#mandalorian vambraces | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pedrito-friskito · 2 years

Note

hey kay bb!! hope you're doing well 💖

mando has been on the brain lately so i'm requesting fluffy smut with him pls 🥺😫 (the yearning is *extra* today)

niiiiiiiiik my darling my dear hope you are also well 💗

ok…this got away from me. I blinked and suddenly a plot! exposition! SMUT! (multiple scenes at that) all the things. I’m a slut for Din Djarin and it really jumped out on this one.

(smut below the cut, a full plot, the helmet comes off, a bit of inexperienced!din, reader is kind of a bad ass, descriptions of bodies, unprotected p-in-v sex - wrap ur shit even if ur in space ok)

sleepover saturday

uncharted territory

(word count 9.1k - it REALLY got away from me okay)

gif by @aceofwhump

Then you are a Mandalorian no more.

Din Djarin aches in a way he has never felt before, much more powerful than any injury he could ever sustain. His Creed, demolished. His son, gone. His life, upended. As he staggers out of the Covert, trying to think of where to go next, he cannot shake the feeling of lost that settles around his shoulders like a cloak.

Maybe coming to Glavis was a mistake; maybe he should have stayed back on Nevarro, kept taking jobs from Karga until he finally had enough credits to take the old man’s advice, get himself a camtono full of spice and disappear into the Twi’lek healing baths until he forgot the whole thing.

The truth of it? He knew he could never forget. There wasn’t enough spice in the galaxy to help him forget it all. It wasn’t possible. And the larger part was that Din didn’t want to forget.

His leg aches as he walks. The bacta Paz had sprayed him down with had helped some, but the ache runs deep, and the drills the Armourer had forced him to run with the Darksaber had only made matters worse. He should find a place to lie down, to hide for the night before he decides what he plans to do next, where he plans to go.

Where will he go?

You are a Mandalorian no more.

The echo of the words make his head split, and for a moment, he has half a mind to wrench the helmet off, to launch it off the ring, let space swallow the beskar whole. But he stops himself; it feels as though his armour is all he has left.

His armour, and the Darksaber. The right to the throne of Mandalore.

Maker, he can’t think straight. The ache only worsens, his limp more prominent, and it gets to the point where he can take no more. He falls onto the nearest crate, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. His body feels twice as heavy, his head even more so, and he tips it back against the wall to lighten the load. He’ll rest just a moment, he’ll just shut his eyes for one—

“Mando?”

Din pulls his blaster from his holster as his eyes shoot open. There’s the sound of shuffled steps, something metallic hitting the floor, a murmured dank farrik! He hits a button on his vambrace, turns off the thermal setting on his visor.

“Sweets?”

You look exactly the same as he remembers. It’s been ages, but he could never forget your face. He knows what’s underneath your clothes, too, and the memory speeds to the surface of his mind faster than a pod-racer.

Before he had an in with Peli on Tatooine, the Razor Crest routinely parked and tuned up in Hangar 3-5, he had you. You were well-known within the Guild, had more than a few contracts with different gangs and hunters in the galaxy. If something on a ship broke, you were the one to fix it, and you had enough heavily-armed thugs on your side to make anyone think twice about trying to mess with you.

Some called you the Mechanic, simple and descriptive. Others, those you let a little closer, knew you as Sweets, a moniker earned by your penchant for candies and treats. You’d let your favoured clients off easy if they were short a few credits, but had something sweet from the far reaches of the galaxy to offer in lieu of the missing cash.

Din knew he was one of your favoured clients, perhaps your favourite. Or, had been. You’d crowed endlessly about the Crest, desperate to get your hands on it any time he hauled it in for service, whether it actually needed it or not. Sometimes he genuinely needed something fixed, some times he’d found some candy or sweet in a far off corner of the galaxy that he’d brought back just for you.

Other times, he just wanted to see you.

You were sweet in other ways, too. He knew first-hand. And he knew he was the only client you let into your bed. He’d been drawn to you the first time you’d been introduced — a common contact between you and Din sent him your way when the Crest was in serious need of a tune-up, and you were the closest mechanic he could get to without doing more damage to the ship.

Your knowledge astounded him, to start. You were barely into a diagnostic and you knew exactly what needed to be fixed, what parts you had and didn’t, how many credits it was going to cost him. And you hadn’t even set foot on the ship yet. Your competency drove him wild, only spurred on when he brought you aboard the Crest to give the interior a once-over, eager to see if he’d kept everything original, or if you had any modifications to offer that he might be interested in. Din followed you around the ship silently, answering whatever questions you had, mostly just watching you work. It was intriguing beyond belief.

“That’s not much of a bed,” you’d commented, cocking your head to the side when you hit the button that opened the bunk. “When’s the last time you had a new mattress?”

He just shrugged.

“One thing you should know,” you said over your shoulder, descending the Crest’s ramp, heading back towards the entrance to your shop. “I don’t use droids.”

Din nearly fell over. “That’s not a problem.”

“Good,” you replied, tapping at your data pad, your brow scrunching. “It’ll take longer than your usual hangar; I do everything myself.”

“I’m happy to wait,” he said, dipping his helmet, thankful it was hiding the way he was raking his eyes over you. I don’t use droids. Had someone made you in a lab somewhere, on some backwater planet, just for him? “I know she’s in good hands.”

The grin you’d offered him was sweeter than anything he’d ever seen, and you shooed him out a moment later, muttering something about getting back to work.

When he returned three days later to retrieve his ship, he almost didn’t recognize it. You’d repainted most of the outside panels, replaced all the ones that were missing, and the engines were so shiny Din could see his helmet reflected in them. Inside the Crest was another story; you’d outfitted him with a carbonite cell system, top of the line and primed for use. That meant no more mouthy bounties, no more wasting durasteel cuffs and gags when he could just hit a button and have a quiet ride back to the Guild.

And in the bunk, a new mattress, complete with a pillow, and bolted on the wall, a mount for his helmet.

“You don’t sleep with that thing on, do you?”

“The carbonite system,” he nearly sputtered, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t have the credits, I didn’t—”

You poked the toe of his boot with your own. “Call it a gift, Mando. Let’s just say I shouldn’t have had the thing hanging around to begin with.”

“Is that gonna cause me any problems?”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the p. “Wiped all the identification numbers from the system. No one will know where it came from. Except you.”

He stared at you a long moment. “Except me.”

He was sure to pay you in full, plus the candied flowers he’d found at one of the vendors in the markets. You’d smiled again at that, and while Din committed the sight to memory, he also promised himself that he wouldn’t let it be long before he saw your smile again.

And he kept that promise. The next time he landed the Crest in your hangar, it wasn’t because he needed a tune-up or new parts. He’d struck gold at a black market on Coruscant; his bounty had lead him into the belly of a sweet shop, and after the Gungan had been dealt with, Din did some hunting of his own. He took as many boxes as he could carry, trying to take one of each flavour, a few extra of the ones he’d seen on the shelf in your shop.

“What in Maker’s name are you doing here?” you’d called as soon as he landed, stepping out of the shop and into the hangar, your hands on your hips, cocked to one side. “You ruin my handiwork that fast?”

“Not exactly,” he’d replied, walking down the ramp, his arms laden with goodies. Your eyes had gone huge. “I come bearing gifts.”

“For me?” you cried, gasping as you took the boxes from him, tongue poking between your teeth. “Mandalorian, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

He’d never been so grateful for his helmet at that exact moment. He might have crumbled to dust if you’d seen how red his cheeks were. “I-I owed you,” he stuttered out, “for the carbonite.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” you quipped, swaying from side to side on your feet, staring down at your treats. “I told you, it was a gift.” You gave him one of those smiles again, and Din felt his stomach twist at the glitter in your eyes. “Why don’t you stay a while? I’ll feed you and everything.”

You disappeared into the shop, and Din paused a moment before following.

He saw you disappear behind a dark curtain that had definitely seen better days, and Din followed your further to discover there was an apartment of sorts attached to the shop. Apartment was perhaps too kind a word; it was one large room, a kitchen to one side, a large futon spread in the middle. Trunks and boxes and crates stacked along the far wall, a few grease-stained jumpsuits littering the floor. You stumbled over your feet trying to pick them up, tossing the offending fabric into a nearby crate, before you turned back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

You served him first. Noodles with dark sauce and some kind of shredded meat you thought was bantha but weren’t quite sure. But, as you stated with a shrug, “it’s good, and it hasn’t killed me yet.” After you slid the bowl across the table to him, you turned back to the stove and stayed that way. After a moment, Din wasn’t sure what to do, but then your head turned slightly, your eyes trained directly to the left, not wandering towards him over your shoulder. “I won’t look. Swear.”

He lifted the helmet just enough to shovel the food into his mouth. You were right, the mystery meat was good, and the sauce you’d made to go with it was even better. He nearly inhaled the food, not wanting to keep you too long, and when the helmet slid back down, the mechanism hissing back into place, your head turned again, still not looking at him.

“You’re safe,” he said, sliding his empty bowl back across the table.

You turned fully, serving yourself, and he expected you to sit across from him, keeping a bit of distance between you, but instead, you rounded the table and plunked yourself down on the stool right beside him. You ate much slower than he had, and Din let his eyes graze over you. The streak of engine grease on your cheek, the scar that split your lower lip, the intricately messy way you wore your hair. A silver chain sat around your throat, strung with a tiny silver ring. It disappeared down the front of your shirt most of the time, but right then it sat awkwardly, the chain caught on your collar, the ring sitting in the hollow of your throat. He resisted the urge to reach out and fix it.

The jumpsuit you wore was nearly identical to the ones you’d hurriedly swiped off the floor. Torn on one knee, zipper unfurling beneath your chest, a symbol he didn’t recognize patched onto your thigh. You’d tied the sleeves around your waist like a belt, a dirty rag tucked in at your hip. The Mechanic, herself. Sweets.

He thought you were beautiful. He had a feeling you’d look beautiful in anything.

Or nothing.

Din was distracted by your thumb at your lips, swiping a drop of sauce from your chin and sucking your finger into your mouth. His flight-suit was tight beneath his beskar to begin with, and you weren’t helping matters. “So,” you said simply, reaching for your food again. “Tell me a story, Mando. A good one. Best bounty you ever caught.”

The conversation filtered between you two easily. You were a good listener, easy to talk to, and Din felt like he couldn’t stop talking to you, telling you about his first kill, his first bounty. His first ship, before the Crest. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you about the before, before the Guild, before he was just the Mandalorian, when he was just Din Djarin. A foundling. Part of him wondered what you think, what your reaction might be to his past, but a larger part forced his mouth shut.

At some point, he turned himself towards you on his stool, one arm braced on the table, the other resting on his thigh. After you finished your food, you leaned heavily on the table, your head pushed into your palm, legs crossed at your ankles, swinging slowly, the toe of your boot tapping his shin every once in a while.

He could see you were tired, the way you started covering your yawns and rubbing at your eyes. “I should go,” he said, starting to get to his feet. “You’re tired, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Your hand flashed out quick — not quick enough to startle him, though — and wrapped around his wrist. You’d managed to wedge your fingers right into the space where his glove met his vambrace, and he felt you against his pulse, against his bare skin. “You don’t have to leave, Mando.”

Din. He wanted to tell you. My name is Din.

Slowly, his own hand reached out, hovering in the air, shaking more than a vibroblade. He saw your eyes trace its path, watching until it lowered, dropped until the flat of his palm met the curve of your thigh. His gloved fingers wrapped around the meat of your leg, his thumb pressing towards the inside.

He heard you gasp.

He moved forward an inch, and his hand moved higher, thumb riding the seam of your jumpsuit. You hummed, fingered squeezing around his wrist, and Din moved closer, until he had one leg between yours. He let his hand wander higher, listening carefully to the changes in your breathing, the hitch in your throat. The heat between your legs was almost stifling, and something feral in the back of his brain screamed for more.

Whatever snapped in him, it seemed to break in you at exactly the same time. You both shot to your feet together, and Din’s hands moved to your waist, to where your sleeves were knotted at your waist. Yours roamed his chest plate, fingers tapping along beskar until you hooked them in his cloak. He halted his own hands, ready to help you remove the fabric, but you handled it just fine on your own, finding the hidden snaps with ease.

His blood turned to flame when he felt your fingers along his throat, seeking his pulse in another spot. “You should stay,” you breathed out, your voice barely above a murmur. “Please, Mando, I want you to stay.”

He forced himself to nod, his mind now preoccupied with ripping his gloves from his hands. He needed to feel you, no barriers in between.

He needed to see you, something in him screamed, no barriers in between.

He silenced that voice before it could spur him further. Busied himself with diving his hand beneath the waist of the jumpsuit, the broken zipper catching on his wrist. You were even hotter beneath, and he sucked down a breath when he found you wet, slick coating his fingers.

Your body leaned into him, chasing his touches, and he hooked his other hand around your thigh, lifting you up and backwards onto the table. He could feel you watching, your eyes moving from his helmet down his front, to where his hand was jammed beneath the jumpsuit. He crooked one finger, testing, pressing it into you, and grinned beneath his helmet when you moaned.

Din hooked his arm under your waist, lifting you just enough that he could maneuver the jumpsuit over your hips, down your legs. His cock jolted between his legs at the sight of you bare, leaned back on the table, your chest heaving. Even though the visor, he could see how slick you were, the evidence shining on the insides of your thighs.

He wanted to taste you.

He pushed the thought away again. Another time, when he wasn’t smearing the inside of his flight-suit with precum, when you weren’t keening into his touch as he dragged his fingers against the sensitive skin between your legs, when he could turn the lights off and shed his armour, bare himself to you the same way.

You moaned again when his fingers found your clit, drawing a sloppy circle that had your muscles tensing against his hand, knees closing against his hips. “F-fuck, Mando,” you ground out, tipping your head back on your shoulders. “You’re good with those hands.” Another stuttered breath as he twisted his wrist, curling two fingers just inside your entrance, thumb stretching up to swipe over your clit. “Really good.”

He was grinning beneath the helmet again, eyes glued to your face as he pressed further, fingers threading deeper into you. He could feel everything, the twitch of your thighs, the clench of your cunt. You reached out with one hand, using the other to balance yourself, and closed it around his elbow, your fingers digging into the thick fabric so hard he was shocked your nails didn’t bite right through.

“How do you like it, Sweets?” he asked, leaning forward until he was nearly hovering over you. Your hand moved from his elbow to chest, fingers hooked in his armour. “Tell me what you need.”

Your hand moved again, this time moving straight down his front, past his waist, right between his legs. His cock throbbed as you palmed him, a cat-like grin on your lips as you tilted your head level with the visor. You leaned up slightly, pressed your lips to the beskar edge that mirrored his jaw. Another squeeze, and the slow pace of his fingers faltered, his head nearly smacking into yours. “I need this.”

Din couldn’t hold back anymore. Something in the way you stared up at him, eyes tracing over the helmet, told him you didn’t want him to.

“I like it rough.”

It all happened in one fluid motion. He pulled you closer, right off the edge of the table, and you spun in his grip, leaning forward over the table, planting your hands flat. The jumpsuit slid further towards your ankles and you arched your back, your ass grinding against his hardness, and Din groaned audibly, tilting his head towards the ceiling. Your legs spread as much as the jumpsuit would allow, and Din worked his own zipper down, freeing himself from the flight-suit. You made the most delicious noise as the tip of his cock smacked against your ass, the tip dripping with precum.

Your head turned as he took himself in hand, tapping your ass with his cock again. “Maker,” you breathed out, your eyes widening. “I knew you’d be big.”

Beneath the helmet, Din turned crimson.

He planted his other hand between your shoulders, tipping you forward. You went willingly, eyes rolling back as he pushed his hips against your ass. He could see how wet you were as you bent, slick still dripping down your thighs.

There was nothing stopping him from dropping to his knees right then and there, lifting the helmet just enough to drag his tongue through your cunt. The thought alone made his cock pulse.

But then your hand reached back, twisting in the fabric covering his hip, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He bent his knees slightly, notching himself at your entrance, and pushed inside.

The noise you let out was nearly enough to make him cum right then and there. He knew he wasn’t gonna last, and judging by the sounds you continued to make and the way you were bearing down on him, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, he didn’t think you were either. He set a fast pace, the space filling with the slick sound of him driving in and out of you, your moans echoing each move. Din’s gaze dropped, trained on the sight of his cock disappearing to you. Your hand flapped at his hip, scrabbling for purchase, and he wrapped his fingers around your forearm, groaning when you did the same.

He was right; you didn’t last long, and neither did he. Your entire body clenched as you came, one hand slamming against the table, nails digging deep into his wrist. It spurred his own orgasm, that coil at the base of his spine snapping, and he pulled out, cumming hard across the curve of your ass.

Silence settled over the both of you as you caught your breath. Din couldn’t help himself, rubbing his bare fingers over the expanse of your back, tracing over your spine. You arched a bit into his touch, making a satisfied noise before you lifted yourself off the table. You turned to him, leaned up to press a hot kiss to his bare throat. It made him shiver.

“Think we could do that again?” you murmured, lifting a finger and dragging it along the edge of his helmet. “Maybe you take all the metal off.”

Din cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched, already wanting a second round. “Helmet stays on.”

You stared at him a long moment, smile on your lips. “Helmet stays on.”

He kept close to you after that night. He rarely took bounties that took him to further reaches of the galaxy, loathe to admit that he was always within a few parsecs of your hangar. He brought you a long-distance commlink so he could tell you when he was coming back, so you could contact him if you ever needed him. He didn’t worry about you, per se; you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and he knew for a fact you knew how to shoot the blaster you kept holstered on your thigh when he wasn’t around.

But then the comm went quiet. He called, you didn’t answer. A lead weight formed in his stomach, and he pushed the Crest’s engines are fast as they’d go. Carefully, though — he wouldn’t dare ruin any of your handiwork.

When he landed in the hangar, the lights were all off. It didn’t help his worry, and it only grew worse as he sprinted off the Crest, heading straight for the shop door.

It was locked, but the lock was no match for his vibroblade and a bit of brute force. Inside, the space was empty. no trace of you left inside. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood smeared on the floor or the wall, but it didn’t ease his mind any. What if someone had come for you, spirited you away in the dead of night to some backwater planet? Dank farrik, what if someone had put out a bounty on you? His mind reeled, raced, chewed him up and spit him out.

He never meant to get so attached to you.

Din switched the settings on his visor, finally determining that all the footprints he could make out on the floor were your own. Then he saw it, sitting on the edge of one of the shelves in the kitchen. The commlink, perched precariously, just enough out of sight that no one else would think twice, but not Din.

He thumbed through the screen, saw the icon flashing with a recorded message. Your face lit up the screen instantly, and he stifled the way his stomach clenched. You looked…scared. Not hurt, not injured, but scared.

“Someone sold me out,” you said, your voice distorted and warped. “I can’t give you details. I can’t really tell you anything. Just know I’m going somewhere safe, and I’ll miss you, Mandalorian. Take care of yourself.”

Your eye were shiny as you reached out to cut the recording, and Din’s heart sank into his toes.

He put the commlink in his pocket, and returned to his ship.

He’d watched the message so many times the words were engraved into his brain. The change in your voice, the way you’d blinked harder the more you spoke. The way you paused in the middle, glanced over your shoulder with a shock of fear in your eyes.

And now here you are, standing in front of him, a pile of metal spilling out of a crate tucked beneath your arm, that same streak of fear in those big eyes. Eyes that have haunted him all these years. You nearly drop the crate as you crouch, your gaze zeroing in on the wound on his leg. “Maker, Mando, what the hell did you do?”

“Long story,” he groans out, wincing as you adjust his leg slightly, leaning to the side so you can get a better look. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you reply, getting back to your feet, retrieving your crate of parts. “C’mon, let me clean you up. You look like hell.”

Din goes willingly, not sure what else to do, his mind racing from the combination of the Covert and you appearing out of nowhere. He lets you pull him slowly to his feet, tuck yourself under his arm. “Sweets,” he starts to protest, but you drag his arm around your shoulders.

“Shush,” you whisper, glancing around as you start to lead him in the opposite direction he’d been going. “Lean your weight on me.” He does as you say, nearly crumbling with relief. “There you go.”

The ache only worsens as you go, Din resisting the urge to lean his head against yours. When you finally turn him towards the door, he thinks he may topple over completely, but you’re quicker, producing a remote from your pocket. The door slides open, revealing the inside of a hangar, and you all but carry him through, discarding the crate of parts the moment you’re through, hitting the button again once you’re inside. The door slides shut, and Din lifts his head enough to look around. It looks nearly identical to your old hangar.

Then he hears a curious little beep, and looks down to see a tiny droid scurrying towards you. A BD-1 unit; he recognizes it from Peli’s, though yours is a little more rusty around the edges, the cleaner bits of metal painted grey and yellow. “Not now, Shrimp,” you grit, waving at the droid. It beeps loudly back at you, like an arguing child, and Din stifles his laugh.

“I thought you didn’t use droids,” he mumbles.

“He came with the hangar,” you reply, moving him across the hangar. Shrimp follows a few more steps before darting off, disappearing into a pile of crates. “Couldn’t bring myself to scrap him. Besides, not like he’s much help; tiny thing can’t even lift a socket wrench.”

He laughs out loud this time, and when you pull him into the shop, he laughs again, despite himself.

There’s a shelf of sweets above the workbench.

There’s no curtain between the shop and the apartment, instead another sliding door, another remote. Din lets out a low hum when he sees the apartment beyond. More than one room, furnished with actual furniture. It’s…nice. It’s really nice.

You deposit him on the couch, propping his leg up on the table in front of it. “Wait here,” you mumble, pointing a finger at him before disappearing into another room.

He doesn’t move, but hooks his fingers into the edge of his helmet and yanks it off, depositing it on the couch beside him. He sucks down a breath of unfiltered air.

You gasp as you walk back into the room, nearly dropping the silver case in your hand. “Mando, you—”

“Din,” he says instantly, reaching down, tugging his gloves off, tossing them onto the helmet. “My name is Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you repeat, slowly, like you’re tasting his name on your tongue. The corner of your mouth quirks. “Din…Djarin.”

He just nods. You approach him carefully, like you’re walking towards an injured animal instead of a man, the silver case clutched against your chest.

“Your helmet,” you start, gesturing vaguely. A memory sparks. He told you before — not in so many words — about his Creed, his upbringing. You’d asked, and he’d answered. It wasn’t information he gave willingly. The second time he had you, when you were sprawled out completely naked on that old futon, writhing and moaning beneath him, when he’d shed almost all his beskar, felt the warmth of your body pressed up against all of him. Afterward, when you’d both been sated for the time being, you’d peered up at him from your place on his chest. “Do you ever take it off?” you asked, your voice laced with sleep.

And he’d answered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says now, eyes darting towards the curve of silver. “I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“What?” you ask, your brow furrowing. He wants to reach out, let his thumb ride the space between your eyebrows, feel it smooth over as he kisses the spot. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He trails off. Loaded question. What does it mean? Truly? “My name is Din Djarin.”

There’s still confusion etched into your features, but you don’t question him further. Your brow doesn’t loosen, and you perch on the table.

“What’s in the case?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the silver case still in your hands.

You look at him for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his face, over his features. Like you’re committing him to memory. He’s doing the same, almost scrutinizing your face, trying to remember what it looks like without the filter of his visor, what you truly look like, with no barriers in between.

He could taste you easily now.

The thought catches him off guard, the throb between his legs a welcome change to the pulsing of the wound on his thigh. The bacta the Covert had given him has worn off almost completely, and the pain is climbing.

“B-bacta shot,” you stutter out, shaking your head slightly as you flipped open the case. Your eyes moved to the wound on his leg, peering at the plates of beskar, the flight-suit, the discarded helmet on the couch. “That needs to be cleaned.”

Din just nods.

“Think you can walk to the bedroom?” you ask, shoving the silver case into the chest pocket of your jumpsuit. He recognizes it — the tear in the knee, the patch on your thigh. You fixed the zipper. “It’ll be easier.”

It’s slow-going, getting him back to his feet, shuffling carefully to the bedroom. You ask him if he wants to bring the helmet; he just shakes his head.

What does that mean?

Your bed is unmade, but Din barely notices. The scent of you is amplified in here, and he’s sucking down breaths like he’s been deprived of oxygen. You help him lower to the edge of the bed, and he starts on the armour. You sink to your knees in front of him, setting the bacta shot on the mattress beside him. He removes a pauldron with shaking fingers, and you’re right there to take it from him, your movements sure, setting the metal carefully onto the floor, waiting for the next piece.

“You disappeared,” he says, after more pieces of beskar have been removed, when you’ve moved onto his boots, setting them both carefully at your side.

Your brow had just smoothed out, and it pinches again. “I had to. I left you a message.”

Din pulls the zipper on his flight-suit, reaches into the pocket sewn into the lining, and produces the commlink. “I know.”

Your lips part as you look at the piece of metal, dwarfed by his hand. “You found it.”

“I did.”

Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you look back up at him through your lashes. “It wasn’t safe.”

“You’re safe now,” he says, and you reach for the bacta shot. “Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” you reply, your voice bordering on stern. “Somebody sold me out.”

“I knew that much,” Din mumbles, and you shoot him a glare.

You sigh. “Let’s just say, there were some parts in the hangar that shouldn’t have been there, someone wasn’t happy with some work I did, and then next thing I knew, there were Imps on my tail. So I disappeared.”

“You could have told me where you were going.”

You shake your head. “They were listening. Tracking every message I sent out. I couldn’t let you get roped into it too.”

“You could have gone to the Guild,” he says. He’s too distracted to notice you pull the syringe out of the case. He doesn’t see the needle until you’re pushing it into his muscle above the wound. He grits his teeth audibly, hands curling hard around the edge of the mattress. “Dank farrik.”

“Sorry.”

“I would have come for you,” he says, breath hitching in his throat as you push the plunger down. It feels like his body has been flooded with ice water, his teeth chattering for a moment before the cold turns to a woozy sort of warmth that spreads through his chest like Corellian fire whiskey. He blinks hard, slow, one eye than the other.

“Can you stand?” He nods. Or thinks he does. “The bacta will help, but I need to put a bandage on that wound, at least.” More nodding. He’s vaguely aware of you draping his arms around your neck, your arms sliding around his waist to haul him up. He plants his feet beneath him, forces his weight over his ankles. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s moving through water. You manoeuvre one arm out of his flight-suit, pushing the fabric down his shoulders, until it settles around his hips. The metallic sound of the zipper seems to echo through his brain, and he knows you’re touching his waist, moving the fabric slowly over his injured thigh. But it doesn’t hurt.

All he can feel is you.

You sit him down again, work on pulling the suit off completely. Your hands are warm, soft, gentle against his bare legs, and he nearly buries his nose in the crown of your head when you bend down. Once the flight-suit has been removed, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt, you disappear again, and Din’s not sure if it’s thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

Something cold presses against his thigh, and he flinches. “Does it hurt?” you ask instantly, and your voice is clear, then muffled, then clear again. “It shouldn’t.”

“Nuh-uh,” he slurs out. He hears you laugh, and the sound is like tinkling bells. He wants to hear it again. “Sweets.”

“Yes, Din?” Clear, muffled. His name is a song on your lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“Mesh’la,” he mumbles, and then his eyes fall shut, his body slumps back, and he thinks you laugh again. He’s not quite sure; sleep is too busy yanking him under.

Din wakes to the sound of running water.

He’s disoriented, confused, not sure where he is until he pushes up on his elbows, looks around, drinks in the sight of your bedroom. The memory floods back; the Covert, then the hangar, taking the helmet off, the bacta shot that knocked him out.

But more importantly: you.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. How long was he out? He can’t be sure; there’s a window on the far side of the room, but time on Glavis is different, artificial nighttime and starlight instead of sun. His armour has been moved from the floor, neatly piled on a dresser against the wall, his boots on the floor underneath. His flight-suit is spread out on a worktable in the middle of the room, and he can see from his spot that you’ve tried to mend it, patching the spot the Darksaber had cut open with a square of fabric. It’s looks to be the same kind of material, but the colour is darker. Beneath the sheets, his leg is wrapped in cotton bandages, and there’s no sign of blood seeping to the surface.

His head turns in the direction of the noise of the water, and he pauses, waits for some kind of pain to prick through his body, but it never comes. He feels…good. Well-rested. His eyes follow the sound, and then he sees it.

The door to your bathroom is wide open, and from his spot on your bed, he can see directly into the shower. You’re inside, steam pouring over the top of the glass wall, and Din’s whole body jerks. He never forgot what you looked like naked, and it’s been a long time, but somehow it still feels like the first time. He can feel the blood rushing south, and his hands clench in the bedsheets.

He just stares, watching the water move over you, cascading down your spine, rolling in rivulets over your curves, following the lines of your body. He wants to follow them too, wants to read you like a map only he knows the key to.

Dank farrik, he’s missed you. He hadn’t realized how much.

The water shuts off, and he sees you reach for a towel, wiping your face first. He sinks back down on the bed, wondering if he should feign sleep, feeling like a kid caught doing something he’s not supposed to. But before he can— “You’re awake,” he hears you call, and looks back just as you wrap the towel around your middle. “I thought you’d be out for the night.”

Din coughs, shifting the blankets, trying to hide the tent that’s formed in his boxers. “You don’t close the door?” He doesn’t know what else to say.

You laugh. “I live alone,” you say, stepping out of the bathroom, walking towards the dresser his armour sits upon. “Force of habit.”

He clears his throat. Loudly. Pauses. “…it’s a nice view.”

Your tongue peeks between your lips as you walk over to him, still in just the towel. Your hair is still dripping, water droplets dotting your shoulders. You sink slowly onto the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“G-good,” he spits out, adjusting himself, making more room for you. “Really good.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I’m glad. You scared me, Man—” You catch yourself. “Din.”

A drop of water splashes down from your hair, starts a path down your upper arm, and Din reaches out, catching it on his finger. You watch his hand, lips softly parted, and he continues the path, drawing his hand up and down your skin, the backs of his knuckles against your bicep.

“I wondered where you were, all these years,” you whisper. There’s longing in your voice, he notices; the same feeling sits like a weight on his chest. “I never stopped wondering.”

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he whispers back. There’s something forming in the air between you, thick like the steam that still foams from the open bathroom. Din can almost taste it, and the thought he’d had in your living room resurfaces, making him twitch beneath the sheets. He could taste you so easily now. “It’s a long story.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I got nothing but time.”

So does he, he realizes. He’s without a ship, without his son, without anything anchoring him to one planet or another, to any sort of path. He’d been wandering already, trying to find the Covert, and now he is unmoored once more, yet somehow managed to find his way back to your hangar.

To your bed.

His hand stops chasing water droplets, and he sees your teeth sink into your lower lip. He lowers his palm until it rests on your bare thigh, and he can feel how your skin is still hot from the shower. “I never kissed you,” he rasps. “Before.”

Your head shakes slowly, and you turn towards him more fully. The towel is loose around your chest, your hand holding it in place, and he reaches for it, slowly uncurling your fingers from the fabric, until your grip falls slack, and the towel goes with it. “You should fix that,” you murmur.

“I’m out of practice.”

Your lips twitch again. “How bad?”

“Few decades,” he says softly. “Since before I swore the Creed.”

“You were a child.”

“It was a childish kiss.” He pauses, moves his hand again, brushes dripping locks of hair from your face. “I don’t want to kiss you like that.”

“Just…” Din leans in slightly, tilts his head to the side. “Do what feels natural.” You mirror his movement, and his eyes are glued to your mouth, to the way your lips stay parted even when you’re done speaking, the way your collar lifts with shuddered breaths. He sees your hands move the towel out of the corner of his eye, pulling the fabric away from your body completely until you’re bared to him, head to toe.

You’re just as beautiful as he remembers. If not more.

The tip of his nose drags along the slope of yours, and his hand slides from your thigh to your hip. “I need you closer, Sweets,” he murmurs, and you nod against him, your foreheads tapping together. There’s a bit of shuffling, the blankets moved back, his tented boxers exposed but barely acknowledged as you climb into his lap. He revels in the way you look above him, your knees pressed either side of his hips. You’re hesitant to lower your weight onto his leg, and he guides you slow, giving you a quiet it’s okay as you settle onto him.

He doesn’t feel any pain; he just feels you.

Once you’re comfortable, your hands clutching at his shoulders, he adjusts his grip on you, palms skimming up your spine, mapping out your ribs and the curve of your ass. You make a quiet noise when he squeezes one cheek, the movement propelling you forward, making your hips roll into his, your core pushed against his hard cock. It makes him hiss with pleasure, and he slides one hand up to your hair, knotting his fingers in it and dragging your mouth down to his.

It’s not artful; he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty from the outside. There’s a lot of teeth and tongue, the fumble of hands as he tries to get you even closer. He’s sure you’ve been kissed better than this, and it makes his cheeks heat, makes him pull away, tucking his chin towards his chest. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey,” you say softly, your hands moving to cup his cheeks, tilting his face back up towards you. “It’s okay. Just…follow my lead?” You say it like a question, your thumbs swiping over his face, through the smatter of facial hair along his jaw. “I got you.”

Din nods, lets his lips part as you cock your head to the side, leaning in slow. You kiss his top lip and then his bottom one, giving him just enough teeth that he wants more, wants it harder. He grips your hips as you move, but your kiss stays tender, slow, your tongue a wet heat against his own. He’d dreamed of this, of kissing you, and this one — albeit the second attempt — is everything he ever imagined.

Finally, your mouth grows more insistent. He’s hard as steel between his legs, and he can feel how hot you are, your wetness spreading across his boxers with every roll of your hips. Your mouth is sweet, almost sugary, and he finds himself chuckling against your lips, still trying to get you closer. Your stomach presses to his as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder, your tongue licking into his mouth.

“Sweets,” he grinds out when you start pulling at his undershirt, insistent to get it over his head. He lets you, and when you lower your head again, your mouth moves to his throat instead, and it makes him moan. “Mesh’la, wait, please, I need—”

You pull back instantly, your eyes bright with worry. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I want…” His eyes drop, tracing a path down your body, his throat growing dry when they land on the apex of your thighs, the glistening wetness he knows he’s caused. He lets one hand follow the path his eyes made, rubs his thumb over your clit. Your whole body shivers. “I want to taste you.”

Your eyes go big, pupils blown with lust, and Din uses your momentary shock to his advantage. He’s stronger than you, perks of the bounty hunting lifestyle, and he flips you easily with one arm around your waist, his other hand hitching your thigh over his hip. You squeak as your head hits the pillows, clinging to him until you’re laid out beneath him.

It’s his turn to kiss his way down your throat, and he does, laving his tongue against your pulse as he makes his way down your body. He pauses at your chest, moves to the side to close his lips around your nipple. It makes your back arch, a high-pitched noise falling from your mouth, and he grins against you, giving you just the edge of his teeth before he’s wandering across your chest to give the other the same attention.

You’re a writhing mess by the time he’s settled between your thighs. He can’t keep his eyes still, raking over every inch of you, trying to remember every part. He can see the muscles in your legs jump as he traces his fingers over them, the more sensitive parts of your skin making you keen.

With your legs spread, he can see everything, and his mouth waters at the sight of your wet cunt, walls fluttering around nothing as he teases you with his fingers, collecting your wetness on the tips before drawing them to his mouth.

He moans at the taste. Of course, you’re sweet. Deliciously so.

“Din,” you groan out, propping yourself up on your elbows. He can feel you watching, and his gaze flicks up to yours as he drops his jaw, lowers his mouth to you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, one hand moving to knot in his hair, and Din moans into you. His tongue explodes with the taste of you, sending shocks down his spine, making his hips rolls into the mattress, seeking relief.

Just do what feels natural, your words echo in his head. So he does. He licks into you, wide stripes with the flat of his tongue, smaller kitten licks to your clit. He can’t get enough of your taste, hooking his hands around your thighs, pulling himself deeper into you. And you guide him some, your hand in his hair an anchor of sorts, tugging slightly to get him right where you need him, a gasped oh fuck, right there! reaching his ears.

It’s not before long that you’re smacking at his shoulder, muffled moans on your lips with your teeth sunk into your lower one. He detaches from you, gets one more good look and lick in before he’s following your grip, kissing every inch of you he can reach as he makes his way back up your body.

“I need you inside me,” you slur, your hands reaching down, pushing at his boxers. His cock springs up against his stomach and he groans, the sound growing louder when you wrap your fingers around him. “Please, Din, I want to cum on your cock.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum right then and there, hearing your words turn filthy. And filthier still as he hauls himself over you, plants one elbow beside your head, looks between you, reaches down to line himself up and—

Freezes.

He can feel your eyes on his face, features pinched with anticipation. Your hands have found homes along his ribs, fingers tapping out rhythmless patterns. Hips lifting, you must see something in his expression, because you move a hand to his chin, lifting his eyes to yours again. “Din,” you say, and a shiver shoots down his spine again at the way his name sounds on your lips. “It’s okay. We can stop, if you need to.”

“No!” he nearly shouts, and feels himself flush, lowering himself slightly, careful not to drop all his weight on you. “No, that’s not what I…I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, understanding. You give a soft laugh. “I know you’re not a virgin, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, I won’t say any—”

“It’s not that,” he cuts you off, petting his hand over your still-damp hair. “I want to. I want you. It’s just that…” He chews at his lip. “No one’s ever seen my face, while we…when I…”

Realization slides through your features. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have to look,” you say quickly, skimming your knuckles along his cheek. “I can turn over, if you like, if that’s easier than—”

“No,” he says, not a shout this time, but firmer. “I want you to see, Sweets.” He drops his chin, emboldened by your softness, your understanding. He kisses you soundly. “I want to kiss you while you cum.” His words pull a silky noise from your throat.

He breaks the kiss as he takes himself in hand, pushes into your dripping cunt. You’re hot, clenching down on him instantly, arms draped around his neck as he lowers himself further, latches his lips to yours. He hitches one of your legs high on his hip, drives into you deep. He had you close on his tongue already, and he rolls his hips hard, catching something deep inside that makes your entire body seize.

“Yes, Din, please, oh gods, please, please, please,” you’re babbling against his lips, one hand pressed flat between his shoulders, the other knotted in the back of his hair. “Yes!”

Just as he said, he kisses you while you cum. He feels it pulse through your body, your limbs taut and then lax, still holding him close. Your hips chase his, cunt clenching tight as a vice, and Din’s not far behind you, pleasure lighting a fuse down his spine.

You pull your lips from his just as he starts to spill in you. Your hand moves to grip his chin, and you force his gaze to yours. He gasps and your mouth mirrors his, lips parted in a soft o, turning to a grin as he grinds into you, painting your insides as deep as he can go. It feels like an implosion, his bones rattled in his body, but then set on the softest bed of silk as he collapses into your chest. You hold him close, petting one hand through his hair, breathing deep and slow until his own evens out, matches yours, until your heartbeat syncs with his.

“Mesh’la?” he calls after a moment, cheek still pressed to your sternum.

“Yes, Din?” you reply, your voice scratchy as your nails start to drag along his scalp. His eyes are heavy.

“I missed you.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “I missed you too.”

Din wakes alone in your bed again.

He thinks it’s the next morning — the rest of what he assume to be evening was spent in your bed, both of you naked and wrapped in each other. Again and again and again, he pulled pleasure from your body, let you pull it from his, found your bliss together. By the time you were both too tired to move, sprawled on the mattress, your head on his shoulder, you’d whispered, “You’re a good kisser, Din Djarin.” And then you were asleep, Din not too far behind.

He dresses quickly, boxers pulled back on, undershirt in his hand as he pads out of the room. He finds you standing in the kitchen, a steaming cup of caf in your hands. The droid — Shrimp, he dimly recalls — is perched on the table, beeping out a message to you. You’re nodding along, blowing the steam off the top of your caf, and your eyes flick to him as he steps into the kitchen.

“You know Peli Motto?”

Din’s brow crinkles with confusion. “You know Peli?”

You scoff. “That woman taught me everything I know.”

“You’re joking.”

“Swear on my hangar.”

Din just laughs, walking around the table. He slides an arm around your waist once he’s close enough, leans into kiss the side of your head. You lean into him. “Why are we talking about Peli?”

“She sent me a message,” you say, offering him your caf. He takes a sip, only feeling more confused. “Asking if I had any spare ships laying around my hangar. A replacement for her Mandalorian friend.”

Din balks. He hasn’t told you about the Crest. “Sweets…”

You step away from him, pressing a hand to his chest as your eyes go wide with realization. “Din Djarin, what did you do to that ship?”

“I didn’t—”

“Din.”

“It was Imps,” he says, trying to reach for your hip. “It wasn’t—”

“Where is the Razor Crest?”

He sighs heavily, and reaches out to take the cup of caf from you again. “Now it’s nothing but a scorch mark on the planet Tython. It was the Imps. They took my son.” The words are out before he can stop them.

Your eyes go so wide he’s worried they might pop out of your skull. “Your son?”

“It’s a long story.”

You pluck the caf out of his hands, walk around the table, pull out a chair and sink into it. “I got nothing but time.”

#sleepover saturday #my fics #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin fluff #din djarin headcanon #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian headcanon #the mandalorian fanfiction

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bits-and-babs · 2 years

Note

Hi sweet Jas, can I please request some forced proximity smut? A tight space and a whole load of sexual tension 😮‍💨 the character is up to you! Thank you!

𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 — 𝐃𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍

» PAIRING : The Mandalorian x Reader

» CONTENTS : Dry humping, dirty talk, Greef Karga and his loveable bullshit. Not proof read, who has time for that?

» DIN MASTERLIST : here || MAIN MASTERLIST : here

“Mando- Mando!”

You cry out as the durasteel walls of the trash compactor suddenly brace against your palms in your feeble attempt to prevent the kriffing things from smushing you.

Lodged between you and one of the walls, The Mandalorian stands firm. He, too, had been shouldering the advancing walls. The silver sheen of his beskar armour reflects your terrified expression, eyes frenzied as you realise they’ve stopped.

“Are you alright?!” Greef Karga’s voice sounds from above, no doubt shouting down the rubbish chute. This was the last time you were offering yourself up for a bounty mission on an Empire fleet ship- not even for five thousand imperial credi—

“We’re fine,” Mando’s raised, modulated voice sounds tinny in close quarters, hurting your eardrums. “If we let go, it’ll crush us.”

“I’ll find a way to get you out!” Karga calls down the chute, “Wait there!”

You cringe slightly at the order, finding it hard enough to safely unwind your limbs from The Mandalorian that had tangled in your desperate attempts to survive the compactor, let alone leave the blasted thing.

“Can’t wait anywhere else.” The Mandalorian’s response, muttered sarcastically, makes you huff out a laugh. He turns his face back to you, the beskar steel helmet barely brushing your nose.

One of his palms rests beside your head with his arm locking you in place, while his left leg, situated between your own, pushes the toe of his boot into the wall. Your own hands are settled on the opposite side of the compactor, trapping his body between your forearms. It’s a tight squeeze.

Blackness stares back at you, his tinted visor obscuring the view of his eyes. Besides the shaky rise and fall of his chest plate, thanks to his exertions in trying to stop you both from becoming Jawa Juice, Mando offers no insight into how he’s feeling.

Swallowing thickly, you cast your eyes to the darkness above your heads. It’s ridiculous, but you can feel his body heat from the breaks in his armour, covered only by his undersuit. It makes your heart flutter, the biting scent of leather.

“… I apologise,” his voice cuts through the silence and causes you to jump, “This-… This is uncomfortable for you.”

“‘S okay,” you mumble weakly, attempting to smother the butterflies that launch in your stomach at the soft, soothing whisper of his voice.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Despite your attempts to loosen up, the searing gaze through The Mandalorian’s visor feels as though it’s settled on your face, burning a hole into your lips. Stars, there must be fumes in the rubbish beneath your feet, driving you crazy.

Swallowing, you avoid his line of sight by looking at literally everything else. The woven flight suit that conceals his neck, the contours of his shoulder plates. Was that a Mudhorn-?

The sharp inhale through your nose as his knee brushes against your heat practically ricochet off the walls, eyes finally snapping to his visor against your better judgement. Unmoving, he offers nothing to infer he even noticed how he effortlessly set your body alight as though he’d triggered the flamethrower on his vambrace. Surely not. Surely he’d just been adjusting his foot to hold the wall better!

“You’re fogging up my eyeshade.”

It’s mortifying. Condensation from your heavy breaths is steaming up the silver beskar of his mask. The Mandalorian’s voice is flat but rich, and you can’t read his tone through that fucking modulator!

“S-orry,” you stumble over your apology when his thigh drags between your thighs deliberately, the second syllable coming out in a pathetic little squeak.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Don’t hold your breath.” He catches you before you even manage to still your lungs in embarrassment. “I want to hear them.”

His admission has the air trapped in your throat expelling in a quiet whine, unable to stop the noise from slipping out when he slooowly grinds his thigh up and forwards, rolling your clit between the layers of fabric.

“Hoh- '' you heave another breath, the mist encroaching across the beskar of his mask and mattifying the shine of the pure metal. “Oh fuck-“

“Don’t move,” he orders calmly. It sounds less like an order and more like an observation. “You need to hold the wall.” Yes. Yes, he has to remind you that you’re in a life-threatening situation, because the simple friction is enough to numb your brain with the thrill.

You whimper softly, shaking your head. The tip of your nose drags against the cold metal of his mask, sweeping through the misty dew and exposing the shine beneath. Stars, you can see your expression through the track you leave behind. It’s obscene, jaw slack and eyelids heavy as you mindlessly grind your hips down on the cuisse beneath you.

“So desperate you’re willing to risk your life,” he murmurs, watching you use him to get off like you’re a fragment of kyber- the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “You like this? Using me to get off when your life hangs in the balance?”

“Y-ou starte-ahh-“ your pussy clenches as he drives his thigh up to match the roll of your hips. It grinds just right, and you arch against the throbbing hum between your legs.

“I started it,” he nods slightly, the low lighting flickering off the grooves and concaves of his mask, “I did. But you wanted it first. Burning for it.”

He’s right. Fuck, The Mandalorian is right, and you’re too far gone to be ashamed by his observation. If you weren’t on the brink of an obliterating orgasm, you’d be mortified that he’d found it so easy to read you.

You stifle a sob by biting the flesh of your lip as your clit drags against the smooth metal again. Trembling, your own thighs nearly give out entirely as you begin to crest the euphoric surge he’s pulling from you.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice haggard as he watches you, “That’s it. That’s it, ther-“

“There!” A loud call bounces off the walls of the compactor room. A loud beep splits your eardrums, and suddenly the walls fall away as they draw back. The sudden lack of support has you falling into the chest plate of The Mandalorian in front of you, your orgasm blurring away between your thighs with the sudden lack of attention.

“Knew I could find the button!” Karga chuckles, the compactor walls falling in place to reveal your boss standing with his hands on his hips, grinning with a complete obliviousness that has you wanting to punch him in the face. With an ion cannon.

You sag against The Mandalorian slightly, devastated by Karga’s interruption. The little sigh you let out is pathetic, almost childish in nature.

“A thank you would be nice!” Karga chastises you, “I’ve never seen someone look so ungrateful to have their life saved!”

You swear you hear The Mandalorian huff a chuckle behind that stupid fucking mask, and you decide he was deserving of a punch with an ion cannon too.

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chaotic-iguana · 1 year

Text

Acting out

(Din x f! reader one-shot)

Summary: You thought it would be fun to tease Din on the comm link while he was hunting for a bounty, expecting it not to take too long. But it takes longer than you thought - and it turns out your distractions were partly why it took so long. Mando’s back now though, and he’s not happy…

(basically just a brat tamer! din x bratty-till-shes-drooling-on-his-cock reader)

Wordcount: 2.7k

Pairing: Din Djarin/ The Mandolorian x fem! reader (no use of y/n)

Warnings: dacryphilia, dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, edging/denial, crying, mean!mando, pussy slapping, spanking, daddy kink (mild), dumbification, crying (during sex bc it feels good), aftercare. MDNI

ao3 // masterlist.

Din stalked back to the ship, dragging the bounty behind him, aggression pouring off him in palpable waves. His seemingly easy bounty had taken triple the time it normally would have, thanks to the fact that every time Din got close enough to catch him, you’d picked up the commlink out of boredom, and moaned, whimpered and whined into it till he was so painfully hard under his beskar that The Mandalorian was forced to jerk off in dimly lit alleys. With the shiny armor on.

14 times in three weeks. Fourteen times in three weeks you disobeyed his direct command to not touch yourself while he was gone, practically taunting him every time he threatened to punish you on his return. He could hear the smirk in your voice as you bit out each one of your witty little replies. ‘S okay, he was gonna wipe the smirk off your face, along with every other thought in your pretty little head.

Since it was going slowly anyways, Din had gone a bit off-route and into a shop he’d rarely been to before. The package was now tucked in his holster belt, and had been spotted by the quarry who had been guffawing the whole way here. Must have been his happiest damn quarry yet, the rate at which his boisterous laughter was reverberating in Din’s skull. He whirled, slamming the Twi’lek face-first into the side of the Crest in warning, relishing in the string of blood and spit beading from his mouth as he spat out a tooth and snarled. Din snarled right back and hauled him inside, throwing him into the carbonite chamber and freezing him before he had a chance to do much else.

Once that was out of the way, Din began hunting for you. He found you in the hull, giggling with the child over something adorable, no doubt, but he was so infuriated by you he didn’t care. He just walked over to the child, gave him a Keldabe kiss, and tucked him away in the crib fondly before fiddling with his vambrace to close the sphere. At the sound of your protests, Din turned to you and cocked his head in your direction, watching you trail off nervously as he offered no explanation. You took a step forward, reaching to put your hand on his chest and ask if he’s injured - but before you could even open your mouth - Din gripped your elbow and whirled you around. His chest connected with your back as he crowded you forward.

A knot of anticipation and nervousness grew in your stomach. You were a brat, but you had never pushed him this far before. Never during a bounty, either. Despite your anxiety, you trusted him to take care of you; the combination of unpredictability and trust making your head dizzy with molten need before he even touched you.

“Stand in the corner and face the wall with your arms up. Don’t lower them unless I give you permission to.” His modulated voice ground the words out in a monotone, but he was close enough for you to be able to hear the whisper of rage in his words, making your hands tremble as you pressed them flat against the cool metal wall. You heard a rustle and telltale clink of metal armor behind you and tensed in expectation before a large, warm hand settled just above your hip, covering the expanse of your back. Another made its way around your torso and both began working in tandem to rip the clothes off your body.

You gasped as you stood shivering and bare in the hull within seconds, testament to the strength he hid in his gentle touches with you. You opened your mouth to beg him to hurry up before his hand came down on your ass and a smack echoed in the ship. Your lips parted, and a cry of surprise worked its way out as Din began slapping both your cheeks in a random, but equally devastating order. He gave you no time to recover, barely letting the sting fade before he repeated the motion and the pain increased tenfold.

Tears began pooling in your eyes as Din kept going, and when your legs began shaking from the ache you couldn’t take it anymore. “S-stop. Please. ‘M gonna be g-good” you could barely get the words out between the sharp, jagged breaths bursting out of you. Din chuckled behind you before leaning in to rub your swollen, reddened skin in a soothing motion.

“Are you now? You forgot to count, though, cyar’ika. Good girls count. Let’s try again from one, no crying.” His tone dripped with condescension as he began again, practically reveling in each gasp and broken sob that spilled from your lips, taking pleasure in each time you stuttered on a number. Your eyes burned but you blinked rapidly to stop any tears from falling. You had submitted completely to your submissive headspace, and Din knew it too.

Finally, as you gasped out “25”, Din stopped to soothe the flaring bruises again. You whimpered and tried to move your hips forward, but realised the wall gave you no space to do so. Turning over your shoulder, you met his visor with pleading, tear-filled eyes.

“S-sorry daddy. Won’t tease you next time, ‘m sorry for being bad. Please no more, it h-hurts,” sobs wracked from you, and you wrapped your arms around his midsection before burying your face in his chest. Gloveless hands began smoothing over your hair as Din began muttering praises and assurances to you from behind his helmet.

“That’s okay, baby, I know it hurts. You teased me all the time, hm? Gotta make it right, no?” he paused as you nodded into his chest. “Then you gotta take your punishment, too, honey. You think just 25 strokes is enough to make up three weeks worth of misbehaving?” you shook your head, sniffling and looking up at him with such a sincere apology in your gaze that Din debated abandoning the punishment then and there.

But the package sat on the floor next to his armor, tempting him, and he gave into the wrecked visions of you his mind was conjuring. Tapping your thighs lightly, he urged you to jump before adjusting your knees on his waist and cradling your head in one hand to reach down and pick up the inconspicuous white bag from the floor. Carrying you to his chair, Din pulled some rope out and began typing your hands to each of the chair’s handles; your feet spread wide in position. He reached his hand into the paper bag and pulled out a bullet-shaped, neon-pink toy as your eyes widened in alarm.

You whined, tugging against your restraints fruitlessly as you looked at Din, who just tilted his helmet at you before kneeling and running a knuckle down your folds - chuckling when the contact makes you hiss and buck your hips. Din’s fingers leave you for a second before his hand comes down again - this time on your bare and swollen cunt - leaving you jolting away and yelping in surprise as you suppress a shudder. The snap of his rough hand on your clit leaves you breathless as stuttered pleas and whines come tumbling our of your throat. Din just brings his open palm down in another slap in response, the wet sound echoing throughout the room.

“We’re done when I say we are. Ask me to stop again, and I’ll add another punishment after this one.” You squirmed, tugging against the ropes binding you to the chair. Din reached for the toy, pressing a button on its side and holding it snug against your clit. Your hips bucked of their own volition as you choked on your needless babbling, the warmth in your belly growing to a crescendo just as Din slid two fingers into you without warning.

Just as you felt the first waves of your orgasms within reach, suddenly everything was gone - his fingers, the toy - pulled away cruelly, leaving you rolling your hips while the restraints chafed your skin. You sobbed out a whine as Din tutted at you in mock sympathy, stepping away from you until your release faded away before returning the toy and thrusting three fingers inside you in a single, swift motion.

He repeated this cycle endlessly - bringing you to the edge only to pull away again, watching your trembling body rut in midair mindlessly; too far gone to even beg properly. Broken syllables poured out of your mouth, interrupted by wanton moans and sobs as tears stained your flushed cheeks. Eyes rolling back and slick running down your thighs, you furled and unfurled your fingers as the need to touch Din overwhelmed you. A steady chant of need to cum, need to cum, please, please, please, i’m sorry began taking over your mind, rocking your hips forwards and backwards in an attempt to chase any friction at all in the haze that had flooded your mind.

Din could see you crumbling, your frustrated tears falling harder as time went on. He pulled the vibrator away from you again, turning it off to set it aside this time, untangling the ropes and opening your binds while rubbing at your sore wrists. You sobbed as you reached your shaking hands out for him, and he gathered you in his arms before turning to sit with you in his lap, rubbing your back as he cooed praises into your hairline.

“You wanna come, honey?” You nod feverishly into his chest. “Okay, baby, okay. Took your punishment so well for me. You deserve a reward, okay? Let me take care of you.” You sniffle and look up at his visor before resting your hands on either sides of his helmet, waiting for your riduur to nod to tug it over his head and smash your lips to his desperately. You needed to feel him so badly, to breathe the air he was breathing, to be one with him again. Hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, your fingers began to claw at him urgently as you deepened the kiss.

Breaking away from your mouth to grasp your chin, Din’s eyes met yours, an unguarded question in them. You want this? Instead of responding verbally, you stood to your feet to help rip off his boxers and undershirt before returning to straddle his thighs. Din leaned back in his seat before grinning at you. “Go on, take what you need. You’ve earned it. Just wanna hear a thank you when you’re done.” he drawled at you before resting his hands on the rests of the chair. You leaned in closer, rolling your hips to grind your cunt against his length; his moan rumbling against your pressed chests as his tip caught at your clit, making you hiss and jump from the sensitivity.

You sunk down onto him, nails digging into his biceps as your toes curled and you both groaned from the stretch as you met in a rough, sloppy kiss. Eyes rolling back, you bounced in his lap whining his name over and over like a prayer as a cocky grin made its way onto his face. Wet, smacking sounds and the repetition of your wrecked “Din, Din, D-Din…” echoed throughout the hull. Din planted his feet, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, thrusting up and nuzzling your neck as his tip battered your cervix with enough force for your vision to black out; back arching as you screamed soundlessly and felt yourself hurtling towards your orgasm.

You tipped your head back as your eyes fluttered shut, unable to do much more than take the pleasure he was giving you. A hand wrapped around your neck and clamped down as Din spoke into your ear with an edge that had you suppressing a shiver. “You look at me when I make you feel good. Let me see those pretty eyes cry on my cock, mesh’la. Cum.” The words of endearment in Mando’a were the final nail in the coffin, and suddenly your whole body was locking up - walls clamping down around Din as you finally got to come - eyes filling with tears as Din’s movements didn’t so much as stutter, drawing the high out to the point of pain and over-sensitivity that had you jolting with each thrust. The steady repetition of thank yous began surging from your lips, eager to please him, keening for his praise.

Scratching your nails along his scalp and curling your fists into his hair, his stubble leaving burn marks down your neck as he began rolling your flesh between his teeth before sucking bruises into it. Gasping, you felt your legs shake slightly as the onslaught continued, barely able to form sentences in your head as the white hot bliss wiped your mind clean. A particularly punishing press of his girth inside you caused a shriek to bubble up from your throat as you pushed weakly at his chest to slow him down, making him laugh at you.

Tilting your head down to level your eyes, he brought his face close enough to make your noses touch. “My poor-” leaning in, he pressed a kiss to your now slack jaw, pulling back to look at you again, “poor, baby.” Twin brushes of his lips over your eyelids, which threatened to shut at the fatigue coursing through you now. “Fucked so dumb she can’t even tell me to stop.” A kiss to your cheek this time, his tongue flicking out to taste your tears. “‘S that what you want, sweetheart? Want me to stop?” you shook your head frantically, too desperate to feel him in you to remember your pain.

“W-want you to cum, daddy.” You whispered it as you buried your face in his neck, body twitching with his relentless motions and reveling in the slight hitch in his breath at your words. Before you knew it, a steady slew of please cum and please trickled into your half-gasped, rambled vocabulary, just as Din’s thrusts sped up slightly. Your eyes did close then, arms wrapping around his neck to wrap yourself in his safety as he reached a hand down to thumb at your clit, making you lurch in his secure hold as he began tracing rapid, tight circles on you while rutting up into you with renewed vigor.

“Give me another, baby. That’s it. That’s it, good girl” his words kept you grounded as you began wailing, trembling like a leaf as he thrusted a few more times before he came with a low, animalistic moan and spilled inside you.

Heaviness and fatigue began weighing down your body and mind in his arms, your breathing evening out as you tucked your face in his shoulder. His arms wound around your midsection, pressing soft kisses and murmurs into your hair as he used one hand to smooth the hair away from your face. You felt him pick you up and walk you somewhere - turn on some water and the glorious feeling of his hands running down your body to scrub his soap into your skin.

You had the distinct memory of his lips ghosting over each blotch of blue or purple, taking the time to kiss it softly before moving on to the next, before he wrapped you up, dressed you in his shirt and panties, and lay you onto the bed. Swooping down to kiss your forehead and smiling at the sleepy grumble you let out before reaching your arms out blindly for him, he turned the lights out and crawled into bed to hold you. Watching you burrow into him in your sleep, the irritation of the hunt seemed to melt away now that he was with you again. For the first time in days, Din let sleep take him; feeling completely safe and at home with you pressed to his chest.

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones 🫶

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thepascalofus · 1 year

Text

Supply Run - Receipt (part one)

AO3

PART TWO

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x afab!Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: You’ve been Mando’s crew partner for a year now. Throughout that year Mando has warmed up to you and given you signs that your heart throbbing crush on him is reciprocated. There’s one thing making you hesitate. The condoms he bought on the most recent supply run.

Content Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only! Post season 2, the Crest lives, strangers to friends to lovers, soft!Mando, helmet loopholes, pining, idiots in love, jealous!reader, mentions of sex work (sex work is work!), eventual SMUT (making out, grinding, f!receiving fingering, f!receiving oral sex, p in v, PRAISE kink, dirty talk), FLUFF, cuddling, happy ending guaranteed!

The ramp of the Crest lowered, revealing the bright sun and arid atmosphere of the random planet Mando chose for a pitstop. In the distance were jagged mountains, the colors of orange, red, and brown coming together to paint streaks across the rocky range. Sparse populations of trees littered the distant landscape. Large–but tiny from a distance–birds flew from tree top to tree top, wings fanned outwards to catch the air currents beneath their wings.

To your left was Mando. His silver beskar armor glinted in the light as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Broad shoulders blocked a sizable proportion of your peripheral vision. Observing the new planet, he stood like a statue.

Tall. Solid. Strong. Capable. Protective.

Biting your lip, your gaze traveled up and down Mando, head to toe. He certainly had an idea of how intimidating he looked. Yet, he had no idea how that intimidation made him look so good.

People always snuck glances at you and Mando when the pair of you were in public. Whispers could be picked up on as well. Rumors about his Creed. The state of the planet of Mandalore. How dangerous Mando was.

The danger he possessed only made your feelings for him deepen. You knew what he was capable of, but you also knew he would never use his capabilities on you. Not that you didn’t want him to…

Maybe he could lift you up. Carry you across the hull. Place you on the bed in his bunk. His large, gloveless hands smoothing up and down your sides.

Mando could pin both of your hands above your head while he–.

Ok. Stop. That’s enough.

You cleared your throat, hoping to snap Mando out of his observational state, and you out of yours. “Alright, so we need five things: bacta, medkits, rations, a new flight suit, andddd soap?” You listed as you turned to him. Feet shifting, he turned his helmet to look at you. Shoulders that donned beskar pauldrons followed suit. The classic Mandalorian T shape of the visor burned into your pupils.

He paused, as if he was looking over his own checklist. “That should be it,” he confirmed with a nod. You returned his nod and added a small smile.

“Ok see ya!” You threw over your shoulder as you quickly bounded down the ramp of the Crest.

“Dank farrik, hold on, hold on,” Mando’s modulator gritted out as he clicked a button on his vambrace to close the Crest, running to get caught up to you. He rarely let you stray too far, especially when on new planets like this one. But, the Mandalorian read about the planet–and the quarry on it–before landing.

“This planet is under the jurisdiction of the New Republic, so crime rates are low,” his modulated voice filled your ears once he caught up to you, “You’ll be on your own for this supply run.”

Stopping dead in your tracks, your shoes crunched against the brown substrate underneath them as you turned to face the man, “Really?” You asked, eyebrows shooting towards your hairline.

Mando responded with a hesitant nod. “I have some business to take care of, business that your presence isn’t required for,” the beskar pauldrons lifted and lowered in a shrug, “I figured you would enjoy having free range over the market.”

“Are you sure?” You replied.

He crossed his arms, the muscles in them appearing larger when pressed together. Mando’s helmet cocked to the side and his hip jutted out. The chin of his helmet lifted slightly as it motioned towards the market. “Go before I change my mind.”

Smile spread across your face, you did a hop of excitement in place and continued towards the market.

Trudging along to explore the unfamiliar marketplace, you recalled the previous supply run at a more populated planet.

—

Mando’s finger was perpetually hooked through one of your belt loops as he dragged you from stall to stall with him.

“Mando, I’m not a child,” you told him. Your eyes rolled as he tugged you along, your hips jerking along with the movement of his arm. Sometimes your hands wound up on Mando’s arm to maintain your balance. The muscles underneath your hands hardened and flexed as he maneuvered through the crowd.

“I never said you were,” he stated as his gaze remained focused on the crowd. His eyes constantly scanned the marketplace. Beings of different cultures and origins milled through the alleyway lined with stalls. The crowd of the market was average sized–no hustle and bustle but also no empty stalls. The occasional sound of credits clinking rang throughout the dry air as someone dug into their pocket to pay for their purchase.

You scanned the market just as Mando did, following his metal gaze to try and catch a glimpse at what he was seeing. “Are we in danger?” Your voice dropped to a whisper, uncertain about what’s going on inside that beskar helmet.

Deadpanning you once again, he responded, “Not that I am aware of.” The T-shape constantly spun on an axis, and the grip of his finger tightened on the fabric of your belt loop.

Brows furrowing, you finally turned your head fully towards him, “Then why are you doing all this?” You gestured with one of your hands up and down his body. His hand jerked to tug you along, your hip following in response.

A large inhale and exhale made his beskar-plated chest rise and fall, “I want to make sure yo-,” he paused, then quickly continued, “Just want to make sure we’re safe.” He nods. The one he gives you when he's confirming something you said. Like his approval of the items you listed to get on a supply run.

Which brings you back to now. Receiving that same nod made a series of connections go off in you. For the past week you’ve been thinking about what he said. His finger tugged your hips with him, his verbal slip-up found its way onto the center stage of your thoughts every night cycle on the Crest.

“I want to make sure yo-.”

It felt like a confirmation.

—

You started as an assistant, helping Mando with whatever he needed. Marketplace runs? Check. Bounty information? Check. Small ship repairs? Check. But, calling someone an assistant sounded…weird to Mando. He didn’t enjoy the air of subordinacy the word possessed. The Mandalorian thought back to his days with his fellow Mandalorians. The covert worked as a team, with no hierarchy. Sure, some people were assigned roles, but no one was above anyone else. Everyone was part of one unit.

You worked on a small, galactically insignificant planet at a small-items repair shop. Mando entered one day with a scope for one of his blasters. Impressed with your knowledge and efficiency–the scope being repaired in less than ten minutes–the Mandalorian inquired about the chances of hiring you. “Partner,” he said with a nod, when he offered you the job, “You’ll be my partner.”

You both met at a cantina after your shift. Mando explained job responsibilities, pay, and the lifestyle that the job required. Sitting across from the man covered in beskar was intimidating. But near the end of your conversation you realized he was just soft spoken. He was also all business. Any conversation was focused on logistics of the job. He didn’t ask you weird personal questions. He respected your skills and your opinions. There were definitely worse bosses to have, you figured. Eager to explore the galaxy and leave behind the little planet, you loaded the Crest with your personal belongings the following week.

Living in the Razor Crest with Mando was awkward at first. Mando would keep his interactions with you to a minimum. You noticed that he only left the cockpit when he knew you were occupied, asleep, or off of the ship. If he had to be in the same space as you, he would leave at least a meter of distance between your bodies. Like you were two magnets of the same polarity, refusing to go closer to the other.

All business.

But that didn’t stop you from being friendly. Whenever you did see Mando you would offer him a, “How are you?” Or a, “How was your day?” His responses were consistently short and to the point.

“Fine.”

“Busy.”

“Awful.”

Dinner was when you typically saw him. He would come down to grab a ration pack and scurry back into the cockpit. You also saw him when he returned from hunts, dragging the bounty behind his beskar frame. His grunts echoed throughout the Crest’s hull as he pulled the quarry up and froze him into carbonite. You claimed a small section of the hull as your living quarters, so you had no choice but to watch.

Trying to break the tension, you asked, “How was your day?”

Mando huffed, his broad shoulders covered in beskar lifted and fell, “Nothing you want to hear about,” he deadpanned to you. If he did offer any emotion, it was cut out of his voice by his helmet’s modulator.

“Try me,” you crossed your arms and raised your eyebrows. Leaning back on the cold wall of the hull, your chest thrummed with nervous energy as you waited for his response. Was that too much? Were you just going to push him away?

“Quarry tried to escape and they ran. Would have been back four hours ago,” the modulator gritted out, “Not too fun.” His helmet tilted to the side and he squeezed his hands together that were clasped in front of him.

The Mandalorian’s wide frame took up the majority of the door frame that separates the carbonite room from the hull. Large gloved hands remained clasped together while he shifted in place, eventually settling on leaning against the frame.

You stood still in shock for a couple seconds. If you listened closely you could have heard the hearts beating in the hull. That was the most that Mando has ever said to you at once. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you started.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he brushed past you towards the ladder going up to the cockpit, “It’s my job.”

You turned towards him, which halted his ascent, “That doesn’t mean it sucks any less,” your eyes widened and you tried to backtrack, “sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that your job sucks,” you blurted out in an attempt to save face.

Mando met your gaze with the T of his visor and replied, “My job does suck.”

Did he just try to be funny? A giggle bubbled out from your chest. His silver helmet shook slightly from side to side and he turned back to climb the ladder. But not before he also let out a small chuckle.

His attitude slowly and steadily transformed after that night.

Mando lingered in the hull longer in the mornings and in the evenings. The mornings were when you asked, “What’re the plans for today?” And the evenings came with your, “How was your day?”

At one point he started making you a cup of caf every morning when he was awake first, and he usually was. He knew you favored the drink in the mornings so he began to regularly purchase it, and he built up a sizable stash in the Crest.

His preferred distance from you shrunk and shrunk. The broad Mandalorian opted to stand next to you in the mornings, helping you make breakfast as well as he could. Ever-so-subtle brushes as you passed each other on the Crest became more frequent. Sometimes he would touch a hand to your waist as he passed, or on the small of your back if you weren’t facing him.

The beskar warrior spoke more too. He taught you a few words in Mando’a, which consisted of a couple basic words and some insults.

“Di’kutla,” he spat out as he struggled to repair a part on one of his blasters.

“What’s that one mean?” You asked over your shoulder, looking up from the article you were reading on your Holopad.

Mando huffed in frustration and gritted out, “worthless…stupid,” as he continued to try and force the part off of the blaster.

Chuckling, you repeated the word in your mind and watched as Mando continued to struggle. You stored all of the words he shared with you deep in your brain, not wanting to forget this special part of himself that Mando shared with you.

One of your evening chats came to an end and the broad beskar man was drifting back to this bunk. For the first time, he paused and looked at you. You knew his gaze underneath the helmet met yours. No proof, but you knew.

“Goodnight,” the word gently flowed through his helmet’s modulator.

He’s said it every night he’s been on the ship since then. Sometimes his gaze lingered on yours too long. A couple times you swore you saw the center of his chest rise, as if he was about to say something, but it stopped mid-exhale and Mando retreated into his bunk.

You found yourself to be increasingly longing for the sound of the ramp descending, signaling his return from a hunt. He trudged up the ramp, quarry in tow. Freezing the person in carbonite was always fast. Usually small pleasantries were exchanged before he used the fresher to clean off.

If your mind were to venture towards more perverse thoughts, your favorite part was after he used the fresher.

He always emerged in a pair of black pants, a black t-shirt, and of course, his helmet.

No armor. No gloves. Not even the usual long-sleeved layer underneath his t-shirt.

When he turned to toss his clothes into a small hamper, you swore small tufts of dark brown hair peaked out from beneath his helmet. Nevertheless, a combination of factors had you in awe. Watching as Mando hauled the quarry into carbonite like it was nothing. You saw the toned muscles in his arms, developed from decades of finely tuned combat. The broad expanse of his back, rippling underneath his t-shirt. His calloused, capable hands are composed of thick fingers. You were in awe at his physique, his presence, the things he did to provide for the both of you.

And it hit you like a cold, ocean wave just how unafraid of him you were.

As if your fondness towards the Mandalorian couldn’t grow any more, he started returning from supply runs with gifts for you. Although he rarely let you go on runs alone, he did have the decency to give you space during pit stops. You would wander near him while looking at all of the different crafts the stalls had to offer.

One day you were peering at a set of comfortable lounge pants. You managed to whittle your wardrobe down to one set after damaging pair after pair when repairing the Razor Crest. Shoulders slumped, you thought about how comfy the pants would be when sleeping in your makeshift bed on the floor of the Crest. You knew you didn’t have enough credits, so you moved along to purchase the items the pair of you actually needed.

Milling about the market weren’t many people, which was most likely why you were alone on this shopping trip. The brown sands of the marketplace intruded upon the surroundings, leaving dunes of sand curving up and into the stalls. Sun rays blared down from the cloudless sky. Heat already seeped through your airy shirt and throughout your skin, conjuring up a layer of sweat. After visiting four stalls you purchased all of the necessary items.

Bacta. Soap. Rations. Spare parts. You confirmed each purchase on the receipts from the market. A step you always took to make sure nothing was forgotten.

You met Mando back at the Razor Crest and started unloading your bags. Item after item piled on the center of the ship's floor. Rations. Bacta. Medkits. Sweatpants. Ammo. Ra-.

Sweatpants?

The sweatpants were identical to the ones you stopped and looked at while shopping. Your hands reached for the sweatpants and marveled in their softness. Pausing, your gaze lifted to meet Mando’s T-shaped visor. “Did you buy sweatpants?” Confusion oozed from your voice.

His gaze remained on yours and he replied with a slight nod of his head, “Yes. They’re for you.”

“Mando, you didn’t ha-”

“Take it. Please. I feel bad enough making you sleep on the floor,” he insisted. His gloved hand gestured to the sleeping pad, pillow, and blanket neatly stored in a corner of the hull.

“Honestly it hasn’t been that bad. The sleeping pad you got is pretty comfy.” You shrugged and told him the truth. Sleeping on that plush pad was infinitely better than the hull’s cold, metal floor.

“You have to set it up every night. You at least deserve a permanent bed,” his modulator made his words sound like churning gravel.

You stared into the black T covering his face. His shoulders drooped, like he gave up on trying to convince you. The gesture was a silent plea to just accept the gift.

“Thank you,” you said to him softly, “it means a lot.”

It was his turn to shrug, “That’s why I do it.”

—

Today marks a year since the two of you became “partners”.

For you, that marked a year since you’ve met the man you had a heart throbbing crush on.

You knew Mando wasn’t much of the sentimental type. Everything he kept was for a purpose. Any sentimental things had extreme meaning to him. If you were reading the situation correctly, you had a burning suspicion that the beskar covered man liked you back. So suggesting you two get matching bracelets at the market wouldn’t be completely farfetched. Even if he didn’t like you back you could just play it off as a gag gift…right?

After trudging across the brown landscape for twenty minutes, Mando at your tail, you arrived at the market.

“We meet at that stall,” you heard from over your shoulder. Your eyes followed Mando’s finger to a bright red food vendor stall, “in 2 hours. Understood?”

A smile plastered itself onto your face and you gave him a sarcastic salute, “Understood.”

A breathy chuckle passed through Mando’s modulator. He shook his head softly and motioned for you to get a move on. You turned on your heel and walked to your first destination.

—

Bacta? Check. Rations? Check. Soap? Check. Medkits? Check.

The only thing left was a new flight suit for Mando.

As you walked towards the clothing section of the market you stopped at a men’s clothing stall to purchase an extra large black flight suit. Once your transaction was completed you walked further into the alleyway lined with stalls selling dresses, flight gear, loungewear, jewelry, bracelets. Bracelets.

Your eyes landed on a stall with various fabrics on display. The front tables of the vendor were packed with different colored bracelets. Bracelet materials ranged from metal, leather, twine, thick cord, beads, and some materials you’ve never seen before.

The stall became even more enchanting as you got closer. Signs displayed prices, sizes, and ongoing sales. Immediately your eyes landed on a vast array of multicolored bracelets. You were thinking of getting something green since Mando told you that Grogu is green.

A couple months ago he told you about how he had to give Grogu to a Jedi to train, since Grogu could use the force. Your heart sank. Mando often turned the metal knob of the thruster–a silver ball–over and over in his hand. He only told you recently that it was Grogu’s favorite thing to steal from him.

Your eyes danced over the section of green bracelets. Some were too dark, some too vibrant, others were just ugly. Finally, your gaze landed on the bracelet.

A fine, light green thread, you assumed somewhat close to Grogu’s color, was intertwined with thicker silver and brown threads. Light green and silver streaked across the rough brown surface of the bracelet. It reminded you of light streaking across the windshield of the Crest while in hyperspace.

This was the one.

Sifting through the different sizes you picked out one in your size and one you guessed would fit Mando. The bracelets were adjustable and hopefully that would help if you got Mando the wrong size. Setting the bracelets down to sift through your pockets for credits, you looked up at a weathered sign displaying the prices.

PRICES

1 bracelet = 15 credits

2 = 30 credits

3 = 45 credits

4 = 60 credits

As you reached into your pockets and retrieved your last credits you realized you didn’t have enough. Only twenty five credits sat in your palm. Not in the mood to haggle with the vendor about the price, your shoulders dropped and you returned the bracelets to their original places.

You checked your watch. One hour left until you met back up with Mando. Making it from one end of the market to the other took forty five minutes, so you figured you could take the scenic route back to the meet up point. Getting to see the new sights could cheer you up after not being able to afford the gift you wanted to get for Mando.

Walking up on a familiar intersection, you opted to take a right this time instead of a left. The path on the right was much more…interesting…than the path on the left. One vendor sold exotic pets. The next sold potions that promised to give the consumer various effects. The next stall was not a stall, it was a large establishment.

The establishment stood tall amongst the surrounding stalls. Solid brick walls were painted a dull gray. A sign with old, faded letters was centered on the front wall between two windows. The tall windows of the building were heavily tinted. Shadows of different figures danced across the glass. Some bodies were indistinguishable from the ones they were next to. Music blared from inside, but it barely covered the sounds of moans and the slapping of skin on skin.

Looking up, front and center on the building reads: BROTHEL

Brothels weren’t a common occurrence on the supply runs you’ve been on, but you suppose the service was in demand. You shrugged and walked past the gray building. The moving bodies in the windows almost allowed your vision to gloss over him.

Tall. Broad. Covered in beskar. A black T shaped visor gazing down at a man.

At first you froze in shock. Was this the business Mando had to attend to? The one that, “didn’t require your presence”? You never pictured the Mandalorian to be a man that required services like these, but he is a man nonetheless.

A soft breeze sent goosebumps down your arms towards your fingertips. Realizing you’re out in the open, you ducked into an empty market stall. A gap in the wood planks making up the stall’s sides gave you a clear view of Mando’s encounter with the mystery man.

The man was in all black with a silver name tag on his chest. By Mando’s serious demeanor you could tell that the conversation was strictly business. The Mandalorian’s helmet tilted in question at the man and Mando pulled out a pen and pad to write on. From the man’s stance and close position to the building you could tell he was the bouncer, plus the presence of a name tag.

The bouncer pulled out an identical pad and began to speak. You couldn’t hear a word they exchanged, but you could tell Mando was writing down a list. A finger on the bouncer’s hand came up everytime he stated something else from his list. Mando jotted down a few things, closed his pad, and returned it to a pocket in his suit.

Then he reached into a different pocket, pulled out a sizable amount of credits, and handed them to the bouncer.

Did he just buy a night at the brothel?

Your heart dropped to your stomach. Blood rushed towards your head and your vision slightly blurred. You felt stupid. You fell for a guy, pretty much your boss, you don’t even know what he looks like, and he didn’t like you back. You were even going to buy you and him matching bracelets. Breaths exited your mouth in stutters. The realization of how naive you were radiated throughout your being. Mando was just being nice to you. He managed to warm up to you. That’s it.

But you were also so confused. What were the fleeting touches in the Crest? The gifts he gave you after trips to the market? The early morning and late evening conversations? Feelings bubbled up from your stomach and started to seep out of your body in the form of tears.

You spent a year getting to know this man. Kriff, it took you a couple months before he started replying to you in full sentences. No one else has experienced Mando like this. You didn’t want anyone else to see his ungloved hands, the rolling muscles of his back in just a t-shirt, the way the helmet softly shook from side to side when he heard a bad joke. Those small, “Goodnight”s, are yours. The modulated chuckles are yours. The way he makes a cup of caf for you on most mornings. That’s yours.

Of course Mando wasn’t yours, but jealousy managed to seep into your bones regardless.

Zoning back into the situation, you realized Mando started walking back in the direction towards the meet up point. Scrambling to get to your feet, you jumped over the wall of the empty stall and made your way back

—

Upon seeing the size of the bag you carried, Mando slipped it from your grasp and into his. He stuffed a small piece of paper, a receipt, into the bag before swinging it onto his shoulder.

The walk back to the Razor Crest lacked conversation. Sounds of crunching ground underneath your shoes echoed in your ears. Mando followed your lead and kept the trek speechless.

The Razor Crest steadily became larger and larger on the horizon. Once orange, brown, and red mountain ranges were now painted in hues of pink and purple. Colors of the rocky formations reflected off of the Razor Crest.

You bounded up the ramp as soon as it was lowered. Mando followed suit and began to empty the bag of its contents. Each item fell onto the middle of the hull’s floor.

Bacta. Medkits. Flight suit. Soap. Rations.

The beskar man dug around in the bag for a second more and retrieved a handful of receipts.

“Here,” he said as he handed them to you, “I know you like to look them over.”

Your stomach flipped at the thoughtfulness. Reaching your hand out, his gloveless fingers brushed yours in the handing off of the receipts. After they were straightened out you began to look through them.

First receipt, bacta and medkits.

Second receipt, rations and soap.

Third receipt, flight suit.

Fourth receipt.

Wait. Fourth receipt?

Your eyes scanned the lines of the flimsy paper. The date was from today, so it wasn’t old. But you didn’t visit the vendor listed on the receipt. Pupils skipping a few lines, you read the items purchased.

ITEMS PURCHASED (1)

CONDOM - 12 PACK

For the second time today you froze. Blood rushed up towards your head as your vision blurred.

He really just bought a night with a worker at the brothel.

From the little details you had, you tried to make sense of the scene you stumbled across earlier in the night. Mando talked to the bouncer, probably asked who was working that night, wrote down the workers he was interested in, and paid for a night with one of them. I mean, what else could you possibly be talking with a brothel bouncer about? The weather?

Good thing you didn’t buy those bracelets.

PART TWO

#pedro pascal #din djarin fanfic #din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fluff #din djarin smut #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #din x reader #mando fanfic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando x reader #mando smut #mando fluff #supply run #thepascalofus #thepascalofus fic

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rarepears · 9 months

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Give me an AU where the Winter Soldier is thrown into Star Wars and he latches onto Obi-Wan Kenobi as his handler.

Obi Wan makes the mistake (plus some miscommunication) of telling the Winter Soldier that the mission is to identify and eliminate the Sith in the Senate. But really, that's what he gets for underestimating people who don't have the force and letting Palpatine get some nice private meetings with this oh so interesting person who claims to be from another world. So is it really that surprising to find the Winter Soldier dragging a dead Palpatine with yellow eyes a couple weeks later?

Worse? Winter Soldier has a metal arm. Just a metal arm. An arm that looks very different from the usual Star Wars prosthetics. One could even see it as an exchanged vambrace done in the Mandalorian marriage way...

#star wars #star wars ideas #obiwan kenobi #winter soldier #bucky barnes #jedi order #clone wars #marvel #mcu #Winter Soldier is thrown into Star Wars AU

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moondirti · 2 years

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all the ways i can have you

pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 1.3k summary: he's hooked on making you feel good. warnings: naked female clothed male, edging, overstimulation, fingering, pussy slapping, squirting, unprotected p-in-v, blowjobs, hickeys, biting, cunnilingus, rimming, face sitting, this is so filthy don't look at me. notes: here's a little thirst i wrote in my down time. It's not affiliated with The Remedy in any way; i just really needed to get all my thoughts about our favourite beskar man out tbh because the slow burn with those two is killing me

The Mandalorian is absolutely filthy.

It’s not something you expect. He’s awkward at the best of times – pointedly avoiding any possibility of social interaction by the drawing of his blaster or an elongated silence. Honestly, for the first few months that you’d known him, you actually thought he hated you. Sure, you were never the unfortunate soul skewered onto his spear, nor had he ever threatened to throw you into his carbonite freezer, but he always had a handy excuse at the ready when you tried to make conversation. It was torture until you learnt not to take it personally; you figured he was probably used to being alone, and that’s no fault of yours. His lack of social skills could not be your burden to bear. So, eventually, when he gave nothing but a grunt to your occasional bizarre musing, you’d simply shrug it off and go back to playing with the kid.

In hindsight, maybe you should have picked at the source of his reticence. It certainly wouldn’t have taken you as long to get to this point if you had. Because now, it occurs to you that he’d probably been so tense from withholding the desires that the two of you, in fact, shared.

It seems so obvious once the dam had lifted, but keen deduction has never been your strong suit.

Back to the point, though. Mando is beyond borderline obscene once you manage to tease it out of him. Truly, he’d have never instigated things had you not been so uninhibited. But when his resolve shatters, it’s like his mind goes into overdrive of all the things he’d do to you. You actually think that, if given the opportunity, he’d lay you out for days on end to enact every fantasy he has. Because life has its way of intruding, though, he settles for the in-betweens of your day to day, taking you in the small gaps where it can just be the two of you.

You think he’s wild when he edges you the first time, his gloved hand palming your front while you stand in nothing but your towel. This is on you, he said, you little tease. It’s deliciously painful; his fingers find your clit with practised ease and he presses down on it, rubbing you in small, tight circles. With the way his hardened body presses into you from behind, clad fully in his armour – a stark contrast to your exposed frame – and his rough praise meets your ear, you almost cum from the miniature ministration alone. But he recognises what your quickening pants mean; he sees how your back arches into him like you’re trying to match the overwhelming pleasure his hands administer, and he pulls away at the last second, fingers returning only to give a sharp smack to your cunt. And of course it echoes – you’re soaked, for Maker’s sake – which only serves to make him repeat the action again and again until you’ve significantly darkened in shade.

By the time you’re on the brink of collapse, Mando has you sitting between his legs, back to his chest, one leg hooked over a strong arm while you sob your pleas into the empty space of the hull. He fingers you fast and rough, delighting in your high-pitched wails and whiney begs, and forces your first orgasm out of you with an expert quirk of his fingers. It’s torturous relief, like white hot embers dancing upon frozen skin, and your vision blurs as you gush over his vambrace. But he doesn’t let up; he continues drawing them from your sopping core, turning in a complete 180 to overstimulate you until you literally have nothing else to give.

He manages to serve you in a way no one ever has before – you're a complete, quivering mess by the end – so, you assume that’s the extent of it. But time with Mando proved that was the least he can come up with.

He revels in spreading your legs whenever he gets the chance, taking his time to pull your glistening lips apart and absorb the sight of your clenching hole. He says it amazes him – how such a tight thing is able to stretch over his length – then promptly digs his cock from within the confines of his pants. You find yourself agreeing with the wonder of how it fits; it’s by far the biggest you’ve taken – thick with throbbing veins that weave up to an angry, leaking tip – but his thumbs always dance in reassuring circles along your inner thighs when he presses it against you. And when he pushes in, you forget all about your worries, because the stretch is divine. Mando absolutely fills you up to the brink, the ridges of him catching along your inner walls, and he pounds into you with reckless abandon, like a man starved. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough as he reaches those hidden parts of you – that spongy tissue at the front, the wall of your cervix – and the sensation becomes absolutely addictive. You go cock-dumb without fail, drooling, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and you think he might disappear someplace else as well, with the way his words pour unfiltered. Good girl. Beautiful. So fucking tight. Cum for me, I want to feel you. He turns reverent when he gets you this way, awkward fronts be damned.

Funnily enough, he’s too impatient for you to go down on him. In the rare moments he forfeits, he has to hold himself back from pulling you up so he can just fuck you already. It’s not that you aren’t good at it, either – no, your tongue is enough to drive the strongest of men wild – but he just… doesn’t put as much priority in his pleasure as yours. It’s something different with you entirely. He doesn’t see sex as a means to relieve his mounting tensions, it’s not the same exchange he’s found in all those brothels. With you, Mando is overcome with the unshakeable urge to wring out every pleasure imaginable. He’s obsessed with the plump of your lips and the folds of your flesh. He dreams of every single part of you everywhere – under his hands, between his legs, in his mouth.

So, he takes off his helmet to put his lips on yours. And you, who’s naive enough to again suppose that the last, world-ending orgasm was the scope of what he could do, experience it as he transforms into something else entirely.

His kisses leave no area untouched. They find your neck, tightening as he sucks purple hickeys onto your skin, then pepper down to your chest, where he pecks your pebbled nipples and bites the swollen tissue underneath. Mando leaves a trail of spit and welts in his venture, and you moan under the calamity, combing through his soft curls with shaky fingers. And when he finds you soaked through your panties, your nails dig into his scalp, your tummy flushing with slight embarrassment. The pain sparks something in him, it seems, because he pushes your thighs up with a renewed vigour so he can press his nose onto your clothed cunt. My favourite, he groans between long inhales, before he rips off the cotton barrier that separates his tongue from your clit.

Mando eats you out like he’d rather be doing nothing else. He doesn’t. It’s his favourite pastime, solely for the way you mewl and squirm underneath him. He licks, sucks, drinks from you, uncovering every patch of skin with his warm tongue, which flicks over your bud until you cry and drives into you to collect the subsequent nectar. He spreads you on the floor like a meal, dominating in every way. He kneels before you on a chair, open as you rub his stubble into you. He even insists that you sit on his face: ‘I need to taste you more than I do air.’ You have no reason to doubt it, though. He fucks into his fist when you grind down on his chin, his free hand directing you forward until he can lap at your asshole as well. Mando wants you surging, spilling onto him; crying out his name, his real name, which he whispers to you as you come down from his onslaught.

Din, he beams. To you, mesh’la, it’s Din.

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supersaiyanjedi14 · 1 month

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Artwork I commissioned from @rainbow-zebra-art of my Sabezra fankids, Brycan and Mazal Wren-Bridger! Thank you so much for this, RZ!

As a reminder for anyone interested, these two exist in my personal Star Wars AU, which is a hybrid of the Legends EU, Disney Canon, and other SW properties I want to squeeze in. I'll put some more specific stuff about them under the cut.

BRYCAN WREN-BRIDGER

Brycan was born on Krownest in 10 ABY, growing up in the immediate aftermath of the Thrawn Campaign. He grows up as a close friend of Jacen, Jaina and Anakin Solo, while also being super close to his "uncles" Kanan and Zeb and "aunts" Hera and Ketsu. Brycan is a kind and friendly boy who nontheless has a sarcastic streak rivaling his parents, and his passion for athletics and martial arts serves him well in his Mandalorian upbringing and Jedi training. Unsurprisingly, Brycan still grows up with a good deal of pressure, what with being descended from two cultural factions known for conflict with each other and being the child of two prominent war heroes. Determined to live up to his heritage while also stepping out of his parents' shadows, Brycan becomes a passionate Mandalorian warrior before enrolling in Luke Skywalker's Jedi Paraxeum on Yavin 4 at age 14. He does struggle to reconcile the contradictory aspects of the Mandalorians and the Jedi, but he does eventually learn to form a good balance with the help of his parents and Din Djarin.

The Yuuzhan Vong War puts Brycan though the biggest wringer yet, as the horrors of war cost him multiple friends and his mother is grievously wounded shortly after giving birth to his sister Mazal. He is roped into a faction of more militant Mandalorian crusaders who encourage him to give into his passions and pain, leading to a tense conflict with his father and a personal vendetta with the Vong commander Nas Choka. However, Ezra manages to save his son from falling down the dark path, and he rejects the hollow promises of revenge. He finally comes into his own as a Jedi Knight by wars' end, priding himself as a credit to his forebearers as a true Mandalorian Jedi.

Other notes:

-Brycan built his lightsaber in imitation of designs favored during the High Republic, featuring a physical crossguard below the emitter. Reflecting his mixture of Jedi and Mandalorian tradition, the crossguard is composed of solid beskar while his kyber crystal is an Adegan sapphire.

-Brycan is one of the most accomplished lightsaber duelists of his generation, mastering both the Shien and Djem-So sides of Form V as well as boasting a comprehensive academic understanding of numerous martial arts from across the galaxy. Thouhg he favors his lightsaber, he always wears a Mandalorian vambrace wherever he goes, loaded with a Dur-24 wrist laser, a fibercord whip, a portable energy shield, and whistling birds.

-Brycan's strength in the Force is easily comparable to his dad, though he appropriately focuses on the more physical aspects of his power. He's not as advanced a telepath as Ezra, but he compensates by being an awesome telekinetic and taking up a special interest in energy diffusion.

-While not as vibrant as his mom, he still inherited Sabine's artistic skill, particularly as a sketch artist. He can produce a nearly flawless rendering of someone in a heartbeat and has a talent for hand-drawn maps and starcharts. He occasionally cooks up new designs for his mom to try out.

-His best friend is Han and Leia's daughter Jaina, both of their natural fighting instincts feeding their desire to test and improve themselves. Sparring together is their favorite pastime, where they have traded wins and losses over the years.

-While a combat-oriented Jedi raised as a Mandalorian does raise some immediate assumptions, Brycan's passion for fighting is not as a blood sport. He sees it as a way of expression of his spirit, and he puts it to use for the good of others. He lives by the Form V maxim of "peace through superior firepower", wielding his skill to strike out at injustice and protect the innocent, not to flaunt his power. He doesn't go looking to pick a fight, but if fighting needs to be done, he is razor-keen and committed.

-Teenage rebellion and war trauma aside, he loves his parents more than anything in the world and adores his younger sister Mazal.

-Despite lacking Ezra's strong affinity for animals, Brycan does owns a Loth-wolf he rescued as a cub named Beskad (the mando'a word for "sword"). The two are nearly inseparable, though his efforts to mold Beskad into an oversized hunting dog have had minimal success.

MAZAL WREN-BRIDGER

Mazal was born on Mandalore in 26 ABY during the height of the Yuuzhan Vong invasion. Growing up in the shadow of the conflict, Mazal resolved to do her part to help put the galaxy back together after being nearly ripped apart. Like her older brother, Mazal initially wanted to become a powerful Mandalorian Jedi warrior, joining in the battles and adventures. However, this was shattered when she went on her first serious combat mission, helping in an effort to subdue a combine of pirates seeking to exploit the post-war chaos on Carlac. The mission ended in a horrific disaster, with the strike team being decimated in an ambush and narrowly escaping back to GA space. Traumatized by her experiences, Mazal found her previous passion lost, even considering turning in her lightsaber and throwing out her armor so as to never be stained by that violence again. Fortunately, Mazal received much-needed counseling from both Jedi Healers and more mundane therapists, and Sabine helped her daughter rediscover her calling. Feeling that the galaxy needed healing hands far more than warriors, Mazal was drawn to the ideals of the late Duchess Satine Kryze, seeing the value of promoting peace over the use of force. Taking up the path of a Jedi Healer and joining the reformed Mandalorian Protectors, Mazal channeled her passion into humanitarian aid, traveling the galaxy to help pick up the pieces of disaster and conflict. In a way, she does manage to become just as much of a Mandalorian Jedi as Brycan, albeit one dedicated to the higher calling of the Force and the more grounded tenents of the Resol'nare.

Other notes:

-"Mazal" is a Hebrew name meaning "good fortune". I chose this to fit a naming theme with her father Ezra as well as to reflect the safety of her birth given Sabine's injuries soon afterward.

-Despite no longer being a dedicated fighter, Mazal still keeps up on her training. She may not like fighting, but if the people she's helping need a lightsaber to protect them or Mandalorian armor to shield them, she won't hesitate to use it.

-Powerful in her own right, Mazal's Force abilities manifest strongest in her advanced skill in the healing arts, directly studying under Master Cilghal at the Jedi Academy. She also shares her father's sense-based aptitude, focusing on life-detection and projective telepathy to aid in her relief work.

-Unlike Brycan, Mazal is just as much of an artist as Sabine, constantly redecorating her room with new paintings and sketches. Her hair is her most common canvas, rarely going a month with the same dye job.

-Mazal is a self-professed daddy's girl; not even the Force can get Ezra to say no to her. At the same time, possibly as a result of having come so close to losing her and her mother, Ezra is almost overprotective of her, and was beside himself when she came home shell-shocked from Carlac. Sabine grows closer to her during her recovery period, and their time painting together played a big part in getting her back on her feet.

-She gets along well with Ben Skywalker, both being close to each other during their training. Outside of her family, Ben's the one she can confide in the most.

-Mazal is bi and dates Zay Versio as a teenager.

Feel free to ask me more about these two!

#star wars #star wars rebels #star wars au #sabezra #sabezra fankids #ezra bridger #sabine wren #oc brycan #oc mazal #rainbow zebra art

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dindjarindiaries · 8 months

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Bloodlust (Part Nine)

summary: You and Din return to Boba Fett’s palace and to your normal lives, adjusting to the new but pleasant change this job has given you.

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

warnings: mild smut, strong language, fluff, sexual references, food & depictions of eating

rating: M

word count: 4.485k

masterlist ⟹ part one

You look up from where you’ve been tying off your boot to watch as Din puts on his last piece of beskar—aside from his helmet. He’s testing all the pieces now, gently rotating his vambraces and easing each weapon into its appropriate place. The smile tugging at your lips is instinctive, especially after going so long without seeing him in his armor.

Sure, it’s covering up a tempting view, but if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s just as alluring on its own. For a moment, you study his shoulder pauldron and remember his wound underneath it, but the memory of you wrapping it just an hour or so ago brings a wave of relief. Hopefully, the weight of the metal isn’t too much on the blaster burn.

Din catches your eye from the hold, the corners of his mouth also tugging upward in a smile as he makes his way over to you. His gloved hand rises to your chin as you remain seated in your chair. His sparkling brown gaze reflects the blue lights of hyperspace as he searches your eyes.

You speak up before he has the chance to. “You were right.”

Din lifts an eyebrow. “That’s nothing new.” The amusement in his tone makes you huff as the furrow in his brow becomes more serious. “But what did I get right this time?”

Your hand covers his vambrace and runs along the metal. You remain cautious, so as to not accidentally activate any weapons, and let your fingertips trace and dips and curves in the hand-crafted metal. “You’re just as beautiful with your beskar on.”

Din’s gaze softens, his cheeks turning a light shade of red. “Beautiful?” You hum and nod. Din shrugs and looks away, his jaw circling in shyness. “I… don’t remember saying that.”

“It was something along those lines.” You’re the one who reaches for his face now, and you hold it as you urge him to look at you again. “I added my own twist to it.”

Din’s gloved hands gently hold your wrists. “Yeah?”

You slowly blink at him and nod. “Yeah.”

One of Din’s hands slides to the back of your neck, urging the two of you closer together until his mouth’s on yours. The kiss is slow and passionate, taking its time as if the ship won’t drop out of hyperspace at any moment. He tilts your head back more to deepen it, his mouth feeling every inch of your own like he’s savoring it. You’re just as eager and hungry for him, knowing that once your ship’s on dry land, Din’s helmet will keep you from seeking what you’ve been able to have freely this past week.

The two of you only pull apart when your lungs begin to burn for air. Din’s forehead rests against your own, his eyes still closed as he chuckles to himself. “I remember now.” His voice is rough from his lack of air, but his tone is soft. “I thought I’d be bolder in my armor.” Din opens his eyes and raises his brow. “Turns out it’s you who’s bolder with my armor on.”

You shrug and laugh. “We’ll see once that helmet goes on.”

“Right.” Din lifts his head from yours, though the movement is slow, as if he’s pushing against an invisible force to separate himself from you. He finds the helmet that sits in the hold and tightens his jaw. “I never thought I’d want to keep it off.”

You find his gloved hands and thread your fingers through his. “Well, a lot’s changed in the past week.”

Din’s gaze finds yours again. He tilts his head and gives it a shake. “No, nothing’s changed.” He steps close enough to press a kiss to your forehead. “The truth’s just finally come out.”

You beam and shake your head in shyness. Din walks back towards the hold and you stand from your chair to follow him. He takes his helmet between his hands and faces you. His brown eyes instantly give you a once-over, and you do the same to yourself. The corners of your mouth curl up in a devious smile. “Really?”

Din blinks a few times, snapping himself out of a daze. “What?”

You cross your arms and shift your weight to one hip. “After all those revealing outfits I had to wear this week, and it’s my tactical gear that does it for you?”

Din tucks his helmet under one arm and raises his free hand towards you. “Hey.” He gestures to himself. “Did you not just do the same to me?”

You fight the urge to smile. “That’s different.”

Din chuckles. “No, cyar’ika, it’s not.”

You relax again and blink at him sweetly, closing the distance between you and setting a hand on his cuirass. “Are you telling me ‘no,’ my love?”

Din takes a visible and audible deep breath, his jaw flexing in his private struggle. He lifts his helmet towards his head. “You’re lucky I’m more stubborn than you.” Din lowers the beskar over his head, concealing his face from view for the first time since your mission began a week ago.

Despite losing the view of his face, you can’t help beaming at the familiar look of his helmet. Din’s certainly a handsome man underneath the metal, but it was this look that you fell in love with long ago. Your hands hold his beskar face as you urge the metal to kiss your forehead.

Din’s hands hold your elbows. “I guess you’re okay with this view, too?” His modulated voice sends a sweet rush of nostalgia through you.

You nod. “More than okay.” You press a kiss to the T-shape of his visor. Din gives your elbows a gentle squeeze in silent response. “The voice is a plus.”

Din chuckles at that. His gloved fingers slide up your arms, beginning a gentle exploration over your shoulders and down your sides. “Is that what does it for you?”

You don’t break your gaze with his visor. “It always has.”

Din hums, the sound crackling through his modulator. “If your mouth wasn’t so tempting,” he lifts a hand to run his thumb over your lips, “I’d have a suggestion to make.”

Your brow lifts as a familiar knot ties low in your stomach. “I’m still listening.”

As if the galaxy’s plotted against you, the ship drops out of hyperspace. Din tilts his helmet and pats your cheek with his hand. “Another time.”

You exhale to push the frustration aside before you and Din head back to your seats in the cockpit. As Din lowers the ship towards what’s now Boba Fett’s palace, you can’t help smiling to yourself at the memory of your first descent a week ago. It feels like eons ago, but at the same time, it feels like no time’s passed at all. If only you had known then what you know now.

Once you fully land inside Boba’s hangar, Din powers down the ship and stands. He waits for you to do the same, his gloved hand finding your lower back the same way it has this entire week—as if Din doesn’t even have to think about making the motion. “Ready?”

You nod at him, beaming endlessly as he walks forward and takes both your packed bags in his arms. The two of you are instantly met by Boba and Fennec, similarly to your first arrival a few days ago, and your smile gets bigger.

Seeing them again lets the normalcy of your life before this job sets in. For as many good things as you got out of this job, you got just as many that were bad, and having a reminder of your normal life is nothing short of relieving. You and Din had certainly made the most of it, but now you can have all the good things you want: the familiar grittiness of your day-to-day life spent right by Din’s side.

“There they are.” Boba’s voice is a warm announcement as he opens his arms towards the two of you. “I was beginning to think you may never come back.”

You laugh at that, fighting any embarrassment the best you can. You’re suddenly jealous Din’s helmet hides his own for him. “I mean, the luxury of it all was nice,” you respond.

“Well, it sounds like you two fit right in.” Fennec smiles, a knowing expression painted on her face, as two of Boba’s staff—including the same Twi’lek woman who had helped you before—step forward to take the bags from Din.

“Thank you for your help.” Boba nods in respect. “What you’ve done for us is invaluable.”

“No need.” Din nods back. “As I said before, you helped us to get the kid back.” Din shifts his weight, and this time, it’s even harder to resist comforting him. “We’ll always be at your disposal.”

Boba offers one more nod to acknowledge his words. “I believe this calls for celebration, then.” He gestures with his arm behind him. “Follow me.”

Boba and Fennec lead the way up to the throne room. As you walk, you glance up at Din, your worry for him still instilled in you as you bring yourself close enough to his side to whisper to him. “Are you okay?”

Din turns his helmet to look at you. “Yeah.” His hand finds your lower back again, his helmet tilting at you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You give him a once-over, hesitant to make him more upset. “Grogu.”

Din’s armored chest stalls for a moment, but he taps your back in reassurance anyway. “We can talk about it later.” His thumb runs over your back, and despite the layers of your tactical gear, you can feel the motion as if it was right upon your skin. “But don’t be worried. I’m all right.”

You search his visor the best you can. “Promise?”

Din nods dutifully. “Promise.”

You nod, content to believe him for now as you face the way ahead again. Din’s hand falls from your back, and as reluctant as you are to no longer feel his touch, you know it’s the best thing to do in this situation. You’re not the least bit ashamed of your relationship with Din, but the last thing you need to do is flaunt it.

When you arrive at the throne room, there’s already a lavish table set up with a massive feast, certainly more than the four of you could ever dream of consuming in one sitting. You huff as you take your place next to Din at the table. “Looks like we’re not done with luxury just yet.”

“It’s the least we can do to thank you.” Boba removes his helmet and smiles with appreciation. He hesitates as he looks at Din. “I know a feast may be a bit of an obstacle, but…”

“That’s all right.” You wire your jaw shut to keep it from dropping when Din lifts his helmet off his head. “One more meal won’t hurt.”

Boba and Fennec share a look, but you can only notice it out of your periphery. You can’t stop staring at Din, as if his face wasn’t just exposed to you a matter of minutes ago. He raises his brow with amusement at you.

Shit. If he’s doing this on purpose, he won’t hear the end of it later.

“In that case…” Boba takes a breath and nods towards the table. “Take your pickings, as much as you’d like.”

You manage to pry your gaze away from Din’s to face Boba with a small smile. “Thank you.” You focus on your food as you load up your plate. The heavy weight of Din’s bare gaze is like a thermal heat source, and every time he glances your way, you can feel the warmth of it on your skin.

It’s purposeful, then.

You only look up at him when you’re finishing a ronto kebab, pulling the perfectly roasted meat and flora from the stick with your teeth as your gaze never once strays from his. Din’s jaw visibly tightens as he finally looks away, but it’s not the heartiness of the meal that’s made Din’s face flush. You smile to yourself in victory—but it’s come at the cost of the knot in your stomach returning.

“So,” Fennec begins, using a tone that sends you into alert as you stop what you’re doing and look at her. “You two were truly the talk of the town during this retreat.” She kicks her legs up on the table and takes another bite of her bantha leg. “How’d you do it?”

You watch Din’s brow crease at her question. “What do you mean?”

“How should I put it?” Fennec shares a mischievous look with Boba and shrugs. “You were the ‘it’ couple.” You look down at your food and control your expression the most you can. “All our sources confirmed this.”

Din answers without being fazed. “We were new faces.” He takes a sip of his drink and returns Fennec’s shrug. “That’s what happens in those circles. They always want to know more about the people they know the least.”

“That’s true.” Fennec smiles to herself. “We didn’t realize you two worked so well together.”

Working well together is a damn understatement, but you stop that line of thinking before it can bring on memories that are too dangerous to share in a place such as this. Din looks at you, and you nod at him before looking at Fennec. “Well, we’ve been partners for a long time now.”

“Ah, yes.” Boba’s the one who speaks up now, leaning back in his chair as he looks at Fennec. “I wonder how well we would’ve fared if it were us.”

Fennec tilts her head. “Not nearly as well as them.”

Din exhales gently. “Performances aside,” he cuts his gaze over to you, “let’s make sure the business side is all clear.”

“Certainly.” Boba crosses his arms and nods at Din. “Your intel has already proven to be very helpful. I hadn’t been aware the Hutt twins were… well, let’s just say displeased with my new position.”

“We’ve strengthened our fortifications,” Fennec adds. “Thanks to your warning, we’re now prepared for any kind of force they might try to send our way.”

Din nods at that. “Good. I’m glad we were of use to you.”

Boba and Fennec exchange a look before Boba speaks again. “We were, however, curious as to what your ‘unfinished business’ was.”

Din furrows his brow. “Pardon?”

Boba’s gaze slides over to you. “The last time we were in contact, you referenced some ‘unfinished business.’”

You scoff and take a long sip from your drink. “Let’s just say being the ‘it’ couple wasn’t ideal.”

“I see.” Boba’s brow lifts in genuine concern. “I do apologize for any hardships this job may have caused.”

Din shakes his head. “Don’t worry.” He steals one quick glance at you. “It all worked out.”

You have to sip your drink again to hide your smile. You don’t miss the smile Fennec earns as she, unsurprisingly, catches on to the unspoken message. “I’m sure it had its advantages. I mean, the Cantonican Sea is an infamous place of luxury.” She crosses her arms and smiles wider. “Did you enjoy swimming?”

You nearly spit out the drink you haven’t swallowed yet, but you maintain your composure just as you’d trained yourself to do all week. Even Din has to take a break to look at his plate as he shrugs. “We… weren’t focused on recreation, swimming included.”

“Understandable, and appreciated.” Fennec lifts her cup and toasts it in your direction. “I just heard some whispers about you two and water, so… I wasn’t sure.”

You and Din share a sly look. It takes everything in you not to burst out laughing. Once the memory of your kiss in the water washes over you, though, the last thing you feel is amusement. You cross your legs and take another sip of your drink. “Well,” you begin once you’ve swallowed your drink, “like he said, we weren’t really focused on recreation, but we did have to enter the water to keep up our act.”

“Yes, of course.” Boba answers this time, nodding to emphasize his understanding.

“And you’re right, Fennec.” You don’t look at Din, trying not to make it too obvious for them to figure out, but you do enjoy watching him shift in his chair as you go on. “The waters were simply luxurious.”

Fennec hides her smile with her cup. “I can imagine.”

“All in all, it really was a nice little vacation.” You gesture with your head over to Din. “And we got shit done.” You raise your drink. “Looks like it was a win for everyone.”

“Indeed,” Boba agrees as everyone lifts their drinks with you. The toast ends, and as soon as you and Din both clearly prepare to depart—with Din having slid his helmet on once again—the Twi’lek woman from before enters the throne room in a rush.

“Lord Fett,” she announces, cutting a nervous glance at you and Din, “something’s missing from each of the bags.”

You go stiff at Din’s side, your thumb circling the ring that’s still around your finger. Boba just looks at the two of you with a hardly concealed smile. “I know.” He lifts a reassuring hand in her direction. “That’s all right.”

The Twi’lek offers him a confused look, but she steps away anyway. You and Din glance at each other, and the smile that overtakes your lips cannot be stopped.

“Well,” Boba sighs, despite the smile on his own lips, “enjoy your nuptials.” He gestures with both hands to you and Din. “Consider those a gift for the occasion.”

Din just nods at his friend in gratitude, likely too embarrassed about being caught to say anything. You just chuckle and join him in wishing Boba and Fennec a proper farewell. Din sets his hand on your back as the two of you leave, and you can feel the warmth of their stares on your back.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, Din tilts his helmet. “Damn.” He looks over at you. “I really thought we were gonna get away with it.”

You finally release the laugh you’ve been holding, letting your head fall against his arm. Your hands meet and your fingers lace through his own. “I guess subtlety really isn’t our specialty.” You lift your entwined hands and kiss his gloved knuckles. “Even when we’re not acting.”

Din gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “We were never truly acting, cyar’ika.”

You beam at him, resting your head against his arm again. “You’re right.”

The rest of your walk back to the ship is spent in silence, though it’s contemplative. The space between you is as humid as the air before a storm, with something electric brewing there. You know it’ll overpower both of you as soon as you get the ship into the air.

These thoughts make it a blur as you board the ship and help Din to get it running. You have no idea what Din’s set as your next destination, and quite frankly, you don’t care. All you can think about is waiting until you’re safely in hyperspace to stand and make your way over to him, letting him swivel in his chair to face you before you hold the lip of his helmet in your hand.

“So,” you begin, your voice soft and sweet as you go on, “what the hell was that all about?”

Din’s gloved fingers drum along his armored thighs. “What do you mean?” Din’s modulated voice is just as soft, proving he does, in fact, know what the hell that was all about.

“It seemed like you got quite a rise back there out of me having to see your face.” You run your thumb over his visor and lift your brow. “Is that true?”

Din tilts his helmet, his hands rising to meet your waist. “Well, that depends on how it actually made you feel.”

“Yeah?” You make yourself comfortable, easing yourself upon him until his armor chest is against your own. “Should I show you, then?”

Din’s hands travel around you, securing themselves much closer to your back and thighs. “It might be easier than using your words.”

You wrap your arms around his neck. “I agree.”

With that, Din stands, easily taking you with him as you wrap your ankles around each other to help you stay around his waist. Neither he nor you are patient enough to wait until you’re further back in the hold, and Din sets your back against the first wall he can find, his body content to hold you in place. He frees a hand from you to grab his helmet, but you stop him, holding his wrist as you give his helmet a once-over.

“Wait.” Your voice is breathless in your desire as you bite back a smile. “Keep it on.”

Din tilts his helmet. “I’m not sure I can resist you, cyar’ika.”

“Let’s at least try.” You hold his helmet between your hands. “I fell in love with this face, too.” Your fingers trace down his beskar until you take a hold of his cowl, tugging it down enough for you to get access to the warmth of his neck. “Didn’t you have a suggestion about this, anyway?” Your breath fans over his skin. “Might as well try it out.”

Din exhales, a trembling breath that becomes a sigh once your lips latch onto his neck. “Damn, you’re convincing.”

You smile against his skin, continuing your sweet attack on him as he easily gets the two of you into place. For as new as some of this is, it’s already become easy for you to learn each other, with every movement being perfectly purposeful and breathtakingly gentle. You’re content to remain buried in the warmth of Din’s neck and to hear the pleasured breaths falling from underneath his helmet until he consumes every last sense and nerve ending in your body.

That’s all it takes to make you want to fall apart in the sweetest way. You stay buried where you are for now, but your lips part only to spell out your pleasure to Din in a way you could never comprehend—but that’s enough for him.

“Yeah, cyar’ika,” Din pants, the metal of his helmet resting upon your head as if he’s trying to bury himself in you, too. “I feel it, too.”

You strengthen your resolve and tighten your grasp around him, lifting your lips to his skin again as you kiss it the way you would his lips. Anything else you have to say, or at least would say if your body wasn’t already speaking for you, remains a hum against his hot skin.

“Atta’ girl,” Din rasps, if his voice can even be called that. It’s rough in the way you’ve only heard in moments like these, sweet yet forced through the tightness of his throat you can feel underneath your lips. “That’s…” he has to pause to speak to you the same way you’ve been speaking to him, “shit, that’s perfect.”

His words make you never want to stop, but your actions are fueling him in a way that makes your resolve crumble in the most pleasing way. The more it intensifies, the less you can keep yourself in place, and soon you break apart to lift your head and cry out for him. You at least manage to stay close for now, your forehead finding his helmet as you ground yourself to him.

As if he isn’t already grounding himself to you in the most beautiful and utterly perfect way.

But you need more. It’s hard to imagine how you can handle it, but you grasp onto whatever you can get. Your hands at the back of his neck find loose strands of hair that you take a hold of, tugging tight but only in a way you know he can handle. When Din finds your most perfect place, your head falls back to meet the metal behind you, your body trying to both stay as close as possible and also distance itself from what should be an unattainable pleasure.

That’s when Din breaks. “Fuck.” He lifts a hand from you to tear off his helmet in one smooth movement, the beskar hitting the floor and rolling away carelessly. His lips are on yours a moment later, each intelligible word and sound you have for one other being passed on from each touch of your tongue as you become one in the way the stars themselves surely intended.

It’s not long after that you at last fall apart, and Din soon does the very same. Each heavy breath you take against his lips is another sweet pleasure, your mind trying to fight through the haze of your love so you can focus on the golden flecks of light that enter Din’s gaze the more you return from your place in the stars. Your shared heaven, however, isn’t an easy place to escape, and so you wait with your forehead against his own for him to help you back to reality.

“So,” Din’s first word is a pure rasp, his voice now roughened from the way he’s sweetly abused it, “where do you want to get married?”

You can’t help laughing at that, shaking your head as you kiss him. “How about wherever the hell we land next?”

Din smiles and chuckles with you. “Sounds perfect.”

Your hands, which lost themselves in his hair the moment he tore his helmet from his head, continue to move through his brown waves in consideration. Din’s lips are already red and swollen from your sweet connection, his hair mussed from both your handiwork and his helmet. He’s flushed in the most perfect way, and you’re certain you don’t look much different.

And to think just a week ago, you weren’t sure if he’d even be able to pretend he thought of you as anything more than a business partner.

“So much for what happens on the job stays on the job, right?” You smile at him, recalling the words he’d said the moment you first flew into Canto Bight.

“Right.” Din returns your smile before his lips brush against yours. “Fuck that.”

With that, he captures your mouth with his again, an addictive yet beautiful display of affection that says more than those simple three words ever could—and promises so much more for the future you’ll finally have together.

masterlist ⟹ part one

#the final part! at last! i hope it was worth the wait :)#thank you for all the love on this miniseries! <3 #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #bloodlust #dindjarindiaries

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 1 year

Text

title: at his side (in his bed)

pairing: mand’alor!din djarin x female reader x paz vizsla

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 2586

chapters: 1/1

summary:

They call you the whore of Mandalore.

Nothing more than the woman at side of the ruler of New Mandalore, Din Djarin, a pretty little prize that he likes to share with with his General Commander, Paz Vizsla.

Mandalorians have always been good at keeping their secrets.

AO3

author’s note: this is just filthy. if you enjoy, please consider leaving a comment as they really make my day 💕

content warnings/additional tags: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), explicit language, writer considers din his first name, alternate universe - Mand’alor din djarin, use of Mando’a, threesome (MFM), degradation kink, pet names (sweet AND derogatory), explicit breeding kink, spitroasting, unprotected p in v, oral sex (m&f receiving), come play, semi-public sex, dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, fingering, no plot just smut. let me know if any are missing!

Your mind has drifted as the political proceedings occurring around you continue to drone on with no end in sight. You’re not even sure why you’ve been brought here. It’s not like you’re being paid any attention.

As if conjured by your thoughts, a gloved hand grips your thigh beneath the heavy stone table. Fingers curl into the gauzy fabric of your gown. You have to bite your lip to prevent your face from giving any sort of indication that something salacious is occurring beneath the keen gazes of the gathered leaders.

“We will not agree to those terms. The mines are plentiful. We have no use for the imports offered by Dulvarra,” the deep modulated voice of the man beside you comments easily.

Din Djarin. Mand’alor. The ruler of New Mandalore.

You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He sits reclined in the high back stone chair, an elbow propped on the armrest. His visor remains trained on the Nemoidian representative while his hand creeps further up your thigh.

His fingers brush against your center, causing you to inhale sharply. This is one of the Mand’alor’s favorite games. He enjoys watching you squirm, trying to keep your thoughts straight and your whimpers caged as he works you beneath a table or in a crowded room. His helmet picks up your quiet sounds, amplifies them for his ears alone, and he revels in the opportunity to make you fall apart at the seams.

He lifts your leg, placing it across his knee, the cold bite of beskar against your skin forcing you to stifle a gasp. The gowns he has you wear are sheer, the bodice adorned with the crystals mined from the planet that was once thought uninhabitable in its destruction. They gleam around your neck and waist, pulling the layers of delicate fabric together to cover your body only just enough to not be obscene.

His hand explores beneath the fabric that covers your core, a gloved finger running through your slick folds. You swallow harshly, slumping against your seat, curling your fingers into the stone armrest. He circles your clit once, twice, before dipping lower and pressing to your soaked entrance. All the while, he appears stoic and unbothered, aided by his anonymity and power.

The Nemoidian’s eyes flick to you. It’s brief, and for a moment you think it goes unnoticed.

You should have known better.

Din’s hand leaves you to grasp the hilt of the Darksaber from his utility belt. A broad body shifts into a defensive stance near the door.

Paz Vizsla. Al’verde. General Commander of New Mandalore.

You wrap your hand around Din’s vambrace. His visor turns to regard you. You try to convey with your eyes what you are not permitted to with words.

The room is silent during the exchange, but bursts with noise when the Mand’alor turns his head to Paz and gives him a curt nod.

The whore of Mandalore, the voices murmur.

You have learned to ignore them. The speculation circulates around the mysterious leader of the once forgotten planet rather than it does you, a human he rescued from a slave trade ship. A pretty prize for the new ruler.

Nothing more.

Paz approaches the table, standing at rest behind your seat. He holds a hand out to you.

With a lingering glance at the Mand’alor, you take the General’s offered hand, leather warm against your skin. He holds an elbow to you for you to grasp as he leads you from the table, the weight of a dozen curious eyes on your back.

The man at your side is silent, muscles tense for a fight that will never come here in the empty halls of the new palace of Mandalore.

“How are you this evening, General?” You ask, fingers curling against the canvas of his flight suit.

“Well enough,” he grunts. He has always been a man of few words, your Paz.

“You know, I’m not sure I need an escort just to return to my quarters,” you comment.

Paz turns his head, the dark visor of his helmet free of expression as he says, “Do not play dumb. It is unbecoming.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I am not in the mood,” Paz growls. You smirk.

“A shame,” you murmur, letting go of his elbow to walk ahead of him, adding an extra sway to your hips.

He catches up to you in a few steps, his arm circling your waist as he pulls you back against his broad body, his grip on you as solid as the beskar pressing against your exposed skin.

“Do not test me, veriduur,” he says. Whore. “Do you need to be reminded of your place?”

“My place,” you hiss, “is beneath the Mand’alor. Perhaps you should be reminded of yours, t’adyc.” Second. A reminder and a threat.

Paz turns you roughly and crouches, the press of his pauldron into your stomach the only warning you receive he lifts you in the air. You struggle against him, an exercise in futility, as he carries you down the hall, the echo of his steps and the smack of your palms on his armor the only noise to be heard.

The doors to your quarters open with a whoosh of air and Paz enters, taking immediate course for the large bed in the center of the room. The breath leaves your lungs as he tosses you onto the mattress, immediately tugging you by your ankle until your legs hang off the side of the bed, his wide hips keeping them pressed apart.

“Not so mouthy on your back,” he comments as he removes his utility belt and codpiece. “I suppose that’s why the Mand’alor likes you so much.”

“He seems to like my mouth just fine,” you reply with a raised brow. “I could show you, Al’verde.”

He works his flight plants over his hips. Though the helmet shields his face, you can imagine the fury twisting the man’s features. You’ve not seen him, not with your eyes, but you are intimately familiar with the feel of his lips between your legs, the drag of his stubbled chin across your skin.

His cock slaps against his thick middle when finally freed. “I would rather teach your cunt a lesson,” he growls, fisting his thick girth.

“Not one it hasn’t learned before, I’m afraid,” you reply, a deep sigh escaping your lips. Paz removes his gloves, scarred and calloused hands immediately ripping at the fabric of your dress to expose your body to him.

“Kriffing brat,” he snaps, slipping his fingers against your wetness, probing at your aching entrance. “Does my vod always let you get your way?”

Your back arches as his fingers slip into your tight heat and you fight to keep your sounds contained, wanting to drive Paz to fury with your insubordination. His fingers drag against your walls as he withdraws and lands a harsh smack against your clit that has you crying out.

“I asked you a question, atin dala.” Stubborn woman. The lilt of his voice is pleased now that he’s broken a sound from you.

“Of course he does,” you tell him, voice breathy. “His little prize. He’d do anything to keep me happy.”

He slides his cock through the obscene wetness coating you, his modulated groan like music to your ears. The fat tip of him pressing to your entrance, forcing your body to accommodate his size with a harsh thrust into your heat.

“Paz!” You shout, back arching from the bed as your fingers seek for desperate purchase against the smooth metal of the armor over his shoulders. He’s kind enough to hold still and let you adjust.

“That’s it, sweet little whore. You scream my name,” he growls as he withdraws slowly, thrusting back inside just as slow. “Who’s fucking your pretty little cunt?”

“Y-you, P-Paz,” you stutter. Your breasts bounce with the power of his hips, the fabric that once covered your nipples loosening and falling free in his ferocity.

“Does the Mand’alor fuck you like this? Hmm?” He asks. He uses a hand to grip the back of one thigh, pressing your legs so wide it almost hurts. “Tell me, does he fuck you better than me?”

To compare the two men would be unfair, the comparison of a sun versus a dark moon. Paz is harsh, hateful words laced with lust spilling from his lips when he’s buried to the hilt inside of you.

Din, despite his hard edges, is soft with you. Gentle touches and sweet words murmured against your skin.

Where Paz can break you apart, Din can put you back together. You crave both in equal measure.

“It is not a competition, vod,” a familiar deep voice says. You turn your head, the familiar figure of the Mand’alor emerging from the shadows. How long has he been there?

“Says you,” Paz grunts. “Words of a loser, isn’t that right?”

Din only chuckles.

You whimper when you hear the clink of armor being removed. Paz gives a particularly hard thrust that has you crying out and you hear the large man chuckle.

Din smooths a thumb across your lips. “Open for me, cyar’ika.” Sweetheart. The endearment makes your heart pound and brain go fuzzy as you obey. “So good for me. For us.”

“Speak for yourself, vod. She’s been nothing but a brat,” Paz says. “Guess she just needed something to keep that mouth occupied.”

The tip of Din’s cock slides against your tongue, the salty taste of him exploding across your taste buds. You moan as he slips deeper.

“Go dark,” Din commands roughly. Paz groans.

“No,” he replies, hips picking up speed, chasing his release.

“It was a command, Al’verde,” Din snaps.

Paz grumbles, his hips going still as you whine around Din’s cock. “You may blame your riduur for having to wait for your release.”

Riduur. Your husband.

It was known by very few that the whore at the Mand’alor’s side was actually his wife. Din keeps the knowledge close to his chest, knowing what an adversary may do with the information and never wanting harm to befall you on his behalf.

“Gone dark,” Paz confirms. He slides his cock nearly free from your body before slamming back inside with such force it shifts you up the bed.

“Di’kut.” Idiot. Din withdraws his cock from your mouth before removing his helmet. His eyes remain fixed on you as he stands from the bed to remove the remaining pieces of his armor.

“Make her cum,” Din says as he returns to your side, gripping a breast in one hand as he leans forward to wrap his lips around one tight nipple, flicking the sensitive nub with his tongue.

“That another command, Mand’alor?” Paz grunts. He maneuvers your body better to his liking, pressing your thighs together and draping your legs against his shoulder.

“Yes,” Din replies. His hand slides down your stomach to swirl his fingers around your clit. You shout, throwing your head back against the mattress in a drawn out moan of both men’s names.

“That’s it, cyare,” Din says. “Be good and let go. Paz won’t fill you up otherwise.”

That thread of control you still had snaps and your release washes through you, your muscles going taut as you clench around Paz. The man growls, a feral sound that makes you pulse and flutter around his length as his own warm release floods your body.

“Very good, mesh’la, get every drop from him,” Din murmurs. You whimper as he stretches to plant a kiss to your lips. His strong nose brushes yours tenderly when he pulls back.

Paz withdraws. You feel the warmth of his body leave yours, the slow trickle of his cum from your entrance making you blush. Din’s fingers slide through the mess, gathering it up and pushing it back in as you gasp.

“Return to your post, Al’verde. Our guests have left,” Din says to Paz, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers continue to work your over sensitive cunt as you whimper and writhe against him.

Paz rights himself in his armor before turning to leave. You hear the telltale clang of metal hitting a wall, followed by a litany of curses from the large man. Helm still dark, he’s collided with a wall.

“Kriffing wall,” he says, giving the offending architecture a curse before locating the door and exiting.

Din moves himself between your legs, the warmth of his hands trailing up your thighs leaving goosebumps across your skin. He grins down at you, boyish in the vulnerability he displays for you.

“You never did answer Paz,” he says casually, even as he settles on his stomach and trails his lips across your inner thigh. “Does he fuck you better than me?”

“No, my love,” you whine as his tongue swirls around your clit. He chuckles darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

He eats your pussy like a starving man, more enthusiasm than finesse in his eagerness to please you. Because while he may be Mand’alor by battle and blood, you are the one he bows to in this life and the next.

Your hips move against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his thick dark hair. He works his tongue against you until you’re a whining mess, begging for his cock as he just shushes you for your impatience.

Finally, he sits up. His chin is glossy with your juices and his eyes are glassy with lust as he grips your hips and turns you on your belly, yanking your ass in the air.

He doesn’t waste time sliding inside of you, the length of him stretching you in a different way than Paz’s own thick cock did not. You gasp, fingers tightening in the sheets as he pounds against your backside.

“My riduur,” he says reverently. “Ner kar’ta.”

My heart.

“Din,” you moan. “Gedet’ye.” Please.

He groans, fingers curling into your hips in a manner sure to leave the shadows of bruises by morning. His thrusts grow more powerful, hitting a spot inside you that has another orgasm building so quickly your head goes fuzzy with the rush.

“I’m going to fill you to the brim,” he grunts. “Leave no room for failure in making you round with our child. Our future.”

Your cry is muffled against the sheets as you pulse around him with your release, so powerful that you collapse to the bed, only his broad hands on your hips keeping up for his use.

He presses deep inside you, coming with a shout of your name in the dark of the room. His cock pulses inside you, another wave of warm release filling you as you whimper his name.

Din removes himself briefly in order to help you lay on your side before settling in behind you, slipping his softening cock back inside your pussy.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” Din says as he presses his lips to your shoulder.

“I love you,” you repeat to him.

You’re both quiet for a moment. You trace patterns against the tan skin of the arm that he has around your middle.

“Din?” You ask.

“Yes, cyare?”

“What if the baby is Paz’s?” You ask. It’s a valid concern. Din likes sharing and you like to be shared.

“My only concern is how insufferable my vod will be,” he says.

You giggle, the tension easing from your shoulders.

“Rest now, riduur. There is more to be done tomorrow.”

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iron-strangers · 5 months

Text

That's my girl!

aka Din watches you fight with the biggest heart eyes in the galaxy as Wildest Dreams (Taylor's Version) plays in the background (a WIP of my 3+1 fic)

gif credit @1038276637

Pairing: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x Female Jedi!Reader

Length: 690+ words

Tags: Mand'alor Din Djarin, Swearing, Kid Fic

A/N: Written in Expanding Clan Mudhorn universe. Link to the series on ao3, tumblr

“I challenge you for the Mand’alor’s hand in marriage.”

The lively chatters around the market shifts into a quiet whispers when a challenger appears from the crowd. She has her full armor on, holding her blaster up for everyone to see. Shrugging, you took your squirming fourteen-months toddler from his birikad (baby harness) into his buir’s (father’s) arms before walking into the fight. Aranar laughs, clapping his chubby hands and pointing at you. “Bu-ee! Look, momma!”

“Yes, Ar’ika, momma’s gonna kick some s-h-e-b (ass), so we have to stand aside and let her do her thing, okay?” Din sighs, bouncing the boundless energy out of his toddler, getting a ‘Kay! and a grin from his son who’s currently munching happily on his small portion of uj cake, with that sweet tooth no one will ever doubt that he truly his momma’s son. Aranar is getting a lot of ‘copikla’ (cute) from every passer-by, enthralled by his mop of dark curly hair and his adorable toothy smile.

“I accept your challenge,” you smile, turning your saber on. The snap-hiss of lightsaber ignition rips through the air and Aranar whoops. “Bu-ee! Pu-pel!”

“Yes, good job Ar’ika! Momma’s laser sword is purple!”

“How many time should I tell you it’s called lightsaber.” Kryze sighs, holding her head in her hand. She insisted to come during their visit to the newly opened Sundari Market for this exact reason, security of the Ven’alor Mand’alor. “You married a jedi, osik (shit), you have two jet’ika.”

“Osik!” Aranar parrots, laughing without caring how his buir is going through all five stages of grief in three seconds. “Kryze! I swear to the Manda-”

Din is cut-off by the sound of lightsaber hitting beskar. You deflect blaster bolts with the force and hits the challenger on her pauldron. You swipe your saber low, aiming for her leg. She jumps and brings her other hand up, shooting grappling hooks out of her vambrace, straining you. You groan as you fight against the ropes until it budges a little, enough for you to slash it with your saber. You pull on the leftover rope, sending the challenger towards you and you punch her in the middle of the T-Visor of her helmet, sending her to the ground with a loud crack.

“That’s my girl!” Din cheers, earning snickers and adoration from the passer-by. Flustered behind his helmet, he nuzzles Aranar’s soft curls, pointing and narrating the fight to the baby. “That’s your momma, ad’ika. Isn’t she the best? Buir and momma will teach you just how to fight like that when you’re ready, ner ka’ra (my star). You’ll be unstoppable.” Din can't take his eyes off of his riduur (wife). You fight with grace, your steps calculated and you never miss your attack. Every hissing sound of lightsaber meeting beskar only adds to his love and adoration.

She shoots another round of blaster bolts and you deflect them all to the ground with the force, careful not to let stray bullets hit the crowd. You stalk over her, the tip of your saber dragging on the ground. You flick your hand and her blaster flies from her hand, crumpling in the air when you curl your hand into a fist and brings the tip of your saber up to her neck, so close to her pulse point.

“Yield,” you command. She stutters, forfeiting the fight and scurrying back to the crowd.

“Anyone else want to challenge our clan?” Your question is met by silence and you smile, turning the saber off. Addressing the crowd to go back to their activity as the purple light disappear into the hilt of your lightsaber.

Aranar lights up when he sees you, making a grabby hand and asking you for uppies. Smiling, you pepper the laughing boy’s cheeks with kisses and lift him up to your shoulder. Din leans his helmeted forehead to yours and leads his family away from the crowd.

“Hey, Kryze made Ar’ika swore back then.”

“By the force- Kryze!”

Yeah, that’s my girl, Din smiles adoringly behind his helmet, taking your hand and lacing your fingers together before you can go smack some sense into Kryze.

#expanding clan mudhorn #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfiction #drabble #din djarin is a simp for his wife #it's okay he's allowed #this is the way

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theidiotwhowritesthings · 1 year

Text

INEVITABLE [3]

din djarin x female!reader

warnings: language, mentions of the slave trade, canon violence, blood and injuries, PTSD flashback, mention of torture

word count: 6,183

Summary: It was like fate or destiny had planned from the beginning for you to be on the run from the law. With the words ‘I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold’ adorning your rib cage you always wondered what was worse: Knowing you were bound to being wanted or realizing your soulmate was a cursed bounty hunter. You had a mission to finish and no bounty hunter, soulmate or not, was going to stop you.

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03: CALL IT FATE, DESTINY, CALL IT LUCK

"luck is my middle name. mind you, my first name is Bad."

⏤terry pratchett

Every blow to his body made you flinch as if you had been hit yourself. Blood splattered into the air, raining down into the already formed pool, and your cries of desperation had morphed into moans of mourning. Rough fingers dug into your cheeks holding you in place and keeping you from turning away from the assault. Lips pressed against the shell of your ear. Poisonous words hissed out in a voice that made your blood run cold.

‘No, no. You keep watching. I want to make sure this lesson sticks. I want to make sure you know who you belong to.’

You startled awake with a gasp⏤ eyes wide and searching for Viktor. His cruel, cold laugh lingering at the back of your mind. But, he was nowhere to be seen. You weren’t in his palace. The cockpit surrounding you was silent. The lines of hyperspace casting a soft, blue light on everything it touched. The Mandalorian. A breath of relief left you as you sunk in your seat. You were safe. Well, maybe not safe. You didn’t exactly trust your new captor.

The room was empty save for you and as you sat up you realized the binders were gone from your wrists. Now, you trusted Mando even less. Who in their right mind captures a bounty and then leaves them unrestricted in their ship’s cockpit? You jumped up, staying quiet, and stepped over to glance over the blinking control panel. You were no pilot, but you knew the basics in case of emergency⏤ not that you’d ever put those skills to the test. How hard could it be? You pressed a button and when nothing happened you hit it twice more.

“It’s locked.”

You cried out in surprise and spun. Mando had climbed up the ladder right outside the open cockpit door but he only rose enough to rest his arm on the floor. You set a hand to your chest to try and calm your racing heart. “Maker, bucket head. You’re quiet.”

“You’re not.” He replied, then tilted his head. “Come down.”

Mando disappeared from view and you huffed in annoyance at how cool and collected the guy seemed. You rushed forward, sliding down the ladder, and when your boots hit the floor you spun to give him a piece of your mind⏤ determined to get under his skin. However, your eyes landed on the small, green child sitting on top of a crate now staring at you while his father rummaged through a weapons locker. Mando shifted enough that you were able to see your firearm hanging in the locker.

“Hey, that’s mine.” You barked. You had only gotten a step closer when Mando turned around and hit a button on his vambrace to close the doors. The tell tale sound of a lock being clicked into place. “Give it back.”

“Why do you only have one slug?” Mando asked.

“Why did you take off my binders?” You countered. It wasn’t something you expected to be answered, you just wanted to answer his question with a question.

The man shrugged. “You looked uncomfortable.” You blinked in surprise. “Where did you get the slugthrower?”

“It was…” His first answer had caught you so off guard that you nearly answered his own without thought. You caught yourself at the last minute and shook your head. “I found it at the bottom of a cereal box. I’m trying to collect the whole set.”

Mando sighed irritably and you took that as a victory. Although as great as it felt annoying Mando and getting a rise out of him, you realized that these moments you called ‘victories’ could possibly add up until the Manalorian snapped and murdered you. This scenario was like any other involving a bounty hunter. You had a person to escape from, and though it was a bit unconventional than your usual situation, you were nothing if not flexible.

“Alright Mando,” You crossed your arms and placed emphasis on the name he told you to call him, “What do you want?” He tilted his head and you shrugged. “Everybody wants something. What’s your price? What do I have to pay to get you to crush my fob and taxi me to Corellia?”

“Corellia?”

“It’s next on my list.”

“Why are you⏤”

You forced a frustrated laugh. “Why does it matter? Just tell me what you want and I’ll⏤”

“I already told you, I want answers.” He replied sharply. A soft coo came from the child, and Mando drifted closer to you. “I want to know who you are. I need to know.”

It was confusing as to why he seemed so desperate for something that had nothing to do with him. You rolled through the facts you had gathered. If rumors were true, Mandalorians were all about honor. You had saved his son⏤ sort of. He could’ve done it himself with that jetpack, but you hoped the intention was enough in this case. He didn’t shove you in carbonite, he let you sleep in his cockpit, removed the binders… Even now, he made no move to detain you. Did the Mandalorian want to help you? Was that it? Maybe he wanted to help you, to settle any debt he thought he may owe you, but he wanted to know he wasn’t aiding the scum of the galaxy.

“You’re not a slave trader.” Mando said. He nodded in your direction, “Not with that collar.”

Your eyes widened, hand shooting up to touch the metal welded around your neck, and gaped, “How… You don’t know that.” You pushed the words out firmly. Nobody assumed the gold choker was what it truly was. “It’s a necklace, bucket head. You⏤”

“No, it’s not.” He replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not with those scars. Nobody claws at a necklace.”

Mando’s words were jarring. It would’ve been easier to handle him just punching your lights out. There was a slight tremble in your hands and you forced them into fists at your side to compensate. How had he even noticed? Nobody looked close enough to puzzle that out. They saw gold and assumed wealth. Any normal slave’s collar was made of scrap parts. Plus, Viktor had ensured that most of the marks you left had been healed properly. The only ones who hadn’t just lingered right under the band itself.

“Fine.” You forced all your emotions into the back of your head, out of the light, where it wouldn’t been seen or felt. You absolutely hated that this man was able to so easily get under your skin.“I’m a slave seeking revenge, Mando. Searching the galaxy for the man who used to own me so I can put a slug in his head.” He remained a statue as always. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“If it’s the truth, then yes.”

“Well, it is.” Sort of. More or less. That was the quick description of your mission, at least.

“Then why are you visiting cantinas? I can’t imagine a slave trader who is rich enough to decorate his slaves in gold would be hanging around the places you’re searching.”

Again, the Mandalorian wasn’t wrong. Viktor would never set foot in a public cantina, and you knew exactly where he was. Canto Bight. The issue was, in order to get to him you needed to find the ‘Reaper’ for information. Otherwise you’d never get close enough to pull the trigger.

“You’re right.” You said slowly.

Mando tilted his head. “Then who are you looking for?”

“A guy.”

“That’s vague.”

“Yeah,” You snorted, “It’s almost as if I’m being vague on purpose to avoid connecting to you in any way. Funny, huh?”

The cargo hold was filled with an uncomfortable silence. You couldn’t see the Mandalorian’s eyes, but you could feel his heavy gaze cutting straight through you. Growing up the way you did, born from a slave and raised with only one destiny for yourself, you had gotten used to being seen but not acknowledged. The places you worked equated you to a house plant or a piece of furniture.

Then Viktor saw you. He saw you. And the words scrawled on your ribs made you precious to him. He got some sick kick out of owning something fated to another. You joined a collection of others and you were no longer a piece of furniture to be ignored, but rather you were a trophy. An item to be seen and not touched. Admired but not connected to. As Mando guessed, Viktor dressed you in gold and flaunted you to every ne'er do well who visited him. That was your life for years, and it hadn’t changed until six months ago.

Six months ago you ran and your face decorated bounty pucks all over the galaxy, but you felt invisible. Nobody, save for a bounty hunter here or there, sought you out. You were a stranger on the street, a random face in the crowd, and you could live with that. It was better than the alternative.

Right now though? Standing in front of the Mandalorian you felt seen. Mando was actively seeing you at this moment, taking in details nobody had noticed before, and it unnerved you. He wasn’t looking at you like house decor or a trophy. He wasn’t looking at you like you were his next pay day like the other hunters had. Mando was treating you like another living soul and it bothered you that the sensation felt so foreign. How could a man who hid behind a wall of metal see you so clearly?

“If I told you that you could trust me,” Mando said slowly, hesitantly, “Would you believe me?”

“No. But it’s cute that you asked.”

Mando took a step toward you and your confidence faltered. You stumbled back a half step and spat a curse at yourself in your head. If he noticed your slip up, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he heaved a sigh. “I’ll take you to Corellia, with the promise of safe passage, on one condition.” You nodded. “When I drop you off, you don’t contact me again. This? This never happened. We never met. I’ll crush your fob and tell the guild you weren’t worth my time.”

You snorted in amusement. “Deal. That’s a win-win situation for me, bucket head.”

Maybe you weren’t the unluckiest son of a bitch on this side of the galaxy.

Din was tiptoeing through a minefield. And, the only person he had to blame for being stuck here was himself. He shouldn’t have kept you on the ship. Kriff, he shouldn’t have brought you on in the first place. Din should’ve shot you a quick ‘thanks for the help’ and left you behind in Bespin. But, no. Like the karking idiot he was, he brought you along and worse he spoke to you.

There was still a lot he didn’t know. He’d be foolish to think otherwise, but he felt a tinge of truth with your admittance a day earlier. For years, for most of his life, he cursed his soulmark and he loathed the idea of ever meeting his criminal soulmate. Now, he knew differently. Not a criminal, just a person seeking vengeance. Din was aware that a bulk of the galaxy would still consider someone with plans of homicide to be a criminal, but from where he sat Din could hardly judge. He was by no means a good man, without sin, and he had very recent memories of mowing down Imperial after Imperial for the sake of his son. So, your half truth didn’t shock him or fill him with disgust.

No, what Din felt disgusted over was the knowledge that his soulmate had been wronged. The word ‘wronged’ didn’t even begin to cover the atrocity you must have endured. His soulmate. You had been a slave, treated as such by society and owned by some bastard, and that made every single molecule of his body vibrate with rage.

Mandalorians' belief in soulmates was by no means unique. They were very much like the rest of the galaxy in their reverence for the words. Maybe the one trait Mandalorians shared with the majority.

However, Aq Vetina was different. The culture nearly worshiped the concept of soulmates⏤ saw it as a true blessing and treated it as such. Din didn’t have a lot of memories of his home world. Didn’t have a lot of memories of his parents either. The memories he did have though he treasured, and one of the more prominent ones was this: his parents were soulmates. The reality of soulmarks was more dim than most would like to believe. Soulmates didn’t always end up together. For hundreds of different variables, but just because fate had scrawled words on a person’s skin didn’t mean it guaranteed them a happy ending.

His parents adored one another. Din remembered that. He grew up in a house filled and overflowing with love. An emotion as strong as that wasn’t easily forgotten. Hell, it felt like it was ingrained into his own soul. Tangled with his DNA. When Din lost his parents, he lost everything. Including his culture. The one comfort Din always took was who his soulmate would be. He knew he’d have a soulmark once he hit puberty, with both parents bearing it the chances of him not having one was incredibly low, and though it bothered him his parents would never see his mark he’d still take comfort in it. Just as every man from Aq Vetina before him, just as his father had, he’d find his soulmate and shower them with every ounce of love and adoration he could squeeze from his being. Din would find his soulmate and he would have a family once more. He’d have that love again.

There was no doubt of the love and care his Mandalorian buir and teacher had for him. Din owed the man everything. But the love was different. Not worse, not better, but different.

When his words formed on his skin, Din had never felt such joy and had never felt it turn sour so quickly. It was why the insult of who he thought his soulmate would be stung even worse. It felt like the last bit of his culture, the last shred of his parents he had left, was being taken. Insulted. Spat on. He spent years after convincing himself that a soulmate wouldn’t be worth his time and he was better on his own. Din didn’t seek relationships beyond flings and one night stands across the galaxy because any relationship would be a sad ghost in comparison to the memory of what his parents had. A reminder of what fate took from him.

Now, he sat in the same ship as his soulmate and it felt like so many of his years were wasted on an assumption.

Din was angry that his first words to you were a threat.

He was angry you grew up with that on your skin.

He was angry the mystery and excitement of having a soulmate had been taken from you as well.

He was angry you were treated as lesser than by the people surrounding you.

He was angry that someone had the audacity to put a collar around your neck.

Din was fucking angry.

It burned through his veins and had him seeing red. He was no stranger to anger, but this was overwhelming. And, the worst of it, the thing that made him burn alive from the inside out was the anger he had for himself.

Din never sought you out. He mentally and emotionally tossed you aside without even an attempt to understand. Din gave up on you. His soulmate.

The only thing keeping him from exploding and destroying everything in his radius was the depressing and mellowing thought of his father. His father would be so disappointed in him. His mother would be so disappointed in him. His buir would be disappointed in him.

Din’s spiraling mind tried to comfort itself. It told him that he was doing better now. He knew better now. He was going to get you to where you needed to go and tell Karga to drop the bounty. He’d separate himself from you and then he’d never have to think of you again. You’d be better off without him. All those thoughts only worsened his shame.

What else could he do? It wasn’t just a thought. It was a prayer to the universe, to fate who got them stuck like this to begin with. What else could he do? Din wasn’t the wide eyed little boy starstruck at the notion of a soulmate anymore. The years had changed him into someone that didn’t deserve that. That left him pleading as he sat in the cockpit fuming silently. What else could he do?

The answer given to him was the sound of your feet climbing the ladder to meet him. He huffed out a quiet sigh and when you entered his peripherals he questioned your presence, more gruff than he intended, “What?”

“Maker, relax.” You dropped into the passenger seat with a scoff. Din cursed himself. Again. “Your kid fell asleep downstairs and I’m not desperate enough to start talking to your walls.” He stayed silent and you let out a chuckle. “Although, maybe your walls would be a better conversationalist.”

“You should sleep.” Din replied. It was his best case scenario right now.

“Not tired.” You slouched in your seat, finding a comfortable spot, “So what’s your kid’s deal? You have a mid-life crisis and find the closest kid to adopt?”

You were annoying. You never shut up. Din liked the sound of your voice way too much.

“No.”

“Then how’d you end up with him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s still two days until we reach Corellia.”

Din shouldn’t answer. The less he knew about you, and the less you knew about him, the better. He should keep his mouth shut, get you to the world you wanted, and speed away as fast as he could. Travel to the clear other side of the galaxy. He knew all of this, and yet his mouth opened. “He was a bounty.”

Fuck.

“Seriously?” You chuckled. “Why would there be a bounty on a kid?”

“It’s hard to explain.” And Din really didn’t want to. “Empire wanted him.”

You hummed and he was caught off guard when you didn’t ask any further questions on his vague statement. He was surprised further when you chuckled, “Good for you.”

Din turned in his seat to look at you. “I turned him in.”

“And then obviously went back for him, I’m guessing. Since he’s, you know, here.”

“That doesn’t change what I did⏤”

“We’re all assholes and it’s human nature that the first thing our brains think to do, our instinct, is sometimes selfish and stupid. It happens.” You said without missing a beat. “The only thing that matters at the end of the day is if you’re willing to fix what you fucked up and the conscious decision you make from there.” Din could only stare at you in response as your words rolled around in his head. You said it so simply, like an offhand comment or passing thought, but it felt so profound to him. You shrugged. “I know, I know. I can be inspirational sometimes. It happens.”

Din found his lips twitching up into a small smile and he forced himself to look away. The only safe spot to stare was the control panel. You stayed silent and Din realized that if he focused hard enough he could see your reflection in the glass panel that sat in front of you. Without any attention on you, without the business of a conversation, Din watched your features soften. There was a melancholy in your gaze that stirred something in his chest.

“I can…” Din began and your eyes darted to look his way while he stayed facing forward, “I can remove that for you.”

“Huh?”

Din spun in his chair so he faced you, and he motioned to your neck where that damned collar sat. “That. I can remove it. If you’d like.”

Your eyes widened marginally and the surprise dissipated as quickly as it came. You shook your head. “No. I don’t want it off.”

“You don’t…” Din tilted his head in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you want it off?”

“It’s a story for another day.” You mumbled.

“But, I don’t understand.” Din blurted before he could reign it back. Never, ever would anybody in the entire galaxy claim him to be the nosy type of person. Din kept to himself and expected others to respect him in that same way. Silence never bothered him. Yet, that same sensation that stirred in his chest, urged him to learn more. It was the most unfamiliar feeling he’s ever had.

You shook your head. “You never take your armor off, right? Even when it’d be more comfortable to shed it all?”

“My armor is not the same as a slave collar.” Din bristled.

“You wear your armor because it stands for something. It represents a part of you, and carries a belief.” You replied sharply. “Right now, this collar serves the exact same purpose for me. So, no, I don’t see a difference.”

Din leaned back and found himself speechless. That was all true of his armor, but he couldn’t fathom a person feeling similarly to the kind of metal soldered to your neck. He cleared his throat and leaned forward on his elbows. “I chose to wear this armor. I put it on willingly.”

“Who says I didn’t choose to put this collar on? Who said I wasn’t willing?” You replied and Din found himself floored again. The melancholy in your eyes hardened and turned to something sharp, mean, and cold. “You can find a sense of protection, of belonging, and what once brought you comfort can just as easily turn into a prison.” You stood up abruptly and Din’s gaze followed you. You motioned to him, “Are you telling me that beskar never feels like a prison?”

You turned on your heel and left. Din didn’t understand how easily you were able to spin him in place. The question you left him with felt like a blow to the chest. Din stiffened in his seat and shook his head. He needed to get you off this ship as quickly as he could.

“You’re kind of a weird kid, you know that?” You were laying on your stomach in the cargo hold, kicking your legs in the air, while leaning on one fist. The child, Grogu, sat in front of you munching on a ration bar that you had scavenged for him in all the the Mandalorian’s supply. You hadn’t asked permission, but you figured Mando couldn’t be upset at you for feeding his child. “Not because you’re green with giant ears. I have no issue with that.” You continued. “You’re just an oddball. In a good way, I mean.”

The boy babbled between bites and you nodded your head as he spoke.

“Mhmm.” You agreed to whatever he was saying. “Yeah. Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Three days on this ship with the Mandalorian and his son hadn’t been the worst thing in the galaxy. You were fed, you had a place to sleep, and the walking tin can hadn’t murdered you. It had been a while since you came away with this many wins back to back. The last bit of real tension you dealt with was when Mando offered to take the golden band around your neck off. You hadn’t meant to take it so personal or make it personal back. You must have seriously pissed the guy off though because since then he had maybe only spoken a total of ten words to you. Even when you tried to egg him into an argument. You found you missed talking to him which meant you must have been more desperate for interaction than you thought. Why else would you crave to hear his voice?

You could always apologize for comparing his armor to your collar. The dig had been a guess. An attempt to get under his skin as he had gotten under yours. You pushed yourself up off the floor to sit criss cross and your hand drifted to the gold band around your neck. It’d be nice to have it off, but you couldn’t yet. Not until you dealt with Viktor. For now, you would just have to daydream about the day you’d walk around with a bare neck.

“I’m sorry.”

The sound of the modulated voice had you whip around in surprise, eyes wide and heart racing. Mando was leaning against the wall behind you. He must have come from the kitchen area or fresher, but considering you thought he had been up in the cockpit it really caught you off guard.

“Maker, how are you that silent? You’re basically covered in pots and pans.”

“Practice.” Mando shrugged. His hands were resting on his belt. “I’m sorry about,” He paused and nodded toward you, “you know.”

Your hand fell from your neck. “Why are you apologizing? That was like 48 hours ago.”

“We’ll be landing in Coreilla soon. It’s now or never.”

“Okay.” You mumbled. It surprised you again when the child waddled from around you and crawled into your lap. You scratched his head while he continued to eat. “I’m sorry too then. I didn’t have to drag your armor into it.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

Your eyes widened at his admission, and you weren’t quite sure what to do with it. There was an energy between you and the Mandalorian you couldn’t quite explain. The close quarters made you naturally want to bond, but from experience you knew that was a poor plan. Plus, Mando didn’t seem all that interested in starting up any kind of friendship. Which made sense. You’d be out of his life soon enough. You just wondered if you had gone too long without any real social interaction. Back when you were with Viktor, he had others in his collection that you had grown close to⏤ like sisters. You missed being social.

Before you could think of a bridging conversation, Mando pushed off the wall and climbed up into the cockpit. You blew out a breath of air as soon as he was out of view then glanced down at the kid in your lap.

“Why is your dad so hard to talk to?” You asked. “I can talk to anyone and anything, but that beskar may as well be a wall.” Grogu babbled another string of nonsense and you nodded. “Yeah, I mean he probably doesn’t make a habit of befriending quarries, huh?”

It was fine. It didn’t matter.

And, a few hours later when the ship was landed on the tarmac and the ramp was lowering you repeated those phrases to yourself again.

“Well, uh, thanks.” You nodded. Mando had given you back your weapons and he now stood inside the cargo hold with his son in his arms while you drifted down the ramp. You paused at the bottom. “It’s been fun, bucket head.”

Mando didn’t reply, but Grogu did offer you a wave which you cheerily returned. With one last nod, and a mocking salute, you spun on your heel and began to tread away. You had only gotten a few feet from the ship when you heard Mando call out after you. The sound of his voice calling out your name grinding your feet to a halt.

“Just…Be careful.” Mando said tensely.

“I always try.” You replied with a grin and a shrug.

As you continued to leave, your stomach churned in discomfort. The Corellia shipyard was dreary and gray which could sour anyone’s mood. When you reached the gates, the overwhelming urge to look back slammed into you. In fact, you nearly turned on instinct alone. A moment of weakness born from a desperation to connect to someone again. Shoving it as deep down into yourself as you could, burying it with the bloody memories and traumas in the graveyard of your mind, you pushed forward deeper into the city of Corellia.

It took you only ten minutes to travel through the city and find the first cantina of many. By time you arrived thoughts of the Mandalorian had been successfully shelved and you were seriously craving a strong drink. The bartender was kind and cheerful, the opposite of how this city of Corellia looked, and after he poured you a drink you drifted to a back table.

You decided this was going to be your least favorite world. Even in comparison with Jakku. Never before had entering a city filled you with such dread and distaste. Like a cloud of darkness had rolled over your mind to match the stormy clouds above the city itself. You were honestly just in shock that there could be a place worse than Jakku. That rolled into the realization that the galaxy was a big place and you still had a lot of ground to cover. There was a chance you had yet to see the worst this universe had to offer. That only worsened your misery.

Something solid, something you unfortunately recognized as the end of a blaster, pressed against your spine. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

Fate just couldn’t give you a fucking break could it?

With a sigh, you turned around and began to mumble your usual spiel, “Would you really arrest your⏤” The words died in your mouth as your eyes landed on the man standing behind you. A Nikto wearing a grin filled only with malice and eyes that shone with rage. One who gripped the blaster tight in one hand while his other hung loosely at his side with three missing fingers. You grimaced, “Oh, my luck can’t possibly be this bad…”

Din was pacing the cargo hold while Grogu watched him curiously from the cot. Already he had climbed up to the cockpit just to immediately come down twice. He wanted to leave this kriffing planet. Why couldn’t he leave this kriffing planet? He mumbled a string of curses after the rhetoric question. Of course he knew why.

“This is a bad idea.” Din scoffed aloud. Grogu chirped and his feet came to a stop so he could stare at the kid. His son. Saving Grogu had been a bad idea too. A life changing one at that. That didn’t make it any less important that he went through with the rescue. Din had gambled, taken a chance, and his pay out had been worth more than he could’ve ever imagined. Could he take a gamble on you?

Considering how quickly he had given up on you years prior, taking a gamble was the least he could do.

Din sighed and grabbed his satchel to place Grogu in before hurrying off the ship. He didn’t have a plan. Then again, he rarely did. What would he say to you? Admit that he was your soulmate? Din probably should have done that three days ago. But with the way you had blown off the idea of soulmates, he had a high suspicion that telling you the truth would only worsen the situation. Besides, he was not interested in exploring the soulmate relationship further. Din didn’t deserve that. What he could do, what he owed you, was help in your mission. If he told you the truth, you wouldn’t let him help. If he kept it to himself, then maybe he could help you meet your goals and put you on a path to a better life. One you deserved.

There. Plan made.

Din knew he needed to find a cantina but he wasn’t sure which you’d be in since there were a few in this city. He picked the closest one and hoped for the best.

The hand knotted in your hair roughly threw you back to the asphalt ground of the alley behind the cantina. You landed on your back, the air briefly leaving you, and you stared up at Nivor. With a wince, you spoke, “You know, for only having two fingers you got a pretty tight grip.”

A boot slammed into the side of your rib cage before Nivor knelt down and pressed his knee against your sternum. Your hands reached out to claw at him, shove him off, but he grabbed your wrists with his one good hand and pinned it to the ground above your head.

“You always have something to say.” Nivor spat. “Don’t know why Viktor liked you so much.”

“You and me both.” You replied.

He applied more pressure to your chest with his knee and you clenched your teeth to bite back a moan. Nivor chuckled, “He wants you back.”

“I’m aware.” You snapped, breathless.

“Told him I’d bring you back, but I don’t think he’d mind a few missing pieces.”

“Wrong.” You glared up at him. “You bring me back less than whole and he’ll rip your head off.”

Nivor shook his head, “You’re overestimating your worth, little bird.” Your glare deepened at the nickname. “Viktor’s found a new favorite plaything.” The Nikto pulled a vibroblade from his belt. “Besides, you owe me some parts.”

“Is this about the fingers thing?” You replied. “That was an accident. I wasn’t trying to shoot off half your hand, I was trying to kill you.” You couldn’t help but paste on a smug smirk. “So really you should be thankful.”

“What is it they say? A leg for a leg.” Nivor dragged the blade up from your knee to your hip. Not deep enough to cut through your clothes, but enough to make you uncomfortable. “An eye for an eye.” The blade kissed the skin of your cheekbone as it circled around your eye softly. “How about a hand for three fingers?!”

You shook your head. “The math is not adding up there, buddy.”

With a cry of anger, Nivor lifted the blade in the air and at the motion his knee lifted off your chest. Using the window of opportunity, you rolled into him as hard as you could and he fell back on his ass. However, though his grip had loosened some, he still had a tight hold on one of your wrists and it kept you from running. You tried to twist out of his grip to avoid the blade he was swinging wildly now, and your free hand shot to grab your own dagger. Nivor was stronger than you gave him credit for, and once he gained his footing he was able to yank you back to the ground. The dagger you managed to grab clattered away from your grip when your chest slammed into the asphalt and a cry of pain slipped from your lips as Nivor twisted your arm back to keep you pinned down. Now, his knee dug into your spine.

You tried to reach around and grab him, but your fingers only grazed the leather of his jacket.

“For that, you’re losing your whole arm.” Nivor chuckled.

His blade pressed into your shoulder and panic flooded your entire body. No, no, no. This was your dominant arm. This injury would put an abrupt end to your mission and that was only if you survived it. Between blood loss and Nivor choosing a grimy alley to operate, your chances were slim. With another scream, you tried to shake your entire body in a poor attempt to knock him off of you, but you only felt his blade begin to dig in deeper. Heat flare in your shoulder as Nivor deliberately sunk it in as slowly as possible.

“Stop!” The plea left your lips and you immediately felt shame for begging this man for mercy. You heard his chuckle, the blade sunk a bit deeper, then with the familiar sound of a blaster going off the weight suddenly fell from your back. You were gasping for air, your heart still pounding as you felt hot blood drip down your back and shoulder, and when you glanced to the side you saw Nivor slumped to the ground. The sinister light in his eyes was gone and his features were slack. There was still smoke rising from the blaster burn in his back.

You turned the opposite way, whipped your head in that direction more like, and there stood the Mandalorian now holstering his weapon. You had tucked his memory away, sure you’d never see him again, but now you felt so relieved to be wrong. Seeing that shine of silver may as well have been the glowing end of a long tunnel. The little green child, resting in his bag by his side, lifted his hand and gave you a small wave.

With the arm that wasn’t numb with pain, you waved back.

taglist:

@onceinamando @hrtsforpascal @lil-dragon-draws @harriedandharassed @aheadfullofsteverogers @elfamosotoga @the-anchored-sailor-girl @garbo-lesbo @moonlqghts @stokeholdsblog @morks-watermelon @http-onie @chonkercatto @xalphafox @pedrojoe @zarahbronstein @cockscombkingdom @ale0m @shelbyteller @fallinallinmendes @grandtheoristpeach @perilous-pasta @love-the-abyss @kneelforloki @insomniac-nerd-posts-things

a/n: this was supposed to be my silly, funny, light hearted story, but the reader in this grabbed me by the shirt collar and went 'bitch nah'. soooooo here we are :)

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #reader insert #female reader #slow burn #soulmate!au

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