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millersdjarin · 2 years

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I Only See Daylight

Chapter Nine

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: E

Chapter Warnings/tags: past arranged/forced marriage, cults, religious trauma, religion disillusionment, bonding, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, panic attacks

Chapter length: 4.8k

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notes: enjoy, friends!

maybe you ran with the wolves and refused to settle down; maybe i stormed out of every single room in this town

“Do you ever just pull faces at people under there?” You ask from your place on the edge of the bed as you run a brush through your wet hair.

Mando is standing at the bedroom window, leaning his arm against the frame, brushing against the velvet curtains. The morning Corscant sun is glinting off of his armour. He turns to you. “Why would I do that?”

“Because they can’t see you, and it’s funny. Like a little joke to yourself.”

The helmet tilts, amused. “No, I don’t.”

“You should. Just pull the weirdest face you can think of. No one would know.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stands there, still as a wall, staring at you.

A grin spreads across your mouth, showing your teeth. “Are you doing it now?”

“…Maybe.”

You laugh, lightness bubbling in your chest, and shake your head. “You’re going to start doing that now, aren’t you? Just to mess with me without me knowing?”

He hooks his thumb over the belt around his hips, props his weight onto one leg. Kriff, he looks good. If you could, you’d jump onto his body and climb him like a fucking tree. “I might.”

Still smiling, you put down the hairbrush and turn around to grab your socks from the bed beside you. The covers are folded back, pillows in disarray.

You had shared the bed last night.

Not at first. Mando still needed to eat dinner, so you went to sleep first, sunk into the soft bed and burrowed yourself in the sheets. It was so comfortable, so soft, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. The mattress hugged your body just right, didn’t press on any sore points. Your shoulder hurt, of course, but you managed to drift off despite that, just focusing on the warmth and comfort of this fancy bed.

When you’d stirred a while later, the lights were all off, just a little pillar of it shining through a gap in the curtains. The door was shut; you’d left it open. You turned, and Mando was there, lying on his side facing you, wearing just his flight suit and helmet. His blaster was tucked under the pillow behind his head, and you couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep.

No covers were on him, since you had bundled yourself up into a little cocoon; you started to unwrap yourself, then draped the duvet over the lower half of Mando’s body, gently letting your hand run over the fabric of his suit over his waist as you pulled away.

“You okay?” He’d asked into the quiet.

You almost startled at his voice. “Yes,” you said. There were several feet between you—the bed is big—and every inch of you wanted to close that space, shuffle closer to him and put your arm around his waist. “Are you? Did I wake you?”

He reached out his hand then, untucking it from his chest, and laid it on the mattress between you with his palm facing the ceiling. His bare palm, ready for you to take hold of.

You did, of course. Rolled over onto your good shoulder, then softly threaded your fingers together, breathless at the feeling of his bare skin on yours. You could even feel the warmth of his wrist, his flight suit sleeve pushed up just a little, giving you access to his pulse point. You leaned in, craning your neck because you weren’t sure if he’d mind if you shuffled closer, and pressed a kiss there. Maybe he wouldn’t remember this in the morning; maybe that’d be for the best.

“Go back to sleep, Mesh’la,” he’d said softly, almost a whisper. “I’m here.”

And when you woke up, he was already out of bed, and you could hear the shower running in the bathroom.

Now you’re both up, both showered and dressed, and the kid is waddling in from the living quarters where you’d plopped him in front of a HoloNet show for kids. He runs over to Mando, who scoops him up and holds him in the crook of his arm, both of them now looking out of the window.

You smile at the sight. Honestly, you could look at them for hours, the way they quietly communicate with each other, Mando pointing at things out there that Grogu might want to see. Your heart warms, that contented heat flooding your chest.

Mando orders food for you for breakfast, and it’s delivered to the suite in ten minutes. Hot pastries and stewed fruits, and a huge pitcher of caf. There’s a round dining table in the suite’s living room where the two of you sit while you eat, Grogu opting to sit on the floor by the coffee table instead.

You watch him, then look back to Mando, who always sits with you when you’re eating, even though he doesn’t eat at the same time.

“Can I ask you something?” You ask into the comfortable quiet, tearing off a piece of pastry before putting it in your mouth. It’s flaky and sweet.

“Always.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

He doesn’t tense like you’d almost expected him to. Instead, he leans his arms on the table, tilts his helmet back to look at the kid. “He was a bounty.”

“A bounty? The kid?”

“Yeah. His powers were…unprecedented. Special to…”

You raise an eyebrow. “To everyone, I guess? I can see why a kid who can heal poisoned wounds would be sought after…”

“It wasn’t just everyone,” Mando says, then turns back to you. “It was…the Empire.” He lowers his voice, like he doesn't want the kid to hear him say it.

You frown deeply, dread hitting your stomach. “The…the Empire.”

“Yes. What was left of them. They wanted…” he turns around again. The kid isn’t listening, too busy munching on pieces of pastry. But Mando still stands up and flicks on the HoloNet. “Hey, kid, you wanna watch that show you like?” He asks, flicking through the channels until he finds Grogu’s favourite. Grogu coos happily and turns so he’s leaning against the coffee table leg and gazing up at the moving pictures in front of him. (While still eating his breakfast, of course. Nothing could distract him from his food.)

Mando comes back, but doesn’t sit opposite you at the table, instead coming to sit in the seat beside yours. You turn to him, crossing one leg over the other.

“I just don’t want the kid to have to hear it all again,” Mando explains quietly.

You glance to Grogu, who hasn’t even twitched an ear at hearing ‘the kid’, like he normally does. One of Mando’s gloved hands is on the table, the other fiddling in his lap, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

He sighs heavily. “They wanted his blood. Thought that they could get the Force out of it, or something, and use it to rebuild the Empire.”

“…The Force.”

“Yeah. His powers are…he’s a Jedi,” he says, like he’s only just realised he’s never said those exact words to you.

“Holy shit.”

“Sorry, I…I thought you knew.”

“I…had considered it. But you never told me outright, and I didn’t want to pry. Figured you didn’t talk about it to keep him safe.”

Mando nods. His hand on the table moves towards you, but stops after a beat. “When I found him, I didn’t know who’d set the bounty. I took him to them, and that’s when I found out. I left him there, even though I knew he was a kid, and I knew who I’d left him with.” His voice is heavy with shame, and he hangs his head, not looking at you anymore. Like he can’t.

“But you’re together now,” you say, soft, “so…”

“I broke the Guild code. I went back for him, I killed every Imp in that place, and took him away. After that, we were wanted by every bounty hunter, Guild member, and Imp in the Galaxy.”

Your eyebrows raise a little. You look at his hand, wondering if he’d want you to hold it, or if he just needs his space. The emotion in his voice is clear, even through the modulator. “You ever get caught?” You ask, unsure if you want to hear the answer.

“Yes. I almost died with an injury to my head; I got Dune to take the kid away. I was ready to die to keep my helmet on.”

A huge stab of both pain and fear strike through your chest. You knew the helmet meant a lot to him, knew that it was his Creed. But to prefer to die than let someone see his face…and for him to have kissed you yesterday…what has he been through that changed him so much?

“How’d you survive?” You ask, unsure you want to hear any more about how he almost died. The thought of him not being here is unbearable.

“I was with a droid. Technically, him removing my helmet still meant no living thing had seen my face. That was the first time I bent the rules.”

Your heart leaps. With what, you’re not sure.

“We’ve been through a lot. They took the kid from me, once. I thought I’d never see him again.” He’s still not looking at you, just gazing at the floor between you, fingers still fidgeting. You’ve never seen him like this; never seen him not willing to look at you or the person he’s talking to. His voice is heavy, and you can almost see the weight on his shoulders, pulling him down to the ground more than any of that armour ever has.

They took the kid.

You can’t help it. You reach out, grasp his hand on the table. A part of you expects him to pull away, to tense up at your touch. But he doesn’t. He turns his hand over so he can hold yours in return.

“You got him back,” you whisper.

“I did. But I lost him again soon after.”

“What—what happened?”

He sighs again. Pauses, letting tense quiet linger on, only the sound of Grogu’s show filling the room. “My quest was to take him to his own people. After a long time of searching we found Jedi, and one of them came to take him to be trained, to teach him how to use his powers.”

Your heart lurches. “You let him go?”

“Yes.” His voice shakes.

“Oh, Mando,” you squeeze his hand, wanting to reach out and hold the back of his neck. “That must have been so hard. I don’t think I could have done the same thing if I were you. I mean, look at him.” You jerk your head in the direction of the kid, then do exactly that: look at him, feeling tears well in your eyes at the possibility of him ever being separated from Mando. And, surprisingly, at the possibility of him being separated from you.

That’s a lot, but you don’t let yourself dwell on that thought right now. It’s not the time.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” Mando says, and it’s so genuine, so soft and quiet, that it sounds like a confession. His voice shakes, his breathing trembling through his helmet. “That was when I took my helmet off for him. He wanted to see my face before we parted ways.”

“Oh,” you breathe. “That was the second time you…?”

“No,” he admits, quiet. “There was another time. It was…for him, when I was trying to save him. I was hacking a data portal to find where they were holding him, and it had to scan my face. Then I got near-interrogated by some Imps with it off, and…the guy I was with saw my face, too.”

You nod. You want to ask him more about that, about what he said last night: that things are changing. That he isn’t believing the things he used to believe. That he is starting to think he could take his helmet off in front of you.

You want to ask so badly, but you bite your tongue. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. He already promised you that. And he sounds so ashamed by this, like he can’t shake the weight of it.

“So how’d you find your way back to each other?” You ask, giving his hand a squeeze as you look across to the kid again, smiling softly.

Mando’s shoulder’s shake once, a huff of laughter coming through his modulator. He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “He found his way to me. I’m still not sure what went down, but all I know is he had the choice between his Jedi training and me. And…”

A smile creeps on to your lips. “He chose you,” you say, a breath.

He nods. You wonder what expression graces his face. By the shakiness of his breath, he might even be a little teary.

You slide your hand up his arm, your fingers lifting to trace the cool beskar on his forearm, dipping again into the flight suit at his elbow. Then back down again. “That’s amazing,” you say, because you can’t think of any other way to put it.

“I was on Tatooine. The Jedi’s droid flew him back, and my friend brought the kid to me. Bad timing, I was in a pretty big fight, then I look down and Grogu’s just there in the middle of it all. All he wanted was a hug.”

“I think that might be the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He lifts his hand a little, catches yours again and threads your fingers together.

“So it’s been you and him since then?”

Smoothing his gloved thumb over your knuckles, he nods. “I just want to give him the life he deserves. I don’t want to run anymore.”

You nod, understanding that more than anyone.

Quiet settles for a minute, and you look back over to Grogu, who’s staring up at his show with great interest, his breakfast plate now empty. There are crumbs on the floor around him and all down the front of his little robe.

Mando’s eyes stay on you. You can see him staring in your peripheral, but mostly, you can feel his gaze. Even through the helmet, it’s hot, intoxicating.

“Thank you,” he says, surprising you.

You look at him with a curious frown. “For what?”

He shuffles his chair closer, squeezes your hand. “Despite my Creed’s emphasis on companionship and loyalty, I’ve never really opened up to anyone before.”

If your shoulder wasn’t hurting, you’d lift your other hand up to stroke it down the cheek of his helmet. Your heart blooms with warmth, lurches with yearning.

“It’s always been safer to stay…hidden, I guess,” he says, and you understand that—kriff, do you understand that—so you nod, squeeze his hand, wanting more than anything to just touch him and tell him how much this moment of vulnerability means to you. “So, thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You make me feel safe. Seen,” slowly, he lets go of your hand, instead tracing the tips of his fingers up your bare arm, all the way to the crook of your elbow. You barely hold back a shiver at his touch. “Even through the armour, I feel seen when you look at me.”

You swallow down a heavy lump of emotion, staring at him with wide eyes that sting like they want to release tears. You don’t let them, instead just nodding softly, wishing he’d tell you to close your eyes, take his helmet off, and kiss you. “You make me feel seen, too. And that used to terrify me.”

He cradles the underside of your elbow, his thumb brushing over your bicep. “It doesn’t anymore?”

“Oh, no, it does. But…less so, with you.”

He nods like he understands. He probably does. Then he lifts his hand again, instead bringing it to your face, gently pressing against your lip with the pad of his thumb. You purse your lips, kiss his glove. You imagine he’s smiling under there. The feeling of his smile beneath your hands is still there if you think of it hard enough.

“Mesh’la,” he breathes, so quietly it’s like he’s saying it to himself; or like he didn’t mean to say it aloud at all.

You tense under the compliment, wishing you wouldn’t. Wishing you could just take it, could believe him, could think anything other than If you saw the rest of me, you wouldn’t think so. “Why do you call me that?”

“Because you are,” he says, then as if he thinks you’ve forgotten what it means, “beautiful.”

“You’ve not seen all of me.”

He leans in closer. “I won’t change my mind.”

Nervous, you swallow. Phantom pain twinges over your scars. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Cyar’ika…” his voice is concerned, like maybe he’s frowning, but he’s cut off from saying anything else when the HoloNet show suddenly shuts off and the kid starts walking over to you again. As you both turn to look at him, you smile, grateful for the distraction.

“Hey, kiddo,” you say, discreetly wiping at your watery eyes before reaching down to pick him up. Mando stays quiet, watching you. “What’s up? How’d you sleep in that fancy bed?”

“Do you draw attention like this everywhere you go?”

“Always.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I like to look at you, too, but I don’t think it’s for the same reasons as them.”

He tilts his head towards you, and you hear the smirk in his voice. “And what are your reasons?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would.”

“Not out here on the street, Mando. I have some decency.”

He chuckles softly. You turn to glance at him as if you’d be able to see his smile in the bright sunlight shining down on him. Instead, all you see is the light glinting from his armour. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

As much as you’ve been enjoying your time here, you must admit that it’s a relief to see the ship come into view at the docks. The streets are so busy, people are constantly pressed up against each other, and you’re looking forward to being out in open space again, just the three of you, not a chance of someone picking your pockets or brushing too close against you in an alleyway.

It should maybe be concerning, how quickly this ship has started to feel like home. As soon as you step inside, something inside you settles, like you’d been missing it the whole time. Or maybe it’s the sight of Mando, taking his rifle off his back and putting it in its rack, the kid rushing to the bed chamber to climb up into his hammock, like he’s glad to have it back. Mando brushing his hand over the small of your back as he passes you and locks the door, then the sight of his cape swinging a little as he heads over to the ladder.

“I need to use the 'fresher. Where to next?” You ask.

“Wherever you want to go.”

You’re about to tell him that the Galaxy is your oyster, that you’ll be happy going anywhere, so long as the three of you are together. But as you reach the 'fresher door, fully intent on following him up into the cockpit once you're done, you feel something in the pocket of your jacket. Frowning, you reach in there, finding a thick piece of folded paper, ripped at the edges, with writing on it in ink that’s bleeding on the edges.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. CORRELIA STREET DINER BACK ALLEY 24 HOURS OR I TAKE THE CHILD FOR THE BOUNTY, AND THE MANDALORIAN FOR THE FUN TELL NO ONE. COME ALONE. I'M TAKING YOU HOME. - A FAMILY FRIEND

Your heart drops into your stomach.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You knew that if someone was going to make you anywhere, it was going to be on Coruscant. You knew that it was a risk, coming out of your safe place. You knew that you were always going to be in some kind of danger, knew that they’d always be looking for you, that “family friends” would take you back to them to gain favour—

You also knew that someone could pick your fucking pocket in those streets without you noticing—you just never thought that they’d put something in there instead of taking something out.

Despite the risks, when you left your safety, the quiet life you’d built for yourself where no one would ever find you, you didn’t anticipate anyone becoming collateral. You didn’t ever think that you’d have someone you cared about, two people you cared about, who someone could use, hold over you as leverage.

Your mind races. Anxiety stabs your stomach, twisting like a knife, nausea rolling over your body.

Someone saw you. Someone knows who you’re with, knows what ship you’re in. They know about the kid. They’re going to make you choose between your life, or theirs.

You can’t breathe.

The kid makes a concerned noise behind you. He’s probably sensed that something’s wrong. Turning to look at him, you find him gazing up at you with a tilted head, asking you if you’re alright, asking what’s wrong.

Your eyes, filled to the brim with tears, stare at him in disbelief.

You can’t let anything happen to him.

You can’t hide from him. You can’t hide from Mando. They’re going to know—they’re going to—you’re going to—

Unable to do anything now that you’re in the sky again, flying away from Coruscant’s atmosphere, you rush into the refresher on shaking legs as tears spill over your cheeks. You shut and lock the door before the kid can follow you, only just spotting his concerned little face come into view before the door slides shut.

Shit.

You can’t breathe.

Every laboured, too-deep breath stings.

Shit, shit, shit.

Your first instinct is to tell Mando. He’ll know what to do. He’ll keep you safe. He’s been on the run from the Empire, for kriff’s sake; he knows how to outrun someone.

But then you realise: if you run, after twenty four hours, this person will tell your family where you are. Who you’re with. How to find you. You’ll never be able to hide from them again and, most importantly, neither will Mando.

There’s no doubt in your mind that he can handle it, that he can shake off any tail he might pick up, that he can fight off your family if they ever do come for you. They’re not an army, after all, and even though you’ve never doubted that they’d hire one to get to you if they knew where you were, you also know that Mando has fought worse.

But he’s only just stopped running. He’s finally, finally managed to find the kid at least some semblance of peace. Yes, there are still stragglers after him. And, yes, the Galaxy is a dangerous place, especially for a little Jedi kid and a Mandalorian.

But they’re free. They have a life to build.

A life that crashed into yours, and yet you still managed to be the one who invaded it.

You can’t let them go back to that.

I just want to give him a life he deserves, Mando’s words echo in your head. From just this morning. Just this morning, before it all went to shit, when you felt peace in your chest and hope for the future.

Now, that’s all gone.

All that’s left is dread. Cold, all-consuming dread, seeping into your very core, running thick and hopeless through your veins.

You hear the little claws of Grogu’s hand tapping against the door.

Dank fucking farrik.

You can’t drag them back into a life of running. Of fighting. You’re just one person. You’re not worth all that.

You never thought you’d find a price that you weren’t willing to pay for your freedom.

Turns out, you have.

Mando agrees to go to Correlia as soon as you suggest it. “That’s not far,” he says approvingly, setting the coordinates. “Anything in particular you wanted to see?”

You swallow down your nerves, clamping your shaking hands together on your lap. “Just heard a lot about it, is all. I think it’s one of those planets you have to see, if you’re travelling.” The only thing making you such a good liar and keeping your voice from trembling is the kid sitting in Mando’s lap, gazing out at the stars in wonder.

“I think you’ll like it.”

“Is it as busy as Coruscant?”

“In a different way, but yes.”

You nod, unable to find any other words. You just stare at the back of his head, feeling your chest tight and heavy. This is the last time you’re going to see this. Mando sitting in front of you, setting coordinates, leisurely flicking switches as the kid watches in earnest. It’s become something that you take for granted. Something so simple, so mundane. And yet, sitting here watching it for the final time before you’re dragged back to the hell of your past, it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever witnessed.

You don’t even notice that you’ve jumped to hyperspace.

After a while, Mando turns to you, swivelling his whole chair. “Are you alright?” He asks.

His concern hurts your chest. Your eyes snap to him, stinging so badly with tears that the pain itself almost makes you want to cry. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“I thought you slept well,” he says.

“I did.”

“Was it because I was there, too? If you weren’t okay with that…”

“No,” you’re quick to say, because, kriff, this is bad enough, you can’t have him thinking that you’re not happy he slept beside you holding your hand—“No, it’s not that. I promise, I did sleep well. I’m just…still tired.”

He studies you for a moment. His helmet is tilted, concerned. Those gloved hands are splayed on the beskar over his thighs. Normally, your brain would flood with sinful thoughts, imagining yourself running your hands over him, sitting in his lap, feeling his heat between your legs. But now, all you feel is sadness. “Are you sick?” He asks it like he’s sure the answer is no, but he knows that there’s something wrong, so he’s just guessing.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “I’m just going to go to the ’fresher. Be right back.” You brush your hand over his shoulder before you leave the cockpit, and feel his eyes on you until you’re out of sight.

You do go to the fresher, but only to splash your face with water. It helps. Calms the flush in your cheeks, washes away the tears that haven’t quite started to fall but still sting on your eyelids.

For a while, you just hover over the sink, hunched over it with your hands on either side of it. You stare at the faucet, watching it drip. This is your home. This has become your home, more than the place you grew up ever could be, more than your hut was, despite your best efforts.

But it can’t be that anymore.

Your heart is breaking. You can feel it in your chest, cracking away, the shards settling into your lungs, suffocating you.

But the very thing that’s making you so upset, the two people who have made you feel like a person, are also the reason you know you have to do this. You have to do this for them. Maybe one day, once you’re back in that hell and married to someone you don’t love, following some shitty religion that you never believed in, being punished for every tiny mistake—maybe you’ll escape again. Maybe you’ll get another chance. Maybe you’ll find Mando one day in the future, the kid will be all grown up, and you’ll get a chance to say you’re sorry.

Until then, this is how it has to be.

Everything has flipped on its head in such a short time.

You take a deep breath. Close your eyes, centre yourself.

Then, when you open the refresher door, you jump out of your skin when you see Mando standing there at the bottom of the ladder, facing you.

In his gloved hand, there’s a piece of paper.

The piece of paper.

He holds it out in the large space between you. “What is this?”

notes: I KNOW I KNOW i'm sorry for the cliffhanger, i had literally nowhere else to stop this chapter tho otherwise it would've been WORSE.

thank you for reading as always!

requests are open, more info here ❤️

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sp4ceboo · 11 months

Text

Cyar'ika: Din Djarin x Reader

A/N: wrote this when i was younger but i still kinda like it so excuse the cheese (i know the text dividers are off centre ok dont come for me)

Warnings: blood, injuries, fever, angsty, i think there's swearing, massive cheesiness at the end and tooth rotting fluff

Word Count: <2500

You've known Mando - Din, since you two were children, playing at the ankles of the other, older, Mandalorians. You two grew up together, trained with each other, told each other your names at hardly a blink of an eye, swore yourselves to the Creed on the same day. After that, you two did go your separate ways, him joining the Guild as a bounty hunter, you deciding to do the same job, except you didn't work for the Guild. Because of this, you two didn't see each other often, but that's fine because you made time for each other. Din's probably the only person you trust. And him, well, he definitely trusts you. If he didn't, you two wouldn't be friends. You're the only person he goes out of his way to meet up with for company, and nothing else.

So hopefully he won't mind that you just managed to break into his ship so you could get somewhere where the beskar won't be ripped off your body by people taking advantage of your current state. Or that despite both your hands pressed into the wound, you're bleeding all over the floor from the wound that you recieved after being a little bit too lazy on a hunt. Or that smear of gore left behind you when you dragged yourself up the cargo ramp. Or the fact that you could very well steal the child from where he's sleeping peacefully in the cot to your right.

You know he'll see the scuff marks and prints in the dust around his ship, so you aren't surprised when he climbs up the ramp with his blaster raised and ready.

'Hands up,' he says in that cool, measured voice that you love, despite the crackle of static that masks it almost fully. Your heart aches, because it reminds you that you'll never see him with his helmet off, unless he... No, he'd never. To Din, you're a friend. Nothing else.

'I - I don't think I can put my hands up,' you gasp out. 'Unless you want my guts on your floor.' 'Stars, Y/N,' he mutters, and you grin weakly under your helmet, which turns to a grimace as he scoops you up, careful not to jar your gloved hands where they're pressed against your side. 'G - guess I should h - have listened to you when we were y - ounger and you t - told me I had to be more careful,' you grit out.

'Shut up,' he mutters, setting you down carefully on his cot and moving lightning fast from crate to crate, rummaging through them, cursing under his breath, the closest to panic you've ever seen. Eventually, he growls a long string of Outer Rim expletives since all he has is a needle and thread. Your eyes droop, and somehow he must know, because he practically slaps you across the helmet, the jolt making your eyes snap back open, a whimper falling from your lips, your hands weakening as they press into your wound, keeping the blood in.

'Stay awake,' he pleads. 'I'm sorry, I don't have any - any bacta. I've got to stitch you up before I leave to get any. I'm going to have to t - take this off, okay?'

'Don't - don't let me die, Din,' you pant, and you could swear you hear a choked sob as he yanks his gloves off; his warm, steady hands start ripping away your breastplate, then your undershirt, and you can't help but notice the way his calluses scrape against the scar marred skin of your stomach. You focus on the feel of it, jaw clenched, trying to blot out the pain.

'Oh Maker,' he gulps, surveying your wound, and you don't dare look, just fix your eyes on his visor, right where you know his eyes are. He threads the needle, cursing his clumsiness, and suddenly

Blinding pain. Throbbing through your stomach, bright shafts of agony, and you swallow your scream, hands fisting in Din's sheets. You hear yourself gasping his name, but he doesn't, won't stop, apologizing again and again as he sews you back up, and dimly, your voice begs him to distract you, and then there's that soft baritone, masked by the vocoder, yet still there, still human, and you fall silent, focusing on his voice, anything but the pain, and he's whispering things you hear but don't understand, his voice engulfing you - and then it stops. The pain reduces, and the muscles you unknowingly tensed relax.

'What?' You slur. 'I'm finished. Go to sleep, cyar'ika.'

Your brain registers the last word more than the others. Sweetheart, in Mando'a. He just - Din just called you... The rest of your brain deciphers the former part of his sentence, and your eyelids slam shut.

────── ⋆⋅✦⋅⋆ ──────

You wake up shivering. Din's crouched by the cot, one hand on the skin of your neck since he can't exactly touch your forehead. You giggle deliriously at the thought of taking off your helmet in front of him, and he cocks his head.

'Y/N?' He asks softly, and you become aware that the shirt on you is far too big and definitely smells like him. Underneath is some gauze over your stitches, and you can tell that he's already applied the bacta. 'This your shirt?' You slur, even though it's pretty obvious. Din turns his helmet away, and you feel his gaze move off you. 'I got the bacta too late,' he says, voice heavy with worry. 'You've got a fever.'

'Cold,' you mumble, and suddenly, he looks so warm, so inviting, and some weird part of your memory remembers Din's basically a furnace. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, yanking him towards you. No way he's caught by surprise, Din doesn't do surprised, so he must let you drag him closer so you can bury your face into the fabric of his cape, feeling the heat of his body radiating through the cloth. Happily, you sigh, one hand crawling over his shoulder to start undoing his breastplate.

'Y/N,' he chokes out as you chuck it over his shoulder and meld yourself into his chest, absorbing his warmth. 'Why are you calling me my name now? You called me cyar'ika before,' you whine, not really aware that you're speaking out loud. He freezes, then his hand cups the back of your neck and pulls you close, stroking your hair. 'Go to sleep,' he soothes, but his voice shakes a little. 'But - ' 'I'll - I'll explain to you later,' he mutters, and touches his forehead to yours. 'Keldabe kiss,' you mumble, and he nods. 'Yeah. Sleep now.' He pauses. 'Cyar'ika.'

────── ⋆⋅✦⋅⋆ ──────

You stand under the shower head in the 'fresher, wishing the hot water pummeling your skin could wash away all your worries.

You didn't actually believe it was possible to avoid Din on a ship as small as the Razor Crest until... well, until you proved yourself wrong by doing exactly that. And Din was probably doing the same, so whenever you two do pass by each other, there's a thick silence that is only punctuated by the child's coos - probably of confusion, since the two bucket headed humans which he's always seen together are now doing all they can to stay away from each other.

To be honest, you're running out of excuses to escape to a room where Din isn't. You're almost healed now, fever broken a day ago, wound near gone, thanks to the bacta Din left out for you since he's definitely not going to smear it on while you two are acting like the other doesn't exist. The wound still hurts a bit, and you know it's going to be hard to take out the stitches without help, but you'll risk pretty much anything to avoid having to talk out your whiny clinginess during the fever with Din.

You know it's going to happen eventually; one of you is going to break and blurt something out, and you're determined not to be the first, because you have no idea what the outcome will be. And because you're scared - scared that if you stop acting like nothing happened, Din will reveal that he doesn't like you like you like him and the friendship, the trust that you two had built, will all crumble to nothing but memories.

So you stay silent. And you linger in the rooms where Din is not as much as possible. Reaching to the side, you switch off the water, as usual, so Din gets some hot water too, but unlike normally, you sit down in the shower with your back to the tiles, letting the steam warm you until it gets too cold to procrastinate any longer and you're forced to dry yourself off and throw on some clothes. Just before you leave, you lift up your shirt and look at the stitches - the stitches Din made - and look at them. If they stay in any longer, they're likely to get infected. You know that you can't reach them at a good angle, and you risk injuring yourself if you take them out by yourself, but it's not like you can do anything else. Dropping the shirt hem, you slip on your helmet and unlock the 'fresher door and walk slap bang into Din.

'Sorry,' you both mutter at the same time. You move to edge around him, but he doesn't budge, or refuses to budge, so you have to stand there, in front of him, waiting for him. 'Your stitches need to be removed soon,' he says. 'Yeah,' you nod. It's torture, standing there, so close together yet so far apart. 'I should take them out.'

You press your lips together, needing to get past, to run from him. Suddenly, you burst out in a frustrated barrage of words. 'Stars, are you just going to stand there all day? What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do, Mando?' He takes a step back. You haven't called him Mando in private since you told each other your names, years ago. 'Y/N?' 'Why haven't you kicked me out of your ship yet?' You snap, knowing you've gone too far but not able to help it. 'It's obvious you don't want to look at me let alone get my stitches out so why don't you just chuck me out through the hatch and let me go be miserable somewhere else?' 'I wouldn't - I don't - ' 'Yeah, sure,' you say bitterly. 'Of course you'll get my stitches out, of course you wouldn't chuck me out the hatch, of course I'm someone you want here, of course you... of course you love me like I love you.' Your voice cracks, and if he was still before during your rant, now he's frozen. A sob threatens to break from your lips, because he's not moving, he doesn't care, of course he doesn't, and you don't want to cry in front of him, so you turn away, grab the 'fresher door handle -

A hand closes around your wrist. 'Stop.'

But you don't want to see it. You don't want to see the pitying black stare of his visor, don't want him to try and break it to you gently that he doesn't want you, so you snatch your hand back and slam the door behind you, lock it. Your helmet falls with a clang to the 'fresher floor, and you swipe at the tears blurring your vision, huddling into yourself. A lump forms in your throat, and you attempt to swallow it down, holding in your sobs because you know Din will hear them, and somehow, still, you don't want him to. You know it will hurt him. And none of this is his fault, you don't want to put this on him. Surely, this is your fault. Your fault for falling for a man who doesn't love you back.

────── ⋆⋅✦⋅⋆ ──────

You don't know how much later, but you're still on the 'fresher floor, helmet off, everything unchanged but for the door; unlocked. Unlocked, because you still cling onto a small hope that he'll want you, that he'll open the door and scoop you up and... Your heart pangs, and you swipe at another tear that falls. The silence seems to swallow your sniffles which feel so pitful, so weak, and you stare balefully at the shower head, wishing that it was still you and Din, friends, and nothing more.

There's a knock on the door, and that voice sounds, forcing you to hide your face in your hands to smother another choked sob as it speaks. 'Y/N... Y/N, put on your helmet.' You don't think, you just obey his voice because you've got no life left in you, no fight. The door eases open, and he stands there. 'I - I'm not good at talking,' he starts. 'But I want you to... I... it hurts me to see you like this.' You stare at him, silent, unresponsive, hopeless now. 'Just... get to the point.' 'Y/N...' His voice cracks. 'I love you too.' He falls to his knees in front of you as you don't move so much as an inch, your tears starting again. He grabs your hand in his, and with his other, he hooks his fingers under his helmet and lifts -

Your eyes slam shut. 'No.' You gasp. 'No, Din. The - the Creed.' 'I don't care,' he growls. 'Look at me. Look at me.' You shake your head. 'Stop. Please.' 'I love you, Y/N,' he says softly. 'I love you, cyar'ika.'

Your body goes rigid, and of their own accord, your eyes open for a split second before you squeeze them shut again, but his face is engraved in your memory. Soft looking, brown curls, gentle eyes which belong wholly to Din, lips which...

He gathers you in his arms. 'I know you saw,' he whispers. 'Marry me, cyar'ika.' Your tongue speaks for you before your brain can catch up. 'Yes, Din, anything.' He kisses the beskar cheek of your helmet, and you drink in his features, those beautiful eyes, as he speaks. 'I'm sorry I didn't...' You shake your head cutting him off. 'Seriously?' You say, voice still wobbling. 'You just black mailed me. If I didn't marry you, you'd have been forced to kill me.' His laugh without the vocoder makes you melt. 'I guess I was hoping you'd say yes.'

You yank your helmet off, and his eyes have barely settled on your face before you hook an arm around his neck and pull him towards you, locking your mouth onto his. He kisses you back with the desperation of a man who needs you like he needs air, his lips soft as he tangles his hands into your hair. You pull away, glancing back at your helmet which has rolled over to rest against his.

'My cyar'ika,' he murmurs, cupping your face in his callused hands, and you turn your gaze back to him.

'My riduur.'

#star wars #din djarin #din #the mandalorian #mando #din x reader #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #this is so unnecessarily cheesy and cliche #who is slow burn idk her

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hapan-in-exile · 5 months

Text

Volume 4 - Post #5: Wish You Were Here [M]

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by kpfun

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 3.8K (fifth post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

_______________________________

V. Blessed Mother, grant me the clarity of wisdom! You are currently facing one of life’s most consistent yet challenging dilemmas. It’s the tension between two competing impulses. Your deeply ingrained sense of practicality versus how fucking horny you feel right now.

Should you drop everything and immediately head for the Razor Crest? This hour of the day is undoubtedly your best chance to sneak out while everyone’s still asleep and reunite with your favorite family in the galaxy before anyone notices what you’re up to.

Or do you yield to vanity? This option means time to wash your hair, put on a little makeup, and dig through Humia’s clothes for something that doesn’t make you look like a sack of potatoes. It’s a waste of daylight, but after eighteen days apart, you’d like to remind the Mandalorian what an absolute smoke show he’s been missing.

Like, maybe he would sigh very profoundly, so overcome with emotion at the mere sight of you? Okay, sure—it’s Mando—he’s not going to run across a meadow to sweep you up in his arms. But if he gasped your name longingly while threading his fingers through your hair, it would do a lot for your self-esteem.

All gods divine and merciful, you are levitating with excitement! He’s back, you clasp your hands to your heart. He’s back. He’s back. He’s back. You occupy the same atmosphere. There’s a buoyancy, lifting every footstep as you practically skip up to your front door, throwing it open as though about to burst into song.

“Oh shit!” Upon entering the hut, you see Serenio enfolded in Davik’s arms. Their foreheads are pressed together, with his long black curls spilling over her lekku. They immediately spring apart like lovelorn teenagers. Which, you recall, they are at seventeen and nineteen, respectively.

You look between them, watching as they struggle to suppress their ragged breathing. Guess their fake romance isn’t so fake anymore. Maybe Serenio wouldn’t mind getting stuffed into a cleaning cart with Davik?

Damnit, this was going to make everyone’s sleeping arrangements infinitely more awkward. The hut is comprised of a single room. And while there are some partitions....you, Humia, Davik, and Serenio all sleep feet apart from each other on the floor every night.

Shit, really? Well, at least romance is working out for someone. It’s sweet. Young love. You’re happy for them. Truly. Did this create a needless distraction? Absolutely. But who are you to judge? You’re about to hike an hour through the woods in the hopes of fucking your boss.

“Want to train with us?” Serenio signs before awkwardly busying herself with rearranging the furniture.

That’s right! Humia had forbidden them from entering the fighting pits.

TaggeCo employees loved to haunt the encampment’s cantinas and drinking halls. Sometimes, management brought in musical performances for cultural enrichment, but let’s be real—the Lakarani are the true source of entertainment around here.

You have to agree with Humia. It’s far too risky. One of those Tagge corpos might recognize Serenio while she kicked the shit out of someone twice her size and begin to wonder just where their cleaning lady learned to land a punch like that.

I guess the obvious solution is turning our living room into a training gym?

“Yeah, you should spar with us, Kas,” Davik agrees. He’s completely serious, despite being so flustered you can see his brown cheeks visibly blushing. “We were just making some room.”

They’d already changed out of their TaggeCo uniforms. Davik is dressed for movement, and Serenio has her knuckles wrapped.

They both practically vibrate with restless energy. Although, that could simply be a side effect of all this latent sexual tension. Do warriors consider sparring a kind of foreplay?

You’ve got to get out of here before you completely kill the mood.

“Hmm,” the corners of your mouth tug. “Thanks, but no,” you sign, shifting so that Serenio can read your lips. “I don’t spar.”

“Ubaa said you were a veteran. What kind of soldier doesn’t train?” Davik seems genuinely confused. “You work through all those fighting stances every morning.”

“I do meditative poses for my blood pressure, Davik. Believe me, hand-to-hand combat skills are not what I’m bringing to this operation.”

“What about self-defense? I can train you. You’re surprisingly strong. I’ve seen you carrying laundry from the wash house,” he says appraisingly. Then, a look of horror crosses his face. “Not that I’m watching—”

“I’m going for a walk,” you sign. “Need a bath.”

What follows is quite possibly the most awkward silence you’ve ever endured as they both study your every movement, packing toiletries and spare clothing, determinedly not looking at each other.

“Hey!” a thought occurs to you. “Humia says there’s a bonfire down at the jetty tonight for Honatoka. It sounds like fun. We have the night off. You guys should come.”

At that, they exchange a glance, faces flushed.

“Yeah,” Davik nods. “Do…you want to go?” he signs, asking Serenio.

“Okay,” she shrugs, breaking into a wide smile.

And that’s your good deed for the day! You’ll just have to be mindful to knock very loudly before opening the front door from now on.

**********

It’s true—you’re stronger than you look. Novitiate discipline in the palace temple helped you develop a lot of muscle mass at an early age. For whatever reason, monastic life seems to require climbing an ungodly amount of stairs regardless of which religion you serve.

That being said, you’re a far cry from elite bounty hunter. Davik might have a point about strength training. By the time you’ve climbed the pine tree and made it over the perimeter wall, you’ve got both hands on your knees, panting for breath.

It’s a lot of effort to avoid passing through the main gate, but you can’t shake the feeling of paranoia as you set out to meet with your co-conspirators. Best to avoid any questions about where you’re headed.

When word of Emperor Palpatine’s death reached the Metatessu sector, Lakarani independence fighters did not wait for Imperials to develop an exit strategy. They immediately seized all the military outposts, along with the mining operations and refinery. Without available reinforcements to take back control of the planet, Imperial forces abandoned Lakaran.

While fighters had expelled the Empire, they did not succeed in keeping Lakaran free from foreign influence. The planet was now considered part of Hutt Space, and Yarella the Hutt leased Larakan’s mining rights and coaxium production to the Tagge Corporation.

But their siege and occupation of the refinery against Imperial forces was the stuff of legends. Literally—images of the martyred fighters could be found in every home, along with altars dedicated to the fallen.

It’s why the Tagge family made sure to invest in a robust security infrastructure when they took over.

So, another convenient feature of the retaining wall they’d built around the encampment to prevent mudslides is that it created limited access points in and out of the camp. These gates could be barricaded if necessary, sealing everyone inside. Drones and satellites monitored the area from overhead.

All in the name of safety. If someone working at the plant was exposed to radioactive material, Tagge Corp claimed they would need to track the population for containment. Of course, all you had to do was look at the river to know the Tagge Corporation didn’t give a fuck about contaminating people with toxic materials.

The transponder on your wrist tracks everywhere you go. All they had to do was locate your signal, and a team of TaggeCo security could show up at your door and drag you off under the pretext of “containment.”

Tampering with the device was a fireable offense. If you wanted work, you submitted to their surveillance.

It wasn’t so much that your movements were scrutinized, but they did get documented, which could cause trouble for you later if TaggeCo got suspicious. They might start to wonder why you went hiking through the woods before dawn, who you were meeting with, and a lot of other dangerous questions.

In a stroke of luck (and probably his dick), the security guard Humia was sleeping with had shown her how to mask the transponder’s signal without damaging it. Still, vigilance costs nothing. You’ve packed your rucksack and draped a towel over your shoulders. If anyone sees you…hopefully, they’ll assume you’re visiting the hot springs nearby.

Coordinates popping up on your communicator showed the Razor Crest’s location about two leagues northeast of the refinery.

Again, just terrible bounty hunter skills—you have no idea how to read a topographic map and are forced to backtrack more times than you’re comfortable admitting. How did Mando do this without walking in circles?

Eventually, you give up trying to navigate the map and just climb the highest tree you can find to look out over the valley.

There she is! You spot Razoria—which is what Nito called the ship when he needed her to cooperate—settled under a rocky outcrop amidst a shallow marsh at the edge of an alpine lake. You’d been so caught up thinking about Mando and the kids, you’re surprised by the overwhelming sense of relief that wells up inside you just looking at the ship.

For the first time since you boarded the shuttle for Lakaran you feel…safe. When did you start to think of the Razor Crest as home?

These weeks on Lakaran might be the longest you’ve been in one place since you stepped onboard the Crest. Wanderlust had been the most enticing part of Nito’s pitch to join them, shuffling the Child across the galaxy. You’ve already seen more star systems in the past five months than your seven-year career in the military. And every night, you slept on board this gorgeous clunker.

With each new planet, a voice would emerge from your subconscious telling you to make a run for it. Now, the voice would say. Run now before it’s too late. But you’d grown so tired of running away. You wanted to run toward something. And you did—you are—running home to this new family of yours.

The Crest had good cover under the rock and surrounding treeline, but her hull gleamed brightly in the early morning light. While TaggeCo didn’t patrol this far into the mountains, drones or satellites might pick up the glare. The Mandalorian should have some camouflage netting in storage. Tree branches would do the rest.

Nito and the kid are stretched out in the sunshine, lounging on the shore of the lake. As soon as he notices your approach, the Ardennian launches into a gallop.

“Thuli!” He wraps all four arms around you in a fierce hug.

You drop to your knees to join his embrace. On the shore, you see the kid waving his hands excitedly.

“Hey, little man!” You lift him up and place him on your hip. “Did you miss me?”

The Child slowly blinks those enormous brown eyes and rests his downy head against your chest. Your heart melts a little when he gurgles contentedly.

It felt so good to be back together again. All that’s missing is…

“Mando’s not here,” Nito says, catching you searching for him. “After we landed, he headed straight for Yarella’s castle in Palmal.”

“Yarella’s…?”

As an added precaution, you’d boarded the shuttle to Lakaran directly from Daiyu in case anyone from the Tagge Corporation followed up on you. While Humia had been rude and irritable when she met you at Palmal Spaceport, you were deeply grateful for her presence at your side.

In ten years of travel, you’ve never seen a city less organized. Palmal was carved deep into the mountainside. Its warren-like sprawl of metallic buildings and tubular walkways made it impossible to see ahead in any direction.

Each step felt claustrophobic and dangerous. Which it is! With all the twisting paths and sharp turns, the city’s layout was an ideal hunting ground for bandits.

It made perfect sense why the executives and TaggeCo employees all lived on-site in dormitories and residential halls. Why, despite being poisoned, the Lakarani preferred camping in clapboard shacks surrounding the refinery. You were less likely to get your throat slit.

And looming above the lawless chaos, coiling upward in a gleaming steel spire, is Yarella the Hutt’s castle.

“Why would he do that?”

Mando certainly didn’t need the money. Did the man not know what else to do with himself? Did his life hold no purpose beyond battle and hunting? You can feel tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. How could that be his priority when you haven’t seen each other in weeks?

“I think he wanted to have some cover for why we’re here on Lakaran,” Nito shrugs. “You know, big scary Mandalorian in your backyard makes people nervous. Yarella will probably have a job for him.”

Without pausing to take off your clothes, you shrug off the rucksack, step out of your boots, and wade into the lake.

“Uh, Thuli–”

You dive into the water before Nito can see you crying.

Mando’s not here. You don’t care about the rationale or logic of his decision. He couldn’t wait one fucking day—one fucking hour—to see you?

The crushing weight of disappointment that he’s not here—that he couldn’t care less about being here to see you—feels inescapable, like the pull of an anchor dragging you down toward the murky depths. You kick your legs out in frustration, but you can’t swim. You can’t breathe. You just sob, choking as frigid water fills your mouth and subsumes your tears.

Why would he do this? You thought you’d offered him the perfect arrangement. The perfect companion and sexual partner. Instead, you’ve been blown off and left behind.

Mando doesn’t let many people in. So you would have thought that what you shared together…a...a connection—

Fuck—a connection? You know, in your bones, he’s never shared that kind of intimacy and tenderness with anyone else. You would’ve thought it mattered more to him.

Apparently not.

Was this your fault? Before leaving for Lakaran, he’d asked about what to tell the kids, and you said something like, “This doesn’t have to change anything.” You didn’t want to burden him with worry over love, duty, and Creeds.

Was it the wrong thing to say? Should you have confessed that your heart belonged to him and no one else? Would he be here if you had? Maybe he was simply taking you at your word—that what you’d shared didn’t change anything.

The truly heartbreaking realization is that as angry as you feel toward Mando, the real person you’re angry with is yourself. You’d told him he didn’t need to change, but you still expected him to. Are you really such a narcissist that you thought having sex with you one time would be such a transformative experience he’d wake up a completely different person?

It had been three times. Regardless, you’re not being fair. You want to storm and rage. But what good will it do? You’ve fallen for a man whose life is encased in cold steel.

Hadn’t you prayed for clarity and wisdom? It won’t heal the hurt breaking your heart to pieces or soothe your anger, but you’ve got to temper these feelings with honesty, for him and yourself.

Stepping out of the lake and back onto the shore, you peel off your wet clothes and join the baby, catching tadpoles in the shallow waters and swallowing them whole.

It’s a beautiful day. You’ve got the whole morning to spend with these two wonderful kids you deeply cherish. Who’s absence had also weighed on your heart these past eighteen days. Why spoil this precious time together?

For being a nosy adolescent, Nito very graciously ignores your red, swollen eyes and doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

“I’m about a minute from eating some of those mud-guppies myself,” he moans, watching the Child slurp down handfuls. “We’re down to broth and hardtack.”

“Well, let’s catch some fish,” you offer.

“I don’t know how," Nito murmurs. "You can’t eat anything from the harbor in Coronet City, so I never thought to learn. Do you think I can actually, like, catch a one? With…my hands?”

“Come on, city slicker, I’ll teach you.”

“Do you have a hook? Isn’t that how they do it?”

“Yes," you chuckle. "You can also use a net or a basket. But I’ll show you how to spear a fish. I’m sure Mando has a spear somewhere in that arsenal.”

Even better, the Mandalorian has a ranseur, which is basically a fancy trident. Nito’s eyes widen in horror.

“Won’t Mando be mad if we get fish guts on his spear?”

“Fuck’im,” you say darkly, without pause.

Nito looks askance at your embittered tone.

“What? It’s not made of Beskar.”

His brow remains furrowed, “I want to learn about the baskets.”

After scouring the Razor Crest for all the necessary tools, you camp out on the shore, braiding fishing baskets from the tall reed grass surrounding the lake. “Did you learn how to do this in the war? So you wouldn’t starve?”

“What?” you laugh, showing Nito how to strip the reeds for cordage. “No, I learned to fish as a child.”

“I thought you grew up in a palace?”

“That came later. I moved to the palace when I was your age.”

Moved to the palace is a very polite way to describe being abducted and held hostage against your will. But you’re committed to keeping the vibes positive this morning, so you leave that out. Nito’s childhood was no picnic either.

“Before the palace, I lived with my family in a house by the beach. So we fished. You grew up on Corellia, so you learned engines.”

“Hmm…you are terrible with technology. But this is pretty cool. We’re really gonna catch fish in this thing?”

“With a rock and some patience, we will,” you wink at him, tying off your knots. “Here, you carry the baskets, and I’ll get the kid.”

About an hour later, you’ve caught at least a dozen fish. And it’s impossible to feel anything but pride seeing the joy on Nito’s face. You show him how to clean and scale the big ones. Baby chomps down the rest. “Hey, kiddo. Close your mouth when you chew.”

“Are you staying to eat these?” Nito asks. “Or do you have to go back?”

“I think we should spend the rest of the morning camouflaging the ship. You can tell me all about your adventures on Coruscant while we work. But first, I need a nap.”

You tell yourself this is not a ploy—that you’re not stalling for time in the hopes of seeing the Mandalorian when he returns. But that’s a lie.

Nito suddenly grows fidgety. “I—um. I should maybe tell you that Mando’s been sleeping in there.”

“What?”

“In the sleeping compartment. Not at first. You know how he usually sleeps with his back against a wall or something? But then…” Nito trails off. “I just thought you should know.”

Damnit, your heart starts racing. The Mandalorian has been sleeping in your bed. Your mind leaps to a million possible reasons, yet what else could it mean?

A wide smile tugs at your lips. And you’d begun to wonder if he missed you at all.

“Thanks for telling me.”

Standing in front of the sleeping compartment, your body is awash with nervous anticipation. Over what, you have no idea. Just that…

When the door slides up with a faint whine of compressed air, you stare down at the bedroll and gasp. On top of your blankets is a brightly patterned piece of cloth. You pick it up—the fabric is so soft and diaphanous that it slips through your fingers like falling water.

Free of its delicate folds, you realize it’s a stunning silk robe.

In his eagerness to undress you, the Mandalorian had torn the hem of your (old) robe, pulling it over your head. It’s so old, tattered, and threadbare that you told him not to worry about it.

This one is elegant, with a beautiful print—pale pink, with butterflies in shades of blue and lavender. Like moondust, you smile. You remember telling Nito about the butterflies on Hapes that migrated along the coast and converged in the palace gardens. Was it a coincidence, or had Mando been listening?

It might be one of the most beautiful gifts you’ve received from…anyone.

Mando had left it folded neatly on top of the bedroll, knowing you'd come back to the ship. Kriffing hell, why hadn’t he just waited for you?

Ugh! How could one man be so generous and insensitive at the same time?!

You groan and throw yourself onto the blankets—which, of course, smell like him. You bury your face into the covers to breathe in his scent. The warm, smokey fragrance of the muscle salve he used. The tang of leather and the musk of his sweat.

It’s a scent tied to your memories—distracting fever dreams of his tongue trailing the curve of your throat, the soft brush of his lips on your collarbone, his warm breath against the shell of your ear.

You will absolutely not cry and masturbate over this man yet again. Once was a tragedy. Twice is a habit.

But even now, in your mind’s eye, he was kissing you, his mouth sliding down your neck, drinking in your skin, your bodies tangled up together as he moved inside you. Each caress of silk against your nipples is a reminder of his lips.

Had it been like this for him? Were you in his thoughts when he slept in this bed? Did Mando touch himself and think of you?

You close your eyes and trace your hand down your stomach toward the heat pooling between your thighs. At least there’s no tears in your eyes this time.

When you open them, your imagination conjures the Mandalorian here with you, kneeling between your legs to watch your fingers work. He joins you, drawing his cock into his hand, stroking himself with long, languorous pulls.

It’s an abstract fantasy since you’ve never seen his face—but you imagine holding each other’s gazes.

His eyes would be...brown. Definitely brown. The hairs trailing down Mando's smooth, muscular stomach are dark and coarse. His powerful body is taut and beautiful—broad shoulders, tapered waist, and thick, sinewy thighs. You would stare into each other's eyes, stroking in rhythm as your breathing quickens, moans rising together.

You writhe on top of the covers, this vision of him fixed in your mind. His lips slightly parted as he breathes harder and faster, fist tight around his shaft, the dark head of his cock sliding back and forth within his grip. When he did that, here, on this bed, he was remembering you.

Then you think back to the moment he first plunged inside you, that first shock of penetration. His satisfied groan, your own desperate cry.

You keep replaying that—over and over again, the first time every time, your fingers moving as fast as he could thrust—until your orgasm hits you so hard the world goes white. Your eyes roll back in the rush of release. Everything is blurred and humming, and you’re lost to the pulsing of your heart and your cunt.

You lay there a few moments, expecting to feel his body pressed against you in the aftermath, but…Mando’s gone. He's not here.

And when you finally wake up hours later, he still hasn’t returned.

**************

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #6: Count Your Blessings

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#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin #din dijarin x reader #star wars smut #mandalorian smut

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gingerlurk · 10 months

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Lovers' Crest | Chapter 6: The Boy

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Summary: You and the Mandalorian are working well together. But as you try to move away from your past, it comes to you.

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), canon-typical violence, eventual smut/filth, post season 3, canon-typical violence, it's a cantina scene folks. Reader has a past lover and nicknames. Uhhhh please advise if there's more to add here thank you

A/N: I'll make a master list page or something at some point. Halp. Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, A03. Thank you for reading! (Edit: one Masterlist, chef.)

A matrix of dust motes hangs in the doorway of the old cantina, swaying on the hot breeze that toys with the air. A skewed rectangle of harsh sunlight paints the floor of the entryway. The bar is scattered with weary folks, their hardness loosened steadily with each drink poured.

Although not loose enough that every blaster in the place doesn’t swivel to the door as the feared and revered bounty hunter, clad head to toe in armour and bristling with weapons, steps across the threshold. The figure struts passed several readied muzzles and leans against the bar.

A cocky, acerbic bark of laughter erupts from a ferocious looking man in Tuskan threads, who stands from the table he’d been counting credits at. He’s the only one not pointing a weapon at the towering presence, who is looking at him with unreadable intent. The leader just rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck a few times, confident his crew has his back. Every one of them answers to him or finds an unpleasant end.

‘Seriously, man,’ his loyal 2IC spits. He’s closest to their adversary, weapon cocked and ready. ‘To just stroll in and not think 30 blaster sights would be trained immediately on that shiny, pretty kit you’re in? Like we haven’t been watching for you from second one!’

The Mandalorian cocks his head, the angular features of his helmet glinting in the harsh light.

He speaks.

‘It was not me you should have been watching for.’

‘Beep, boop,’ you chime from behind the squared off gang leader, pressing the scanner to the rigid veins of his neck.

‘Ow!’ He jerks around while slamming a huge, grimy hand to the spot. He takes you in, hood pulled low over your hair and a patterned green scarf over your nose and mouth, eyes dancing with amusement. ‘Who the goddamn, fucking, hellish—’ He curses as you check the little read-off and smirk, tossing the unit to the 2IC standing next to Mando.

The guy catches it, checks the screen and goes red. ‘Oh you asshole!’ His pistol swings to point squarely at his boss. The rest of the room hesitates. ‘It’s fuckin’ positive.’ He holds the scanner screen aloft.

Every other blaster makes the same move. The ‘leader’, Kemor is his name, whirls around, taking in the change of situation. So quick, his people have turned. He rounds back on you. ‘You little, fucking, asshole!’ He roars, telegraphing a huge roundhouse swing at your head.

You lean back to let his fist take in the air where your head was. Converting to a light crouch, you take three quick jabs up into the side he’s exposed to you. He exclaims in surprise, rights himself and makes to lunge straight at you. Easy. Feet shift and his momentum is carried across your shoulders and into a stack of stools, pointy ones. He shouts a litany of expletives and threats about what he’ll do when his hands get on you as you hop lightly from foot to foot.

Over by the bar, the 2IC watches, positioning his aim to and fro as Kemor lunges about the place. He leans slightly to Mando. ‘Aren’t you going to, like, help her or anything, man?’

‘She has it handled,’ he replies, amusement in his tone.

In front of you, Kemor sets his stance and grips his hands into a heavy hammer fist. He makes to raise it over his head, getting ready to smash it down onto you. Every single pressure point on his body is laid before you and you move lightning fast to lay waste to his tender joints. You lift a foot to jam into the backs of his knees to help him into a kneeling position as you spin behind him.

‘Beep, boop,’ you say again and drop a mechanical circlet around the crown of his head. It sinks over his ears and eyes and he goes still.

‘What, wha…’ He wrenches around in distress. ‘Help! Help? I can’t see; I can’t, I can’t hear! What the fuck have you done to me!’ He starts to whimper.

You touch a notch on your wrist brace. Kemor straightens up and tilts his head to the side.

‘Oh my god, man. Fine. You can hear now, okay? Just chill.’ The quarry doesn’t even fight you locking a pair of cuffs across his wrists behind his back.

‘Huh, impressive,’ the 2IC huffs out a laugh.

The Mandalorian finally steps forward and hauls the now-captured bounty to his feet. Grogu rises in his pod from the booth you and he had previously been sitting at, munching on a fistful of biscuits. ‘Let’s go,’ Mando says. ‘I assume that will not be an issue?’ He tips his helmet back toward the new leader by the bar.

‘Psh, take him man. Get this fuck out of my sight.’ As you stride past him you motion for the scanner. He tosses it back to you, muttering, ‘Fucking let him stay with my mother with that shit in him. Hope he fuckin’ rots.’

Outside, Din frog marches the bounty in front of him, who’s still whimpering and craning his head to and fro while stumbling every few steps. He’s thinking to himself he should probably give you a more generous cut of the reward on this clown. Seems fair since you handled yourself so well in there.

You two had worked a few jobs together since the agreement. Although you’d been content to hang back and learn the ropes. This job had Din stumped for a while, wondering at the best approach, and you’d had the decoy idea. A very tidy method. Although your sense of style may be something to comment on.

The imposing, beskar clad bounty hunter looks over at you strolling beside Grogu, light-heartedly trying to steal one of the biscuits from the squawking kid.

‘Did you really say… “beep, boop”?’ Din startles as the child bursts into a high-pitched fit of giggles. ‘What’s so funny, kid?’

You’re chuckling too. ‘I told him I bet I could get you to say that.’

The long-suffering sigh and slight shake of the head makes you crack up even more.

‘Hey!’ A shout from behind registers but he takes no notice, watching you wipe the mirth from your eyes. ‘Hey, hey wait!’ Footsteps running. Then Din hears your name.

Your head snaps to him, eyes wide. You punch at your brace. Your bounty startles a little.

‘Lady! Hey lady! I can’t hear again please!’ He’s shut up by Din kicking him to his knees and laying a firm hand to his shoulder. ‘Oh, oh- okay, I’ll just wait here for a minute.’

You both spin, spying a figure with an arm raised jogging from the direction of the gang’s cantina.

He comes to a stop in front of the three of you.

‘So…’ The figure straightens up. ‘That was cool back there.’

The hubbub of the town centre floats around your little group. You’re stood stock still. Din waits for your move.

‘Oh, come on, you recognise me don’t you? I know it’s been a long time but still.’ He pops his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, a gesture Din seems to find loathsome on instinct. ‘Although,’ the guy continues, eyeing you from head to toe, another motion that scratches at Din’s hate reflex. ‘It seems things have changed a bit for you. You’re a friggin’ bounty hunter? Wow.’

Din looks to you, clocking your rigid shoulders and narrow eyes. He bets if he checked your heart rate it’d be thundering. He makes to manoeuvre into an angle beside you for ease of leaping forward in defence. But you take one massive stride toward the stranger, so forcefully the guy steps back a little.

‘Yep,’ you grit. ‘So it would be wonderful if you didn’t shriek my name in the street like an asshole?’

Hands go up in a surrender gesture. ‘Shit, right. Yeah, sorry. That was pretty stupid. But damn was I floored when I saw you in there. You! Miss Five-Dresses-Per-Season-Party, rocking a Kevlar jumpsuit and going all hands with this fucker here.’ He makes some weak martial arts motions then points at Kemor. ‘You know I knew he was stimmin’ that shit? Was waitin’ to make my move, but oh well.’ He shrugs.

‘I almost didn’t believe it was really you! But,’ he leans in, ‘I’d recognise that feisty little voice of yours anywhere.’

Din kills out of necessity. Could eliminating skeevey leerers bothering you be considered a necessity?

You step back.

‘Well, we’ll be on our way, you ready?’ You turn to Din and stride forward, brushing arms a little. He hadn’t noticed he’d been edging closer to you. He hauls the bounty up again, who gives a little yell of surprise.

‘Woah, woah, wait! Hey, hold up!’ calls the stranger who knows who you are. You don’t stop. ‘Heyyy, hey, hey, hey, come on. I could have a job for you!’ You pick up the pace and Din shoves your prisoner forwards. But the creep just keeps hopping along behind you both.

‘Come on, this is serious! I guarantee just listening to me for a few minutes will be worth your time!’ He singsongs, ‘Just a few minutes of your time!’

Then, ‘I promise you’ll want to hear about this job Mando.’

That scheming, hopped-up, irritating jerk. What the hell would he want with Mando? Why’s he here? What’s his play? What are the odds? Gods, you didn’t think your old life would go and track you down out here.

And wow, he hasn’t changed one bit. Still those boyish curls and sparkling eyes… All this and more rushes through your mind as the three of you face each other again.

Torre has the biggest smirk you’ve ever seen. And you’ve seen him serve plenty of smirk.

Mando seems to be waiting for you.

You turn to him. ‘Do you want to hear what he has to say?’ you ask. He looks between the two of you.

‘It may be wise,’ he says, voice dangerous. ‘I would like to know what he knows of me.’

Torre – the prick – waves a hand. ‘We can get to that. But I’ll cut to the point. How would you like to join me in pulling off an awesome, honest to riches, fucking ship heist?’

You scoff. Mando regards him steadily. ‘We are bounty hunters,’ he says. ‘Not loth-cat burglars.’

That makes you give a ‘Ha!’ and you both move away again.

‘Huge score! Massive!’ Torre calls.

‘Not interested,’ you toss over your shoulder, turning into an alleyway cutting up to the marshal’s house.

‘You’ll be set for good! The old life, huh?’

That will not get a response out of you, although the temptation to turn back and knock his shit in is strong.

He’s stopped chasing after you though, so you prepare to breathe a sigh of relief and start to wonder how you’re going to explain this encounter to Mando.

‘How about a not insignificant cache of imp-minted, genuine article beskar?'

Fuck.

When you reluctantly turn around, the quarry is standing motionless on his own in the middle of the street. Grogu hovers uncertainly by your side, humming in concern. The Mandalorian is already right in Torre’s face.

‘What ship?’ His modulated voice is deadly low but still carries to your end of the alleyway.

‘I will be happy to tell you all about it,’ Torre says easily. ‘And more. If you agree to partner with me.’

You can see Mando shift his stance, moving into one of violent intent. This can’t escalate right now.

‘Hey! Heyyy! Fellas?’ They both look at you, one steely visor and one infuriating grin.

‘We have to get this guy in and settle up,’ you motion to the loan figure now swaying like he will tip over any second. ‘Can we talk about this someplace else?’

‘Great idea! Here,’ Torre takes a fob from a pocket and lofts it over Mando toward you. You catch it and look, a villa key. ‘That’s where I’m staying, come find me when you want to hear what I have in store.’ He takes a few steps backwards, out of Mando’s range, and pivots to saunter off.

Great.

When you are later standing on the steps of the marshal’s house, the mood is quiet and pensive. Mando is looking off to the side, still as midnight. He hasn’t said a thing since walking out of that alley. You had to do all the talking in there just now. It was weird. Grogu seems unsettled by the atmosphere as well, staying quiet. You sigh, just get into it.

‘We have to do it, don’t we?’

‘Who is he?’

‘We have to at least try; it’s too important to your p—Sorry?’

‘Who is he?’ His intimidating visage swivels to you.

Butterflies erupt in your belly. You feel a fresh burst of sweat on your neck that has nothing to do with the hot evening air. With your mouth suddenly full of cotton you decide to just burst the bubble.

With a heavy sigh, you say, ‘Ex-lover. From the Estate. Years ago I fucked him over, and he vanished. Thought I’d never see him again, to be honest.’

A stony wall of silence.

‘His name is Torre. He was a, they called it minsoliar, a highly skilled undercover house guard, acting as an artist in residence. I didn’t know it was an act, but precious heiress niece shouldn’t have been fucking with either anyway. Chose the Estate over him in the end.’

Is that all you should say?

‘He’s a born schemer, making plays and fancying himself a real spycraft agent. Won’t let go of a plan if it’s suitably juicy either.’

Stop now. Stop there. Just stew in the silence for a bit.

After a not insignificant portion of stew, Mando finally speaks up.

‘You are right,’ he says. You wait. ‘We do have to obtain that beskar. It is sacred to my people.’

Even though you knew it was coming, your shoulders slump a little. But you straighten quickly, hoping he didn’t notice. He gives nothing away.

‘You don’t trust him,’ he states.

‘Gods, absolutely not.’

‘Then we have to be careful.’ He stands and waits for you to head in the direction the fob indicates. You think nothing’s for it and get going.

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#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #mandalorian and grogu #star wars #themandalorianedit #pedro pascal #din djarin x f!reader

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starboundanon · 2 years

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🤲?

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

Been a while since we had some Mando Foundling AU, hasn't it?

The surface against his cheek was warm, but far too smooth to be any sort of bedding. Luke blinked his eyes open groggily, trying to decipher the silver gleam and leather brown swirls that filled his vision, but it all blended together, his head was spinning. When had he passed out? It felt like he'd been asleep for years, like he'd fallen into a winter-long hibernation unexpectedly. There were voices around him, hushed and distant, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

A hand cupped the back of his head, huge and gloved, fingers threading through his curls.

"Are you awake, ad'ika?"

Gasping, he shot upright, almost tumbling off the Mand'alor's lap. The man held him securely, arms firm around him, his right pauldron foggy and damp where Luke's face had been pressed against it, dead to the world. He felt himself blush all the way down to his knees, and somehow, even without the Force, he thought Din might have been grinning at him beneath that helmet.

#herbie asks #ask game

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just-here-for-the-moment · 3 years

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CONGRATULATIONS ON 300 LOVE💚💚💚 You deserve it and more because you are TALENTED and SO SWEET and everything you do is just 👨‍🍳🤌

I took the chance to spin your wheel… and first spin I got was Mando with a lactation kink… I KNOW this man loves kids and wants a big family so I can’t wait to see what you come up with!!!! All the love!

Woooo!!! This broke me. I was really going for XTRA FILTHY SMUT but that did not happen. This one surprised me when I wrote it by sneaking up all soft and sweet, and then ending that way too. That's okay, though, I like a good soft smut.

Hope you enjoy!!! :D

Word Count: 2030+

Rating: Explicit/mature, 18+ only

Outline: Din Djarin x “You”/Din’s wife (cis/het female reader; “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: starts soft, ends soft; Din has a filthy mouth; praise kink (use of “good girl”); lactation kink; unprotected P/V sex in the context of marriage; sprinkling of breeding kink

Evenings and nights were always your favorite with your husband. It was the best time of the day, everyone settled down and quiet, the ship docked for the night wherever you were visiting or set to autopilot to the next destination. You knew your husband’s moods, the slight slump of his shoulders telling you that he was getting drowsy, ready to head below decks and rest, curled up in your arms.

You nursed your son, putting him down before heading up to the cockpit to knit for a bit and watch the stars race by. After an hour of that, you saw the telltale signs and knew that Din was done for the day, even if he didn’t know it himself. He pushed himself too hard, always believing that there was more of him to go around than there was.

Now that the baby was here, growing healthy and strong, Din had resumed his habit of staying up too late, tweaking just one more thing in the cockpit or looking over the available jobs just one more time. He had spent too many nights slumped sleeping in that pilot’s chair, and you had finally started being gently pushy, in the hopes of getting the man to just stop and rest.

You waited until you saw the helmet keel an inch too far to the right, knowing how heavy it felt on his head, his old habit of wearing full armor at all times in the cockpit in case things went sideways and he had to spring into action. You didn’t push him to relax or remove it, you knew how much he needed that feeling of being in control. But you could be sweet and soft, remind him how much you needed him at the end of the day, how good it would feel to finally remove the Beskar and curl up against you, skin to skin for the night.

“Din,” you made your voice soft. “It’s bedtime.”

His helmet tilted back to center and you heard him clear his throat. “Just one more thing, mesh’la.”

You smiled to yourself and finished off your row of stitches, giving him a few more minutes, tweaking knobs and fiddling with buttons. You got up and stretched, then came around to his side, placing one hand on the back of his neck with a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s go. You need your rest, or you’ll be no good to anyone tomorrow.”

Din lifted one hand to grip your waist affectionately. You could visualize the fight happening on his face, the urge to take care of just one more item battling against the pull of your soft curves in the dark. You leaned in, letting his helmet come to rest against your side.

“Let me take you to bed, you big, strong man.” Your voice was soft, your nails softer as you slipped them just under the cowl and dragged them across the back of his neck.

Din sighed and then set the ship to autopilot before he removed his helmet. His eyes were rimmed with hints of red, the circles underneath deeper than they had been yesterday. Your heart squeezed, and you immediately took the helmet to set it gently on the floor. You kneeled in front of his chair and didn’t say a word as you started to help him remove his gloves, then all of the parts of his armor that you could reach. For his part, Din let you worry your fingers over him. Then he stood up and took off his back plates and cape, piling everything neatly on the ground.

“Sit.” You left no room for argument, and Din complied. You muttered gently to yourself as you reached down to help him remove his boots, “Kriffing crazy man, pushing yourself so hard…”

Din let you undress him, let you massage your fingers up his calves and across his quads, and that told you more than anything how tired he really was. Normally he would at least protest, say that he didn’t need the help, but this quiet acquiescence was worrisome. Still, though, you knew how to relax him, get him to stop. You weren’t above using your feminine wiles to bend him to your will, all in the service of getting him to rest.

When he was finally down to his flight suit, you opened the front of it and peeled it down and off his shoulders, and then straddled his lap in the pilot’s chair. You started by skating your nails over his shoulders. Din closed his eyes as a shiver ran through his body. He nearly moaned, a soft “Ohhh…” floating out into the quiet of the cockpit.

You gently pushed his forehead so that he could lean his head back on the headrest, and increased the pressure of your fingers as you rubbed circles into the knots of his biceps and trapezius muscles. Din let his hands rest on your thighs as you worked him over, and by the end of it, he was putty in your hands. You finished by laying a soft kiss to his velvet lips, and you were surprised when he kissed back and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tight.

“Sweet man, I thought you were tired?” You smiled as he brought his eyes to rest on your face.

“No, mesh’la. I think I just got a second wind.” Din raised an eyebrow at you, and you giggled as you felt him twitch hard underneath your crotch.

“No, you need to rest, my husband. You’re awfully tired.”

Din groaned as he buried his face against your sternum, grinding up against your through your clothing. You threaded your fingers through his curls and scraped your nails from his ears down to his neck, pulling a moan from deep in his throat.

“But I need to have you, just like this.” Din brought his hands up to untie the laces of your wrap dress, sliding his thick fingers under the fabric as it fell open. “Please? Can I taste your milk? You know I love to taste you, mesh’la.” He placed hot, open-mouthed kisses to the swell of your breasts. You felt a thrill run through your body, finding it harder and harder to be stern with him.

“No, Din, you really need-” You gasped as he cupped your breast with one big hand and brought his mouth to the nipple. “You need…” But for the life of you, you couldn’t remember the next part of your orders. You let your dress slide down your arms and off your shoulders, pooling on the floor of the cockpit. Your panties were damp, and Din’s strong arm wrapped around you, holding you firmly in place.

“I know what I need, my sweet wife. I need you.” Din dove back to your breast with his hungry mouth, swirling the nipple with his tongue as his erection grew and pressed harder against your clothed cunt. You felt your milk prickling behind your areolas, knowing that if Din applied any suction, you would start leaking from both breasts, and then you would entirely lose control of this mission to get him to bed.

“No, Din, bed-” but he cut you off with a growl, something primal and low that rumbled from deep in his chest and took your breath away as he gripped you closer, teeth scraping against your budded nipple.

Din began to suckle, and you threw your head back with a gasp, clinging tightly to his shoulders as the muscles flexed under your touch. He was quiet but greedy, sucking at one side before moving to the other. The feel of your milk letting down made you moan, and giving in was just too easy, too sweet to resist. You let your husband take what he wanted, what he needed from you. There would be plenty for the baby still.

“You taste like the stars, sweet girl.” Din’s voice was a hoarse whisper in between his lapping, and his praises made you wetter. “You taste like honey and sunshine like this.”

“Diiinn…” Your head was fuzzy, wiped clean of everything except desire. “Din, please…”

You weren’t even sure what you were asking for, but Din took charge, lifting you half out of his lap so that he could free his cock, before hooking one thick finger and pulling your panties to the side. He swept the head of his penis back and forth against your slick folds and then thrust up inside, settling you back on his lap with his arm wrapped tight around your lower back.

“My wife, my girl,” he growled into your mouth as he worked you against him. You braced your feet as best you could, but Din was determined to do things his way. You let him pull and release you with that iron grip, canting your hips back and forth as he rocked you on his length. He ducked his head back down and lapped at you again and again.

All you could manage was a breathy, “Ohhh,” as he kept thrusting up into you at a steady pace. You grasped at his shoulders, his hair, anywhere you could find a purchase to steady yourself.

“My wife has the sweetest tits in the whole galaxy. Such a good girl, letting me fuck her like this.” Din’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at you. “Want me to fuck another warrior into you, mesh’la? Another baby?”

“Yes, oh!” You felt your climax start to unfurl, every nerve tingling as his cock rubbed against your clit from this angle.

Din suckled you again and again, pausing only to growl praises and promises up into your mouth.

“You’d like that? You want me to fill you up again? I’ll keep you pregnant all the time, full of milk for me and our babies.” His arm wrapped tighter around your waist as he fucked up inside of you harder. “Keep your tits full? Keep you dripping sweet milk, all for me?”

You nodded and kissed him. “Yes, please- yes, yes. Fill me up, Din. I want you to.”

“Come for me first, sweet girl.” Din cupped his free hand under your knee and lifted your leg high and open. “Touch yourself. I want my wife to come around my cock.”

Your hand flew down inside your panties to touch your clit, rubbing and pressing it in circles, trying desperately to follow his wishes. Finally you felt the finish coming. You gasped out to him as you came and Din kept his eyes pinned on your face as you cried out. Your cunt squeezed and milked his cock as he began to spurt his own release deep inside. Din let go of your leg, and both arms wrapped your waist in a vise grip as he ground himself into you and climaxed.

When you were both spent, Din brought both hands to cup your breasts, licking the last of your milk from the swollen nipples.

Din’s “Hmmmm…” reverberated through his lips, the deepest and most satisfied sound you could imagine. You felt him hot inside of you, and you were reluctant to lift yourself off his lap. He softened inside of you bit by bit as he licked your nipples, squeezing both breasts until he was satisfied that he had gotten every last drop.

You draped your arms around the back of Din’s neck and let his cheek rest against your breast, curling your fingers gently in the back of his hair and feeling him finally soften fully.

“Will you sleep well, my husband?” You gently teased him, a soft smile on your lips as you looked down at him and stroked his face.

Din looked up at you from under his lashes, and your heart ached at how peaceful his big brown eyes were, how comforted he looked there in your arms. You wanted him to look like that forever. You wished you could somehow wipe all worry and strain from his life. But maybe this was the best you could do for your husband, just comfort him and give him solace when he needed it most.

Din closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and you let him rest there a while longer.

---

Din Djarin/Mando character masterlist

Main masterlist

“Everything bagel” tag list: @quica-quica-quica @anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul @kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001 @deadhumourist @mandoalorian @javierpinme @eri16 @mandocrasis @pilothusband @bastillealmighty @eri16 @jitterbugs927 @babiiface95 @toomanystoriessolittletime @yespolkadotkitty @fisforfulcrum @prettylilhalforc @mswarriorbabe80 @littlemisspascal @wildemaven @coreychick @castleamc @coreychick @astoryisaloveaffair

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sofiaaaaaaaa03 · 3 years

Text

A Little Bacta Goes A Long Way

hello!! I came in to drop by and say, your writing is so good!! I’ve been looking for some platonic mando for a long time and I’m so glad I found you! If your not backup by Request can you do a platonic mando fighting someone or something (anything really) Then teen reader (14-16) saves him but gets hurt in the process and just super fluffy din and a bit angsty? Sorry if this is confusing make sure to drink water Nd don’t overwork yourself !! Thank you❤️

Title: A little bacta goes a long way

Pairing: Din Djarin x Teen GN! Reader

Word Count: 1171

Rating: PG

Author’s note: Here it is! I went a bit more on the angst side bc I feel that Din would be super bossy and strict about the kid after they get injured. I hope you all enjoy!

—------

“Din, seriously, you don’t need to be doing this.”

“Hm.”

The Mandalorian’s focus seemed to be primarily on prepping the bacta spray for you. It was all he would look at. In all honesty you were pleased that he was not staring you down, reminding you of how disappointed you’d made him earlier.

“We haven’t been able to find bacta at the market the last couple of runs,” You prodded, hoping that Din would listen. When he didn’t respond, you pressed on. “It’s just a scratch, Din, we shouldn’t be wasting bacta on me. What if you need it and we’ve run out?”

For a moment, you thought the mandalorian was going to say something when he held the spray mid-air. You did it! A small smile grew on your lips only to fall when Din lifted your arm and the cold rush of the spray spread through your wound. He ignored the jolt your body experienced, opting to spray longer until he deemed that enough was applied to the cut.

“Kriff.” You exclaimed, arm stinging more than you would have liked.

“Language.”

Your head snapped to Din, incredulous that he finally spoke to you. Out of all of the things you’d been spouting for the last ten minutes, kriff was what made him talk. What can of corrosion. Of course, you didn’t say any of this out loud out of respect for the older man before you, as much as you wanted to say it, and fear of making the situation worse than it already is.

Din unravelled a medpatch, seemingly ignoring your exasperated concern. A quiet falls upon you two as you look aside at Grogu, who was watching you from on top of an old crate Din used for fruits. You were surprised to see the little green toddler munching on a meiloorun. Where did Din manage to find those?

“Adrenaline must still be running through you.”

You snapped out of your thoughts and met Din’s eyes. His eyes? He’d taken off his helmet you’d realized, and tilted your head, confused by what he’d meant. He lifted a needle in his hands.

“Didn’t say anything while I was sewing you back together.” He carefully disposed of the needle and thread, not meeting your eyes once more while he began to help you sit up. A jab came to your side and your breath hitched from the pain. “The body releases endorphins when you’re high from adrenaline, that’s what’s making you not feel pain.”

“And the bacta spray is endorphin proof?” You retorted with a frown. A pause.

“You just like to be dramatic.” You couldn’t tell whether he meant for that to be sarcastic or endearing. “There, done.”

And then there was a quiet time that fell upon the room as Din cleaned up the medicinal equipment and left you to sit on the bunk. Mindlessly you ran your fingers along the thread of the stitches on your thigh and recalled the recent threat Clan Mudhorn had faced. If one had asked you what had caused such an injury, you would respond simply with how valiantly you took a blow that Din was unprepared to block. If one had asked Din, he would brush it off as his foundling not listening to his directions and to stay clear of the threat at hand. You liked your explanation better. There was a sort of bravery to it that you hoped Din could at least recognize.

Din could be heard shuffling around the bay. You watched him for a moment and opened your mouth to speak until he cut you off.

“One more incident like this,” you met his eyes “ and you’re staying with Peli.”

“What?” You looked up, incredulous. Din turned away from your outburst and made himself busy.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re kicking me out for getting hurt?”

“Not yet.”

“Yet?” You scoffed.

“You don’t follow my orders and get hurt, Y/N. You’re smart enough to know that much-”

“You would’ve gotten shot if it wasn’t for me.”

“And you were stupid enough to get shot!” Din slammed a fist against the ship and turned to you, and you wished he had his helmet on so that you didn’t have to look him in the eye. “ I am upset at you, kid. Take a good look at yourself. Your leg is out of commission and now you’re useless. Useless!-”

“Don’t talk to me like that-”

Din raised a finger to you. “I am allowed to speak to you like this while you’re under my care. It is because of me that you have food in your gut and the guts to get shot. You get shot. I patch you up. I give you a lecture and you listen.” Din paused for a moment and you took in his exasperated expression. He looked like he had more to say than he was letting on.

“Y/N.” Din walked to you and crouched down so that your eyes met. “I know that I get myself injured at times to protect you, grogu, and our friends. But I’ve lived more days and experienced more things than you. You’re still learning. I really need you to help me out and learn the way I teach you. That way, you can finally protect us the way you want to. Okay?”

And you stayed quiet for a moment, staring into Din’s eyes and watched the way his pupils dilated to and from as he waited for your response. You were not content with the way he had spoken before, calling you useless and you expressed this to him in a blunt manner. It came to no surprise that Din apologized for the harshness, but made his point that you still needed to heed the warning he gave nonetheless.

“Okay.” You resumed.

Din gave you a closed lip smile, and patted your head. “I’m lucky to have you, kid. You have good intentions. But you can’t do this again. Please.”

“Are you really going to send me to Peli’s if I do?” You cocked your head to the side and gave Din a lop-sided grin.

He scoffed at you and looked at Grogu, who’d been munching on fruit through the entire ordeal. “Don’t eat all of those, kid. I want some for later.”

Din met your eyes and chuckled at your grin, which was still going strong. He ruffled your hair. “What’s wrong with Peli? She’s a great mechanic.”

“She’s a bit crazy, Din.”

“Don’t say that. That’s rude.”

“Sorry.” You picked up the bacta spray and was incredulous to find that it was almost empty. How much had there been before Din started applying it to you? Surely that much hadn’t been used on you, right?

Din watched you for a moment and sighed. He took the canister out of your hands and ran his thumb across the exterior. “Not much now. Don’t worry. We’ll make do with what we have.”

You gave him a soft smile. “We always do.”

-----------

Tag List:

@kiara-is-gay @sagedgeek @moonlqths

#din djarin imagine #din djarin x y/n #din djarin #din djarin x teen!reader #teen reader #star wars #star wars x reader #the mandalorian #star wars reader insert #foundling reader #y/n #grogu #din djarin x reader #star wars fanfiction #imagine #fic request #gender neutral reader

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prolix-yuy · 3 years

Text

Chapter 1: A Man May Drink And Not Be Drunk

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: A holy mission. A cantina. A song. A familiar face.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: T, drinking, mentions of food. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: This picks up between Episode 9 and 10 of The Mandalorian, and 10 years after One Very Good Night.

Cross-posted on AO3

Good Company Masterlist || I Think of You Series Masterlist

Din Djarin, Mandalorian, feared bounty hunter, known across the galaxy by his helmet and deadly persistence, cannot put his finger on why this mission feels different.

The location is familiar. He’s been on Tatooine before, several times in fact. He’s chased bounties here, tackling them into the fine dirt that sticks in every thread of his cloak. There’s a decent spaceport, though its proprietor is too chatty and loud for Din’s liking. It’s arid and unforgiving, and while Din doesn’t try to attach much to any place he hunts, he would put Tatooine on the lower half of his list of desirable places to be. Not that he desires to be many places at all.

Maybe it’s because this time his purpose is different. He’s not here for a bounty, or for repairs. He’ll get them anyway just so Peli won’t yell at him about dock fees for quite as long. No, this time the reason why he’s on Tatooine is nestled in a small silver pod floating in the Razor Crest, floppy green ears twitching and black marbles staring up at him. The child makes a small cooing noise as Din arranges his cloak inside the pod. He presses the fabric against the small spaces where sand can get in, though he knows the pervasive wind will make this precaution moot quickly.

Din doesn’t know much of the Jedi he’s looking for. Too busy hunting and running to pay attention to the murmurings of space wizards who fight with laser swords. More like a story for the children of the covert. But today, Din Djarin was on Tatooine looking for the remnants of the most mysterious Jedi of them all:

Luke Skywalker.

His sources told him Skywalker grew up on Tatooine, and when Din didn’t know how to start tracking a bounty, the beginning was always a good place to begin. Skywalker wouldn’t be there now, of course, but maybe he could find those who knew him, or someone could give Din an idea if this was a fool’s errand.

The child doesn’t seem to mind the heat and the sand, peering out over the lip of his pod as Din saunters down the gangplank. Peli Motto is at the bottom waiting for him, and if looks could kill she would give the Hutts a run for their money.

“Better not be using me for free parking, Mando.”

“Peli.” Din’s response is short, and he tries to get past her through sheer force of will. She stands her ground at half his height and he huffs at her insistence.

“Last time I was here you squashed a droid with that antique. Took me two weeks to get it back online and working. You already owe me before any of this…” she motions at the Crest, “...is even considered for repair.”

Din sighs and tilts his head at Peli, hands coming to rest on his hips. Peli does a fair impression back, even tilting her head and making an overly loud sigh in response. The child looks at the frizzy-haired firecracker and lifts his arms up, cooing with a burble at the end. Peli’s face twists and Din knows she’s fighting a smile. He looks sideways down at the child and thanks the Maker that his universal cuteness is such an easy distraction.

“You can’t swindle me with baby talk!” She steels herself, pointing a finger first at Din, then at the child who is now trilling in confusion. “Your dad is not shoving this pile of rust - or you - off on me again! No matter how cute you are!”

“How much?” Din grumbles, hand dipping into his pouch of credits. Peli’s language has always been currency.

“Well I won’t know until I take a look at her, but for the droid, 25 credits.” Din thinks he sees the droid in question limping along in the shop, clearly not repaired, but he drops the credits into Peli’s hand anyway. The twin suns are high in the sky and he wants to be on his way.

“I’ll be back at sundown for the Crest.” Din begins walking out of the hanger, the pod in tow, as Peli shouts after him.

“Mando, that’s not enough time to do anything! I need at least three days to -”

“You’re the best mechanic in Mos Eisley,” Din calls back. The scoffing and muttering that follows drifts off into the sound of blowing sand. The desert winds flick coarse grains up against the metal surrounding both him and the child, though the child’s eyes squint against it. His claws rub at his face, and Din takes a moment to tuck the robe up against the onslaught. With the brunt of the wind and sand blocked, the child resumes looking out over the ochre and rust landscape.

Din fiddles with some settings on his vambrace and reads through his contact’s info once more. There was a home to visit, a speeder bike rental close to Peli’s shop, and not much time to waste. He strides off into the city proper, the gleam of beskar sharp and blinding as sunlight dances off both sides of him. The child settles into the pod as it follows, a silver shadow of a silver man looking for their destiny. The ache in his heart at where that will lead him, and what he will lose, thumps dully behind his chestplate.

“Dank farrik,” Din curses, quiet enough that he hopes the kid can’t hear him. The child looks up at Din with a furrow in his old-man brow and it almost makes Din cuss again. “Don’t repeat that, kid.”

It’s another dead end, another loose string tugged from a ball that never gets any smaller or less complicated. Another location with no one to question, no clues to glean, no context. Yes, it is the childhood home of Luke Skywalker, he confirmed it with a neighboring home, but beyond that it’s just dirt and walls and abandoned empty space. Nothing. Again.

Din leans back on the speeder and tilts his helmet up towards the sky. The suns are twisting towards the horizon, painting the sands with fat streaks of purple and amber light. The shimmering of the heat across the plains flecks everything with golden threads. Din wants to enjoy it as much as the child is, but his brain is roiling around in the helmet.

It’s times like these, when all of his adrenaline is sapped out and another failure tugs at his Creed, when he considers just letting this mission die. Take the child, raise him as a Mandalorian, be his buir, teach him The Way and Mando’a and how to protect himself and others. Maybe even learn from the child too, though he’s already been taught much the past months. Din’s learned how the child eats, sleeps, relieves himself (that took some practice) and how he learns, and laughs. In time, Din may even learn how to love him like a father should.

Well, that might have happened already. Try as he might to hide it behind the metal and the helmet, Din thinks the child might have an inkling as to how much Din cares for him. It’s in the quietest moments, when the child wraps his tiny hand around Din’s thumb or holds his fingers when Din is feeding him, or when he watches Din like he hung the stars streaking past in the transparisteel. It’s when he feels their eyes connect, the beskar between them invisible, that he knows a father’s love and how that may devastate him.

The child is giving him a different look now, more tired but with a restlessness that Din’s come to understand is crankiness. It’s been a long hot day and the child needs water and food and to get out of the suns. Din stretches his shoulders - always tight, always stiff nowadays - and guides the pod to hook onto the back of the speeder. He tucks the child in and closes the lid, shiny black eyes slipping closed as the metal dome hides him from sight.

Din settles into the speeder seat and revs the engine. There was still enough light to travel, and he could give Peli a few more hours to work so the kid could eat. He’s not familiar with the surrounding towns, but as he scouts for an area safe enough to take respite, a bright cantina comes into view. It’s clean outside, without some of the more unsavory clientele he would normally see roaming the streets of Tatooine. Music wafts through the air, and curling steam and smoke from the back gives Din hope that there will be food.

Din slows the speeder and parks it in an alleyway a few buildings down. He’d rather not have to deal with it getting stolen, but then again, speeder bike businesses tend to be run by thieves. He’s sure they’d find the bike eventually. Unhooking the pod to float close to him, Din straightens out his cloak and strides into The Lively Bantha.

Lively it is, and thankfully not as smelly as a Bantha. The cantina is noisy in the way that indicates merriment instead of rowdiness. There are some young kids running underfoot, throwing down dice as their parents sip on colorful cocktails and laugh. The bar is a round affair in the center of several tiers of tables and booths, each a few steps up from the first. The light thrown from dusty chandeliers is warm and inviting, but leaves some corners in shadow. Din sights a booth on the top tier across from the entrance with its seat against the wall. Easy to view the whole room, and private enough for him to be overlooked. That, however, means he has to get to that booth without being noticed. In shining armor. On a largely crime-ridden planet.

Din places a hand on the pod, still closed though he hears the child stir, and slowly walks the upper perimeter of seating. By the bar are some couples, a few old timers who are nursing well-loved drinks, and…

Din stops in his tracks and blends back into the shadows. Surrounding the far half the bar and lounging across several tables are New Republic pilots. Din counts twenty of them, all much older than he thought they were recruiting. Some of them have shocks of white and gray through their beards, others with hair thinning at their temples and crowns of their heads. All of them have deep creases around their eyes and mouths, pronounced by the amount of laughing they’re all doing. Pitchers of drinks are set on the tables and the men are helping themselves to amber liquid in small glasses.

They were young men once, and Din feels his own age as he watches them slap each other on the back and holler call signs. Din’s own beard has flecks of gray in it now, and the lines between his eyes only deepen as time goes by. He doesn’t look at himself much anymore, doesn’t think about how old he looks compared to when the helmet first went on. The weight of his Creed blocks out the weight of age that the pilots must feel looking at one another.

One pilot turns and on his shoulder is an old Rebel Alliance patch. Din scans the gaggle of men and finds more. His shoulders relax a fraction; he assumed they were still in service. Now it looks more likely that they were old squadron buddies, meeting to drink and reminisce the evening away. Not looking for a bounty hunter, or a strange little green child.

Din continues around the perimeter, watching for any lingering eyes, and settles into his preferred booth. The leather is sticky, but the tabletop is clean. He settles the pod next to him and opens it up for the child to peer out. Good timing as well, because the scowl Din is greeted with is nothing short of legendary. It’s a scowl that means a scream is incoming and he better find a way to cheer the kid up fast, or all eyes would be on both of them.

“Hey kid, we’re going to get something to eat, just…hold on…” Din placates the child with gentle hand gestures and rearranging his robe while darting his head around frantically. “Where’s a…a server, an owner, something…” he mutters to himself as the child begins to make the shuddering hiccupy sounds that are a precursor to full baby wails. Din is poised to make a fast exit, find the kid something to eat on the way to the Crest, when a strum of an instrument quiets the cantina. The child’s eyes widen and he settles, putting both little claws on the edge of the pod to look down towards the pilots.

One of them had brought out a hallikset that he’s strumming languidly. His fingers weave along the long-necked instrument as another pilot, one with blond hair shot through with gray, sits down beside the player. The blond is rakishly handsome, and the lines in his face cut angles into his features as he begins to sing.

Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme,

His voice is clear and strong, lyrical but rough around the edges. He’s speaking the lines as much as he’s singing them, and his colleagues all turn and smile when they hear his voice. They begin to gather around him as he continues on.

Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine.

The child is entranced, tantrum forgotten as his ears twitch and lift at the music. If this is what keeps him from throwing a fit Din wouldn’t argue. He wasn’t versed in music beyond battle hymns but he could appreciate the tune the blond was rasping out.

Come lift up your voices all grief to refrain

For we may or might never all meet here again.

More people are watching the pilots now, and Din is thankful for the additional distraction. The men have begun filling their glasses and bringing out small metal bowls from packs and bags. They lay them out on the tables as if waiting for something. Din watches with curiosity, feeling the familiarity of it but not understanding the ritual yet.

Let’s toast the New Republic and galaxies far

Let us drink and be merry out among the stars

Let us drink and be merry all grief to refrain

For we may or might never all meet here again.

All the men have joined in now, rhythmically beating their fists or bowls against the tables. The myriad of voices, old and young, deep and sonorous, boyish and gravelly all carry the tune to a deafening height. Other conversations are drowned out, patrons either moving further away from the rowdy singers or shouting at each other over it. The child burbles and pats his hands on the edge of the pod, looking up at Din with a toothy smile on his face. Din chuckles and lays a hand on the table, fingers drumming along with the tempo. He didn’t feel comfortable per se - he never feels comfortable outside of the Razor Crest - but it feels like a fresh breath after long minutes in a smoke-filled room.

The blond takes over again, but now instead of looking between all of the men surrounding him, he’s watching something across the room with a bright smile. Din tracks his gaze to movement at the far end of the bar. The blond throws his arms open at the guest, and the smile is both charming and flirtatious.

To the health of the dear one that we love so well.

For her style and her beauty, sure none can excel!

A woman approaches the rowdy pilots, carrying a black iron pot brimming with a thick-looking stew. She is smiling at the blond with a shake of her head, as if this is a joke they all are in on and she’s suffering through.

There's a smile on her countenance but she won’t marry me,

The man puts both hands over his heart as she joins the group. She has a ladle in her hand now and is waving it at the pilots to make space for her.

Yet there's no man in this wide world as happy as we!

The woman sets the pot down on the central table as the men hold out bowls for her to fill. The ritual is clearer now; a well-rehearsed song and dance to make a woman smile. The instrumentalist continues strumming the tune at a lower level while the meal is served.

“Grego you old charmer, it didn’t work the first time, it’s not working now,” she says, and something blares in Din’s head, an alarm he has no indication towards. He leans over the table to peer at the group, his eyes locked on the woman’s back. Something is familiar about her voice, but it’s far away. Is she a bounty? An informant?

“You can’t fault a man for trying, especially not when you bring such a gift!" The blond laughs, and his hand comes around to slip in the fabric of her apron.

The brazenness of the blond makes Din’s face heat up and he clenches his fist on the table, but the woman makes no remark at it. Instead, she spoons stew into his metal bowl and gives him a playful swat before turning to another pilot. As she ladles stew for the next one, Din sees that man reach into the woman’s apron as well. It’s clearer now what’s going on; they’re dropping credits into her pockets, payment for food delivered. The instrumentalist continues plucking away on the strings as the men dig in, moans and cheers following as the woman waves them off.

Din tries to get a glimpse at her face or to hear her voice again, but the pilots bring the noise back up and she’s turned away from this corner of the room. The smell of the food is definitely reaching the child, and he becomes agitated that the fragrant dish isn’t being brought up to him.

Unbidden, the child stands up in his pod, the front tipping low enough for Din’s arm to snap around and steady it, before the child lets out a loud “BAH!” of displeasure. The woman whips around and looks up at the booth.

Din rarely has that moment where “time stops” in his profession. His skills and expertise rely on the fact that every moment is fast, fleeting, and he moves with the efficiency and speed needed to bridge those moments and capture his prey. Sometimes time feels transient in space, but more often than not, especially nowadays, it’s filled with purpose, routine, care, planning. Without moments to stop, he never feels like he does. It’s akin to running forever. He’s never noticed it, preferring the neverending movement to the mind-numbing boredom and tediousness of quiet. He didn’t have to ponder or reflect when he was avoiding blaster fire.

The last time he could remember really taking time to savor moments, to let them stretch and lengthen without anxiety, must have been years ago. Over a decade even, long before the child and the bounty, early in his career. It could have been on Tatooine. Actually, he’s sure of it, the dust that permeates the planet sticks to his memories the same.

He was at a cantina. A bad bit of intel. A wild goose chase. Some loud, obnoxious bar patrons. And a girl.

This girl.

You.

Here is the song that Grego and his fly-boys are singing (lyrics edited slightly) performed by the incredibly talented Colm R. McGuinness.

#the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fic #mando #prolix fics #i think of you series

228 notes · View notes

pedros-mustache · 3 years

Text

nighthawks (7)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: ~9.2k+

warnings: smut (18+): oral (m receiving). canon typical violence and weaponry: references to body harvesting, blood, and abduction. also: language, x fem!reader

a/n: i cannot emphasize enough how much i love and appreciate each one of you who continue to show up for this story. we’ve got a long way to go until the end and much growth for both din and the reader, and i hope you’ll stay along for the ride! much love. xoxo. 💛

also: thank you to @pleasedin for agreeing to beta. if you enjoy this fic, it’s because she makes it good. 😉

(gif by @bestintheparsec)

DAY FOURTEEN

“His name is Adron Setarr. Records say he’s an illegal arms dealer. He should be somewhere in this sector.”

You study the bounty’s rap sheet—all five slides of it—spread across the table. You disregard the tender flesh of your shoulder where an imprint of Mando’s teeth resides pressed in your skin, made bruised and sore by his… love bite?

No—not that. Something else. A punishment? A—

It doesn’t matter.

Today is new, an undeserved gift from the Maker. Untarnished by hedonistic desire and feral fucking, the fresh, glittering morning stands before you as an open invitation.

Turn back. Turn back. Renege him and his breadth and the heat of his voice and the width of his cock. Turn back, child.

And you will turn back. The tumble on Hegora—physical, emotional, sexual, and otherwise—will be forgotten. Ignored by you both like the time he slapped your ass raw. The cobwebs of your mind will swallow the memories until they are covered in silky, strands of steel—a protection against greedy fingers that might go searching for a taste of the past.

It’s better this way; you prefer it this way. You have too much to do and lingering on the growing pile of memories in which Mando’s cock stretches your cunt does not lend itself to concentration.

Again, again, you tell yourself—it’s better this way.

Mando points to a blue holomap suspended over a circular fob, his arms braced against the annex table. His broad shoulders stretch wide in the dimly lit room, his countenance mercantile and focused. One thousand credits hang in the balance; no small sum after the Sunder hiccupped over her first malfunction back on Hegora.

A glitch in the computer framework upended the air filtration system, which now struggles through its daily cycles. The vent over your makeshift bed belches wispy plumes of grey smoke every other hour. The smoke stings your eyes, catches in your throat at night, keeps you awake and wondering. You have half a mind to bury Mando’s head in fumes if he doesn’t get the system fixed, and knowing him, he wouldn’t bother just to spite you. But he needs fresh air as much as you do when traveling through space, so this is an important job, and rightfully so.

You can’t afford to fuck it up.

“More than likely he’s on Daos-Seven,” he continues. “It’s the most populated planet in the region. He probably thinks it’s a good place to hide.”

You arch a brow. “And it’s not?”

Mando lifts his helmet to pin you with a deadly, visored-stare. “Not when I’m after him.”

Your cunt bottoms out, seizing around nothing. Fuck, his voice, the intensity of the eyes you cannot see. You want him—always now, since the way he took you in the Hegoran field, it seems you want him. His body, the rough timbre of his tongue, the glide of his cock…

You look away.

Turn back.

Yeah, ignoring whatever raw tension hovers between you, pushing it to the side—it’s better that way.

DAY FIFTEEN—THE HUNT BEGINS

The ship's landing gear opens on a creak, and the Sunder comes to an easy rest at the Outer Rim’s furthest edge. Beyond the ship, civilization bustles on, but not here; not beneath your feet, pulsing against the underbelly of the Sunder like a frenzied heart. No, law and order, right and wrong—that’s all lightyears away, hanging on by a frayed thread but still gasping for breath and alive. Here, on the edge of all that is in the galaxy, there is nothing but anarchy and ruin. A dog-eat-dog existence.

Your blood thrums in your veins, and you push onto your toes, fingers wrapped tight around the grip of your blaster. Mando tosses you a hasty glance. He adjusts the bandolier strapped across his chest then passes you the blinking fob. Adron Setarr’s life—his downfall—in your hands, offered to you like an inconsequential nothing by a man who judges your every waking step.

Mando opens the gangway. “Don’t fuck this up.”

You roll your eyes, but if you aren’t mistaken, there is a note of true regard in his voice. It’s not respect—it’s not pride—but it’s there, hidden beneath a layer of gruff hubris. He knows this is big for you: your first true bounty, one not stolen from his clutches on a self-important whim. A girl’s first stays with her until she passes into nothing; and even if Mando insists on guiding you through every step, Adron Setarr is yours. His name will remain etched on your heart until you too are nothing.

Clipping the fob to your belt, you follow Mando down the loading ramp, grumbling, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He doesn’t respond, and the unencouraging silence serves to curdle the protein paste in your stomach.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. Daos-Seven reeks. Like, really, truly reeks.

Pungent air clogs your nose as you leave the Sunder in one of the planet’s overcrowded hangar bays. Ancient and rusted droids clamber over the ship’s sleek metal to tinker and fiddle through a list of minor checks and repairs. And though Mando takes care to order the hangar boss to watch those fucking things closely, you’re too busy wishing you had strips of cloth with which to plug your nostrils to worry about scratches on the ship’s expensive chrome.

Rotting meat is the first note in the cacophony of scents hanging in the thick air, burnt rubber and stale sweat close behind. It reminds you of the lava fields in Nevarro: the blend of unpleasant odors and a hot, dank atmosphere. But at least on Nevarro, you know the stink comes from the smoldering fire beneath the ground. You haven’t got a clue what smells so bad on Daos-Seven, and the mystery only adds to the stench.

Sidestepping a full-bellied droid waddling by with an armload of materials, you glance at Mando, hoping for some indication that you are not the only one sick to your stomach in response to the planet’s perfume. Unsurprisingly, he walks without care, strides purposeful and blithe. Fucking figures. The jackass probably has his own filtration system in the bucket on his head, which likely explains why he was so hesitant to believe there was a problem with the vent in the galley in the first place.

You fall into step at his side, making your strides longer to match his. “Do bounties ever pick some place nice to run and hide?”

He makes a sound like a hard sniff, somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Depends on what you think is nice.”

“Plush bed, soft sheets, room service.”

You squint as you step into the open-air market adjacent the hangar. Daos-Seven’s twin suns are hot, hovering in the sky like conspirators in some great plot to burn you alive. You wish you’d worn your sleeveless tunic or gone full-Mando and covered yourself from head to toe to avoid injury, but he’d failed to warn you of the sweltering climate. Typical.

Lifting a hand to shield your eyes, you continue. “I guess I’ll settle for a planet that doesn’t smell like Bantha shit covered in Jawa vomit.”

Again, the Mandalorian snorts. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of those bounties. You’ll probably get one or two when you first start out, though, so don’t worry, kid. You’ll get your room service.”

Huffing, you stop walking and level him a hard stare. “You make it sound like comfortable planets are a bad thing. Like I shouldn’t want an excuse to sleep in a nice bed from time to time. You forget you make me sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t forget,” he says—and your chest lurches at the unpolished note in his voice. But he keeps talking, and the idea of him in his bunk thinking of you in the galley slips away before you can truly consider it. “Only, in my experience, the highest paying jobs are the ones no one wants.”

“Which is why we’re here? On this shit-hole?”

“Yes—and also why I’m strapped with you.”

Your arms fall out of their defensive fold with a limp thud, your gaze narrowing scornfully. “Oh fuck you, Metal Man.”

A cart overflowing with what appears to be dead fish rumbles past, wafting a new, equally-as-unpleasant scent into the air, but you cannot tear your attention away from the slow downward tilt of Mando’s visor as he rakes his gaze over your body.

“Already did. Twice. You seemed to like it.”

Seemingly pleased by the stunned look on your face, he resumes course, folding into the throng of buyers and sellers, his cape a whisper around his shoulders. You are left with a throbbing cunt and dizzy brain, a mind reeling, twitching like a fish on dry land.

Fuck, you hate him. You hate this constant push and pull. You wish he would make up his mind.

It wouldn’t bother you if he used your body for his pleasure. Goodness knows you’d use him in much the same way. He is a brute and a caveman, but he fucks you well, and it’s been a long time since you found ecstasy apart from your own hand. So long as the door to your heart remains locked, you would let him have his way with you anytime he pleased. His cock is that good.

But this tip-toed dance wears on your nerves. You have grown to dread each morning and the uncertainty of the day.

Will he fuck you?

Will he tease your pussy with his thick fingers?

Will he whisper ‘pretty girl’ in your ear?

Does he want you or not?

The wonderings push away true concentration, and the foundation of bounty hunting is focus, a single-minded drive. How can you excel if your foot keeps slipping, dragging you beneath the undertow of delirious thoughts?

Back on Hegora, you were unable to strike the blaster targets until you stood under the rain alone, no Mando to silently judge your each move with his eyes on your back like fire. In that regard, your failure is telling. You cannot succeed with a teacher so distracting, so pungent with masculinity. He drives you to the destruction of your own stoney game, and you won’t stand for it much longer. The faster you learn this craft, the faster you leave him and find your own way in the galaxy, the better. But until then—you wish he would make up his fucking mind if only to give you both some respite from this mounting ugly desire.

You shake the thoughts away. Back to work.

Returning to reality, it shouldn’t surprise you that Mando is nowhere to be seen. Despite his height and breadth and the gleam of his armor, he can be easily overlooked. He moves as a shadow, slipping through the cloud of people’s preoccupations. He is stealth personified, the slow, quiet, foggy dawn before devastation.

You try to emulate him as you blend into the crush of market-goers. You keep your face clear, devoid of emotion or sudden movement. You do not mumble apologies when your shoulder connects with the arm of a Nuknog. And when you trip over a mislaid satchel, almost falling to the ground, you right yourself without causing disruption. But despite your cool facade, your heart hammers in your chest, palms gone moist.

Keep going—don’t look back—no one remembers what they do not see.

A hundred yards away, set apart from the crowded center aisle, Mando leans against the wall of a mudbrick building. Arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed, he paints the picture of a man without cause, but you know better. Even when shaded by a striped linen overhang, even when his chest rises and falls to a steady, unbothered rhythm, there is never a moment the Mandalorian rests. You approach him with a what-gives gesture—hands tossed in the hair, brows creeping toward your hairline—and he pushes out of his slouch, moving his hands to his hips.

“What?”

“You can’t just leave me like that.”

“You found me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

He cuts you off, thrusting an open palm in the narrow space between your bodies. “Here. Put this on.”

You stare at the bean-sized device in his hand. “What is it?”

“An earpiece. You’re going to find Setarr on your own before we take him down.”

A rush of anxiety squeezes your chest, and your eyes snap to his visor. “What? By myself?” You shake your head, throat suddenly dry. “I can’t find him by myself! Apparently I can hardly walk around this dung-heap market without almost falling flat on my face. I barely know what I’m doing, and if—”

“Hey.” The Mandalorian drops a heavy palm to your shoulder, and your tongue freezes. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be in your ear the whole time.”

It must be the kindest thing he’s ever said to you. He must mean it. You’ll be fine.

Sucking in a breath, you nibble your lower lip, tearing a thin strip of flesh from the corner of your mouth. “In my ear the whole time?” He nods and removes his hand from your shoulder. You sigh. “More than you already are, I guess. What’s new?”

His head tilts toward your whispered words. “What?” You forget: nothing, not even a simple muttering, gets by him. Damned amplified hearing. It’s cheating.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just give me the damn thing.”

The earpiece fits in the canal of your right ear, small and inconspicuous but not small enough to disappear completely, thank the Maker. Mando angles his body to the side once the hardware is secure, and he ducks his face, looking close, like a med-droid running a routine ear inspection. He bends slightly to get a better look then presses the pad of his index finger against the earpiece. A sharp beep rends through your head, rattling your teeth.

Gritting your jaw, you slap his arm away and clutch your ear as if the added pressure of your hand will dispel the pain ratcheting through your skull. “Kriffing hell! Watch it!”

“You heard that?”

“How could I not? Sounded like a dozen security alarms at once. My whole head is ringing.”

“Too loud then. Hold still.”

He steps close—too close. His aura, all testosterone and muscle, swallows you, leaves your tongue dripping with saliva, throat no longer dry. Cradling the left side of your face in his palm, he angles your right ear toward the sky. His glove smells clean, as though he laundered it recently, and the thought calms an old worry in your stomach. He’s fingered you with those gloves—twice now. It’s a comfort to know he washes them on occasion.

He fiddles with some hidden control on the earpiece, and a series of beeps blasts your eardrum. Your fingers latch onto his forearm, eyes squeezing shut in pain.

“Mando—stars,” you whisper. “Go easy on me.”

He huffs, though you feel the muscles of his arm stiffen beneath your hand.

The beeping soon relents when he finds the correct volume. He steps back, and you stretch your neck side to side in an attempt to forget the way his fingers spanned the length of your face. It helps to check if the earpiece slips and slides as you move, too; it remains snug in your ear.

“Okay,” he says. “You’re ready.”

His words burst something in your stomach: a bloated carcass riddled with maggots. The grubs slither from belly to chest, dragging anxious goo through your veins. You twist your shoulder inwards, eyes fluttering shut as you latch onto the bugs creeping in your body. Fight or flight? Your body screams flight, but you root yourself to the hard-packed ground.

“What if—” You shake your head, opening your eyes on a shaky breath.

For the first time, you wish you could see his face. You wish you could read him better. You wish you could draw a modicum of encouragement from his gaze. He could be laughing at you beneath that tin can; he could be knowingly sending you to your death, finally getting rid of his angry pest. A simple glance at his true form—if only to quiet the fear that he’s about to cut you loose and watch you fail on purpose—would calm the rolling storm in your stomach, you know it.

“How do you even know he’s in the market? It’s a whole fucking planet, Mando.”

“I just know.”

“Come on. Don’t toy with me. Last time, with Kiminn—”

“This isn’t like Kiminn.” His hand moves upwards, inching toward your shoulder again, but he seems to think better of it, folding his arms over his chest instead. “I’ve got your back. I need this bounty as much as you do. If something goes wrong, I’ll pull you out and finish the job myself.”

“Okay.” You straighten your curved spine, inhaling deeply. A few maggots cling to your heart, wriggling in time to an anxious beat, but you shove them aside. “Okay.”

“Now get going.” Turning, he steps into the shadowy doorway of the building. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

He disappears—a puff of smoke, a morning mist, a forbidden caress—without further instruction; and you stand, alone, on the edge of your own beginning. As a breeze filters over your face, a long-forgotten whisper washes to the surface of your mind:

“But you’re good at everything, Jeelia. You don’t even have to try.”

Positioned on her knees, your sister cuts through a fistful of thick wheat stalks with ease. Her electronic blade, rusted at the teeth, whirrs as it snaps the wheat’s dense insides. “I’m not good at everything. No one is good at everything when they first start out.”

You chuff, staring down at your own blade. Blood stands at the tip of your middle finger; a broken shaft of wheat lays discarded by your empty basket, the grain’s valuable interior now worthless. Jeelia’s basket overflows with blue stalks, and she hasn’t even broken a sweat despite the unusual warmth of the day.

Not good at everything your ass. You are convinced: Jeelia is perfection, without flaw or blemish or sin. You can never be like her, no matter how hard you try.

“Come on, raro faa’hom.” She nudges you with her elbow, and her teasing moniker—little bother—makes your heart sing. “You won’t succeed unless you first learn to fail, so you’re halfway to success already. Why don’t you try again?”

You aren’t sure where the memory comes from or why it chose to present itself. You can’t say you’re happy to have Jeelia’s presence hovering in the back of your mind right now either. She haunts you, that girl, and not a day goes by you don’t think of her at least once. It’s just—

Stars, you wish she were still here, that you could tell her about your adventures, and about the man who is teaching you, like she tried, to become something more than a little bother.

You’ve stood in the blistering heat of your memory too long. Like Mando said, you don’t have time to waste. Shoving Jeelia aside, you push into the marketplace with a renewed sense of purpose. Adron Setarr—he is your focus now. Him, just him; not Mando, not Jeelia, not the unknown fate of your parents so far away on Inora.

Just Setarr.

The initial squeeze of the market widens at the corner of the mudbrick building. To the left, a row or two of sparse stalls clump around the bend, but most shoppers have moved on and loaded themselves onto a nearby hover-tram station. Beyond the skeletal deck of the station, only dusty red earth until the horizon. Heat vapor blurs the far skyline; not a single bush or tree dot the landscape. A far cry from lush Hegora. Rust-bucket trams skim across the flat expanse, headed to and from nothing, and you wonder again if Mando knows what he’s talking about. Setarr could be anywhere. Why here?

You look to the right. A small outcrop of buildings face the station: an inn, a domed cantina, what appears to be a cross between a currency exchange and a detention center. More people—more species, that is—bustle to the right, but you head left. You need to work up the nerve to sift through the crowd at the cantina on your own, and a few minutes tarrying at the station platform might do you well.

You wedge beside a man and his wife browsing a linen stall, head lowered but eyes lifted through your lashes. A trail of people exit the most recent tram and scurry from platform to cantina or hangar bay. You scan for a bald head and find several, but no missing ear, Setarr’s most distinguishing feature.

A gruff voice breaks your concentration. “You gonna buy that?”

You frown and stare into the face of a sunburned Chiss. “What?” The vendor points to your hand. “Oh.” Your fingers rub the edge of a navy scarf. The color is similar to that of the stuffed animal you found beneath the galley bench. Not for the first time, you wonder what became of it after returning it to Mando. “No, I’m not,” you say.

The Chiss points to the well-worn road. “Then get a move on.”

Lifting your hands in surrender, you back away and cross to the other side of the street. You find a corner, a quiet point between the tram station and the cantina, and slide into the shadow of a squat, square building. From here, you can see everything. You run your gaze from the station to the distant mouth of the hangar bay to the line of buildings at your side. All five senses stand on alert, your pulse heavy in your ribcage.

Another gruff voice, this one you know all too well, rumbles through your ear. “What was that about?”

You startle, resisting the urge to clamp your hand to your chest in surprise. Instead, you bite your lip until the tang of metal bursts on your tongue. “Shit,” you breathe. “I didn’t know this was a two-way thing. You can’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” Silence; until: “Who were you talking to?”

“A street vendor. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. The less people you talk to the better.”

Though he cannot see, you nod in acknowledgement.

The thoroughfare’s swift current eases the longer you hover on the corner. The linen stall folds inward, swathed canopy dropping from its perch when the vendor deems his clientele too sparse to remain open. A pack of wiry mutts scatter for the mouth of the airdock where the crowd persists. Your lips pull in a hard line, and you glance to the side.

You aren’t ready to move to the cantina yet. Robust, thumping music clogs the bar’s doorway, and patrons spill onto the street, rowdy despite the morning hour. The frenzy of it all sets your teeth on edge.

If Mando were here, standing beside you in all his beskar glory, you would walk into the building without a second thought. He commands respect—or at the very least fear—in the seediest of places, and when he walks by your side, you aren’t afraid of violence befalling you. The opposite, in fact. You feel powerful, as imposing as him. But he’s not with you now. It’s just you, and you know you do not on your own merit compel the same awe he does.

You curl your hand around the grip of your blaster, tucked at your hip. The cool metal is a balm to your hot skin. You clear your throat. “Hey—you know that stuffed animal I gave you a few days ago? The sock thing? Whose was it?”

Stalling for time, you twist and press your shoulder to the wall. At least this way you are facing the cantina, watching as people filter in and out, eyes straining for some sight of Setarr. You aren’t not working. Just… biding your time. Searching for the perfect moment to do… something.

Fuck, maybe you aren’t as good at this as you originally thought. Maybe bagging Kiminn was a fluke. Maybe—

Mando’s reply breaks your rapidly descending thoughts. “A friend’s.”

Skeptical, your brow twitches, lips pursed. “A friend’s? You have friends?”

He sighs, and the sound tickles your eardrum, heavy in all the right places but at entirely the wrong moment. “It was my son’s.”

“Oh.” You choke on the word. The blood in your veins goes cold. A son—a son—he has a fucking kid. Your chest tightens, an invisible hand pinching your heart. “I didn’t know you were a dad.”

“I’m not,” he says, and your frown deepens. “Not really anyway. Can you just focus?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You inhale to steady yourself, checking both ends of the street, before setting your face forward. “I’m gonna head into the cantina. If I die in there, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

Mando mumbles something that sounds suspiciously close to good luck, but you don’t quite catch it as the cantina’s atmosphere reaches out to lure you into its stuffy embrace. Reluctantly, you surrender, abandoning your safe corner for the noisy horde.

As you did in the congested market, you walk with a measure of confidence you do not truly feel. Your arms swing at your sides, feet moving of their own accord. Step after step, pointed, purposeful. You lift your chin, sliding your gaze to the right when someone whistles at your backside.

“Nice hips, baby! Shake ‘em for me when—”

Keep going—don’t look back—no one remembers what they do not see.

You walk on.

The interior of the cantina is dim, hazy with smoke and the dizzying smell of deodorizer. You skirt the slow roll of dancing bodies, the intoxicating rush of species pressed against species. The music grinds to a syrupy rhythm, and your blood runs in time with the beat. If you weren’t on the job, you think you might actually like it here. Might even find someone who could—

Focus. You need to focus.

You find an ancient-looking Weequay tending bar. He wipes the dirty counter with a dirty rag, ambivalent to the swirl of life around him.

“Have you seen this man?” You slide a transparent block of electronic plasteel across the bar. Etched into the facade, Setarr’s likeness rotates in a slow circle, his brow pulled in a deep scowl, mouth snarling.

The Weequay glares at you. “Who wants to know?”

You soften your face, batting your best doe eyes. “He’s my boyfriend,” you say. “He was supposed to pick me up at the hangar but didn’t show.” Before the bartender can ask another question, you push your breasts forward and nibble your lower lip. “I’d be grateful if you told me anything you might know. Really grateful.”

The Weequay sighs, folding his dirty rag over his arm. He cocks his head to the side, and you follow the movement with your eyes. A square hole in the wall serves as a back door, a tattered maroon cloth fluttering over the opening in response to a stiff breeze. Not much to go on, but you’ll take it.

You flash the Weequay a bright grin, going so far as to touch his elbow with the tips of your fingers. “Thanks.”

The smile falls from your face as you resume course.

Pushing the cloth aside, you exit the cantina as fast as you entered. You find yourself in a narrow corridor between the cantina and another nondescript building. Looking left you can make out the edge of the tram station across the street; looking right the corridor narrows, growing dark, pulsing with danger. An acrid smell wafts from that direction, so strong you have to physically swallow a cough and hold your fingers to the underside of your nose.

Kriff, you probably have to go that way, don’t you?

A man’s scream—sudden, razor-edged with terror—the sound splits the air. You stiffen, head whipping to the right fast enough you hear your muscles crack. Fuck. Now you really have to go that way.

You remove the blaster at your side and anchor the grip between both palms. Movements slow, you side-step your way down the corridor, ear tilted in the direction of the continued screaming. Your heart gallops in your chest, and a nerve beside your eye twitches. You’re on your own, advancing toward Maker-knows-what, senses assaulted by smell and sound alike. It’s enough to make anyone—hell, even someone as brave as Mando—tremble in their hunting boots.

His reassurance from earlier pops into mind: You’ll be fine.

You want to scoff. How the fuck would he know? You could turn the corner and find yourself pushed into the business-end of a meat grinder, ground to a pulp before he even has the chance to hear you scream. It’s hard not to laugh at the concept, but you suppose you’ll simply have to trust him when he says he has your back. You wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him, but if he needs this bounty as badly as you, you’ll hold onto the hope that he won’t abandon you if it means losing his payout.

Before you reach the end of the alley, you find a metal ladder stretching from the roof of the building next to you to the ground. You scramble up the ladder two rungs at a time, taking the opportunity to survey your surroundings. You roll to your stomach when you reach the top, careful not to allow your head to crest the small lip lest you be seen. Inching to the flat roof’s edge, you peer over the lip and into a small courtyard below.

You spot Setarr with ease. His bald head glistens with sweat in the afternoon sun, and the respirator stretched over his mouth hangs loose on one side where no ear can hold it in place. He stands beside a wooden table, beefy, tattooed arms crossed. He watches—still, silent, soulless—as a naked young man on the table withers, his skin contracting until it melts from the bone.

You duck your head, pinching the end of your nose. “Mando, I think I know what smells so bad.”

“What is it?”

“I found Setarr, and I don’t think he’s an arms dealer.”

Peeking over the rooftop once more, bile rises in your throat as a figure clad in dark rubber peels back the layers of the naked man’s flesh, revealing his organs to the sunlight. You gasp for breath, hands shaking, mind numb. The man on the table is dead now, of that there’s no doubt. You weren’t quick enough to save him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t find a way to stop Setarr from harvesting anyone else. Of course, your first true bounty and you get a fucking organ harvester. The universe loves to mock you, doesn’t it?

At least it’s a chance to harden your stomach.

“I can hear your teeth chattering.” Mando’s voice brings you back to the present, temporarily wiping the red haze of fury from your vision. “Just breathe, Scout. You’re not in any immediate danger.”

You still, forehead pinching in confusion. “Scout?”

“I don’t know—it just… You’ve got good eyes, nice eyes. You can locate things easily. Forget it. I’ll be there in less than a minute. Stay on the rooftop.”

“Wait—how do you know I’m on a roof?”

Another recollection: I’ve got your back. If something goes wrong, I’ll pull you out and finish the job myself.

You sit up with a scoff. He’d been following you the whole time. Shit. Is the warmth blooming through your chest anger or appreciation? You don’t know; you don’t have time to figure it out.

“Hey! Up there! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Grimacing, you look over your shoulder to see the hardened face of Adron Setarr staring up at you from his macabre operating room. He withdraws a blaster from the waistband of his pants, angling it upwards. You duck before he has the chance to solidify a good aim.

“Get back here!” he shouts—but you’re already halfway down the ladder.

You drop to the ground with a heavy thud, crouching in the dusty road. As soon as you stand, a thick hand wraps around your arm, turning you sharply. You find your dagger in the fold of your belt. You spin in the direction of your attacker, lifting the weapon and baring your teeth. You bring your arm down and—

“It’s me!” Mando catches your descending forearm with his other hand, and you’ve never been so relieved to see the shiny asshole. “Drop the dagger. It’s me.”

You relax your stiff muscles, lowering your arm. “Oh thank the Maker. I thought you were—”

“No time.” Though his hand remains tight around your upper arm, he steps around you, glancing toward the dark end of the alley. “Is he down there? Around the corner?” You nod. “Good. Stay here.”

With a guffaw, you wrench your arm from his grasp. “Absolutely not. Not when it’s just getting good.”

He shakes his head on a frustrated growl. “You are so stubborn. When I tell you—”

“No time. Save the lecture for later.” You shove his shoulder in the direction of the courtyard. “Go before he gets away. I’m behind you.”

He can’t argue with that. He knows you’re right.

Mando quick-steps for the corner of the alley, his approach like a loth cat on the prowl. You stick close behind, as much a leech on his person as ever. At the corner, he pauses, motioning for you to stop and press yourself to the wall in an imitation of his stance. When he sticks his helmet to the left, pushing himself into the open, blaster fire whizzes past his head and imbeds in the wall of the cantina. You swallow a gasp, catching Mando’s back with your palms when he dips backward, away from the continuing onslaught of blaster fire.

“He’s not going to go without a fight.” The words tumble from his mouth in a breathless rush. “I saw him and at least one other man, but there could be more.”

“I only saw one other when I was on the roof, but—” You pause, an idea forming as you speak. “I could go on the roof.”

Mando looks over his shoulder, and you can feel his confused frown dig into your forehead. “What?”

“I could go on the roof,” you say again. “You said I have good eyes. I’ll go up top, fire from there.”

The blaster fire stops, and a sing-song voice curls into the darkness of the corridor. “Come on out, girlie. I saw you watching me. You can’t have gone far. Come out here and let’s play. I’ll show you my toys… We can play doctor if you want to…”

Mando huffs. Planting a hand on your hip, he shoves you back, motioning for the ladder with the barrel of his blaster. You nod in understanding and break into a run before Setarr can round the corner. As you scale the ladder once more, Mando’s final directive settles in your ear:

“We bring him in warm.”

Crawling onto the roof, you find an unobstructed vantage point behind a sheet of tin you angle against the roof’s edge. You peek over the top of the metal shield, blaster aimed into the courtyard. The dead man is gone, a streak of his blood smeared over the wood table the only evidence he was ever there. The figure in dark rubber is gone, too.

A white sheet divides the courtyard in two sections. You roll to the left and run a quick scan over the portion of the yard once hidden. Righteous anger rips through your gut, and you click off the safety of your blaster.

Tilting your head, you press a finger to the earpiece. “Hostages. At least three. I think they’re next on Setarr’s slaughter list.”

“You get them. I’ll take Setarr.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue! Do it.”

With a short sigh, you return your focus to the courtyard below.

Two bodies decorate the ground, sliced down the center, entrails removed and skeletons hollow. Goners. No hope for them now. There might be a sliver of hope, however, for the three bound-and-gagged persons lined up against a rickety fence. One captive—a red-hued Twi’lek—appears to be sleeping, his chin lolled to his chest, but the two humanoids on either side stare at you with wide, frantic eyes. You press a finger to your lips, but before you can make a move, the sheet whips to the side, and the figure in rubber reappears.

“Shit.” You duck behind the edge of the roof.

On the other side of the partition, blaster fire resumes. Mando’s caught up to Setarr then. You need to act fast.

Fight or flight? Every muscle in your body, every safety precaution ingrained in you by your mother, urges you to run, but bounty hunters don’t run. They pursue. They fight. You cock your blaster into firing position, breathing deep to steady the anticipatory tremble of your trigger finger.

Time to fight.

Just as the figure in rubber leans down to lift the captive woman from the ground, you take aim and fire. The bolt strikes the meat of the man’s lower back. And while some might consider a blaster shot to the back a cheap shot, you'll gladly accept the label of coward if it means avoiding injury. Anyone who holds to the ethics of combat fools themselves. There are no rules when you fight for the chance to draw another breath.

The rubber man drops to his backside with a pained howl, the woman toppling to her shoulder next to him. She thrashes in her restraints as the man struggles to his knees, and you grit your teeth. Damn—either he’s stronger than he looks or you’re truly a bad shot.

Focused entirely on his violent mission, he withdraws a curved knife and slices the woman’s cheek as he cuts the cloth rendering her mute. Crimson blood trickles from the wound, spilling into her mouth as she screams. The smell of burnt flesh—the man’s gunshot—mingles with the scent of her oozing gash. Swinging one knee over her hips, the man straddles her waist, curling both hands around the hilt of his blade.

You falter. Where have you seen this before?

Jeelia—Jeelia, Jeelia…

You launch from the rooftop with a feral screech, an image of your dead, discarded sister plastered before your eyes. Perhaps it is pure emotion which blankets your fall, but you tuck and roll with ease, jumping to your feet as soon as you hit the ground. You reach for the bully’s neck and use your upright position to your advantage. He falls at the slightest tug, the gaping wound in his back rendering him sluggish. Before he can land on his back, you pummel the hilt of your blaster against his temple. A purple welt blossoms after each successive hit.

Through clenched teeth, you mutter, “Get—off—my—sister.”

Only your sister—Jeelia—is not here, and the woman you spared from death crawls away to untie her fellow captives without a second glance. You know it in your head: rage blinds you, making you dizzy with adrenaline and an unquenchable thirst for revenge. You strike the rubber man as though he was the one to brutalize your sister, force her head beneath the crystal lake behind your house and—

“Let go, Scout.” A strong arm circles your waist, lifting you from the limp body beneath you. “He’s dead.”

But you continue to struggle. “No! Let me at ‘im!” You jerk against Mando’s arm, throwing your body weight forward with as much power as you can muster, but he holds firm, hardly budging as you thrash in his hold. “I can get him. Fuck off, Metal Man! Let me go!”

Mando swings his opposite arm around your shoulders; your back arches in response, feet flying out to kick the air. “No. Control yourself.”

“Please!” Tears blur your vision in a sudden rush. The body on the ground swims before your eyes. “My sister… Mando, let me—”

He says your name—a soothing tickle of his tongue across the word—and the boil in your stomach lowers to a simmer. He pushes your shoulder with his fist, jostling your head back to hit his arm. “Stop it,” he says. “Get a hold of yourself.”

Spent at last, you go slack, and your blaster clatters to the ground. The toes of your boots skim the floor, your back to Mando’s chest. He breathes hard; the edges of his chest-plate dig into the exposed flesh of your shoulders. Lifting your hands, you blow a column of air through pursed lips.

“You can let go of me,” you say, voice returned to calm. “I’m okay.”

Mando releases you after a moment of hesitation, and you turn to face him, running a hand through your tangled hair. Setarr stands at his side, cuffed and bleeding from a wound on his forehead. He snarls at you, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth, but you don’t care. You’ve done your work here: the three captives disappeared as soon as they were able, and for that you’re glad.

But you shift under Mando’s intense stare. It’s as though he can see straight to the heart of you, to the places you are most wounded and raw. You want to hide from him and his all-seeing eye. You want some things, some small corners of yourself, to remain secret if only to put up a solid front; and you’ve revealed too much already through your unhinged outburst.

Lowering your face, you pull the earpiece from your ear and hand it back. “We’re done with this now, right?”

He accepts the device with an open palm. “Yes.”

You look up, gaze skittering to Setarr when you find you cannot face Mando for long. “Then let’s go.”

Mando nods and pushes Setarr’s shoulder in the direction of the alleyway, but the bounty won’t be moved without edging in for the last word. He throws a glance over his back as you walk behind him.

“Say, Mando, where did you find such a scrappy little bitch?” Setarr smirks. “I’d like to find one myself when I get out. Maybe take her on—”

Mando doesn’t have the chance to tell you to stop. You shove him aside with the heel of your palm, pull back your fist, and smash your knuckles into the column of Setarr’s nose. Bone cracks, blood flows, and the bounty squeals in pain, clutching his face.

Your glare jumps to Mando, who stands by with his hands on his hips. “Problem with that, boss?”

He shakes his head, and you swear you hear the fringes of a smile in his voice when he says, “None at all.”

It takes the both of you to wrestle Setarr into the carbonite chamber. Mando wasn’t wrong: the criminal refuses to go down without a fight. Arms tied to his sides, he resorts to using his teeth and tongue as a weapon, even as you forcibly hold him in the carbonite freezer while Mando sets about activating the machine.

“Get your bitch off of me, Mandalorian! I swear, I will rip her pieces if you don’t—”

You dig your elbow deeper in the chatterbox’s throat. “Can you hurry it up, old man?” You bite back a frustrated yell when Setarr presses his teeth into your skin. “This thing is biting me!”

“Hold on, godsdammit! This valve is not…” He trails off as he fiddles with the machine’s control panel.

A moment more and the chamber whirrs to life. Mando catches your waist, pulling you from the inside of the chamber as pressurized steam swirls around a shrieking Setarr. The steam swallows the bounty, wrapping him in a shroud of mist and chemicals. He convulses to the last, and within a minute, stands frozen in a giant grey block, his mouth suspended in a perpetual scream.

You release a breath you were unaware you held in the squeeze of your chest. “Damn…”

Mando’s hands tighten on either side of your waist. “Didn’t know he would be so mouthy. Most of Karga’s information was wrong.” He removes his hands and steps to the side, depressing a red button on the chamber’s frame. “Sorry… about what he said.”

As the block of carbonite swings out of the chamber, sliding on an overhead track to fall in line with the four other frozen sods in the cargo hold, you wave off the apology. “I don’t care what he says.”

He presses another button, and a cleansing cycle washes over the carbonite freezer. “Didn’t think so.”

He turns from the chamber.

There is so much you want to ask him: about his son, about what he heard you say in that ill-used courtyard, about his funny little nickname and where it came from and why he chose to use it now. You want to ask him if you did well, if he sees some shred of potential in you at last.

Instead, you just smile. The grin spreads across your face as the high of your success takes hold. Any misgivings, any regrets about your actions, melt when you twist your neck to catch a glimpse of Setarr, side by side with Kiminn. Your boys—you put them there. You, you, you.

“Fuck, that feels good.” You return your smile to Mando and his unreadable helm. “Does it always feel this good after?”

A weighty pause then: “Mostly.”

You swipe a few strands of hair from your face. He looks completely unruffled in his shining armor, and you’re sure you look the opposite. Your clothes stink with dried sweat. Your hair stands askew and untamed. You are wild, primeval and glistening.

I am Woman—woman, woman—I will not be contained.

A little breathlessly, punctuated with a small laugh, you say, “We should do it again sometime.”

He nods, a sole dip of his head.

It is unclear who moves first. Is it Mando with his single step forward, arm reaching for your waist? Is it you with your hurried stride, hands scrabbling for whatever tenderness you can find beneath his hard armor? Does it even matter?

He spins on his heel, crashing your back into the frame of the carbon chamber with a muffled grunt. His palms roam the curve of your waist, the incline of your breasts, and your heart stutters in your chest. You sling your leg over his hip, angling your head to expose the line of your throat.

“Oh gods,” you breathe. He presses the cool curve of his helm to your neck, igniting a shiver that runs the course of your spin. “Are we doing this? Is this–is this gonna be a regular thing?” Forcing your eyes open, you push his shoulder until he lifts his head. Somewhere beneath the black visor, his eyes catch yours. “Because after Kiminn and Hegora… I just want to know what I’m dealing with…”

“Do you…” He shifts forward to support your weight against the carbonite freezer. One palm rests above your head, the other steadies your hip. “Do you want this to be a regular thing?” If only he could feel the way your pussy flutters at the sound of his deep voice alone…

In lieu of a verbal response, you tuck your lip between your teeth, grip the curve of his pauldrons, and angle your hips upwards. You roll your mound over his half-hard cock, and when he inhales sharply, you grin.

He lifts the hand at your hip to tear the narrow strap of your tank over your shoulder. He palms your breast when the loose fabric drops from your chest. “Then yes. It will be a regular thing.”

You press your heels in the small of his back, pushing his cock that much closer to your heat. Dipping your head to the side, you whisper, “I still hate you.”

Mando stills. His visor finds your eyes, and he presses his fingers to the underside of your chin, pushing your head back until it drops to the freezer’s hard frame. “It’s cute you think I care.”

You gasp. Hot slick gushes from your center, and you moan, the sound torn from your throat before you can stop it.

“Put me down.” You buck against his hips and loosen your leg’s hold on his back. “There’s something I want to do.”

As soon as you feel his arms relax, you drop to the floor, forcing him to turn and lean against the carbonite chamber with a hard push to the arm. He complies—perhaps because he’s curious, perhaps because his cock tents his pants—but he goes willingly. His long body falls against the narrow frame of the freezer, and you fall to your knees on the steel floor. Pain ricochets through your bones, but you’ll massage the bruises later. This—gods, right now, all you care about is this.

Looking up, you run the palm of your hand over the bulge in Mando’s flight suit. Your nail teases the zipper hidden beneath a sliver of fabric. His body stiffens, and you pause, moving to massage your fingers against his straining length.

“Is this okay?” you ask. You flutter your eyelashes, brows pushed together in question. “Can I do this?”

He thinks for a long moment—you can feel the time tick by with the throb of your cunt—then he nods. “Yes.” The word is gravel, rough and taut with desire. It goes straight to your center like a flaming arrow.

Tearing at his zipper, you tug his cock free of its confinement. At once your mouth waters, and the throb of your cunt increases enough it pulses through your body like an earthquake. You make a noise—a little hmph—as you adjust your stance long enough to press two fingers to your center, still trapped beneath your pants. You dig the digits against your womanhood to momentarily dampen the ache in your core. The movement does not go unnoticed by Mando.

He moves his head to try and watch, reaching for your shoulder. “Shit, girl. Are you—”

You whack his arm away. “Shut up, and let me suck your dick how I want to.”

He falls back with a groan. “Could you go any slower?”

“Hmm.” With a smirk, you wrap your fingers around his hardening length and give an experimental pump. “Probably. Do you want to keep annoying me and find out?”

His silence is answer enough.

The two times Mando has fucked you, you were unable to see so much as an inch of the skin beneath his suit. Your nakedness stood in stark contrast to his complete covering, but now… Now you watch as you pump his shaft, and the golden hue of his cock stiffens in response. You hum in appreciation, stroking his cock in a lazy rhythm until he stands hard and dripping. You press a kiss to his tip, sucking the single bead of precum from his slit. It lands on your tongue like a salty pearl.

His thighs rattle against their tassets, and you know: he’s fighting the urge to ram his cock down your throat. Perhaps later…

Circling his head with your tongue, you slide his cock into your mouth. Its girth stretches your lips until they sting around the edges, but you continue, pushing forward until you feel him nudge the back of your throat. When you gag, he grunts, his hips giving a shallow thrust. You pull back, laving your tongue over the rigid vein on the underside of him.

You continue the routine—forward, gag, pull back with a gentle suck—until you feel him swell in your mouth. He’s close; you can tell by the short breaths forced through his modulator and the grip of his fingers on your shoulder. He’s close, but you’re not ready for him. Not yet. You release him, swallowing gulps of air as you find his balls tucked within the fold of his pants. Massaging them between your palm, you look up, breathing hard as you offer a smile. His helmet stares back, devoid of any inkling of emotion. But his chest heaves, and his shoulders tremble, and you feel powerful at the feet of such a hard, unyielding man.

Sure he is no longer on the edge of release, you return your tongue to his head, swirling the flat of your muscle around his tip. You moan as you go, allowing the saliva in your mouth to push past your lips and coat his cock. You return your hand to his shaft and resume the slow pump of moment’s before, your saliva a slick lubricant. You squeeze the base of him, and he bends forward on a sharp breath.

You catch his arm before he can fold over all the way. Your neck strains as you lean your head back to meet the black void of his visor. “I want you to say my name,” you murmur. “I want you to call me Scout when you cum.”

You slap your hand to the center of his chest plate, forcing him back against the carbon freezer as you return your mouth to his cock. Holding him there, you bob over his length at a new, furious pace. He invades your mouth, pushing and prodding the back of your throat, invading your senses with his taste, with his smell. You drop your opposite hand to his chest, lacing your fingers together as you use his body armor to stabilize the cant of your jaw. You suck and lick and slobber around his length until—

The fingers of his right hand thread through yours, and the palm of his left hand drops to the back of your head. He holds your entwined hands against his chest as he ruts into your mouth, each thrust nudging the back of your throat. Tears gather at your lash line, but you blink them away.

“Suck—my cock—so—fuckin’—good,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. You choke around him, and a line of spit dangles from your chin. “Take it. There you go.”

Just when you’re sure your eyes will roll into the back of your skull and your jaw will unhinge and your throat will catch around his cock, he swells one final time, releasing his load into the hollow of your throat. You startle in surprise, dropping your hands from his chest to hold his hips.

“Gods—fuck, Scout, that feels good.”

You moan around him, breathing through your nose until he pulls from you with a wet pop. You fall to your ass with a groan and swipe the back of your hand across your bruised mouth. Mando’s cock hangs against his pants, twitching, slick with your spit.

Fuck indeed.

You stare up at him, dazed. The crotch of your pants is sodden, soaked to the point you wonder if you came without touching yourself, without even realizing it. You wouldn’t mind.

Tucking himself back in his pants, Mando steps forward. He crouches long enough to lift you from the floor and throw you over his shoulder. He cracks his hand against your ass, and you scream, not in pain, but surprise.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you shout. You punch his back with your fist, but he will not be deterred. His grip only tightens. “Put me down!”

He just slaps your ass again, strides heavy with need but voice as changeless as ever. “We’re going upstairs,” he says. “I’m not done with you yet.”

NEXT CHAPTER

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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charnelhouse · 4 years

Text

Bound

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Wordcount: +1.5K Request: Mando using his binders on the reader with Mando's slight degradation & dirty talk. Warnings: Filthy rough sex. Dirty talk. Ass play.

It begins as a chase.

It begins as one you already know you won’t win.

Mando is fast - a spirit - a shadow of a beast who manages to outrun you despite his size. When he snatches you around the waist, there’s no caution or hesitancy. He does not hold back and your breath is punched out of your lungs when he smashes you into the ground.

You lurch beneath the heaving weight of his body. Your hands claw at the dirt, while he pins your hips in place. He rocks into your ass - his armor stealing your strength - your throat closing up as you struggle - and struggle - and keep struggling until he makes a soft grunt - a tch - and wrenches your hands behind your back.

“You’re fucked,” he grinds out.

You’re close to snapping at him - saying something cruel or ugly. But - you can just tell - can feel - how wound up he is - his frustration and excitement building into something atomic.

He cups you ungently between your legs - his breathing hoarse and hurried. He moves behind you and then you feel the harsh clap of his binders on your wrists.

“Thought you could get away from me,” Mando mumbles as he rips at your clothes. He’s tearing them to scraps - your hot skin brushed cold in the hull of his ship. Your cheek is shoved into his pillow - your wrists uncomfortably bound behind your back as you’re just fully on display.

It’s shameless. It’s raw with you on your knees and your leaking cunt spread out in front of his face.

He runs a leather-gloved finger through your folds - dipping it inside you before pulling it away. “You wanted me, didn’t you? Wanted me to take care of you - fill this aching, wet pussy.”

You jerk against him - biting your lip at the stretch and graze of the leather.

He slaps your ass and it knocks you forward. It’s loud in the quiet of the hull and he immediately soothes the sting - pressing a gentle palm to the knot of your lower spine. It is the imitation of a kiss.

“You’re a big girl, huh?” he growls as you hear the rustle of his clothes - the clank of Beskar. “You think you can act out and not get punished?”

You’re drooling at this point. You’ve chewed your lip to blood - the blunt taste of copper. He is a wall of ice and steel - the only warmth he provides is locked in his buttery, soft gloves and, of course, his perfect cock. He hitches himself against your ass - smearing the head across your pulsing, soaked sex.

He uses his knees to force your thighs apart. His fingers thread through your hair before he tugs - making you arch backward. Your muscles are screaming - strained to their limit and Mando keeps fucking pushing you until you’re on the edge of a break.

“Do you want my cock?” he snarls as he draws the thick length of it through your folds, catching the head on bundle of nerves. It’s the act of the fuck - the grind of him against your ass - the scratch of the curly, short hair on his groin. He presses himself into you - those gloved fingertips coming back to bite into the giving flesh of your waist - bruising.

“Tell me,” he barks with one quick, perfunctory slam of his hips.

“Fuck,” you pant. “Yes - shit - fuck me.”

You want to add before my arms snap off, but it might anger him or it could do the opposite and make him concerned and screw the whole thing and not in the way you want.

He pulls himself all the way back - the tip kissing your slit before he moves forward and spears you onto his cock.

It fucking hurts. It’s a stretch - a flare of heat as he splits you apart on the fat length of him. You bury your face into the thin pillow - nearly swallow your tongue as you tilt your hips up to accept him - to invite him - to allow him to hit that desperate part of you as deeply as he can.

“Hold still,” he bites out before taking both of your bound wrists in his hands to anchor you in place so that he can just fuck you and use you as he wants.

He yanks himself out before sinking back into you. He’s forceful as he treats you to brutish thrust after thrust into the weeping clutch of your sex. His talent - the way he circles his hips to make your walls convulse around him - deafens you - mutes you until you’re only capable of hurried, bumbling gibberish.

“Fucking dirty, perfect girl,” he rasps as he takes and consumes and angles himself until he’s hitting a spot so far down that it makes your belly go tight as you continue to drown his cock with how wet you are. Every violent plunge he delivers sends you further up the bed. You’re spasming - going to liquid - your core cramping until you just fucking cum.

It shocks you. You whimper out an oh before you literally soak him - his cock, his thighs, and the fucking bed. It’s all wet.

“Oh no,” you cry out - embarrassed. “Fuck.”

Even Mando seems surprised because he’s still rocking into you - sliding himself through all your cum so that you can hear it. “You...shit you liked that, baby. Yeah? Let me see it - I want to see.”

He eases himself out of you. He sits back - palm on your ass as he squeezes fistfuls to hold you open. You can hear him stroking himself - staring at where you can feel your hole fluttering on nothing - most likely dark and swollen from how hard he’d just fucked you.

“Filthy little thing,” he says - dripping with pride. “Your cunt looks so good like this - so needy.”

There is a very large piece of you that wants to sass him back - fight him on this. It’s in your blood - it’s just what you do and what you are and you can tell that he’s enjoying this way too much. You did not mean to fucking squirt all over him and elevate his ego to new heights.

But there is the other part of you - the larger part - that feels so submissive - so torn apart and frantic for him. You tilt your face to the side and just stay where you are - silently begging him to continue.

“Maybe I’ll leave you here - just keep you locked in these binders - tied to the bed - so that I can come back from a hunt and use that sweet pussy any time I want.”

You moan at that. Fuck.

Who knew you were this into being treated like an object?

It is just a game though - and maybe that’s why you love it. You know Mando doesn’t actually think of you like something to be used. He cares in a real way - an authentic way. If you told him right now that you wanted to stop - he would without question. He’d wrap you up in his arms and kiss your face until you were satisfied.

“Shit, pretty girl,” he grunts. “I-I want a taste.”

You can’t hear him lift his helmet, but you do feel the warm, damp sweep of his tongue through your folds. His fingers twist your clit as he tongue-fucks your sex like you’re a piece of fruit ripe with juice. The slick echo of him eating you lewdly from behind.

And then he presses a gloved finger into the hole above - nudging the whole damn thing into your ass while you clench around him. It’s so...obscene that your muscles spasm, upper body jolting forward as your arms cramp in his solid grip.

“Later,” he muses. “I’ll have to get you ready for that, sweet girl.”

Yes, you certainly will - that was not something he could just shove himself into.

He presses a kiss to one cheek. “Think you could take me there? You’re a big girl, right? I could train you to take it, make you so fucking stretched and open so I can just slip in.”

Maker. Stars. Fuck.

You are so wet that it’s absurd. You’re helpless - pinned down - with nothing to stabilize you. You can hear how fucking amused he is - his words lazy and slow as he just inspects you like he’s figuring out a broken droid. Touching and testing in places that are nothing, but straight nerves - bare and screaming for him.

He drags you upright - carefully moving his head through the circle of your bound arms so you can hang off of him. Your back is firm against his cuirass - his cock moving through the cleft of your ass. It’s slick and curved and probably red from the way he’s been pounding into you.

His helmet is smooth as he rubs it against your cheek. You can hear how rapidly he’s breathing. You can feel his hands trembling as he chases his hand lower so he can roll your clit between his fingers.

“I’m fucking you like this all night,” he husks. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

It’s a quick question and, despite all his smugness at wrecking you, it bleeds Mando and his genuine desire to make sure you’re perfectly okay before making you cum until you cry.

He’s shifting his hips - sliding his cock inside you slow and steady. He makes room for himself - spreading you open until he’s planted to the hilt.

“It’s never too much, Mando,” you whisper as his hands tighten on your waist. “It’s never enough.” **

Part Two

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandolorian season 2 #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfiction #din djarin #reader insert #din djarin x female oc

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yellow-faerie · 2 years

Note

Idk if you're still taking those writing prompts, but if you are, #40 with young Earendil & Elwing (fluffy)? <3

So long as the prompt list is pinned, I'm always taking prompts! And this is a really sweet one, how could I not write it?

From this prompt list.

40 - "Its raining! Come on [name], let's go play!"

Eärendil is a free spirit, his mother always tells him. It's easy enough to see, for Eärendil has always been easy with smiles, even after Gondolin fell and his Uncle had-

Eärendil likes to look on the positive side of things. It's a trait he inherited from both his parents and in such an adverse world as this, he thinks it's quite useful actually.

For example, he could be sad right now that his home was gone and his grandfather and almost all his friends were with Mandos now, but he prefers to think about how if this hadn't happened, Eärendil would never have met Elwing.

And Elwing, in Eärendil's opinion, is worth it.

Elwing has lost her home and her friends and her family too, and Elwing is very melancholy.

She's sad and Eärendil has made it his personal mission to cheer her up: after all, if she is the one being sad for the both of them then he must be the one to be happy for them.

The day is grey and their tutors have kept them inside since they woke up, working on their maths. Elwing has been staring out the window wistfully and Eärendil can feel the oncoming storm against his skin and can't sit still.

Evranin gave up on them learning anything sometime around lunchtime, and now she sits by the fire with her knitting.

Eärendil is sitting next to Elwing in the window seat, pretending to read his book. Really, he just wanted to be near his friend and he knows her well enough to be sure she wouldn't want to play with his wooden boats.

And then the first raindrops hit the window.

Eärendil has always liked the rain. There's something electric about heavy water falling from the sky and landing against his skin and it's utterly thrilling.

"It's raining!" He exclaims, scrambling up to his knees to press his face against the glass. The sea outside is a churning mass of grey and blue and a lightning bolt threads the sky somewhere far out towards the horizon.

He jumps up at the following thunder and turns, bright-eyed, to Elwing. She blinks, a little taken aback by his excitement, before her face breaks out into a tentative smile.

"Come on, Elwing, let's go play!"

She nods, the smile growing stronger and surer, and lets Eärendil take her wrist to drag her out of the room and down the spiral staircase.

They pass Meleth, on her way up with a pot of something warm and delicious, and Eärendil only pauses long enough to apologise for nearly overbalancing her. They skid through corridors, past servants and courtiers and everyone in between and have nearly made it to freedom before strong arms swing down and pick him up.

"Oh no you don't," his father says, throwing him over his shoulder.

Eärendil shrieks. "Da! This is so unfair!"

"Mhm? It won't be unfair when you both catch a cold."

"Dressed like this, you absolutely will. And you shouldn't go near the rough sea without an adult, you both know that." Tuor puts him back down on his feet next to Elwing and smiles. "How about we get you both coats and hats and boots and then we can go out?"

"But Da!" Eärendil complains but it's mostly for show as he lets himself be bundled up into the waterproofed fabric and have his feet shoved into the welly boots.

He and Elwing make quite the pair, both dressed in bright yellow, but his father doesn't look like he'll agree to let them take any of this stuff off.

"Now, Elwing - you take my right hand - and Eärendil - you take my left. There, now we're all set."

Elwing opens the door and it bangs open with the wind. A maid walking past exclaims as the pile of clothes she's carrying threatens to turn over.

"Sorry!" Tuor calls over his shoulder but Eärendil doesn't let him hang around in that hallway. He's sure the maid will be fine and he wants to see the sea before they're inevitably told it'll be too dangerous.

He shares a look with Elwing as the wind tears at their clothes and she is grinning.

She must feel it too, Eärendil decides, the electricity before the storm. It's nice to have someone to share that with.

#This was very fun to write!#fluffy little Elwing and Eärendil my beloved #plus Tuor being the excellent father he is #Eärendil #Elwing #Tuor #Meleth #Evranin #Silmarillion #Tolkien #Fanfiction #Fae's Fic #Fae's Stuff #Prompt #Prompt List 3 #Ask #lyndeth-halfelven

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lordabovehelpme · 4 years

Text

Injured- Din Djarin x Reader

Request: Well, everyone sees Din as Grogu's father and they even tell him, but one day Reader tells him that too and Din says "Yes, he has a father but he doesn't have a mother... yet" and looks directly at Reader 👀*heart eyes, motherf* - @along-the-lines-of-space

A/n: Hon! This is such a cute idea!!! I kinda went a different direction with it, but if you want me to do it again, totally tell me! Love ya!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can hear the hatch open, signifying the mandalorians return. Climbing down the ladder you watch as he drags the quarry to the carbonite freezer. But he moves slower than usual, almost as if he is stuck in his own world.

As soon as the quarry is frozen the mandalorian collapses onto the ground. The harsh clank of metal on unforgiving metal ringing through the hull. He groans and shifts to lay on his side. Gasping you rush to his side. “Mando?”

You pull his head onto your lap and look down into his visor. He grumbles and nuzzles into your thighs.

“Mando, what happened?” You gasp again when you notice a growing pool of blood below his knee. “What happened?” This time you say it louder, needing to hear his answer.

“Quarry… explosive… didn’t notice.” He turns his helmet further into your thighs and his breaths starts to even out.

“No no no, come on. Stay with me.” But, your pleads mean nothing to him. If it weren't for the fact that he is bleeding out, you would laugh at how funny his snores sound in the vocoder. Cursing, your mind starts to work out a plan. You take his head in your hands and wiggle from beneath him. Placing your elbows under his armpits you struggle to pull him over to the bunk.

Rushing to the fresher, you grab a bowl of water and a couple washcloths. You had already gave up on lifting the beast of a man up onto the bunk, so you’ve grabbed blankets and pillows and placed them around him.

Making sure he is still asleep, you start to take his leg armor off. Cringing, you realize that there is no way to treat his wound with his pants on. You sigh, “Forgive me, but you’ll die if I don’t.” Slowly you unbuckle his belt and undo his pants. Heat rises to your cheeks and you bite your lip, giving one last look at the mandalorians visor, you pull his pants down.

You curse at the length of his wound, it travels down from the middle of his thigh to below his knee. “Okay, prepared to be healed.” Dunking the washcloth in the bowl, you start to clean the wound as best as you can. You’re gentle yet firm as you scrub away the already dried blood.

As soon as you’re content with your cleaning job, you grab some bandages and start to wrap his leg. It’s now that you fully realize how exposed your mandalorian is. His pants pulled down to his ankles and his beautiful tan skin exposed for your gaze.

You would think he would be smaller without the bulky armor, but it’s almost as if he has become larger. The air no longer flows in and out of your lungs, it suffocates you with his natural spicy scent.

He groans and you shrink, afraid for when he wakes up. Thankfully, he stays asleep. Sighing, you shake your head and try to run from your improper thoughts. Grabbing a bacta shot, you tap the end, getting rid of air bubbles, and inject the medicine into his meaty thigh.

Taking his pants off all together you fold them and toss them into a corner. You grab another blanket and drape it across his form, giving him some much needed dignity. Trying to make him even more comfortable, you take the rest of his armor off, leaving him in his underclothes and helmet.

You tuck the blanket around him and make sure his head is supported by the pillow. However, when you go to walk away your heart tugs at you. You get a nasty feeling that as soon as you leave, he’ll wake up in a worse state. Weighing your options you eventually lay down next to him.

His soft snores are faint but they soothe your anxiety of him being dead. Slowly, you shimmy towards him. It’s cold in the ship and you can feel the goosebumps forming on your skin. Biting your lip, you lift the blanket and snuggle up against his side, mindful of his leg.

He should be okay for now; or you hope so. The warmth radiating off of his body is starting to make you sleepy. You look up at his chin, admiring the hair that has started to grow underneath his chin, obviously it's been a few days since he’s shaved. Snapping back down to look at his covered chest, you curse at yourself so being so plain with your ogling.

You close your eyes and nuzzle into his chest, succumbing to your slumber.

***

Thrashing limbs and groans wake you up. “Cyare.”

“Hey hey hey.” Your eyes beg to stay closed but you stay awake and sit up. His hands grab at you. “It’s okay, don’t move, you’ll exhaust yourself.”

“Cyare…” His head leans back down on the pillow.

“Hey big boy.” You rub small circles on the back of his hands. “Stay here, I am going to go get some water.” He grumbles something, but you’re already up and walking over to the kitchen area. Filling the bowl back up, you also grab a glass for him.

Sitting back down near him you peel the blanket back. In a panic, the mandalorian reaches down to cover himself.

“Sorry, I had to take your pants off to get to it.” He doesn’t say anything. “Alright… I um got you some water. Let me just rewrap this and then I’ll leave you.” He still stays silent. You frown as you realize that the bandages are already bloody again; must have been from him moving. “Mando, I’m gonna need you to not wake up in tizzy fits anymore, you’re just opening the wound back up.”

You unwrap the bloody bandages and wet a washcloth, then begin to clean it again. He hisses when you press it to his body.

“Sorry… sorry.”

“It’s okay.” One of those warm palms grabs your hip and rubs your skin.

“Okay, this is going to hurt, but you’ll feel much better in about ten minutes.” You grin as you hold up a bacta shot. As you poke it into his thigh, the hand squeezes your hip. “All done, now it’s time to wrap it up, okay?” The hand gives you a couple squeezes.

After you finish wrapping the wound, you pull the blanket back over his form and go to get up. “Cyare, stay.”

You cup his helmet. “I can’t, you need to drink some water.”

“Turn around.”

Giving him an apprehensive look, you follow his command and turn around. One hand stays tracing circles on your hip, while you can hear the other shuffle around. The glass clinks as he sets it back down and the hand on your hip tugs you back towards him.

“You can look now cyare.” You turn back around. “Come here, m’ tired.” He lifts the blanket and his arm, creating a perfect space for your body. Succumbing to his offer, you snuggle up into side. His arm settles down around your shoulders and his fingertips graze across your skin.

***

It’s become routine for the two of you. Every couple hours you’ll unwrap and redress his wound. Then you give him a bacta shot and within ten minutes the stoic mandalorian no longer has a filter. This time being no different. However, he was complaining about the pain so you gave him the shot before dressing the wound again.

“Cyare.”

“Mhm?”

“Am I going to die? I feel like I am going to die.”

Biting back your laughter, you play along. “You can’t die on me, you have a son to take care of. What would he do without his father?”

“Yes, he has a father, but no mother...yet.” His visor tilts to look at you, his voice lower than usual.

Raising your eyebrows, you continue to wrap his wound, “Mm, is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“Well where are you going to find this special lady?”

His hand reaches up and cups your face. “She’s right here. And she’s quite pretty too.”

Your eyes snap to meet his visor. No, that can’t be right, it’s the bacta that's talking. “Alright, hot shot.”

Under his helmet he frowns. “No cyare, I’m serious.” His hand drops from your face to grab at your hand. “Wanna have children with you. Want you to be the mother of my kids. Wanna wake up and be able to kiss you.”

Your mouth is opening and closing, you probably look like a fish out of water, but you don’t care about that right now. You can’t even start to gather your thoughts, they’re moving too fast for you to even process them.

After a few minutes of you just staring you finally start to form words. But his soft snores are the only thing he offers.

***

The spot next to you is cold when you wake up. Panic rips through your body as you shoot up and search for the mandalorian.

A deep chuckle sounds from behind you, “I’m right here cyare.” You turn around and spot him sitting on a chair, thighs spread wide as he keeps his injured leg straight. He has a pair old black shorts on, that are way too short for your mind to comprehend.

“Why… when did you get up?” Your rub at your eyes, trying to shake away your sleep.

“I felt better, and I was hungry. Did you sleep good?”

“Ummm… yeah.” Suddenly all of what he said earlier comes back to you, making heat flow to your cheeks.

Almost as if he understands what you were saying, he leans over and sets his elbows on his knees. “Listen, cyare… I’m sorry for what I said-”

“Did you mean it?” You interpret him before you can stop yourself. Cringing at your abruptness you peer down at the blanket and start to play with the edge.

“What?” He genuinely sounds confused.

“Did, did you mean it? Um, what you said?” The thread that you have been picking at has become even more interesting.

“Cyare, look at me.” He reaches out and his index finger lifts your chin. You let him and finally meet his visor, fighting back the part in you that begs for you to run away. “I am sorry for being so blunt, but I did.”

You nod, not totally processing what he said yet. “Oh.” His hand brushes away the stray hair that fell in your face. Then it finally hits you, “Oh!” Shuffling closer to him, he brushes your hair. “Well you know… I wouldn’t be opposed to that.” You grin up at him and he chuckles.

Standing up you wrap your arms around his neck and hug him. He pulls you close, slotting his helmet into the space between your shoulder and neck.

“But let’s take it slow, okay?”

“Of course cyare.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you liked it! As always, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment!

Love, Lordy :)

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#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando #mando x reader #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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