#my post: fic

[millersdjarin]

I Only See Daylight

Chapter Nine

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: E

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

Chapter length: 4.8k

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist/Info | Full Masterlist

notes: enjoy, friends!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Maybe.” 

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

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

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

You had shared the bed last night. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always.” 

“How did the two of you meet?”

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

“A bounty? The kid?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…The Force.” 

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

“Holy shit.” 

“Sorry, I…I thought you knew.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They took the kid.

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

“You got him back,” you whisper. 

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

“What—what happened?” 

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

Your heart lurches. “You let him go?” 

“Yes.” His voice shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, understanding that more than anyone. 

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

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

“Thank you,” he says, surprising you.

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t do anything.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve not seen all of me.” 

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

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

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

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

-

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

“Always.” 

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

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

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“I would.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Wherever you want to go.” 

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

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

Your heart drops into your stomach. 

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t breathe. 

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

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

You can’t let anything happen to him. 

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

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

Shit. 

You can’t breathe. 

Every laboured, too-deep breath stings.

Shit, shit, shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t let them go back to that. 

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

Now, that’s all gone. 

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

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

Dank fucking farrik. 

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

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

Turns out, you have. 

-

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

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

“I think you’ll like it.” 

“Is it as busy as Coruscant?” 

“In a different way, but yes.” 

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

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

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

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

“I thought you slept well,” he says. 

“I did.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it can’t be that anymore. 

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

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

Until then, this is how it has to be.

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

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

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

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

The piece of paper.

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

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

thank you for reading as always!

requests are open, more info here ❤️

taglist: @toobsessedsstuff @granillx @keepingitlokiii @shoe1412 @kiruoris @quentinor @yourunstablegf @moonknight-s-cumdump @senassn @samanthacookieone @local-fanfic-addict @your-slutty-gf @brilliantopposite187 @whenpugzfly @elsasshole @moony-toasts @julesjewelss36 @jbcalway @mxlsmith @indec1sive @lordhavemurthy @booktvmoviefangirl @brokenghostgirl1 @competitivedust @lostinsideourminds 

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[lazylittledragon]

if i had a nickel for every au spawned from twitter that i SWORE i was going to be normal about

[bibibuck]

people telling you they reread your fic is the biggest compliment you could ever receive. there are thousands of stories out there begging to be found, to be explored, but your story meant so much to someone that they came back to it eagerly, they went over every word again. to love is to return and loving a fic is rereading it. thank you to all readers and rereaders <3333

[evelili]

twilight sparkle's tamagotchi resurrection services (stay up all night hatching an identical replacement pet)

[littlelightfish]

This... this is a whole different kind of psychic damage here. When nightmares got Marcille, we get to knew that her's biggest fear is outliving her friends. This isn't even canon probably, but look at this. This isn't a "I don't want my friends to die" kind of dream. This is a "I'm terrified of loosing my daughters, of something killing them, and being incapable of stopping it" kind of dream. It's so simple yet it explains perfectly the whole of chilchucks character. He loves, he cares, deeply. But he, or doesn't acknowledges, or doesn't know what to do with that knowledge.

Besides that. Someone had to wake him up after this. Imagine the devastation in this man after he wakes up. He just saw his three little babys murdered corpses (or maybe he saw them die, wich isn't better). He would possibly not talk about it, and that would worry the hell out of the party, because we'll, they see him all down and only one of them knows what he saw. Imagine being the one to pull him from that nightmare. Seeing this man, usually so composed, fuking staring with tears and terror in his eyes to the composes of what you can only assume are his daughters. It would be heartwrenching.

Idk, I love this man so much...

[crestapex]

Price: What kind of girl do you prefer?

Ghost: My wife.

Price: Now what kind of girl do you prefer?

Soap: Ghost’s wife.

[charlotlie]

bitches be like “this is the best piece of literature i have ever read” and it’s either a book that took them six weeks to finish or a fanfic they read at 3 AM

[newttxt]

pls read the zosan fic “utilities included” and enjoy sanji making his own life as miserable as possible in plain view of his new roommate

[lightasthesun]

Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:

Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper

Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork

Stylus = Pen

Datapad = Tablet

Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone

Binders = Handcuffs

Chronometer = Clock

Spectacles = Eyeglasses

Chrono = Watch

Conservator = Refrigerator

Caf = Coffee

Nerfburger = Hamburger

Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)

Hubba chips = French Fries

Sweet roll = Doughnut

Flatcakes = Pancakes

Tabac = Tobacco

HoloNet = World Wide Web

Holovision/HoloTV = Television

Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos

Holocamera/Holocam = Camera

Holomap = three-dimensional map

Holojournal = Newspaper

Holocube = Picture frame

Holotable = Projector

Holoscanner = X-ray machine

Holojournalist = Reporter

Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph

Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation

Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom

Sonic Bath = Bath

Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower

Hydrospanner = Wrench

Hydro Flask = Water Bottle

Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries

Authorization Chip = Decryption key

Datatape = Disk

Datastick = Flash drive

(Personal) Com Code = Phone number

Datachip = SD Card

Synthflesh = Synthetic skin

Glowrod = Flashlight

Sparkstick = Match

Slugthrower = Gun

Slug = Bullet

Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)

Rangefinder = Rifle scope

Turbolaser = Cannon

Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear

Electro Staff = Stun baton

Blaster = Pistol/Rifle

Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser

Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car

Turbolift = Elevator

Slideramp = Escalator

Starfighter = Fighter jet

Rotorcraft = Helicopter

Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack

Speeder Bike = Motorcycle

Skylane = Traffic lane

Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train

Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair

Windscreen = Windshield

Podracing = Car racing

Dejarik = Chess

Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined

Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator

B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons

Jizz = Jazz music

Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)

Cantina = Bar or Pup

Para Sailing = Paragliding

Aurebesh = Alphabet

Credits = Money

Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll

Naming Day = Birthday

Youngling = Child

Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English

Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit

Hypo = Syringe

Medic/Healer = Doctor

Medcenter = Hospital

Bactapatch = Bandaid

Nanoweave = Fabric

Transparisteel = Glass

Plastifoam = Packing material

Durasteel = Steel

Plasteel = Plastic

Duracrete = Concrete

Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)

Identikit = Passport

Minder = Therapist

Synthleather = Vinyl

Viewport = Window

Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning

Honeydarter = Bee

Slythmonger = Drugdealer

Spice = Drugs

Stimpill = Caffeine pill

Power Socket = Plug

Cutters = Scissors

Cycle = Day

Standard Cycle = 24h

Standard Week = 5 days

Standard Month = 35 standard days

Standard Year = approx. ten months

Tenday = literally ten days

Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes

Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'

Parsec = a unit of distance

Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid

Separatist = Seppie

Promise Ring = Wedding Ring

Body Glove = Jumpsuit

Slicksuit = Wet suit

Civvies = Civilian clothing

Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation

Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed

Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine

Glareshades = Sunglasses

Gasser = Gas Oven

Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects

Heating unit = Heater

Utility Droid = Roomba

Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet

Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper

Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person

Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense

Blast! = word of exclamation

Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance

Blaster-brained = dimwitted

Blaster fodder = cannon fodder

Blast off = Piss off

Brainless = Stupid

Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians

Forceforsaken = godforsaken

Full of Poodoo = full of shit

Poodoo = Shit

Kriff = Fuck

Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi

Kark = derogatory expletive

Larty = LAAT/i gunship

Laserbrain = insult

Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers

Redrobes = Palpatines guard

Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper

Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels

Sharpie = Sharp-witted

Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive

Sleemo = Slimeball

Son of a bantha = insult

Wizard! = Cool

Spaced = dead

Hutt-spawn = Bastard

Karabast = exclamation of dismay

Stang = Crap

Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers

Bucket = Helmet

Nat-born = Natural Born

Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that

Droid poppers = EMP grenade

Sitrep = short for situation report

Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system

Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.

Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.

Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb

Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier

Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments

Phrases:

Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase

That's bantha shit = that's bullshit

As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy

Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts

Cut the poodoo = cut the crap

to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something

Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god

Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise

Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief

What in the blue blazes = exclamation

When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely

Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off

Blast it = damn it

By the maker = exclamation of surprise

Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief

Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'

Sod it = expression of frustration

[millersdjarin]

I Only See Daylight

Chapter Thirteen

Pairing: Din Djarin

Rating: E

Chapter warnings/tags: SMUT, first time, piv, fingering, bit of dirty talk & praise kink, loving sex, helmetless!din (in the dark), snuggling, gratuitous use of "baby" as a pet name

Chapter length: 5.2k

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist & Info | Full Masterlist

notes: enjoy :D also just a quick note that i'm so grateful for all of you wanting to be on the taglist, but i'll only add you if you have your age in your bio/if i know you're over 18!

been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night (now i’m wide awake); and now i see daylight, i only see daylight

“He says there’s a rogue Pyke cell causing trouble in the town,” Din tells you as the door to your suite closes. The kid is curled up in his arm, already half asleep. “Should be a simple mission. He didn’t ask for my help, but I wanted to offer it.” 

You smile, heart warming at his words. He is always so quick to help his friends. Never hesitates. It’s one of your favourite parts about him. 

“Do you mind?” He asks. “I can stay, if you’d feel more comfortable.”

You shake your head. “It’s alright. I’ll be safe here.” 

He nods his agreement, then tells you he’s going to put the kid to bed. Before he does, you sneak a quick kiss to Grogu’s forehead, then watch with a smile as Din turns and takes him into his little room. 

As you head into the bedroom, removing the hair pins that have kept your hair back all evening, your stomach does a little flip as you remember Din’s promise from earlier. That he’d help you relax.

He could’ve meant any number of things. But his tone of voice made it pretty clear just which thing he meant. 

Alongside the excited anticipation comes some nerves, though. The only time you’ve really been intimate was very different to what this could be. There wasn’t a bed, for starters. A million questions are rushing through your mind at once as you perch on the edge of the bed, staring ahead at nothing, listening to the soft sounds of him getting the kid comfortable in the other room.

Is he going to want to take your shirt off? To see you? Are you going to be able to see him, his outline, or will he ask you to keep your eyes closed? How far is he going to want to take things? 

How far do you want to take things? 

Well, at least you know one of the answers: As far as he’ll let me. 

“Hey,” his voice comes through the quiet. He’s walking through the bedroom door, closing it softly behind him. Then, after watching you for a second, he twists the lock on it. 

Oh, kriff.

“Is that okay?” He asks when your eyes dart down to the door handle, to the lock he just clicked shut. 

You nod, enthusiastic. The light in here is dim and warm, orange lamps on each wall lighting up the space. He’s glowing amber and dark silver all at once. Just standing here, watching you, his fingers flexing at his sides. You wonder what’s going on in that beautiful mind of his. What he’s planning on doing next. 

You get so caught up in the beautiful mystery of him that you barely notice him stepping closer.

“Cyar’ika,” he says quietly. You watch as he crouches down in front of you, reaches out his hands and runs them up the outsides of your thighs. A soft sigh escapes your lips, your eyelids fluttering closed. 

“Din,” you breathe out. 

“What do you want?” 

And, kriff. If you answered that in all honesty, in all detail, you’d never stop listing the ways that you want him to touch you.

“Just you,” you whisper, and cup his helmet between your hands. “Please.” 

He nods in response. His hands come away from your legs, only disappointing for a second because you soon realise that he’s taking his gloves off, placing each one on the floor beside him. Then he touches you again, this time running his bare palms all the way up from your knees to your thighs, around the sides of your hips, landing eventually on your waist, holding you tight. 

You’re already crumbling under his touch. Subconsciously, your thighs clench together as you feel the first thrum of arousal shoot through your centre. 

His fingers are on your face, then, just one of his hands gently cupping your cheek. His bare skin is so warm, soft, not familiar enough for your liking. You wish you could feel him like this always; wish you could run your hands over every inch of him. 

“Din,” you find yourself saying, gripping tight to his shoulders. 

He slides his fingers back into your hair. Shit, it feels so good. “I want to turn the lights off,” he says unexpectedly.

You nod quickly, knowing that means he’s probably going to take his helmet off, let you touch his face—

His hand leaves your skin and instead finds the light switch on the wall, sending the room into darkness just a second later. A tiny beam of light shines under the door from the living room, and you can just about see his outline, your eyes getting used to the new dark.

Then, he takes his helmet off. 

And—the rest of his armour. 

Oh, fuck. 

Your hands are on him as soon as you hear the last of the beskar being removed, and you run your palms all over his flight suit, down the softness of his chest, up over his shoulders, his arms, his neck. Then they find his hair, maybe the best place to be, and you dig your nails into his scalp in your eagerness. 

He bites back a moan, his nose so close to yours that they brush together. “Cyar’ika,” he says, “you don’t know what you do to me.” 

You do know. You know, because he does the same to you.

“I want—” He cuts himself off. Like he’s not sure if he should say it. 

You lean in, kiss him. Hot and fast and urgent. “Tell me what you want,” you whisper into his mouth, “Please, Din. Whatever you want, you can have it.” 

He’s panting for air as he pulls away, pressing your bare foreheads together. There are loose curls falling in his face, a combination of your hair and his. “Just,” he says, “give me a second.” And he pulls away. 

You feel cold, all of a sudden, the lack of his body right in front of you the only thing you can feel. You see the vague outline of his silhouette backing up towards the wall, and then he stops.

“Are you alright?” You ask. 

He chuckles. It’s so fucking gorgeous outside of his helmet. “Don’t worry,” he tells you, “I’ll be back. Just—” 

A zip.

Multiple zippers, pulling, undoing. 

Then, the sound of heavy fabric falling to the floor.

Oh, fuck. 

“Din…” you breathe, your mouth suddenly dry. You can barely see the shape of his shadow, only the side of him that faces the light. It’s less than you could see of him back on the ship that night. 

And yet you know, you feel, that he’s bare before you.

He crouches down in front of you again, reaching for your waist. He doesn’t even have to search for you in the dark. 

“Can I…?” You ask, hands hovering uncertainly in the space between you.

He dips his head close to you, but misses your lips, instead diving right into your neck. One of his hands gently pushes your hair away, and then he’s kissing your neck, open-mouthed and wet. “Touch me,” he whispers against your pulse point. “Please. If you want to.”

You’ve waited so long for this. 

His bare skin. Right here. Just for you. 

The fact that he even had to specify If you want to is almost enough to make you laugh. But first thing’s first: 

You touch his face. Run your fingertips through his beard, back into his hair, scratching at his scalp. Then your hands move down to the back of his neck, and you’re used to meeting resistance there, the fabric of his cowl stopping you from going any further. 

But, fuck, he’s naked.

“Oh, kriff,” slips from your mouth and comes out closer to a sob than anything else. Your hands slide down the bare stretch of his back, feeling hair and scars and his muscles shifting as he continues to mouth at your neck, his hands gripping tightly to your waist. “Fuck, Din, it’s you…” 

“It’s me, Mesh’la,” he breathes, gently nosing at the neckline of your shirt so he can kiss the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. He sucks, pulls your flesh into his mouth. 

You gasp at the sensation, but your hands don’t slow in their path. His skin is so warm—hot—beneath your palms as they run over his back, down his ribs, catching on the bacta patch that still sits over his knife wound. It’s as you move to touch his stomach that you realise your hands are only a part of this. It’s your mouth that wants to feel him next. 

“Din,” you whisper, “please, on the bed, I need to…” 

“What do you need?” He settles his nose on your cheekbone, his moustache brushing right up against the corner of your mouth. His breath is so hot. So sweet. So familiar.

Before answering him, you can’t help it; you turn your head, catching his lips in a kiss that can only be described as desperate. Your hands find their way back to his face, their favourite place to be when he’s kissing you like this. He’s gripping your shirt in his fists and his tongue pushes against yours, slides, gives and takes just right. 

You tug at him, urging him closer, onto the bed. “Want to kiss you,” you say. 

“You already are,” he points out with a smirk. 

“Want to kiss you everywhere,” you pull harder on him, and he gets the message, breaking away from your lips for long enough to stand up and climb onto the bed. You follow him, but you can’t see him, and you accidentally kneel on his thigh. “Sorry,” you whisper.

He chuckles. “It’s alright,” then his hands are on you, gently pulling you close. 

“Do you have night vision, or something?” You ask as he guides you to settle on his lap. You can feel, now, that he’s leaning back against the headboard, his body stretched out on the bed beneath you.

“I just always know where you are,” he tells you. 

You snort a laugh. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, and you take the luxury of sliding your hands, slowly, up from his navel, through his chest hair, to his shoulders. 

“Kriff,” he curses softly, tugging you in even closer. You’re almost pressed chest-to-chest, and his hands are holding so firm at your hips that your shirt has rucked up a little.

You realise, then, that you’re still devastatingly clothed. 

“Wait, let me…” you start to unbuckle your trousers, then pause, ask, “Do you mind if I…?” 

“Whatever you want,” he says. 

You take off your pants, and then your panties, because right now the only thing you can think about is wanting his hands on you again like they were before. For him to touch you, feel you, to let him go places no one else ever has…

You hesitate at your shirt. 

It’s dark. He can’t see you. He wouldn’t be able to see your scars even if you did take your shirt off.

But his hands. He’ll feel them. Feel you. Every curve and line you were taught to hate, every scar they gave you to make it worse.

You can’t.

“Hey,” his soft voice, “it’s alright. You don’t have to.” 

You glance at him like you’ll be able to see his expression. Instead, all you can see is the outline of one side of his face. 

It’s enough. 

You let go of the hem of your shirt, settling in his lap, getting yourself comfortable again. His hands find your waist once more but they don’t linger, instead spreading flat against your back, separating so that one slides up towards the back of your neck, the other pressing as low as he can get on your spine. He’s cradling you, wrapping you in his arms. 

The need to kiss him comes back. 

You start at his lips, but soon trail the familiar path down to his neck. You meet no resistance from his armour though, and you can keep going, so you do. His clavicle, his shoulders, his arms, lifting them up one by one so you can press kisses all down his bicep, his elbow, his forearm. Then to his chest, nuzzling your nose in the hair there, letting your mouth open around his nipples and feeling your stomach buzz with arousal at the noise he makes. You feel it in his chest, the vibration against your face, in your mouth. 

He’s so real here, so hot and soft and perfect, all muscles and curves and soft edges amongst the sharp ones. You can feel scars on his skin, just small ones here and there. Your mouth pays special attention to each one, peppering feather-light kisses to every inch of them. 

All the while, his hand sits in your hair, gently massaging at your scalp. It feels so good, so fucking good, the gentle tug he gives every now and again just making it better. 

“Cyar’ika,” he says when your lips find their way back up to his neck, sucking a mark to the other side this time. 

“Mm?” You murmur. 

“Can I touch you?” 

You lift your head, your mouth leaving a wet spot on the underside of his jaw. “Please,” you whisper against his lips.

Then, his hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once. (He could cover every inch of your skin with his and it still wouldn’t be enough.)

He slides his palms down your arms, then over your stomach, circling around to your hips and down to your ass. He grabs it, one cheek in each bare hand, and squeezes.

“Kriff,” you breathe out, holding both of his bare shoulders tightly. “Din, please…” 

He brings his mouth to your ear, panting hot and beautifully into it. Without another word, one of his hands returns to your front, this time dipping between your legs, carting softly through the hair over your cunt before finding your clit, lifting the hood and pressing gently. 

You all but fall into him, every muscle in your body somehow relaxing and tensing all at once. Your grip on his shoulders tightens for a second before one of your hands slides up into his hair, taking a firm grip of it in your fist.

“Gods, you feel so good,” he whispers into the shell of your ear as his fingertip rubs gentle—too gentle—circles around your clit. “So hot and wet already for me, Cyar’ika…” 

“Only for you,” you promise him, dipping your head into his neck. Not to kiss, just to rest your forehead there, to feel his pulse beating beneath your nose. 

He slides his fingers down to your entrance, gathers some wetness before gliding them back up through your folds, feeling every inch of you, teasing, not quite getting back to your clit. You can’t help it; you grind down against his hand, trying to find some kind of friction, wanting him on you and inside of you so badly that it has you throbbing with every fast heartbeat. 

He presses his cheek to your hair, his spare hand still grabbing at your ass, sending shocks of pleasure to your pussy with every squeeze. It only spurs on the pulsing of your entrance, wanting him so badly. 

“Din,” you say, voice husky and broken, “please…baby, please, need you inside me…” 

“Fuck,” he curses, sliding his fingers down to your entrance. “Love it when you call me that.” 

“Baby?”

“Kriff, yes.”

A breathy smile finds its way to your lips. You lift your head, place your mouth right over the shell of his ear. Then, finding the best sultry voice you can muster, you say, “Baby.” 

His moan is enough to kill you, right here on the spot. You wouldn’t need to know if heaven exists or not; you’re already there. 

Especially when he slides his fingers inside you, two at once, the perfect amount of stretch through your dripping wetness. Your walls clench around him, pulling him in, desperate to feel friction. 

“Oh, baby,” you breathe, feeling his muscles flexing beneath your hands at the name, “Baby, that’s so good.” 

He tilts his head, mouthing at your face, wherever he can get to. He finds his way back to your lips eventually and starts to kiss you slowly, in time with the slow push and pull of his fingers inside you. The heel of his palm brushes against your clit every time his fingers are as deep as they’ll go, and it feels so good, but it’s not enough—

You grind down against him, finding more friction. He lets you, going with your movements, allowing you to find pleasure in every move that you can. You’re gasping, your mouth all but watering into his. 

He tilts his hand a little so he can use his thumb on your clit, rubbing in earnest circles, matching the increasing pace of his fingers’ thrusts. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” you curse, pulling away from his lips to press your forehead into his. You wonder if he can see your eyes gazing into his. You can’t see his, but knowing they’re there, looking at you—always looking at you—is enough. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “Just want you to feel good, Cyar’ika.” 

You nod encouragingly. “I’d feel even better with you inside me,” you find the courage to whisper.

“I am…” he stops himself, realising what you mean. Beneath you, you feel his still-clothed cock harden, jumping at the invitation. “Oh,” he breathes, his hand stilling between your legs. “Are you sure?” 

You pull back just enough that you’d be able to look into his eyes if it wasn’t pitch black. “If you want to,” you tell him, stroking a hand down his lovely, lovely face. 

“Gods, I want to,” he says, and you giggle breathily, leaning in to kiss him. “You have no idea how much I want to.” 

Reluctantly, but knowing it’s for the greater good, you climb off his lap. He follows you, curling around you as you lie down on your back, feeling him flip over so he’s hovering on top of you. As soon as you’re comfortable, he’s diving in, capturing your lips in a gorgeous kiss. Your hands find their way to the back of his neck, grasping his hair, then one slides down his bare back because it can, because you’re not about to waste any moment that you can get your hands on his skin.

He shuffles to get his underwear off, and when he’s back on top of you, you feel his cock bobbing against your thigh. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, “fuck, baby.” You reach down and take hold of him, wrapping his length in your fist. It somehow feels hotter in your hand than it did before; maybe it’s that his body heat is surrounding you in every other way, hovering above you like a safety blanket, something so familiar and brand new all at once—

He moans, leaning down to suck at your collar bone as you gently tug his cock, enjoying feeling the pulse of his heartbeat, the veins over his length, the bead of liquid pooling at the tip. 

“Please,” he begs into your neck, “can I?”

You don’t even have to think about it. You were ready to say Yes before he even asked. “Yes. Please, fuck, Din, fuck me.” 

His breath stutters. He takes a second to gather himself, then gently pushes your hand off of his cock, instead taking it in his own hand and pushing his hips down into yours. He slides the head through your folds, and the slick sound that fills the room is enough to send shocks of pleasure all the way through you before he’s even really touched you where you need him to.

“Are you ready?” He asks, so gentle, so caring, his forehead pressed into yours. His skin is sticky with sweat, his hair falling in your face.

You hold the back of his neck, and nod. 

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

All that time you’ve spent fantasising about it, watching him sit in that damn pilot’s chair with his thighs spread wide, admiring the width of his shoulders, even feeling his cock in your hand like before—

You could never have imagined it as good as this.

He’s thick, spreading you open so deliciously, filling you up like nothing ever has. 

“Oh, fuck, baby,” you whimper into his ear, clinging to the back of his head like it’s a lifeline, never wanting to let him go, “Fuck, your dick feels so good inside me…” 

He moans, his face pressed against your neck. (He likes it there. You can only guess the amount of marks he’s left on you tonight alone.) “You feel so fucking good,” he breathes out like a prayer onto your skin. “Fuck, sweetheart. Can I—can I fuck you?” 

“There is literally nothing I want more.” 

A soft chuckle vibrates against your throat. 

Then he moves. Slowly, at first, holding himself up with his elbows on either side of you. The push and pull of him, so hot and big and wet and lovely—your walls clench around him and you feel it, feel the fluttering against his cock. He’s inside and all around you and you’ve never felt anything like this, not the sensation between your legs, on your neck, in your very soul—

He’s fucking you slowly; carefully, even. Like he’s holding back. You know how strong he is, and although having him inside you is better than any of your wildest fantasies, you need more. 

“Din,” you whisper, sliding a hand down his back, feeling his muscles flexing with each soft thrust. “Fuck me. You can go harder, faster, whatever you want,” you promise him. 

“Are you…” 

“Yes. Fuck, baby, fuck me as hard as you want, I can take it…” 

The moan he lets out is positively sinful, and he lifts his head to kiss you, his mouth open wide against yours, tongues sliding together in a second. You let him kiss you, will always let him kiss you. 

Then he starts to thrust faster. His pace increases slowly, steadily. He brings down one of his hands and presses it against your clit, rubbing in circles at the same pace as his cock inside you, getting harder and faster and harder and faster—

“Baby,” you gasp as the force of each of his pushes starts to move you up and down the bed. You feel your tits bouncing beneath your shirt, the fabric creating beautiful friction on your nipples. “Oh, baby, harder, please…” 

As if he’s more than happy to oblige, he does exactly as you ask. He’s fucking you hard now—probably not as hard as he could; you can still feel him holding back a little, but still—and he bottoms out at the top end of each thrust, hitting against your cervix almost hard enough for it to hurt. 

It’s fucking delicious. He’s kissing you like his life depends on it, breathing into your lungs. His finger works hard and fast over your clit. He’s so coordinated, everything is working together, sending sparks of pleasure through every single inch of you, from your mouth to your clit to your fucking toes and back. 

“Wanted you for so long,” he says into your mouth, “Kriff, I can’t believe you’re letting me…”

You cart your fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp and down his back.

“Kriff,” you curse as he pulls away to press his forehead into yours. He’s panting, sweat beading on the back of his neck. “Fuck, Din, baby, that’s so fucking good—”

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers like a promise, “Mesh’la, gonna make me come…” 

“Come for me,” you ask him. 

“You first,” he says, earnest, “Please. Need to feel you come around my cock, I—you feel so good, so good around me, Cyar’ika, you’re—” his words are cut off by a fucking whimper coming from his throat.

Fuck. It’s enough to have pleasure coiling tighter in your belly, rising closer to your orgasm. He’s fucking you into the mattress, your body bouncing up and down on his cock without you even needing to try, and you let your hands hold onto his biceps, feeling them tensing with every move he makes into you.

“That’s it, Mesh’la, you take it so good…”

“Fuck, Din, that’s so—your cock, you’re so—” there are no words, it’s building in your core, the press of his finger against your clit getting harder and faster and harder—“Baby, I’m gonna—!”

You do. 

Pleasure explodes inside you like a tightly-coiled spring finally snapping. You fuck yourself onto him, your hand finding its way to your clit, rubbing yourself alongside his finger, trying to draw out the pleasure as long as possible. It sparks under your skin, a wave of white-hot glory spreading across every inch of you. You feel your walls pulsing around him, fluttering, begging him to come. “Baby, that—holy shit,” still, no words come to you that could possibly convey it. Instead, feeling his thrusts getting more and more erratic, “Can you—can you come inside me?” 

“I’ve—got the implant, I—” he’s holding back, his voice choked and strained—“Can I?” 

The aftershocks are still pulsing through you, one of your favourite parts of the come-down. “Fuck, baby, please.” 

Oh, fuck.

He spills inside of you, so hot and fast and too much to stay inside when he’s fucking you like this, all fast and hard and out of control—

It pushes out around his cock, coating the bed beneath you, a mix of both of your pleasure. 

He’s kissing your neck again, open-mouthed and gorgeous. His thrusts slow gradually, and you feel his orgasm not just in his cock but in his shoulders, his back, the hitching of his breath against your skin. 

“Cyar’ika,” he pants, nosing against the shell of your ear. “Sweetheart, that was…you’re…” 

It’s nice that he can’t finish any of his sentences, either. 

Breathy, you laugh in his ear. Your hands hold each side of his face, just so grateful that you can touch him, feel his bare skin and heat all around you. 

“I never thought I’d—I want to—”

You shush him softly, pressing a long kiss to his temple. “This is perfect,” you settle on, because it’s all you can say, and it sums everything up.

He nods, earnest. Lifts his head, presses your foreheads together. Carefully, he removes his fingers from your clit—your pussy pulses at the lack of contact, immediately wanting him back—and instead brushes them down your cheek, leaving a light trail of wetness in their wake. You close your eyes into his touch, tilt your head to kiss his fingertips.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?” He’s still inside you. You don’t want him to ever not be. 

You find your words catching in your throat around a lump of tears that has seemingly appeared from nowhere. Because he’s here. He’s taken everything off for you. Not just his armour, his clothes, his helmet. But his walls. His facade of hardness, impenetrable beskar around the things that he feels. He’s shown himself to you, not literally, but in every other way he can. 

And you’ll never be able to thank him enough for that. 

“You’re really good at fucking me,” you say instead, and he laughs at that, all breath and husky voice. 

He kisses you, soft and chaste. “I’m gonna pull out,” he warns, soft. “Is that okay?” 

It has to happen at some point. But what if this is the only time this happens? What if everything goes wrong; what if he changes his mind?

You hold him tight, lift your leg up to wrap around his hips. “Don’t let this be the last time,” you whisper. Plead. 

You can feel the frown that creases his brow, pressed against your forehead. “I promise,” he says. “I’ll always want you like this, Cyar’ika.” 

Only a small part of you could believe such a beautiful, nightmare-defying promise. But you lean into that part of you, and nod. 

Keeping his face right above yours, he pulls out, slow and careful. It doesn’t hurt, but it might as well, because the loss of him inside you leaves you feeling cold, open, vulnerable. 

You can’t help the whimper that comes past your lips.

“You okay?” He asks immediately. “Did I hurt you?” 

“No,” you shake your head, but there are tears in your eyes, and you can’t let him go. Your hands grip the back of his neck, knuckles probably turning white, because the idea of him leaving you alone in this bed forever suddenly seems like the most likely outcome, even though you know he never would. “No, I just…” 

He strokes your face again. His soft, wet cock brushes against your thigh. 

“Just,” you stammer, “hold me. Please?” 

He kisses you. “Can I clean us up first?” He requests softly. “Just don’t want you to get cold. Then I’ll hold you all night, I promise.” 

Knowing that he means it, you nod, and release your iron grip on him. 

It’s freezing cold, suddenly, when he removes himself from above you. You curl in on yourself, feeling so raw, cold wetness sticking between your thighs. 

But he’s back in a moment, carrying a few warm, wet wash cloths and a towel. “I’m here,” he says softly, finding his way back to the bed. He kneels between your legs—you feel the mattress dip—and places a gentle hand on your ankle. “Can I?”

You nod. Your muscles relax as you feel him slowly wipe at your thighs, your centre, where your wetness and his release are drying onto your skin. He cleans you thoroughly, using his hands to feel the job he’s done, making sure he’s got it all. Then he moves to clean himself, and soon the wash cloths are on the floor, and he’s gently shuffling you out of the way to put a towel under you on the bed. 

He lies you back on it, then crawls up the bed, his bare skin against yours again. You breathe out in relief, hold onto him. 

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Roll over?” 

You do. His arms are around you in a second, your back pressed flush against his bare chest. A sigh comes from your throat as every single muscle relaxes. He’s here. He’s naked. He’s giving you parts of himself that he’s never given to anyone else.

What did I do to deserve this?

“Rest, Cyar’ika,” he breathes into your ear, all hot breath and soft lips and bareness. 

You grasp his hand, pulling it up to cradle against your chest. Your lips find his knuckles, kiss each one. You want to tell him how perfect this is, how much you adore him, how you never dreamed of being fucked that good. 

But sleep is coming for you fast. And, to be honest, you’re a little scared of telling him all that. Because you’ve never said those things before.

Words aren’t needed, though. 

You drift off in his arms.

notes: hope you enjoyed! thank you as always for your wonderful comments and thoughts on the last chapter. all interactions are appreciated, but reblogs are so helpful and comments fuel my need for validation. next chapter is going to be a long one, so be ready for that!

ps. life is about to get BUSY (even more than it already has been) and i'm not very well to top it all off but i will try my best to get the next chapter out on time❤️

taglist:

@toobsessedsstuff @granillx @keepingitlokiii @shoe1412 @kiruoris @quentinor @yourunstablegf @moonknight-s-cumdump @senassn @samanthacookieone @local-fanfic-addict @your-slutty-gf @whenpugzfly @elsasshole @moony-toasts @julesjewelss36 @jbcalway @mxlsmith @indec1sive

@lordhavemurthy @booktvmoviefangirl @brokenghostgirl1 @competitivedust @lostinsideourminds @gloryekaterina @ellesvoid @uncle-eggy @astronymity @leithatnight @domaniquessidehoe @dancealongthelightofday @loveslide @peqchsoup @jaguarthecat @starrynightsforever 

@hier--soir

[1alchemistart]

rediscovered some texture stuff i had in csp :DDD a fun time!

[zosanbrainrot]

fanarts for the cute fic by Hazel_Athena where Sanji gets turned into a cat and Zoro is very much a cat person

[dapper-lil-arts]

Season 1 Rarijack is really funny

[felixcosm]

I think it's mean how some people talk about fics on AO3.

'Oh you gotta wade through literal trash to find the good stuff'.

Were you not a beginner once? Did you not write crack fic or self indulgent things for your own entertainment?

Maybe don't speak that way about your fellow fic writers? Just because some fics aren't as polished as others, or involve fetishes and tropes you don't enjoy, or are not the style you want your fics to be doesn't mean they're trash.

It's a horrible thing to say and beginners are going to be discouraged from writing knowing that their fics might be considered trash because they're just starting out.

[queerdraws]

Fanart for a snippet of my most favorite heartbreaking moment from swordsmans's fic bone-breaker ospreys mate for life (rated E)