was enough – and you hadn’t thought that he of all people would think you not nice enough – or pretty enough – to get a date.

“Yes, a date. A colleague asked me out. We’re going to a fancy dress cocktail party.”

Were you imagining things or were his fists clenched a bit tighter around his gun and the polishing cloth?

Before he could ask any further questions, you decided to flee. “I’ll probably be late, so don’t wait up.”

Din was nice enough to wait anyway, checking that you would be home save. Of course he was.

Which meant that you could not hide the shame, tears and embarrassment from him or sneak into your room to cry your heart out. It was dark in the apartment, the only light visible was the blueish tone of the TV.

Taking a shaky breath, you entered the living room after slipping out of your shoes. Din was sitting on the couch, one arm draped on the top of the sofa, the other one nursing a beer.

“Hey, you’re back earl-…”

It wasn’t easy to read Dins expression most days. But your eyes were swimming with tears and your glasses were askew and your face was puffy, and you couldn’t think straight – so now it was impossible.

All his gaze did was make you break down even more. You fisted your hands into the fabric of your dress and started sobbing in earnest. You would have sunk down to the floor, had Din not been by your side in a flash and held you upright.

It was impossible to tell if he talked to you or not as you let go of your dress to hold onto your roommate like he was a lifeline, shivering and trembling all over, leaking all sorts of fluids onto his shirt.

Somehow, after minutes – or was it hours? – of sobbing and receiving calming back-rubs and being shushed, you found the strength to breathe again.

“That’s it. Deep breaths, mesh'la. Come back to me.”

You still had no grasp of his native language, but you knew that mesh'la meant beautiful. And especially after tonight you felt anything but.

“I’m not…”, you stuttered.

“You’re not what, cyar'ika?“

“Beautiful”, you said, somehow finding the strength to escape his embrace and starting to pace in the living room, hugging yourself while walking on unsteady feet.

“Who said that? Did he say that?”, Din growled, trying to catch your gaze, but you were too far gone.

You shook your head.

“It wasn’t just him. According to the voting I was a runner up for the ‘Queen of the Pigs’”, you spat, anger and embarrassment boiling inside you.

Din looked confused – and how could he make sense of what you were saying? He would never take part in activities like the ones you had to endure tonight.

“You’ve lost me”, he admitted.

You sighed in frustration.

“He took me to a fucking ‘Pig Party’, Din.”

Oh gods, did you really have to explain what that was? Was he that innocent slash clueless?

Sighing, massaging your temples in hopes to fight the oncoming headache, you explained: “It’s a party where a group of people ask out the ugliest person they can find on a date and have a secret voting. And at the end, the king and queen of ‘ugly’ are being crowned and the winner who brought the price pig gets a ‘reward’.”

The description alone almost made you want to puke.

It had started out nice. The party had been fun and you were introduced to so many nice people – dates of his colleagues and friends. Interesting people, funny and kind hearted.

Until the small stage in the ballroom had lit up and the true nature of the gathering had been revealed.

The room was eerily silent when you looked up. You had never seen Din look like this. Stiff as a statue, storm clouds in his eyes and anger rolling off him in waves, his fists clenched.

He growled something inaudible.

“What?”

“I said ‘Give me his name’”, he growled, his frown deepening. “I am going to break the bastards fucking legs.”

You shook your head then. The thought of Din hitting the fucking daylights out of your ‘date’ was a nice one, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“It doesn’t matter anyway”, you said.

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter. Of course it does. Why would you say that?”

“Because he’s right!”

You started pacing again, not able to stop the waterfall of words that broke the dam of your insecurities.

“I am not beautiful! I’ve never been! I look like a mess all the time, I have three different clothing sizes in my closet because none of it fits right anyway, and I’m fat, and ugly and not even a stupid dress like this can change that!”

Ripping at the fabric then, you managed to slip out of the dress and threw it aside, standing in the living room in your black underwear. The black underwear set that somehow made you feel sexy – at least sometimes. Now you just thought it looked ridiculous.

You caught your reflection in the mirror that hung in the room. Disheveled, a puffy red face, glasses still askew, your carefully crafted ponytail ruined – it stung but for a moment you thought this is what a pig ought to look like.

With wobbly legs, and exhausted from your temper tantrum and open floodgates, you leaned against the dining table behind you, gripping the edges of it for balance.

“Are you calling me a liar then?”

Confused, you looked up. As always, it was hard to read Din.

“What do you mean?”, you asked, preparing to be showered in pity by this handsome man who held your heart in his hands without even knowing it.

“I’ve called you beautiful on multiple occasions”, he explained, turning to you. “Are you saying I’ve been lying?”

The look in Dins eyes made goosebumps spread all over your body. Was this how his bounties felt like? Staring into the eyes of a predator who they couldn’t escape from?

He came closer then, the storm in his eyes still there, thrilling. Putting his arms on either side of you, he caged you in. You had to strain your neck to look him in the eyes. He was so close that you could feel the fabric of his jeans against your legs, his breath on your face.

He smelled intoxicating. Like the gun oil he had used earlier and a spicy, leathery cologne.

“For months now”, he growled, continuing, “I’ve been restraining myself. Every time I saw those hips sway, dancing around in the kitchen.”

It was not painful, the way he dug his fingers into your hips – it was possessive.

“You’ve been taunting me for weeks with that perfect, round, juicy ass of yours”, he groaned, his hands wandering, massaging your flesh through the fabric of your underwear.

“And every time you come out of the shower, only clad in that flimsy, tiny robe of yours”, he moaned, “I’ve prayed to all the gods that the belt would give away and show me those perfect boobs of yours.”

He nibbled at your clavicle then, sucking at the flesh, making you take in a sharp breath. What was happening here?

“I’ve been dreaming about worshipping your body, kissing every inch of skin I can reach. But… all of these features are not what make you beautiful.”

You had to grab his shoulders for balance then as he started kissing your neck. Your breath came out in short, excited huffs as your skin pressed against his chiseled, muscular chest.

“Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”, he asked, not waiting for an answer. “I see a woman who took me in without a second thought, when I had nowhere to go. I see a woman who is kind, modest, helpful, sweet, honest, feisty, full of love and humor – and most of all – cares for others more than she cares for herself. If that is not the incarnation of beauty, then I don’t know what is.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he finally sealed your lips with his in a passionate kiss, one of his hands loosening the ponytail and cradling your head, the other massaging the flesh of your thigh and managing to lift you onto the table.

It was impossible not to kiss back, to give in to the yearning and desire you had been hiding for months. It was impossible to not believe every word he had said. You knew nobody more honest than Din Djarin. He was many things, but a liar he was not.

Still, after the two of you broke apart for breath, you asked.

“D-Do you really mean that?”

“Of course, mesh’la. And in case you haven’t noticed”, he said, guiding your hand between your bodies and placing your palm against his jeans. “This is what your state of undress does to me.”

Gulping and blushing, you remembered that you were sitting on the dining table in your underwear.

Din could feel that you were shying away, but he didn’t mind. Instead, he stepped away (with great difficulty, it seemed), went to the sofa and draped the blanket you kept there around your shoulders.

“Now, if you’ll allow me – I will spend my time every single day showing you how beautiful you are. Starting now.”

He placed a kiss on your forehead then and a chuckle left his mouth when he looked at you.

“What?”, you asked.

“There it is. The most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

Another blush covered your body then.

“Now, since you are not allowing me to break the fuckers legs, I need to distract myself. How does a cheesy horror movie and late night pizza sound?”

You hopped off the table.

“That sounds perfect”, you said, smiling, still not really believing what had just happened.

Din cleared his throat, saying: “Can I make a request though?”

You blinked but nodded. “Sure.”

With a predatory grin, he bent down to whisper in your ear: “Don’t get dressed again.”

#Pedro Pascal #The Mandalorian #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Din Djarin x Reader #Modern AU #Plus Size Reader #din djarin x plus size reader #The Mandalorian AU #din djarin x female reader #Pedro Pascal Character

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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𝑭𝑳𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑴 𝑰𝑵 𝑾𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹

pairing: modern!din djarin x f!reader

genre: romance, holiday fic, flowershop au, fluff

word count: 5.4k

summary: A spiteful coworker ruins the flower arrangements you had hoped to compete with. Not knowing what can be done, you entertain a young boy named Grogu who comes in at the same time wanting to buy a bouquet for his father. The next day, Din returns and offers to help you out with your work until a competition. However, he is a bit awkward and clumsy when it comes to love.

warnings: single dad!din, grogu being adorable, so much fluff, me trying to figure out what's it like working at a flower shop

a/n: this is my secret santa gift for @writeforfandoms ! thank you to @pedrostories who hosted the event, I had a blast writing this and I hope you enjoy, happy holidays! ♡♡♡

my prompt was; something soft and sweet - a holiday meet cute, or a holiday date.

You approach the flower shop you work a with a pep in your step. You can see that the windows are decorated with festive wreaths and garlands. The cold winter air nips at your nose as you push open the door, and you're greeted by a warm, cozy atmosphere inside. The shop is filled with the fragrant scent of pine and holly, and there are all sorts of beautiful holiday arrangements on display. You see poinsettias in every shade of red and green, as well as colorful bouquets of winter flowers like amaryllis and paperwhites. you can't help but feel a sense of cheer and joy in the midst of the cold winter season.

You walk to the back, especially excited to see the holiday arrangements you made for the holiday flower show. You’ve been working on them day and night the past week, honestly, you were kind of proud of them. They truly turned out beautiful, even Cassian himself had said so, and he was one of the best in the business.

With a shudder, you remove your coat and beanie, and you feel a sense of dread wash over you. With horror, you notice that the room is in complete disarray, with flowers and foliage scattered everywhere. You can hardly believe your eyes as you take in the destruction of your beloved arrangements.

The once beautiful display is now a colorful mess. You feel a wave of emotions wash over you - shock, sadness, and anger. The once vibrant and carefully arranged flowers are now a jumbled mess, with petals crushed underfoot and broken stems lying haphazardly on the ground. Your heart sinks as you survey the damage. Kneeling down, you touch the white and pink petals, they’re soft, feeling like silk against your fingertips.

As you begin to pick up the scattered petals and broken stems, your heart feels heavy. You had put so much time and effort into creating these arrangements, and now they were ruined. As you work to clean up the mess, you try to focus on the task at hand, but your mind keeps drifting back to the destruction.

You know who’d done it of course. Only three people worked here after all; you, your boss —Cassian, who was out during the time of the crime— and your coworker. Claire. She hated your guts from the start, and her grievances simmered like a fine winter stew each day you worked together. It was her doing. You are sure of it.

You’ve been waiting to join the show for a good while now. The years before you were either too busy or something came up; last year, during New Year’s you had promised yourself that you would join but apparently, that wish of yours isn’t going to happen.

You hear soft footsteps, knowing who it is, you don’t look up and scoop up the last remnants of the ripped petals.

“What happened?” Cassian asks, looking down at the mess. “I was out only for an hour,”

You scoff, hiding your disappointment by looking down at your hands, “What do you think happened?”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Don’t bother— If you’re not going to fire her, there’s no point in talking.”

The silence that follows is louder than words. You can’t really blame him for not firing her. Firing Claire meant that her father took away the money he poured into the shop thanks to her daughter working here.

You understand Cassian's predicament, but it doesn't make the situation any easier for you. You feel betrayed and hurt that she would go to such extremes, and it's hard to shake the feeling.

"I'm so sorry," Cassian says, kneeling down next to you. "I had no idea she would do something like this. I'll make it right, I promise."

You shake your head, feeling defeated. "I don't know how you can make this right. The show is in a few days, and all my arrangements are ruined. I won't have time to start over."

"I'll help you," Cassian offers. "We'll work together and create new arrangements. I know it won't be easy, but… We can manage to do this."

You look at Cassian, feeling touched by his words. You appreciate the offer, but you just can't bring yourself to accept it. Your mood has been ruined, and you don't feel up to working on anything new. You shake your head and try to smile, hoping that Cassian will understand.

As you continue to clean up the mess of your destroyed flower arrangements, you hear the sound of the shop's door opening. You look up to see a young boy walking in, a bright smile on his face as he looks around at the various flowers and plants. He must be about five or six years old.

You can't help but smile back at the curious little boy, noting the small patch of green hair peeking out from under his dark brown locks. He looks full of energy and enthusiasm, and you feel a sense of warmth toward him.

"Hello there," you say, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted despite the frustration you're feeling. "Welcome to the shop. Do you need any help? Are you here alone?”

The boy looks up at you, a sheepish expression on his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause any trouble," he says. "My dad is just next door at the coffee shop. He said I could come in and take a look around while he finishes ordering."

You’re relieved that the boy isn’t completely alone. "Oh, that's alright," you say with a smile.

The boy looks up at you, his big brown eyes shining with excitement. "I'm looking for a special flower for my dad," he says. “A lot of’em.”

You can't help but feel touched by the boy's thoughtfulness. “So, a bouquet then?” you look fondly at Cassian who nods and smiles.

“What’s your name?” he asks slightly kneeling forward.

“Grogu,”

“Alright then Grogu, follow us. We’ll make sure you have something special for your dad,”

You and Grogu browse the selection of flowers and plants, and you chat about what kind of bouquet would be perfect for his father. You ask about his family, and Grogu tells you that he doesn’t have a mom, your heart breaks at his tone. You can see the sadness in his eyes but don’t pry further.

Just then, Cassian's phone rings and he excuses himself to take the call. You and Grogu are left alone to continue your flower shopping. Despite the unexpected turn of events, you’re grateful for the chance to spend some quality time with little Grogu. You both continue to chat and browse the selection of plants, getting to know each other better as you go.

As you talk, you’re drawn to the boy's infectious curiosity and enthusiasm. He's full of questions about the different flowers and plants, and you find yourself laughing at his adorable observations.

"Hey, do you think this flower looks like a ballerina?" Grogu asks, pointing to a delicate pink rose.

You can't help but chuckle at the comparison. "I can see it now," you say with a smile. "A little ballerina flower twirling amongst the other blooms."

Grogu giggles, his eyes sparkling with delight. "Yeah, and I bet she's a really good dancer too!" he says.

He's such a sweet and lovable little guy. He’s a little spark of joy after the morning you had.

Your thoughts briefly drift back to the ruined arrangements that you had worked so hard on. It's hard to push the disappointment and frustration out of your mind, but you know that you need to focus on the task at hand - helping Grogu choose a special gift for his father.

Suddenly, the little boy turns to you with a determined look on his face. "Can I make the flower bouquet myself?" he asks.

You smile at Grogu's enthusiasm and desire to be involved in the process. "Of course, you can," you say with a smile. "I'd be happy to help you put it together."

Grogu beams at you, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Thank you!" he says.

Grogu starts to put together the flower arrangement for his dad, you can see that he's a little bit unsure of himself. He's not experienced with flowers, and he's a little bit nervous about getting it right.

Together, you choose a selection of colorful flowers and greenery. You show Grogu how to trim the stems and arrange the flowers in a pleasing way. He listens carefully to your instructions and tries his best to follow along.

The final arrangement isn't the most expertly done, but it's cute and charming. Grogu looks at it with pride and a big smile on his face. "I think my dad will really like it," he says.

Just as you're about to ring up the purchase, Grogu realizes that he doesn't have any money on him. He looks at you with a mix of embarrassment and sadness, and you can see that he's worried that he won't be able to take the flowers home after all.

You hesitate for a moment, considering your options. You know that you’re not supposed to hand out flowers to every kid that wonders inside, but you also can't bear the thought of disappointing Grogu. In the end, you decide to let him take the flowers home with him. You know that you'll find a way to make it work. Honestly, you doubt Cassian will mind anyway.

"Don't worry about it, Grogu," you say, smiling at him. "I'm sure your dad will love the flowers, and that's all that matters. You can pay me back next time."

Grogu's face lights up with gratitude, and he thanks you. You can see that he's truly touched by your kindness, and you feel happy that you were able to spread a little bit of joy.

Just as Grogu is leaving the shop, you see Claire walk in. She looks smug and self-satisfied, and a surge of anger and resentment bubbles inside you. You struggle to keep your emotions in check.

"Hey, looks like someone had a good day," Claire says, eyeing the flowers in Grogu's hand as the boy leaves. "I guess some people just have all the luck."

You can feel your temper rising, and you struggle to keep your voice calm. "Luck had nothing to do with it," you say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. "Grogu was just a kind, thoughtful kid. Unlike some people, who seem to get their kicks from destroying other people's hard work."

Claire rolls her eyes, looking annoyed. "Whatever," she says. "I don't have time for this. I just came to see if there was anything I could help with."

You can feel your blood boiling, but just then, Cassian comes back into the shop. He looks from you to Claire, sensing the tension in the air. "What's going on here?" he asks, frowning.

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "Just a misunderstanding. I think it's best if Claire and I just stay out of each other's way for a while."

Cassian nods, looking relieved. "I think that's a good idea," he says, turning to Claire. "I think it's best if you take the rest of the day off. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Anger crosses Claire’s face, but she nods and leaves the shop without another word. You can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the resolution, you take a deep breath and turn to Cassian, grateful.

“Thanks, but you know you’re going to hear an earful from her dad right?”

“I know,” he answers, exasperated. “I just didn’t have the patience to deal with her. Tomorrow’s Cassian will have to deal with it.”

It’s a brand new day yet you don’t feel hopeful or renewed at all. Claire is inside working on her own arrangements while you look over the shop. Your mind keeps drifting back to the events of the previous day. You're still angry and you can't shake the feeling of frustration as you go about your work.

You move around the shop, carefully arranging flowers in vases and pots. You start with a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, adding in sprigs of baby's breath and a few fern fronds for texture. Next, you tackle a vase of deep red roses, interspersing the blooms with sprigs of greenery and a few spiky thistles for contrast.

You admire the vibrant colors and delicate shapes of the flowers. Despite your anger and frustration, you find a sense of calm in the repetitive, soothing motions of flower arranging.

Suddenly, the bell above the door jingles, and —what you assume— a customer enters the shop. You put on a smile and turn to greet them, trying to push your anger to the back of your mind as you prepare yourself to help them.

“That’s her daddy. She’s the one that helped me!”

Your eyes drop down at the voice, you see Grogu from yesterday, his smile is wide as he points at you, his other hand nestled within a much larger one that clearly doesn’t belong to him.

Your gaze slowly lifts from the child, and you are met with the sight of a man whose features are both rugged and refined. Confidence and charm exude from his face, and his dark, expressive eyes seem to speak to your very soul. His smile, warm and genuine, lights up his entire being.

"Hello," he says, his voice deep and rich. "Grogu told me about yesterday. I'm sorry if he caused you any kind of trouble."

You shake your head violently, your cheeks are uncomfortably warm and at the same time cold. You compose yourself with a deep breath. “He wasn’t any trouble at all, really— In fact he improved my day a long shot,”

“That’s good to hear,” he says.

His lips are parted as if he’s about to say more but Grogu peels his tiny hand away from his father’s and runs towards you. You look down, shocked, and raise your hands, not really knowing what to do with them. Hesitantly, you meet the man’s gaze and he softly nods, only then do you softly touch the young boy’s back, giving him a hug.

“He also told me that he couldn’t pay when we reached home,” he continues a hint of annoyance surfacing mid-sentence. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He takes a step forward. “It’s a bit late but I would like to pay for it. They were lovely,”

“Oh,” you stare at him wide-eyed, Grogu looks up at you with a smile. “Well—Thank you for offering but there’s no need. I’m glad you enjoyed them, Grogu made it,”

“With your help,” the child says, tiny brows furrowing. “We did it together!”

“Yes, yes we did,” you chuckle, patting him on the back. He moves away from you and starts to observe the arrangements you made.

“That’s very kind of you but I should pay,” he says stepping forward his hand mid-pulling out his wallet. “How much do we owe you— Grogu don’t mess up the flowers,”

When you turn you see Grogu looking at his father like a dear in headlights, the tips of his fingers touching one of the daffodils. Looking embarrassed, he pulls back his hand and gives you an apologetic look.

But that’s not what you’re thinking about at all. You’re thinking about the way the man’s voice changed, the strictness of it, a shudder rolls down your spine and heat settles at your tailbone. You swallow.

“Like I said it’s okay,”

Din's eyes linger on you, taking in your earnest expression and the way your hands remain raised, refusing payment. After a moment, he gives in, sighing and stuffing his wallet back into his pocket.

"Let me at least buy you coffee," Din says, a smile stretching into a grin as he sees the shock on your face. "My name is Din by the way," he adds, extending his hand toward you. "Nice to meet you."

You introduce yourself and give his hand a firm squeeze, feeling the strength and warmth of his grasp. Din's smile is infectious, and you find your own lips curving upwards in response.

“I need to drop off Grogu now, but how about I meet you here in about an hour? Would you be free then?”

Your eyes move towards the hallway that leads to the room Claire is making her arrangements in, you nod without a second thought. Cassian owes you a favor anyway.

You and Din sit near the window of the cozy coffee shop. The winter air outside is crisp and cold, but inside, the shop is warm and inviting. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods fills the air, and you can't help but breathe in deeply, savoring the rich, comforting aroma.

The shop is bustling with activity, and the sound of laughter and conversation fills the air. The walls are adorned with warm, cozy blankets and colorful throw pillows, creating a sense of comfort and hominess. The light from the large windows filters in, casting a soft, golden glow on everything it touches.

You sit and sip your coffee, you listen enthusiastically to what Din has to say. It’s already been an hour since you came in and neither of you shows no signs of wanting to leave. As expected of him, Din talks a lot about Grogu, which makes you smile widely. You also learn that he’s quite the skilled man, he tells you how he enjoys model building and how he might have a bit of an addiction to legos. You say that you’re the same with plants, your home basically a greenhouse with how much flora you have.

He briefly mentions the passing of Grogu’s mother but before you can say anything he takes a bite of his muffin and directs a question at you.

“So, what’s your story? Did you always want to work at a flower shop?”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, wrapping your hands tightly around the mug of coffee as you consider Din's question. You relish the warmth of the mug, letting it seep into your bones. He crosses his legs and leans against the window, his demeanor much more relaxed now.

“I mean, I know you like plants, but that’s a bit different from making floral arrangements isn’t it?”

"I started working at the flower shop when I was desperately searching for a job," you answer, turning back to Din. "The flower shop was hiring. I wasn't sure if I would enjoy it at first, but I ended up loving it. There's something so satisfying about it that stuck with me. I’ve been working with Cassian ever since."

Suddenly, the sound of a ringing phone interrupts your conversation. You reach into your pocket and pull out your phone, glancing at the screen before answering. It’s Cassian, you already have an inkling of what’s going on.

"Hello?" you say, your voice a little bit louder than it was before. "Oh, hey. Yeah, I'm at the coffee shop. What's up?"

“I’m sorry but I need you to come back,” his modulated voice reaches you. “I—Well—Claire is occupied, she’s saying she can’t have her flow of inspiration be cut,”

“I hear you loud and clear,” you sigh, once again reminded of your own ruined chances of joining the competition. “I’ll be right there,”

After a few minutes, you end the call and turn back to Din with an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry about that," you say. "I have to go."

Din nods, "Of course," he says. "I hope everything is okay."

“Well…more or less,”

“We can…” he takes a sharp breath and continues. “We can talk about it if you want to—I don’t want to pry, of course, but I just thought I should ask,”

You hesitate for a moment, considering Din's offer. You usually don't open up to people about your dreams and struggles, but for some reason, you feel like you can trust him. There's something about Din that makes you feel safe and understood, and you find yourself wanting to confide in him.

"Well, I actually wanted to join the local holiday flower show," you say, your voice low and hesitant. "But my co-worker —her name is Claire— destroyed them but nothing can be done because of her dad’s influence on the shop and now she gets to work on her own arrangements and I’m being beckoned to look over the shop because she doesn’t want her—"you make quotation marks with your fingers. “—flow of inspiration be cut.”

Din nods, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Are you still going to compete?”

"I don't know," you say, feeling a sense of frustration bubble up inside of you. "I'm just so agitated right now. And I don't think I'll be able to get everything together in time for the competition even if I tried."

Din's expression turns to one of concern. "You can't give up just because of a shitty co-worker—Sorry for swearing but—" he says adding the second part with haste, his voice laced with a hint of anger. "Your co-worker shouldn't have destroyed your arrangements like that. You have to keep going and not let her hold you back."

Before you can say anything he raises his hand, his brows furrowed.

“I’ll help you,” he says. “We can make it together.”

“W-Wait, what?” you blink in shock. “You would really do that?”

"Of course. Besides It's no problem," he says. "I'm happy to help. And I have a feeling that we're going to make an amazing team." when you stare at him, unsure, he winks and takes another sip of his coffee. “Besides, I owe you for the bouquet.”

You and Din are huddled over a table covered in flowers and supplies, focused on creating the perfect arrangements for the competition. You can feel the tension between you, but it's a good kind of tension. You're both nervous and excited, and you keep stealing glances at each other as you work.

"Okay, so I think we should start with this bouquet of roses," you say, holding up a bundle of deep red flowers. "We can add in some baby's breath for texture, and maybe some fern fronds for a pop of green."

As you reach for a pair of scissors, your hands brush against each other, and you feel a jolt of electricity run through your body. You pull back quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

Din seems to feel it too, and you see a hint of a smile on his lips. "Yeah, that sounds good," he says, his voice low. "I think we should also mix in some of these daisies for a bit of contrast."

You grin at him, trying to play it cool despite the flutter in your chest. "That's a great idea," you say, your voice a bit unsteady. "And we could add in some spiky thistles for a bit of edge."

Din chuckles, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "Thistles? Are you trying to kill me?" he asks, playfully swatting at your hand.

Your laughter fills the air, a melody of joy and surprise. You never expected to get along so well with Din, but the connection between you seems almost magical. As you work side by side, you can't help but wonder if there's something deeper, something that goes beyond. Could it be love blooming between you, like the flowers you tend with such care? The thought makes your heart flutter.

As you gently weave the flowers together, your hands accidentally meet, a spark igniting between you. You gaze into each other's eyes, and in that moment, you feel like the world falls away. You're drawn towards Din, an undeniable pull that makes your lips tingle with anticipation. But just as you lean in, he breaks away, licking his lips and looking uncertain. You withdraw as well, your heart racing, wondering if you were just imagining things.

Just then, Cassian enters the shop, and you introduce him to Din. You mention that Din is Grogu’s father and Cassian’s eyes lit up when he remembers the young boy from the days before.

"I'm so glad to see you two working together," Cassian says. "And I'm happy that you're going to compete in the flower show. I honestly believe you’re the best one to win, "

Cassian heads inside and you turn to Din, explaining to him that the shop has been struggling lately and that the money from the competition could help. You also mention how Claire's father has been causing problems for Cassian, and how you're hoping to find a way to deal with it. The money might help, you add.

Din listens attentively, "I'm here to help in any way I can," he says, squeezing your hand. "We'll figure it out together."

You and Din work on the arrangements. A sense of ease and comfort in each other's company. As you carefully place the flowers in a vase, Din speaks up.

"I haven't felt this way in a long time," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Ever since Grogu's mother passed away, I've been so focused on him that I haven't really allowed myself to think about anything else."

You look at Din, your heart filled with compassion. "I'm so glad that Grogu came into the shop that day," you say, surprised at how soft, and sincere you sound. "I'm glad that we got to meet."

Din smiles at you. "Me too," he says. "I feel like I'm finally starting to come back to life."

You both continue working on the arrangements, you're falling for Din, and you can tell that he feels the same way—At least, you hope that he does.

When the two of you are finally done, you glance at one another. But just as you're lost in each other's gaze, Din trips and falls, his arms flailing as he tries to catch himself. You try to catch him too, but he ends up pulling you down with him, and the two of you tumble to the ground in a heap.

You both lay there, laughing and trying to catch your breath.

“Whoops,” he says, his hands secured on your hips. “Are you okay?”

“Vey much so,” you grin. “What did you even trip on?”

“I honestly have no idea,”

-Din gathers his things and gets ready to leave, you walk him to the door. The air outside is cold and crisp, and the snow is falling gently from the sky. You breathe in the winter air, relishing in the crispness of it.

"The competition is tomorrow morning," you say, your voice filled with anticipation. "I just wanted to thank you again for all your help. I couldn't have done it without you."

Din smiles at you, his eyes shining with warmth. "It was my pleasure," he says. "I'm just glad I could be of help."

As he turns to leave, you feel like he’s slipping from your fingers, for some reason you’re convinced that if he leaves now you’ll never see him again. You're not ready for him to go—With a boldness that surprises even you, you lean forward and give him a quick peck on the cheek.

The touch of your lips on his skin sends shivers down your spine. Din's eyes widen in surprise, and he licks his lips nervously.

"I-I should go," he stammers, fingers brushing where you kissed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing at the door, your heart racing with excitement and anticipation for what the future might bring.

The morning air is crisp and invigorating as you and Cassian make your way to the competition.

Your senses are overwhelmed by the sight and smell of all the beautiful flowers on display when you enter the room. You see rows of vibrant bouquets and intricate arrangements, each one more stunning than the last.

Your eyes wander across the seats, feeling slightly disappointed when you don’t see Din there. You had hoped that he would be here with Grogu, but it seems like he got preoccupied with something else.

Despite this, you refuse to let it get you down. You focus on your own arrangements, determined to give it your all. You can see Claire setting up her flowers on the other side of the room, a smug smile on her face. You can't wait to show her that you're not going to be held back by her petty actions.

The judges slowly make their way around the room, you feel your nerves start to build. Claire looks at you with annoyance as the judges approach her table, and you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction as you watch her fidget nervously.

The judges finally reach your table, you hold your breath and watch as they carefully inspect your arrangements. You can't gather anything from their expressions, but you try to keep a positive attitude. You glance over at Cassian when one of them reaches out and touches one of the roses, he gives you a reassuring thumbs up. You feel your chest tighten with hope and anticipation as the judges move on to the next table.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the judges make their way back to the front of the room to announce the winners. You cross your fingers and hold your breath as the first-place prize is announced.

As the judges are about to speak, you see Din and Grogu slip into the room and take a seat next to Cassian. Din catches your eye and gives you a smile, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room disappears and it's just the two of you. Your heart races as Din's piercing gaze meets yours, and the air between you crackles with electricity.

You can feel your body responding to Din's presence, you can't help but be drawn to him. His rugged features and piercing eyes captivate you, and you can't help but wonder what it would be like to feel his lips pressed against yours, to be enveloped in his embrace. The judges' voices fade into the background as you are lost in a haze of possibility and hope, knowing that, with Din by your side, anything is possible.

But before you can fully process this moment, the judges announce the winner. When they announce your name, the crowd cheers and you feel every muscle in your body going limp with shock, your lips parting wide with a sharp gasp. But as you accept your prize and look back up, you see that Din has vanished, leaving Grogu holding Cassian's hand. Cassian, understand what you’re asking immediately, points towards the door.

You quickly make your way toward the exit, when you step outside, the cold winter air bites at your skin, but you hardly notice. You're too focused on the man in front of you, the one who has captured your heart and your soul.

Din stands before you, his eyes shining with pride and love. "I'm so happy for you," he says, his voice filled with emotion. "You deserve this victory."

“I couldn't have done it without you,”

“Do you think I have a career in flower arrangements?”

You chuckle, lips curved as you gaze at him, “Maybe, you want me to put in the word to Cassian?”

Much to your surprise, he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his body. Din teases you to look up by wiggling his eyebrows. Confused, you look up only to see that he's holding a sprig of mistletoe over your head, a hint of crimson on his cheeks.

"A bit lame, I know," he says, trying to play it cool. "But I couldn't think of anything else to do."

You grin at Din, every nerve in your body singing with delight. You can't resist the opportunity to show him just how much he means to you. You lean in and give him a soft, lingering kiss, feeling his strong arms wrap around you as he returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.

Din seems a bit surprised at first, but then he holds you tight and the two of you stand there in each other's embrace, the world around you melting away. You feel like you're floating on air, lost in the magic of the moment.

Eventually, you reluctantly pull back, your lips still tingling with the memory of the kiss. You can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, feeling giddy and lightheaded with happiness. You've always been a bit of a romantic, and Din seems to have caught on to that. You can't wait to see what the future holds for the two of you. With Din by your side, anything seems possible.

#pedrostoriesgift22 #pedrostories #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x f!reader #modern!din #flowershop au #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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whatsnewalycat · 11 months

Text

Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places.

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not.

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars.

Anyway, Rule #3.

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, “Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?”

“I’ll take some water.”

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?”

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.”

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?”

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it.

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets.

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you.

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips.

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile.

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.”

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?”

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.”

“And how long you been doin’ this?”

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?”

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth.

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.”

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?”

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?”

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative.

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush.

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back.

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar.

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.”

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.”

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?”

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take.

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?”

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.”

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?”

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area.

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway.

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga.

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker.

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?”

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?”

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.”

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy.

“I’ll take it.”

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8.

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack.

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well.

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border.

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?”

The dog tilts his head in response.

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat.

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles.

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?”

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both.

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment.

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter.

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag.

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?”

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.”

“Need anything else before ya go?”

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?”

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee.

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges.

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.”

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?”

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.”

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.”

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.”

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out.

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.”

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile.

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life.

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.”

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens.

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?”

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.”

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests.

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement.

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion.

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?”

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.”

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault.

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave.

He waves back.

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves.

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks.

RULE #2: Listen to your gut.

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?”

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step.

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.”

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?”

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance.

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction.

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement.

Not just your boots.

His, too.

They get closer with every beat.

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there.

That moment is enough to blind you.

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid.

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist.

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!”

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders.

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward.

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl.

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate.

[ Next Chapter ]

#passenger #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #trucker!din djarin au #modern day au #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian au #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic

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spacecowboyhotch · 1 year

Text

summary: you’re a cowboy like me.

pairing: cowgirl!reader x cowboy!din djarin

contents: 18+ content, loneliness, alcohol mention, smoking mention, typical Wild West violence & values (light torture, murder, stealing), pining if you squint

word count: 2.6k

an: the urge to write real recognizes real as the summary was strong. just a heads up that these two are NOT GOOD PEOPLE. they aren’t honorable or heroic and some of this will be pretty fucked up. with that being said, here is the first chapter! honestly i’m so excited to share this with y’all, let me know what ya think!

series masterlist | writing masterlist

Being a nomad of sorts has its perks, or at least that’s how you’ve always framed it. You’re slippery as a snake, sliding in and out of rich folks' lives just when they start to thinking you’ll be sticking around. It gets you a hoard of benefits; weapons and supplies for the never-ending road, bonds to sell, and stacks of money to hold you over as you sneak into the quiet of the night. You do your best to leave on decent terms— especially if you can imagine returning to some of these places— but some just can’t understand the way you live. You’ve learned to live with their disappointment.

Your life has been days and days of being misunderstood, what’s another?

It’s not the easiest way to live by any means and at times when the night is too cold or the afternoons too hot you wish that you could settle down like others do. But you are wiser than that. If you were to settle down somewhere, that loneliness that only rears its head every blue moon would become a daily occurrence. Yes, this life can be lonely, but at least there is some semblance of connection you find in learning someone so well that you wiggle into their heart. Charm takes intimacy, and you’re only equipped to handle that on a one-way street. The bridge to your heart crumbled and collapsed with the loss of your family, what feels like eons ago. From that moment on, this wandering shell of a person is who you became.

You’re settled just on the outskirts of a quiet, quaint town named Strawberry. There’s a little rundown shack near a stretch of wood that’s perfect for your party of one. Your first stop after securing the shack and leaving a few things behind is getting a hot meal at the saloon. There’s only so much foraged produce and rice cakes a person can live on before the belly craves more.

It’ll also give you a chance to scope things out— more specifically the people that seem to be in need of lightening their pockets from the tricks up your sleeve. This saloon is tinier than the ones you have been to before, but the mouthwatering scent of garlic and various herbs is mixed with cigarette smoke and the rowdy sound of nightly celebrations and poker chips. There’s a variety of folks here, women and men of all kinds, helpful in making sure you don’t stick out as you survey the place.

From what you’ve seen so far of the town it’s aptly named, the folks are sweet and welcoming. The guilt that used to sit in your heart about conning people like this has faded. You’re surviving, do what you can and must. It’s nothing personal, just the way life goes. But you do go out of your way to go for assholes, and the rich of the rich. Sometimes you even give back. There’s some semblance of honor you live by, even if it’s not much.

It's just a week later that things change— life changes, your path unknowingly transforming in just a matter of seconds. Because the moment you meet him, you know he’s the one.

Not like in those cheesy, bullshit stories girls at every saloon fawn over. Not like the love your mother and father used to spew, the love that was so genuine but as you grew felt more and more unattainable. But like you’ve always wanted— like you’ve convinced yourself you can handle.

He can be your partner, he can make this life a little bit easier.

A partner would make this game easier for you. As a woman in the West, the target on your back was bigger than the noon sun. No level of mastery can make being a woman less dangerous. But, with a man on your side? That could open doors you hadn’t dared try to rattle.

And him? Well when he’d asked you to dance, you were sure he was the one. Mostly because he hadn’t truly asked, partially because of the bright mischievousness in his dark brown eyes. How could his eyes show you the future with a color so deep? Contradictory pulled you in. He could do the impossible and that was exactly what you needed.

He walks in and right up to you, tipping his hat before removing it and placing it on the bar. His head is a mop of messy black hair, his mouth full and soft despite what you can imagine is a rough lifestyle. His hands speak to it, calloused and dry and strong. With broad shoulders and an expansive chest, he’s attractive, it’s impossible to deny it. But that’s as far as you’ll let yourself go, you must think about his ability, about his skills and practicality.

You can tell he’s airish, smoother than the finest leather money could buy. He’s you, but better. You’re good at what you do, and you take pride in it, but there’s something about him that just says he’s better. His competence hangs in the air and the way he holds himself.

His voice is soft, but firm, full of confidence, “Dance with me, girl.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “Depends on what sort of dancin’ you’re looking for, boy.”

His expression stays stiff besides his eyes that somehow glow even brighter at your quip. “The kind where you put one foot in front of the other. Sway a little.”

“That’s not something I’m lookin’ for.”

His mouth twitches ever so slightly, “Don’t I know it.”

“Then why’d you ask?” You question, brows knitting together.

“How else was I gonna catch your attention? Been here the entire week and you haven’t even given me a glance.”

“Seems you’ve caught me at a disadvantage then…”

“Folks call me Djarin. You can call me Din.”

You wince, shaking your head at him like he’s just committed some sin. In the world that you live in, he practically has.

“That your real name?”

“You think I’m lyin’?”

“I’m sure you have some idea what I think about you. But what makes me so special, Din?” You challenge, tilting your head at him.

He shrugs– as nonchalant as ever as he says, “Takes one to know one.”

Try as you might, you can’t hold back the laugh that rises in your throat, “You’re callin’ yourself special?”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash at your mockery— not only has he seen plenty in his day but he can see you down to your core, knowing you don’t mean it. Knowing you see him just the same. “Don’t you think so?”

You can’t argue with that. Instead of saying anything, you throw back the rest of your drink, nodding your head towards the bartender as if to ask Din if he wants a drink of his own.

You and Din don’t dance, and it’s he who ends up buying you a drink. Din clearly isn’t much of a talker but the space that settles between you feels surprisingly…comfortable. The two of you sip and watch the happenings of the saloon, no doubt searching for any possible targets to sink your claws into. There are a few that catch your eye, though there’s one man in particular, clearly drunk and full of himself by the way he won’t leave some of the women alone even after they say no. That coupled with the way he flashes his belt buckle one too many times makes him perfect. You know solid gold when you see it, and just like that he’s on your list.

When he finishes his drink he leans in, voice so quiet you have to lean in too to hear him. His voice is deep, smooth like honey in your ear, “Tomorrow mornin’, meet me on the outskirts of town. The west side near that little quarry. You know it?”

“Yeah, I know it. What’s there?” You ask curiously.

“You’ll see. Just before dawn,” Is all he says before placing a few bills on the bar and leaving.

Soon after you take your own leave, saddling up on your horse and heading back to your shack. Before you slip into slumber, you realize that he never asked you for your name. You’d lie to him even if he asks, a rule of the trade— one he’d broken for you, though you won’t let yourself look too much into that. But until then, you suppose you’ll both be satisfied with mystery.

Sleep is easy and peaceful, filled with dreams of two horses walking down a long winding path to a hidden lake amidst a lush garden. They drink and lounge there for what feels like a sweet eternity.

A summer morning can be many things but this one is damp and muggy– the heat oppressive. The sound of cicadas and early morning birds fill the air despite the sun’s slumber. When you wake you wash in the nearby river before dressing in a lightweight button-down and jeans, ditching the jacket that kept you warm at night. You head to the spot Din had told you about.

You would be lying if you weren’t wary— some random man telling you to meet in a location he’s chosen the night after meeting him is a risky game. But you’re fully armed, even your hunting rifle slung along your shoulders instead of stowed on your horse. Dutiful Augustine. She never disappoints.

The first thing that you notice when Din comes into view is that he’s not alone. There’s a man restrained on the ground and by the way he’s laid, you know he’s unconscious.

Is this what he called you here for?

Din takes one last drag of his cigarette as you approach, flicking it and snuffing the rest of its ember out with his boot.

“You showed,” His expression is tame as before but you can hear the warmth in his voice. It makes your tummy tingle.

“Did you doubt me?” You ask playfully, dismounting your horse.

“Not one bit.”

You bite away your smile, pointing at the man who’s lying on the ground, “Who’s this?”

“A present.” He says simply. At your raised brow, Din removes the cover from the man’s head. “You were eyeing him last night weren’t you?”

The smile that spreads across your face is brighter than the rising sun and Din’s heart flutters.

“I was. How’d you know?”

“We’re the same, ain’t we?”

There’s him reading your mind again. You’re playing it safe, not wanting to get your hopes up or let your guard down so you shrug, training your eyes on the man who’s knocked out and typed up in front of you.

“Wake him.”

Din takes his canteen from his horse and douses the man in water until he sputters awake.

The man takes in his surroundings quickly, panic in his eyes, “L-Look, I don’t want no trouble. Anything you two want you can have.”

You stoop down in front of the man, smoothing the wet hair in his face back, “Well, aren’t you a gentleman today. Last night, now that’s a different story.”

You see the moment the man recognizes you from the saloon. He shakes his head, glancing up at Din as if he’ll be some savior.

“No, no, look at her,” Din says firmly.

The grin on your face widens at his deferrence and your eyes meet his briefly before you look at the man again. “What’s your name?”

“Kurt.”

“Kurt?” Din repeats, disgusted. It almost makes you want to giggle, but you focus on the task at hand.

“Where do you live, Kurt?”

“In Strawberry,” The man says begrudgingly.

Your brows raise at the man’s sass given his current predicament,“Well, I imagined that since you were in the saloon last night.”

“You don’t live here and you were there.”

You reach out, gripping his chin with a firm grip that makes him struggle with the restraints, “Did I say you should speak on me and where I live?

“N-no.”

“Good, then we’re on the same page. Now— where do you live Kurt?”

“Listen, my brother lives there you can’t just—“

Before Kurt can finish his sentence you slap him across the face, hard enough that when he looks at you once more there’s blood in the corner of his mouth. You reach to your hip, hand resting on the hilt of the knife you have sheathed there and Kurt’s eyes go wide.

“You’re mouthy,” You say, displeasure obvious in your voice.

“T-three houses down from the saloon. To the left if you’re facing it.”

You look up at Din, raising a brow at him.

He shakes his head, kicking the man in the back, “Wasn’t the way you were walking last night.”

Through a cry of pain, Kurt tries to rationalize with the two of you, “I was drunk, why d’ya think it was so easy for you to get me?”

“Shit-talking my partner and a liar? You’ve got plenty of nerve for a man at my mercy.”

Din shifts on his feet, his heart fluttering in his chest again at the sound of you calling him his partner. The two of you haven’t discussed a lick of anything. He was right about you— he knew he would be. His eyes are glued to your face, drinking in every sadistic expression that graces your features, every harsh word that comes from your mouth. He’s enamored.

“No, I swear, that’s the house.”

“Kurt. It’s early. Do you see?” You grip his jaw, turning his head towards the light that peaks over the horizon. “The sun is just rising. It is early— I hate getting up early, don’t I, Djarin?”

“She does.”

“And now, you’re making this early mornin’ worse by lying to us. You think that’s wise?”

“I’m not lyin’!”

“I don’t like it when people force my hand, Kurt. I value making my own decisions but look at you, you’ve done it.” You slip the knife from the sheath, pressing it to the column of his throat. “Tell me which house, and we’ll make this fast.”

Kurt’s seen your faces, there’s no way that you could let him live, even if part of you wanted to. This’ll be the test. You know that Din won’t fail, you knew that moment you laid your eyes on him. But, if there’s nothing your daddy taught you, it’s to be thorough. Din is a man after all, and all men fall short at one time or another.

“Wait a minute now— wait just one minute—“

“Shhhh, everything’s just fine, yeah? The house, Kurt, focus,” Your voice is kind, sweet and smooth despite the force you use to press the knife against his skin.

Kurt’s shoulders drop in defeat as he murmurs, “It’s the one across from the general store.”

“See, s’all I wanted,” You take the knife away from his throat before looking up at Din who gives you a slow, understanding nod.

“Now all y’all need to do is untie me, I swear to God I won’t tell a soul. And I don’t swear on God, I don’t take the Lord's name in vain.”

“I believe you, Kurt. I really do.” You pat the man on the cheek before standing. “Din.”

As you back away, Din steps forward, sliding his gun out of his holster. Kurt begs and pleads, he pulls on his restraints and even tries to crawl away despite the way his legs are tied together. Din doesn’t let him get far, not wanting to give him any hope or waste anymore time on the man. Neither of your horses flinch or make a sound when the gun goes off. Neither do either of you.

He bends to take the shining belt buckle from the man’s hips, holding it out to you as he asks, “How ‘bout we go check out his homestead?”

You nod, take the buckle from his hand and slide it into the sack on your horse, “Lead the way forward.”

ch. 2: like it could be love

taglist: @honeybrowne, @hotchs-bitch, @jazzelsaur, @lesbianhotch, @ivyheliotrope, @campingwiththecharmings, @frogers, @juneknight

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian x reader #cowboy din djarin #the mandalorian au #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #arson writes mando #gardens of babylon

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netherfeildren · 4 months

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter X : Geryon

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Angst; Lemme say it again for those in the back, ANGST; Hurt/Comfort; Din's kinda being an asshole but he's hot and his dick is 10 inches long and he's also sorry; Dark themes from previous chapters continue

A/N: Hello and surprise and I'm sorry. I promise one day *ONE DAY* they will be happy again!!!

Geryon is my favorite figure in Greek mythology :) He is a very special monster to me :)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER X : GERYON

Who can a monster blame for being red?

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

He’s been pacing back and forth across the hull of the Razor Crest, the metallic jilting song of his heavy gait, the clank, clank, clank, threatening to lull you back into unconsciousness. There should be no comfort to be found in this moment, and yet, just the sound of him is enough for a measure of peace. You can’t believe you’re here right now, lying in your pile of blankets as if no time had passed at all. His anxious pacing stirring you back into wakefulness, your head all muddied and muffled, your ears seeming to pop into a pressurized silence and then ebb back into clarity.

You feel, suddenly, that you’re more tired than you’ve ever been in your entire life. A bone deep tiredness after a life that’s been too long and too heavy for someone who is, for all intents and purposes, so young.

He whips around at the sound of your voice, snapping forward to loom over you, voice deep with the intent to intimidate, maybe even hurt. “How did you know about him?” He demands without preamble, picking up right where the two of you had left off before you’d stupidly fainted from pain and exhaustion. You shiver and shrink back into the blankets, pressing the tips of your fingers against your mouth to stifle the too loud hiccup of your breathing. You’re not going to be afraid of him, he doesn’t deserve that.

You try to gather yourself, swallowing the bitter nausea that sits heavy on your tongue and push yourself up into a sitting position on shaky, weak arms as he falls with a heavy thud to kneel before you, spits your name, sharp and angry, quickly losing patience. “Who told you about him? What have you heard?” You hold out a warning palm as he leans forward, trying to bully you into compliance with the urgency of his tone.

“Don’t touch–” you warn, and then all soft, helpless hurt and accusation, “You have a son?” And you wish your voice didn’t sound as it does, like a child begging for the truth to not be what it already is, and you won’t cry, you’ve already promised yourself you wouldn’t, but your mind is so weary, your heart so vacant, it’s hard to remember the things you have and have not promised, the things you should and should not do.

“Who told you? You promised you wouldn’t ever rifle through my head, and I swear to the Maker–”

“I can sense him in you,” you snap. “I haven’t been rifling through anything! You’re so annoying. And get back–” you bare your teeth at him in a tiny snarl, nose scrunched with the exertion it takes to push a weak tendril of the Force against his chest and shove him back just barely. If there were a well within you, measured by the will of your strength and power, the Force, it would be bone barren dry right now.

He’d gone and had a child, a son, without you. He’d left you, or let you leave him, what did the details matter anymore – and he’d had a child with someone.

He snatches you up by the elbow, dragging you towards him, weak and shapeless as you are, barely any strength to hold yourself up, much less defend yourself, and his grip is tight enough, punishing enough, that you know it’s meant to cause pain. Harsher than he’d ever handled you before, on the verge of hurting you in a very real way. And after everything that’d been done to you… you’re like a raw, scalded nerve, nowhere left to touch that isn’t covered in hurt. Every inch of your skin screams in pain, and you swallow your moan of agony, trying to suppress your animal sounds. His other hand comes up to grip your jaw, stopping you from twisting away and squeezing the frame of your face so tight in his strong fingers, you feel your bones creak. “Explain. Now.”

“Please, Din,” Please, don’t touch me. “I can– I can sense him– inside you,” you gasp. “He’s strong. He – he has the Force?” You shake your head in his grip, brow folding in on itself, trying to make sense of what it is you’re feeling, the confusing amalgamation of Din and the Force and memories of something, someone young and innocent and pure beyond imagination. Like a well of the Force, of greater depth and strength than you’ve ever encountered before, but viewed, or felt through the veil of his memory, from afar. “You– you still carry him with you.” A child, his child. A little boy, the picture gains clarity in your mind, and then more confusion, as if there were a block in his mind, some protective encasement that keeps the truth of his precious secret safely guarded.

His hands tighten around the curve of your jaw, jerking your face up to force your eyes to look right at him, and he holds you trapped there for one breathless moment, his gaze like this is worse than any torture you’ve endured thus far, burning but hidden, and then the miniscule shift of the helmet, and you feel the light brush of a single finger against the gem of your earring, and you think: It’s so scary out there. Do you recognize me? We used to know each other.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Look how strong you’ve become,” you say by way of an answer through your smooshed cheeks and clenched teeth Like an insult more than anything else. “Whatever it was that was done to me… something far worse has happened to you. The great Mandalorian, come to save the poor little Sith, huh?”

His fingers dig into the tender skin of your cheeks, your upper throat, harder, hard enough to squeeze a moan out of you before he’s shoving you back with a revolted scoff, pressing up to his feet to pace away from you again. You’d told him once you didn’t like it when he treated you like this, roughly, all that time ago, and he’d always remembered before now, had always measured himself, but it seemed that two years was long enough for him to forget this.

“You are not a Sith,” he reminds you without turning back, that reminder that he knows what you truly are, perhaps, even better than you yourself know, and you panic for one second that you’ll vomit. But then he gentles: “There’s blood on your earring,” and you sag forward, trying to breathe slowly through your mouth, stretching your eyes as wide open as they’ll go, forcing yourself not to blink so that the tears brimming there won’t fall. I hate you, you mouth the words silently down into the blankets, unsure who it is you’re directing them at.

“You’re going to tell me where the fuck you’ve been,” he says, turning back to pace towards you, hands on his hips, the snap of his cloak as he whips away again, as if he can only stand to look at you for so long. “And what in the Maker’s wrong with you?” He continues. “Did you get into a fight or something?”

You shake your head slowly down at the weave of the blankets. They’re the same ones from before, he’d kept them, and you are so sad and scared and terrible, and when you lift your head back up to look at him, standing just there looking so defeated and suddenly so singularly powerless… You can’t remember what the point of all this was supposed to have been.

“I’ve been here,” you say, for the truth is the only thing left to you now.

“On Corellia?”

“Yes.”

“And you… you can sense him on me?” And his voice has gone suddenly soft, suddenly quiet. A father speaking of his child with care, even in the tone used to address him. All the fight’s gone now, and that tiredness sets in deep where the spirit meets the bone.

You nod, full of so much grief, unbelief that the two of you are here again together, swallowing the gasp that wants to force its way out of you, but you surely can’t help the seeping of it, for there is so much held within your heart when you say up at him with those infernal tears so close to falling: “You had a son with someone?”

He whips back around, pacing finally come to a pause. “With someone? What? N– no. No.” He shakes his head furiously, rushing back towards you, falling back to his knees so that you’re pressing yourself back and away from him. “No, cyar’ika. No. He was a foundling. I– He was a bounty, but along the way he– he became…” He shakes his head again, and you watch the tightening of his fingers around the cap of his knee, the creak of the leather of his gloves as he wrangles his restraint into control, trying not to reach for you. Please, don’t touch. Please, don’t touch. If he takes you in hand, if he puts his hands on you in gentleness or care, you’ll lose. You don’t know how, but you know you’ll be lost. But perhaps the battle is already lost, for when he says, “I would never do that to you. Never with anyone else but you,” it doesn’t matter if he’s touched you or not, the hole in the ground, the two years, the endless, endless darkness and the pleas for something worse, for end or a quiet that doesn’t stop, none of that matters anymore because the battle is lost here and now in this moment.

Your breath comes in painful, sharp pants. The icy air gusting out of the ship's vents turns your breath to hurt in your lungs. You shake your head at him, trying to swallow the barren dryness in your throat away. “You should have.” And you don’t mean to hurt him worse than you already have when you say it. You don’t mean to hurt either one of you. These are words only of sincerity. “That’s what I left you for, so that you could have that.” But you miss the way they’d pulled your bones from your skin as you say it anyways. A terrible lie wrapped in the hopeful intention of truth.

“I would never.” You can imagine he’d used this same tone of voice when he’d sworn his Creed as a child. All staunch honor and unwavering conviction.

You whip your head away at that, unable to bear the sight of him, the sound of him. Even if you want to smell him more than anything. To bury your nose in the crevice between helmet and cowl and inhale deeply right there where the scent of his warmth and sweat and skin is the most concentrated. “Well that’s what I wanted. What couldn’t you understand about me leaving you? You should’ve made your own life. Forgotten me.” Snakelike and spitting and full of venom.

“Is that what you did? Forget? How? Tell me. Tell me so that I might remember for next time.” He stands to pace away again, slow measured steps now. Chewing on a thought, thinking, thinking, and then a death dealing sort of blow when he says, “I could have. I could’ve had all that, you know… There was a woman,” and his voice wavers.

So many terrible things in a terrible, terrible life. You close your eyes to it, accept, even now already, that this is how it should be. You think of your time in your beloved hole, all of your choices that lead you there to such a terrible fate, your time with him, so lovely and so full of light. To have been granted the opportunity to love and be loved, even if you’d never said it, it was the greatest gift the Maker had ever granted you. Such a recompense after everything you’d suffered. The death of your parents, a childhood alone and enslaved and abused, that moment when you’d finally put blade against the only terrible father you’d ever known, the creature who’d put you in chains and ensnared you to this dark fate, master and father and monster all in one, even that had been painful, the taking of your so fiercely desired freedom. And so this now… worse than all the rest, but you’ll accept it too. This is what he deserves. This is why you had let yourself be put away.

“There was a woman,” he says again, voice unsure, uncomfortable. Almost like he doesn't want to, but feels he must. “A time back– we were on Sorgan, and she wanted me… she wanted me.” And he says your name again, softly this time like an apology. “To be with her, to stay with her and her daughter. She wanted us to be a family and I– I considered it… for a moment. What that would be like, to have someone want me to stay with them. To want to make an end with me.” He shakes his head down at you again, from his great height and you break. Fuck acceptance. A condescending sigh and, “You ruined that for me too. You wouldn’t let me, your memory, you wouldn’t let me be with her.”

“I hate you,” you spit through clenched teeth. You wish you had the strength right now to get up and fight him.

“That’s fine. That’s your right. It doesn’t change the fact that she wanted me to be with her, and that I thought about it for one brief, delusional moment,” He sounds like he’s laughing through the modulator, “And then just… couldn’t. I couldn’t, cannot even fathom staying for anyone else that isn’t you.” And the laugh fizzles out into a crack. “How does that make you feel? Powerful?... Over me. Does it make you feel like you have power over me? Like you own me? Like I belong to you?” Now tears, perhaps, like he’d cry if you gave him the chance. Like you’ve hurt him enough to drive him to that. The nausea is back. The need for violence is back. The fucking fire in your back and your skin and all over… why, why did you let them do so much to you? You’d been so stupid. It’d all been such a terrible mistake. You should have never let him go.

“No.” You won’t cry. You won’t cry. “It doesn’t make me feel powerful.”

He suddenly seems to lose all strength. Falling back into a crouch, his knees folding in under him, the clash of the armor against the durasteel floor sharp as a cracking bone.

“Because you do– own me, that is. You do.” And he says it so simply. Like it’s the basest thing in the galaxy, as simple a thing as the birth of new life, the birth of a star, a black hole sucking an entire planet and all life into nothingness, death. Things that are really not simple or base at all.

So you shake your head, refute his truth. “I don’t. I don’t want to – I let you go.”

“But you didn’t. Don’t you fucking see that?” And his voice is gentle, but he slams his fist against the steel floor all incongruous rage, and it echoes and rings between the two of you, his violence. “You didn’t let me go, you only took yourself away from me– left me chained.”

“What was she like?” You cut him off, an envious, ravenous thing all tinged the hue of bile – something poisoned, churning within you. “Was she beautiful? Was she kind? Was she good? All the things you could ever want a woman to be? Would she have promised to stay forever?”

“She wasn’t you.” And oh, how you hate him in this moment. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. This is guilt, this is punishment, this is retribution of the cosmic sort. Something from the Maker sent to remind you that she who sins shall be made to atone. But haven’t I atoned enough? Haven’t I paid my pound of flesh? This man and that soft heart is your punishment for all you’ve done.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you tell him because there is nothing else to tell. Because it’s the truth, and you are, you’re so sorry that he couldn’t find someone else, someone better, kinder, more alive. And then, because if a thing’s going to hurt, it should hurt all the way, a glutton for punishment but a coward for consequences you ask: “Did you fuck her?”

“I didn’t kiss her.” Consequences. You bare your teeth at him, an approximation of a hiss and a snarl and a howl of grief so ragged it rips through your throat. Folding in on yourself like a dying star you turn your face away, trying to gather yourself and get away from the sight of him.

“I hate you,” you spit the lie again, again and again as many times as necessary until it becomes truth. “I fucking hate you. You should’ve stayed lost, you should’ve gotten sucked into a blackhole for all I care, you fucking asshole. You stupid metal beast! You should have died out there, left me to rot anything, anything but this,” you heave.

“I could’ve had a family.” And you want to ask him why he’s doing this to you. To tell him you don’t deserve such cruelty. But you know that isn’t true.

“Then you should’ve fucking stayed with her.”

“I wish I could have. Instead, I waited for you… I looked for you.”

Blow after blow, and perhaps, you think, this is not cruelty after all, but necessity. There had always been so much left unsaid between the two of you before. Perhaps, it’s finally time only for honesty. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me,” eyes cast down at your hand twisted in the blanket, voice small and pitiful. You have new scars there now, faint and glimmering like cobwebs beneath your skin. They’d wanted to see how much it’d take to leave a mark for good. They’d found their answer.

“You didn’t–” He scoffs, hands braced against his knees he shoves up again and turns in a directionless circle, all coiled tension and so much rage with nowhere to go but the pitiful sac of girl shaped tragedy littering the floor of his ship. He brings both hands up to clutch the curve of his helmet. “You didn’t ask me to? I didn’t fucking ask for this either.” He turns back to shout at you, a real shout this time. One so full of anger it makes you flinch. “You think this is what I wanted? To wait for someone who abandoned me out of pure selfish fear? No. No, it’s not what I wanted either. But how was I supposed to forget?” He asks. “Hm? Tell me. How was I supposed to let it all go? Tell me how you did it, and I’ll go and do the same since you’ve been so successful. Tell me how you did it and I’ll–”

You surge forward on your palms, teeth bared. “I trapped myself in a hole in the ground until I forgot my own name and still I wasn’t able to forget you.”

“What?”

“Oh?” You coo at him, eyes going all wide, you bat your lashes at him mockingly. Your shoulder suddenly feels like it’s about to pop out of its own socket with the way you’re bracing yourself on your arms. “What? You weren’t expecting that?” You sit back slowly, bones creaking. “To know while you were off fucking someone else, wishing for a family, I was trapped in a grave having my skin pulled from my body over and over and–”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m leaving.” You try and push yourself up, clawing at the walls to pull yourself to rights by your fingernails. “I hate you,” you say again, and again you don’t know which of the two of you it is you’re talking to.

He sneaks up behind you, taking you in hand by the elbow again, Maker, your shoulder, and whipping you around to face him, clutching your other bicep to pull you up onto your tip toes and to his level. “What are you talking about?”

You let your weight go heavy and sagging in his grip, head falling back on your neck to look up at him, and he plants his feet firmly apart, locking his arms so that he’s bearing your weight entirely. He gives you a tiny jostle. “You’re exactly as I am, you know? We’ve always been the same. A creature in a mask.”

He’s quiet for a second, confused. His chin tipping to one side and then the other. You know he’s reading you for what you’re worth in this moment, which you must admit is very little. “Is that what this was all about? The whole time? My face?” Your heart goes colder than ice, and you’re glad he’s bearing your weight for you. You think, suddenly, that you’d not have been able to remain upright on your own.

“N– no. No. I don’t care about that. I let it go years ago.”

“Let it go?”

“No. I mean–” Stupid. “Nothing.” Tongue muddled, caught. Terrible.

“But it was something? Then? Answer me.” He jerks you again, harder this time so that your teeth click together.

You shake your head no, but say, “Would you have been okay with it? If it had been you, the one kept in the dark.” Always the dark, again and again. “Would you have been okay never really knowing who I was?”

“You know me, cyar’ika.”

“Don't call me that.”

“You’re the only person in the entire galaxy who ever has.” And his touch is gentle and cradling now, supportive in a different way.

“Would you have been okay with it?” You ask again stubbornly.

“Do you think–”

“You say I’m the one that can’t ever give a straight answer, but you’re just as bad!”

“Do you think,” he repeats more forcefully, talking over you, “That your very first night on the Crest, when I gave you my name, when you told me you could see inside my mind, that I would have stayed had I not understood the reality of what it was we were getting into? What I was getting into? That there was that possibility. You told me, don’t you remember? That you could’ve looked any time. You’ve always had me in the palm of your hand, and I’ve always wanted to be just there.” His thumb starts to move gently up and down the inner slope of your bicep, it’s the first soft touch you’ve felt in two years.

And it was something you’d always known. Of course. The most obvious thing between the two of you, besides the love. You bring your hand up slowly, pinching the lip of the helmet between your thumb and forefinger, tremulous and terrified, you pull him down slowly so that the hard curve meets your forehead in a soft press. The two of you are so still for a moment, shivering, but still. Soaking up the proximity of something so necessary for survival after going so long without. “I should have never left, but a thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts. And I am more sorry than you will ever be able to know. For all of it.”

“Tell me what happened,” he whispers, voice smooth and deep, fathomless through the modulator. You close your eyes and think of the warm cave, the pool of water, the feel of this man that you love moving inside of you, using his body to translate all he’d felt for you with his touch. You think of the amazing ability people have to hurt those they love in ways no one else possesses. It is a cruel realization the business of loving someone brings about, the reality that to truly hurt someone, you must truly know them, and that to know is to love.

“I was taken. Put in a very dark place. Hurt. They tried to make me forget, and I could not help but remember. It was all such a terrible mistake, Din. I made a terrible mistake.”

“Taken? Taken where? By who?” Voice full of panic and urgency. Everything you never wanted him to know. He brings one hand to his mouth, pulling the glove away by the edge of his teeth, and you follow it with your eyes as he lets it fall away, slowly, the dull thud of leather hitting steel, and then his skin, his skin on your face. He cups your cheek in the palm of his hand, and it’s two years of heartache and a terrible noise coming from either one of you, an animal dying or coming to life, something painful and raw. He holds you so gently, and you let so many terrible things happen and now what will the two of you do? How will he ever look at you after he knows everything you’ve done?

Everything you’ve ever done. Your eyes shift upwards again, the black transparisteel T-visor. That last, eternal barrier. That haunting flash of beskar in your mind, buried deep, come to the surface.

“A grave. Zealots. Servants of the Dark side.” You bring your hand up, run a slow, gentle finger along the edge of dark protecting his eyes from you.

“Tell me,” he says gently.

But you shake your head, mouth pursed. Not that. Something else though… “I never looked, you know?”

He knows you mean his face. “Why not?”

“It wasn’t mine to take. Not mine to have. It wasn’t the right time.”

“If there was ever going to be anyone, it would’ve been you.”

“There is one more thing.” Your voice sounds very far away. One of those terrible moments when your life suddenly branches out before you again, and you always know how a thing will end and there was never any other recourse but for the two of you to end up exactly here in this moment from the very first time.

“I killed a Mandalorian once,” you finally, finally tell him. “Many, but there was one worse than all the rest.”

I’ve never met a Mandalorian before, a lie and a truth. You’d never met one you hadn’t killed in the end.

He goes shocked into stiffness, hands rigoring into cold shackles around your arms. They drop from where he grips you. He steps back, and in a way, it is such a relief. The truth you’ve held on the tip of your tongue, the thorn beneath your nail bed for so long, finally come into the light.

“What?”

“Have you– have you ever done something so– so terrible that you regretted instantly? Something you felt in the moment you had no other choice but, and then– and then suddenly clarity sets in, and you realize you could have done everything else but what you’d just done? Wished you could turn back time in that very instant, and go back and change everything?” You press forward to clutch at his cloak, fingers twisting in the coarse fabric to force him to stay with you, but he pulls you away with fingers wrapped around your wrists, steps back again and again.

“I’ve done terrible things–” you whisper, your eyes so wide, terrified of the thing you’re about to confess, of yourself, always, more than anything. “Things that you’d hate me for, if you knew the truth of them. To myself, to others.” You bring your hands up to your throat, wrapping your fingers around yourself there, feeling the patter of your thundering pulse against your palm.

“Tell me,” he says again, and this is the last moment, the last stretch. The end is so near. You will look for relief in this feeling of horror, you decide. Like all other times when you’d been so entrenched in the pain of it all, in fear or loneliness or violence, you’ll look for the relief this confession will grant. Perhaps, absolution will finally be possible by way of confession. Exile, too, surely, afterwards, for you know there’s no way he’ll ever stay with you, look at you, after you tell him of your killing of his people. And you think again, that you have always been a monster, red, but if you’d been given a chance, a choice, then perhaps, you could have served as mantle and protector for a family that had never been afforded to you. You know that he could have been that, that you’ve lost the chance now for good.

“After the fall of the Empire, the Dark and Vader, my master was weak, his acolytes dispersed and felled, their power waning. And for the first time in my life, I saw hope.” Your voice fluttering up with an airy note of that childlike wonder you’d felt in that moment of realization, when you’d recognized what it was you could become in that moment of freedom. “I took it, seized it. I killed him.” You walk backwards, blindly, needing the support of the wall to tell of this. “You know, my first memory is of my master. I can’t even remember my parents anymore. And he was never kind, surely. Never gentle, and caring only in a way that served him. But I belonged to him as any tool, weapon, belongs to a man, and there was something about that, that was meaningful. A child, alone, belonging to someone who would keep them no matter what. Sometimes, I try and remind myself of this, when I think too much on the things he had me do, the things I did for him, sometimes even gladly… I remind myself of this as a way of consolation. What else did I know? What other choice did I have? Death? Perhaps… But strangely, before… or,” You shake your head, your eyes falling closed as you search for the words or answers within yourself, “Strangely, I– I can’t remember when that changed, but it did because I didn’t always want to die. I– I wanted to live, even if it was for him. To please him or serve him or be useful in any way. They hoped to fill me with fear. But fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. And hate… leads to power. I was only ever the thing he wanted me to be in the moment I was powerful enough to defeat him. And you can’t know what that means, to live such a fruitless existence, to have no purpose… it’s terrible. But he finally gave me that in the most terrible and glorious of ways.” You open your eyes again to take him in, Din with the heart of a sun.

“I don’t mean it as an excuse, but– but I think it’s important to remember. That he was ever the only one… it feels that, before I met you, he was the only other person I ever really knew. Only ever him, but then I met you, and then I knew you. And can a girl ever be more animal than girl? I don’t know… but surely if it was possible, then that’s what I was. So when I escaped, when I killed the only father I’d ever known, who was also a monster, yes, but also all I’d ever known, I was more animal than girl in that moment. You understand, Din?” You ask, but he gives no hint that he does, more droid than man now, and so you continue on anyways. “I killed the remainder of his following. I was stronger than them, stronger than him sometimes, and I know he feared that. I escaped to Corellia. The chaos of the planet was easy to hide within, but you must remember, again, I was more animal than anything else at that moment.” You give a short laugh, “I don’t know why all of my tragedy always seems to start and end on that planet. Perhaps, it’s why I keep going back there. And he–” You want to turn away, but force yourself to remain facing him. “He ended up joining me in that tragedy. He tried to help me, the Mandalorian, found me broken and discarded, waiting to die in the gutter like a street rat, entirely unaware of what it was to survive without the guiding hand of someone else.” You’d been so terrified, delirious and confused and reborn again – like an infant, come straight from a hostile and poisoned womb, newly birthed unto the galaxy and left to fend for yourself. Mind and body, savaged, yes, but with a soul that sang and howled with victorious growing pains at your newfound freedom. It had been so long, trapped, so long you’d forgotten the sound of your mother’s voice, the feel of your father’s strong hand on your child softened cheek, but you’d been free then, and you’d thought that even if you were to die like that, in the slums of Corellia, on the street like a pauper, at least you’d die clutching freedom in your hand. And then he’d found you.

“But I had never known help, Din. Never. I couldn’t recognize such a thing. He led me to safety within the city, saw me for what I was, a broken, haggardly thing, perhaps, and he helped me. And once he was done showing me his kindness, I killed him. For no other reason except mistrust and habit. I– I didn’t know there was another recourse, that that wasn't what I had to do. I didn’t know I had other choices besides violence. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed him, Din. I’m sorry I never told you. I’m sorry I am the thing they made me. I’ve tried to be better, I’ve failed bitterly, and I’m sorry.”

You hope he understands that you hadn’t thought before you’d acted, more animal than girl, you’d performed on base instinct. And worse than anything else, he’d had a son, that Mandalorian, like Din does now, and you can still bring forth the memory of the child’s face in your mind even after all this time. You’d seen him as you’d ripped through his father’s mind, pilfered and savaged his memories and left him for dead in a filth strewn, back alleyway. An entire life torn apart in a single moment, and in the very millisecond before his soul had left him, the last thought you’d laid eyes on within his mind had been the image of his own face reflected back at him as he’d seen it earlier that day just before he’d hidden behind the protective helm of his Creed. You’d stolen his future, stolen a child’s father, and desecrated a life’s worth of dedication all in one single foul, unthinking instant. You’d not even given him the dignity of dying with his Creed intact.

After all this time, you still felt that was what made the sin all the worse. That unintentional theft, to openly spit in the face of his benevolence and generosity, an unforgivable thing.

And it would be easy to say that you hadn’t recognized that which he’d been offering – the sight of a merciful and helping hand extended to you without malintent or pretense. That you hadn’t recognized it, and perhaps, it was the truth, but you were sure it didn’t really matter at the end of it. A thing worse than all the death and destruction and pain you’d dolled out in the name of the dark side, that one act was singular in its unencumbered horror for you’d not had the farce of your master's orders to hide behind, the helm of the dark whispering in your ear, stealing you of your choice. This had been wholly your own action, entirely your doing.

The first thing that had ever belonged only to you in your entire life. And strange because during your time as a Sith, you’d undoubtedly killed any number of the beskar covered warriors, but this last one, it had been a kill without thought, without necessity, without influence. Only as yourself. Perhaps it had set the stage for all the rest. Perhaps it had set the stage for your own fall.

You aren’t aware you’re crying until you feel his mouth on your face, his throat vibrating with low growls as he licks at your tears, the hollow thud of the helmet hitting the floor finally registering in your ears. Stop, it’s okay. Please, don’t cry, little one. You squeeze your eyes shut tight as you can, trying to pull away, escape him again, but he pulls you close. The long, uncompromising line of him pressing all the way along your softness, inciting the chill of death inside of you back to life.

“Do you really think,” he starts low, the sound of his unmodulated voice for the first time in so long, “that there’s anything you could ever do, that I’ve not forgiven you for already a thousand times over?”

You begin to thrash in his grip, feral and wild and not wanting to be tamed this time, but he does not let you run, not again. His arms like bands of iron around your waist, stitching you to the cold steel of his chest and crushing your protests from your lungs. The two of you fold slowly to the ground. Huddling you between his crouched thighs, you try and push back, but he cages you between his knees and arms, and you turn your face away from him, trying to escape his wet mouth, the damp of his lips catching against your tear soaked lashes. “I never wanted to be this– this thing,” you gasp by way of another apology. “I never wanted to live like this – strange and violent and obscured in the shadow of something I was too young to ever understand until it was too late. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I lied or deceived you or made you feel something for someone that never really existed. Most of all, I’m sorry that it could not be true,” you gasp. “I’m sorry that I could not be true. That I couldn’t be something else.”

“You have nothing to apologize to me for. You think…” he says very slowly. Measured. “You think that I haven't done terrible things, as well? That I haven’t killed when I, perhaps, could have been merciful? That I’ve never been afraid or lost or weak? That I’ve never let violence overtake me? Worst of all, that sometimes I even liked it. We’ve all done things to be ashamed of. We will all, at one point, do things to be ashamed of. That is what it is to be human.” Human. You don’t know if you’ve ever truly been that. “What means more to me is honor and loyalty and character – these are things you’ve shown me.”

“I haven’t,” you cry.

“You have,” he growls, and he takes you between his hands violently so that you’re crying out in pain from your wounds or shock or fear of what he’ll do to you now. Crushing you to him so fiercely you feel as though he’s trying to squeeze your very heart from your chest so that he might look upon it with his own two eyes. “You exist. You exist, and you are here and you are mine. You were never given a choice. You were a child, stolen and abused and turned into something you were never supposed to be. The Force within you is a gift, and they tried to corrupt it into something it should have never been, but they did not succeed.” You try and shake your head at him, push him away, scream and cry and tell him that he’s wrong, that you are bad and poisoned and that even he, the great warrior, cannot save you. But he grips your jaw in his long fingers, grinding your bones between his strength, and halts your disagreement. He snarls at you, so furious at what had been done to you. You realize, suddenly, that he is vibrating with barely restrained rage. For you. Not at you.

“They did not succeed. Your presence here, your regret, your wish for more, for better, your very escape, proves to me that they did not. You were too strong, too good.” I am not, you moan, starting to thrash and claw in his arms again. You don’t know, you’re wrong. “I know your true heart, I see you. As much as you hate it, as much as you wish it were otherwise, I know the true desires of your mind. As much as it pains you to be seen, to be known, I do. I always have, from that very first moment in the darkness, I saw you.” And his voice holds so much conviction, so much surety, you’re left with no other choice but to believe him, for Din is good and honest and true, and if he says it’s so, then it must be so.

You go loose and weak suddenly, eyes pressed together tightly, squeezing tears out through crinkled lashes. Din is good and honest and true, and if he says it’s so, then it must be so. Your entire body is trembling, fraught with nerves and a surging of truth inside of you so overwhelming your heart beats in your ears, behind the fragile membrane of your eyelids.

They’d done such terrible things to you, over and over again, and you were nothing but a single blip in the galaxy of stars, a singular pinpoint of terrible pain. That’s what they’d turned you into, but here, in his arms, you’re beginning to realize they’d failed at their goal.

He pulls your face into the space between his jaw and shoulder then, so tenderly, and you finally open your eyes to take in the skin of his throat, the growing stubble there. “Come here, sweetheart. It’s okay. We’re together now.”

“I’m not sweet, don’t call me that.” But there is no conviction behind your words, and you clutch at him more tightly. Your fingers twisting into the folds of his cape, clawing at the skin of his cheeks.

“You are for me,” he says. And it’s true. There’d always been something about him that’d made you fragile in the face of his strength, in a way you’d needed, in a way you’d never had before.

“No. No.” You try and push and pull at him weakly, fruitlessly. “I’m leaving soon. I just need to catch my breath, and then I’m going.”

And he clutches you tighter at that, fingers twisting through your hair to jerk your head back painfully. You snap your eyes shut, mouth falling open on a gasp. “You’re not going fucking anywhere, do you hear me?”

He’s being so careless with his face, dangling it before your closed-eyed face. “I won’t open my eyes. I don’t care what you do.”

He gives a rough sound of frustration, pressing his panting mouth to your cheek, growling against your skin, “Try to leave me again and see what fucking happens,” and there’s no doubt or wavering in his voice, only a great sort of conviction laced in terrible fury. “Go anywhere in the galaxy and see how long it takes me to find you again.”

“Please, Din– it hurts.” You can’t help it, he’s being too rough for the state you’re in now, barely holding yourself together at the seams. His hands leave you immediately, pulling back so that you’re sagging between his crouched thighs. You listen to the sound of him picking up the helmet, the hydraulics engaging once again as he fits it over his face.

The two of you are quiet for a moment, catching your breaths. Your lungs feel set to burst, your vision jumping from bright light to murky dark and your stomach twists a sharp, brutal pain. Everything hurts everywhere.

“How long?” And you know he’s asking about your time captured.

“I don’t know,” you say, bracing your hand against the hard strength of his thigh, barely able to keep yourself upright. “I lost track of time, but it was winter when they took me away.”

“It’s winter again now.”

“Yes.” And the truth sits like a heavy smog between the two of you, a very long time. “I don’t want you to forgive me,” you say then. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Which is why you won’t look at my face.” He pets your head so gently, and you lay your cheek against the beskar over his thigh, letting the coolness of the metal settle the flames running beneath your skin, and think it is terrible, sometimes, to be understood so deeply. Tears drip over the bridge of your nose and lose themselves in the weave of his pants.

He shifts, settling on a folded foot beneath himself, bringing you in closer to his chest, careful, careful, as if you’d been made of nothing but breakable hurt. Silence swells, fraught and unbearable, between the two of you, and your heart beats in rebounding thumps. You feel you know what he’s going to say before he even says it. “I told you that there’s nothing you could ever do I’d not forgive you for. I think… I think that love allows for forgiveness.”

You choke on your breath. “Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it,” you beg. He continues to pet your hair slowly.

“I love you. And you’re going to listen to me say it. If I have to live with it, then so do you.”

“This doesn’t feel like love, this feels like punishment,” you whisper, tears falling faster, soaking the duraweave beneath.

“How would you know? You’ve not had it before.”

Your eyes snap up to the face of his helmet, and you try and jerk away, but he holds you in place with a hand fisted in your hair. His voice is still gentle, not meant to hurt. “Fuck you,” you spit, hurt anyways.

“But neither have I, and yet, I know that’s what this is.” You shake your head in his grip, so full of confusion, listening to the wheezing whittling of your breaths pass in and out of you. You can’t understand. You don’t. Or you don’t want to.

There is something humiliating about the easiness of his forgiveness. He forgives you now, and so what was all that for? Where does the point of all your suffering go now that he’s so swiftly given you that which you��d craved for so long?

“I don’t give a damn what you’ve done. I’d let you stab a knife through my heart if it pleased you and die still loving you.” He cups the side of your tear soaked face, drags the warm, dry pads of his thumb gently beneath one swollen, aching eye. The callus of his trigger finger catches on the paper fragile skin, and there is a writhing, howling pain working inside of you, inside your heart.

I love you too, you mouth up at him, words made only of air, but no less true. “But I can’t look yet,” you tell him, “I’m not ready yet.” Not strong enough to grant myself that.

“I know.” And you’re grateful. Grateful for this, for his understanding, even if it is terrible. Grateful he’d not kissed you yet; you’re not ready for that yet either.

“How can you not be angry with me? How can you not hate me?”

“The only thing I’ve ever been angry at you about, is that you forced me to betray you.”

“I didn’t–”

“I should have never let you go.”

“I didn’t want you to,” your voice breaks. “I wanted you to fight.”

“I know, cyar’ika. I should have seen that.”

There is, with startling clarity, the realization that there was no point at all. That there is never any point, justification to suffering. It just is, and then it is not.

“Why did I do all of it?” You plead, cry.

“Why did you do all of it?” He asks you instead, for at the end, you’re the only one who can say.

And there is no justification, and no point, and it all just is. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“You did what you had to. Or what you thought was right. I know. I see who you really are. I understand.” And absolution is a very specific sort of thing, and it lives here between the two of you. It always had

Chapter XI

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ladamedusoif · 4 months

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Tempered in the Fire - Part Three

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3. Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications for updates.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 7.1k

Rating: Explicit; 18+ MDNI (chapter; series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to infertility; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; period-typical misogyny; references to and non-explicit descriptions of past experiences of psychological abuse, sexual assault and non-consensual sex, and of domestic violence; abusive and derogatory language; smut; PiV sex; fingering; technical infidelity; angst.

Use of the Irish language with translations as needed.

Important A/N: In one section of this chapter, Reader recalls exactly how badly treated she was by her husband before he left. This means brief discussion of psychological, physical, and sexual abuse. I have tried to handle these issues as sensitively as possible and without gratuitous detail or description. (I am writing as a survivor of emotional abuse, and I want to express my gratitude for the vital advice and support of other incredible survivors, including of other forms of abuse experienced by Reader in this story).

Further A/N at the end of this chapter.

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(FYI taglists haven't really been working for me of late so please do follow my writing blog if you want to stay up to date!)

Réaltín snickers as you tie her up hastily outside your little cottage, adrenaline coursing through your body. It doesn’t take long to throw a few things in your leather saddle bags: some clothes, your sewing kit and a supply of fabric, the money tucked under your mattress. It’s not much, but it might be enough to get you out of here before he comes looking.

You wrap your best shawl around your shoulders and go outside to check on your little milk cow, safe in her stall. She blinks her big brown eyes at you, kind and trusting, and you rub her muzzle affectionately.

Cáit, your nearest neighbour, peers through the window when she hears Réaltín trotting up the lane. She’s waiting at the door before you’ve pulled up, sensing all is not well. You spill out your excuses.

“It’s family matters. All happened very suddenly. I can’t say more, but I’ll be back as soon as I can - will you look in on my cow, make sure she’s fed? You can have whatever milk she’ll give you, of course.”

Cáit nods, though she seems a little sceptical. “You’re sure you’re alright, a stór [sweetheart/treasure]?”

You bring the shawl around your head and mount Réaltín again. “I am. Thanks, Cáit. I’ll see you soon.”

It’s only when you’re halfway to your parents’ smallholding that you realise you can’t stay there, either. In your panic and haste you hadn’t thought it through. If Searlas wanted to find you, it would be the first place he came looking.

Dusk closes in, and slate grey clouds gather overhead. The heavens open and your tears start to fall as you bring Réaltín to a halt on a quiet lane.

Gró stirs his little bowl of vegetable and barley stew, lifting out pieces of carrot on his wooden spoon before dropping them back in the bowl and giggling at the satisfying plop they make.

His father shakes his head. “Ná bí ag súgradh le do bhéile.” [Don’t play with your meal.]

The little boy is the first to spot the horse arriving out of the darkness, pointing to the window. Din looks out cautiously, dark eyes surveying the small area outside the cottage illuminated by the candlelight coming from within.

Nothing.

The knock on the door is hesitant, and Din silently gestures to his son to stay put as he answers.

She’s soaked to the skin, red woollen shawl weighed down with rain, eyes reddened and fear written all over her face.

It is all Din can do to stop himself reaching out and pulling her close to him, to comfort and reassure her, to make sure she is alright. Instead, he simply stands back and beckons her inside.

She babbles her explanation: the errant husband returned, in the army, her worry that he would seek her out.

“I’m so sorry, Din, I… I just didn’t know where else to go.”

She’s shaking, and he doesn’t know if it’s the cold rain or her panic that’s doing it.

Before Din can speak, Gró has materialised at her side, and reaches up for her hand. His big eyes look up at her with the kind of affection Din has only ever seen the boy show to him, and at times to Peigí.

She looks from Gró to his father and back again. And then she breaks down.

“There isn’t much left, I’m afraid. But you’re welcome to it.”

Din looks from the cooking pot to you, sitting in a chair by the hearth with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as your shawl and outer bodice dry out.

“If you’re sure?”

He nods and ladles the stew into a bowl. You accept it gratefully, realising that it had been many hours since you last ate. It is a simple meal and all the better for it, the steaming broth warming your bones and the vegetables and barley filling your empty stomach.

Din sits in the other chair and scoops Gró up into his lap. The little boy smiles in your direction as you eat, and you notice he’s wearing the little shirt you made for him. You summon up the words, speaking hesitantly.

“An mhaith leat do léine, Gró?” [Do you like your shirt, Gró?]

His enormous eyes light up and he nods enthusiastically, turning round to look up at his father and laughing delightedly at hearing you speak his language. Din ruffles his son’s fair hair and smiles at you.

“Thank you for mine, too. You didn’t have to. I’ll make sure you’re properly paid.”

You nod towards the bowl of stew. “This is payment enough. Once my things are dry I’ll get going. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you out. I panicked, and -“

Gró sighs and nestles in against Din’s broad chest, trying to keep his eyes open but losing the battle against sleep. Din stands, carefully shifting the little boy in his arms and gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the loft.

“Stay.”

“I’ve already outstayed my welcome, Din, I don’t know what I was -“

“Stay.” He repeats the word, half-order, half-plea, as he stands at the foot of the makeshift wooden ladder leading up into the loft.

You nod, watching as the blacksmith expertly ascends with his son in his strong arms, a lantern in one hand. Din is wearing a sort of woollen jumper over his old shirt, and you can’t help but notice the stretch of the knitted fabric across his broad back and shoulders, the way it draws the eye to the muscles of his chest.

An unexpected wave of pleasure ripples through you. You shake your head, as if trying to rid your body of the feeling.

While Din tucks Gró in, quietly humming to him, you rinse the bowls from dinner and tidy up the main room of the cottage. There’s what looks like a settle bed against one wall, and what you presume is Din’s bed against the other, near the back window: a basic frame, simple bedclothes, a trunk at the foot of the bed.

“So you’ll stay?”

You turn to face Din, speaking in hushed tones as he descends the ladder. “I will stay for tonight.”

He looks at you, dark eyes hooded and serious. “You should stay as long as you need to. You are afraid of him, and I presume with good reason.”

“He might not even come looking for me. He’s gone so long, after all. But -“ You pause as the traumatic memories of the past swirl in your mind. “But him reappearing like this, and in uniform… He is not a good man.”

Din tilts his head and looks at you. You are grateful that he doesn’t pry further. “I can keep you safe here. He’ll never know.”

Before you can protest, he’s crossing the room and pulling out the rectangular, boxy bed frame from underneath the settle and rummaging in a small cupboard for blankets and pillows. “You can sleep here, if you’d like. Or in my bed, over there. Either way, I’ll sleep in the back store, or the forge.”

“Absolutely not. That back little room is too cold, too small. And the forge is no fit place for someone to sleep.” You help him arrange the bedding for the settle bed. “I grew up sharing a one-roomed cottage with my entire family, Din. This is no hardship at all, nothing irregular, as long as you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head and retrieves a half-burned candle from the mantle above the hearth, lighting it from the small lantern before handing you the lamp. Din leaves you to get ready for bed, taking the candle and going to change in the back store so that you have privacy. He calls out to you, checking that he can come back into the main room.

“Come ahead, Din.”

Tucked into the settle bed, you can barely make out his silhouette as he comes into the room. His solitary candle illuminates his strong profile as he gets into his own, wooden-framed bed across the room.

“Are you comfortable? Warm enough?” His voice, soft and low, carries in the quiet.

“I am. Thank you for this. I am so grateful.”

“Sleep well.”

Lights extinguished, you can hear Din shift in his bed and his breathing enter a slower, steady rhythm as sleep descends.

You lie awake in the dark, thoughts racing. So Searlas had fought for something - for his king’s shilling, no doubt, and they were only too desperate for men to fight in the wars against France. Searlas had spat bile and vitriol in ‘98 about the United Irishmen and the Defenders, the groups that had led the rebellion, blaming dangerous French ideas of liberty, equality and fraternity for poisoning people’s minds.

It made sense, now, that he’d have abandoned you to take up arms against those ideas. But you knew Searlas too well for it to be a moral crusade, or a stand taken on principle. Most likely, he’d spent the intervening five years doing as little as possible for as much reward, and probably whoring his way around Europe.

You try to push him out of your mind as you seek sleep, your brain seeking comforting thoughts and images until it settles on the recent memory of a pair of sparkling brown eyes, looking at you in the firelight.

Searlas’s hand is rough around your arm, and you know you’ll have a bruise there tomorrow. He drags you away from the fair and along the back road from the village, muttering abuse as you jog along trying to keep up with him.

“I saw you talking to him. The way you looked at him, the way you whored yourself around him. Filthy slut that you are.”

“Searlas, he’s my second cousin, I haven’t seen him in years…he’s family, I was talking to family!”

He pulls you harder to him before knocking you, deliberately, into the thorny hedgerow that runs along the dirt road.

“Watch yourself. You should be more careful of your footing. Stupid bitch.” He hauls you up and pushes you roughly along the road.

“When we get home, I’ll show you what happens when you act like a common whore in front of the whole place.”

“Searlas, please, please don’t, not again…”

“You’re a fat, useless, barren slut.” He spits the word at you. “And you’ll take your punishment from your husband.”

You have learned since the first time he “punished” you this way that crying out, or crying at all, only prolongs the agony. So you try to will your mind out of your body as your husband pulls your legs apart and pins down your arms, spitting insults as he forces himself on you.

You are not really here. You are in the back field, in springtime, with wildflowers in bloom. You are looking at the slate-grey sea, wind whipping at your face and hair. You are not really here, not really at the mercy of this cruel and violent man.

Sometimes, you try to focus on the words of the songs of liberty you know, the poems that sing of a dream of freedom.

You are not really here. You are free.

You wake with a start and for an instant you can’t remember where you are. A sickening panic thrums through your body and the sides of the settle bed feel like they’re closing in on you.

You sit up and turn your head only to be greeted by a pair of big dark eyes, staring intently at you over the edge of the bed. Gró smiles widely and begins chattering away, unaware that your addled brain is unable to keep up.

Din’s broad figure emerges from the back room, carrying a pot that he places on the metal crane over the fire, to warm its contents. He tuts when he realises that Gró is by your bed.

“Ná bac léi,” he says, somewhat sternly. “Tá sí an-tuirseach.” [Don’t disturb her, she’s very tired.]

Gró turns and reveals your head and shoulders, visible over the edge of the settle bed.

“You’re awake. I’m sorry, I hope he didn’t wake you. He’s young, he is curious.”

You shake your head and reach for your shawl, wrapping it about you. “Not at all. I… I woke by myself.”

Din beckons to his son and leads him by the hand in the direction of the door that opens onto the forge. “We’ll leave you for a bit. There’s some warm water in that pot over the hearth, if you want to wash. And a basin and rags, on the table.”

“Thank you, Din. I’ll be glad to make some breakfast once I’m dressed.”

He inclines his head towards you and carries the little boy into the forge.

While Din works and Gró helps out around the forge, you busy yourself with cleaning, mending, and preparing meals for your hosts, by way of a thank you for their kindness. The cottage is well-kept and tidy - an indicator of Din’s meticulous nature, you muse - and doesn’t require more than a little dusting and sweeping to get it ship-shape again once you’ve pushed the settle bed back under the seat.

The midday meal is simple - floury potatoes, piled high in a bowl, and served with butter, milk, and a little salt for Din. Gró eyes up the fresh pot of jam you had brought in your saddle bags, but his father’s wagging finger dissuades him as he eats his own little bowl of potatoes. Sitting at the wooden table, sharing the meal with them and listening to the chatter between father and son, you feel that familiar pang of loss, of yearning for what might have been.

You distract yourself by thinking about the evening meal.

“I can stay and make something for the supper, later,” you announce, as Din lifts his head and meets your gaze with those penetrating dark eyes. “And then I’ll leave you. I can’t abuse your hospitality any more than I already have.”

The blacksmith shakes his head as he peels another potato and dips it in the golden-white liquid in his bowl. “At least wait until you know it’s safe to return.”

You know, deep down, that it’s still too soon to know. But you also know that the smith and his son are already just about able to feed two people, let alone three.

Din turns to his son and ruffles his hair as Gró closes his eyes in delight. He whispers to him and the little boy grins before hopping off his chair and racing out to the back field, whooping and laughing to himself.

His father stands up and begins to help you clear away the empty dishes.

“You - you were unsettled in your sleep, last night.”

You keep wiping down the table. “Was I?”

You can feel Din looking at you. “You were. And this morning. You sounded upset.”

“Probably just a bad dream.”

Din sighs and hesitates before asking the obvious question. “Was it about him?”

“It was.”

Tension crackles in the turf-scented air of the cottage. For an instant you think about telling him everything: every fist, every bruise, every torn garment, every time your husband used and violated you in spite of your protests.

The image of Din wrapping you up in his strong, protective embrace floats into your mind, unbidden.

He breathes deeply. “He hurt you.”

“He did.” You finally look at the blacksmith, whose soft, compassionate expression comes as a surprise. “I felt more of his fist than his lips, I suppose you might say. But that was better than -”

You inhale sharply, summoning as much courage as you can bear. It is difficult to know how Din will react. But there’s something in your gut that tells you he can be trusted, unquestioningly.

“It was better than the alternative. When he…forced himself. On…on me.”

You stare down at the floor and feel heat rising in your cheeks. You have never told another soul about this, and are unsure why you’ve unexpectedly chosen this stoic man to be the first to know.

The silence hangs heavy between you, broken only by the sounds of your breathing and the crackle of the hearth.

When he eventually speaks, Din chooses his words carefully. “You have to stay out of reach of a man like that. If you could even call him a man.”

He picks up his leather apron and the grey fabric he uses to cover his nose and mouth while he works, and opens the door into the forge, pausing for a moment as he looks back at you.

“Stay. Please. Until you know you’re safe from harm.”

You wake before him the next morning, stealing out of the settle bed to dress in the back room, before quietly putting on water to boil for breakfast and freshening up. There is still some milk in its heavy, lidded container and you pour it into an earthenware jug before setting it on the table.

You hear a stirring from the other side of the room as Din lifts his head from the pillow and yawns, somewhat startled at the sight of you. You bite back a giggle at his skew-whiff bed head, the wavy brown strands sticking up this way and that as his eyes adjust to the light.

He smiles and shakes his head when he realises you’ve prepared breakfast.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was awake, and I wanted to. I have to find some way to return your hospitality, after all.”

Din discreetly reaches for the pair of breeches folded neatly near the end of the bed, and you instinctively turn away as he slips them on before getting out of bed and climbing the ladder to the room above, where Gró is already happily babbling away to himself.

The blacksmith and his son head to the forge after eating, after you refused their offers of help with clearing up after the meal. As you wash the dishes in a stoneware basin, using some of the leftover hot water, you find yourself slipping, once again, into a fantasy of this being your life: this happy, safe domesticity, away from harm and mistreatment.

The memory of the soft smile that had appeared on Din’s face that morning, when he saw you preparing their meal, enters your mind. You close your eyes, a rush of warmth and something like desire coursing through you.

“No.”

His eyes, now, warm and kind and so inviting as they looked at you. The glimpse of tanned skin under his nightshirt.

“No. It cannot be. No.”

You open your eyes and delve deeper into the tepid water, scrubbing the plates and mugs clean and resolving to leave today - just as soon as you could be certain no danger awaited you at home.

At mid-morning, the sudden sound of a woman’s voice inside the cottage is almost enough to make you drop the bundle of clothes you’re carrying inside from the washing line.

She’s small, with an unruly mop of wild auburn curls, and a demeanour that indicates her wiles and toughness.

Peigí. It seems strange to see her here, away from her yard full of half-mended carts and spares.

She doesn’t spot you at first, too busy hauling in a milk can and a couple of baskets filled with random packages wrapped in brown paper. Food, you guessed.

“Only me, lads! Came by with milk and a few bits and pieces I have going spare after calling into the village, I know a growing little chap who’ll eat them right up, so he will. D’you know they changed the coterie of redcoat bastards at the barracks, Din? And one of them’s a local lad, fecked off and left his wife there a few years ago and now he’s back and he’s going mad looking for her and -"

The woman finally looks up and sees you standing near the hearth.

“Oh. Oh, lord bless us and save us!”

“Hello, Peigí. I’m sorry, did I give you a fright?”

She rounds the table to get a closer look at you. “God almighty, girleen, it is you!” She pauses and takes a step back, concern written on her expressive face. “Did… did you know about, er, him? Reappearing, that is?”

You nod. “That’s why I’m here. And by the sounds of it, that was the right thing to do.”

She turns her head quickly towards the door that leads to the forge, as if half-considering whether to summon Din to find out what, exactly, the wife of the prodigal soldier is doing lying low in his house.

“You’re not… ye aren’t… you and himself, are you…”

It’s pretty clear what Peigí is thinking, and you can’t exactly blame her. An anxious wave crashes through you, as you realise that your choice of hideout may well lead the community at large to suspect impropriety - on your part, of course.

“No. And if anyone else suggests that, kindly correct them on my behalf.” You put the bundle of clothes on the table and fold your arms. “I had nowhere else to go that he wouldn’t suspect. I came here in a panic. Din and Gró took me in and fed me.”

Peigí lifts the baskets onto the table, a sympathetic expression on her face. “Well, your instincts were right. Your husband - not that he should really claim the title, given how long he’s been gone - has been out to your smallholding looking for you, and to your parents’ place, and he’s been asking around for you.”

She takes a few of the packages out and arranges them into little piles. “Look, I don’t know your business but I’m guessing you have a good reason not to want to see him again, for being so frightened that you’d flee your own home. So you can trust me, I won’t say a word.” The earnestness of her expression and the kindness in her eyes tells you that she means it.

“Thank you, Peigí. I’d intended to go home later today, I can’t outstay my welcome, but…”

“But I’d give it another little while,” she finishes. “Until he decides you’re not worth the bother.”

The door from the forge opens and Din’s broad silhouette appears, face still covered with the grey cloth. “Peigí?”

“The one and same, Din. Brought you and that lovely little lad some bits and pieces. Now, where’s my darling boy?”

On cue, Gró tears in from the forge, little bare feet racing across the flagstone floor to greet Peigí with a tight hug as she sweeps him up into her arms. He immediately starts chattering away to her, pointing from his shirt to you excitedly.

“Well, aren’t you a lucky little chap, having new friends to make you clothes and everything!” She swivels around to face Din, his son playing with Peigí’s curls. “You don’t need to explain why she’s here, the poor girl. And she should stay put, in my opinion. Provided that’s alright with her hosts, of course.”

“What have you heard?” Din’s voice is cautious.

“Only that he’s been sniffing around the place and asking questions. Nobody knows she’s out here, though.” She ruffles Gró’s mop of fair hair. “You know me, Din, I know everyone and I hear everything. And I’ll be out here quick as anything, the minute I know it’s alright for her to go home. That alright with you, girleen?”

“If it’s alright with Din.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “It’s fine with us. We will keep you safe.”

Peigí looks from you to Din and back again, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched, before setting Gró back down on the ground.

“Right so, I’ll be off. See you next week, Din - if not before.”

You keep telling yourself that you’ll soon be able to go home. But, with every day that passes over the course of the next week without a visit from Peigí, a new, more uncomfortable feeling grows inside you.

I don’t want to leave here.

You settle into a comforting, reassuring routine: a little housekeeping and cooking, mending and sewing, playing with Gró, occasionally helping Din with checking the list of items left for repair. Gró alerts you if anyone comes down the lane to the forge, giving you time to scramble up the ladder to the attic and hide. It’s not that you expect Searlas himself - more that you fear he’ll find out if anyone from the locality spots you in the cottage.

You notice Din smiling more, these last few days. Sometimes, you catch him looking at you, eyes kind and warm. And he, in turn, has caught you looking at him.

By night, you sit by the fire together for a little while: you with your mending or knitting, talking, sometimes - and more you than him - but sometimes simply being in a companionable silence that doesn’t demand interruption.

This evening, he descends the ladder from Gró’s sleeping attic, candlestick in hand, and sets the light back on the mantel. The flickering flame throws shadows here and there, the brighter light of the fire illuminating Din’s profile against the whitewashed walls.

He joins you, sitting in one of the sugán chairs in front of the fire. He silently watches you, taking in your nimble fingers as you darn a pair of socks by firelight.

“You have a nice voice,” you say quietly, not even looking up from your work.

“I…” He seems a little taken aback. “Are you making fun of me?”

You look up, surprised and a little hurt that he’d think that of you. “Of course not! I heard you singing to the little lad and it was nice. It’s a compliment, Din.”

He looks sullenly into the fire. You reach over to pat his arm, to offer a little more reassurance and kindness, but he pulls away suddenly as if your fingertips were aflame. You jerk back your hand just as quickly. Had you broken some sort of rule?

“I’m sorry, Din, I didn’t mean to - I meant no harm.” You cast your eyes down again towards the stockings.

“It’s only that I’m not used to it.”

You look up quizzically. “Not used to compliments?”

He meets your eyes and huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s true too. But I mean I am not used to being touched. At least, not by anyone other than my boy.” He looks away again. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Let’s call it evens, then, will we?” You yawn softly and let the darning rest in your lap. “I think it might be time for bed.”

You go through the evening routine established with quiet ease over the past few days: packing away your darning while Din smothers the fire and pulls out the box-like bed frame of the settle bed for you, setting out the few meagre cups and plates for breakfast on the sturdy wooden table while he retrieves pillow and blankets for your bed.

“There might just be enough jam for Gró to have for breakfast,” you tell him, peering into the bottom of the last jar you’d given them. Din stands beside you at the table and smiles.

“He makes light work of it, I’m afraid.”

You shrug and place the jar on the table, resting your hands lightly on the edge. “I’m glad. It’s nice to make a child so happy in this world.”

For a moment, there’s no sound except the occasional crackle of the candles and the rain beating its steady rhythm against the walls and windows of the little cottage.

Din rests his own broad, calloused hands on the table. With trembling fingers, he places his right hand gently on the back of your left.

He doesn’t look directly at you, instead stealing the odd glance as he tries to gauge your reaction. You turn your hand over so that your palm is touching his, letting your fingers intertwine with his long, thick digits as you softly squeeze his hand and turn to look at him.

His hands are still shaking a little, but his impossibly dark eyes are warm and wanting as they look intently into yours.

He moves a step closer. He brings the back of your hand to his lips. You exhale a little, a breath tinged with pleasure and surprise, and your fingers seek out the rough stubble on his jaw. He lets go of your hand, gently, and traces his fingertips across your cheek with surprising delicateness.

His kiss is a little awkward, at first, as if he’s afraid you might disappear entirely as soon as your lips meet. When you lean in and reciprocate, though, he responds in kind: strong arms pulling you close as he kisses you hungrily, moaning into your mouth as you wrap your arms around him.

And then it’s over.

He breaks away, breathing shaky, body almost trembling, face turned away from you.

“No. We can’t. You’re… you’re married, it’s not the way to - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laid a finger on you.”

You walk quickly to the settle bed, keeping your back turned to Din. “I’ll go in the morning. I’ve exploited your kindness for far too long as it is.”

His own bed creaks a little as Din sits on it and sighs. “You won’t be safe. I can protect you, here.”

“I’m a married woman, Din, remember?” You fling a pillow down onto the straw-filled mattress in frustration. “So I shouldn’t need you to protect me. And I’d obviously only be a temptation. A harlot.”

You pick up your nightshirt and shawl and cross to the door that leads to the tiny back room, so that you can change for bed. You keep your face turned away and your eyes trained on the flagstone floor. That way, at least, he won’t see your tears.

“The thing is, Din,” you say quietly, as you pause in front of the simple wooden door, “over the last few days - in all the time I’ve known you, indeed - you’ve been more husband to me than he ever was, in the ways that really mattered.”

“Mo chuisle.” [My darling]

His voice, soft but pleading, cuts through the stillness like a prayer. When you turn to face him, he’s standing by the side of his bed, big dark eyes threatening tears of his own, beautiful hands twisting and rubbing nervously together. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Say it again.” You move towards him, shawl wrapped around your upper body.

“Mo chuisle.” He takes your hand and you instinctively move closer, leaning in to feel the warmth of his broad chest. Slowly, cautiously, Din’s strong arms reach around your body to hold you to him.

You stay like that for a few moments, listening to his heart beating, learning the notes of his scent: fire and metal. His large hand caresses the back of your head, his lips find your cheek with soft, lingering kisses.

“Let me keep you safe, mo chuisle. Here, with us.”

You look into his dark eyes, mapping the laughter lines around them and the contours of his nose, his mouth, his strong jaw.

When you first met Din, you weren’t sure if he was a handsome man or a striking one. You were wrong on both counts.

He was a beautiful one.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, before your lips meet his again. Slow caresses give way to more urgent, hungry kisses, your hands holding Din’s face as he holds you tight, feeling the softness and contours of your body under the layers of wool and cotton in your garments.

You stay like that for a little while, lips and tongues blissfully moving together and hands roaming over each other’s body, exploring these strange and enticing new territories.

Din trembles under your gentle touches, the feeling of someone else’s tender caresses almost overwhelming after so long alone. For the first time in your life, you know what it is to be held and cherished with care as he holds you, seeks out your softness and your warmth, presses his lips experimentally to the fragile skin of your neck and décolletage, and sighs with pleasure.

His mouth moves gradually lower, and you loosen the neck of your blouse and undo your light wool bodice to grant him greater access. Those long, thick fingers, marked and calloused by his trade, trace the line of your breasts under your short linen stays.

“Oh.” He exhales the word, closing his eyes as his fingertips press lightly into the soft flesh.

“Din…”

Din’s dark eyes flick open and meet yours, his sadness palpable. “I’m sorry, mo chuisle, I’ll stop.”

You murmur a silent prayer that he won’t think less of you for what you say next.

“Din…don’t stop. I - I want to. I want you. I want you to have me. Please.”

He flushes and looks away, still holding you close.

You speak softly but firmly. “I know that’s very forward of me, Din, but…” You run your fingers idly through his hair and he leans into your touch. “Why did you turn away?”

“Because I’ll be a disappointment to you.” His eyes meet yours again, dark and sad.

“It has been a…long time.” He looks embarrassed, colour flushing his cheeks. “I…I’ve lain with, well…once or twice…but I…It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t -”

“If you don’t want to, you know that’s perfectly fine.”

“I want to. I want you.” He pulls you tight to him once more, and brings his hand to your breasts, gently kneading the flesh and slipping a fingertip here and there under your light stays as he sucks your neck and pulls your bodice open all the more.

“I won’t hurt you, my darling,” he murmurs.

“Oh, Din, I know. You never could. Let me undress for you, a stór, hmmm?”

Din looks on as you discard your bodice and your skirts, followed by your woollen stockings. You undo your short stays, leaving you as naked as you’ve ever been in front of another human being for a very long time: just your pale, light shift, undone over the décolletage and stopping just at mid-calf, the outline of your body entirely evident in the simple, thin undergarment.

His dark eyes appraise you, mouth slightly open. The width and curve of your hips. The thickness of your thighs. The little protruding pooch of your belly. The line of your shoulders. The gorgeous weight of your heavy bosom.

“Oh, mo Dhia.” [My god]

Din hastily takes off his knitted pullover and undoes his breeches and stockings, and soon he, like you, is standing barefoot on the flagstone floor, dressed in just the creamy-coloured linen of his undershirt. He closes the short distance between you, caresses your cheek with one hand and reaches for the other, holding it gently.

“Please take me to bed, Din.”

It’s strange, at first, to nestle beside him in his bed, to smile at each other and giggle quietly as you map each other’s bodies with roving fingers, curious lips, and wandering eyes.

You are no virgin. But this has some of the sweetness and curiosity of a first time, or at least how you had once hoped a first time would be. On your wedding night, Searlas took your virginity and shattered your romantic delusions, adding insult to injury by checking the sheets to see if you’d bled.

It’s different tonight, here in the blacksmith’s bed. You are both a little awkward, a bit hesitant from your years alone, the time spent seeking a kind of release in your own hands, the years that passed without as much as a loving touch from someone else.

The feel of another now, at last, sets you trembling. Din’s breath hitches when you caress him through the thin linen of his undershirt, and when you reach under his shirt and wrap your fingers around his cock he moans so loudly that you have to put a hand over his mouth, for fear of waking the little boy soundly asleep on the floor above.

You stroke him for a little while, hand still gently pressed over his lips to stem the flow of grunts and moans that threaten to spill out.

“I’ll stay quiet if I’m kissing you, mo chuisle,” he whispers against your hand.

You smile and move your palm away, and Din swiftly finds your mouth again as his hands grope your breasts. It’s exquisite torment - the sheer pleasure of his strong, broad hands being on you, his soft, warm mouth meeting yours, while the ache between your legs grows more and more insistent.

You take his hand and gently guide it under your chemise and between your folds. Din’s eyes widen.

“Ever touched a woman here?”

He shakes his head.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

A slow, entranced nod of agreement.

You bring his long, thick pointer and middle fingers to the sensitive little nub you’ve learned to massage when you needed release in your years alone, guiding Din’s motions as you teach him what you like. What you need.

He’s a quick learner, enraptured by the little whines his fingers start to pull out of you and the way your hips buck in response to the careful touch of his hand. He reaches for your breasts with his free hand, fondling them with endearingly clumsy enthusiasm while he continues to finger you.

“You’re wet,” he grunts into the side of your neck, fingers now tracing around your entrance as he explores you for the first time.

“For you,” you whisper, close to coming. “Because I want you to have me.”

Din’s kiss tips you over the edge and you whine against his broad chest as pleasure courses through your body. He looks astonished.

“Good?”

“So good, Din,” and you return his kiss, still stroking his cock. “You learn fast, a stór.”

His eyes are dark with desire and want as he plays with the hem of your chemise, hitching it up over your thighs.

“Can I have you, mo chuisle?” His voice is hushed, reverent, almost; his face open and genuine as he gazes into your eyes.

You nod and sit up, casting off your shift before helping him out of his shirt. Your fingers trace over the marks and scars on his body, lips pressing lightly to them, to the strong, beautiful muscles of his arms and torso, to the side of his neck.

With his pointer finger, Din draws soft lines and circles down your breasts and around your nipples, before gently bringing his warm, plush lips to each one in turn. Strong arms wrap around you and ease you down onto your back as his mouth continues to explore your body. He strokes his cock and moans softly as your hips buck up towards him, marvelling at the way you are responding to his touch.

He is a beautiful sight, nestled between your legs: broad body above yours, hands and lips exploring you, eyes blown completely dark with desire, and hard cock pressing against your core. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for a long, deep kiss.

There is no moment of doubt in your mind, no worry about how this lovemaking is “wrong”, by virtue of the legal status that still binds you to a man who never held up his end of the bargain, nor had any intention of doing so.

Nothing in your life, you realise as you reach down to help guide Din inside you, has ever felt so right.

He takes you slowly, gently, biting his lip as he sinks into you and bottoms out with a groan he desperately tries to suppress as he adjusts to the feel of your wet, warm pussy.

He opens his eyes and caresses your cheek, smiling softly. “Mo cailín álainn. [My lovely girl.] Is this - do you like this?”

The feeling of his heavy cock pressing, filling, stretching you so beautifully is a revelation, a far cry from the pain and abuse that characterised your previous experiences. Suddenly, you understand why other young couples you’d known had been so desperate to go to bed together.

“It’s just perfect, a stór. And for you, is this - does it feel good for you?”

Din breathes your name and closes his eyes for a moment. “So very, very good, mo chuisle.” With a gentle kiss, he begins to move his hips as you whine softly at the gorgeous sensation. He moves slowly, at first, his sheer pleasure as he drags his cock in and out of you written all over his face and in every pant and whispered gasp of your name that issues from his soft lips.

Your knees hitch instinctively, your body acting on your innate need to take him even deeper inside of you. Din’s broad, calloused right hand finds its way to your hip, making you cry out as his fingers sink into the soft flesh, while his left eagerly gropes and massages your tits.

“That’s it, darling,” you purr into his ear, urging him on as he starts to fuck you harder and faster. “Yes - yes, Din, there - that’s…oh, god…” His eyes widen as he watches your head rolling back in ecstasy. He buries his face against the velvet skin of your neck, kissing and licking and nipping you until you’re stifling your moans against his dark, wavy locks.

“My good, good girl,” he whispers, moving his lips to your tits and muffling his grunts and groans against your body as his rhythm starts to stutter and falter. He’s close. “Where, love?”

“Inside me,” you hiss, “finish inside me.”

He comes hard, moaning into his pillow as he spills his release deep within you. You trail your fingers through Din’s damp, mussed-up hair and kiss the side of his head, over and over, until he pulls out and flops back beside you.

You turn to face him, chuckling softly at how wrecked he looks. “You’re very good at that, you know. Not bad for a man who thought he was going to disappoint me.”

Din grins, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you in for a long, slow kiss.

Dawn reaches its gentle rays into the little cottage and finds two lovers still tangled together, naked beneath the blankets.

Din wakes you with kisses: to your lips, your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. You nuzzle against him, still basking in the warm glow created the night before.

There’s a certain sadness in his kind eyes. Regret?

“What is it, Din?”

He looks at you, reluctant. “I just wish you were mine, mo chuisle.”

In that instant the warm glow is gone, replaced by stark cold. He’s right. You’re not really his. You can’t be.

But, says a little voice inside you, you are. What else are you, if not his?

You kiss his cheek and reach for his hand. “I am yours, Din. Don’t you remember what I said last night? I’m yours - and you are mine - in all the ways that truly matter.”

Further A/N: With thanks to @agentjackdaniels for her astute observation a long time back about the similarity between mo chuisle and mesh'la!

A settle bed was a common piece of furniture in eighteenth and nineteenth-century Ireland. Essentially, it was a kind of high-backed bench with a deep base that could be pulled out to act as a spare bed. A sugán chair is a traditional Irish form of domestic chair with a woven straw seat and wooden frame.

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #historical AU #the mandalorian AU #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories

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mgparker · 3 months

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the bodyguard- din djarin

DIN DJARIN X F!ROYAL!READER [SERIES]

summary: tensions rise as the princess of the dystopian planet eiria finally approaches the age in which she will take the throne. despite her reluctance, she finds herself under the protection of the infamous mandalorian.

warnings: female reader, given surname, implied hair length (medium to long), little mandalorian content but that’ll change in the next chapter, world building, time jumps, elusiveness (for plot development), unedited so beware

series masterlist!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. i. a stranger in my room *ੈ✩‧₊˚.

Long before the fall of the Jedi Order, there'd been peace. Harmony amongst those who made their way in the galaxy. Tranquility and above all, happiness.

Even in these times, Eiria was such place that many people could only dream of. A planet so ethereal and utopian it was a wonder that it truly existed.

Luscious greenery covered its surface, slipping through the cracks and edges of its magnificent buildings, built on a foundation of gold. Technologically advanced in its own right, humble and simple where it mattered.

Technology was only used to ensure the safety of its citizens, otherwise Eiria was a world untouched by the horrors of the galaxy. Kept safe by its council of leaders that had been appointed and passed down along the generations.

It hadn't always been led by this council. No, Eiria was a royal world. Since its first taste of civilization, the hand of a ruler had governed the lands...

But when the former king and queen fell ill to a sickness that had wiped out over a quarter of Eiria's population over ten years ago, the leadership of the planet had fallen onto the shoulders of a council that had existed long before their reign.

All left from their rule, besides the sparkling scenery and magnificent buildings they'd had built overtime, was their daughter.

She'd been spared from the wicked disease that had claimed the lives of her parents, taken under the wing of her father's closest friend and advisor, Senator Phex Dameron.

The Princess was as stubborn as she was loyal, dedicated to her people until her last breath, a weight on her shoulders since the moment she was born. Thrust upon her the crushing responsibility of royalty, only to be spared her teenage years and emerging adulthood.

Every day, she thanked the maker that her parents had decreed she wouldn't take the throne until she had reached twenty one cycles — even if it was solely to secure that the throne would remain in their families for cycles to come. You see, a leader could be challenged if they were deemed too young to take the throne. To avoid that from happening, the King and Queen had signed into law that should need arise, the Council would take over all governing responsibilities and otherwise until the Princess was of suitable age.

At just twenty cycles old, the last Altair was on the dawn of a new age...

But along with it, came the danger.

The Princess of Eiria stares ahead, cold and calculating, teeth gritted together, seething beneath the carefully constructed surface, and swears that one day she will never have to answer to anyone again.

Before you, a panel of men, women and creatures alike, watching you with those greedy, overbearing eyes. It's not you that wears a mask, it's them. With their false pretenses, the caring acts behind worried gazes.

They don't care about you. They care about the wealth. The riches. Getting in the good graces of the Senator.

You expect he'll be elected any day now. It's only a matter of time and until then, and even after, the Council will put on those infuriating masks.

The Senator stares at you without the mask. In fact, there's no expression on his face at all. Except for the hint of pity you sense from his body language. You've known him too long to not see it right away.

A twinge of annoyance hits you. This is partly his fault-- what pity could he be feeling?

You should probably speak now. Not to the Council or to the Senator. But to him.

As angry as you were, he was only here to do his job. You'd do your best to keep him out of your path of fury.

You politely tell him your name, though it's not needed, and thank him for accepting the Senator's offer of serving as your protector.

After all, the Mandalorian will be following your every step from now on. It's best to be on civil terms for both your sanities.

You ignore everyone else in the Council Chamber.

The Mandalorian gives one curt nod.

Normally, you'd be irked by his silence but in this moment, you're grateful for it. You spin toward the door, guarded by two Jedi knights the Senator had sent for.

You bite the inside of your cheek and stride for the exit.

"Sunshine," it's the Senator. You stop. "It's for the best. You'll thank me in the future."

You don't turn around. Heavy footsteps follow behind you.

You doubt it.

It's been exactly three days since your world was further more flipped on its axis.

The remnants of grief over your recent loss had been overshadowed by the irritation you felt over the presence of the Mandalorian.

It isn't his fault. You constantly try to remind yourself, even as you furiously glare at the stupid tin helmet that rests over his head. He's just doing his job and you're not making it any easier.

It was on day three that you made this realization.

"I'm sorry if I've been... cold towards you. We’ve barely said a word since we’ve met.”

“Don’t apologize,” his raspy modulator replies stoicly. “Socializing isn’t exactly in the job description.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and glare at your own reflection in the vanity mirror you sit before. The reminder that your only regular company, other than the Senator, was here by obligation sours your attempt to befriend the Mandalorian.

“Right. Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed your silent shadow hovering over me for the past seventy-two hours, I highly doubt watching me every waking second is in your job description either.”

He stays silent, despite your bait.

You have no problem going on, combing your hair absentmindedly. “Perhaps you should be doing other things. Surely the rest of the castle requires some sort of surveillance. The Council would pay handsomely.”

“My job here is strictly to keep you under my protection, Princess.”

Your lip curls slightly. “Well, as you can see the windows are shut, my balcony bolted and the biggest threat to me at the moment is tangling my hair in this brush. So I would kindly request that your services extend to the exterior of my quarters please. I’d like some privacy please.”

You’re trying to be as polite as possible. You really are, but there’s only so much stoic silence from a metal man hovering in one of the corners of every room you enter that you could take.

All your life you’d been as independent as a member of the royal family could be. The Senator had made sure of that— and it was partly the reason you were still so angry with him over this arrangement. So going from that to this, it was not going well for you. Not at all. Especially since your new stalker didn’t seem to make any noises or speak any words beside ‘yes’, ‘no’, or some bullshit answer to any specific question you’d ask. But only if it was job-related, otherwise, he was an unmoving, nonverbal statue.

Three days with the Mandalorian and you were beginning to absolutely despise his beskar helmet and the nonexistent sense of security the Council had believed he’d bring.

This was all done for their benefit. Not yours.

You didn’t need protection before and you certainly don’t need it now. He served no purpose but to make you uncomfortable under his unbreaking gaze.

“I will be right outside the door, your Highness.”

Your eyes jolt up to him in pure surprise. You had been expecting the usual silence, for him to ignore your request as he did all the other times you’d told him you didn’t require his unwavering surveillance.

Maybe the fact that you’d pointed out every single enter and exit strategy finally convinced him, but you couldn’t know for sure. Not with that obscure helmet.

You dismiss your thoughts and almost catch yourself beaming at his reflection in the corner of your room. “Thanks,” you breathe, opting for a smaller smile, filled with gratitude.

He nods once and then leaves.

You release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

The first thought that crosses your mind is one you dismiss just as quickly as it arose. The small traces of adolescence that cling on to you tempt you to sneak away from the Mandalorian. Break the rules. See how far you could run before he caught up to you.

But you dismiss it. Because you’re loyal to your people and you know why he’s here despite you not agreeing to all the dramatics.

The Senator claims this is all for your protection. That coming of age and taking the throne would likely bring danger as those who wished to rule the throne would start creeping out of the hiding places they’d taken residence in since the death of your parents.

But it itches beneath your skin the longer you gaze over at the crack under your bedroom door, the shadow of his feet unmoving and steady.

You could run. Make a little game out of it. See if he’s really as qualified as Senator Dameron says he is.

You sigh quietly and set the brush down very slowly. Your heart pounds in anticipation, a plan forming in your mind.

As quickly and stealthily as possible, you slip out of your casual gown into a pair of very unladylike trousers and a tunic that you laced up tightly.

You brainstorm different ways to make your exit. Maybe you could cough or somehow force a sneeze? Some way to let your Mandalorian know you were still unsuspiciously lounging in your quarters.

You decide against it, instead doing your best to unlock your windows without making so much as a creak. Surprisingly, it’s not all too difficult.

The window swings open, both panels nearly knocking into the stone exterior of the castle but you lunge forward to grab onto them. Your momentum drives you forward with more eagerness than you intended, your feet flying from the floor, tipping out into the evening dusk with the ghost of a scream on your lips.

Something pulls you back at the feet.

Your body remains suspended, hands clutching onto the panels white-knuckled. You quickly toss a glance behind you, fully expecting to see your bodyguard standing there with his stupid beskar staring disappointedly at you.

By the sheer grace of the Maker, there’s no one behind you at all.

The only thing that saved you from plummeting to your death was your pesky iron dresser, the one that had those decorative swirls that you often knocked your ankle against.

On it, the hem of your surprisingly sturdy trousers, which were beginning to rip at the seams the longer you stood there hanging like an idiot.

Quickly, you toss yourself back to safety, freeing your hem and sheathing your small dagger you kept under your pillow. When suddenly you hear a shuffle against the door and you freeze.

Your eyes are trained on the shadow under the crack of your door. It’s the Mandalorian, thankfully just readjusting his stance.

Deciding there’s no more time to lose, you drag a hidden rope you had tied to one of the posts under your bed from your younger adventures, and carefully climb out of your window. All the while hoping the Mandalorian wouldn’t decide to check in on you at that exact moment.

As soon as your feet touch the floor, you’re off, leaving the rope and your quarters in the dust.

An elated laugh escapes you. It feels like you’re floating over the stone pavement, more free than you’ve been since before you were orphaned.

It gives you a head rush, this thrill, knowing you’re breaking every rule in the book — for the Royal Princess of Eiria was not to wander the streets unattended, much less when the sun was falling below the horizon. Senator Dameron would probably burst a blood vessel if he saw you now.

After a few minutes of aimless sprinting, you begin to see the outline of the city, lit by its posts and the torches held by the knights on guard. You eye them, trying to figure out how to get past undetected.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of hoofs against the damp grass and the panic sends you flying into a nearby bush.

Your hair gets caught, a few thorns digging into your skin, one catching onto the skin of your cheek.

“Ugh,” you complain quietly.

Between the foliage, you begin to make out the figure upon the approaching horse.

“Gwaine!”

You smile in relief, your pounding heart beginning to settle back into your heaving chest. Gwaine is one of the few people you trust within the city walls, having known him since he was a boy. He is the blacksmith’s son, currently serving as his apprentice.

You spring out of the bush, startling Gwaine’s horse but he quickly reigned her back in.

“My lady,” he nods with an amused look.

You stand awkwardly for a moment, knowing you probably looked like a disaster.

Gwaine motions towards his own hair, near his ear. “You’ve got…”

“Oh!” You quickly snatch a leaf out of your locks. “Thanks.”

He eyes you, scanning your disheveled appearance from head to toe, before looking over at the patrolling guards and then back at you.

“Do you require some sort of… uh- assistance, my lady?” He asks as if he doesn’t want to know what you’re up to this time.

Poor Gwaine. One way or another you’d always managed to drag him into your various schemes over the years. But you’d never let him take the fall for any of your antics. Never.

Doesn’t stop him from fearing the day he’d once again see you with that same mischievous, faux innocence on your face. Which was more often than you cared to admit.

He knew your look of trouble like the back of his hand.

You jolt in realization and look past him, searching for any sign of the Mandalorian.

“You know,” you sigh a little dramatically once you realize the coast is pretty much clear. “I really shouldn’t drag you into affairs of the royal family. I’ll just leave you be—”

“What is it?” He cuts through the bullshit.

“Well, if you must know, I’ve taken the liberty of paroozing the sights of the city tonight, Gwaine.”

“We both know full well you have no liberty of ‘paroozing the city’ at this hour, your Highness.”

You try to hide your flinch.

“What’s with the formalities, Gwaine?” you divert. “Would it kill you to say my name for once?”

“Eh— might.”

You follow his line of sight to the guards that were stationed across the town square.

“You’re my friend. You can address me by my name, Gwaine.”

“You sure say my name a lot,” he says cheekily. Letting up his usual formalities. You feel relieved, giving him an easy smile. It was always like this with him— he’d address you by title, do everything by the book, and you’d have to slowly break him down until he accepts that you’re his friend. Not just the Princess. Years of conditioning made him that way you guess.

“It’s a mighty fine name,” you grin.

“Why thanks.”

His horse neighs suddenly. You both snap into reality.

“Seriously, Squeak. What’re you doing outside the castle? Aren’t you under strict vigilance right now?”

Squeak. It’s his nickname he’d given you ever since you had convinced him to help you climb to the roof of the stables when you were both small children. You were convinced you could fly (‘just like a bird!’ is what you’d told him) and jumped off to prove it. Needless to say, you were very thankful there had been a comfortable amount of hay on the ground below. Since that day, Gwaine began to call you ‘Squeak’ because you had screeched just like a bird when you landed face first in the hay.

“You heard?”

“The whole kingdom heard. A Mandalorian around these parts is rare. You mustn’t be alone when the Senator has gone to such extreme lengths to have you protected.”

Protected, your ass. Where was the Mandalorian now?

“I’m not alone,” you reply. “I’m with you.”

Gwaine purses his lips and gives you a half-hearted glare. Knowing in his heart, he couldn’t leave you alone now even if he wanted to. You’d just ensnared him in a royal duty whether you meant to or not.

“Nyla, settle down,” he murmured softly to his horse, as she began to get antsy from meandering around for too long. He looked back at you. “Well, are we going to stand here and wait to be caught?”

You give him a quizzical look.

“Well, you must’ve snuck out, haven’t you? I don’t see the Mandalorian around.”

But he’d surely be around if you kept standing here all evening.

You hustle over to Nyla, taking Gwaine’s outstretched hand and hauling yourself up behind him. Securing your arms around his middle, you smile softly at the familiarity.

“Where to, Princess?” He murmurs.

“Beyond the city walls, the abandoned watch tower.”

chapter 2 >>

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floral-force · 1 year

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Sleeping Bounty Masterlist

din djarin x fem reader

summary: A princess, cursed to prick her finger and fall into a deep slumber, meets a mysterious man in the forest. When a rugged Mandalorian is tasked with recovering a sleeping princess for a bounty, will he be the one who can wake her with true love's kiss?

rating: 18+ (MDNI), mature

words: 25.9k+

this is completed fic (10/10 chapters posted); for other fic updates, ask to be added to my tag list!

asterisks (*) indicate 18+ content!

read on ao3 | fic masterlist

chapter 1: the spell

chapter 2: growing pains

chapter 3: once upon a dream

chapter 4: sweet sorrow

chapter 5: the curse

chapter 6: an unusual offer

chapter 7: a battle for the dawn

chapter 8: helmets and crowns

chapter 9: a dream come true

chapter 10: we are one

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meshlasolus · 1 year

Text

What One Was Mine

Chapter 10

Summary: Locked away in a house her entire life, she always dreamed of exploring the nearby kingdom for just a day, believing it could make the rest of her days in solitude bearable. What she was unaware of, was the real reason she’d been hidden away for so long. Changes comes swift like a flying dagger when a thieving bounty hunter seeks solace in the old home.

Din Djarin Royalty!AU / Tangled!AU

Pairing: Din Djarin x Princess Kryze!Reader

A/n: it’s been a hot minute but guys pedro is trending again and I’m legit so happy over it (i had one or two bad experiences with new fans trying to gatekeep or whatever) i’m just so happy he’s getting more recognition tho bc THATS OUR PRECIOUS DAD

Warnings: oh boy kinda a lot… mentions of death, having beatings take place, several scenes with blood… there’s a flogging in the courtyard?? References to sexual themes. Uncomfortable situations fr… imprisonment and degradation. I think that’s it but remind me if i’m wrong.

The way you parted from your new fiancé was bittersweet. Bitter, because it was all too early, but sweet, knowing you would see him again every day after for as long as you should live. You snuck back to your room together, but went separate ways after you entered your doorframe. It hadn’t been for your lack of trying, though.

“Stay with me tonight,” you pleaded with those glazed brown eyes, his stare was always intense, but there was a softness to it when directed upon you. “I know the time when my handmaiden comes, I can wake you before then.”

He pondered it, of course he did. Grogu was in the royal nursery for the time being, and you were standing with your hands against his chest in a dim hallway while asking him to remain by your side through the night. The look in your eyes told him you wanted something more from him, something not so innocent as you were. He couldn’t in good consciousness give you what you desired until you were married. Though he’d never cared before, or even heeded the tradition of waiting for intimacy till marriage, he knew that the terms had now changed. You were a princess, and he was undeserving of you anyways. To steal away your virtue and risk a scandal that could ruin your name in the large and well known kingdom was not likely on his to-do list. He was going to do everything he possibly could to make sure that this was done right, starting now.

“Not tonight, Mesh’la,” he pulled you closer to his chest, kissing the top of your head as a sweet ending to the night. He knew his refusal might make you sad, but his use of an endearment spared your heart and only made it flutter in response. “I will see you tomorrow, as long a you save me a dance.”

“I can’t even think of dancing with someone else.”

He gently brought you away from his chest, using his finger and thumb to raise your chin, eyes meeting once more. You were tired, but your sleepy gaze fell on his and did not want to leave. He understood the feeling, but decided on being the one to bring it to an end. He thought it responsible, though it felt wrong to leave you this way.

“Until then,” he gathered your hand in his, noting the comparable size difference before kissing your knuckles. He never looked away from you, and that was your detriment. His magic would not soon wear off, for even in many years to come, as long as he looked at you like that, like you hung stars, moon, and sun in the sky, you’d always be putty in his hands.

“Goodnight, Din.”

He backed away, fading into the hallway, as you went into your room and shut the door behind you. You slid down the wooden blockade, arms wrapped around yourself and a lovestruck smile adorning your face. You were to be married to the love of your life, and spend an eternity together, going on adventures, doing good in the kingdom, and raising baby Grogu. Already you had a family that you cherished above anything in the worlds, surely nothing could ever go wrong.

Din was elated as well, but keeping light of foot to avoid any attention as he snuck through the halls and back to his assigned suite. It was best to keep all of this quiet until after your coronation ball, because hopefully things would be settled more firmly into stone then, and a consort marriage could be announced.

He was turning the corner to his door when all of a sudden he was ripped away by several pairs of arms. He struggled in their grasp, trying to break free, unsure of why this was happening, but the men who were clearly meant to detain him came prepared, giving a sharp hit to the side of his head, knocking him completely unconscious for them to drag down the hall and out of the palace, heading straight for the dungeons.

The morning awoke you with a shivering chill, but you relaxed into it, pulling the comforter closer to you as you waited for the hand maiden to come and bring you out of the big and luxurious bed. You’d never tire of the sleeping accommodations, although you you would admit, if you could give it up to spend another night on the forest floor wrapped in your hunter’s arms, you most definitely would.

You waited several more minutes, unsure of why the girl named Elise did not come on time like she normally did. You were beginning to be concerned, had something happened to her? Was she alright?

You threw off the sheets, throwing your feet over the side of the bed and standing, trying to find the dressing gown you usually wore in the morning while your hair and face were being attended to. It was a long and dull process and often you hated sitting through it, but you would have rather endured it this morning than be running around the room frantically, nerves on high end that someone you know may be hurt or something.

You had just found your dressing gown when suddenly the doors opened and in came the girl that usually helped attend to you. You heaved a deep sigh, greeting her with a smile.

“Elise, you hadn’t come at the normal time, I was worried something happened to you,” you chuckled over your words, shaking your head and realizing you had been ridiculous to jump to such conclusions so quickly.

“My apologies, your highness… the entire staff has been distracted this morning,” she paused, immediately resuming her work of helping you pull on the dressing gown. “There was a flogging in the castle courtyard, a new prisoner.”

You hated hearing about the mistreatment of the men and women in this kingdom. You’d heard much about the so called ‘prisoners’ they kept. Poor and hungry people who may only had stolen a roll of bread to survive, now to be tortured and held against their will for it. This was what you had wanted to change, and so far you were disappointed, because right now you were powerless to do anything. The king was harsh and unforgiving, and you wanted to stay on his good side in order to achieve your goals, but it was taking so long.

“Poor soul,” you mumbled softly, but she heard it, and as she ushered you to the vanity chair that you were used to by now, she explained further.

“Poor indeed. The staff say he was a guest in the castle, you may even know him,” she rambled on, and you shot up to a straight stance only just as you were taking a seat. You turned to her and gave wide eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you, your highness. I speak too plainly.”

You were upset, but her speaking plainly was not the reason. You began breathing quickly, and tried to have a single coherent thought.

“What did this man look like?” Your expression made her believe you were angry, and partly you were, but also completely mortified and worried for another.

“He was quite tall, had darkish features. I didn’t get a good look at him,” she tried her best to respond to your question, but in all honestly she couldn’t understand why you were so concerned. Even if you knew this man, shouldn’t you know that the castle laws come first? That if a rule is broken against the king that it is punishable?

“No,” you shook your head, racing for the doors. Elise cried out for you to come back, to calm yourself and not get worked into a frenzy because it was bad for your complexion.

You were half dressed, not even, and considered wildly inappropriate to be walking the halls of the castle, much less leaving it and rushing out to the courtyard, where the king and a few advisors stood, accompanied by some guards who had just carried out a horrible act.

It seems they were all ready to leave, and the prisoner had already been taken away. It was very clear, however, there was still his blood that dripped down and covered the cobblestones of the area, leading up to the whipping post. The sight made you sick, but you persisted, lacking all sense of decorum as you stood straight behind the king, tugging on his cape and making him face you.

“What did you do?” Your question was nothing short of venomous as it dripped from your mouth, and king Gideon was genuinely terrified, if only for a moment. He knew that he had the numbers, and the manly bravado to overpower you if needed, but it didn’t stop him from having a second of fear.

“I have found an enemy of the kingdom and brought him to justice. I’m afraid your… companion is a very notorious thief, my dear. Not to worry, I will dispose of him for you. He shall hang at first light tomorrow.”

His smug smile, and the play of his words. You knew he was taunting you. He must have known about yours and Din’s secret relationship, otherwise this behavior was completely out of the blue and unlikely to occur. It was him, after all, who agreed to the presence of said thief in the castle along with Grogu. The child was well liked by everyone, and Gideon could not deny he found the little green fellow charming… but the hunter. The one who’d stolen your heart and bent down on one knee to enact what the king could only view as a proposal. He was no longer welcome in the home of royalty.

“Let him go,” your eyes were turning dark, and your fists were clenched so tight they almost shook from the pressure. What would you do if he should not concede? Your power had nearly fully restored itself to you, though not as strong as before, it certainly still had enough power to drop him where he stood. You hated the thought of killing someone, of taking a life and becoming something you always swore you were not, but if it meant your hunter’s life was spared, then so be it.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Though I only wish to make you happy, my princess, the law still stands, and he has broken it one too many times to be left alive.”

It was hypocrisy, all of it. He made it sound like a righteous deed, to lock away someone who has done many wrongs, but he was the one who pushed so many to commit acts of crime every day, just by keeping them starving in the streets. He bred crime then persecuted it to become a hero. He was a wolf stalking his prey, the innocent people of Mandalore, who never did anything to deserve his reign of tyranny.

“If you don’t do as I ask, I will-“

“You’ll what?” He stopped you mid sentence, only making your anger to grow. He kept that horrid and demeaning smile on his face at all times, never letting it dwindle, for his pride held strong. “You forget who’s kingdom this is, you forget your place.”

What could you even do to respond to that? How could you keep your dignity in challenging him without it ending so poorly that his blood may be spilt onto the courtyard stones? You would never use your powers to hurt anyone, you swore from your childhood that you may never allow yourself to fall that low, and yet, you were so angry, fuming and red in the face as you glared to the man in front of you. He was no king, he did not govern his people his respect and care, he ruled over them as if they were mud under his boots. He made them to fear him, his only attribute as a king was intimidation. He wasn’t a king, he was a prison keeper.

Your silence had dragged on far too long, and for that he assumed he had put you in your place, made you see things from the right perspective.

“That’s what I thought,” he spoke, beginning to walk past you, curving around your body and smirking as you stood firm on your feet, bare to the ground like they had almost always been before. “Mayfeld, see to it that she is readied for tonight, the ball is in her honor, after all.”

You winced at the mere mention of the occasion. Sickness spread through your stomach at only the thought that you could be made to attend such an event, and with a smile on your face, while the love of your life is in pain, and rotting away his last night on this forsaken earth in a prison cell. Your anger was still red hot, and flaming to the touch. Anyone who neared you need beware, but also, they may need to prepare for the oncoming stream of tears that was fast approaching. You forced yourself to hold them in until the king had re-entered the castle. There was no point in giving him the satisfaction.

The king’s advisor, Miggs Mayfeld, had spoken to you on a few occasions. He was a yes-man in anyone’s book, but you saw people differently than they were, and you could tell that there was a certain kindness in his eyes, hidden beneath hardened layers that no one could see straight away unless they were willing to take the time to peel said layers away. Even now, as he came to your side, he seemed conflicted. He stood a few feet away, not wanting to upset you further than you had been already. He seemed, for lack of a better word, afraid. But you had no intention of hurting him, nay anyone else.

“You should come with me,” he said it with his eyes to the ground, his head parallel to his feet. He sounded very empathetic, as if he’d grown used to the way the king had treated people, and was now just a bystander to anyone he dealt to, feeling their pain the same way he had all those year ago.

“No,” you stood firm, and though you understood he was just doing his job, he now seemed like the enemy. Doing the king’s bidding made him an extension of your foe, in spite of the fact that he seemed to dislike the king as much as you do, now. “Take me to the hunter.”

Your demand was left into the air, and Mayfeld nearly choked on his saliva at how boldly you delivered it. You clearly weren’t playing games, but he couldn’t afford to surpass his own orders for ones given by you. Even if you did outrank him, you had not been crowned a member of the royal family as of yet, making your commands null and void.

“I can’t, and I think you know that,” he didn’t beat around this bush anymore. He wasn’t going to waste his pleasantries on you, knowing you understood the maniacal situation at hand. “But I can take you to someone who can help. By no means are you to mention this to anyone. If you do, my head is on the line.”

He was speaking quite literally. A traitor to the king would be instantly dealt with, and would probably not make it till sunrise to see the thief and hunter hung at the gallows. You couldn’t tell why he was doing this, if maybe he’d just had enough of the mistreatment, or maybe he simply wanted someone to stand up to the king, either way, you knew his help would be vital.

You followed him in the direction of the far off east wing of the castle, which had been completely separated by a wall of pillars and turrets. If you remember correctly, this wing was home to a few lords and ladies of the kingdom, and sat right between the gates and the castle gardens. As you walked passed, you remembered the hour of the night before, the moonlit white roses, and sparkling daisies that sprung up from the earth. Beauty turned to anger and suffering since then, and you shook off the nasty feeling you had as you finally entered a doorway of the luxurious homestead.

The walls were ornate like the interior of the castle, though the ceilings were lower, and the decor was not as precise and detailed. It looked like some of the things you saw in the village, the building structures that have probably been standing for ages. This looked like true mandalorian culture, and you wondered if the king had changed the castle to look a certain way from perhaps being like this before he began his rule.

Mayfeld whispered to the guard in the hallway, whom looked at you suspiciously before returning his eyes to the man before him. He seemed like he was trying to make a decision, and waited a second or two before letting out a sigh and a nod. He rounded the corner to another room, and returned with a woman you were quite familiar with. She had been at every afternoon tea you were made to attend. She was the one with fiery red hair, and eyes that almost reminded you of your own, though hers were worn with years of sights she did not wish to see.

“Lady Bo Katan,” Mayfeld bowed shortly before closely approaching her and speaking lowly at a volume you could not hear. You waited patiently, and eventually, they both came forward. “She knows the hunter.”

Bo Katan, as formal as she may be, only took a once over of your attire, deeming it unnecessary to call any attention to the fact that you were only covered by a silk nightgown and a sheer dressing robe. You must have been in a hurry.

“If you wish to see him, you will have to wait till nightfall, after the celebration os over,” she told you, and you were about to protest, opening your mouth to argue before she held her hand up. “I’m not finished. You must also attend the party to seem as though you have forgotten the matter.”

“I can’t put on that dress and walk those floors knowing how he’s being kept. I don’t just want to see him, I want him to be free. I refuse to watch him die tomorrow.”

“I understand your haste, but may I offer you some wisdom?” The tilt of her head and slight narrowing of her eyes gave you a view into her mind for only a second, and you could tell she knew what she was saying. You nodded for her to continue. “The king has eyes and ears everywhere. If you ever want to see the hunter again, it will need to be done with discretion and planning. I have been in this court since King Gideon took over, and I plan to see him taken from his throne, but I cannot do so by rushing through and wreaking havoc. You understand?”

Something didn’t add up, something about her seemed off… in a familiar way.

“Why would you be willing to wait so long for something that may never happen?” Your question gave her a look of sheer confusion. Were you missing something? Had you somehow dozed off in one of the days before when they were explaining anything about everything to you?

“You really don’t know…” her voice seemed to pity you, but only for your lack of information. She turned to Mayfeld, who was partially listening by now, then back to you, still stunned. “I am Bo Katan Kryze. I’m your sister.”

No…

You weren’t eager to quickly accept this fact, as you had certainly forgotten you even had a remaining sister left alive. Satine Kryze, and the younger, Bo Katan Kryze. Your flesh and blood, never known to you until this very moment.

“You…” the words were short from your mouth, as you failed to gather them as you started to speak. You couldn’t gather a single coherent thought, and though it made sense as to why, you tried to reason with your own mind and say something. “You’re the rightful heir.”

“I was once, but I squandered my chances. I was too young to understand the consequences of my actions, and I lost the throne in a foolish match with a stranger to Mandalore. My decisions were my own, and it is because of them that Gideon is King,” she explained it to you, and you began to understand the weight and severity of this rule’s history. It was… won? How can you win the throne? “I cannot challenge him again on terms of a deal I made in my surrender.”

The air in the room was thick as her words came to an end, and she turned to the King’s advisor to make sure he knew his place, and would not spill any of this to the King to earn favor. Of course, the history of the battle was to remain a hushed topic, and everyone new this, but the one person who could oversee any punishment in the rules being broken was not present, so speak of it they would, right in front of you no doubt. You thought about it for a minute. Surely you were powerful enough to defeat Gideon in a battle. Your powers could possibly end him on sight if it was necessary. The only obstacle would be the challenge itself.

“I could challenge the King,” you spoke assuredly of yourself, earning two heads snapped with immediate haste upon hearing something they deemed so halfwitted.

“You are no warrior, believe me, the King is more spry and capable than he looks.”

You should not blame either of them for seeing you as a stupid girl, only an innocent child of which knew nothing she spoke of, and shook off their complete and utter disapproval of your idea at first.

“I am capable as well,” you told them, and with the audacity and nerve that he had, Advisor Mayfeld scoffed at you, shaking his head and placing his hands on his hips. He was not having any of your foolish notions. “I can prove it.”

You rose your hand from your side, eyes finding the perfect subject for your demonstration. There was quite an ugly looking vase that caught your vision when you were walking in. It did not match the rest of the authentic Mandalorian decor surrounding, it looked like something that would probably be kept in the main castle, along with all the other gaudy and dramatic looking objects. You lifted it high into the air, bringing it towards you while their backs were still turned, but they spun around quickly when sensing some sort of energy passing between them from you and something behind.

You didn’t get to see their looks of astonishment when they realized just exactly what you were doing, but the gasps followed by long silence was enough for you to know that they had been captivated by your show of power. You flung your wrist, sending the vase into the opposite wall across the room, the shattering sound of the glass echoed, and Mayfeld jumped slightly on impact.

“I know it’s not going to be a conventional fight, but I believe that-“ the wind was swiftly knocked out of you as you were pushed harshly against the wall by Mayfeld, a dagger to your throat as your stared at him with wide eyes.

“She’s a witch!” Mayfeld was not letting up, and though the powers bestowed upon her little sister were momentarily frightening, Bo Katan saw this act as madness, pulling him from you as fast as she could.

“You will do well to keep your hands off of her,” she demanded, and you realized now that this had been yet your second encounter with someone claiming you were a witch.

“Her powers are like that of the shadow keepers, she doesn’t belong here, in a castle,” he glared back at you, but the effect didn’t travel as far as it should have since you were still gasping for your breath. “She must be from the dark forrest.”

“That’s enough,” Bo was sick of hearing the miscreant speak any further. “You are still under my authority, or do you forget?”

His stern eyeline had finally shifted away from you and onto her, but you still felt the adrenaline of his stare weighing from when it had been firmly on your being.

“You will not speak a word of any of this to the King, or anyone else for that matter. What you have seen stays inside these walls, do you understand?”

He didn’t like the king, hated him even. He never had a problem with going behind his back before, but now? Well, this had gone farther than what he had known. The girl who claimed to be the rightful heir, but does not overtake the king for his throne, shown up after being missing and assumed dead for eighteen years, now suddenly reveals the power she has been hiding all along. It was something out of a fairytale and he could hardly believe it. Surely, the king would praise him, reward him even, for letting him in on the little secret that could pose a threat to him remaining the ruler of this kingdom…. But he didn’t care about the rewards, and he didn’t care about being praised, not by Gideon at least. You were the first real contender to dethrone him in years, and he would not pass up the opportunity to see that two-faced dictator get what he deserved, not even if it meant siding with a witch.

“I do.”

His nod and heave of a long, deep sigh meant he was not only in agreement with her commands, but he was approving of the plan to let you challenge the king.

“It’s settled, then,” Bo turned back to you, looking you up and down once again, now seeing something far different from that of when you entered her home. “Gideon will be challenged at the ball tonight, but we have to make sure nothing is out of place or suspected until then.”

You looked at your apparel, and knew instantly that it was not in your best interest to remain in this dressing gown until tonight’s event.

“I suppose I should start getting ready.”

You put on a brave face, though it was hard, and your mind kept traveling back to the plan. The very reason it was being enacted still held against his will in a prison cell amongst the other poor thieves and said ‘criminals’ in the dungeon. He was not innocent, perse, but he was not a bad man, and did not deserve to be killed at morning light like everyone was planning. You wanted so badly to sit with him, to hold him close to you and let him know that you weren’t going to stand for this, that you would save him at any cost. You wanted to take his hands in your own and convey to him all the love you held that would not so easily be diminished by simple threats.

The ball had already begun, and your ladies in waiting were surrounding you, putting the final touches onto your dress and hair, lacing your feet with the most glorious shoes that you’d rather do without. You watched out of the window, looking down at all the people arriving to the grand hall of the castle, seeming like Lords and Ladies and Dukes and Duchesses. Only those of high importance and stature, you could imagine.

“It will be time, soon,” Bo Katan was dressed very elegantly, in the classic Kryze family colors of blue and white. She came around your seat to stand in front of you, hoping to see a face of determination, but instead she found one of worry and nerve. “You won’t back out?”

You couldn’t lie, it scared you to think that in front of all these people, pouring into the ballroom right this minute, you would humiliate the King by offering a duel that could dethrone him. It was a bad move, but he was a coward, and if done in secrecy, he would decline, and have you and your hunter killed. If done in front of a multitude, with many eyes to not only hear of the duel, but to possibly see it with their own eyes? He may have been a coward, but he was far more prideful than he was filled with fear. It was risky, it was practically insane, but you would go through with it.

“I won’t, I swear it. I can’t leave him there,” you had revealed your motivation to her quite early, of course you had… and she understood. She once had a love that she would do anything for, but unfortunately death was an untimely thing, and it happened to like picking and choosing it’s victims. You though? You had the ability to play a hand against death, and you would take the opportunity every single time.

“This hunter of yours, what has he done to be imprisoned?”

“Other than being caught with me?” You spewed that part with annoyance, sure that she understood the weight of responsibility you felt for part of this. “He was the thief who stole the darksaber. I’ve heard some strange stories circulate around since I’ve lived here, but the truth of the matter is that it was in his possession for the entire duration of it being missing, or rather… mine. I would know, that’s how I met him.”

“You were his accomplice?” Her eyebrows furrowed, and she tried to stop from cracking a smile, because the sound of it was utter nonsense. You were a little ray of sunshine, a rainbow in the dark, and a silver moon amongst dark skies. You who giggled like a sweet child in the halls after tea with the king and advisors, and read fantasy books with happy endings that were unreal to life… There was no way you were in on a job with a notorious thief and hunter.

“Not precisely, no. He stumbled into my home after stealing it, and I hid it from him to make a trade. I didn’t know what it was, though it felt oddly familiar.”

“It’s apart of your bloodline, it belongs to you.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, turning you away from the window to look into the mirror. You wouldn’t deny you looked rather beautiful. You fit the role of a princess, and now you could play the part with confidence. The emerald green was adorning you so well, and you doubted there was a spot on you that was out of place. It came together so well, but there was only one person you wished to see you looking like this. Perhaps he would, by the end of the night when this all was over.

“It will be mine again, whatever the cost.”

The ball was so elegant, the decorations were stunning and the aura around the halls was nearly perfect, with lit candles near every sconce and nook there was. The beautiful dark green drapes and vines around the scene matched your dress perfectly, and though you hadn’t yet made your first appearance, everyone was having a wonderful time. All except you it would seem.

Your small band of secret alliances was hidden in the upstairs sitting room nearest to the grand staircase, which would have to be ascended any moment.

“Can you see him?” You were sat on a chair, looking to Mayfeld who had been overseeing the actions of the King as he strutted around, greeting his guests and the nobility as they entered the elaborate ballroom.

“He’s still moving, he hasn’t stopped.”

Lady Bo Katan was already in the shuffle, as she was trying to make sure there were no other intercepting forces on the ground that could possibly interfere with the plan. It would be madly simple as long as everything went correctly, and it had thus far.

You were to enter the ball, being welcomed as the Lost Princess of Mandalore. After any greetings with surrounding comers you would be expected to dance with the King as per his request. Once the King felt secure in your actions, then the switch would flip, and you would command the attention of everyone in the hall to your announcement. The challenge to the throne would be set in stone, and there would be too many witnesses for him to deny it. If all went well, the duel would take place at first light, and the hanging of your hunter would be postponed until the battle was over. You would win against the King, of that you were sure. He may have known about your powers, but not to the extent of what they are really capable of. The people who’d hidden you away as a baby were right to fear your power, but not because of the harm it may bring. Instead they should have ben more aware of your will to save whom you love through that power.

“When is he going to call me down?” You wondered, muttering it halfway under your breath as a thought spoken aloud.

“Now,” he said, taking two steps towards you to give you a hand up from your seat. What a contrast to his earlier behavior of slamming you against a wall in accusation. “He’s just signaled for you.”

“Now?”

Though you’d waited almost an hour, it felt too fast all of a sudden. If only you’d been focussing on calming your nerves rather than thinking about the plan, for it had been completely engraved into your mind by now, and there was no chance you would forget it.

“C’mon, your highness,” he guided you to the top of the stairs, and immediately every head was turned and gasps could be heard from below. The whispers were rowdy, yet still discrete, and the soft string music playing gave a small sense of safety when you looked out over the crowd. “Knock em’ dead.”

You pulled your shoulders back, pasting a fake smile to your face that spread across your cheeks and made you look happy to anyone who couldn’t see the pain in your eyes, for having to act this way under the circumstances being what they were. Ascending the steps was the least of your worries, and yet your heart raced over the possibility of falling. R

“The Princess Kryze has returned!” And the moment it was announced, you reached the bottom, bowing nearly to the floor in order to impress the many guests. Given the eruption of applause when you stood, you deemed your performance rather well done.

King Gideon met you in the center of the room, where a circle had formed to surround you both. His smug smile made you want to hurl out whatever contents were left in your stomach. It wouldn’t be much, considering you nearly refused to eat while thinking about the conditions Din was probably having to survive under.

“You are absolutely ravishing, my dear princess.”

“It took a while to achieve, but I’m glad my appearance is to your liking,” though it was said with as much enthusiasm as you could muster, the words held much disdain in your mind. You were truly only a trophy to him, a prize to look upon and enjoy when he means to. Had anything else never occurred, you’d still hate his being more than anything. He held nothing but darkness in his heart, and would never have been a partner worth even settling for. You’d rather spend the rest of your days as a poor town’s maiden with Din, as opposed to living a life full of luxury and riches with Gideon.

“Since you look so angelic in this splendid work of a dress, it would be a shame if the guests were unable to see it move how it was designed to,” a horrid way of asking you to dance, but you supposed you weren’t expecting anything from him at this point. You only smiled wide when he stuck his hand out to you. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” you responded, taking the outstretched appendage and allowing him to pull you closer. The discomfort ran through your veins, it was so thick and made your heart race and stomach turn. The second his hand fell to your mid back, you nearly felt ill, but kept on in knowing who all of this was for.

The music got louder, and other instruments joined in to form the smooth melody of a waltz. A dance you were expected to fail at by many of the King’s friends. He was the one who had told them so, but he knew better, now. He’d seen you dance with your thief, and you were quite the artist of movement. You flowed like a river through a forrest in the spring. Every movement was well done and meticulously thought out. You’d been practicing with Mayfeld earlier under the scrutiny of Bo Katan, and though it was helpful to rehearse some actual steps, it was much more premeditated than your midnight waltz with Din. With him it was so natural, it was so easy.

Your form was impeccable, even the onlookers thought so. You looked heavenly, quite like a dream. All an act, and it was moving along perfectly.

You had expected to finish the dance without another interaction, however, the King Gideon had other plans.

“You seem to be in a far better mood than this morning,” he said in a mocking tone. He must have felt you tense up for a moment, as his grip on you tightened.

“I suppose I was delirious from the early hours,” your lie was told poorly, and though he might have been swayed by your earlier attempts to make him believe you were in fact happy, your tone drove him to think you were only acting a part. “But you mustn’t mind my behavior.”

He chuckled, looking back at you and spinning you around once before continuing his antics.

“If we’re done playing pretend, I have a deal to offer you.”

Your eyes widened momentarily, and you had to compose yourself as to not give anything else away. This wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t supposed to offer you anything… but what if this deal is the difference between winning and losing a battle?

“I’m listening,” you encouraged, keeping up with the rhythm of the steady music that droned on still. You looked out to the crowd and caught Bo Katan’s face, staring on in hope that whatever you spoke of would not hinder anything.

“I believe it comes as no surprise to you that I wish to seek your hand in marriage, for both the good of the Kingdom and myself,” he spoke so assuredly. Whatever he had in mind for this so called deal wasn’t looking to be the better option so far. “But knowing what I do about yourself and the thief, I understand you would always resent me and perhaps look for ways to sabotage my rule if I simply took you as my bride.”

“Get to the point,” you spoke with no aggression, nor any emotion, as you couldn’t let it show on your face what you were feeling.

“If you shall agree to be my Queen, and unite all of Mandalore… I shall set free the prisoner Din Djarin and allow him an exile from the kingdom.”

You froze, your entire body refusing to finish the dance as it backed away from him. He in turn did the same, making it look as though the dance was over, and bowing to you. You thought quickly on your feet and did the same. The crowd again erupted into a fit of clapping and cheering, not rambunctiously, but just as the sort who have been entertained well. Unneeded to say they were well on their way to adoring the Princess Kryze, just as they always have while you were missing.

“Think about it. You have until midnight to decide,” he finished, grabbing your hand once more and placing a kiss to your knuckles before disappearing back into the crowd among his invited guests. They had all taken the dance floor by now, and you had to take several deep breaths before emerging from the scene to find your accomplices.

You spotted the lovely mane of firey hair, going straight to her and getting her attention. She turned around and saw your fearsome expression and spoke no words before pulling you by the hand to a crevice that no one could find you.

“What happened?” She rushed out. Looking over you, every limb shaking like a leaf yet nearly sweating profusely, it wasn’t hard to tell something went wrong.

“He offered me a deal.”

“No, whatever it is, you cannot accept,” she cut off any other words you may have about the matter, as apparently the contents of said deal were of no priority. “Anything he has to offer you will soon be yours anyway.”

“He offered Din’s freedom in exchange for my hand,” you told her, and she felt she needed to slow down and assess more of this interaction before making anymore rash decisions on your behalf. “If I challenge him tonight, he still has the authority to kill Din by sunrise. If I take the deal, I can challenge him once I know my hunter is safe.”

It was risky. The plan as it were had no flaws in Bo Katan’s eyes. All she wanted to see was the King Gideon slain and his rule to end… but she knew how love could complicate things. To you, the life of a thief was more important than the details of overthrowing the King. She once knew love like that, and it had been lost. Though bitter in her feelings over the subject, she couldn’t stop you from saving the one you love, because she wishes she could have done the same if she had been given that chance.

“You’re sure you want to do this? You know what it will cost you if anything goes wrong?”

“I want him safe, I don’t care what it costs me,” you assured her. With a heavy sigh, she nodded, understanding your fervor for protecting that which is close to you.

“Alright,” she agreed, but stopped you from turning and leaving just yet. “Do not let the King know of your decision until we’ve made new plans. Find a way to meet me out in the gardens, make sure no one sees you leave.”

“Are you going to tell Mayfeld?”

“I will, but for now, just do as I’ve said.”

And with that she was off, vanishing into the pool of bodies that was the dance floor. She was not one or dancing, or anything romantic like that, but she would admit it often gave a good distraction to those she did not want aware of her schemes.

You had found a way to sneak through a hall, and around to a hidden staircase that was usually only used for staff. There, you made your way to your room, and once you felt you could let your guard down, you finally let go of the deep breath you’d been holding. You wrapped a thick black cloak oar your shoulders, making sure the hood was flipped up before you left the room. There was no one in the upper rooms right now as it were, for the entirety of the castle’s population could be found in the ballroom.

It was much easier to get to the courtyard in the disguise you donned, as the black fabric made you near invisible to the guards watching from the towers. You crossed the rough gravel into the gardens, hidden now by the large trees and voluminous plant life around you. You only waited for about two minutes before Bo Katan and Mayfeld snuck into the shadows along with you. All the under cover activity should have felt exciting to you, as it was new and daring… but there was too much on the line. A life you could not afford to lose hung in the balance.

“What’s the plan?” You whispered to Bo, but she held her hand out. Your eagerness was sometimes your downfall, but it was a lucky thing you didn’t have to depend on yourself in this mess.

“Come with us,” she said in a hushed tone, but still commanding enough for you not to question where you were about to follow them to.

Mayfeld held a set of keys upon his belt that you didn’t recognize from earlier, and since you were still on the subject of accepting Gideon’s proposal, your mind did not put the pieces together as to what your mystery destination might be.

When you entered the cavernous looking establishment, the smell of old moss and water build up were rather strong, and you wondered what kind of place this might be that it could be infested with the things it was scented with.

Mayfeld lit a lantern on the wall once you were far enough inside not to be seen. It was only now that you saw your surroundings. You were in the castle dungeon. The other inmates looked to be fast asleep by now, some lounging on top of one another is a haze of exhaustion. You passed by a cell that held two familiar faces, though they were also unconscious in the corner of the area. Ran and Xi’an, Din’s old partners, the ones who tried to betray him and take you. Serves them right for ending up where they were.

You followed Mayfeld to the end of the row, where a rough wooden blockading door stood closed. Mayfeld took the keys from his belt and unlocked the door, entering first and holding his hand out for you both to wait. You understood who was inside, and you wanted nothing more than to go in, but for the sake of any plans that would be hatched, you remained standing as you were.

Mayfeld emerged from the room with a solemn look on his face, but he nodded to you anyways, and stepped aside.

You wasted no time in trampling over your skirt layers to get through the doorway. You could barely see by the lantern light from the hallway, but you felt around until you collided with a familiar body.

“Din?” You reached out and placed a hand on his chest, feeling the tattered shirt beneath your fingertips. He took you in his arms in a moment, hugging you close to his body and tucking himself around your form like a sheet to a mattress.

“It’s me, mesh’la.”

You nearly cried, just feeling him around you gave you an overwhelming sense of peace that you hadn’t possessed for the entirety of the day until now.

You tried snaking your arms around to his back, but his harsh wince along with a jolt of his body away made you uneasy again. You barely found his face in the dark, seeing those dark brown irises staring you down under the soft orange glow.

“What have they done to you?” Your tear filled eyes were about to overflow. What horrible treatment had he endured while you were embraced with luxuries the whole day through?

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he tried to calm your worries over him, for they were trivial in comparison to his worries over you. The king could break every bone in his body, make him writhe in pain and peel the skin from his bones and he would endure it all with a sly look upon his face… but if anyone dared touch you or the child, he became a danger to all forces opposed.

“I can help,” you pleaded with furrowed brows and teary eyes. You hand’t yet tested this aspect of your powers since the incident, but you’d like to bet the need for his healing would be enough motivation to instantly muster your strength again.

You reached for the bottom of his shirt and pulled it off with his help, feeling the torn edges from when he’d been tossed around and likely beaten senseless. It was the first time you’d seen his bare skin like this before, and given that the light continued to get brighter the longer your eyes adjusted, you could see the expanse of his broad chest and torso in it’s entirety. You blinked twice to refocus and snap back to reality, seeing over his shoulder the red lines of broken skin.

Coming closer to him again, you wrapped your arms around his body gently, placing your palms on his back. His wince was the last bit of incentive you needed to concentrate your energy on healing him. He sunk into your hold, reciprocating it while he felt the warm spread of your powers beginning to take his pain away. This was perhaps the worst wound you had ever healed, and it was going to take a toll on you physically, but you pushed that thought to the back of your mind. You would do whatever it took to bear his pain for him, especially since he carried it because of you in the first place. Your knees grew weak, and he had to catch you before you fell to the ground. He held you steady, whispering his thanks in your ear until you were able to stand on your own.

“I hate to interrupt, but we’re running out of time,” Mayfeld came through the doorway again, a full lit torch in his hand to shine more light on the scene. Once Bo entered the cell, all were now congregated, and the planning could commence. “I suspect the King has already noticed your absence, it won’t be long before he’s unable to find us as well.”

“She’s come to tell you something, hunter,” Bo gestured to you and him, barely broken apart since they both came into the room. She wanted the plan to resume as they originally hoped it would, and she had a feeling it might, if the man they came to see had anything to say about it.

“Come to tell me what?” He looked to you with confusion, surely you hadn’t found him a way out so fast. Tonight was the night of the grand ball, and if your appearance was any indication, you’d been attending until now.

You didn’t want to tell him, because it would be too hard to actually say goodbye. You’d much rather had just accepted the deal and let him go knowing you saved him. Now, he stood before you, looking so deeply into your eyes you could cry. How were you supposed to send him away knowing you’d never get to see those eyes again.

“The king has offered me a deal,” you tried to avoid his stare as you prepared to let him in on the contents. “The terms being that, if I marry him, you go free.”

His expression dropped, and he shook his head rapidly a took another step closer to you.

“No, you can’t do this,” he protested, and you wanted to interject, but he was far from done speaking. He took your face in his hands, ensuring that you were truly listening to every word. “I would rather die tomorrow knowing you had the freedom to leave than live, and always know you’d have signed yourself away for my sake.”

Bo Katan wanted you to listen to him, to understand that he hated the terms and wouldn’t want you to go through with it. She needed you to know there were no other options.

“Din, you’d be safe. I can’t let you die.”

His heart broke when your voice did, the last of your words falling off into a sad whisper that matched the tears in your eyes.

“I love you,” he said, touching his forehead to yours for a moment and then looking to Bo Katan, whom stood behind you in waiting for the interaction to close. “And I can’t let you do this.”

“What do you suggest she does?” Bo hoped that his answer could coincide with the plan, but even if it didn’t, she was happy to know that his reaction to the news had been what she was anticipating.

He took a deep breath in and focused again on your features, the way they were softly lit by the fire light. They had painted your face like they’d been doing for weeks, but with the softer elements and colors to match your aura for the evening, he couldn’t help but admit you were enchanting. His beautiful girl, the one he’d done all of this for in the first place. No doubt about it, you were the cause for the mess… but he’d do it over and again, one hundred times.

“Run.” It was said with a lonesome sadness, but he meant it. “Take the kid, and get far away from here.”

You shook your head, but he wasn’t going to stop. He only wanted you to be free, after all your years of being kept prisoner, you deserved to be uncaged. Marrying the King would only make you his slave.

“We’re out of time,” Mayfeld said, he and Bo Katan trying to usher you away from the cell. You let yourself be pulled away, seeing Din stand still in the middle of the stone floor. He didn’t want you to go, but if the King found out you were gone with his biggest conspirators, you would be in more trouble than he currently was.

Once the door was closed and locked, the three of you began to book it through the long cell block. You dropped your head to hide from them your tears, knowing that they were probably far stronger with hiding their emotions, and might think you to be weak should you expose them.

Din wouldn’t leave you even if they forced him to. There was only one other option that prevented him from being hanged. You froze in your tracks and closed your eyes, feeling the energy around you, making you gain a courage that you wouldn’t have had before. Seeing Din, in the position he was in, under the roof of the castle dungeon and skin split by violence… it angered you, it lit a flame in your spirit, a passion to do right by him whatever means necessary. More than anything, you wanted him to be free, and free by your side. He’d asked you to marry him, and you intended to keep to your word of doing so.

“Are you alright?” Bo asked, upon noticing you fell behind a few steps.

“I’m fine,” you spoke with a newfound tone, one that was straight forward and firm. It was so different from the unsure voice you’d held only moments ago.

You marched on past them and into the staff entrance of the castle. You used a window reflection to remake your appearance, to hide the fact you’d been crying and to fix the disheveled hair that had sat under your cloak, which was the next thing you ride yourself of.

You gathered your skirt, running through the marble halls and finding the ballroom to be completely full of people dancing, laughing, and having a ball. You spotted him in the crowd, King Gideon. He was talking amongst some allies until he caught your gaze from across the floor. He quickly excused himself and made a beeline to where you stood, straight and tall like a firmly planted tree.

“I had wondered where you disappeared to,” he spoke everything with a smile, whether it was genuine or fake, you didn’t care enough to know, but it was spread across his smug face nonetheless.

“I took some time to think about your offer… and I know what I have to do,” you said sincerely. He smirked, feeling as though he had won. His nod of approval meant you had him where you wanted him. “If you’d allow me to, I’d like to make the announcement myself.”

The dark chuckle he responded with sent chills down your spine, and the shiver that glided over your skin was another unwelcome reaction to the man’s devilish grin. He held his hand to the small of your back, seemingly guiding you towards the elevated platform by the stairs.

“I would love nothing more, my queen,” he raised your hand to his lips and did as he had done earlier, pressing a sloppy kiss to your knuckles. It felt dirty, to let him keep doing that.

Now standing where everyone could see, Gideon commanded the attention of the room, allowing them to face you for your announcement of what he presumed to be your engagement to him. The man was too prideful for his own good, which is why this plan would work so perfectly.

“As the princess of Mandalore, I’d like to thank you all for celebrating with me this evening,” a few glasses were raised as if this were to be a toast in someone’s honor. You heaved a breath before continuing. “This Kingdom has known division for too long, and I believe it is up to me to change the way things have been.” Even King Gideon was pleased with your choice of words. He was almost happy to be standing beside you while making this announcement, but he was about to turn a one eighty in only a moment. “The time has come for Mandalore to begin a new chapter, under a new rule.”

The applause was loud, and the King was impressed, but the final words had not yet been spoken…

“I hereby challenge the faux King Gideon to a duel,” and right then, the gasps of the crowd were all around. The audience had been involved. There were too many witnesses for him to refuse, too many to simply kill you behind closed doors. He froze in place beside you, unsure what to do or where to go. “As per tradition of this nation, the battle will be to the death, and the victor will claim the throne of Mandalore once and for all.”

Your speech was spoken at a volume you’d never dared to speak before. This confidence running through your veins was not yet done, and with it you turned to face Gideon, a smirk on your face now, and a fearsome look on his. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“I shall see you at dawn, my king.”

The mockery was lear in your voice, but he had nothing to say in response. As a last stitch effort to make a fool out of him, you bowed low to the ground in his honor. You turned and left up the stairway, and that was the last he’d seen of you for the night.

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