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#mando x female reader
groguspicklejar · 11 months
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Pretty Picture
Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader
Summary: Din would do anything to keep any outside threat from touching his clan.
Warnings: Mostly fluff, mentions of expanding a clan, slightly steamy, helmetless!Din, Grogu being a menace frogs were devoured, blood, sniper, protective!Din, slightly unhinged!Din (only briefly).
A/N: Took me a lot longer than I intended, but here we are. @sofasoap This is for you❤️ Happy Star Wars Day✨
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It’s a cute house.
Small and cosy. With a wide backyard you know your son is going to enjoy taking advantage. No neighbours for miles, and you’re sure your husband is going to thoroughly appreciate not having random people bother him at any given time of the day.
It’s a really cute house. A new beginning for your little family.
“Do you like it?” Din asks from behind you as you quietly walk through the door, taking in the interior.
He can’t see it yet but you’re already smiling. Beaming with joy. You don’t remember ever being this happy in your entire life. It is everything you could’ve ever dreamed of and so much more.
You were going to have to thank Karga later for this wonderful gift.
You feel your husband’s solid armour pressing at your beck, his arms wrapping around you with a gentle strength. “Riduur?”
The word jolts you out of your reverie. You lean into his embrace, restraining the urge to laugh in utter glee. You just have so much to say, so many thank you’s lining your tongue all at once.
Instead, your head shifts enough so you can press your lips on the side of his Beskar helm. “It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?” You can hear the genuine worry in his voice. It was the need for him to have everything in place. “We can change a few things if you want.”
He’s always like this. Stoic on the outside, but secretly wracked with nerves if you wouldn’t like something. But anything he always gives you is always heartfelt and therefore, it is perfect just the way it is.
However, you tap your chin whilst pretending to contemplate. “Maybe the couch… or the curtains.”
As expected, he’s already backtracking. He releases his arms around you in an instant. “We can go right now–”
“Din, I’m kidding.” You turned around, giggling as you threw your arms around his neck. He was so easy to mess with sometimes. “This…”
The house. The child. The peace. Him. All of it. These are the things you didn’t think you would ever attain after Moff Gideon resurfaced. But after facing the impossible, after defeating him and his army, you can finally rest assured, knowing that nothing and no one can hurt you and your little family again.
“This is all I’ve ever dreamed of from the moment I fell in love with you.”
And you fell hard. You don’t think you can imagine your future with anyone else. The mere thought alone doesn’t sit right with you and you hope you never have to face the possibility of such a reality.
“You and me.” Your fingers trace the edge of his helm. “And a few little warriors running around our house as we grow old together.” His grasp tightens around you in agreement. “It’s all coming true now.”
“Part of it.” he says, glancing around. “We have the house, but…”
“But?” your brows raise in question.
“We only have one little warrior.” Heat floods your cheeks at his words.
This wasn’t something you and him have not spoken about before. Din has made it known that Mandalorians were raised with the ideals of family centred around them. And he has made it known that he wasn’t against the idea of expanding his clan. In fact, he was eager.
“What are you suggesting?” you asked slowly, smiling.
The heat of his gaze simmers lowly as he slowly backs you further into your new home. A slow progression of desire building between you and him that is only going to implode somewhere in the near future. 
“I think…” He unhurriedly pulls the helmet off and you can finally see the heat in his brown eyes. It drops to the floor when the curve of his nose brushes against yours and you can feel the warmth of his breath against yours. “The little womp rat needs a sibling.”
 “Or two.” You peck his lips. “Maybe three.”
A second later, his lips press against yours. It’s slow, heated, melting into your bones. You don’t hesitate to lace your fingers through his soft hair. He hums into your mouth as he clings to you, murmuring, “or four” into your mouth. 
You were right about one thing. Din is really going to appreciate having no neighbours.
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Karga thoroughly enjoyed the fresh pastries you baked with your brand-new oven. 
“Keep feeding me like this and I'm going to grow larger by the day.” He bites into another cupcake while you laugh.
“You eat almost as much as the kid.” Din adds next to you, making you laugh harder while Karga almost chokes.
It's true. The only person who loved your sweet pastries more than Karga and Din was your son. Grogu never wastes a second to ‘help’ you in the kitchen when you’re baking, when really he’s just waiting for the chance to lick the batter off the spoon when you’re not looking. He is currently sleeping through a sugar coma in his floating pod.
In the midst of fixing his pillow, you glance around the small cafe to see an abundance of people. Some faces you were familiar with, but most were new.
You smile when you think about how different Nevarro is, compared to a few years ago. This little town is thriving in the best way possible. You were going to like it here.
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Din doesn’t think he’s going to like it here.
There’s too many new eyes, too many unfamiliar faces. Granted, crime rates had lowered significantly after the scum of the earth was cleared out from this town, a lot more people came to settle down here.
Of course, that’s not a bad thing. It really isn’t.
But why is it that every time a strange face looks at you a certain way, alarm bells ring in his head?
He doesn’t want to be paranoid. However, he has been a bounty hunter for years. And if those years have taught him something, it is to always trust his gut.
And his gut is telling him that one of the new residents of Nevarro does not have the best intentions. For that, Din hardly catches a wink the following nights.
There's always that nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he's being watched. Or worse… you're being watched.
It's midnight when he sits next to you on the bed and watches you sleep. His bare fingers gently graze your cheek, careful not to stir you awake. That's one of the things he regrets; you quickly become a light sleeper because of him. Never felt safe enough to fall into a deep sleep when you know that someone with malicious intent might be lurking nearby.
Din hopes your sleep pattern might change back to the way it was before. He wants you to rest now. To be as comfortable as possible.
Your steady breaths are gentle waves washing his guilt away.  It soothes him in a way. Your peace. The lack of fear or worry. It makes him feel like after all the hell you went through while you were travelling with him, he's finally done something right to make you feel safe.
This little home on the outskirts of town is all he wanted for the kid and for you. A place where his clan can finally settle down and take root without any risks.
But this precious dream of his is being threatened again.
If he could allow himself to give into the thought of taking off his armour and lying down next to you, he would. But the pestering sensation of being shadowed by outsiders won't go away.
He reluctantly draws his hand away from you and puts his gloves back on. He makes sure the windows are locked and goes to the other room to ensure that Grogu is safe as well. The baby is just as blissfully unaware of the dangers outside as you are.
Din is determined to keep it that way for tonight.
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“Staring is rude, you know.” you mutter behind your book before taking a sip of your juice.
Din tenses. “I’m not staring.”
“Maybe not at me.” You hum, your eyes crinkling as you turn another page. “The man behind me seems to be unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of your ire.”
He hates that you’re so perceptive. Your eyes are still drawn to the ink on the page, but it feels like you can see right through his armour. Din knows that you can most days.
The man sitting in the booth behind you isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is. Another stranger in town, another new Resident of Nevarro. This one claims to be here to start a new business. Something about selling rare droid parts. Din claims bantha shit. Karga would’ve told him about it yesterday at lunch.
This particular individual’s presence doesn’t sit well with him. Din isn’t sure he likes the way he looks at you.
“Only because he’s either trying to see what exactly you’re reading or he’s spying on you.” Both options make him burn with barely contained rage.
He hates this. After all that he’s been through to make sure his little family is alive and happy, it all amounted to nothing because this one person is making him feel uncomfortable in the one place where he’s supposed to be safe.
“Should we go back home?” You close your book and reach into the floating pod next to you, gently adjusting Grogu’s clothes so you can get a better look at him. “I think the kid’s had enough sunshine for today.”
The kid fell asleep not long ago. A couple of hours of frolicking around wiped him out.
Din stands up and helps you gather your bag. The pod is sealed shut and when he is sure it’s secured, his hand never leaves the small of your back as you make your way out of the cafe.
All while he is overly aware of your stalker’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head.
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He’s not surprised when Axe Wolves tells him that the man is a spy for what was left of Moff Gideon’s forces. Apparently the man claims to be starting a fresh page by settling on Nevarro. At least that’s what he told the entire town. If Din’s instincts didn’t scream imposter every time he looked at this man, he almost might believe him.
Almost.
The Mandalorians that had stayed behind on Nevarro mobilized immediately when Din voiced his concerns. They fully supported him, as they were also worried about their safety if they didn’t stay on guard.
Din should warn Bo-Katan. He doesn’t like the idea of more Imperials on Mandalore. One army of them was one army too many. The Empire had done everything it possibly could to destroy that planet and everything to do with it.
“From what we’ve gathered, he’s been scoping Gideon’s abandoned lab.” says Koska. “Amongst other places.”
Abandoned. But not forgotten. Karga hadn’t gotten around to clearing out that base and utilising the land for expanding more of the town. If the late Moff’s spies are still sniffing around, obviously, there must be something worth looking for there.
“Other places?” Din looks at him.
His lungs already constrict when he thinks about you and Grogu. You’re both at home, probably relaxing your worries away. He can already imagine you; laying down with a book in hand while watching over a sleeping baby with a serene expression. If there was someone watching you–
“We think he’s been spying on your home too.” Din’s jaw clenched tightly. “Given that it’s located in a remote area, I’d say he’s planning for an ambush.”
He didn’t need to hear another word. He was already on his way back to the house.
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For all of the men he’s killed, this one brought out a certain maddening rage within him that he didn’t bother to temper once Koska was done getting information out of him.
The same man from the cafe had been terrified when he was caught. It didn’t take much for him to start talking. Gideon’s most loyal soldiers, those that survived anyway, needed resources. He was only sent there to see if the abandoned lab on Nevarro still had anything worth salvaging. And he was also told of a Mandalorian who lived outside the perimeter of the town. That he has a wife and child.
“I wasn’t gonna do anything, I swear!” he panted harshly after coughing up blood. Din had enjoyed torturing him. “I was just told to spy on them!”
The man’s hands were cuffed behind his back as he knelt against the rocky ground. His hair was dusty and skin was stained with blood from being kicked and beaten half to death. He was found not too far away from the house outside the town, laying against a rock with one eye closed. The other looked through the scope of a rifle.
The target? You. Enjoying a cup of chocolate milk on the porch as you watch Grogu hunt for frogs.
“Really?” Koska’s sarcastic barb. She dropped a bag with his belongings and held up one pouch. It clinked when she shook it. “Sounds like you got paid a lot more than to just spy.”
“I’m guessing that’s only half of it.” Axe scoffs, shaking his head. “He was going to collect the other half to get the job done.”
He would know that. Any experienced mercenary would.
If Din had been a second late, he would’ve returned home to find the scene of a crime. He would've lost you or the kid or worse. This world would've come crashing down.
Axe faces him, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think we should do with him, Din?”
What should he do? What he was already planning to do. He already knows what he's going to do to anyone who threatens the life that he's built here. To anyone who threatens you and Grogu.
“I think…” Din draws his vibroblade. The prisoner's eyes widened significantly, and it fills him with a sick satisfaction.“We should make an example out of him.”
Finally, for once, he gets to dole out justice. Rid the galaxy of one less vile monster. Make your world a little safer.
“If the others want to try something stupid, then they should know that there are consequences.”
Axe and Koska regard him carefully before both of them break into slow smirks. All three Mandalorians look at the prisoner.
A man, scared and helpless. Almost hard to believe that he was ready to stain his hands with the blood of a mother and her child. A family that had nothing to do with him. Innocent blood. Scum like him are lower than dirt.
He is not going to live past today.
And he knows it.
“No…” He shakes his head in denial, trying to crawl back away from them. “No, please–”
“Riduur?” Your sweet voice is all he could hear when he holds you in the dark. “Everything okay?”
He arrived home in the middle of the night after a successful hunt with Axe and Koska. He found you in Grogu’s room, making sure that his window was closed so that the midnight chill doesn’t bother him.
The fury of his violence still burns hot in his veins. It still occurs to him that you could’ve died today. That your life would’ve been cut short. He still wants to go back to that corpse, the one strung high on a pole for intruders to see and do even more damage than what was already done.
He wants Gideon’s remaining allies to see what he’s capable of. How far he’ll go to protect his clan. And how much farther he’ll go to avenge it if it ever comes to that. Din prays it’ll never have to come to that.
“It will be soon.” His embrace tightens.
He has no intention of ever being the cause of your distress. And he'll be damned if he lets anyone try to hurt you or his son ever again.
Your fingers graze the side of his helm. He's almost startled by your gentle tone, “Is this blood?”
“It’s not mine.” He did not realize how hollow he felt until he heard his own voice.
This entire ordeal drained him. Worrying over you. Finding the intruder and making sure he took his last breath. All of this rage, this despair flooding his chest, it’s taking more of a toll on him than he thought.
It doesn’t, however, mean he’s ever going to stop being on the lookout for any more threats. Karga is going to have to monitor any more incoming settlers and visitors to prevent this from happening again.
You’re quiet for a moment before you make a rhetorical inquiry, “Do I even want to know?”
Din removes his gloves behind your back and picks you up. You make no qualms as you allow him, legs wrapping around his waist and hands clinging to his neck as he carries you.
“I’ll tell you later.” 
If you have any worries about the blood staining his armour, you give no confessions. You, instead, lay your head against his shoulder. He feels your ease, your lack of judgement or resistance. You know that whatever it is he had to do, it was for the clan’s safety.
He holds you closer that night in bed. The violent fury slowly disintegrates with each kiss and each caress. Every second of the night, you fill the hollow space in his heart. You whisper to him, thanking him for protecting you and the child. For taking care of both of you.
His heart is content knowing that you would rather ride the stormy seas with him than sail in smooth waters with anyone else. All his life, he never would’ve imagined he’d come this far. He had always pictured dying on a battlefield with either a blaster or a blade in his hand.
But this? This is far better.
It’s the prettiest picture you’ve granted him. And he’ll cherish it for the rest of his life and beyond that.
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the-scandalorian · 13 days
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Pairing: Din Djarin x female sex worker!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 3.1k Content Warnings: touch-starved Din; reader is blindfolded; smut Summary: Mando makes regular visits to the healing baths. Note: A big thank you to @frannyzooey for always enabling my depravity and finding the dope ass images for my header ❤︎
He always waits for you inside the door.
“It’s the least I can do,” he says, when you’re surprised by the unexpected touch the first time. A light hand cups your elbow, guiding you to the middle of the room, until you can feel the smooth tiles that mark the edge of the sunken pool with your bare toes.
The marble is slick with condensation, heated by the same geothermal source that warms the spring water. The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil, of rose from the petals you know are strewn across the surface of the bath. Candles flicker languidly in the shadowy corners of the room, but you can’t detect any of their light.
When you lower yourself to the floor—carefully, blindly—he checks the tightness of the black silk wrapped around your eyes with gentle fingers. He reassures himself it’s secure, that you can’t see a thing through the fabric in the dark, hazy room. A reassurance he needs every time.
You come to expect it. To expect him.
He’s consistent. He’s hesitant.
It takes dozens of visits before he lets you join him in the bath. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze to the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.
When he inevitably says no, you sit behind him on a velvet cushion on the edge of the pool instead, swathed in the inky blackness of your blindfold, your feet dangling in the warm water, and work scented oils into his skin and tension out of his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his back, his chest. Your existence is reduced to tactile information, your world narrowed to the sensations in your hands—the textures at the tips of your fingers. The taut muscles of his shoulders, the raised scars that litter his arms and chest, the hair dusted over his pectorals, the callouses on his palms. All slick with water, slippery with massage oil.
The helmet stays on for the first handful of visits. You know by the modulated sound of his voice, by the brush of beskar against your wrist when you work a knuckle into the base of his stiff neck. It disappears somewhere around the tenth visit. When he meets you at the door, your name sounds markedly different. You don’t mention it, don’t draw attention to it, but you do enjoy the unfiltered, raw quality of his voice from then on.
The noises he makes when you touch him are always better than you remember. Their tone and cadence mark a gradual progression from high strung and uneasy to mellow and sedate as the tension coiled in his muscles dissipates under your hands. The harsh exhales devolve into low groans, quiet grunts. Sounds of pleasure waited too long to be had, of physical release so desperately needed. Every once in a while, when you work out a particularly stubborn knot, he murmurs a hushed, rumbling oh, fuck.
Once, when you earn a delicious moan paired with a strained, needy fuck, just like that, he bites off the last word so harshly that you know it was involuntary.
It turns you on more than the touch of any client ever has.
Even with the blindfold, you can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. Its weight is familiar from the start, when you meet him at the entrance to the baths, the echoing stone entry hall with its gilded fixtures and branches of guttering candles. A balled fist rested on the counter, he nods at you in all his armored glory, a cordial gesture that seems to gain gravity and intimacy each time he offers it. The black visor follows your walk down the long hallway to your rooms, dips to your hips when he thinks you’re not looking. Heavy, substantial. Pressure that could be measured, harsh enough to leave an imprint in its wake.
It stays on you until you shut the door between you, leaving you in the antechamber to tie on your blindfold and him in the main room to undress.  
When you knock and enter, you can still track his gaze despite the layers of black silk—the feeling of it like a searing brand. Settled on your face when you smile up at him. Dragged over the curves of your breasts when you shamelessly tip forward to trail fingers through the water and they just barely begin to spill over the low cut of your dress. Trained on the movement of your tongue when you part your lips and lick a slow, gratuitous line over the bottom one. Riveted to the dark space between your legs when you spread your knees unnecessarily wide and the fabric of your thin, short dress rides up your thighs.
You tell yourself not to hope for more.
Then one day he shows up, and you can tell something is off. His usual steady, controlled energy has been replaced with a pent-up buzz. He’s worked up. You can hear it in his clipped words, feel it in the extra touches. The hand on your lower back guides you to the pool almost hurriedly.
His shoulders are even tighter than usual when you get your hands on them, his back a series of stony knots. He groans when you work at the tension in his neck, your thumbs digging into the tautness at the base of his skull. And when you offer yourself this time, feeling optimistic that you’ll get your most reluctant no yet, a strong hand guides you slowly and wordlessly down the smooth stone steps to join him in the water.
Reflexively, you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind you before the hem can catch in the water. You lose his touch in the process, but a path of goosebumps down your body echoes the course of his gaze as it pulls along your curves. You can feel his attention, his captivation at your nakedness in the fervent tension that snaps taut between you.
His invitation is so unexpected, though, that once you’re standing in the hot, waist-deep water, you’re stunned motionless. Disoriented. You don’t know where he is for a moment; you feel his hot gaze everywhere, all at once. You never actually thought you’d get this far with him, and now it feels daunting—the darkness of blindfold, the ever-changing line of his limits and preferences. You feel untethered.
Until the water shifts and he touches you.
“Beautiful,” he says, damp fingers following the curve of your cheek so lightly you can only just feel them.
You take his hand in both of yours and kiss his palm, soft lips brushing over rough skin. He catches you under your chin, and one fingertip traces your lips, his other hand settling on your waist, flexing. 
You don’t want to push him too fast, and you also want to take full advantage of this opportunity while you finally have it.
You part your lips, and his fingers still.
You let your tongue peek out to circle the pad of one finger, inviting. To your delight, he responds by carefully pushing two fingers into your mouth. When you close your lips around them and suck, he lets out a broken, pained sound, pressing down on your tongue lightly before he eases them back out and drags a wet line down your chin to settle his hand around your throat. 
You smile up at him, unseeing, as you trail fingers down his chest, the soft give of his stomach, dipping below the water as you reach the ridge of his hipbone. Moving slowly, always slowly, so he can stop you if he wants to.
Sure enough, his hand finds yours, trapping it against his skin. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to," you interrupt. "I want to touch you.”
It’s an understatement. There isn’t enough time to share all the myriad ways you’ve fantasized about touching him.
“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you walk in here in your armor,” you say, letting your voice pitch low. “What you’d feel like under all that metal.”
His hand disappears, and yours slips further down the v of his hips to wrap around the base of his cock. Hard, thick, big like you knew it would be. 
“I think about it every time I work my way down your chest. How easy it would be to slip my hands lower...to see if you enjoy having my hands on your body as much as I do.” 
He breathes out slowly, but his whole body is rigid as you drag your other hand over his shoulder, down his chest, a granite statue under your touch even as you start to work him over in long, luxurious strokes. 
“I’ve been dying to know, Mando.”
His cock twitches in your hand, his skin hot and slick as it pulls over his hard length. He isn’t relaxing into your touch like he usually does, and this white-knuckled, shallow-breath, penitent version of pleasure is not at all what you’d intended for him, what he deserves.
You tip your face up toward his. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”
A rough exhalation. Noncommittal, a little wry.
You step closer, gingerly moving into his space. He lets you. The water shifts around you as you move into him, close enough that your breasts brush his warm body and you can place a soft kiss on his chest. His ribs expand in a rapid, deep inhale, a rough hitching breath, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck.
You press him backward with a palm to his sternum, and he resists reflexively, his feet planted firmly. A man not so easily moved. Who is used to doing the telling, not being told.
“Sit for me?”
He relents with a hum, going pliant for you as you back him up to sit on the submerged marble bench. He helps you climb up, strong hands guiding your movements, settling you onto your knees in a straddle over his lap.
You dip your head to find the crook of his neck and lavish open-mouthed kisses on his throat, below his ear, automatically respecting the limits of where his helmet would be, as you move your hand between your bodies. You’ve never touched above his neck and won’t change that now, even though you’re dying to trace the contours of his face, to fit your lips to his.
Perched over him, you can feel his body gradually relax under your attention, his posture softening, his breath dropping into a more natural cadence. His hands find your hips, your thighs, slide back to grip your ass, as you begin to increase the pace of your stroke.
“Have you, Mando? Have you thought about this?”
You feel him nod once against the side of your head. Jerky, frantic.
“Good,” you purr into his skin, letting your teeth drag over his collarbone.
He groans, his hips lifting off the bench to push himself into your grip harder. The heat that always simmers in your core when you’re around him grows and spreads. It’s overwhelming—so much of his bare skin on your bare skin, after so long with so little. Almost feverish as you move together in the hot water.
Your hand pauses mid-stroke; his hands tighten in protest, sliding you a tiny bit closer on his tense thighs. “Do you think about me?”
His ragged breathing stalls. He nods again. “All the time.”
You hum, pleased, and resume the tight pull of your fist. Your own arousal is approaching a blistering point, so hot and bright, and he’s barely touching you—one hand on your ass, the other dragged up your body to palm your breast, his strong thighs pressed to the inside of yours. He rolls your nipple between two fingers, and you gasp. 
“Feel so good,” he rasps, the heavy weight of his hands reverent as they catalog the slopes and rises of your body. “Just like I imagined.”
You can’t help but think about how easily you could sit on his cock right now. All it would take is a slight shift and tilt of your hips and you could catch the blunt head at your entrance. He’d stretch you so deliciously—that girth and length—but your wetness would let you work yourself down onto his lap until he was filling you completely. You’d fuck an orgasm out of him, riding him until he found his release in the tight clutch of your body, milking his cock until he shuddered from the oversensitivity.
One day. Maybe.
He’s close—you can tell by the strain in his voice, by his ragged breath, by the way his hands tighten on your ass. By the way he wraps one large hand around yours on his cock, tightening your grip. 
“Just like that.”
You’d give anything to see his face when you feel the urgent flex of his hips as he fucks into your joined hands, the jerk and shudder of his large frame as it curves over you, his forehead dropping to rest heavily on your shoulder as he moans brokenly through the pleasure. It’s the most intimate part of all of this—so human, so trusting. So tempting to reach up and touch his face, to put detail to what you’ve imagined so many times.
You regret that your hand is submerged in water, that you can’t feel his hot release slide over the dips and swells of your knuckles. That you won't be able to lick it off your fingers—to taste it, for your own pleasure and for his. To listen to the sounds he’d make as he watched you eat his come.
Instead, when it’s over, when he’s finished, the weight of his forehead lifts from your shoulder and his touch abandons your body. You resist the urge to search it out, to ask for it back.
You imagine how he looks unwound underneath you, his head tipped back against the edge of the pool, muscles slack. His body finally truly relaxed.
Your part is done. 
He’s never spent this long here, and you imagine he’s hyperaware of that. Always on a timeline. Some small part of you thought maybe—hoped—this time would be different, that maybe he’d linger, that maybe he’d want to touch you. You slide backward off his lap to take your leave reluctantly, but when you reach blindly for the edge of the pool, there’s the sound of quick movement through the water and he closes a hand around your wrist.
Relief courses through your veins.
He doesn’t say anything, just guides you. You can’t tell what his aim is until he arranges your body over his just so—just the way he wants you. He has you straddle his lap backwards this time, your back flush to his chest, your knees opened wide by the spread of his legs between yours.
You think about what he does for work, the command and skill it requires. Those capable hands and sure grip have wrestled so many bounties into submission—into handcuffs, into rope bindings, into his carbonite chamber—and here they are exerting their power and ability for the sake of your pleasure. Blunt instrument, suddenly fine.
His breath is hot by your ear, his heavy hand settling meaningfully on your inner thigh. “Can I—?”
“Yes. Fuck, please—”
You guide his hand between your legs, desperate, and his mouth finds the back of your neck. His mouth. Stubble scrapes across your skin, soft lips molding to the contour of your shoulder. The heat that’s been building in your body, that started as a low smolder in your core, has been growing to a rolling boil the whole time you were touching him. And his mouth on your body? Like striking a match to gasoline.
The reality of the situation, the surprise of this touch, ratchets your arousal to a precipitous height. It’s the sheer brazenness of it—the unflinching way he’s taking such a huge step. In the name of your pleasure, of his desire to taste you.
The offering of such intimacy, a secret shared.
A warm tongue blazes a lazy trail from the notch of your vertebra to your nape as two fingers slip into the slit of your sex, beginning a slow massage of your clit. Your mind goes blank.
It’s almost embarrassing how easily he makes you come, how little time it takes with his hand between your legs and his lips on your skin. He fucks you with two thick fingers, another swirling over your clit, and you wonder vaguely how he knows how to curl the two inside you just right against your g-spot.
You reach behind you to grip the back of his neck as you arch, your hips circling. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and you go molten at the thought that he’s watching himself finger-fuck you to climax.
“Are you going to—?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
“Good.”
It's said through clenched teeth, a gritted jaw. He’s deriving so much pleasure from your pleasure, it's dizzying.
Teeth close over your shoulder and he bites down as you begin shudder and shake, as you clench and spasm around the thrust of his fingers—as you listen to his voice break on a groan as he feels it and draws it out—until the pleasure wanes and you melt back against him, boneless and sated, his strong body an anchor underneath you in the water.
You pant together, your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, and all you can think about is how fucking close his lips are to yours. You could turn your face and kiss his jaw. He could angle your head and push his tongue into your mouth so easily. You’re so pliant; you want it so badly.
You consider asking. And then you consider the fact that he’s likely thinking about the same thing—your closeness is palpable, the tension a live, shivering thing—and he isn’t doing anything about it. He isn’t fitting a hand to your cheek to maneuver you just so.
You won’t ask for something he isn’t ready to offer.
When he finally does let you go, this visit that was so different from the others ends the same. He guides you back to the exit and hands you the robe that hangs by the door. As he helps you shoulder it on, he murmurs a sincere thank you, accompanied by a rumble of your name.
There’s one notable difference: as you're walking through the doorway, he catches your hand and squeezes it fleetingly before letting it drop.
The door shuts behind you with a click.
As always, a stack of credits far too high will be left in the room for you, and just like every other time, you’ll wait impatiently for his return. 
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djarinterstellar · 1 year
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Safe Place
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Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader
Summary: What starts as a night off alone escalates into some trouble in town. Luckily, when you’re employed by one of the fiercest warriors in the galaxy, backup is never too far away.
Tags/Warnings: category is- MUTUAL PINING[!!] they just don’t know it. mostly comfort/fluff. some violence in the beginning + 1 minor injury. mentions of alcohol and spice (cannabis) use. Reader is fadeddd most of the plot lmao. Protective/Soft Din 🥰 mentions of Force-sensitive Reader. also no Grogu today, it’s past his bedtime :(
Word Count: 8.6k
a/n: not me posting this on the cusp of season 3 finally premiering 💀 also this was supposed to be shorter but honestly, this thing got so out of hand so fast, idek why it drags on for as long as it does. but i was inspired by this very stoned prompt i thought of months ago with my favorite tin can babygirl and decided to finally finish it so. here we go. ✨
ps: i’m still trying out the 3rd person pov thing so lemme know if you hate it or not. also to settle any confusion amid the new szn, this takes place between s1 and 2 :)
Translation: Sen’ika = little bird
*
*
It’s supposed to be an easy night.
Mando is on a hunt and she’s been left in charge in his absence. Normally she would’ve argued coming along and you know, making herself useful as she’d originally agreed upon. But the Crest could only land so close and the additional foot travel was too long and treacherous for the Child to follow along. Plus Red trusted her enough to leave her alone with his foundling without making off with his ship and she had no other choice but to agree.
A few days had passed now since he’d departed. He estimated he’d return in about a week, so she was in no rush in waiting for him. Mando had settled them on the outskirts of town, far enough where they could lay low in peace but still close enough for her to make any emergency supply runs in town. She was left with everything she needed to care for the kid. And with specific instructions not to leave the Crest unless it was absolutely necessary.
Which is exactly what she decided to categorize this as.
The pair of double doors leading into the local cantina burst open and she stumbles back out into the streets, giggling to herself as she cradles a pair of warm cider bottles to-go in her pouch. She hadn’t planned on lingering at the bar but three drinks and a pair of shots with a group of local girls later, plans were changed. She was even invited out back to share a round of their spice joint, a generous offer she simply couldn’t refuse. She was now blissfully intoxicated and felt lighter and happier than she’d been in weeks.
The kid had finally settled in earlier and if his recent patterns served her correctly, he’d be down for the rest of the night. She was finally alone, a privilege she found extremely rare these days since joining Mando’s crew, which gave her ample time to wander into town. Was it responsible of her to leave the Crest and the kid alone? Most would argue it wasn’t, Red most of all. But he wasn’t here to say no! Plus, she had locked the ship down to keep the kid inside and protected from any potential stragglers. All goes well, she would be in and out before he woke up.
And she was confident about this because she’d already gone out just last night. Sure, she hadn’t been out this long, but again, Mando wasn’t expected anytime soon.
She liked exploring towns. It gave her a reason to not only scope out her environment, but to familiarize herself with the locals and figure out which spots in town were traveler-friendly. It was easy to wander when she was on her own, but now that she was a full-time employee, it had become somewhat of a rare treat.
It was week’s end for these particular folks, which meant most of them were out in droves tonight. She could still hear the fits of laughter and drunken serenades belting out of the cantina behind her as she walked away. The air was far cooler at night and the refreshing taste of it in her lungs gave her cloudy head the clearance it needed.
She was delightfully drunk and probably just as high, but she was conscious enough to know she needed to get back. Leaving the kid alone for a couple of hours was fine, but stretching it out any longer than that was far too much of a risk. Live music was playing somewhere from around the corner, locals dashing around her as they hopped from one cantina to another.
The energy buzzed around her like an electric current, yet she walked with a familiar ease. She felt oddly safe within the center of town. But as she drifted further into the outskirts, the street lamps dulled and the crowds thinned out. A pair of fraternal moons became her guiding light as she willed herself to remember the path back to the Crest.
And for a while, it was fine. Despite the silence, she couldn’t help but feel a bit more on edge out here alone than when she was surrounded by a bunch of drunk miners. She ignored it though, trying to tell herself it was probably the spice making her antsy. But the farther she walked, the longer her paranoia festered and itched and scratched until she realized it wasn’t the libations talking to her.
It was the Force.
She realized too late she was being followed until just before she was confronted. A Balosar male slinks out from an alleyway behind her, long and slim with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized coat. She wills herself to keep her eyes straight ahead but she could hear him glide over to her side to match her stride.
“Where ya goin’ sugar? The party’s that way!” he drawled, sending an immediate chill up her spine. Shit.
“I know where I’m going,” She doesn’t look at him as she attempts to brush past him. “Have a good night.”
He reacts by slipping around her once more, this time blocking her path directly ahead. “Whoa whoa, take it easy!” His accent is thick and laced in what she can only describe as mock-innocence. “Relaax, nobody’s gettin’ hurt here!”
Her facial expressions remain unmoved, glancing up at him boredly. In reality though, her heart was hammering against her ribcage. The last thing she needed, especially right now, was unwanted attention from anybody, let alone from this total stranger. She moves to step forward but he cuts in her way, a sly grin stretching across his face.
“It’s okay baby,” Her stomach internally caved in at the pet name. “just tryna find where the cool people hang out.”
“Wouldn’t know where to point you to.” she replies flatly, straightening her back. “Excuse me.”
She attempts to move around him again, but his arm comes up to lay on the wall next to her and he leans forward to cave her in. “Where’re you from then? I’ve never seen anyone this pretty so far out here.” His free hand inches towards her face but she’s quick to turn her cheek, her jaw clenching behind her lips.
“And you never will.” she snaps back, already inching backwards.
This only prompts him to step closer, a frown crossing his slimy face. “Ey, you don’t have to be a bitch.” His tone switches almost predictably and her hand slips behind her cloak to reach for her holster.
“Back off.” she snarls him a warning with the coldest glare she can make.
He tries reclosing the gap between them again. “C’monn honey- ”
“NO.” Her fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and she fully pushes her weight on him to shove him down. Her stand off is cut short though when he finds his balance and pushes back. She’s thrown back against the wall and before she can even process it, a pocket knife is jabbed against the skin of her neck.
Shadows move over his shoulder in her peripheral vision and when she follows them, 3 more Balosars creep out of the dark, hovering behind the first one in a sort of half circle around her.
It’s at this moment that she realizes 2 distinct things. Firstly, she doesn’t recognize them. In her 4 or so days since they touched down, she’d observed the villagers in her down time and gathered a very broad consensus of who was who— and in that time, she hadn't seen any Balosars in this town, which told her they were also just passing by. Secondly, she thinks as she watches the other 3 close in, she’s tangled herself in a very complicated web here. It was 4 against 1, with a notable size difference amongst all of them. She couldn’t see straight, was hilariously underprepared for a fight given the company she was currently keeping, she was fucked up and only growing more inebriated as her vices soaked into her bloodstream, and she was alone. No baby, no bar friends, no civilian witnesses.
No Mando.
Fuck.
A strangled little noise escapes her throat when the knife is pinched further into her skin and she curses herself at how whimpered it comes out.
“Fine, since you wanna do this the hard way..” the first Bathosar sneers almost mockingly, his frame towering over her own.
She’s curling into the overcast of her cloak when her fingers finally find the handle of her blaster, skin digging tightly into the cool of the metal. She looks into his eyes and sucks in a deep breath before the tension snaps.
Fuck it.
In an instant, a shot zaps out, aimed directly at his foot. He cries out when it makes contact, and she smashes her blaster across his temple when he folds over in distracted pain, his knife clattering to the ground. Despite her inebriation, she can sense the others jumping into action and she points her gun at the closest one, shooting him right in his chest before he can get any closer. She doesn’t have time to watch his body crumple to the floor as she turns to shoot at the other two, a rapid succession of plasma bolts whizzing out almost desperately. Her second target barely misses her line of fire and as she follows his trail, she fails to block the third Balosar from tackling her into the wall. She cries out as he harshly elbows her wrist to disarm her, the blaster forced out of her hand.
“Grab her!” She hears her attacker hiss from above her before she’s suddenly snatched from behind. Her arms are pinned to her sides as she’s grabbed and lifted several inches off the ground.
Her heart is pounding, blood pumping into her ears as she yells out. Her feet start kicking furiously in an instant, every functional instinct left in her telling her to fight back. “Get off me!” she shrieks, flailing until her boot finally connects with a knee. She hears him yelp behind her, his grip slipping. She jabs her elbow fully into his nose, sending them both tumbling.
Two separate voices are shouting incoherently above her in a blend of confusion and exasperation. She can see her blaster just feet away and she starts crawling, scrambling in a desperate effort to reach it, until she’s yanked backwards by her ankle.
“Pin her down.” she hears one of them growl maliciously from above.
Her stomach turns as she’s dragged back into her assailant’s grip, trails of her fingernails digging into the dirt floor. She feels her brain short-circulating in its panic so she resorts to one last defense tactic.
She starts screaming.
And it’s a shriek that’s piercing and raw and louder than she was planning it to be. But she screams anyway in hopes that anyone within the block can at least hear her, even if it’s another drunken villager on their way home.
“Shut her up!” A second voice hisses hastily, hands scrambling to smother her.
“NO- ” She bites down on the first hand that touches her face and only squeals louder, her pitch jumping another octave in her hysteria. She starts kicking again, nails scrambling in the dirt for a spare rock, a glass shard, anything physical to grab in her defense. When her palms only fill with clumps of dirt and sand, she clenches her fists around them anyway.
What started as a dreamy, whimsical high has quickly soured into a debilitating panic trip. Rather than floating in euphoric bliss, she feels tranquilized, her focus and motor skills severely hindered and overpowered by these 3 much larger adversaries. Her stomach is turning over under her ribs, waves of nausea churning with her rising panic. Her heart is pounding too fast she feels, and her lungs are tightly clenched despite how fast she’s gasping for air.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she’s flipped on her back, the welling tears spilling down her temples. Before she can scream again, a balled up handkerchief is forced into her mouth. Two of them meanwhile, are putting their full weight down on her to pin her limbs to the ground. The first one is limping over to them, his knife recovered in his hand while patches of fresh blood trail behind his injured foot. She audibly whimpers now, wriggling in their grasp like a drowning fish.
“You know.. I was gonna let you go after all this,” he starts, turning his blade over in his hand as if to inspect it. “But that was before I believed the rumors.” He pauses here, and the dread is only momentarily overwhelmed by her instinctive curiosity. “I mean- we all knew the bounty’s primary target was a Mandalorian with a green pet- ” Her stomach drops. “ -but there was no mention anywhere about his pretty little accomplice.”
She rustles again as he looms over her. “And I gotta tell ya, I didn’t think it was true at all. I mean, a Mandalorian with a business partner? And a girl at that!?” He almost laughs before he pivots. “But then we sees’ you in town, carryin’ this little guy around, and we think, maybe there’s some truth in all this, ya know?” Her stomach sinks even lower at the realization that they not only spotted her with the kid, but that they’d been watching her this whole time too.
Double fuck.
Suddenly, he’s kneeling in front of her, his injured foot tucked behind his knee, and she’s roughly sat up to face him by the snatch of her hair. “So here’s what’s gonna happen,” She grunts helplessly when his blade is pressed deeper against her neck as the three men crowd around her. “you’re gonna point me in the direction of the gremlin, you’re gonna watch us shoot his kidnapper, and then, and only then, will I finally kill you myself.”
Her brows crease in pain as she tries to pull away from his blade, but the hand twisted in the back of her hair only pushes her into it. The handkerchief is yanked out for her to answer and his head tilts to catch her eyes. “So?” he snaps. “What’s it gonna be? Now or later?”
Her eyes harden, nostrils flaring. Honestly, right now, she just wants to tell him to fuck off. It’s not like this was her first time being mugged and/or threatened, and unfortunately not while inebriated either. But this one felt pretty damn close to getting got. Her brain is already scrambling between scattered half-assed theories on how to get her out of this.
Fw-ip !
A whizzing sound passes under her and it’s so subtle, she almost doesn’t notice it. Then there’s a pause of silence that’s almost too heavy to be coming from nothing before she notices that the first guy’s eyes have blown wide open. They make eye contact and she squints, almost confused.
Suddenly, he’s thrown back and he starts screaming before she realizes he’s being yanked into the shadows by his wounded foot. She can hear the mechanical whizzing again as he’s dragged, even over his friends’ shouting, and it takes another split second for her to realize it’s a whipcord. And just like that, the Force alerts her that she’s not alone again. But instead of dread, something else flutters in her gut.
The Balosar’s screams are cut short by a single blaster shot, and she inhales a gasp of air before a chill crawls up her spine.
Two heavy, familiar boot steps clunk in front of them as its owner steps into the dim lighting.
She exhales and pure euphoria blooms in her chest.
He’s towering over them, broad shoulders stiff and gloved hands clenched into iron fists, his armor gleaming like a beacon even in the cover of night.
She can’t stop the smile that’s spreading across her face. “Mando..-”
“Kill him!” One of the Balosars yanks her back into his chest as his friend scrambles to his feet, blaster already in hand. She squeaks and the sound seems to snap Mando into full action. She’s yanked to her feet as his arm wrangles itself around her neck.
From here though, she can see her Mandalorian in his full glory. She watches him stalking towards his prey, blaster bolts bouncing off his beskar like raindrops as the other guy empties his clip into him. And of course, when that doesn’t work, he headbutts him to stun him before striking. Despite the weight of his armor, Mando moves like a viper and is just as deadly.
She feels herself being dragged away and she grunts in protest, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. It’s then she remembers one hand is still clenched. Without a second thought, she swings backwards, smacking the guy right in the face as she temporarily blinds him with a fistful of dirt.
“Agh- !” He shouts and she slips out his grip. She starts towards Mando, but then she’s grabbed by her hair and is yanked backwards with a cry. “Fuckin’ bitch- !” She hears him snarl before the back of his hand strikes her directly across her cheek.
She drops against the brick wall behind her, his body towering her, but from the corner of her eye, she spots Mando. The second guy is now motionless on the floor and his helmet is fully trained on the last one. And based on the swell of his chest and how hard he’s breathing now, she doesn’t need to gauge anything else; he just saw what he did and he’s furious.
He crosses the space between them and drags him backwards and away from her. The Balosar starts fighting back but he's quickly overpowered as he’s disarmed with an unnatural twist of his wrist. Mando spins him around and lands a punch directly into his face once, twice, thrice and then a final fourth blow before the guy falls to his knees. And it’s there that he goes for the kill, grabbing his head with both gloved hands and snapping his neck with an enraged grunt and a sickening crunch.
She watches the final body crumple to the floor with blown out eyes and her jaw fully dropped. She’s physically shaking, she realizes, and can barely breathe, let alone stand on her own. But when Mando finally turns to her, his chest rising and falling, she clings to the wall behind her to gather herself back up.
“What the hell happened??” Mando’s tone is harsh and agitated, even under his modulated panting. “You weren’t on the ship when I-”
He’s cut off when she runs straight into his arms. She all but collapses into his chest, arms coiled around his neck and her face smothered into his cowl. Before he can even process what’s happening, she pulls back to look up at him. “You’re earlyy!” She’s practically beaming up at him, one of her hands tracing the cheekbone of his helmet.
He’s speechless. First, a hug. And now she’s.. glad to see him? Not to mention how she’s smiling up at him with those big, adoring puppy-dog eyes. She’s never been this nice to him before, not even around the Child. “I- ” he hesitates before clearing his throat. “ -Yes. The target uh, took less time than I thought.”
This only makes her smile wider before she buries herself in him again. This time, her arms slip around his back, her cheek leaning into his chest plate. She could care less about how the edges of his armor were pinching into her skin, or how his fully loaded bandolier was pressed very uncomfortably into her collarbone. All that mattered to her right now, was this. “I’m so happy you’re here.” she all but whimpers, closing her eyes to savor the coolness of his beskar and the familiar scent of metal and gun smoke.
Now Mando was really stunned. But he can also feel the physical tremble in her muscles and the speed of her pulse, so he relents with a long sigh before a single arm drapes around her back. “Are you okay?” he asks, his tone much softer this time.
She nods into his chest before pulling away again. “Y-Yeah I just- ” she takes a deep breath and lets out a shaky exhale. “ -that was.. too close..”
“What happened?” He decides to ask again. “Are you hurt?” His hands quickly pat her down as if checking her for any other injuries before one of them comes up to gently cup her chin. He carefully tilts her face to get a better view of her red cheek and it doesn’t go unnoticed when she refuses to make eye contact. His helmet tilts ever so slightly. “Sen’ika..”
Her lips press together and her brows furrow as she flinches. “Well..”
“Did they kidnap you?” He asks, his other hand gesturing towards the 3 bodies behind him.
This makes her head snap back up. “No! No, they had no idea where I was staying. They were just trying to follow me back t..” she trails off the moment her brain catches up to her lips, and now that she’s face-to-face with him, she can practically feel Mando’s visor burning a hole into her forehead.
The pause between them stretches out uncomfortably before he finally speaks. “Where did you go?” His voice makes her insides squirm, like a teenager getting caught out after curfew.
“Uh..” She starts and suddenly she’s become hyper-aware of how hot her face is. She can’t remember the last time he was this close to her, and the realization of this somehow makes her self-conscious. She’s also still remarkably faded, too faded in fact to fake any semblance of sobriety. And if he’s already here, there’s really no point in lying to him, he’s way too smart for that. “..the bar.” she finally finishes meekly.
His shoulders slump as he exhales. “You got drunk?” he asks incredulously.
Her face brightens in embarrassment. “Okay, look- ” she starts and she can practically hear him groan under his helmet as he looks up to the sky. “-to be fair, I only went after the kid passed out, cause I knew he wouldn’t wake up.”
When she looks up, his helmet only tilts to the side, a silent move that only prompts her to keep going. “Ok, so there’s this pattern I’ve noticed, so when you give him a full meal and a glass of warm milk, and then you just let him play with his toys and get him to make them float around the room, after a certain time, he’ll get super tired and, like, fully sleep through the night. And I know that sounds like the most basic excuse in the book but I swear I tested this three nights in a row and it worked every time, okay so I wasn’t being totally stupid..”
She doesn’t realize how long she’s been rambling until she glances up again. He’s now leaned in closer to her, and for a moment she thinks he’s examining her cheek again. What she doesn’t realize is how carefully he’s looking into her eyes. He can tell she’s been drinking by now, and despite the trauma of the attempted assault on her just now, her eyes are still way too bloodshot to just be the liquor. Not to mention the hint of another smell on her..
She inhales sharply through her nose when she feels his gloved hands slip over her own. She gazes into his visor, as if straining to look for a pair of eyes behind it and leans in ever so slightly. She’s never been as curious to see what his expression looks like as she is right now. Her face softens as she stares up at him. “Mando..?” Her voice is just above a whisper and oh-so delicate.
She can feel his thumbs gently press into the pulse points of her wrists as he stares at her, and the surprising warmth of his touch makes butterflies flutter in her ribs. And just before she can open her mouth to call out to him again, he leans directly into her eye level.
“Are you high?” He’s audibly confused.
Her eyes turn into saucers in silent panic and it’s here that he can see her pupils are blown wide open.
“…Uhhhh…”
He sighs heavily as his head drops in defeat. It’s the only answer he needs.
“Okay,” he relents as he lets go of her. “Get your stuff. Let’s go home.”
He immediately stiffens once the words slip out. Oh, fuck fuck fuck.
No Din, no! This was temporary, remember?? She’d only made that abundantly clear the day she stepped foot on the Crest with a single bag and 2 datapads. It was always a mutual agreement though: she was to join him on the Crest to work full-time on tracking down a Jedi, with a deadline of at least a couple of months before he was to drop her off at a new planet of residency of her choosing. After all, she’d only just begun resettling her life and it was a path she intended to follow through on her own. Din understood this partnership was fleeting and it was unfair of him to call this ‘home’, yet for some reason, he insisted on slipping up in little moments like this again and again.
Though based on the glazed, clueless look in her eyes, she didn’t notice at all. “Okay.” she simply says, turning around to scan the alley for her belongings. As she skirts off in one direction, Din sees her blaster laying just a couple of feet away. He picks it up for her when a loud clanging catches his attention.
“Hey!” She calls out, straining to pull her bag out from under one of the bodies. Once she rolls him off with a kick of her foot, she holds up her bag and pulls out one of the sources of the noise. “Look, the cider survived!”
His helmet tilts almost disapprovingly, but he does nothing else as he holds her blaster out to her. “C’mon.” he all but huffs impatiently.
“Okay okay, sorryy- ” she slurs, stumbling over the same body as she returns and accepts her blaster. “One of these are yours ya know!” Mando is already walking away as she’s throwing her up bag over her shoulder, and she has to scramble to keep up with him, a move that makes her trip on her own two feet.
His helmet tilts over his shoulder at her. “Can you walk?” She’s not sure if it’s meant to sound demeaning or not, but it makes her puff her chest as she pouts at him.
“Of course I can walk!” she shoots back. “You’re just going too fast.” He grunts in response, helmet facing forward again and continues his pace. She’s not sure if it’s the spice but his strides feel more rushed than usual. His shoulders are also still fully straight, she notices and something tugs in her chest as she tries getting a sense of what his body language is telling her. She’s only a step or two behind him, and her eyes wander to the floor in front of her, the words spilling out before she can stop herself. “..are you mad at me?”
She almost sounds like a child, remorseful and heavy with guilt and she already hates how it comes out. But what punches harder is his response. Or his lack of it. Because he simply keeps walking at the same pace, fully ignoring her. No grunt, no hum, not even a sigh. And for some reason, this makes her ache. She stumbles over her own feet again and almost instantly she can feel tears threatening to well under the skin of her cheeks. She wants to curse herself for getting emotional, but it has to be liquor making her moods swing so drastically, she tells herself. Not that this thought doesn’t stop her from speaking again.
“I’m fired aren’t I- ”
Before she can blink, she runs face-first into a wall of beskar as he stops abruptly. She can’t help but yelp as she clutches her now-throbbing nose and when she looks back up, he’s turning to face her again. He stares at her until the silence frays at her nerves, and just when she can feel her face burning up to her ears, she hears a soft exhale from his modulator.
“C’mon,” his voice is soft as his right arm slightly pokes out towards her. “I can hear you tripping around from up here.”
Her brows furrow ever so slightly. “Are you makin’ fun of me?” she asks.
“Does it sound like I am?”
Her eyes narrow this time. “Mayybe.” she coos. But she loops her arm into the crook of his elbow and is silently delighted when he tucks her against his side. She finds it much easier to match his walk now and she can’t help the jump in her pulse as she’s pressed closer to him. In fact, she has to bite her lip to stop the silly grin threatening to spread across her cheeks. They walk in comfortable silence for a while before her spinning brain comes up with another enquiry.
“Mando?”
“Hm?” His response is barely registered under his modulator.
“How’d you find me?”
For a moment, Din doesn’t answer. And it’s not for the lack of one either. He’s just not sure where to begin. Does he start when he first re-entered the Crest to find the kid safe and sound but with her nowhere in sight? Or when he went back outside in hopes that she was on the roof stargazing or fiddling with the ship. Or when he started speed-walking through the nearby alleys because now he really couldn’t find her and just before his panic could bubble over, a single sound just yards away made his heart stop before he jump-started into a full sprint for her.
“I heard you scream.” he eventually replies and it almost sounds like his teeth are pressed together under that helmet.
She smiles at that. My hero. She almost wants to swoon until he speaks up again.
“I’ve warned you about being alone Sen’ika,” His tone is still soft, but firmer this time. She flinches and tucks her face down from him, nodding once.
“I know, I- ” her head swirls at the pang of shame but she swallows the urge to say anything other than what was necessary here. “I’m sorry.”
Another pause of silence. She decides to focus on their footsteps instead. There was something about the synchronized crunch of gravel under their boots that just satisfied every single sense in her. And it isn’t until she looks up and gets a full glimpse of the night sky that she realizes the spice is still very much in her system, unnatural neon lights and shapes bouncing across the stars. She stares in drunken awe up at them for a little too long and when she sees the Crest finally back in eyesight, she practically deflates in relief.
“Hey,” Then, Mando gently slides his arm out of their loop, leather ghosting down the length of her arm until he cups his palm over her fisted hand. “What matters to me most is that you’re safe,” he says softly. His visor turns to her, and he slowly opens her hand to slide his own into her palm. His gloved thumb gently squeezes her knuckles in what she can only gather as reassurance. “Okay?” His tone is so warm, it’s almost tender.
It catches her so far off guard, she’s pretty sure she short-circuited and is only still breathing on emergency autopilot. Her cheeks flush up and her eyes are blown wide open in the same sweet doe-like expression he adores so much, that he can’t help but smile behind the safety of his helmet. She blinks and she almost resets, clearing her throat as she looks straight ahead. She’s still blushing as she smiles and nods once. “Okay.” she replies sweetly.
Even his gloves are impenetrable, thick and almost twice as large in size. But she can still feel a warmth radiating from the other side against her skin. Suddenly feeling brave, she shifts, slipping through his gloves and slowly linking their fingers together. Mando stiffens at first, until her nails sink into the shape of his knuckles, and he internally melts. Before he can process his own reaction, he squeezes back, his thumb gently stroking over her own.
She looks up again, grinning from ear to ear. Clouds are dancing in her vision, stars swelling and shrinking in size across the painted skies. She dares herself to glance at him from the corner of her eye. He’s looking straight ahead thankfully, only semi-lit under the glow of the moons, but his beskar has never been more radiant. The same colors in her eyes bounce off the high points of his armor, illuminating him in an almost ethereal glow. She can’t stop her eyes from wandering. He’s perfectly shaped from every angle. He stands tall and proud, and walks with an effortless swagger so few could replicate. His mere presence can shift the focus of an entire room. He’s daunting and striking and is the picture of discipline and strength. Yet he cradles her hand in his like she’s made of glass. She’s never seen anything past the chiseled cut of his helmet, yet he’s never looked more beautiful in her eyes right now. She knows she shouldn’t be looking at him the way she is right now; with stars in her eyes and the softest, most affectionate little smile spreading from cheek to flushed cheek.
“You’re so pretty~” she slurs out in the sweetest tone. From behind his beskar, Din’s heart jumps into his throat.
“You’re drunker than I thought.” He doesn’t skip a beat though, somehow keeping his tone flat and neutral.
“It’s still truee,” she shoots back, leaning against his side with a wide grin. “It’s always been true!”
He glances at her wordlessly and she smiles back at herself through his visor. He’s not sure what to say to that, if anything, he’s too flustered to think of a rebuttal. He’s never been called pretty by anyone, even as a joke. Eventually he clears his throat and looks away and she only grins wider. Did she just leave him speechless? She can’t help but try to read his body language for any hints.
BONK.
Unfortunately she’s so distracted by the dancing Mudhorn on his pauldron that she fully trips on the descending base of the Crest’s ramp. The only thing that stops her from falling on her face is Mando’s sudden grip on her elbow. His visor slowly turns to her again. And she knows he’s frowning this time. He yanks her back to her feet and they finally ascend to the deck. She sighs happily once she stumbles into the safety of the Crest.
As Mando closes and locks up the gangway behind them, a late thought suddenly strikes her. She turns to him with panicked eyes. “The kid!?”
“Shh-!” He quickly hushes her with a gloved pointer over her lips. She stares into her own flushed reflection as her voice echoes into the cockpit above. She’s hyper-aware of just how loud she’s being now that she’s no longer outside. Along with the scent of sunkissed leather directly under her nose. She doesn’t move until his finger slowly pivots to her right and when she follows his direction, she spots his hover pod, sealed up and safe and sound, just as she’d left him.
She sighs softly and her shoulders slump in relief. Mando leans in pointedly. “You’re lucky you were right.” he whispers into her hair. “He didn’t flinch when I got home.”
As goosebumps sprout up the back of her neck, he pulls away and crosses the room to the ladder. “I’m gonna lock us down. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.” Just before he climbs, he turns back to her. “Bedtime, Sen’ika. Now.” It's a gentle, but final warning.
She nods wordlessly and he leaves her in the middle of the room, dizzy and flustered. Her ears are also ringing now that she’s swallowed in silence. Eventually, she slowly pads into her designated corner. Her hammock is tucked away in the pocket of an empty storage closet, a thin makeshift curtain the only barrier between her ‘room’ and the deck. The walls hum around her and she realizes the heat has been turned back on, thankfully. She’s too drunk to fully wash up but she’s got enough energy to rip off her tight, itchy outdoor clothes and boots. She grabs the closest pajama-adjacent shirt and lounge pants she can find and wriggles them on.
She opens her hammock and finally allows herself to lay down, eyes turned to the dim ceiling.
How would it have felt if she’d laid her head on his shoulder?
No.
Would he have pushed her away? Or allowed her to stay?
Her brain’s focus shifts to the vision of his arms. His hands. His sweet, soothing voice.
I mean, he let her hold his hand, didn’t he? And hug him. Surely she could’ve gotten away with a little shoulder lean.
Gods, no.
Is he soft under all that armor? Does he run hot or does the beskar keep him cool? Is there a human face behind that m-
No! Stop it!
She physically shakes her head to break her train of thought. This was dangerous terrain. Just because you’re drunk doesn't mean you should be humoring these silly curiosities of yours! Her eyes squeeze shut and as she tries to take a deep breath, she realizes her heart is racing.
This is ridiculous.
Okay, so what if she has a crush on her employer?? It's not exactly a new phenomenon, and it certainly wasn’t the first boss she’d ever fallen for either. What was insane was what she liked about him. Because for the very first time, she couldn’t put a face to it. Instead, it was in his voice. His strength. His unwavering faith in his Creed, in the Way. He was loyal, honorable and resourceful. Stubborn as a Bantha, but quick to strike like lightning. He was also kind and selfless. He had the patience of a saint for the Child and innocent locals and despite his daunting appearance, he never hesitated to help out others, even if it meant pushing back on their schedule. There were actually various reasons why she liked him, and she couldn’t even put a name to a single one of them.
Not that any of it mattered. Because not a word of this would be uttered to anyone, let alone to him. Not to mention that this was a temporary gig, it’s not like she’d be around much longer anyway. The last thing she needed was to complicate this job for herself with her unprofessional schoolgirl behavior.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she shifts her focus to the only other thing clouding her judgment. Her head is still spinning but the heaviness behind her eyes makes it easy to keep them closed. She also focuses on slowing her breath, allowing her limbs to fully sink into the cradle of her hammock. A few minutes melt away and just as she finally feels herself beginning to drift..
“Pin her down.”
She physically jolts awake as the image of her ex-attackers kneeling over her flashes behind her eyelids. Her heart jumps to her throat as that same awful wave of nausea courses through her. Okay so clearly she wasn’t over what happened just yet. Her stomach turns again though this time for far more terrifying reasons.
She leaps to her feet before she can stop herself. She’s not sure what she wants just yet, but she knows whose presence she needs. She whips her curtain aside and almost jumps out of her skin when she sees Mando already standing at her doorway. “G-Geez- !”
He doesn’t flinch. He’s also holding a metal cup that he offers to her when she looks at it. “Drink this before you fall asleep,” he simply says.
“What is it?” she accepts it anyway, peering inside before taking a test sip.
“Just water,” Mando pauses and inwardly smiles when she gags at the aftertaste. “and powdered electrolytes to cut your hangover time in half. You'll thank yourself in the morning for it.”
“Mm, awesome!” she flashes him a pained grin and he almost chuckles. She’s so adorable like this, it’s almost painful.
He lingers for just a moment longer before he nods once. “Sweet dreams.” He starts walking away until a single hand on his arm makes him stop in his tracks. His helmet shoots towards her expectantly and when her eyes meet his visor, her voice suddenly clamps in her throat. She catches the almost-panicked expression in her reflection’s eyes and looks away. She almost starts apologizing, but he turns towards her instead, closing the distance between them. “What’s wrong?”
“I- ” Her face feels warm again despite her growing anxiety and she feels betrayed by the flush burning across her cheeks. She huffs and looks down at her feet. “Never mind, it’s n- ”
“Sen’ika,” He doesn’t even have to say anything else. His helmet ducks to try and catch her eye. “Tell me.” His voice is so gentle and reassuring that she has no choice but to succumb.
Fuck it, right?
“C… can I stay with you tonight?” Her voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. Her hand gently squeezes his sleeve, teeth catching on her bottom lip. “I don’t.. wanna be alone tonight..” To be fair, it wasn’t a lie.
It’s so quiet, you could hear a pin drop from the cockpit. In fact, she can’t even hear him breathing. Fuck. Did she fuck it up? Is he weirded out? Is she fired? Again?? Fuck! Take it back!
She has no idea just how startled Din really is though. She can’t hear his heart doing somersaults in his chest or how almost-terrified he looks behind the visor. But then she looks up at him with those frantic angel eyes for just a moment, he knows that despite whatever’s asked of him, how could he ever deny his little bird?
She opens her mouth and he perks up. ”Okay,” he says. It’s just as soft as she asked and almost nervous. He nods to follow up and clears his throat. “Of course.”
Her eyes round and she blinks back at him, almost dumbfounded. Holy shit, it worked? “Yeah?”
He nods again. “Yeah,” he replies lightly before his helmet jerks in the direction of his bunk. “C’mon.”
He crosses the room to his bunk to open the hatch. The kid’s pod is hovering peacefully right by the door where either of them can reach him if they have to. She follows him wordlessly where he steps aside for her. “Pick your spot, I’ll be right back.” he tells her.
Ironically, she was no stranger to his bed. He’d offered his room to her plenty of times before she carved out a spare corner for herself to give him his privacy back. She never imagined she’d actually be sharing it with him for once. She downed the last of her water and put the cup aside before she stepped into the bunk. She decided to slide into the corner facing the wall to give him as much space as possible.
Mando’s only gone for a few minutes, but in her panicked, overthinking state, it feels like ages. She finds comfort in his sheets. After getting so used to this space then moving out for a stretch of time, they felt familiar and almost welcoming to come back to. She acknowledged this was mostly due to their scent, the warm, woodsy musk that she recognized as what was likely the scent of his skin. She nuzzles into his blankets, inhales and sighs into them.
Then his boot steps echo back into earshot. She rolls onto her back and props up on her elbows, watching his shadowed figure fiddling outside. After a particularly heavy sigh, he clicks a light off and steps inside. For a second, he almost looks like a shadow sliding along the walls. It’s then she realizes he’s not wearing his beskar. He's stripped down to his full flight suit, boots, gloves and of course, his trademark helmet. There’s still not a shred of skin in sight but this still gives her a full view of his own figure. She’s dumbstruck at just how broad he truly is even without his armor. Then, it dawns on her that he took off his beskar to make room for her and something flutters under her ribs.
He looks at her and she scoots into the wall. His gloves clench and unclench in a subtle twitch as he slides into the space next to her. It’s a tight squeeze, laying shoulder to shoulder, but it’s a fit that would’ve probably been unbearable with the few inches of additional armor on. She crosses her arms, making herself smaller and fitting around the bigger gaps between them.
They both sigh and for a moment, it’s quiet. Her heart’s weirdly racing and she’s not sure what to say. Or if anything should be said at all. He shifts next to her, and her first thought is that he’s warm, even under his dense flight suit. He sighs again, and it sounds spent. She wonders if his eyes are closed behind that helmet.
Her head cranes towards him. “Long day?”
A short huff cracks through his modulator. “Something like that.” He’s smiling behind that response.
She grins back and looks up at the dark ceiling again. Colors are still swirling in her eyes if she squints long enough, but they're fading, she notes. There’s another short pause before this time, he breaks. “If.. this is too uncomf- ”
“It’s not.” she cuts in sweetly, still smiling to herself. Despite the angle, he’s warm and sturdy and she’d never felt more secure sandwiched between a man and his metal walls. She gently nudges his side. “Thanks again for saving my ass.”
He huffs again and nudges back. “Any time.” he replies.
She giggles and pauses, words pricking at the tip of her tongue. She’s feeling brave again and in her growing drowsiness, she decides to throw caution to the wind one last time. “Mando?”
“Mm?”
She inhales and shifts, her chin gently pressing into his shoulder. “Can I be honest about somethin’?”
His helmet shifts to her expectantly before pointing his chin at her. A silent approval to keep going. “I’ve been surrounded by armies my whole life. For as long as I can remember. Rebels, mercenaries, outcasts. You name it, I’ve met ‘em,” She peers up at his visor, ensuring she’s making eye contact. “And I’ve never felt safer with any of ‘em than I have with you.”
He doesn’t so much as twitch, but she swears she hears his breath seize under the helmet. Once again, his chest blooms and swells and something warm settles in his stomach. He smiles inwardly and before he can stop himself, a gloved hand comes up between them, leather knuckles stroking along the shape of her cheek.
She leans into it for just a moment and then she breaks through, ducking under his arm to curl herself up into his side. She rolls onto her own side, an arm draped across his chest and her head resting below his collarbone. Surprisingly, he not only allows her position shift, but he wraps his arm around her and even pulls her into him. “I made a promise to you,” he says. His hand settles between her shoulder blades, his thumb tracing a single circle into her back. “As long as you’re with me, you’ll be safe from harm. I intend to keep that promise as long as it takes.”
With her ear pressed into his shirt, she realizes that his pulse is racing against her. He also smells nice, like a combination of gunsmoke, the outdoors and the linen of his sheets. It’s woodsy and crisp, but it’s warm and homey and so intoxicatingly comforting.
She wants to say it.
She could get away with saying it if she played it right. But she's too drowsy and delirious and exhausted to keep thinking. He’s draping his blankets over them, tucking her into the ultimate heat source and she wants to soak in it. There’s a cool press against her hair and she realizes that his helmet is leaning into her. “Is this okay?” he whispers to her.
She nuzzles into his shirt and sighs contentedly. Sleep is pulling her into its depths faster than she anticipated but she has enough energy to sweetly mumble, “No. It’s better than okay.”
He exhales through his nose from above her and his hand gently rubs her back. “Get some sleep, mesh’la,” he purrs. “I’m here.”
She doesn’t know what that one means. She makes a mental note to ask tomorrow. Right now, she picks her head up to press a single kiss into his collarbone before plopping back down. “G’night Mando..”
His heart rate picks up again. He pulls her up closer so her head is nestled into the crook of his neck. This allows her to wrap both arms around him. His helmet tilts down and she swears she feels his eyes on her. “Good night.”
She closes her eyes and smiles, allowing herself to sink into his warmth and scent for the first and probably only time. Her words were never truer than in this moment; never had she felt safer than in this tiny bunk, wrapped in her Mandalorian’s blankets. She falls asleep shortly afterwards, her breaths evening out and her heartbeat slowing into a tranquil pace. This time, her mind takes her to more pleasant dreamscapes.
She can’t detect Mando at all, listening to her pulse as she sleeps. She doesn’t feel how long it takes before his gloves slip off in the dim lights and two arms fully wrap around her. She can’t sense his warm palms holding her against him, one across her back, the other coming up to smooth and brush her hair. And she’s long gone by the time he makes the conscious choice to give his helmet a break, telling himself he needs the air and it’ll be back on long before she wakes up tomorrow.
Somewhere in her subconscious, thoughts flash across her eyes; images of the Child, his laugh, his bright brown eyes, and his infectious joy. Repeated images of Mando, his visor, his cape, his arms. His sheets. His voice. His leathered touch. Their hands linked under a coat of stars.
She swears she feels a pair of ghostly lips brush against her forehead, if only for a moment, but she never quite figures out where they came from. Not that it matters. Because for now, this is enough. Even if it is only temporary.
* * *
a/n: stream season 3 only on disney + <3
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thetriumphantpanda · 7 months
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feel the rain on your skin | din djarin
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Summary | The Mandalorian has never felt the rain on his face.
Pairing | Din Djarin x F!Reader
Word Count | 1.5K
Warnings | Future chapters will include smut, but this one just involves a lot of yearning mainly.
Authors Note | I saw this absolutely stunning piece of work by @plattenbauprinz and I couldn't let it lie, I had to write it. I have never written for Din before, because he's like a comfort blanket to me, but I couldn't resist. This will be part of a longer series which I cannot wait to share with you all. As always, comments, reblogs and freaking out in my ask box are all welcome and if you enjoyed this, please consider supporting me with a donation to my Ko-Fi.
I no longer use taglists - please follow @thetriumpantpandanotifs and turn on notifications to know when I upload fics.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi
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It’s raining. You can’t remember the last time you were anywhere that it rained. The Mandalorian has acquiesced to you wanting the Crest open so you can listen to the drops pelt the ground. It’s comforting. Reminds you of home. Not that you have a home anymore. No family, no base to dream of returning to, but it’s comforting none-the-less. 
It hadn’t even been planned like this, The Mandalorian and you, it had just sort of happened. You’d hurt yourself in front of him, thought that the shootout he’d caused was over. You’d moved from where you were cowering, attempting to run anywhere that might be safer than the boxes you’d used as a barricade. You’d been wrong though. He’d been waiting for his final assailant, who you’d later learned was his bounty, to show himself. He’d done just that, almost simultaneously as you’d started running for the door on the opposite side of the street. The blaster had grazed your upper arm – not the worst injury by any means, but you still cried out, crumpled to the ground in pain, and waited for what you’d assumed would be your ending. 
You’d listened as the two exchanged more fire until the town was silent again. You’d convinced yourself he’d walked away, and you wouldn’t have blamed him really, he didn’t owe you anything, your injury was your own fault, and in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t even that bad, you were just being dramatic. But then, his shadow fell over your body, blocking out the early afternoon sun as he bent, picked you up bridal style and carried you all the way to his ship. He’d patched you up silently, left you there on your own whilst he retrieved the body of his bounty and returned. 
“Do you have somewhere to go?” He asked, clearing up the mess he’d made cleaning you up. 
Technically you did. The small, dark room you called home on this Godforsaken planet. But no-one would miss you, no friends, just the landlord that would miss his money. So, you shake your head. 
That’s how it had been for months. Trailing behind him wherever he went. It started as him taking you to the next planet, he was going to drop you there, but when he turned to you and asked if you thought it would do, you’d shaken your head and said no. It was a lie, because wherever it was – you don’t remember now – it would have been fine. It was more of a test, testing to see what he would do. You certainly didn’t expect him to shrug and lead you back to The Crest. This had continued for months, a sort of dance between the two of you, until he’d simply stopped asking you. You think it’s because secretly, not that he would actually admit it, he’s lonely. Even though he has The Child, the little green monster who you think might actually be the real reason you don’t want to leave. He’s more silent than The Mandalorian, but when he looks at you with those buggy eyes and starts to cause havoc, you can’t help but let your heart swell. 
He's a man of few words, The Mandalorian – doesn’t like small talk, tends to remain silent when you sit with him the cockpit and chatter away. You don’t really know much about him apart from what you’d learnt about their creed in your younger years. 
“You know, if I’m going to stay with you, you’ll have to tell me something about you eventually.” You teased one time, he was sat in his chair in the cockpit, you were behind him, eating some ration pack. All he’d done was huff through his modulator. Sounded more like a challenge to you than anything else.  
And so here you were, months later, sitting just inside The Crest, just enough to keep yourself dry, knees brought up to your chest as you let the cool air fall over your body. You can hear his heavy footsteps before you sense him next to you. When you tip your head up, he’s leaning on his right side against the opening of the ship, arms crossed over his chest. 
“You know, when I was little, I used to run around in the rain,” You muse, “Get all muddy and wet, I wonder why we never do that when we grow up.” 
“I’ve never felt the rain.” It’s a simple confession but one that almost breaks your heart, because of course he hasn’t. Committed to his creed and The Way, this man who you really think at this point was made purely of beskar, of course he’d not felt the rain on his skin. 
You stand slowly, taking tentative steps down the ramp until you can feel the drops hitting your skin. It’s cold, is the first thing you register, and then you start laughing when you see him, still leaning against the side of The Crest with his arms folded, helmet tilted in a way that you just know means he’s frowning under there. 
“Come on.” You urge, holding out your hand as you walk a few more steps backwards. 
When he doesn’t follow you, you hold your arms out and spin, holding your face to the sky as the water hits your skin. You giggle again until you slip, the mud underfoot making you unsteady. You would have fallen if it hadn’t been for the strong arm that wraps around your middle to keep you up. When you pull yourself up, your face is almost close enough to his visor that you could breathe onto him and draw shapes in the clouds you leave behind. He doesn’t let you go though.
You can feel the rain soaking your hair, seeping through your clothes, and there’s something oddly romantic about the way he’s holding you, his hand splayed across your lower back. If this had been anyone else, they’d lean in and kiss you, you just know it. But he isn’t anyone else, he’s The Mandalorian, so he finally unravels his arm from your back and moves to walk away. 
“Hey,” You say softly, gripping his wrist, turning him back to you, “Just trust me, okay?”
He gives a short nod. You stand in front of him, close your eyes, and put your hands on his helmet. You don’t add any pressure, you’re not going to force him to do this, but you’re going to give him the choice. Eyes firmly pressed shut, you wait. It feels like an eternity, but then you feel his gloved hands cover your own, some kind of mechanical sound you’ve never heard before, but then your hands are moving with his own, moving the helmet from his face. 
You keep your eyes closed as your hands fall from beneath his own. You don’t know why but you place them on the cool metal of his chest as you tilt your head back up to the rain, letting it cleanse you, although from what you don’t know. You don’t know how long you stay like this, your hands on his chest, but it feels like hours. Then, you feel the gloved hand that isn’t clutching his helmet meet the skin of your face. 
You gasp when he cups your face. It’s soft, gentle, and he just rests it there for a moment, letting your cheek tip further into his touch. Then, his thumb starts to move slowly across your skin, rubbing a line across your cheek that feels like it might set you alight. Then, his gloved thumb pulls down and drags across your bottom lip. You think now about how easy it would be to flutter your eyes open and look at him, look at the man he really is under all his metal, but you don’t, you wouldn’t dare. You just stand there, letting him take you in with his naked eyes. 
“Mesh’la.”
You have no idea what it means, but you think it must be important, something he’s not yet ready to tell you, if he speaks it in his own language and not the one you share. But his voice, oh his voice, it’s so pretty, you think. Then, his warm touch is gone. You breathe out air you hadn’t realized you were holding onto. 
“You can look now.” His voice is back to what it usually sounds likes, meaning his helmet is back on. 
You slowly blink your eyes open, letting them adjust to the light. He’s stood in front of you, stoic as ever, as if he hadn’t just been the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you. You want to run to him, wrap yourself in him, ask him to touch you again and never let go. You don’t though, you just follow behind him back into the dry cover of The Crest. 
“You’re cold.” He observes simply when you start to shiver, sodden clothes sticking to you. 
“I-I’m f-fine.” Your teeth chatter, betraying you. 
He rummages through a box, pulling out clean clothes. They’re his, they’ll drown you when you wear them, but something about this feels like turning a corner, all of this does, so you take them when they’re offered to you. Set them gently on the counter in the fresher as you wait for the water to warm enough. And as you stand under the slow fall of warm water, you wonder what other firsts you might be able to show The Mandalorian. 
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moondirti · 1 year
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all the ways i can have you
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pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 1.3k summary: he's hooked on making you feel good. warnings: naked female clothed male, edging, overstimulation, fingering, pussy slapping, squirting, unprotected p-in-v, blowjobs, hickeys, biting, cunnilingus, rimming, face sitting, this is so filthy don't look at me. notes: here's a little thirst i wrote in my down time. It's not affiliated with The Remedy in any way; i just really needed to get all my thoughts about our favourite beskar man out tbh because the slow burn with those two is killing me
The Mandalorian is absolutely filthy.
It’s not something you expect. He’s awkward at the best of times – pointedly avoiding any possibility of social interaction by the drawing of his blaster or an elongated silence. Honestly, for the first few months that you’d known him, you actually thought he hated you. Sure, you were never the unfortunate soul skewered onto his spear, nor had he ever threatened to throw you into his carbonite freezer, but he always had a handy excuse at the ready when you tried to make conversation. It was torture until you learnt not to take it personally; you figured he was probably used to being alone, and that’s no fault of yours. His lack of social skills could not be your burden to bear. So, eventually, when he gave nothing but a grunt to your occasional bizarre musing, you’d simply shrug it off and go back to playing with the kid. 
In hindsight, maybe you should have picked at the source of his reticence. It certainly wouldn’t have taken you as long to get to this point if you had. Because now, it occurs to you that he’d probably been so tense from withholding the desires that the two of you, in fact, shared.
It seems so obvious once the dam had lifted, but keen deduction has never been your strong suit. 
Back to the point, though. Mando is beyond borderline obscene once you manage to tease it out of him. Truly, he’d have never instigated things had you not been so uninhibited. But when his resolve shatters, it’s like his mind goes into overdrive of all the things he’d do to you. You actually think that, if given the opportunity, he’d lay you out for days on end to enact every fantasy he has. Because life has its way of intruding, though, he settles for the in-betweens of your day to day, taking you in the small gaps where it can just be the two of you.
You think he’s wild when he edges you the first time, his gloved hand palming your front while you stand in nothing but your towel. This is on you, he said, you little tease. It’s deliciously painful; his fingers find your clit with practised ease and he presses down on it, rubbing you in small, tight circles. With the way his hardened body presses into you from behind, clad fully in his armour – a stark contrast to your exposed frame – and his rough praise meets your ear, you almost cum from the miniature ministration alone. But he recognises what your quickening pants mean; he sees how your back arches into him like you’re trying to match the overwhelming pleasure his hands administer, and he pulls away at the last second, fingers returning only to give a sharp smack to your cunt. And of course it echoes – you’re soaked, for Maker’s sake – which only serves to make him repeat the action again and again until you’ve significantly darkened in shade. 
By the time you’re on the brink of collapse, Mando has you sitting between his legs, back to his chest, one leg hooked over a strong arm while you sob your pleas into the empty space of the hull. He fingers you fast and rough, delighting in your high-pitched wails and whiney begs, and forces your first orgasm out of you with an expert quirk of his fingers. It’s torturous relief, like white hot embers dancing upon frozen skin, and your vision blurs as you gush over his vambrace. But he doesn’t let up; he continues drawing them from your sopping core, turning in a complete 180 to overstimulate you until you literally have nothing else to give. 
He manages to serve you in a way no one ever has before – you're a complete, quivering mess by the end – so, you assume that’s the extent of it. But time with Mando proved that was the least he can come up with.
He revels in spreading your legs whenever he gets the chance, taking his time to pull your glistening lips apart and absorb the sight of your clenching hole. He says it amazes him – how such a tight thing is able to stretch over his length – then promptly digs his cock from within the confines of his pants. You find yourself agreeing with the wonder of how it fits; it’s by far the biggest you’ve taken – thick with throbbing veins that weave up to an angry, leaking tip – but his thumbs always dance in reassuring circles along your inner thighs when he presses it against you. And when he pushes in, you forget all about your worries, because the stretch is divine. Mando absolutely fills you up to the brink, the ridges of him catching along your inner walls, and he pounds into you with reckless abandon, like a man starved. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough as he reaches those hidden parts of you – that spongy tissue at the front, the wall of your cervix – and the sensation becomes absolutely addictive. You go cock-dumb without fail, drooling, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and you think he might disappear someplace else as well, with the way his words pour unfiltered. Good girl. Beautiful. So fucking tight. Cum for me, I want to feel you. He turns reverent when he gets you this way, awkward fronts be damned. 
Funnily enough, he’s too impatient for you to go down on him. In the rare moments he forfeits, he has to hold himself back from pulling you up so he can just fuck you already. It’s not that you aren’t good at it, either – no, your tongue is enough to drive the strongest of men wild – but he just… doesn’t put as much priority in his pleasure as yours. It’s something different with you entirely. He doesn’t see sex as a means to relieve his mounting tensions, it’s not the same exchange he’s found in all those brothels. With you, Mando is overcome with the unshakeable urge to wring out every pleasure imaginable. He’s obsessed with the plump of your lips and the folds of your flesh. He dreams of every single part of you everywhere – under his hands, between his legs, in his mouth. 
So, he takes off his helmet to put his lips on yours. And you, who’s naive enough to again suppose that the last, world-ending orgasm was the scope of what he could do, experience it as he transforms into something else entirely. 
His kisses leave no area untouched. They find your neck, tightening as he sucks purple hickeys onto your skin, then pepper down to your chest, where he pecks your pebbled nipples and bites the swollen tissue underneath. Mando leaves a trail of spit and welts in his venture, and you moan under the calamity, combing through his soft curls with shaky fingers. And when he finds you soaked through your panties, your nails dig into his scalp, your tummy flushing with slight embarrassment. The pain sparks something in him, it seems, because he pushes your thighs up with a renewed vigour so he can press his nose onto your clothed cunt. My favourite, he groans between long inhales, before he rips off the cotton barrier that separates his tongue from your clit.
Mando eats you out like he’d rather be doing nothing else. He doesn’t. It’s his favourite pastime, solely for the way you mewl and squirm underneath him. He licks, sucks, drinks from you, uncovering every patch of skin with his warm tongue, which flicks over your bud until you cry and drives into you to collect the subsequent nectar. He spreads you on the floor like a meal, dominating in every way. He kneels before you on a chair, open as you rub his stubble into you. He even insists that you sit on his face: ‘I need to taste you more than I do air.’ You have no reason to doubt it, though. He fucks into his fist when you grind down on his chin, his free hand directing you forward until he can lap at your asshole as well. Mando wants you surging, spilling onto him; crying out his name, his real name, which he whispers to you as you come down from his onslaught.
Din, he beams. To you, mesh’la, it’s Din.
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oscarseyebrow · 1 year
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Enkindle
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gif by the wonderful @nowritingonthewall 💖
Pairings: din djarin x female reader  Rating: explicit. 18+ Word count: 8k Warnings: explicit smut, fingering, unprotected p-in-v, dirty talk, friends to lovers, one bed, cursing, slight hint of din not being an experienced kisser.  Masterlist | Taglist
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“What do you mean you only have one room left?” 
Din is not impressed, and despite the modulated tone of his voice, his frustration is as clear as the thawing snow trickling over his armor. He has been tested more than enough today, and you’re starting to fear that this could be the straw to break the bantha’s back.
The owner of the room in question–an elderly Lasat with half an ear missing–sighs out her annoyance at having to repeat herself again. Clearly Din had heard her the first time. 
Her gritty voice holds a tone that is almost less impressed than Din’s when she gives him her final reply: “One room. Take it or leave it, big guy.” 
A silence stretches in the dimly-lit reception area. The towering Mandalorin and broad-yet-stubby Lasat share a stubborn glare across the small desk, neither of them willing to look away first. Not many people would attempt to stare down a man dressed in full beskar, but it’s clear that she will not be intimidated by the armor. You’re sure a somewhat disgruntled Mandalorian isn’t the worst customer she’s ever had the displeasure of dealing with in this shady area of town. 
You stand to the side, dithering silently while rubbing at the arm of your damp jacket. It makes no difference at all to the wet fabric, the chill had settled into your bones hours ago while you trudged through the snow after a failed hunt.  
One room. It would be fine. Maker, at this point, you would take the damn barn if it meant not having to go back out into the cold again. 
Very slowly, Din’s head turns until he is able to see you. 
The look on your face says it all: you don’t care about the room. You’re too cold to give a shit. The only thing you want is to get out of your wet clothes and step into a hot shower. 
“Fine,” your hunting partner finally grumbles. “We’ll take it.” 
One room doesn’t necessarily mean one bed. You had stayed in plenty of dives where more than one bed was available in a shared room. Sometimes, places like this would often cram in as many bunks as possible to make money. 
This would most likely be a similar kind of set-up.
Not even a second after the door to the room slides open, you realise how wrong you are. 
This is not similar. It’s not similar at all. 
There is only one bed. 
One small, not-so-big, unable to comfortably share, tiny bed.
Fuck. 
“It’s okay,” you lie through your chattering teeth. “You take the bed. I’ll take a…” 
There’s no shower. There’s no fucking shower. 
One bed is something you could come around to, maybe, but the thought of not being able to step into the warmth of a shower and feel the water cascading over your frozen skin causes a disappointment to sit heavily in your stomach. It had been the only thing getting you through the miles of trudging across the snow with Din: cold, hungry, pissed off. 
“We can work the job together,” he had said before leaving Nevaro. “It will be quicker that way.” 
If it wouldn’t inflict too much pain on your cold hands, you would smack him right here and now for thinking anything involving this planet would be quick and simple. 
“You’re having the bed,” Din’s voice scrapes with a firm edge, the exhaustion notable as he begins the process of removing his weapons. 
“No, you take it. It’s fine.” 
“I’m not taking the bed.” 
“You’ve been complaining for hours about being tired,” you shoot back and prepare to continue, but Din cuts you off. 
“And you’ve been whining for hours about being cold, so take the bed, warm up and get some damn sleep.” 
A long silence follows Din’s words. His helmet fixes you in place, unmoving, unrelenting in his stubborn stand. It’s almost identical to the one you had seen him take up with the Lasat out front, and as a show of your own stubbornness, you fold your arms across your chest and tighten your jaw to fight your chattering teeth. 
“Don’t start,” Din warns you. 
You know each other well, having worked for Greef Karga for longer than either of you would care to admit. Din was always a lone hunter, much like yourself, but somehow a friendship had developed between the two of you a couple of years back. You liked to think that you had both come to a point in your lives where a little company wasn’t so bad. One hunt had turned into two, two into three, and before either of you had realised, you had spent more hunts together than apart. 
So yes, Din knew that you were standing your ground with him, just as he was with you. 
“You need it more…you’re older. Your back isn’t what it used to be.”
Din tilts his helmet slowly: “I’m going to let that one go.” 
“Like you let our bounty go?” 
“Hey,” his tone lacks any sort of playful edge now. “I said I would let that one comment go, don’t push it.” 
With a huff, you turn your back on him and walk across to what you assume is supposed to be the refresher. The door barely closes, and even when it does finally click into place, you’re able to touch each wall without fully extending your arms. 
“Wonderful,” you mutter under your breath. “Absolutely love this for me.” 
The light above the sink flickers and temporarily illuminates names that have been etched into the wall over the years: some have hearts around them, memories of nights spent in a cheap room together while others have dates and other little messages to accompany them. It holds your attention for longer than it should as you stand there, dripping and cold, wondering what their stories are.
Were they partners? Lovers? Had they come here for a secret affair? How many others had stood in front of this mirror reading those names, wondering the same thing? 
You make quick work of splashing water on your face—you’re not sure why you hoped it would be anything more than freezing cold—then groan when you realise there’s nothing that comes close to resembling a towel.
Of course. Of fucking course. 
You’re still grumbling to yourself when you slide out of the fresher, then pause to look at Din. His armor is gone, now set out neatly beside the bed where it glints in the limited light from the dusty window. It’s a strange thing to see in a place like this: something beautiful, laid out with precision on a carpet blotched with stains of varying colour and size. He has shown so much care toward something when nothing else in the room has ever been treated with that level of dignity and respect. 
But that’s not all he has removed. 
The thick, woven fabric of his flak vest is gone, laid out to dry alongside his cape and gloves. Din is clearly removing his cold, wet layers and you beg yourself to divert your eyes, offer him the same respect he often does for you. It’s almost impossible, though. 
“I had an idea,” Din breaks the silence in the room as he turns to face you. 
You want to listen to him, really, you do. But you’re distracted by the way the wet material of his black undershirt sticks to his body. He reaches to slide down the suspenders from his shoulders and you swallow thickly, now forcing your eyes to focus elsewhere in the room. 
This is Din. You should not be looking at him this way. Sure, you had often wondered what sex with him would be like—you were only human, after all. You had taken the risky glance here and there while travelling together, but only when you knew he was too busy to catch you staring. He was your hunting partner, your friend. There had never been any reason to complicate that and try to make it into something more. 
You both met your needs elsewhere, with other people. Din had never wanted that from you. There had been plenty of opportunities, moments where you found yourselves just a little too close, lingering touches and hands accidentally brushing while reaching for the same tool or controls on the ship. But nothing more. Never anything more. Din simply isn’t interested in you like that. 
“We can share.”
It seems like a perfectly acceptable solution to share a bed with a friend…just one night, sleeping back-to-back. 
When he gets no reply from you, he tries to bring you around to the idea: “And considering there’s no heating in this place, it would probably be beneficial to share. The temperature outside is going to drop further tonight and we need to try and stay warm.” 
His tone is so matter of fact. It’s clear that Din has thought this through. 
How does he make it sound so casual? 
You attempt to inhale slowly but all you can manage is another shiver as your teeth start chattering again. Din is right; there’s no heating in this room, and you need to warm up. It wouldn’t do either of you any good to spend the night freezing cold and wet. It was important to rest up and prepare to make another attempt at tracking the bounty in the morning.  
“F—fine,” you agree. “I’ll take that side.” 
You motion to the left side of the bed and watch as his helmet follows, taking note of your preference. Din doesn’t argue, he simply nods and accepts your terms. 
“Okay.” 
“Okay,” you repeat and turn your attention to the bed again. 
Neither of you move. 
The whole situation suddenly feels awkward, as though you’re both reconsidering Din’s great idea and desperately trying to think of a better solution. It comes down to very simple facts: you suck it up and share a bed, or you freeze. 
“I’ll turn around,” Din offers after a moment. “You need to get those wet clothes off before you get in bed, so…just tell me when you’re ready.” 
True to his word, Din turns himself around so that his back is to you, giving you as much privacy as he can. You watch him for a moment and let a hint of a smile settle on your lips. How could you not? Din is caring and polite. He’d always done everything he could to ensure you were comfortable in his presence, especially when spending extended periods of time together in what little space the Crest had to offer.
You trust him not to look. You know that he won’t. His word is his promise, so you slowly peel the wet layers from your skin and hiss as the cold air causes another involuntary shiver to pass through your muscles. 
Nothing is dry. Every item of clothing you have is soaked through: your socks and pants, your jacket, shirt and tank top. There’s absolutely nothing left to salvage, nothing that you can sleep in…aside from your underwear. 
You have to warn him. 
“Din…” you murmur and look up just in time to see him starting to turn around. “No! Don’t look!” you shriek and throw your arms over yourself to cover your exposed body. 
That’s not why you called his name. It wasn’t confirmation that it was safe for him to turn around. You just wanted to tell him you were going to have to sleep in your underwear. 
“Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I thought—shit,” Din’s helmet whips around quicker than you’ve ever seen him move before. “I didn’t…I didn’t see anything, I promise.” 
He sounds truly mortified, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh. This whole situation is one long, hilarious fuck-up: losing the bounty, being too far away from the ship to make it back in one night, the shitty excuse of a room. One bed. It’s all fucked. 
“I’m sorry,” you laugh. “I just…I have nothing to wear and I didn’t want to surprise you by only wearing underwear so I wanted to warn you but then you started turning around and I panicked and…yeah.” 
There’s another long silence while you watch Din’s shoulders rise and fall with his steady breaths. Your eyes wander further, exploring the broadness of his back, the way his damp shirt defines the shape of his muscles and the softness of his body beneath the thin fabric. 
“Are all of your clothes wet?” Din asks after a moment. 
“Yeah.” 
“Oh.” 
The silence returns. 
This time, he shifts his weight to his other foot and lowers his helmet slightly. Is this a bad idea? Should you put your wet clothes back on and insist that you’re fine with not having the bed? 
You shiver again, your body’s attempt to warm itself. 
“Okay,” he finally sighs. 
“Okay?” 
“Get under the blankets. You need to warm up. I can hear your teeth chattering from over here…just tell me when it’s actually safe to look,” Din explains with full sincerity. 
Your teeth find your bottom lip as you try to carry out the impossible task of suppressing your smile. He’s doing his best to make this situation as comfortable as possible. There’s very little dignity to be had in this dingy little room, but he’s trying to save yours. 
The bed creaks and groans in protest the second you lift a leg onto it. It whines as you shuffle down beneath the scratchy blankets. There are chings and clangs while you turn onto your side and scoot as close to the edge of the bed as you possibly can without falling out of it. 
Then finally, when you settle, you give Din the confirmation he has been waiting for: “It’s safe to look at me now.” 
You don’t know if he does look at you. Why would he? What you meant was that it was now safe for him to look around the room, not specifically at you. Should you correct what you meant by that? No…no, you just need to not say anything else. 
You shake your head to yourself and close your eyes, willing yourself to fall asleep quickly. You’re too cold. Your fingers and toes are still tingling, your muscles too tense, and the voices next door are much too loud through the thin walls. 
Eventually, the room plummets into darkness, and a few seconds later, the bed shifts under Din’s weight. You can tell he’s moving with caution, taking care not to disturb you as he attempts to fit himself into what little space is left. 
“Sorry,” he murmurs when his elbow accidentally catches you. 
You open your mouth to tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to apologise, but you’re suddenly distracted by the warmth of a brief touch. It’s Din’s skin, meaning the black undershirt you were admiring is now gone. He’s shirtless. Din Djarin, intimidating Mandalorian, feared bounty hunter, shirtless, in bed with you. 
Okay, you need to think sensibly and logically about this. You have seen Din’s skin plenty of times before: you have patched him up countless times, unintentionally bumped into him while he has been changing. Maker, you have even accidentally walked in on him fucking someone on more than one occasion. His skin is nothing new—you have seen it and felt it before. 
But never in the same bed. Never anything more than what is necessary. No, this is necessary. This is your only option. Din suggested this because you need the warmth and he needs a place to sleep. 
That’s it. That’s all there is to it. 
So why does your mind keep coming back to the image of him standing before you, his wet long-sleeve sticking to his body… 
Before you can stop them, your teeth begin to chatter again and another shiver takes over your body. The blankets aren’t helping. The chill has settled deep within your bones and isn’t letting up. The hours of being out in the snow are taking their toll, and you already know that come morning, your clothes will still be damp and uncomfortable to put back on. 
The thought of dragging cold fabric over your skin has you shivering again. 
Din moves a little behind you, no doubt trying to get himself into more of a comfortable position, and you think he may have found one when you hear him sigh. 
“Come here,” he murmurs. 
The words are almost as unsure as you are—did you hear him correctly? Had he told you to go closer to him? 
“Excuse me?” 
“Look,” Din starts and then pauses with another small sigh. He’s trying to find the right words. “You’re freezing cold. You’re keeping us both awake. The quickest way you’re going to warm up is if you share some of my body heat.” 
A long silence falls between you. 
Again, he somehow manages to make it sound so normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. The words roll out like he’s explaining a hunting plan to you or giving you some information regarding the planet you’re going to be landing on. Despite the way your heart races and uncertainty sits heavily in your thoughts, Din makes a fair point. 
Should you ask if he’s sure? No, he wouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t sure. 
It’s strange, unfamiliar territory as you shuffle back a little on the bed until you’re met with the warmth of Din’s chest. Stars, he’s carrying enough heat to warm up the whole damn room. 
You find a comfortable position and then close your eyes when his arm rests against your side. He’s respectful in where he lays his hand: it doesn’t venture anywhere it’s not supposed to. He crosses no lines, and after a moment, you feel the front of his helmet touch the back of your head. 
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. “It’s easier to sleep at this angle, but I can move if y—”
“It’s fine,” you reassure him. 
With Din’s head resting against yours, you listen to the rhythm of his soft breaths: slow and controlled, barely audible through the modulator if it wasn’t for him being so close behind you. There’s a comfortable warmth that radiates from him and easily seeps into your limbs. It cocoons you, thaws the deep chill that had latched onto your bones. 
It may have been the smallest bed, but you had never felt so settled. With each breath he takes, his chest brushes against your back and offers gentle encouragement to release some of the tension you’re still holding in your muscles. 
This doesn’t have to be anything more than what this moment is: two friends huddling together to share some warmth. The tightness in your shoulders begins to ease, allowing you to mould yourself more comfortably against Din. Eventually, your breathing finds a similar rhythm; slow, steady, relaxed. 
Until you reposition your legs and hear Din’s breath involuntarily hitch. 
Your eyes snap open in the darkness. During your adjustment, your hips press back a little too far, causing your ass to come into contact with Din’s crotch. There’s no mistaking the feeling of his hard cock pressing against you, restrained only by the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. 
Okay, you need to return to some sensible, logical thinking about the given situation and not react impulsively. 
Din has never been interested in you like that…has he? No, no. This is simply a natural reaction to being pressed close to someone after such a long time between intimate contact. This is nothing more than two friends sharing a bed, staying warm on a cold evening after a long day of hard work.
You’re suddenly aware of the deafening silence: not even your breathing helps to ease it as you hold it in your chest, unsure of what you’re supposed to do or say. You remain frozen, in all sense of the word, and acknowledge the building desire to grind back against Din in the darkness, to feel him take hold of you and fuck you open and—
“I’m—I’m so sorry. I can’t really—fuck. I didn’t mean…” Din’s frantic apology begins to tumble from him before he can fully form a coherent sentence. 
He’s panicking. He’s embarrassed and attempting to put some space between you but you quickly grab hold of his forearm to keep him in place. You don’t want him to go. You don’t want space. 
You want him to stay. 
“Are you attracted to me, Din?” The question is out before you can talk yourself down. You have to know. 
It takes a moment for any sort of response to arise, but you finally hear it, quiet yet confident as it scrapes through his modulator: “Yes.” 
Maybe, just like you, Din has never wanted to complicate things. The friendship and connection that you have works well as it is. There has never been any reason to change that or risk the embarrassment of finding out if any mutual feelings were shared. 
Until now. 
You swallow thickly, all too aware of the heat from his forearm radiating against your palm. His cock, thick and heavy, presses against the curve of your ass as you both take a moment to process the reality of the situation. Perhaps trying to process this isn’t the best thing to do. You know that you’ll end up overthinking everything, just as Din will, so before either of you have a chance to reason yourselves out of this, you slide your hand down over his arm and lace your fingers through his. 
“Have you ever thought about fucking me?” 
“All the time,” Din confesses without hesitation. 
With your hand closed over the top of his, you guide it up over your side so that he can feel your skin. You hear a noticeable change in his breathing: it becomes more shallow, a little heavier, while you take your time with smoothing his hand across your body. 
“What do you think about?” 
Din’s response is instant this time, a sense of relief evident in the one word he speaks: “Everything.”
You slide his hand up to cup your breast through your bra and squeeze, then with a somewhat innocent tone to your voice, you ask: “Why don’t you share some of those thoughts with me?”
Maybe this is simply a case of wanting what you’ve never been able to have: these unexpected circumstances have offered you both an opportunity you would have otherwise never taken. In the morning, it may be the worst decision either of you could have made…but for tonight, all you’re able to think about is the way his large hand squeezes at the supple flesh of your breast again.  
“I think about fucking that smart, pretty mouth of yours,” his tone is suddenly sinful, and gods, it catches you completely off guard as you exhale shakily. “I think about how good it would feel to fuck you right after a hunt while you’re all worked up and disheveled.” 
You’ve thought about that, too. On the nights you’ve spent with your fingers deep inside of your cunt, hips rolling while chasing your release to the thought of how Din would tear your pants down over your legs and sink his fingers into you. You’ve always imagined they would stretch you open and fill you perfectly, curl in just the right way until you were begging him to fuck you. 
“Keep going,” you urge him. 
“Sometimes, I think about how wet you would feel around my cock while you ride me in the pilot’s chair.”
Din’s hand releases your breast and slides upwards across your chest. You know he can feel the way your heart pounds with excitement beneath his touch, the way your body warms against him, flushed with desire. 
“I think about holding you while you tremble and cum around me, how beautiful you would look. I think about how you would moan my name, how good it would sound coming from you. Not Mando, not baby…you would moan my name.” 
“Din…” you speak it in a way that you never have before. It’s something so personal; breathier, softer. 
His hand smooths back down over your chest, pausing only to hook the tips of his fingers into the cup of your bra and tug it down to expose your breast completely. For a bounty hunter, you note how soft Din’s hands are. There’s no callouses as he traps your nipple between two fingers, no rough skin when he pinches the sensitive bud and tugs just enough to cause a spark of pleasure to pulse straight down to your core. 
“How long have you wanted me to touch you like this?” he asks. 
Despite the modulated tone of his voice, the sultry edge still washes over you like an exquisite silk, and you feel the effects of it everywhere. 
“For so long.” 
“Why didn’t you tell me?” 
It’s hard to focus when he squeezes your nipple again. You try to form the sentence in your head while his hand follows the curve of your ribs and you attempt to respond just as his fingers inch lower until they meet the edge of your underwear.
“I… I didn’t think you were interested,” you confess in a voice that’s barely louder than a whisper. 
“Weren’t you curious to find out?” 
“I didn’t want to look like an idiot if you weren’t attracted to me…” 
Din’s fingers dip beneath the thin fabric, but instead of settling where you ache for his touch, he traces them lightly over the curve of your hip. It causes the smallest shiver to dance through your muscles, and this time, it has nothing to do with the lingering chill from the snow. 
There’s a patience to Din’s touch, a restraint that you see him carry out on every hunt. He knows exactly how he wants to do this. He has thought about it, plotted his next steps while mapping out your skin with his hand. Stars, you can’t help but admire the way he controls his urges: he wants to take his time with this. He wants to show you that the attraction is mutual. 
“Do you want to find out now?” 
You nod eagerly. Maker, you want to find out more than anything in the galaxy. 
“Let me hear you say it,” Din encourages you. 
“Yes,” you nod again, still as eager as the first time. “I do.” 
Din readjusts behind you: only enough for his hand to slide down and take hold of your inner thigh before guiding your top leg over his own. Now that you’re adequately spread for him, his fingers smoothover the thin piece of fabric keeping him separated from you. 
You hear Din’s breath catch when his fingers discover the wetness that is entirely his doing. For a moment, he’s difficult to read. He lingers there, fingers flexing slowly against the damp material as though he’s admiring what he has done to you from a few confessions and light touches. 
“Fuck,” he hisses slowly while his fingers ease your underwear aside. “You’re so wet.” 
And before you can stop yourself, words come tumbling out of your mouth: “I always am when I think about you touching me.” 
You don’t need to see or hear Din to know that he’s smirking. You can sense  how smug he is to have this newfound knowledge of one of your best kept secrets. 
He traces the tip of one finger through the drenched slit of your cunt, collecting your arousal before drawing slow circles around your clit. Your whole body momentarily jerks and tenses at the sudden pleasure but his other arm slides beneath you and holds you tight to his broad chest. 
You’re trapped against him in the best possible way: leg hitched over his to spread you open, his hand pressing your upper body back against him. Your movement is limited when you attempt to roll your hips and moan in desperation when his finger stills against your clit with a lingering pressure. 
“Tell me how you imagine it,” Din encourages. 
Lust sears through your whole body, molten and unyielding. Of all the ways you have imagined confessing this in your fantasies, none of them come close to the real thing. The electrical flutter of excitement is ever present in your stomach, and it spurs you on to reach down and cover Din’s hand with your own, taking control of the pace. 
He’s just as surprised as you are when you press against his finger and cause it to flex slowly against your clit. You have the upper hand—quite literally—and Din is more than willing to see this play out. 
“Sometimes, I think about us not being able to make it back to the ship before you have me pressed up against something, out of view of any passers-by but still close enough that I would have to keep my moans quiet.” You fight to keep your voice steady while Din’s finger continues to rub slowly against you. “You’d barely get my pants down all the way, but it would be enough for you to bury your fingers into me.” 
“How many?” 
“One to begin with…but this is after a hunt and all of your patience has been spent. All of that composure and restraint would be at breaking point so you would waste little time before sinking a second finger in and moaning about how good it feels.” 
Din’s next breath falls unevenly through his modulator, creating a momentary crackle of static before he groans: “Go on…tell me what I’d do next.” 
“I’d ask for a third one,” you continue. 
“Do you think you could take it?” 
You’re already smirking to yourself as you nod and give him a simple response: “Yes.”
Your words have Din shifting behind you, and you know that he’s close to snapping. He’s strong and resilient, but he’s only human, and it’s clear that his needs are starting to cause cracks in his composure. You can hear it in his laboured breathing, in the strain in his voice.
“It would feel amazing…that stretch. It would be enough to open me up and prepare me for your big cock, but when—” you stumble and pause on your words when Din seeks out your opening. 
Fucking stars, you hear the obscene sounds of your drenched cunt when his finger presses into you: one to begin with, just as you had described. 
“You feel amazing,” Din groans out his praise. “What would happen next?” 
You moan at the feel of his finger pressing deeply into you, at the thought of him wanting to hear you describe your fantasy to him. Din is enjoying this: his neglected cock twitches against you in anticipation while he hangs on your every word. 
You draw in a breath, attempting to continue while a warmth radiates throughout your body, right from your core. Then right on cue, Din adds a second finger. He works them slowly to begin with, enjoying the feel of you opening up and welcoming him into your tight heat. 
“I’d try so hard to keep…to keep,” your words bleed into a loud moan when Din adjusts his hand and strokes his fingers up against a spot that has you trembling. Fuck. You draw in a shaky breath, attempting to continue. “To—to keep my composure,” you finally manage to rush through your words and then smile at Din’s breathy laugh. 
“More than you are now?” 
“I said I’d try,” you remind him. “Never said I’d do it successfully.” 
At this, you both laugh, his a lower rumble in comparison to the breatheir tone that passes through your lips. Any lingering nervousness or doubt seems to melt away in the moment: there’s something surreal about laughing at the easy banter you share while Din has two fingers buried inside of you. 
There’s an undeniable charge in the air, a shift in the connection you share. You think it’s the excitement and fear of the unknown that comes with crossing the line from friends and into something more. Is this something more? You don’t want to get ahead of yourself here, but it already feels different to so many others you’ve been with. 
There’s a mutual trust that you share with Din, an understanding of each other that nobody else has. You’ve given up your years of travelling alone and traded them in for his companionship. It has always felt so right to be with Din, despite the fleeting doubts in the beginning. There’s been hours spent talking and laughing in the cockpit, learning who he is beneath his armor and allowing an authentic friendship to blossom. Maybe that’s why even now, while stuck in a freezing-cold room, there’s nowhere else you would rather be if it means being there without him.
Much to your disappointment, his fingers withdraw. Din makes no big adjustments to his position, reluctant to put any space between your bodies. At first, you’re unsure of his intentions, unable to work out what he’s doing, until he draws his other arm from under you. 
A few seconds later, there’s a familiar hiss, one you have only ever heard from behind closed doors. Then, a thud. The unmistakable sound of beskar hitting carpet: Din’s helmet, dropping with much less care than he had taken when setting out the rest of his armor. 
A sudden excitement bubbles up from deep within your stomach at the realisation: he’s helmetless, for you. You know this isn’t his usual method of fucking people—you have witnessed that yourself. Din rarely removes any pieces of armor when seeing to his needs with another. But not with you. 
When his hands return to your body, you feel a new sensation; his breath, hot and steady against the back of your neck. Every fine hair rises to the caress of his exhales, and when his nose traces over the skin behind your ear, the weakest gasp escapes you. Din has facial hair. It tickles against your skin right before his lips find the sensitive spot below your earlobe. 
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice enchantingly smooth without the distortion of the helmet. 
“Y—yes,” you gasp. 
This is more than okay. You tilt your head in silent encouragement for him to continue, willing those lips to explore more of your neck.
“I know this wasn’t part of your fantasy…but I’ve always wanted to know how it feels to kiss your skin.” 
Stars, you have thought about this often; how could you not? You have always found yourself wondering how Din’s lips would feel–would they be chapped and rough? Does he chew on his lower one when tense or nervous? Does he know how it feels to brush them gently against another’s or feel someone smile into a kiss? Knowing how little he removes his helmet, you doubt he does. 
He takes his time exploring your skin with his mouth: nose brushing against the curve of your breast, lips sealing around the sensitive bud of your nipple while guiding you onto your back. You move with him easily, as though this is a well rehearsed dance that has been practised over many weeks together: it comes with knowing each other, working together, learning how the other moves and thinks. 
One of Din’s large hands glides over the curve of your thigh when you arch against him and bury your fingers into his hair without thinking. The action is rewarded with a surprised moan that gets caught in Din’s throat. He likes it. He enjoys the feel of your fingers tangling into the thick strands while you use them to hold his face close to yours. 
The warmth of Din’s breath caresses your cheek with a delicate intimacy. He’s close enough to kiss, if only you were to turn your head slightly to seek out his lips. 
Has he ever kissed anyone before? From his hesitation, you assume not. 
You want to ask him. You want to check if this is okay, if he’s comfortable with how quickly this is moving for him…but you don’t know how. This affection is beyond what you’re used to, so you say nothing. Instead, you turn your head just enough to find his eyes in the darkness—the years of staring into a visor have taught you how to hold his gaze without seeing him—and slowly, a soft smile curls onto your lips. 
“I think… I think I was better at this while we were doing all the dirty talk,” you admit with a soft laugh. 
When you hear Din’s chuckle accompany it, your smile grows a little more. He’s still at ease, and that settles you—until he leans in to kiss you while you’re still smiling, resulting in him awkwardly catching more of your teeth than your lips. 
“Shit,” he half laughs, a little embarrassed. “I thought your lips were there.” 
Clearly he’s not as well-trained without his helmet.
“Come here,” you whisper through your smile and guide him in again until your lips press gently to his. 
The kisses are slow to begin with: each one lingers as you take in the feel of his lips, the softness of them, the way his moustache unintentionally tickles your upper lip and nose while you melt into him. Eventually, your lips part against Din’s to take the lead. He follows, learning from your knowledge and experience in the same way you so often learn from his. 
It takes him no time at all to deepen it, and much to your surprise, his tongue licks confidently into your mouth. Maker, you could kiss him for hours, just like this. His warmth and taste are better than you could have ever imagined, and as each kiss becomes more assured than the last, you’re lost to him. 
Din devours you, kissing you like a man starved of affection, and when he reaches down to ease your underwear aside again, your moan muffles against his mouth. He starts slowly, sliding in one finger while kissing down your neck. He adds a second when his teeth graze over your collar bone, and just as his fingers curl inside of you, the wet heat of his mouth closes over your nipple. 
You arch into the pleasure while his name slips from your mouth in a desperate whine. You like the way it sounds, and from Din’s groan of approval, you know he likes it, too. 
He takes his time pleasuring you, working you open with his fingers until he finally gives you what you want and adds a third. Stars, you feel yourself stretch around him in the most satisfying way. 
“Is that what you needed?” Din almost purrs against your ear. 
His unmodulated voice should be illegal in this situation: he shouldn’t be allowed to use it so casually—at the very least, it should come with some sort of warning. 
“Yes,” you manage, your breaths short and shallow while your hips rock against his fingers, enjoying the way those strong, thick digits feel inside of you. 
His mouth does nothing short of worshipping your body; the kisses are feather-light brushes before switching to something more calculated: mouth open, his teeth and tongue teasing and exploring in a way that has you arching against him. 
Your whole body feels ignited by his touch: a heat radiates slowly from somewhere deep within your lower stomach and spreads through each limb as Din’s fingers withdraw from the wet heat of your cunt and move to focus on your clit again. 
Coated generously in your arousal, the pad of Din’s finger moves with ease in slow, circular motions. He’s enjoying this. He’s taking his time, savouring the sounds you make as your own fingers grip at the sheet when the heat begins to lick up your lower spine. 
“Din—” you breathe out his name while he breathes you in, mouth at the base of your neck again. 
There’s an unexpected intimacy to the way his lips map out your skin, exploring, learning. He memorises you, the way you feel and sound as his fingers continue to pleasure you. You don’t need to say a single word to him; it’s almost as though he feels the molten desire pulsing through your veins, burning with enough fever to thaw the snow in a six mile radius of the bed.
You turn your head to seek him out and sigh softly when your lips find his temple. His hair is soft against your nose and holds the lingering scent of the soap on the Crest: it smells so perfectly Din. You can’t help but wonder if he has found an intimacy like this with anyone before, if he has been touched with a tenderness that comes from knowing him, caring for him. It’s easy to assume that he hasn’t from the way he exhales when you kiss his temple and then brush the tip of your nose against the side of his cheek. 
Din leans into you, as though he finally has a touch that he has craved for longer than he’s willing to admit, and you’re more than happy to give him as much as he needs. Your lips drag slowly over the side of his face, dropping lingering kisses and breaking them up with small nudges of your nose. These needs, these soft displays of affection, are some that Din was unable to satisfy with the simple pleasure he found in a stranger’s body.
Together, you remove the final items of clothing–your underwear, Din’s boxers–before you’re captured by his lips again and lost to the welcoming heat of his mouth. It’s only when you feel the head of his cock teasing at your entrance that you stop him: one hand against his warm chest, the other holding his shoulder as you pull back just enough from the kiss. 
“Wait,” you whisper against his lips. “I want to be on top.” 
There’s a pause, seconds of Din holding himself still while considering your words. 
“Yeah?” he finally asks, unable to mask the interest at the edge of his tone. 
“Yeah,” you smile and then nip his lower lip lightly. 
Who knows if there will be another time after this, so if this is your only night with Din, you want to fulfil the fantasy of being the one in control. And to your delight, Din is not opposed to the idea. 
With some manoeuvring–and some very close calls with the edge of the bed–you find yourself braced on top of him: knees pressed into the uncomfortable springs of the mattress which pop and groan beneath you both while you sit back on his hips. 
You can barely see him. The limited moonlight from the window offers a sliver of illumination across his chest which rises in a steady rhythm. Maker, it’s broad. He’s broad. On his back, you note that he fills most of the small bed. The sight has your cunt throbbing with need.  
Din’s hands find their way to your thighs, smoothing over your skin and touching whatever part of you he can reach. His palms are still warm, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the room as you lift your hips just enough to nestle his thick cock inside the soaked slit of your cunt. 
The sound you’re rewarded with is unexpected, yet not unwelcome. It seems to take Din by surprise when he gasps and moans: his fingers unintentionally gripping at your skin at the pleasure you offer. It’s a sound you feel in the depths of your core, a sound that’s so personal, just for you. 
You know that his eyes are glued to your form in the darkness, watching you with a lustful gaze as you rub yourself against the underside of his cock.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Din praises in the softest tone. “You’re soaked.”  
This time, it’s you who finds yourself moaning out louder than intended at the praise he gives you. 
His hands roam upwards over your body, exploring every dip and curve while you sufficiently coat him in your arousal. You know that you should guide him into you—it’s what you both want, but it feels so good to grind against him as his hands find your breasts. There’s no hesitation when his fingers find the stiff peak of your nipple and squeeze: the boardline roughness creates a delicious jolt of pleasure through your body as you moan again, encouraging him to repeat the action. 
Din is more than happy to comply. He moves his attention to your other nipple, offering the same rough treatment as you roll your hips. Lost in the moment, it’s easy to forget where you are and just how thin the walls are between the rooms. 
You’re flying too close to the sun. The coiling heat ignites in warning, pulling tight in your lower stomach as you force yourself to stop and catch a breath. 
“You’re incredible,” Din compliments from the safety of the darkness. 
He has never been forthcoming with compliments: everything is usually ‘good’, or ‘okay’ to him. Maybe that’s why they drive you wild, offering a taste of how it sounds to hear him enjoy something—that something being you. 
With a coy smile, you lower yourself over his body to seek out his lips again and murmur, “You haven’t seen anything yet.” 
Leaned over and spread open for him, you grant him the opportunity to guide himself to your entrance. Din takes his cue as his lips meet yours for a kiss: it’s not as controlled as the last—he’s distracted, lost to the sensation of his cock slowly stretching you open. 
Stars, he’s thick. 
His free hand moves to the back of your head when you press your forehead gently against his cheek and close your eyes. Your body is quick to adjust to him, your inner muscles sheathing him inside of your heat until he stills and lets out a heavy breath. 
That’s when you clench teasingly around him and smirk to yourself. 
“Don’t do that,” he warns you in a murmur. “It’s already difficult enough to fight this urge to fuck you senseless right now.” 
“Yeah?” you ask as you do it again. 
“Yeah.”
Din’s fingers tighten their grip on you: his composure is close to snapping. You’ve worked him hard enough with your teasing so you finally give him what he wants. 
You begin slowly, drawing your hips up and sliding yourself down over his cock again in a steady rhythm. It’s not a pace that lasts for long, though. You move to sit back up on Din’s hips, hands bracing against his chest to give yourself some leverage as you fuck yourself on his cock. 
A slur of incoherent curses fall from your lips when Din’s thighs tense to thrust up and meet your hips. He learns your movements quickly, finds your rhythm and compliments it with his own. The bed protests with its squeaks and groans, but you’re sure it’s barely audible over the way you moan for the man beneath you. 
“Oh fuck,” you gasp when Din grabs handfuls of the flesh on your ass. 
He guides you up and pulls you back down, creating the most delicious sounds of skin against skin as you lean back even further. The change in position has Din’s cock rubbing up against just the right spot as you gasp. You repeat the action, switching to rock your hips as you control the pace and moan at the way tingles of electrical pleasure pulse across your body.
Maker, it’s amazing, albeit borderline overwhelming.
“I don’t–I don’t want to cum,” you whine breathlessly. “Don’t want this…to end.” 
“Sweetheart, this is just getting started,” Din assures you. 
Your eyes snap open to catch sight of a grin on his full lips—stars, that does nothing to help you hold onto what little composure you have left. It’s already slipping through your fingers when you drop a hand to rub at your clit. 
“Yeah?” 
“Yeah,” he confirms. 
Din makes it sound like a promise. The simplicity of knowing he wants more serves as the assurance you need: you feel wanted, but not by just anyone. You feel wanted by Din. The thought of that has everything beginning to pull tighter and tighter until finally, something snaps. You descend into the pleasure of your climax with a loud moan of his name as your body switches to autopilot, hips rocking to ride out your orgasm.
There’s barely time for you to fully comprehend what’s going on when Din tenses with a groan and urges you to move. His thick cock is gone, no longer filling you as he quickly reaches down to wrap a hand around his glistening length while he spills his release against your thigh with a moan. 
A moment of stillness fills the room as you keep yourself propped up with your hands against Din’s firm chest. His heart thunders beneath your palm, just as your own does: you hear the rhythmic thumps of it,  loud in your ears against the silence. 
Din hands find their way to your body again, smoothing affectionately over your skin before he pulls you down and wraps an arm around you. With barely any room on the bed, you find yourself settling onto the side of his chest with a small, lazy smile. 
“I’d say we should get cleaned up,” Din mumbles quietly now that he has caught his breath. “But there’s no shower.” 
“There’s no shower,” you remember with a quiet laugh. 
“And I’d prefer to keep you right where you are…” 
The way Din trails off leaves it open for you to decline: he’s unsure if you want to stay here with him. You get the feeling he’s offering you a chance to leave, if this isn’t what you want. 
“I’d prefer to stay right where I am,” you reassure him as you tilt your head a little to brush the tip of your nose against his jaw. “Besides, I’m interested to see what you have planned for the rest of the night.” 
Din huffs a small laugh at your recall of his words, “Yeah?” 
“Yeah.” 
—-----
The small, not-so-big, unable-to-comfortably-share, tiny bed proved useful for many things…but sleep wasn’t one of them. 
You fasten your damp jacket, standing in front of the window, noting the fresh layer of snow that had settled overnight. You already know how cold it is out there, how wet your clothes are going to get while you freeze down to your bones. 
The thought of that brings a hint of a smile to your lips as you look over your shoulder to see Din fixing the last of his weapons back into place. To look at him, nothing seems different this morning as he goes about his normal routine, yet, everything has changed overnight. 
Daylight had crept into the room far too soon this morning after hours of losing yourself in the pleasure Din could offer. If it wasn’t for the fact that you were both on a job, you would have insisted on staying longer so that you could fall back down onto the bed again and have him bury his face between your thighs to worship your taste. 
You blink yourself out of your thoughts and notice that he’s watching you, helmet tilted slightly to the side. You can’t be certain, but you like to think he’s smiling under his helmet, having caught you staring at him now that you no longer have to hide it. 
“You ready?” he asks as he motions to the door. 
“Actually…give me a second,” you quickly request and make your way into the fresher. 
The light above the mirror continues to flicker, and with an amused grin, you pull the small blade from your jacket. It seems only right to add your initials to the wall after spending a night here with Din. The sound isn’t a pleasant one as the blade scrapes over the metal, and within seconds, you feel his presence in the doorway. 
“Should I ask?” 
“Nope,” you reply and take a small step back to admire your work. 
No date, no full names, simply your and Din’s initials etched into the wall. Just like all the other names on there, you have plenty of stories to tell about your time spent in this room. 
But they would have to wait for another time. 
You turn to look at him, doing your utmost not to beam as you offer him a small smile. 
“Okay, let’s get going, big guy,” you tease him, using the Lasat’s words from the night before. 
“Don’t,” he sighs, still annoyed about that. 
You step out of the fresher and reach to touch the edge of his helmet with your finger, as if it were his chin: “Don’t forget to thank her on the way out. Seems like one bed wasn’t so bad, after all.” 
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djarins-wife · 10 months
Text
"In Your Loving Arms"
Mand'alor!Din Djarin × Pregnant!reader
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Word Count: 4,024
❗This post contains explicit content intended for adults. Do not interact with this post if you're a minor.
read on ao3 | masterlist
Summary: Your beloved husband Din Djarin, back from a long mission, fulfils your naughty wishes.
- or -
Din has a massive breeding kink.
Warnings: smut, nsfw, pure filth, pregnancy, pregnancy kink, lactation, pregnant sex, breeding kink, creampie, dirty talk, dom/sub tones, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f receiving), use of pet names, established relationship, wife/husband, helmetless Din Djarin, Mand'alor Din Djarin, not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy
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Reblogs and comments much appreciated! Please let me know what you think or if i missed anything!
You look at your growing belly in the mirror and realize how much the little baby inside has changed you. Your skin is as silky and delicate as moonlight, and your hair and face glow as if dusted with sun dust. But that isn't the only thing that has changed in you. Your breasts have also changed as they prepare to feed the light inside you; your growing breasts are so big that they refuse to fit into the breast band. But that doesn't matter to Din; he can bury his face between your tits and spend his days exploiting you. Your thighs and groin joined the trend of your body, getting bigger and bigger. Honestly, Din has no complaints; it drives him crazy to see you swelling and being round every day. You are like this because of him; he fucked you so well that you are pregnant with his baby, and he likes the idea that everyone knows it.
Din adores your body; he yearns to hold you in his arms constantly, kiss your skin, and fuck you like there is no tomorrow. You bind his hands and feet, and the idea of a second without you makes him feel as though he is dying. For him, everything starts and ends with you. You are the gunpowder that ignites him; every time he touches you, the blood in his veins electrifies, and his brain goes numb from the love he feels for you.
And before he met you, he wasn't even sure he felt these things: the need to shield and protect, the longing, and most of all, love.
You are his, he is yours, and nothing in the universe can change that.
Footsteps echoing down the corridor bring you out of the state of mind you are in.
"Mesh'la? Where are you?"
Din's muffled voice is getting closer; you think he must have stopped by the throne room before heading to your side to give Mandalorians the last orders of the week.
You respond, "I'm in the bedroom, my king," with a joyful tone because your riduur is finally home after a week that seemed to last forever.
"Look at you, princess."
And there he is, standing by the large oak doors of the bedroom, helmet in his hands, looking at you with those big brown eyes yearningly.
"Oh, Din," you breathe, "Welcome home, ner Mand'alor."
It's as if the room around you has been absorbed by space; all you can see is him now. His presence pervades every cell in your body, and your heart aches; you love him so much that you are surprised how such love is possible.
Before embracing you, he puts down his helmet on the nightstand along with his blaster and the Darksaber.
With four broad steps, he takes his place behind you, his strong arms wrapping around you as he buries his face in the hollow between your shoulder and neck.
"You have no idea how much I miss you, mesh'la."
The words spill out of his mouth one by one as his lips move over your warm skin; his stubbly beard, which hasn't been shaved in days, tickles you. You try to ignore the heat in your core as his gloved hands roam over your hot and big belly.
You can't believe how fast your body lights up, how easily you respond to him; a kiss or a touch is all that requires to lure you. Din is so intoxicating that being around him is the only thing you need to be thrown over the edge.
As the cold Beskar bites your back, the growing wetness between your legs distracts you from logical thinking. Din's presence throws off your hormones, which change quickly throughout your pregnancy; you want to be touched and kissed by him every minute; you can't keep your hands off him.
And sometimes...
Sometimes all you need is to be fucked day and night mercilessly, pinned down to the bed as Din pounds into you, to feel his big, thick length inside you.
Your cunt clenches with this thought, and you press your thighs together to ease the discomfort and bite your lip to stop the moan from rising in your throat.
"How's our babe?" Din asks, his eyes shining with desire and longing, find yours in the mirror.
After touching the bulging silhouette of his daughter, his gloved fingertips move to the place where you need him: your aching and strained back. You close your eyes as his thumbs work out the stiffness in your back; he knows it's not easy bearing his child.
"She's growing each passing day, my king," you reply, and your hands meet with his hands on your belly again.
You feel lightheaded as the warmth of his skin radiates from his gloves, slowly taking control of your body with desire. He makes you go feral; you need him desperately. You lean onto his stern and cold Beskar armor to cool down the fire burns within you.
The urge to feel his soft lips on yours takes over you; lay your head back to find Din's lips. He gets the hint and gets close to you until you lock into his lips. His familiar sweet taste lingers in your mouth as your tongue finds his. He moans into your mouth as you devour him greedily.
You fucking miss that. And he knows it.
His broad hands meet with your aching breasts and cup them tightly. You gasp at this; his touch sends ruinous shocks to your drenched cunt.
"Din-"
"You're so full, mesh'la," he whispers into your shoulder as he squeezes your breasts harshly. He loves to tease you; every begging and syllable spilling from your pretty mouth turns him on more.
Your milk leaks into his gloved hands; you whimper as you can't stand the emptiness in your hole. You can feel the wetness of your warm milk through your belly under your dress. "So full for our baby."
"Please, Din," you beg as you can't stand the tension winding impossibly tight between your hips and an unbearable ache as your clit throbs.
He leans into you to hint at his wild and burning desire for you, and you feel his throbbing cock through his flight suit harden against the curve of your bottom. You whimper; it was just a simple touch, and you both burn with devouring desire for each other.
His voice becomes hollow and deeper as he asks the question you've been waiting for fucking days.
"What do you want, princess?"
"I want-" desire is so thick at the back of your throat that you can't swallow. You take a deep breath and start again.
"I want you to wreck me, my king," you finally utter, looking at his eyes in the mirror, watching them getting darker and darker with desire.
"I want you to fuck me right here, on the bed 'til I can't walk tomorrow," you beg, "Spill inside me and fuck it deeper until it is dripping my thighs."
You close your eyes and try to swallow the massive knot in your throat as you hear your heart hammer. Your body yearns for every touch and caress as you beg the Maker to place the touch of the man you love precisely where you need it.
Din's breathing becomes sharper, and you flinch whenever the cool Beskar brushes your burning skin on his rising and falling chest.
And without warning, he grabs you on your waist, takes you into his lap and carries to the bed, and lays you down.
"I'll give you what you wish for, princess," his husky voice burns a hole in you as he places himself between your legs.
"I want to see your swollen and beautiful belly," he says as he reaches for the hem of the dress. Quickly, he frees you from it and throws it away somewhere in the room.
His darkened, lustful, and molten eyes devour you.
Feral.
Your breasts are soaked with your own milk, glistening in the silver moonlight coming through the bedroom window. Every fiber in your body is burning to feel him, and you are drenched with the need for him.
You're lying in front of your king in your soaking wet panties. You are all swollen, drenched, and wanting.
For him. Only for him.
Whenever Din sees you with your big belly, the animalistic impulse from his hindbrain takes control of him. Even though you're pregnant, even though you're carrying his baby, his heir, he wants to breed you again and again with greed and overwhelming lust, to bend you over the nearest surface and pound into you until he cums with a loud moan rising from his mouth.
You proudly exhibit the bulge of the tiny baby you carry in front of Din.
You are his, and you belong to him.
Through the flight suit, you can see the trail of his thick cock; and the thought of feeling it inside of you makes your go brain numb.
"I fucking love you," he whispers, hovering above you to kiss you on the lips. You groaned loudly into Din's mouth as it slid over yours, arching up to press against his chest. His tongue finds yours in your mouth and tastes you. You can feel his thick, throbbing length nudging your thighs as he kisses you. He kisses you so long and so deep that you gasp for air.
"Din-" you cry out as you can't stand the burning throb in your core; you want him inside you.
He understands your following words and hushes you as his hot, slick tongue goes towards your neck at its next stop.
Your hands find their way to Din's messy curls, and you pull him into yourself to feel his sturdy body against you.
"Eager, my cyare," Din teases. "Are you that desperate to have me inside of you?" his hoarse voice echoes in your brain.
You whimper as you are about to lose your mind from the burning desire; the only thing you need is a touch or a stroke, and then you'll be done. But no, your king won't give you that arousal you've been chasing for days.
You know you have to ask for that.
"Fuck me, please, ner Mand'alor," you cry. "I need you inside me,"
He ignores your whimpering as he explores your hot skin; he slowly moves from your neck to your breasts, his beard leaving marks on your sensitive skin.
"Din-" you whisper, hand going to his head as he dips down to tease the peak of one of your breasts with his hot and wet tongue. When he sucks your nipple, you leak again into his mouth this time.
"Taste so sweet, mesh'la," he says, meaning your breast milk. His words drive you into the abyss; all he has to do is touch you down there.
You moan when he cups one breast, his lips gently pulling on a stiffened peak. His mouth moved between your sore breasts, pinching and sucking and nipping your damp flesh.
Suddenly, Din moves and pushes himself up. He grabs you by the knees and pulls you to him; your legs touch his Beskar-covered thighs, and you shudder.
"My beautiful princess," he mouths against your belly, kissing you. "You are perfect."
You know his next intention and adjust yourself to give him what he wants. Your hands move behind your head to find a pillow. As you find it, you grab it and slide it under your ass to support your aching back due to your huge belly.
"Now, show me, pretty girl, where you need me," Looking at your mind-blowing sight, he hungrily devours you with his eyes.
His voice, husky and full of desire, shutters you in pieces. You keep your eyes on Din as your trembling hand passes your belly to your soaked cunt. You watch how his demeanor changes, the sly curl of his lips. You are so wet that you can feel it dripping onto the soft bed sheets.
You rub your clit through your panties softly, and your body reacts to your touch immediately; your orgasm starts to bloom in your tummy.
"That's it, mesh'la," Din says softly as he takes off his gloves.
"Let me take care of you."
His big warm hands meet with your thighs, caressing and squeezing your flesh with hunger. With a quick motion, he peels down your soaking panties, tosses them to the side, and presses open your thighs to see the mesmerizing sight of you, all swollen, glistening, and throbbing, spread open only for the king.
"Fucking stars, look at you, princess," he growls. "You're so wet for me,"
You crave his mouth on your throbbing clit, to suck and devour you. You can't help arching your lower body towards Din, showing him where you need him most.
You moan helplessly as your body is sweaty and wet, burns with lust, the uncontrollable throbbing of your cunt overwhelming you. "Please, ner Mand'alor," you breathe, "I want your mouth on my pussy, kiss and suck my clit"
"My greedy little princess," he says and goes for it.
And when he lowers down his head to your swollen core, you know what's coming. He pushes your legs to open you wide; he positions his mouth against your clit as his darkened brown eyes find yours. His hot tongue finds your throbbing clit, and strokes it mercilessly.
Your loud moan echoes in the room; hands find Din's head to press him down there as your climax gets closer with every lick he gives you.
"Oh fu-" you gasp, "Din!"
"That's it, sarad," Din encourages you as he dips his head into your soaking pussy, and devours you. "You taste amazing," he whimpers into your cunt as he eats you out.
Your legs tremble when he sucks onto your clit and wet folds; the harder he sucks, the more your thighs shake.
"Good girl," he whimpers, lust in his voice, "Give it to me, to your king."
Din knows you as if it's his palm; to give you what you want, he picks up his pace; his wet and hot tongue devours you greedily now, and suddenly, you feel his long-calloused fingers inside you, your walls wrapping them, slick and warm.
"Oh, fuck… Fuck!" you moan as you arch your hips uncontrollably.
He knows what's coming and continues to tease you to help you reach there; he shoves his two fingers into your hole and pumps in and out, skimming his nose along your thigh.
Finally, your orgasm takes over you; it is so powerful that your body begins to shake as you gasp for air. The wave of pleasure that gathers in the pit of your stomach ripples through your body; the wave of power that you feel in even your hair lifts you above the clouds. White lights flash in your eyes, your moans fade from your ears, and you feel powerful two hands grab you by the thighs, pining you down as you surrender to the oncoming wave.
You don't know how many second or minutes take you to get down, but when you are finally down, you feel Din's weight over you again, murmuring sweet words to your ear, kissing you softly on your lips and chin.
"Welcome back, princess" his voice is soft, but you know he's not done with you yet as you feel his throbbing length against your skin. He'll rail in you in minutes, and you know that as if it's your name.
And.. and even though you gave all you got in you to your first climax, you still feel it, gathering in your sore cunt and in your tummy with every kiss Din gives you.
How is this even possible? You shouldn't be able to cum again in this such a short period, but no, your body breaks every fucking rule or theory regarding a woman's body when it comes to your king, your beloved Din Djarin.
You kiss him back, your tongue slides into his mouth, and you explore him as you taste yourself in him. It makes you moan; the idea of his mouth full of you turns you on more; you want every part of him, to keep him inside you all the time, to nurture and care for him.
Fuck.
With a quick motion, he pushes himself up again to take a look at you, the mess he has made; blushed cheeks, red and swollen lips, breasts glistening with your own milk and sweat, and his favorite place in the universe, your all plushed, dripping pussy.
"My pretty mesh'la," he says as his hands go to your back to help you up. "Get on your knees and hands before the mirror," he breathes. "So, you can watch me while I am fucking you,"
And you do, without being told twice. He loves to fuck you this way; he can pound into you more while his hands hold your belly for more grip.
He positions himself behind you, between your legs, as you watch him in the mirror. Your heart hammers in your mouth; you can't wait to welcome his length in you, wrapping him.
As soon as you hear the sound of the zipper opening, you push your hips against him. "Good girl," he praises you as he firmly presses his length to your swollen entrance.
With a thrust, his cock splits you, sinking deep inside and forcing you open around his girth.
"Oh, fu- fucking stars," you moan out loud as his broad hands dig in your ass. You close your eyes as your orgasm starts to crawl into your tummy.
"You're mine," he breathes roughly, hips snapping forward until you wail. "Always"
"Ye- yes," you stutter as his powerful thrusts make you go numb on his dick. "I am yours, my king." You sob out, arousal blooming through your nerve system, making you scream his name.
He rocks his hips back and forth, burying himself, taking advantage of the slick mess he has made of you.
"You're so wet," he speaks along with his moans. "Do you walk around like this for me all the time?" as you lose your grip due to madding pressure on your cunt, your head falls into your crossed arms before you.
"Fuck- don't!" he grunts; his hoarse voice fills the room along with your moans as he holds your hair and pulls you to his Beskar-covered chest, and places his other hand on your belly to keep you steady.
"Answer to your king, princess," he hisses as his pounds get faster and deeper, delighting you with every fucking thrust. "And eyes on the mirror, look in the mirror while I'm fucking you."
"Fu- fuck, yes, my king," the words spill from your mouth one by one, "I am always wet for you." He kisses your neck in return, and your eyes meet with your image in the mirror.
You are resting against your husband, and your head is on his broad shoulder. Your big belly and breasts are glistening with sweat, showing how well-bred you are. Your lips and cheeks, red as an apple from lust, continue to blossom inside you. And your riduur, fucking you deep and good, with every thrust he gives, your body shakes with joy.
It's because of him.
Your riduur, your Mand'alor, your beloved, your other half.
Every fiber and cell in your body burns for him; he is yours. He is your guardian, nurturer, and master.
It has always been and will always be.
You wheeze as he picks up the pace, holding you tightly against him. You need to be touched to reach your climax as it lingers painfully in your nerve system; you need to be ignited.
"Touch me, Din," you moan in despair as your torturingly slow climax crawls in you. His hands slowly slide on your sweaty skin, reaching the throbbing little nerve bundle. He rubs it carefully; he knows your pattern and how to make you cum.
"Okay, mesh'la," he speaks through his quickened breaths, "Cum for me now, for your king." His words untie you; you feel weak on your knees as your orgasm rises in you.
"Don't stars- don't stop," you hear yourself plead between broken gasps.
You're nearly there - fire rising from your tummy and flooding through your whole body. And you know he's almost there as well; you know it from his uncontrollable moans and gasps, incoherent whispers of your name.
Din dips his head into your neck to give you a slick kiss as you start to tip over the edge. Your orgasm starts deep inside your burning cunt, from where his throbbing length is pressing up into your walls and sparks down to where his rough fingers rub against your clit.
Your vision starts to go blur; you plead with him not to stop as your climax rises in you uncontrollably. He keeps pounding mercilessly as his fingers work on your swollen clit.
"C'mon princess, give it to me," Din pleads one last time before you shutter in pieces in his arms.
Finally, when it hits, you cry out, and stars emerge in your vision, blinding you with the pure white scene. You ears ring with amniotic hush; moans of you, and his wipe away from your ears. Your body jolts and trembles under the arms of Din.
"Oh, look at you," he whimpers as he holds you in his arms tightly, "Look how perfect you are."
You're a mess now; you're dripping around him from your own arousal; with every slick thrust, the sound of skin slapping against damp skin echoes in the room, making both of you go delirious.
As his thrusts become deeper and harder, you know he's so close. To help him to reach his release, you utter, between your wrecked moans,
"Breed me, Din."
A word and two syllables; that's all it takes.
You are his entire universe, his stars, and his sun. And to have an heir who will be having your half, most importantly to be a father to your baby, tears him to pieces; the idea of being a father, which he hides in the depths of his heart and in the nooks and crannies of his brain, stimulates his impulses.
"Ner mesh'la- Fucking- fuck!" he moans against your ear as he finally cums; his pelvis juts and locks against your ass tightly.
You feel him filling you up, his warmth coating your walls as his body trembles with overwhelming joy behind you.
He kisses your neck before letting you go, as his climax has devastated him from head to toe.
And you both fall down on the mattresses, still trembling with joy and overwhelming pleasure. You still feel your cunt clenching and tensing from the aftershocks as you feel his warm filling dripping from your sore thighs.
Your climax starts to fade away slowly, and you giggle softly, happy that you have reached the orgasm and fulfillment you have been waiting for days.
--
When you both come down from your own climax, you try to catch your breath in each other's arms. This is one of your favorite moments because your beloved husband is at your side, comforting you in his powerful arms and caressing your hair when you are in your most flimsy and vulnerable situation.
All you can hear in the room is you and Din breathing; the dimness and warm air fall over you like a blanket. You put your head on Din's chest with the last bit of power you have left as the weariness of pleasure and sleep overtake you. Your eyelids start to close with the lovely weight of slumber as Din's powerful hands draw you closer to him, letting the warmth of his body permeate into your tender skin.
His broad hands linger on your belly and caress you as he hums sweet words into your ear. Din's velvety voice echoes in your ears as you drift off into the comforting arms of sleep.
"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, sarad"
--
Okay, this was my first attempt at writing smut and I may have messed it up, but I still wanted to give it a shot. I also want to pay homage to Depeche Mode's "In Your Room" which inspired me to write this.
Don't forget to share your comments and ideas :)
--
Mando'a Translations
Cyare: Beloved, loved
Ner Mand’alor: My King
Mesh'la: Beautiful
Riduur: Partner, spouse, husband, wife
Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner sarad: I love you, my flower
Ner mes'hla: My beautiful
Sarad: Flower
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beskarandblasters · 11 months
Note
Possible smut request - din making his partner squirt for the first time and just becoming absolutely insatiable and wanting to do it over and over again?
Living “Waters” of Mandalore
(lmao hope y’all like the title)
Din Djarin x F!Reader
Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist
Summary: You and Din are in an established relationship. You’re with Din on Mandalore about to help him scope out the Mines of Mandalore when you guys get a little sidetracked…
Word count: 750
Warnings: reader is able-bodied, fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, porn with little to no plot lol, slight canon divergence
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You’re on Mandalore with Din, preparing to scope out the Mines of Mandalore so he can redeem himself. He left Grogu with Greef Karga back on Nevarro in case the trip proved to be too dangerous. You had followed him here on your own ship, breaching the thick and stormy atmosphere before landing next to his Starfighter.
You step out of your ship to meet him, ready to make the potentially treacherous journey down to the Mines. You’re sure he’s absolutely anxious about this too. Ever since he became in apostate he was completely transfixed on redeeming himself.
You meet him beside the Starfighter and as you’re about to ask him if he’s ready to go, he places a hand on your waist that starts to slide down to the waistband of your pants.
Oh so that’s what he’s really thinking about right now.
“Din?” you ask.
“We never have a moment to ourselves to do this. cyar’ika. The kid’s always around…” he rasps in a low tone against your ear.
All you can do is let out a breathy moan as he slips his hand down your pants and cups your warm sex.
“Here?” you ask, looking up at him.
“Let’s go to your ship,” he whispers.
You lead him back to your ship, a gauntlet Starfighter, similar to the kind Bo-Katan has. It was definitely roomier than Din’s Starfighter, which made you miss the Razor Crest for moments like this.
You enter the ship and he wastes no time getting down to business, pressing you against the control panel in the cockpit. He slips a gloved hand down your pants and rubs circles around your clit while he moans against your ear, “I’ve needed this so bad, mesh’la.”
You moan in response and spread your legs a little, giving him access to slip a finger inside your sex that's rapidly getting wet. He makes a "come here" motion, pressing against your walls deliciously. He slips another finger inside while his thumb finds your clit again. The combination of him rubbing your clit and pressing against your g-spot has you close to the edge.
"Din, I'm so close," you moan.
"Cum for me, mesh'la. Let me feel it," he responds.
He applies more pressure on your clit and pumps his fingers in and out of faster until you're cumming around his hand, coating his glove with your juices. You feel yourself convulsing around his fingers. He pulls out of you for a moment so he can slip your pants down. And in one swift motion he pulls his cock out, coats it with your wetness on his hand, and thrusts into you without warning.
"Din!" you choke out, tears springing to your eyes.
"You're okay, cyar'ika. I know you can take it."
As he continues thrusting in and out of you, you adjust to his size and get more comfortable. He grabs one of your thighs, lifting it slightly. His hand returns to your clit once more and you know you're not going to last much longer like this. His circles around your clit speed up and his hips slam against yours as he practically hits your cervix. Your vision gets hazy from pleasure as the tingling, warm sensation in core grows stronger. Your orgasm washes over you but this time it feels... different, wetter. You look down between your legs and see that the control panel is glistening. Din notices you looking and looks down, too.
"Did you just squirt?" he asks, awe evident in his voice.
"I think so," you breathe out shakily.
And with that, he thrusts in you once more, as deep as he can go. He releases his warm load inside you and pulls out, still holding you up on the control panel.
"Kriff, what am I gonna do?? The control panel is soaked!"
Din is quiet for a moment before he says, "Do that again."
"What? I can't have to see if this needs to be fixed!"
"Cyar'ika I will fix whatever you need me to as long as you squirt again for me."
"Really?"
"Mhmm. And this time I want to see it," he says, crouching down between your legs and sliding another finger inside you again.
You lean back against the control panel and relax, letting him do his thing. You know that he's found his new obsession and he's going to make you squirt over and over again.
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chaosology · 1 year
Text
skin
— the mandalorian x reader
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prompt 41: “your hands are so cold”
warnings: none besides pregnancy?
a/n: i know it’s an angst prompt but i couldn’t resist IM SORRY
masterlist
You had been stranded on the freezing planet for what felt like days. Din worked dutifully to fix his beloved Razor Crest from the damage caused by a pissed off army of spiders, as you stayed inside with the child and the Frog Lady.
At first, Din had asked you to stay inside to stop the child from eating more of the Frog Lady’s spawn, but it was becoming more and more obvious that he just didn’t want you anywhere you could be getting hurt.
He had been outside in the frost for hours, so you set down the child in his little bed and headed out. The cool breeze stung against your skin as you walked towards him, snow crunching under your boots.
“Come inside, my love. You’re going to get sick if you keep this up.” You asked, holding out your hand and nodding towards the ship. He looked up at you, then down at your stomach, and up at you again.
“Cyar’ika, what did I tell you? It’s too cold for you to be out here.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Din. Look at you, you’re covered in frost. We’ve got blankets inside and it’s getting dark… please” You begged, knowing it would work. He didn’t have many weaknesses, but leaving you upset was one of them.
Reluctantly he got up, gathering his tools and turning towards you once again. “You go. I’ll be a second packing up, go keep yourself and the ad’ika warm.” He added, gesturing towards your stomach.
When you arrived inside, the Frog Lady and your little green son were already asleep (though you had a feeling the latter was faking it until Din came back). You collected a pile of blankets and piled them on the other side of the ship, allowing the two of you some privacy.
As you settled in, you could begin to hear Din’s boots against the floor as he tried his best to not wake the others. He walked over, listing up the blankets and come to rest in his rightful place next to you. You rolled over, feeling the chill of his armour as you rested against his chest.
“I know you can’t take your helmet off right now, but please, let me feel you. Let your daughter feel you, she’s been kicking all day. And I already know you’re her favourite.” You half teased, looking up at him.
He took his gloves off gently, revealing the skin beneath them. He slowly began to slip them under your shirt, coming to rest on your stomach as he felt his daughter kick.
“Fucking stars, Din! Your hands are so cold, how are you not frozen already?”
You could hear his breathy laugh only slightly past the modulater, as he continued to run his hands where your daughter rest. “I’m sorry, cya’rika. We’ll be gone by tomorrow, I prom-”
He was interrupted by a sudden tugging of the blankets, and you sat up to be greeted by your green child. He babbled a bit, as his ears moved up and down expressively. You watched as he struggled to climb up and over into your lap, curling under the covers and falling back asleep. You turned to Din and smiled as he scoffed, “Hey, at least I’ll have one our kids on my side.”
“You know you’ll always have me, right? I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me, my love. I promise”. He turned to you, pressing his helmet against your forehead.
He would always have you. And you would always have him.
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loquaciousferret · 1 year
Note
Hello, I saw that your requests were open and I recently discovered your blog and... O sir. I love your way of writing, thank you for doing this beautiful work and sharing your magic with the words.
I would like to ask you for something fluff and very loving to our star warrior Din Djarin. Maybe you could do something with the song "She", by the singer Dodie. I think what the song expresses would be just what Din would feel when falling in love.
If this isn't what you usually write or you don't like the idea, that's okay. It serves me well just to let you know what a great writer you are.
I'm sorry if I've expressed myself badly or you don't understand anything I've said, English is not my first language. Thank you for your attention.
Thank you for this adorable message, you have explained yourself really well, never ever apologise for speaking in your second language!
Also this is so strange because I loved this song so much when I was younger and haven’t listened to it in years, you just reminded me of it, so thank you!!
And yess I totally agree, even though Din is so quiet I feel like it’s just by choice and he would have such a way with words and be so poetic when he falls in love with you.
She
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Pairing: Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x f!reader
Warnings: This is an 18+ blog but this story does not contain any specifically explicit content. Fluff, unrequited love, yearning, forbidden-ish romance, and sadness.
Word Count: 1.1k
You shouldn���t be looking at her like that. The Mandalorian scolds himself.
You had convinced him to let you and Grogu take a walk on this quiet planet, with his protection, of course. After grumbling, he finally agreed. He rarely had the strength to deny you anything you asked him for.
He leans against a tree, at the edge of the meadow, and as much as he tries, he can’t tear his eyes away from your beautiful form. A flowing white dress surrounds you, picking up grass stains around its hem as you twirl in the field with Grogu in your arms. You lift him and throw him, and he giggles and gargles in his own little language. It’s not wrong to simply admire her. He reassures himself. Not when she is just so nice to look at.
Sometimes, in moments like these, Din thinks the maker put you in this galaxy just for him and Grogu. As he watches you play with the child, his heart swells. sunlight catching you and making your eyes glint, goosebumps prickling your bare arms when a breeze runs through the atmosphere. Yes, he could live in these moments forever and never feel any obligation towards anyone or anything else. He yearned to be able to take you into his clan.
You must have called his name a few times before he snaps out of his trance, because you are looking at him inquisitively.
"Sorry, cyare, what was it?" He says, walking towards you.
He is the first Mandalorian you have ever met. You don't understand any of his mother tongue, and he knows that. You understand his nicknames for you are terms of endearment just because of how softly he says them. You don't think you have heard him call you by your name in weeks, always cyare, mesh'la, cyar'ika, ner kar'ta.
"I wondered if you would dance with me, Din."
Having closed the distance between you, he takes you in, the shy smile that you are wearing makes him want to drop to his knees before you. He listens carefully and he hears it too, soft music drifting towards you from the nearby village.
Grogu is on the floor now, head barely visible bobbing above the over-grown grass. He runs around your feet and circles your legs as he chases a butterfly.
You are looking down at him, watching with adoration. Din is sure he wears the same look on his own face, but the object of his gaze is you. He thanks himself for his helmet. His expression would give everything away in an instant, and he knows that can never happen. He would never tell you. He could never say a word.
He hears three or perhaps four string instruments playing together. The sound travels through the wind and envelopes the pair of you in this tender moment. He wishes that you might reserve this side of you for him but the truth is you are full of this same warmth and gentleness towards everyone, it is just your nature.
You reach a small hand out and he takes it in his large, gloved one. Then he changes his mind, and lets go of you again. You seem disappointed but then you gasp as he removes his gloves.
"Din, you don't have to-"
"I want to." He responds simply.
You don't question him further. After all, you don't really understand much of his religion, only fragments from what he chooses to share. You know he can't show you his face but you're not sure what the rule is about skin in general. You don't think he would break the rules for you, as he is disciplined and pious. And yet, the touch of his hand on yours still feels forbidden.
For him, it shoots electricity up his arm and spreads heat to every corner of his body, heart, and soul. He couldn't have imagined how soft and warm your skin would be, and yet it feels entirely natural to touch you. He wants to explore the feeling of every patch of skin on your body from the soles of your feet to the top of your forehead, with his hands, and his lips.
He steps closer to you until there is barely an inch of space between your two torsos. Your frame is inviting, whilst his is cold and dominating, a wide plate of beskar which conceals well what hides beneath it, his heart, which is yours in its entirety.
You sway gently to the music. He is stiff at first but eventually joins you in motion, pushing you away from him to spin you around, which makes your face light up. As he does this, the scent of your hair washes over him as you whip round. You taste of childhood comforts like birthday cake, and story-time, and fall. He thinks to himself. You taste like the galaxy's sweetest fruits, like apple juice and peach.
But to you, he thinks, I must taste of nothing at all.
He yearns to give himself to you. To remove every piece of armour that separates him from you. To allow you to know him. To prove to you that a beating heart and a warm-blooded man did live within this cold suit of armour.
But even if he could do any of this, he knows you wouldn't have him. You would marry someone with a soul as sensitive as yours. Someone who could make you their muse. A poet, or an artist, someone who could paint you in a picture and ensure your memory was eternal. You wouldn't have him. A hunter. A killer.
You continue to twirl in the grass, Grogu now clawing at the hem of your dress, wanting to be lifted and join the pair of you in a dance for three. She, Din thinks, she means everything to me.
And so, he plays along. He brings you gifts back from nearly every hunt. He dances with you when you ask. but he knows you are not truly his. That you can’t and won’t be. As much as it aches to admit this to himself, it feels oddly good to hurt. The pain in his chest when he thinks of how your time together will soon end is what he considers to be proof that the love he feels for you is real.
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Text
Happy Times
Mando x plus size reader
I’m only going to say this, Pedro Pascal’s happy trail
Warnings: HORNY THOTS, implied smut, happy trail 🫠, little bit of a size kink I’m really not sorry, degradation
WC: 708
Minors DNI
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You were fully hypnotised by the sight in front of you. Mando was partially out of his armour, his chest and thigh plates had been stripped away and were placed on his bunk. It was far too hot on this godforsaken planet for any additional layers and he felt safe enough to remove them.
He was reaching up to a panel above his head, cursing as he could quite reach whatever he was looking for. But you didn’t bother to get up and help, nope, you were perched on a small step stool, Grogu passed out next to you and Mando’s tools on your other side.
Your jaw was fully hanging open, your eyes wide, and there might have been a tiny bit of drool by the corner of your mouth. Why were you like this you may wonder? Well that’s because Mando’s shirt was ever so slightly too short on him so every time he reached up above his head, his shirt would ride up and expose a small sliver of skin just above the hem of his pants.
But even more than that, his pants were slightly too big for him so the top sagged, letting you see the glorious thatch of dark hair at the base of his pelvis. And if your eyes dropped just a little lower, you swore you could see-
“Hand me the wrench please.” His helmet was tilted down towards you and you froze. Your entire body came to light with embarrassment at having been caught ogling the bounty hunter.
“Um yeah here.” You handed him the tool and shamefully dropped your eyes to the floor, wanting to simply melt into the metal to escape his knowing gaze. 
It certainly wasn’t the first time you had been staring at the Mandalorian, in fact, you stared at him every chance you could get. Sure, he was huge, big enough to scare people away by just standing in a slightly menacing way, but he was also protective and kind. Plus his voice was sexy as hell. But, this was the first time you had been caught and it made you feel ashamed.
You gasped as a warm finger curled under your soft chin, forcing you to look up. When had he taken off his gloves? “You handed me a screwdriver. You seem distracted, mesh’la, what’s going through that pretty head of yours?” A shiver of desire rolled down your spine as he towered over you, his massive body blocking the light from the setting sun.
Suddenly, there were no thoughts left in your brain besides him. You could almost feel his smirk from behind the shiny metal of his helm. “I wonder what has you so preoccupied? What could possibly be making you so dumb that you gave me a screwdriver and not a wrench, like I asked for?” His tone was so condescending, it made you feel even smaller but there was no true malice in it.
His hand slipped from your chin when you didn’t answer him, instead he cupped your jaw with his massive paw, squeezing just tightly enough to make you gasp. “When I ask you a question, you answer me.”
“Y-yes Mando.” You stammered out, your thighs squeezing together at the pure dominance and power he radiated. He rewarded you with a gentle stroke of his thumb along your jawline.
“That’s a good girl.” He purred as he bent down so his face was level with yours, only a few inches of perfectly buffed metal between you. “Now are you going to tell me what was so distracting or am I going to have to pry it out of you?”
Hundreds of images flashed behind your eyes, each one more smutty than the last as you imagined what exactly he could do to you to get you to talk. Wetness pooled between your shapely legs, soaking through the flimsy panties you wore. “I think you want it the hard way but I need to hear you say it. Beg for it.”
You swallowed thickly, the words getting caught in your throat. Another squeeze freed them. “Please Mando, I want you so badly.” A modulated frown came through the speakers of his helmet before he spoke again.
“Good girl.”
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groguspicklejar · 1 year
Text
The Questions We Ask [Chapter Twelve]
Summary: You come to find that the Mandalorian doesn't make empty promises. Unfortunately for George and the people who jeopardised your safety, those promises threaten their very existence.
Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader
Warnings: Violence, mentions of SA and trauma caused by SA, Protective!Din, George (let's be honest, he's a warning), mentions of Brexlee, blood, soft!Din, Helmetless!Din, Depression, self deprecating thoughts, Angst, Grogu being adorable, toxic relationships, mentions of child abuse.
Word Count: 6.6K
A/N: Took me so long to write this. I'm not very good at fight scenes, so I kept a lot of it short. Thank you guys again for all the love and support❤️💐 p.s– I'll be watching The Mandalorian s3 very soon to catch up with our favourite father-son duo✨
Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven
Masterlist
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There is an ache in his chest.
Din thinks his heart is already preparing to grieve. It's a silent howl in the forest. He can't calm down. He cannot stop the clamour rattling in his chest, howling and thrashing and begging for you.
That crippling fear he felt on Sorgan comes back with a vengeance. This time, it clings to the nightmare he’s had. His feet move as fast as he can, but it doesn’t seem to matter how many steps he takes. You were nowhere in sight. You were out there, struggling and freezing. You were out there, most likely bleeding. Stabbed or shot or both. Din doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again. The uncertainty scares him more than having to face any danger on his own. The thought of being without you threatens to unearth from beneath the crevices of his armour.
It looms from deep within his soul. The loneliness, it seems, never truly leaves him unless you are with him. He doesn’t know if he can face it again. He will never be at peace knowing that it will always be there, waiting to devour him in your absence.
He makes sure the kid’s pod sticks close. It is sealed shut, protecting the little green baby inside. He knows the kid’s still awake and is most likely anxious about what is about to come. Din does not like the idea of bringing him right to the middle of the battlefield, but he has no choice. He doesn’t trust anyone in that town any more than you do.
 He’s running toward the sounds of blaster fire. Every echo strikes something in him that leaves a smoke trail of fear. He prays that none of those bolts end up embedded in your flesh.
There’s danger lingering in the air. Din is used to it. Years of hunting down some of the most despicable souls out there made him somewhat immune to the idea of death. He cannot, however, bring himself to envision the same for you. He cannot accept the idea of death claiming you. Not while he still breathes.
Din trudges through the snow as fast as he can. Blaster drawn and ready to aim anything that poses a threat to you and the kid. And chaos is what he finds.
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Mere Minutes Ago.
“Cyare?”
You were being followed. There was someone else in the woods and they were following you. You are not sure if that was the proverbial sixth sense speaking to you or if you were just paranoid. Either way, someone was tailing you and it was not the Mandalorian.
“Cyare, talk to me. What’s going on?”
The sound of a blaster stopped you dead in your tracks. It stares you dead in the eye, smoke coming from the hollow barrel. And the person holding it seemed just as eager to end you as it did.
You smell the burnt stench of wood bark. She had shot the tree next to you.
“Take another step and the next one goes right between your eyes.” she warns, halting your every move. “Drop the communicator.”
Your jaw clenched tightly. The small device was the only thing connecting you to the Mandalorian, to Beetle. Your whole life. Resistance floods your veins for a moment.
“Don't make me repeat myself.”
“Marshal Vanda.” you struggle not to stutter in her presence, obeying her order. The communicator sinks into the snow.
She sighs deeply as if this is the last thing she would rather be doing. “You know, I actually thought that by the time the Mandalorian leaves, all of my problems would be fixed.”
You remain silent.
The irritation on her features grates you the wrong way. You’re not sure how to react to it, lest she shoots you for ruining her plans. “I thought he’d go back and help me get rid of the thugs that have been plaguing my town. I thought I’d have to overlook the fact that there were three bounties just waiting to be collected on your heads for the sake of my people.”
Now that is what sparks your rage. You burst out before you can really think better of it, “You claim to be this benevolent saviour yet you work with the likes of George Celwik.”
Her expression hardens. “I’m aware of the blood on his hands and the lives he has ruined merely for his amusement.”
You wonder how she could claim to be looking out for her people while she strikes a deal with a devil like George. You were not even aware of how they came to know each other and although you want to ask, you know it’s not relevant. “Then why?”
“A means to an end.” she simply states, the fingers on her blaster flexing slightly. “I wanted to protect my people. I hope you can understand that. Your bounty alone would’ve done more harm than good if you stayed long enough.”
“So you burn an entire inn with your people in it instead.” you sharply return, the fury melting the chill in your bones. “The people you so desperately want to protect are being caught in the crossfire because you wanted to be rid of me.”
“That wasn’t my idea!” Zaria bursts, taking a step closer. “But the casualties would’ve helped in persuading the Mandalorian to stay a little longer to find the gangs who have been poisoning my town. I had hoped that even if Celwik had taken you, he’d stay to help me fix this mess because Mandalorians seem to have a soft spot for children.”
It doesn’t help ease your apprehension. You’re sure it shows and it irks her. If your judgement makes her ashamed, good. You hope she chokes on her guilt. You hope she realizes that she did more harm than good by inviting that serpent into her town under the pretence that he was going to help her.
“But he didn’t, did he?” your voice is soft, condemning.
“No…” she solemnly confirms. “What I wasn’t counting on was his love for you.”
There’s something in your chest that shatters and it is devastating. You don’t know what spills out of the cracks, but it weighs down on your soul and sinks to the bottom of an abyss. It’s a quiet kind of sorrow that cripples you.
For a second you want to believe her. You want to think that the Mandalorian feels that way for you. The way you could’ve only hoped anyone would’ve felt.
That raw, single most catastrophic feeling floods the heart until the body cannot function without it. 
For so long, you wished Brexlee could feel that way for you. You tried to pretend that he did for a while until it wasn’t enough anymore. Until he hurt you the way he did. You tried to give it time, tried to do everything in your power to make him stay with you, to make him loyal, to commit to you and you alone.
You dressed up. Wore more make-up. Cooked more of his favourite meals. Ran his errands. Spoke less. 
Not a damn thing worked. It wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was.
But when you think about the Mandalorian, about how he risked everything to save the child and somehow bring you with him, something surges up from the depths of your broken heart.
You remember the tenderness in his caress when he holds you close, the soft reverence in his voice when he speaks. You remember when he took off his armour in front of you, letting himself be vulnerable in your presence. It dawns on you that he never would’ve done that with anyone else. Only you have that privilege. Only you.
When he allows you to touch him, you know that it is as close to divinity as you’ll ever come to. Nothing will ever compare to the honour of having his trust in the cusp of your hands. You cradle it the way you would hold Beetle to your chest, nestle it close to your heart and never let go.
He is out there right now. Tracking you down. As he promised, he is scorching a path through the thick snow to find you.
You want to dig your heels and stay exactly where you are. You want to wait for him right here. Elation sings in your bones at the thought of seeing him again.
You barely had any time to react before a shot pierced her arm.
“Get 'em, boys!”
Several shrieks are all you hear before you take off. Blast fire rings everywhere and you do your best to get away from it. You barely glance behind as you do and it seems one of your nightmares has come to life.
Bandits, it looked like. They were all teeth and knives and blasters blazing in the thick of the cold forest. You wonder if they were the same ones the Mandalorian was hunting. 
You don’t get very far before one of them blocks your way. His teeth glint as brightly as the dagger in his hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Your skin prickles with fear. He throws the knife between his hands. Back and forth, the steel gleams and silently terrorizes you. He takes a step closer and you take a step back.
“I think I’ve seen you before.” he says, twirling the knife between his fingers. “Pretty little thing you are, aren’t ya?”
You don’t respond. Eyes wide and glancing about to see if you’ve got anything to use against a Devaronian twice your size and his weapon. You have nothing besides the snow beneath your feet and–
Wait…
The flash charge.
“Where’s your Mandalorian, huh?” he jibes, grinning from horn to horn as he takes another step.
There’s another one behind you who asks, “Kriff, is that the Marshal?”
Your hands are shaking. You want to escape this mess but you are aware that if you don’t get it right the first time, it might just be your only and last attempt. Before he could even think, you close your eyes and activate the charge. Behind your eyelids, there is nothing but dull light and you hear a piercing cry. You keep moving, hoping you don’t bump into anything through squinted eyes. You keep your vision away from where the charge was shot.
You hear them yelling in your wake.
“What the kriff was that!”
“Where’d she go?!”
The worst one was the one who got the brunt of your attack. You know for sure that the flash charge burned him in the worst way possible because he was wailing about how his eyes hurt. There’s a part of you that does feel sorry for him.
But you think better of having sympathy for those who seek to harm you. This is the consequence of his bad intentions.
When you’ve run far enough from where the light was, though it has now faded, you open your eyes and charge forward.
Just by Maker’s intervention or simply dumb luck, the bandit in front of you bursts into dust.
Dust. He doesn’t drop into a heap. Doesn’t fall on his back. Doesn’t even make a sound of distress. It all went by too fast for either one of you to even react. No wounds. No bruises. No cuts. No black blood splattering on the tree bark and the snow. He just… poofed into ash. The knife he held dropped into the snow.
You’re so disconcerted by the sight that you screamed.
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He didn’t mean to frighten you. Only the bandits. The vile men who want to hurt you.
Din felt the sick satisfaction rush through him when the Devaronian dissipated into ashes right in front of you. His only regret was your blood-curdling scream. He doesn't have time to dwell on it before the rest of them swarm upon him like a hive.
He sets the pod to move away from him before he gets to work. There are more who stay than run. The ones who don’t value their lives hang back to try and fight. One by one, each dies by rifle, knife or fire. He barely glances to see you hiding behind a tree before a bullet bounces on his pauldron. He does his best not to get shot where the armour doesn’t cover him.
Another blast rings behind him. He finds another rat dropping at his feet. The one who shot him was someone he least expects to be here.
Deputy Tenyl Khan joins the fight. He barely sends a nod before finding himself in a scuffle.
It’s a bloodbath. Those that save themselves are far and very few, but there are still enough of them to make his ears ring with adrenaline. Most likely on their way to the nearest spaceport.
Another bandit disintegrated with frightening accuracy. Din hits the closest criminal with the butt of his rifle. The next one puts up a fight, but it’s hardly a match. His opponent’s knife merely grazes his armour and ends up with a vibroblade in his stomach. It ended as quickly as it began.
“Let me go!” He’s startled by the sound of your voice. Din doesn’t hesitate to draw his rifle once again, ready to shoot at whatever is a threat to you.
When the commotion dies down, he’s only left with one more obstacle. A wave of dread freezes him right where he stands when he finally comes to terms with what he’s looking at.
George holds a blaster under your chin while his other hand firmly clasps around you, restricting you from running. You’re breathing harshly through your nose, keeping your head held high as George backs away with you.
“Put the rifle down, Mando! Or she dies!” he yells. “Put it down!”
He’s backed into a tall tree. Two to one. Blood oozed from his forehead and stained the locks of his blond hair. Green eyes, wild and heated with desperation as he looked around for a way out that did not involve him getting shot dead.
There wasn’t a way out. Not if Din has something to say about it. On top of that, he wasn’t about to allow George to take you with him either. Not when he’s come this close to having you in his arms again.
“You’re outgunned and outnumbered.” The Deputy speaks, rigid as he moves to one side. “Don’t be stupid. Let her go.”
He’s surrounded. Din stands in front, staring right at you. He hates having to point his rifle in your direction. You’re trembling. Frightened and distressed. The exhaustion set in your bones was suppressed under a thick layer of adrenaline. It was nothing like the picture in his mind, of you, of his nightmare. But it was close enough.
You’re heaving in shallow breaths, but you’re still alive and well. There’s a nasty bruise on your face that he’d like to tend to. Your body temperature is most likely lower than it should be. He should get you somewhere warm. Preferably the Razer Crest. Where it is safest. Once the three of you are in hyperspace, Din can start working on every wound that has been inflicted on you while he was absent.
He shouldn’t have been absent in the first place. He’s been away for too long. He should’ve gotten to you sooner–
“You should’ve just left her on Nevarro, Mando.” George chuckles darkly. “Would’ve been a lot easier for both of us.”
Din disagrees on that last part. He watches silently as the man jerks you around when you fidget. A quiet rage bubbled underneath with each waking moment.
There were countless quarries that had captured and capitalized on when he was working for The Guild. Many of them didn't deserve to be sent to their doom. Din earned the right to choose his own bounties because of the stories he's heard. Innocent men, women and children being sentenced to death by hunters and their clients.
He didn't want that on his conscience. That's why he picked the worst of the lot. Bail jumpers, murderers, predators, all the ones he wouldn't give a damn about when he pulled the trigger.
But you?
You were no quarry. Your only crime was being the daughter of a man who only saw you as a broodmare. You did not deserve to be hunted down like some animal and held at gunpoint.
George made the mistake of believing so. He was as good as dead the second he put his hands on you. The same goes for everyone else who took the job. 
“Is she really worth all this, hmm? She that good in the sack?” The barb burns something deep, making his jaw clench tightly. “She must be. Heard she drove Brexlee to the point of insanity because he couldn't get enough of her. Always had to have his hands on her, whether she liked it or not.”
Din's ears trickle sharply at the words. The small blinks in your tearful eyes, the way your gaze shifts away from his…
Did he hurt you? His own voice rings back to him. It felt like so long ago since he asked that question. It was a request to glimpse into your life without him. Or rather, an excuse. A valid reason to execute the man who mistreated you.
The first night on Sorgan comes back in flashes. Soft touches. Fingers laced between his. Low candlelight. Din's own heart thundering perilously in his chest because you were so close to him. So close, so vulnerable.
He asked that question because he needed to see, to know if he was going to live with an ocean of guilt flooding his chest every time he thought about how he didn't take a chance with you sooner. How he could've saved you the trouble of being with that scumbag.
He stops breathing.
N–no.
The tight smile hid a lie he should have never ignored. He should've pushed. He should have dug deeper because he wasn't sure then. He is now and the ocean crushes his soul.
Beside him, Tenyl brazenly speaks up, “Drop the blaster, Celwick.”
“Not until Mando drops his rifle.” George sneers, shifting you back when you squirm against him, pressing the blaster harder against your skin. “Or I blow her pretty little brains out.”
Din freezes. His mind forces him to imagine it. The blood in the snow. Your body, cold and lifeless. Bile rises up his throat because he cannot bear to see that image unfold. An inexplicable, volatile monster nearly forces its way to the surface to prevent that thought from turning into yet another reality.
He won’t take the risk. The imminent threat to your life is too great.
Slowly, the rifle is lowered. But it does nothing to ease the heart rattling violently in his chest. So long as that blaster is still pointed at you, Din won’t relax. Not for one second.
“That’s right.” George goads, eyes gleaming with victory. “Easy does it, Mando.”
“Mando.” Deputy Khan warns beside him, but he ignores it. He has to.
“Drop your weapon.” Din responds to him instead.
Tenyl doesn’t immediately react to the order. Din wants to go over to him and knock him down for not listening, for increasing the risk on your life. He doesn’t.
He won’t look away from you. Too afraid that if he does, you might just vanish and slip right through his fingers again and this time, he won’t be able to find you. He’s going to choke on his own blood-stained sorrow if you are not in his arms soon.
However, the Deputy lowers his weapon with a heavy sigh and a hardened mask. Din’s breathing comes a little easier. Your expression softens ever so slightly.
“Good.” George nods. “Now here’s what’s gonna happen.” Din clenches his fist when you whimper as the man taps his blaster on your temple. “I’m taking her with me.”
“Forget it.” Din spat.
“Oh, I’m sure you can find a new slut to take care of your needs in hyperspace, Mando.” Your bleary eyes slowly blink, closing as the blaster pressed firmly at your cheek, digging into your teeth. “This one’s already spoken for.”
Your shaky voice speaks up, “You might as well shoot me right now.”
“Cyare!” Din sharply barked, trying to dissuade you, but you began to struggle against your captor.
“I’m not going anywhere with you–” You're a caged bird, thrashing against the bars. Frantic and afraid. Tears in your eyes, but still fighting to get out. Din fears you might hurt your wing while trying to escape, or worse.
“Hey!” George barks immediately, keeping you still. He seethed harshly into your ear as you grimaced.  “Play nice, Sweet Cheeks. I don’t wanna have to return damaged goods to my buyer.”  He glanced at Din, faint amusement lining his features as he continued, “But since Mando’s already had a taste, I guess it’s a little late for that. Bet your fiance’s not gonna be happy about that.”
Another blaster clicks. This time, it’s not Din’s or Tenyl’s or even the one held so close to your throat. “Drop it.”
The Marshal is pissed.
She breathes deeply through her nose. Her face sports a few cuts and bruises, probably from being ambushed by the men that had attacked you. There’s blood on her sleeve. Her hair, wild and dishevelled. She looks like she is fighting the intrusive thought of just pulling the trigger. Din almost wishes she would, if it were not for the chance that it might trigger Celwick’s blaster.
A dark chuckle escapes George, not even bothering to turn his head to face her. “My, how the tables have turned…”
“Don’t make me say it again.” She jerks the nozzle against his head, the same way he had done to you.
“Zaria.” He grits his teeth, face hardening. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“I don’t think so.” she counters quickly. “Most of those scumbags are dead. Those that remain are all on the run and those that remain are smart enough to get off this planet, which means Mando did his job.” She has the audacity to smirk. “I have no more use for the likes of you.”
The irony of her words is not lost on any of you.
“I knew you were too much of a goody two shoes to join my ranks.” he scoffs.
“Let her go and drop your weapon, Celwick.” she orders and when he does nothing, her eyes narrow. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”
“You think Mando won’t come after you just because you’re putting up the hero front, hmm?” George remarks smugly, laughing when the Marshal falls silent. “You were in cahoots with me to steal his little pet. He’s not letting that go–”
“Do it!” she hisses, abruptly cutting him off.
Din holds his breath, waiting for a shift in the tides. His hand tightens on his pulse rifle. He was already preparing himself to use it one more time.
For a minute, no one moves. No one makes a sound. Tension hangs in the air and haunts everyone present.
And then, for some miraculous reason, George makes his last mistake.
You’re shoved to the side. You land on the snow. Din does not think. He saw an opening and he took it. His finger is on the trigger faster than he can breathe. Several shots ring and echo into the forest. Eight in total. Two from Tenyl. Two from Zaria. Three from Celwick.
And one from Din.
Suddenly, there was one less person in existence.
Dark ashes floated and fell like snowflakes onto the ground. Din’s mind was numb for a split second as he stared almost in disbelief. There was one less man out to get you. And he was responsible for that. He did that.
He heaved out a sigh of relief before turning to look at you.
You were still on the floor. Trembling with hands over your head as you were curled up into a ball to shield yourself from the spray of blaster fire.
Din goes to you, his head ringing from the fact that this nightmare was all over. You were still alive, still breathing. Up until now, he had to face the possibility of living what was left of his lifetime without you and that was not something he was willing to accept.
He kneels and reaches you, finally–finally…
You’re startled when his hands grasp your shoulders. Wide eyes staring right at him, heavy, shaky breaths heaving in and out. There was terror in your soul and it seeped through your clothes like water and stained his gloves and his armour when he embraced you.
“Mando…” you cried, burying your face in his cowl. “You found me…” your voice trembled as your bones did and it frightened him as much as it thrilled him when you kept mumbling– “You found me, you found me, you found me–”
He did. He did find you. Just like he promised. He didn’t fail you this time.
“I’ve got you, Cyare.” he croaked, nearly choking back his own tears as they threatened to drown him. “I’ve got you.”
He’s not letting you go this time. Not for anything. He rooted his fingers into you. Tightly. Deeply. Anchoring you to him. As if parting with you will kill him.
After all of this, it might as well have.
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“He said that you beat him up on Nevarro.” you quietly ask him, noticing the way his shoulders tense. Your hand cupped the side of the helmet. “Is this true?”
He doesn’t answer you immediately, focusing on wrapping the white cloth around your wrist. He’s gentle, careful not to do it too tightly, but makes it firm enough to stop you from losing any more blood.
There’s a certain honour to his actions. He does the task with the same kind of respect that can be seen when he’s cleaning his armour. He holds your wrist as if it is made of Beskar, like it is meant to be valued by high-ranking officials of the universe.
Something in your stomach flutters as you quietly regard him, relishing the care he takes in looking after you. The adrenaline in your blood is dispelled by his presence and your shoulders finally ease down. The assurance of having him around you quietly whispers, telling you that you are going to be okay.
“Looking back on it now, I realize that I’ve made a mistake.” he finally speaks. “I should’ve killed him right then and there.”
You’re not sure whether to be frightened by his confession or laugh. But a warm smile etches across your lips, your tone softly teasing, “Mando, how long have you been looking out for me?”
It does not come as a surprise when he doesn’t immediately answer. His visor faces anywhere by your eyes and it makes you aware that you’re making him nervous.
Finally, he says, “Since the day we met.”
Your smile drops. The quiet shock in your eyes is clearer than the waters of Naboo. You’re sure his confession sparked a glimmer of stars in your wounded soul. Lighting their way through your darkest hour.
Now it makes sense. Even if you hadn’t seen the light –his light– it was always there. Showing you the way. Directing you to better paths. Guiding you out of an abyss.
Be a little more careful around these streets. The next person might not be so forgiving. He had told you this the first day you met.
Brexlee is bad news. A warning you should have taken heed of, but a warning nonetheless.
You are not a liability. Even though you’ve always felt like one to him, it feels nice to know that he doesn’t think so.
Little moments like this you’ve rarely had with anyone else. He’s been right there for you, even when you thought he wasn’t. This is more than what you’ve gotten from anyone. If the price of devotion was steep, you are to pay it in earnest, and you are overjoyed to have it reciprocated.
“I’ve…” He's struggling. You can tell as his helmet tilts downward, unable to hold your gaze. “You’ve always been…”
Your heart takes the form of a never-ending storm. Like blue flames scorching through the darkness. Uncontrollable and untamed. You will never understand how a man with few words can undo you so aptly when you’ve spent nearly your entire life plagued by those with endless false promises.
But he speaks. Although it is silent, he still makes his own promises. Unbreakable vows that fill your chest with something that never fails to numb the ache left behind by those who have wronged you. He speaks with his actions. The hands that brought chaos to so many others could never seem to harm a single hair on your head.
You look down and you smile. You’ve heard enough. This was enough for now.
“I know who sent the bounty.” you confided softly instead. “On me, I mean.”
Somehow, this was a lot easier to talk about. The danger. The bounties. The lives you were both running from. For all of the chaos you’ve endured and how reluctant you are on reliving it, it felt much better to air it all out, rather than talk about what this thing hanging between you and the Mandalorian was.
He looks up in surprise and waits for you to continue.
“George wasn't taking me to Nevarro.” Your hands fiddle together. “He was taking me to Naboo.”
Vast oceans. The smell of salt in the air. Your mother’s soft humming lulling you to sleep at night. The taste of jogan fruits. Laughter in the house, in the shop. Your mother’s toolbox opened as she shows you all the different parts of a droid and how each one works.
You almost want it back now. But you know you would have to trade it for the life you have with the Mandalorian. Actually, no. That’s not even correct. You wouldn’t even be living with your mother and uncle. Your father won’t allow it this time.
“I guess my father sealed whatever deal he's made with the highest bidder, even in my absence.” You weakly shrug with an empty voice. “I wonder what he'll do once he finds out that I'm not pure anymore. Used goods won't fetch a fair price—”
“Hey.” he sharply interjects, gloved hands cupping your cold cheeks to make you face him. “You are not used goods. You are no one's property. No one's.”
Your eyes stay fixed on his visor while your heart threatened to burst inside your ribcage. “Not even yours?”
The silence that follows is nothing like the cold that surrounds you. It is stifling, terrifyingly warm. He makes a sound under his helmet, you weren’t sure if he was saying something or if he was choking.
“I…” The touch of his gloves faltered on your skin. “I don’t consider you to be property.”
You know this. He has made it abundantly clear to you since the day you met. And he has hardly given you any reason to believe otherwise.
“But since you are travelling with me, that means…” he hesitated, but your breath stuttered when he steps closer. “You are mine to protect.”
You cannot deny the warmth that floods your cheeks. He is a dream you never want to wake up from. The ocean you would like to drown in.
A slow smile breaks through your lips. You tipped your forehead against the top of his helmet and sighed as his arms wrapped around your waist. You sink into his embrace with no resistance, revelling in his strength. Everything slows and you know, you just know that nothing will ever compare to this feeling.
This is the part that screws you over. Because you don’t want it to end. You don’t want to slip away from him ever again. Not like the last couple of times. Or any other way. But you know that there will be something after the other, so long as those bounties still stand.
How long until your next separation? Is it going to be permanent this time?
You don’t want those questions answered.
Not soon after, when the snow starts to fall again, you quietly feed Beetle while the Mandalorian speaks to Deputy Khan. The Razer Crest had been fully restocked with items you were sure weren’t poisoned and heated up to melt away at the chill in your bones. You’re sitting on a storage box in the cargo hold with the baby on your lap, glancing at both of them.
Beetle has been babbling endlessless since your return. He clings to you as you pick him up and carry him, nuzzling his little face in your neck. He threatened to cry when his father wanted to take him. As much as you were tired from all the violence, you missed him too. You didn't mind him much because he just wanted to be close to you.
“Your reward.” Khan hands him a briefcase, no doubt filled with a large amount of credits. “It looks like you scared off the rest of the bastards who were poisoning the town. We’re closing down their base of operations right now.”
“The old factory.” Mando says.
“That’s the one.” Tenyl confirms with a nod. “Those bastards were systematically picking off and abducting people and killing them off in that Maker-forsaken place.”
“And the Marshal?” you spoke up, surprising both men. Their heads turned to you and you shrink, wanting to disappear.
“In a holding cell.” Tenyl replies sadly. “She turned in her badge.”
To your understanding, she was a good friend of his. He couldn’t understand why she would jeopardize everything and everyone she has ever known and loved the way she did. Granted, she was trying to save the town, but there should have been clear judgement in her mind when it came to how she went about it.
Some people just don’t know the difference between saving the world and destroying it.
“She…” He paused, taking a few steps closer to you. He was apologetic, sombre. It pulled at your heartstrings. “She didn't intend to hurt you, Miss. She was just desperate to make it all stop. Maker knows she's lost too many people to this plague. We all did.”
The infant cooed softly in your lap, his tiny claws gripping your shirt. You frowned deeply. Grief has a weird way of showing itself. It would be difficult to forgive Zaria, but not impossible. The Deputy, for all of his benevolence, did not expect forgiveness from you anytime soon. He could only tell you the truth and let it be as it is.
“Thank you for saving this town, Mando.” were his final words before he left the Crest.
Your heart felt a little heavy for him and his people. That, hopefully, will fade once you leave this planet.
In hyperspace, after you had taken a shower, you lay your tired body to rest. The cot felt smaller than before. Maybe that was because you spent too many hours in the vast icy forest, where everything felt too big and the land stretched wide. Or maybe it was because the Mandalorian lay right behind you, holding you to him in the dark with a gentle palm splayed against your stomach. The heat spills into the fabric of the shirt you wear. It’s his. The one you borrowed on Sorgan.
You’ve been in the cold for too long. Because you happily allowed him to cling to you, his arm firmly chaining you to him. There is no armour attached to his chest or thighs or his head. He took it off long after he found you in the cot. You were glad to breathe in his scent. The soft fabric of his tunic was comforting. But most of all, the sound of his breathing. Steady and certain. Assuring you that every one of your fears will never reach you again.
Although you close your eyes, you refuse to fall asleep. You want to savour this. You want to look back someday and remember this. Remember the way he holds your heart against his. Remember his unwillingness to let go.
It’s almost sad how no one will know how much it means to you. For they will never know how much of this you’ve been denied. You don’t mind that though. As long as the loneliness is no longer something you have to bear, nor the guilt being the factor that cripples you, it’s all right.
The ground can swallow you whole for all you care. It wouldn’t matter. The Mandalorian will be right there with you. Grasping your hand in the dark as you both walk in step toward the light at the end of the tunnel.
“Ner cyra’ika…”
You’re jolted by the rumble of his voice. It is unfiltered, raw. Yet faint, lulling you to an unknown solace. Like a silken touch to your senses. You have yet to get used to it without the modulation of his helmet. It takes you a moment to collect yourself after being called that for the second time in your life. You hope there will be more occasions. “Yes?”
Silence falls over you. You welcome it. You feel his breaths on the back of your neck, his nose gently tracing your skin. He makes you ache and sigh and wish for an eternity spent like this. He is like the moon, high above and caressing you with his gentle light.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” His tone is soft, relenting. Whatever answer you give will be enough and he won’t push it.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes. Your lashes flutter in the darkness. It comes as no surprise. Of course, he would ask about that.
Always had to have his hands on her–
Taking a shower after that night was nothing short of dreadful. The piping hot water boiled your skin raw and even after that, you still couldn't erase how filthy you felt.
–whether she liked it or not.
Repeating the things Goerge said earlier was not something you want to do at the moment. You were a blink away from reliving it all again. The vile lust of the man who destroyed something in you. It'll never go away.
Please stop it. You’re scaring me.
You will remember that night for as long as you live. That was certain. If there was any way of erasing it entirely from your memory, from your body, from your soul– you would take it in a heartbeat.
It is not meant to reach the surface of the ocean. Yet.
Your fingers lace through his and you try not to choke as you speak softly, “Some things I’m not ready to tell…”
You know it's irrational. He cares for you. He has proven so far too many times for you to count. You should tell him. He won't condemn you. He won’t leave you.
His hand squeezes yours before you feel his lips press against the back of your ear. “Get some rest.”
Heat chafes your skin, but you force your heart to be still. You will not fall asleep in your own tears today. Even as the memories plague you.
Did he hurt you?
He knows the answer now. And so do you. It breaks both of your hearts.
But how incredibly fortunate it is that each half, yours and his, were a perfect fit for each other.
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Masterlist
Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Thirteen
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inkypizza · 4 months
Text
Trade Off 2 [Din Djarin Headcannons]
(part 1) Warnings: dubcon, smut, fingering, mentions of m!receiving, transactional interactions, bounty x quarry dynamics, power imbalance.
He felt more inclined to make another bargain.
And another one.
And then another.
You started to trade for more stuff.
A book (you had to make a heavy bargain for this one because it meant he'd have to uncuff only one of your hands)
A mattress to sit on, instead of the cold hard floor.
Food that wasn't stale rations and biscuits.
Things that are a little more than bare necessities.
If you were going to have a long journey, you might as well make it a comfortable one.
You didn't mind giving him a blowjob or two a day for that.
It didn't mean anything.
It was purely transactional.
Until, it wasn't. You just hadn't realized it yet.
The sudden click of the magnetic cuffs startled you.
“Try something stupid and I'll kill you.”
You quickly nodded before letting your hands grasp his thighs.
But that wasn't what he was looking for.
He grips your arms, forcing you to stand up.
You try not to look at his visor, your gaze only setting elsewhere.
“What else are you willing to trade?”
His inquiry frightens you.
You don't want to offer anything else.
He's a bounty hunter.
A vicious killer.
You've seen the blood on his armour when he brought that other bounty inside the ship.
Your voice trembles as you reply, “J–just… just my mouth.”
He presses his hands on either side of your head, leaning closer. “Are you sure?”
He's not going to take no for an answer.
You know that.
At the very least, you could play along.
“What are you offering?”
He is quiet for a moment.
“No cuffs for the rest of the journey.” your eyes widen considerably. “But if you try anything–”
“–you'll put me in carbonate.”
“Do we have a deal?”
No cuffs? For the rest of the journey?
It is a long journey…
You wouldn't mind getting a bit of relief on your arms and hands.
“Just–” you squeak as he pushes you against the wall, palms against his chestplate to slow him down. “just it quick and please don't hurt me.”
He looks at you.
The silence is deafening.
You can hear your own breaths as he takes his gloves off.
Slowly, his hands tug the skirt of your dress up.
You feel the rough palms sliding against your thighs.
He's gentle when he touches you.
You're not sure if it's because you asked him not to you or if he just wants to savour this.
Either way, it makes your cheeks burn hotly.
One hand presses against your hip, holding up the fabric of your dress, while the other–
A sharp gasp startles you when you feel his fingers tracing against your panties, gently caressing your pussy.
Your hands immediately clutch at his wrist.
“Not wet enough.” he muses, more to himself than you.
The hand that wasn't occupied with your cunt slides down your leg and lifts until your knee braces against his hip.
Then you feel it grasping your breast as he leans his helm against your neck, murmuring, “So soft…”
All the while his fingers traced the little pearl between your folds.
Gentle and patient, drawing slow circles against you.
He fondles your breast, gently plucking at the bud until it hardens and then he does the same to the other.
It wasn't long until you felt yourself growing wet.
The small affection he gives warming something within you.
Softening your cold, hard shell of a heart.
The outer rim doesn't afford much kindness.
You've been with men who couldn't care less about your pleasure.
Men who left you wanting, who took and took and gave nothing.
Men who took, even without your permission.
The Mandalorian might be the first who took his time.
And gave you a little something in return.
The thought made tears well up in your eyes but you refuse to let them fall.
Not now.
You bite back a whimper when his bare hand slides under your panties, closing your eyes tightly when his fingers meet the wetness gathering at your opening.
He glides one finger inside, just the top of it, collecting some of the damp moisture there.
Your head falls against the cold wall with a shaky sigh when he begins to circle your clit, your leg curling against him.
Maker, it feels good.
Why does he make it feel so good?
“Does that hurt?” he asks.
“N-no…” you shake your head, hands finding purchase on his arms instead.
He hums deeply, pressing his fingers against your nub.
You start to lose it when he slides his finger inside your drenched pussy.
He slips in so deep, your mouth parts open for a trembling moan to escape.
Your legs instinctively try to shut on him, but he presses a hand against your thigh, keeping you open.
“Spread your legs wider, cyar’ika. That’s it, just like that.”
Your fingers clutch desperately at his wrist as he fingers your soaked cunt.
He sinks in so deep that he’s grazing something you’ve never quite felt inside, something you never knew existed.
Something that makes your leg jerk and twitch against his thigh, sharp gasps escaping your throat while you try to bite your lip and reign them in.
You don’t know how he’s capable of this.
Of drawing a pleasurable kind of heat from deep within your belly, making you so wet that the act of him playing with your cunt draws the most lewd noises.
You opted to put a hand over your mouth to cover the whimpers and mewls spilling from them while your body succumbs to the pleasure being inflicted upon it.
“Are you close?” the Mandalorian asks.
You nod vigorously, shuddering at the tingles slinking down your spine as he thumbs your swollen clit.
“Good.” he says. “Then cum for me, cyar’ika. Don’t hold back.”
Your body seizes viciously at his command.
The ecstasy bursts from your pussy and you feel it gush all over his fingers.
Worst of all, you couldn’t even hold back the helpless moan from spilling out of your mouth.
Your vision blurs severely as you’re wracked with the onslaught of delirium, that you don’t register the Mandalorian gently pulling you until you laid down on the floor and him pulling his pants down.
You don’t see the way his hard cock springs free and he uses his wet wingers to jerk off at your open thighs.
Your eyes close and you feel yourself slipping out of consciousness.
You don’t feel his desperation as he strokes his cock as he watches you go limp, wishing he could wake you up and fuck you like he wants to.
He cums and he cums hard, spilling his seed all over your thighs, marking you in a way that makes his chest unfurl with something warm and dark and utterly twisted.
You only wake up to a pillow under your head and your thighs feeling suspiciously clean.
hope you liked it💖(part 3)
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thetriumphantpanda · 7 months
Text
i'll be needing stitches | din djarin
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Summary | The Mandalorian has never had someone else tend to his wounds.
Pairing | Din Djarin x F!Reader 
Word Count | 2.1k
Warnings | Future chapters will include smut, but this one involves mentions of injuries, a dead bounty, explicit descriptions of an untrained professional stitching someone up, blood, some explicit thoughts and some yearning.
Authors Note | My favourite tin can man is back and ready for business. I am having such a wonderful time imagining all the things Din has never experienced before and the idea that he has only ever been the one to patch himself up was more than I could cope with. As always, comments, reblogs and freaking out in my ask box are all welcome and if you enjoyed this, please consider supporting me with a donation to my Ko-Fi. 
I no longer use taglists - please follow @thetriumpantpandanotifs and turn on notifications to know when I upload fics. 
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi
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He’d been gone a few days. That was nothing new. Off hunting his next bounty, leaving you in charge of child. You didn’t mind it, once you’d gotten used to the fact that you couldn’t really reason with him, and that you’d be tired from constantly keeping an eye on him, he was actually pretty decent company. 
You’re fussing with him, trying to get him to go down for some rest when the Crest doors open and there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor. That’s nothing out of the ordinary, so you don’t rush to see what’s happening. What is out of the ordinary is the sound of metal crashing to the floor right after it. 
You whip around, looking at the scene before you. There’s a dead bounty on the ground, being kept company by Mando, who is crumpled on the floor in his armour, a pool of blood seeping out from underneath his left leg as he struggles to push himself up. 
“Bloody hell,” you exclaim, immediately dropping all worry of the child to drop to your knees next to him, “What the hell happened?!” 
He doesn’t respond, just grips at the injured leg, trying to get the bleeding to subside. His trousers are torn and there’s a nasty gash to the skin of his thigh that is about to cause a whole world of problems if you can’t fix it. 
With your hand on his shoulder, placed there to let him know you’re near, you whip your head around trying to remember where he keeps the healing equipment. He’s needed it before, but only for minor injuries, and has never needed your help before, but with the way the blood is spreading across the floor, he’s going to need you now. 
He feebly lifts a hand, pointing in the direction of his bunk, “Left it…. There.” He struggles to spit out. 
“Okay, I’ll fetch it,” your voice is laced with panic, like if you leave him now, he’s going to pass out, or worse, “You’ve gotta promise me you’ll stay with me, okay?” There’s no response, “Mando? You hear me? No sleeping!” 
He mumbles something unintelligible under his helmet but at least he’s talking. You let your hand drop, guiding him down to lie on the floor whilst you rush to his bunk, pulling at the haphazard sheets until the first aid box appears at the foot of the bed. You’re back on your knees next to him in no time, and he’s still moving about and groaning as you put your hand on his thigh to get a better look at his wound. 
Your fingers tear at the edges of the material, wanting to allow him to keep his modesty but see the extent of the damage. The gash is angry, blood seeping from it with red edges. You tip the top of the box open and root through it. There’s a single bottle of bacta spray, which you pull out, give a little shake and go to take the top off, when his wide palm circles around your wrist to stop you. 
“No.” 
You let a frustrated growl leave your throat, “Then what, Mando?!” You exclaim, “You’re bleeding out, what am I meant to do?!”
“The thread,” He chokes out, “Just stitch it up.” 
You look him straight in the visor, hoping your disapproving look is landing through his beskar. You are not a nurse, if you try and stitch him up you’re only going to make it worse. 
“I’m going to make it worse like that,” You insist, “I’ve never stitched anything in my life.” 
“Y-yes you have,” he squeezes your wrist, to reassure you, “Y-your tunic.” 
“Mando, this is your fucking leg we’re talking about, not my clothes, it’s completely different.” 
He pulls on your arm now, dragging your attention to him, craning his helmet as much as he can to look at you, “Do not waste that spray.” He demands, and even when he’s bleeding out on the floor, he commands you, knows that no matter what, he calls the shots - he lets your arm go, pushing you away gently but towards his leg. 
You could argue with him that saving him from certain death is not wasting it, but the longer you bicker, the less time you have, so with shaking hands, you put the bacta spray back, and instead find the needle and surgical thread. With shaking hands, you do your best to thread the needle and tie it off at one end, before your hands are grasping at his thigh. 
“This is going to suck,” You mutter, because it is, it would suck at the hands of a trained professional, so it’s definitely going to suck at the hands of someone who could barely sew their own clothes together, “I’m sorry.” 
You don’t give him enough time to respond, or yourself much time to consider what you’re actually doing, you just push the needle through the skin closest to you and over to the other side, trying not to look up or focus too hard on the sounds he’s making as you drag the needle back and forward through his skin, watching as the skin closes together the further along the wound you pull. Your hands are shaking, and you’re holding your breath, but you don’t seem to be making it worse, which is something you’ll take. 
You’re trying your best to concentrate on making the line of stitches as neat and tidy as you can, but all you can really focus on are the sounds that are coming from underneath that helmet of his. Low groans and grunts of pain as you work the needle through his skin, groans and grunts that you can’t help thinking about in another context, like if you weren’t currently trying to stitch him up and instead he had you pinned down and was- okay, no absolutely not. 
You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the now incredibly distracting train of thought. Sure, there have been moments when you’d thought about it, though about what kind of lover he would be, mainly only out of curiosity than your own desires. But ever since he took that damn helmet off in the rain and touched your face, you can’t help but wonder what kind of lover he’d be for you.
Whilst he’s led there on the floor, all his trust put in you to patch him up and make him better, make sure he lives, and all you can is wonder what those sounds would be like for you. What the press of his thighs would do to your own when he put himself between your body, or what this specific thigh, gripped in your hand, clenched as you push the needle through once more, would feel like between your legs. Would he guide you through it, with those big hands on your hips, or would he lean back and let you take what you needed? Would he snake that hand down the front of your trousers and help you along, or would he let you do it all yourself? 
He’s agitated, and understandably so, it’s been a slow patch up, with you making sure that the scar your sutures will leave is as neat as it possibly can be. As you bend your head to look closely as you tie another knot in the end of the stitches, you realise he will have this for the rest of his life. A permanent mark on his skin, made by someone else sure, but patched up by you. The Mandalorian will always have this reminder of you etched into his skin, even if, for some reason, you cease to exist in his life. It’s primal, the way is makes you feel, that one day, if you’re gone, he’ll have to explain your existence to someone when they ask how he got that scar. You will forever be a piece of him. 
He’s gone suspiciously quiet, the pain you were causing him by driving a needle through his damn skin has made way to a dull throb. You reach into the first aid box, pulling out some gauze and tissue. You use the tissue and what little disinfectant there is to clean the sutures and the blood from his skin,  before haphazardly taping the gauze over it to try and keep it clean and free from infection. 
He pushes himself up on his elbows once you’re done, watching as you clean away your mess. He wants to reach out to you, he wants to touch you, to anchor himself to you and never let go, to thank you, but instead he simply tries to push himself up whilst trying to keep the stitches you just put in him intact. He lets out a pained groan, you whip your head around.
“Maker, help me,” You grumble, dropping the things you were attempting to clean up to rush back to his side, “I just sewed you up and you’re trying to move on your own?” You’re trying to speak in a tone that is authoritative but it doesn’t seem to come out that way, “Can’t you just sit still for a minute?” 
“Need to get us out of here,” He mumbles, taking hold of your hand that you’ve offered him, using your body to steady himself as he pulls himself up off the floor, “I’m sorry.” 
“For what?” You ask, letting him lean on you slightly for support as he hobbled toward the ladder to the cockpit, despite him weighing considerably more than you. 
He doesn’t actually respond to your question, once he’s at the cockpit ladder, he seems to not need your help anymore – struggling up the steps, grunting with each movement of his injured leg, so you let him go, turning around to finish cleaning up. As you’re cleaning the blood from the floor, you’re face-to-face with the body of the bounty he’d dropped on the floor. You’d seen him deal with these bounties more than once – normally when they’re talking back and fighting – so this will prove easier than anticipated. The bounty is slight, so dragging it into the carbonite chamber is easy enough. You flip some switches and press a few buttons and in no time the bounty is stuck there, waiting to be handed off whenever Mando gets you back to Nevarro. 
It’s not until much later that he reappears. You’ve fed the child, fed yourself, left a ration pack for him, and you’re just killing time, waiting for the child to wear himself out so you can finally let the exhaustion take over your body and sleep. Mando leans himself against the wall, watching you as you fuss over the child. 
“Thank you,” His modulated voice hits your ears, “I’ve never had someone to help me like that.” 
You look at him – this one doesn’t surprise you, the lone warrior who hasn’t allowed anyone but you to travel with him, of course he’s only ever had himself to stitch up his wounds. 
“Well, I don’t know how to drive this damn thing,” You speak, knocking your knuckles against the wall next to you, “So it was pretty important for you not to die,” you wait for him to laugh but he doesn’t, “You’re welcome,” you speak quietly then, “Sorry it was a horrible sewing job.” 
He walks towards you now, visible limp but better than you imagine anyone else with a similar injury would walk, sitting down on the bench next to you. He’s so close that you can feel the heat emanating from his body. He sets a gloved hand on your own thigh, squeezing it slightly, making your pulse jump. He has to know, right? He has to know that he has this effect on you? That whenever he touches you, though that isn’t often, it makes your blood boil with want. Does he know that as your hands worked to close his wound earlier all you could think about was what his perfect, meaty thigh would feel like wedged between your own? 
He doesn’t move his hand, just lets it rest there, thumb rubbing across the material of your trousers, comforting you, because he’d scared you earlier, he knows he did, and he needs you to know he’s never going to leave you, even if he’s not quite ready to verbalise that to you yet. You let your head drop to his shoulder, closing your eyes as he stays there for you, his body offering you’re the comfort you so desperately need. 
“I’m always going to fix you Mando,” you speak quietly, “You’ll never have to stitch yourself up ever again.” 
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psychedelic-ink · 2 years
Text
— watch.
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pairing: din djarin x fem!reader
genre: ex lovers reuniting, hurt/comfort , smut, minors dni
word count: 4.3k
summary: You're one the brink of dying. Your stomach restless with hunger as you come back to Nevarro after months to find a job but instead finding a warm meal, you have a run in with your ex: Din. Oh joy.
warnings: reader almost starving due to lack of credit, reader being insecure about whether or not din had feelings for her in the past, arguing about why they (din/reader) broke up, vaginal fingering, possessive din, fingers in mouth, rough s.ex, dirty talking, piv, creampie, oral (receiving), mentions of aftercare
a/n: first of all a special thanks to @inklore who beta-read this for me, thank you so much again loves! <33 also this takes place after the season 2 finale but in an au where nothing happened to the razor crest-- I loved that ship so much damn you gideon
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The dust of Nevarro settles in your lungs. Grains of sand sticking to your throat and choking you out. You never would’ve thought of coming back here again. Too many memories. But as you began to live from hand to mouth, you had no other choice to seek out the guild and ask, or beg, for a bounty to hunt. Even now your stomach rumbles, body low on fuel. A sigh breaks away from your lips. A little bit more and you’ll be reaching the city. You shake your head, trying to remember the last time you’d been here. A familiar silhouette of a shiny helmet flashes in your mind. Mando. Din. Your heart sinks further in your chest, lips parting as the city grows closer. 
Maybe coming back here isn’t the best idea after all but you’re certain that you’ll die of starvation if you didn’t pick up some kind of job. 
As soon as you enter the city everything feels different but also the same. The air that circulated the grimy, yet bright, city feels…cleaner. You look around, eyes skimming across the buildings. The people seem happier, children of all species laughing and running about. You raise an eyebrow. This certainly isn’t the Nevarro you expected to come back to. By memory your legs head for the guild, still slightly in awe as you walk past the people. 
Nothing could’ve prepared you to see a twenty-something number of children being taught by a droid when you slam the all too familiar door of the guild wide open. 
Your mouth hangs wide when fearful, young eyes turn to you and you quickly slam the door back shut, heart pounding loudly in your chest. Where the hell is the guild? Panic courses through your veins and you take two steps back, normally you would’ve been happy but the fear of not being able to find work was all you can think about. You groan when your stomach rumbles again. You feel faint. Head starting to spin. Nevarro was your last hope. If the guild was gone– 
A kid bumps into you and you stagger back, almost falling. The world spins. Stomach rumbles again. Death looms over you, you can feel it, taste it thick against your tongue. Perspiration coats your skin in a thin layer, you feel a tiny hand on your thigh and you look down. You’d forgotten about the kid. 
“Are you okay?” 
Such a simple question yet it makes you want to bawl your eyes out. Nodding, you move away from the kid and head further into the city, Karga had to be somewhere around here right? Dank farrik. 
Ears ringing and eyes blind, you fail to see the person in front of you. This time you’re the kid as you bump into the taller figure. Hard metal clashes with your face, a pain filled groan echoing from your lips as you jump back. Your hands immediately cover the part that hurts the most, which is your nose. Between squinted eyes, you look up, shiny armor the only thing you can see. Your face falls, eyes going wide as a meek whine escapes your lips. 
The Mandalorian. 
You’re not sure he remembers you. He only looks at you and tilts his head, face unreadable thanks to his helmet. Shit, your nose really hurts. 
He says your name, it’s silent, silent enough that it might’ve disappeared with a sturdy gust of wind but you manage to hear it. You perk up immediately. You try not to look too excited but fail miserably. 
“Are you alright?” 
“Yeah,” 
“You sure?” 
He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Your nose still throbs within your palms, luckily you can’t feel any blood. He stands still, the prolonging silence uncomfortable between the two of you. Words attempt to make their way out of your lips but the words die on your tongue. You’ve really missed him these past couple of months. You missed his intimidating looks, his husky voice– Every part of him basically. You swallow and bite your bottom lip, you need to get yourself together. 
“Well,” he breaks the silence, his tone uncertain of what he’s about to say. “I’ll see you around then,” 
God, you didn’t want him to leave. 
Just as his shoulder brushes against yours you turn and grab his wrist. You feel him tense at your touch, his instincts kicking in as he reminds himself that you’re not the enemy. He doesn’t turn to face you and you’re glad for it. 
“Do you know where the guild is?” you ask, voice desperate. “I–I need a job,” 
Your hand still holding his wrist, he turns to you. In that moment you realize this is the first time he’s actually looking at you since your run in. You imagine his eyes moving across your body; Observing your hollowed cheeks and parched lips. The thought alone makes you avert your eyes with shame, the hand that clutches his wrist slightly trembling. 
“The guild is gone,” 
You let go of him, fear of the future striking your heart as you stare at him wide-eyed. A short moment passes and the fear is replaced with anger.
“Great, just great,” you kick the ground, ignoring how you hurt yourself instead. “What am I supposed to do now?” 
For a while you forget that Din is there, you continue to mutter curses and rub your palm across your face. This is the worst, the absolute worst. 
“You can come with me if you want, I have a bit of food on the ship,” 
Great charity from an ex lover, just what you need for your pride. You angrily shake your head. 
Of course your stomach decides to be a dirty snitch and growls at the same time. You ignore the chuckle that echoes from within his helmet. 
“Fine, let’s go.” 
You accept the familiarity of the Razor Crest with open arms. It’s good to know that some things never change; the sound of machinery whirring away, the scent, the thick smell of fuel that lays heavy in the air. You take a seat and Din disappears for a while, you thought it would be awkward coming here again but you feel completely at ease, which might be a problem on its own. Din hadn’t said a word on your journey here, and you doubt he’ll say anything. You expect him to feed you and send you on your merry way. 
The feelings of the past clutches at your heart, squeezing it softly as you look down to your hands. You have so much you want to say to him but you know you can’t. Maybe that was the problem. The constant bottling of emotions on both of your parts. Din was used to keeping everything inside, his beskar reminding you the coldest of weathers. And you…well you were a mess to begin with, emotionally hungry and in constant need to feast. He was bad at showing emotions, you had little self worth. A very bad combination indeed. 
Soon, Din returns with a bowl of chowder. He places the luke-warm bowl onto your lap and sits across from you. Your hand trembles as you dig in, mouth watering at the smell of it. The thick meal coats your tongue, normally it doesn’t taste like much but to you, at this time, it tastes like a five course meal. Your hand stills after the first bite, your eyes go wide and you just bring the rim of the bowl to your lips, downing the rest in maniacal hunger. A bit of it slips from the corner of your lips but you’re too occupied to care. You finish the meal in five minutes at most, your eyes flutter closed as a sigh parts your lips. 
“Thank you,” you manage to say, placing the bowl on the metal floor. “I appreciate it,” 
“Your welcome,” 
Leaning back, you open your eyes, staring at him. Embarrassment starts to settle in your now full gut. You don’t know whether to leave or say something, he just sits there, helmet on, unreadable. Averting your gaze, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Maybe talking wouldn’t be so bad, it could provide some type of closure for the both of you. You aggressively start to chew on the inside of your cheek and take a breath. 
“So…how have you been?” 
“Good.” 
Smooth. 
“How’s the child?”  
“I handed him over to his people, he should be happy now,” 
Your lips tighten and form a thin line as you attempt a smile. He’s definitely not making this easy for you. The damn modulated voice not offering even a sliver of emotion. 
“That’s good. I…” the questions you want to ask die on your tongue. With a broken sigh, you bring your hand to your face and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why do you always have to make everything so difficult Din?” 
You fail to see how he jolts upon hearing his name, he tilts his head to the side. 
“I’m not doing anything?” 
“Yeah that’s the problem,” you snap, hand falling back to your lap. “You find me at the brink of starvation after months and say nothing, did…did I mean that little to you? I know we weren’t the best together but I just assumed you cared, even a little– I guess I was wrong,” 
“That’s not–” 
You cut him off by getting up, your foot accidentally hits the bowl and makes it tumble to the side, the voice echoes. 
“Thank you for feeding me, I’ll be on my way now,” 
As soon as you turn you feel his iron grip clasping around your wrist. Pain shoots out from where he holds, a hiss leaving your lips as you turn, eyes furious. 
“Let me go!” 
“No,” 
Your eyes widen, he actually sounds angry. A shiver climbs up your spine, it feels like nails raking across your skin: Unsettling. 
“You don’t get to accuse me of not feeling and just leave without waiting for me to rebuttal. If you’re so scared to hear the answer then don’t say anything at all,” 
His grip tightens around your wrist, your gaze follows, eyes glued to his gloved hand. A forceful puff of hair leaves your lips, heart thudding madly in your chest. 
“Fine,” you try to convey annoyance in your voice but you fear it sounds more meek rather than angry. “What are you going to say then? Come on, spit it out.” 
“I–” his anger seems to fade, now sounding more lost than ever. “I do care for you. I’ve never stopped since you left, but why would I try to stop you when you’ve already made up your mind back then? Was I supposed to lock you up?” 
“You were supposed to ask me to stay,” 
“So what was that? A test? You’re telling me you sacrificed what we had because of your ego? It seems like I was the one who meant little to you,” he raises his voice. “You act like you have everything figured out but you’re the one who ran off as soon as things got tough,” 
“That’s…” you whimper, averting your eyes. “That’s not true,” 
Your breathing quickens, chest raising up and down similar to a sick child’s. You do want to run. You want to run as far as you can from this conversation. It wasn’t a question of ego, you just wanted affirmation. You wanted to know that he would burn the world for you just so you would stay and when he didn’t…you left. You begin to shake your head, you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to feel the same pain. You try to pry your wrist away but his grip is the same material of the armor he always wears. When he doesn’t let go your emotions collide like thunder clouds, lightning striking your core in the form of anger, hurt and desperation. 
“I just needed some proof that you wanted me around,” you hiss, voice dripping with venom. “You made me feel like I was just around because you were stuck with me rather than it being a choice. I wasn’t trying to flatter my ego, I was trying to see if you cared!” 
Shit you’re crying– 
“Just let go of me please,” you try to blink them away but it only speeds up the process of the salty tears streaming down your face. “I get it alright, it was all my fault, you made your point.” 
Suddenly your world spins and you find your back flushed against his chest, strong beskar covered arms wrapped around your waist. He breathes heavily, you can hear it. Your head falls against his shoulder, sniffling as you close your eyes and let the tears flow down the apples of your cheeks. His one hand slides up your chest, gripping your chin in a firm yet gentle way. 
“Seeing you today was about the best and worst thing. You could’ve died if you hadn’t bumped into me. Do you realize how terrifying that was? To see you again after so long only to find you about to faint from hunger, I didn’t mean to blame you for anything. I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself.” 
“You should be angry at me,” you take a sharp breath. “You’re right, I’m the one who let this spiral. I accuse you of not talking about emotions but I did the same, I should’ve opened up– I should’ve–” 
“And I should’ve stopped you from leaving,” 
The other hand that lays on your stomach snakes down, palm resting right above your pelvis. His thumb starts to draw slow, languid circles around your clothed skin, your breath hitches. 
“We both made mistakes. I’m just glad I found you when I did instead of later,” 
His fingers begin to rub between your clothed folds, you press further against him, your head spinning from the mere touch. Legs trembling, your hand slides down his arm and covers his hand. You feel the way his fingers tense under the gloves whenever he strokes you, a moan vibrates in your throat, you’ve missed him. Din presses his helmet against the side of your face, the coolness of metal providing the perfect contrast with your burning skin. He swallows. 
“Can I?” 
You nod and with one swift motion he tugs your pants down, the fabric pooling at your feet right before you kick them away. You shiver when you feel the coolness of beskar against the back of your thighs, he gives you little time to think about it as his fingers dip under the thin fabric of your underwear. Gloved fingers immediately finding your clit, you sigh happily, parting your legs further without even noticing. His fingers gather the moisture and you’re positive your slick seeps through the fabric. 
“You’re already so wet,” he purrs, you can almost hear the smugness in his voice. “I barely touched you, did the argument turn you on?” 
“N–No,” Lie. But you would rather die than admit your impure thoughts about your heated debate. “It’s just been a while,” 
“How long?” 
His covered fingers continue to stroke you, more slick dripping down your thighs as you begin to slowly rock your hips into his touch. The heel of his palm presses against your aching clit, a moan ripping from your throat in the form of a gasp. Your thoughts are scattered. 
“Tell me when was the last time you’ve been touched,” he growls. “Tell me who it is so I can rip their hands off,” 
Shit. Fuck. You think you’re about to cum from his words alone. His grip on your chin becomes tighter, his fingers now moving slower as they begin to trace the rim of your entrance. Your breathing is heavy. Your entire body trembling as images of what brutality Din could possess against another overtakes you. Swallowing, you move your hips faster, whines falling from your lips when his fingers stop moving completely. You don’t want to tell him that the only person who’s been touching you was yourself. You want him to simmer in his jealousy, in his rage. But you also can’t afford him to stop, especially not after being reminded of how good he feels. 
“No one,” you blurt out, a bit more desperately than you anticipated. “I couldn’t bare the idea of someone else touching me so if you’re adamant on breaking hands I guess you’ll have to break mine,” 
Din takes in a sharp breath, his chest heaving as he pulls his fingers away. He takes a hold of your hand, fingers sticky. Meanwhile the fingers that were grasping your chin slides up, pushing two fingers between your already parted lips. You moan around the digits, tasting the leather as he presses them against your tongue.
“Maybe I should,” he keens, squeezing your hand enough to send a mild jolt of pain. “You should know better than to touch things that belong to me,” 
A rush of happiness surges through you. Despite wanting to be his once more, you want to fight it. You want to be snarky and say that you belong to no one. But instead your body trembles, pussy clenching around nothing as you hump the air. He takes notice of this. A chuckle rumbling throughout his chest, his hand slides around yours and gently pushes your hand down beneath your underwear. You gasp when he moves your fingers as he pleases. Like a puppeteer, he makes you touch yourself. The tip of your fingers slowly rubbing your clit with his guide, a moan echoes from your throat. When you push your ass back against him you feel the outline of his cock, your mouth waters. He pulls his fingers away from your mouth, a bit of saliva trailing after the digits. 
“Din…” 
“Did you think of me?” he breathes out. “Did you imagine me fucking you as you cum around your fingers?” 
Since when did he have such a filthy mouth? 
“Did you?” you ask back with a moment of clarity. 
“Nearly everyday,” his breath stutters. “I imagined the way your pussy used to tighten around my cock when you came, the little desperate whimpers of my name falling from your lips. I bet you imagined the same. My cock– Stretching you out– or maybe you thought about my tongue buried deep inside? Which one is it?” 
Your brain is completely numb, skin tingling. Devoid of any kind of thought. You just nod, mouth hanging loose. 
“That doesn’t answer my question,” 
He presses your fingers between your folds and you cry out, upper body lunging forward as you start to grind against both yours and Din’s hands. 
“I imagined it all,” you moan out. “I’ll do anything you ask for– Just please– I’m– I want to cum!” 
“And do you think you deserve that?” 
“Yes,” you’re not even thinking at this point. “Yes, I deserve it. Please, please– I’ve missed you so much. I can’t take it,” 
You feel joy radiating off of him but you’re not sure why he’s so happy about your admission. His hands leave your body, you feel cold without his presence and whimper. But instead of leaving you, he takes your hand and leads you to his sleep chamber. 
“Get on your hands and knees,” 
Without missing a beat you do as you’re told, pressing your face into the pillows, you groan at his scent overflowing your nostrils. He gets behind you, hands kneading the flesh of your ass. You wait with anticipation for his cock and nearly faint when you feel a pair of chapped lips, facial hair tickles your skin as he drags them across your backside. 
The feeling is such a shock to you that you almost get up, face hovering only an inch above the pillows before a firm hand pushes you back down. 
“Don’t look,” he groans, nibbling your flesh. “Be a good girl and stay just like that,” 
His mouth presses greedily against you as his tongue slides between your folds, the sweet taste of your slick coating his tongue. His strong hands parts your cheeks, burying the soft muscle further inside so that the tip reaches your throbbing clit. You shudder, his tongue feels like velvet across your tender heat. Mouth agape, you breathe heavily, a trail of spit dribbling down your chin and wetting the pillow. He eats you out like a delicate cuisine; Slow and savoring every bite. He groans into your cunt, the vibrations making you see stars. You’re whimpering his name over and over again just like he said, his tongue delves in deeper. 
“What’s wrong baby? Tell me what you need,” 
His tone is mocking but you’re too far gone to actually care, you just moan out his name, begging him for release. Din flattens his tongue against your folds, giving you one last lick before pulling back. A string of saliva follows his lips, his eyes are glued to your quivering body and suddenly you just look so small to him, so afraid, his cock throbs with excitement. His, now bare, hands slides against your back, nails raking across your skin as his cock pressed against the curve of your ass. 
“Tell me, come on now. What do you need from me?” 
Every nerve is electrified by his mere presence, tears prick the corners of your eyes, you just can’t take it anymore.
“I want to kiss you– I want you to hold me while you fuck me– I want to feel you everywhere,”  
Your sudden reply takes you both by surprise, his eyes widening. Your cheeks heat up with embarrassment as you begin to shift uncomfortably, the bed creaking under your weight, despite not seeing him you can feel his gaze burning your skin. You bite your tongue, you shouldn’t have said anything. The silence is deafening and it lasts until he shuffles behind you, you expect him to tell you to leave but instead a click echoes. The doors close and all you can see is pitch black. 
He turns you over so you’re laying on your back and crashes his lips against yours. He tastes exactly as you remember, sweet with your essence on his tongue. Din licks the inside of your mouth, tongues moving alongside each other as he grinds his cock against your dripping cunt. Moaning into his mouth, your hips shudder, your skin tingling as he cups your breast.  
He grinds his hips, “You just  keep saying all the right things, you’re making it hard to be upset with you,” 
“You can be upset with me later,” you moan, pussy dripping. “Right now all I need is you,” 
Din’s lips find yours once more, drowning out your whimpers as he fills you up inch by inch, the amount of slickness makes it easy. You froan into his mouth, cunt fluttering around his length. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth as he starts to move his hips, his pacing slow yet fierce. Every time he languidly moves out and pushes back in, your eyes roll back. He makes you feel every curve and crevice of his cock, making you moan into his mouth. 
Din’s hand slides up your torso, gripping your chin and keeping it wide open as he breaks the kiss. He’s only an inch away, mouth agape, your breaths mingle with one another. You can feel the ghost of his lips, yearning for his tongue to be pressed against yours once more. Waves of pleasure wash over you as heat builds between your legs. His pace becomes quicker, harder. Every snap of his hips makes you cry out his name. Din’s head falls into the crook of your neck, nipping the sensitive skin as his hips move relentlessly. 
“Can I cum inside?” he groans, hips beginning to stutter. “Please, please say yes– Fuck,” 
You pull at his hair, legs pressing against his hips as a silent affirmation. He shakes his head, lips still pressed against your damp skin. 
“No– I need to hear you say it– Say you want me to cum inside– Say. It.” 
“Cum inside–” you finally cave. “I-I want you to,” 
Before he does, however, his hand slides between your writhing bodies, his fingers find your clit and start to play with it. Your eyes go wide but all you see is his darkness, your mouth parts wide, inaudible groans ripping from your throat as he twirls the sensitive nub between his fingers. The coil that’s been tightening in your stomach for a good while finally snaps, body going still and then shaking furiously while you cum, cunt gushing around his cock. He moans at the way your insides squeeze around him, tongue lapping your skin when he thrusts once– twice–  
Din bites into your skin as he comes, thick ropes of cum filing you to the brim as his hips twitch uncontrollably. Your body echoes with pleasure, mind completely incapable of thinking anything else except for the fact Din is above you, continuing to fuck his cum deeper inside by grinding his hips. He peels his face away from your neck and plants a soft kiss against your lips, when he moves away you chase after him into the darkness. 
“Needy,” he hums, “How are you feeling?” 
“I’m…” you let out a deep breath, still unable to form a thought. His cock begins to soften inside you and he pulls out, you whimper when cum drips down your thighs. “I’m a bit dazed to say the least,” 
“You should rest,” the bed creaks as he moves away. You hear the familiar sound of a helmet being placed back upon his head, a soft hiss echoing in the tiny room. “I’ll bring you water and some more food,” then he adds. “And a washcloth,” 
“Don’t we need to talk about this?” you call out, a slight tremble in your voice. 
“We have all the time now that you’re here,” the doors slide open and he hops out. “And this time, no matter what you do, I’m going to tell you to stay.” 
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A/N: to be notified of future work follow @burnthoneymintsathenaeum and turn on notifications✨
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oscarseyebrow · 6 months
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Hurricane: Chapter One
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Pairings: din djarin x force sensitive female reader  Rating: explicit. 18+ (later chapters will contain explicit smut) Word count: 9k Warnings: canon typical violence, mention of death of enemies, description of injury, reader being captured, slow burn, enemies to lovers. later chapters will include pregnancy and a brief mention of the death of a parent. A/N: while being on a hiatus, i decided to rewrite this fic as it had completely changed direction from where i began and i wasn't happy with it. i hope you all enjoy the new version as much as i've enjoyed writing it again and this time, i will tell the end of their story! i also want to give the biggest shoutout to @the-scandalorian for your time, your patience and your constant support. thank you for being the best beta and a wonderful friend 💖 Series masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist
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Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy boots pound relentlessly, their rhythmic thuds echoing through the twisted, uneven terrain of the forest. They never falter or break their stride, propelling you forward. Each step interrupts the eerie calls of creatures in the night, a cacophony of sounds that sends shivers down your spine. Like sinister fingers, the branches snap, scrape, and snag, viciously clawing at your clothing and skin as you desperately try to outrun your pursuer. 
He’s close. Closer than ever before.
This is what it has come down to, a deadly game of cat and mouse, an unrelenting chase where every move determines your fate. Time had become a blur, lost to the dark abyss that had inked over your surroundings long before you ventured into it. The very darkness you hoped would grant you cover now seems to conspire against you, mocking your latest attempt to slip away unnoticed. 
Over the months, you had encountered many hunters on your trail. At first, it had seemed almost effortless to elude them. Your abilities granted you an undeniable advantage—speed, agility, and an unwelcome connection to the Force. None of them had stood a chance against you; their end had come before they even knew what was happening. 
But this hunter was different, tenacious and unyielding in his pursuit. He closes the gap with every twist and turn, narrowing the distance between you. Your name, once a mere whisper in the wind, now reverberates with an ominous promise as he tracks you to your last known location. 
His strength is palpable, his determination unbreakable. And now, here you are—heart pounding in your chest, consumed by a single instinct: to run. You push against your limits, desperately seeking an escape from the predator hot on your heels. 
A red, searing spark slices through the darkness, a fleeting flash from a blaster. The acrid scent of burnt air mingles with the sound of splintering bark, a tree beside you left scarred in its wake. Instinctively, you tuck into a tight roll, narrowly evading the next shot.
A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The fine line between life and death stretches taut before you, and you refuse to grant him the satisfaction of being the one to sever it. 
You’re back up on your feet as another surge of raw energy courses through your veins. Each stride is a calculated leap, nimble and agile, clearing any obstacles that threaten to halt you in your tracks. The thicket becomes denser, the branches clawing at your flesh with renewed vengeance, as if conspiring to slow your progress and grant him the upper hand. Yet, you continue in silence, the wave of adrenaline numbing your senses, shielding you from the pain of their grip.
Finally, when your feet clear an uprooted tree, you deliberately drop to the ground. Fingers gripping your blaster tightly, the safety disengaged, you force your racing breaths to slow. 
In the stillness that envelops the darkened forest, you listen intently, attuning your senses to the silence around you. You push beyond the pounding of your heart, further still, and that’s where you notice it. An absence of sound. The weighty silence settles like a suffocating blanket, shrouding both predator and prey. The thunderous thud of his heavy boots has ceased, mirroring the stillness of your own. 
Pressing your back against the rough bark of a fallen tree, you draw a deep breath, steeling yourself. This is who you are, a fighter, a survivor. You’re equipped with the skills to get out of this situation—you had been taught well under the Empire.
For a fleeting moment, you close your eyes. The world around you teems with vibrant life; pulsates with an energy you can’t resist. You tap into it, harnessing the power that had gotten you into this whole mess. 
Given the situation, it’s difficult to focus, but still, you try. You reach out in an attempt to grasp any help the Force has to offer. Despite the struggle, you find what you’re looking for—a flickering presence that doesn’t belong here—The Mandalorian. 
Suddenly, a sound breaks the silence—a rustle, a snapping twig—your gaze darts toward the opposite direction from where you had sensed him. It seems too distant to be him. Could the Force have misguided you? Was it possible for the Force to be wrong? It had been so long since you were able to use it properly, to truly call upon your connection to it…maybe you weren’t interpreting it correctly. 
You ignore the guidance offered to you through the Force and place your trust solely in your surroundings. Deep down, you know he’s close. Yet, you dismiss the pull of your gut instinct and opt to slip away. 
It’s now or never. 
Your body presses low to the ground while you move silently. Damp leaves and thick mud cling to your front. Every sense in your body sharpens—the scent of the mossy ground beneath you, the sting of sweat mingling with the scrapes on your skin. Your entire being fixates on survival, pausing for a second to reach out to the Force again to check your surroundings. 
Nothing. There are no sounds that don’t belong to the eerie symphony of the darkened forest—no thundering beskar, no trace of movement or breath. Absolute stillness. Slowly, you rise, surveying the moonlit area for a moment before you propel yourself toward a narrow gap between two gnarled trees. 
Freedom beckons, so tantalizingly close. Just a few more strides, and it would be right there, within your grasp. 
Then, it happens. 
It hits you with the force of a cataclysmic collision, expelling all of the air from your lungs. The Mandalorian emerges from behind the tree, anticipating the impact, his solid frame poised to absorb the force of your body hurtling toward him. For just a split second, there’s a feeling of complete weightlessness before you collide with the ground. You’re down, but not defeated. Swiftly shifting your weight to the left, you avoid his grasp and deliver a quick kick to his knee, causing him to crash down beside you. 
Synchronized movement unfolds, an intricate dance of opponents keenly aware of each other’s every move. You fire first, only for him to dart out of the way with a lightning-quick dodge, your shot barely grazing the corner of his chest plate. The ricochet momentarily shatters your focus, panic creeping into your core as you begin to grapple with the consequences of your misjudged shot, while the Mandalorian seems to register surprise at your near hit. 
Undeterred, he launches once more, but you’re too quick. You take evasive action, executing a roll, your fist connecting flawlessly with the side of his ribs as you raise again. He’s winded. His modulated groan reverberates in the air and allows you a second to recover. But he’s not far behind. Now back on your feet, you parry his relentless attacks, the rhythm of the battle pulsating between you. 
Neither relenting nor yielding, every fibre of your being fights for your survival while he fights for credits that will no doubt buy his next meal. This can’t be how it ends for you. You’ve endured too much to be taken down by a mere bounty hunter. 
Grunts and groans puncture the air as blows land on both sides. His attacks are measured and deliberate, his reach surpassing yours. But you’re much quicker. Amidst the chaos, you sidestep his lunging assault, seizing his arm and leveraging the momentum to hurl his heavy frame to the ground. You’re almost proud of yourself until he retaliates and sweeps your legs from beneath you. Gravity pulls you down once more, your head colliding with his armour and causing an explosive burst of light to engulf your vision. 
Your focus wanes, slipping from your grasp. You blink, once, twice, and then he has you. 
“Stop fighting,” he demands, breathless yet commanding, as he pins you to the ground and traps your arms with his knees. 
At that moment, you note the stark contrast between his voice and your expectations. He sounds different. His voice is devoid of emotion, yet soft. Distorted, yet strangely velvety. Gasping for air to desperately refill your lungs, you both engage in a silent struggle, your eyes fixating on the impenetrable visor of his helmet. It reveals nothing and yet you can sense it, the energy radiating from within. He holds no satisfaction in completing this job. After the relentless chase, you expected a triumphant gloat to be concealed within that mental shell. But it’s not. 
Tilting your head away from his gaze, your fingers strain where they’re pinned to your sides. You have a vibroblade, nestled securely in the strap around your thigh. The tips of your trembling fingers brush the handle, its coldness a stark contrast against your clammy palm. 
“Fuck you,” your words escape in a breathy whisper as you launch your next desperate attack, but it’s anticipated and effortlessly countered. The last thing you see is his helmet descending upon you, followed by a resounding thud. Darkness falls, consuming all your senses. 
The cat has caught the mouse.
***
A gentle swaying motion and a caressing breeze coax you back to consciousness. In that fleeting moment, you could be anywhere–weightless atop the tranquil surface of a serene lake, bathed in the warmth of the sun. It kisses your skin, filling you with a sense of serenity you rarely experience these days. It has been an eternity since you felt such freedom, devoid of burdens. In this relaxed, suspended state, you are liberated, free. If you were to extend your fingertips, you could almost feel the cool water cascading over them, your body gently rocking in its embrace. 
And so, you reach out, anticipating the familiar sensation. But instead, an icy chill seizes your hand, a sudden heaviness grips your being, and your limbs refuse to respond. Panic surges, robbing you of the tranquil calm that had momentarily embraced you. A searing pain lances through your side, jolting you awake. 
Gasping, your eyes snap open as you struggle to make sense of your disorientated surroundings. Gone is the water, the lake, the radiant sunlight. Instead, you find yourself suspended upside down, a tattered cape fluttering behind the imposing figure of heavy boots. 
Thud. Thud. Thud. 
Fuck. 
You’re alive, but your freedom is gone. Your hands are bound, your body hoisted unceremoniously over a rigid shoulder. You have a choice to make: do you submit and face your fate or continue the fight? You’re exhausted, your body bruised and aching…do you have anything left in you to fight? 
This can’t be the end. 
With gritted teeth, you clasp your hands together, summoning every ounce of strength you have left. They fall upon the man’s back with a resounding force, a desperate attempt to break free from his grip. Yet, his armoured form barely registers the impact, beskar shielding him from the brunt of your attack. 
“Put me down!” Your voice is cracked and dry but overflowing with defiance as you writhe and strain against his strong grip. 
He tightens against your struggles. It’s the only response you get and you find it ignites a new flame of determination from your darkest depths. You shift your weight, aiming to unbalance him. For a moment, you think it works. He staggers, offset by your attempt but whether through your own effort or his loss of patience, he eventually drops you to the ground in a graceless heap. 
It’s then that the full extent of your exhaustion becomes clear: muscles ache, bones protest, and the pulsating throb in your head spreads outwards to the point you find yourself closing your eyes and applying pressure to the area where the Mandalorian had headbutted you. 
The asshole. If you were to survive this night, you knew there would be a shining bruise there come the morning. 
You attempt to push yourself up to your knees, hoping to make it to your feet. It’s not to be. A mud-coated boot gives you the smallest shove and you end up rolling onto your back, defeated once again. 
You close your eyes, attempting to steady your breathing amidst the waves of pain. When you open them once more, you find him standing above you, his head slightly tilted against the backdrop of twinkling stars. This isn’t the time for distractions, but you can’t help noticing the way his beskar illuminates beneath the reflective glow of the moonlight. 
“I can bring you in warm…” his voice breaks the silence, presenting the first option to you before taking a deliberate pause. “Or I can bring you in cold.” 
His hand gestures toward the ominous presence of his blaster, and right beside it, tucked into his belt, is your own. Moments tick by, and he remains motionless above you, an enigmatic statue frozen in time. 
Without a single word, your decision is made evident as you sit up. The Mandalorian reaches down, his gloved hand gripping your wrist restraints, and effortlessly hoists you to your feet. He leads the way, his strides pulling you along until you fall into step beside him, surveying your surroundings. The forest is now all but gone from sight in the darkness, and you see that you’re closer to the outskirts of town. 
You trudge across the uneven terrain, contemplating the different outcomes that await you. None of them are hopeful. One thing is clear in every scenario: you can’t outrun or outfight this bounty hunter. So where does that leave you? A surge of frustration courses through you, angered by the situation you have allowed yourself to fall into. Anger bubbles beneath the surface, and so, you unleash your next attack with words instead of actions. 
“Did they send you to do the job the others couldn’t?” you ask. “How many did it take before they brought you out? Five? Six? I lose count of how many I’ve had to kill.” 
Still, he remains silent as your steady voice taunts, probing for a reaction. He refuses to give you the satisfaction of acknowledgement. His message is clear: you’re wasting your breath. 
Undeterred, you press on, uncaring whether he answers or not, “Did they have families? Were they your friends?” 
Nothing. Resolute silence. 
It only angers you more. You twist your arms, attempting to free your restraints from his grasp as you pull away from him in a bid for freedom. The man follows, his muscles tensing beneath the armour to keep his grip on you as you fight against him and finally show the first cracks of panic. 
“I swear to the Maker and all the Gods above, as soon as I get out of these restraints, I’ll make you regret every second of this. Do you hear me?” 
If he does, he doesn’t answer you, so you raise your voice, “I said do you fucking hear me?” 
“Yes, I fucking hear you,” he grits and pulls your body closer to prevent you from flailing around. 
He’s frustrated, you can feel it. It oozes from him like a thick, suffocating smog. There’s a moment of silence between you and he chooses to wait, allowing you a few seconds to calm down before he speaks again. 
“I’m not the only one looking for you, but I am the only one willing to take you in alive. So are you going to let me get us out of here, or are you betting on your survival against the other hunters with your hands bound and no weapons?” 
You despise the way his voice calms you. You want to fight, want to pull free and run in any direction possible. But there’s something that keeps you there, your eyes trained on his visor as you look for any hint of the man beneath the opaque glass. This is about survival, and being captured alive gives you a lot more options than being brought in dead. 
You hate to admit it, but he’s your best option right now.
No more words are exchanged for the remainder of the journey. The crunch of gravel beneath your boots announces your arrival at the town’s entrance. A palpable silence blankets the air, unsettling in its weight. The energy shifts inexplicably, and both you and the Mandalorian tense in response. His grip on your restraints tightens, his hidden gaze scouring the surroundings, mirroring your own vigilance as you search every corner, every shadow. 
With each step you take through the small town, windows shutter and people retreat from the streets. You swallow, feeling a sense of warning through the Force. And then you see it—the swift leap from one rooftop to another. This time, you’re the fortunate one, reacting swiftly. Your hands twist, seizing the bounty hunter’s wrist and yanking him out of harm's way as blaster bolts rain down upon you. 
Why are you saving his life when he is so willing to hand you over for someone to sacrifice yours? It’s a clear calculation—he needs you alive, fighting with him instead of against him. This is how you both get out of here, alive. It’s a mutual understanding as you drag him to safety between two buildings. 
Everything seems to happen in a blur, time accelerating rather than decelerating as it had in the forest. He releases his hold on you, shielding your defenceless form with his own body as a blaster bolt ricochets off his armour. Before you have a chance to react, his blaster is in his hand and he shoots down the attacker from the roof. 
You turn, catching sight of another hunter charging toward you. With your hands bound, your only option is to rely on your perfect timing as you deliver a swift kick to the front of his knee and destabilize him with a sickening crunch of bone. It’s followed by a loud scream of agony as he doubles over, right into an uppercut from your restraints which sends him crashing to the ground, unconscious. 
With a quick glance over your shoulder, you see the Mandalorian occupied with three other hunters. Now is the moment, and without any hesitation, you flee in the opposite direction. 
Your footsteps echo loudly between the tall buildings, alerting those close by of your location. It’s not a smart move, goes against all of your training, but desperation propels you forward. Your path weaves through the labyrinth of twisting streets and finally, you pause, finding a temporary hiding place to catch your breath. 
The pain continues to pound inside of your head, everything becoming so loud; blaster shots across the street; the yells of the pursuers being taken down by the Mandalorian. If they’ve found you this easily, you know those who work at Moff Gideon’s command won’t be far behind. Up until now, you’ve been able to play it smart, always staying one step ahead of them all. But your first mistake is proving likely to be your last.
You need to calm down. Breathe. Focus. 
Every nerve ending in your body seems to come alive–you have to go, you have to run. The Force all but screams it at you, encouraging you to slip out into the street once more and take off in a slightly different direction. Swiftly taking a right turn, you hear the resounding crack of a blaster shot pierce the air. You veer left, evading two more shots. A body plummets from a nearby building, their weapon sliding along the ground. You react on instinct as you thrust out your bound hands and use your pull through the Force to snatch it into your grasp in one fluid motion. Though you’re not at the best advantage to aim, you find a way to make it work. 
Gunfire and thudding sound through the streets as you engage in a fierce battle, skillfully manoeuvring through the chaos, instinctively ducking and sprinting at precisely the right moments. This isn’t a mere stroke of luck or chance–it’s a testament to your abilities, the Force, a result of countless encounters you’ve faced throughout your life. 
Once again, silence descends, and you become acutely aware of your ragged breaths as you struggle against your burning lungs. You don’t have long. Seconds, maybe. You sense the Mandalorian’s energy drawing nearer. You sense him to your right, searching the street parallel to your own. Pushing a little further through the Force, you should be able to pinpoint the precise source of his energy, but you don’t have time. He seems close enough for this to work.
You step out, blaster aimed, expecting to come face-to-face with him at the exact moment you both step out into the open. 
Except, he’s not there. 
“What…” you breathe. 
Confusion clouds your focus as your eyes dart around, desperately trying to calculate how you got it wrong. You were so sure you had the advantage, so certain of his location and the speed at which he was moving. Not once had it occurred to you that he may have also known your exact location, waiting for you to make the first move. 
“No…” one simple whisper slips from you, laced heavily with dread as the beskar-clad figure emerges from the shadows. 
He quickly disarms you, throwing your new-found blaster aside as his chest rises and falls in sync with your own accelerated breaths. 
“Nice try,” his voice holds a hint of smugness at your apparent disbelief. 
He readjusts his grip on your restraints, tugging forcefully and causing you to stumble as you dig your heels in, desperately attempting to resist his pull. Undeterred, he continues striding forward. 
“I saved your life,” you try. “You owe me.” 
Silence. 
The rhythmic thudding of his boots is your only reply. 
“I’ll take you to other bounties. I know where to find them,” you try bargaining. “You’ll get payment for food and fuel, and you’ll have more credits than you’ll ever be able to spend.”
He doesn’t appear to be interested. Your attempts are a complete waste of time. 
“Please…” Your tone softens in your attempt to appeal to him without the bullshit. “Please don’t take me in. You have no idea what they do to people like me.” 
He says nothing. 
***
Underneath the scorching sun, a day of silence stretches out before you. Mando, as you have taken to calling him, pauses only briefly at a roadside vendor to buy a drink for you, his caution preventing him from staying any longer than necessary. Now that other hunters have caught wind of your whereabouts, he insists on keeping a low profile…as low as a shiny tin-can-of-a-man is able to. 
As the day wears on, the sun gradually descends towards the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the landscape. With each agonizing step, the fatigue in your feet intensifies, while the searing pain in your wrists serves as a constant reminder that you need to find a way out of your restraints. If Mando harbours any concerns for your well-being, he conceals it well. But then again, why would he care? To him, you’re nothing more than a contract that promises credits. 
Throughout the day, you find your thoughts wandering to who exactly he will be delivering you to. Will it be the New Republic? The notorious Bounty Hunters’ Guild? Or perhaps he would hand deliver you to Moff Gideon himself. 
Somehow, you doubt the latter. 
You walk together until the land becomes vast and barren with very few discernable landmarks in sight. It’s here that Mando comes to an abrupt halt, catching you off guard. Towering boulders provide convenient cover, but more importantly, smaller rocks offer a place to sit and rest after hours of relentless walking. He turns his head slowly, surveying the area and once satisfied there are no immediate threats, he finally turns to look at you. Despite not being able to see his eyes, you feel his gaze from behind the inky-black visor. His eyes fix you in place while he decides his next move carefully.
“We’ll wait it out here until dark.” 
It’s a logical decision and one that resonates with familiarity. You understand it far too well, slipping away under the cover of darkness, hoping to evade detection. With a slight nod of your head, you silently show your understanding. 
Exhaustion weighs heavily on you as you finally ease yourself down to rest on one of the weathered rocks. Every muscle protests, throbbing with aches in places you never knew existed. The events of the past day have taken an undeniable toll on you, leaving you feeling as though decades have been added to your battered and bruised body. 
“Do you think you could remove these for a little while?” you ask, a touch of vulnerability lacing your words. 
Mando subtly shifts his weight. It offers a glimmer of hope, a sign of the smallest crack in his resolve. You maintain the helpless facade, testing the waters a little more.
“Where would I go? We’re in the middle of nowhere and I’m too exhausted to fight you. Even if I tried to run, you’d catch me before I took a single step away from this rock.” 
You feel his conflict, and while your lips desperately long to curl into a smirk, you force yourself to frown deeply and wince while flexing your fingers slowly. There’s no faking the hiss of discomfort that follows when the metal bites a little deeper into the raw skin beneath the bindings. 
“Fine,” he sighs. “But try anything and you’ll be back in these until I hand you over…got it?” 
You nod. Mando doesn’t move. He’s waiting for you to say it. You find yourself gritting your teeth as you bite back any snide remark that begs to claw its way out: he won’t be able to get you back in these things once you are out of them. But you play along, letting him feel as though he has the upper hand here while you bide your time. 
“I understand.” 
Mando steps close enough to you to work on releasing the binders from your wrists. His presence becomes palpable. You smell the scent of the forest intertwined within the threads of fabric beneath his armour; the subtle fragrance of the well-worn leather of his gloves, a testament to the countless battles he must have fought. Beneath his flack vest, a faint musk clings to his skin, a lingering trace of his relentless pursuit. In a different situation, this combination of smells would be alluring, drawing you closer with a desire for familiarity and comfort. But in your current predicament, they serve only as a reminder of your capture. 
A prickling sensation tingles across the broken skin that had been hidden beneath the unforgiving grip of the binders. The gentle touch of the evening breeze carries a coolness that both soothes and aggravates the tender area. As Mando stands before you, there’s an unexpected pause, almost as though he contemplates the discomfort that has been his doing. His gaze lingers for a fleeting moment, revealing a flicker of empathy. You watch him with interest, seeing a glimpse into the depths of his guarded nature. And then he remembers himself: he retreats into his stoic demeanour and turns away from you to settle onto a rock across from yours.
Only slivers of daylight remain as the final light of the day starts to give way to night. You know you’re on very limited time: once the sun completely descends and darkness falls, you’ll be on the move again. You have to do what you can to make yourself valuable enough to save. This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself captured; you know how this works. 
“So, you’re a Mandalorian?” you begin.
Your question carries across to Mando and you watch the way his helmet tilts ever so slightly, showing that you have his attention. 
“It’s not often you see Mandalorians these days…I’ve only ever met one before. Very different to you, though. Whew, she was a talker.” 
“You’ve met others like me?” Mando asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. 
Hook, line and sinker. 
“Only once…” you trail off, observing the way he hangs on your every word. “At one time, she was very powerful. She had a whole following of Mandalorians. But…things happened and her followers found a new leader–don’t worry, she was still alive when I left…a great fighter, though. You Mandalorians sure are equipped with some fancy accessories.” 
“Who is she?” 
At this, you simply smile at him and shrug a little before turning your head away, pretending to lose interest in the conversation that he has fully immersed himself into. 
“I’m afraid that information stays with me,” you confirm and then glance back over at him with your follow-up. “Whether I take it with me to my grave is up to you.” 
***
They had found you. 
Following a brief respite and hours of relentless travel shrouded in darkness, the hunters had, at last, closed in on your location as the first faint glimmers of daybreak began to paint the horizon. 
Your boots pound through the dew-covered grass as Mando’s footfalls echo in sync with yours, an urgent rhythm as you both try to put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the chaos that unfurls behind you. The ship is so close. A beacon of hope in the early morning sunlight, its gleaming exterior promising escape.   
A rapid beeping pierces the air, growing in intensity with each passing second. You know exactly what that is, and so does Mando. There’s a split second of shared recognition of the impending danger, and in a swift, instinctive motion, he propels his body towards yours. The impact takes you down to the ground, his sturdy frame protecting you just in time as the explosion reverberates through the air and unleashes a powerful shockwave. Mando’s armour absorbs the brunt of the debris, shielding you from it. As soon as it passes, his body is gone, allowing you to regain your bearings. 
It’s hard to focus. Your ears ring, your head swims. Somewhere amidst the muffled chaos, you hear Mando’s voice, urgent and commanding. Time seems to stretch on, distorting reality as you blink and shake your head in a desperate attempt to clear your brain and focus.
“Come on!” Mando yells. 
With a determined effort, you push yourself up onto your knees, only to feel a firm grip on your hand. One of Mando’s gloved hands clasps yours, pulling you upright again. The strength of his grip steadies you, allowing you to find your balance. 
“Take this,” Mando pushes something cold and heavy into your hand. You drop your eyes to see your blaster and even in your disorientated state, it’s a surprise. “Now run for the ship. Run!” 
One last burst of energy, that’s all you have to give. With a nod, you wrap your hand securely around your blaster and start your sprint for safety. Blaster bolts pierce the air around you, crackling and pinging on impact with the ship as they ricochet in every direction. 
The Mandalorian follows your trail of disturbed grass. His pace is slower–hindered by the shots he turns to fire at the hunters–but he’s not too far behind. He’s close enough to deploy the ramp, within distance to shout for you to take cover and as he thunders up behind you, he fires a few more shots to slow them down. 
“Take down as many as you can,” he gets out between his ragged breaths. “Then hit this button when I say—it will close the ramp as we take off.” 
With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone, staring at the button for the ramp. 
Time seems to slow as you stand there, torn between the decisions you have to make: do you stay and trust this man to help you, or do you jump out as you close the ramp? He wouldn’t be able to stop you during take-off. 
A heavy frown clouds your features, intertwined deeply with conflicting emotions. The Mandalorian has gotten you this far. He has kept his word of protecting you. Were you going to betray him after he had quite literally put his life on the line to save yours? 
Your trembling fingers rest against the button, ready for your cue to press it. 
Who were you kidding? You’re not going to press it. 
You’re not conflicted. You owe this man nothing. 
A third plan forms in your head and you draw in a slow breath as a flicker of determination sparks a new fire deep inside of you. This is self-preservation. It isn’t personal. 
His command travels through the hatch from the cockpit, his instruction clear as the engines rumble their signal of take-off. 
“Press it now!” 
You don’t. 
You stand and watch the hunters approaching, almost close enough for you to execute this plan. 
“It’s not working!” you lie, edging your words with a beautiful act of panic. “I’m pressing it, and nothing is happening!” 
Within seconds, boots thud overhead and then a blur of beskar jumps down through the hatch. Mando makes no use of the ladder in his hurry. 
“What do you mean, it’s not working?” 
The stakes are high. You have one shot at this and you can’t fuck it up. 
“I’m pressing it and nothing is happening!” 
Mando steps closer to the panel as you take a small step to the side, creating the perfect line-up of his body with the ramp. Your decision has been made, fueled by desperation and the hope that, in the end, this would all be worth it. 
You draw in another steady breath and let it out slowly, focusing on the hunters as they approach, waiting for just the right moment as Mando’s thumb hovers over the button. 
“I’m sorry,” you murmur quietly. 
His helmet snaps around to face you. You don’t need to see beneath his visor to understand the exact moment the disbelief hits him. 
He has no time to react. With the hardest kick you can manage, you send him tumbling down the ramp and into the clutches of the hunters below. 
***
It doesn’t take long before you bring the ship down into a controlled landing. The hisses and whirs are accompanied by your muttered curse as you sigh and rest your head back against the pilot’s chair. There’s a sense of regret forcing its way in. You know deep down that returning to the room you have spent weeks hiding out in is a gamble. You’re risking everything to come back here. But you can’t leave without what little belongings you have left. Their worth outweighs the danger. They hold more than material value; they hold the key to your survival, the last traces of your past. They’re all you have left of your life before and the risk to retrieve them will always seem worthwhile. 
With closed eyes, you reach out for the Force, seeking solace and insight. You search for a glimpse of the path that lies ahead, for a warning of any danger that awaits you if you leave the safety of the ship. But as the Force welcomes you, it withholds the answers you need. Instead, it offers something different, something unexpected. A current pulses through your connection, a bright energy that has been absent for so long. It seems as though the Force has chosen to reveal a different path to you and you push further in an attempt to see more. 
Another Force user, closer in proximity than you’ve felt since you were a child. Their light is pure, untarnished by the pull of the darkside. Hesitantly, you push yourself up from the chair and look around the cockpit. For now, you’re alone, but there’s a persistent pull that beckons you to search further through the ship. 
You don’t have time for this, you remind yourself as you climb down into the hull. There is a very angry Mandalorian looking for you. He would find you and when he did, he would no doubt kill you for what you had done: you crossed him, stole his ship. 
No, you were becoming distracted, your connection to the Force seeming to drop like radio static on an out-of-tune channel. You breathe slowly, regaining your focus and allowing the pull to guide you as you come to a set of small doors. Whatever it is you’re able to feel is on the other side, alert and waiting, aware of your presence. 
You’re not entirely sure what you’re expecting when you hit the button, but you’re taken aback by the large, glossy orb-like eyes that stare up at you. It’s something small, green, and rather peculiar-looking. Large ears perk up and it tilts a small head, curious at the sight of you. You’re not the Mandalorian that owns this ship. You’re not supposed to be here. 
The realisation happens like the toppling of dominos and your stomach plummets: a Mandalorian, a Force-sensitive child. 
These were the two Moff Gideon had been looking for. They had to be. 
What were the chances of finding another Mandalorian bounty hunter with a Force-sensitive child in his care? 
You step back, head reeling and heart pounding. This discovery, this child, could be your ticket to redemption, a chance to be welcomed home by Gideon. You can’t deny yourself a moment of envisioning what that would look like, offering the innocent life you’ve stumbled upon as a testament to your unwavering loyalty. You can almost hear his praise, see the way his lips curl into a knowing smile as he opens his arms to you…no. 
 You would never go back there. You couldn’t.
Panic sets in as the last fragments of your control slip through your fingers. All that’s left is vulnerability, exposed like a raw nerve. You sever your connection to the Force and this child, knowing that nothing good would come of it. You’re losing—the odds are stacked against you and in your panic, you slam your hand repeatedly against the control panel to seal the doors to the cot once more. 
You have to go. You have to get as far away from this child as possible, you have to leave behind the last flickering chance of reconciliation with Gideon. The safety of this child outweighs any opportunity for absolution, you know that deep down. It doesn’t make the choice any easier though. It bares down upon you as you flee from the ship, having already wasted too much time.
In the cover of your room, dried mud cracks from your boots, crumbling and joining the tapestry of unidentifiable stains on the floor. You had paid over double the credits for this dismal sanctuary, the owner’s vow of silence now a hollow promise in hindsight. The bounty hunter had tracked you down regardless. 
As you pace, the floorboards groan underfoot, protesting the burden of their existence, while the peeling paint on the walls reveals grime and more stains below. You could have chosen a more upscale haven, a place where unsavoury memories weren’t woven into the current lodgings, but anonymity was your greatest ally. 
You need to calm down. You have to think about this carefully. 
Amidst the storm of panic threatening to engulf you, you have to remind yourself of the important facts. A single close call had shaken your resolve, but you were still clinging to your advantage, a precarious lead in this deadly chase. 
Drawing in a deep, measured breath, you quiet the clamour of thoughts echoing through your mind. You sift through the chaos, grasping only those that will serve your survival right now. Everything else, you would deal with later, once safely away from the bounty hunter. 
Your pacing ceases. Your hands find solace braced against the small table before you. As you lower your head, your gaze studies the small collection of possessions resting there–a few additional blasters, a clean outfit, and a meticulously crafted helmet. It was a gift, given to you by someone you had cherished deeply; someone you had respected and looked up to. 
What would he say if he could see you now? 
He had given everything for you. He had taught you, trained you, tried to guide you, and for what? Since his passing, you had chosen every wrong path that strayed so far from his teachings that you could barely recall them these days. 
A soft, ragged breath escapes your lips, carrying with it the weight of the situation as you move one of your bruised and blooded hands to rest against your helmet. Oh, how you long for his counsel. You would give anything to hear his wisdom and witness his ability to navigate even the biggest problems with unerring precision. Deep down, you know what he would say. Keep fighting. 
A swift shake of your head brings your focus back into sight and you begin to gather up your belongings. Methodically, they find their place within your bag, which you wear with a wince as it settles into a tender area of your shoulder. Everything you hold dear now fits within a single bag, not counting the arsenal of weaponry you securely fasten into their rightful place. Some had been lost during the chase, but you still had more than enough for another encounter, if one should arise. 
With everything you own in tow, you stride toward the door, prepared and determined to escape from the planet and continue your life of being on the run. However, your journey is abruptly halted within a second of the door sliding open. Cold beskar collides with you, knocking the breath from your lungs as you’re unceremoniously pinned against the opposite wall, belongings now strewn across the stained floor. Your hands desperately grapple his arm in an attempt to ease some of the pressure restricting your airways. But he doesn’t budge. Mando has learned the hard way, and he refuses to allow you even an inch of movement. 
One of his strong arms presses across your collarbones, keeping you in place while the end of his blaster jabs underneath your jaw, causing a cold stillness to settle across your writhing body. 
“If you’ve laid even one finger on him…” 
The limited space between you is fraught with tension, disturbed only by the sound of the safety catch being disengaged. It’s a noise you’ve heard countless times, but this time, you find yourself beginning to panic as you hear the tone of his voice. It’s devoid of the stoicism you had become familiar with, and instead, it carries an undertone of desperation, an element of urgency that cuts through you and warns you of Mando’s intentions if he doesn’t get the answers he wants. 
Your lips part as you try to struggle again, gasping for air so that you can answer him. 
“I…I…I can’t…” your voice is strained in your attempt to draw in a breath. 
Mando’s arm is suddenly gone, and so is the support of the wall as you’re hurled away from it. Aching bones are met with the abrupt, unwelcoming force of the table as you stumble against the edge of it. Pain explodes from your hip, sending a shockwave through your body and you finally crumple to the floor. 
Every muscle tenses, every instinct screams at you to react, but your limbs feel strangely unresponsive as you drink in the precious air, your lungs greedily accepting the offering. 
What you first perceived as aggression now takes on an entirely new face as he advances toward you. Fear, palpable and potent. It’s a fear of losing something precious, something that he holds most dear: the child. 
“I didn’t touch him!” Your words erupt from you, your own panic saturating your words. 
You scramble backward, your hand instinctively extending as a feeble barricade against his approach. 
“I didn’t touch him,” you repeat. “He’s safe, I swear. He’s on the ship.” 
A heavy silence descends upon the room, tense and thick with contemplation. From behind the visor, you feel Mando’s gaze fixed on you, unwavering and inscrutable. You sense his hesitation and observe the way the tight ball of his first slowly unfurls. This isn’t a man easily deceived, but you think he believes you. He accepts your truth. 
He bends and retrieves your helmet from the floor, silently studying it as he turns it in his hands. You wonder if he understands it, if he can sense the triumphs and losses it has seen. His gloved fingers run along the helmet’s contours, feeling the subtle grooves and indentations that give the dark metal its distinctive character. 
“Who are you?” Mando finally asks. 
His helmet tilts fractionally and you know his eyes are now on you again. 
“I’m someone who can take you to Moff Gideon.” 
Every muscle in his body freezes at that name. You have him right where you need him, and when all you’re met with is silence, you continue. 
“I’ll come with you. I won’t fight you. Then you can decide if you’re going to turn me over…or let me help you. We have a common enemy, Mando, and—”
“Stop talking,” he cuts you off. 
“Instead of fighting each other, we can help each other. You want to find him, and we can–”
“There is no we,” his voice is firm. 
He leaves no room for misinterpretation as he closes in on you again. 
“Give me your hands.” 
With a heavy sigh, you hold them out and close your eyes as the binders pinch at the raw skin around your wrists. What did you think he was going to do? You had crossed him, fed him to the wolves and stolen his ship. 
He picks your bag up from the floor and hoists it over his shoulder then takes hold of your helmet in one hand, your restraints in the other, and walks you out of the room. 
You needed a new plan.
***
The tranquil azure light of hyperspace dances through the hatch from the cockpit, bathing you in the smooth glow. Since your return to the ship, the bounty hunter had spent most of his time up in the cockpit and you welcomed the silence that had settled in his absence. It gave you the space you needed to reflect on the chaotic sequence of events that had led to this moment; you, sitting on the cold, metal floor of the hold with your back against the sealed cargo crates. 
There was a lot to think about. 
Occasionally, a terse command from the cockpit breaks the silence of the ship. You pick up on words such as “no” and “stop that”, which only seem to be met with coos and soft babbling. The child’s voice, innocent and almost oblivious to the tension that lingers in the air. 
During the hours that follow, you drift in and out of uneasy sleep. Each time, fragmented dreams are interrupted by the vessel’s subtle tremors and the soft cadence of Mando’s footsteps as he periodically checks on you. The rhythmic thuds of his boots become almost imperceptible until, at last, he descends from the cockpit once more. With the child asleep above, you can only assume he has time to focus his attention on you again. 
You blink, focusing your gaze through the dimly lit hold as you watch him take a seat on the crate across from you. 
“Here,” he murmurs and extends a flask toward you. 
Bound hands make it challenging, but you manage to take it and consume nearly its entirety in desperate gulps. The cold liquid caresses down your parched throat and helps to soothe the dry, scratchy sensation. You contemplate wiping your mouth on the back of your dirty hands, but upon closer inspection, you pause with the realisation that they are still stained with dirt and blood. Much like your torn and tattered clothes, they bore witness to the battles you’ve endured with the man sitting opposite you. 
“Thank you,” you finally speak, voice croaking with the lingering dryness the water hadn’t been able to soothe.
He offers a brief nod and maintains a steady gaze through his visor. You have piqued his interest, despite the way he fights against it. 
“Do you have a name?” you ask after a prolonged silence. 
“Mando is fine,” comes his reply. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” 
For the first time since he joined you, you avert your eyes and focus on the wall behind him. By now, you have mastered the art of silence and elusive answers as a way to reveal very little of yourself under interrogation.
“I’ve worked for many people,” you reply flatly. 
Mando sighs at the lack of depth to your answer, as if he had expected something a little more from you. 
“How did you find other Mandalorians?” 
Your gaze returns to him as he asks his next question. He tries to hide his desire for knowledge, and his yearning to discover others of his kind. It resonates with you on a deep level. You understand his desperation, having experienced it yourself. The longing to connect with those who share your story, your origins, your essence. Yet, you’re aware of the harsh reality; the Jedi had mostly been killed and any who survived had vanished. Mandalorians were but a scattered few, their presence so sparse in the galaxy that they barely existed at all. 
“As I said,” you shrug and immediately regret it when a sharp pain jolts through your shoulder and upper arm. You desperately try to hide the wince, but it flashes across your face quicker than you’re able to fight it. “I’ve worked for many people.” 
He sighs heavily. You know this man is smart enough to know when he is fighting a losing battle. You’re tired, you’re hungry and there’s not an area of your body that doesn’t ache. You’re in no mood for his questions. 
Mando moves to stand, his own groan of discomfort audible through the static of his modulator. You’ve both taken quite the beating and you can’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction that you’re not the only one struggling. 
“Do you…” He begins and then trails off as though still processing his next question. “Do you want to get cleaned up?”  
That was quite unexpected. 
You raise your eyebrows slowly, suspicious of his endgame. It’s almost as if he picks up on your hesitation because he quickly clarifies. 
“I’ll go back up into the cockpit. You can use this area…and the fresher is right there,” he nods in the direction of a small opening in the corner. 
“I…uh,” your eyes dart back over to him, still somewhat suspicious. “That would be great…thank you?” 
You’re not entirely sure why it comes out as a question. With an edge of hesitation, you twist yourself just enough to hook your arm over the top of the crate so you can use it to pull yourself back up to your feet. 
“Could you take these off?” 
You hold up your hands, bringing your binders into view. This time, it’s Mando who hesitates. His helmet has a subtle tilt while he considers your question and your previous actions. 
“No,” he states firmly. 
“No? How do you expect me to clean up when I can’t use my hands?” 
He shrugs. He stares straight at you and shrugs. 
“I warned you not to make me regret taking them off last time.”
Your stare hardens into a glare so fierce, you’re almost sure it could melt his precious beskar armour. The tension in your jaw sets your teeth into a tight clench as your fingers unintentionally begin to curl into fists. He sees your festering frustration and chooses to defuse it. 
“You see that?” Mando asks and points to something over your shoulder. You turn your head slowly, spotting the carbonite chamber over the far side of the hold. “That’s where you’ll end up if you so much as think about pulling another stunt like you did earlier. Consider yourself lucky you’re standing here with your wrists bound. Get cleaned up or don’t, the choice is yours.” 
You say nothing. It takes every fraction of your control not to laugh at that. Lucky? You’re far from lucky right now. 
You want to get cleaned up, you really do. But your stubbornness keeps you rooted to the spot, your eyes continuing to burn a hole through the front of his visor to keep him on edge. You’re unpredictable, he knows that. It’s how you have managed to slip through so many attempted captures. So while you understand his need to protect himself and the child while you’re on his ship, it doesn’t stop you from being pissed off about it. 
Still holding your silence, you cross to the fresher and turn to close the door. There is no door. All that sits on the wall is a broken control panel, the functional buttons long gone. 
You sense his heavy gaze lingering on you as you turn on the water and watch the way it cascades over your fingers, a brief respite to wash away the layers of dirt and dried blood caking your skin. Glancing up, you meet your reflection in the small mirror, and a heavy sigh escapes your lips. The evidence of the gruelling confrontation is marked across your skin in the form of vivid, darkening bruises. Scratches, trophies of your frantic battle amongst the branches, streak across your cheeks. 
You try to cup the water, attempting to bring some relief to your battered face, but each attempt fails. The water slips through the gaps in your bound hands, unable to keep hold of it in their limited position. Your frustration snaps as you slam your hands down against the small sink. Simultaneously, an agonising surge of pain courses through your arm, causing a small cry to escape you before you’re able to muffle it. Everything about this is humiliating. He stands watching you, a silent witness to your struggle. 
You should have fought harder. To the death, if you had to. You had given in too easily and allowed yourself to be captured. What would Gideon say if he could see you now? Something tells you that you won’t need to wait long to find out. Once Mando hands you over, he will find you. 
“Here, let me help,” Mando’s voice–albeit softer now–startles you from the small doorway. 
“Why?” you snap. “So you can feel better about yourself? So I can thank you for taking care of me after you fucking captured me?” 
You don’t give him time to answer. His silences are too long and you’re done with them. 
“You did this,” you shove him with your other arm, causing him to stumble back a couple of steps from the doorway. “You did this. You asshole. You fucking asshole. You should have put me in carbonite and been done with it! You…You…” 
You reach to shove his chest again but this time, he grabs hold of your hands and keeps them pressed against his chestplate. 
“You asshole,” your voice cracks. 
The wind has been taken out of your sails and your head lowers, defeated.
“Are you done?” he asks, his voice still calm and quiet. 
Your silence is the only answer he gets and when you don’t pull away from him, he lowers your hands and releases your binders. Not for the first time that day, your senses are filled with him. You think you would be able to identify his smell anywhere now; well-worn leather, polished armour, a musk on his skin. It takes you back to hours earlier, when he had first removed your binders and stood so close to you. 
“Can I see your shoulder?”
You nod and help him with removing your shoulder pauldrons. He takes each one in his gloved hands and places them down carefully, treating them with the respect he would show the pieces of his own armour. Each time, he waits for you. He keeps his hands at a respectful distance while you unclasp your shirt. He turns his helmet to allow you some modesty as you slowly slip your arm free so he’s able to feel around the area when you tell him he can. 
No further words are exchanged. He simply follows your lead, as though he is beginning to learn your movements. He has studied you, memorised your fighting pattern, and watched your decision-making processes. In the hours you have spent together, both in and out of combat, he has started piecing together the parts of you he has seen.
He removes his dirty gloves and sets them down beside your pauldrons. With your eyes still lowered, you note the inky tones of his bruised knuckles and the way his fingers flex almost nervously at being exposed under your gaze. It’s the first part of him that you have seen, the first glimpse of the person beneath all of his armour. 
“Turn around,” he instructs. 
Very slowly, he moves his hands toward your shoulder and it catches you off guard. It’s not his actions that surprise you but rather the warmth of his touch as his fingers gently seek out the tender area he had seen you struggling with earlier. Everything about him had been cold and frigid; his voice, his posture, his overall demeanour…yet his warmth, unexpectedly coursing through his touch, reminds you of his humanity. 
A hiss escapes your lips as your breath catches when his thumb applies pressure to the most sensitive point, coaxing an involuntary flinch from you. 
“Sorry,” he’s quick to apologise. “Try and keep still. I need to feel around this area.” 
The cold that radiates from his beskar is a stark contrast to the warmth of his hands and despite the discomfort they cause when he moves your arm slowly to assess the movement you have, his touch is not unwelcome on your skin. 
No. You have to stop that thought right there. 
“I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t seem like anything is broken. Could be a torn muscle. It’s probably going to be tender for a few days.” 
You nod, signalling your understanding as he helps you to slip your arm back into your shirt. Your mind bounces between the way his hands felt, the warmth they brought to your skin, and the way he had mentioned a ‘few days’ so casually in his assessment of your shoulder. 
Did that mean there was still a chance for you to make yourself valuable enough to not hand over?
“I’ll leave you to get cleaned up. Do you…do you want some soup?” 
You can’t help yourself. You lift your gaze, unable to hide the half-amused, half-confused expression from your face. This is a funny little dynamic you have going on, one of threatening violence and offering soup. At this, you begin to smile. 
“Soup would be great.” 
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