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millersdjarin · 1 year

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I Only See Daylight

Chapter Fourteen

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: E

Chapter warnings/tags: injuries, medical stuff, panic attacks, angst, negative self-talk/self-image, flashbacks, past emotional & physical abuse, lots of love despite all that though, violence, graphic (?) depictions of injuries, PTSD, scars, cults

Chapter length: 10k

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notes: SO sorry for the 2 week wait, y'all. the end of march is a crazy one for me, and i'm not all that well to top it off. hope this long chapter makes up for it! grab a drink, settle in, and enjoy❤️

and i can still see it all (in my mind); all of you, all of me (intertwined) i used to think love would be black and white; but it’s golden

Din is woken up by a soft scratching noise against the door.

You’re still in his arms, pressed against his chest now where he lies on his back. It takes him a second after he’s awoken to realise that he’s not wearing his helmet. He looks down at you, fast asleep against him, your head rising and falling with each of his breaths.

The kid coos outside.

He closes his eyes, sighs. The last thing he wants is to let you go.

His underwear is on the floor by the bed. Untangling himself from you as best he can without waking you, his feet hit the floor, and he pulls his boxers on, then opens the bedroom door just a crack, enough to pop his head around it. Grogu is standing there, and seems surprised to see him without his helmet on. Pleased about it, though.

He reaches out a hand like he wants to touch Din’s face.

“I’ll be out in a minute, buddy,” Din promises, keeping his voice low. “I just need to get changed, okay?”

Happy with this, Grogu turns and waddles off into the living area, lifting himself up onto the couch.

Din smiles fondly at him, then turns back to look at you. You’re lying on your side, still asleep and snoring, your hand laying against the mattress where Din just was.

Last night, it was like you thought he was going to leave. And he needs you to know that he won’t.

He wants to get back into bed with you, hold you, never let you go.

Instead, he gets dressed. For the first time, he hesitates before putting his helmet on.

It’s weird, unnerving, and he can’t let himself pay it any mind.

Din has been out most of the morning with Fett and a few of his soldiers.

“It’s just a few Pykes,” he’d told you that morning, pouring you a cup of caf. “Nothing dangerous. Shouldn’t take long.”

He was right about that part. But not about the not dangerous part.

Because now this is happening.

You’d been sitting in Fett’s lounge, enjoying your third mug of caf of the morning while overlooking the town below. Just a regular day, the suns shining, people going about their business in the streets, ships taking off in the distance. The kid is playing with a child-minder in the corner, fascinated by the selection of toys she brought out for him. You’d been enjoying watching the world go by, not worried for a second about Mando’s wellbeing, because you know how capable he is. And he’d told you not to worry.

That’s the last time you do what he tells you to do without question.

You hear a commotion downstairs, including Mando’s modulated voice in the midst of it. You know something is wrong, so you drop your mug, rushing over to the hallway and down the stairs towards the entryway, where you find the group of soldiers that had gone out on the mission, Boba at the front, with an injured and bleeding Mando hanging from his side.

“Mando!” You cry, only just catching yourself before you say his real name.

“I’m alright,” he says, but no, he’s not, he doesn’t even sound like himself, he can’t even hold his weight up—

“Get the doctor,” Fett instructs one of his workers, who nods and hastily rushes off down the hall.

You rush to Din, your hands frantically trying to find something to do, to help him, but all you can do is stare at the place on his thigh that is currently bleeding badly down his flight suit, crimson blood dripping down the beskar.

“I’m alright,” he says again, looking at you, at the fear on your face.

It all happens quickly. Before you can ask what happened, before you can tell someone to fucking get him sitting down and elevate his fucking leg, there’s a crowd of people coming into the room with a stretcher and a doctor in tow. They get him sitting on it, then lie him down, and it takes half a dozen of them to carry him down the corridor, and away from you.

You’re just standing there, your head swimming, and somehow his blood is on your hands even though you don’t remember touching him.

Shand comes to your side, looking like she’s going to try and reassure you, but you’ve already taken off down the hall, following the group of people who are taking Din away from you.

You jog to catch up, following them into a med bay tucked behind a sand-coloured door. It’s substantial, all white-walls, divided into sections with silvery metal dividers, beds between each one. It’s empty in here, Mando the only person currently in need of help.

Which is probably for the best, because he can’t get himself off the stretcher and onto a bed; he can’t put his weight on his leg at all. So everyone has to help him, which you know he’ll hate, you can see it in his body language that he’s not just uncomfortable from the injury, but from all these people fussing over him. From the fact that he can’t help himself.

“What happened?” You rush to his bedside, ignoring the woman who tries to tell you to go away. As if.

Mando looks up at you, his hands clenched tight into fists on his stomach. You stand by his head.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Din says, voice more strained than you’ve ever heard it, pain evident in the set of his shoulders. “I was standing too close to a detonator.”

“You what? A detonator?”

“I—shit,” his gaze moves to the doctor, who is currently looking in detail at the piece of—holy fuck, there’s a huge piece of fucking shrapnel sticking out of the side of his thigh, ripped right through the thick fabric of his flight suit. It’s only an inch away from the armour. Fucking unlucky. And to make it worse, there are smaller gashes around it, where metal has obviously struck him and fallen out, which is what’s causing the bleeding.

There are three people on him, pressing gauze into the open wounds, holding pressure to stop the bleeding. Another person is gathering a blood bag and an IV, readying the transfusion. Someone else is cutting into his flight suit, removing the plate of armour from his leg to allow them full access.

Then his skin is on show, and it’s fucking littered with cuts and bruises, some actively bleeding, some not—

“Holy shit,” you breathe, feeling light-headed again. You stare at his leg, wide-eyed, tears stinging in your nose.

Mando’s hand is in yours, then. Holding tight. “I’m alright,” he says, again, and it’s obviously a fucking lie because he is not alright! He is so not alright!

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I need you to step back,” the doctor tells you.

You look at him, more offended than you’ve ever been. Making a point, you hold Din’s hand tighter.

“I’m sorry, I need to stand where you are if I’m going to help him as best I can.”

“Cyari’ika,” Din’s voice is pained but soft, calling you to look at him instead of glare at the doctor. (Which is probably unfair; he’s only trying to save Din’s fucking life.) “I’m alright. Let them take care of me. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

It takes everything in you to let him go.

Your hands are shaking as you step backwards, pressing yourself up against the room divider.

The doctor moves in straight away. He asks Din if he can remove his helmet, check for signs of concussion; Din says no, of course. But he does accept the heart monitor they want to attach to his finger, removing his bloody glove to clip it on. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time, even when the doctor is asking him questions about what happened, how he’s feeling, if there’s anywhere else he’s hurting.

The room is alive with bustling chaos, but Din’s eyes are warm on you, even through the visor—as always—and you force yourself to focus on it, on the rise and fall of his chest. And then, once the heart monitor is hooked up and beeping away with each beat of Din’s heart, you focus on that, too.

You don’t know how long you stand there for, watching it all happen.

They stop the bleeding of the smaller wounds, stitch up the ones that need it. Then they go to remove the large piece of shrapnel, and the heart monitor picks up speed as they pull it out; you hear the squelch of it against his flesh, see the blood start to pour from the wound the minute it’s open, the way every muscle in him clenches against it. His breath hitches. He doesn’t let out noises of pain, but you can only imagine how he’d feel if you could touch him. How his face must be twisted in pain.

At first, his gaze on you had been for your own comfort. But now, as he stares at you, you can tell that he’s the one seeking the reassurance.

So, you don’t look away. You hold his eyes like you wish you could hold his hand. You clasp your hands over your heart, feeling it racing just as fast as his, and try as hard as you can to make yourself look reassuring. Comforting. Familiar.

At some point, the crowd of doctors and medical assistants thins out, only a few of them remaining now that the bleeding has stopped.

His leg is stitched up in seven places, bandaged to within an inch of its life. They had to cut through the entire leg of his flight suit. The armour that sat upon it is on the floor, kicked beneath the bed. It feels wrong. He removes it so methodically, treats it with so much respect and care. Now it’s just been haphazardly kicked beneath this hospital bed, and it’s covered in blood, and you know that that will upset him just as much as the injuries themselves.

But, he’s alive.

Covered in blood, cuts, and bruises, yes.

But alive.

“Can I…?” You take a tentative step closer to Din, looking at the doctor for affirmation.

He gives a polite smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

You’re at Din’s side in a minute, reaching out to grab his hand. You nearly knock the heart monitor off his finger. Your other hand lays flat on his chest plate as if searching for his heartbeat.

He holds your hand tightly, looks up at you.

“What the fuck happened?” You whisper, feeling suddenly weak in the knees. You’ve been holding back from him for the last fuck-knows how long, but now you can touch him again, now he’s here, and all the fear that you’d kept locked away for his sake as he looked at you for comfort is coming back.

“It was a bigger cell than we thought,” he explains, “they had detonators.”

“Fuck,” your head falls, presses against his chest plate. You take in the rise and fall of his lungs, the breathing you can hear through his helmet.

“I…saw one of Fett’s soldiers standing too close when it landed. Pushed them out of the way.”

You shake your head. “Of course you did,” you say.

He takes a breath to say something, but you’re both momentarily distracted by the doctor coming back into Din’s space, holding a chair out like an offering.

“I thought you’d like to sit down,” he says, smiling and placing the chair behind you. You feel bad for glaring at him now. “He’s stable, as you can tell. I’ll be back shortly to check his vitals, but for now, just rest.”

“Thank you,” Din says, so sincere and earnest that it hurts.

You sit down, pull the chair in as close as it can get. Your face hovers above his helmet, gazing right into his visor. He lifts his spare hand and brushes it down your temple and cheek, cradling your jaw in his palm.

“I’m okay,” he says.

“You’re not okay,” you protest, laughing humourlessly. “You’re very much not okay.” The blood bag is hanging above him, half empty.

“I will be,” he promises, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone.

“You told me it wouldn’t be dangerous.”

“I…believed it when I said it.”

A surprised laugh comes out of your mouth. You shake your head, disbelieving. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

For another second, you look down at him. Then, shaking your head again, you lean in and rest your forehead against his cowl. It smells of sand, blaster fire, and burnt metal. There are tears in your eyes, hanging painfully in your nose and throat.

His gloved hand carts back into your hair. “I’m okay,” he says, again, this time in just a soft whisper. “I’m here. You don’t have to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” you say, “I think I should have been.”

Footsteps enter the room then, and you both look up to find Boba and Fennec standing by the divider, both of them carrying their helmets under their arms.

For a second they look like they’re worried they’ve interrupted something. But you lean back from Din, sit in your chair, and they step closer.

“Just came to check in,” Boba says, looking guilty.

“The doctor says I lost a lot of blood,” Din explains, then gestures to the bag above him, “but I’ll make it.”

Boba nods once. “I’m sorry. I should have known it would be worse than it was.”

“You didn’t ask me to come along,” Din reminds him.

“No, but you saved one of my men. I owe you much.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“At least let me buy you a drink,” Boba says, then, with a glint in his eyes, “Well, once you’re up and about again, at least.”

“How long’ll that be?” Fennec asks.

“The doctor said a couple of days at most. But I heal fast; I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“We can get you in the bacta tank,” Boba offers, but Din shakes his head.

“Can you get me in there in my full armour?”

“…We can clear the room,” Boba smirks.

“There’d still need to be someone to take him out,” Fennec points out.

Boba sighs. “Make sure you rest,” he says, abandoning the bacta tank idea. “If you need anything, either of you, you know where I am.”

Both you and Din nod. “Thank you,” you smile at him.

Boba and Fennec nod too, then turn to leave.

You look back at Din. “You’re not planning on resting for a few days, are you?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Have you?” You raise an incredulous eyebrow.

As if it’s his answer, he lets go of your hands and starts to push himself to sit up. Like a fucking idiot. He grunts with the exertion, and you roll your eyes, putting your hand on his chest.

“Stay there,” you tell him.

He stops. Looks at you. “I don’t do well lying down.”

“You don’t do well filled with shrapnel, either, but here we are,” instead, you reach down to the bed’s control panel, and push the button that lifts the top half of it up. He rises with it, slow, and you let go when he’s finally sitting up. “There. Happy?”

He takes your hand again. “Better.”

The door opens again, more footsteps coming close. Then, the child-minder pokes their head around the divider, and you see a glimpse of Grogu’s big eyes. “Sorry to interrupt,” they say, “but the Child has heard about what happened…”

Immediately you stand from your chair, rushing over to take Grogu in your arms. You turn him away from Din at first, and thank the child-minder, excusing them from their duty. “Alright, kid,” you say, holding him up in front of your face. You look over his shoulder to Din. “He’ll want to see you.”

Grogu cranes his neck, trying his hardest to look around and see Din. He protests when you don’t let him, an angry babble as he throws his fists down against your hand.

“It’s okay, Grogu,” you say softly, “you can see him. It’s going to look a little scary, but your dad’s okay, and you don’t need to worry. Okay?”

Grogu’s ears turn down a little, but he blinks, softens in your hands.

You walk back over to your chair, and place the kid on the bed beside Mando, who immediately scoops him up into the crook of his elbow.

“Hey, kid,” he says, obviously smiling beneath the helmet.

He looks at Din’s leg, then back to his helmet. Reaches out one hand, brushes it down the beskar, like he’s saying Are you okay under there?

“I’m alright, kid,” Din assures him, pressing his forehead into Grogu’s. Grogu closes his eyes, his palm pressed to the cheek of Din’s helmet. “I’m alright. Yeah, see? You can feel I’m alright, can’t you?”

Grogu coos sadly, his ears still turned towards the floor. But he relaxes at Din’s soft assurances, and leans down to press his head into Din’s cowl.

Din pats his back comfortingly, turns to look at you. You offer him a sad smile.

He reaches for your hand just as someone else comes in. This time, it’s the doctor again, and he’s carrying a clipboard.

“Alright, sir,” he says, “your vitals are looking good. But you’re going to need a couple day’s bedrest before you can be up and at ’em again.”

“I can’t do that,” Din protests. Because of course he does.

The doctor glances at you for just a second. “You’re injured,” he says to Din, cautious, like he’s maybe just a little bit afraid of his patient.

Which, you can’t blame him for, because when Din speaks again, he’s using his Don’t fuck with me tone (which, ironically, isn’t all that different from his I’m going to fuck you voice, but you digress), “I feel fine. I’ll be alright in a couple of hours.”

“…With respect, sir, you’re on painkillers at the moment, which will be making you feel better…”

“Great, so I can get up soon.”

“That’s…not exactly what I meant…”

“I have things that I have to do,” Din insists, almost growling now, “Do you understand? Are you going to chain me to this bed?”

“N—no, sir, I—I can’t force you to stay here, only recommend—”

“Right. So I’ll decide when I feel well enough to get up.”

Wide-eyed, the doctor glances between the two of you, holding his clipboard with white knuckles.

You offer him a smile that you hope is reassuring, and place a calming hand over Din’s. “Thank you, doctor,” you say. “I’m sorry, he’s just not used to being…well, still.”

The doctor relaxes just a little. “Yes, I understand. You were very lucky, Mr Mandalorian, sir, that the shrapnel didn’t hit any bone. So maybe you’ll be better sooner than we think.”

Din nods once, curt. “I heal fast.”

“Right,” he smiles, nervous. “The IV is giving you fluids, but it’s important that you drink enough when the transfusion is complete. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” And then he’s gone, leaving just a little too hastily for it to be casual.

You turn to Din, and give him a Look.

“What?” He asks. “You were the one staring daggers at him earlier when he asked you to step back.”

“Because I was worried about you,” you protest, “and I was having a crisis. You have no excuse right now. You’re pumped full of painkillers.”

His voice is lilted with a smirk. “You were rude to the doctor.”

“So were you!” You find yourself smiling despite yourself. “You were very rude to him. He’s just trying to help.”

“I don’t appreciate people telling me I have to stay chained to a bed for days.”

“He literally told you that wasn’t what he was doing.”

“I’m a Mandalorian. Being able to fight is part of who I am.”

“Oh, so you’re the first Mandalorian to ever be injured?” You challenge, quirking an eyebrow. “You’re allowed to rest, Mando. In fact, you kind of have to, if you ever want to be able to fight properly again.”

He sighs. His helmet turns away, facing the ceiling. When he speaks again, he sounds surprisingly bothered. “I can’t afford to be hurt right now,” he says, so quietly.

“Hey,” you run your fingertips over his arm. “We’re safe here. You can recover as long as you need to.”

“I don’t need long. I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

You sigh. Gently, you take hold of his helmet, turning his gaze back to you. You stare at him for a long minute, taking him in, hearing the gentle beeps of his heart monitor. Tears sting at the backs of your eyes again, as memories of the last few hours come back to you. “You scared me,” you whisper, staring into his visor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back.

“The fact that you’re okay is the most important thing,” you say, “you know that, right?”

He shakes his head. “You and the kid are the most important thing.”

You look at the kid and smile. He’s still got his face against Mando’s cowl, and you can hear him breathing, just soft little puffs of air. He’s so content to just be here in Din’s arms and beside you, not even looking for mischief like he so often is.

“We’re all here,” you look back to Din and smile. “That’s what matters.”

Din nods. He’s about to say something, taking a breath, lifting his hand to brush against your face—

Bang.

A flash of orange light down the hall.

Rubble clatters all around, scattering across stone floors, falling into the medbday doorway.

Metal beams fall outside.

Screams.

It’s the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

Din has shot up in his bed, leaning across to throw his arm over your body, cradling the kid between both of your chests. You look up at him, wide-eyed, and it seems like this little corner of the building is the only one untouched by the dust and rubble, by whatever the fuck just happened, the explosion—

“Are you okay?” Din asks you, running a hand over your face, searching for injuries.

You barely hear him through the ringing in your ears. Frantic, you nod. “Are you? Grogu, are you okay?”

He’s peering up at you with wide eyes, but he’s okay. All three of you are uninjured—at least, not from that fucking blast—but you can hear shouts and cries coming from the rest of the building, and then, a voice above them all—

“It’s an ambush!”

Fett.

Your hand flies to the blaster at your hip, dread dropping deep into your stomach.

Because you just know.

You know that Fett has enemies, that there are many people who still want to take him down. But you also know that a large portion of those people were taken out just this morning, and it’s really unlikely that anyone would launch an attack of this scale just after he and his soldiers took out a rogue cell mere hours ago.

So, naturally, your mind goes to places you wish it wouldn’t. That you wish it didn’t have to. And you just know you’re right.

Din is moving, trying to get down from his bed. He grunts and strains and you reach out, holding him down.

“You can’t move right now!” You argue, keeping your voice hushed, because you don’t know who—or what—is out there. “Din, you can’t.”

“I have to—”

“No. You have to stay here, and watch the kid.”

“I’m watching you, too,” you can hear the frown in his voice, “You’re not going out there.”

You’re about to say that you won’t, that you’ll stay to protect him and Grogu, but then there are footsteps running down the hall, and you see through the window one of Fett’s men, running towards the where the explosion came from. They trip, probably over some of the rubble. You hear them cry out and you stand, rushing to help them before you can even think twice.

Din shouts after you, tells you to come back, but you ignore him.

The man is on the floor, crawling backwards towards the wall.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, crouching down to his level. He’s got a cut on his eyebrow, and he’s clutching his arm to his chest, pain creasing his face.

“My arm, I—I think it’s broken,” he grits out.

You take hold of his good arm, help him towards the medbay door. “Come on, come in here,” you say, and he follows gratefully. “What happened?”

“There was an explosion at the front gates. A dozen people are trying to get in, saying something about—” he gasps in pain when he stumbles again and instinctively catches himself with his bad arm—“something about a girl.”

Oh, fuck.

Once he’s settled against one of the room dividers, you look across at Mando and Grogu, who are still on the bed, looking really fucking vulnerable and helpless and, kriff, you can’t let anyone hurt them—Mando can’t fight for himself right now—

Your hand finds its way to your blaster.

“It’s them,” you say to Din. “It has to be.”

He nods. He’s still trying to get up, keeping the kid in one arm, using his other hand to try and swing his injured leg over the bed. Blaster fire starts up down the hall, shouts of battle making their way through to you. “We have to get you out of here. There’s a back exit—”

“They’ll have covered the back exit!” You exclaim, feeling desperation rise in your chest and your voice, because they taught you that. You think back to the day Mando arrived on your doorstep, when you thought he was sent by Them. You didn’t bother using the back door, because you knew they’d be waiting for you.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. Mando has ripped off his monitor, so it’s just one long beep now, and flashing red on the screen above his head. He’s about to try and rip out the IV, but you stop him.

“You need that blood,” you say.

“No, I need to get you out of here—” He’s cut off when his foot lands on the floor, and it must send excruciating pain up his leg because he cries out, pulling back like you’ve never seen him do before.

“Stay,” you instruct, holding him down. “You have to stay here. I’m going to help them. I can fight.”

“No!” He grabs your arm before you can walk away, hard and tight in his gloved hand. His voice isn’t demanding. It’s desperate. “No! You can’t—stay with me, I can protect you here—”

You shake your head. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“They’ll take you!”

“No they won’t. Fett has a whole army. I’ll be fine.”

He says your name, both a warning and a plea, but your mind is made up.

If They get any further down the hall, they’re going to find Mando, and they’re going to find Grogu.

They’ll know who they are. They’ll take them, just to get to you.

And you cannot let that happen.

You lean in, press your forehead to Din’s. “I’ll be back,” you promise. “Stay here. Protect the kid. Please.”

And before he can protest, before he can grab you again, you’re running away and heading down the corridor.

The lounge is full of dust and rubble, the blast having come from just below it, blowing a hole in the floor. There’s no one in here, but the blaster fire is coming from downstairs, from the gate. Good, you think, They haven’t made it inside yet.

You drop down through the floor and land behind a pillar, using it for cover. Fett’s soldiers are dotted around the room, leaning out from cover every few seconds to fire their blasters. You take a second to peek around the pillar, trying to see who they’re shooting at, and where they are.

Your stomach drops when you see them.

Not your family. They’d never come to do their own dirty work.

But their people. You’d recognise them anywhere. Their faces, their clothes, their voices. Though you don’t know their names, you’ve been surrounded by them your whole life.

Fuck.

It really is them.

“Hold the line!” Fett shouts as he comes running down the hall from the gateway. “There’s only three left! Let’s finish it!”

His soldiers advance towards him, firing with newfound confidence.

You’re frozen in place.

Your heart is beating wildly, so loud in your ears that it almost blocks everything out.

They’ve found you. They’ve found you, and they’ve caused all this destruction, all this damage, probably taken innocent lives just to get to you. Din and Grogu are upstairs in the medbay. Din is hurt because you had to come here, because of you.

You should have just gone back when the blackmailer gave you the chance. You could have been the only damage done. Now, the damage is all around you. They’ve not only found their way into every corner of your life, but into every corner of everyone else’s, too. Everyone who has only ever tried to help you.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t focus.

Before the final blaster shot, something lands in front of you. Something small, round. A blinking red light on top of it.

It takes your mind a second to catch up to the fact that it’s a fucking concussive detonator.

You’re just about to jump back, about to scream, when all of a sudden there’s a wall of beskar on top of you, throwing you across the room and into one of the glass windows in the interior walls. You hear the glass shatter, don’t even feel it piercing your skin, going so deep into your flesh. There’s metal too, the structure of the window.

Your body falls to the ground, landing with a loud shout, and you’re not sure if it came from you or from the Mandalorian on top of you—in the haze, you don’t even know if it’s Din or Boba, just that it’s someone very hard and very heavy, someone very strong who has literally tackled you twenty feet away from the detonator—

Bang.

Not as big or loud as the initial blast.

But it sounds it. It feels it.

Pain spikes and spreads across your back. It’s blinding, white-hot, black spots appearing over your vision. The room is black and then it’s not, it’s dusty and then it’s not, it’s blurry and then it’s not—

The person on top of you rolls away. Someone is screaming, panting desperately for air.

It’s you.

Screaming at the top of your lungs.

The pain is like nothing you’ve ever felt. Not even close to everything They did to you, not to the knife in your shoulder by Din’s target, not the branch that stuck in your leg.

It’s fire against your skin, deep in your flesh. Every single one of your nerves is alight with it. You almost expect to not be able to feel your legs, but you can, the pain spreading right to your toes.

There are people rushing around you. If you could hear anything other than your own screams, you’d hear that the blaster fire has stopped, the fight is done.

You try to roll over, the pressure of the floor on your injured back more than you can take, but people are holding you down, someone’s hands on either side of your head to stop you moving your neck—

You try to push everyone away because you’re suffocating you can’t breathe you can’t see—

They slide something underneath you, a stretcher. The pain is indescribable.

Everything goes black.

You’re in a field.

It’s serene. Green pastures, rolling hills. Shindl birds fly overhead. A creek is flowing nearby. The sun shines in a clear blue sky.

When you sit up, you expect to see him there. A shiny wall of beskar, soft just for you. A green child, staring at you with wide, beautiful eyes.

But instead, you see Them.

Your parents. Standing beside you, looking down at you with nothing but disgust on their faces.

“Look at you,” your mother says.

You do. You look down at yourself, and are horrified by what you find.

Your arms, bleeding fresh, crimson blood. Cuts all the way up them. Your stomach, just open flesh. You feel welts on your back, warm blood dripping down your spine.

It’s the day that they did it to you. The Ceremony. No one else will ever want you, now. You are his forever.

“Don’t look at me—” You beg, and then, Mando is there in front of you, staring at you with his helmet on, covered in blood—“Don’t look at me, stay away, I—”

Gasps pull into your throat over and over, and it’s too much air and not enough all at once.

Then you feel it. The glass. It’s falling out of your back, coming from your flesh like it was made there, scattering around you in the grass and into the mud and over your skin—

You wake with a gasp.

Or, maybe you don’t.

Either way, you’re not in that field anymore. Instead, you’re lying on your side, staring at a metal wall. There’s a bright light above you. Not the sun. It’s white, harsh.

“Can you hear me?” A familiar voice says. You frown, trying to place it. Then he comes into view, the doctor from earlier, peering down to look at you. “It’s alright. You’re just coming around from some anaesthesia. Can you hear me?”

You nod. The movement stretches the muscles in your neck, sends pain shooting down your back.

The scars. Your family. They—it’s the day it happened—

No. You’re not there. You’re at Boba Fett’s home.

“I hear you,” you manage to say. “What happened to me? Why am I—why can’t I—”

“You’ve got injuries on your back and your right arm,” he tells you softly, pulling up a chair to sit by your bed so you can see him. “We had to place you on your left side. I understand it will be disorienting, but please, try not to move.”

Panic strikes your chest, but you do as he asks, staying still. It’s only because you know him from before that you don’t immediately suspect him of working for the enemy.

The enemy.

They found you.

“Grogu—Mando—are they—”

“Everyone is okay,” he assures you quickly. “No one was killed in the fight. Just some injuries.”

You look around as best you can, craning your neck despite the pain it sends through your nerves. You realise you’re in a private room, not the one that Din was in. It’s much smaller, dimmer.

The air is cold on your back. It matches the cold dread that hits you—a familiar feeling today, it would seem—when you realise that your back is bare. “I’m—what—what happened—”

“You fell through a window,” he explains, gently. “Mr Fett saved you from a concussive blast, but the window’s glass and metal framing injured you significantly. Some debris had to be surgically removed. Due to the…scarring on your back and arms already, some pieces were hard to remove, and many were too stubborn to be sutured.”

You screw your eyes shut. The scarring. The fucking scarring.

You’ve avoided it all these years. You don’t even look at yourself when you wash. You can’t remember the last time you properly looked at your arms, let alone turned around to look at your back in a mirror, looked down at your stomach.

And now, you’ve been scarred again. And you’re bare here in this room. Whoever treated you has seen you. All of you.

“Where’s…where’s Mando?” You ask, not daring to open your eyes.

“He’s just outside,” the doctor says.

“He got up?”

“He was there, when you were injured.”

Your eyes fly open. “What?”

He smiles just a little, shaking his head in disapproval. “It seems he’d tried to follow you into the entryway,” he says, “but didn’t get there in time.”

A heavy exhale slips past your lips. Your throat is raw. You remember, then, the way you’d screamed. The excruciating pain that went right into your spine, down every nerve. “Am I on painkillers?”

“Very much so,” he nods. “We kept you under until they started working. I…should tell you, ma’am, that your injuries are quite significant. It will take a while for you to recover, and you’ll need to be on medication for some time. Fett has offered use of the bacta tank, but we will need to get you more stable before that will be an option.”

Your mind is reeling, racing. All you want is to see Din, to see Grogu. To hold their hands and know they’re there and hear their voices.

But your skin. It’s on show. Some is bandaged up, but you still look a mess.

The kid alone would be traumatised by the sight of you, even if your existing scars weren’t bad enough. You can’t do that to him.

“I don’t want you to worry,” the doctor says softly. “Mr Fett has assured me that the threat has been neutralised, and security has been tripled. Not to mention the Mandalorian outside who hasn’t dropped his blaster since it happened.”

You almost smile at that. If you weren’t in so much pain, and at war with yourself over if you can handle seeing him or not, you’d smile.

“He’s been asking to see you,” the doctor says. “But…before we took you in for surgery, you were…talking.”

“I was?” You have no memory of it.

“You…didn’t want anyone near you.”

“…Even Mando?”

“It would seem so, yes.”

Oh, shit. The words you said in your dream weren’t just in the dream.

“He very much wants to come and see you. I…told him I’d ask your permission first.”

You screw your eyes shut. Guilt hangs heavy in your chest. You know that if the roles were reversed, you’d be fighting everyone who dared to stand in between you and Din. Hell, the roles were reversed just earlier today.

“You’re all bandaged up,” the doctor says carefully, sounding like he’s dancing around the topic of the aforementioned scarring, that he and the other doctors have not only seen, but had to operate through. “I can pull the blanket over you, if that will help.”

Kriff. He knows why you don’t want Din in here.

“Did he hear?” You ask, keeping your eyes closed as though that’ll keep all of this darkness away. “When I said I didn’t want him to see me?”

“I’m not sure.”

You’re surprised he hasn’t fought his way in here, actually; just barrelled right through everyone in his way. Though, if he heard that it was truly your wish to not have anyone near you, he’s probably respecting that over anything else. Despite the fact that he’s probably desperate to see you, as you would be him.

“He gave me this,” the doctor says into the heavy quiet.

You open one eye and see his hand in front of you, holding the commlink that Din gave you the day you took off with them. You stare at it. The doctor doesn’t need to say anything else. There’s a light blinking on the comm, signalling that someone is trying to get through it to talk. Tears hang in your throat and you don’t have the strength to swallow them down.

Despite the painkillers, your back and arm are throbbing, stinging, and aching. Your skin is covered with bandages, but there are still parts of your back exposed to the air, your wrist and upper arm out in the open for everyone to fucking see. You can’t even look down at yourself. You know that some scars will be visible. And, even those that aren’t, you’re still a mess. Wounded, bandaged up, lying here unable to move or roll over or cover yourself without it hurting. Just like you were back then.

“I can’t see him,” you find yourself whispering as a tear falls onto your cheek, sliding down to the pillow.

“He said he just wants to talk to you,” the doctor says softly. He’s still holding out the commlink. “We have more to discuss regarding your injuries, but I think seeing, or even just talking to, someone you care for will help your morale. I can give you a moment alone, if that’s what you’d like to do.”

You look at the commlink. To the doctor. Close your eyes.

You’re in pain. Your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You feel trapped, caught, and worst of all—hideous.

But you need to hear his voice.

With a trembling, weak hand, you reach out and take the commlink, grasping it in your fist. You tuck it up in front of your chest, hold it to your lips.

The doctor gives you a sympathetic smile. As he stands, he says, “I’ll be back soon. If you want to let him in, just tell me through the commlink. But you don’t have to.”

You give him a shaky nod before your eyes are closed again, and you wait until his footsteps have gone and the door is closing behind him before taking a long, deep breath.

You press the transmit button.

Your voice is thin and reedy, see-through like wet paper, ready to fall apart with the next tear that falls. You’re trying so hard to stop yourself from crying, even though the tears are forcing past your defences. “Mando?”

“Cyar’ika?”

The sound of his voice sends a rush of relief through you. “Hey,” you manage, weak.

“Hey, I—are you alright? How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been chewed up, digested, and shit out by a bantha,” you close your eyes in your best attempt to hold yourself together. Your throat hurts from the effort. Your hands are shaking. You hurt. It all hurts.

You just want to hold his hand.

“Sweetheart, can I…” his words fade. Through the distortion of his modulator and the commlink, you can only just tell that his voice is strained. When he speaks again, it’s just a whisper. “Can I see you?”

Even though he won’t see it, you shake your head vehemently. No words come that you can speak. You can’t say no. It feels like you’d be rejecting him.

“Cyar’ika,” he whispers, and you imagine him out in the hall, sitting down or standing against the wall, holding the commlink to his helmet and trying to speak quietly, keep the conversation just between you. Like it’s just you in the cockpit of the ship, in the middle of hyperspace where no one in the Galaxy can find you. “Why can’t I see you?”

A shuddering breath surprises you as it pulls into your lungs, loud and jarring. Tears release alongside it, a sob escaping your throat before you can stop it. “I—” you can’t, you can’t, you have to, he deserves to know—“You can’t see me like this,” you confess, a broken whisper. “I—I look…I can’t wear clothes right now. There are…parts of me you can see…I’m really injured, Mando, and I can’t…you don’t want to see me looking like this…”

“It’s more worrying to me when I can’t see you,” he says. “No matter how bad it is.”

You sob again. You press your fist against your mouth. Get it together.

“I understand not feeling ready to show me yourself,” he speaks again, this time even softer somehow, quieter, “I do. But—”

“You’ll be disgusted,” you manage to get out from behind gritted teeth, the effort of holding back every single sob that wants to wrack through your chest now hurting your wounds, spreading across your skin. “You’ve never—Mando, I’m scarred, okay? Not just from this. Before this, I am covered in scars. My family, they...” You don’t have the strength to hold back the truth from him anymore. If you’re not going to let him in to see you, he deserves to know why. Deserves to understand, to agree that he doesn’t want to see that, because why the fuck would he want to? How could he stand it? “It’ll work,” you breathe shakily.

“What will work, sweetheart?”

“What they did. My family. To make no one else want me. If you see me like this, with the scars they gave me, it’ll work.”

Silence.

Good, you think. He knows. He agrees.

But then, “There is nothing,” his voice is low, “you could ever show me about yourself that would make me want you less. That would change how much I—how I feel about you.”

Tears stream down your cheeks, salt pooling on the corners of your lips. Your eyes are screwed shut so hard that it hurts. Your back hurts, it’s on show, your scars both new and old, the most vulnerable parts of you…

“Please,” he whispers, all fuzzy and distorted through the comm, “let me be there for you. I promise, I won’t look at your wounds, any of them. I don’t need to see them. I just need to see you. Please.”

You’ve never heard him like this before.

Through the modulator and the soft buzz of the comm, you could swear it sounds like maybe he’s crying.

And the thought of that breaks your heart. Hearing him but not being near him is breaking your heart.

You think of the pain in your arm and back, feel the bandages. The shame that comes with every single scar; the shame you have carried for so many years, that will probably take the rest of your life to fade away. It certainly won’t be healed if, by some miracle, Din sees you and decides he still wants you. The shame is your own. It’s yours to work out. And you don’t see that ever happening.

But…

“Please,” he says again. “I just need to know you’re okay, Cyar’ika. I need to hold your hand, I need to tell you…” his voice chokes. “I thought I’d lost you today. Please, Cyar’ika. Gedet’ye.” The Mando’a falls from his tongue like a prayer, ged-et-yay. You don't know what it means, but you know he's pleading.

Another sob forces its way past your tear-soaked lips and onto your fist.

You don’t know at what point you decided.

In fact, you don’t even know if you have.

But still, the only word that you can form, “Okay.”

He’s there in less than a minute. You hear the familiar sound of his footsteps, heavy boots along the vinyl flooring. The door closes behind him and he’s limping hastily towards your bed, coming from behind you, which really just adds insult to injury—

You expect him to stop, to catch sight of your back and your arm and the fucking state of you and then turn and leave, but he doesn’t. He keeps coming closer, and soon he’s beside you, sitting in the chair that the doctor had been in.

You can’t open your eyes. Tears are pushing violently past your eyelids.

“Hey,” he says, so soft and worried and shaky. “Hey, sweetheart, I’m here. It’s just me.”

You know that. You know him, trust him. And yet you still can’t look.

Gently, his gloved hand reaches out, and eases your grip on the commlink. He carefully takes it from you, places it on the table by the bed, then replaces it with his hand, holding so tightly that you can feel his concern through the grip.

“Cyar’ika,” he says, his voice so close to you, “Kriff, sweetheart, I…you’re okay. You’re okay.” He breathes out, heavy and relieved.

One of your eyes cracks open. It’s blurred entirely by tears, but you can just about make out the outline of him, shiny silver beskar in the harsh, white light of the room. The sight of that alone is enough to open your eyes completely. Because he’s here.

Shit, fuck, kriff, he’s here. He’s not looking at your back, or even your arm, despite the fact it’s right in front of him, his hand holding yours. He’s just looking at you, at your face, hovering right in front of you as if he can’t ever look away from your eyes again.

“Hey, there you are,” he says softly and reaches out his other hand to brush pieces of hair from your face. They’re soaking wet, either from tears or sweat. Your pillow is soaking wet, come to think of it, and so are Din’s gloves now as he reaches out and wipes your tears away—

The dam breaks.

He’s here. He’s touching you. He’s looking at you with anything but disgust; even though you can’t see his face, you know that’s true.

Because it’s Din. You know him. He knows you.

A loud, harsh sob comes from your throat and hits the silence like a tank. It’s the first of many. The tears become too fast for Din to wipe away quick enough, so instead he leans in, puts his face right in front of yours, uses his spare hand to smooth over your hair. You cry, and cry, and cry, violent sobs wracking your chest, shaking your entire body.

Everything comes over you at once. The blackmailer from Coruscant, how you were going to leave Din and Grogu behind, then when Din found you and you confessed some of your darkest secrets to him. Every panic attack you’ve had since you escaped your old life, every moment that has been tainted in your memory because all you felt was fear. Din’s arms around you, his lips on your skin, how you wanted so badly to see him and let him see you but you couldn’t because of what they fucking did to you—

And then, today, Din getting injured and then the explosion, the ambush, your family’s people coming to get you no matter what they had to do. People fighting for you, Din fighting for you, even though you’ve given him every opportunity to say no and walk away, to decide you were too much—

And now your body is bleeding and scarred, and you’re never going to be the fucking same ever again.

Din lets you cry. You can’t let yourself think about how hard it must be for him. About how much you wish he could take his helmet off, kiss your forehead, hold you in the dark with no clothes separating you.

“I’m here,” he whispers as your loudest sobs begin to subside, quieting down to soft weeping, the tears still flowing just as freely. “It’s alright, Mesh’la. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Mesh’la.

Even now.

Even like this.

“Din,” you reach out for him suddenly, hand scrambling to find his shoulder. You just need him. Need him close, need him here.

“I’m here,” he says like a promise, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know when the crying stopped. When your body decided it was done shaking you with sobs so harsh that they drew dry wretches from the back of your throat.

But you’re just lying here now, feeling like you’re in a pool of your own tears.

Din wipes them away with his gloved hands. Then, his hands move from your face and your hair, and it’s only because you’ve got your hand against the cheek of his helmet that you feel him go to take it off, his hands clasping over each side—

Your eyes fly open. “Din,” you say, stopping him, “What are you doing?”

“I need to see you,” he admits, and his voice is so husky and strained and filled with tears—

“You can see me like this. I’m here. You don’t have to take your helmet off.”

“I—” he falters. “I…I want to kiss you. I can’t—I can’t let you lie here like this and just be sitting here like some kind of droid while you need me…”

“I’ve got you,” you promise him. “I know I’ve got you.”

“I want to,” even though he’s whispering, he sounds more sure of this than he ever has. “I want to. Just for a second. Just—just to touch you. To see you with my own eyes. For you to—to see me.”

“I don’t want the first time I see your face to be like this,” you whisper, bringing his hand to your lips to kiss his knuckles. He nods, understanding. “But I can do this.” Then you close your eyes. Because you’re only human. If Din Djarin wants to kiss you, you aren’t going to say no.

Moments later you hear the soft metal thunk of his helmet sitting on the floor.

Then, warmth. The smell of his skin, sweaty after everything that’s happened, so familiar and perfect and comforting. He presses his forehead to yours, strange at this angle where he’s upright and you’re on your side. He’s taken his gloves off, too, and it surprises you when he brushes the backs of his bare fingers down your sticky, tear-soaked cheek.

“Cyare,” he breathes, shah-ray.

“What’s that mean?”

He shakes his head. “Beloved.”

Oh.

Your heart lurches, warmth blooming beneath and around it. Your hand finds the back of his neck, his hair, its favourite place to be. He’s so warm. Sweaty. Lovely.

“I was promised a kiss,” you whisper into the space between you, earning a near-silent chuckle from him.

He shakes his head again, fond this time, and then fulfils his promise: presses his lips to yours, his nose pressing into the hollow of your cheek. It’s a strange angle, and you can’t really open your mouth for him. So with both of your lips closed, you just linger there for a long moment, tasting your own tears pressing against his lips. It’s maybe one of the chastest kisses you’ve ever shared with him, but there is nothing but passion in it. You can feel the wrinkles in his forehead, his frown against your brow. He’s breathing slowly, carefully, like he’s trying to drink you in with every second that passes.

Kriff, you’re so grateful. That you get to have him like this. That this is something he wants as much as you do.

You’re probably never going to get used to that.

When he pulls away, he presses your foreheads together again, strokes his finger over the curve of your neck. “I want you,” he tells you. “All of you. No matter what.” It’s not suggestive, sultry. It’s a statement. It’s, I want you all the time.

Your heart hurts with the weight of it. It pulls on your scars, fresh wounds and old ones. More tears start to sting in your eyes, and you don’t have the energy to cry again, so you just kiss him instead of letting the incredible meaning of those words hit you any longer.

“Once you’re feeling up to moving around more, bacta is an option, if you feel comfortable,” the doctor—who you’ve only just learned is called Dr Garidan—tells you, standing at your bedside, right next to Din who’s still in the chair with his helmet back on. He hasn’t left since he came in hours ago. It’s the middle of the night.

“Did the debris hit any bone, or…her spine?” Din asks, not looking away from you.

Garidan glances at him like he’d forgotten he was there, then back to you, seeming uncertain. “I’m sorry, I should have said. I…will need you to step out for a moment, Mr Mandalorian, sir. I can’t give out information…”

“It’s alright,” you assure him, smiling tiredly. Exhaustion is weighing down every inch of you, your back and arm throbbing so much that it’s becoming simply annoying as well as painful. “He can hear it.”

“Alright, then. Well, nothing hit the spine, though it came close. One piece of metal did graze the shoulder bone, not quite fracturing it.” He gestures to the bandage brace you have wrapped around your shoulder that’s keeping your arm nice and steady.

“How long will it take to heal?” Din asks, and you’re honestly grateful Din is asking these questions for you; you’d been too scared to ask them yourself.

The look on Garidan’s face is not exactly comforting; he’s clutching his clipboard again, propping it against his stomach, and though he tries to hide it, he looks rueful. Bad news is written all over him. “…Many of the fragments went deep, as you know, hence the need for surgery. That, combined with all the damage to the skin that the smaller fragments caused, could mean that it takes months before the skin repairs itself.”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. You close your eyes, whisper, “How…how much damage is there?”

He hesitates. “A lot,” he says, soft. “Some parts of your arm nearly required skin grafts. If it doesn’t heal over on its own, then that will be the only option.”

Oh, fuck.

Tears are stinging at your eyes again. You’re so fucking tired. Your entire body is throbbing. You can’t deal with this right now. Skin grafts? Things not healing on their own? As if you weren’t already mutilated enough.

“Can we let her rest?” Din requests, sounding tired, too, but almost like it’s on your behalf. “Talk about this later?”

“No, it’s okay,” you force yourself to open your eyes again and look back up at Garidan, who looks genuinely sorry for all of this. “I want to know. Just get it out the way.”

He gives you a grateful, apologetic smile. “The good news is, if you spend some time in the bacta tank, the chances of healing on your own go up to around ninety percent. Not only will it help to fight off any infection, it will also give your skin the boost it needs to heal over those patches where it's been damaged or removed.”

Fucking hell. The window fucking removed your skin. It’s amazing, in the worst way, that They managed to find a new way to hurt you, to scar you, to ruin any semblance of self esteem you might have had, without even touching you this time.

“I understand that use of the bacta tank is…tough for you. We can make sure that only one assistant is in there with you to help you, and I can assure you that they are only interested in your safety, not the extent of your scarring.”

You blow out a slow, shaky breath. Mando’s hand is still in yours, gloved again, and you can feel his eyes on you even through the visor. So familiar. Comforting, even though all you can think about is how he must be seeing you. About the idea of taking your clothes off, being put in a tank, watched, helped out and clothed by someone else.

“You can take some time to think about it,” Garidan assures you softly. “There is no rush. For now, you should get some sleep. I’m about to swap shifts with my colleague, but don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands. How is your pain?”

“Fucking terrible,” you answer honestly as a tear slips down your cheek. You can’t wipe it away, your arm too sore, too restricted.

Din reaches out, wipes it away for you, and leaves his hand on top of your head, stroking his thumb over your hair.

Garidan leans over to the controller for your IV, and presses a couple of buttons. The beeping is loud in the quiet of the room. “There,” he says, “I’ve upped your painkillers for a few hours. That should help you get some sleep.”

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a weak smile. “For everything.”

“Of course. Hang in there. I’ll see you at noon when I’m back in.”

Nodding, you and Din watch while Garidan heads out, closes the door softly behind him.

You turn to Din. “Where’s Grogu?”

“He’s being looked after,” Din assures you.

“Does he know…?”

“That you’re injured?”

Dread hitting you at the idea, you nod.

“He does. He doesn’t know how serious it is; I told him that you needed to sleep, like he does after he uses his powers.”

“Kid’s been through enough already,” tears are still falling from your eyes, and they just won’t stop, even though you don’t really feel like you’re crying. “He doesn’t need this on top of everything.” Neither do you, you don’t say.

Din shakes his head, swiping his gloved thumb over some tears on your cheekbone. “He’s okay, I promise. He wants to see you, of course, but he knows he’s safe and that we aren’t far.”

You nod. Your eyes fall closed, and you nuzzle the side of your face into Din’s hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “’M glad you’re here,” you murmur as a sudden wave of sleepiness washes over you, the painful throbbing in every single wound starting to dull. Painkillers. Great things.

“Me, too,” he agrees. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

You’re still nodding, because it feels a bit like it’s lulling you to sleep, like Din is rocking you back and forth. You push into his hand, then pull it right up to your mouth, snuggling his forearm into your chest. It’s probably uncomfortable for him. If you weren’t rapidly falling into a drug-induced sleep, you’d tell him he doesn’t have to stay, that he can go and sleep in the actual bedroom you have upstairs, in the proper bed.

But he’s here, and you need him here. That’s all you can think about. If you could, you’d pull him into the bed, and hold him.

“For the record,” Din says, so soft and quiet that you could be imagining it as you tumble towards sleep, “you look just as beautiful as ever.”

Maybe you don’t literally fall asleep with a smile, but it feels like you do.

notes: apologies again for the wait, but i hope it was worth it! thank you for all your comments on the last chapter, and also for the birthday and well wishes on my update post last week. i appreciate you all so much. thank you for being here, for reading, for letting me know your thoughts, and for enjoying this story as much as i am ❤️ as always your comments help more than you know. all the love, always. xo

Mando'a translation:

Gedet'ye - Please

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#din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin imagine #gif cw #my post #my post: fic #i only see daylight

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merakimaiden · 2 years

Text

Let it out cyare, I’m listening.

Pairing : Din Djarin x fem!reader

Genre : Angst (fluffy at the end)

Word Count : 863

Summary : Din is worried about you.

Warnings : Worried Din, crying, soft Din, no idea how it got fluffy in the end, definitely not self indulgent

Mando’a Translations : Cyare (beloved), cyar’ika (sweetheart)

A/N : I suck at fic titles and the ending is kinda off I just needed to vent okay

(gif from pinterest)

You’ve been distant these past few weeks, Din noticed.

You avoided eye contact and you only speak when spoken to. He always catches you with an unhappy face, but whenever you notice him in the corner of your eye, you just give him a fake smile or pretend to be busy. You hardly eat nor sleep. Din is worried.

He misses your smile. Your real smile.

Din remembers when you used to dance silly dances with Grogu, when you tossed him into the air and caught him only to repeat it again, both of your joyful giggles always brought a smile to his face even when he had a particularly bad day.

Now, you and Grogu only play games that don’t require a lot of movement, you no longer dance nor giggle joyfully.

The child is worried too, cooing sadly at you as if asking you what’s wrong, but you just answer with a sad smile. As always.

Din realised he had to do something about it.

The Razor Crest was currently in hyperspace. You were sitting in the passenger seat of the cockpit, reading a holonovel on your datapad while he’s on the pilot seat. The child was sleeping peacefully in the makeshift hammock placed in Din’s bunk. Now’s the perfect time to ask you what's wrong.

Din sighed and turned his seat to face you. Your eyes moved to glance at him quickly, but returned to your datapad immediately.

“Cyar’ika?” Din whispered softly. You finally look up from your datapad.

“Mhm?”

“Come here….. please?” Din beckoned you closer.

You switched off your datapad and stood, dropping the device onto your seat before making your way towards the Mandalorian.

“Yes Din? Anything you need?” you asked softly.

“C’mere,” Din patted his lap, and you complied.

You tried to sit with your own weight lifted and not sit on his lap fully, but he noticed and brought your legs to rest on the top of his thighs.

He rubbed circles onto your calf. You looped your arms around his neck then let out a sigh.

Finally, Din asks you the question you’ve been dreading.

“What’s bothering you, sweet girl?” He asked as he rested his helmet on your forehead.

You inhaled and looked down at the metal floor of the ship. As Din waited patiently for an answer, his hands moved upwards to caress your hip.

“It’s…” you began. Din stayed silent so you took it as a cue to continue.

“Everything’s shit,” you sighed, giving up trying to find words to describe your dilemma. You buried your face into his cowl.

“I’m so tired of pretending that everything’s fine,” you added quietly as you held in tears that threatened to spill. “I hate myself, I hate everything,”

“Let it out cyare, I'm listening,” His hand made its way towards your back, his warm palm resting underneath your shirt.

“I-i feel so burnt out, I don’t even like to do things I love anymore. I’m not good at a-anything,” you were sobbing now, but Din is listening intently.

“And look at me,” you choked on a sob. “I’m so fucking ugly and gross, I know you tell me that i’m beautiful to spare my feelings, I know it’s all a lie, and my anger issues are getting worse. I hate being angry all the time, I hate hitting myself when i’m stressed, I hate people judging me and talking shit about me when they don’t even know why i’m like this-”

Din fingers held your chin, gently coaxing you to look at him. Your eyes were red from crying, dark circles visible from not enough rest and a frown on your face. Din wishes he could do more to take all your worries away.

He wiped your tears with his thumb and he cupped your face. You closed your eyes and savoured the feeling of his palm warm your cheeks as his other hand held you close.

“Cyar’ika.. it pains me to see you suffer like this, I’m so sorry I can’t do much except comfort you” he wiped his thumb on your eyebrow. “But know that you’re perfect just the way you are and I couldn’t imagine you any other way.”

You sniffled as you held his hand that was on your hip, toying with his fingers.

He studied your face for a while, and he decided to confess.

“I love you, you know” he whispered softly. “I love you so much, there’s not a day that passes where I don’t worry about you”

You stared at his emotionless helmet, although you felt like he had a sad face on.

You gave him a weak smile. “I love you too, Din Djarin. I always have, always will,” You kissed the side of his neck where his cowl didn’t cover, and Din felt his face warm.

“Thank you for being there for me, my warm and cuddly Mandalorian,” you whispered. Din felt bad that he didn't know how to help you, but you didn’t mind.

“As long as I’m here, no one will hurt you. Not even yourself,” he promised as he held you tighter to his chest and you closed your eyes.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated :)

#din djarin #din #din djarin x reader angst #din djarin x reader fluff

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thesmutbasement · 2 years

Text

Welcome to The Oldest Profession: The best fics about money changing hands and making sparks fly. We respect sex workers, and sometimes it makes for a real HOT fic setup! Everything here in The Smut Basement is for 18+ friends only! Minors and unverified persons will be blocked. Please heed ALL author warnings when you click a link.

Multiple Characters

Plata o Plomo Studios by @underwood0723 (An entire series set in a porn studio universe where Javier Pena is the director and every PP character shows up as a porn actor?? Yes PLEASE, Claire is a fan, thank you.)

The Queens's Jewels by @underwood0723 (Mary has started something GOOD here with just 2 parts and a drabble, and Claire is HERE for it!! So far we've met Frankie Morales, Max Phillips, and had snippets from Dave, Whiskey, and Marcus Pike. More please!)

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

Morning and Afternoon by @write-and-buried (You’re a young and enthusiastic solo performer who gets a chance to expand into working on camera with Dieter Bravo, your favorite porn star. You both are trying to keep it professional without catching feelings. Can you make it work? Claire recommends a try!)

Din Djarin/Mando (The Mandalorian)

The Garden of Eden and Part II by @nobedofroses (Mando visits his favorite working girl at the high-end bordello, and he likes to take his tiiiiime warming her up. The anticipation is HOT! The action is hotter! And I'm the smug bastard who had the luxury of beta-reading Part 1 before it hit the streets. :D Go read and fall in love with Lauren's Mando, then go scream at her about it! -Claire)

Mutual by @the-scandalorian (Reader chooses high-end prostitute Mando to be her first time, but they both find more than they expected. This is achingly hot tension, and the POV flips seamlessly back and forth from Reader to Mando and back. Just lovely!! -Claire)

Silk (series) by @juletheghoul (A 1970s Las Vegas AU featuring mob boss Din Djarin... need I say more? The mystery surrounding this man is intriguing, the sex is *HOT* and the plot is suspenseful and soft by turns. This series is a gift to all of us, go read it now. -Claire)

Take Me To Church (series) by@frannyzooey (The original and still the BEST! Late 1800s AU, Din Djarin visits a brothel and finds his match. Other Pedro characters also make an appearance... HOT HOT HOT! -Claire)

Warming Up by @starlightmornings (Din goes to Hoth and is in need of some warmth in a sauna and a massage resulting in a very happy ending for the both of you. This is HOT and it’s the kind of “ending” we deserve. Specifically when it involves some good ol’ 💦💦💦. I’ve read this time and time again.) - Lauren

Frankie "Catfish" Morales (Triple Frontier)

Kinktober 2021: Sex Work/Prostitution by @absurdthirst (This fic was so good that literally 5 months later in March of 2022, Lauren and I were messaging each other that we were frustrated that we couldn't find it off the top of our heads to add it to our newest section here. So I went to the expert fic-finder: Keri... and ended up with egg on my face when I found out it was HERS... don't care, just glad we found it again so that we could enshrine it here in our little smut museum. Thank goodness! Won't lose it again!! -Claire)

Something New by @prolix-yuy (You know you’ve got a winner when not only is it sent in as a rec but then is reiterated by yet another beloved reader to add it to TSB! I blew this so quick with zero patience, dinner be damned. If you thought that you’re the sex worker in this—no no, it’s Frankie. This got me all HOT and bothered. How am I supposed to look at people and not wish I was in a cold shower instead?) - Lauren

Javier Peña (Narcos)

Rendezvous by @frannyzooey (Listen, we all know Javi likes the working girls, it's canon... but when it's THIS hot and THIS sultry, it elevates canon to a whole new level. This is 4200 words of pure, lovely filth, and I am HERE for it! -Claire)

You Come Here by @kteague (A lovely, hot AU where Javier is the sex worker with a special relationship with a female DEA agent. Loved the angst and the deep feelings! -Claire)

Pedro from Across the Street (AppleTV+ “Calls”)

Good. Things. Take. Time. (series) by@oonajaeadira (Pedro is a masseur who provides *ahem* extra services. To say that Adira and her PATS own my heart and my ***** would be an understatement, y'all. There are literally days where this character is ALL I think about. Treat yourself: read the whole series, then read it again! -Claire) To be continued… Bottom of the Basement: Filthy Fic Recs Masterlist

#18+ friends only #the smut basement is really taking shape

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ggukbabyy · 3 years

Note

bro... idk about the whole plot of the drabble but it definitely should have some sexual tension going on but i'm not talking about a quick tension, you know... it could take hours or days idk i feel like you would kill it

“No, never,” you comment with a small shake of your head. Taehyung looks indignant.

“Everyone has done something outside of the bedroom at some point.”

You simply shake your head. “Not me.” Your eyes flick to Jeongguk briefly, his gaze drilling holes into the side of your face. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table.

“You’ve never needed someone so badly you couldn’t wait?” His voice is deep and husky, a hidden implication giving his words weight. You hold his gaze.

“The waiting is the fun part.” The corner of his mouth forms a faint smirk.

“That’s where we’ll have to disagree,” he replies, holding your eyes as he takes a long pull from his drink. Everyone breaks off into different conversations, the intrigue of your reluctance to perform sexual acts in a public space no longer the most interesting thing to discuss. Jeongguk appears to be the only one not ready to let it go.

You sit opposite him in the pub, enough people occupying the space that the din of background conversation makes it hard for others to hear as Jeongguk leans across the table once again.

“Do you really believe that? About waiting?” You’re not quite sure why he’s so interested but you entertain his line of questioning.

“100 percent,” you reply without hesitation and Jeongguk nods slowly as he considers your answer.

“You don’t think the desperation to have someone near you, in you, there and then is fun? How is that not better than waiting?” His eyebrows are drawn together in skepticism. He can’t for the life of him understand how you could enjoy waiting. It’s disheartening to hear when he’s spent the better part of the night trying to figure out a plan that would get you to follow him into the toilets. You’ve been acquaintances for about 4 months and he’s spent an embarrassingly large proportion of his time in your company thinking of all the different ways he’d like to spend his time with you if he could get you alone. And not for one second would he want to wait.

“I enjoy the anticipation,” you begin, moving to mirror his position. Jeongguk gets a wonderful eyeful of cleavage and he takes his time appreciating it.

“Wanting it so desperately and knowing you can’t have it now makes it all the better when it does happen.” For most of the sentence Jeongguk is picturing his dick between your tits so he only half hears what you say.

“Anticipation doesn’t change shit,” replies Jeongguk, leaning slightly closer. A small smile plays across your face, head tilted to the side slightly.

“It’s my favourite,” your voice has turned sultry, the alcohol muddling Jeongguk’s brain preventing him from noticing the change immediately. “The person is so close and not close enough, almost touching where you want and you could scream in frustration because two centimeters to the left and it would feel so fucking good, but they make you wait,” your voice is soft and captivating; even with everything happening around Jeongguk you’re the only one he can hear. His whole body feels jittery yet he’s glued to the spot, his chest beginning to rise and fall just a little deeper as you draw the perfect picture for him. “And wait some more, until I could cry, until I’m begging for the slightest touch or kiss in just the right place, so desperate and needy.” The switch from describing a situation to talking about yourself doesn’t go unnoticed by Jeongguk. In fact, it makes the room seem a little hotter, his pants feel a little tighter, his brain seems a little more clouded as he tries to focus on anything but the sounds you’d make as you beg or the words you’d say to get what you wanted from him. Saliva pools in his mouth at the thought of you spread below him close to tears with desperation. Your eyes are alive and wild yet the rest of your face is the picture of innocence and he’s not sure how much more he can take. You’re inching closer to his face across the table as you speak.

“But you don’t like waiting, do you Jeongguk?” You ask and he can faintly feel the warmth of your breath against his lips from this distance. He swallows thickly.

“You don’t want to keep me waiting, don’t like the idea of making me beg for it? For you?” You add on innocently, eyebrows raised as though you’d asked a perfectly simple, appropriate question. Jeongguk can barely form a coherent sentence with his head so full of everything you’ve just said. You stay there leaning on the table for a few more seconds, Jeongguk’s eyes flicking down to your lips, the air around you both suffocating and heavy. You grin widely before leaning back into your chair triumphantly. Jeongguk’s eyes are clouded with arousal, not trying to hide where your words have taken him and his reluctance to return to the real world. By the time he does you’ve moved on to a conversation with Jimin, giggling at his shit jokes. You don’t look Jeongguk’s way once for the rest of the night and it drives him insane.

-----

Two weeks later and you’re at Jimin’s place for a barbecue with a friend. Only Jimin’s housemates are Yoongi and Jeongguk, and no one told Jeongguk you were coming over. Ever since the night at the pub, Jeongguk has fantasised about you more than he would care to admit - even to himself. More than a few times his hand wandered south with pictures of you flashing behind his eyelids, replaying the conversation you’d had over and over, vividly picturing you doing the things you’d described. So when he walks out of the patio doors into the garden to see you laid across a towel on the floor, the smallest bikini he has ever witnessed wrapped around your body, to describe his feelings as shocked is a gross understatement. From his vantage point he can watch you while you remain none the wiser, so he takes the precious time to appreciate everything that you are. Your legs go on for miles and are toned to perfection, your tits fill out your bikini with some left to spill over the side and yearning burns deep in his stomach to have his lips against the smooth flesh, dragging his tongue leisurely across your nipple. Images of you begging for him flash violently across his mind, and he’s itching to return to his bedroom for a few minutes. But then you turn over and notice him, a lazy grin creeping slowly across your mouth.

“Can I help you?” You ask innocently, eyes dancing with amusement at having caught Jeongguk staring. He saunters over to you, arms braced behind him as he sits down.

“You’re in my garden, I should be asking you that question.” Your eyes are glued on the way his biceps tense to support his weight. It should be illegal for Jeongguk to walk around shirtless, even if it is the height of summer. For the sake of your own sanity he should walk around in a full wetsuit - but you’re sure he’d manage to make that look sexy. His broad chest is on full display, the golden skin pulled taut against the toned muscles of his abdomen. Your eyes continue their journey down his stomach, thoughts swirling at the dusting of hair beneath his belly button, following it down until it disappears beneath his shorts.

“Are you nearly done?” Amusement drips from his words as you pull your eyes from their pleasant detour. You fight desperately to keep the heat from your face.

“Almost.” Jeongguk’s tongue pokes the side of his cheek at your answer. He’s used to girls fawning over him, melting into a puddle of shy giggles and doting compliments. Not this. The idea of having you begging beneath him becomes more and more appealing the more you demonstrate all the ways you need to be taught a lesson.

Both of you bask in the heat of the sun in silence, music drifting out from the kitchen, Yoongi’s contagious laughter bringing a smile to your face. Surreptitiously you peek one eye open, looking sideways at Jeongguk. The perfect definition of his jaw is showcased with the way his head is tilted towards the sun, little beads of sweat developing at his temples and clinging to the nape of his neck.

“You should really put suncream on,” you state, shutting your eye before he can catch you again.

“Are you offering?” His tone is bored but excitement thrills through his chest.

“Not really.” Jeongguk fights the smile threatening to reveal itself.

“If I end up burning, it'll be all your fault,” Jeongguk complains, and when you say nothing in return, his arms buckle under his weight dramatically, his back thudding against the grass.

“I can feel the blisters forming already,” he groans, rocking side to side. You suppress chuckles as you watch his performance.

“Unngh,” he groans, turning his head to look at you, a fake pained expression pulling against his features. “I need you to put suncream on me,” he whines, “please.” His lips jut into a pout.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you reply with an eye roll, Jeongguk all but ignoring it as a delighted grin lights up his face.

While you grab the cream, Jeongguk arranges himself into his original position, a satisfied smile gracing his plump lips as he basks in both his small victory and the heat of the sun. His smile vanishes, eyes snapping open, when he feels the cool of a shadow passing across him only to be faced with you straddling his lap. Your expression is the picture of innocence, eyes wide, head tilted, soft lips slightly parted as you hold to bottle of cream in one hand expectantly, but a flicker of wickedness flashes across your eyes, there one second and gone so quickly Jeongguk could almost convince himself that you’re clueless to the effect your close proximity has on him. But the way your back arches into him gives you away.

Jeongguk hisses a breath through his teeth at the first contact of the suncream against his warm skin and you giggle. There’s no hint of amusement on his face. Having you so close and yet unable to touch you has his mind reeling and frustration bubbling like acid in the pit of his stomach. You smell incredible, sweet and floral, and your hands are delicate as they roam his chest and stomach, eyes completely focused on the task at hand. He sighs deeply as he lets himself become lost in the way you touch him, the way your hands rove confidently, traversing low enough to have him forcing down the urge to buck his hips against you.

Nothing in the world is going to pull your gaze from the path your hands trace against Jeongguk’s skin. From his broad shoulders and collarbones you would be happy to drag your tongue across, to your palm grazing his nipple, noting the muscle in his jaw jumping at the contact. Down, down, down his stomach as low as his shorts allow, over his hips and waist. All amusement has vanished as your fingers explore. Jeongguk’s breathing is deep as you toy with the waistband of his shorts, slipping the tip of your finger just underneath. He’s watching you like a hawk, nostrils flaring as he wills you to just reach down, give him the look so he can take you upstairs and show you there’s no fun in waiting. Instead you raise your eyes to his and breathe out, “I need to do your arms.”

He shifts his weight forward, one arm held out for you, the other sliding around your body, hand resting gently on your arse. Raising your eyebrows questioningly at the placement, Jeongguk simply shrugs, a devilish smile flashing at you.

“What’s the matter, darling?” His deep voice questions. You forego a reply, squeezing cream directly onto his arm. He watches your face with delight as you continue.

“Turn around so I can do your back,” your voice is barely above a whisper. Having him so close for so long is starting to prove difficult. You can’t get your thoughts away from his hands, how strong and big they are in your own, how they’d wrap perfectly around your neck or how easy it would be for Jeongguk to prod and massage your g-spot until you were exhausted from overstimulation. It hasn’t slipped your notice that he’s been getting progressively harder beneath you, every inch of him pushing against your core. It’s getting hard to breathe, hard to look him in the eye - he relishes every second of your struggle with a cocky grin. His eyes are heavy and clouded with arousal and he drags his gaze leisurely down your body and back again.

“I’m sure you can reach from here, darling.” The determined look in your eye has Jeongguk chuckling. The action of reaching your hands over his shoulders and down his back has your chest pushing into his face and a small groan rumbles in Jeongguk’s throat. Your stomach burns with desire at the sound, a desperate need to hear the sound over and over, louder and then whispered into your ear, claws mercilessly at your insides, threatening to suffocate you. Without thinking you push your hips down in an effort to garner some friction against your swollen clit. The manoeuver doesn’t go unnoticed.

Jeongguk’s mind is blank. Your arse is pushing back into his palms, his fingers massaging the supple flesh delicately. With your tits so close to his face he determines it would be criminal if he doesn’t lean forward just a little more. His hair tickles your cheek as he moves, his nose brushing your chest as he gets closer. He flattens his tongue against the swell of your breast, licking a stripe against your glowing skin before sinking his teeth into you. A small gasp escapes your lips, hips rutting against him of their own accord. He groans again, using his hands to push you into him harder, desperation and frustration intermingling at the clothing separating your pussy from his bare skin. He pulls back to look up at you, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he restrains himself. Your lips are so close, both of your chests rising and falling rapidly, each waiting to see what the other will do, the atmosphere suffocating as the tension rises. Jeongguk’s gaze is intense and his eyes flick briefly down to your lips, his intentions and desires clear.

“Come to my room.” His voice is gravelly and shoots heat directly to where you need his touch the most. “Let me touch you, make you feel so good, princess.”

“We can’t,” you whisper back, lacking conviction.

“Why not?” Whines Jeongguk.

“Everyone will see and they’ll know.” It’s a feeble excuse and your resolve to stick with it is crumbling quickly.

“I’ll happily fuck you out here if that’s what you’d prefer.” Your cheeks flame at the idea. “It would be easy,” he continues, mind so consumed with you and his need to have you as close as possible. His fingers skim the apex of your thigh, toying with the edge of your bikini. “I’d just have to pull this to the side and then I’d see your pretty pussy, but I bet you have a tight cunt, couldn’t take my cock all at once.” Your core clenches reflexively at his words and you know you’re absolutely fucked.

“Come to my room,” he states, moving your hips over his with his hands. You smile devilishly, leaning forward until your lips almost brush.

“I’m sure you can wait a little bit longer.”

an; so i clearly don't know the meaning of the word drabble and you said i'd kill it so the perfectionism took over and i couldn't stop until i thought it was good

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #mando x female oc #mando x you #mando x reader #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x female oc #din djarin x female oc #din djarin smut #King of Cups #pedro pascal #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #slow burn #smut

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omgreally · 3 years

Note

You're awesome and I love everything you write. I was wondering if you'd be down to do some head cannons. This has to do with depression so if you'd rather not read it think about that please just delete this ask.

I've been having such a hard time over the last 9 or 10 months dealing with depression. I don't want to burden you with what I'm going through, so I won't. I know everyone has had a lot to deal with over the past year and a half. I'm just wondering how you think Din might be supportive through a time like this? He's my comfort character and I know it's kind of lame to turn to a fictional character but it's nice to have a bit of an escape from real life sometimes

Hey anon. I struggle pretty badly with depression and I feel you (oh man, you have no idea how much!) I hope you're hanging in there and I hope this little headcanon/drabble thing also helps.

It never feels like it'll end, but sometimes there are moments that help me get by, so my only advice is to focus on those moments if you get them. It's not lame at all for fic to be your way of getting by - it's definitely one of the ways I do!

If you ever want to talk 100% dm me even if it's to gush over fic or Din or Pedro or to rant or what have you. I'm an internet stranger but I am here! <3

As it Should Be

Din Djarin/F!Reader - Rating: E - WC: 1465 - TW: Depression, mental health, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and a small smattering of smut (bc it's me)

Din notices that you’re off.

It’s little things here and there - you refuse food, you’re sleeping too much; you’re found more often than not taking up most of the cramped space in your shared bunk. You tell him it’s nothing - that everything’s fine, which it is; you’ve finally found a place you belong, albeit with a strange armored bounty hunter and his green space baby.

Things are good between you - he gives you his hands, his body, eventually even his name and glimpses of his face in the dark as he kisses the back of your neck and cups your hips with the welcoming grind of his. Din makes love to you slow when you need it, rough when you want it - and he never fails to make you come, gasping on the syllable of his name. But there are other times he can’t reach you, when you’re quiet and staring off into space, and you tell him it’s nothing - because it is.

It’s nothing, this feeling: a persisting numbness where there should be joy, or love, or fierceness. You fight to emulate the emotions because you know they should be yours, but your laugh as you play with Grogu is hollow, and your smile for Din is forced. He notices, because you have spent months together by now, because he is trained to notice these things: things out of the ordinary in places, things, people. And you are, besides being quite extraordinary, not yourself.

You’re not sure when it started, or why. You wanted to get away - your most fervent wish to abandon your former life and start anew. You never thought it would be with a Mandalorian, but you are grateful, and everything is different. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard - accepting that things are different, accepting that things could be different, could be good.

Maybe that’s what it is; an inability to believe that you deserve this, these soft moments that feel like they’ve been stolen from another’s life and inserted into your own. It’s hard having a place to sleep - arms to sleep in - warmth and food and love where before, you had nothing. The dichotomy of your life is startling: half of it spent in darkness, going hungry too often, cold too often, the places within you that you thought were strong crumbling away beneath the relentless march of terrible days with no end. Suddenly being whisked away from that is like whiplash. You’re thankful, but you’re floored by it. It will take time to stand up.

Somehow, Din knows this, and he helps without helping. Whether it’s letting you sleep - bringing you food - volunteering to watch the kid himself, giving you time alone when you land on a new planet and he ventures out for supplies. You’re glad he doesn’t push you, and you show it as you begin to emerge from the shell you’ve built yourself, the layers of misery cracking like sediment breaking free underwater.

It’s slow, the erosion of this feeling - this not-feeling - but you catch glimpses of light here and there: the baby tugging on Din’s pants leg, chanting ‘Batu, batu, batu’ until he picks him up and holds him close; Din bringing you something he calls Tusken stew he made himself which tastes awful but you force it down because he made it for you; waking up with the baby on your chest, the tip of his ear tickling your chin; going to bed with Din, helping him remove his Beskar, piece-by-piece. Always hesitating when you get to the helmet.

“Let me,” he says, and you hear the pneumatic hiss as the seal releases, and he lifts it from his head. You take it from him and set it aside, always surprised by how heavy it feels. To Din - to Mando - it seems to weigh nothing at all.

You set it aside with the rest of his armor; careful, reverent even. You still don’t know much about the Mandalorian Creed, but he’s told you enough that you know to respect it. You know that him showing his face, even in the dark, is a big deal. You don’t comment on it, though - you accept the gift without drawing undue attention to it and for that, Din is thankful.

“Are you okay, mesh’la?” he asks the question casually, as if he’s asking you what you want for breakfast tomorrow, but your stomach drops immediately. He senses your trepidation - feels the way you shrink away from him, suddenly shy to the touch. “I’m sorry,” he adds hurriedly, hesitant - quite unlike the usually stoic Beskar warrior. But there’s no Beskar, just the two of them in the dark, undressed and undressing in other ways.

“I don’t want to - to scare you off - but I worry,” Din continues haltingly, stumbling over his words. You imagine his hands steady on his rifle and can’t reconcile that with the slightly awkward man sitting knee-to-knee with you, and your blank heart warms a little.

“Din,” you say, taking his hand, and he flinches like he always does at first - you imagine him closing his eyes at the contact before he accepts it, turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. “You could never scare me off.”

It strikes you as funny all of a sudden - comforting him, but it gives you something to focus on other than the feeling like you’re fading away piece by piece. He puts you back together with a kiss - slow and deep and soon turning molten, the slick sweep of his tongue waking you from your indifferent haze. You respond in kind, curling your fists into his shirt, and he urges you back - fills the space above you, eclipsing what feels like the entirety of the cramped, closed-in bunk.

You don’t feel trapped, though; on the contrary, you feel freed. The sweep of his bare hands up your torso, lifting your shirt over your tits has you keen; the feel of his mouth dragged forcefully from yours, down your neck, descending on your nipples makes you a little feral, a little uncontrolled in a way you know he likes. It’s you, and you’ve been missing for a while.

Clothes disappear with frantic movements - you slide together, naked at last. Din’s cock is so hard against your thigh that you wonder if it hurts, but you don’t wonder long before he’s pushing it into you with smooth, shallow, stretching thrusts until you wrap your legs around him and urge him on with a whisper for “More, Din. More.”

He fucks you like it’s the first time - like it’s new, and you don’t miss the tremble in his hands as he works one between your bodies and thumbs at the throbbing point of your clitoris. He draws your orgasm from you without effort, gives in to his, spilling with a gasp into the welcoming grasp of your cunt.

The post-coital high fades eventually, and he slips from you, cleans you up, and instead of rolling onto your side you settle over him with your head on his broad chest, listening to his heart beat beneath the scars.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper in the dark, where you feel safest, where the words won’t hurt - where you don’t need to hide them or take them back. “I haven’t felt right for a while.”

“I know.” He strokes your back, and you feel the brush of his stubble, the press of his lips against your forehead. “You’re allowed to feel like that if you want.”

“Really?” you sniff, and there they are - the tears - tears you haven’t shed since leaving your home planet, as awful as it was, behind. Tears you haven’t allowed yourself your whole life, because they mean nothing, they fix nothing - and yet, as you let them flow, something fragile and tangible inside you shifts. “You’re not disappointed in me?”

“Never.” He lifts your chin with a finger for a more solid kiss. “You’re the strongest person I know, mesh’la.”

You smile, even as the tears break your dam, send you crumbling and insensate as you sob into the Mandalorian’s chest. He lets you, stroking your back, your hair, murmuring platitudes and assurances that would be meaningless from anyone else but aren’t now, because they’re from him.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, as the sobs ease to hiccups, as your tears dry sticky on his sternum. He kisses them away from your lips and together you taste salt and regret and things that don’t make sense, but are, and they’re wonderful. He’s wonderful. “It’s okay.”

“Yes, it is,” you agree, settling in his arms, eyes red, throat raw; you feel, impossibly, better.

Because you know now: It’s okay for you to not be okay. Din Djarin is not going anywhere.

And all is as it should be.

#inbox #request fill #tw: depression #tw: mental health #cw: mental health #din djarin/you #din djarin/reader #din djarin/f!reader #mando/you #mando/reader #mando/f!reader #the mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian smut

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deberiaestarescribiendo · 3 years

Text

The Lost Children #Writer Wednesday Din Djarin Modern Day Bounty Hunter x f!reader

For #Writer Wednesday created by the amazing @autumnleaves1991-blog and tagging @clydesducktape (thanks a lot for the hard work of compiling everything each week)

Summary: This a part 2 of a fic I wrote a few months another Wednesday, read it here. After you scape with Din and your child, you try to find a life again even if that means he has to leave you.

Warnings: Language, talking about neglecting children or abandoned kids, guns. This is fluff with angst and Din being a softie but a dumbass expressing feelings

A/N: I'm super tired, so be ready to find many grammar and mispellings I didn't have the time to really read it through.

The lost children

For a bit, that’s what he said, what he promised until you’re safe and settled.

“So you can keep your little kid in the babycare with the rest of the kids while you’re working. One of the cabins to the right of the front office we’ll be entirely yours. We only ask that you keep clean and in a good state”

“Of course” you’re shining, happy and excited

“You heard that Greg, we’ll have a place on our own” your arms hold the baby tightly, rocking him softly until he giggles. When you turn to Din, he can see your eyes glowing, kissing little Greg’s head, you whisper thank you

Thanking him? what for? He just pointed out that small, almost entirely ripped from the wall, announcement of a local hotel in the middle of the woods that looked for personnel willing to work and live in the resort when they were stopping at a gas station.

It is a perfect place to hide and live a peaceful life and let a baby grow up in the middle of nature. Greg and you could be happy. So why is he thinking that he should make up some excuse so you don't stay, so you don’t leave him. He should be selfish and grab your hand and run away again like you’ve been doing for weeks now, but that’s not life for a baby, and you deserve it, leave the past behind. And him, even if he doesn’t want to admit, it’s part of your past of that runaway woman that commited many mistakes.

But Din’s a bounty hunter, his life on the road, from one job to the next would only make you unhappy, and at the end, you would hate him; and that’s it’s not an option.

Nothing has made Din happier than seeing you smile at him, the little comments here and there you tell him praising him and thanking him one, twice, a thousand times for helping you, the way the baby caresses his face with his small hand and those big eyes looking at him intently until he smiles with only those two little teeth. The way you look perfect, almost like a Madonna from the Renaissance, when the street lights hit your face while he’s driving and you hold your baby against your chest, both of you sleeping in the car.

Would you think he’s a creep for staring? There’s a warmth that grows inside him when he stares at you and baby Greg. A warmth he doesn’t want to let go. He cannot offer you a good life and Din doesn’t want to force you to live like he does, just because he’s so selfish to let you go.

“So what do you think?”

The manager leaves them to think about the offert. And Din balances his big body from one of his legs to the other, hands on his hips, he sighs

“I think”

I think you should be with me

I think I should protect you

I think I should protect Greg

I think I want to be with you, the both of you, forever

I think I love you

But he doesn’t say it

“I think you should take it. It is a good place for a kid”

You frown, even baby Greg looks at him puzzled from the crook of his mother’s neck

“Yes, it seems great, quiet...And I like that Greg could be with other kids. But what about you?”

Your eyes look big, pleading, there’s a question, a petion in them but you don’t say it with words so maybe Din is imagining it, he wants so bad that you will stay with him that maybe he’s making that up

“I will go and…”

And miss you

And miss Greg

And be alone again

“Start the business again somewhere else” he shrugs, and he sees the light flicking in your eyes, the idea in your head being shattered, you’ll never ask the question and he will never answer.

“But you can stay a few days, right? Rest, eat properly for once and repair the car”

“I don’t know…”

What would hurt more? leaving already or prolonging it?

“I don’t want to be this direct, Clint...” he likes that you keep using that nickname you gave him when you’re in public. You only use his real name when you’re alone. Making it even more special, it’s intimate, more anything he has ever felt.

“but you need a shower. And I do too and this stinky baby” you bury your nose on little Gregs neck and it makes him laugh out loud that angelic and sweet giggle hits him hard and before he even knows it, Din is nodding

“A few days won’t hurt”

It’s surprising how they fall easily in a routine. How they seem to find a perfect way around each other, a perfect model like the stars and planets always circling around each other and never colliding. You, dancing softly in the kitchen humming while you stir the soup, baby Greg chasing his little frog while Din holds his back so he doesn’t lose his balance

“Hey, you want this?” Din smiles fondly to the baby and with his long arm places the soft toy far away from him “C’mon like before “ his big hands on his side while the babe excitedly starts crawling towards his frog

“Hey! look! he’s getting faster!”

You smile at them, that big and serious man has the proudest smile, so bright and pure watching your baby grow before his eyes.

It’s been almost a week and he’s still repairing the car, or so he says. The manager hasn’t asked any questions and just assumed they are a family. And you must accept that you do look like one, a broken and weird one, but more than anything you have ever experienced.

And you wish he stayed forever that he could be a father to Greg, he certainly acts the part.

“Dinner is ready.”

The scent of the pines, the bugs chirping and the soft crackle of the fire is the perfect lullaby. Your baby has taken the habit of falling asleep against Din’s wide shoulder while the three of them enjoy the small porch outside the cabin.

“I think the car is ready”

The words you fear the most float in the air and you’re almost tempted to ignore them

“Hmm” you don’t face him yet, just look at the trees and try to swallow the pain “And where will you go?”

“Don’t know yet”

“How will I contact you?”

“I…”

“Do I have to search on Craigslist? Some old codewords in the newspaper? How do you even find a bounty hunter?” you’re laughing, but it really doesn’t hide the pain in your tone

“I have a phone” Din rolls his eyes at you but he’s amused, surprisingly he’s smiling more since you met him, he’s not that stern or cold as you pictured him when he caught you

“That would have come in handy when we were lost in the desert”

“I mean a fixed one”

“You have a house then?” you turn to him, lowering your voice midsentence as you see your son sleeping peacefully on Din’s arms

“Sort of”

“I will need you to expand that a little bit more Din”

Din in the quiet of the night, the moon, the stars and the fire illuminating your face he admires you pronounce it: The tip of your tongue showing softly between your teeth and he wishes to see you repeat it one, twice a thousand times.

“My family, my...it’s difficult to explain, anyway, it’s my safeplace, where I go to rest, I get the information for my next jobs, etc”

“Oh...okay, so I call you there?”

“Yeah you could, and write if you want” he offers with pleasing eyes

“Penpals, great” you answer and it sounds more sarcastic that you intended

“You could send me pictures of Greg”

Din lowers his eyes to the soft crown of the baby, that soft place on his head where he smells so sweet and tender. He can believe that he’s going and there will be no nights like this.

“I will do”

Your eyes get teary watching him softly kiss you babe, carrying to his crib whispering sweet words so he doesn’t wake up.

“So I’ve packed many water bottles, and those protein bars in case you get yourself lost in the desert again, cowboy. Sadly you won’t have my unparalleled company” you joke tapping him on his arm

“No, I won’t” Din forces a smile “I...Take care” he awkwardly squeezes your forearm

“You too-Shit!” you scream slapping your forehead “The sandwiches! I knew I forgot something. I made you something for lunch. I’ll be right back”

You press little Greg to Din’s arms before running away leaving them with wide eyes and a confused look

“Take care of you mother, kid, sometimes she can be a lot to handle”

“Hi, Ken” you say breathly as you storm inside the reception and get inside the staff meeting room.

“Hi! Has your boyfriend left already?” He asks while writing something on his agenda

“Not yet” you say looking for the lunch bag you had prepared inside the fridge. You hand stops midway when you heard her voice

It is horrible, we have not consolation, our baby has been kidnapped and we have no information

Her fake cries fill the room, some national tv is making a report on the kidnapping of little Greg. The tragic zoom at her face fades away when they show a picture of your baby.

“Fuck…” you mutter

I need him back. He’s my baby

“He’s not your baby, you bitch” you spat under your breath

“What did you say, hun, you need something” Ken raises his eyes to you, one eyebrow arched, he follows your eyes to the TV

“That baby looks exactly…” and then you know

You grab your sandwich bag and strom out as you did before. Din is holding Greg on his hip while he finishes loading the trunk with his bags

“We’re out of here”

You cry when you reach to him, pushing him away, you close the trunk door

“Wait what happened?”

“No time, let’s go”

How has this man trusted you so much as to run away with you? For all he knows you could actually be a kidnapper, that story about leaving your son with someone you trusted and that eventually you discovered that they were assholes could be fake. But he doesn’t. He runs away, drives and drives without asking a question.

“She had the guts to say it was his son, he isn’t. She barely had it for a few months until I could settle my life. And then she asked me for a crazy amount of money because children are expensive you know I fucking payed for a a new pool in her stupid house, while my son was always dressed in old clothes, too big or too small. They didn’t care for him”

And on top of trusting you, he lets you rant away all you anger

“There’s no way I’m giving him back. I rather die!”

He stops the car, the road again is silent, dressed in the colors of the sunset

“Calm down, you’re scaring him” Greg looks at you with trembling lips not knowing why he should be scared or angry, he just knows that his mama is upset “He will stay with you, I promise”

“The police must be searching for us” your warm tears cloud your eyes

“They won’t find us where we are going”

He ditches the car somewhere and you see him burning it. He carries the big bag on his back and hands you water and snacks from time to time.

“Just a few miles more”

The red stone looks like some ethereal cathedral around you, a palace in the middle of nowhere almost like another world, magical and eerie. If there’re marks or signs you don’t see them, but Din walks among the rock so sure of his steps searching among the labyrinth of rocks. And suddenly…

You hear the soft clicks of many guns' trigger locks going off at the same time. But Din softly whistles some tune and from all over: up the rocks, between them, children come out. Kids, all different from one another, some really young, others tall and weirdly looking teenagers in that mixed age where they are not a child nor an adult and others already grown to be young adults.

“Din” a curly haired girl dressed with camouflage clothes runs towards him with open arms, she has a crooked smile as she has lost some of her front teeth

“Hey, gumball!” Din bents down when she hugs him, her sweet face pressed against his belly

“Who are they?” a boy, holding a shotgun to his side, his face full of red dots, frowns at you

“They’re friends who need help” Din explains raising one of his arms trying to calm down the group

“Are they lost too?” Gumball asks

“Yes” Din nods

“But she’s a mum” some kid screams from above

“Mums can be lost too. C’mon, we’ve been walking for hours, can we go home?” he answers

“Of course, let’s go. Boba will be happy to see you” Gumball grabs Din’s hand and smile widely jumping happily through the stone corridors

“Wait, Din, what the fuck? who the fuck is Boba? What are these kids doing here?”

Gumball fires a concerned look at you

“She said two bad words”

“Gonna let it pass, Gum, she’s a bit scared and tired” Din smirks your way and you question in silent muttering the fuck again and again

“I see you pronouncing it, you know?” Gumball rolls her eyes “No bad words or you pay the price”

“Yes, understood, sorry” you close your lips hard trying not to ask more questions until you arrive home or whatever that is.

After a few minutes of turning left right, left right, right left you’re completely lost until the stone towers open up a way to a plain and on it, a ranch.

Some horses roam around nibbling on the pale green grass that grows on the land. A house on the centre is painted white but the paint looks old and chipped.

Now in the clear you count the children that surround you, ten, ten kids in the middle of nowhere.

“Welcome to the Watch” Din smiles at you, he almost look shy and earning a upset look from Gumball, he releases her hand and holds you with his big palm on your back

“What is this place, Din?”

“Home” he simply answers

The kids run through the porch screaming and opening without a care the door to the house

“Yeah, I heard you, little heathens” a masculine voice screams from the interior

His hard steps clack on the ground and you hear the spurs before you see him arriving with his leather boots, his used jeans and a low cowboy hat covering him from the sun

“I thought something must have happened to you” he says, evaluating Din. His tanned face is covered by a long and twisted scar from his lip to his forehead, he has dark eyes like Din but colder in a way, very deep and when they fall into you, you hug your baby tightly without thinking it

“I see” he says “C’mon on in, that baby can’t stay too long in the sun”

The house is nice, surprisingly tidy given the fact that there are ten kids living in it. The furniture looks like the exhibit of an old auction house, each one of them completely different of style, color or age from the other.

The man that everyone call Boba gives some orders to the group and they efficiently start doing what he asks

“Prepare a room for our guests”

“Bring water and food”

“Prepare some fresh fruit for the baby”

You sit, little Greg with eyes wide open. As any baby he’s absorbed by all the children around him, and he reaches with his little hands trying to grab them

“Little fella wants to play, you can leave him on the rug if he wants to”

“He’s fine here, thanks” you say holding him although Greg is already removing your hands from him wanting to explore

“Boba, we have nowhere to go” Din explains sipping on his cold water

“I guess, you have never brought anybody here” He reclines himself on his rocking chair watching Din intenly

“We need to protect them for a while, until we can find a solution”

“You’ll be safe here, you know that, you can stay as long as you want, just respect the house rules” and he points to a wood board, engraved in them are a few rules

Be respectful of yourself and others

I finish my tasks as promised, ask for help if I can’t

I will not curse

Be clean of yourself and your environment

Protect your family and your house above all

“They seem...pretty logical, won’t be a problem to follow them” you smile uncomfortably

“Well, somebody said you have a potty mouth, young lady. So watch it, but for the moment, you may rest, we will see for the rest tomorrow” He sighs when he gets up and taps on Din’s shoulder before he goes to the kitchen

“Let’s make dinner” you hear him scream, before the rumbling of pans and chopping and children screaming start

“Din…” you say after a moment

“I know you have a million questions”

“Duh!” you laugh nervously

“This is my family, we’re not related by blood but by circumstances. Lost kids, abandoned, neglected; we have a safe place here and in time we go out in the world and make our own life but we always have the Watch over us. A place where we’re watched over, taken care of, listened…” his caramel eyes glow and you see his strong and stern facade crumble before your eyes, in this place he can relax. He feels safe so you can too, right?

“We’ll be fine here” He reaches for you hand, the one that holds little Greg caressing him with your thumb, and covers both of you squeezing softly

We, it’s the second time he has referred to you as a group, you and me and Greg, We.

“We’ll be fine” You smile back, lowering your face, you kiss his knuckles, leaving a warmth there Din will be holding for hours.

You don’t notice, but the whole time during dinner he passes his thumb over that small place of his skin where you kissed him.

(Hey! remember when you read that fic in May? I continued it...so sorry that it took so long, I've taken the liberty of tagging you since you were interested in a follow up from the first one @fangirlalexia @childrenofthewatch )

#writer wednesday #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #The mandalorian #The mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader

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the-witty-pen-name · 3 years

Note

Hi!! How are you doing? I hope you're fine and healthy!

I was thinking about it lately, can you write one where the reader is a mandalorian too, please? I'm sorry for the vague ask, I just can't get din falling in love with a mandalorian reader out of my mind. 🥺

Hi!! I’m good, thank you so much for asking! I hope you’re doing well too!! I love this request- I love this idea because I think the idea of Din falling in love with the reader without seeing each other is such a sweet sentiment! I hope I do your idea justice!

I Can Feel You

Din Djarin x Reader

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: none; fluff

Mando’a Translations:

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum = I love you

Mesh’la = beautiful

A/N: I hope you all enjoy this! It was so fun to write. I have started a tag list if anyone is interested and my requests are open!

Pitch black darkness of night is not something one usually enjoys. However, for Din it’s his absolute favorite time. He lives out his days anticipating when the night falls and the world is encompassed entirely by darkness. At night, he can shed his armor, and free his face from his Mandolorian helmet and pull you into his arms. He lives for the nights when you both wait up and you sneak to join him in his bunk, careful to not be caught by anyone else in the tribe. When you’d get to his room and in the safety of night remove your helmet, you’d hear him shift in his bunk to make space for you. You slide in to his bunk next to him and he pulls you closely into his chest.

Some nights, it’s quiet and all you both do is just bask in the closeness and the feeling of skin. You’d both try to guess what the other look like, your fingertips trace his face and try to just imagine his features. You can feel his eyes looking at you, but in your imagination, you picture beautiful and expressive brown eyes staring into your own. You smile against his lips when your face is tickled by the facial hair on his upper lip, something you know to expect but it still surprises you in the darkness.

Something beautiful you too share is the mutual unwavering love you found without even seeing each other. Din loves you, and you him. There’s a comfort in the knowing the fact he loves you for who you are. The man has never laid eyes on you, but yet he bears his mind and soul to you alone in the dark. Every thought, every worry, every insecurity, he shares with you and you with him. You understand each other very well.

One of his arms pulls you in close, your noses pressing up against each other. His free hand finds your cheek and his thumb carefully caresses your jaw, admiring the feeling of your skin. You let out a deep breath, the hard work and strain of the day just evaporating into the air. For those hours, you two are the only people on the planet. His lips brush gingerly against yours and your mind is at ease.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum,” you mumble softly, against his lips and you feel his unsteady breath rumble in his chest.

“I love you, mesh’la,” he whispers back, his voice deep and sincere.

“You call me that, but you don’t know that to be true,” you tease, resting your hands on his firm chest.

“It’s the only thing I know to be true,” he hums, his hands rubbing your back and he nestles his head into the crook of your neck. Your hand runs through his hair, combing through the wavy curls. You love the feeling. “I don’t need to see you to recognize your beauty,” he mumbles, pressing soft kisses to your neck and jaw.

“I can feel you,” he says, and you can feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin. “And I know your mind,” he adds, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

In the mornings, you’ve already slipped away and the feeling of a cold bed greets him in the mornings. He hates the mornings because you aren’t there. The daylight cuts between the two of you sharply as you both proceed like the bond between you does not exist. He places his helmet on again to conceal him from the world and faces the days to just get through them so it will be nightfall again.

He sees you in the distance, knowing you from the blue and orange that decorates your beskar. Like him, your different in the daytime. He knows the real you, as you know him, and he takes immense comfort in that feeling. Your helmet moves and he knows you’re looking at him, and you’ve caught him staring. He can’t help but imagine your expression, and he longs to know how you’re looking at him. Amusement maybe, or maybe you’re returning the longing expression he knows he’s using to look at you. He matches your stance and tilts his helmet as well and you shake your head, turning your attention back to the task you were working on.

He let’s himself surrender to a daydream. He let’s his mind wander to thoughts of his future, with you at the center of it. He imagines a perfect world where he can just see you, he can wake up in the morning and be blessed with a view of you next to him instead of being met with the coldness of you not being there. He imagines marrying you, and being able to see you- the only one to be privileged with the knowledge of what you look like. He longs to meet eyes when you both exchange the expressions of love you currently share in the darkness.

“You are going to get yourself in trouble,” you say, surprising him and shaking him out of his thoughts. He chuckles, his laugh distorted slightly by the modulator of his helmet much like your own voice.

“You’re worth it,” he retorts, when he realizes no one else is around to hear him. You feel heat rise around your cheeks at his words.

“What does you slacking off have to do with me?” you ask, your helmet tilting the same way it did before.

“I was thinking about you,” he confesses nonchalantly catching you off guard. For once you’re relieved that he can’t see your reaction, as your mouth falls open slightly.

“Oh really?” You ask shyly, making him laugh again.

“I am always thinking about you,” he continues and you smile ear to ear.

“Tell all about it later?” You say flirtatiously, it becoming your turn to fluster the Mandolorian in front of you. You smirk, somehow able to tell he’s taken aback despite the helmet.

“Tonight,” he says, before someone else comes into his view and is walking in the direction of you too. The conversation feels incomplete but is forced to end there for now. You both head your separate ways again and Din continues to impatiently wait for the darkness of night to greet the two of you again.

Taglist:

@blackirisposts

#mando x reader #mandolorian imagine #the mandolorian #mando x y/n #mando x you #mando fluff #star wars imagine #star wars one shot #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n

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that-bajan-kid · 4 years

Text

Boku No Hero Academia Chapter 271 SPOILERS

(Fumi is short for Fumikage, which is Tokoyami's given name. And DS is Dark Shadow.)

Yes we FINALLY get to see what mayhem Tomura will cause and how The Boys will react to it! Except we don't because Horikoshi likes to blue ball people and we end up cutting back to Best Bird Boys, which I wouldn't have a problem with if Tomura hadn't just AWAKEN FROM THE DEAD but sure, let's watch Tokoyami try to save Hawks from burning to death.

Anyway, Tokoyami uses Dark Shadow to escape the Fataxi as Fat Gum tries, and fails miserably, to keep him there.

Kaminari is all "The hell are you doing idiot?!?!" and Tokoyami yells back "Hawks is in danger and the plot demands I go save him!!"

Fat Gum muses about how Tokoyami is the only person to escape his quirk before ejecting the kids out of him and following after Tokoyami while yelling about Fumi dinning and dashing him.

Hi yes I like this very much thank you Horikoshi-sensei. I'm still upset about the blue balling tho.

Fast-foward to where we last left them off, DS is covering Hawks' back with Fumi's cloak and his assessment of Hawks' injuries are kinda grim. DS says there's nothing left, so I'm assuming that means his wings are permanently gone. And also he's still on fire.

Dabi calls UA pathetic for bringing the kids in to this, which is fair, however need I remind you that you guys have Toga, who's 17 and you had Mustard on your team at the Training camp arc and he wasn't even in high school. Not saying that bring highschoolers into an actual war is any better, just pointing it out is all.

OH NO OH FUCK OH SHIT OH-

YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU'RE DOING YOU LITTLE SHIT. LOOK AT THAT SMIRK.

I mean you guys are literally trying to destroy all society and mass murder millions of innocent people but go off I guess.

Omg Fumi's face. He looks so betrayed T^T

I'm sure Fumi is gonna unpack all of that later but right now he's trying to make sure neither of them die.

Dabi goes on a rant about how the heroes are the real bad guys, and while this happening Hawks tells Fumi that the reason Dabi didn't kill him when he had the chance is because his own flames have weakened him. They've got you figure out Dabi.

With this information in mind, DS attacks Dabi and Fumi decides that's the perfect time to yeet Hawks and himself off the balcony. DS barely has time to hold on to the railings.

The landing is rough because fire and DS don't mix. Hawks is knock out from the impact, but at least he's not on fire anymore.

(Edit: He is still very much on fire)

There's no fire on the balcony they landed on so Fumi calls back DS and they do the Black Fallen Angel move to fly on out of there.

NEVER FUCKING MIND

Oh shit he's doing the Endevour thing. Could he always do that? Probably. More fuel for the Dabi/Touya theory no doubt.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ICE?!?!

We cut back to outside the mansion where Fat Gum finally arrives only to be greeted with the perfect view of Mt. Lady's ass as she falls from the sky, still in her giant form btw.

Lol Fat Gum no.

Geten appears in all his icy glory and say he won't allow the heroes to interfere with Re-Destro's plans any longer. What took you so fucking long to show up anyway.

So Geten, who holds all the brain cells of this operation apparently, tells the underlings that rushing into a fight is exactly what the heroes want and that they should wait for an opening to strike instead. As he says this a villain appears from the ice right next to Gang Orca with a SFX I can't read before we cut away. This better not be implying what I thing it's implying.

I know he's dying and still on fire for some reason but Hawks looks really soft in this panel.

Oh and Dabi is upset with Geten for obvious reasons, but then he say "let's begin early" BEGIN WHAT EARLY YOU BURNT GREMLIN?!!?

I don't know how I feel about that. The "Fumi apparently being okay with Hawks killing someone" not the "Please don't die". I would very much like for Hawks to not die as well. I'll probably make a desperate post about it later after I think about. Maybe. If I feel like it.

Re-Destro is asking for his legs since DS broke the last pair. One of his goons calls out to him in a worried tone. Hmm what seems to be the problem now?

Fuck.

Oh well. Guess everyone finna die. At least the kids aren't there. Wait. Where the FUCK is Sun Eater???

I'm very concerned about what will happen next. Are we gonna go back to the hospital, stay at the mansion, or cut to The Boys in the city? IS GANG ORCA DEAD? I need answers DAMNIT!

Until next time.

#i forgot to type a cited works page for my final assessment essay #that i already submitted #fuck my life #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia spoilers #bnha #bnha spoilers #bnha manga #bnha manga spoilers #bnha 271 #bnha 271 spoilers #bnha chapter 271 #bnha chapter 271 spoilers

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mama-ghostie-61542 · 3 years

Text

A Thousand Lifetimes

Rated M++ for language and themes

If you recognize it, IT AIN'T MINE.

Sorry for the OOC-ness

Chapter 4

Wolf--

"If I hear the word 'Mom' anytime in the next five minutes, you are, all three, gonna lose grandparent privilege's! Enough with the fighting. 'Kala, you need to get over there and do your homework."

"But, Mom," my younger son shouted. "I can't do it alone."

"Yes, you can, dear. All you have to do is write the words in the blanks."

Mornings here were always crazy. This year, they got worse, with all three kids home all day and me working three jobs from home, while taking a few classes to keep up my certification. But what would do my head in were the constant conflicts of scheduling the boys services around project deadlines. Especially when my childless brother was my boss...One of them.

A text came through ~'Hey, Bry, do you have those reports ready? I have to submit them to the bank this afternoon.'

Loveland Demolition was well known in the Midwest, and had been doing well before the pandemic, but now, we were expanding again. I dug around in my ever expanding pile of outgoing paperwork for the fax copy of the expense reports my brother wanted. Why everything with this end of the family business went through me, I would never know. Maybe it was because he had named me our VP of NE Operations. Like I didn't have a decent job already. I mean, I didn't get my Doctorate for it to look pretty on my wall.

Speaking of, I have a class in 15 minutes. Botany of Common Herbs.

I sent off a quick message, ~ I faxed them yesterday. Did you not get them before the boys did?~

My brothers pit bulls were notorious for grabbing the pages as they fell out of the fax machine and shredding them.

A few minutes later, he replied, ~Dammit, Pita! The Pain got 'em. Already in transit?~

~Yep. UPS grabbed it yesterday. Email?~

~Ok. No. Need hard copy. Will reschedule with the bank. Do good in class today!~

About that time I got a plastic cup thrown in my general direction with my oldest son yelling, "More water! Please, Mommy."

Thankfully, my Botany Professor understands me being a little late, as she has a Downie of her own.

I get his water, and as I am standing at the sink for a few seconds extra to breathe, I feel a cold spot on one hip and the pressure of a thumb on my cheek.

'You are amazing, my Queen. You've got this.'

I smile as the feeling, and the ghost of his smiling eyes fades. How does he always know when the stress is getting to me and just what to say; just what to do. It's like I don't have to say a word, he just knows.

Great....Now I am gonna be all giggly the rest of the day. Probably gonna get an email from my Professor, too; nosy old bat.

Kihyun PoV

It was almost 22:00 when I felt the wobble in thin silver thread that connected us. As I reached for it, I felt her stress and frustration start to bleed through and somehow, instinctively knew what to do. It bothers me when she gets this stressed, because she forgets to take care of herself. And then the tension lodges in her back, manifesting as a knot just to the left of her spine.

Settling myself into my meditation, I could almost see her standing at the sink, working on something. Always working, this girl; whether it's on her actual job, her side hustle, an Etsy store where she sells knit caps, or the boys' homework. She ALWAYS has something going on. Her brothers hare-brained decision to expand the family business does not help in the slightest.

As I settle in, I can hear the din of the kids yelling, a timer going off on something, and from some where, another louder ding. She is amazing, how she can just take it all in stride. Some how, I know, she just needs a second to breathe, so I imagine my hand on her hip; stopping her right where she stands.

I visualize my hand cupping her cheek, and whispering to her, 'You are amazing, my Queen. You've got this.' I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I see her smile. That soft, sweet smile, that just borders on the verge of blushing. I send how I feel seeing her smile down that thread and, some how, just know that she will be smiling all day now.

Awakening from my meditation, I glance at the clock. Hmm. Time for bed. But first, I am curious about the next chapter. How in the hell, with everything else she has on her plate, did she find the time to write this.

I set back on my bed, my pillows piled up behind me, and start reading.

Still Joey

I couldn't sleep so I got up at sunrise and made coffee. Sis woke up a little while later. I heard her alarm go off and then, I heard her sniffle a little. As she stumbled to the kitchen for her morning coffee, her whole bearing was like all the wind had been sucked out of her.

My heart went out to her.

"Sis. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Joey. Just my own brain. Think I am going crazy. That's all."

I'm right there with you.

"Explain," I said.

Rather than use actual words, she put on 'Comatose' by Too Close To Touch. "This says it better than I ever could."

I set aside the story and brought up the song. As I sat there listening, I could almost feel how hurt she was. How she thought she was going crazy. I wanted, so much, to fly to her, where ever she was.

"Sissie," I sighed, "What is the matter?"

"I think I am losing my mind, Joey. I just don't want to remember, if remembering is always going to hurt. I'm afraid that it will cost me the one of the two things I am most afraid to lose; my kids or my mind."

"You aren't going crazy, Sis. Who told you that you were crazy for feeling like that?"

"Mom. According to her, I am. Apparently, it is all just a construct of my own mind. Can't be real because it's all in my head, but it is all that I could ever dream of. It makes me want to sleep until it is real. I want to forget the way his voice sounds, cause it hurts too much to hear it when I am alone. I want to forget the color of his eyes, but I see it everyday in my coffee. I want to forget it all, so it doesn't hurt anymore. There is no way he can be real. No way his smell can be real. The more I remembered, I guess, the more I want to forget."

"Bryn, tell me about him?"

"What does it matter? He is no more than a fantasy my own mind created," she said as she dug in a cabinet and added a more than generous amount of Jack Daniels to her coffee.

"Bry! Really??"

"What," she groused as she sipped on her coffee flavored whiskey.

"It is barely sun rise and you are already drinking. What would he say if he caught you?"

"Doesn't matter," she grumbled as her bottom lip pulled in a little and blinked rapidly, a sure sign she was fighting back her own tears. I could see her start to fold in around herself.

'No, my dear, I am very real. And very disappointed.'

"Bullshit," I yelled. "It does matter! I will prove you wrong. I'll prove to you that he is very real," I growled in my own temper, as I leaned over the table at her, "and I know him. He would be so disappointed in you, right now. Instead of working with the connection, you were trying to drown the memories in whis-," I came to a dead stop as I realized what was actually happening. "How long have you been fighting them? The memories, I mean."

'Told ya. Wait. What!? She'd been wrestling with our memories? Oh, my stubborn Wolf, you were never meant to carry them all yourself.'

She deflated and slid the mug away from her. Resting her head on her arms, she whispered, "I was 14 the first time I remembered anything. At the time it was no more than a whisper, a cold spot when I was upset or hurting. Which, lets be honest, was a lot of the time back then. When I was 16, I finally worked up the courage to talk to someone about my dreams. My mistake was telling Ma."

I cringed. I had heard nasty stories about her mom, but sat still and let her continue.

Is her mother really that bad? How much of this had she been keeping from me.

"She went off and let loose a litany of my supposed short-comings. I still remember it, to this day. 'You are so stupid. Why would any man, especially one like THAT, want anyone like you. Anyone else would be better than YOU; you stupid, worthless, ignorant, ugly, child.' After that, I went back to keeping it all to myself. This one," she said as she brought up Forest Blakk's 'Find Me', "Says it all."

I put on the song and knew how it had hurt her for years. My anger burned when the artist spoke of being told you were crazy. 'I want her, you Crazy Bitch. Good Mother, Please,' I started, before thinking better of the prayer that had been on my tongue a moment ago. 'Please watch over her, Grandmother.'

Hearing her own mother call her those things, was tough to listen to. But I could tell she still wasn't finished yet. I let her go, she had years of this pain to offload.

"As I got older, it changed. I was almost 26 when the burn of a kiss landed on my cheek. My ex-husband, at the time, saw the blister it left and went ballistic. Woke me up by kicking the end of the bed. 'I want a divorce. I don't know who he is, but I plan on making you pay for it. Now, get your stuff and get out.' And I paid for it, alright. Didn't even bother to ask if I had it the night before, just assumed I was sneaking out. I never did. Looking back now, maybe I should have left the first time accused me. The ink wasn't dry on the divorce papers when he got remarried. Literally, got them both done in half an hour."

"Are you kidding me? He wanted to accuse you, but he...," I will admit that I was finally starting to see just how messed up her life had been. "Did you love him?"

'Messed up,' I thought, 'No, Sir. Her life has been a craptastic shitshow of epic fucking proportions. Honestly, I would like to know what fucking moronic bastard ordered this shitastical fuckfest for my Queen! I'd like to fucking throat punch him.'

She shook her head. "No. My mother sat it all up. Literally walked into the house Friday afternoon and said, 'You are getting married on Monday at 9.' He was getting deployed and she thought he would be a good fit for me, that she would get grands out of the deal. She didn't find out he was fixed until he was already gone. That is where I learned to keep my hair really short. He used to drag me around by it and scream about all of the things I did. The next day he would scream and drag me around by it to yell about all the stuff I didn't get done."

"So it was more or less arranged?"

"Yeah. After that, I met the asshole. The day he left, I had just buried a brother, and I had lost my job; all on my birthday. After all that, I fell into a deep depression. To the point where I would wonder sometimes why I was still breathing. It was in that place that I saw him. It was no more than his eyes, the exact shade of my coffee, and that voice, but still; if not for him..." she trailed off, a haunted look in her eyes.

After a few minutes of her staring off into space, I prodded, "If not for him?"

She turned and looked at me, "I wouldn't be here. I would have cut ties with this world and willingly walked right into that darkness. I can remember him telling me once, 'Don't you give up. Don't you dare give up. Get up, keep moving.' It was those eyes though, watching them seem to burn in the darkness. They stayed with me so much that I drew them at least a thousand times."

"Really?"

"Yep. Dark eyes that burn," she chuckled. "Got called crazy for that one, too. 'Why do you always draw the exact same thing, ya crazy bitch? How about a tree or a nice mountain. Why is it always those damned eyes, Not that a worthless bitch like you can draw anyway.' So yeah, there's that."

"Hold it. She actually called you worthless?"

Bryn just nodded. "Multiple times, and ugly quite a few times. At the end with the ex, she told me, 'I hate that when I, and she stressed the 'I', put a block in your path, you seem to dance around it and go off into the woods and still end up on the other side. That you whip off of the beaten path, going God knows where, on some barely visible game trail, and somehow still come out on the other side, just where you meant to be'. She said nothing pissed her off more than my ability to adapt."

'That's my Ghostie,' I thought as I smiled proudly. 'Her ability to see things others miss, explodes lower minds.'

Now, I have seen pictures of her mom and old photos of Bryn when she was younger. Let me tell you, when she was young, Bryn was coltishly pretty before becoming ethereal. Not that you could tell it now. Now, she jokes that she traded looks for brains about the time she got her doctorate.

"So, how did you end up with Clark?"

"He was there and I was getting tired of waiting, tired of my Auntie's trying to set me up with whatever boy they could find. One tried to set me up with her ex-nephew. That was nothing but awkward. We are still good friends, almost family. He has said before, 'I love you to bits, but that is icky, you are like a sister to me. Now, please, go throw on a skirt, you have amazing legs and should show them off.' That boy can turn up the girlfriend vibe in 3 seconds...flat.

I know someone who can do that. Weird.

"In the end, I got tired of the pitying looks I would get at the family things. Truth be told, when I told him to either commit or get out, I thoroughly expected him to take off at a run, like he couldn't get away fast enough. Before I knew what had happened, he told everyone I had proposed and picked a Saturday. After that, it was a whirlwind and I almost took off."

"Took off? Eloped?"

She snickered. "No. Ran away. Far away."

"Oh. So you almost pulled a runner?"

"Oh yeah. Had my bestie stand up with me because I knew that if Haka showed up and objected, he would have knocked Clark to the floor to give me time to run."

'I very nearly did show up.'

I thought back to what I said when he finally left.

"What did I say?" I stood there, leaning on the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, fingers tapping on my bicep. The look on my face was thoroughly parental.

"That it would never work."

"And....."

"You were right, I was wrong, I am sorry."

"You gonna listen to me from now on?" My face was passive, but there if she had looked she would have seen the anger in my eyes. I wasn't mad at her, I was more than a little upset with him, though.

"Yes, Dear."

"Good Girl. I'll be home as soon as I can." I cupped her face, kissed her forehead, and said, "Don't do it again. Next time you won't get away with it, my stubborn Wolf."

"Next time?"

I was turning to head back to my body, "First one doesn't count. It was arranged. This one, you got swept up in. Don't do it again. Now, go to sleep."

I had to breathe a minute against the anger building in my chest. Then, I went back to the story.

"You call him 'Haka'? That's cute."

"Yeah, he's Heyhaka, the Elk. Haka, for short. Then there is Sweet Pea, and the occasional Assbag."

"And is he often a jerk?"

"Nah. Only when he is making promises he has no intentions to keep."

'Listen here, Lady! I fully intend to keep them when they are made, Woman!'

"I really don't think he would make them if he didn't intend on keeping them, Sissie. Sometimes, circumstance gets in the way, and then they don't get the focus they deserve. How does he phrase it?"

"All he says is 'Soon'."

I laughed. "The word 'soon' is not a promise. It's an open guarantee."

"What?"

"It's a half promise. He can't put a time on it so he just says soon. You know, sometimes you can be kind of dense."

'Exactly. You are kind of thick sometimes, Darling.'

Bryn's cheeks pinked. "Aww, shut the fuck up," She laughed.

"You've got a potty mouth!"

My jaw dropped. 'Naughty.'

"Like you didn't know or don't have one of your own. Has he not told you the extent of my sailor's mouth?"

"He doesn't know that I know you. I get to hear about everything from both sides. Kinda makes me wanna poke my ear drums out sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. You two are fuckin' perfect for each other."

'I guess we are, huh?'

About that time, the kids started waking up. Davidd was first, followed by Mattie, and then Darryn. I was sitting on the couch, getting the walkthrough of how to turn on the cartoon channels when Mattie climbed up next to me and curled up in my side.

"Morning, Munchkin," I said cheerfully.

She sagged against me and whispered, "Morning, Uncle Joey. Can I have some new milk?"

I was taken aback by the simplicity of the request. "Shouldn't you be asking your mom for that?"

"I would but Daddy called and him and mama got into another fight."

'And that just cashed out my good night.', I thought as I could have sworn I heard a knock at my door.

A-N:) Please don't shoot the messenger. Spirit put up some of the tags. Lol.

#my writing #original writing #past life #twin flames #soul connection #yin and yang #twin souls #soul mates #soul mate #soulmates #soulmate #monsta x fic #kihyun fic #fanfic #fan fiction

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