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Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.
Rating: E, bondage, role playing
a/n: I'm yeeting this into the void before I can pick at it anymore. Please enjoy!!
—
“Who is this?”
Din walks up to the bar, a small child trailing behind him. He motions for him to take a seat, and you watch as the boy struggles to climb up onto the stool, his short limbs just long enough to hoist himself up. His small, solemn face peeks over the counter, his eyes taking in the room. They are big, beautiful eyes, startling in their rich hazel color under his messy mop of dark waves.
You smile, and he greets it with his own politely wary expression.
Studying his features, you look for a resemblance to Din. You’re sure you would have remembered if he had mentioned a family. A small bud of jealousy blooms in your chest at the thought, but just as fast as it appears, you shove it back down. You know better than feel any sense of jealousy or entitlement over a customer. In fact, you know better than to feel anything at all about them - Gracie’s made sure to teach you that much.
“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.”
He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”
Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”
Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing.
Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down.
“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it.
Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other.
The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner.
At this, you lead the boy over.
“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”
They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.
They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his.
“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.”
–
In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter.
Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth.
“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.
His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.
“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.
“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”
Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does.
–
Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck.
Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.
Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information.
He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.
At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop.
The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway.
Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood.
He also found the man he was searching for.
The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor.
Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger.
The quarry slumped over, dead.
With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house.
Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”.
He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel.
Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid.
He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out.
Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him.
With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind.
–
“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch.
“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”
The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”
“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”
With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him.
“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”
Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh.
“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”
–
With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.
Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten.
Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game.
He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.
Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules.
“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need.
Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.”
He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant.
Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.
His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”
Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him.
“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path.
Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart.
“You ready?” he murmurs.
Swallowing hard, you nod.
Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black.
Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip.
“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”
You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.
“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”
He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”
“That was nothing,” she plays along.
He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “
The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound.
“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her.
Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.
Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command.
“Close the door.”
Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast.
“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”
You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place.
“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile.
“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”
The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him.
“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”
Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them.
You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder.
“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”
His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin.
“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”
“Please.”
Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide.
You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear.
“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”
–
It’s a lot after that.
Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on.
Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away.
Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops.
You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”
Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come.
Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts.
Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.
The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up.
As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.
Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”
Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you.
Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up.
Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder. “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth.
Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours.
Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come.
Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out.
“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you.
Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs.
Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over.
She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists.
“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”
–
Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.
Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises.
“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”
You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works.
He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay.
“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room.
Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him.
He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be.
Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”
A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t.
At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his.
Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone.
He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence.
Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away.
“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers.
More asleep than not, you softly nod.
Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in.
Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.
Rating: E, bondage, role playing
a/n: I'm yeeting this into the void before I can pick at it anymore. Please enjoy!!
—
“Who is this?”
Din walks up to the bar, a small child trailing behind him. He motions for him to take a seat, and you watch as the boy struggles to climb up onto the stool, his short limbs just long enough to hoist himself up. His small, solemn face peeks over the counter, his eyes taking in the room. They are big, beautiful eyes, startling in their rich hazel color under his messy mop of dark waves.
You smile, and he greets it with his own politely wary expression.
Studying his features, you look for a resemblance to Din. You’re sure you would have remembered if he had mentioned a family. A small bud of jealousy blooms in your chest at the thought, but just as fast as it appears, you shove it back down. You know better than feel any sense of jealousy or entitlement over a customer. In fact, you know better than to feel anything at all about them - Gracie’s made sure to teach you that much.
“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.”
He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”
Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”
Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing.
Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down.
“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it.
Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other.
The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner.
At this, you lead the boy over.
“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”
They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.
They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his.
“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.”
–
In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter.
Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth.
“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.
His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.
“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.
“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”
Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does.
–
Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck.
Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.
Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information.
He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.
At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop.
The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway.
Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood.
He also found the man he was searching for.
The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor.
Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger.
The quarry slumped over, dead.
With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house.
Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”.
He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel.
Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid.
He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out.
Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him.
With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind.
–
“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch.
“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”
The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”
“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”
With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him.
“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”
Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh.
“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”
–
With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.
Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten.
Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game.
He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.
Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules.
“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need.
Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.”
He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant.
Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.
His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”
Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him.
“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path.
Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart.
“You ready?” he murmurs.
Swallowing hard, you nod.
Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black.
Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip.
“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”
You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.
“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”
He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”
“That was nothing,” she plays along.
He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “
The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound.
“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her.
Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.
Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command.
“Close the door.”
Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast.
“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”
You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place.
“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile.
“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”
The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him.
“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”
Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them.
You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder.
“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”
His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin.
“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”
“Please.”
Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide.
You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear.
“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”
–
It’s a lot after that.
Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on.
Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away.
Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops.
You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”
Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come.
Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts.
Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.
The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up.
As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.
Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”
Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you.
Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up.
Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder. “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth.
Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours.
Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come.
Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out.
“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you.
Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs.
Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over.
She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists.
“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”
–
Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.
Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises.
“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”
You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works.
He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay.
“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room.
Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him.
He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be.
Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”
A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t.
At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his.
Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone.
He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence.
Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away.
“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers.
More asleep than not, you softly nod.
Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in.
Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.
Rating: E, bondage, role playing
a/n: I'm yeeting this into the void before I can pick at it anymore. Please enjoy!!
—
“Who is this?”
Din walks up to the bar, a small child trailing behind him. He motions for him to take a seat, and you watch as the boy struggles to climb up onto the stool, his short limbs just long enough to hoist himself up. His small, solemn face peeks over the counter, his eyes taking in the room. They are big, beautiful eyes, startling in their rich hazel color under his messy mop of dark waves.
You smile, and he greets it with his own politely wary expression.
Studying his features, you look for a resemblance to Din. You’re sure you would have remembered if he had mentioned a family. A small bud of jealousy blooms in your chest at the thought, but just as fast as it appears, you shove it back down. You know better than feel any sense of jealousy or entitlement over a customer. In fact, you know better than to feel anything at all about them - Gracie’s made sure to teach you that much.
“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.”
He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”
Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”
Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing.
Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down.
“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it.
Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other.
The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner.
At this, you lead the boy over.
“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”
They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.
They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his.
“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.”
–
In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter.
Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth.
“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.
His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.
“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.
“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”
Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does.
–
Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck.
Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.
Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information.
He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.
At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop.
The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway.
Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood.
He also found the man he was searching for.
The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor.
Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger.
The quarry slumped over, dead.
With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house.
Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”.
He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel.
Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid.
He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out.
Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him.
With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind.
–
“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch.
“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”
The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”
“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”
With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him.
“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”
Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh.
“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”
–
With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.
Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten.
Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game.
He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.
Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules.
“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need.
Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.”
He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant.
Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.
His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”
Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him.
“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path.
Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart.
“You ready?” he murmurs.
Swallowing hard, you nod.
Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black.
Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip.
“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”
You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.
“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”
He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”
“That was nothing,” she plays along.
He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “
The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound.
“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her.
Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.
Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command.
“Close the door.”
Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast.
“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”
You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place.
“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile.
“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”
The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him.
“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”
Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them.
You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder.
“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”
His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin.
“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”
“Please.”
Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide.
You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear.
“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”
–
It’s a lot after that.
Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on.
Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away.
Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops.
You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”
Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come.
Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts.
Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.
The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up.
As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.
Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”
Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you.
Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up.
Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder. “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth.
Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours.
Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come.
Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out.
“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you.
Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs.
Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over.
She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists.
“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”
–
Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.
Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises.
“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”
You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works.
He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay.
“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room.
Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him.
He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be.
Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”
A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t.
At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his.
Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone.
He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence.
Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away.
“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers.
More asleep than not, you softly nod.
Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in.
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Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.
Rating: Explicit af - it's a brothel, friends 🥰
A/N: This is a complete revision of the previous story I posted in 2020. The original story was the very first thing I ever wrote, and this revision is truly the labor of love it deserves. Nothing is going to be removed from the original story -- this is an expansion and improvement on the original, hopefully for the better. To everyone who has been here since the first chapter all the way to the new readers -- I hope you enjoy! ❤️
--
The first time you see him in the brothel, you call dibs.
With your eyes fixed on the way his throat moves when he swallows his drink, the madam laughs.
“You’re too sweet for that one. He needs more experienced girls.”
From across the room, the two of you size him up together – your face curious, hers more knowing.
“He’s more generous than you’ll ever meet when it comes to money,” she confides, leaning in close. “But his appetite and size are also generous.” A lewd smirk graces her lips. “I’m not sure you’re ready.”
Giving her a skeptical glance, your eyes go back to the man. He pushes back from the worn bar top, tipping his head in a silent thanks to the bartender. Broad shoulders tightly encased in a worn but clean jacket, holsters slung low on his hips, trail dusted boots. Following his loose, confident gait up the stairs, you take in the way he moves with surety up the staircase, disappearing into a room.
“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby.
Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables.
--
The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.
The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.
“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water.
“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”
Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says.
The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”
“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”
“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”
–
He has a routine, the madam tells you.
“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner.
A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight.
“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues.
“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”
You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.
“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”
“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”
Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh.
“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”
The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her.
You immediately turn to Gracie.
“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach.
She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”
That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls.
One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature.
“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”
“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”
Scrunching your nose, you agree.
“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”
Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room.
Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case.
Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room.
Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening.
He enters, and your greeting is automatic.
“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”
He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation.
He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots.
He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair.
His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.
Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed.
Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.
You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”
Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.
It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks.
Handsome. Definitely handsome.
He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness.
Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”
Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?”
He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test.
“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone.
“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.”
Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.
–
He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap.
“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”
“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”
A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”
Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation.
Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.
You swallow, reaching for the soap again.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth.
Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in.
“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it.
His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement.
Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue.
The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands.
You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait.
Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin.
He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you.
“Feel good?”
“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap.
The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots.
A smile that makes you want to kiss him.
Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap.
Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands.
“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin.
Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch.
Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock. When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath.
“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.
The sound he lets out is delicious.
A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water.
You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it.
“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?”
Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does.
The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back.
“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.
“You don’t want me to wash you?”
He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip.
“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”
Girl.
The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care.
Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in.
“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”
He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”
“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation.
“I am.”
“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her.
–
That night, you learned who he was.
Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated.
Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy.
You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments.
He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep.
He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning.
“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”
–
Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times.
Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide.
Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs.
“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.”
It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push.
“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.
Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.
She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away.
“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”
“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.
He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it.
Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss.
She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief.
“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”
Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss.
Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance.
“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet.
You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth.
He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it.
“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”
The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss.
“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.
Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength.
She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths –
“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.
You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”
Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak.
Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”
So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie.
Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough.
It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over.
Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure.
“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?”
Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut.
Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”
At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release.
At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard.
There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe.
“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him.
The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth.
In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world.
He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again.
Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you.
Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw.
“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”
Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness.
Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.
At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin.
“They all say that,” you tease.
You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last:
No one fucks me like you do.
I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me.
I’m your girl. Only your girl.
When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn.
With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed.
You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots.
Your eyes sliding shut, you listen to him slip from the room, shutting the door with a soft click as you roll over into Gracie’s warm heat and go back to sleep.
you and your lover trying to have quiet sex while you have guests staying over at your home — and they have their palm over your mouth and are shushing you gently with a little smile on their face
imagine experiencing domestic bliss with sweetheart mr. pike and having him follow you around like a lost puppy as you’re preparing to have friends over. marcus keeps shooting those big brown puppy eyes at you all night long while daydreaming about the moment he can have you all to himself again. after everyone turns in for the night marcus gets insatiable ”shhhhhh honey, I need you to be quiet for me. can you do that, oh yeah? that’s my good girl. those pretty noises you make are only for me baby.”
@simpingforjoel seriously!!😩😩 I’m yearning again!! My mind went directly to Frankie… he’d be smirking, knowing what he’s doing… so ravenous for you he can’t stop himself… needing to have you, to claim you… to savor every inch of your body…
Hi Kelli 💜 In case you missed it, there's a post on the Reddit sub by Riff where people are sharing their Top 5 fics of all time — and you are mentioned often! It even sparked a lengthy side discussion on Discord about how much In the Dark and Short Days Long Nights have meant to so many of us.
You are such a beautiful writer, and I especially love how creative and thoughtful you are when it comes to your series endings (even if they break my heart). I just want you to know how truly appreciated you are in this fandom! We are all so excited to devour your reimagining of Take Me to Church — I cannot wait to luxuriate in baths with Din again.
Love you!
I truly wish you could have seen my face when I got this ask, nonnie. It was the picture of grateful softness 🥺❤️❤️❤️🥰🥰🥰
I am beyond honored to have been mentioned in that thread with so many other amazing fics! Being reminded that there are people out there who are still thinking of something I posted years (!) ago is the best, best feeling -- and I wish I could come into that Discord and hug every one of you! I am so thankful for having such a welcoming community in this space, and on that space, and in your Discord. I wouldn't be here without people to share these stories with, and you all are appreciated more than you know!
Thank you so, so much -- for this sweet ask, for inspiring me to keep going, and for making me feel like the luckiest gal who ever walked the earth.
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Do you plan to upload the revised TMTC to AO3? Asking because I prefer reading there over tumblr but I understand if not
Okay YES, I am planning on doing this, but every time I think about the logistics, I get hung up.
Do I post it as a wholly new story? For those who liked the original, how do I let them know I'm revising it? Do I leave both versions up, or take the original down?
The second chapter is almost ready, so I'm thinking I'll:
Post another chapter on the original, with just a message that it's being revised
And then create an entirely new fic for the revised story
Any advice from anyone who has done this?
I swear nonnie, it's coming! I'll let you know when!
Tom Lake non here! The pages you posted make my heart so warm. The well worn love and intimacy is so honey and Joel! I hope you’re liking the rest of the book! adore you, adore your writing!!! 💐❤️
It was so good!
It was such a slow burn, which I really loved, the more I think about it. Their love was such a quiet and sturdy one, so solid and sure - when I got to the part where she visits the orchard for the first time, I didn't even realize it was her future husband and once I did realize, I thumbed back a few pages and reread their first date, giddy for them 😍
The whole book was like the warmth of summer, every page soaked in sleepy sunshine and so immersive, and the love story between her and the movie star was so aching and bittersweet...ugh, I really really loved it. I can't wait to read more of her stuff!
just got Ann Patchett’s new book 🤩🤠 so excited to read it
Oooh - what did you think? Which one did you get?
I just picked up Lonesome Dove and Blood Meridian (at the glowing recommendation from @whatsnewalycat over lunch 😍🥰) and I can't wait to live my best fictional western life 😌 and get inspired!
can you please write a harry castillo fic, i think you would nail it
Hey hey!
First of all, thank you 🥺❤️
Secondly -- I have thought of this!
Fresh from the movie, I fixated on that scene in the kitchen...the frustration on Harry's face, his tone laced with resignation when he confessed that he finds love the "hardest thing" to understand...I wanted to dive a little deeper into why that was. He looks so desperate at the wedding when he's watching her from across the room, and he spends so much of their time together trying to convince himself that it's a good fit when it's not - the whole dynamic was pretty fascinating, and his personality is the stuff of fanfic dreams! So much to dig into!
I have so many theories about him, but I never got around to putting any words down 😔
Because her and her story mean more to me than she will ever know, I wanted to write my beloved @astroboots a special Homecoming drabble. I can't even touch the amazing universe that's she's created, but I hope she likes this one. I love you!
Frankie x Santi x f!reader
Series Masterlist
Rating: Explicit
--
“Frankie, what are you doing?”
His head bent, the manual open in his hands, you admire the dark waves that tumble over the crown of his head. You slide your fingers into them, the grey threaded with the rich brown slipping through your hold and you trail your hand down to cup his cheek, bringing his gaze up to yours.
“This is a party,” you say slowly. “You’re supposed to be talking to other people, not reading a –,” you look down, tilting your head to read the text and when you look back up at him, your eyebrows are raised. “A rice cooker manual? Really?”
He shrugs, looking back down at it. “I’ve wanted this one. Thought I would check out the settings on it.”
He stays silent, flipping a page and you take a sip of your wine, giving him an affectionate look.
“I think that is what Google is for, baby.” You place your hand over the page, a smirk curling at the edge of your lips.
He’s leaning against the counter, his worn shirt tight across his broad chest and over the rounds of his shoulders and the phantom feeling of his skin under your palms ghosts across them, your nails digging into those same shoulders as you rode him last night. He’s so handsome when he looks back up at you, those big brown eyes with those dark curling lashes, his beard a sparse cover that only he can make work and when you stare a bit too long, a knowing look flashes across his face.
He leans in, bringing his mouth next to your ear as his arm curls around your waist with a squeeze. You feel his breath hot on your neck, and glancing across the room, you see Santi looking directly at you.
“First,” he begins, his voice husky and low, “you rinse the rice.”
A laugh bubbles from you, his cheeks stretching with a grin at the sound of it, and when you start to pull away, he tugs you closer. “First,” he begins again, “you rinse the rice.”
You wait, taking a sip of wine and his nose skates along the edge of your hairline, nuzzling your skin. “Then, you put it in the pot. Equal parts rice and water.”
You hum, taking a sip of wine and you aren’t sure if it’s the alcohol or the sound of his voice that’s warming you low in your belly, but you press yourself tighter against him and listen with a shiver.
“The Cuckoo Rice –” he begins, and you pull away, laughing louder now.
“Are you serious? That’s the name of it?”
“Shhh,” he scolds you with a smile, “be quiet and get back here.”
You obey, tucking yourself pleasantly into his side and he continues.
“The Cuckoo Rice Cooker can make rice of all kinds, but it can also make oatmeal, barley, soybeans, sweet potatoes –”
“Shut up, no it can’t.” You pull away, reaching for the manual and he nods solemnly, snatching your hand in his and bringing it to rest on his chest.
“I swear to God.”
You’re still laughing when you hear music start in the other room and the two of you glance over. Santi is in the middle of a small group of people, a beer in one hand that he takes a pull from and he must feel you both watching him, but he doesn’t return the look. Instead, he seems to revel in it, standing a bit straighter.
“He looks good tonight, don’t you think?” You keep your hand on Frankie’s chest, the heat of his firm muscles felt under your touch and he hums in agreement.
“Yea, he really does. I like those pants.”
You look up at Frankie, watching his profile as his eyes follow the line of Santi’s body down and back up and you take another sip of wine, draining the glass.
“I know you do.”
He looks down at you, with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you love his ass.” You reach around him, resting the empty glass on the counter. “He knows it too. I bet he wore those pants just for you tonight.”
Frankie looks back at Santi with a newly assessing gaze, his eyebrows raising. “You think?”
As if the man himself can hear the two of you from across the room, you watch Santi turn around and bend over, placing his now empty beer bottle on an end table. Frankie’s hold tightens on your hip, his tongue running slowly across his lush lower lip and when Santi bends at the waist to tie his shoe, you can feel Frankie suck in a breath next to you.
You wait for a moment, suddenly recognizing Santi’s slow game. You wonder if he really did wear those pants just for Frankie tonight, and how far in advance he thought about whatever plan he’s hatched. You think back to this afternoon, looking at everything in a new light: the way he touched the small of your back when he reached around you to grab something off the bookshelf this morning, the way he insisted helping Frankie with yard work today, wiping the sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt, the way he stripped it completely as you both watched him walk down the hallway to the shower.
Heat comes up sharp between your thighs at the thought of his back - the strong muscular lines of it, the way it flexes between your knees when his face is buried between your thighs, the way it rounds taut when Frankie fucks him - and you bring your hand up to your mouth to take a sip of wine to steady yourself, when you remember that you aren’t holding the glass anymore.
“We should go,” you say, biting your lip and Frankie nods, already pushing off the counter.
–
“Sure seemed like you guys were in a hurry to get home tonight,” Santi teases, opening the front door and Frankie swats him sharp on the ass, pushing him through the entrance faster.
He waits for you to come in behind him, kicking the door shut with a booted heel slam and you watch him grab Santi by the back of his shirt, pulling him around to face him. The kiss he gives him is a fierce one, full of hunger and want, his tongue slipping messily into his mouth and his hand reaches out blindly for you, tugging you forward when you grasp it.
“Take your fucking clothes off,” Frankie commands, his hands already pulling at the hem of Santi’s shirt as you work on his belt buckle and he’s laughing at the desperate urgency in your movements, his cock stirring in his briefs. You shut him up with a kiss, your hand wrapping around the nape of his neck to pull him to you after Frankie tosses his shirt onto the floor. He moans into your mouth, his strong hands guiding you back into Frankie and for a moment, you’re sandwiched between them; Santi’s mouth devouring yours, Frankie’s hands skimming up under your skirt.
His fingers curl around the waist of your panties, sliding them down and off and when you step out of them, you lurch forward into Santi’s firm hold when Frankie pushes your legs apart from behind, spreading you for his mouth.
“Jesus,” you gasp into Santi’s mouth, your fingers digging into his skin as you try and steady yourself and Frankie is already relentless from behind you, his tongue dipping hungrily inside your tight warmth. He opens his mouth wide, his hand pushing on the inside of your thigh to get a better taste and when the tip of his tongue starts to circle your clit, you break your kiss with Santi, resting your forehead against his shoulder.
“Make her come,” Santi says, holding you in place and whether it’s the alcohol flowing through your veins or the tension in this room or the feeling of being so completely desired by the two of these men filling your body so full that you’re shamelessly grinding back against Frankie’s face, you’re already embarrassingly close to coming - something that happens with a breathless whine into Santi’s throat when Frankie sucks on your clit, hard.
You’re still breathing heavily when he stands back up, bracing yourself on Santi as he stands still in front of you and even though he’s tenderly collecting the hair at the nape of your neck and kissing your temple so sweetly that you can feel the rasp of his stubble against it, you feel a charge fill the room, like you’re standing on the edge of something about to break.
Frankie wanted your pussy, he always wants your pussy, but he also wants something else.
He leans over your shoulder, giving you a damp kiss there and then he slides his hands up through Santi’s curls, tugging harshly on them. He holds his gaze, and Santi looks back at him, almost defiant.
“I said I wanted you to take your fucking clothes off.”
There is a taut beat of time before Santi releases you, guiding you to sit down on the couch and you curl up on the cushion, watching them. Santi holds eye contact with Frankie as he slips his hands underneath the waistband of his jeans, his belt buckle a clink on the floor when he pushes them down with his briefs and when he stands bare in front of him, you watch the swallow of his tanned throat.
“Hands and knees.”
You prop up on your elbow, the urge to press your hand between your legs strong when you see Santi comply. It’s always fascinating, to you, the power dynamic between the two of them, and nothing makes you more feral than when Frankie’s voice gets that low, commanding tone. When he’s the one in charge.
You watch him slowly strip - his shirt over his head, his hands working his belt open, his pants dropping down and stepping out of them, you watch his hand palm the heft of his hardening cock as he looks down at Santi on the floor, waiting for him.
Frankie’s hooded eyes take in the curve of his ass, the firm roundness of it and the urge to feel it slamming against his hips makes him fully harden under his black cotton. You watch him stroke himself, circling his cock with a tight grip as he kneels down behind Santi and reaching into his briefs, he pulls his cock out.
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Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.
Rating: Explicit af - it's a brothel, friends 🥰
A/N: This is a complete revision of the previous story I posted in 2020. The original story was the very first thing I ever wrote, and this revision is truly the labor of love it deserves. Nothing is going to be removed from the original story -- this is an expansion and improvement on the original, hopefully for the better. To everyone who has been here since the first chapter all the way to the new readers -- I hope you enjoy! ❤️
--
The first time you see him in the brothel, you call dibs.
With your eyes fixed on the way his throat moves when he swallows his drink, the madam laughs.
“You’re too sweet for that one. He needs more experienced girls.”
From across the room, the two of you size him up together – your face curious, hers more knowing.
“He’s more generous than you’ll ever meet when it comes to money,” she confides, leaning in close. “But his appetite and size are also generous.” A lewd smirk graces her lips. “I’m not sure you’re ready.”
Giving her a skeptical glance, your eyes go back to the man. He pushes back from the worn bar top, tipping his head in a silent thanks to the bartender. Broad shoulders tightly encased in a worn but clean jacket, holsters slung low on his hips, trail dusted boots. Following his loose, confident gait up the stairs, you take in the way he moves with surety up the staircase, disappearing into a room.
“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby.
Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables.
--
The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.
The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.
“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water.
“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”
Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says.
The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”
“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”
“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”
–
He has a routine, the madam tells you.
“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner.
A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight.
“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues.
“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”
You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.
“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”
“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”
Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh.
“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”
The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her.
You immediately turn to Gracie.
“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach.
She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”
That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls.
One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature.
“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”
“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”
Scrunching your nose, you agree.
“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”
Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room.
Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case.
Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room.
Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening.
He enters, and your greeting is automatic.
“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”
He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation.
He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots.
He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair.
His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.
Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed.
Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.
You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”
Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.
It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks.
Handsome. Definitely handsome.
He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness.
Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”
Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?”
He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test.
“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone.
“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.”
Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.
–
He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap.
“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”
“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”
A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”
Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation.
Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.
You swallow, reaching for the soap again.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth.
Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in.
“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it.
His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement.
Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue.
The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands.
You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait.
Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin.
He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you.
“Feel good?”
“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap.
The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots.
A smile that makes you want to kiss him.
Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap.
Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands.
“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin.
Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch.
Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock. When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath.
“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.
The sound he lets out is delicious.
A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water.
You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it.
“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?”
Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does.
The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back.
“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.
“You don’t want me to wash you?”
He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip.
“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”
Girl.
The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care.
Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in.
“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”
He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”
“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation.
“I am.”
“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her.
–
That night, you learned who he was.
Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated.
Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy.
You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments.
He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep.
He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning.
“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”
–
Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times.
Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide.
Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs.
“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.”
It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push.
“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.
Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.
She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away.
“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”
“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.
He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it.
Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss.
She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief.
“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”
Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss.
Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance.
“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet.
You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth.
He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it.
“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”
The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss.
“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.
Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength.
She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths –
“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.
You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”
Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak.
Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”
So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie.
Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough.
It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over.
Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure.
“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?”
Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut.
Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”
At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release.
At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard.
There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe.
“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him.
The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth.
In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world.
He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again.
Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you.
Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw.
“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”
Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness.
Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.
At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin.
“They all say that,” you tease.
You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last:
No one fucks me like you do.
I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me.
I’m your girl. Only your girl.
When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn.
With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed.
You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots.
Your eyes sliding shut, you listen to him slip from the room, shutting the door with a soft click as you roll over into Gracie’s warm heat and go back to sleep.
A medical doctor turned hardened FEDRA soldier, Mira Hallowell is sent to spy on the settlement of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, 21 years after the cordyceps outbreak. Things get complicated when she finds an unexpected purpose in Jackson…and some unexpected companionship.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut.
Words: ~80k
Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel Miller, Joel Miller x OFC!Mira, Joel & Ellie, Joel is bad at feelings and relationships, Ellie is a little shit (affectionate), canon-compliant with season 1, SMUT, bisexual!OFC, bisexual female character, PTSD, angst, angst with a happy ending, romance, sex work, sexually explicit content, abortion, medical trauma, discussions of pregnancy (but no babies here), suicide, suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks, no age gap, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3
Notes: Welcome to my first rewrite! I started the original Ghosts in 2023 and published it in 2024, my first foray into writing and fandom after a long absence. It was a Reader fic because that seemed like the standard in the fandom at the time.
I have nothing against Reader fics! I love ‘em, but as I’ve grown into my writing and my style, I find I’m less inclined to write that way. Eventually, I started reimagining Ghosts with an identifiable female protagonist and decided to rewrite it with that in mind. In addition to changing the pronouns, I made several tweaks and improvements to the characterizations, the smut, and the flow. The overarching story stays the same.
(If you prefer the Reader version, don’t worry! It’s not going anywhere. You can still read it here.)
The title is a lyric from the song “This Time Tomorrow” by Brandi Carlisle:
But our holy dreams of yesterday aren’t gone,
They still haunt us like the ghosts of Babylon,
And the breaking of the day might bring you sorrow,
You know I may not be around this time tomorrow,
But I’ll always be with you.
I was absolutely sucked into this story from the moment I started until the moment it ended - the pacing was incredible, the details so immersive, the vocabulary! and your writing skills! and the characterization! all of it makes me want to come and give you a squeeze and gush over an afternoon coffee about how talented you are!!
The opening is something that I've read a few times ❤️ this overlap with Joel's story, your one sentence mentions of what's happening to him thousands of miles away - they are freaking genius. It's such a simple thing to not only place the reader in the story timeline, but to also remind us that there are literally millions of others going through their own traumatic story at the same time, which makes it all so fascinating.
The development of Mira and Joel's relationship was so incredibly perfect - the hesitancy, the need pouring over in place of vulnerability, the masking they both did until they didn't. You nailed him down so, so well. Everything from his dry humor to his anger. I am in awe!
The part of the story where she confesses and he finds her and nurses her back - I need to let you know how much my chest was aching. Those chapters of them in the cabin are some of the most heart wrenching and the most well written things I've read in awhile. A week later the feeling is still sticking with me, and that's because you did such an amazing job at describing where they both were in their heads. Your talent!!
Thank you so much for sharing this with us, for your amazing hard work on the rewrite and for being such a brilliant story teller!
