#mandalorianedit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eatommo · 2 years

Text

Common Tongue [d.d]

A/N: Here she is! Just in time to get ready for kinktober! My first Din Djarin fic, it's drastically different than writing for Matt, but I do think I have a good understanding of his character. Star Wars is my home fandom, so I'm very excited to expand my writing to that universe.

Summary: Damage to the Crest causes you and your crew to seek refuge in a very crowded Inn. Left with few options, you make do.

CW: Multiple orgasms, mutual pining, playing with light, sensory depravation, p in v, creampie, fingering, mentions of sexual fantasys, smidge of breeding kink, one bed, helmet stays on, touch starved Din, glove kink, mask kink, implied squirting

You had never seen so many people on one planet before, down every street you turned there was another hoard of people going about their business. Typically, you would feel small, scared to get swiped off the street by some street gang looking to make a quick buck, or worried about getting lost. Luckily enough you had the shiniest beacon in the galaxy parting the crowd in front of you, the Crest had taken yet another beating and was in desperate need of repairs.

So here the three of you are, the little green child sitting in Mando’s satchel at his hip, cooing at you when you make eye contact. You’ve grown quite attached to the little thing over the last few months, just a few nights ago he had crashed in your bunk with you while Mando was out grabbing rations for the limping to Hosnien Prime for repairs.

For being a bounty hunter, he was surprisingly considerate of your needs and always made sure you were fed and slept, and even would occasionally make stops on planets just to show you something he had told you about. From meadows filled with luxurious flowers, or planets with seas raging under lifted platforms, to forests with trees taller than you thought possible.

Then there was this crowded metropolis, neon lights and holograms reflected off the helmet you kept a steady gaze on, half tempted to hold onto his cape to make sure you don’t lose him. A gruff-looking Trandoshan mumbling something incoherent to himself steps between you and your fierce guide. Dread fills your body but quickly dissipates when you hear your pilot’s modulated voice, “Step away from the girl.”

The crowd parts around you, and the lizard-faced man is speaking to you in a language you don’t speak probably a form of Dosh. You shake your head, eyes pleading to the visor of Mando’s helmet for help. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

You hear the unmistakable sound of beskar on beskar as the spear from his back is drawn, “She isn’t interested now beat it.”

Scaly hands draw up in defense, and you know he is swearing under his breath, but the way his body moves away you can picture the spear sitting at the base of his spine. As he steps aside, you watch the helmet tilt and look you up and down. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”

You shake your head, “I’m okay.” You wipe your hands on your flight suit, “What did he want?”

“I don’t speak Dosh, but I could guess.” He offers his arm to you, “Stay closer, I don’t want to call too much attention to us or the kid.”

You take his arm, the cold touch of his vambrace soothed you, reminding you of the cold walls of your bunk on the crest, “Where are we headed?”

“An inn, it's just down the street here, I’ve stayed a few times but not recently.” His body is tense with caution, his hand remains on his blaster for the remainder of the few-minute walk.

You step into a modest looking in, and before you can speak to your surroundings he is handing you the kid to go and speak with the gorgeous green-skinned Twi’lek at the counter. His posture changes as he talks to her, and you wonder if they have a history together, knowing that he is constantly moving across the galaxy, and he doesn’t seem to have any exes or flames that you’ve heard about but you know there's bound to be someone in the endless systems he tells you about.

The thought bounces around in your head for a while, who was this mystery man? For all, you knew he was married, or a Wookie, or something even more improbable. He could be hundreds of years old, he’s traveled more than the last 3 generations of your family combined. After all, Grogu is 50 years old and he is hardly more than an infant, so you find it difficult to pass up the idea of a geriatric old man under all that armor.

You are broken from your ridiculous stupor, by a little bit of laughter in the lobby in front of you. The Twi’lek is fiddling with her lekku like those teen girls you used to watch in holodrama’s, you feel something bitter crawl up your spine and cause you to lick your teeth in disgust.

You continue to peer at them while running your finger over the child's ear, attempting to lull him into sleep. You straighten as Mando does, beginning to bounce the babe in your arms in second nature. “I trust that conversation went well.” Clocking the slightest tick of his helm to the side at your words.

“It’s not a large room, but it’s a roof over our head. Even managed to get some food delivered to the room.” His hands reach and take Grogu from your arms, “They even have warm water.” The child nuzzles into your chest, refusing the embrace of his dad who threatens him with a bath.

You smirk at the T-shaped portion of his visor, raising your eyebrows in a taunt as you pull the babe away from him playfully. “To that, we say dinner first. Right little man?” He grins with delight, hand coming up to your cheek before reaching for the metal piercing in your ear.

“There will be enough food ad’ika, maybe even some Spotchka for you.” He adds, with a sigh at the little one’s pout when you turn your head away from him. “You’re going to hurt her.”

He leads you to a room through a maze of hallways, you follow him closely, slowly growing deliriously tired. The door of the room slides open as you walk up, revealing a plain room with a simple bed and a desk against the wall. You set the child down, letting him explore the new space, if he wasn’t tired enough to sleep soon you may collapse.

You sit on the edge of the bed, ready to curl up like a loth cat and sleep for days. “You should probably freshen up, I’ll get the kid fed, and then we can switch if you’d like.” You remember when he was a man of few words, but you noticed that with each passing day he was getting more accustomed to having you around, time and time again he was surprising you.

You nod, beginning to unbutton your flight suit as you walk towards the fresher with your bag. When the fresher door doesn’t close directly behind you, you glance around searching for an access panel and you notice that it just tints a sheet of glass in front of you to a white smudged appearance. Interesting.

“It doesn’t look like there’s a door. Just some sort of privacy shield on the outside of the shower.” You set your bag on the sink, digging through it for a tunic to sleep in.

“The room is only meant for one person, she is bending the rules to accommodate us.” The modulator relays reality to you, and you feel as though your brain has to stitch the pieces together from fiction.

Sure enough, as you turn to heel and glance around, there is no door leading to a separate room anywhere, not even a storage area or a closet. Your eyebrows are lifted as you take in and process the situation more, to the single bed. Grogu is currently rifling through Mando’s bag in search of something he is seemingly desperate to have; a snack. “Huh.” You glance around more as if the punchline will land the moment your eyes fall on a door you missed. “Dibs on the bed.”

“You can have it Cyar’ika.” You both turn and look at the child who is trying to open a pouch of ration bars.

Your heart swells at the mysterious nickname, he uses it sparingly, and you can’t fight the fear it's something cursing you or belittling you. You haven’t the guts to ask. You’ve got plenty of things to call him, but his kindness fights the bubbling defensive tone in your throat.

“You’re too good to me.” You whisper under your breath with a laugh, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you undress and step into the warm water that falls from the ceiling like rain.

A knock on the door and you hear the clang of silverware as you run your fingers over your skin, checking for injuries that could need tending. “The food is here.”

Your foot slips on the metal floor beneath you, you barely catch yourself on the glass wall of the shower. You start to laugh in embarrassment but as you look up a metal visor is standing above the blur or security glass peering down at you, “Are you okay?”

You struggle to try to retain some of your dignity by covering your breasts and shooing him away, “Go! I’m fine!” The embarrassed laugh escapes your mouth, but you’re not as bothered by the situation as you should be.

Your cheeks start to hurt, with a smile not leaving your face as you finish up, enjoying the clean feel of your skin after nothing but desserts for almost two weeks while camping on Tattoine following a tip on a bounty.

You walk out into the room, wearing a tunic that falls just above your knee and some underwear, the chest band you wear getting on your nerves over the last few days.

The baby is curled into a blanket in a crib that must’ve been brought with the food, passed out. You look at Mando and nod in approval. He hits a button on his vambrace and the crib is enclosed similar to the kid's own that was destroyed.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. You just surprised me.” The blush creeping up your neck makes you want to physically shake it off. “No spotc-”

He pulls a carafe of the glowing blue liquid swirling it before handing it to you, “The rest is yours, I did have a little bit.” He admits with a tilt of his head, you swiftly bring the bottle to your lips, eager for a sip of the sweet liquid. You don’t notice a drop from the bottle fall down your chin and drip onto your breasts. Staining the white tunic you wear blue.

He does.

You finish some blue milk pancakes and half of a Ronto wrap. Downing sips of Spotchka in between bites of food. “Did you eat something?” You ask, taking a few seconds before you finish the last of the pancakes.

“Yes, I ate most of the pancakes.”

Your ears prick at his voice, he seems exhausted you can’t even recall the last time he slept, knowing it’s been even longer than yourself. “Maybe we can share the bed, it's bigger than both of our bunks on the crest, I know you must be exhausted.” He’s nodding with you, and you smile to reassure him, “It’s gonna be just like a wake-over.”

“A what?” He asks, slipping his boots off before crawling up to sit against the headboard. You swirl the little bit of liquid at the bottom of the carafe.

“A wake-over? You know when a friend comes over and you’re up til odd hours talking about life and boys and sex..” You trail off, waiting for him to recognize what you're describing, he’s just shaking his head.

“I guess I’ve never been to one.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise, even with your dim childhood, your dad working in mines for the empire you had a few goofy childhood memories to hold onto. “Well, I’ll show you the ropes.” you finish the rest of the alcohol its warmth spreading over your skin like wildfire, before settling next to him.

……..

“Do you usually sleep in all that armor?” You tap the silver metal with your fingernail, amused, and the light ting that rings in your ears. The heat from the alcohol feels like it's spreading into the air of the room, and sticking in the words between the two of you.

“I’m not usually sharing a bed with a pretty girl.” His tone is lighter than you’re used to. “But no.”

“It can’t be comfortable, c’mon Mando.” You tease, the foot or two between you feeling closer by the second. “I don’t bite.” You can sense the clenching of his fists in the sheet, between you, unable to see it in the dark.

“I do.” He teases, the words are almost regretful or frustrated. “I can remove the armor, is it bothering you? I just have to leave the helm.”

“Isn’t it heavy?” you muse, lifting the plate slightly with your finger. Wishing you could reach into his mind and unburden him.

“It’s like a second skin, I do fall asleep in it sometimes.” The room is pitch black, but your nerves are on fire with each little shift of the sheet, trying to calculate his body position. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, very.” You shift your hips a little, inching closer to him. “When was the last time you were with a woman? Do you get to take the helmet off for anything?” Having already cleared the topic on the agenda for your little sleepover experience, you cross the threshold for your typical conversation.

“I haven’t shown anyone my face since I was a foundling, I haven’t been with a woman since my clan was disrupted on Navaro.” He is honest, and it feels strange to hear him speak so vulnerably, but you still press on.

“I know foundlings are very important but are you required to marry Mandalorians?”

“No, that doesn’t matter, and it’s almost better because our numbers are so small.” His voice is almost a whisper, the modulator barely catching the small sounds. “One might even say it’s encouraged.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and it's like a rubberband snaps some clarity into your brain. He’s inches from your face, this is the closest you’ve ever been to him apart from him having to squeeze past you while making repairs. Even then you felt a surge of energy in your chest, an unnameable force drawing you closer to him, it frightens you because you’re so unsure of his feelings.

“So do you have a special someone? Maybe this generous Twi’lek? She was very beautiful.” You tease, doing your best to hide the jealousy in your tone.

“Twi’leks get me in trouble,” his eyes never leave your face, watching the temperature reading on your body shift as his words poke at your brain, “Do you not speak Mando’a?”

He feels your laugh reverberate off his chest plate, “Of course, I don’t speak Mando’a. I hardly know Rodian and I grew up in a Rodian’s mechanic shop.” You chuckle slightly unsure of what he’s going to say next, “I am pretty good with droidspeak, not that's any help around you.”

“I’m sure it’ll come in handy sometime. You’ve become a very important part of our little…” he pauses for a second as if looking for the right word, “crew. I’m very thankful for the way you look after the child. He likes you.”

You smile softly, eyes growing heavier by the moment as the warmth of the alcohol settles in your cheeks. “You’ve been very kind to me Mando, for a Wookie.”

“You’ve got me. I’m the galaxy’s shortest Wookie, who also happens to be a Mandalorian quite the story. Maybe I should write a holodrama.” His dry humor surprises you, but your heart thumps in your chest as you ask a question that has been bouncing around your mind since you met him.

“What is the story? I don’t know how much you know or what you’re allowed to say. But who’s the man behind the mask?” You let your finger run over the center of his chest plate feeling the ridge rise and fall with each breath.

“I don’t remember much, I was a foundling like the child.” he takes a deep breath as if chasing your hand as it pulls away to adjust your pillow.

“I’m sorry.” Your heart swells in your chest, you’ve seen him interact with the child and the love he carries for his covert. It moves you to know that this skilled and deadly man lying in front of you is also the best possible thing to have happened to you and that he has brought with him the adorable little man you’ve grown to love. “Thank you, for everything you’ve done for me. I think you and the little guy are the best things to happen to me.”

You’ve never wanted to see his face so badly. It’s as if you’re feeling your relationship with him shift, feeling the need to be closer to him with every passing beat of your heart.

Goosebumps spread across your skin when his hand comes to rest on top of yours between your faces, “Cyar’ika, I don’t know where else the adventures with the little one will take us but I hope, after he’s reunited with his kind, I can still find more places in the galaxy to show you.”

Your chest constricts, trapping a light gasp you suppress. “What does Cyar’ika mean?” The air in the room is electric, and you can feel each nerve in your body brim with energy like you’re ready to combust.

The only word you can use to describe his tone is bashful, the faceless man smiling the word, “Sweetheart.”

You surge closer to him, aching to kiss him before catching yourself, his hand finding up to your face and tilting your forehead to his. The cool metal only makes you realize just how warm your skin is. “I can’t take it off, but this is a Mandalorian kiss.” He runs his thumb across your cheek soothingly, “I will kiss you mesh’la, that is more of a need than a promise.”

You nod, not able to help the rush of need overwhelming your thoughts. You wanted to see him, feel his skin under your hands for the first time, and you wanted the taste of blue-milk pancakes off his tongue. You gulp, “Am I allowed to touch you?” You lift a corner of his chest plate in question.

The bed moves and dips beneath you, and before your heart can stop you hear the clang of his armor hitting the ground. The helmet hisses out a groan as his body presses against yours, the flight suit and your tunic the only barrier between your wanting skin and his. Briefly considering turning on the light, just so you could get a glimpse of your companion, you hesitate for a moment before you let your fingers run over the endlessly broad expanse of his chest.

The first thing you clock is his warmth against your palm, then you feel it rise and fall with his breath, the clip of his heart echoing with your own. You let your hand shift, more confident now, creep up to the back of his neck letting your fingers run over the little bit of hair peeking from below his helmet, his body tensing for a brief moment before practically keening into your touch. “I want to feel your skin, my sweet girl.”

You nod, sitting up briefly to lift the tunic over your head the cool air of the room immediately sending a shiver up your spine. His gloved hand ghosts up your side, every nerve in your body being coaxed into submission by his finger. He caresses your cheek, and you’re stunned by its size and the tender swipes of his thumb over your lips before he’s pressing it into your mouth. Instinct kicks in and your teeth bite at the soft leather offering a small tug, you are rewarded with a muffled groan.

His hand slips out of the glove with ease, immediately falling to caress your breasts, pinching your nipple between his fingers. You gasp as the sharp jolt of pain turns to pleasure as he soothes the sensitive bud with his thumb. “So beautiful, so soft.”

Blush continues to heat your cheeks and you nervously laugh, “Can you see?” your voice is a little timid as you feel the shift of his gaze wrack over your body through the emotionless veil of his visor.

“Everything mesh’la,” The strain in his voice is a warning before he’s pulling your body flush against his, “beautiful.” He offers the translation this time and the adjective seeps into your skin with each caress of his hands over the rises and falls of your curves.

You try to count the fingers that are touching you, you feel for scales, tentacles, and even the hairy palms of a Wookie. All you discern is warmth and tenderness, nerves on fire making you unable to sit still.

You press your forehead against his helmet, attempting to urge him to move on. “Can I see your skin?” You let your hands toy with the zipper at the base of his throat, letting your fingers brush over sparse but coarse rough hair and warm skin. Does he have a beard?

“I don’t want the lights to wake the child.” His pram sits a few feet away, “Next time.”

You nod, pulling the zipper down lightly asking for permission, he moves away from you but pulls up to sit straight as he stands. His body towers over you, and you let your hand tug the zipper down a few inches, barely able to discern the swell of his pectoral muscles, and the delicious hollow above his collarbones. You run your fingers over the rigid muscle tone of his chest, lavishing in the soft skin, fingers brushing over a rougher patch, a scar, or a birthmark.

“It doesn’t hurt, it was from a bounty on Yavin-7.” You nod, gently tracing over the raised skin, wondering what other old wounds you could soothe and memorize, each little story behind the marks on his body. Pulling the zipper down to his hips, you see the dark contrast of his briefs against his skin, a moan catches in the back of your throat. You reach to push the fabric of the flight suit off his shoulders, but he beats you to it, stepping out the pant legs and pulling his arms free.

“Keep your hands on me, please.” He guides your hands over his abdomen, the dip of his navel, the waistband of his underwear. He pauses, asking for permission to continue, your heart slams in your chest, the need to satisfy him in any way possible the only thing on your mind. Your hand brushes over the length, pleasantly taken aback by his size. Your thumb rubs small light circles over the head of his cock while staring up towards his visor. You’re unable to make anything other than his silhouette out, but you feel his gaze steady and hot on your exposed bodies, watching your every move.

“See what you do to me Cyar’ika?” His hips push against your hand, his voice as breathless as you feel, “It’s all for you sweet girl, take what you want.”

Not wasting any precious time, you lean forward slightly, letting your tongue run across his length clocking the slight shutter to his breath through the modulator. A trail of wet, open-mouth kisses follows as you let a finger trace over the waistband half teasing and a half asking for him to remove them.

When you lift your hand a moment, you blink and they’re around his ankles then gone, discarded in the cloud of darkness that surrounds the two of you. His cock bobs, aching and dripping in front of you and you hurry, falling to your knees, to suck down the beads of precome he offers you.

“Maker,” husk sounds fall his helm and reverberate in your ears, “I’ve never done this before.” When you pull away from him slightly, he chokes out, “Had someone’s mouth on me like that. Never had time. Please.”

Not one to deny him, at least not this time, you let your tongue swirl over the sensitive head of his cock before taking it into your mouth. His abdomen tenses under your palms and his hips lift to push further into your mouth on instinct, you adjust accordingly swallowing around him eagerly. You begin to move your head in time with his short shallow thrusts, taking as much of him as you can bare without gagging at first, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible.

You hold his hips steady as you lower your mouth further, relaxing your throat and tears brimming as you try and take as much of him as possible, your jaw aching and throat constricting around him as you struggle to accommodate his girth. His fingers find purchase on your scalp, tangling in your hair and pulling lightly.

Letting him take control you relax further, flattening your tongue to add more pressure to the underside of his cock, milking more of that salty precome down your throat as his thrusts grow rougher spurred on by your eager moans.

He pulls away after a few moments, panting and staring at the obscene sight of your lips swollen and wet with spit that dribbles onto your chest. He pushes your body up onto the bed, fingers running through your drenched folds, you find yourself writhing against him aching for any stimulation he offers you.

He brushes a skilled thumb over your clit, listening intently for a hitch in your breath he may or may not have heard from your bunk too many times to count.

You throw an arm to cover your eyes, focusing on the way he rubs small focused circles over your clit, moving every so often to gather your slick from your core, before circling back up. Fighting the urge to beg and fuck yourself against his hand, you whine low and desperate.

“What is it, sweetheart?” His tone is almost taunting like he’s pulling you up to the precipice of climax on sheer luck alone. “Is there something you need?” He swipes over your entrance before sinking two digits to the hilt and immediately curling it up pushing against the spongy spot inside you that makes your vision white. He draws out your first orgasm of the night expertly, your legs shaking with the force of the sudden release.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your skin, making your hair cling to your neck and forehead and breath coming out in shaking gasps. “You’re more beautiful than ever mesh’la.” If there was excess blood in your body, it was in your cheeks, you weren’t sure of the look on his face but he was smug and proud of the mess you made for him in his voice.

He pulls his fingers from you, and his hand disappears and you hear a moan from above you, “So fucking good, sweet girl.” You struggle to comprehend his words when you’re pulled to the edge of the bed, legs falling apart in desperation.

His hands ghost over your breasts again, coaxing your body as if he was guiding it with string. If you didn’t know any better you’d think his helmet needed repairs, the gruff static of his breath washed over your body, wondering how much detail he could gather from the gaze of the helm. He circled your navel, bringing a single finger up to the tip of your chin and tilting it up.

A bright flash of light blinds you. You flinch away, trying to let your eyes adjust. The first thing you see is a tan human appearing hand spreading across your chest possessively. You can see the goose flesh littered across your skin, but when you try and look at the Mandalorian's helm the light obscures your vision.

You make out a familiarly broad chest, a tampered but muscular abdomen, and a light trail of dark hair partially obscured by his thick heavy cock bobbing angrily in time with his movements.

He sinks his fingers back into you. A small plea falls from your mouth, fists gathering the comforter at your sides. He’s gentler this time, he works at an agonizingly slow pace. Scissoring and twisting his fingers under the harsh scrutiny of his tactical light, lifting his free hand to rub delicately over your overstimulated clit.

It takes every ounce of self-control to not crawl away from him, the sensitivity almost unbearable, but his movements are seductive. Like the movements of his hands are rewarding you with each passing stroke of the pain.

Slowly you begin to grind against him, shifting your hips so you can almost bounce on his hand aiming for the spot you know he’s avoiding. You’re writhing under him before you know it, filthy pleas and whines are spoken outside of your consciousness. It’s not until the brink of your second orgasm that you realize the words are coming from you.

His pace is steady and unrelenting, the fire in your belly building with each passing second. He notices the roll of your hips becoming more dramatic and your jaw falling slack in a silent cry. “Make some noise for me Mesh’la. Cum for me before I fuck you as I’ve dreamed about.”

You try to focus your vision on the flex of his arm and the veins straining under his skin, but his cock is the real star of the show. Thick and glistening with a mixture of your saliva and his precome. You’re eager to feel him splitting you open, to know the way his cock feels when it sputters rope upon rope of cum inside of you.

The thought of being filled by him sends you over the edge, your orgasm careening through your body as you thrash against him again. A rush of your cum coats his fingers, and you watch closer this time as the helm tilts up and his fingers disappear and presumably sink into his mouth.

He moans, swearing under his breath and fisting his dick in his free hand. You struggle to hold your head up to watch, your neck and body exhausted.

Your chest rises and falls as he strokes himself under the harsh light of his helm, before letting the head of his cock trace your entrance. Gathering your wetness on the tip he brushes over your hypersensitive clit, a smug huff coming from the strong man above you.

The gaze of his helmet is heavy and delectable as you arch, displaying your body and the spoils of your release for him, silently begging for more.

Finally, he sinks into you in one slow and satisfying push, both of your moans mixing as you fight to sit up, wanting to see him seated inside you completely.

You throw an arm around his neck for support, the shift in angle making the impossible stretch even more delightful. He bends and presses the cold metal bite of his helm to your forehead, another kiss. You follow the tilt of the beskar down to the glorious view of your pussy flushed and glistening, covered in your cum being absolutely split open by his thick cock.

The two of you watch enamored as he slowly pulls out, sick squelches echoing in the quiet room as he continues to work you open. “Mesh’la,” he picks up the pace, the pleasure quickly overwhelming your brain. “Fuck this might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His praising words weaken your posture, feeling the adoration wash over your skin like you would stroke a loth cat, coaxing you to relax and fall against the mattress; mouldable clay under his breathless flattery. The long strokes feel like ecstasy each one making your fists furl tightly into the sheets.

He shifts your body slightly, lifting you so your ass is partially dangling off the bed, allowing him to pitch his hips up into you. You feel his hands settle on your lower belly, applying a soft pressure before he picks up his pace, fucking up against your g-spot with sniper-like precision.

Fuck.

The change of angle has your muscles limp, unable to do anything but revel in the pressure building in your gut. Even staring into the black abyss of the ceiling, you feel his stare fixated on the movement of your breasts in pace with his hips.

He swears under his breath, something in a language you don’t understand, but he brings a hand to rest on your throat, you keen, exposing yourself more.

A man of his capabilities wrapping a hand around your neck should bring panic and fear to your heart, but instead, a rush of liquid pours out of you, coating your thighs and his abdomen glistens with your release smearing between the two of you as he follows suit, pushing deep and spilling into your spent cunt with a modulated groan.

His shoulders fall slightly, visibly exhausted and tense with sensitivity. You let out a small giggle at the nervous tension growing between the two of you. The helmet quirks to the side defensively, and you quickly add “Thank you.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, “Thank you?” your cheeks warm as he caresses the line of your waist with a single finger, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, I should be the one saying thank you.”

Catching his hand in yours, you offer a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve wanted it too, must’ve been the language barrier.”

He pulls his softening cock from you, letting the light fall to the sight of his cum sliding out of you before clicking off and your vision going with it. You give him a moment to move around you before pulling yourself to lean against the headboard.

The fresher light kicks on as din walks to the sink, finally getting a good glimpse of the crisp muscular lines of his body as the fluorescent lights highlight them artfully. “Can you bring me a-”

“Beat you to it.” He turns to hold a damp cloth in his hands. The muscles in his arms are prominent and lead your gaze to the rows of corded muscles that stretch through his pecks. The light dissipates as he crosses the threshold again.

Suppressing a frown you let him clean your thighs, and as he discards the towel you find the courage to speak your mind, “You’re pretty mesh’la yourself Mando.”

You take the shy wheeze from under the helmet to heart, enthralled to be so close to him that the words straight from his breath fall to your ears.

“Say it again.”

#the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorianedit #the mandalorian smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin smut #Star Wars #star wars fanfiction

2K notes · View notes