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idolatrybarbie · 4 months

Text

pairing: santa!francisco "frankie" morales x fem!reader

word count & rating: 2.4k words | explicit - minors dni

summary: more santa frankie porn anyone?

tags: santa kink???, free use, spreader bar, creampie, come eating, facefucking, throatpie, anal sex, degradation, cum, pet names (honey, little girl, sweet girl, baby), praise, CUM AGAIN GUYS LIKE IDK WHAT HAPPENED HERE.

notes: i have had too much alcohol to edit this so take it as is. this is the part where i tell you i am actually gonna go on hiatus now, no posting from me. merry christmas, and to all a good night!!!!!

The spreader bar has your legs cramping, pulled tight against your body as your knees touch your bare chest. You’re wet, dripping and aching as you wait for him to get back. During the visit this morning, Santa saw to it that your pussy was put to good use, cumming inside you twice before he lapped at what dripped out. He’d left you with a swat on your thigh, promises of turning you into a toaster strudel later on something for you to hang onto.

It’s been hours since then, his cum still leaking from your used hole as you lay spread on this dark oak work bench. By your count, it’s been about a month and a half since the incident at the mall. True to his words, once the holiday season had wrapped, Santa whisked you away from the harsh reality of your real life back to the magical wonderland of Christmasville. Here, you have nothing to worry about—except, of course, swallowing Mr. Claus’ snowy load. Despite your efforts, you have yet to convince him that you’re a good girl. Luckily you’ve still got most of the year to get him to change his mind.

You can hear the soft metal thud of the unlatched security bar falling from its place within the metal frame. Before being turned into an elf’s workshop-slash-playroom, this had been a stable for Dasher, Dancer, and the rest of the fleet. Now, it was where you stayed, getting very little sleep between the raucous orgasms that Santa Claus brought you with the smooth glide of his sugary cane. Your favourite activity was sucking his cock, Santa’s cum settling on your tongue with a slow-rolling sweetness to it.

When the barn doors swing open, he’s there, eyes waiting to take you in.

“You been a good girl while I was gone?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr. Claus,” you say softly.

“Hmm. I don’t know about that, little girl.”

“Please, Santa. I’m a good girl, I promise. I don’t know how I can prove it to you.” The fine links of metal that connect the leather cuffs that bind you to the bar between your legs rattle when you huff.

“In what world do good little girls talk back?” Fra—Santa asks.

He stalks over to your body with pounding steps. Santa rounds the table towards the end closer to your head rather than your pussy. He hauls you to the edge of the work table, your head jutting out from the edge of the surface. Immediately, he begins unbuttoning the front of his striped long johns. Whipping out his stunningly long cock, he rubs the swollen head across the seam of your lips. Sticking your tongue out, you lap at the sugary precum beading at the very tip of him. He pulls it away and smacks the length of himself against your cheek.

“Gotta teach you a lesson about politeness then, huh?”

Santa digs the thumb of his right hand into the crook of your jaw, forcing your mouth open. As soon as your lips part, he’s shoving his cock inside. He blocks your airway with his dick, sliding all the way to the back of your throat. A short thatch of hair tickles your nose.

“That’s right, little girl. Nice and quiet, huh? That’s how I like you.”

He runs the rough pads of his fingers over the skin of your throat, poking it with a firm press to touch himself. The action has you gagging, breaths stuttering as they come out of your nose.a

“Swallow,” Santa instructs you. You do as your told, swallowing around his cock as he rests inside your throat. “Bet you like it when I keep my sleigh in the garage like this. Nestled deep inside of you while you keep my cock warm. S’all you need to do, honey. No need to get all fussy, alright?” he asks.

You try your best to nod, telling him you understand. Still, he isn’t convinced.

“See, you’re hearing me but I don’t think you quite get it. Gotta really—” He withdraws from your mouth the slightest bit, only to slam back in with force from his hips. You choke again. “—communicate the point. Drive it home.”

He sets a punishing pace fucking your face, using your mouth for all it’s worth. Every time your throat bobs with a swallow, he squeezes your neck. The diminished airflow keeps you hazy, lightheaded as your vision swims. The sight and smell of him taking you like this has you wetter than the Atlantic Ocean, slick dripping from you down the seam of your ass.

“My little baby think’s she knows what’s best, huh? Only I get to determine when you’ve been a good girl. I know you think you are, but trust—fuck—trust me. Santa knows.”

Those words have you moaning around him, drool gathering on your lips and at the corners of your mouth.

“Gonna give you a little treat, alright? See how you like it.”

With another few thrusts, he’s spilling his silky load down your throat. Santa grunts roughly as each stripe paints your gullet. When he’s finished, he gives your cheek a gentle slap.

“Good job, honey,” he says as he slips out of you.

Hauling air into your lungs, your throat feels clogged. Cheekily, you blow him a bubble with the remnants left in your mouth. This earns you a rare-sought smile as he pops it, sticking his thumb in your mouth to suck. You lave your tongue over the ridges of it slowly, watching as Santa tucks his balls and cock into his fleece pants once again.

“You’re learning,” he whispers. From down here, it almost sounds endearing.

Santa uses the leverage on your head to push you back onto the table fully, the back of your skull resting against the warm table. Then he moves to the other end of your body, unlocking the small locks along the cuffs to release your hands and feet. Instinctively, you curl into yourself, nursing the spasming pain in your muscles.

You’re shocked when Santa engulfs your body in his arms, picking you up from the table in a cradling position.

“How does a nice hot bath sound?” he asks.

“Good, Santa. I’d like that,” you say. “Please and thank you.”

“Aw, honey. Bein’ a good little whore teaching you some manners, is it?”

He carries you from the shed-workshop, shielding your body from the Christmasville cold with the fluffy fabric of his coat sleeve.

“That’s a fuckin’ good girl,” Santa groans. You’re on his knees for him, panting against the table as you crane your neck to get a look at him. His eyes are trained to your rear, watching as he feeds his cock past the tight rim of your ass.

Your pussy flutters at the alluring sight, Mr. Claus purely enraptured as you take him into your body. He settles in your hole, pausing to savour the restricting warmth around his already spent cock. He’s been out here for a while, fucking your throat to train you out of that pesky gagging habit. Then he’d moved onto your pussy, giving it some well-deserved attention (his words) and wringing two orgasms from you.

“You’ve got a cute little cookie,” he says. “But nothing can beat the feel of this tight ass, honey.”

“Please, Mr. Claus. I need it,” you whisper.

“You’ll get it, little girl. Gonna be leaking pure Christmas Claus from all of your sweet fuckholes in no time.”

When he moves, he starts off slow, the glide aided by a generous helping of your slick, his cum, and some sort of sparkling lubricant.

“Snowman tears, honey. This shit will keep you slicker than egg nog.”

Each slow thrust has you moaning softly, the new sensation of fullness almost too much for your brain to process. You can’t think straight—not that you do much of that too often anymore anyway. Santa keeps a solid grip on your hips as he spears you, moans growing louder with each slide in and out of your asshole.

“Anyone ever had a piece of this brownie back here, little girl?”

“N-no, Mr. Claus. Just you.”

“That’s very nice to hear,” Santa says. “Ho ho, baby. This might just be enough to get you off that naughty list.”

Another thrust has you muttering a curse.

“Or not,” he says. “Sometimes I think you wanna stay there, honey.”

God, yes. Absolutely. If being bad gets you all of this? You’ll stay naughty forever.

Santa picks up speed, hand slithering down your side to find your clit. He takes advantage of your soaking folds, swiping a finger between them before returning it to your swollen nub. He pinches and pulls at it for a moment, more painful than pleasurable, before swirling around it with his index in time with every thrust.

Your forehead wrinkles as you draw your brows together, focusing on the candied coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your low belly. Squeezing your ass around him earns you a drawn out moan and a harsh slap on your left cheek.

“Fuckin’ little whore, aren’t you baby? Born for this, eh? Shit, this hot little ass is gonna be full of me.”

“Please Santa. Mr. Claus, I need it.”

“How bad do you need me, little girl? How bad d’you need your Santa?” he asks.

Your Santa. Like Mrs. Claus isn’t his wife, like the world doesn’t turn on his holiday dial. If he’s yours right now, there’s no way you’ll ever get to keep him.

“So bad, Santa. I need it so, so bad. Need to take it. Feel it drip out of me.”

You gasp with a particularly harsh thrust, teeth set on the edge of your lip. He flops over your back, chest meeting your spine as he turns you into a festive twinkie. When he’s done emptying himself inside you, Santa pulls his cock out of you in one go. You can feel it dribble past your fucked out sphincter, leaving dots of icing at the edges of your pussy.

He runs a soothing hand down your spine, moving around the work table to take your face into his hands.

“Santa’s little girl,” he coos. You aren’t sure if he’s talking to you or not. When he slips two fingers past your lips, you forget about it instantly.

He takes them away just as quickly, returning to your ass as Santa gathers his cum that’s spilled out of you and presses it back into your hole. Over-sensitivity rocks your body in waves, each gentle push of him of him cramming cum back inside giving you shivers.

You lay on the floor, thick blankets beneath you as you look up. Santa holds himself over you, inside of you, panting into the crux of your neck. You can still feel him pulsing, thick cock stretching you open as he grits his teeth through his orgasm. When he’s finished, he carefully pulls away from you to lay on his back beside you.

“You’re a good girl, honey,” he says. You can feel his cum start to leak back out of you.

“You think so?” you ask.

“I know so,” Santa says. “Don’t play coy. You know it too.”

You roll onto your side, hips parallel with the floor. Holding your head up with your arm, your eyes find his. “Then why am I still here?”

It’s been months. By now, it must be nearing the warmer months of the year in places unlike Christmasville—which stays bitterly cold all year long. If he knows that you’re good, if you’ve earned a spot on the nice list…why has he kept you?

“I’ve grown a little fond of you, I guess.” You give him a curious look. “Lonely out here for an old man.”

He doesn’t look that old, but you don’t comment on it. Instead, you say, “It gets lonely back home for me too.”

“I can’t imagine how that’s true,” Santa says.

You stretch your legs, toes bending as his sticky spend smears between your thighs. “I don’t know how to explain it. Kind of like a resounding emptiness. Everyone’s moving a little too fast to catch them in time. Here, it’s…slower. You’ve got a moment to appreciate the little things.”

The soft line of his jaw, the white-grey beard that he keeps trimmed shorter now than when you first met. The way his eyes roll back when you twirl your tongue in tricks around his cock, or the smile he gives you when a particular moan of yours spurs him on further. Not yours, not yours, not yours. Mr. Claus is not the present he promised you. He is a man and myth covered in red tape—do not touch. Even though that’s literally all the two of you ever do.

Santa Claus lets out a deep yawn, pulling at the white whiskers of his mustache above his lip. He’s only clothed from the waist up, his plush coat unbuttoned as it hangs loose by his hips.

He blinks a few times, eyes finding yours. “Come here, little girl.”

Santa motions you closer to him. You scoot across the soft fabric—had he said it was polar bear pelt?—and let him envelope you with his arms.

Your relationship has evolved much beyond the simple terms of Santa and his little toy. The sex is gentler, and he shows up more often now. Sometimes in the middle of the night, when you’re half asleep and drowsy. Your encounters don’t always start with sex now, either. Cuddling, gentle caresses to the skin of your throat and clavicle. He always holds you as he does now, a sense of dread crawling through your gut as you anticipate when Santa will take his leave.

You don’t love Santa Claus. That thought alone is insane. But then again, none of this makes a lot of sense in the first place. Sure, he’s married. Sure, he is the most prolific gift-giver of contemporary western culture, a holly jolly icon for children and corporations everywhere. He is already everyone else’s. Does that mean he can’t be yours, too?

Santa presses a kiss to your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts. His cum is still seeping out of you, his cock wet and spent against the back of your thigh. These aren’t things to think about right now. Another time.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories #fic: dashing through the ho #triple frontier

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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

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dreams dashed and divided - chapter one

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series rating: M

Chapter rating: M

Summary: When Mando needs a place to hide and re-group with the child following his time on the New Republic prisoner transport ship with the group of people he thought never to work with again, he is directed to Kijimi, the place he vowed never to return, where he is told the queenpin will help him. The last person he expects the queenpin to be is you. And you have some scores to settle.

Word count: 3,991

Notes: This fic is a bit of a departure from my normal works as it’s a bit more dark than other things I’ve written for Din. It’s something I’ve been poking away at for the past year or so and I’m excited to finally be sharing it with you all. It’s a fic about miscommunication and mistakes and lost chances but it is also a fic about redemption and second chances. Our reader has really been through it and hasn’t had an easy go of things. Additionally, Din during his time with the mercenary crew is something that’s long intrigued me. This fic will contain flashbacks to the end of his time in the crew when he first met our reader and each chapter will unfold more of the story and what truly happened between them to make them go from lovers to enemies. I want to thank my beloved @ezrasbirdie for beta-reading this fic and for letting me talk on end about these two in the DM’s. ❤️

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

Chapter warnings: Scars, canon-typical violence, nightmares, references to sex, reference to drugs (spice) and weapons, use of weapons, loneliness/isolation, age gap: older man/younger woman (in flashbacks reader is 20 to Din’s 27, and in current day is 29 to his 36)

next chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (din djarin)

It’s a bad idea. It really is. Din knows it is before he even sends out the message to his former partner to see if he can throw some work his way. Not only does he not trust Ran, but he promised himself – and someone else – that he would never work with or see his former crew again. Not after what happened.

But here he finds himself. Working with one of the people he never expected to work with again. “This is a bad idea,” he tells the kid as he sets the Razor Crest into landing in Ranzar Malk’s hangar on the space station.

Placing the child in a storage closet for safekeeping, he exits the Crest, dread and regret in his every step.

“Mando,” says Ran amenably. “Is that you under that bucket?”

“Ran,” clips Din, begrudgingly shaking the other man’s extended hand. Like shaking hands with the devil, you ask him.

Dropping Mando’s hand, Ran continues. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you in these parts again. Good to see you.” Lie, thinks Mando as Ran claps a hand on his back. “You know, to be honest…” That would be a first, Din thinks. “...I was a little surprised when you reached out to me.”

That makes two of them, Din supposes.

“You know, because … I hear things. Like maybe things between you and the Guild ain’t working out.” Ran pretends to sound concerned but he truly hopes that that’s the case; it would be so sweet for him if the organization Din left the group for fell out with him.

Din, ever cagey with Ran, responds, “I’ll be fine.”

Ran holds out his hands in a conciliatory motion. “Okay, well you know the policy. No questions asked. And you… you’re welcome back here any time.”

Din doesn’t take the bait and follows Ran through the space station, asking about the job and listening as Ran explains how one of his associates got caught by an enemy team. Seems simple enough… until Ran mentions that the only reason he was allowed in was because of the Crest. Nothing’s changed then. Ran’s still the two-timing, look out for no one but himself person he’s always been. Withholding information until it’s necessary.

“What’s the look? Is that gratitude?” asks Ran before dropping the subject. There are four other members, Din being the fifth. Ran introduces them all, explaining that running with a Mandalorian brought the group some reputation; Mando said one time he got target practice out of it; Din just listens, not saying anything aside from “that was a long time ago”, remorse and regret at his former actions and his former self eating away at him. He hates how easily he can assume this role again after almost a decade. The other members of the group are sharpshooter Mayfeld, Burg the muscle, and droid Zero. Din balks at the droid but doesn’t say anything. He counts. “Wait. You said there were four,” he says.

A voice comes from behind him. One that he would recognize anywhere. Belonging to the Twi’lek who brought him nothing but trouble. “He does.” Xi’an.

If his guard wasn’t already up, it sure as hell is now.

“Hello, Mando,” Xi’an says.

Din gives nothing away. “Xi’an,” he says, managing to stay composed.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?” she asks, twirling her knife. Is that the same knife from before? he wonders. From nine years ago? From when she tried to —? Din snaps himself out of it. He should be the one asking that question. He should have cut her down where she stood.

Instead he just says, lying through his teeth, “Nice to see you too.”

The gang laughs. “I missed you.”

I didn’t, Din thinks.

There’s some more teasing and laughing from the others while Zero works on the Razor Crest, no doubt to rile Din up. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t let it. Din realizes quickly as Mayfeld explains that the transport ship is in fact a prison ship. He’s liking this less and less, and he didn’t even like this to begin with. Why did he take this again? He’s only being used. Again.

“Just like the good old days, Mando. Huh?” says Ran before Din walks up the ramp onto his ship.

Yeah. Exactly like the good old days.

- - - -

Din should have known. Should have kriffing known.

He isn’t even surprised when the others double cross him. Isn’t surprised when the prisoner they spring ends up being Qin, Xi’an’s brother and the instigator of so many things. Din’s hated everything on this mission. He hates how… easily, how quickly, he was able to resume his role of ruthless hunter that he made himself known as all those years ago; sure he’s not exactly easy-going with bounties now but he likes to think that he’s at least more reasonable and isn’t going after people for the sake of it, for target practice as Ran had said back on the spaceport. Din has also hated how he’s been treated. This usually doesn’t bother him; he doesn’t need people to like him. He’s a Mandalorian, people liking him isn’t at the top of his priority list. It had only been so once and he ruined things beyond repair in that circumstance. Mandalorians do not regret much. It isn’t in their nature. Din, though, can’t help but feel the sharp twist of it on a daily basis, having made a home for it in his chest and in the pit of his stomach over the years, allowing it to fester. That feeling has only been amplified by today’s events, the decisions that led to it.

Maybe both Ran and Zarah had been right. Maybe the only thing he was good at was hunting and hurting and destruction. He isn’t right for…

“How’s your little friend doing these days?” Xi’an had asked earlier. Din hadn’t answered, not rising to her bait and her taunts. She’d always been jealous. Always wanted what he didn’t ever have on offer for her. That he only had it on offer for one person and he squandered that opportunity. He thinks back to how Xi’an said that he deserves this. She was wrong. He deserves so much worse for what he did.

He shakes his head, clearing the thought as he plans his retribution. Retribution that is nine years too late. But first things first. He needs to get out of this cell.

When Xi’an had killed Davan ten minutes ago, he remembered a time before, a time when the outcome had been better, but so much worse. For the seventeenth time today, he makes a mental apology, adding to the countless ones he’s mentally made over the years. It isn’t enough. It never is. There isn’t much else he can do though.

When he gets out with ease, it’s time to get even. Not for just this, but for something that should have been settled years ago.

It’s easy separating the gang. Mayfeld and Qin are separated from Xi’an and Burg. Of the four of them, Burg is the hardest to subdue, but he finally manages to in the end.

Part of him wants to save Xi’an for last, since she was directly involved in what happened nine years ago and it is in his opinion that she deserves something truly terrible in retribution for what she did, for what they both did.

When he catches up with her, it’s a bit of a struggle; she tries to fight him, tries to kill him, but he’s too fast for her.

As he’s bringing her to the cell, she throws a final curveball. “Have you been back to your beloved Kijimi? I think you’d be interested in the queenpin. I would have thought you would be her kingpin,” Xi’an teases, giving her saccharine giggle from behind the bars of the cell.

Din has no idea who or what she’s talking about. For all of her many, many flaws, Xi’an does know things. The only logical person she could be talking about is Zarah Bliss and she wants nothing to do with him either.

He walks away from Xi’an, hoping they never have to cross paths ever again. And he hopes that this is enough – or at least a start – for his redemption.

Mayfeld is the easiest to subdue. And Qin is not hard to find. For all his bravado, he does love running away.

“Come on, Mando. Be reasonable,” Qin cajoles as Din begins to apprehend him.

Reasonable? Din wants to shout. There are many things that Din wants to say, wants to shout at this Twi’lek. But he holds his tongue and brings him back to Ran, planting a tracking beacon on him.

Credits in hand, he flies away, promising that he will never, ever do anything like that or see them again.

Having the spaceport destroyed and Ran and Qin apprehended by the New Republic along with the others, who made his life so difficult, is small retribution in comparison to what he really wanted to do. But he isn’t that person anymore.

Untwisting the knob of one of the levers on the dash and handing it to the kid, he says, “Told you that was a bad idea,” as Xi’an’s words about the queenpin of Kijimi echo in his head.

- - - -

He gets a holovid call from Greef Karga two days later.

“My friend, if you are receiving this transmission, that means you are alive. You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too,” the transmission begins. Din smiles wryly at his boss’s obvious statement. “I guess we can call it even. A lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown. They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild. We consider him an enemy, but we cannot get close enough to take him out. If you would consider one last commission, I will very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize. So, here is my proposition: Return to Nevarro. Bring the child as bait. I will arrange an exchange, and provide loyal Guild members as protection. Once we get near the client, you kill him and we both get what we want. If you succeed, you keep the child and I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honour should not be forced to live in exile. I await your arrival with optimism.”

Din stares at the child, who’s sleeping in his pram behind where Din sits in the pilot’s seat, options and ideas and ruminations running through his head at a thousand miles per hour.

The last time he had seen Karga had been when he had turned in and then retrieved the kid from the custody of the Guild and the enigmatic client. Karga had tried to stop him. Had tried to get him to return the child to his custody. Din wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to betray someone else. Someone else he had promised to take care of and failed to do so.

He doesn’t like it.

Karga was never completely untrustworthy before, so he has no reason to distrust the Guild leader now. Except for the aforementioned attempt at stopping Din from leaving.

No, he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t trust it.

He supposes he doesn’t have to trust it. And if it came down to it, he could come out on top again. Din doesn’t see any other option but to go along with it.

But he doesn’t have to go alone. He would be foolish to go alone and Din Djarin is many things, but he likes to think fool isn’t one of them. Not usually.

Punching in the coordinates to Sorgan, he knows exactly who he’s going to ask.

Cara Dune is in her normal habitat, engaged in a wrestling match which she easily wins. The child coos at the sight of her when she spots him and Din hanging back. Recognizing her as a friend.

Din explains the situation to her, leaving no detail out. Cara’s face falls. “Sorry, Mando. No can do. I’m needed here. They made me their marshal and I can’t exactly leave so soon into the trial period.”

He nods. “That’s too bad,” he says, “but I understand.”

“You were right to think for backup though. Why not ask that widow?” Cara asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“No.” Din is resolute. “It’s one thing to ask her to fight on her home planet to defend her village. But to ask her to leave her home and her child for something as dangerous as this?” He won’t do it. And he still thinks back to when she tried to remove his helmet. How gently he’d removed her hands from his face. The last time someone had tried to remove his helmet like that, he hadn’t been so gentle in moving their hands away. Omera deserves a life of peace, something he can’t offer. Xi’an’s words still echo in his head. “Have you ever heard of the queenpin of Kijimi?” he asks, changing tacks and going out on a limb.

The former shock trooper thinks for a minute, her expression turning from teasing to contemplative. “Yeah, I have. I don’t know who she is exactly. But she runs spice and weapons out of a speakeasy.” It takes a minute to remember the name of the town where the speakeasy is. He knows that town. He spent many nights in that town. “She probably has a couple of enforcers if she can’t help you outright. It’s worth a shot.” Cara shrugs.

It is worth a shot Din concedes. But he hasn’t been back to Kijimi in almost ten years. It was made very clear that he wasn’t welcome there. That he wasn’t wanted. It’s been ten years. Maybe… He didn’t even have to see… Even if Zarah hears him out. She can send him on his way with one of her enforcers and never have to cross paths with anyone else who doesn’t want to see him.

This week seems to be full of doing things he thought he would never do again. So keeping in pattern, he punches in the coordinates to Kijimi. In and out, no problem.

But things are never as easy as they first appear.

- - - -

Roaming fingers, rasped words, skin against metal and burlap, a face you never see. Empty promises, blood, pain, betrayal…

You wake up before the sun. Not that that’s hard to do in winter on Kijimi. The sun is only out (if it’s out at all) for three hours at a time in the dead of winter. Your bed is warm, furs and blankets covering you.

If you didn’t have your empire to run, you’d stay in bed for as long as possible. But spice and weapons don’t run themselves. And you have people waiting for you. The wind buffets against the building, only adding to your complete lack of wanting to get out of bed.

You’d had the nightmare again last night. It had been so long, too, since you’d had the nightmare. The one where you’re killed by the man who betrayed you. Only he wasn’t the one who gave the killing blow in real life. It was as good as him, though. You never realized how cowardly a man of an esteemed race of warriors could be until you met him.

Scrubbing your face with your hands, you get up. The cold air of your sleeping chamber assaults you almost immediately as you grab your warm robe and make your way to the fresher. Dropping your robe and your sleeping clothes from yourself, you step into the warmth of the shower, staying in as long as you can, savouring the heat and the warmth of it while you can.

Sylar hadn’t come over last night, claiming to be busy. Not that he would have helped with the nightmares. Those came whenever they damn well pleased.

Once you’ve spent enough time beneath the warm spray of the shower, you get the bacta salve from your drawer and rub it over the puckered, scarred skin of the left side of your rib cage. It never fully healed. The poison was removed from the wound, but the scar remains and will do so for the rest of your days.

Once the steam dissipates, you practice your smile in the mirror for a second. Someone had pointed out yesterday that it didn’t reach your eyes. And you couldn’t have that. You had a reputation to uphold. And that reputation is flirty, friendly queenpin who doesn’t take any bullshit. You’re the queenpin of Kijimi. And Maker help anyone who disrespects the queen.

Good enough. It doesn’t quite meet your eyes the way it once had many, many years ago. But if people don’t pay attention they won’t notice. Most people don’t notice. It must have been a fluke that someone brought it up, you’re sure of it.

You slip on your father’s ring that you keep on a chain around your neck, bringing it up to your lips as you always do every morning when you put it on and every night when you take it off. Grabbing your caf, you lock the flat door behind you and go down into your speakeasy.

Zarah’s already there. Your best friend for almost your entire life. The only person who’s always had your back, the person who best understands you. Though no one truly understands you. At one point you thought someone had, but then things happened that proved that to be wrong.

“You look like shit,” Zarah says by way of greeting.

You just lift your mug to your lips in half-salute. “Good morning to you too.”

Zarah notices the bags under your eyes, heavier and more defined than usual. “Did you have the nightmare again?” she asks. You regret ever telling her about the nightmare. She takes your lack of response as an answer in the affirmative. “Honey, how many times do I have to tell you? That man is better forgotten after the way he twisted himself into you.”

You nod. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that. But my subconscious doesn’t.” You try to fill your voice with annoyance at your friend and your subconscious. You know better than to argue that that’s not how you remember the events of nine years ago happening. There’s no reasoning with Zarah once she's made her mind up about something.

“Sy didn’t stop by last night?” she asks.

With a shake of your head, you say, “No. He had to work late.”

You know what she’s going to say before she says it. “He likes you, you know.”

There it is. “I know. I like him, too. He’s a good friend. That’s why I let him sleep in my bed every now and again.”

Zarah frowns. “You know what I mean. It won’t kill you to settle. Hell, you could do a lot worse. You’ve done a lot worse.”

You wince inwardly at the indirect jab. Zarah hadn’t liked you being around someone like… that. Sylar’s sweet and he’s a good friend. But you hate the idea of settling. Even if it is your best option. “We’re just having a bit of fun,” you say, tone brooking no argument.

“I know. But—”

“Zarah.” The queenpin enters your voice. It hardly ever comes out around her. You don’t like using it on her. But she’s pushed this so many times. “Please,” you say, attempting to lighten your voice. “I had a rough night, I don’t wanna talk about my bad decisions this early. Maker knows I don’t need more reminding that my life is one colossal fuckup,” you mutter this last part more to yourself. You refuse to feel sorry for yourself. You are who you are and you’ve made the best with what you’ve been given. Even if it is isolating.

Your friend hears the last part, but she doesn’t say anything. “We should get ready,” she says instead.

It’s a busy day. Though it goes quickly and you’re surrounded by a swell of people, you feel completely alone in this crowded room. No real connections except with Zarah, who’s gone home to check on her daughter Zorii. School’s out for the week and she is restricted from coming here. It’s no place for an eight year old. It’s one of the few concessions Zarah’s agreed with, not wanting her daughter exposed to this as young as she was.

Your smile – friendly, flirtatious, and fake – falters a few times as you’re making deals, serving drinks and doing trades. Pushing everything else out of your mind but business, you carry on with your facade and your business.

The coin purse at your hip is replaced halfway through the day with an empty one and again mid-afternoon. Business is positively booming.

Before you know it, it’s time to close. “All right, folks. It’s that time again. Time to say goodnight,” you say, adopting a faux-sad expression as people grumble and complain. “I know. But I’ll be here tomorrow,” you promise.

They have fun here, especially your regulars. Not all of them are there for trade; they just want to socialize and have something to drink. You have a few (mostly male) clients that have said on more than one occasion that they want to marry you or some of your serving girls. You always decline, maintaining the reputation of a sole queenpin of her empire who doesn’t need a king. You’re also very protective of your girls. You started here as a serving girl and Zarah’s mother hadn’t done much to protect you and the other girls from leering customers who had wanted more than what was there on the menu or to trade. Once you took over, that all changed.

You usher the last of your customers out with a flirty grin and a promise to see them tomorrow. A cold draft of spring air sends a chill down your spine and you peer around, sensing something – or someone nearby.

Waving the feeling away as suspicion and leftover fear from when the New Republic was planetside a few weeks ago, you turn on your heels and go back into your cantina. No one’s there. Silly woman, you chide yourself and get to cleaning up the bar before Sylar can stop in for the night and you can go upstairs with him to your flat.

A slight movement from just out of view behind you grabs your attention. “Sorry, pal, we’re closed.” All traces of friendly flirtation are gone from your voice. You’re tired, had a long day, and just want to lie down.

Usually there’s some form of apology and a quick scurrying out; people know not to mess with you after closing. But there’s nothing of the sort from the intruder. Just a sigh. A sigh you would be able to place anywhere.

The responding voice sends a shiver down your spine, makes your blood run cold. “Not here to do spice trade, cyar’ika.”

Turning, you see the figure you thought had abandoned you for good all those years ago. His armour is new. Silver and shiny instead of the faded red that was beat up. This is pure beskar, shiny and authentic. The real deal. Even with the new, shiny metal, you know it’s him. Without so much as a single word, your reflexes on high alert, you quickly grab the blaster that’s holstered at your hip (that’s usually just there for show), look him directly in the face of that stupid helmet of his, and shoot him square in the chestplate.

--- taglist in reblog

#din djarin x reader #pedro pascal #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian #pedro pascal fan fiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #my fic #my writing #dreams dashed and divided

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