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amiedala · 2 years

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DINCEMBER #1: COMEDOWN

PROMPT: Free Choice

SUMMARY: “I like t—the way your hands handle your spear, your weapons, the kid. You’re decisive with them. Intentional. You don’t touch anything unless you know you can salvage or destroy it, and then you don’t let go until it’s done.”

More silence. Then—a low, shuddering breath from below the helmet. “And what,” he manages, “am I doing right now?”

WARNINGS: mentions of blood and injury, fainting, allusions to drugs/feeling high, & sex in a slightly altered state, 18+ ONLY!!!

WORDCOUNT: 2,851

AUTHOR'S NOTE: because i am nothing if not absolutely unhinged, i decided at the last minute today to participate in the lovely and talented @dindjarindiaries's Dincember!!! all throughout the month of December, i'll be writing (relatively) short din djarin x reader oneshots (alongside all the other incredible participants!!!). today's prompt was a free choice, so of course, i chose filth. i hope you love it!!

It happens so fast.

The flurry of enemy ships that pop into hyperspace like dark fireworks, flooded and cold. The engine whining and screeching like a petulant teenager. The way the Crest chitters and sighs, and then, immediately after, the way it plunges down to the planet’s core, dangerous and undone.

The comedown is ferocious, a dizzying spill. You panic at the last possible second, like the entire time you were descending in a freefall down to horrible, unyielding ground, you had made peace with the situation. Ever since the Mandalorian picked you up in exchange for solid information, it’s been one narrow escape after the other. Initially, you were promised a safe landing anywhere other than the Mid Rim, but you’re pretty sure Mando’s forgotten that part of the deal, because it’s been weeks. You don’t particularly want to remind him.

Not even in this moment, when the Razor Crest has lost all computing power and there’s only a tiny, fraction of a chance that you’re both making it out of this one uninjured. But there’s a second, a fleeting moment, right before the impact, where he turns around in the pilot’s seat, all metal and movement, the visor of his whole helmet locks on one thing. You.

And then there’s nothing. Not silence, so much—more like the absence of everything. Dimly, there’s the weak sound of something beeping, frantic and rousing, but you don’t pay attention to it. There’s pain, but only once you focus on it—an ache lodged deep down in your bone marrow like it forced itself in there, curling barbed tongues around your muscles and yanking down. You blink, and still, nothing—just darkness, then, faintly, stars. They explode out from behind your temples, dangerous and sparkling, too-bright, an endless jaw of teeth.

“Ow,” you manage, and it’s strangled and strange, like your voice is a hushed shout, projecting from someplace you can’t exactly reach. And then your arms come into focus, shaking hands cutting through the stardust shining behind your eyes. They’re red. They weren’t red on landing, and you squint, trying to concentrate, and then, suddenly, it dawns on you. Blood. There’s a lot of it, and you’re not sure all of it is yours.

It’s a centerfold of rust, a seeping, awful vermillion, and you don’t know where it’s coming from. “Shh,” you mouth, illogically, because you’re talking to the exploding, dizzying stars from behind your eyes. Everything, here—after the crash landing—is cloaked in silence. You don’t know where you are. Maybe still the Mid Rim—the mad dash off of Ra’akana was only minutes before all of those ships funneled into the Crest’s warp and coordinated a fatal attack, materializing out of thin air.

But, you reason with yourself, a tiny, hot voice in the back of your mind—you weren’t paying attention to the warp at all. You were hyperfocused on the shape of the beskar in front of you, the Mandalorian’s broad silhouette, how his gloved fingers danced across the dashboard like it was second nature. That, right there—the cloying, sticky sweetness that comes from a low pit in your belly—that’s not helping. Even now, crash landed on this frigid planet—it’s cold out here, even disoriented, you can feel the wicked thrash and snap of frozen air—you’re thinking about the way Mando turned around in his seat the second before impact, as if he was about to lunge out and keep you anchored to the floor, to lessen the impact.

It hurts to get up. That much, you can recognize, the metal thrash of pain across your head, the ache deep in your shoulders and neck, the fractured, stunned feeling of your left knee. The Crest is dark even in the daylight, but without any power at all, the hull feels haunted. You shiver at the rush of cold air, the desolate tomb of the hsip you’re slowly learning to call home, and then, in a slurry of panic, you remember why you got up.

Blood. Coming from somewhere. Maybe you, maybe Mando. Or, an awful, sickly thought hisses, the baby. You don’t know where he got thrown in the blast, but the last you saw of him, he was sleeping in the cradle. Angelic, the tiny wheezes of his breath. Tears spring to the corners of your eyes, and in a Herculean effort, you haul yourself to your feet, wincing the whole way back up.

The cockpit is decimated. Levers and switches are littered all over the floor, and you follow the spill upwards. There’s a giant icicle punctured through the glass window, and there are shards of it, angry slivers, all over the floor. “Ah,” you mumble, looking back down at the blood stained on your hands, the ruby spill of it on the floor, blackened and sickened in the low light. Embedded in your palms, bisecting the lines that slope over your skin, are hundreds of tiny shards of glass, puncture wounds.

This is not good. You’re not the best with blood—you’ve seen enough of it for three lifetimes, traveling with Mando—but it’s worse when it’s leaking from your body. Woozy, you try to stay standing, forcing your teeth together to give yourself a placebo kind of grit. Half-up, you move toward the wide gash in the side of the Crest, dangerous and jagged, spilling open into the frozen tundra of the planet you crashed into. What used to be the gangplank has been ripped off like a limb. You shiver, blood still running from your hands, moving forward until you can see out into the wasteland.

The baby, inexplicably, is outside.

“Hey,” you try, your voice immediately sucked away by the howl of wind. Even with those gigantuan green ears, he doesn’t hear you. He’s on the ground, flapping his hands against the show. “Hey. Baby. You. C’mere.”

You’re pretty sure he hears you this time—his ears quirk up like he’s listening, but if he is, he’s flat-out ignoring you. You shudder against the cold, still propped up against the metal maw missing from the side of the Razor Crest, leaning into the gouged post to maintain your balance. Something red drips onto the snow, vibrant and jarring. Stupidly, when you look down, you remember that you’re dripping from your injuries like a faucet. You make a small noise, desperate and unsettled, and then, oh, look at that—the stars are back.

You don’t remember crash landing the second time, passing out clean onto the frozen ground, but you know something catches you before the fall. Sleepily, still out of it, you look up, and somehow, it’s into the visor on Mando’s helmet.

Your legs thrash—the injured left one feels metallic, like it’s frozen and calcified into hurt—and then air returns to your lungs, big, gulping gasps. You blink, half-worried that you’re imagining it—but you reach up, glittery and starward, through the haze, and your bare fingers touch metal.

And then you feel the steady grip on your hips, the one gloved finger that slips under the hem of your shirt, and the dark, measured timbre of his voice. “You’re bleeding.”

Your breath catches, and then you lower your head back down to the floor, back where it was resting. Dazed, you’re worried about the shards of glass collecting in your hair, but then Mando’s grip tightens against your hipbone—and stars, your shirt rides up even further like your skin is begging for his touch—and all thoughts about puncture wounds and glass and decimation evaporate. “Didn’t notice,” you slur, the corners of your mouth turning up.

“Funny,” he says, low and modulated, and then he sighs. You freeze, because one of his hands is in your hair, smoothing over it. “You weren’t strapped in.”

You look up at him, blinking, trying to get your gaze to focus on the contours of his helmet, the shape of the beskar. You feel slightly drugged—which, granted, could be from the crash or the bacta you know Mando keeps in the medbay, but you’re willing to bet all of your credits that it’s because of his touch—and he keeps filtering in and out of focus. “Did you tackle me?”

He sighs again, and then the helmet moves upward. Faintly, you register the cracking of glass underneath the beskar, and for some reason, this makes you smile even harder. “Unintentionally.”

“Well,” you manage, tilting your head to the left, reaching both of your arms up to try to find the helmet, “I llllliked it.”

Suddenly, the ship goes quiet. Even quieter than it was after the impact of the crash, and that’s saying something. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you pull your touch away, hovering somewhere between Mando and the ground, unwilling to return to your original position. “What else do you like?” he murmurs, quietly, like he’s testing the words out before he’s really saying them. There’s a grit to his tone, something rough and upturned.

You stare up at him. “Your hands.”

For a second, neither of you move. It’s against the rules—nothing ever spoken, but the ones that linger in your body like a virus hiding. It blooms up when you’re this close to him—on the occasions he’s patched you up, in the way his leg grazes up against yours when he’s getting out of the pilot’s seat, the gloved grasp around your wrists to caution you not to touch the wrong things. You want to press forward, lean into the feeling, let that monster gnawing around in the bottom of your belly loose. You’ve wanted his touch on you since the second he picked you up. In the silence of the cockpit, you pray for it. You don’t dare breathe to break the silence.

And then, finally, blood thundering in your ears— “What about them?”

You swallow. Suddenly, nothing is quiet. It’s like you’re standing under a waterfall and everything has thawed, and the only real, tangible thing in the depths of it is him. The Mandalorian. Mando. Whatever his real name is, under the weapons and the armor and the Creed he adheres to. He’s a warrior. Nothing about him—the way he’s shaped, the way he fights—is soft. But you want to curl up and bloom for him, to coax the softness out. You bite down on your lip. You need to get this right—and your head is still starry and pounding, your heart thrumming out a pulse too dangerous to be sustainable—but you lick your lips and try. “I like t—the way your hands handle your spear, your weapons, the kid. You’re decisive with them. Intentional. You don’t touch anything unless you know you can salvage or destroy it, and then you don’t let go until it’s done.”

More silence. Then—a low, shuddering breath from below the helmet. “And what,” he manages, “am I doing right now?”

His grip on your hip intensifies, laden and heavy. You feel red with want, like you’ve been stuck with something stronger than bacta. Your legs—inadvertently, and against the cry of pain screaming from your left knee—press together, want a hungering, yearning beast somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “Destroying,” you whisper, barely anything at all, and then, before you can lose your nerve, your bloodied, patched hand reaches out and squeezes around his armored wrist, keeping it there.

There’s a low groan. “I can’t—fuck,” he hisses, interrupting himself in the middle of the sentence. “I—”

“Touch me,” you whisper, the words sacrosanct against his body, against your wounds. There’s a heat that warms up, low and aching, all the way to your cheeks. “Please. I want it.”

For a minute—just a single, glorious moment—he obliges. His gloved hand spreads out across your belly—large enough to plant in the middle of your stomach and keep you there, if he wanted to—and you make a noise between a moan and a whimper. Something clenches deep inside of you, and then, in a flash, he’s straddled your torso, and the beskar helmet is dangerously, dangerously close to your face.

“You—” Mando starts, and the word sounds like it’s seeped in filth, and your hips buck upwards, body begging for more, even while all of your injuries from the crash landing sing and blister. Slowly, tantalizingly, he traces the curve up from your hip to just below your tits, and he freezes. You want to unhinge your mouth, to tell him it’s okay, to give him permission to ravage you, but he moves on toward your face, and the thought floods out of you. He traces a line up your neck, the hard leather of his glove grazing over your skin. “You’re like poison,” he whispers, gruffly, quietly, like he’s not expecting you to hear. His finger tracks right, pressing down onto your pulse point. You whine.

“Poison?” you manage, breathless, refusing to take your eyes off the helmet. You’re trapped underneath him—his broad body, the weight of the metal—and for a second, you imagecstacyine how fucking helpless his bounties must feel once he’s locked onto them. Like prey, you manage, dimly, through the haze of the Mandalorian’s touch, like you’re locked in against the perfect, deadliest predator. And, stars forgive you, you like it. You feel something harden against your pelvis, and your hips rock upward against it, and the hiss he lets out through the modulator is sinful. There are no Gods here. There’s no stars shining to save you. You want to whet yourself against his touch—wounds be damned. You think, if he wanted—you would let him break you, decimate you under his touch.

“Impossible to get out,” Mando grits out, and then his hand closes around your neck, his thick hardness rutting down into you. You feel drugged—hazy, but in —and this must be what spice feels like. Cloying. Dangerous. Sweet. You want this. You want him. You were right, earlier, as his hand forces your jaw upward, your bare forehead tipped into his metal one. He either salvages or destroys with his hands, and right now, there’s nothing here to salvage. It’s just all for the taking.

“More,” you cry out, the whimper too-loud in the wasteland right outside your field of vision. You’re not sure if you’re asking for him to squeeze your throat tighter, or to grind down into you harder, and you don’t care. He’s like a drug—a powerful one—all-consuming. You reach up to his hips, and, somehow, your bare finger slips underneath the tunic under the tiniest sliver in his armor, and he moans out loud and wet, still grinding down into you, and then his hand disappears from your throat, and slips in between the chasm of your legs.

You think you black out for a second. Just from the feeling of his touch against the inside of your thigh, the way the glove drags up in between your clothed pussy, like he could split you into pieces, fracture you, scatter you into hiding places only he can find. It’s a second, a split second, where the pad of his finger finds your clit and presses, and you think you can orgasm just from that touch alone, and then it’s gone.

Mando moves so quickly it leaves you gasping. He’s swearing, a determined stream of the filthiest words in the galaxy, all in different languages, shaking his hand out, moving just out of reach, clenching his hands into fists.

“What’s—wrong,” you manage, hot tears prickling, afraid you did something to make him disappear.

“Nothing,” he manages, and then a few more curse words spit through the modulator, “I just—I can’t touch you.”

“Oh,” you manage, turning away from him, yanking the hem of your shirt back down, embarrassed. You bite down on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and then you feel the rushing ache of your injuries again, all flooding back in, cold and awful.

“No,” Mando enunciates, so forceful that it makes you turn to look into your dulled reflection in your helmet. “Fuck, no, sweet girl, that’s not what I meant.” You hold what you think is his gaze in the visor, blinking, trying to keep the tears at bay. And then he points down to the bacta patch he must have attached to the pulse point on your neck, and then you feel the starlight again, feeling the way it seeps into your veins, cold and determined, and you understand. “I—I want this. Want you,” he whispers, “so bad. But I can’t touch you unless your head is fully here with me, and until you’re healed.”

“Want you now,” you manage, but the sluggish feeling of the bacta working is stronger than your conviction. In the dark, you still feel the stars, the way it’s coaxing you back under, letting your body heal. And, you register, dimly, that’s probably good, because you meant what you said earlier—you want him to fucking destroy you. “Don’t—go.”

“Oh,” Mando whispers, dirty and low, “I’m not going anywhere.” And then, right on the edge of being pulled underwater, you hear the modulator hiss in your ear. “After the comedown? I want to see what your destruction looks like.”

#dincember #dincember 2021 #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction

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reynawonders-art · 2 years

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Happy 1st day of Dincember 2021! ✨

December 1: free choice (Bonus day)

(tap to listen 🎶)

#star wars #the mandalorian #life in the outer rim #digital art #din djarin #the child #star wars fan art #baby yoda #art from the outer rim #dincember 2021

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ohnopoe · 2 years

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Just Because | Din Djarin

Ship: Din Djarin x Reader Summary: Snow was cold and wet and downright irritating, so why was Din going to a planet covered in the stuff when he didn’t have to? Word Count: 1.2k+ Author’s Note: This is for the incredible @dindjarindiaries‘ second Dincember prompt ‘snowfall’. I may have missed the first prompt, and I’ll likely miss a few more, but one fic is better than none so here it is lol. Also y’all should be so proud of me, my first plan for this prompt was fucking shattering, and here I am writing something soft instead

Din had never felt certainty quite like he did in that exact moment.

He was confident in his abilities, determined in a fight… but this, this was different. This was you.

From the moment he met you, he had been wracked with uncertainty. It seemed to be a never ending churn in his stomach, and somehow it excited him just as much as it terrified him. You were something completely unique in this vast universe, and it wasn’t because of power or money or anything so many seemed to crave, it was because of you and the way you held his very heart in your unknowing hands.

A smile was all it took to lift his day, a look enough to have his heart stuttering nervously in his chest. It was dangerous, but you had a hold over him like no other, and yet you seemed completely unaware of how far he would go to keep you safe.

But he was used to that. Keeping you safe, you and the child… it was what he knew, what he did intrinsically. This was something completely different.

He hadn’t been certain, not like he was now. No, the entire damn time he’d been flying he’d been so conflicted that he almost changed route numerous times. Hell, even as he began his descent into landing, his hand still hovered over the controls, ready to fly away with some half assed excuse as to why you would be stuck in hyperspace for longer than intended.

But Kaspas had been mentioned, even if only vaguely. You knew it was your next port of call, even if you hadn’t heard of it before. Turning back would have meant questions, and if he couldn’t face his own plans, well, your questions would be completely out of reach.

So he had continued on, and Maker was he glad he had.

The look of awe that enraptured your features the moment the ramp began to descend was sure to remain in his mind forever. The way you clung to the extra layer of clothing that Din had handed you without a word only moments earlier, cold yet excited as you forced yourself to stay where you were… Yes, it had all been worth it.

Every step you took from the sleeping child’s crib towards the white wonderland outside seemed to take an eternity, as if you feared the next would lead you somewhere else, somewhere far from the sight before you.

Kaspas was not the safest of planets, nor was it particularly beautiful to most, but the way your eyes seemed to shine with adoration… It was as if the planet was made of happiness itself.

He could see the moment you shook yourself from your revelry, the way your jaw raised, your eyes taking one last sweeping glance over the white landscape before they focused on him through the black visor that contrasted harshly against such a pure backdrop. And yet, that look of wonder still remained there as you turned your attention to him. You must still be thinking about it, he determined, a delayed reaction that simply hadn’t shifted into a look of gentle care that you seemed to show to all.

There was a smile tempting the corners of your lips upwards as you spoke, a softness lingering on your every word despite the topic. “So, how long do you think it’ll take?”

He would have replied, should have replied, but he was lost. For all the thoughts and fears he had held in coming to such a place, he had somehow missed the crucial next step in the plan. Getting there was one thing, but what came next?

His head tilted, a silent question that brought a small hum of laughter to your lips.

“The bounty,” you elaborated, gesturing out into the cold as if it would help prompt his rare lapse in concentration. “How long till the kid and I start searching for you?”

“There’s no bounty,” he answered before he had a chance to consider the words, regret scrunching his features in a way that made him incredibly glad you couldn’t see his face. This was the next step, and if he had only considered it properly…

Your confusion was evident, brow furrowed, head tilted in a way that oddly matched his. When had you begun that? When had you started to tilt your head in silent question when words failed you?

“But, if we’re not here for a bounty…” you trailed off, gaze flittering back to the seemingly endless white that lay outside.

It was flat, for what you could see, flat and cold and desolate. But then, you couldn’t see far ahead at all. Smaller flecks of that pure white, brighter than you had ever seen before, danced before you hindering your view and glistening as they fell to join that which covered the ground.

A sparse landscape of cold yet pure white… lonely and beautiful, it filled you with awe even when you knew you should be more worried than you were.

“You’re not about to maroon me out there, right?” you offered with something akin to a laugh, wishing you felt as at ease as you sounded.

Din Djarin did not do anything without reason. From the moment you met him, everything in his life had a purpose, even if it took you a while to figure out just what it was.

But as beautiful as the sight before you was, you could see no purpose here.

His voice was soft when he finally answered, his gaze moving from you to the cold outside once more, and you could see the hesitance in his movement before you heard it in his words.

“You said you had never seen snow.”

Timid and shy were not words you would have ever thought to use to describe the beskar clad Mandalorian before you, yet as he stood to the side of the ramp, refusing to meet your gaze, it was the very definition of the man you saw before you.

This wasn’t the fighter who killed to protect, or the bounty hunter who tracked like no other. This wasn’t the Mandalorian strangers feared, or Mando who friends trusted. This was Din, the man who had travelled for days to show you something, simply because you had mentioned in conversation weeks ago that you hadn’t experienced it before.

Affection swelled within your heart, as it often did for the man.

Here he was, a man of practicality, a man who was always doing something, doing something kind just because.

Perhaps you weren’t the only one to have grown attached, perhaps it was simply an unexpected act of friendship. But it hardly mattered.

For the first time since you had joined him on the Razor Crest, there was quiet, there was peace.

You could pretend you didn’t notice the way he startled when you took his hand in yours, focusing instead on what followed. But he didn’t retract his hand, didn’t pull away. His fingers wrapped around your own, soft leather entwining his hand with yours as you gently pulled him towards the ramp.

It would be stupid to go out, you knew that. Even your warmest clothes wouldn’t keep you safe in the freezing temperatures of the snow. But you could sit, safe on the ramp as warmth billowed against your back from the ship. You could relax with Din sitting down at your side with a soft sigh, hand never leaving yours as he moved with surprising ease in his bulk of beskar.

You could have this moment, watching the snow fall before you, safe with a man who cared more than he would ever say.

#dincember 2021 #din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars #Star Wars fanfic #the mandalorian imagine #star wars imagine #my fic

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lyalii · 3 years

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dindja’s art masterlist

bc writers can’t have all the fun...

My Art (favorites in color)

Space Kindergarten (Nov. 22, 2020)

Gracie (my wife) (Nov. 25, 2020)

what happens when people open their hearts? (Nov. 26, 2020)

everything (Nov. 28, 2020)

Din in Christmas Lights (Dec. 1, 2020)

Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe (fr*ck the MCU) (Dec. 6, 2020)

i like your girl, pa (Dec. 16, 2020)

Planets of the Mandalorian, part I (Dec. 16, 2020)

din’s new sweater (Dec. 17th, 2020)

western din yee haw (Dec. 17, 2020)

i’m a bad b*tch, you can’t kill me! (Dec. 20, 2020)

rey and grogu AU (Dec. 22, 2020)

mand’alor din djarin hell yeah (Dec. 23, 2020)

froggy fruit snacks (Dec. 28, 2020)

a mando new year (din drunk crying idk) (Dec. 31, 2020)

din and paz doing hot girl sh*t (Jan. 1, 2021)

would it be okay if i came home to you? (din x princess) (Jan. 4, 2021)

spicy mandomera (Jan. 10, 2021)

Princess Astra from Security (Jan. 12, 2021)

Dincember 2020:

sorgan girlies vs. clan of 2 EPIC SNOW FIGHT BATTLE (Nov. 30, 2020)

im the present and you know it (Dec. 2, 2020)

he lip too smol for he gotdamn drink (Dec. 4, 2020)

are you sure you’re warm enough? (Dec. 16, 2020)

all i want for christmas is you (Dec. 23, 2020)

the found family is over for life day dinner (Dec. 25, 2020)

#my art #dindja's masterlist

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stardustdiaries · 3 years

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ART MASTERLIST!

Wanna see my art, but can’t seem to find what you’re looking for? Try here!

Personal Work:

Happy New Year! (December 31st, 2020)

Under a leaf umbrella (December 31st, 2020)

This is Fine (January 1st, 2021)

School Work:

Against the odds - a color harmony project (November 9th, 2020)

Haint Blue - a creative response (January 21st, 2021)

Self-portrait (2021) - (January 27th, 2021 )

The Mandalorian

1. Pretty Boy™️ - (February 19th, 2021)

Dincember

Snow

December

Hot Chocolate

Fire

Let it Snow

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)

Blankets

The Bad Batch

Hunter in a man-bun

(WRITING MASTERLIST)

#itspauvr masterlist #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanart #this is the way #grogu djarin #grogu #baby yoda #din djarin #dincember #star wars fanart #star wars #digital art #character design #oroginal art #color theory

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amiedala · 2 years

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WHISPERS

PROMPT: Wish

SUMMARY: “You can look at me,” Din whispers. “I trust you.”

So you do. And that’s the shape of it—love—and everything you’ve wished for.

WARNINGS: allusions to sexual content, mentions of violence, pining

WORDCOUNT: 2,329

AUTHOR’S NOTE: day 9 of @dindjarindiaries’s Dincember!!! all throughout the month of December, i’ll be writing (relatively) short din djarin x reader oneshots (alongside all the other incredible participants!!!). today, what came out was romance and love. enjoy!

It starts in the dark.

After a bounty hunt gone sideways, after all the stitched scars after the charged moments in the hull, your bodies orbiting each other without ever touching. You feel the weight of a thousand glittering stars in your chest whenever you’re around him.

You know his name. Din Djarin, melodic and fitting underneath all the armor. You know his secrets, how he sounds when your fingers are patching up open wounds. You know how close he throttles himself to death, whether it’s over a bounty, or to save Grogu, or to protect you. You use his soap in the shower sometimes, when he’s gone—wrap yourself in the sweet suds to keep you warm. You’ve felt his mouth in the dark. You’ve tasted the hollow of his throat, right where his collarbones connect. You’ve seen the nightmares, you can predict his thrashing without any light to see him by.

The first time you and Din do anything, it’s your hands braced over the thick, sinewy curve of his thigh after a particularly difficult bounty, cleaning up the mess of scarlet. He hissed at your touch, and you pulled back. One gloved hand closed over your wrist, pressing it back against the cut. “Keep going,” he said, voice low and intentional, thick through the modulator. He gave you a singular nod, and you turned back to the wound, trying to focus on damage control so you didn’t fixate on your bare skin against his.

After that—contact comes in fragments. Din watches over you while you sleep, a shiny, determined star. Sometimes, he’ll let you pilot the ship, the rickety, stubborn hunk of metal you’ve both learned to call home, silent except for the approving fix of the visor on the contours of your hands, tracing over the same buttons and levers you’ve seen him do a million times. When he’s gone for more than a handful of days, and the Razor Crest is starting to swell and sigh with emptiness, he’ll buzz your comm, and you’ll go back and forth until you’ve forgotten the shape of loneliness. Well, you talk. Din listens. He’s not good with words. He uses his mouth like a survival skill—to breathe, to stay alive, not much else.

Unless it’s on yours.

You’ve already fallen for him the first time his lips touch your own, when you feel him, unarmored and unmoored, in the pitch-dark. You’ve wished for him, under millions of sustained stars. It feels like it’s buzzing with a frequency only you’re tuned into, before Din touches you like it means something. For weeks—months, maybe—you’ve been nursing the galaxy’s biggest crush. It doesn’t matter that he’s a sharpened, whetted thing, that his native language is violence. You see the way he uses his body, like it’s an extension of a weapon, but there’s softness and warmth buried underneath all the armor. He rarely—if ever—attacks first. It’s protection, you realize, when you see how easily he snaps towards destruction. It’s not ruthlessness. It’s a need to keep what he cares about safe.

The baby, of course.

And you.

Stars, you. When you meet him—the Mandalorian, long before Din’s name slips out of his mouth—you’re surrounded by a group of men and their menacing smiles. You knew you weren’t a good thief when you stole the food from the upper part of the city—you’d never taken anything before—but there were children starving down in the bowels of the same streets, and you couldn’t stand to see that. Not if you could help. Even if it meant you were going to get knocked around or thrown in jail.

You had closed your eyes when the first man swung, but nothing happened. No blade grazed you, no razor’s edge spilled your blood. When you opened your eyes, hesitant, heart pounding, all five of them were on the ground. Some looked more gruesome than others, but all of them were knocked out cold. Or dead. You’re not sure.

And there he was—a Mandalorian, in the shiny, consuming flesh—and your heart leaped in your chest.

“Come with me,” was all he said. And you did—following his quick, expert pace out of the city and onto the Crest. And you never left. You never want to. In time, you learn that you were a bounty—the blinking, red puck hidden in the stomach of the ship reads your name—but he never cashed you in. He kept you—keeps you—because, for some reason, you’re worth more than credits.

You have it bad. Like an inexperienced, flushed teenager. You trace the outline of the beskar with your eyes, memorize the shape of it. You’re addicted to the smell of him—metal, smoke, soap, and, bizarrely, cinnamon—and it lives in your head, whispering to you even when he’s gone. You learn his name in the dark after a bloody recovery and a full-strength bacta patch, and you burn with it, this trust. You want him. It’s consuming, the weight of it, like it’s eating away all of your self-control. Your dreams flood with Din—his voice, his stature, his body—and he starts to live on your tongue.

You keep him there, underneath in the warm plush of the bottom of your mouth. For weeks, it festers and burns like a deranged flame, but you don’t dare let it out. You’re his passenger. You were his bounty. He looks at you—you can feel his gaze cut down to the core—but that’s it. After sideways missions, he lets you patch him up. Sometimes, he’ll talk to you—really talk—but for weeks, that’s where the line stops.

And then—you let it slip out. That whisper, that sweet, desperate thing that hides under your tongue. It’s driven out, turned brazen by the time he spent down on Corellia’s surface—six days, nearly a full week—bleeding out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop it. “I want you.” Three tiny words, billowed up to something heavy and tangible. It’s out in the air, hanging in the balance.

You’re standing, both of you, only a foot apart. He’s intact, no wounds to patch, no reason for you to touch him, but you had accidentally whacked yourself in the face with a wrench when you and Grogu tried to fix an electrical issue, and a bruise blooms out around your temple. It’s nearly impossible to see in the dim, dim light—but of course, Din catches it, hand snapping out to anchor your chin to inspect it closer. His gloved hand is still on your cheek when you admit it—bare, vivid, wanting—and you burn under his touch.

He stares at you. The visor doesn't move. His head doesn’t tilt. “You shouldn't.”

Embarrassment burns hot up your neck, seeping down to where his hand is glancing against your face. You’re darkened with it. “I—but I do.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. And then, like a lightning strike, he tears himself away from you, storming into the fresher, slamming the door behind him. You nave no idea what to do, but you feel tears bubbling up at the corners of your eyes, wet, hot, shameful. Your heart won’t stop hammering. Your body burns with the rejection—Maker, you were usually far more eloquent than that, and it slipped out like a secret. You bury your face in the palms of your hands, rocketing toward the cockpit, wanting to curl yourself up in the copilot’s seat and let yourself cry. At least, with the company of the stars glittering back at you, you won’t be alone.

But there’s something so heavy—so pregnant—about the silence. It changes from heavy to suffocating, all the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You don’t clock it, at first, and then it’s all-consuming. It’s him, standing behind you, and you didn’t hear a thing.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you dare.” It’s rough. It’s not sharp around the edges, not jagged, not tinted with rejection—it’s intense. It’s the shape of the confessions under your tongue, where your want for Din lives, warm and wet and ricocheting throughout your body. You freeze.

He strides toward you, you can feel it, and then the seat swirls around to face him. Din keeps you anchored there, each gloved hand planted on the armrest, the underbelly of his forearms grazing against your thigh. He’s kneeling, slightly crouched, and he’s face-to-face with you; the only barrier between his skin and yours is the helmet.

“You—you shouldn’t want me,” he mutters, like he’s chewing on glass to make the words come out right. “I’m—not like you. Not good. And if I touch you, if—if you let me touch you, I will not be able to stop.”

Your mouth gapes open. Wide, like a fish. The air feels hot and heavy. You’re choking on it. “You mean it?”

One quick, curt, affirming nod. Yes.

“Please don’t stop,” you manage, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, your skin inflamed in goosebumps. “Don’t ever stop.”

And, after he carries you to his bunk for the first time—you know he’s a man of his word. It’s like he’s an addict and you’re the most dangerous form of spice. The reserved, untalkative man of the past—it leaves his body like the beskar does, discarded with a decisive bang against the metal floor. You don’t need his words. But he gives them to you, in the pitch-dark—you’re so pretty, sweet girl. I want you. I need you. So soft. So good for me. And, in the interludes, after you’ve both been wrung out and left to dry, bodies constellating around each other, a sentient tangle of limbs, he whispers other things. His name. Why he refused to collect your bounty. The times he thinks of you on hunts. There’s so much sweetness, in the midnight black. It lights you up from the inside out, clings to your chest like stars.

For months—you lose track of time—it’s all you want. To share the darkness. To touch Din Djarin’s bare skin, to feel his forbidden mouth against yours, to be held by the man underneath the metal. But you get greedy. You want to stay by his side on his hunting trips, you want to kiss him in the light.

And, the gnawing one, the one that breeds underneath your skin like a virus—you love him. You love him, and you need him to love you back. For weeks, you keep it at bay, keep it leashed in your mouth like a rabid animal. You pinch your skin to keep it from slipping out, you whisper it under the heavy pulse of the shower’s warmth. Not quite a confession, but something in between it.

It comes out in the night—like everything always does—your tongue curving around the words, wanting to make it count, make sure it’s right. You’re laying with Din, naked and intertwined, underneath heavy blankets, skin pressed to skin. His face is on your chest, your fingers stroking through his hair. The world burns. “I love you,” you whisper, to the gathering dark. “I wished for this. For you.”

And, for days after—you think it stayed secret. Spoken only to the silence, nothing more. That Din was sleeping when you confessed to it, that he didn’t hear you. But he holds you just as possessively. His lips find yours, then travel down your body. He sinks into you, over and over again, hot and sweaty and yearning. He doesn’t leave the ship unless you’re sleeping, and he kisses you with abandon.

It’s not a confession, not what you did, but you can feel it. Din’s words aren’t his strong suit—he shows. He wraps you up tight, he strokes your hair, he uses his mouth for other things. And, honestly—it’s almost a relief, not hearing him say the words I love you. You feel it, every day. You don’t need it spoken aloud.

When it happens—when Din tells you—he doesn’t use the words you did. He gets up in the middle of the night, turning on the dim light by the fresher, and when he crawls back into bed with you, the light seeps into the holy sanctum of the bunk, and then Din’s right there, kneeling against the floor, and your eyes flutter open.

It’s only a silhouette, at first, and then you make out the distinct features of his hooked nose, the dark curls of his hair, a strong jaw—and then you slap your hands over your eyes and rocket upwards. “Maker above,” you gasp, “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry—”

He says your name.

“It was an accident, I swear, I swear—”

“Sweet girl.” There’s no anger in his voice, no panic. You feel Din’s hands close over your wrists, patient, strong. Slowly, you let him drag them away, and your eyes flutter open, staring at him. He’s beautiful—dark hair, defined eyebrows, his gorgeous nose, the curve of his pink lips. You can’t stop staring. “It’s okay. I wanted to show you.”

You bite your bottom lip, transfixed. “But I—”

“You can look at me,” Din whispers. “I trust you.”

So you do. And that’s the shape of it—love—and everything you’ve wished for. Trust, safety—and the way it’s reciprocated. You look at him, for hours, and for days after, unable to tear your eyes away from him. Din Djarin, the man without the metal, the man who knows you—you thrill with the thought of it, starry and glittering. He trusts you. And, as the weeks dwindle past, as you relearn every shape and curve of his body, you know this is it—what you wished on those stars for, that very first night, what love feels like. It slips out of Din’s mouth, when you’re on the edge of sleep. I—I love you. It’s clumsy, and it’s whispered like something sacred, like it’s the first and only time it’s ever slipped out of his mouth. It runs through you, thrills you—sparkling and enduring. It—love—replaces the whispers in the dark, sustains in the light. And you know it, down to your bones.

#dincember #dincember 2021 #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #my writing

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amiedala · 2 years

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DINCEMBER #7: SWEATER WEATHER

PROMPT: Sweater SUMMARY: Din sighs, but he doesn’t sound exasperated. “It was originally a blanket.”

You smile, sticking the patchwork arms out in front of you to study them in the low light. “It’s human sized,” you tease, “not Grogu sized.”

You can feel his gaze on the side of your face. That quickening feeling in your chest starts up again, knocking around relentlessly, a butterfly menagerie in your stomach. Finally, you look back up at Din, knowing underneath that visor, he’s staring at you, your body humming when you clock how close you are, his armored thigh up against your covered one, his hand close enough to reach. You live for these little moments—in the dark, so close to him you can barely breathe—these tiny fragments in this metal mouth of a home, ones that you can pretend you’re more to each other than just co-inhabitants.

“That’s because,” Din says, thick and intentional through the modulator, “I started it for the kid, but I finished it for you.” WARNINGS: none today, this is the softest oneshot i've ever written :) WORDCOUNT: 1,910 AUTHOR’S NOTE: day 7 of @dindjarindiaries’s Dincember!!! all throughout the month of December, i’ll be writing (relatively) short din djarin x reader oneshots (alongside all the other incredible participants!!!). today, what came out was pure fluff!

The detour to Tokmia was planned. Getting caught in the snowstorm was not.

You touched down earlier, on long ice spits, rocky earth breaking through. Everything about this planet is crystallized and fragmented, even the terrain. The forests to the north, they’re staggering and green, under years of cyclical snow. Flakes fall to the ground, the branches shake them off, the warm journey of sun melts it to nothing, and then the skies open up again. It was a win-win, earlier—Din had picked up another bounty puck on the offhand chance you'd be flying through this sector, and you had never seen snow like this. Pure, cold, white dust that floods the ground and makes it shine.

The Razor Crest is finicky at best. She’s a hulking beast of metal and patches, and you love her in the tired, affectionate way that endures even when she crash lands or forgets how to fire or doesn’t have the energy to make the jump into hyperspace. You can count on both hands how many times she’s failed and spiraled down to the ground, adding another crack in the hull or shuddering to a determined, stubborn stop. This time, though, it wasn’t the Crest that got you and Din and the baby into trouble. No, this one was all on you.

“If you think about it,” you shout, over the current of the deafening snowfall, “really, it’s your fault for suggesting I come on this trek into town with you.”

Through the visor, Din fixes you with a dry, exasperated look. You don’t need to see his face. It’s written all over the helmet alone.

You stifle a small smile as he stares at you, one hip jutted out, beskar boots digging into the fresh snowfall. “I mean,” you amend, jerking your feet in and out of the troughs of the snowbanks, trying to find solid ground, “you tell me this time, on this frozen planet, that I should venture out into the world with you? I couldn’t have explored Naboo, Tatooine, or Takodana?”

“You don’t want to explore Tatooine,” Din responds, holding out a gloved hand. He probably weighs twice as you do in all that armor, but he’s perched on top of the snow instead of sinking knee-deep into it. “It’s hot. And bright.”

“Well,” you murmur, taking his hand, stepping as nimbly as you can out of the drift, “if you say so.” You have no idea where you are, if you’re even close to the Crest, because everything around you is a glittering, crystalline white—but even as you gripe at all of it, it’s dazzling. This kind of snowfall—it’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen, and even though it’s a white-out now, you know by nightfall that everything will sparkle, laid bare and beautiful under the glow of the moon.

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed when the silhouette of the Razor Crest looms out of the snow. You look down to yank your boot out of the tidal drift you’re stuck in, you look up, and she’s there. Against so much blustery whiteness, she’s beautiful. Din lowers the gangplank, the cool metal darkness of the interior suddenly beckoning and warm. While you stomp the snow off of your boots and brush off the dust that’s settled in your hair, you make an internal promise—you’ll never complain about this sweet old ship ever again.

The baby is still sound asleep in his cradle, big eyes closed, the little O of his green mouth open. When you pull yourself away to let him sleep, you realize how cold you are. Because Din’s usually chasing dangerous bounties and your fighting expertise is nowhere near Mandalorian level, you usually stick around inside the Crest with the kid, passing the time by singing jazzy cantina lullabies and trying to spice up the rations so they pass muster for the human tongue. Sometimes, if it’s safe enough, the two of you will play outside, just removed from the dark spit of the Crest’s gangplank, but usually, what’s around is lackluster land in the middle of a discreet place to park the ship. This time, the snowfall beckoned you into its glittering, cold arms, and it made an offer you couldn’t refuse.

You’re freezing. It’s inescapable. Outside, on the trek back from the small town, you were bundled up in the most frozen-appropriate outfit you could muster, your body temperature raised from the hard work of making it back against the whipping wind. But the Crest is cold, like always, and now you’re cold, and there’s no hearth to get warm by, and no chance of making a fire outside. You shiver, stripping down to your underclothes, ruffling through your wardrobe in a desperate attempt to come up with something heavy and woollen and warm.

“Hey.”

You turn, suddenly very aware that most of your body is bare and naked, which is already a tad more risque than what you usually prefer others to see you in, and that feeling doubles when you take in the fully clothed and heavily armored Mandalorian in front of you. You’ve imagined this so many times. You’ve had the biggest crush on the metal man since you stepped aboard, and that’s only intensified with the times he’s saved you, the day he admitted that you make coming back to the Crest better, the night where he whispered he trusted you enough to tell you his name. You swallow, blinking up at him. “I’m—”

Din looks you up and down, the visor tracking over your bare legs, the shape of your collarbone, the curve of your barely-clothed hip. “Are you cold?”

You swallow, nodding despite the rush of warmth that floods through you under his watchful eye. There’s something buzzing in your ears, and it takes full seconds to realize that it’s your pounding heartbeat. “Yes,” you manage, “freezing, actually.”

Din’s visor lingers on you, and then he turns on his heel. You blink in his absence, and then, before you can ruminate on his abrupt disappearance, you pull the thick material of your warmest pants over the shape of your legs, arms crossed over your chest, still incredibly exposed in the tiny black shirt that barely covers your midriff, hands rifling through the messy pile that’s made up of all your belongings.

Din’s quiet. Unnaturally quiet, a kind of silence that seems nearly inhuman. You’ve seen the way he moves, how it’s impossible to track him in the darkness. It’s what makes him such a good bounty hunter, his stealth the most brutal of weapons. But he sneaks up on you, even when you’re painfully aware of his presence, and when you turn around, hands empty, he scares the life out of you.

“Stars,” you blurt, heart racing, and then you realize there’s something in his hands. You stare at it, trying to categorize what it is. The material looks soft, but it’s incongruent and strange and made up of dozens of different fabrics and colors. “Um,” you continue, eloquently, “what…is that?”

Din looks from the amorphous blob in his gloved hands, then back at you. “A sweater,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You raise an eyebrow as he unfurls it. It’s the strangest looking sweater you’ve ever seen, and you stand there, biting on your lower lip, staring at the mismatched stitches and threadbare elbows. “I think,” you say, cautiously, “that I would classify it as a blanket with arms.”

Din sighs, and then he steps toward you. “It’s warm.” His hands are extended like a peace offering, so you grin and pull the thing over your head. He’s right—it is warm, even with parts of it made out of a sheetlike material, and the collar is clearly hand-knitted with loose threads. You’re pretty sure you look ridiculous, and you have a million questions about why a Mandalorian is in possession of such a gaudy, commonplace thing, but you wear it with pride.

After eating, the kid happily back to snoozing in the cradle, and you and Din are sitting cross-legged against the wall of his bunk, your eyes trace the contours of the sweater in the low light. When you look up, Din’s visor is on you. You hold his gaze, eyes fixed on the hidden point you think his are, and his head dips, just a fraction, appraising you in the sweater. “Where did you get this?”

“Made it,” he says, shrugging. “The kid needed something warmer for colder climates.”

You narrow your eyes, smile ripping its way across your face. “I think you’re an excellent fighter, you know. An expert bounty hunter. A strong man, an even better protector. But,” you say, shifting closer to him, your strange shoulder brushing up against his pauldron, your faces only a foot apart, “I don’t think the art of sewing is where you shine.”

Din sighs, but he doesn’t sound exasperated. “It was originally a blanket.”

You smile, sticking the patchwork arms out in front of you to study them in the low light. “It’s human sized,” you tease, “not Grogu sized.”

“That’s because,” Din says, thick and intentional through the modulator, “I started it for the kid, but I finished it for you.”

You bite down on your lip, and then you’re rolling onto your hip, kneeling right next to him. This is the closest you’ve ever been, this moment of intimacy, more than a hand to hold out in the snow, more than you being Grogu’s babysitter, more than the hours you spend together in the cockpit. This is tangible, in the shape of a sweater that frames your body, and it’s warm. Real. Your breath catches in the cathedral of your mouth, and then you blurt it out before you lose your nerve. “I think I want to kiss you.”

Din stares.

“I’ll close my eyes,” you whisper, “I won’t look at your face. And if this too much, if I—if I’m crossing the line, then just tell me, and I won’t ever mention it again—”

He says your name, and the world stills. “Okay.”

“Okay?” You’re dumbfounded. But you squeeze your eyes shut, slapping a hand over the both of them to shut out any betrayal of the dim light. You hear the hiss of the helmet, and your breathing becomes staggered, like something is stealing parts of it away. “Are you sure?” you whisper, and then you feel his gloved hand dragging your hand down, your eyes still squeezed as tight as possible, heart pounding something furious.

“I made you a sweater,” Din whispers, like it’s obvious, like it’s a promise, and then there’s a beat, and then his lips are against yours. You forget about the cold, the snowfall outside, all of it. Your entire body, under the sweater, under him—is flooded in warmth.

#dincember #dincember 2021 #i'm a day late AGAIN i'm so sorry #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #my writing

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dindjarindiaries · 2 years

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Dincember - December 7: Blankets

summary: You find Mando needing you more than ever before whilst suffering from both the cold and a bad injury.

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x gn!reader

warnings: injury (incl. blood), mentions of death

rating: T

word count: 1.658k

main masterlist • dincember 2021 masterlist

december 7: blankets

You grit your teeth as you practically drag your weakened hunting partner through the dense snow. He leaves behind a scarlet trail of red in the sea of white as you pray for the Razor Crest to show up sometime soon. When a particularly strong gust of wind blows, Mando leans even more on you, causing you to use all your strength as you support the two of you.

“Hang on, Mando,” you encourage him, raising your voice above the sounds of the snow storm. “We’re almost back!”

It had been a sight that’s somehow more terrifying than the one you’re still looking upon. The bounty you’d been after had deep connections on this planet to people dangerous enough to put up one hell of a fight. Mando had tasked you with securing the bounty as he dealt with the rest on his own. You knew better than to argue with him—the most stubborn Mandalorian, or just man, you’ve ever known—and eventually had the bounty successfully sedated and detained. By the time you finally found Mando, there were at least six dead bodies surrounding his own pool of red-stained snow.

Mando’s gloved hand continues to clutch the gash in his side as you manage to trudge the two of you closer and closer to the haven of the Crest. You can’t help sighing with relief once its bold silhouette finally appears and breaks through the blankets of white snow. Even Mando gains an extra ounce of strength as he takes more of his own weight to close the distance to the ship.

As soon as you get the hatch open and crutch Mando into the hull, he falls onto his knees and attempts to catch his breath. With shaking hands, you close the hatch and race for the medpac. You kneel beside where Mando’s managed to sit and back himself up against the wall. His cuirass rises and falls in quick breaths as his hand continues to clutch his wound.

“May I help you, Mando?” you ask in a panicked breath.

He nods, obviously unable to form any proper words, and allows you to do whatever you need to. The first thing you do is take a gentle grasp around his wrist to pry his hand off the wound. Mando groans when the gash hits the open air and you have to bite back a gasp at just how severe it is. You then begin to remove the frozen armor on his upper body and set it aside. While you work, Mando suddenly holds his bloody glove up to you, causing you to pause and look in his visor as he speaks in a hoarse voice. “Glove,” he groans.

“You want me to take it off?” Mando nods and immediately you reach for the leather that covers his hand. You set it upon his other pieces of armor. When you face him again, you see his bare hand hovering over thigh, as if he’s asking for permission to hold onto it. You give him a nod and a small smile of encouragement. “Do what you need to, Mando.”

Mando’s grip on your thigh is still gentle when he first sets his hand upon it, though you know that will change once you start to treat the wound. You’re no stranger to treating each other’s wounds on jobs, but this is easily the worst of them all—and the closest you’ve had to become to each other. Once you get Mando’s armor off, you give his flight suit a gentle tug to seek permission to remove it. He nods and you manage to lift the fabric over his helmeted head and set it to the side.

There’s no time to observe the warm, scarred skin that stretches across his broad frame—or perhaps there was only a quick moment for that. The angry red that stretches across his left side keeps your attention as you reach inside for the best materials to treat it with. As you disinfect it and clean it for treatment and dressing, Mando hisses and groans with raw pain, his hand tightening on your thigh. You force yourself to stay focused on the urgent task at hand as you work quickly yet effectively.

After applying a thick layer of bacta and wrapping the wound with thick layers of gauze, you cover Mando’s hand that still rests on your thigh. “Hopefully that should be enough for tonight,” you say, offering another small smile in hopes of reassuring him. Still, thinking about the state in which you found him leaves you sighing with worry as you furrow your brow at him. “This has been scary, Mando. Really scary.”

Mando’s visor falls to the sight of your hands as his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath of his own. “Odds were too high. You were right.” Mando looks at you again. “I always bite off more than I can chew.”

You give his hand a squeeze. “At least you got them all. Next time, just make sure you come out unscathed.” You close up the medpac and start to pull your hand away from his. “I don’t know if you’re feeling up to a shower, but you should at least bundle up for the cold tonight.”

“Wait.” Mando speaks up with a word that breaks amidst his urgency. You turn back to him from where you’ve been starting to stand and set your hand over his again. He’s sitting up straighter now as he holds your fingers in his grasp and runs his thumb over your knuckles in consideration. “Will you… help me?”

You nod before you can stop yourself. “Name it.”

Mando gestures with his helmet towards the compartment where his cot is. You step forward to lift his arm over your shoulder and help him stand. He grunts when it tugs at his wound but manages to remain silent the rest of the walk to his cot. You hold one of Mando’s hands as he crawls on top of it and lies down on his back.

“I’m gonna get spare blankets,” you inform him. “You’ll need them tonight.”

Mando nods, allowing you to turn away and take the medpac as you put it back and reach for the spare blankets. They’re still rather threadbare, but you know all the layers will still do the trick. You return to Mando and lay each blanket over him, tucking him in comfortably as a sweet silence fills the ship. Despite the visor obstructing the true view of his eyes, you can feel his observative gaze on you, making you bite back a smile as you finish laying the blankets on him.

“All right.” You nod with decisiveness. “That should do the trick.”

Mando’s chest stalls with a breath and you wait for him to speak. He sits up on his elbows to make himself more visible to you. “I have one more request.”

“Anything.”

His helmet tilts slowly at you before he continues. “Stay with me.”

You can’t hide your surprise from him. After all the months you’ve spent hunting alongside him within this ship, Mando’s never once asked you to share this kind of intimacy with him. You know it’s been brewing between you both—but you never imagined it would actually culminate into something, especially something Mando asks for rather than yourself. “I… yeah, I can do that.”

Mando waits patiently as you make yourself more comfortable. You make your way onto the cot carefully, trying not to tread on Mando as you settle yourself beside him. Thanks to the small size of the cot, you can’t lie beside him without touching him somehow, though there’s not a single complaint that comes to mind. He lifts each blanket up for you to snuggle under. You thank him with a soft voice as he makes you comfortable alongside him.

You lie there stiffly for a few moments until Mando opens his arm to you. You hold in a breath as you move closer to him, nearly humming at the warmth his chest provides as your cheek presses against it. His hand settles on your upper back as he keeps you pressed against him. The two of you take soft breaths in time with each other as you absorb the intimacy you’re now sharing—and the implications of it.

Mando’s the first one to break the silence as you feel the beskar of his helmet rest against the top of your head. “I’m sorry I scared you.” His voice is no louder than a soft murmur as he speaks with an honesty and vulnerability you’ve had yet to hear from him.

“It’s okay.” Your response is just as quiet, the words breathed upon his warm skin.

His chest rises and falls with a deep breath before he goes on. “They threatened to kill you.” Mando’s voice is strained, as if confessing these words is painful for him. “I couldn’t let them take you away from me.”

You bring yourself even close to him as you dare to wrap an arm around the non-injured part of his waist. “No one will ever be able to.” Your assurance is firm as you close your eyes and smile with a joy that remains unmatched. “You need rest. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

Mando’s gentle hand running along your back is his agreement, one that makes a satisfying chill run from your head to your toes. He tucks the blankets even closer to the two of you before he offers his final words for the night. “Sweet dreams, cyar’ika.”

You smile wider and hold him as if he’ll fall away. “Goodnight, Mando.”

main masterlist • dincember 2021 masterlist

mandalorian tag list: @chibi-liz05 @glitteryoungho @blackcupidangel @dindjarinenthousiast @ewan-my-sunshine @vintervittrannerd @galaxy-lara @beefcakebarnes @princess-yuna @lovelydjarin @madisonkristina @darylas @thevoiceinyourheadx @grogudjarin-is-my-son @lanie103 @elizabethren @stardustandkyber @princess76179 @chibi-yuki @milkxxkookies @engie115 @captainparadisemary @h1de-s0urce @seventhskycorps @roseallisonparker @shadow-shy @spideysimpossiblegirl @cyaredindjarin @dream-visual-51 @recklessworry @notagamersdey @hypnoash @dindjarins04 @eri16 @jjlizz @spideysimpossiblegirl @seasonschange-butpeopledont @smokisneal @blackmarketmummy @dindjarin-mybeloved

star wars characters tag list: @nerd-without-a-cause @vernon-dursley @rintheemolion @babyyodaandmando @captswilson @engie115 @hyperspace-spicedreams @princessxkenobi @recklessworry @lightning-wolffe @badbatch-simp24 @arkofblake @ladykatakuri @ellieredfox @stwrawr @huitzilinthebudgie3 @youngkenobilove

#yes yes and YES!#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #dincember 2021 #dincember #dindjarindiaries

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amiedala · 2 years

Text

DINCEMBER #4: UNDERNEATH

PROMPT: Blankets

SUMMARY: You gulp. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Din cocks his head to one side. You bite down on your bottom lip. “You need to be more aware of your surroundings.”

He moves forward, just a half step, and then he’s undeniable. It’s everywhere, the smell of him, the warmth of his skin underneath. It’s gunsmoke and metal, like you were expecting, and the soft cleanness of the soap in the shower, and for some reason, cinnamon. It’s intoxicating. You feel dizzy, like your knees could knock together and give out underneath you. You don’t move, because you can feel the smooth buffer of the dashboard right behind you. You feel like how you imagine the Mandalorian’s bounties do—like prey.

WARNINGS: mentions of blood and injury, allusions to feeling high, pining, slight (but relatively chaste) spice at the end (who knew kissing could be so intense?)

WORDCOUNT: 3,370

AUTHOR’S NOTE: day 4 of @dindjarindiaries’s Dincember!!! all throughout the month of December, i’ll be writing (relatively) short din djarin x reader oneshots (alongside all the other incredible participants!!!). today, what came out was warmth (and how hot it can truly be). enjoy!

— dedicated to Hannah @dinbrowneyesdjarinsposts, happy birthday angel!!! 💛

Space is cold. A frozen, expanding wasteland, eternal and unyielding. It cuts through the steel of the starship’s body, turning everything icy, a silver tundra. It’s always been cold, even here, even traveling with the Mandalorian—but when he leaves the ship, even the warmest of planets can rival the chill of space.

It’s been months, now, since you’ve been aboard. It happened so readily, so naturally, that you barely remember the circumstances. He was supposed to grant you safe passage out of the sketchier parts of the galaxy, but you were useful. Helpful.

Invaluable, maybe, by the way he studies you through the visor. His eyes on you, that focused, star-sharp gaze—it’s intoxicating. It sticks to your skin and refuses to be scrubbed off. He watches you—the way you control the Crest, how you cook with the limited supplies in the cupboard downstairs, the times you soothe the baby when nothing else can. He keeps his gaze on you the most intently after you patch him up after a particularly difficult bounty. It sears straight through the visor and burns red inside your body, and your hands always shake from restraint, from holding back from him.

The Mandalorian—Din, you have to keep reminding yourself, the name of the man under the armor, the name of the man you’ve already fallen hard for—he likes silence. He’s most comfortable in it. But you savor the words he whispers to you, the ones that sound like pure grit through the modulator, excavating the softness underneath all the stoic. Din is dangerous to his enemies, to the people who threaten you and the kid, certainly to the bounties he catches and drags back to the Razor Crest, but he’s never so much as raised his voice to you.

So, yeah, maybe space is cold, but it never feels that way when Din’s aboard. He gets too close to you, and you get the overwhelming urge to crack a window. It burns low in your belly, your attraction to him, the magnetism that keeps you as close as possible to his armored body, even though he’s reserved and driven and a love affair in the middle of the stars isn’t a priority. You dream about it, the way he’d hold you. Even more, even though it always makes you feel guilty—you imagine what he looks like under the helmet. You’ve seen glimpses of his skin—deep, tan, marred with years of scars—but that’s it. You think he probably has a mouth to match his voice—intentional, full, beautiful. You’ve never seen his hair exposed, but if it matches the dark trail of hair that glides down the center of his stomach, it’s probably dark. Wavy, maybe. Messy. You can’t imagine that it’s perfectly tamed under the helmet that he wears nearly every single second of his life.

But his eyes—Din’s eyes are what intrigue you the most. You’ve spent hours with your thumbnail in your mouth, studying the contours of his silhouette in the slightly offset copilot’s chair, trying to excavate what they look like. Long eyelashes, you’re certain of that. An intense look to them, to match the depth of his gaze. For a while, you imagined them hazel, spattered with flecks of the earth he only studies through the visor in his helmet, but now? Now, you’re pretty sure they’re brown.

For the most part, you sleep separately. Din closes himself off into the veiled cot in the hull of the Crest, the baby hovers in his cradle, and you’ve made a very nice nest of bedding on the floor of the cockpit. There have been times where the three of you shared the same open space in the hull—usually when Din came back beaten and bloodied with a bounty you needed to encase in carbonite because he was passed out on the metal floor—but you can count those on your fingers.

He’s private. Very private. But there are parts of you, and little glimpses that you’ve collected since you’ve climbed aboard the Razor Crest, that tell you that he’s not entirely committed to staying reserved. You’ve only seen slivers of his skin. Sometimes, he makes noises in the dark—with your hands on him, after a fight, the one time you heard a low groan right outside of the fresher—and your mind wanders. You can’t help it. You’re sharing a space with a man covered in metal, but he’s not unapproachable, and you’re not a saint. More than once, he’s drifted into your mind when you’re alone in the mouth of the Crest, when you bury yourself under your makeshift covers, when you’re under a stream of hot running water. Din’s a mystery, and you’re beyond curious, at this point, what’s underneath all of it.

Right now, he’s beyond the walls of the cot. You’re at the top of the ladder, nose frozen, teeth chattering, and staring down at that immovable door. It’s so dark in here—the Crest doesn’t have good lighting, period, but it’s rendered practically opaque in the blackness of space—and it’s cold. You’re pretty sure it’s getting colder. You’ve never been warm on this ship—aside when you’ve been thinking nonstop about Din underneath all the armor—but right now, it’s like the Crest is buried into the side of a snowbank. It has been before. It was decidedly not pleasant.

The baby is fast asleep in his cradle, snuggled right up against the outside of the wall separating the cot from the rest of the ship, swaddled in his fluffy robe and a pile of blankets. For a minute, you debate plucking him straight out of there and hold him fast against your chest all night to keep you warm, but he overexerted himself the last time the three of you were on land, and he needs his sleep more than you need warmth.

Barely, though. The line is very thin.

The ship makes an odd, defeated noise, and you look over your shoulder, dragging your barely-there gaze off of the door Din’s hidden behind. You’re not the best mechanic. You’re a pilot by default, because practically everybody over the age of ten in this galaxy needs to know how to operate a starship, but engineering isn’t your strong suit. But it’s either fiddle with all of the buttons on the heaving, impressive dashboard and try to remedy the issue, or freeze on the floor while you’re yearning for the Mandalorian downstairs to wrap you against his strong, broad body.

You groan while you do it, but you get up. The warmest blanket is swathed around your body as tight as it can be, and you pad over to where the noise is coming from. It’s hard to tell. Earlier, you thought maybe it was the engine, but after looking at everything illuminated on the dashboard, it could be...anything. There are so many things wrong with this ship. It’s impossible to tell where the issue is even coming from, let alone how to pinpoint it to fix. You squint down at all of it. Thrusters are almost drained. The outside artillery has maybe five rounds left in it. The fuel gauge is running on empty, and you’re flying in the middle of nowhere. There are aftermarket touches on almost every facet of the Crest—the originals either shot off or dilapidated on their own—but it’s held together with patches and brute force and plain, sheer luck.

“You are a disaster,” you mumble under your breath, affectionate, moving an icy hand out to test different levers and switches. The Crest beeps in acknowledgement, and you suppress a shiver, trying—and failing—valiantly to remedy the issue.

“What are you doing?”

Maker. The voice comes from right behind you. You gasp, hand flying over your heart, turning around to face the Mandalorian. You come face-to-face with his chest, and you have to tip your head back to see the helmet. Your first thought is tall. Nothing more, just the repeated utterance of that single word. And then, belatedly, through a haze, he’s not wearing any armor. The only silver that reflects in the glittering darkness is of the eternal helmet, fixated on you. You gulp. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Din cocks his head to one side. You bite down on your bottom lip. “You need to be more aware of your surroundings.”

But you’re not scared. You like it, the heat of the feeling, being pinned in place with his body, by his stature. “I,” you say, with as much dignity as you can conjure while your teeth rattle against each other and your body shivers involuntarily, “am perfectly aware of my surroundings. M—my surroundings are not the issue here. It’s the Mandalorian bounty hunter who can sneak up on anything.” You swallow, pointing a finger at his chest, and then, before you can stop yourself, you’re touching it to the bare black shirt. Then, a flush floods through you, at the realization that there’s no armor here to delay the heat of your finger, and you want to pull it back, but you don’t.

He considers it. “Maybe you’re right.” And in one fluid motion, he gently pushes you aside to inspect the dashboard. “It’s coming from the inside of the ship, which means it’s not an engine malfunction.”

You nod, even though Din can’t see you, bent over the dashboard, arms crossed over your body to trap nonexistent heat in. “We’re low on fuel,” you say. Slowly, his head turns, the T of his visor fixated on you. You swallow, but soldier through. “And the thrusters aren’t working at top capacity. And we better hope to the high heavens that no one tries to attack us in space again, or we won’t have the gunpowder to fend them off.”

He stares, not moving an inch. “Well,” Din says, a long sigh dragging through the modulator, “you are more perceptive than you were a minute ago.”

You feel like you should be offended. But there’s a slight lilt to his voice, like he’s complimenting you, so you bite down on your grin as he turns back to the dashboard. His huge, gloved hands are planted across the metal, and your eyes trace over the silhouette of them before you remind yourself they’re not yours to fantasize about.

“Found it,” Din says, roughly, pointing to a dial that looks like it controls temperature. “Heating’s broken.”

He turns back around, and you’re standing there, frigid and trembling, and he studies you like it’s the first he’s seeing you shaking. His visor dips down as he slowly takes stock of your whole body—from your eyes all the way down to your double-socked toes—and you have to forcibly remind yourself that he’s not sizing you up the way you devour him with your eyes, but there’s something warm underneath it.

“Really,” you deadpan, and then, through chattering teeth, “didn’t notice.”

Din crosses his own arms across his chest—broad, impressive, the dark shirt stretching in the middle. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Now it’s your turn to stare. “You—you were sleeping.”

Din tilts his head. Just a fraction of an inch, but it’s noticeable. “I’m aware.”

You swallow. “You never sleep,” you manage, lip pressing against frozen lip.

“I sleep plenty. And I expect you to let me know when you’re freezing to death in the middle of the night.”

You fix him with another deep gaze, and you feel your eyes jumping, involuntary, to where the outline of his mouth would be underneath the helmet. “I am freezing to death,” you repeat, trying to sound confident about it, but you feel winded. “I don’t know what time it is, considering we’re in the middle of nowhere, but I can imagine it’s somewhere around the middle of the night.”

“I can’t fix the heater until we’re grounded somewhere,” Din says, and for some reason, his voice comes out gravelly.

“Oh,” you answer, bringing the contours of the heavy blanket swaddled around your shoulders closer to your body, “okay.” You turn, heading back to the corner of the cockpit, but a metallic, deep voice behind you stops you in your tracks.

“Where are you going?”

You gesture towards the nest of bedding you’ve accumulated. “Bed.”

Din considers this for a second, like he’s truly pondering. “No you’re not,” he decides, moving towards you, gloved hands finding your wrist as he moves towards the hole in the floor. You have a million questions, but when he climbs down the ladder in one fluid motion, steel boots echoing off the metal of the hull, he holds a gloved hand up through the space.

“Climb down,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like an outright order. You nod, turning around to scale the ladder, but your foot slips and sends you tumbling down the drop, and then you’re caught by muscled, built arms. All the wind is knocked out of your lungs.

You stare up at the Mandalorian, the man holding your body in his hands, and you stutter through your words and the cold. “I—”

“Get in,” Din interrupts, softly. There’s a charged edge to his voice, and you look over at the open door leading to his bed.

You look back at him, dumbfounded. “I can’t sleep in there—that’s your bed, your space—”

“Relax,” Din says, and then guides you to your feet. You climb in, slowly, decidedly not thinking about the view he has—in the dark, the helmet likely has thermal vision—as you crawl in headfirst, the blanket you were swaddled in dropping to the floor, exposing the shape of your hips, every curve of your body. You can feel his gaze on you as you move, your heartbeat kicking up a nearly audible rhythm in your chest. You’re hyper aware of all of it. And when you situate yourself at the end, your head finding his pillow, Din leans over to inspect it. “I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed,” you whisper, but even as the guilt floods through your veins like tar, you realize all of your words come out fluidly, not broken up by shivers.

“Who said anything about kicking me out?” Din says, after a moment, his voice steeped in velvet and something else you can’t entirely identify, and then, as if it’s a dream, he’s folding himself in half and climbing beside you in his bed.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. There’s an orchestra in your chest right now. Your entire body is a livewire. The amount of times Din’s touched you are able to be counted on one hand, and here he is, every taut, expert muscle of his stripped-down body pressing up against yours in the dark. Your breath catches.

“Is this okay?” Din whispers, and now the room feels like it’s caught on fire. You gulp so loudly you know he can hear it. He’s face-to-face with you in the darkness right now, you can sense it so vividly it feels sinful, but most of his stinew is pressed up against the other wall, restraining himself from your touch.

“Yes,” you say, the word coming out like a confession or a moan, and then you can feel him. Every part of him, you can feel him. You tentatively move forward, into the warmth, until you’re pushed flush up against you. His free hand grabs a fistful of blanket, wraps it around you. The other one wraps around your waist, securing the warmth in place. He’s so close you can feel him breathing, the rise and fall in his chest. For a minute, an agonizingly long minute, neither of you say anything.

“‘S warmer in here,” you mumble, finally, against the heat of Din’s neck. One of his fingers strokes across your hip, and you burn.

“It is,” Din agrees, the rumble of his voice too low, too—bare. You can’t see a single thing, trapped inside the warm darkness of the cot, but your breath catches in your throat when you realize he doesn’t have his helmet on. He’s bare of every form of protection—no beskar, no buffer, no helmet—and his body, the one you’ve dreamed about since you stepped aboard the Razor Crest, is form-fitted against yours.

You can’t breathe. “Your helmet—”

“Can you see anything?”

Maker, the rumble of his voice is silky. Low, deep, husky, coated in velvet. It shoots into your blood like a drug, and you know you’re a fucking goner. “No,” you manage, wriggling closer. You can feel your leg slip between his, and Din makes a noise that catches in his mouth. You’re on fire, lit and left to burn. He’s addicting. He’s everywhere.

“Then I don’t need to have it on.”

You swallow, and then you’re aware that your lips are against his bare neck. You breathe out, shaky and warm, and then, without thinking, you press them, just the lightest touch, to the crook of where his neck meets his shoulder.

The noise Din suppressed earlier falls out of his open mouth. “You shouldn’t do that,” he whispers, something unhinged in the corners of his voice.

Immediately, you pull away. “I—I’m so sorry,” you breathe, and then the hand wrapped around your waist brings you in closer, closer, closer, until you’re trapped, the crush of his strong arms rendering you weak and immovable.

“No,” Din grits out, and Maker, it’s even hotter without the modulator filtering it, “I mean—you kiss me, then I’ll kiss you, and then I won’t be able to—to stop myself until I’ve covered every inch of your body.”

The world stills. You breathe, and it filters out into the silence like a declaration. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”

For a second, nothing. And then, without any preamble—his free hand tangles in your hair, the other one pressing your hip firmly against his impossible grip, and then Din’s mouth is on yours. It’s hot, and staggering, and it floods through your veins like he’s replacing whatever’s in your blood. You can’t breathe. You can’t do anything except try to move closer, to feel the heat of his hands, to push your tongue in and out of his mouth, to get as much as you can. You only break apart for air, and in those giant, amorphous seconds, all you think is, I can’t come back from this. If you thought you were a goner before—his lips devour you, suck out any venom the world left behind. You’re never going to be able to get your fill of Din, never going to be able to think about anything other than this. All he’s doing is kissing you, mustache running ragged against the swollen contours of your lips, imprinting across your jaw, and you’re obliterated.

“Oh,” is all you're able to manage, a winded, breathy sound, and then Din’s lips slip to your neck, cascading down your skin like heat. Your back arches, your stomach filled with an entire menagerie of butterflies. You feel like you’re floating.

Somewhere around your trachea, Din mumbles a question into your skin. “You warm yet?”

You’re burning. But you shake your head, and then you manage to put it into words. “No,” you lie, and then he’s traveling his mouth back up to meet yours, body weight shifting out from against you entirely, and then he’s on top of you, keeping you pinned in place. You don’t even remember what cold felt like. The only thing that matters is him.

“You will be,” Din manages, his voice husky and low, and then his lips press to yours, possessive and primal, and only one fleeting thought crosses your mind before he drags you under—you’ll never need a blanket again.

#i feel like a victorian with being this shaky over kisses and cuddling tbh #dincember #dincember 2021 #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #my writing

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amiedala · 2 years

Text

DINCEMBER #11: UNFROZEN

PROMPT: Tree SUMMARY: “Well,” he sighs, finally, adjusting where he’s sitting to move his thigh flush against yours, immobilizing you, “good thing you’re not my bounty, then.”

His voice has thickened, deepened. Even through the modulator, you can tell. It makes warmth ricochet up from the butterflies restless in your belly to your cheeks. Your ears pound with the rush of blood. “If I was,” you say, trying to keep your voice even and tempered, “your bounty, would you freeze me in carbonite?”

Silence. A long, full second of it. Then Din shifts, turning his metal-clad body towards you. The spread of his shoulders is so broad. It eclipses everything else, makes your vision blur at the edges. “Yes.”

Something in you deflates. You feel both frozen and unfrozen, like you’re preserved in amber and running as fast as you can. Your heart pounds, loudly—loud enough for Din to hear it if he’s paying attention to the inescapable thrum of it—and you twirl a strand of loose hair around your finger, trying to appear nonchalant.

“But,” Din says, so quietly that you barely hear it at all, “I’d probably fuck you first.” WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of sexual content, slight prey/predator (totally consensual), (i genuinely don't know how i turned "tree" into this filth but here we are) WORDCOUNT: 2,495 AUTHOR’S NOTE: day 11 of @dindjarindiaries’s Dincember!!! all throughout the month of December, i’ll be writing (relatively) short din djarin x reader oneshots (alongside all the other incredible participants!!!). today, what came out was snow and heat. we're talking SPICY, y'all ;)

There were worse planets to get stranded on.

“Like Corellia,” you offer, up to the frigid, clear night. If you tip your head back against the rough bark of the tree you’re camped under, you can see handfuls and handfuls of glittering, twinkling stars. The sky is black, cloudless. The moon is so bright it casts a shadow off your boots, across the snow-covered ground. You had hiked into town to see if there was anything that could repair the Razor Crest, and after spending most of the night trying to locate the town itself, the two of you had ended up smack-dab in the middle of a silent forest, huddled up together against the base of a giant, ancient tree, the roots embracing your two bodies, caught together like an oil slick. “Getting stranded on Corellia would be worse.”

Din doesn’t say anything. Even fully armored, even though he’s stoic and persistent in his silence, your heart clenches at his silhouette. You chew down on your bottom lip. Maybe he’s asleep—unlikely, because you’ve rarely ever seen him even try to close his eyes and get a few hours in—or maybe he’s just out of words for a day. There were a lot in the cockpit earlier, when the Crest’s engine failed for the hundredth time, and the two of you had to battle the metal beast of a starship to land somewhere safely, instead of sputtering down to nothing in the black static of space.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you. The thought of it calcifies like a rock inside your chest. That’s a possibility—you’re not stoic and silent like he is. You can blather on about nothing for hours and hours. You don’t like to live in the quiet. You sing—loudly—when it’s your turn in the shower. Even your breathing is a thousand times louder than his is, without the pulse of the modulator to amplify it.

But you know his name. You know that he prefers you onboard than piloting the ship without you—he’s told you in the dark. You know which rations he likes better than others, and even though he doesn’t keep a normal eating schedule, you always leave them untouched when he comes back from bounty hunting. You know where he keeps all of his weapons, and you watch them disappear into the armor before the gangplank lowers. You know how easily he falls into trust with the people around him once they’ve proven themselves. You know he wants you—that he trusts you enough to touch him in the dark. You know how the press of his lips against yours feel. You know he smells like gunsmoke and cinnamon and metal and something you can never quite identify. You know, to whatever reduced, small level it rests out—he wants you, too.

That alone sings in your chest, high and clear. A melody you never stop hearing.

“Got stranded on Corellia once.”

You’re startled out of it, the reverie of just Din and nothing else. “You did?”

He nods, through the helmet. The tiniest glint shines off the metal in the pitch dark, the moon gathering up enough light to illuminate the shape of your Mandalorian. “Bounty screwed me over, messed with the ship.”

You lick the parting of your lips, gathering up both of your legs against your chest. There’s a shiver that threatens to wrack your body, but it has nothing to do with the chill of the air around you. “The bounty…messed with the ship?”

One sharp, curt nod. “Tried to scramble the engine to escape on the next planet. That’s the last time I let bounties stay unfrozen back to Nevarro.”

You bite down on your lip again, looking at him out of the corners of your eyes. You’re sitting with your shoulder and Din’s shoulder pressed up against each other. Down the middle, in the expanse between your two bodies, there’s a gap, until the valley meets up again at your thighs. His is armored, covered in silver; yours is unarmored, covered by fabric. It makes your heartbeat contract a butterfly rhythm, even though you’ve felt his uncovered body in the darkness, pressed your lips to his skin. You’ve done everything in the quiet black of nightfall, everything except sex. You want him, you’ve moaned his name when Din’s face has been buried between your thighs—but you don’t push it. You don’t beg him for it. You think that it’s probably part of his Creed—kissing and touching have loopholes, fucking is forbidden. But even though you know his body in the confines of the Crest, it’s different, being out here together—even under the cover of night, even as the only two human beings in the middle of this forest. In the dark, on the Crest, you can make noises that refract back to you. You can kiss his stomach, move your tongue over the places no one else can see—even you. But here, even with no one around, there’s an invisible audience.

You trace a finger through the snow. You can feel Din’s gaze against the side of your face. “You don’t let any bounties stay out of the carbonite?”

He inhales. “Not anymore.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, letting your finger trail back up over your thigh. “I screwed with the engine,” you admit, your voice quiet and meek. “The last time you were on-planet. I didn’t do it intentionally—I didn’t mean to mess it up. It was a problem that I didn’t know how to fix, but I—I tried to fix it anyway.”

Din’s gaze—under the helmet, through the visor—is focused on you, immobilizing. You don’t need to see his eyes to know that he’s staring. The air feels too full, like it’s holding in a breath. “You did.”

You force yourself to meet the unreadable T of the visor. “Mhm,” you answer, nodding, “I did.”

Din cocks his head to the side, regarding you. You don’t know if it’s in judgment, but it’s thrilling either way. It’s his tell—the proof to know he’s focused on you and absolutely nothing else—and something about the intensity of it feels like he’s undressing you with his eyes.

You always want him to undress you with his eyes. His hands. His instruction for you to rip your clothes off itself. It lives inside of you, an insatiable, hungry pulse, buried somewhere low in your stomach, fluttering between your thighs.

“Well,” he sighs, finally, adjusting where he’s sitting to move his thigh flush against yours, immobilizing you, “good thing you’re not my bounty, then.”

“But,” Din says, so quietly that you barely hear it at all, “I’d probably fuck you first.”

Your head snaps back on the helmet. You stare, unabashedly, your entire body on fire. “W—what?” you manage, voice all shaky, shooting through multiple octaves.

Din’s helmet doesn’t move. It keeps you in place, immobilizes you like a tractor beam. “You heard me.”

Your mouth falls open, agape.

“C’mon,” he says, rough through the modulator, “you don’t get to act all flustered at that after all the things we’ve done in the dark.”

You stare at him. “I—” you swallow, the cold air immediately burning in your throat, “I thought that—that it wasn’t allowed.”

The gloved expanse of Din’s full palm spreads over your thigh, clenches down. It’s a good thing you don’t want to move, that you want to get sucked into his orbit, because you’d be dead fucking meat if you tried to move. He anchors you there, thumb grazing over the inside of your leg, and you shudder. “Sweet girl,” Din croons, and your heart isn’t the only thing that clenches, “I’ve felt you. I’ve had my fingers inside of you. I’ve tasted you for hours while you’re wrapped around my tongue.” His hand tightens even more. You’re frozen there, everything in your body flooding with a red, wet heat. “The only reason I’ve never fucked you is because you never asked.”

You’re on fire. Your body doesn’t even feel the cold anymore. You just stare at Din, pinned down to the cold ground, plastered against the tree, with his touch and nothing else. If you weren’t in over your head before, you’re a goner now. “I’m asking now.”

Your heart is pounding. The helmet moves closer. Din’s not just tethering you there, not just telling you what you’ve wanted his lips to spill for months, he’s sucking every other thing out of you until all you’re left with is heat, desire, and a sick, sweet need.

Din reaches forward with his other hand, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. His gloved fingers skate over the exposed terrain of your neck, and you let out a squeak that’s startled out before it can turn into a moan. “Asking for what?”

You can barely breathe. He’s suffocating you, and all you want is to be dragged under.

“Please,” you whisper, the word barely anything at all, your legs clenching together around the slick, hot wetness gathered there.

“Use your words,” Din whispers. His helmet is so close to you now, it’s your only focal point. The rest of the world drowns out, the stars choking on the darkness of the night, the cold frozen forest insulated by Din’s touch.

“Fuck me, please,” you beg, a cloying, desperate thing. “I want—need you. Need to feel you. Please, Din,” you whisper, his thumb stroking down to the pulse point on your neck. Above you both, the nonexistent stars explode, a supernova you can feel in your bones. “Please.”

And just when you think he’s going to move his hand up at the apex of your legs, Din’s touch disappears. “No,” he says, simply, and before you can stop it, shame trickles like a cracked egg down the back of your neck, and you’re about to pull away, but then his hands fly out to cradle your face, hard enough to make your lips pucker. “I’m not fucking you in the middle of the forest. On top of snow. You deserve more than that,” he grits out, dragging the pad of his gloved thumb over the cleft of your lip, “sweet girl.”

You feel like you’re burning. Like you could pass out right here from the allure of it. Every nerve in your body is singing to a crescendo you can’t drown out. Want lives inside of you, buried to the hilt, so deep you know you can never dig it out. The crush you had on Din before is suffocated by how you’re feeling right now.

“Would you still be talking to me like this,” you manage, even though the breath has been knocked clean out of your lungs, “if I was your bounty?”

“Yes,” Din whispers.

“Would you still freeze me?”

“Maybe,” Din grits out.

You inhale, a shaky, desperate thing. “Would you turn me in to the Guild?”

Din’s head cocks to the side again. “No,” he admits, a low, low breath catching in the modulator, “I’d keep you for myself.”

Shakily, you pull out of his grip, trying to get your starstruck, staticy feet underneath you. In one fell swoop, you heave yourself up against the bark of the tree, heart pounding, reverberating through your whole body. Din’s grip trails down around your calf, steel and grounding.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and you blink, catching the air in the hollow of your mouth.

“You won’t fuck me out here,” you say, as evenly as you can manage, “so I’m going to find the Crest.”

You try to move backwards, that low ache in your pelvis banging its fists against your every instinct to run, but the sharp inhale through the modulator tells you you’re on the right track. You raise your chin, smile gliding across your face.

Din’s grip releases. “I’ll give you a head start,” he says, and your eyes widen. “And then I’m tracking you down. Go ahead, sweet girl. Run from me.”

Your heart pounds like it’s threatening to escape. You feel him everywhere. “Are you going to freeze me in carbonite?” you ask, one more time, and then slowly, slowly, the helmet shakes back and forth.

“I have better ways to keep you,” Din rumbles, pushing up on his knees so that the helmet is even with your waist. Your legs are splayed open, and his free hand travels up your right inner thigh, until it finally presses flush against you, cupping everything between your legs. Your knees give out, just a little, and Din laughs, a dark, seductive thing. “I don’t need carbonite to keep you on my ship. You do that willingly.”

“How much of a head start do I get?” you manage, breathless.

“Thirty seconds,” Din grits out. He holds you there, in place, looking up at you through the visor, and then the rest of the forest filters back in. You have no idea where you are, or where the ship is, but you know that even with a head start, Din’s going to find you before you find it. “You ready?”

You nod. You’re done for. It should be scary—the galaxy’s most feared, respected bounty hunter insatiable for hunting you, finding you, keeping you—but it’s thrilling. Every part of your body is scarlet with want and wetness. Your legs tremble under his touch.

“Three,” Din whispers, letting go of your hip.

You swallow.

“Two,” Din continues, moving his hand away from where he’s cupping you between your thighs.

You square your shoulders. You’re a livewire.

“One,” Din grits out, moving back. For a second, a fleeting, heart-pounding second, you feel pinned to the spot.

“I want you,” you breathe, uncontrolled.

Din looks up at you. You can’t see his face, and you have no idea what his smile looks like, but you can feel the curl of his lips. “Go.”

You run. In what feels like just a breath, you can feel him chasing after you, still silent and quiet under the moonlight, and the thunder of it, the threat—it just feels like sweet, sweet relief.

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