#din djarin x experienced!reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sinsofsummers · 10 months

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push & pull

5.7k | din djarin x f!reader

summary: after convincing him to help you hide from the guild, you teach mando how to enjoy himself. this is the way. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. canon-typical violence, but otherwise it's super canon divergent. din is a touch-starved virgin, soft touches, lap-sitting, the helmet stays on, mask kink, din does lots of whimpering, experienced!reader, mutual masturbation, virginity loss (m), praise kink, creampie, brief aftercare at the end. note: look me in the eye and tell me he wouldn't crumble at the thought of skin-to-skin contact. yeah. you can't. anyways this is so long and so self-indulgent. pls forgive me. if mando takes his helmet off by the end of this, mind ur business this is sooooo not canon. note p.2: i'm so sorry this took so long but i was hungover. also this was not meant to be this long. so count this as a big fat thank you for 1.4k as well as my bday present to you guys (for my bday.) impaired editing i apologize.

With the light of both suns in your eyes, forcing you to blink the spots from your vision, you brushed a hand across your forehead. The dry, dusty atmosphere of Tatooine was no joke, and you scowled under the cloth you'd brought with you to cover your mouth and nose.

"Figures," you mumbled to yourself, looking down to see a small pile of sand building on the tops of your boots, the wind blowing it into place. "Why would anyone choose to live here?"

Of course, you weren't looking for a resident; you were looking for a fugitive. The infamous Mandalorion, no less. You'd been given less-than-satisfactory information on the bounty hunter and the reasons for such a high reward for his capture, but it wasn't like you had much choice than to accept the job. Despite what you told yourself, you did actually need the money.

That was before you'd figured out that everyone else in the Guild had been tasked with the same job, turning a high stakes bounty hunting gig into a near-definite suicide mission. Something you didn't want anything to do with.

But alas, here you stood, practically sinking into the hot Tatooine desert. You had to keep shifting your weight to keep at least one foot above the surface. You never knew when you'd have to make a quick getaway. There were still a handful of Guild members left that presented a challenge to collecting your bounty, and of course they were the most dangerous ones.

You kicked a foot forward and watched the sand shift, cursing the trouble that was inevitably on its way. You'd managed to bribe your way to Tatooine, where the Mandalorian was apparently hiding from the Guild. And if you had found the Mandalorian, there was almost no possibility that the others hadn't found him.

Because, if you were being honest with yourself—the one task you excelled in—being a bounty hunter wasn't exactly something you were good at. In fact, you were far from it. With luck and just enough anxiety to keep your feet moving, you'd floundered your way through three years in the Guild, searching for a way out just as quickly as you'd begged for a way in.

So you'd gotten yourself into this mess. Wasn't that how it normally went, though? Quick decision-making skills weren't necessarily a blessing if the decisions you made would determine your chances of living past thirty (spoiler: the chances were significantly slimmer).

You rubbed the dust out of your eyes once more and saw some movement in the distance, the subtle glint of beskar blinking toward you as it reflected the sunlight. Gotcha, you murmured inwardly. The Mandalorian was here, and you were going to get him. Not to turn him in, no; you held no loyalty to the Guild and its cult-like policies.

This job was an escape mission. If he could stay hidden, maybe he had room for one more. You'd cut a deal.

There had to be something you could offer him, if not your skills in combat, or stealth, or—

Or simply human mobility, you groaned inwardly as you felt your ankle roll underneath you, the sand softer than you'd anticipated. It'll be a good day when I leave this damn place.

—

It was a wonder that the two of you had survived. You'd hardly gotten the chance to give your proposal before he was aiming his blaster at you, and then at the Guild members that showed up in droves behind you. It was all you could do to get out of the way, knowing you'd be hopeless in the fight.

Now, with their bodies scattered around your feet, the Mandalorian standing a few feet from you with his chest heaving, and his beloved ship somehow still functional, you had your chance.

"You're not...very good at this," he said, the helmet masking his voice in a way that made it scratch along the insides of your ears as it traveled to your brain. "You do know that?" he asked, but it sounded more like an accidental insult than a real question.

You threw your hands up, letting them fall heavily to your sides. "Yeah, I told you that," you scoffed. "That's why I'm asking to go with you. Wherever you're headed."

His head tilted, the beskar shining in the setting suns, and you wondered what his eyes looked like under that helmet. Would they be sparkling with mirth or lined with mockery?

"I thought you were kidding," he said sheepishly, shifting his weight. "To get me to underestimate you." He looked like the picture of careful relaxation, although his blaster was still held tightly in both hands, poised in case he needed to aim and fire.

You couldn't help the exasperation in your tone as you lifted your head to the sky, squeezing your eyes shut and placing a curled fist over your eyes. "Why would I do that when I don't want to turn you in?"

He didn't answer.

"You know that there's only two ways out of this, right?" He still didn't answer you, just held his blaster taut and his head tilted to the side, so you continued. "You killed every Guild member that's left. Now it's just you and I. If I don't bring you in—which I'm not exactly dying to do—those rich fucks that are more powerful than us are gonna come find us."

"Find you," he corrected. "Why would I want to add another target to my ship?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, they probably will. But that's only part of the first option. Either they come for me, and you leave me here, and I die—also something I'm not particularly thrilled to think about—or the two of us..." you gestured with your hands to imitate the pair of you getting on the Razor Crest and flying away from Tatooine and its dusty expanse of a landscape.

"Could be a third option," he said quietly, "if you think about it." He lifted his blaster until it was lined up with your chest. "I might just kill you and cut my losses."

Fear might have struck you, but you didn't have the energy to entertain the panic unspooling in your chest. "That wouldn't be very humanitarian of you. Besides," you insisted, hands lifting to portray the image of surrender, "I'm light. I'm quiet. I won't stay with you longer than I need to. Once you get me off this planet, I'll find a place for you to drop me off."

He didn't answer for a moment.

"Literally," you pushed once more, "you can open the back door and push me out for all I care. I just want out of the Guild and all their dumb shit."

You'd known Mandalorians to be quiet, pious, and ruthless, but something about the way his helmet betrayed no hint to what he was thinking or how he might respond...it made you more anxious than you'd ever been in your life. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm. "Well...you're not coming with me. Ship's full."

"Your ship?" you said, incredulous. "That thing would be gone without me."

"Damn luck, that was." His voice had gone hard, but his body was still.

This was...partially true. Your mind flashed with a memory of the way you'd accidentally pulled the trigger on one of your blasters, effectively stunning the last Guild member who'd been attempting to strap explosives to the hull of the Crest. It was the only good thing that you'd done all day.

You curled your lip, annoyance rippling off you in waves. Lifting a middle finger in front of the helmet, you scowled. Hope he can see this under all that beskar, you snarled inwardly. "Still counts."

With a soft huff that you could hear come from under his helmet, the Mandalorian lowered his blaster. "One jump into hyperspace. The first little space rock that's big enough to stand on—"

"Perfect," you interrupted firmly. "I'll be out of you...armor...soon enough."

—

You'd missed your stop about three years ago. One jump into hyperspace had turned into four, and then ten, and...now you had your own spot to rest your head at night on the Razor Crest.

On that first day, you hadn't known the Mandalorian—"Din Djarin," he'd introduced himself reluctantly one day—was still traveling with Grogu, the sweet child that had begun his journey across the galaxy, hiding from the Guild. But you'd quickly decided it was nice to have another partner in crime, to interact with whenever Din was in the middle of one of his quiet days.

As the days had turned into months, and subsequently into years, the inability to meet Din face-to-face had become less frustrating, although sometimes you wished you could sneak a glance at his hands, or his wrists, or something that might resemble the human underneath the armor.

Once in awhile, deliciously, you could tilt your head just the right way and look forward at him when he was in the cockpit, his helmet pulling away from the cloth under his armor. Between helmet and armor, a sliver of golden skin would glimmer back at you, just begging to be touched. Of course, you never gave in to your silent desires.

This was not the Mandalorian way; you knew this well. Even when you felt his head turned toward you, even when you were sure his hands were reaching for you when you needed his help climbing somewhere, you kept your distance.

Well, for as long as you could. Until he forced your hand.

It wasn't long before you were unable to keep your hands away from him; going up and down the ladder on the Crest, or climbing over the occasional boulder on the routes you walked along when forced to take a respite on an unknown planet. His gloves were always rough in your grip, but you couldn't ignore the way his hands seemed to squeeze yours, tighter than might have been necessary.

And you'd begun letting your hands linger on the beskar of his armor for moments longer than you should—his helmet, tracing the indented curves of the spot where his cheekbones rested underneath, or on his chestplate, where you swore you could feel him lean into you, as if pressing your hands closer and closer to his skin beneath the armor.

You stood beside him as he sat in the chair in the cockpit, guiding the Razor Crest through the galaxy once more, aiming for some undisclosed location he'd neglected to tell you. He usually did things like that; you'd learned not to be offended by his unbreakable instinct to keep things to himself.

It hadn't occurred to you just how long he'd been wearing that helmet until you looked toward him again and noticed the soft curl of a few brown strands of hair that crept from the edges, kissing the back of his neck. They were short strands, but they were long enough to wink up at you as they curled around each other, begging to be touched.

"Din?" you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the thought.

He didn't look at you, but he tilted his head in your direction, just a centimeter. It was enough.

"Why'd you let me stay with you?" you gripped your hands together, as if they had a mind of their own and couldn't be trusted to remain at your sides. "I was horrible at any aspect of being a bounty hunter."

You were used to the way that it always took him a few seconds to answer, coming up with an evenly-expressed response. This, of course, gave you more time to stare at the tendrils spilling from the edges of his helmet.

"You were a risk," he admitted with a shrug, the helmet (of course) not betrayed anything. His voice was calm, even as he continued softly. "I have a particular...proclivity for picking up foundlings," he said with a tilt of his head toward Grogu, who cooed at the mention of him.

You lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not a foundling, though."

If you could have seen his eyes, you were almost positive that they'd be giving you a look that said, are you sure? Instead, he only spoke in his perpetually smooth voice. "You were lost, though, mesh'la."

You still weren't sure what each word in Mando'a meant—he'd been dropping a few words here and there, as if he knew you couldn't interpret them—but you blushed all the same. Before you knew it, your hands were releasing their grip on one another and reaching up to comb through the curls at the base of his neck.

They were softer than you'd imagined; smooth and thick in your grip. "Alright," you said gently, "maybe I was. I never got to thank you, you know."

Your hands were moving on their accord now, silently twirling the curls around the tips of your fingers. You were used to his silent, immobile exterior, so you didn't think he'd be able to feel the way you pressed your hand to the back of his neck. He'd never said anything before that gave the impression that he was aware of your ministrations, so when he leaned back into your touch then, something strong and addiction bloomed in your gut.

When he spoke, you were surprised to hear how shaky his voice was. After three years of hearing nothing but steady syllables fall from his masked lips, you nearly flinched at the stutter in his voice.

"Thank me?" he said quietly. "For..." you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat flutter rapidly in his neck when he trailed off. "For what?"

You pulled your hand away, pretending not to notice the way he shuddered at the loss of touch, his shoulders slumping as if in a pained relaxation. You hid your smirk. "You're not seriously asking that, right? Without you, I'd probably be dead by now." Or worse, you reflected with a quiet pang in your chest.

Din's response was quick this time, an unusual—but not unwelcome—surprise. "And without your perfectly timed luck, I might be without a ship." His voice was thick, trembling with something that might have sounded like desire had it been someone else speaking.

You didn't even think Din had the capacity to know something as heavy as desire. Well, not that he was incapable of feeling desire, just...you'd never thought about what he might do if he did feel it. Would he shove the temptations down, destined to die in the corners of his mind and body?

Your cheeks warmed at your next thought. Perhaps he took care of it himself in the dead of night on the Razor Crest, or on those mysteriously long patrol walks that he insisted on doing alone.

"Yeah, well..." your answer was pitiful and you knew it. But you were too busy looking at the way his body was slumped in his seat, facing forward despite every limb beginning to turn toward you, as if you were a magnetic beacon.

His fingers twitched in his gloves, angling toward you just as his knees began to do the same thing. "Will you..." he trailed off, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Mesh'la," he breathed, and he leaned to the side, as if his shoulder was chasing your touch. "Put it back."

You were going to ask what he meant, but you didn't have to. Even with his helmet on, you could practically see the pleading in his body language. Here he was, a devout Mandalorian, begging you to put your hands back on him.

"Please," he said quietly, almost a question. It sounded so unlike him that you wondered briefly if he'd been killed and replaced with an imposter. But by the way that his hand trembled as he took his focus away from flying the Crest and moved it toward you...this was Din.

"You...okay?" you asked, but you obliged his request in return, replacing your hand at the base of his neck. You watched in an unfurling dizzying sense of satisfaction as he reached up his own gloved hand to cover yours, squeezing it gently. "Din," you started, but he shook his head.

"I've never disobeyed the Way of the Mandalore," he said, his voice muffled under the mask. You strained your eyes, wishing you could see beneath the beskar. "I've never wanted to. Not before..." he brought your hand around to rest on his chestplate, and you could feel the pressure of his chest leaning into your touch. "Not before I knew what it might feel like to want someone like this."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull your hand away. "You...what?"

His head tilted down. "For once, I don't know how to manage this." He stood up, and suddenly he was towering over you, the cloth under his armor making your fingers itch to tear it off. "How do I manage this?"

"I..." you couldn't hide your shock. "I don't know. It's...isn't it against your religion? It's not the Way."

Din shook his head. "No, it's not." He spread his hand down your wrist and extended it toward your own chest, the leather of his glove seeping into your skin. "But I've also never told anyone my name. Never heard it spoken since I was a child."

You swallowed roughly. "So?"

He huffed a chuckle. Lifting your hands to his helmet, he let your fingers find the divots of the beskar. You didn't miss the way his chest shuddered with a stuttering breath at your touch. "So," he said, "to hell with the Way. For tonight, at least. I need to know you in every way I wish I could."

Such a harrowing request, given the circumstances. But you couldn't stop your hands from tracing the lines of his masked face. "Din..."

"Please." His voice cracked over the single syllable, and it was all you needed.

To hell with the Way, your thoughts echoed his words, and you nodded softly. "Alright," you acquiesced. With one look down, you saw the tent growing in his pants, sending a spike of desire down your spine, settling in your core. "How'll you have me?" you asked.

He let out a soft noise that sounded like a whimper. "Any way that I can," he choked out, his hand returning to your wrist and enclosing it in his grip. "I'll have you any way you'll have me."

You could hardly speak, so you didn't. With a gentle nudge, you pushed him back into his seat. When he sat back, his legs fell open; there was an inviting space between them.

Standing in the spot, just inches from his face, you stared into the black mass of his helmet, hoping you'd get a glimpse of his face. Of course, you knew he would only go as far as he wanted to. If the mask was destined to remain, then...so be it.

With your eyes on his, you moved his hands to your waist, pressing them to your skin and enjoying the feeling of his leather against your body.

He shook his head. "Take them off," he said, again with that whimpering voice. "Please."

You nodded wordlessly and shed his hands of the barriers, heat pooling in your core at the sight of long, thick fingers, his skin finally exposed to you. Returning his hands to your waist, you tilted your head back at the sensation. You were never going to forget what his skin felt against yours.

The melody of shuddering breaths that fell from his lips was unreal, and you wanted to soak up every second of it. Without more than a second thought, you slid your legs over his, straddling his hips and pressing your chest to his chestplate. His hands remained on your waist, but he let them wander, curling them around to cup your ass.

The feeling of his hands on your body made you unconsciously roll your hips forward, which released a strangled moan from his lips. "Oh, god," he mumbled. "Mesh'la, please take it off."

You paused. Your hands fell to your lap, and your eyes were wider than saucers in the reflection of his helmet. "What?"

He picked up your hands in his own, the rub of skin against skin an intoxicating intimacy. "Please," he begged. "If I'm going to touch you like this, I need to see you, cyar'ika. Nothing in the way."

You were going to argue further, but you couldn't ignore the pulsing need that was clouding your thoughts, the same need that pushed your hips further down into his lap. It was impossible to miss the way his cock twitched against your clit, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

“Are you—”

“Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I’m sure,” he begged, and he squeezed your hips under his hands. “Never been more sure, mesh’la.”

This time it was your turn to let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, more to bolster your own confidence than his own. His resolve was clearly rather strong in this matter, and nothing would change his mind.

With a hand on either side of the helmet, you gently pulled it up and away from his face, hardly able to believe that he’d agreed to let you rid him of his every barrier. For a moment, as each inch of skin was revealed to you, you caught yourself frantically wondering what he might look like.

Would he look like anyone else? Would he look familiar to you in that way that only lovers can? Or would he be hiding a deformed brow bone or an abnormally small nose or a crude smile?

Of course, you shouldn’t have even worried. When the helmet lifted off of his head and you let it fall to the floor with a hard thud, you smiled at the face that blinked back at you in wonder. With those brown strands that were just long enough to hang down over his forehead, and the matching brown eyes that twinkled with the moonlight in his pupils, Din Djarin was exquisite.

“I knew it,” you hummed, your eyes tracing every line on his face, every strand of hair that clung charmingly to his forehead.

His response was a strangled moan, and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord when you dragged a finger along his jaw, then the hooked line of his nose. “Knew what?”

“I knew you’d be one of the pretty ones,” you grinned, and you leaned down to press your lips to his, swallowing his groan of ecstasy.

You drank it down like the sweetest liquor, the sound pulling your own moan from your chest. His lips were chapped and dry from lack of care, but his mouth was warm and wet and his tongue was deliciously shy as he darted it towards yours. His hands stuttered as they pressed further up your chest and felt for your breasts. You weren’t sure how long he’d last; his chest was already heaving.

“Din,” you pulled back with a grin. “Din,” you repeated when his eyes remained closed. “Thought you wanted to look at me?”

“I do,” he said, his voice choking in his throat. “I do, mesh’la, I just…I think I might come in my damn suit if I look at those lips too long.”

You cooed, letting a hand search for the roots of his hair, finding a home on his scalp. You curled your fingers in the strands and watched his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw go slack, and felt his hips buck up into yours. “You’re so sensitive, baby,” you hummed, your mind running wild with thoughts of what this could mean.

“Never been touched like this,” he mumbled, voice cracking again. “Feels perfect, mesh’la.”

“I need you to look at me, Din,” you nodded. “It’ll keep feeling good, I promise. I just need you to look at me.”

When his eyes opened, you could have fallen apart right there at the sight of his glassy brown depths. His lip quivered and you almost thought he’d cry, but then he was letting his hand fall from your chest to your waistband, trailing his thumb along the skin there. “Can I?” he asked gently.

Nodding, you stood up. “Just keep breathing, pretty boy,” you said softly. “I’ll make you feel good. Show you just how good it can be.” You guided his hands to your waist and let him pull your pants to your ankles, revealing the front of your glistening slit to him.

Din was just starting to understand the drug-like effects of physical touch, so you weren’t surprised when he leaned forward, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the soft skin of your stomach, breathing deeply as if he were a zealot bent to pray at the altar.

“C’mere,” you whispered, though unable to hide the growing smirk on your face. There seemed to be nothing more addicting than the sight of the Mandalorian on his knees before you. “Sit back down for me, baby,” you said, tilting his chin up to look at you. “Take those pants off, they look awfully restricting.”

He nodded quickly and obeyed, slipping his pants down to his knees as he sat back on his chair. It was downright sinful—the beskar on his chest but his helmet removed and his cock springing free, the tip red and angry and leaking. “Please,” he begged. “I—”

“I know,” you breathed, stepping closer to him. “We’re gonna make each other feel good now, yeah?”

Din nodded once more, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please, please.”

Well, how were you going to deny him then?

You straddled him once more, your clit throbbing at the sight of his cock underneath you. But rather than shock him with the feeling of your pussy milking him for all he was worth, you hovered over him, just enough that the head of his cock lay just an inch from your entrance.

“Mesh’la,” he begged, “please don’t tease. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good, I swear to everything I’ve ever believed in—”

A finger pressed to his lips, you shook your head. “I know,” you repeated. “Deep breaths for me, Din.”

He inhaled sharply and shoved his breath out of his chest. For a moment, his eyes cleared.

“Good,” you encouraged him, relishing in the look of his wide eyes at the praise. “Such a pretty boy, baby.” You moved his hand to your core, guiding his fingers to your clit. “Rub little circles for me, baby. Make me feel good and I’ll make you feel good.”

He obliged quickly, rubbing tentative circles to your clit in a way that had you smiling gently, loving the sacrilege you were participating in. “Is that g—oh!”

Din’s question was interrupted by your hand reaching down to grip his cock, delivering a quick stroke and making his hips stutter. He tried his best to lift his hips from the chair, clearly aiming for your entrance, but one hand on the beskar on his chest had him sitting back.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, “just like that. Just touch me for a while.”

Ever the gentleman, Din kept his eyes on you and his hand on your pussy, pulling sweet sounds from your lips just as you wrecked him beneath you. Your thumb slid against his tip and he almost came; you could tell by the way his breath caught in his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, lip trapped between his teeth.

You wanted his fingers to wander toward your dripping entrance, but you knew he might not last long enough for any more foreplay. Next time, you thought smugly.

Now…now you needed him inside you.

“Gentle, baby,” you reminded him when he gripped your hip too tightly. You didn’t want to tell him you enjoyed the near-bruising strength; that would be for another time. You could already see that you were close to losing him, and you weren’t going to end this experience without riding him until the both of you saw stars. “One more deep breath, yeah?”

He was a mess of tumbling words in Mando’a that you didn’t understand, and his brow was furiously furrowed, as if it was taking all of his focus not to come on your hand. As a matter of fact, it probably was taking all of his focus. “Please, mesh’la,” he said again.

You wondered briefly if you’d begin answering that now; treating it as your name. Mesh’la.

“Deep breath, baby,” you reminded him, and when he obeyed, you sank your hips towards his. The tip of his cock slid in with no resistance; you were wetter than you’d ever been in your life. “Good boy,” you moaned as you kept your hand on his neck, softly cupping the underside of his jaw to look at you. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The stretch of his cock inside you was delicious, and pleasure licked sharply at your insides, begging for a quick release. You knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together much longer based on the whimpers that still crumbled from his throat, broken and jagged.

“So fuckin’ pretty?” he repeated, his voice a high squeak. He gripped your hips and threw his head back. “So fuckin’ pretty for you?”

Your breath rushed out of your chest in a strong blow and you had to take a deep breath yourself to calm down. “All for me, Din, that’s it,” you continued, and you lifted your hips up. Dropping them back into his lap, you soaked up the feeling of being filled so completely by his cock. With every shred of patience left in your body, you pushed your lips back to his and tasted his moans on his tongue.

His hips began lifting into your own, the only clue you’d get to his desperation for more. Without a word, you began moving faster, more rhythmically, as you bounced gently on his cock. With the base of his cock pulsing against your clit at every drop of your hips, you were approaching that edge quicker and quicker. “Din,” you moaned, “baby, I’m gonna—”

“Please,” he said, “I want you to feel good, mesh’la. Use me, please, use me, please…”

You were sure your brain short circuited. With no more patience left in your bones, you picked up the pace and chased your own orgasm, knowing he wasn’t far behind. With every squelch of your pussy on his cock, your moans became less coherent, and you leaned your head forward against his neck.

Pulling back to press a kiss to his jaw, you felt his loins tense beneath you. Something nearly snapped inside you at the sound and sight and sensation of his pleasure so close to release; at the knowledge that it was you who had done this to him. “Good,” you mumbled against his jaw, getting closer to his ear. “Pretty boy, just for me,” you mumbled.

Din’s chest tightened and his moans became longer and more high-pitched, true whimpers if you’d ever heard one. “Mesh’la,” he begged, “Mesh’la, I—”

You dipped your head down and, while grinding your hips back and forth on his cock at a feverish pace, you darted your tongue out to his neck. Licking a stripe from the crevice of his neck to the spot just behind the soft part of his ear, you groaned in his ear as you crumbled on him, releasing the tension in your body as you came hard.

Din was ruined beneath you, with his neck bobbing and his eyes shut, his head thrown back. Mouth opened in a wide moan, his voice broken over the sound, you felt his release sink into your fluttering walls. He let out a deep cry of words that you didn’t recognize, but you blushed all the same. With the way that his eyes glossed over when he said it, you were sure it was something that reeked of sin and sweat and sacrilege.

“So good,” you mumbled again, “you’ve done so good for me, Din.” Your face tucked itself into the crook of his neck, and you inhaled the heady scent that belonged only to him. You sat motionless on his lap, but you could still feel his head pulse inside you at the overstimulation. “Did that feel good?” you asked, your hand reaching up to smooth down his hair comfortingly.

He let out a breathless laugh. “If this is sin, I’ll want more of it,” he replied, his arms snaking around your middle to tug your chest closer to him. “I’ll never know how to thank you,” he finished, sighing deeply. His eyes twinkled at you when you pulled away to look at him.

You shook your head. “No need,” you assured him. “Just catch your breath, brave Mandalorian. Then we’ll talk.”

He nodded, his eyelids growing heavier with the expense of energy now catching up with him. His cock had grown soft inside you, but he made no move to lift you from him. “I did well?” he asked. This wasn’t surprising; you’d known him to be quietly confident, but the Mandalorian was never one to pass up the opportunity for someone to reassure his talents.

You grinned and leaned forward to press your lips to his hooked nose, fighting the urge to nip at it with your teeth. Next time, you reminded yourself. “You did well,” you nodded. “Feeling okay?”

He splayed his hands on your back and inhaled near your chest, his face buried into the soft skin of your breasts. “Never better,” he reassured you, rubbing his hands along your spine. “So sweet to me, baby,” he murmured, repeating your own affection back to you.

The two of you remained like that, just wrapped together in a mess of limbs and sweat and come mingling together. When he began to wince with the overstimulation, you lifted off of his cock but remained in his lap. You pulled back and leaned your forehead against his. You watched his lips, plump and sitting perfectly, waiting to be kissed again.

“What does mesh’la mean?” you asked instead, the word strange and unfamiliar on your tongue.

He looked at you for a long time, bringing a finger up to trace the line of your mouth. “Put your lips on mine again and I’ll teach you,” he offered casually, as if his pupils weren’t still blown wide, his eyelashes still fluttering from the power of his release.

You smirked. “This is the Way, huh?”

For once in his life, Din Djarin smiled at you. “This is the Way.”

tysm for reading! so glad to be back, i'm sorry if the smut scene seemed rushed and out of pace! again: i was hungover. pls forgive. lemme know what you think!

adding tags here cause i'm going grocery shopping at 8:30pm BYEEEE

this is a good morning fic for @thetriumphantpanda and the aftercare bit at the end was specifically for @cavillscurls i know u crave it girl

the rest of the taggies: @mingiast @iluvurfather @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @darkroastjoel @tightjeansjavi @chaotic-mystery @dinsdjrn @huffle-punk @tommymilllers @milly-louise @struig @butiknewyoudlinger @alejaa-a @worhols @thegreat-annamaria @easaud @country2212 @sleepdeprived-feelalived @pertinentpostmortem @lailaispunk

#din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #virgin!din djarin #din djarin x experienced!reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian #star wars #star wars smut #star wars fic

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pedroshotwifey · 3 months

Text

Beg For It

Pairing: Virgin!Din Djarin x afab!reader

Word count: 3.9k

Tags/warnings: piv sex, oral (m), cock worship, virgin din, premature ejaculation, teasing, humiliation, sub din, dom reader, degradation, cockpit sex™, embarrassment, age gap (younger reader), din djarin's monster cock, helmet stays on, pet names, snarky reader, experienced reader, stuff I'm forgetting (c'mon guys, it's me.)

Summary: You make a shocking discovery about Din and decide to do something about it.

A/N: Hey babes! Sorry if you're waiting on TTF or FB rn, but my brain does not want to cooperate atm. TTF 4 should be out relatively soon, but I'm not sure about FB. I hope you like this fic, bc I have no idea where it came from 🤣 My asks are always open in the meantime!!

***

“Fuck, it’s tight in here,” you complain as you stuff yourself into the small alcove exposed by the panel that was just removed from the Crest’s wall.

“And a fucking mess. Do you ever organize this shit, Din?”

The exasperated sigh that comes from behind you is enough to answer your question.

You roll your eyes as you reach for the tangled ball of wires in front of you. No wonder the lights have been flickering. You’re lucky it wasn’t anything worse than that.

“Who would even be doing this shit if you didn’t have me? Not like your broad ass could fit in here.”

Mando scoffs behind you.

“We got along perfectly fine before you,” he argues. “Grogu could fit in there, I’d have him do it.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh.

“Yeah, that would go over well.”

Din ignores your quip as he comes up to your side and nudges you with his boot.

“Hey! Can you not?” You turn your head to bite out at him even though he can’t see you.

“Scootch over,” he demands. “I need to see what you’re doing so you don’t blow the ship up or something.”

“Wow, it’s really reassuring to know how much faith you have in me, Mando.”

You swear you hear him bite down on a laugh and you smile despite yourself. You squash yourself to the side as much as you can, allowing a small gap so Din can peek in beside you. He groans as he lowers himself to his belly.

“Poor old man,” you can’t help but tease. “Bad knees getting to you?”

“Shut up,” Din quips.

You don’t actually know how old Din is, but you’re placing your bets on late thirties or early forties. Definitely older than you either way, but not quite old enough to be deserving of your quips. That’s not going to stop you, of course.

By the time he’s looking inside, you’ve untangled the mess of wires and separated the two that need to be switched.

“Damn it, Mando, you’re blocking my light. I can’t see shit.”

He sighs for the umpteenth time today.

“Really? There’s plenty of light,” he argues.

“Yeah, maybe when you have a fucking night vision mod in your helmet. Get up and tell me what to do from there.”

He obeys but you swear you hear him mutter something about being bossy through a groan.

“What have you done so far?”

“I’ve separated the red and blue wires from the rest.”

“Okay, go ahead and pull them both from their outlets.”

You try to pull them off, but you can’t quite reach the outlets on the back wall.

“Damn it,” you mutter.

You shove your knees under yourself and arch your back in attempt to push yourself further into the wall. Straining a bit, you’re able to grasp both ends and successfully tug them towards yourself.

“Got it, what now?”

“Put the red wire where the blue wire was, and the blue where the red was,” Mando instructs. His voice sounds much raspier than it had a second ago, making you quirk a brow.

“You okay there?” you ask as you finish the task.

“Yup,” he croaks.

“Okay, I’m coming out.”

You start to wriggle yourself back, and you hear Din make a strangled sound before biting down on it. It’s not until you feel your ass waggling with your movement that you realize what has him so worked up. A sly smirk quickly spreads across your face as you decide there’s no harm in teasing him a bit.

You groan and arch your back further as you back out, your ass up in the air as much as you can get it. You take your sweet time sitting up once you're out, and you can almost feel the heat coming from Mando by the time you do. You turn around to face him only to find that he’s avoiding your gaze, his hands clasped together casually in front of his crotch. You honestly wonder who he thinks he’s fooling—there’s not much that could hide a tent that size.

“What’s the matter, big boy?” you ask sweetly. “You look a bit flustered.”

“N-nothing.”

You have to physically bite down on your lip to avoid laughing at his voice crack. You’ve never heard him struggle so much. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Nothing’s wrong, cyar’ika.”

“Hm. You sure? Because I’m pretty sure you were checking my ass out a second ago.”

Din chokes on nothing as soon as the words are out of your mouth.

“I was not!” He bites out in a panicked tone.

“Nothing wrong with it, I get it. I’d check out my ass, too,” you laugh and shrug. He looks down at his feet and your brows furrow. This might be the most flustered you’ve ever seen him.

“Dude, it was just an ass, not a big deal. I’m sure you’ve seen much more than that,” you chuckle lightly.

He slowly looks up at that, and time comes to a stop as things click into place in your head.

“Holy shit,” you say, bewildered. “You haven’t seen more than that. You’re a virgin aren’t you?”

You grin when he says nothing in response. No fucking way the Mandalorian hasn’t fucked or been fucked before. Hell, you’ve wanted to fuck him since you came aboard this junk pile of a ship. Damn, you’re going to take this opportunity and fucking run with it.

“Poor baby Din, never had pussy before,” you coo at him as you stand all the way up. “What’s the matter? Is it too small? Maybe you don’t even like pussy. You want a big strong man to fuck your ass?” You know you’re just spouting anything you think might get under his skin at this point.

“N-no,” he bites out, though there’s not much conviction behind it. You continue walking towards him, forcing him toward the cockpit’s pilot seat.

“No? You don’t like cock, Din?”

“I think you need some help, big guy. You clearly need someone to dominate you, since you don’t have the balls to step up yourself. You’re lucky I’m here, I can show you how good it can be.”

Din’s hands move closer to his clothed cock to hide the twitch that ensues from your words. You see the movement and it only spurs you on. He gulps again as you keep walking toward him.

“No, I-”

“Take a seat, Mando.”

He crosses his arms and stands up straighter, leveling you with a defiant stare you can practically feel through his beskar helmet.

“I will do no such thing.”

“Oh,” you reply, crossing your arms and returning the look. “But you will.”

You glance down at the impressive bulge in his flight suit, smirking when you catch him shift ever so slightly under the weight of your gaze.

“I think you want to sit down for me, Mando. And I think you’re going to be begging for my cunt by the time I’m done with you.”

You take a step toward him, and you can see the subtle way he stops himself from taking a step back in response. You stop in front of him and let your hand down to graze his covered length. There’s a sharp intake of breath barely heard throughout the hull. If you had been standing where you were a few seconds ago, you would have missed it.

“Sounds like you already want to, actually.”

You cup him fully now, and a strangled sound slips through his tightly sealed lips.

“Poor little virgin Din, doesn’t even know how good he could have been feeling all this time,” you tease, giving him a light squeeze.

“S-stop,” he grits out, uncrossing his arms to grab your wrist with one hand. Your movements come to a swift stop.

“Ask me again, and I will,” you tell him. “But I don’t think you really want that, do you? I think you want to stick your dick inside my warm pussy and come your dumb little brains out.”

There’s a brief silence as you stare each other down, and you can almost feel the way he starts to consider his options.

“I-”

You give him another squeeze, tighter this time, and his hips buck forward as another animalistic sound tumbles from his tongue.

“Fuck, please,” Din whines as he gives up trying to hold back. You grin wildly at the sound.

“Please, what, Din? What do you want?”

“P-please fuck me!”

Your hand flattens against him and starts to rub sensually up and down, giving him enough friction to have him shivering with each pass.

“Okay, baby. Sit down like I told you to, and I’ll take care of you.”

He nods as you start to lead him backwards, the back of his knees hitting the cockpit chair and forcing him to follow your instructions.

“What a good boy,” you lean forward to coo at the side of his helmet, right where his ear would be. “Why don’t you take your cock out for me?”

You push yourself away from him, your hands placed on either arm rest as you lean over him. Din hesitates for a moment, clearly not used to the kind of vulnerability you’re asking him to surrender.

“Go ahead, baby. I promise I won’t make fun.” In fact, you know you won’t. Judging by the massive tent in his pants, there is absolutely no way that Din Djarin is anywhere near small. Not that you’ll tell him that, of course.

You stare intently as he gulps and lets his hands trail down to unbuckle his belt and shakily pull his zipper down, revealing his boxers. He waits a beat before pulling himself completely out, and you have to fight to keep your jaw from dropping when he does.

“Holy shit, Djarin,” you gawk. “Well, your dick definitely wasn’t the problem. Scared some people off if anything.” Honestly, it almost scares you. You don’t think your hand could even fully wrap around it if you grabbed it right now.

You look back to his helmet, making what you hope is eye contact. Judging by the way he shifts in the seat, you’re pretty sure you’re spot-on.

“You’re so pretty, Din. It’s a shame nobody’s ever told you.”

“T-thank you,” he breathes, his head turning slightly.

“I want you to put your hands on the armrests while I show you how pretty I think you are.”

He hesitates, obviously still not sure about any of this.

“Go ahead,” you prompt. “Unless you want me to cuff you to the damn chair.”

At this, he quickly obeys your request and lets his hands go to grip the rests. His cock slaps up, hard and leaking against his covered stomach. He twists his neck all the way to the side, avoiding eye contact as much as he can manage. As much as he’s resisting giving in, you can see how his chest heaves with desire. In this case, the lust is simply stronger than the embarrassment.

You quickly bring a hand up to grab at the bottom of his helmet, roughly jerking his head back to look at you.

“You’re going to watch me while I suck your cock. If I see you look away, you’re not going to like what happens after.”

Din shivers and nods, shaken slightly by your authoritative tone.

“Say ‘yes, ma’am’.”

You watch his throat bob as he gulps down his nervousness.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out.

“See, you can be such a good boy when you put your mind to it.”

You slink down to your knees and place your hands on his thick, tense thighs. With your eyes level with his cock, you’re able to watch the way a spurt of precum dribbles down from the tip.

“Look at that, baby. Little dick is drooling already and I haven’t even touched you.”

Din tenses and clenches his hand but makes a point not to look away. Good, at least you know he’s listening. Who knew how easy it is to tame a Mandalorian? A little humiliation and degradation can go a long way.

You lean forward, grabbing hard onto his thighs in reminder to keep his hands where they are as you stick your tongue out to scoop up the precum leaking down his shaft. His hips jut forward, and you swear you hear a quiet whine from his helmet. You can’t help but chuckle lightly.

You decide not to waste your time with little licks, and instead lean forward to take his entire tip into your mouth. Now you definitely hear a whine. You struggle to shove more of him into your mouth and down your throat, his girth making it much more of a task than it needs to be.

You can feel yourself getting wetter just from the thought of how deliciously he would stretch you out in other places. It really is a damn shame he’s kept this absolute monster tucked away for so long.

His fingers twitch at the same time his head slams back into the headrest, though he keeps it angled down so he can keep watching you. You have to swallow a few times to work him all the way down, and by that time you can almost feel the way he’s tightened up to restrain himself.

You take pity on him and pull back, resisting the urge to gag as his weight drags across your throat again. A string of spit connects you to his shiny cock as you smirk up at him.

“Tell me how it feels, sweet boy.”

“F-feels s-so good, c-cyare,” Din squeaks.

“Yeah, you want more?”

He nods furiously and you immediately flick the tip of his swollen cock, earning you a strangled yelp as his hips buck wildly.

“What’s the matter? Finally got your dick wet and suddenly you forget how to speak?”

He begins to shake his head before catching himself and giving you a verbal response.

“N-no–I mean, yes, yes I want more! Please touch me,” he thrusts his hips forward again, though you're not sure if it’s voluntary or not.

“Alright, since you asked so nicely.”

You quickly grasp him and start to pump him furiously, leaning to him again to drool on his tip. The extra lubricant makes your hand glide more smoothly, your pace picking up to the point where you can see his balls drawing up.

You work your mouth in tandem with your fist, worshiping his throbbing cock with open mouthed kisses and gentle nips on the exposed skin. You close your eyes for a second to savor the way he feels between your lips, and the salty flavor that graces your tongue. If you died with Din Djarin’s dick in your mouth, you would die a happy woman.

“C-cyare, I-”

He cuts himself off as you quickly pull yourself away, leaving him with nothing but your cooling spit to focus on.

“No, no, no–ung–I, p-please!”

You laugh at him as he thrusts up, trying to find some kind of friction. His voice sounds wet, almost like there are tears in his eyes.

“Aww,” you stand back to admire his writhing body. “Poor thing can’t remember anything but ‘please’. That’s cute. Not hard to get you dumb, is it, Mando?”

You start to strip in front of him, and his hands come up from the armrests.

“You better not be moving your fucking hands, Din,” you warn. “I know where you keep those damn binders, don’t think I won’t use them.”

He groans but lets his wrists back down. His feet shift instead since there’s nothing else he’s able to move at the moment. He whines again as your top comes off with your bra, and then your pants with your panties.

Fully naked and obviously soaked, you stalk toward him yet again, stopping to place your hand on his shoulder as you climb into his lap, careful not to touch his cock just yet. You settle your thighs over the tops of his and spread your legs.

When you look up at him, he’s staring you back in your eyes, refusing to look down. You smirk once you realize why.

“Don’t get shy on me now, baby boy,” you say. “Go ahead and look at my pussy, I know you want to.”

You watch him slowly lower his gaze and breathe out a curse once it lands on your seam. Leaning forward, you whisper again to the side of his helmet.

“You can move a hand, Din. Spread me open.”

He visibly trembles at your command but lifts an arm none-the-less. You feel his fingers trail gently down to where you want him, but he stops just short.

“T-take my glove off, please. Want to feel you, cyar’ika.”

You smile at him and carefully bring his hand up to pull his glove off, his dick twitching as you do so. You lick your lips as a tanned and scarred hand is revealed. It’s ridiculous how attracted you are to that simple appendage. You wish you could see his entire body, but you know that’s not a likely scenario.

Once his glove is discarded on the floor, he moves back to your cunt and sucks in a harsh breath as he feels you.

“You’re s-so wet,” he says in a way that makes you unsure if he meant to say it out loud or not.

You laugh quietly and guide his hand so that he can prod at your hole, to which he chokes.

“That’s all because of you, sweet boy.”

You move your hips forward, and his fingers slip through your seam, your slick collecting on the rough pads. You grasp his wrist to bring his hand to your lips, opening your mouth to suck your tang of the digits at the same time as you let your pussy push against the underside of Din’s cock.

Another animalistic noise accompanies the way his entire body jolts at the sudden contact. With a pop, you pull his fingers from your mouth to make room for the giggle that bubbles up from your throat.

“Poor baby’s so sensitive!” you exclaim as you grind against him, making him groan with each pass. Both of his hands grip down hard, one on the rest and the other on your thigh. The man has a fucking grip, you’re sure there will be five little bruises littered across your skin tomorrow. You wonder how good that grip would feel on your hips as he drills himself into you from the back, and file that thought back for another day.

You shudder as his tip bumps up against your clit, sending little shocks up your spine and making you dizzy.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby boy,” you breathe. “You want that? Want to stick your cock inside me?”

“I-ungh-yes, yes!”

“Yeah?” you ask as you keep up your movements. “Beg for it.”

“P-please,” Din asks a bit too quietly for your liking. You would bet all the credits you won that he’s blushing under that armor right now.

“Oh, come on now, you can do better than that.”

There’s a short moment where you think Din isn’t going to do it, and a lump of disappointment gets stuck in your throat. Luckily, he doesn’t make you sit with it for too long.

“Please, please put my d-dick in your pussy, want to feel you, please! I-I can’t–I want–”

In the middle of his babbling, you lift yourself up and line his cock with your entrance, slowly lowering yourself down. His hands fly to your hips at the same time his thoughts fly from his brain, unable to think of anything but the way your tight pussy is parting to welcome his fat tip.

He’s never felt anything quite this pleasurable before, the sensation nearly blinding him as you work yourself down onto him.

Your head tilts back as Din holds onto your hips for dear life. The combination of that pressure along with the burn from his cock stretching you out is almost too much. You can feel a heat bubbling at the base of your spine, and he’s not even all the way inside of you yet.

“Oh, god, that’s so good, Din. You’re so good.”

He whimpers in response, though part of that may be due to the fact that your hips are now flush to his. You’re both panting, a sheen of sweat coating both of your bodies. You can’t see the perspiration on Din, but you can feel the moist heat emanating from him.

You open your eyes, not realizing they had been closed in the first place. You’ve never been this fucking full in your life. You swear you can feel him all the way up to your throat.

“M–plea–please move,” Din begs and lets his helmet rest on your forehead. His entire body is shaking with the effort of not blowing his load too quickly.

You grant his request, starting to rock your hips as you bring a hand to settle on his neck, delighted to find a damp mess of curls peeking out from his helmet at the nape. Din gasps as you tug lightly while lifting your hips.

You start a slow but steady rhythm, your skin slapping against each other each time you bottom out. His heavy cock drags against your walls, making your toes curl. A little whine sneaks out from Din’s concealed lips every time you sink down on him.

A lewd moan tumbles from your lips as you feel him punch against your cervix, tucking in further than you’ve ever been able to reach before.

“Fuck, Din! You’re so deep, baby!”

“I’m not g-going to last l-long, Meshla,” Din strains.

You ride him harder, taking that as a challenge. The tight thatch of hair at the base of his cock catches on your clit as you slam down on him, bringing you further to the brink. Something white hot flashes within your body, blinding you momentarily.

You’re not even able to tell him you’re close too before you’re clamping down on him, and he’s shouting as he loses control. Your moans tangle together as you soak his dick, your legs trembling unlike you’ve ever experienced before.

Din wraps his arms around you as he thrusts up into you, spilling himself within your heat. You’ve never in your life seen or felt anyone come as much as he does. Every time you think he’s done, you feel another spurt of his seed clinging to your walls.

By the time you’re both coming down, your ears have started ringing and your breathing has calmed down enough for you to get a word out, though you’re not sure Mando’s quite capable of that yet.

“Y-you good?” you manage to gasp.

You feel Din nod against you, and give yourself permission to lean against him. You’re wrung fucking dry. If this is what it feels like when you’re on top, what might it be like when Din’s in charge? The thought makes your body shudder and your pussy quiver. You sit in silence with him for a while until he finally breaks it with a voice just above a whisper.

“C-can we do that again?”

You laugh at hearing the last thing you expected to come from his mouth after that.

“Fucking maker, Din.”

***

Thank you for reading!! Please consider interacting if you enjoyed this!

421 notes · View notes

dyns33 · 4 months

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The way to communicate

Being a while since I did a Din Djarin x female reader.

It was rare for Din Djarin to get angry.

It's hard to say if it was because of his creed or if it was in his temperament, but he did his best to always keep his cool.

Becoming the father of a little green gremlin who had a hobby of getting into mischief probably forced him to be even more patient than he was before finding the kid, or meeting Y/N.

Even when the little one put himself in danger, Din didn't scream. Maybe he knew it wouldn't have any effect on Grogu, but he gently picked him up, using an equally gentle voice to scold him.

“I already told you not to do that.” he often sighed, patting the child's head. "You know you risk choking if you swallow a whole frog. Especially since you've already had two meals, you're not hungry."

“Gah !”

"No."

Y/N watched the scene with sparkling eyes and trying to hide her smile, because a great Mandalorian warrior, no matter how patient, probably wouldn't like to be thought of as adorable. He was supposed to be scary and awesome.

When he was with Grogu, Din Djarin wasn't scary at all. He didn't scream when the little one drew on the walls, or hid in a corner, or played with the buttons. Never.

Of course, it wasn't the same with enemies or bounties. He didn't like killing, he would avoid it if possible, but he had no problem accomplishing his mission without the slightest remorse. It was the Way.

Honor, strength, and protection of his clan were his priorities. As he was patient, Din was discreet. A man of few words, preferring actions.

Because of this, Y/N wasn’t sure where she stood in relation to his family. After she helped him find a former Empire general, while risking her life to protect his son, they had stayed together.

At first, Din had considered himself indebted to her. Then, he offered her a job, seeing that she took good care of Grogu when he was absent and that she had some knowledge of mechanics, very useful when the ship had some problems.

But could she consider herself a member of the clan ? Y/N wasn’t sure.

It would have been easy to ask the Mandalorian directly. He would then have clearly answered whether he saw her as a member, or as just a flying partner who took care of his child.

Asking the question directly meant taking the risk of having to face reality and accept the possibility that she wasn't as important to Din as he and Grogu were to her.

She therefore preferred to say nothing and take advantage of the time offered to her with them, experiencing many adventures, as well as wonderful moments.

Until the announcement.

"There are no new contracts at the moment and Grogu needs some rest, so we'll head back home to Nevarro."

"Oh. Okay. I'll probably go to Coruscant then. You can contact me if necessary." Y/N said without looking at him, continuing to play with the kid.

"… I'll drop you off."

The silence in the ship grew colder than calm as they headed toward Coruscant.

Rather than wait to get there, Din decreed that it was necessary to make several stops to buy supplies, check that they had enough energy, that the engine had no problems, and lots of small details that wasted their time unnecessarily.

"We could do all of this on Coruscant. It's not that far."

“I don’t want to take a risk.”

"But we checked everything before the last mission and…"

“I said we were stopping for water !” the Mandalorian then repeated with a loud voice and violently placing his hands on the dashboard.

This made Y/N jump, but also Grogu, who stared at his father with wide eyes, full of surprise and fear. Visibly ashamed of his reaction, Din sighed before muttering that he needed to cool off, leaving them alone in the cockpit.

Things didn't get better when they arrived in Mos Eisley. Not really wanting to stay idle, Y/N took advantage of the little one's nap to go for a walk in the market, while Din chatted with Peli.

She didn't want to go to Coruscant at all and all these stops might have been a blessing, but like with a bandage, she knew it would be better to leave right away rather than torture herself like this.

It was normal that the clan wanted to go home to rest. It was normal that she wasn't invited since she wasn't part of the clan.

What was less normal was Din's behavior, who seemed to avoid her as much as possible and be tense whenever they were in the same room. He had no reason to be angry with her, who continued to work normally despite her sadness.

The situation was also complicated for Grogu, who felt that something was wrong between the two adults. The poor kid ate less, sticking to Y/N every chance he got. It was almost impossible to get him off.

So Y/N wanted to take advantage of this little moment alone to get out of the ship and clear her head.

She didn't expect to be caught by bounty hunters who had spotted the Mandalorian's arrival. Despite Moff Gideon's death, there were still some people who wanted Din Djarin's head.

Since he was training Grogu to be a fighter, Din had also shown her some techniques, so she could defend herself if needed. Although he always added that it wouldn't be necessary, since he would be there to protect her.

Fighting a nice Mandalorian who held back his punches was one thing. Trying to do the same thing with three guys who didn't care about hurting her was something else.

Fortunately for Y/N, when she had just taken a blow to the nose which had made her fall to the ground and the leader of the gang approached to pick her up, Din arrived at that moment, quickly shooting the brigands without missing a target.

He then ran to pick Y/N up and take her back to the ship to tend to her injuries. Wanting to help when he saw her bleeding, the kid used his powers before his father had time to grab the first aid kit.

The panic subsided, a long silence returned, only broken by the little noises of Grogu asking to be carried by Y/N. But when she moved to lean towards him, the Mandalorian spoke.

"What possessed you to leave alone ? Without a word, without saying where you were going ? You were lucky that I noticed your absence and went looking for you."

"I didn't think I needed permission. And I didn't ask to be attacked."

"That's not what I said. But you could have gotten kidnapped ! You could have died ! Why didn't you tell me you were leaving ?! I thought… I thought that you left us. That you had gone to find another means of transportation to Coruscant."

“Why would I do that, since you’re taking me there ?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid !” Din then shouted, pointing at her, almost scaring her.

The gesture probably scared Grogu more than her, who knew he was going to do nothing but scream like an idiot, but something happened that they would have thought impossible.

With his powers, the child pushed his father against the wall of the ship, as far away from Y/N as possible, then he jumped on her knees, clinging to her while moaning in fear.

The two adults remained frozen. Even though she couldn't see his face, Y/N could guess Din's shocked and hurt look, who understood that his son had thought he was capable of hurting the one he seemed to consider his mother. He saw fear in Grogu's eyes.

"No, I… I shouldn't have shouted." he whispered as he sat on the ground, lowering his head in shame. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I know you weren't going to do anything."

“Obviously he doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t like shouting.” Y/N said, stroking Grogu’s head to comfort him. "He doesn't like arguments. We should go to Coruscant quickly, it would be better for everyone."

“You really want to leave us so quickly ?”

Din's voice almost broke at the end of his sentence. Y/n stared at him, but he didn't raise his head to look back at her, thus not seeing that she didn't understand his question.

"… You're the one who wants me to leave. So you can return to your home to Nevarro."

"… I meant our home. Grogu, you and me. I thought… I thought you understood, Cyare, but you rejected the invitation. I thought I misunderstood and that you didn't want to to be part of our clan."

“You mean… I’m part of the clan ?”

"Of course." the Mandalorian whispered, finally looking at her. "Mesh'la, we have traveled together for so long. We fight together. We raise Grogu together. I know our customs are different, and we haven't taken our vows yet, but…"

"Our vows ?!"

"… Yes. I've been courting you for a while. You accepted the gifts. You train with me. You let me kiss you. I didn't think it wasn't clear. Forgive me, cyare, I shouldn't have had any illusions."

Words were less important than actions to the Mandalorians, even if they had certain songs and rites. Y/N totally didn't understand that receiving a weapon and touching the helmet with your forehead had special meanings, and Din hadn't told her that.

In his corner, Grogu had only understood that his parents loved each other, because that was obvious, and they just needed to be together to be happy. The rest didn't matter.

All it would have taken was for Din to take them back to Nevarro without opening his mouth, and Y/N would have been surprised but delighted to be welcomed into their little home. Instead, he had tried to communicate, and it had been a disaster.

Now the son was afraid, trembling against Y/N who was processing the fact that Din had been thinking about marrying her for some time, until he realized that he had done everything wrong.

He had yelled at his clan, even if it was because he was afraid of losing Y/N. He hadn't known how to protect them properly. He was covered with shame.

"I don't want to go to Coruscant."

Since he didn't move, too busy determining if he had poked his head by being thrown by the Force, Y/N slowly got up, keeping Grogu close to her, to join him on the ground.

"I was disappointed that you didn't ask me to come. It wasn't clear to me that I was part of the clan, but it was my dearest wish. To stay with you and the little one. If you still want of me…"

“Cyare !” Din sighed, taking her hand. “Nothing would make me happier.”

“Bah ga ba !”

Grogu stirred then, patting his father's hand insistently so that he let go of Y/N's, his large eyes piercing the Mandalorian's berskar.

"... I have already apologized."

“Pato !”

"… I'm sorry for scaring you, and for yelling at Y/N. I won't do it again. I will never hurt any of you. And I'll make sure there are no misunderstandings before drawing conclusions."

“Aaaaaaaah.” was Grogu's response, who smiled again, holding out his arms to be picked up by Din, who complied without hesitation.

This made his parents laugh. They hadn't laughed in a long time.

The ship's coordinates were changed to go directly to Nevarro. No need to make any more unnecessary detours, since all the stops they had made so far were useless. Din was only trying to buy time, not knowing how to get Y/N to stay.

“So, you talked about vows ?” she said shyly as they landed, the kid sleeping on top of her.

"Later, Mesh'la. My request wasn't very romantic."

“Mandalorians worry about romance ?”

"No. But I imagine it will please you."

Y/N could have said she didn’t need all this. Knowing that he saw her as a member of his clan, as the mother of his son, was enough. But she didn't want another misunderstanding that might hurt Din, and she would be happy to be his wife, so she just nodded.

There was no more arguing, no more shouting. Not even when Grogu swallowed the ring that Din had the Armorer make. He simply sat down in a corner, grunting while tapping his helmet, while the little one hiccupped, regretting having eaten the little shiny circle.

“We can get it back in a few days.”

"No."

“We’ll clean it up.”

"Cyare, there's no way I'm giving you a gift that was eaten by the kid and which passed… Hmm !"

Luckily, the ring was spat out, but it took a while for Din to agree to take it back, and then officially offer it to Y/N. He insisted on going to Mandalore to purify it in the waters, while announcing to his peers that he would soon have a riduur.

He didn't bring Y/N and Grogu with him on this trip. The little one was too tired, and someone had to watch over him.

“Karga could have kept him.” Y/N remarked when Din had returned.

"He would have ended up losing his mind after Grogu destroyed everything in his office. I don't think the kid would have liked to be left alone either. Besides…"

"What ?"

"You are beautiful, Mesh'la. Some Mandalorians might have wanted to take you. I would have had to fight and kill them to prove that you are mine. I preferred to avoid that."

It sounded ridiculous, but he said it very seriously, his tone quickly becoming dry and somber.

Din Djarin did not often get angry, except when it concerned the protection of his clan, when someone tried to hurt them or take them from him. He hid his anger and jealousy beneath his armor, but it was there, ready to come out against those who had the audacity to confront him.

But never against Y/N and Grogu. Only for them.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin fanfiction

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thetriumphantpanda · 8 months

Text

i'll be needing stitches | din djarin

Summary | The Mandalorian has never had someone else tend to his wounds.

Pairing | Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count | 2.1k

Warnings | Future chapters will include smut, but this one involves mentions of injuries, a dead bounty, explicit descriptions of an untrained professional stitching someone up, blood, some explicit thoughts and some yearning.

Authors Note | My favourite tin can man is back and ready for business. I am having such a wonderful time imagining all the things Din has never experienced before and the idea that he has only ever been the one to patch himself up was more than I could cope with. As always, comments, reblogs and freaking out in my ask box are all welcome and if you enjoyed this, please consider supporting me with a donation to my Ko-Fi.

I no longer use taglists - please follow @thetriumpantpandanotifs and turn on notifications to know when I upload fics.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’d been gone a few days. That was nothing new. Off hunting his next bounty, leaving you in charge of child. You didn’t mind it, once you’d gotten used to the fact that you couldn’t really reason with him, and that you’d be tired from constantly keeping an eye on him, he was actually pretty decent company.

You’re fussing with him, trying to get him to go down for some rest when the Crest doors open and there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor. That’s nothing out of the ordinary, so you don’t rush to see what’s happening. What is out of the ordinary is the sound of metal crashing to the floor right after it.

You whip around, looking at the scene before you. There’s a dead bounty on the ground, being kept company by Mando, who is crumpled on the floor in his armour, a pool of blood seeping out from underneath his left leg as he struggles to push himself up.

“Bloody hell,” you exclaim, immediately dropping all worry of the child to drop to your knees next to him, “What the hell happened?!”

He doesn’t respond, just grips at the injured leg, trying to get the bleeding to subside. His trousers are torn and there’s a nasty gash to the skin of his thigh that is about to cause a whole world of problems if you can’t fix it.

With your hand on his shoulder, placed there to let him know you’re near, you whip your head around trying to remember where he keeps the healing equipment. He’s needed it before, but only for minor injuries, and has never needed your help before, but with the way the blood is spreading across the floor, he’s going to need you now.

He feebly lifts a hand, pointing in the direction of his bunk, “Left it…. There.” He struggles to spit out.

“Okay, I’ll fetch it,” your voice is laced with panic, like if you leave him now, he’s going to pass out, or worse, “You’ve gotta promise me you’ll stay with me, okay?” There’s no response, “Mando? You hear me? No sleeping!”

He mumbles something unintelligible under his helmet but at least he’s talking. You let your hand drop, guiding him down to lie on the floor whilst you rush to his bunk, pulling at the haphazard sheets until the first aid box appears at the foot of the bed. You’re back on your knees next to him in no time, and he’s still moving about and groaning as you put your hand on his thigh to get a better look at his wound.

Your fingers tear at the edges of the material, wanting to allow him to keep his modesty but see the extent of the damage. The gash is angry, blood seeping from it with red edges. You tip the top of the box open and root through it. There’s a single bottle of bacta spray, which you pull out, give a little shake and go to take the top off, when his wide palm circles around your wrist to stop you.

“No.”

You let a frustrated growl leave your throat, “Then what, Mando?!” You exclaim, “You’re bleeding out, what am I meant to do?!”

“The thread,” He chokes out, “Just stitch it up.”

You look him straight in the visor, hoping your disapproving look is landing through his beskar. You are not a nurse, if you try and stitch him up you’re only going to make it worse.

“I’m going to make it worse like that,” You insist, “I’ve never stitched anything in my life.”

“Y-yes you have,” he squeezes your wrist, to reassure you, “Y-your tunic.”

“Mando, this is your fucking leg we’re talking about, not my clothes, it’s completely different.”

He pulls on your arm now, dragging your attention to him, craning his helmet as much as he can to look at you, “Do not waste that spray.” He demands, and even when he’s bleeding out on the floor, he commands you, knows that no matter what, he calls the shots - he lets your arm go, pushing you away gently but towards his leg.

You could argue with him that saving him from certain death is not wasting it, but the longer you bicker, the less time you have, so with shaking hands, you put the bacta spray back, and instead find the needle and surgical thread. With shaking hands, you do your best to thread the needle and tie it off at one end, before your hands are grasping at his thigh.

“This is going to suck,” You mutter, because it is, it would suck at the hands of a trained professional, so it’s definitely going to suck at the hands of someone who could barely sew their own clothes together, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t give him enough time to respond, or yourself much time to consider what you’re actually doing, you just push the needle through the skin closest to you and over to the other side, trying not to look up or focus too hard on the sounds he’s making as you drag the needle back and forward through his skin, watching as the skin closes together the further along the wound you pull. Your hands are shaking, and you’re holding your breath, but you don’t seem to be making it worse, which is something you’ll take.

You’re trying your best to concentrate on making the line of stitches as neat and tidy as you can, but all you can really focus on are the sounds that are coming from underneath that helmet of his. Low groans and grunts of pain as you work the needle through his skin, groans and grunts that you can’t help thinking about in another context, like if you weren’t currently trying to stitch him up and instead he had you pinned down and was- okay, no absolutely not.

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the now incredibly distracting train of thought. Sure, there have been moments when you’d thought about it, though about what kind of lover he would be, mainly only out of curiosity than your own desires. But ever since he took that damn helmet off in the rain and touched your face, you can’t help but wonder what kind of lover he’d be for you.

Whilst he’s led there on the floor, all his trust put in you to patch him up and make him better, make sure he lives, and all you can is wonder what those sounds would be like for you. What the press of his thighs would do to your own when he put himself between your body, or what this specific thigh, gripped in your hand, clenched as you push the needle through once more, would feel like between your legs. Would he guide you through it, with those big hands on your hips, or would he lean back and let you take what you needed? Would he snake that hand down the front of your trousers and help you along, or would he let you do it all yourself?

He’s agitated, and understandably so, it’s been a slow patch up, with you making sure that the scar your sutures will leave is as neat as it possibly can be. As you bend your head to look closely as you tie another knot in the end of the stitches, you realise he will have this for the rest of his life. A permanent mark on his skin, made by someone else sure, but patched up by you. The Mandalorian will always have this reminder of you etched into his skin, even if, for some reason, you cease to exist in his life. It’s primal, the way is makes you feel, that one day, if you’re gone, he’ll have to explain your existence to someone when they ask how he got that scar. You will forever be a piece of him.

He’s gone suspiciously quiet, the pain you were causing him by driving a needle through his damn skin has made way to a dull throb. You reach into the first aid box, pulling out some gauze and tissue. You use the tissue and what little disinfectant there is to clean the sutures and the blood from his skin, before haphazardly taping the gauze over it to try and keep it clean and free from infection.

He pushes himself up on his elbows once you’re done, watching as you clean away your mess. He wants to reach out to you, he wants to touch you, to anchor himself to you and never let go, to thank you, but instead he simply tries to push himself up whilst trying to keep the stitches you just put in him intact. He lets out a pained groan, you whip your head around.

“Maker, help me,” You grumble, dropping the things you were attempting to clean up to rush back to his side, “I just sewed you up and you’re trying to move on your own?” You’re trying to speak in a tone that is authoritative but it doesn’t seem to come out that way, “Can’t you just sit still for a minute?”

“Need to get us out of here,” He mumbles, taking hold of your hand that you’ve offered him, using your body to steady himself as he pulls himself up off the floor, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You ask, letting him lean on you slightly for support as he hobbled toward the ladder to the cockpit, despite him weighing considerably more than you.

He doesn’t actually respond to your question, once he’s at the cockpit ladder, he seems to not need your help anymore – struggling up the steps, grunting with each movement of his injured leg, so you let him go, turning around to finish cleaning up. As you’re cleaning the blood from the floor, you’re face-to-face with the body of the bounty he’d dropped on the floor. You’d seen him deal with these bounties more than once – normally when they’re talking back and fighting – so this will prove easier than anticipated. The bounty is slight, so dragging it into the carbonite chamber is easy enough. You flip some switches and press a few buttons and in no time the bounty is stuck there, waiting to be handed off whenever Mando gets you back to Nevarro.

It’s not until much later that he reappears. You’ve fed the child, fed yourself, left a ration pack for him, and you’re just killing time, waiting for the child to wear himself out so you can finally let the exhaustion take over your body and sleep. Mando leans himself against the wall, watching you as you fuss over the child.

“Thank you,” His modulated voice hits your ears, “I’ve never had someone to help me like that.”

You look at him – this one doesn’t surprise you, the lone warrior who hasn’t allowed anyone but you to travel with him, of course he’s only ever had himself to stitch up his wounds.

“Well, I don’t know how to drive this damn thing,” You speak, knocking your knuckles against the wall next to you, “So it was pretty important for you not to die,” you wait for him to laugh but he doesn’t, “You’re welcome,” you speak quietly then, “Sorry it was a horrible sewing job.”

He walks towards you now, visible limp but better than you imagine anyone else with a similar injury would walk, sitting down on the bench next to you. He’s so close that you can feel the heat emanating from his body. He sets a gloved hand on your own thigh, squeezing it slightly, making your pulse jump. He has to know, right? He has to know that he has this effect on you? That whenever he touches you, though that isn’t often, it makes your blood boil with want. Does he know that as your hands worked to close his wound earlier all you could think about was what his perfect, meaty thigh would feel like wedged between your own?

He doesn’t move his hand, just lets it rest there, thumb rubbing across the material of your trousers, comforting you, because he’d scared you earlier, he knows he did, and he needs you to know he’s never going to leave you, even if he’s not quite ready to verbalise that to you yet. You let your head drop to his shoulder, closing your eyes as he stays there for you, his body offering you’re the comfort you so desperately need.

“I’m always going to fix you Mando,” you speak quietly, “You’ll never have to stitch yourself up ever again.”

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oscarseyebrow · 1 year

Text

Enkindle

gif by the wonderful @nowritingonthewall 💖

Pairings: din djarin x female reader Rating: explicit. 18+ Word count: 8k Warnings: explicit smut, fingering, unprotected p-in-v, dirty talk, friends to lovers, one bed, cursing, slight hint of din not being an experienced kisser. Masterlist | Taglist

“What do you mean you only have one room left?”

Din is not impressed, and despite the modulated tone of his voice, his frustration is as clear as the thawing snow trickling over his armor. He has been tested more than enough today, and you’re starting to fear that this could be the straw to break the bantha’s back.

The owner of the room in question–an elderly Lasat with half an ear missing–sighs out her annoyance at having to repeat herself again. Clearly Din had heard her the first time.

Her gritty voice holds a tone that is almost less impressed than Din’s when she gives him her final reply: “One room. Take it or leave it, big guy.”

A silence stretches in the dimly-lit reception area. The towering Mandalorin and broad-yet-stubby Lasat share a stubborn glare across the small desk, neither of them willing to look away first. Not many people would attempt to stare down a man dressed in full beskar, but it’s clear that she will not be intimidated by the armor. You’re sure a somewhat disgruntled Mandalorian isn’t the worst customer she’s ever had the displeasure of dealing with in this shady area of town.

You stand to the side, dithering silently while rubbing at the arm of your damp jacket. It makes no difference at all to the wet fabric, the chill had settled into your bones hours ago while you trudged through the snow after a failed hunt.

One room. It would be fine. Maker, at this point, you would take the damn barn if it meant not having to go back out into the cold again.

Very slowly, Din’s head turns until he is able to see you.

The look on your face says it all: you don’t care about the room. You’re too cold to give a shit. The only thing you want is to get out of your wet clothes and step into a hot shower.

“Fine,” your hunting partner finally grumbles. “We’ll take it.”

One room doesn’t necessarily mean one bed. You had stayed in plenty of dives where more than one bed was available in a shared room. Sometimes, places like this would often cram in as many bunks as possible to make money.

This would most likely be a similar kind of set-up.

Not even a second after the door to the room slides open, you realise how wrong you are.

This is not similar. It’s not similar at all.

There is only one bed.

One small, not-so-big, unable to comfortably share, tiny bed.

Fuck.

“It’s okay,” you lie through your chattering teeth. “You take the bed. I’ll take a…”

There’s no shower. There’s no fucking shower.

One bed is something you could come around to, maybe, but the thought of not being able to step into the warmth of a shower and feel the water cascading over your frozen skin causes a disappointment to sit heavily in your stomach. It had been the only thing getting you through the miles of trudging across the snow with Din: cold, hungry, pissed off.

“We can work the job together,” he had said before leaving Nevaro. “It will be quicker that way.”

If it wouldn’t inflict too much pain on your cold hands, you would smack him right here and now for thinking anything involving this planet would be quick and simple.

“You’re having the bed,” Din’s voice scrapes with a firm edge, the exhaustion notable as he begins the process of removing his weapons.

“No, you take it. It’s fine.”

“I’m not taking the bed.”

“You’ve been complaining for hours about being tired,” you shoot back and prepare to continue, but Din cuts you off.

“And you’ve been whining for hours about being cold, so take the bed, warm up and get some damn sleep.”

A long silence follows Din’s words. His helmet fixes you in place, unmoving, unrelenting in his stubborn stand. It’s almost identical to the one you had seen him take up with the Lasat out front, and as a show of your own stubbornness, you fold your arms across your chest and tighten your jaw to fight your chattering teeth.

“Don’t start,” Din warns you.

You know each other well, having worked for Greef Karga for longer than either of you would care to admit. Din was always a lone hunter, much like yourself, but somehow a friendship had developed between the two of you a couple of years back. You liked to think that you had both come to a point in your lives where a little company wasn’t so bad. One hunt had turned into two, two into three, and before either of you had realised, you had spent more hunts together than apart.

So yes, Din knew that you were standing your ground with him, just as he was with you.

“You need it more…you’re older. Your back isn’t what it used to be.”

Din tilts his helmet slowly: “I’m going to let that one go.”

“Like you let our bounty go?”

“Hey,” his tone lacks any sort of playful edge now. “I said I would let that one comment go, don’t push it.”

With a huff, you turn your back on him and walk across to what you assume is supposed to be the refresher. The door barely closes, and even when it does finally click into place, you’re able to touch each wall without fully extending your arms.

“Wonderful,” you mutter under your breath. “Absolutely love this for me.”

The light above the sink flickers and temporarily illuminates names that have been etched into the wall over the years: some have hearts around them, memories of nights spent in a cheap room together while others have dates and other little messages to accompany them. It holds your attention for longer than it should as you stand there, dripping and cold, wondering what their stories are.

Were they partners? Lovers? Had they come here for a secret affair? How many others had stood in front of this mirror reading those names, wondering the same thing?

You make quick work of splashing water on your face—you’re not sure why you hoped it would be anything more than freezing cold—then groan when you realise there’s nothing that comes close to resembling a towel.

Of course. Of fucking course.

You’re still grumbling to yourself when you slide out of the fresher, then pause to look at Din. His armor is gone, now set out neatly beside the bed where it glints in the limited light from the dusty window. It’s a strange thing to see in a place like this: something beautiful, laid out with precision on a carpet blotched with stains of varying colour and size. He has shown so much care toward something when nothing else in the room has ever been treated with that level of dignity and respect.

But that’s not all he has removed.

The thick, woven fabric of his flak vest is gone, laid out to dry alongside his cape and gloves. Din is clearly removing his cold, wet layers and you beg yourself to divert your eyes, offer him the same respect he often does for you. It’s almost impossible, though.

“I had an idea,” Din breaks the silence in the room as he turns to face you.

You want to listen to him, really, you do. But you’re distracted by the way the wet material of his black undershirt sticks to his body. He reaches to slide down the suspenders from his shoulders and you swallow thickly, now forcing your eyes to focus elsewhere in the room.

This is Din. You should not be looking at him this way. Sure, you had often wondered what sex with him would be like—you were only human, after all. You had taken the risky glance here and there while travelling together, but only when you knew he was too busy to catch you staring. He was your hunting partner, your friend. There had never been any reason to complicate that and try to make it into something more.

You both met your needs elsewhere, with other people. Din had never wanted that from you. There had been plenty of opportunities, moments where you found yourselves just a little too close, lingering touches and hands accidentally brushing while reaching for the same tool or controls on the ship. But nothing more. Never anything more. Din simply isn’t interested in you like that.

“We can share.”

It seems like a perfectly acceptable solution to share a bed with a friend…just one night, sleeping back-to-back.

When he gets no reply from you, he tries to bring you around to the idea: “And considering there’s no heating in this place, it would probably be beneficial to share. The temperature outside is going to drop further tonight and we need to try and stay warm.”

His tone is so matter of fact. It’s clear that Din has thought this through.

How does he make it sound so casual?

You attempt to inhale slowly but all you can manage is another shiver as your teeth start chattering again. Din is right; there’s no heating in this room, and you need to warm up. It wouldn’t do either of you any good to spend the night freezing cold and wet. It was important to rest up and prepare to make another attempt at tracking the bounty in the morning.

“F—fine,” you agree. “I’ll take that side.”

You motion to the left side of the bed and watch as his helmet follows, taking note of your preference. Din doesn’t argue, he simply nods and accepts your terms.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you repeat and turn your attention to the bed again.

Neither of you move.

The whole situation suddenly feels awkward, as though you’re both reconsidering Din’s great idea and desperately trying to think of a better solution. It comes down to very simple facts: you suck it up and share a bed, or you freeze.

“I’ll turn around,” Din offers after a moment. “You need to get those wet clothes off before you get in bed, so…just tell me when you’re ready.”

True to his word, Din turns himself around so that his back is to you, giving you as much privacy as he can. You watch him for a moment and let a hint of a smile settle on your lips. How could you not? Din is caring and polite. He’d always done everything he could to ensure you were comfortable in his presence, especially when spending extended periods of time together in what little space the Crest had to offer.

You trust him not to look. You know that he won’t. His word is his promise, so you slowly peel the wet layers from your skin and hiss as the cold air causes another involuntary shiver to pass through your muscles.

Nothing is dry. Every item of clothing you have is soaked through: your socks and pants, your jacket, shirt and tank top. There’s absolutely nothing left to salvage, nothing that you can sleep in…aside from your underwear.

You have to warn him.

“Din…” you murmur and look up just in time to see him starting to turn around. “No! Don’t look!” you shriek and throw your arms over yourself to cover your exposed body.

That’s not why you called his name. It wasn’t confirmation that it was safe for him to turn around. You just wanted to tell him you were going to have to sleep in your underwear.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I thought—shit,” Din’s helmet whips around quicker than you’ve ever seen him move before. “I didn’t…I didn’t see anything, I promise.”

He sounds truly mortified, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh. This whole situation is one long, hilarious fuck-up: losing the bounty, being too far away from the ship to make it back in one night, the shitty excuse of a room. One bed. It’s all fucked.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh. “I just…I have nothing to wear and I didn’t want to surprise you by only wearing underwear so I wanted to warn you but then you started turning around and I panicked and…yeah.”

There’s another long silence while you watch Din’s shoulders rise and fall with his steady breaths. Your eyes wander further, exploring the broadness of his back, the way his damp shirt defines the shape of his muscles and the softness of his body beneath the thin fabric.

“Are all of your clothes wet?” Din asks after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

The silence returns.

This time, he shifts his weight to his other foot and lowers his helmet slightly. Is this a bad idea? Should you put your wet clothes back on and insist that you’re fine with not having the bed?

You shiver again, your body’s attempt to warm itself.

“Okay,” he finally sighs.

“Okay?”

“Get under the blankets. You need to warm up. I can hear your teeth chattering from over here…just tell me when it’s actually safe to look,” Din explains with full sincerity.

Your teeth find your bottom lip as you try to carry out the impossible task of suppressing your smile. He’s doing his best to make this situation as comfortable as possible. There’s very little dignity to be had in this dingy little room, but he’s trying to save yours.

The bed creaks and groans in protest the second you lift a leg onto it. It whines as you shuffle down beneath the scratchy blankets. There are chings and clangs while you turn onto your side and scoot as close to the edge of the bed as you possibly can without falling out of it.

Then finally, when you settle, you give Din the confirmation he has been waiting for: “It’s safe to look at me now.”

You don’t know if he does look at you. Why would he? What you meant was that it was now safe for him to look around the room, not specifically at you. Should you correct what you meant by that? No…no, you just need to not say anything else.

You shake your head to yourself and close your eyes, willing yourself to fall asleep quickly. You’re too cold. Your fingers and toes are still tingling, your muscles too tense, and the voices next door are much too loud through the thin walls.

Eventually, the room plummets into darkness, and a few seconds later, the bed shifts under Din’s weight. You can tell he’s moving with caution, taking care not to disturb you as he attempts to fit himself into what little space is left.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when his elbow accidentally catches you.

You open your mouth to tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to apologise, but you’re suddenly distracted by the warmth of a brief touch. It’s Din’s skin, meaning the black undershirt you were admiring is now gone. He’s shirtless. Din Djarin, intimidating Mandalorian, feared bounty hunter, shirtless, in bed with you.

Okay, you need to think sensibly and logically about this. You have seen Din’s skin plenty of times before: you have patched him up countless times, unintentionally bumped into him while he has been changing. Maker, you have even accidentally walked in on him fucking someone on more than one occasion. His skin is nothing new—you have seen it and felt it before.

But never in the same bed. Never anything more than what is necessary. No, this is necessary. This is your only option. Din suggested this because you need the warmth and he needs a place to sleep.

That’s it. That’s all there is to it.

So why does your mind keep coming back to the image of him standing before you, his wet long-sleeve sticking to his body…

Before you can stop them, your teeth begin to chatter again and another shiver takes over your body. The blankets aren’t helping. The chill has settled deep within your bones and isn’t letting up. The hours of being out in the snow are taking their toll, and you already know that come morning, your clothes will still be damp and uncomfortable to put back on.

The thought of dragging cold fabric over your skin has you shivering again.

Din moves a little behind you, no doubt trying to get himself into more of a comfortable position, and you think he may have found one when you hear him sigh.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

The words are almost as unsure as you are—did you hear him correctly? Had he told you to go closer to him?

“Excuse me?”

“Look,” Din starts and then pauses with another small sigh. He’s trying to find the right words. “You’re freezing cold. You’re keeping us both awake. The quickest way you’re going to warm up is if you share some of my body heat.”

A long silence falls between you.

Again, he somehow manages to make it sound so normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. The words roll out like he’s explaining a hunting plan to you or giving you some information regarding the planet you’re going to be landing on. Despite the way your heart races and uncertainty sits heavily in your thoughts, Din makes a fair point.

Should you ask if he’s sure? No, he wouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t sure.

It’s strange, unfamiliar territory as you shuffle back a little on the bed until you’re met with the warmth of Din’s chest. Stars, he’s carrying enough heat to warm up the whole damn room.

You find a comfortable position and then close your eyes when his arm rests against your side. He’s respectful in where he lays his hand: it doesn’t venture anywhere it’s not supposed to. He crosses no lines, and after a moment, you feel the front of his helmet touch the back of your head.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. “It’s easier to sleep at this angle, but I can move if y—”

“It’s fine,” you reassure him.

With Din’s head resting against yours, you listen to the rhythm of his soft breaths: slow and controlled, barely audible through the modulator if it wasn’t for him being so close behind you. There’s a comfortable warmth that radiates from him and easily seeps into your limbs. It cocoons you, thaws the deep chill that had latched onto your bones.

It may have been the smallest bed, but you had never felt so settled. With each breath he takes, his chest brushes against your back and offers gentle encouragement to release some of the tension you’re still holding in your muscles.

This doesn’t have to be anything more than what this moment is: two friends huddling together to share some warmth. The tightness in your shoulders begins to ease, allowing you to mould yourself more comfortably against Din. Eventually, your breathing finds a similar rhythm; slow, steady, relaxed.

Until you reposition your legs and hear Din’s breath involuntarily hitch.

Your eyes snap open in the darkness. During your adjustment, your hips press back a little too far, causing your ass to come into contact with Din’s crotch. There’s no mistaking the feeling of his hard cock pressing against you, restrained only by the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.

Okay, you need to return to some sensible, logical thinking about the given situation and not react impulsively.

Din has never been interested in you like that…has he? No, no. This is simply a natural reaction to being pressed close to someone after such a long time between intimate contact. This is nothing more than two friends sharing a bed, staying warm on a cold evening after a long day of hard work.

You’re suddenly aware of the deafening silence: not even your breathing helps to ease it as you hold it in your chest, unsure of what you’re supposed to do or say. You remain frozen, in all sense of the word, and acknowledge the building desire to grind back against Din in the darkness, to feel him take hold of you and fuck you open and—

“I’m—I’m so sorry. I can’t really—fuck. I didn’t mean…” Din’s frantic apology begins to tumble from him before he can fully form a coherent sentence.

He’s panicking. He’s embarrassed and attempting to put some space between you but you quickly grab hold of his forearm to keep him in place. You don’t want him to go. You don’t want space.

You want him to stay.

“Are you attracted to me, Din?” The question is out before you can talk yourself down. You have to know.

It takes a moment for any sort of response to arise, but you finally hear it, quiet yet confident as it scrapes through his modulator: “Yes.”

Maybe, just like you, Din has never wanted to complicate things. The friendship and connection that you have works well as it is. There has never been any reason to change that or risk the embarrassment of finding out if any mutual feelings were shared.

Until now.

You swallow thickly, all too aware of the heat from his forearm radiating against your palm. His cock, thick and heavy, presses against the curve of your ass as you both take a moment to process the reality of the situation. Perhaps trying to process this isn’t the best thing to do. You know that you’ll end up overthinking everything, just as Din will, so before either of you have a chance to reason yourselves out of this, you slide your hand down over his arm and lace your fingers through his.

“Have you ever thought about fucking me?”

“All the time,” Din confesses without hesitation.

With your hand closed over the top of his, you guide it up over your side so that he can feel your skin. You hear a noticeable change in his breathing: it becomes more shallow, a little heavier, while you take your time with smoothing his hand across your body.

“What do you think about?”

Din’s response is instant this time, a sense of relief evident in the one word he speaks: “Everything.”

You slide his hand up to cup your breast through your bra and squeeze, then with a somewhat innocent tone to your voice, you ask: “Why don’t you share some of those thoughts with me?”

Maybe this is simply a case of wanting what you’ve never been able to have: these unexpected circumstances have offered you both an opportunity you would have otherwise never taken. In the morning, it may be the worst decision either of you could have made…but for tonight, all you’re able to think about is the way his large hand squeezes at the supple flesh of your breast again.

“I think about fucking that smart, pretty mouth of yours,” his tone is suddenly sinful, and gods, it catches you completely off guard as you exhale shakily. “I think about how good it would feel to fuck you right after a hunt while you’re all worked up and disheveled.”

You’ve thought about that, too. On the nights you’ve spent with your fingers deep inside of your cunt, hips rolling while chasing your release to the thought of how Din would tear your pants down over your legs and sink his fingers into you. You’ve always imagined they would stretch you open and fill you perfectly, curl in just the right way until you were begging him to fuck you.

“Keep going,” you urge him.

“Sometimes, I think about how wet you would feel around my cock while you ride me in the pilot’s chair.”

Din’s hand releases your breast and slides upwards across your chest. You know he can feel the way your heart pounds with excitement beneath his touch, the way your body warms against him, flushed with desire.

“I think about holding you while you tremble and cum around me, how beautiful you would look. I think about how you would moan my name, how good it would sound coming from you. Not Mando, not baby…you would moan my name.”

“Din…” you speak it in a way that you never have before. It’s something so personal; breathier, softer.

His hand smooths back down over your chest, pausing only to hook the tips of his fingers into the cup of your bra and tug it down to expose your breast completely. For a bounty hunter, you note how soft Din’s hands are. There’s no callouses as he traps your nipple between two fingers, no rough skin when he pinches the sensitive bud and tugs just enough to cause a spark of pleasure to pulse straight down to your core.

“How long have you wanted me to touch you like this?” he asks.

Despite the modulated tone of his voice, the sultry edge still washes over you like an exquisite silk, and you feel the effects of it everywhere.

“For so long.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s hard to focus when he squeezes your nipple again. You try to form the sentence in your head while his hand follows the curve of your ribs and you attempt to respond just as his fingers inch lower until they meet the edge of your underwear.

“I… I didn’t think you were interested,” you confess in a voice that’s barely louder than a whisper.

“Weren’t you curious to find out?”

“I didn’t want to look like an idiot if you weren’t attracted to me…”

Din’s fingers dip beneath the thin fabric, but instead of settling where you ache for his touch, he traces them lightly over the curve of your hip. It causes the smallest shiver to dance through your muscles, and this time, it has nothing to do with the lingering chill from the snow.

There’s a patience to Din’s touch, a restraint that you see him carry out on every hunt. He knows exactly how he wants to do this. He has thought about it, plotted his next steps while mapping out your skin with his hand. Stars, you can’t help but admire the way he controls his urges: he wants to take his time with this. He wants to show you that the attraction is mutual.

“Do you want to find out now?”

You nod eagerly. Maker, you want to find out more than anything in the galaxy.

“Let me hear you say it,” Din encourages you.

“Yes,” you nod again, still as eager as the first time. “I do.”

Din readjusts behind you: only enough for his hand to slide down and take hold of your inner thigh before guiding your top leg over his own. Now that you’re adequately spread for him, his fingers smoothover the thin piece of fabric keeping him separated from you.

You hear Din’s breath catch when his fingers discover the wetness that is entirely his doing. For a moment, he’s difficult to read. He lingers there, fingers flexing slowly against the damp material as though he’s admiring what he has done to you from a few confessions and light touches.

“Fuck,” he hisses slowly while his fingers ease your underwear aside. “You’re so wet.”

And before you can stop yourself, words come tumbling out of your mouth: “I always am when I think about you touching me.”

You don’t need to see or hear Din to know that he’s smirking. You can sense how smug he is to have this newfound knowledge of one of your best kept secrets.

He traces the tip of one finger through the drenched slit of your cunt, collecting your arousal before drawing slow circles around your clit. Your whole body momentarily jerks and tenses at the sudden pleasure but his other arm slides beneath you and holds you tight to his broad chest.

You’re trapped against him in the best possible way: leg hitched over his to spread you open, his hand pressing your upper body back against him. Your movement is limited when you attempt to roll your hips and moan in desperation when his finger stills against your clit with a lingering pressure.

“Tell me how you imagine it,” Din encourages.

Lust sears through your whole body, molten and unyielding. Of all the ways you have imagined confessing this in your fantasies, none of them come close to the real thing. The electrical flutter of excitement is ever present in your stomach, and it spurs you on to reach down and cover Din’s hand with your own, taking control of the pace.

He’s just as surprised as you are when you press against his finger and cause it to flex slowly against your clit. You have the upper hand—quite literally—and Din is more than willing to see this play out.

“Sometimes, I think about us not being able to make it back to the ship before you have me pressed up against something, out of view of any passers-by but still close enough that I would have to keep my moans quiet.” You fight to keep your voice steady while Din’s finger continues to rub slowly against you. “You’d barely get my pants down all the way, but it would be enough for you to bury your fingers into me.”

“How many?”

“One to begin with…but this is after a hunt and all of your patience has been spent. All of that composure and restraint would be at breaking point so you would waste little time before sinking a second finger in and moaning about how good it feels.”

Din’s next breath falls unevenly through his modulator, creating a momentary crackle of static before he groans: “Go on…tell me what I’d do next.”

“I’d ask for a third one,” you continue.

“Do you think you could take it?”

You’re already smirking to yourself as you nod and give him a simple response: “Yes.”

Your words have Din shifting behind you, and you know that he’s close to snapping. He’s strong and resilient, but he’s only human, and it’s clear that his needs are starting to cause cracks in his composure. You can hear it in his laboured breathing, in the strain in his voice.

“It would feel amazing…that stretch. It would be enough to open me up and prepare me for your big cock, but when—” you stumble and pause on your words when Din seeks out your opening.

Fucking stars, you hear the obscene sounds of your drenched cunt when his finger presses into you: one to begin with, just as you had described.

“You feel amazing,” Din groans out his praise. “What would happen next?”

You moan at the feel of his finger pressing deeply into you, at the thought of him wanting to hear you describe your fantasy to him. Din is enjoying this: his neglected cock twitches against you in anticipation while he hangs on your every word.

You draw in a breath, attempting to continue while a warmth radiates throughout your body, right from your core. Then right on cue, Din adds a second finger. He works them slowly to begin with, enjoying the feel of you opening up and welcoming him into your tight heat.

“I’d try so hard to keep…to keep,” your words bleed into a loud moan when Din adjusts his hand and strokes his fingers up against a spot that has you trembling. Fuck. You draw in a shaky breath, attempting to continue. “To—to keep my composure,” you finally manage to rush through your words and then smile at Din’s breathy laugh.

“More than you are now?”

“I said I’d try,” you remind him. “Never said I’d do it successfully.”

At this, you both laugh, his a lower rumble in comparison to the breatheir tone that passes through your lips. Any lingering nervousness or doubt seems to melt away in the moment: there’s something surreal about laughing at the easy banter you share while Din has two fingers buried inside of you.

There’s an undeniable charge in the air, a shift in the connection you share. You think it’s the excitement and fear of the unknown that comes with crossing the line from friends and into something more. Is this something more? You don’t want to get ahead of yourself here, but it already feels different to so many others you’ve been with.

There’s a mutual trust that you share with Din, an understanding of each other that nobody else has. You’ve given up your years of travelling alone and traded them in for his companionship. It has always felt so right to be with Din, despite the fleeting doubts in the beginning. There’s been hours spent talking and laughing in the cockpit, learning who he is beneath his armor and allowing an authentic friendship to blossom. Maybe that’s why even now, while stuck in a freezing-cold room, there’s nowhere else you would rather be if it means being there without him.

Much to your disappointment, his fingers withdraw. Din makes no big adjustments to his position, reluctant to put any space between your bodies. At first, you’re unsure of his intentions, unable to work out what he’s doing, until he draws his other arm from under you.

A few seconds later, there’s a familiar hiss, one you have only ever heard from behind closed doors. Then, a thud. The unmistakable sound of beskar hitting carpet: Din’s helmet, dropping with much less care than he had taken when setting out the rest of his armor.

A sudden excitement bubbles up from deep within your stomach at the realisation: he’s helmetless, for you. You know this isn’t his usual method of fucking people—you have witnessed that yourself. Din rarely removes any pieces of armor when seeing to his needs with another. But not with you.

When his hands return to your body, you feel a new sensation; his breath, hot and steady against the back of your neck. Every fine hair rises to the caress of his exhales, and when his nose traces over the skin behind your ear, the weakest gasp escapes you. Din has facial hair. It tickles against your skin right before his lips find the sensitive spot below your earlobe.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice enchantingly smooth without the distortion of the helmet.

“Y—yes,” you gasp.

This is more than okay. You tilt your head in silent encouragement for him to continue, willing those lips to explore more of your neck.

“I know this wasn’t part of your fantasy…but I’ve always wanted to know how it feels to kiss your skin.”

Stars, you have thought about this often; how could you not? You have always found yourself wondering how Din’s lips would feel–would they be chapped and rough? Does he chew on his lower one when tense or nervous? Does he know how it feels to brush them gently against another’s or feel someone smile into a kiss? Knowing how little he removes his helmet, you doubt he does.

He takes his time exploring your skin with his mouth: nose brushing against the curve of your breast, lips sealing around the sensitive bud of your nipple while guiding you onto your back. You move with him easily, as though this is a well rehearsed dance that has been practised over many weeks together: it comes with knowing each other, working together, learning how the other moves and thinks.

One of Din’s large hands glides over the curve of your thigh when you arch against him and bury your fingers into his hair without thinking. The action is rewarded with a surprised moan that gets caught in Din’s throat. He likes it. He enjoys the feel of your fingers tangling into the thick strands while you use them to hold his face close to yours.

The warmth of Din’s breath caresses your cheek with a delicate intimacy. He’s close enough to kiss, if only you were to turn your head slightly to seek out his lips.

Has he ever kissed anyone before? From his hesitation, you assume not.

You want to ask him. You want to check if this is okay, if he’s comfortable with how quickly this is moving for him…but you don’t know how. This affection is beyond what you’re used to, so you say nothing. Instead, you turn your head just enough to find his eyes in the darkness—the years of staring into a visor have taught you how to hold his gaze without seeing him—and slowly, a soft smile curls onto your lips.

“I think… I think I was better at this while we were doing all the dirty talk,” you admit with a soft laugh.

When you hear Din’s chuckle accompany it, your smile grows a little more. He’s still at ease, and that settles you—until he leans in to kiss you while you’re still smiling, resulting in him awkwardly catching more of your teeth than your lips.

“Shit,” he half laughs, a little embarrassed. “I thought your lips were there.”

Clearly he’s not as well-trained without his helmet.

“Come here,” you whisper through your smile and guide him in again until your lips press gently to his.

The kisses are slow to begin with: each one lingers as you take in the feel of his lips, the softness of them, the way his moustache unintentionally tickles your upper lip and nose while you melt into him. Eventually, your lips part against Din’s to take the lead. He follows, learning from your knowledge and experience in the same way you so often learn from his.

It takes him no time at all to deepen it, and much to your surprise, his tongue licks confidently into your mouth. Maker, you could kiss him for hours, just like this. His warmth and taste are better than you could have ever imagined, and as each kiss becomes more assured than the last, you’re lost to him.

Din devours you, kissing you like a man starved of affection, and when he reaches down to ease your underwear aside again, your moan muffles against his mouth. He starts slowly, sliding in one finger while kissing down your neck. He adds a second when his teeth graze over your collar bone, and just as his fingers curl inside of you, the wet heat of his mouth closes over your nipple.

You arch into the pleasure while his name slips from your mouth in a desperate whine. You like the way it sounds, and from Din’s groan of approval, you know he likes it, too.

He takes his time pleasuring you, working you open with his fingers until he finally gives you what you want and adds a third. Stars, you feel yourself stretch around him in the most satisfying way.

“Is that what you needed?” Din almost purrs against your ear.

His unmodulated voice should be illegal in this situation: he shouldn’t be allowed to use it so casually—at the very least, it should come with some sort of warning.

“Yes,” you manage, your breaths short and shallow while your hips rock against his fingers, enjoying the way those strong, thick digits feel inside of you.

His mouth does nothing short of worshipping your body; the kisses are feather-light brushes before switching to something more calculated: mouth open, his teeth and tongue teasing and exploring in a way that has you arching against him.

Your whole body feels ignited by his touch: a heat radiates slowly from somewhere deep within your lower stomach and spreads through each limb as Din’s fingers withdraw from the wet heat of your cunt and move to focus on your clit again.

Coated generously in your arousal, the pad of Din’s finger moves with ease in slow, circular motions. He’s enjoying this. He’s taking his time, savouring the sounds you make as your own fingers grip at the sheet when the heat begins to lick up your lower spine.

“Din—” you breathe out his name while he breathes you in, mouth at the base of your neck again.

There’s an unexpected intimacy to the way his lips map out your skin, exploring, learning. He memorises you, the way you feel and sound as his fingers continue to pleasure you. You don’t need to say a single word to him; it’s almost as though he feels the molten desire pulsing through your veins, burning with enough fever to thaw the snow in a six mile radius of the bed.

You turn your head to seek him out and sigh softly when your lips find his temple. His hair is soft against your nose and holds the lingering scent of the soap on the Crest: it smells so perfectly Din. You can’t help but wonder if he has found an intimacy like this with anyone before, if he has been touched with a tenderness that comes from knowing him, caring for him. It’s easy to assume that he hasn’t from the way he exhales when you kiss his temple and then brush the tip of your nose against the side of his cheek.

Din leans into you, as though he finally has a touch that he has craved for longer than he’s willing to admit, and you’re more than happy to give him as much as he needs. Your lips drag slowly over the side of his face, dropping lingering kisses and breaking them up with small nudges of your nose. These needs, these soft displays of affection, are some that Din was unable to satisfy with the simple pleasure he found in a stranger’s body.

Together, you remove the final items of clothing–your underwear, Din’s boxers–before you’re captured by his lips again and lost to the welcoming heat of his mouth. It’s only when you feel the head of his cock teasing at your entrance that you stop him: one hand against his warm chest, the other holding his shoulder as you pull back just enough from the kiss.

“Wait,” you whisper against his lips. “I want to be on top.”

There’s a pause, seconds of Din holding himself still while considering your words.

“Yeah?” he finally asks, unable to mask the interest at the edge of his tone.

“Yeah,” you smile and then nip his lower lip lightly.

Who knows if there will be another time after this, so if this is your only night with Din, you want to fulfil the fantasy of being the one in control. And to your delight, Din is not opposed to the idea.

With some manoeuvring–and some very close calls with the edge of the bed–you find yourself braced on top of him: knees pressed into the uncomfortable springs of the mattress which pop and groan beneath you both while you sit back on his hips.

You can barely see him. The limited moonlight from the window offers a sliver of illumination across his chest which rises in a steady rhythm. Maker, it’s broad. He’s broad. On his back, you note that he fills most of the small bed. The sight has your cunt throbbing with need.

Din’s hands find their way to your thighs, smoothing over your skin and touching whatever part of you he can reach. His palms are still warm, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the room as you lift your hips just enough to nestle his thick cock inside the soaked slit of your cunt.

The sound you’re rewarded with is unexpected, yet not unwelcome. It seems to take Din by surprise when he gasps and moans: his fingers unintentionally gripping at your skin at the pleasure you offer. It’s a sound you feel in the depths of your core, a sound that’s so personal, just for you.

You know that his eyes are glued to your form in the darkness, watching you with a lustful gaze as you rub yourself against the underside of his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Din praises in the softest tone. “You’re soaked.”

This time, it’s you who finds yourself moaning out louder than intended at the praise he gives you.

His hands roam upwards over your body, exploring every dip and curve while you sufficiently coat him in your arousal. You know that you should guide him into you—it’s what you both want, but it feels so good to grind against him as his hands find your breasts. There’s no hesitation when his fingers find the stiff peak of your nipple and squeeze: the boardline roughness creates a delicious jolt of pleasure through your body as you moan again, encouraging him to repeat the action.

Din is more than happy to comply. He moves his attention to your other nipple, offering the same rough treatment as you roll your hips. Lost in the moment, it’s easy to forget where you are and just how thin the walls are between the rooms.

You’re flying too close to the sun. The coiling heat ignites in warning, pulling tight in your lower stomach as you force yourself to stop and catch a breath.

“You’re incredible,” Din compliments from the safety of the darkness.

He has never been forthcoming with compliments: everything is usually ‘good’, or ‘okay’ to him. Maybe that’s why they drive you wild, offering a taste of how it sounds to hear him enjoy something—that something being you.

With a coy smile, you lower yourself over his body to seek out his lips again and murmur, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Leaned over and spread open for him, you grant him the opportunity to guide himself to your entrance. Din takes his cue as his lips meet yours for a kiss: it’s not as controlled as the last—he’s distracted, lost to the sensation of his cock slowly stretching you open.

Stars, he’s thick.

His free hand moves to the back of your head when you press your forehead gently against his cheek and close your eyes. Your body is quick to adjust to him, your inner muscles sheathing him inside of your heat until he stills and lets out a heavy breath.

That’s when you clench teasingly around him and smirk to yourself.

“Don’t do that,” he warns you in a murmur. “It’s already difficult enough to fight this urge to fuck you senseless right now.”

“Yeah?” you ask as you do it again.

“Yeah.”

Din’s fingers tighten their grip on you: his composure is close to snapping. You’ve worked him hard enough with your teasing so you finally give him what he wants.

You begin slowly, drawing your hips up and sliding yourself down over his cock again in a steady rhythm. It’s not a pace that lasts for long, though. You move to sit back up on Din’s hips, hands bracing against his chest to give yourself some leverage as you fuck yourself on his cock.

A slur of incoherent curses fall from your lips when Din’s thighs tense to thrust up and meet your hips. He learns your movements quickly, finds your rhythm and compliments it with his own. The bed protests with its squeaks and groans, but you’re sure it’s barely audible over the way you moan for the man beneath you.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp when Din grabs handfuls of the flesh on your ass.

He guides you up and pulls you back down, creating the most delicious sounds of skin against skin as you lean back even further. The change in position has Din’s cock rubbing up against just the right spot as you gasp. You repeat the action, switching to rock your hips as you control the pace and moan at the way tingles of electrical pleasure pulse across your body.

Maker, it’s amazing, albeit borderline overwhelming.

“I don’t–I don’t want to cum,” you whine breathlessly. “Don’t want this…to end.”

“Sweetheart, this is just getting started,” Din assures you.

Your eyes snap open to catch sight of a grin on his full lips—stars, that does nothing to help you hold onto what little composure you have left. It’s already slipping through your fingers when you drop a hand to rub at your clit.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms.

Din makes it sound like a promise. The simplicity of knowing he wants more serves as the assurance you need: you feel wanted, but not by just anyone. You feel wanted by Din. The thought of that has everything beginning to pull tighter and tighter until finally, something snaps. You descend into the pleasure of your climax with a loud moan of his name as your body switches to autopilot, hips rocking to ride out your orgasm.

There’s barely time for you to fully comprehend what’s going on when Din tenses with a groan and urges you to move. His thick cock is gone, no longer filling you as he quickly reaches down to wrap a hand around his glistening length while he spills his release against your thigh with a moan.

A moment of stillness fills the room as you keep yourself propped up with your hands against Din’s firm chest. His heart thunders beneath your palm, just as your own does: you hear the rhythmic thumps of it, loud in your ears against the silence.

Din hands find their way to your body again, smoothing affectionately over your skin before he pulls you down and wraps an arm around you. With barely any room on the bed, you find yourself settling onto the side of his chest with a small, lazy smile.

“I’d say we should get cleaned up,” Din mumbles quietly now that he has caught his breath. “But there’s no shower.”

“There’s no shower,” you remember with a quiet laugh.

“And I’d prefer to keep you right where you are…”

The way Din trails off leaves it open for you to decline: he’s unsure if you want to stay here with him. You get the feeling he’s offering you a chance to leave, if this isn’t what you want.

“I’d prefer to stay right where I am,” you reassure him as you tilt your head a little to brush the tip of your nose against his jaw. “Besides, I’m interested to see what you have planned for the rest of the night.”

Din huffs a small laugh at your recall of his words, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

—-----

The small, not-so-big, unable-to-comfortably-share, tiny bed proved useful for many things…but sleep wasn’t one of them.

You fasten your damp jacket, standing in front of the window, noting the fresh layer of snow that had settled overnight. You already know how cold it is out there, how wet your clothes are going to get while you freeze down to your bones.

The thought of that brings a hint of a smile to your lips as you look over your shoulder to see Din fixing the last of his weapons back into place. To look at him, nothing seems different this morning as he goes about his normal routine, yet, everything has changed overnight.

Daylight had crept into the room far too soon this morning after hours of losing yourself in the pleasure Din could offer. If it wasn’t for the fact that you were both on a job, you would have insisted on staying longer so that you could fall back down onto the bed again and have him bury his face between your thighs to worship your taste.

You blink yourself out of your thoughts and notice that he’s watching you, helmet tilted slightly to the side. You can’t be certain, but you like to think he’s smiling under his helmet, having caught you staring at him now that you no longer have to hide it.

“You ready?” he asks as he motions to the door.

“Actually…give me a second,” you quickly request and make your way into the fresher.

The light above the mirror continues to flicker, and with an amused grin, you pull the small blade from your jacket. It seems only right to add your initials to the wall after spending a night here with Din. The sound isn’t a pleasant one as the blade scrapes over the metal, and within seconds, you feel his presence in the doorway.

“Should I ask?”

“Nope,” you reply and take a small step back to admire your work.

No date, no full names, simply your and Din’s initials etched into the wall. Just like all the other names on there, you have plenty of stories to tell about your time spent in this room.

But they would have to wait for another time.

You turn to look at him, doing your utmost not to beam as you offer him a small smile.

“Okay, let’s get going, big guy,” you tease him, using the Lasat’s words from the night before.

“Don’t,” he sighs, still annoyed about that.

You step out of the fresher and reach to touch the edge of his helmet with your finger, as if it were his chin: “Don’t forget to thank her on the way out. Seems like one bed wasn’t so bad, after all.”

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x female reader #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #mando x reader #mando x female reader #mando x you #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fic

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thefrogdalorian · 4 months

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Always

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1588 Rating: General Summary: You wake up from an incredibly distressing nightmare in which Din and Grogu had suddenly vanished from your life without a trace. Fortunately, Din is there to console you with his comforting embrace and soothing words. He leaves you feeling optimistic about the future, rather than dreading what lies ahead for the pair of you. Content Warnings: Reader has a nightmare and panic attack! Author's Note: I opened up Google Docs and started churning this baby out minutes after the movie announcement yesterday. Until I see confirmation season 4 is in production I'll be spiralling that the show as we know it has ended, despite how excited I am to see Clan Mudhorn on the big screen!! I just needed to write this for some comfort for myself, but I really hope you enjoyed it too.

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The presence of a large hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you, awakened you from the torturous visions that had overtaken your consciousness while you were sleeping. The nightmare had rocked you to your core, but the warm touch of Din’s hand on your shoulder brought you back from that terrible place that your mind had taken you to. Only seconds ago, you had been experiencing a hauntingly realistic nightmare where Din had disappeared from your life without a trace.

In the terrifying scene your mind had created, you arrived back – after running some errands in the centre of town – at the small cabin the two of you shared with Grogu on Nevarro to find it empty. The cabin was achingly quiet and still as you approached. There was no light, laughter or love; you had felt the bile rise in your throat at the realisation that all evidence of Din and Grogu’s existence had been inexplicably wiped from your life.

The numerous colourful drawings Grogu had created of your Clan of Three, usually pinned to the door of the cooling chamber with magnets, had vanished. As had the toys that were carelessly strewn across the rug in the main living area of the cabin – despite how frequently Din nagged the cheeky little boy to pick them up.

The ghosts of memories danced around you, haunting as you searched every inch of the desolate cabin for any explanation for their absence. The couch where you had often cuddled up with Din, feeling so warm and safe in his arms, was now heartbreakingly empty. But nothing had prepared you for the devastation you felt when you walked into the room you shared together with Din to find the assortment of shelves that he carefully stacked his Beskar armour and helmet on every night, after meticulously polishing them, lay completely empty.

At the sight of that, you knew something was seriously wrong. The armour was a second skin to Din, a part of his body; an extension of his person even when he was not wearing it. Without that it was as though he had somehow been erased, as though he had never existed in the first place. Din Djarin appeared to be nothing more than a figment of your imagination. You had shouted and screamed their names at the top of your lungs as you paced through the cabin, your voice growing more frantic with each passing second. But it was to no avail; it was as though Din and Grogu were never a part of your life. Their presence had abruptly vanished without warning or explanation.

Fortunately, Din's gentle, careful touch on your shoulder had roused you from the terrifying visions that had haunted you in slumber. As you lay there, a sheen of sweat growing cold across your forehead, your eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness. When they eventually did, the first thing that came into focus in your vision was the sight of Din peering down at you, his warm brown eyes full of concern.

It was a sight that instantly soothed your soul, but the rich, gravelly baritone of his voice reverberating through the night to console you calmed your shaken body and mind even further.

“It was just a dream, I’m here,” Din said calmly as he held your chin gently in one hand. “You’re safe, cyare. It was only a dream. I’m right here with you.”

“Din?” You murmured, feeling as hot tears scorched a path down your cheeks as you sat up to face him.

“I’ve got you,” Din said as he gathered you to him, his strong arms encircling your body protectively, his chin resting on top of your head.

“I thought… I thought you’d left,” You forced out between sobs. “I came back to the cabin and you’d… you were gone, Din…”

“I would never leave you,” Din asserted. He snapped his head up where it rested on your scalp and held you away from him, shaking his head as though disgusted by the notion. “I’ve got you, I’m right here by your side, always. I’m never leaving you, cyare, You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded weakly. “It was so real, though,” You choked, “It really felt as though you had left me forever, without even saying goodbye.”

“I would never leave you like that," Din said earnestly. "There is no reality where I would ever do such a thing."

Despite the conviction in Din’s voice, you remained unconvinced. The nightmare you had just woken up from had sewn seeds of doubt in your mind. Din led a dangerous life, after all. You had been under no illusions about that fact when you had met him. You knew that there were multiple reasons he might end up injured, or worse, during the course of one of his various jobs with the New Republic.

“But what if something happens to you one day and you’re taken away from me. Oh, Din, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” You whispered, feeling utterly shattered by the emotions you were currently experiencing.

“That’s not going to happen, cyare. I’ve made it this far, even after all the binds I’ve found myself in over the years. I think I’m pretty good at making it out alive, don’t you?” Din said, his tone light in an attempt to cheer you up, before he placed an achingly soft kiss on your forehead. But despite his gentle gesture, your anguished mind continued its journey to the worst possible conclusions.

“It’s not about how skilled you are, Din!” You exclaimed, a little harsher than you intended. You were spiralling now, frantically gulping air into your lungs to get the words out as your mind raced. “We don’t know what’s out there… the galaxy, there are so many threats. What about Thrawn and–”

“Shhh, shhhh, cyare. Please… that dark place in your mind with all of your worst fears… don’t go there,” Din said as his arms squeezed your waist tightly, before he reached for the back of your head and brought you against his warm, firm chest.

You stayed in that position for a few minutes, regaining your composure as your shaky sobs grew more infrequent and then eventually stopped. Then you drew your head back, looking up into the handsome, sympathetic face of the man you loved so deeply.

“I’m sorry, Din,” You whispered, shaking your head in frustration at how you had let your emotions get the better of you.

“You don’t need to apologise to me,” Din whispered, cupping your jaw and smiling softly at you, relieved that you had finally stopped sobbing and could manage making eye contact with him.

“I just can’t imagine my life without you,” You sighed.

“Well, don’t imagine that, cyare,” Din pleaded, his voice firm but quiet, as he added: “Don’t borrow grief from the future.”

You felt your eyes water at such beautiful words. It was a poignant way to relate to the uncertainty about what lay ahead in yours and Din’s lives. The Mandalorian you loved occasionally delivered such profound quotes that you felt almost overwhelmed by the depth and weight that his words carried. You just stared at him, completely awestruck.

Din’s perceptiveness of the world around him, with his analytical mind and how well he managed to articulate himself, filled you with such a deep sense of wonder that it was difficult to suppress the tears you had only just managed to halt.

“I won’t, Din,” You nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “I promise.”

“You know I will never truly leave you,” Din whispered. “Even if something terrible were ever to happen, I’d find a way to be with you again. Wherever we go after all this ends, I’ll be with you. Do you believe that?”

“Of course, I do, Din,” You nodded, hoping you managed to convey the certainty with which you believed his vow.

You knew that once Din Djarin set his mind to something, anyone who threatened to drive a wedge between him and that objective would curse the day they made such an unwise decision.

"Good. I'm not going anywhere, cyare. I'll be with you, always,” Din said as he stroked your cheeks tenderly with his thumbs, before leaning in to kiss your forehead softly. You closed your eyes and sighed at the contact, the emotion of the moment took your breath away. “Are you ready to get comfortable and try to get some more rest? I expect we’ll be able to manage a few more hours before the little womp rat bursts his way in here to wake us up.”

“Yes, Din,” You giggled at the affectionate nickname Din had for his son. The love you both held for that little boy was boundless.

Din lay back down on the cot and you rested your cheek on his bare chest, feeling instantly soothed at the skin-to-skin contact and the rhythmic beats of his heart.

In the harrowing nightmare that had left you so devastated, Din had left you all alone. He had been taken from you abruptly by forces unknown. But as you lay there, feeling your eyelids grow heavy as you listened to the faint thundering emanating from deep below in his chest… Din was very much by your side. You sighed, a small smile ghosting across your features.

You knew with absolute certainty that despite whatever forces conspired against you, in this galaxy or any, Din Djarin would be with you… always.

#my fics #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal characters #the mandalorian fanfiction #when people say fanfic is self indulgent YEAH they're talking about this sjhg wrote this for me but i hope others enjoy #save me din djarin...... din djarin save me..... save me din djarin...#din djarin fluff

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lavendertales · 2 years

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Hands to myself || Din Djarin x f!reader**

summary: you confess to Din that you like his hands, and he wants to see exactly how much.

word count: 3k

WARNINGS: hand kink obvs, dry humping, male masturbation, vaginal fingering, a dash of praise kink, cockwarming, sub!Din.

A/N: I’ve been meaning to post this for almost two weeks lmao so here we are. feedback is more than welcome 💕hope you enjoy, lovebugs!

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

gif: @themandaloriandaily

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Throughout the months you’ve spent traveling with Din, many things have remained a mystery, such as his face and his upbringing. Yet you can say with absolute certainty that you knew each other way more intimately than those things.

You don’t need to hold all that information. You know what truly matters the most. You know him, as he is, the man behind the beskar; you know him as kind, sweet, a protector in times of need—and a damn good lover.

It could be argued that Din is easily the best lover you’ve ever had. The months you’ve spent on the ship alongside him carried no shortage of passion. An initial shy attraction blossomed into a near-fatal carnal desire, threatening to overpower you both. You learned in time his likes and dislikes; you knew how he felt and what sounds he’d make before you even touched him. Once he got more comfortable exploring your body in the dim light of the Crest, you studied each scar on his body, every navel and ridge, everything that was worth knowing.

Din himself was worth knowing.

So while you may not know his face or backstory—all curtesy of the Mandalorians’ beloved Creed—you shared an intimacy that stretched beyond definitions.

But there were still things left to discover between you two, things that you had yet to share.

Now, you’ve seen Din in various postures: hunting, carrying bounties back to the ship, expertly driving the Crest through outer space and even handling you in ways that made your head spin. It would’ve been impossible to witness all of that and not develop some sort of bizarre fondness for his hands. You’ve seen his hands ungloved hundreds of times, but you’ve never actually told him how appealing they are to you, how they exude tenderness and power, much like Din himself.

Instead, you resort to watching him carry the toolbox to the outer side of the Crest and mend its metallic wounds. He grabs each item with confidence and expertise, maneuvering them like they’re nothing. You remain in the background, once in a while gulping as your eyes focus on Din’s gloved hands. He’s too attentive to the task at hand to remark you studying him curiously in the background – and a little parched, too.

Even covered, his hands seem to be doing a little magic of their own; their movement, while concise and harsh in order to be able to fulfill the task, is undeniably enticing. Swiftly, your mind transports you elsewhere entirely, picturing those hands—free from the gloves’ leather confinements or not—moving up your body, fondling you and bringing you to pleasure that you’ve only ever experienced with him.

The sudden callout of your name makes your cheeks burn crimson. You’re slightly ashamed of having been daydreaming right next to him.

“Sorry,” you apologize in advance with a brief shake of your head.

“Are you okay?”

Uh-oh. His velvet, raspy voice paired with your prior wishful thinking isn’t aiding you much. You swallow harshly, the blob of saliva feeling like sand on paper.

Damn, what is it with you today? Down, girl.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “Just a little distracted.”

“By what?”

You falter. You figure you should at least let the man finish his job before starting the next one. You know that if you ask nicely enough, Din will help you out without hesitation.

And that thought makes you squirm with excitement, so much so that you feel heat pooling down below.

“A lot of thoughts,” you settle to respond. “Did you need anything?”

“Can you hand me the hammer, please?”

You comply, walking over to give him exactly what he wants. Then, you keep your eyes on his lucrative figure as he starts hammering a screw.

Good Gods, why am I torturing myself like this?

Once he’s done, Din slouches down, grabbing with both hands two loose chunks of metal and parts them. Your eyes widen, breaths a little shallower.

He has to be doing this on purpose. There’s just no way.

You keep watching him though; you keep watching him gently put all the chunks back and causing fast trepidations of your heart, completely unsuspecting and innocent. He catches your eyes eventually, and you sport a cute smile. You like to think he reciprocates. That’s Din: giving and caring. At least with you.

“That should hold us for a while,” he announces.

“Oh, good.”

Your voice dies down, and it’s only when Din stands back up in all of his broad beskar glory that you truly feel the effect of—well, him. You’ve become quite transparent to him, so there’s not much you can hide. You know that eventually he’ll put two and two together and figure out the reason behind your restless aura.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he checks, approaching you.

“Mhm.”

“You seem nervous.”

You keep on smiling, hoping to somehow disguise your nervousness. But you don’t really want to; you want everything that Din is willing to give to you, each taste he’ll allow you to have.

“Do I?” you ask, realizing you might be teasing him subconsciously.

He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side, and something goes off inside you. That’s one of the few gestures that get you going on the spot; an additional touch to the right spot and you’ll be a wet bundle of nerves.

He doesn’t ask you anything. He usually doesn’t need to unless he’s making sure what he’s doing is appropriate, and in this moment, he can tell by the way you’re basically forcing your legs together that you’re in need of something else that sparks his interest as well.

“Tell me,” he coos. “What’s on your mind?”

You inhale, heart thrumming in your ears.

“I hope this won’t sound too weird, but… I was watching you work and it’s very—you’re very good at fixing things, and—”

Maker, you’re babbling. Get it together.

“Bottom line is,” you try to laugh it off, “I… like your hands.”

Din feels utterly taken aback. He’s never paid any attention to his physical traits, barely so since you came into his life. He often wonders if you wouldn’t prefer a younger body, one that’s not scarred or bruised or tired. But when he’s inside you, when he hears your sweet moans, when he hastily kneads the warm flesh of your body, there’s no more doubt in his mind that you want him just as he is. And that he wants you.

But hearing that you like his hands in particular is quite surprising. Especially since he spends all day covering them with those worn-out leathery gloves. The only time he takes them off is when he sleeps—or when they’re on you.

“My hands?” he asks, still bewildered at your confession.

You nod shyly.

“I’m sweaty from working, probably should wash off before—”

“I don’t mind. I like it dirty.”

“Hm.”

His hum is soft and husky, just like he is, and you quiver just thinking about him, vulnerable before you yet again. Everything about Din’s presence is intoxicating, and you wish you could put those words that cross your mind in coherent sentences so that he’ll know it, too.

He inches closer to your figure, and you just know his keen eyes scan you from head to toe through his visor. You don’t move; your body already aches and burns and itches in forbidden places that only he gets to see, and you want to enjoy every second of the thrilling moment.

“Go back inside,” he instructs.

And you obey without fault.

Your legs are guided solely by nervousness, an anticipation that allows you no rest. You nearly sprint back on the Crest, and decide to remain in the cockpit. The little cot Din sleeps in wouldn’t provide much space for… whatever it is that’s about to happen. You could use the mattress Din bought from one of the planets you’ve been on, since you’ve both been sleeping and fucking on it since its appearance aboard, but it was a bit unstable after the last time you used it.

You giggle to yourself reminiscing that night, how randy you both were and how rough and speedy things had gotten.

Din’s presence looms over you, a dark, yet shiny figure that somehow always seems to be watching over you. Heart in your throat, you stare at him with those big, doe eyes that drive him insane. You watch him rest in his usual seat, legs mildly spread; he proceeds to remove the beskar plates from his thighs, cocking his head to the side.

“Sit down, cyar’ika,” he coos.

Gods, you’re getting wetter with each passing second and you swear he could hear it with every step you take towards him. But you don’t falter: you spread your own legs and sit on his left thigh, suppressing a moan when your clothed core unconsciously grinds on him.

“Why did you want me to—?” you begin.

“I need you nice and wet before I give you my fingers.”

You gulp, completely blown away by how insanely attractive that sentence was. Din nods, thus encouraging you to move forward with what you need, and you anchor yourself to his broad shoulders, past the pauldrons. You pull him close as you start rubbing your clothed core on his leg, breaths already hitched in your chest. It’s already electric and it gets you tingly all over, and you wonder how long Din intends to keep playing this game.

The friction is good—too good. It’s debilitating in its simplicity, and you find yourself staring into what you presume are Din’s eyes. You see past the helmet’s visor, past everything else that might stand in between the two of you, and you like to think Din cannot keep his eyes away from you.

It’s absolutely true. It’s even more than that: everything that you do or say runs deeper for Din, much deeper than he could ever explain to you. Each drag of your clothed cunt along his thigh is sending him into a spiral of pleasure, clouding his better judgment and freezing him in this particular moment in time. There is nothing else but you, what you want, and how he can get you there.

He swears he feels your pulse throbbing in your core, and it makes him hard. Painfully hard. He’s truly at your mercy, a victim of your saccharine movements which show no mercy.

And then he remembers your flustered confession, and he grabs your hips to cease your grinding. You’re upset—you’ve been building towards something great, something explosive in your belly waiting to be detonated, and he stops it.

But, as you shift your eyes from his helmet to his lap, you notice the protruding erection in his pants, and the removal of his gloves. You hold your breath.

It should not be this attractive. It shouldn’t be—but it is. It’s simply erotic in its basic motions: Din pulls on the glove, one finger at a time, and frees his left hand. He repeats the gesture with his right hand, and now you gasp. Those calloused hands, the same ones that hold you close to his chest at night and knead your flesh in between them with unbridled passion, hold so much more power than Din himself is aware of.

Right under his cautious eyes and his irregular breaths, Din watches you strip down the clothes from your lower half; he feels his cheeks burn crimson with nervousness, an almost shocking realization that you want him so much. It is reciprocated by far: he gets so hard just thinking about you, it feels downright cruel.

Gods, he wishes he could kiss you right now.

More so, when you pull away from him and sit in the passenger’s seat with your legs semi-open, Din gulps, wishing he could quench his thirst by drinking straight from you. He wonders how you taste, what sounds you’d make should he bury his head in between your legs.

You’d be embarrassed at how wet you are just by looking at his hands and rubbing yourself on his thigh for a few minutes, but this is Din. This is no fling, no regular man.

With slightly wobbly legs, he makes his way to you, down on his knees before you. His fingers find your clit with ease, drawing circles as the other hand presses on your lower belly. You instantly throw your head back, a soft moan escaping past your lips.

“Din—”

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Mhm—”

All coherent words flee from your mind when one of his fingers pushes carefully past your soaked lips. He pushes slowly, testing you, but when you spread your legs further and try to move your hips so that they meet with more of his hand, Din nearly crumbles on the spot.

“You’re so warm,” he says in awe.

You can only moan, thankful when he adds a second finger and truly thrusts them inside you. You grab onto the seat, holding onto it till your knuckles turn white. The pleasure that runs through you is sapping, unbearable. Din’s fingers pump hastily in and out of you as the man behind the beskar watches your every facial expression, listens to your every sound.

His pants are strangling him by this point, and he’s not sure how much longer can he pretend like it doesn’t ache just to think about how hard this is making him.

“Oh, fuck,” you hear him whisper.

You look at him in a frenzy, mouth ajar, and see him fumble with his pants. The thrust of his fingers gets a little sloppy as he works with his other hand to free his cock from its confinement. You nearly gasp when you see how hard he is, the tip leaking with precum already. Din grunts as his hand wraps around his cock, resuming his ministration on your cunt.

“You’re so good,” you tell him. “You’re so good, Din—”

“Yeah?”

“Yes—yes, you are—”

The sounds filling the Crest are a concoction of his grunts and your moans, a delicious blend that has you both in shambles.

You catch a glimpse of him stroking himself, and you finally feel it. You feel that burn in your stomach, that much needed tingle leading to inevitable bliss. He sounds so fucking hot, and the idea that he can get so hard when pleasing you is the highest form of flattery.

He’s losing the string of thought with each stroke on his cock. He needs to feel your walls around him, he needs to feel you.

You gasp once Din ceases all motions on both of you. You’re about to complain, audibly so, but then he brings you back on your feet as he resumes his seat, having you straddle his lap. There’s no need for instructions or additional talk; you know exactly what to do. You’ve learned to recognize his neediness some time ago. And when he grabs your ass to move you closer to his weeping cock, you stand up a little, one hand around his cock as you guide it inside you. You moan brokenly, and so does Din. The feeling of his hardness in your warmth remains unmatched.

You anchor yourself to his shoulders once again and start moving up and down, rocking your hips to the best of your abilities. You’re so sensitive from the previous treatment that you doubt you’ll last long.

And somehow, you doubt Din will last long, either.

“Maker, you feel so—f-fucking good,” he grunts.

To that you smile, flattered and turned on alike.

“You’re so warm and—and tight and—fuck – I don’t think I can last, cyar’ika—”

“That’s okay. You’re doing so good.”

The praise gets to him—like, really gets to him. He loses himself in your scent and loses control of the rhythm, doing his best to thrust upwards and fuck you fast while you’re still riding him.

“That’s it—“ you barely breathe, feeling your climax fast approach for the second time. “That’s it, you’re so fucking good—right there, just like that—”

“I’m gonna come—fuck, fuck—”

“Din, please—”

The breathy enunciation of his name breaks him completely. In the spur of the moment, he yanks your hair and pulls you to his chest, burying himself to the hilt inside you. His breaths are harsher, his hands rigid around your torso and his cock softening inside after shooting his warm load.

You could stay like this forever if you could.

Neither says anything. You take your time to settle down and recover from the force of your orgasms, smiling down on him. You like the feeling of him inside of you so much, you dread the moment when he’ll pull out.

And then, you see him reach for his helmet as your heart settles in your throat, waiting, nearly giving out on you. He lifts it up in the slightest, revealing his jaw and, much to your shock, his mouth. You notice a hint of stubble and full lips, and you swear your heart stops altogether. But the shock doesn’t stop there: he takes the two fingers that had been inside you to take them to his mouth and he licks them clean right under your blown-out pupils.

“I knew you’d taste fucking good,” he says.

You blush, breaths shallower yet again. This time around, you know he is staring back at you. You feel his gaze burning through the visor and right through you, and you’re almost tempted to get him hard again just so he can fuck you angrily. Almost.

Maybe someday he’ll get a taste right from the source.

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netherfeildren · 4 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter IX : Persephone

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Angst

A/N: *babu frik voice* heeeyyyyyyyy

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 5.6K

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PART II

CHAPTER IX : PERSEPHONE

What are we made of but hunger and rage?

Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry

Din pauses mid-hunt, heart jolting back against his ribs – on Corellia’s Maker blasted surface for a bounty once again. He’d avoided returning here since that last time, but with the kid gone now, with nothing to do with himself but count his losses, he’d sucked it up, taken the private contract, and now… something in the distance, dying or coming alive… it rings, it howls.

The call comes again: low, far off, electrifying, agonized. He changes direction and follows it, recognizing it like he’d recognize the call of his own name, his ad’ika’s cries, the sound of a heart beating or dying.

He’d imagined this a million times in a million different ways, turning a corner, another, suddenly dizzy and sick and terrified, terrified. He hastens his pace, holding his blaster tight against his thigh to keep it from jostling, and promises himself he won’t actually think of it, won’t imagine the full dream or nightmare of it, not yet, not yet… but there is something out there, just ahead. Something that grabs hold of the pillar of his spine and tugs, knows him, calls to him.

His heart beats faster than an X-wing, and he can’t help but fall into weakness and hope. He lets the thought of you bleed in, something he allows himself only in the most dire of moments, when he’s so alone or so afraid or so angry he can’t control the missing. Your face, your voice, your scent like wading through water, the memory of your skin like sharing your name with someone for the first time, like flying or being alive; a knowing unlike anything else, like experiencing the whole world, your whole life in one single blink, holding it like a just-about-to-fall tear over the ledge of your eye.

He remembers you like he remembers being alive, always there, always present, the next beat of his heart.

He tries to measure his breathing, feels his throat spasm, almost choke him, and he forces himself with all of his considerable strength to control his movements, to not break out into a full unthinking sprint. One more slink around a cornered building, and then you’re just there. Just there in the distance. The lines and slopes of the girl he used to love.

Nothing more than the movement of breathing shadow, and he wants to dwell on the past tense of his own thoughts, fixate and pick them apart, but he moves past it. Focuses on the image, perhaps invisible to someone who’d not come to love the dark as he had, but he finds you, he’d always be able to pick you out of the darkness. Sliding slowly along the building face, as if melded to the steel, slithering along the night like a mercury thief.

Din felt he’d become a hostile, barren wasteland of a man these past two years; quick to anger, quick to aggression, worse than ever before; miasma within his heart now, no longer the sun. The only thing that had tempered him, gentled him, had been Grogu, and now even he too, was gone. And he knew the dark saber hadn’t helped, if anything, the thing had worsened his issues. The power of it wasn’t something that complimented this too restless heart of his.

You’re moving up ahead slowly, and he watches the line of your back, the slopes of your shoulders, the shifting of your hair, and he’d hoped for so long, all these agonizing days and months and years apart, that he’d look over his shoulder one day, and see you in the distance, that a crowd would part and you’d be there. Through his mission for Grogu, losing his ad’ika, this time now, alone, he’d looked for you, hoped for you.

He can feel your focus elsewhere, ignorant of your surroundings, honed on the pull of the shadows around you, perhaps, as you keep yourself cloaked, or your steps forward, to where he does not know, but there’s zero awareness in his direction. And he realizes that for the first time in this catch and trap game the two of you had always enjoyed playing – you don’t feel him coming.

You pause suddenly, hand like a flash of the sky trailing along the building face, bracing yourself there for a moment. He’s a several paces distance away from you, and he’d have thought you’d have sensed him by now, but as you come to a standstill beneath a jutting awning, a light drizzle starts to mist the air, and it’s as if the two of you are separated by one final veil, one last test. You, apart, in your own world, him, waiting to be let in. And you stand there, still and propped up by the side of the building, head tilting back slowly to peer up at the dark sky above, and with the slightest shift of your chin, there you are. Your face again before him for the first time in two years.

Din sees you again.

And suddenly, the shock and anger clear from his head long enough to realize that there’s something off – your gait or your posture or the careful measuredness with which you press each foot in front of the other, a strange limp and shift that favors your right side, the way you’re using the building’s face to keep yourself upright.

A cold dread freezes deep in his belly.

Something’s wrong.

He watches the flutter of your lashes as you close your eyes to let the cold raining mist fall upon your upturned face, and the sight of you deals Din a famished, hollow feeling; his heart working in a fast and broken rhythm. There’s something wrong, something wrong, and the organ works so hard it hurts him, almost forces the metal around his chest to rattling with its ferocity.

The world suddenly seems inverted, mirrorlike. The black puddles on the sides of the streets, filling with dark mercury that reflect the sight of you. And he can feel each breath filter through his lungs, as if he could taste each particle of oxygen as it moves through his body, stepping out and away from himself, away from you, frightened, anxious, lost, lost, lost. He wants this, and yet, he does not. Had wished for this for days and hours and years and weeks and yet suddenly, he wants to turn and run far away and not face the reality of his past and his heart.

I’ve lost my way, ended up in some strange, narrow land where I recognize nothing. Not even myself, not even you. Almost.

This unexpected bounty seems like nothing more than a bone chilling triumph.

You’re the same, and yet not. Your body still soft, your curves still lush, but there’s a sort of meagerness, a stillness to you that’d not been there two years ago.

It seems you’d both lost something.

He has to take a moment to catch his breath, hiding within the shadows of the buildings edge, he mimics your lean against the damp wall, and you’re still looking up at the falling sky, impossibly, more beautiful than he remembered, and he’s suddenly afraid that he’ll vomit inside his helmet. His heart flutters and writhes and screams so that he’s dizzy, tremulous, sick and hot and cold all over, on the verge of tears. Tears? And then suddenly, he’s angry. He’s so fucking angry from one moment to the next. Shocked into fury. How can you be here? Leaving him to muddle about in his shock and disorientation, prancing about this planet which he’d told you, he’d told you, was too dangerous. You never listened to him.

He moves again, propelled by righteous anger.

And he’s silent, silent; Din is nothing but the ghost you made him. He’s almost there, his fingertips stretching towards this dream he’s had for so many days, for two years and endless seconds. He is so close. You pull your eyes from the rain, looking away, down the opposite end of the dark street, and it’s as if he can feel your mind thrum and whirl in all directions but his. Turn to look at me, turn and notice me. Why the fuck haven’t you noticed me? I’ve been searching for you for two years and my whole life. And then a sudden cacophony of crashing and desperate clumsiness, no longer measured or restrained, full of hunger and rage, and you finally realize; jumping, skittering ahead suddenly, spinning blindingly. So fast you’re a blur, frightened out of your skin.

He doesn’t realize you’ve moved until you’re almost out of his reach once again. And Din snaps into color and focus at that singular threat, that hint of the possibility of repeated loss. He moves – covers a distance of approximately fifty yards in no more than five or six seconds. Coming up behind you fast and hard so that there’s no mistaking the sound of muscle and beskar and man barreling down upon you, teeth bared and ready to snap you up by the nape, drag you away, kept forever, were in not for the prison of his own promises.

You move again like a flash and a wink, and then you’re spinning, spinning, pulling the violet of plasma from your cloak on him in one of those lovely flourishes you’d always preferred. Like a dancer and a swan and the love of his life. You pull your weapon on him and Din feels that ferocious love that brandishes teeth and your name spark and burst alive within his heart once again; amazed and uncaring of the threat on his own life.

It beats, it beats, he thinks, I live. What does it matter what happens after this? I’m alive again.

You bare your teeth at him in a tiny, fractured snarl, incongruous with the immensity of the fear held in your eyes. But that bursts too, and at the last moment, when he finally remembers he has to be alive to take you for himself again, that he can’t let you actually kill him in a fit of fright, that he’s angry with you and needs to tell you so, he brings his arms up to block the death dealing blow. His vambraces spark between the two of you, and he wonders suddenly if every man that’s stood in this place Din is now in, waiting to meet his end at your hand, had felt as grateful and awed as he does now, nothing but violet ends and eyes like a whisper and a scream.

And when those eyes focus, when you realize it’s him, that soft mouth he’d dreamt of endlessly, spilled his seed to the memory of in his sleep, for months after you’d gone, rolling around like a dog in the nest of your blankets trying to find any last wisp of your scent, it falls open on a small gasp of shock, wet and lush, something that used to belong to him, his name sitting silent on the tip of your tongue as if he could see the very shape of it. There’s something strange happening in your eyes in the moment recognition meets cognizance, where memory meets present, and then they’re both like a scream, fracturing with horror, perhaps, shock, surely. Nothing he wants to see there in this moment.

They shutter, go flat, deep and fathomless and that fear of his is back, his heart like a momentary sun come to life with your recognition goes dark and cold again, and you freeze still and thrumming with repressed energy, all the strength in the galaxy seemingly held within this slip of a girl he used to love, and then metamorphosing instantly into a supernova. As if all the energy surrounding the two of you is sucked into a vacuum only you wield, something like a momentary hovering of hollow silence before you’re exploding in movement, violence, the kind that salivates and hungers.

You pull your saber back, a jagged shriek in your throat, and he realizes you’re as angry as he is, even more. When you bring the saber down against his vambraces again he feels the force of it, he feels the Force, ringing in his teeth. His molars, grinding down into nothing against each other, holding you at bay as you bring your blade down on him again and again and again. And in the very millisecond before he pulls it from his belt and bears the terrible, dark truth of it to you, he thinks that he shouldn’t, that he should just let you kill him. It’s your right after all. You’d owned him from that very first moment in that dark alcove on that nothing planet in the middle of a too large, too lonely galaxy. His life had been yours since then, and so it only fell to reason that it should be yours to end as well.

But he does not. And when he engages the Darksaber, lets it meet the purple haze of your lightsaber, a momentary collision of two giants, the pause the two of you take to breathe each other in is like breathing in life again after two years of barren death.

The sight of it sets you off worse than the sight of his mantle. Something affronted like how dare he wield your weapon? You spin, parry, spin, parry. Your blows ringing in his ears, sending his heart to beat in his throat, and most surprising of all, or perhaps not, there’s nothing restrained in the Force you strengthen your strikes with. You want to hurt him, and he can feel the energy of you thrumming through the bones of his arms, strengthening him further, strangely, rather than weakening him. And he thinks again, something is wrong.

You’re expelling energy too quickly, and you send a burst of the Force forward, towards his chest, trying to push him back, away, but it’s weak, a tepid attempt at best. The Darksaber hums and spits in his grasp, heavy as lead, and he returns one hard blow, bringing the terrible thing up above his head and with the swing of his arms, an executioner set to kill this weak rebellion of yours, down to meet you in a cross of the two blades so that your faces are right up against each other. You pant mist into the air, fogging his vizor, and he feels his cock thicken.

You’re so close. And he is so predictable.

“It’s you,” he breathes.

He wants to demand you scream at him, say his name, curse him, anything. Let me hear your voice, he wants to beg, but you spin again, twirl to bring your saber in a slicing motion towards his throat, another screech of painful frustration. He blocks, shoves you back, takes in the lagging of your strength, the too fast gulps of breath, the tremble in the lines of your arms. He deals you another hard blow, harder than the first. He’d lost things along the way since you, yes, but he’d gained others. He was stronger now, older, perhaps, but with a harshness about him that granted a sort of advantage in the ways he maneuvered himself, fought his battles. Something he’d not possessed before he’d lost so much.

You send another kick of the Force towards him, this one even weaker than the first, and he hears the low, pained whine you gurgle in your throat, sees the break in your expression. Pain. He shoves you back.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He spits, graveled and low through the modulator. The sound of him does something else to you. He watches a shiver and a jerk move through you, something jagged, particularly painful, and then you go sort of limp, holding yourself with a sort of wanness, your eyes seeming to lose all color and shape and depth in the instant the sound of his voice rings. He sees the strength in your fingers go limp around the hilt of your blade, and he knocks it from your grasp, sends it flying. When the dull thud of it extinguishing against the ground sounds, it seems to bring you to momentary wakefulness again so that you’re skipping backwards and away from him, pulling a blade from a fold in your tunic close to your breast, a tiny, silver thing. Inconsequential – no, beskar, the most important thing in the world.

“What’s this?”

“For you.”

“Are you sharing your weapons with me now?”

“I’d share anything with you.”

“Another shiny thing to remind me of my shiny?” You’d laughed, but he’d seen the truth of sadness in your eyes. The reality that said, you’d not share everything, not that one last thing. And when he’d covered your eyes and lifted the lip of his helmet to kiss you soft and slow and sorry, his words had rung hollow and false and rebellious in his ears.

You pull the little knife back, your other palm held out in front of you towards him, as if that single hand had the power to keep him at bay. The sight of it breaks him. He extinguishes the Darksaber, lets it fall to the ground to keep yours company because of course, of course that hand holds power. All the power in the whole galaxy, held in the small palm of an even smaller girl who’d take up all the space in the sky if only she saw in herself what he does.

He takes in the tremble in your hand as you hold it up towards him, and Din feels, suddenly, so tired.

You’re terrified. Alit with fear and power, something that almost glows with the force of your terror, the warp and weft of all life in the cosmos made visible, but there is a jaggedness to the manifestation of it. Something dark and serrated, all your hurts visible and plain for him to see.

He pauses, terribly frightened, terribly sad, suddenly. What had been done to you?

He’d been angry at you for so long, he is still angry. At times, he’d even feared he hated you. It was like some sort of betrayal you’d forced him into, a betrayal you’d wrought by your own hand, driving that love he’d felt to confused resentment colored in hurt.

But there is something ridiculously, illogically frightened inside of you now as the two of you face each other once again. On the verge of tears or breaking, your fragmentation, obvious for everyone to see. He focuses on that small, trembling hand, and he’s entirely bested, and you smile, teeth flashing white, but limp and he knows it for the lie it is.

“Oh, you again?” Your mocking laugh rings more false than any lie you’d ever told him. There is only the truth of tears in your voice.

Your first words to him, an echo of a previous night. Terrible. Cowardly. You take a step back, another that he matches, and your tether, that dark red thread screams the song of finally.

Finally, finally we’re together again.

You take him in, the long drape of his cloak, the frayed and worn edges. The old rusted vermillion of his armor, gone, replaced by something newer, stronger, better. The helmet, the helmet, the helmet, that dark, yawning pit of the transparisteel visor.

Beskar and Creed and centuries of culture and religion and the Way.

Your Mandalorian.

An entire sun in the heart of a single man and enough love in yours to fill the entirety of the darkness in the sky for him.

“Maker, you’re extra shiny now.”

He answers with a frustrated hiss. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you to stay off Corellia?” Said as if no time had passed at all, and he was still allowed to boss you around. He takes a step forward, and you flash a snarl at him, as menacing as you can muster with the state you’re currently in, tightening your grip on his little knife which tells more than you want him to know at this moment.

“That was so long ago, and you always talk so much nonsense. You can’t really expect me to remember all of it, can you?” He growls again, another menacing foot forward. “Stay back,” you warn but take your own step forward too, slicing the blade through the air towards his neck. He blocks your arm, catching you by the bend of your elbow and shoves you back hard. Hard enough to send you into a clumsy stumble so that your back slams into the hard wall behind you, your head cracking against the stone. You’re left dizzy, disoriented, and there’s a particularly raw scrap of skin over your left shoulder that hadn’t been allowed to heal in weeks. Nausea bobs in your throat, floods your mouth, and he jerks at the sound of your skull meeting uncompromising stone, makes to reach for you, but then catches himself and freezes when you flinch away from him, going deathly still at the half animal groan of pain you let out. The helmet cocks slowly to the side, taking you in in that predatory way of his, all hunter.

“What’s wrong with you?” His voice is so level and so cold and so frightening.

The feeling of not knowing each other is suddenly so strong that you turn your face away from him sharply, sucking in quick panting breaths through your open mouth, tasting the putrid Corellian air, cold and slick against your tongue. This is wrong – this discomfort, this feeling of having been away from each other for so long that you’re once again strangers, that you can’t immediately recall the feel of his hands on you in tenderness, the smell of his hair, the taste of his come. But: liar, liar, you could never forget those things.

You try and measure your voice, fail. “Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?” Slow breaths through your nose. Control yourself, please, please, get ahold of yourself.

“Are you hurt?” He spits, all anger and threat of aggression now.

“No.”

“Do you know how to do anything other than tell lies?”

“No,” You snap back. Truth finally, for what else are you to do? A girl who was never really so much a girl, but creature, creature, dark creature. Thalassian hissing and betrayal in the shape of a little Twi'lek sound and stumble through your broken mind. Molded into something worse by your own hands and weakness and fear. And you’re so angry at the fate of you, at the cards you’d been dealt. You want to curse and spit at him, you want these two years to go on forever, and you want him to take you into his arms and kiss you.

You want him to never have to see you as you are now, for you to only live in his memory as he’d left you, well and his, and you want to break something. No— something is about to be broken here, but you can’t be sure what. You think it might be you, but you have no heart left to break, he took it, it was eaten, and too little mind remains for further shattering.

The terrible voices that had lived inside your head your entire life, these past endless months, your own voice in that dark hole to the memory of: Master, I tried to make myself into what you wanted so many times and failed so many more times and can only seem to be, truly, what this man here before me demands of me, myself. You had rarely ever been yours, but Din, Din had always belonged only to you, from that first moment. Tucked away in the farthest and smallest recess of your mind, almost like a fracture in the dark, the memory of his strength, his honor, his loyalty, the great conviction of character and goodness every part of him was imbued with, he lived there, in that small pocket you’d managed to keep for yourself.

“You and that smart fucking mouth – you never know when to quit.”

You huff a saccharine laugh, your eyes filling with tears. You’re sure you must look unhinged, fracturing and hysterical all at once. “Smarter than you, that’s for sure.”

Both hands on his hips, he sighs then, long and frustrated, looking away from you with a shake of his head, and it makes you feel like the lowest piece of scum. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, listen to the jilt of his metallic encasings, the things that, second to your own stupidity, would always keep you away from each other, as he steps closer to you again. The ever present air of his concern hovers between the two of you as you press the balls of your hands hard into your eye sockets, willing your tears away.

“Maker,” you groan. The will to fight leaves you, and your head, your head, it hurts. A piercing hot pain right through the center of your brain. You can hear the muffled sound of his voice saying your name, asking if you’re okay again, and you want to scoff and ask him in return how he could ever think you could ever be anything even close to okay after everything you’d done. But you focus on the blurry notes of him, that sliver of cracked light where he lives in your mind, the familiar sound of your name falling like salt from his mouth, like the phantom pain of an amputated limb, and let the fog clear slowly.

When you open your eyes again, it’s nothing but clear reality: you, Din, all of your mistakes lying at your feet like two discarded sabers and dead hope. Two years of darkness is too long a time. You’d made such a terrible mistake, allowed such terrible things to be done to yourself. You want to run away from the sight of his anxious hovering, arms outstretched, poised to clutch and grab. You shy away, cowering into the wall, and you hear the sound of angry frustration he coughs out at the sight of the fear you can’t help but feel.

But it’s your prize after all your sacrifice, can’t he see that? The only thing that remains.

All you have left now is the knowledge of how to be afraid.

He appears to you, suddenly, as if he’d grown seven feet taller in two years. Brighter than any sun or moon in the galaxy, but also, exactly the same, and also, again, and at the same time, darker, colder, older. So heavily armored, like a wound of beskar looming above you in the night, outlined in pale, flickering silver, ready for war. He’s different, changed, unrecognizable. Something almost frightening, something that almost frightens you, as if he’d left the sun behind, ripped it out of the very sky. Finally, more droid than man, it seems.

It makes you angry.

Affronted, spluttering, you spit his own question back at him, “What happened to you?” Looking him up and down with all the contempt and disappointment you can muster.

He scoffs, planting his hands on tapered hips again, learning back on his heel. “What do you mean?”

“Look– Look at you. You were supposed to have greater care. You were supposed to be okay.” And you bear your teeth in the insinuation of a growl or a shriek. Completely nonsensical when he appears, for all intents and purposes, bigger and broader and stronger than he’d ever been before. “What happened to you?”

He takes you in, so still and so silent and so intimidating, and you’re about to cower and flinch once more before he says as simple as heartbreak, “You.” But of course. “You planted a rage inside of me. Do you understand what that is?”

How could you not? And so you tell him, “Yes,” and there are no surprises here. You should’ve been wiser, should’ve known that the two of you would meet like this again eventually. Angry and hurt and unrecognizable. That at the end of everything, all roads lead to Din. You had done something terrible, these were the consequences of your actions.

“Where have you been?” He asks, but you look away, a quick shake of your head, not that question, any question but that one. He snarls, taking an aggressive step forward, and you press yourself into the wall at your back, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Please–” and you won’t cry, you’ll kill yourself right here and now infront of him before you let these Maker damned tears fall, but he cannot touch you, “Please, don’t touch me.” If he does, you’ll lose. You know it.

“Where have you been?” He asks again. “I searched for you. Everywhere I went, I searched for your face in crowds. So many things happened to me.” His voice breaks, “Terrible things, wonderful things, and at every step I wanted to share them with you, and you weren’t there for any of it.” You see the jerk and thrum of his body as he forces himself not to take you up into his grasp. “Where were you?”

In a hole in the ground, in the dark, in my nightmares. To tell him that you’d destroyed everything, that you’d let yourself fall into a trap as bad as the worst thing that’d ever been done to you by your own choice, by way of your own actions, that you’d suffered, oh, how you’d suffered, and that it’d all been such a mistake and that you’re sorry and terrible and small now – to tell him all that would be to lose him in an irreversible way.

“Nowhere.”

“Fuck you,” he scoffs, turning to spin in a directionless circle, trying to walk his frustration with you off. And you want to fall to your knees and beg him to forgive you for things he knows naught about. My soul has been so fearful, so violent: forgive its brutality.

A nod of your head and a small yes is all you can give him. The pain in your skull splinters and breaks and spreads like cracks in ice, and you try and swallow your wince and shudder but you hear his own pained groan of recognition.

His voice gentles: “I’ve thought about you for two years. I’ve searched for you for two years, and this is how you meet me again? Cold and hostile – as if we were strangers, as if all that time together had never passed between us? I missed you,” he says, and you wish for your hole in the ground once again.

You dig your nails into the meat of your palms, break skin. “What were a few months of peace and happiness in the shadow of madness, of history?”

He’s quiet, for a moment, and you know the breaking is here now. “Were you?” He asks in a very small voice, like a child, unsure and fragile. “Happy? Did I make you happy?”

It hurts, the sound of his voice hurts, worse than the fire in your skull, worse than the bright white of torture, worse than being alive. “Yes, Din,” You look right into the darkness where you know his eyes are. Be brave now: “Of course you did.”

“I wasn’t sure. I– sometimes… after… you made me doubt.”

“I thought of you,” you say, and your voice sounds as if it’s going away from you, “When I dreamt, I dreamt only of you. You want to know where I was?” Your head is going to split in two, and there’s fire in your back, your shoulder and your spine and every inch of skin that encases you, as if you’re coming alive in flames suddenly. Awake and aware of all that had been done to you for the very first time. It hurts everywhere. “I was asleep, or I was in a dream.” You look up at the sky again, and there’s red everywhere, and the two of you should have stayed in that warm cave all that time ago, safe and together. Together in water. “I was tangled in red strings or memories, I don’t know. I’m sorry I left you.” The first thing you should have said.

Your mind spins and spins in a million different directions, ricochets and slingshots back to him, always him, always Din, always, always. Such a terrible thing, you’d found in your captivity, to be held so by someone entirely unattainable. And yet, here he is. The very sun held inside the heart of the man standing before you, and it is so bright and so strong, and as you focus on it, there, in his mind or his soul, stitched into the very fabric that Din is made of, the only person you’ve ever loved in your whole life and also entirely a stranger now, there’s something or someone else– strong in the Force, stronger than you, even, perhaps. You’re confused for a second. Something unrecognizable, young and vulnerable and pure and yet with a certain type of innocent wisdom unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Your eyes briefly focus one last time to take him in full, and the realization slices through your mind, your heart; shock, betrayal, grief for the thing you could never give him, would never have.

“You have a son?”

And then nothing, the ground rising up faster than light, a last flash of silver beskar and the snapping of the last threads in your mind as you finally find a pool of dark unconsciousness that doesn’t swim with nightmares for the first time in years.

Chapter X

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beskarandblasters · 2 months

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Was it all a dream?

Chapter Six: I'm gonna sleep because you live in my daydreams

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist

Series summary: You’ve always had vivid dreams, an escape from your monotonous life. But one night, something appears in your dreams that keeps reoccurring; a pair of brown eyes. -Or- Two people, in completely different parts of the galaxy, find each other in their dreams and try to make sense of the strange connection they share.

Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), switches between Reader and Din’s POV, story takes place in the dream realm and the real world, takes place somewhere between the end of season two/Book of Boba Fett/beginning + middle of season three, eventual smut, line between reality and dreams gets blurred, use of Mando’a words and phrases, no use of y/n

Chapter summary: You further your escape plan off of Sullust. Din searches for you on Coruscant and ends up finding more than he bargained for. But once you two reunite in your dreams that night, everything starts to make sense.

Word count: 4.3k

Chapter warnings: Din has sex with someone else (but it's not technically infidelity IDK), sex work, angst, skinny dipping, fingering, oral sex (F receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praising, panty stealing

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

You

The first step of your plan is to slowly accumulate all the parts to craft a blaster at home. You can’t take all the parts at once, it’ll be too obvious. By the end of your shift, you want to grab at least two or three parts that you know will be useful. You’ll shove them deep in your pockets, hoping no one notices. Especially those pesky droids.

As the day shift crew starts to thin out, you hang back, waiting until there are fewer eyes around. Hastily, you grab two parts and shove them into your pocket, not even looking to see what you took.

Day one of stealing blaster parts is seemingly a success.

After you leave the factory, you take the shuttle home, making a plan in your head to drop the parts off at your place and head to the library again. You have to research the last two dream locations. The last one will be hard, all you saw were endless beige hallways and a field through a window. Nothing distinctive about that. You’ve been hoping he would recognize one of these places eventually, giving you some sort of clue as to where you can go after you escape.

Once the blaster parts are safe in your home, you head to the library with your mind running wild. When you really think about it… you’ve only known Din for less than ten days. Is it crazy to go after a man you barely know? Sort of. But when your reality is as bleak as it is, you’d take any reason to flee.

Reality doesn’t even feel like reality anymore. That thought doesn’t even make sense. To you, reality is when you’re with Din in a love that feels real, more real than anything you’ve experienced in your life. That’s why you keep going. Besides, you were born to explore the galaxy, not to be bound to a soulless corporate life.

Finding a secluded spot in the corner of your library, you pour yourself over books and articles on the data-pad– a routine for you as of late. Just as you expected, searching for a “place with beige hallways” yields no results. And the other place, the field by the lake and the grove of trees, you can’t find it either. You need him to recognize a place or to dream of somewhere with a distinct landscape. But for you, that’s every place, everything is distinct and memorable compared to Sullust.

You hope tonight’s dream takes up someplace different, someplace real.

Din

Din spends his day doing what he does best; tracking someone down. But this time this someone is you. He’s going off of the fragmented bits of information he has. He knows you live underground somewhere. And while you don’t remember where you live in real life when you’re dreaming he does recall one place where he found you in a dream— the lower levels of Coruscant.

Is it a long shot? Yes, but it’s also a lead. Besides, any disappointment he’ll face if he doesn’t find you is worth it on the off chance that he actually does.

It’s raining when he lands on Coruscant and it makes him immediately think of you. How he wishes he could take off his armor and feel the train on his skin. But not when there are all these people around. He wants to feel the elements with you and only you at his side.

And so he sets off on his mission, combing the lower levels of Coruscant. He searches in cantinas, nightclubs, motels, and even brothels. And every time he gets the same answer from people after he tells them your name and describes what you look like– never heard of her.

He goes to leave the brothel, the third one he’s been to tonight, but before he can go one of the workers stops him. It’s a woman; tall, brown curly hair, deep blue eyes, and glimmering red robes.

“Are you in need of a service tonight, sir?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him.

He shouldn’t. But this is different… right? This isn't sex with someone he loves. This is sex in the form of a service, with no emotions attached. And besides, you exist in the dream realm. The sex he had with you wasn't even real. But Maker, it felt so real. He’s in his own head, contemplating whether or not he’s dishonoring you, questioning whether or not you’re real. Are you out there somewhere in the galaxy yearning for his touch? Are you longing to escape whatever abysmal place you’re from? Are you seeking physical connections with others like he is right now?

Do you only exist within his gaze? In the confines of his subconscious?

“Sir?” the woman asks, stopping Din from spiraling further.

“Yes,” he says awkwardly.

“Follow me,” she says, turning with a sway of her hips and leading him down the hallway.

She brings him to his chambers, closing the door behind him after he enters.

“What are you in the mood for?” she asks, running a finger down his breastplate.

Not this, he thinks to himself. But maybe for a fleeting moment, this can fill the void in his heart; a void in the shape of you. Perhaps he can close his eyes and pretend it’s you he’s burying his cock in. It won’t be the same and he knows that. With you he can be his true self, free of his armor and stripped of his real-world responsibilities.

“I don’t have a preference,” he shrugs.

She grabs him by the hand and leads him to the bed, coaxing him to sit. She begins to fall to her knees, brushing her hand over the bulge in his flight suit. He looks down at her, her eyes wide and searching his visor. But when he closes his eyes he’s transported back to the house with you, watching as you suck him off, your tongue swirling around his foreskin. You know just what to do to make him melt into a puddle, your touch reducing him down until he’s completely at your will.

But this isn’t the same. And if he’s going to go through with this he needs to do it in a way less personal, without this woman’s eyes never leaving him.

“On second thought,” he says, getting up from the bed, “Get on your hands and knees.”

This position takes him back to his early bounty-hunting days. He would spend countless nights railing prostitutes from behind, relieving his stress and frustrations, and getting off without having to worry about keeping up appearances afterward.

He’s doing the same thing now. Except this time it feels different. There are feelings attached but not in the way he wants. The guilt he feels is indescribable. He’s wishing you were here, feeling your skin and hearing your moans. But that’ll just have to do for now.

“Whatever you want, handsome,” she says, shedding her robes.

Whatever you want, handsome.

She doesn’t even know what he looks like.

That shouldn’t make him laugh but it almost does. The stifled laughter comes out as a strange sound and he has to pass it off as clearing his throat.

Handsome.

Kriff, now he’s sad again. That word is forever associated with you and the cave illuminated by the fire. It feels wrong for someone else to call him that.

But he can’t be sad now. He needs to perform, to pretend he’s not feeling so terrible inside.

The woman moves on the bed, resting on all fours and arching her back. It’s now or never.

He gets on the bed, situating himself behind her on his knees. He pulls his cock out of his flight suit and strokes it, spreading the pre-cum built up on his tip down his shaft. He looks to his left and sees a bottle of lube lying on the bed.

Perfect, he thinks to himself.

He grabs the bottle and squirts a dollop of lube onto his fingers, spreading it around the woman’s entrance, just enough so he can slip inside. He tosses the bottle aside and holds her hips, thrusting into her roughly. She moans, high-pitched and breathy. It almost seems like it’s played up like she’s putting on a show. It’s nothing like you. Your sweet moans are melodic, music to his ears.

He feels awful. This poor woman is just doing her job, just making a living. And here he is, fucking her while he compares her to someone who might not even be real. He just wants to get this over with.

If he’s learned one thing from his experience, it’s that sex in real life can’t even begin to compare to sex in the dream realm.

He pulls out and cums all over her ass, not even feeling any relief. He’s not sure if she came either, too lost in his thoughts. She flops forward and rolls to her side, looking up at him as he puts his cock away and moves off the bed.

“Hope you enjoyed yourself…” she says, not looking at him, “You can pay out front.”

He nods and leaves without saying a word. He needs to get out of there now.

Before he leaves he places a fistful of credits on the front counter, hoping it’s enough to cover his services. He’s exhausted, and in need of sleep in more ways than one.

Once he’s back in the Razor Crest, he’s peeling off his armor and stripping down to just his flight suit. As soon as his head hits the pillow he’s out, searching for you, wherever you are.

You

Blinding sunlight. Sand, so much sand. You look up, searching for any notable features.

A binary sunset.

That’s something you don’t see every day.

Sand is pooling in your shoes. Maker, this sucks. But at least you get to feel the sun on your face.

But where’s Din?

“I hate this place,” you hear him say behind you.

You turn around to see him coming towards you, the harsh sunlight making him squint, resting a hand on his hip.

“We just got here.”

“I’ve been here before.”

He’s been here before.

“...In a dream?”

“No, in real life. I feel like I’m here quite often.”

“What’s this place called?”

“...I don’t remember.”

It doesn’t matter. You finally have a lead, a tie to a real location where you can possibly find him.

“I like it here.”

“You won’t be saying that for long. You’re not used to the sun. We should try to find shelter, ner vercopa,” he says, grabbing you by the hand.

He leads you across the desert, searching for some form of haven away from the blazing suns. Although you’ve learned for so long to feel the sun on your skin, he was right. This is too much. He’s silent as he walks, too focused on you and getting you comfortable.

In the distance, you spot looming rocky bluffs. Maybe there’s a spot in the shade there. But it’s like your eyes are playing tricks on you because beside the rocky bluffs is a body of water. There’s no way. It has to be a mirage, your mind is faking you out, giving you hope that there’s water nearby.

“Is that real?” you ask, turning to look at him.

“It can’t be,” he says, meeting your gaze. His warm brown eyes are lit up by the sun, turning them into a beautiful shade of amber. “There are no places like that on this planet.”

You look at the mirage again, letting your primal urges take over. Real or not, you need to find out. You let go of his hand, trudging through the sand towards the oasis.

“What are you doing?!”

“We might as well see if it’s real or not,” you shrug.

He catches up to you, interlocking his hand with yours once again.

“None of this is real. We’re in a dream,” he says.

“You know what I mean,” you respond, rolling your eyes, “Like whether or not this is an illusion.”

“...Right.” He still sounds uneasy.

As you get closer you notice more about the oasis– tall leafy trees, bushes full of ripe fruit you’ve never seen before, and blue shimmering water. All of it tucked into the side of a rock face.

“Looks pretty real to me,” you say, standing at the edge of the water.

You let go of his hand and crouch down. The surface of the water moves gently in the direction of the wind. You cup your hands and scoop up a handful of water, rising from the ground to show Din.

“Look. Real water,” you say, holding out your hands to him.

His eyes flicker from the water in your hands back to your face. The unsettled expression on his face is starting to dissipate, finally letting himself relax. You bring your hands to your mouth and take a sip of water– so crisp and refreshing. But it’s not enough.

You pour the remaining water back into the spring and reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it off over your head.

“What are you-”

“Taking a dip,” you say, taking off your shoes and kicking off your underwear and pants in one go, “Are you joining me?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, slipping off his boots.

You ease yourself into the water, expecting for the temperature to shock you but it’s the opposite. It’s…. inviting.

Din joins you in the water, his hands immediately gravitate to your waist, pulling you into him. It’s not that deep, only going up to the middle of his waist.

“This is nice,” he says.

“This is nice… And real,” you tease.

“I’m not used to there being water here. Or swimming for that matter.”

“I’ve never been swimming before either.”

“See? What if you jumped in and immediately drowned?”

“I’d have you to save me, of course,” you playfully retort. You move to float on your back and continue, “Besides it’s not that deep.”

“I guess you’re right,” he says, floating on his back beside you.

The two of you stay like that for a while, staring up at the sky.

“Have you seen your son?” you absentmindedly ask.

But then you wince in anticipation of his response.

“No,” he admits.

“I’m sorry. You must miss him.”

“I do… This is the only thing keeping me going.”

“What do you mean?”

“This… Us.”

“Really?” you say, standing upright and looking down at him. His curls are wet and his eyes are closed, the sun hitting the high points of his face.

“…Yes,” he says, still not looking at you.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you say, vaguely remembering your plan back home. You’re escaping but you don’t know where from.

“What if we found each other? You know… in real life.”

“I’m trying, ner vercopa,” he says, grabbing your hand.

“You’re trying?”

“I searched through the lower levels of Coruscant.”

“That’s sweet, Din,” you respond, squeezing his hand, “But I’m not from there.”

“I know,” he sighs, “It was worth a shot.”

He lies there, floating so peacefully like he’s never had any real moments to rest until he’s visited the dream realm with you.

“I’ll tear the galaxy apart to find you if I have to,” he says.

“You mean that?” you ask, his words tugging at your heart.

“Yes…” he says. The inflection in his response was a little weird like he wanted to say more but quickly decided against it.

“What is it?”

“…I have to tell you something,” he says, eyes still closed.

“You can tell me anything.”

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum,” he says, finally looking at you.

“What does that mean, Din?”

“It’s my native language. It means I love you,” he says, eyes flickering away from you and staring up at the sky once again.

You sink to his level, your head poking up from the water as you grab his chin, brushing your thumb along the hair on his jawline. You turn his head so he’s looking at you but instead, he shifts so he’s floating upright, face to face with you.

“I love you, ner vercopa,” he says, looking you in the eye.

“I love you, too, Din,” you respond. You don’t even have to think about it.

He closes the gap between you two, going in for a kiss. But just as he leans in the sky above you changes from day to night with a sunset somewhere in between. In what feels like seconds the sky is an inky black tapestry peppered with stars shining down on the two of you.

You look up admiring the star-filled sky, a sight you’ve never seen before. Din’s hands cup your face and you feel his eyes on you. He angles your face towards him, pressing his lips against yours. You wrap your arms around him and his hands slide from your face to your chest. And you stay there, hands roaming each other’s bodies, kissing like you’re the air the other person can’t live without. He feels so real under your touch– the warmth of his skin, the stubble on his face, his minty breath like he just brushed his teeth before bed; before coming to meet you here.

But as the night settles in so does the chill in the air. Your fingertips go wrinkly, goosebumps prick your skin, and a shiver runs down your spine. Din runs a hand up your back before pulling away and telling you, “We should get out. You’re freezing.”

He’s right even though you’re worried if you get out of the water the dream will end. So begrudgingly you get out, crouching down to scoop up your clothes and wait for what’s to come next. You glance to your right, looking into the rock face where you spot a cave, just like where it all began.

“Look,” you say, pointing to the cave as he’s collecting his clothes, “A cave.”

He pokes his head up, squinting at where you’re pointing.

“I’ll go make sure nothing’s in there,” he says, balled-up clothes in one arm and his blaster drawn. You pick up his boots, tiptoeing behind him as he inches closer to the cave. It’s a funny sight– Din fully nude, moving towards the mouth of the cave like a loth-cat on the prowl, holding a messy ball of clothes.

He enters the cave and you wait with bated breath, hoping it’s not too deep and that nothing is lurking in there. But then you hear a muffled, “Ow…”

“You alright?”

“Walked right into the back wall of the cave…”

“Oh,” you say, stifling a laugh.

“It’s not funny!”

“It kind of is.”

“I normally have something that helps me see in the dark,” he sighs.

You follow him inside, feeling around for him in the darkness until a hand finds your face.

“I’ve got you,” he says, softly.

He takes the clothes and boots you’re holding and presumably sets them down by his blaster and his clothes.

“What do you think? Should we make a fire?” you ask.

“I don’t know. I like this,” he says, hands finding your face again.

It’s almost entirely pitch black in the cave except for a sliver of moonlight trickling in.

“Fine with me,” you say, sitting down on the cave floor, expecting to be met with the feeling of cool rock against your skin. But instead, you feel your clothes laid out underneath you. What a gentleman.

He wastes no time, his hands pushing you by the shoulders so you’re lying down. You spread your legs for him, ready to have him inside you already. You’ll have to be patient, though, judging by the way his hand creeps up your leg slowly, starting at your inner ankle. A shiver of anticipation rattles through you, your body chilled by the nighttime desert air. His large hand palms the skin of your inner thigh, inching closer to your entrance ever so slowly. A small whimper thoughtlessly escapes your lips, prompting him to tease, “Patience, ner vercopa.”

You hear him shift to lie down in front of you, head resting against your thigh. His warm breath gently tickles you, triggering another shiver from you. He chuckles, his face sneaking closer to your cunt. His tongue licks one long, slow stripe up your cunt, moving in a way that can only be described as methodical and meticulous. He does it again, somehow moving even slower than before. He can’t do this, not when you’ve been aching for him for what feels like forever, even though you saw him the night prior.

“Din,” you whine.

“Shh,” he whispers, making all of your hair stand on its end, “What did I say?”

“...I have to be patient,” you say, softly sighing.

“That’s right,” he chuckles, hovering over your clit. He pauses for a moment, just to drive you crazy before whispering, “Good girl.”

That gets another whimper out of you but it turns into a choked-up moan as he sucks on your clit, tongue making circles around it over and over again. His arms wrap around your thighs and your back arches up off the floor of the cave. In no time, he pulls what is your first of many orgasms of the night. You just expect to have him inside you now that he’s made you cum but instead, he stays there, planted in between your thighs, licking up the remnants of your spend before trying for a second orgasm. And he does it again, faster than before since you’re so sensitive from the first one.

For what feels like hours, Din stays there, arms hooked around your thighs and face buried in your cunt, making you shiver and whimper, making you squirt in this small cave under the star-filled sky. But once he finally feels like you’ve had enough, however many that orgasms was, he pulls back and rests on his elbows.

“You ready for me, ner vercopa?”

“Yes, “ you say quickly.

“Someone’s eager,” he teases.

“I’ve just… missed you,” you admit, spreading your legs farther apart to accommodate how broad he is.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he chuckles, grabbing your thigh, “But not so fast. On your hands and knees, ner vercopa.”

Your cheeks heat up at his commands as you shift to rest on all fours, back arched and ass sticking up for him. One hand roams your body as the other strokes his cock, spreading his pre-cum down his shaft. His hands lock on your hips as he pushes into you slowly, buying himself down to the hilt and pausing to enjoy the feeling before pulling back and slamming into you. Deep and guttural moans force their way out your throat, coming out as choked-up sobs.

“Kriff, you feel so good,” he moans, squeezing your hip harder.

There’s not a coherent thought in your head, leaving you to respond in the form of a whimper. One of his hands moves from your hip to your shoulder, holding on to you for purchase as he rails you. Soon enough, the small cave is filled with the obscene sounds of skin colliding with skin and the wet, squelching sounds of his cock in your pussy.

With one last thrust inside you, you cum around his cock, walls clenching and releasing him erratically. The sensation of your orgasm triggers his; his cock spilling his cum inside you. He fucks you through your release, the hand on your shoulder moving back to your hip and leaving a trail of tingles in its wake.

He pulls out and you let yourself rest against the floor, thankful again for the clothes he laid out underneath you. He lies down beside you and you move to lay on his chest.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum… I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back.

Din

You go stiff beside him, falling silent as well, assuming you’re falling asleep. Falling asleep in a dream…. How does that work?

The blinding light spilling into the opening of the cave interrupts his thoughts. The suns are rising again. Has that much time really passed here?

He rests his hand at his side, feeling a ball of fabric against his palm. Looking down he spots… your panties, gray and basic but with a noticeable wet spot in the center.

Is it wrong to take a sniff? Maybe. Is it a little weird? Yes.

But you’re sleeping so soundly against his chest. You won’t know.

Slowly, he takes the fabric and brings it to his nose, ready to take a big inhale.

And then he wakes up. Maybe it was the Maker punishing him for his perverted behavior.

The dull ceiling greets his vision yet again. And as he stretches and yawns, he feels something in his hand.

No, it can’t be.

He opens his hand to reveal the panties from the dream, gray with the same wet spot in the center. How in the galaxy did this happen? Something from a dream materialized in real life, right in the palm of his hand.

First, the perverted thoughts have to take over before he thinks about what this means. He brings the panties to his nose and inhales deeply, his senses met with the same familiar scent– you. His cock twitches in his flight suit and flashbacks of the dream play in his mind. It makes him miss you even more, wishing he was dreaming again.

But now that that’s out of the way he’s starting to realize that…. You’re real. If anything this just incentivizes his mission even further. He’ll turn the galaxy upside down if he has to.

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Art by Roger Mattos

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#wiad #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader

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grogusmum · 1 year

Text

Crash Into Me

alpha!DIN DJARIN X omega!F!READER

WORD COUNT 2100ish

WARNINGS: A/B/O Dynamics, omega reader in mild peril

A/N: The idea of Din discovering his alpha nature as an adult took hold of my brain and I couldn’t shake it, or write anything much else until I got it down, so here it is. I’ve never written a/b/o before and I don't read too much of it. So please be gentle with me.

It starts out in third person, from Din’s pov and then switches to second person when the pov opens to both of you.

It’s pretty fluffy (What? You say. Shocking, I know! Hazel replies.) and doesn’t contain smut. (I know, I know)

This here is a one-shot that could expand when and if inspiration strikes, if there is to be smut in its future, the Magic 8 Ball says “Reply hazy, try again”.

*** When reblogging or talking about Omegaverse, please remember that ‘a/b/o’ without the slash punctuation marks (/) is considered a slur for the Aboriginal people in Australia.

Din enters the local cantina. The job’s complete, but the kid needs to eat before they bring the bounty back to the client. He gently lifts Grogu out of his satchel and places him in a booth. Grogu coos and tries to climb onto the table.

“Hey don't do that, pal.”

A friendly-looking server comes up just as he settles himself and Grogu on one side of the booth with a ready warm smile.

“Welcome, traveler,” the server greets. Upon seeing Din settling Grogu beside him on the inside of the booth, she corrects herself sweetly, “I’m sorry, welcome travelers! Are you interested in eating or just a- ”

“Yes, thank you,” Din interjects. “Um, just for this one here.”

“Very well, the special today is fried gorg over pashi noodles.” she reaches over to point out a few items. Reaching past Din, as Grogu is playing with the single-page menu.

“Unfortunately we are out of roasted craw-maw and the ladnek bisque.”

Din stills when her arm crosses him, below his helmet. His helmet filters out much in standard mode, but he catches a scent he has never experienced. His head swims slightly, normally he would turn on the extra filtration, but something in him wants more.

“Oh, I apologize for my reach, sir,” she pulls back realizing she has invaded his space.

“Don’t worry about it,” Din's voice is low, lower than usual. He is taken by surprise, it’s his ‘bring you in warm or cold voice’, without any of the menace. He clears his throat. And his server does the same, he looks at her properly for the first time. Warm eyes and very cute, pretty, he decides. Her moment of fluster pleases him in a way he doesn't understand and he tries to keep from puffing out his chest. Din thanks the stars for his helmet.

“He will take the gorg and noodles,” he says. “Enthusiastically.”

Grogu watches this exchange closely.

“Very good!” her laugh is warm and genuine. Still smiling as she goes to the kitchen. Din wonders what that was all about and thinks of putting the extra filtration on again.But doesn't.

A busser delivers the food, Din thanks them politely, but can’t help but look past them to see where his server has gotten to.

Grogu digs in, just as his dad anticipated, with enthusiasm. Din is just happy he is eating a cooked gorg.

Quickly, Grogu is down to his last noodle.

“You ready, kid?”

Grogu looks up and nods, making a little mrapp sound. Seeming full and content as Din lifts him off the bench and he sinks comfortably back into the satchel.

After Din goes to settle up, he tells himself he is not put out at all that he didn't get to pay the pretty sever with the sweet smile and twinkling eyes directly, as he heads out the back. It's just the quickest way to the Crest. It has nothing to do with passing the kitchens.

The crash of trash bins behind him catches Din’s attention, and he rounds the corner to investigate. He pulls up short, seeing her against the cantina wall, a hulking human looming. The bin lids continue rolling, then reverberating like cymbals. Her look of fear sends a kick of adrenaline through Din's system, and there is a rush in his ears. His growl shocks him. He has more control than this.

When her attacker looks in Din’s direction, she tries valiantly to take advantage and kick him. He is thrown off balance, yes, but it's not enough, and he quickly has her by the arm.

“I’m only going to say this once, let her go.” Din’s hand moved to his blaster.

“I’m only going to tell you once, to mind your business.”

Grogu ducks as Din draws his blaster.

“Wait!” She shouts.

“See the omega wants to go with me.”

“I do not,” she says, pulling away, but he clamps his hand harder, causing her to wince.

Din is torn between seeing red at the pained expression on her face and the curiosity of this new information- what did he call her? Is that your name? Din holsters his blaster, his hands come to his hips.

“Fine. It seems to me, Omega doesn’t want to go with you.” Din makes himself take up as much space as he can, and drops his voice further. Surprising himself yet again today, he adds “she wants to come with me.”

Confused and again relieved to be under his helm, for after saying such a presumptuous thing, Din can't keep from wincing just a little. Regardless, he stays in Bounty Hunter mode. The woman pulls away again and walks over to Din. He almost forgets about her assailant, watching her progress. Coming to him. Almost-

“It is Omega’s grace and not mine that you are still standing. I see you again, you won’t be so lucky,” Din says only after he has stepped in front of her, completely shielded her from view.

When the other man is completely out of view, he turns and looks down at her. She is very close to him, eyes large. He catches a hint of that smell again. His thoughts lose focus-

“Omega,” he almost whispers.

She looks, he isn't sure, concerned? Disappointed?

Then she tells him her name.

“Oh,” Din chuckles, it’s just a misunderstanding. He is taken aback at how relieved he feels. “I'm sorry- he called you Omega, I just assumed it was your name.”

Now, it is her turn to look confused, but then she smiles.

“Can I escort you to your home or…”

“I thought I was going with you?” She says, a little cheekily.

Din flusters, but he is so curious about her and his feelings, that he makes no further comment, he just places a hand on her lower back and guides her in the direction of the Razor Crest.

Grogu starts to fuss, reaching for this virtual stranger.

She looks at the baby and smiles-

“Do you want a carry?”

Grogu coos and babbles, reaching animatedly.

“I don’t mind, if you don't.”

“Alright,” Din says and brings the satchel around to his front, and she scoops Grogu out. Grogu immediately clings to her shirt, telling a thrilling tale that usually only he, himself understands. But Din watches her close. She listens in wrapped attention and laughs at seemingly all the right places.

Din can see her looking at him with curiosity, a question on her lips. He has plenty of his own.

The assailant had called her omega, but it's not her name. It stirs memories. He hadn't really thought about Aq Vetina, or the lessons the Mandalorians had taught him about his unique biology in years.

This woman is not called Omega, she may be and omega. She might have omega physiology, but that would mean he is not what he thought…

After the battle droid siege that took his parent from him, Din was taken from his homeworld by the Mandalorians before puberty. They understood Aq Vetina was peopled by Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, and knew that even out of their society, Din would have to understand what it all means. They not only taught him about what it is to be any of those designations, but instilled discipline so he would be able to marshal control over the base instincts that can disrupt his ability to function in non-a/b/o society such as the Child of the Watch and much of the galaxy. But not being part of the unique group of people they of course, couldn't tell Din what it felt like.

From what Din understands about it, he has always assumed he must be a beta. But when he thinks about it, he has never knowingly been in the presence of an alpha or an omega, the two designations that would inspire the strongest reactions.

Lost in thought Din arrives at the Crest before he knows it. The Mandalorian hits a few buttons on his vambrace, lifting the security protocols, and lowering the gangway. He again guides his guest with a light hand on her lower back.

Din knows he should say something… 'welcome' or 'make yourself at home' comes to mind and is nixed immediately. He goes with-

"Watch your step."

She looks around. Her curiosity spurs her on but he can see, no feel, a guardedness too.

He reaches for Grogu, and the baby reaches back, then squawks in indignation when he is placed in his hammock.

"Sorry, Grogu. I'll come get you soon," he says as he presses the button to close the door to the bunk.

When Din turns, she is more apprehensive than curious. It comes off her in waves. He knows he needs to explain, but… he doesn't know exactly what to say.

"I'm not going to hear the end of that for some time."

She gives a small smile.

"I- um…" Din starts and stops, her eyes are so…

Din takes off his gloves.

He tries again, taking her hand-

"Aq Vetina is my homeworld, but I was saved after my parents were kiled and taken in by the Mandalorians when I was very young."

Whether she is also from Aq Vetina or just knows of it, he doesn't know, but he can see some recognition. She looks down at his hand on hers, his thumb making circles on her wrist. Her eyes close, and she hums a contented sound. The sound causes fireworks to go off in him. Din breaks away to walk over to a control panel on the wall and shuts down the lights.

You are plunged into darkness. Has your curiosity gotten you into trouble?

"As a Mandalorian, to protect my creed my face can not be seen by others," he explains from across the hold. "But I want to take off my helmet with you-"

The dark is absolute, but you can tell where he is from the sound of his voice. Then a hiss and clunk, followed by a soft fwump, fabric maybe. There is a moment of silence, then right in front of you-

"Do you understand why?"

He sounds different, no longer speaking through the helmet. And his scent- you breathe it in.

"I think so, Alph- you're an alpha," you didn’t plan to whisper.

Din is hit with your scent, now unencumbered by the basic filtration within the helmet. He takes your hand again, bringing your wrist to his nose, inhaling. You know he is restraining himself from going to the scent gland in your neck. But if you are honest with yourself, it's all you want.

Din doesn't know what he is doing, he feels untethered, almost floating. He has never felt this way, his thinking is not confused though, on the contrary it is very clear though it almost feels like someone else's thoughts.

You move closer, bringing your neck so close. Din lowers your hand-

"Can I?"

"Please, Al- Mando"

"Din, please call me Din."

You tip you head to the side, you trust he will only smell, you don't know how you know and that frightens you.

"Alright, Din."

A shiver runs through him, and very slowly, he brings his face to the juncture of your neck and shoulder and inhales deeply. He feels drunk. His training battling with instinct and training all but raises a flag of truce when your nose is buried in his now bare neck, and instinct rumbles its victory. Little does he know that that rumble escapes him until you moan in response.

"Din," you sigh. His response is quick and desperate, a growl rumbling from his chest and arms wrap tightly around you, as he murmurs your name.

How you got to the large crate you are now sitting on, you aren’t sure. Your feet dangle, legs open with Din standing between them, but he is not pressing against you. His head is tucked against your shoulder as he noses against your scent gland. Your hands in his hair,it's soft and fine. He does nothing without express permission. You have never met an alpha like this. You remind yourself he wasn't raised in a/b/o society, where the hierarchy puts him at the top, so many taught that they can just take what they want, like the alpha behind the cantina. You also can tell he is holding back, keeping instinct in check. And you are torn between incredible respect and wanting him to let go.

“I want to kiss you, may-”

“I want to kiss you too, Din.”

Din brings his mouth to yours with an urgency that scares him. He wants to live here, right here. He knows he has to marshal himself, take control. But your lips are soft and the sounds you make, he wishes he could see you-

Suddenly, there is the swoosh of a door to your right and an affronted cry that is as cute as it is furious. You smile, your lips still against his.

“Time’s up, I guess,” Din sighs.

"For now."

THANK YOU FOR READING 💚

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#a/b/o dynamics #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #alpha din #a/b/o au #din djarin fic #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian #pedro pascal character fic #omegaverse

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midnightdjarin · 19 days

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din having the time of his life teasing you because you get jealous (din djarin x female reader)

i’ve been thinking a LOT about the episode in s1 called “the prisoner” where din meets up with that group and it’s hinted at that he (most likely) had a romantic relationship with xi’an… like imagine if you were with him at that moment…

you’ve been super irritated and crabby ever since it let slip that din had a past with xi’an. it was ridiculous and you would NEVER admit it to din, but wow, were you jealous.

you were convinced that the ex-imperial sharpshooter, mayfield was his name, was trying to instigate a fight, because man was he not helping things.

the two of you were looking at din and xi’an from across the room. she decided that it was a good idea to get real close and touchy. when her hand landed on his chest plate, you thought were about to tussle with a stranger.

“you’re just gonna let them do that?”, is what came out of mayfields mouth.

you cut a nasty glance at him, “i don’t need you as an instigator, imp.”

he just laughed, amused at how riled up you are, “no need for the attitude, princess.”

you didn’t even look at him as you deadpanned, “i’ll kill you.”

you had just about enough of this situation when you heard xi’an laugh, so you got up and walked towards them.

“are we ready for the mission, or do i need to set up a dinner table and candles for the two of you?”

you regretted saying it almost immediately. the internal cringe you were experiencing was intense. you were so incredibly jealous.

everyone got on the ship except for you and din. he hasn’t said a word to you. he had just stared silently at his surroundings until the two of you were alone.

you awkwardly nodded and looked at the ground, “so, xi’an huh?”

you thought for sure that he would be angry or embarrassed at your little tantrum moment, seeing as how he still hasn’t said a word. after a few seconds you see- his shoulders shaking? is he- is he laughing?

your suspicions are confirmed as soon as his laugh can be audibly heard, and you were puzzled to say the least.

“are you seriously laughing?”

he puts his hands on his hips and levels his visor at you, nodding his head, “yes.”

you thought for second to perhaps throttle him, but he was needed for this mission after all.

you grew frustrated, “I’m so glad that you think this is funny, din.”

his hands didn’t leave his hips, “cyare, listen to yourself. are you serious?”

you look at him, no amusement in your expression whatsoever.

he sighs, “look, mesh’la, yes, we have a past together, but not a good one. she was not and never will be right for me. you are right for me. you. only you.”

it’s your turn to sigh, “i’m sorry-“

dins hand goes to your chin, “don’t apologize. you getting all jealous and worked up over her was very entertaining. i love that little scrunch that your nose gets-“

you slap his hand away and roll your eyes but he keeps talking, “every woman in this galaxy could be standing in front of me, and i would spot you first, cyare, every time.”

you put on a small smile, “because of my huge forehead?”

“the biggest and prettiest forehead in the galaxy, really.”

“very funny.”

he lets out a soft chuckle then puts a hand on your shoulder, “i will love you and your big forehead even through death. now, let’s get this mission over with, and try not to kill xi’an, no matter how tempting.”

you chuckle as well, “okay, just make sure not to kill mayfield. he did refer to me as a princess earlier-“

his head whips in your direction, and you put on an innocent smile, “what? are you jealous?”

#din djarin #star wars #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mandalorian x reader #star wars fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin one shot #din djarin imagine #din djarin drabble #jealousy #the mandalorian series #din djarin x female reader #din djarin fluff

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ladamedusoif · 4 months

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Tempered in the Fire - Part Three

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

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

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

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

Word Count: 7.1k

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

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

Use of the Irish language with translations as needed.

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

Further A/N at the end of this chapter.

Taglist: @grogusmum, @insomniamamma, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @julesonrecord, @agentjackdaniels, @iamskyereads, @trulybetty, @pedrostories, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid, @gracie7209, @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse, @novemberrain221, @schnarfer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you’re sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’ll stay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come ahead, Din.”

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

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

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

“Sleep well.”

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

You lie awake in the dark, thoughts racing. So Searlas had fought for something - for his king’s shilling, no doubt, and they were only too desperate for men to fight in the wars against France. Searlas had spat bile and vitriol in ‘98 about the United Irishmen and the Defenders, the groups that had led the rebellion, blaming dangerous French ideas of liberty, equality and fraternity for poisoning people’s minds.

It made sense, now, that he’d have abandoned you to take up arms against those ideas. But you knew Searlas too well for it to be a moral crusade, or a stand taken on principle. Most likely, he’d spent the intervening five years doing as little as possible for as much reward, and probably whoring his way around Europe.

You try to push him out of your mind as you seek sleep, your brain seeking comforting thoughts and images until it settles on the recent memory of a pair of sparkling brown eyes, looking at you in the firelight.

Searlas’s hand is rough around your arm, and you know you’ll have a bruise there tomorrow. He drags you away from the fair and along the back road from the village, muttering abuse as you jog along trying to keep up with him.

“I saw you talking to him. The way you looked at him, the way you whored yourself around him. Filthy slut that you are.”

“Searlas, he’s my second cousin, I haven’t seen him in years…he’s family, I was talking to family!”

He pulls you harder to him before knocking you, deliberately, into the thorny hedgerow that runs along the dirt road.

“Watch yourself. You should be more careful of your footing. Stupid bitch.” He hauls you up and pushes you roughly along the road.

“When we get home, I’ll show you what happens when you act like a common whore in front of the whole place.”

“Searlas, please, please don’t, not again…”

“You’re a fat, useless, barren slut.” He spits the word at you. “And you’ll take your punishment from your husband.”

You have learned since the first time he “punished” you this way that crying out, or crying at all, only prolongs the agony. So you try to will your mind out of your body as your husband pulls your legs apart and pins down your arms, spitting insults as he forces himself on you.

You are not really here. You are in the back field, in springtime, with wildflowers in bloom. You are looking at the slate-grey sea, wind whipping at your face and hair. You are not really here, not really at the mercy of this cruel and violent man.

Sometimes, you try to focus on the words of the songs of liberty you know, the poems that sing of a dream of freedom.

You are not really here. You are free.

You wake with a start and for an instant you can’t remember where you are. A sickening panic thrums through your body and the sides of the settle bed feel like they’re closing in on you.

You sit up and turn your head only to be greeted by a pair of big dark eyes, staring intently at you over the edge of the bed. Gró smiles widely and begins chattering away, unaware that your addled brain is unable to keep up.

Din’s broad figure emerges from the back room, carrying a pot that he places on the metal crane over the fire, to warm its contents. He tuts when he realises that Gró is by your bed.

“Ná bac léi,” he says, somewhat sternly. “Tá sí an-tuirseach.” [Don’t disturb her, she’s very tired.]

Gró turns and reveals your head and shoulders, visible over the edge of the settle bed.

“You’re awake. I’m sorry, I hope he didn’t wake you. He’s young, he is curious.”

You shake your head and reach for your shawl, wrapping it about you. “Not at all. I… I woke by myself.”

Din beckons to his son and leads him by the hand in the direction of the door that opens onto the forge. “We’ll leave you for a bit. There’s some warm water in that pot over the hearth, if you want to wash. And a basin and rags, on the table.”

“Thank you, Din. I’ll be glad to make some breakfast once I’m dressed.”

He inclines his head towards you and carries the little boy into the forge.

While Din works and Gró helps out around the forge, you busy yourself with cleaning, mending, and preparing meals for your hosts, by way of a thank you for their kindness. The cottage is well-kept and tidy - an indicator of Din’s meticulous nature, you muse - and doesn’t require more than a little dusting and sweeping to get it ship-shape again once you’ve pushed the settle bed back under the seat.

The midday meal is simple - floury potatoes, piled high in a bowl, and served with butter, milk, and a little salt for Din. Gró eyes up the fresh pot of jam you had brought in your saddle bags, but his father’s wagging finger dissuades him as he eats his own little bowl of potatoes. Sitting at the wooden table, sharing the meal with them and listening to the chatter between father and son, you feel that familiar pang of loss, of yearning for what might have been.

You distract yourself by thinking about the evening meal.

“I can stay and make something for the supper, later,” you announce, as Din lifts his head and meets your gaze with those penetrating dark eyes. “And then I’ll leave you. I can’t abuse your hospitality any more than I already have.”

The blacksmith shakes his head as he peels another potato and dips it in the golden-white liquid in his bowl. “At least wait until you know it’s safe to return.”

You know, deep down, that it’s still too soon to know. But you also know that the smith and his son are already just about able to feed two people, let alone three.

Din turns to his son and ruffles his hair as Gró closes his eyes in delight. He whispers to him and the little boy grins before hopping off his chair and racing out to the back field, whooping and laughing to himself.

His father stands up and begins to help you clear away the empty dishes.

“You - you were unsettled in your sleep, last night.”

You keep wiping down the table. “Was I?”

You can feel Din looking at you. “You were. And this morning. You sounded upset.”

“Probably just a bad dream.”

Din sighs and hesitates before asking the obvious question. “Was it about him?”

“It was.”

Tension crackles in the turf-scented air of the cottage. For an instant you think about telling him everything: every fist, every bruise, every torn garment, every time your husband used and violated you in spite of your protests.

The image of Din wrapping you up in his strong, protective embrace floats into your mind, unbidden.

He breathes deeply. “He hurt you.”

“He did.” You finally look at the blacksmith, whose soft, compassionate expression comes as a surprise. “I felt more of his fist than his lips, I suppose you might say. But that was better than -”

You inhale sharply, summoning as much courage as you can bear. It is difficult to know how Din will react. But there’s something in your gut that tells you he can be trusted, unquestioningly.

“It was better than the alternative. When he…forced himself. On…on me.”

You stare down at the floor and feel heat rising in your cheeks. You have never told another soul about this, and are unsure why you’ve unexpectedly chosen this stoic man to be the first to know.

The silence hangs heavy between you, broken only by the sounds of your breathing and the crackle of the hearth.

When he eventually speaks, Din chooses his words carefully. “You have to stay out of reach of a man like that. If you could even call him a man.”

He picks up his leather apron and the grey fabric he uses to cover his nose and mouth while he works, and opens the door into the forge, pausing for a moment as he looks back at you.

“Stay. Please. Until you know you’re safe from harm.”

You wake before him the next morning, stealing out of the settle bed to dress in the back room, before quietly putting on water to boil for breakfast and freshening up. There is still some milk in its heavy, lidded container and you pour it into an earthenware jug before setting it on the table.

You hear a stirring from the other side of the room as Din lifts his head from the pillow and yawns, somewhat startled at the sight of you. You bite back a giggle at his skew-whiff bed head, the wavy brown strands sticking up this way and that as his eyes adjust to the light.

He smiles and shakes his head when he realises you’ve prepared breakfast.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was awake, and I wanted to. I have to find some way to return your hospitality, after all.”

Din discreetly reaches for the pair of breeches folded neatly near the end of the bed, and you instinctively turn away as he slips them on before getting out of bed and climbing the ladder to the room above, where Gró is already happily babbling away to himself.

The blacksmith and his son head to the forge after eating, after you refused their offers of help with clearing up after the meal. As you wash the dishes in a stoneware basin, using some of the leftover hot water, you find yourself slipping, once again, into a fantasy of this being your life: this happy, safe domesticity, away from harm and mistreatment.

The memory of the soft smile that had appeared on Din’s face that morning, when he saw you preparing their meal, enters your mind. You close your eyes, a rush of warmth and something like desire coursing through you.

“No.”

His eyes, now, warm and kind and so inviting as they looked at you. The glimpse of tanned skin under his nightshirt.

“No. It cannot be. No.”

You open your eyes and delve deeper into the tepid water, scrubbing the plates and mugs clean and resolving to leave today - just as soon as you could be certain no danger awaited you at home.

At mid-morning, the sudden sound of a woman’s voice inside the cottage is almost enough to make you drop the bundle of clothes you’re carrying inside from the washing line.

She’s small, with an unruly mop of wild auburn curls, and a demeanour that indicates her wiles and toughness.

Peigí. It seems strange to see her here, away from her yard full of half-mended carts and spares.

She doesn’t spot you at first, too busy hauling in a milk can and a couple of baskets filled with random packages wrapped in brown paper. Food, you guessed.

“Only me, lads! Came by with milk and a few bits and pieces I have going spare after calling into the village, I know a growing little chap who’ll eat them right up, so he will. D’you know they changed the coterie of redcoat bastards at the barracks, Din? And one of them’s a local lad, fecked off and left his wife there a few years ago and now he’s back and he’s going mad looking for her and -"

The woman finally looks up and sees you standing near the hearth.

“Oh. Oh, lord bless us and save us!”

“Hello, Peigí. I’m sorry, did I give you a fright?”

She rounds the table to get a closer look at you. “God almighty, girleen, it is you!” She pauses and takes a step back, concern written on her expressive face. “Did… did you know about, er, him? Reappearing, that is?”

You nod. “That’s why I’m here. And by the sounds of it, that was the right thing to do.”

She turns her head quickly towards the door that leads to the forge, as if half-considering whether to summon Din to find out what, exactly, the wife of the prodigal soldier is doing lying low in his house.

“You’re not… ye aren’t… you and himself, are you…”

It’s pretty clear what Peigí is thinking, and you can’t exactly blame her. An anxious wave crashes through you, as you realise that your choice of hideout may well lead the community at large to suspect impropriety - on your part, of course.

“No. And if anyone else suggests that, kindly correct them on my behalf.” You put the bundle of clothes on the table and fold your arms. “I had nowhere else to go that he wouldn’t suspect. I came here in a panic. Din and Gró took me in and fed me.”

Peigí lifts the baskets onto the table, a sympathetic expression on her face. “Well, your instincts were right. Your husband - not that he should really claim the title, given how long he’s been gone - has been out to your smallholding looking for you, and to your parents’ place, and he’s been asking around for you.”

She takes a few of the packages out and arranges them into little piles. “Look, I don’t know your business but I’m guessing you have a good reason not to want to see him again, for being so frightened that you’d flee your own home. So you can trust me, I won’t say a word.” The earnestness of her expression and the kindness in her eyes tells you that she means it.

“Thank you, Peigí. I’d intended to go home later today, I can’t outstay my welcome, but…”

“But I’d give it another little while,” she finishes. “Until he decides you’re not worth the bother.”

The door from the forge opens and Din’s broad silhouette appears, face still covered with the grey cloth. “Peigí?”

“The one and same, Din. Brought you and that lovely little lad some bits and pieces. Now, where’s my darling boy?”

On cue, Gró tears in from the forge, little bare feet racing across the flagstone floor to greet Peigí with a tight hug as she sweeps him up into her arms. He immediately starts chattering away to her, pointing from his shirt to you excitedly.

“Well, aren’t you a lucky little chap, having new friends to make you clothes and everything!” She swivels around to face Din, his son playing with Peigí’s curls. “You don’t need to explain why she’s here, the poor girl. And she should stay put, in my opinion. Provided that’s alright with her hosts, of course.”

“What have you heard?” Din’s voice is cautious.

“Only that he’s been sniffing around the place and asking questions. Nobody knows she’s out here, though.” She ruffles Gró’s mop of fair hair. “You know me, Din, I know everyone and I hear everything. And I’ll be out here quick as anything, the minute I know it’s alright for her to go home. That alright with you, girleen?”

“If it’s alright with Din.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “It’s fine with us. We will keep you safe.”

Peigí looks from you to Din and back again, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched, before setting Gró back down on the ground.

“Right so, I’ll be off. See you next week, Din - if not before.”

You keep telling yourself that you’ll soon be able to go home. But, with every day that passes over the course of the next week without a visit from Peigí, a new, more uncomfortable feeling grows inside you.

I don’t want to leave here.

You settle into a comforting, reassuring routine: a little housekeeping and cooking, mending and sewing, playing with Gró, occasionally helping Din with checking the list of items left for repair. Gró alerts you if anyone comes down the lane to the forge, giving you time to scramble up the ladder to the attic and hide. It’s not that you expect Searlas himself - more that you fear he’ll find out if anyone from the locality spots you in the cottage.

You notice Din smiling more, these last few days. Sometimes, you catch him looking at you, eyes kind and warm. And he, in turn, has caught you looking at him.

By night, you sit by the fire together for a little while: you with your mending or knitting, talking, sometimes - and more you than him - but sometimes simply being in a companionable silence that doesn’t demand interruption.

This evening, he descends the ladder from Gró’s sleeping attic, candlestick in hand, and sets the light back on the mantel. The flickering flame throws shadows here and there, the brighter light of the fire illuminating Din’s profile against the whitewashed walls.

He joins you, sitting in one of the sugán chairs in front of the fire. He silently watches you, taking in your nimble fingers as you darn a pair of socks by firelight.

“You have a nice voice,” you say quietly, not even looking up from your work.

“I…” He seems a little taken aback. “Are you making fun of me?”

You look up, surprised and a little hurt that he’d think that of you. “Of course not! I heard you singing to the little lad and it was nice. It’s a compliment, Din.”

He looks sullenly into the fire. You reach over to pat his arm, to offer a little more reassurance and kindness, but he pulls away suddenly as if your fingertips were aflame. You jerk back your hand just as quickly. Had you broken some sort of rule?

“I’m sorry, Din, I didn’t mean to - I meant no harm.” You cast your eyes down again towards the stockings.

“It’s only that I’m not used to it.”

You look up quizzically. “Not used to compliments?”

He meets your eyes and huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s true too. But I mean I am not used to being touched. At least, not by anyone other than my boy.” He looks away again. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Let’s call it evens, then, will we?” You yawn softly and let the darning rest in your lap. “I think it might be time for bed.”

You go through the evening routine established with quiet ease over the past few days: packing away your darning while Din smothers the fire and pulls out the box-like bed frame of the settle bed for you, setting out the few meagre cups and plates for breakfast on the sturdy wooden table while he retrieves pillow and blankets for your bed.

“There might just be enough jam for Gró to have for breakfast,” you tell him, peering into the bottom of the last jar you’d given them. Din stands beside you at the table and smiles.

“He makes light work of it, I’m afraid.”

You shrug and place the jar on the table, resting your hands lightly on the edge. “I’m glad. It’s nice to make a child so happy in this world.”

For a moment, there’s no sound except the occasional crackle of the candles and the rain beating its steady rhythm against the walls and windows of the little cottage.

Din rests his own broad, calloused hands on the table. With trembling fingers, he places his right hand gently on the back of your left.

He doesn’t look directly at you, instead stealing the odd glance as he tries to gauge your reaction. You turn your hand over so that your palm is touching his, letting your fingers intertwine with his long, thick digits as you softly squeeze his hand and turn to look at him.

His hands are still shaking a little, but his impossibly dark eyes are warm and wanting as they look intently into yours.

He moves a step closer. He brings the back of your hand to his lips. You exhale a little, a breath tinged with pleasure and surprise, and your fingers seek out the rough stubble on his jaw. He lets go of your hand, gently, and traces his fingertips across your cheek with surprising delicateness.

His kiss is a little awkward, at first, as if he’s afraid you might disappear entirely as soon as your lips meet. When you lean in and reciprocate, though, he responds in kind: strong arms pulling you close as he kisses you hungrily, moaning into your mouth as you wrap your arms around him.

And then it’s over.

He breaks away, breathing shaky, body almost trembling, face turned away from you.

“No. We can’t. You’re… you’re married, it’s not the way to - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laid a finger on you.”

You walk quickly to the settle bed, keeping your back turned to Din. “I’ll go in the morning. I’ve exploited your kindness for far too long as it is.”

His own bed creaks a little as Din sits on it and sighs. “You won’t be safe. I can protect you, here.”

“I’m a married woman, Din, remember?” You fling a pillow down onto the straw-filled mattress in frustration. “So I shouldn’t need you to protect me. And I’d obviously only be a temptation. A harlot.”

You pick up your nightshirt and shawl and cross to the door that leads to the tiny back room, so that you can change for bed. You keep your face turned away and your eyes trained on the flagstone floor. That way, at least, he won’t see your tears.

“The thing is, Din,” you say quietly, as you pause in front of the simple wooden door, “over the last few days - in all the time I’ve known you, indeed - you’ve been more husband to me than he ever was, in the ways that really mattered.”

“Mo chuisle.” [My darling]

His voice, soft but pleading, cuts through the stillness like a prayer. When you turn to face him, he’s standing by the side of his bed, big dark eyes threatening tears of his own, beautiful hands twisting and rubbing nervously together. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Say it again.” You move towards him, shawl wrapped around your upper body.

“Mo chuisle.” He takes your hand and you instinctively move closer, leaning in to feel the warmth of his broad chest. Slowly, cautiously, Din’s strong arms reach around your body to hold you to him.

You stay like that for a few moments, listening to his heart beating, learning the notes of his scent: fire and metal. His large hand caresses the back of your head, his lips find your cheek with soft, lingering kisses.

“Let me keep you safe, mo chuisle. Here, with us.”

You look into his dark eyes, mapping the laughter lines around them and the contours of his nose, his mouth, his strong jaw.

When you first met Din, you weren’t sure if he was a handsome man or a striking one. You were wrong on both counts.

He was a beautiful one.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, before your lips meet his again. Slow caresses give way to more urgent, hungry kisses, your hands holding Din’s face as he holds you tight, feeling the softness and contours of your body under the layers of wool and cotton in your garments.

You stay like that for a little while, lips and tongues blissfully moving together and hands roaming over each other’s body, exploring these strange and enticing new territories.

Din trembles under your gentle touches, the feeling of someone else’s tender caresses almost overwhelming after so long alone. For the first time in your life, you know what it is to be held and cherished with care as he holds you, seeks out your softness and your warmth, presses his lips experimentally to the fragile skin of your neck and décolletage, and sighs with pleasure.

His mouth moves gradually lower, and you loosen the neck of your blouse and undo your light wool bodice to grant him greater access. Those long, thick fingers, marked and calloused by his trade, trace the line of your breasts under your short linen stays.

“Oh.” He exhales the word, closing his eyes as his fingertips press lightly into the soft flesh.

“Din…”

Din’s dark eyes flick open and meet yours, his sadness palpable. “I’m sorry, mo chuisle, I’ll stop.”

You murmur a silent prayer that he won’t think less of you for what you say next.

“Din…don’t stop. I - I want to. I want you. I want you to have me. Please.”

He flushes and looks away, still holding you close.

You speak softly but firmly. “I know that’s very forward of me, Din, but…” You run your fingers idly through his hair and he leans into your touch. “Why did you turn away?”

“Because I’ll be a disappointment to you.” His eyes meet yours again, dark and sad.

“It has been a…long time.” He looks embarrassed, colour flushing his cheeks. “I…I’ve lain with, well…once or twice…but I…It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t -”

“If you don’t want to, you know that’s perfectly fine.”

“I want to. I want you.” He pulls you tight to him once more, and brings his hand to your breasts, gently kneading the flesh and slipping a fingertip here and there under your light stays as he sucks your neck and pulls your bodice open all the more.

“I won’t hurt you, my darling,” he murmurs.

“Oh, Din, I know. You never could. Let me undress for you, a stór, hmmm?”

Din looks on as you discard your bodice and your skirts, followed by your woollen stockings. You undo your short stays, leaving you as naked as you’ve ever been in front of another human being for a very long time: just your pale, light shift, undone over the décolletage and stopping just at mid-calf, the outline of your body entirely evident in the simple, thin undergarment.

His dark eyes appraise you, mouth slightly open. The width and curve of your hips. The thickness of your thighs. The little protruding pooch of your belly. The line of your shoulders. The gorgeous weight of your heavy bosom.

“Oh, mo Dhia.” [My god]

Din hastily takes off his knitted pullover and undoes his breeches and stockings, and soon he, like you, is standing barefoot on the flagstone floor, dressed in just the creamy-coloured linen of his undershirt. He closes the short distance between you, caresses your cheek with one hand and reaches for the other, holding it gently.

“Please take me to bed, Din.”

It’s strange, at first, to nestle beside him in his bed, to smile at each other and giggle quietly as you map each other’s bodies with roving fingers, curious lips, and wandering eyes.

You are no virgin. But this has some of the sweetness and curiosity of a first time, or at least how you had once hoped a first time would be. On your wedding night, Searlas took your virginity and shattered your romantic delusions, adding insult to injury by checking the sheets to see if you’d bled.

It’s different tonight, here in the blacksmith’s bed. You are both a little awkward, a bit hesitant from your years alone, the time spent seeking a kind of release in your own hands, the years that passed without as much as a loving touch from someone else.

The feel of another now, at last, sets you trembling. Din’s breath hitches when you caress him through the thin linen of his undershirt, and when you reach under his shirt and wrap your fingers around his cock he moans so loudly that you have to put a hand over his mouth, for fear of waking the little boy soundly asleep on the floor above.

You stroke him for a little while, hand still gently pressed over his lips to stem the flow of grunts and moans that threaten to spill out.

“I’ll stay quiet if I’m kissing you, mo chuisle,” he whispers against your hand.

You smile and move your palm away, and Din swiftly finds your mouth again as his hands grope your breasts. It’s exquisite torment - the sheer pleasure of his strong, broad hands being on you, his soft, warm mouth meeting yours, while the ache between your legs grows more and more insistent.

You take his hand and gently guide it under your chemise and between your folds. Din’s eyes widen.

“Ever touched a woman here?”

He shakes his head.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

A slow, entranced nod of agreement.

You bring his long, thick pointer and middle fingers to the sensitive little nub you’ve learned to massage when you needed release in your years alone, guiding Din’s motions as you teach him what you like. What you need.

He’s a quick learner, enraptured by the little whines his fingers start to pull out of you and the way your hips buck in response to the careful touch of his hand. He reaches for your breasts with his free hand, fondling them with endearingly clumsy enthusiasm while he continues to finger you.

“You’re wet,” he grunts into the side of your neck, fingers now tracing around your entrance as he explores you for the first time.

“For you,” you whisper, close to coming. “Because I want you to have me.”

Din’s kiss tips you over the edge and you whine against his broad chest as pleasure courses through your body. He looks astonished.

“Good?”

“So good, Din,” and you return his kiss, still stroking his cock. “You learn fast, a stór.”

His eyes are dark with desire and want as he plays with the hem of your chemise, hitching it up over your thighs.

“Can I have you, mo chuisle?” His voice is hushed, reverent, almost; his face open and genuine as he gazes into your eyes.

You nod and sit up, casting off your shift before helping him out of his shirt. Your fingers trace over the marks and scars on his body, lips pressing lightly to them, to the strong, beautiful muscles of his arms and torso, to the side of his neck.

With his pointer finger, Din draws soft lines and circles down your breasts and around your nipples, before gently bringing his warm, plush lips to each one in turn. Strong arms wrap around you and ease you down onto your back as his mouth continues to explore your body. He strokes his cock and moans softly as your hips buck up towards him, marvelling at the way you are responding to his touch.

He is a beautiful sight, nestled between your legs: broad body above yours, hands and lips exploring you, eyes blown completely dark with desire, and hard cock pressing against your core. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for a long, deep kiss.

There is no moment of doubt in your mind, no worry about how this lovemaking is “wrong”, by virtue of the legal status that still binds you to a man who never held up his end of the bargain, nor had any intention of doing so.

Nothing in your life, you realise as you reach down to help guide Din inside you, has ever felt so right.

He takes you slowly, gently, biting his lip as he sinks into you and bottoms out with a groan he desperately tries to suppress as he adjusts to the feel of your wet, warm pussy.

He opens his eyes and caresses your cheek, smiling softly. “Mo cailín álainn. [My lovely girl.] Is this - do you like this?”

The feeling of his heavy cock pressing, filling, stretching you so beautifully is a revelation, a far cry from the pain and abuse that characterised your previous experiences. Suddenly, you understand why other young couples you’d known had been so desperate to go to bed together.

“It’s just perfect, a stór. And for you, is this - does it feel good for you?”

Din breathes your name and closes his eyes for a moment. “So very, very good, mo chuisle.” With a gentle kiss, he begins to move his hips as you whine softly at the gorgeous sensation. He moves slowly, at first, his sheer pleasure as he drags his cock in and out of you written all over his face and in every pant and whispered gasp of your name that issues from his soft lips.

Your knees hitch instinctively, your body acting on your innate need to take him even deeper inside of you. Din’s broad, calloused right hand finds its way to your hip, making you cry out as his fingers sink into the soft flesh, while his left eagerly gropes and massages your tits.

“That’s it, darling,” you purr into his ear, urging him on as he starts to fuck you harder and faster. “Yes - yes, Din, there - that’s…oh, god…” His eyes widen as he watches your head rolling back in ecstasy. He buries his face against the velvet skin of your neck, kissing and licking and nipping you until you’re stifling your moans against his dark, wavy locks.

“My good, good girl,” he whispers, moving his lips to your tits and muffling his grunts and groans against your body as his rhythm starts to stutter and falter. He’s close. “Where, love?”

“Inside me,” you hiss, “finish inside me.”

He comes hard, moaning into his pillow as he spills his release deep within you. You trail your fingers through Din’s damp, mussed-up hair and kiss the side of his head, over and over, until he pulls out and flops back beside you.

You turn to face him, chuckling softly at how wrecked he looks. “You’re very good at that, you know. Not bad for a man who thought he was going to disappoint me.”

Din grins, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you in for a long, slow kiss.

Dawn reaches its gentle rays into the little cottage and finds two lovers still tangled together, naked beneath the blankets.

Din wakes you with kisses: to your lips, your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. You nuzzle against him, still basking in the warm glow created the night before.

There’s a certain sadness in his kind eyes. Regret?

“What is it, Din?”

He looks at you, reluctant. “I just wish you were mine, mo chuisle.”

In that instant the warm glow is gone, replaced by stark cold. He’s right. You’re not really his. You can’t be.

But, says a little voice inside you, you are. What else are you, if not his?

You kiss his cheek and reach for his hand. “I am yours, Din. Don’t you remember what I said last night? I’m yours - and you are mine - in all the ways that truly matter.”

Further A/N: With thanks to @agentjackdaniels for her astute observation a long time back about the similarity between mo chuisle and mesh'la!

A settle bed was a common piece of furniture in eighteenth and nineteenth-century Ireland. Essentially, it was a kind of high-backed bench with a deep base that could be pulled out to act as a spare bed. A sugán chair is a traditional Irish form of domestic chair with a woven straw seat and wooden frame.

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

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burntheedges · 4 months

Text

to know the light

Din Djarin x gn!reader | word count: 2.1k | ao3

summary: to go in the dark with a light is to know the light.

a/n: this is for the @pedrostories Secret Santa event! I hope you like it, ro!! @lincolndjarin It ended up way more introspective than I planned, but I think it’s still pretty fluffy. The summary is a line from a poem by Wendell Barry, which is quoted at the bottom in full.

tags/warnings: fluff, a teensy bit of angst, introspection, winter, food mention, reader has no description

...

There are times when Din is grateful for the helmet.

On days like today, when the sunlight reflecting off the snow drifts is bright enough to burn spots across your vision, when the cold is so sharp you feel like the muscles in your face are frozen and immovable, when the tips of your ears and the bridge of your nose are bitten by the icy wind, well — it’s been a long time since Din actually experienced any of those sensations for himself.

But he almost feels the ghost of them against his skin, watching you.

He watches you squint against the sun and blink away its reflection on the pristine snow, eyes watering. He stands just inside the Crest and touches your face with his bare hands, warming your skin from playing with Grogu out in the cold. He gently applies salve to your wind burns, frown hidden by the helmet as he frets about his inability to protect you from such unjust enemies as cold weather.

He watches, and he wonders. What does it feel like, to have the icy wind howl across your face? To always raise a hand to block the light of the sun? It’s been so long since he’s dealt with such normal, everyday, human concerns. It’s like he’s feeling them for the first time, every time he experiences one through you.

Din loses himself imagining it again as he wades through the snow drifts that are stacked high along the path between the Crest and the nearby settlement. He knows, intellectually, that the midday sun reflecting off of the snow around him is bright and harsh, even as his visor corrects the glare. He knows, as he feels it zip through the small gaps in his cowl and nip at his neck, that the wind is frigid and biting.

But he also knows that the landscape is beautiful. You’d said so, just this morning, as you stood on the open ramp of the Crest and shivered. You’d been bundled up in your warmest clothing and wrapped in a blanket, cradling Grogu against your neck. Din had watched as both of you gasped, awestruck by the sunrise over fields of snow and ice and frost-covered trees, all completely untouched in the morning light.

After you’d gone inside, Din had looked out over the same landscape and wondered what he might be missing.

Looking at it now, he feels the sudden desire to know so strongly that he has to close his eyes and clench his fists to keep them still. He’s becoming a hoarder, and he knows it. Recognizes it, but can do nothing to stop it. He’s greedy, gathering little moments to his chest and holding them there, protecting them. Cherishing them.

He’s hoarding the moments when he looks at things with his own eyes. Without the helmet.

It feels dangerous. It feels like testing his limits, like inviting in a feral lothcat and letting it wind around his legs. Like any moment someone will come in and catch him looking. But every time he looks at you with his own eyes, the outline of you is burned onto his retinas like the sun spots he imagines the bright snow burns on yours.

Eyes still closed as he walks steadily down the path, Din thinks back to the moment from just this morning, when he woke next to you in the bunk on the Crest. He releases the memory from his tight, protective grasp, breathing it in and letting it fill his lungs. He sinks back into the feeling of opening his eyes and finding your face in front of him. The curve of your cheek, the slope of your neck. The whisper of your breath in your sleep. He’d wished, just for a moment, that he could lift your blindfold and look at you in full.

Din’s heart races nervously at the thought, even now.

The memory of that moment, of his eyes tracing paths across your skin with no barrier in the way, glows like an ember inside of his chest. It warms him and it burns him all at once. It’s enough that he barely feels any chill at all as he finally steps around a bend in the path and the small settlement spreads out in front of him.

Din takes a moment to carefully tuck the memory away before he steps across the invisible boundary into the town, alert as always in unfamiliar surroundings.

The town, whose name he has not yet learned, is fully overgrown to bursting with blue and silver decorations for the annual winter festival. It’s the reason you and Grogu had set out without him just hours before while he worked on a few repairs, sorely needed before they could fly to the next planet. He’d watched the interest spark in your eyes and the joy take over Grogu’s face and had nodded immediately, as soon as you suggested exploring the town and seeing what the festival was all about. He can't resist you, not ever, but especially not when he can see the excitement shining on your face. He wishes, briefly, that he could add a memory of your eyes, alight with wonder, to his collection. He pushes the yearning away before he can dwell on it.

Walking through the town, Din tries to imagine what you and Grogu were thinking as you did the same. What did you notice? What drew your eye? He lets his gaze dance across the arches woven from ribbons and winterblooms, down the paths strung with twinkling lights, over the happy faces of the crowd. He knows you were probably smiling, utterly charmed by everything and everyone around you, delighted to explore something new. He can picture it like you’re walking right next to him.

Soon enough, he turns onto the main square. It wouldn’t be noticeable to most, perhaps just you and Grogu, but he is arrested by the sight in front of him, so taken aback that he pauses, just briefly, actually surprised into stillness. The fountain dominating the center of the square has five frothy tiers that reach high above all of the buildings around it. It is completely frozen — almost like they sent it cascading upwards and stopped it at its highest point, preserving it in time. It shines like clear glass in the bright light of the sun. Even the tiny spouts of water dancing in complicated patterns around the edges of the fountain are frozen perfectly, like delicate lace. Din recognizes, somewhere deep in his mind, that he would not have let something like this capture his attention before he met you. The knowledge tugs at something deep inside of his chest, and his hand twitches, almost rising to rub at the spot. He blinks, momentarily stunned, before smoothly continuing his forward motion and scanning the square around him. Looking for you.

It doesn’t take him long to find you.

You and Grogu are at the fountain — you’re sitting on its edge, framed by the graceful slopes of frozen water behind you. You're watching and smiling as Grogu dances along it, waving his tiny hands and swaying. Din notes, distantly, that he’s dancing to the music coming from the stage across the square. He watches as you laugh and play with his son, offering him your gloved finger to help him spin in little joyful circles. He can almost hear Grogu’s giggle from 30 feet away.

You turn your head, and Din moves smoothly to the right to partially shield himself behind a column of flags on the side of a booth. They’re woven from the same ribbons he’s seen decorating every building and booth (and person). He takes the opportunity to simply observe you and his son enjoying each other’s company. He realizes, once he lets his eyes drift away from your faces, that you’re each wearing crowns of winterblooms. He smiles as he imagines the looks on both of your faces when you saw the fountain for the first time.

He knows that as much as he watches you, you also watch him. And so he isn’t surprised when, only a few moments later, you look up again and look right at him, even partially hidden as he is. The smile that blooms across your face has him moving before he even realizes he’s taken a step.

Not towards you, though. Din starts to smirk as he moves, letting his instincts take over to conceal himself in the crowd. He knows you’ve lost sight of him, glances back to find you looking over the crowd with narrowed eyes. You stand, shielding your gaze against the bright winter sun with one hand, but you’re already looking in the wrong direction. He starts to grin and feels the anticipation surge down his spine as he moves slowly around the other side of the fountain.

A few moments later he steps to the side of a small group of dancers and brings his hands up to snake around your waist from behind, pulling you back into his chest. You gasp and Grogu squeals, delighted. Din knows in that moment that if anyone could see his face, they’d know exactly how he feels about you. He wouldn’t be able to hide it, not without the protection of the helmet.

“Din!” You’re laughing, head thrown back to rest on his shoulder. “How do you always do that?” He tucks his face into your neck and enjoys the feeling of you easily sinking into his embrace. He chuckles lowly in your ear and murmurs, “I’m a hunter, cyar’ika. You know how.”

You release a breath and spin in his arms. “You don’t have to hunt me, you know. I’m already caught.” You raise one eyebrow at him and bite down on your smile. He moves his right hand up to cup your cheek and gently frees your bottom lip, smoothing his gloved thumb over it.

“Maybe I just need to be reminded, sometimes.” He can hear his own tone, and notes that it’s thoughtful. Almost wistful. He knows you can hear it, too, and watches as you tilt your head to study him.

You smile again. “Then you should hunt me whenever you like.” You wrap your arms around his waist and step closer into his embrace. “I will always be happy to be caught. To remind you.” He leans forward to press his forehead against your own, briefly, just long enough for both of you to feel the kiss before he steps back.

“How’s the festival?” He looks down at Grogu, who is smiling up at both of you with his little arms raised. Din stoops to pick him up and his son starts babbling what he assumes is the tale of their day so far.

You laugh again. “Well, I think that sums it up.” He shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “There’s a ceremony in a little while, with lights and food, apparently. We thought we might stick around for that before heading back.” He nods, agreeing with your plan. Grogu cheers.

Din sits on the fountain next to you and listens as you share what you’ve done in your hours apart, and what you have left to explore before the light ceremony. What Grogu liked and how much of the festive blue food he’s eaten (which is, as always, impressive). Where you got the crowns of winterblooms and what has been your favorite thing about the festival so far. What you’ve seen and felt and heard and tasted.

He listens, and looks over the square, tracing your path through your story. He watches in his mind’s eye as you stop at that booth, as you taste those cakes, as Grogu dances with the crowd of children by the small stage. He can see the moments play out in front of him through your eyes and your words and your memories. He’s helpless against the soft smile that takes over his face.

Din knows what he sees through his visor is different from what you and Grogu see, and a small part of him mourns that difference, sometimes. But an even larger part of him has come to understand that knowing it through you is a gift that he never could have asked for, never would have known to look for. He’d never even thought it possible to know the world through someone this way. To know anything or anyone this way.

There are times that Din is grateful for the helmet, but more and more often, lately, there are times when he wishes, with a fervor that frightens him, that he could experience life without it.

But he’s learning to see the galaxy through your eyes and through the eyes of his son. And for now, at least, that is enough.

…

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Wendell Berry, 2007

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x gn!reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #x reader #my fic #pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedro stories secret santa

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thepascalofus · 7 months

Text

Growing on Me - Chapter One

AO3

Din Djarin x botanist!Reader

Word Count: 6.1K

Summary: The Plant Species Inventory Project is a one hundred day expedition in the forests of Nevarro. You’re Nevarro’s best (and only) botanist, which is something Karga doesn’t want to risk losing. Making sure you’re safe on this years expedition, Karga hired a Mandalorian to protect you—Mando.

Series Content Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI, swearing, completely made up species and/or irl species instead of canon ones, inaccurate descriptions of Nevarro (it has forests instead of lava plains), lots of biology and environmental stuff (I promise I won’t go too deep with it [i have a bio degree]), 70% strangers/30% enemies to lovers, semi-slow burn, lots of tropes (because what are tropes if we don’t use them am I right?), canon violence, eventual SMUT, eventual FLUFF, reader is described as gender neutral as possible but has female sex organs and is occasionally referred to as a girl, no Y/N, hurt/comfort, happy ending guaranteed!

A/N: I have had this idea brewing in my mind for a while now. I’m so happy to share this with all of you. I truly love the topic I went to school for (biology), so this is mostly for me, oops. There will be lots of biology related stuff in this series, but I promise it will be “comprehensible”, not textbook jargon. Every single like, reblog, comment, smoke signal (that’d be a fun one), and ask truly means the world to me. Sharing my writing is a new thing for me and I’m enjoying it so far. Alsssoooo, I’m planning for this fic to be a long(er) series.

Leaves crunched underneath your hiking boots with every step you took into the forest. Further and further in, green soaked into your vision and found its home. The forest was moderately dense. Trees of various shapes and sizes were scattered throughout the land. Distances between tree trunks varied, but gaps still allowed for traversion.

The understory was spectacular. Biodiversity could be defined in a dictionary, and a picture of this landscape would take up two and a half pages. Tall, leafy plants with elongated petioles and broad leaves gave the small shade plants cover. Tiny collections of different mosses littered the surfaces of landlocked rocks. Vines found their way up tree trunks and retreated back down, hanging from branches as thick, green ropes.

Light peeked in from the gaps in the forest canopy. Small lizards basked on rocks where the light shined especially bright. Happy, buzzing pollinators made their way from flower to flower in search of sweet nectar.

The light also reflected off of Mando’s silver beskar, and right into your eyes.

You squinted at the white splotches that harassed your vision. In response, you turned your head and ignored the man that stood in the corner of your eye. Your feet continued to weave between plants, careful not to break too many with your steps. With each step, the brown rucksack on your back bounced against your torso and your blaster patted against your thigh.

Karga lent you the rucksack to hold the maps and forms needed for the expedition. It was one hundred days out here. You’ve done longer land surveys and experienced plenty of joy from doing them. But you were with your university mentor then.

Now you’re with Mando.

Karga insisted that the Mandalorian come with you. You sauntered into his office this morning to retrieve the rucksack and its contents, and were met with two men instead of just the High Magistrate himself. Karga pulled you aside and told you to, “think of him as more of an assistant,” but you knew he truly hired the man donning beskar to protect you.

You rolled your eyes in response, but thanked Karga nevertheless. The Plant Species Inventory Project was in its third year, and you were on your third year of running it. Every year you hiked through the surrounding forests of Nevarro for one hundred days to document the species of the forest.

But last year you had to stop early due to receiving a venomous bite from a lizard. Karga called in an airlift and had you rushed to the hospital. The doctors said that if you had arrived five minutes later, you would’ve been dead.

This year, Karga decided that your knife and blaster weren’t good enough against lizards. Instead of getting you better self defense tools, he bought a Mandalorian to protect you. From the lizards.

Right before you passed another rock with a lizard sunbathing on its peak, Mando made his way over to you and put his body between you and the rock. You huffed in response. The lizard had brown, pointy skin with splotches of blue along its back.

“That one is harmless, Mando,” you deadpanned to the man.

“Yeah? How do you know?” He quipped in response.

Taken aback by his sudden eagerness to talk to you—he hasn’t said a word to you since you both left Karga’s office—you quickly explained, “The harmless ones, Glendia ropensis, have blue spots on their back. The venomous ones, Glendia frediama, have green spots.”

Mando turned his helmet to look at you. You stared back at him, directly in his black visor. Other people have told you bits and pieces of folklore about the Mandalorians. The galaxy’s best warriors. They trained to develop their fighting skills as soon as they were old enough.

Yet, the beskar man didn’t phase you. Karga wouldn’t send you into a remote forest with a man he didn’t trust…right? You trusted Karga and his judgment, therefore you trusted Mando to not kill you.

“I thought you were a botanist?” The shiny man stated in confusion.

“I am,” you replied, “just because I know plants doesn’t mean I can’t know animals.”

His helmet tilted in a “fair enough” motion and you two continued to trek through the forest. Mando cleared his throat, “Karga said you were Nevarro’s best botanist.”

“I am,” you repeated, then continued with tight lips, “I’m also Nevarro’s only botanist.”

The man hummed, the sound crackling through the helmet. Facing forward, your gaze drifted downwards to the array of plants on the forest floor. Different leaf shapes popped out at you. Some plants had bright flowers while others lacked them.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Your watch went off, signaling for the first sampling. Bringing your rucksack around your shoulder and in front of you, you plopped it down on the ground and opened the sack. A holopad and two cubes were held in your hands as you brought them from out of the brown bag.

Flipping the switch on one of the cubes, you tossed it to Mando. He stood there, examining the device, while you pulled up the proper programs on the holopad. One program mapped your hike while the other helped you record the species you sampled. You tucked the holopad under your arm after setting up your sampling preferences.

You looked up to see Mando fiddling with the cube you gave him. Your hand whose arm wasn’t holding the holopad flicked the switch on the corresponding cube.

A hologram square projected out of the cubes, the devices corresponded to two diagonal corners of the square. You walked closer to the Mandalorian and the square shrunk. You walked further and the square grew.

Selecting a small rock protruding from the ground, you set the device on top of it. Mando picked up on your motions and found a log to prop the corresponding device onto.

“Don’t all of the sampling plots need to be the same size?” The silver man questioned.

You retrieved the holopad from under your arm and tapped the screen to initiate the calculations on the size of the plot. Looking up from the holopad you pointed to the screen, and replied to Mando with a hint of sass, “The programs standardize everything, so the sampling plots don’t need to be exact.”

His gaze bored into yours while the program calculated the dimensions of the plot and ran other diagnostics of the area. You raised an eyebrow at him, shifting your weight to one foot, “Do you not trust Nevarro’s best botanist?” You asked jokingly, yet with a tone of seriousness.

At first Mando didn’t respond in words, but his shoulders rose, as if he let out a silent laugh at you. He shook his head, helmet rotating from side to side, “It’s only been a couple hours, we’ll see,” Mando drawled. Light glinted off the beskar donning his head as he turned to observe the surrounding woods.

Bending down, you began to assess the leaves of the first plant to identify. The veins were parallel, running side by side to each other. Leaf arrangement was alternate, no two leaves shared the same growth point on the stem. No vein on the plant touched. They all went and came from the same direction, never meeting.

The second plant had net-like veining on its leaves. Veins crossed and morphed into each other. Leaf arrangement was opposite. Pairs of leaves pinched the stem with their petioles and crossed it perpendicularly. Every feature on the small herb met and weaved together. Each vein could only be minutely distinguished among the web of veins working together to keep the plant alive.

Stenica aparinese and Wortanum tortanumus.

The pair of you haven’t met before. You knew nothing about the beskar man, besides that he didn’t talk much. But it had only been a few hours, as Mando said before, and you still don’t feel like your paths have crossed. Even though you two have been walking side by side.

—

You completed ten samplings before you decided to call it a day. Squatting over plants and counting petals wasn’t mentally difficult, but it was physically. Knees aching and thighs burning, you two made your way through the maze of trees. The holopad glowed in the fading sunlight and aided you in finding the nearest safehouse.

Footsteps created a chorus of crunches that echoed off the tree trunks. Your gait was focused on avoiding the small, rare plants on the forest floor. Occasionally, you’d stop to get a closer look at some—having never seen them before.

Mando would pause behind you. His large hands settled on his belt, palm resting near his blaster. The helmet swiveled from side to side as he dragged his gaze over the forest. He would wait patiently near you as you took notes about the species, attempting to identify it.

“Are we good to go?” He’d grit out after a couple minutes.

You stood up from a squat and clicked the holopad off, throwing him a quick nod. The crunching chorus resumed, feet finding pockets of common grasses and clovers. Mando’s heavy boots tried to fall within the same pockets of green that yours did, but his success was debatable.

Sunlight shining down from the canopy became scarce, but not obsolete. The blaster hanging in a holster on your hip tapped against your thigh. The crunches caused by footsteps were accompanied by a cadence of muted pats.

Mando cleared his throat, a sound that choked out of the helmet’s modulator, “Do you know how to use that thing?” The beskar man asked.

You turned to face him, stopping in your tracks. You’ve never had to shoot it, the blaster hung from a holster just in case you needed it. But it can’t be that hard, right? Just point and shoot.

“I mean, yeah,” you shrugged, “you just point and shoot.” Thinking that was an acceptable answer for Mando, you turned to continue towards the safehouse.

“Just point and shoot?” Dry exasperation churned out like gravel from his helmet.

Lips became a line on your face, and your torso faced him again. Before you could start speaking, he cut you off. “You haven’t used it, have you?” Mando sighed.

You crossed your arms over your chest, exhaustion took over your expression, “Why does it matter? Does a Mandalorian need back up?”

Head turning, your footsteps resumed towards the safehouse. The holopad indicated it was less than fifty meters away. A warm shower and a comfy mattress sounded better than a shooting tutorial—from a man destined to be far better at it than you—would be.

Mando sighed and continued behind you. “What’s the point of carrying a blaster if you don’t know how to use it? If you’ve never shot it?” His helmet gave his tone a sharp edge.

“So I can look like I know how to use it. I don’t want to use it.”

It was true. You didn’t know what you would do if you actually had to use it. Your biology courses always talked about the fight or flight response, but they rarely talked about freeze.

That’s probably what you would do. You’d freeze.

“Firing bad shots at someone who does know how to use it, makes you look like you don’t know how to use it,” Mando said matter-of-factly.

Shoulders dropping, you sighed and trekked forwards. “Look, I know that the bolt comes out of the barrel and to point it at what I want to shoot. And pulling the trigger fires the blaster. I feel like that’s good enough for now,” you rebuked.

Thankfully, Mando dropped the subject, since the gray exterior of the safehouse came into view. The small building formed a basic cube of cement walls. Only a few windows interrupted the slabs of stone, and they were dark, bleak. Near the tree-brown door was the only sign that the safehouse wasn’t a long-lost monument—a glowing, yellow keypad. If you were the only humans in the forest, the safehouse shouldn’t have been used since last year.

Approaching the brown door, you dug into your memory for the code that allows entry. Karga asked you what code you wanted when he had them built throughout the forest.

That’s right! The code is your birth date.

You pressed the corresponding keys, the yellow glow bathed your fingertips in a warm light. The brown door slid open once the last key was pressed. Before you could even find the kriffing lightswitch, a crackle came from behind your head.

“What’s the code?” Mando asked with intention.

Mando must have assumed that you knew where the lightswitch was, because he continued his path over the threshold and directly into your back. The momentum from his body ramming into yours made you stumble, falling towards the wooden floors. You brought your arms up to brace yourself for the harsh impact.

And they hit nothing.

Instead, a large, gloved hand settled on your stomach and pulled you upwards. The muscles of his arm pressed against your side and burned their warmth into your skin. Suddenly, you were back on your feet and the lights were turned on.

You turned around, eyes wide in shock at the speed of events. Mando’s gloved finger dropped from its position under the switch. “Sorry about that,” he sighed.

Acting like he didn’t just seamlessly haul you back to your feet with one arm.

A feeling that was foreign—but not too foreign—seeped from your chest down to your stomach. The ticklish warmth emanated throughout your body in all directions. The same feeling you opted to tune out at while you were at university. Shit.

One guy put a hand on you and now you have butterflies? C’monnn.

Just like every other time, you blockade the warmth from spreading too far out. Mentally, barricades went up before the feeling could leave your torso. It’s better to stay focused on the task at hand.

Shhkt.

The Mandalorian pressed a button that triggered the door to slide closed.

“Um…”

Were you supposed to thank him? Scold him? Leave it at that? Your mouth tightened and you gave the Mandalorian a curt nod and a, “Thanks.”

Before receiving his reaction, you turned your back to him to assess the layout of the safehouse. A small, cozy living room with a fireplace filled up most of the space to your left. Knit blankets were draped over the thick cushions that sat upon the wooden furniture frames.

The space continued into the equally small kitchen. Basic silver appliances filled up most of the kitchen space. Simple, gray pantry doors blended with the small, semi-shiny machines. On the right of you were two doors, one you assumed contained the fresher, and the other containing beds.

Turning to your left, you removed your bag and plopped onto the thick cushions of the couch. The burning in your legs made you unconcerned about making food for dinner or discussing sleeping arrangements.

The burning—or maybe lack thereof—in Mando’s thighs didn’t dissuade him from being persistent.

Mando sauntered over to the couch you were laying on. The thunks of his heavy footsteps became louder as he grew nearer. “Are you going to tell me the code?” Mando’s helmet came into your line of sight as he towered over your slumped figure.

You groaned, “Are you going to stop walking into me?”

The horizontal line of his visor tilted in your view, signifying a, “really?” emotion. His shoulders dropped, “I just want to be able to get in and out of the houses.”

Begrudgingly you told him the code, “It’s my birthday,” you explained.

“Oh, uh, happy birthday.” He gave you a curt nod and turned to walk into the kitchen.

A small smile spread across your face, and you sighed once more, “Today isn’t my birthday, metal man, the code is my birthday.” You propped one of your elbows on the couch to look over the back of the couch at him. He stood against the small metal sink, arms crossed. His large hands grasped his biceps on each side of him. The Mandalorian made the sink look like he stole it from a child’s playset.

Once your gaze landed on him, his shoulders slumped. The T-shaped visor looked away from you and towards a map displayed on the wall. Silence ensued over the space. You too glanced at the map—yet there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it.

Mando’s visor pivoted on his shoulders and returned your gaze. After a few seconds his helmet crackled to life, “You’re getting a shooting lesson tomorrow morning.”

Your brows furrowed together and slanted downwards. “Ugggghh. I thought I told you I was good for now,” you gritted out. You let your elbow give out from underneath you and you flopped back down onto the couch cushions.

A rumbling noise came from over the back of the couch. Footsteps followed. The heavy boots Mando wore sent muted dunks your way—then they ceased. A black T framed by silver entered your view yet again.

“I’m not good with it. Tomorrow morning after you eat,” Mando finalized.

You maintained “eye contact” with him after you rolled your eyes. Instead of staying awake—sore—and putting up with his banthashit, you willed your body to get up and to one of the wooden doors on the right side of the safehouse. Bending down, you scooped your bag onto your shoulder. Hopefully the room was the fresher.

A few paces. The turn of a doorknob. Creaking door opened. A sink, similar to the one in the kitchen, welcomed you with—metal arms? Either way, you were glad to be able to get to clean yourself after a long day. The heavy backpack slid from your shoulder and onto the floor in front of the silver sink.

Turning to close the door, you look up and Mando’s stare is directed at you. An eyebrow of yours raised, directed at him. He began to saunter over to the door next to the freshers’. His bag hung from a large, closed fist at his side.

His frame passed the threshold, making the rectangular entrance appear much smaller. A heavy object hit something soft. Hopefully Mando was finally laying down so you could be left alone. You paused for a couple seconds to see if the heavy footsteps would resume—but nothing.

Relief flooded your body, giving you the idea to close the door and get ready for the night. Water washed away the remnants of soil, tiny pieces of bark, and fragments of shed leaves from your skin. Liquid that once ran dark down the fresher drain steadily turned clear. Your body was a sponge, sucking the warmth from the water into your bones.

You finished your pre-sleep routine and ventured over to the room that contained the beds. Calling it a bedroom was too homey for this space. It was more of a room bunk beds would be kept in at camping lodges. Except there were only two adult-sized beds. And Mando’s confusedly still-silver frame covered most of the bed he chose. He laid on the mattress like someone was giving a eulogy—for him.

Peeling your gaze away from the Mandalorian’s mummy-like body, you peeled back the blankets and shuffled onto the mediocre mattress. You faced away from Mando, getting a nice view of a generic forest picture framed on the wall. It was the only decoration in the room.

“Night, metal man,” you murmured. He was already asleep, why not tease him again?

The helmet crackled to life.

“Metal man earned you one lesson. Say it again and you’ll earn another,” the words gritted out from the beskar helmet.

You laid in your bed, wide-eyed. Not knowing what to say, and honestly too tired to have this conversation, you opted to say nothing. After a couple moments, you heard shuffling from over your shoulder. The helmet crackled once more.

“Night.”

Your eyes drooped once your brain knew that social interaction was no longer required for the night. The pillow beneath your head lulled your slumber closer and closer.

“Ruus,” came from behind you.

Too tired. So sleepy. You’ll ask in the morning.

—

You woke up to birds chirping. Their calls and songs came in through your cracked bedroom window. Naturally, your brain deciphered the individual calls.

Cheep. Cheep. Cheep.

Shrrrrrk. Shrrrrrk.

Ki-ki-ki-ki-ki-ki.

A common house sparrow, a buzzard, and a finch.

You shuffled around in your bed seeking a couple more minutes of comfort before your alarm inevitably went off. Mattress providing a soft cushion of support for your body, pillow delightfully cold against your face, and your eyelids heavy, your body absorbed your surroundings and let them influence you. Everything influenced you to stay the fuck in bed. Shifting in and out of consciousness, your blurry dreams pulled you further into a deeper slumber.

Dawn quickly approached, signaling for the birds to scream at each other that they’re awake. Bird calls blared through the air like tiny sirens. The rays of sunlight shone through the slits in the window blinds.

The extra-loud bird sounds snapped you out of your dreamlike state. Your gaze was trained on the warm glow of sunlight seeping into the room. Everything was natural. Ethereal. In sync and calm.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

Dank farrik. Whipping the duvet off your body and swinging your legs to let your feet touch the ground, you hurriedly zipped open your bag to find the holopad. Once your hands found it between clothes and your notebooks, you clicked it on. The bright screen made your eyes squint at the device. Clicking the screen once more, the alarm was silenced. Now that the blaring ceased, your mind began to catch up to your surroundings.

Oh kriff, the alarm probably woke up Mando. Your voice was a whisper, “I’m sorry if that woke yo–.” You turned towards his bed and the silver frame of his body was no longer there. Once you noticed his absence, you quieted yourself and listened for any noise. Nothing.

But then you smelled caf.

Your brain put two and two together. Your thoughts slowed down. After a second, you rummaged in your bag for a change of clothes and your toiletries. Once your outfit was changed, you strode over to the door and aimed to enter the fresher.

The wooden door opened to reveal Mando sitting on the couch, reading something on his holopad. Hopefully the helmet muffled any sounds you could make. You took one sock-clad step over the threshold. Then another. And another. Only a couple more until you reached the other door.

“Morning,” Mando’s speech crackled.

You turned towards him, holding up a hand, offering a quick, “Morning,” back. He didn’t say anything afterwards. Slunking into the fresher, you closed the door behind you and began your morning ritual.

Mid-teeth-brushing, you remembered last night.

“You’re getting a shooting lesson tomorrow morning.”

Fuck.

Well, wouldn’t Mando remind you the moment he saw you in the morning. You didn’t even set one foot inside the safehouse before he demanded the code for the door. Maybe he forgot. You can only hope.

The wooden rectangle swung on the hinges, opening the fresher. You stepped out and made your way to the kitchen. Before you entered the pantry covered space, you glanced over Mando’s shoulder to see what he was reading. His gloved finger clicked the holopad off before you could get a good look. Silver beskar filled your vision as he leaned forward to place the holopad on the empty table in front of the couch.

You continued to the kitchen, too hungry to care. Reaching into a cabinet, you retrieved a mug, then poured a generous amount of caf into it. In the adjacent cabinet were ration packs and miscellaneous hiking-friendly snacks. Trail mix. Jerky. Protein bars. Cans lined one section of a shelf—in case anyone wanted to craft their own meal, instead of tearing open a ration pack.

Being Nevarro’s best botanist had its perks, and one was that you helped Karga set up these safehouses. So your favorite ration packs were always in stock.

You reached for one and opened the pack, eager to satiate your stomach. Your fingers found the lip of a drawer and pulled, revealing small piles of cutlery in a wooden organizer. The same fingers danced over the utensils, determining which one you preferred. Opting for a spoon, you took the utensil and fed yourself generous spoonfuls. Hiking did a number on your hunger, plus you needed the energy.

After a few sips of your caf, finishing half the mug, and a ration pack, you leaned against the counter and observed the back of Mando. His large frame nearly spanned across an entire couch cushion. Silver donned his shoulders and traveled its way down his arms, towards his hands. He spread his wingspan across the couch, exaggerating his size—not that he needed to. The Mandalorian’s leather-clad fists also donned beskar on top of them. One of his fists flexed and relaxed in a slow rhythm.

Bubbling began at the center of your stomach, threatening to boil over into the rest of you. Heat bloomed near your face at the sight of him.

Nope. Not happening.

You peeled your gaze away from his figure and went to wash the mug. Thoughts wandered and yours landed on how Mando still hasn’t mentioned the lessons. Maybe you got off this time, you got lucky. Warm water poured over your grasp. Suds coated the shiny surface of the ceramic drinkware. The faucet let out a steady stream of water, and it dribbled against the metal lining of the sink. Soundwaves from the water traveled to your ears, which blocked the sounds of Mando’s footsteps approaching the kitchen.

You shut the faucet off and turned to place the mug back into the cabinet. The Mandalorian’s towering beskar figure standing in the space between the living room and the kitchen made you gasp in a lungful of air.

The modulator in his helmet crushed the tone of the sentence he spoke, “Let’s go, time for your lesson.”

Shit.

—

“You’re holding it wrong,” Mando stated sternly.

You sighed and rolled your eyes at him, “I’ve been holding it for, like, ten seconds. Not even.” Instead of focusing on the black T stamped on his silver helmet, you shifted your attention to the stump of a fallen tree. It was covered in moss and mushrooms, decaying. The fallen trunk with dense branches sprawled out on the forest floor behind the stump. Light could barely make it through the thick foliage.

Metal man insisted that the lesson should take place at a location far from the safehouse, “to keep it hidden, in case anything hears the blaster shots,” he reasoned. You supposed that it wasn’t a bad explanation, but the hike before your lesson was challenging. Mando guided you through the forest for so long, you thought he forgot about the lesson. But he didn’t. And this lesson sucked.

You were having more fun looking at the ground around you. A couple different leaf shapes popped out at you from below. Flowers were scattered throughout the area, and you matched them to their respective leaves, giving you quick identifications.

Mando used one of his gloved fingers to tap you on the shoulder. The gesture returned you to the present moment from your resentful thoughts. His leather-gloved hands gripped his own blaster. It was much larger than yours, yet his grasp consumed the handle of the weapon. Another broad, gloved hand covered the one gripping the handle.

Your hands attempted to match him on your own blaster. It was clear that you were struggling. Eyes in slits and brows furrowed, your gaze repeatedly shifted from his grip to your grip. Fingers stumbled to find their rightful places. Instead of giving up, you settled on something that sort of resembled the position his hands were in.

His helmet tilted downwards at you and cocked to the side, another expression of, “really?” This gesture seemed common with him. Metal clicked onto metal when Mando re-holstered his blaster. Then, his hands were on your blaster, giving the weapon a slight tug to release it from your grip.

You thought he was going to demonstrate on your considerably smaller blaster. Instead, he grabbed the barrel of the blaster and pointed the handle at you. His other hand reached for your wrist. Worn, warm leather slid against your skin. A wide palm rested against the back of your hand. Thick fingers formed a loose—but stern—grip around the base of your palm.

His hand was so warm. And strong. Every movement was done with purpose and confidence. The grip he had on your hand guided yours to the handle. Once you grasped the metal you expected him to let go, but his hold remained. Small flecks of light glinted off the barrel of the weapon when Mando turned your wrist.

Light shined off the helmet as well. He leaned down to check if your fingers were in the right places. Spotting an incorrect placement, he used his other hand to nudge a finger downwards and onto the handle. He nodded, “Good.”

The short praise sent heat flying towards your face, and you willed for it to sink back down. His thumb shifted on your wrist, giving you slight goosebumps. How could his fingers be that thick? And his hands so strong? What would they feel li—.

You backtracked in your head. Nope. You didn’t want to go there. You had one hundred days in this forest with this guy, and you had a job to do.

Mando took your other hand with his other hand, and placed it on top of the one gripping the handle. The hold he had over the new hand tightened. In exchange, your own grip tightened over the handle.

“This hand,” he tightened his grasp once more, “squeezes down on this hand,” he rasped as he shook the wrist holding onto the warming metal. Each squeeze threatened the bubbling in your stomach to evaporate into the rest of your body, but you repressed it. Managing to control your pointless butterflies, you did as he explained, and the hold you maintained felt better than it did previously.

As you raised the blaster up towards your eye level, Mando stepped away. Shutting one eye, you looked down the barrel and at the old tree stump. Your arms were both steady and relaxed. Remembering only the second half of Mando’s lecture from earlier, you spaced your feet shoulder width apart, and squeezed your grip around the trigger.

A bolt shot out of the end of the silver barrel and into the top of the tree stump—much higher than where you aimed. Crackling came from your right, “The piece of metal at the end of the barrel needs to line up with the notches above the trigger.”

You let out a heavy exhale, that information was in the second half of his lecture, “That’s what I did,” you told him. He let out an exhale in response, but his was in amusement, “Well, you didn’t hit the center,” his head jerked towards the stump to make his point.

He stood with his hands on his belt, shoulders back, with one knee out. Chrome plated armor gleamed from the sun coming in through the forest's canopy. His dark leather and clothing contrasted the bright metal. Without seeing his face, you knew he had a smirk on it.

You huffed as you turned towards him, “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it?”

He gave you his signature head tilt towards the side, “You know that I would hit it,” he stated.

Honestly, you knew he could. The man is fully decked out in beskar armor and carries several weapons with him at all times. But you were fed up with the slight smugness he exuded. “Do it,” you challenged him.

Before you could even register he was doing so, he pulled his blaster from its holster. With a firm grip and confident aim, his blaster bolt hit dead center into the tree stump. Just as quickly as he pulled it out, he re-holstered his blaster and looked at you.

His incoming responses went through your mind, “It’s because I don’t suck,” “Don’t even bother,” “Why’d you buy a blaster in the first place?”

“Just try again,” his helmet gritted and the black T shook from side to side, “I’ve just been doing this longer than you have. It takes practice.”

Without thinking, you responded, “And what is ‘this’?” The Mandalorian gave you a stare—not like it wasn’t always a stare—but his helmet didn’t move a bit, unlike the usual tilts and shakes you had been getting.

“If by ‘this’ you mean shooting, then I’ve been shooting since I could hold a blaster. If you mean my profession, my occupation has required shooting since I’ve been an adult,” his voice stated, sounding like churning gravel.

Both of your eyebrows lifted and your eyes widened. You tried to hide it, but you probably failed. Only a few professions in the galaxy required shooting all of the time.

“So you’re a bounty hunter?” You asked with confusion, your mouth semi-dry.

Mando nodded, “Yes, now try again,” he pointed towards the stump.

‘Okay cool, we’re just going to gloss over that one?’, you thought. Instead of voicing your inner monologue, you raised the blaster once more. The metal lined up with the notch and you squeezed the trigger. Your shot landed half a meter above Mando’s. It was far from his shot, but much closer than your previous one.

“Better. But you flinched,” Mando critiqued. His gloved hands rested on his hips and his visor bored into you.

Trying again, the notch lined up with the metal as you peered down the barrel. Instead of holding your aim and then getting ready to fire, you fired as soon as your barrel lined up with the center of the stump. Energy left the end of the blaster and shot into the decaying wood. It landed about fifteen centimeters above Mando’s.

You heard crunching on the ground as the Mandalorian walked towards you. Lowering your blaster, you pointed the barrel at the ground. Maker, if he showed you how to hold the blaster again, you were going to lose it. Once he reached you, he stood in front of you, hands clasped in front of his belt buckle.

The helmet crackled to life, “Good job. Those were better than my first shots,” he stated plainly, then turned, “Let’s get going.” Before waiting for your response, he continued on into the dense forest.

—

The section of the forest you just entered was darker than any other area the pair of you had been in previously. Light barely made its way down from the forest canopy. Shade-loving plants bathed in the lack of light. Small rodents scampered from shrub to shrub, picking the fruits off of their stems. Scuttles were heard in all directions, creating a chorus of sounds influenced by food-web interactions.

Mando decided to lead the way. His helmet remained on a swivel as he constantly scanned the area. You had been this way before and knew there was nothing harmful, it was just dark and ‘scary’.

Then the scuttles stopped. And in response, Mando stopped. Which made you run right into the back of him. “Ufff!” You let out as your chest collided with his back. Rough, black fabric scratched against your face. It smelled like wood and musk, but in a good way. Did he usually smell like that or was it just the forest?

You pushed yourself off of him and stayed behind. Mando held a hand out to his side in a, ‘stay behind me’, signal. Everything froze, and left you freezing with it.

Then you felt it.

The ground shook softly. A steady rhythm of shakes became increasingly more intense. Trees sensed the waves too, as their leaves rattled above. You looked downwards and noticed that Mando retrieved his blaster from its holster. His stare was locked forwards. Almost as if he was looking beyond the dense foliage into the distance.

Dun. Dun. DUN.

Each shake caused your feet to vibrate in your boots. And then they stopped. In front of you, the large silhouette of a creature made its way through the foliage and towards you both. You squinted into the darkness in an attempt to identify the creature.

And Mando fired his blaster.

#thepascalofus #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #mando fic #mando x reader #mando fanfic #mando smut #mando fluff #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #din djarin #din djarin x reader #thepascalofus fic #growing on me #thepascalofus growing on me #mando x botanist!reader #din djarin x botanist!reader

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thetriumphantpanda · 8 months

Text

the start of him | din djarin (masterlist)

Series Summary | The Mandalorian has had a lot of firsts, but there are also plenty of things he's still not experienced. Travelling with him, through the length and breadth of the galaxy, you make it your personal mission to try and show him all the things he's missed.

Pairing | Din Djarin x F!Reader

Fic Warnings | Mutual pining, slow burn, strangers to lovers, two idiots in love who won't admit it, soft!Din, shameless fluff and yearning, explicit smut in later chapters, no use of y/n.

Fic Notes | I'm gonna be honest with y'all, I did not need another WIP in my life but here we are, we're going to go with it. Chapters will be sporadic as and when the inspiration hits.

A reminder that I no longer use taglists. Please follow @TheTriumphantPandaNotifs and turn on notifications for fic updates.

Main Masterlist

Chapters

Part One - Feel The Rain On Your Skin

Part Two - I'll Be Needing Stitches

Part Three - Coming Soon

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penvisions · 5 months

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of beskar and kyber {chapter 11}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (The Mandalorain x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: Traveling toward something Din scrounged up as a way to make credits, a pit stop is made and he realizes just how much he wants to learn more about you. Conversations flow to fill the time of travel, but when faced with people from a darker part of his past, a new facet of your personality is revealed.

Word Count: 10.5k (!!)

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical gore, canon typical language, star wars language and common knowledge, mando'a language (w/ translations), description of injuries, mentions of nausea, talk of menstruation, blood, symptoms of menstruation, female reproductive system talk, anxiety, ptsd symptoms, medical jargon, use of painkillers, character death (minor), death, parental death, guardian loss, loss of family, fighting, harsh language, threats, one hard slap (!!), teasing language, sexual language, sexual teasing, taunting, allusions to din's past sexual encounters, sexual touching, body image issues, feelings of inadequacy, female masturbation, exploration of sexual pleasure, first orgasm, sexual shame, pining, close quarters, unsavory individuals, uncomfortable situation, san shows anger

A/N: ah, here it is, the next installment! it's a doozy, we hop through so many emotions in this one, san's character developing as she opens up. happy thanksgiving, y'all! hope this feeds you all nicely for a while ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || kofi

“I’ve set the course for the Mid Rim.”

“Okay, anything particular there?”

“Job with an old crew.”

“Okay.” You didn’t look up from the table, brow furrowed as you concentrated on connecting the rings of metal in a pattern that didn’t seam obvious to Din. You were weaving different sizes together, some in patches, some in pairs. He watched you for a moment, taking in the way you were so focused and intent with your motions as you weaved a garment of metal. You had been at the task for nearly the whole day, quiet as you did so, allowing Din to go about his own business since leaving Tatooine.

Now that he had a spare moment he stood by the table and watched your diligent work. He had been waiting for the ship to travel far enough through space while he tended to small tasks of cataloguing weapons, supplies, some light maintenance. As he walked around the space, he noticed you moving to mess with the vambrace you had removed in order to work on the armor. He was curious, once again, if it was something you had been taught and trained to do or simply a hobby you took up in order to support yourself as a younger woman. When you frowned at the information that displayed from the cuff, a small sigh escaped you.

“Mesh’la?”

“Hmm?” You looked up from where you were transcribing something into your vambrace. Uttered a quiet affirmation before going back to it. A startled yelp bubbled up, the coding you were trying to input on it not translating properly and the high-pitched sound of feedback echoes around the hold. Sounds of an upset child flowed from his personal quarters, prompting you to stand go toward the cracked open door.

When you emerged, you were snuggling ad’ika to your chest, his face buried in your neck. The sight of you comforting such a small bundle in your arms with a smooth expression and soft shushing sounds, moving about the space to retrieve a cannister from the small cooling supply unit caused Din’s heart to still for a moment. Faint memories of his mother holding him until he fell asleep rose to the surface of his mind. You were so kind, so willing to take care of others. As proven by your willingness to help the villagers back on Sorgan, with fighting or tending to the ponds they harvested from. Despite everything you had faced and experienced, you were still kind, still loving. He idly wonders if his own mother would have still retained her kindness, if she had survived the attack that left him an orphan.

He retreated to his room for a bit, leaving you to tend to the child in peace, suddenly overcome with melancholic thoughts. The soft sounds of you talking lowly to the child and his responding coos filling the hold and easing Din into a light slumber as he lay atop the cot.

The hot stream of water had steam wafting through the air of the small room, curling around your hunched frame. The stabbing pain in your abdomen had you gasping and struggling for breath. Not something from previous injuries but a new sensation that had begun a couple hours ago. It had been growing in severity since you first noticed it. Food had been hard to eat lately, the bone broth and fruit helping to get you through the stomach pains of withdrawal from your latest, heavy dose of sedative and muscle relaxing drugs at the hands of a man that was now dead.

You moved to reach for some shampoo and a sharp line of pain ran across the front of your stomach. A crushing weight as you felt a cramp knot the inside muscles below your belly button. Hands digging into your skin there, you felt the hard bulge of the implant you had been administered during your captivity and a yelp flew from your mouth as it panged harshly. The throbbing pain stole your breath when you tried to suck air into your seizing lungs.

“Maker!” You weakly cried out, knees giving out and hitting the tile of the stall hard. The shock of it crawling up your body, adding a new pain to the ones already plaguing you. The bottles of body cleansing soaps thudded around you. One of them nearly landing on the hand you had pushed out to catch yourself from collapsing completely.

A whimper echoed off of the walls of the small room, making you sound like a wounded animal. The implant was jutted out from the developing softness of your stomach, the sparse food you indulged in allowing you to put on some healthy weight in wake of being nearly starved for so long. The skin was tender, but no bruising had developed, thankfully, as of yet.

The cramping continued, making you nauseas as you tried to get back up onto your feet. The water was loud in your ears, the steam from the heat of it making your head hurt and you blinked hard as you threw a hand out to turn off the stream of it. A stretching feeling deep in the muscles of your lower back clicked everything together and your chest lurched at the implication of your cycle making an appearance after so long.

The implant shifted slightly underneath your skin, making you gasp loudly, and you stumbled against the stall. The slick tiles did nothing to support you and your back slid down the length of them, bottom hitting the floor as you crumpled.

“Din!” You called, at a loss of what to do, not able to keep upright. Your legs were shaking, and your head was swimming, the pain too much to handle and that’s when you realized you had unintentionally reached out with the Force and the door was flying open to the fresher. Quick steps and the cry of the Child were all you heard before a figure appeared in the doorway, you could see it through the frosty pane of glass that separated you from him.

“Did you fall? What’s wrong?” There was a twinge of concern in his soft tone, words rushed as he appeared in the doorway. His shadow was large through the frosted glass, you were grateful he had been awake. But you had a feeling he would wake from a deep slumber should you call out for him, instincts to aid and protect taking over the pull of sleep he seldom sought.

“Din,” You panted, hands hovering over the swollen part of your stomach. Pain throbbing deep inside your muscles, making them twitch. “Din, we need to land. I need a medic.”

Words trailing off as you noticed the trail of blood that was coming from between your legs, the water that hadn’t gone down the drain diluting it to create an alarming swirl around you. The panel of glass creaked, and you didn’t bother covering yourself up as Din’s gloved hands curled over the door.

“I’m opening the stall.” He announced before you could see the silhouette of him appear through the steam that had collected in the small room. He didn’t have any armor on, down to the simple clothing he wore underneath. He must’ve been cleaning it if he hadn’t been asleep, you mused in the back of your mind as your eyes trained on the floor of the stall once again.

“My- the implant, somethings wrong-“ You couldn’t look away from the blood curling around the drain, eyes drawn to the unnerving display. It had been so long since you had a cycle, and it was worrying that it had returned despite the presence of the implant. There was so much of it. Your attempt at an explanation was cut off by another yelp as the knot in your stomach jolted.

“This-this isn’t normal!” Your voice took on a panicked edge, higher than you’ve ever sounded before, through your clenched teeth as you held your hands to your aching middle. You didn’t care how scared you may have sounded, too encumbered by the pain and hectic thoughts flying around in your head on how to stave off the pain long enough to get medical attention.

“I’m going to help you up, is that okay?” Din stepped closer, boots splashing in the shallow water that had collected in the stall. His hands reached out to you as he crouched down to face you, visor dark as you looked up into it for a second. You didn’t want to fall to the floor again, too weak to hold yourself up even with his help.

“C-can’t stand. Hurts t-too much.” You keeled over, back hunching as you began to feel the cold of ship now that the steam was dissipating and the wet of your hair was exposed. Your skin prickled up into goosebumps at the cold air of the hold seeping into the room from the open door. A hand was under your chin, the chill of the leather making you shudder as your head was tilted up to face the rather close visor of Din’s helmet.

“I’m going to wrap you up, put you in my quarters and turn on the heat, is that all okay with you?”

You could only nod before you felt his hands carefully wrap a towel around your shaking body. The scent of him strong on it and it helped to ground you a bit. When he lifted you from the floor, you shouted out at the pull on your skin the action caused. Back and middle aching as cramps crashed in never ending waves. His gloved hands tensed where they supported you, your own still holding to your lower stomach.

A few moments later, you found yourself bundled up in the clothing he had first given you, fresh from whatever drying unit he had aboard the ship. The heat had been activated and you were underneath two blankets atop his cot. He had excused himself while you dressed, to go scout out a planet close enough that had a decent enough population to warrant a medical center. You felt the ship lurch slightly as it transitioned out from hyperspace and then back, a new path directing its direction of flight.

“Do you want me to go sleep in the other room?” His sudden question startled you, head shooting up to gaze at him as he stood in the doorway of his small quarters. The Child was fast asleep in the small hammock above you, one of his feet kicked out and visible in the low light from the hold. “I don’t want to make you comfortable.”

“I want you in here with me,” You couldn’t help the whine of your words, bottom lip trembling as a wave of emotion hit you at the thought of him being so far away. Of not being able to curl up beside him and feel the warmth of him just inches away. “If-if that’s okay?”

“It’s okay, mesh’la, I’m right here.” Pitched low, his voice curled around those frantic thoughts and soothed them.

“I’m…I’m sorry. The job-“

“Can wait, they need me.” He soothed you, trying to eradicate any worried you had, wanting to focus on getting you whatever you needed.

Once he was settled into the cot beside you, the heat of his close body helping to calm you down, you spoke into the darkness in a quiet voice. There were only a few inches of space between your bodies, if he took a deep enough breath his chest would be brushing your own as you faced each other atop the cot.

“I think the implant needs to be replaced or taken out. My…my cycle started, that’s what all that blood was.”

“Then we will get you to a medic and get it taken care of.”

“I have credits for it.”

“Not worried about that.”

“Din, I…I don’t want another implant.” The admittance was quiet, and you held your breath once it was out in the space between you both.

“…okay.”

“It wasn’t my choice to get one…I woke up with one after those bandits captured me.” You whispered into the darkness, in the general direction of his chest. He had laid down to face you, both your head and his helmet resting on a pair of pillows close together.

“It’s your body, your choice, mesh’la.”

You tried to piece together the shape of him beside you through the dark, aware that he was seeing you more clearly with the aid of his helmet. Reaching out, you found his arms crossed over his chest as he lay on his side facing you. He untangled them at the first hesitant touch of your fingers on the fabric of his long sleeves. He had his gloves on still, but he let you remove them, allowing you to free his hands from them to pull them toward you. He stiffened when he felt you slip them underneath the shirt you had changed into. Your skin was hot to the touch, but you shivered as if cold.

“Hands are warm, is it okay if-“

“It’s okay,” He breathed the words out, barely giving them life as he felt the soft skin of your stomach underneath his palms. He would give you the breath out of his lungs if you asked. His hands against your bare skin was something he was very okay with, especially if it would bring you the comfort you so obviously needed. The give of the flesh under the light pressure as you pushed them flush against you.

His fingers brushed over a hard spot beside your belly button, a small gasp sounding at the action, but you didn’t flinch or push him away. Instead, you scooched closer to him, wiggling underneath the blankets to rest your head beside his. You pressed your forehead to the front of his helmet, breath washing over the skin of his neck as you mumbled a quiet thank you.

Of course the planet had been crowded, one of the few on the outer rim that had such a population, the buildings tall and foreboding. Signaling that any number of people could recognize either you or Din, the armor garnering more than a few lingering stares as he walked alongside you toward the clinic. He had done research to find a reputable one, not trusting just any medical center to treat you. He could do with whatever he had on hand aboard the ship, but he wasn’t taking any chances with you or your wellbeing.

The small whimpers you had made as you tossed and turned to try and get comfortable all throughout the two rotations’ worth of travel to get to the planet echoing in his head. With a lingering look and a reminder to contact him via comm link should you need anything, he dropped you off at the doors. He watched as you tried to keep up the appearance that you were okay, but the pinched expression that pulled your brows together gave him a hint at how badly you were still feeling.

The Child was peeking out from the bag he had slung around his shoulder, wide eyes taking in the commotion of the city as you walked through the streets. It had been an unspoken agreement that he would not be left aboard the ship in such a crowded space, Din opting to carry him around. The ever-present threat of a tracking fob pinging at the small being’s presence not lost on either of you. The potential of danger here was for all three of you.

Speaking in Mando’a around people was normal for you, a sign that you were wary of crowds and eyes that could lead to another capture, cautious. Ears that could overhear. That he held your trust now was not lost on him and he wondered once again how you came to know his language so intimately in order to converse with him as if you were Mandalorian yourself.

He had so many questions he wanted to ask you, so many things he wanted to know about you, but he refrained. Cautious himself, in bridging a gap too rashly in the face of the new dynamic you both found yourselves in. You were startled in ways he would never be able to fully anticipate, certain words, yes, certain actions, fast movements, sudden movements, you admitted to being put on edge by.

You looked up at him, the difference in height something he would be hesitant to admit that he was rather fond of. Your eyes were asking for something you didn’t voice and with a step forward, a hand reached out to steady yourself on his upper arm as you pushed yourself onto the tips of your toes and leaned your forehead briefly against the front of his helmet. The casual act of something that began to mean so much to the both of you, comforting in its simplicity. He closed his eyes behind the helmet, taking in the moment before you were pulling away from him and disappearing behind the automatic doors of the building with a last wiggle of your fingers toward the Child.

You looked back once, seeing how the neon lights of the cities nightlife reflected on his beautiful armor before you walked up to the counter and signed in with the aid of a nurse. As if sensing your nerves and how uncomfortable you were, she brought over a warm cup of tea the second you had settled down into a chair to wait for a room to be ready. You smiled at her, grateful for the touch of hospitality.

You had contacted him once back in the waiting room, after being cleared by a medic that you were free to go. They had asked…rather difficult questions, prompting you to admit you had no idea how long the implant had been in your body, what type it was, and that you hadn’t had a choice in its installation to begin with. The nurse explained in a hushed tone that your visit would be covered by the clinic due to the nature of your condition. You could see in red lettering the classification of ‘slaving victim’ on your paperwork laid out in front of her and your stomach soured at the description.

A simple conversation saying you would meet him back on the ship, you made your way back to the hanger slowly. You were able to walk comfortably now, your lower stomach and the internal organs there no longer cramping uncomfortably.

The implant had been removed, the offer for another one turned down with a shake of your head. The small incision that had been made was nearly invisible to the eye, but you knew where it was due to the phantom feeling of it lingering in your mind. They had given you a small collection of supplies that included suppression shots should you want them, absorption pads and inserts, painkillers, and a tin of tea that would help to soothe your symptoms.

The dose they had administered you while there had taken full effect by the time you were walking up the boarding ramp. You had expressed caution toward them, explaining that you had been given certain drugs against your will and that you were worried about experiencing withdrawal or addiction. They had assured you that the low dose would only ease the cramps, the medicine formulated to focus on the origin of pain and not an all-encompassing barrage on your nervous system.

You hovered outside the ship, reaching into the pouch strapped to your right thigh. The snick of a lighter was loud in the quiet of the late hour. You had no idea if it was closer to the middle of the night or the sunrise, the sky a dark velvet blue above you, sprinkled with glittering stars. You watched them absentmindedly as you smoked a cigarra, not wanting the smoke or smell of the tabac to collect inside the ship.

Feeling a little more like yourself, you opted for another attempt at a shower. You noticed the bag adi’ka had been cradled into atop the makeshift table. The ramp closed with the whine of mechanics behind you, and you assumed Din was up in the control room. Your hunch was proven right as the ship hummed to life and you heard the clearance for take-off from a speaker up above followed by a small gaggle of laughter from the small being as the ship lifted up into the air.

Smiling to yourself, you set your stuff beside the bag and made your way over to the refresher.

Exiting the refresher with a towel in your hand, you dried your hair as best you could, some sand from Tatooine still stubborn despite the wash of water and product. The motion jostled your chest, free underneath the plain, short sleeved shirt you wore. Planning on napping after the late-night excursion and the tense rotations that let up to it.

Sighing, you plopped down atop a crate around the makeshift table for a bite to eat. There was a cup of the tea you had placed atop the makeshift table waiting for you, the steam wafting from it telling you Din had timed it to finish just as your shower had. He had his own cup of caf in front of him, nearly empty. You took a sip of it, wincing at how the cut inside your mouth throbbed at the temperature. You must’ve bitten your cheek sometime recently as you battled against the pain that had taken over so fully.

Looking up, you found Din staring blatantly at you. His visor aimed directly at you though he hadn’t moved or spoken since you joined him. Not knowing the exact trace of his eyes, you figured they had swept over your form from top to bottom, suspecting that he clocked the absence of an undergarment. You were about to ask him if he was okay when you noticed the way bare hands were twitching atop the table where he cradled the mug.

He was in just his clothing once again, a habit you wouldn’t had thought of him, even aboard his own ship safely traveling through space. But you were kind of glad he was so comfortable around you now, to do so. He hadn’t before Sorgan, always keeping the full suit of armor and his weapons on. You crossed one leg over the other, and leaned your elbows atop the table as you cradled your own mug, aware of how it positioned you.

“See something you like?” The teasing lilt to your voice and the upturn of your lips in a smirk received a deep sigh from the man across from you. His fingers stilled on the ceramic, the rest of him motionless as if he were frozen in place. Energy thrummed between you, filling you up and making you bold. The hormones running high in your body winning out over your reason and logic as you shifted, the action pushing your chest together.

“Are…you okay, now?” He sounded a little winded, as if words were hard to come by. You wondered if he had been thinking back to all the times you had been injured before. Coalescing into a steady stream of memories he regretted collecting and recalling as new instances arose. You didn’t want him to only think of you as someone who he had to look out for, care for in such a way. Someone who was constantly facing illness and injury, but your recent track record couldn’t be argued because it was exactly that. A mark of time determined by what ailed you. But he revealed that exact internal struggle with his next words. “I would like to stop finding you on the floor of the fresher covered in blood.”

Not letting his concern deflate you too much, you took a sip from the tea before answering.

“I know that…must not be easy, I-“

“Do not apologize,” He cut you off softly, words beseeching as he leaned closer toward you. “I will look after you in any circumstance. You need to know that. But are you feeling any better, after?”

You grimaced slightly, not liking the way he worried so deeply, reassured you so strongly that he could handle it. You wanted to give him good memories too, not only sorrow and worry drenched ones so close together they blurred. But he needed to know what was written down on your chart should it arise in the future if you sought out official medical treatment again. You had given them your false name, the one you used while on the run, but if anyone where to input your birth date and description, your officially chain code would pop up. Dots could be connected and your cover blown.

“They marked me as a slaving victim. Covered the cost to remove the implant and gave me all these supplies. Gave me some pain killers to help manage.” You waved a hand toward the small bag they had gifted you on your departure. You stared into the dark of your cup. The pod of dehydrated herbs visible just beneath the surface, steeping. “But yes, I’m okay right now.”

“I didn’t look, when I helped you up, if that worries you.” He tapped a bare finger to the side of his helmet, letting you know that he had probably used another view setting to prevent such a thing, of crossing an unspoken line. Showing you respect even in dire situations if he could.

Taking your bottom lip between your teeth, you glanced over at him for a moment before your eyes fell back to the mug cradled in your hands.

“…I don’t think it would be such a bad thing if you had looked.” You felt heat creep up your neck and toward your face at the quiet confession. He remained silent, processing. The visor of his helmet was aimed at you across the makeshift table, his hands tapping against the ceramic of his own mug.

“You’re allowed to ask questions, Din.” You reached out and took one of his hands in your own, squeezing it in reassurance. A small smile aimed at him. “That’s part of the…courting process, no?”

He was quiet for a moment, but the visor of his helmet was tilted just a bit as he regarded you, letting you know he was thinking something over and not ignoring you. You waited on him, not pressuring him but giving him the time he needed to think over his next words. This…new dynamic was all foreign to you, having never sought out a connection with anyone in such a way. But Din…he was worth it.

The things you’ve both done for each other speaking volumes when words weren’t either of your strong suits. You saving him and risking your wellbeing while still under his transport, him allowing you space in his ship and giving you the opportunity to make your own life. The softness he’s let you glimpse at that makes up the man that he is, so unlike the other side of him that hunts and ensures his livelihood. The same side that inspired him to turn on the Guild to help save a child who had no one else, a good manat his core. Someone you wanted to get to know, to be with, to connect with.

He shifted, his helmet taking in the remnants of the drink in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was careful, as if he was worried he was asking for too much of you despite wanting to know as much about you as possible. The woman who he hadn’t expected you to turn out to be back when that tracking fob first burst to life on Arvala-7. The woman he wanted to connect with despite feeling as if he didn’t deserve it, couldn’t be worthy of such a good thing in his life for all the bad he’d done.

“Is that…what you would like? For me to officially court you?”

“Well, you did ask to make a commitment to me,” You teased lightly, but genuine in your words. Shy in the wake of saying so aloud, of bringing it to the dim light of the hold space as the ship traveled through hyperspace toward a job he didn’t have much information on other than he once worked with those orchestrating it. “I would like to get to know you too.”

“I do have questions, but this is new…to me.”

“And I understand that, it’s all new to me too, cyar'ika.”

He was quiet for another beat, the term of endearment sprouting warmth in his chest. The modulator crackled with a heavy exhale. “How is it that…you know so much about my culture?”

“Ah, that’s a…rather long story.” Sipping from the mug in your free hand, you didn’t take away your other one from atop his. Your fingers flexed over his own, tangling with them as you brought his hand closer to you. You wrapped both of your hands around his one, fingers idly playing with his as you collected your thoughts. Your heart was beating hard in your chest at the contact, his skin so soft against your own. His thick fingers and wide palm so much bigger than your own. And he was warm, Maker, was he hot to the touch. His pulse was fast in the wrist you brushed over in your tentative exploration.

“Tell me, mesh’la.” His comforting words washed over you and you took a deep breath before you shared a part of yourself no one knew about.

“We sold armor in a small shop front and offered repairs as well. We had a man come by one day, all his armor damaged and he was too injured to travel. My mother let him stay with us while he healed and we helped to fix his armor with his guidance. It was really advanced and so beautifully crafted, his helmet especially. He was such a kind man, he explained to me about how the armor was a part of him and that it was a great honor to have found people who respect the art of it when he couldn’t return to his home planet for repairs.”

He taught me small words and phrases in Mando’a, told me all about his studies as he grew up. I think he was trying to fill the time it took him to heal and was grateful for someone to interact with, he said he had been alone for a long while…. I often wondered if he had been my father, the way he paid attention to me and shared with me. But I don’t think he was, not biologically at least. I learned as much as I could from the Temple library and histories about Mandalorians once that became my life.

When he left, he had given me his chain code, I sought him out after I escaped from the attack, hoping he could help me. He made the trip to the city, it took him a few days but, he helped me get off world, even though it had been years since last seeing him. We travelled for... a long time, trying to keep Clones and Troopers off our trail. He trained me, made sure I wouldn’t be helpless should we be separated. He taught me about his culture more in depth, how he was raised, how to travel, how to fight, how to survive. He…he died protecting me.”

“San…” Din’s hand turned in your grip, his other joining it to hold your trembling hands. A few tears fell from your watering eyes, racing down the curve of your cheek.

“He was a good man, a better guardian than my mother.” Your words were slightly bitter, taking over the taste of the tea on your tongue. Disdain for the woman who claimed to love you, only to chain you to a wall and drug you for so long. The rich baritone of Din’s voice called you back to the present, with a question that made your chest warm.

“What was his name?”

“Akiz Noves.”

Silence fell over the table, your hands warm from his touch, from his comfort. You wanted to ask to lay down, to feel him beside you. But the conversation had been...harder than you thought and you wanted to be alone with your thoughts. You worried your bottom lip, unsure of admitting another thing aloud to him. But he felt safe.

“I have…I had the pendant he gave me, but it wasn’t in my stuff from the compound. I…I was going to show it to you once we were back on your ship after you collected me, but it was missing. To try and connect with you, but it was gone, and you were so…” You trailed off, not feeling like you needed to explain something he lived along with you. “It feels like losing him all over again.”

Din reached into the collar of his long-sleeved shirt and pulled on a cord you hadn’t noticed around his neck until now. The shiny metal pendant of a detailed skull hung from it as he brought it out from beneath the fabric of his shirt. In a swift move, he removed the cord from around his neck, the clasp easily detaching underneath his bare fingers. He held it out to you and your breath caught in your throat.

“I know it’s not the same, but I can offer you my own.”

You were suddenly out of your seat and settling over his lap, arms wrapping around him in a tight hug. A grunt sounded from the modulator at the sudden weight of you pushing against him, your chest pressed close to his own. His hands came around you slowly, as if he was hesitant to touch you, but when he did, he squeezed you tight. The bottom of his helmet hooked over your shoulder and closed his eyes at the sniffles that sounded into the air. He held you to him despite the feeling in his legs going numb. But for you, he would stay locked in the embrace, for you he would do just about anything.

“I’m sorry about your parents, Din.” The words were pressed into the side of his neck, lips brushing against his skin, and he shivered slightly at the feeling of them. You placed a closed lipped smile on the skin there, offering comfort in a new way as your heart tittered in your chest, the action completely new for you. To want to offer physical touch, comforting touch in such a way. His hands tightened around you, knuckles popping with the force he clung to your shirt.

“I will try to share things with you, but you might not like parts of me.” You whispered into his neck, worried about the parts of your life you didn’t think about, let be exposed by the light of day.

“You might not like parts of me, but if you ask, I will give them to you as well.”

Later that hour, you were settled into your own cot, blankets drown up around your shoulders as you lay on your side, the pendant of the necklace grasped in your hand as you turned it over and over, taking in the beauty of the beskar it was made from. Taking in the very real fact that Din had given it to you without hesitation, just as he had committed himself to you. You fell asleep with a smile on your face and a warmth in your chest you were beginning to like more and more.

You could descend down to the hold and seek him out. The errant thought sparked through your mind much like the remnants of the dream you had been having did. Dissipating phantom feelings of large hands exploring your body had your thighs pressed together and your bottom lip between your teeth as pleasure waned from your nerves. You turned to lay on your back, the pendant slipping from where you had cradled it in your hand while asleep.

Hands scrabbling for it, you pressed it into the give of your chest, the cool beskar like a soft breath against your skin through the fabric of your shirt. With a sigh, heat flared at the notion that Din had given you a part of himself. Before you could think better of it, hands were sneaking underneath your shirt, dragging the pendant over sensitive skin. The coolness of it lightly tracing over the peaks of your breasts stuttered your breath, heartbeat thumping between your thighs.

The painkillers had worked through the night, allowing you to feel the full force of the cravings your body was now calling out for, a result of your heightened hormones and the all-encompassing feeling of having connected with someone. Of wanting someone.

A trembling hand reached down and delved beneath the band of the sleep pants you had donned before bed. Fingers reached toward the sensitive bundle of nerves that was aching between your folds. Slick coated them as they sought it out, small tingles spreading across your skin and lighting you up in a way you had never felt before. When they brushed against it, your breath left you in a deep gasp, pleasure sparking sharp through your entire body. Your hand jerked away, overwhelmed at the sensation and you suck in heaving breaths as your eyes had flown open.

Body tingling, you moved your fingers back over the bundle in small, gentle circles. Panting as heat and pleasure consumed you from the inside out, you began to move them faster, fingers pressing harder. Hips bucking up as pleasure simmered deliciously in your abdomen, a far cry from the pain that had been cresting there just hours ago.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth to quiet the small whines that were bleeding from you, the muscles of your stomach tensed. There was no other warning before white heat crashed over you and you came undone, release hitting you hard enough for you to shout out.

Hand still pressed against your core as you tried to catch your breath, you could feel yourself flutter around nothing. Body calling out for something else, for something more. So quickly in the wake of experiencing something for the first time and suddenly it wasn’t enough.

Face warming at what you had just done, what had just washed over you, you turned to press it into the pillow beneath your head. Shame tried to rear its head, but you shoved it down, not wanting to experience it, not wanting to succumb to it in the wake of taking something back for yourself. Of finding good in something that had been bad for so long. A lazy smile pulled at your lips, and you fell back into the sleep that had never really waned from the edges of your mind. The beskar pendant held tight in your hand once again.

Gravity shifted as the ship descended from hyperspace, making your stomach jump up somewhere in your ribs, hand coming down to steady yourself on the makeshift table where your tools and metal castings were scattered.

The Child reached out for you at the shift, surely his tummy had done the same and it was foreign to him. His small hands clung to you as you moved him from beside your stuff to your lap, crossing your legs for him to lay in the divot it created. He looked up at you with his wide eyes, thoughts connecting with yours to speak to you in the only way he could. It was just a feeling of confusion that blossomed over your own thoughts, and you carefully blanketed it with comfort. He relaxed in your lap, reaching out for a tool and he waved it around.

“I’ll come with you,” You said without looking up as you hear the hush of him moving down the ladder.

A few moments later, you were following behind him, having settled ad’ika securely in Din’s quarters with a snack and soft reassurances that you would be back soon.

He paused at the top of the ramp, casting his gaze over you.

“I was younger when I worked with them, a different man than I am now.” He spoke evenly, but you could hear the hesitancy in his voice as he tried to be honest with you. “More boy than man, they may- will say things about me that don’t apply anymore. Please don’t pay them any mind.”

You stuttered out an agreement, wanting him to know that you heard him but unable to collect your thoughts enough to articulate them.

His shoulders are tense, though only noticeable because you had seen him so relaxed around the Crest during the rotations it took to travel. His steps measured and careful, as he descended the ramp ahead of you. The hangar was a bit of a mess, people gathered about, some working on parts of mechanics you couldn’t identify. As he walked through the space, people were blatant in their stares.

“Mando!” An older human with wild gray hair and a long beard approached. “Is that you under that bucket?”

A hand was held out in greeting, though something about the way he spoke set you on edge. Like there was something behind his words. Calculating.

“Ran.” Din greeted, extended his own hand to shake with the man’s offered one.

“I didn’t really know if I’d ever seen you in these parts again. Good to see ya.” The same hand that had been shaking Din’s reached up over his armored shoulders in a fleeting touch you were surprised he let happen. “I was a little surprised when you reached out to me.”

“Ya know, cause I…I hear things. Like maybe things between you and the Guild aren’t workin’ out.”

“I’ll be fine.” Ran leaned back a little, his hair shifting over his shoulders as he raised his hands in a placating manner, letting the man know he wasn’t about to push the subject.

“Okay. Well, you know the policy. No questions. And you, you’re welcome back here anytime. Now, be polite and introduce me to the little shadow you got following behind you.”

“This is-”

“Sarad.” You held out a hand, anticipating a handshake in greeting. But the man stepped close and held it between both of his own. His eyes bore into your own, flicking between them, and you felt seen in a way that put you on edge. Your clothing felt too tight all of a sudden, body lighting up with anxious energy that you tried to quell so it wasn’t noticeable.

“Such a quiet little shadow, where did he pick you up?”

“Tatooine,” The lie flowed easily, this man was a stranger to you, someone you had no qualms about being honest with despite his seemingly temperate disposition. But there was just something about him, about the way he held himself that you weren’t fond of. Wary of in the wake of working alongside Din or merely being around as Din worked with him.

“Well, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sarad.” He released your hand, turning to lead you both through the open space of the crowded hanger, up a flight of stairs and across a heightened walkway.

“So what’s the job?”

Ran halted his steps, turning to survey the wall of armor Din made up beside him. He took a moment before he responded, as if he had been thinking over his words. Something that caught your attention all the same. He was hiding something, and not just in general but something that pertained to Din specifically.

“Yeah, one of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught. So I’m puttin’ together a crew to spring him. It’s a five person job. I got four.” Ran paused, taking a moment to look out over the space below, mental tabs on the people working and milling about. “All I need is the ride, and you brought it.”

“The ship wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here.” Ran’s voice shifted down an octave, displaying a glimpse of authority.

Din turned to him, helmet heavily tilted to the side, his distrust obvious.

“What’s the look?” Ran moved in close, getting right up in front of the visor, body almost pressed against the armor. He spoke directly into the side sensors of the helmet, not looking nervous in the slightest, if his next words were any indication. Voice pitched low and slightly taunting. “Is that gratitude?”

“Uh-huh. I think it is.” Din didn’t move a muscle, visor trained on the man as he stepped back and away, feeling righteous in his intimidation and lack of response from the armored man.

Din cast his gaze down at the floor, helmet not giving anything away, but you could read his movements as well as if you could see his face. The way he lifted the helmet to you in a silent apology, for getting involved in whatever was about to transpire. You gave a single, curt nod. Letting him know that it was okay, that the job was something you were willing to go along with if he was.

You both followed the man as he crossed the remaining suspension, down a flight of stairs at the other end. He called out as he approached a small gathering of storage cabinets and a long table, a figure busy between them.

“Hey, Mayfeld.”

“Yeah?” A man dressed in all black with a dark leather harness draped over his back turned from where he was retrieving something from within a set of the storage drawers. There were three heavy duty looking guns fastened into the harness, tight against his body. He had no hair, but the short beard that decorated his face was the color of candied ginger.

“This is Mando, the guy I was tellin’ you about. We used to do jobs way back when.”

“This is the guy?” Mayfeld approached the table, using it as a shield between himself and the imposing figure Din made by simply standing there.

“Yeah, we were all young, tryin’ to make a name for ourselves.” Ran mused, as if that explained it all away. The things were you suspecting Din had tried to warn you about before disembarking.

“Yeah, but runnin’ with a Mandalorian, that was… That brought us some reputation.”

“Oh yeah? What did he get out of it?”

“I asked him that one time. You remember what you said, Mando? Target practice.” Ran’s laughter was boisterous as it sprung into the air from deep in his chest, garnering the attention of a few passersby. “We did some crazy stuff, didn’t we?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Well… I don’t go out anymore. You understand?” The same tone of pressured understanding hid underneath his words as he regarded Din, “So, uh, Mayfield, he’s gonna run point on this job. If he says it, it’s like it’s comin’ from me. You good with that?”

“You tell me.” Din faced Mayfeld over the expanse of the low table head on, visor aimed at the slightly disgruntled face of the man he would have to work with.

Ran’s laughter rang again, “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Yeah, well, things have changed around here.” The intimidation didn’t quite hit the same coming from Mayfeld, his words thrown over his shoulder as he walked away. He didn’t impact his words with eye contact or head on communication.

“I think he’ll be able to play catch up, he’s got his little shadow here to help him along.” Ran nodded at you, you just stared as his eyes met your own. He was watching you, keeping tabs on how you moved a few steps behind and to the right of Din. Never straying too far from him but maintaining a respectful distance. “Yeah, well, Mayfeld, he’s…he’s one of the best triggermen I’ve ever seen. Former Imperial sharpshooter.”

You tried not to let the way your body stiffened show, blood chilling in your veins as your eyes roved over the man who had walked away. Static buzzed in your head, thoughts muddling together as your hand twitched over the where it rested atop the pouch strapped to your right thigh.

“That’s not saying much.” Din deadpanned; his voice flat but controlled as he could feel how you had tensed beside him. Sensed how you had taken the smallest step closer toward him.

“I wasn’t a storm tropper, wiseass.” Mayfeld shot the insult over his shoulder, it not landing as he looked away too quickly for it to have any heat.

“Don’t take long, does it?” Ran chuckled to himself as he looked between all three of you, smirk crawling over his lips in a worrying display.

“Razor Crest? I can’t believe that thing can fly. Looks like a Canto Bight slot machine. Alright, that good lookin’ fellow there with the horns, that’s Burg.” Mayfeld gave a perfunctory introduction as he led the way toward the ship, his back tense as he did so. The Devaronian that had been holding a large crate dropped it, the loud thud of it hitting the floor making the muscles in your thighs twitch. “This may surprise you, but he’s our muscle.”

Burg approached quickly, interest piqued at your arrival. He moved to stand right up in Din’s personal space and looked him up and down. Circling him to get a full look at the armor he donned. He sneered, distaste obvious. “So this is a Mandalorian. I thought they’d be bigger.”

“Driod’s name is Zero.” The droid was of a protocol model you faintly recognized, some version of a Q9 you may have run into while on your travels. He had been messing with a transmitter of some sort, along a bank of equipment that probably allowed for control of the hanger door and settings. He vaguely resembled an insect, the eye sensors bulging out like a member of the eusocial species.

“I thought you said you had four.”

“He does.” A feminine voice announced from behind you. You mirrored Din as he turned slowly to watch an approaching Twi’lek. Her skin was a soft, pastel purple, covered by simple clothing. Outfit punctuated by a loaded down belt and a leather harness about her head. There was the glint of a knife in her hand, settled at her side as she walked closer.

“Hello, Mando.” She greeted, though her words were simmering.

“Xi’an.” Your ears caught the slight surprise in his tone, setting alarms off in your head.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?” She began to twirl the knife in her grip as she neared, suddenly lunging at him and raising the blade to rest just below his helmet. He didn’t flinch in the slightest, almost as if he had been expecting her, but again, even if he hadn’t, you doubted he would’ve shown any indication of alarm.

“Nice to see you too.”

Her shrill laugh squeaked into the air, grating on your ears in an unpleasant way. The surrounding people laughed along with her, finding humor in the deliverance of Din’s words.

Xi’an sighed a deep breath, knife still held up to Din’s neck, “I’ve missed you.”

Your eyes narrowed at her words, not liking the implication of them. To your right, Mayfeld must’ve picked up on the meaning of them as well, he looked over to Ran with raised eyebrows. Your own questioning thoughts mirrored in his expression.

“This is shiny.” Xi’an preened at the sight of Din’s new armor, tapping against it with the blade of her knife in echoing clangs. She clicked her tongue as he leaned impossibly further into his space, hovering so close to the front of his helmet. “You wear it well.” She purred, voice pitched low and sultry.

“Do we need to leave the room or something?” Mayfeld asked, showing his slight discomfort at the exchange. You were tense, however, entire body lined with muscles ready to snap. It was blatantly obvious that she and Din had…had relations. He had told you he had past experiences, but you never anticipated interacting with anyone he had been involved with. And yet, here you were, in a sketchy lone space station far from anything else with a group of unsavory people. About to work a job with one of them.

“Well, Xi’an’s been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group.” Ran said by way of explanation, gaze aimed at you as your hands shifted from your sides to hook in between the leather of your belt and the fabric of your trousers. The corner of his mouth ticked up slightly, entertained by the unfolding display.

“Awe. You gonna be okay, sweetheart? Especially with his little shadow joining us.” Mayfeld teased, voice taking on a sarcastic, saccharine lilt. The man nodded over to you but she didn’t divert her attention from Din.

“Oh, I’m all business now.” She stepped back from Din, not giving you any attention as she turned to face him and jutted her entire arm out with the knife pointing at him. “Learned from the best.”

At the smallest tilt of Din’s helmet toward you, she turned and gave you her full attention. Knife twirling in her grip once again. She walked up close to you, smirk pulling at her dark lips, giving you a glimpse of the canines, she possessed.

“And what’s this little thing? Mando’s little shadow, you said?” She teased as she stepped into your personal space. Blocking you from seeing how Din took a single step forward or how Ran shook his head toward him. You simply took a few steps back, not caring if it made you look weak to do so and put space between you both. “So demure and quiet while the grown ups talk.”

“This little thing will shove that knife in your throat if you so much as look at me with it in your hand,” You slapped her hand away when she raised the aforementioned knife, preparing to brandish it at you just as she had done with Din. The blade caught an overhanging light and glinted at you as the sound of the slap echoed around the hangar. Her squeaking laugh grated on your ears once again, her mouth open wide as she closed the space between you both again in a bold move.

“Oooh, it’s feisty. I like ‘em like that. Mando does too, but you’d know that, hmm?” She tossed a taunting look over her shoulder at him, tongue peeking out between her teeth.

“Enough.” Din’s voice was even in volume, but his tone left no room for a follow up. There was an air about him you had yet to see, not even a few moments ago when he was interacting with Ran and Mayfeld. Though he had been on edge, he had remained businesslike, collected. But he now seemed to be barely holding in a manner of hostility you had only glimpsed at previously. It was as if he was alarmed by her presence, by the words in which she spat at you both, the implications that were spewing from her mouth. His demeanor hadn’t shifted until she made her presence known, approaching the group in the way that she had.

“Touchy, touchy. Hit a nerve did I?” She leaned into your space much like she had done with him, knife brandished at you now despite your threat. But she didn’t get the chance to step within inches of your front like she had done with Din. You raised a hand from where they had been hooked over your belt, mentally reaching out and pushing against her advancement toward you with the Force. You hid it well, hand making contact with her middle to look as if you pushed her. Her expression cleared for just a second at the pulse of energy, before her face contorted into an ugly one, and she snarled at you from the distance you had shoved her.

Unable to fight against the energy you were harnessing against her, she howled, teeth glinting in the lights of the hangar space. Her rage drew the attention of the scattered members of the organization, heads turning to witness you merely standing there with a hand raised almost lazily in front of you as you glared at her with a neutral expression and her frantic struggle against invisible restraints.

“Ni kelir not borarir ti kaysh. Ti a etyc uram bal bid aru'ela.”

I will not work with her. With such a dirty mouth and too much hostility.

“Complaining to Mando, are we?” She trilled, snickering laugh falling from the upturned corners of her mouth. “Need him to handle your fights for you, hmm?”

“Besom.” You hissed as you flicked your wrist, fingers splaying out with the action. No longer feeling the need to hide your motions of using the Force, too ticked off to think about it. She fell to the ground, the movement too fast for her to catch herself and she glared up at you with a threatening tint in her eyes. Blood dripped from her spit lip, face having connected hard with the ground. You turned away from her, keeping her in your eyesight, not trusting your back to her and you faced the ship, preparing to board and seek out the privacy of your room with the Child for the duration of the trip. She was rude.

Din took a few silent steps toward you, standing between the angry woman on the ground and your still standing figure. His modulator crackled as he opened his mouth, but Ran interrupted him with a tone of authority he had only hinted at having before.

“Alright, lovebirds. Break it up till you get on the ship. Then you all can figure out a new dynamic. Right now, we don’t have much time.”

You held her down for a moment more, feeling powerful in the way she struggled on the ground, despite the feeling of remorse in the back of your head for doing so. You refused to meet her eyes as you relaxed your hand, tucking it into your pocket at the front of your trousers. With another snarl aimed at you she stood with swift movements. For a second you felt like she was going to lunge at you again, but thought better of it at the last moment.

When she was a safe distance away, she turned back around and aimed a wink at Din.

Burg decided to size Din up once more, stepping right into his space like he had done before. Passing over judgement at the way he had idly stood by during the exchange between you and Xi’an. His laugh was deep in tone and rumbling.

“Tiny.” The smile he aimed down at the visor anything but friendly.

“Even tinier.” The voice like gravel aimed directly at you only gave a second’s notice before he was stepping toward you and reaching. Your axis tilted, as he lifted you effortlessly off the ground, causing your legs to dangle. Dangerous quiet fell over the group for a few beats. Those that had turned toward the ship looking back at the taunting Burg had decided to do.

“Put. Me. Down.” Voice pitched low, a threat hidden in the words. Over the entire lot of them, these people that Din once worked grating on your nerves in the worst way. Making you into something you didn’t want to be, openly hostile and on edge. So unlike the disposition you had adapted over the last few weeks.

Your hands looked small where they gripped the wrists of the Devaronian, him holding tight to the front of your cloak where he held you up to his face level. You met his eyes head on, not leaving the blue of them as he scrutinized you openly. aware that everyone was tense as they watched the scene play out. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see how Din’s dominant hand had fallen to hover over the handle of the blaster nestled into its holster at his side. “Now.”

“Heh, tough little one.” He rumbled before setting you back on your feet. His hands came down heavily on your shoulders where he patted you, before he turned to gather with the rest of the group off to the side of the ship.

The second you were alone in front of the ship, you turned to face Din with a slight frown, clearly upset but trying to remain as composed as possible. Your expression smoothed into something neutral, so much like it had been in your early days of interaction with the man. His helmet shifted to look over at you, away from where he had been staring after the group as they began to talk amongst themselves by a collection of errant machinery. He clocked the way the muscles in your neck were jumping, pulse racing.

“I thought you said they asked after you for a job.” You tried to keep the accusation from your low words, but it was obvious that Ran hadn’t been expecting him. It had been plain old luck that a job was being put together and he appeared just in time to be included, that much you could piece together. But the Din they were referring to, you didn’t know that version of him and you didn’t want to. Not right now when you were so riled up at being picked on, feeling the need to defend yourself when all you had done was simply stand beside the man.

“It was an open-ended offer, from some time ago.”

“You- you can’t lie to me. Even by omission and way of words. About jobs or about whatever the kriff went on between you and her.” The last word nearly hissed from between your lips, clear distaste for the woman stemming not just from her attitude but whatever history was apparent between her and the man standing silently beside you. You began to walk up the ramp, stepping silently on the metal that made it up. You didn’t look back at him as you always did, something you couldn’t bring yourself to do with the overwhelming feeling of jealousy and unease at the situation you were now in. Thrown into something with people you would rather avoid than spend time with in close quarters. “Otherwise, none of this is going to work.”

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dividers by the lovely saradika

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