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weird-writes · 3 months

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isn't it

din djarin x f!reader

summary: at first, it had been you who had found a problem with each one he’d landed at. but, at some point between your clothing being around your ankles, you’re sure he’d begun to find problems with you leaving too.

warnings: mentions of smut/alludes to smut. bad star wars writing (probs, i'm new forgive me). no use of y/n. brief mention/allusion of hand necklace (thanks @rhoorl for the term), m!oral, p in v. loosely season one/two, although likely au. wordcount: 1.7k an: a huge massive thank you to @saradika for firstly convincing me i could do this, and then letting me show her this so i could be assured i didn't butcher him. ily so much 🤍

It’s beautiful.

The sound of wind rustling through it, how it waves in spots up and down the hill—moving side to side like a cosmic wave.

You thought you’d known green until now; thought you had known silver too, assumed you understood the way reflections worked and how quick movements could be. But that was before him.

Before you’d known the feel of his solid body lay on top of yours.

Then, you discovered a lot of things. Like how easy it was to spread your thighs on either side of him. For your fingers to seek in the dark—how they effortlessly hunt and find the parts he’ll expose to the night, but never to the light.

You even found you don’t hate the sound of your name when he says it. Somehow makes it longer, more impactful—like it has meaning when it comes from his mouth.

All of which were things you’d never known before you convinced him to bring you.

A promise, a barter—an exchange. Your hand clutching his blaster slugs, tears clutching to your lashes, flowing from your eyes—aware of what you look like, aware of the desperation you reek of.

Just take me to a different planet. A suitable one. Please.

At first, it had been you who had found a problem with each one he’d landed at.

A bogus reason, a ploy—all stemmed from a rising infatuation with the man under beskar. But, at some point between your cheek against the wall of his ship and your clothing being around your ankles, you’re sure he’d begun to find problems with you leaving too.

But, this place is a gift—it’s a slice of heaven.

It had been a stop gap you’d almost pleaded at him not to make, a pause in the travel plan. Now you’re not sure you want to leave it.

Because here is a sea of greens, a variety, a never-ending display of every shade between the letters which make up the name. Some are more saturated, some are deeper; some are tinged with yellows and others are blotted with dark spots that aim to discolour, but just make them more unique.

There’s no bounty here—no collection to be made.

Just a sight for your eyes and a moment for him. And, you think you could sit here for hours and bask in it. Take it in. Allow the air of this planet to fill your lungs and carve a space inside of you that no one will ever be able to rip from you.

Stroking your fingers through the ground, you feel how your tunic presses to your spine—how it’s held there by the perspiration on your spine. The fabric desperate to blow, to whip around your ribs and the sleeves to float around your arms.

You don’t care that it’s warm—don’t mind that you can feel your skin prickling under it.

Because you’re lost in it, the limitlessness of this place. How surreal it is that each blade points north to the sky, all upright, anchored pleasingly to the ground it came from.

Things had been beautiful earlier too, you remind yourself.

When you had been enveloped by darkness, not a slither of light—not that there’d be the space for it in the small cot. His hands, forever a staple, an anchor, to your hips, determined to pin you there.

He’s a man who chases after those who run, and you suppose it’s ingrained in him. This belief that everyone, at some point, will leave—will go. You think it’s why he holds you tightly when you’re nothing but bare; you suppose it’s why after, when he unsheathes himself, he always traces his thumb over the places his fingers have been, reminding your skin he’s kind, just in case you need another reminder not to leave.

“We should go.”

You hum because you should. Yet, your mind rationalises that the baby is still asleep and there are more minutes to sit in the silence, to not dwell—you suppose it’s why your hand reaches up, and brushes over the gloved fingers instead.

Action is easier than words when it comes to him.

A game the two of you play, one of silence and strategy—wondering who’d be the first to crack and speak more words than necessary. You suspect it’ll be you in time, likely soon enough.

It’s why you clutch, cling. Weaving and working until you’re holding his fingers at an odd angle, a silent plea there, a wishful hope spoken without using syllables or your lips and mouth.

“One more minute.”

“Okay,” you respond.

Watching the strands move again, swaying, dancing.

A content sigh rolls from you, and briefly—in the back of your mind, you wonder if you’re really awake. Whether this is some form of peace your brain has concocted after the sight of him stained in crimson; his palms flat in the air, modulator expelling he’s fine, it isn’t his, he’s okay, it’s okay—

For a while, you’d believed him, until you felt the bruises—all pulsing and colouring in shades you can’t imagine. An image being drawn, shaded in—forever in black and white, just outlines and half-concocted feelings you have on what lives under his armour.

He sighs next to you, it rattling out through his helmet.

And you wait to hear it, the confirmation he normally hands you. Deep, even through his modulator that this “isn’t it” either.

It’s been a routine ever since the two of you began this dalliance. Ever since you’d smuggled yourself aboard his ship with the promise that you’d never ask him for anything else.

Neither realising how false that would be.

You beg for a lot. For more, for his lips, his fingers and his cock. You wait for the darkness, count down to it—thrum with excitement for it when he steps down the ladder and his helmet is aimed in your direction.

Somehow, no words are said, just mutual acknowledgement, acceptance. Or that's what you call it. It being seemingly better than admitting that you crave it—him. That you care, that the sight of him smeared in ruby still haunts you—lingers there, bleeds into good days and casts shadows while you wait in the hull. The child in your arms, soothing him—telling yourself you’re giving him comfort, when you suppose you gain more from the small being than you could ever provide.

“This isn’t it,” he eventually says from above.

His helmet turned, and you imagine the eyes that live under it. Question if they’re almond-shaped or hooded, whether they’re brown, green or blue. You also wonder if he looks at you with curiosity or want, whether it’s with a thousand thoughts running or none at all.

“No?”

“No. Not this one.”

That’s when you close your eyes. Let your ears do the seeing.

Allow your other senses to kick in, to swallow the lack of sight and make do. You end up lingering on the gloved hand in yours—the one which sometimes slides around your neck, lightly pinches either side as you moan at the feel of him. The same hand which slides down your spine to aid your motion, or lingers there when the terrain isn't trouble-free.

It's the remembering which makes you let go of it, of him.

Quickly managing to pretend your hand doesn’t feel cold when you do. Stuff down the emptiness that begins to drown you in the space you put between you, as you stand up. A part of you admitting defeat, silently saying goodbye to tall stands of green and the rolling hills adorned with shades.

“Thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

It rumbles from you. All heavy, laced in its own metal—ready to slam into him and take him down.

It doesn’t. You’re not sure any words ever could.

You suppose it’s why he says nothing, silently following, not too far so that you’re alone, but not close enough that you can feel the ghost of his touch. The distant measured, all purposeful. It remains so until you’re back aboard, until the door closes behind you and you’re once again surrounded by metal.

A part of you knows you shouldn’t grow used to him, shouldn’t be waiting for him to flood your spine with his chest. But you do—you really fucking do.

It’s why you don’t move, don’t take a step closer to check on the baby or even unclench your hand from around the strands of green you’d stolen. The ones you’d ripped up from the ground, roots tickling your wrist—the rest remaining tucked closely between curled fingers and a sweaty palm.

Yours. The smallest piece of a place you’ll likely never see.

“You should sleep.”

It’s an order. Direct—practically thrown at you. Followed by a tight grip on your waist, fingers finding the same place they always do. His place. The one not needing a mark, but he leaves them all the same, ownership, a possession.

Sometimes in the throes of it, you hear him hiss mine, jus’ mine—your head nodding in the dark, because you are, you know you are, the same as you suspect he knows he’s yours. It’s another thing which festers behind your teeth, keeping lips clamped shut, knowing it requires no confirmation, no words in exchange for the momentary slip-up he lets escape. But then, you offer nothing when you trace mine against him with your tongue, when you muffle the words around his shaft as your mouth widens to take more of him.

It’s just pleasure, an easy-to-choose solution to another body being in proximity—a lie you tell yourself.

One you bargain with when he sleeps and you’re coated in the dark, convincing yourself until sleep carries you away and you wake to find yourself either alone or the very opposite.

Because it’s easier, simpler. Far better than admitting your heart does a double take when he returns, that you yearn for him in the days that pass when he leaves you on the ship.

It’s less complicated than asking him if you’ll ever be worthy of seeing him.

And you’re not the type of person to question. So you don’t.

And so the routine continues.

an: you don't know how much long this has been burning in my head.

#op this is so good #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian #reader insert #star wars

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weird-writes · 4 months

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FIRST PAPA OF THE YEAR

feat. his semi new design for an upcoming thing im working on.

#heeeeeellooooo #this is simply too sexy i’m afraid #illegal #the band ghost #papa emeritus iv #papa copia

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weird-writes · 5 months

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One of my favorite little fanon quirks given to Din is that he’ll do silly and light-hearted activities to keep Grogu happy but still play it 100% serious and gruff like he usually does with strangers. Like he’ll rush to join an important meeting discussing the terms for a bounty hunting opportunity while his flight suit is still just covered with rainbow chalk dust and crayon marks because Grogu was feeling artistic, or he’ll sit in a sleazy cantina giving an cold and daunting stare behind his helmet to anybody who dares look over at him for too long while also helping his son poke his straw into his apple juice box and not spill it on his robe. And if anybody thinks to question it or gives him an amused look he’s just like “Is there something you find funny? 🤨” and threatens to shoot them while Grogu sits in a baby harness on his chest and nibbles on his sleeve in the meantime.

#this dad energy is unbearably attractive #just you know fyi #or whatever #the mandalorian

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weird-writes · 5 months

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This started out as a wram up and just got out of control 🤣

#holy fucking shit #din djarin #the mandalorian #star wars #fanart

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weird-writes · 5 months

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HEY that's MY emotional support morally ambiguous misunderstood full of trauma touch starved yearning for love drenched in blood responsible for numerous atrocities comfort character who is TRYING & u will TREAT them with RESPECT

#now that i’ve finally finished Spare Change i have… plans

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weird-writes · 5 months

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the fight over maarva saying fuck the empire is still so funny to me like

andor creators: "we already recorded it! you can't tell us she can't say fuck!" disney: "i don't care. dub it over. she can't say fuck" andor creators: "here is a memo on why it is economically and socially prudent to allow maarva to say fuck" disney: " ...? no!" andor creators: "...fine. we'll dub it over." *they dub it but cut to an extreme close-up of maarva's face right as she says "FUCK", so that it's beyond obviously visible on her lips*

I'm hard of hearing and I thought the subtitles were wrong because her lips say "fuck" so clearly. I had to go back and listen to it again because I was so certain she'd said "fuck" and they'd just censored the subtitles. the pettiness is inspiring

#i did not know they wrote a memo #Kings the lot of em #andor #disney

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weird-writes · 5 months

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Spare Change (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Spare Change (10k)

Series: Part four of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction.

Description: When bad dreams wake you the night before your wedding, you find only two things will make you feel better: a certain helmet - and your future husband.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

They'd won in the end, as you'd known they would. The big one had held you down while the tall woman wearing armor tightened the restraints around your wrists and ankles. Then your thighs and waist and - horrifyingly intimate, close enough that your breath fogged the beskar of her helmet - your neck. Once the last buckle flipped shut you nearly passed out, immobility so much worse than the comparatively straightforward act of being kidnapped.

You threw up again, this time without the encouragement of a boot to the gut. With your neck strapped to the chair you couldn't lean over, and had to suffer the indignity of gloved fingers sweeping through your mouth to check your airway after you were done heaving.

The yellow helmet said, as if you weren't even in the room: "Be careful. We need her alive."

Warnings: torture, trauma, revenge, slightly more than canon-typical violence, PTSD, sexual content implied, canon what canon, no betas we die like men

Tropes: battle couple, angst, hurt/comfort sorta, "want me to kill him for you?", happy endings, the helmet comes off but not like you think, is dark fluff a genre option?

Author's note: GUESS WHO'S BACK LIKE A HEART ATTACK

***

You haven’t had a night like this in so long you've forgotten what it’s like. The images aren't as vivid as they once were but the panic is the same, the adrenaline spiking through your bloodstream still enough to hurl you back to consciousness without warning. There's only the dream - a blur of yellow, the snap of your head going back, the smashed porcelain feeling of teeth coming loose - and then awake: warm blood replaced with sweat, your clenched fists wound tight as magcuffs in the sheets.

It takes a few seconds before you can untangle yourself without screaming.

It's late. Din and the kiddo must still be asleep. In the bad old days, you'd make noise. Sometimes you woke yourself; sometimes Din's light touch pulled you out instead. But that was a long time ago now. You haven't needed him to guard you from your dreams in years, hadn't even had that particular dream at all in what... ten months? Twelve?

Last time it had been no more than a few quick flashes. Half-formed faces, the taste of sand - then gone, drowned in mundanity as your sleeping mind sorted through the events of an unremarkable day.

This time was bad. This time details you'd thought were gone had found you, slicing into the soft meat of your memory with the precision of a surgeon reopening an old wound. Hands holding you upright. A damp cloth moving across your cracked lips. Bacta knitting you back together under the padding of the restraints, cool compared to the warm desert night. Tell us where he is, and none of this has to happen again. You heard him-- you don't owe him anything. Your throat, dry and swollen, barely able to swallow water. So you spat it instead, tinged with blood and mucous, right into the face that was telling you such tempting lies.

Then the one constant, the moment that replayed every night for months after your captivity ended: the helmet. Beskar, though Maker knows where they'd gotten it. Scored and dented by heavy combat, yellow paint peeling and flaking to show the metal underneath, dangling carelessly from the hand of the woman who'd plied you with questions and later with pain. Even if you hadn't known already, the state of her armor would have been enough to tell you that this little collection of nobodies was far outside of tribe and clan - if they'd ever had them in the first place. You didn’t believe a word they said, because what good was the word of a Mandalorian who was no Mandalorian at all?

That was right before she'd raised the helmet, fingers hooked casually inside the visor, and smashed it across your jaw.

The dream ends there, the impact of the helmet jolting you awake. But you don't need to be asleep to remember what came next. After the blow, an instant of reflexive amazement: somewhere out there in the universe, someone in charge had made a mistake. Nothing could hurt this much. Then hot on the heels of astonishment had come something much worse. Realization. It could hurt this much, you'd feel every bit of it and would go on feeling it even after they decided to stop.

You had just opened your mouth to scream when she hit you again, with the visor this time, and your teeth snapped shut so hard you were sure you'd bitten off your tongue.

You'd blacked out after that, the force of brain meeting skull erasing you from existence for a while. Ironic that right before you'd lost consciousness is when the dream always spits you out. No rescue, no resolution, just the slam of beskar into tender flesh and bone and then reality. Launched back into the present with all the kindness of a missile strike.

Even without the blankets tangled around you, your bunk feels too small, too much like - but there's nothing good at the end of that thought, so you breathe out hard through your nose, pull the curtains back, and listen. Silence except for the comforting hum of the ship's usual routines, recycled air sighing past your feet as you dangle them off the edge of your bed and drop lightly to the floor.

Standing up helps a little, but only a little. You must have been quiet, though, because Din hadn't come to find you. For the past few weeks he's taken to sleeping with the sliding door to his own bunk wide open. He called it a gesture of trust. You called it tempting fate, or at least you had the first time he'd leaned his visor against your forehead as he did every night and then crawled into his rack.

You followed his cue, moving to fold out your bed from its niche. You'd been just about to climb in when you'd heard the shuffling click of Din's helmet unlatching, loud in the soft hum of hyperspace.

"Hey," you'd called softly, making sure to keep your eyes on the bulkhead. "Did you forget to close the door?"

"I didn't forget," Din answered back, equally soft, and then in his typical Mandalorian way said nothing else, leaving you to work out the implications.

You hesitated. "Din, is that... wise?"

When Din responded, his voice seemed almost strange without the modulator - too warm, too human, more like one of the embarrassingly tender daydreams you used to have about him than the real thing. You'd heard his unfiltered voice before on rare occasions: through a wall; when you stuck your head into the 'fresher to ask a question with the door of the sonic firmly closed. Never like this, though, never so close.

So when he said, "I trust you," as simply as he would state that water is wet or planets orbit their suns, you had to clamp your hands down on the edge of your bunk to keep from... from what? Shouting at him that he's being stupid, maybe. Anything that would push against the weight of the thing he's just handed you with as nonchalantly as he would caf or Grogu's favorite toy. When Din decides, he decides, and then he stares down the galaxy until it bends to his will.

You already know he won't spend another second worrying that you could end his entire way of life with an accidental turn of your head.

That, of course, is why you're marrying him.

But it doesn't mean you're not nervous about it.

And maybe that's what's brought ancient monsters out of the deep. How many brides before you haven't been able to sleep the night before their wedding? If you even are a bride - Din has been somewhat vague on exactly how the Children of the Watch solemnize their bonds, saying only that the process is simple and requires no special preparation. His reassurance only goes so far, and something in your chest has been cinching tighter as the numbing routines of long spaceflight bring you closer to Mandalore. No wonder you're not sleeping well, your jangling nerves drawing out the old familiar enemy. You may have forgotten the dream, but it clearly hasn't forgotten you.

It would be a bad omen, if you believed in bad omens. You don't. You've never really believed in anything you can't see or hear or smell or touch - except for love, and probably not even that before a certain bounty hunter.

Which is why you grimace at the smell of your sweat-damp shirt but make for the galley instead of your chest of fresh clothes. You haven't needed it in months, not since the last time you had this particular dream. It had been in the cabinet full of spare parts but things on the ship don't tend to stay in one place, not with the womp rat around, and you're almost sure you saw it somewhere in the galley when you were looking for pirjanad.

Easing the cabinet doors open quietly enough not to wake your companions is hard enough, but easing them closed again when you don't find what you're looking for is harder. The last one bangs just a little as the cheap polymer latches and you pause, listening closely for blankets rustling or the telltale coo that means Grogu is awake for good. You let go of your held breath only when all you can hear is the soft hiss of the vents. Your solitude is safe for a while longer.

It's while you're frozen, head cocked towards the corner that you know contains the Child's cradle even if you can't see it, that you spot it. A flash of yellow, shoved behind the plasma heater and the kettle and the battered tin pot that you should really replace, since Din never will. You shove the cooking implements aside, still trying to stay quiet.

Somehow you’d forgotten that it takes both hands to lift it, the beskar nearly as heavy as its contents. You cradle it in your cupped palms like an offering bowl.

It's absurd to compare the helmet in your dream to the real thing. In the dream, it's enormous, weighty with despair, the hand that holds it all-powerful. But awake, in the dim light from the sensors that are the galley's only illumination, it's nothing at all. Still heavy - but awkward, a thing meant to be worn, not wielded. The paint has flaked away even more, leaving only ragged patches of yellow behind. Din keeps your spare change in it, small denomination credits as well as the bits and pieces of local currency that aren't worth the rates to exchange but might still be useful. The metal rattling around inside has done nothing to keep the padding intact... but it's been years. You're probably all a little worse for wear.

Years. At times when you look back it’s almost impossible to believe you're still here. Impossible to imagine the bloody, gutting details of all you’ve been through fading into something as mundane as this: Din, breathing soft and even in the darkness of his rack, sleeping as soundly as he would the night before a battle; you, awake, alight with nerves and memory, unable to contemplate tomorrow and so thinking only of yesterday. The painfully ordinary helmet in your hands, a reminder of one of the worst - and best - days of your life.

You carry the helmet out into the cargo bay, settling on the floor with your back against a crate, and contemplate the visor between your crossed knees.

***

They'd thought you were your fucking sister. Again. Just like the last bounty hunter had, months ago - and just like him, it didn't end well, although at least Mando had restrained himself to only breaking your heart and no other important bits. This lot jumped you six on one and kept knocking you down until you went limp enough to drag. They hadn't thought to check your fingerprints or your retina or the scattering of burn scars across your palms, unique evidence of a lifetime of mucking with sharp wires and small explosives. They shoved your whole head in front of a facial recognition scanner instead, then made smug, self-satisfied noises when it confirmed what they thought they already knew.

Considering the amount of inconvenience she was still managing to put you through, sister was maybe too generous. Clone would be more accurate, although you'd never liked the word. But it was true that even if they had sequenced your genetic material instead of relying on your bone structure, the information that flashed across the screen would have been the same. Your father had been a little too curious about military technology, a little too adoring of the Old Republic, and possessed of a little - okay, a lot - too much money with nothing else to spend it on. And there you were, one half of his pet project, more than fifteen years out from under the family name and still paying the price. Eating sand as your newest captors hauled you through the back alleys of Mos Eisley.

The blood dripping into your eyes kept you from seeing much. After a while, the hands that had been pulling you by the ankles finally dropped, and you heard the sound of a heavy metal door banging open. Then the grip on you returned. Your smeared vision went from glimpses of desert sky to darkness, the smell of rust, the sense of a cavernous space above you. A warehouse?

As soon as you were sure you wouldn't faint you'd be on your feet, making for Pelli Motto's hangar and the relative safety of the docks, which had to be nearby. Clearly the Guild had finally reassigned your bounty: the tall figure who'd taken you down first was wearing armor that looked suspiciously Mandalorian. Considering the terms of your puck, they probably wouldn't kill you if you tried to escape, and if you got to Pelli's she'd hide you and you could stow away on a ship outbound after repairs. You'd done it before. It had been a while since you'd last disappeared, but you had the knack.

If you hadn't just been thrown repeatedly into an alley wall, you would have realized the implications of that warehouse. Bounty hunters would turn you over for the reward, not take you to an empty building in a decrepit part of town. And even if the warehouse had escaped you, the chair wouldn't have. Heavy steel bolts held it to the floor, and it had the same padded straps that a medtech might use until the sedation spike hit. There was only one use for a chair like that, and it wasn't one that bounty hunters would ever require.

Of course, you'd figured out the chair just fine when they'd levered you upright long enough to try and sit you in it. At the first touch of metal your body worked out what your brain hadn't and reacted accordingly. There had been a bad moment where you thought you might lose control of your bladder, but you'd lost control of the rest of you instead: kicking and biting everything in reach, smashing your forehead into the nose of the man who leaned over you so hard that you both reeled back in an explosion of mutual stars. By the time they got you under control you weren't the only one dripping blood, and a sample from the right place on any of them would have yielded both your DNA.

The yellow helmet said, as if you weren't even in the room: "Be careful. We need her alive."

***

It's the nightmare that upset you, or at least that's what you tell yourself. But it's not a convincing lie, even to you. You know it's not just the nightmare; it's the nightmare and the uncharted territory of tomorrow. The stress of the - the phase change, from one thing to another. No matter how much you reassure yourself that you and your Mandalorian have been together for years and that's the same as married, it's not true. It's the thought of Din without his helmet for the first time and every time after that. It's the idea of his face - will you love it? Of course you'll love it. Will you hate it? You could never hate it. Oh Maker, what if you hate it - standing in for the promise of a shared future and all the uncertainty that entails.

After a while it isn't even the nightmare and tomorrow anymore, it's everything: your family and your past; your close calls; your narrow escapes; decades worth of bumps and bruises to your soul. You get down to the business of crying as quietly as you can, tears rolling down your cheeks and dripping into the assorted coins inside the helmet. You're not even sure you're sad. Not exactly. You only know that something huge and tender inside you is trying to get out and it seems to require quite a lot of lubrication to do so.

Eventually you stop sobbing with every inhale. The small details of a ship at rest begin to return: green status panel. Red emergency shutoff. You try to straighten up but clearly whatever's inside your chest isn't the only thing that's now well-lubricated because the helmet, slick with old grease and fresh tears, slips out of your grasp. You lunge for it but miss. It clunks to the floor, the noise as loud as a bomb going off in the silence.

Din finds you, of course, about five kriffing seconds later. He's far too much the bounty hunter to ever sleep so heavily an unexpected noise won't bring him out of his rack in record time. For a childish moment you hope if you hold still he'll just go away; you could really live without your immediate-future husband seeing you clutching a stupid helmet with snot all over your face. But he can't help finding you despite the dark any more than he can help being a light sleeper.

His own helmet must mean he sees every detail of your expression. He doesn't ask questions, just sinks to the floor beside you and hauls you into the protective circle of his arms. "We don't have to," he says soothingly, burying his visor in your unbound hair and letting it rest against your skull. "We don't. We can go to Batuu instead - pick some fights, lose some credits at the tables. You love spending my money."

A guess. A good guess, and an offer more generous than you deserve. You're crying again, which is absurd, but tonight your tears have their own agenda. In fact, you're crying so much that you can't even tell him he's wrong, that you do want to get married tomorrow. All you can do is shake your head in denial.

"No? Mos Eisley then," jokes Din. That only makes you cry harder. His grip on you tightens. When he speaks again, his voice is pained, uncertain. "Mesh'la? Tell me what's wrong." He's upset too and trying to hide it. He thinks you don't want this, that you've changed your mind after all, but you know he'll never admit it.

"Not you," you finally hiccup. "I was sleeping-- the dream--"

"Oh." You feel most of the tension leave Din. He sounds relieved even through the modulator, which you find forgivable under the circumstances.

"It was bad," you confess. "The worst in a long time."

The helmet behind you makes a sympathetic noise. The helmet in front of you is still staring, the inverted T of the upside-down visor empty and silent.

"Din," you say abruptly. "You've been-- at night. Without the helmet. Does it count if I can't see?" You really don't know. He's never taken the helmet off in your presence before, not even with you blindfolded or in total darkness. His Creed doesn't work like that. To a Mandalorian, to do something halfway is to do it completely, in spirit if not in fact. And the spirit is what matters. "Can you take it off now, if I promise not to look?"

He doesn't wait for a promise, doesn't even hesitate. His arms leave you as he reaches upward. There's a hiss and a click and then the silver helmet is in your hands, as heavy as the yellow one in your dreams. This time the weight is comforting.

"Does it help?" His voice feels like you're still dreaming: rough with sleep, low and velvet and only inches from your ear. You shiver. You could get used to this.

"Yes," you say contentedly, leaning back into him. You put the silver helmet on your lap and let your fingers wander over it: the smooth transparisteel, the curves of the cheek guards. Your mouth twitches as you trail up to the ridge of metal running over the crest. You have fond memories of that ridge.

More than anything else about him, the helmet is Din to you. When you think of his face, you think of the helmet. It will be strange to learn a new face, another Din - but you realize with a warm flip of your stomach that you're looking forward to it.

You give the helmet one last caress then hand it back back awkwardly, careful not to look over your shoulder. You wait for the rustle of adjustment and the buzz of the modulator as Din puts it back on, but neither comes. There's a quiet thump, as if he's set it down beside him, and then his hands return to find yours. His voice, still unfiltered: "Better?"

"Better. You know I want tomorrow, right?" It comes out a little flat, but if you cry any more you'll dehydrate like freeze-dried rations.

Din doesn't answer. He picks up one of your hands instead and pulls it over your shoulder and kisses it. The first press of his lips to your skin feels - ordinary. Just a brief, dry pressure, breath warm compared to the cool cargo bay, the soft strands of his mustache tickling your palm. It's clearly meant to be comforting, not seductive.

You think you might lose your mind. You have to close your eyes hard to keep from looking. Fuck getting married, you could die right now. You can't die right now, you have to make it at least through tomorrow so he can do it again. So he can do more. No, don't think about that, not when you can't do anything about it -

With you tangled together like this, you're sure he feels your reaction. You can certainly feel his broad chest quake as he laughs at you. "Mesh'la? Is something wrong?"

"Shut up," you say, not meaning it, and Din laughs again, a quiet puff of air in the dark. You cast around for a lifeline to preserve your dignity and come up with a complaint: "I don't know anything about Mandalorian marriage. Is a wedding public or secret? Do you wear any sign of being pledged to each other?"

"Public but only within the tribe. And you won the right to wear my clan signet a long time ago, so that won't change. Why, do you want a promise ring? We already have each other's tracking beacons."

"How romantic." But that's your Mando, practical as ever. "I thought for sure there'd be something else, something... intense. A tattoo or something."

"A tattoo? What would that do?"

It seems obvious to you. "You know. A sign of 'til death do us part' or whatever. Your people are always so committed. It seems... very Mandalorian."

Din sounds confused. "A tattoo would be inappropriate. Tattoos are meant to be permanent."

Have you fundamentally misunderstood the nature of this arrangement? "And marriage isn't?"

"It's a hope, not a requirement," Din says, as if he's explaining something you should already know. This, too, must be part of his religion. "Mandalorians don't believe in an unbreakable marriage bond. There's no honor in something you can never walk away from. The Way is in the choice to stay together, made over and over, and in the struggle to keep each other, always tested. Every day made new."

Your heart stops for a moment. You sometimes forget he can be like this: your sensible, hard-headed Mandalorian. Din isn't a sweet-talker, and he doesn't waste time wooing you with words unless it's in bed. He doesn't need to. He knows he has you, as surely as you know you have him. But sometimes you forget what drew you to him in the first place - his hard-fought skill, his well-earned pride, his sense of honor. His Creed. He believes, simple as that.

And now he believes in you, too.

There's so much you've never done together. Never bathed together. Never eaten the same meal at the same time. Never slept next to one another except out of exhaustion or in forced proximity. You know the exact trigger pressure of the IB-94 blaster he prefers. You know that when he's feeling philosophical he likes to coax you into the cockpit with him, one arm around your waist as he pulls you into his lap to quietly contemplate the stars. You know the shame he still carries from the time, years ago, when he considered Grogu a bounty and not his son. You even know about the stash of cheap adventure holonovels he keeps in his crate for when he thinks you're not looking. You would know him in the pitch black of deep space from the warmth of his body and the raised constellations of his scars.

You've never seen his face.

Tomorrow will change everything and nothing at all.

***

Your captors weren't so stupid that they thought they could keep you restrained indefinitely. They pulled the straps off you every few hours, as though they were acting on advice from the same clinician who donated the horrible chair. The smallest one kept a blaster trained on you from a few paces away as one of the others hauled you upright and made you stumble outside into the alley to stretch your tingling limbs and relieve yourself. The first time you crouched against the wall for as long as you dared, hoping that a stray passerby might spot you. The second time you fell over, unable to feel your feet. The third time you didn't even pretend anymore, just stood dripping blood into the sand until they forced you back inside. Some of the fear you'd felt at first had faded, replaced by buzzing numbness. You'd spent all your endorphins enduring the first twenty minutes and now static was the only thing left.

By then the yellow helmet had made it very clear what it would take for them to let you go, and it wasn't a bounty payment or even a ransom sourced from your father's dwindling estate - not that you would have been able to access it anyway. No, you were just a little fish in their net, and she promised the instant you proved yourself useful they'd throw you back into the murky waters of Mos Eisley. They had a bigger catch in mind.

They wanted Mando.

And they wanted you to tell them where to find him.

You could have argued the point from several angles. You weren't who they thought you were, for one. You weren't sure where Mando was for another, considering he hadn't seen fit to tell you his travel plans before he said he was done with you and then dumped you in this Maker-forsaken town. Presumably he'd turn in the bounty you'd caught together, but after that he could be headed anywhere in the galaxy. You had no idea if they'd believe you, but that was the truth. You could have at least tried to convince them.

You didn't.

At first, before the helmet and everything else that led to you leaking bodily fluids in an empty warehouse, you told yourself it was because you were taking the high ground. He might not want you anymore but Mando had still believed you weren't your sister, taken you in when you needed protection and a place to lay low. He'd often been strange and silent, aloof and hard to read, but he'd never been impatient or rude - at least, not until the very end, not until you'd pushed the matter further than he was willing to go. And regardless of how he felt about his own behavior, he'd never taken advantage of you. You had been a willing participant and in his own way he'd treated you generously, in and out of bed. You weren't in the habit of rewarding kindness with betrayal.

That excuse held up for a surprisingly long time, right up until the first tooth dropped out of your swollen mouth and clinked against the metal of the chair.

After that, it was sheer spite, and you couldn't even decide who you hated more: the tacky, embarrassing excuse for Mandalorians in front of you or the stoic, picture-perfect Mandalorian who left you to be snatched up like an ash-rabbit the first place. You weren't stupid - you'd never been a soldier but you'd certainly been around them plenty, back when the New Republic had dragooned your talents into the service of a cause you didn't even believe in. You'd gotten drunk with plenty of former Rebels and you knew that no one, no matter their motivations, holds out forever under torture. But you were going to make them kriffing work for it.

The medic was their mistake and your salvation. When they'd pulled you out of the chair this time you'd collapsed, your abused legs unable to take your weight. They'd been standing over you bickering about who would carry you outside when a pair of boots you didn't recognize came into your field of view.

"You idiots," was the first thing the new voice said: another woman, you thought, low and clear and confident. "How long has she been like this? You're going to kill her from dehydration, if hemorrhage doesn't get her first." A steady beeping noise came from somewhere nearby. The newcomer was using a handheld medisensor. "Yeah, thought so - look. Dehydration, bruised kidneys, cranial swelling, broken jaw and skull fracture, bleeding into the abdominal cavity. If you're planning to use her as bait you'd better do it quick."

"Kriff," groaned one of the ones you did know by now - the big one who was always the first to unbuckle your restraints and the first to put them back on. He sounded more inconvenienced than regretful. "We tried to give her water but she won't drink it. Spit it right back at us. Keva lost her temper."

The woman you thought was a medic gave an unsympathetic snort. "She's gonna lose her hostage, too, if she doesn't let me help. Let me talk to her."

The sound of boots moving away from you, the squeal of the big iron door opening and closing. Only one of them left to guard you, which would have been the perfect opportunity to grab for a blaster and get far away, if only you could move more than a few pathetic inches at a time.

You'd just geared up to at least try when the door banged open again. You spent a precious bit of energy rolling your eyes instead - fuck's sake, had none of these people ever run a covert operation before? Or were they just so sure no one would come looking for you? Maybe that was it. They'd been following you; they'd witnessed your very public repudiation. They knew they didn't need to worry about a rescue. You were on your own, just like Mando had said.

The thought made you want to lay your head against the stone, close your eyes, and wait for whichever of your fatal injuries would be the first to cross the finish line.

"He's not going to come back for her on his own," came Yellow Helmet's voice, unmodulated. She must have taken the helmet off again. She seemed to spend more time holding it than wearing it, which irritated you an absurd amount considering the circumstances. "If we want to use her, we're going to have to get the word around and wait for him to come to us. It could take weeks."

"She doesn't have weeks unless you get her to a real medbay." The medic again. "Whoever kicked her in the gut about eight times and broke her skull made sure of that."

Silence. You concentrated on keeping your head up and your breathing as even as you could. Whatever was coming next, you wanted to see it before it got you.

"Fine," Yellow Helmet gritted out at last. She sounded annoyed. "We can spare one. That means after this we go easy on her. There's plenty that will make her talk without killing her."

"Lucky her," said the other woman with just a touch of sarcasm, then: "Hold still." This last was directed at you. As if you could do anything else.

You were still digesting the implications of make her talk without killing her when there was a thunk and a rustle from above you. A heavy canvas bag dropped to the floor just in front of your face, marked with the universal sigil for medical supplies. A moment later you felt a heavy sting on the back of your neck. You yelped and tried to roll over but succeeded only in bucking helplessly, too weak to fling yourself against the intrusion. Your heart was hammering in your ribcage - what was that? What exactly were they planning to do?

"That should tide her over." The medic sounded satisfied.

"It had better," Yellow Helmet said. "I'll be damned if she's getting another. We were lucky to get as many as we did."

What had they just given you? A stimpack would explain your heart rate, but stimpacks were for combat soldiers, designed to get them up and fighting again on the assumption that real medical attention would be available once the shooting stopped. And you'd had stims and this didn't feel like that. It didn't feel like a sedative either; no warm haze reached out to pull you oblivion. Instead, a strange sensation prickled across your scalp. It was a little like cool water over a sunburn or the pump of cold air from a ventilation shaft. You found you were suddenly more alert, could feel parts of yourself that you hadn't realized had gone numb. You thought that in another few minutes you might be able to stand, and walk, and talk, and do all the normal things a person does that had been stripped from you in your purely animal pain.

You were considering putting this hypothesis to the test by rolling over when something else happened. Somewhere in your abdomen, a feeling like a balloon popping but in reverse - slowly and then all at once. You blinked and swallowed. You hadn't even been able to tell how unfocused your vision had become; now it was like watching one of those hyperrealistic holovids, colors flooding in so brightly everything seemed oversaturated. It wasn't that you didn't still hurt: you could feel the bruises on your jaw, the cut on your scalp throbbing. And it wasn't that you weren't exhausted because you still wanted to fall asleep right there on the floor.

It was just that, suddenly, it seemed possible you might live.

"Get her up," commanded Yellow Helmet. Hands shoved themselves under your armpits to hoist you to your feet. The big one's touch was familiar at this point, and you found it almost comforting. This time when your feet touched the floor you were able to stand.

"You two, take her out. Deng, keep that blaster handy - we don't know how she'll react."

Good, you thought, with a giggle. She'll react real good. You weren't sure if you'd said it out loud.

"Come on," said the big one coaxingly. "Atta girl. Let's get you outside and you can have a nice walkabout."

Your mouth was too gummed with dried blood to come back with something smart, and you really did want to move even if it was just to see if you could. You concentrated instead on putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time you reached the alley, you found you could not just walk but maybe even run if you had to. Whatever they gave you was humming along your nerves and everything was sharp and clear, from the rustle of your garments as you stretched to the sound of Yellow Helmet and the others arguing about something in a language you didn't know.

Your newfound awareness was what saved you both. You saw the glimpse of silver in the loading dock across the street, tucked deep behind another half-shattered door. Your chemically-enhanced synapses stopped you from reacting almost before you realized what you were looking at. Your two guards were watching you closely. You deliberately let your gaze drift back down to the ground, trying to to look vague and unthreatening. It must have worked because neither of your captors seemed to notice anything amiss.

After a few long seconds your eyes wandered back over to the loading dock, but whatever you'd seen in the shadows was gone.

***

"All right," said Yellow Helmet from startlingly close behind you. It was your fifth time being let out of the chair to pee and this time, thanks to whatever they'd given you, you'd actually passed something resembling normal urine instead of blood. You knew it was the fifth time because you were keeping track. Other prisoners might scratch the days on the walls of their prison; you, in a somewhat less dignified arrangement, kept count via your bladder and hoped every piss wouldn't be your last.

Yellow Helmet was talking to your minder. "Here's the plan. We're getting off this sand-sucking rock as fast as possible, and we're taking her with us. Deng stays behind to put the word out. If Djarin is here, he'll hear we've got his little pet and come looking. Him and his fucking honor, Mandalorians are so predictable--"

The first shot was so unexpected you didn't understand what was happening. All you registered was an ear-splitting crack and a roar from one of your guards before the smaller one, the one who had been assigned to hold a blaster to your head, staggered back and collapsed against the wall as if he had decided to sit down on the job. It wasn't until you saw the dark bloom across his tunic that you realized he wasn't suddenly drunk or insane: he was dead.

Someone was screaming, but it wasn't you. The noise almost masked the whining pop of return fire as you whipped your head towards the alley entrance, despite the protest from your injured jaw, and saw -

A mountain of silver advancing through the narrow passageway, pulse rifle notched against one shoulder and coolly steadied by a familiar, orange-gloved hand.

Your other kidnappers were scrambling across the open ground, finding cover behind ruined walls, ducking behind doors already hanging crazily off their hinges. Two more blaster bolts whistled by your head and you flinched, watching them ricochet off the Mandalorian's beskar chestplate as if they were children's toys.

The pulse rifle fired again, punching straight through one of the doors. The energy field might have lost momentum going through the metal, but it didn't matter. You saw shrapnel finish the gruesome job as the body of the big man - the one you'd almost managed to feel fond of - reeled backward, the flesh of his face and throat no more than shreds of yellow and scarlet.

More screaming. It might have been you this time. You couldn't tell.

Another shot. This close, the sound was incredible to your heightened hearing, so loud it made your eardrums ring like gongs. You were glad to be temporarily deaf; you didn't want to hear what noises the woman across from you was making as she clutched her hands to the river of blood gushing from her side. You'd never been so relieved to see someone in your life and at the same time you were terrified, desperate to run, hide, anything to avoid the eerily calm attention of the man who was coming down the street towards you like a landslide.

The Mandalorian tossed the pulse rifle into the sand and drew the blaster holstered on his hip. A lucky shot from someone - Yellow Helmet, maybe - grazed his arm at the elbow, burning through the duraweave, but he hardly seemed to notice. Your quaking body crammed you into the wall as he went past, making yourself as small of a target as possible. He didn't look at you, didn't seem to see anything past the helmet besides the three mercenaries still returning fire from the end of the alley.

Something in your flailing brain tugged at your attention despite the panic. Three. Three, including Yellow Helmet, still cowering behind their poor excuses for cover. Three more down, one still cursing and two dead.

Where was --

You were up and moving before you even realized it, launching yourself through the door of the warehouse like a badly aimed slugthrower. You collided with someone just inside, kneecap popping ominously as you both hit the floor and rolled with a clatter of metal. You pulled yourself halfway to standing despite the pain, desperately scanning for what you knew had to be there - slamming a shin into the concrete as you lunged -

The medic's blaster was in your hands and her face, which you hadn't been able to see before now, was like a dream below the red dot of the targeting system. She was kneeling too, arrested in the middle of rising after you'd knocked her down. She had a plain face, broad and open, and could have passed unnoticed in any marketplace on Tattooine. Your finger twitched, finding the trigger.

"Don't," said the medic. "Please don't."

"You would have killed me," you said. It was the first time you'd spoken to one of your captors and the words felt strange in your mouth.

"I saved you," the medic said. "They would have let you die." Her voice was perfectly steady.

"You were going to shoot him," you said. Your brain had done the calculation without any conscious input from you, as it had several times in the past few days. Three in the sand of the alley. Three still fighting. One missing: the latecomer, the medic. The smart one, who had stayed in the darkness of the warehouse and waited for the Mandalorian to walk past. She would have taken her shot at his back, aiming for the unarmored arteries in the leg and groin. It's what you would have done too.

"He's killing us," she replied.

"Good," you snarled, so savagely you didn't recognize yourself. "He should."

"It's not personal." She was still talking, the way you would talk to a wild animal: calm, soothing, a gentle stream to let it know you're only human. "Strictly business. It was never about you. We didn't even want your bounty, we just wanted the Mandalor--"

It wasn't that you were an especially good shot. She was just so close you couldn't miss. The blaster bolt took her square in the sternum and she went over backward with the hollow thunk of skull meeting stone. You half staggered, half crawled a few steps, staring at the dead face, the empty eyes. You wanted to say something clever like, Yeah, well, so do I, but you just gaped like an idiot instead, chest heaving as the weapon dangled from one slack hand.

There was a tremendous clang from outside, followed by the scream of metal on metal. You turned to see the warehouse door flung fully open by a silver figure half-dragging, half-supporting a woman in yellow armor -

You pulled the trigger entirely by instinct. Luckily your aim was just as good as last time and the bolt hit the yellow breastplate dead center, ricocheted to ping off the Mandalorian’s silver helmet, and vanished into the ceiling in a cloud of dust.

"Hey, watch it," came the familiar, modulated voice.

Relief hit you harder than any alley wall, pulling the adrenaline out from under you like a rug. You sat down hard on the concrete. Your hands were shaking so badly you dropped the blaster.

You didn't pick it back up. No need, not anymore. You found to your surprise that you couldn't raise your head, couldn't meet the dark glass of the visor. You felt-- you didn't know what you felt. Furious that he was the reason you were here, and grateful to be rescued, and embarrassed to need it... and somehow deeply, obscurely ashamed.

Another clang as the Mandalorian dropped his armored prize like dead weight to kneel beside you. "Mesh--," he started, and then stopped, then started again. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

There was no good way to answer that question, so you just pointed at the yellow figure on the floor.

"Yeah," said Mando, sounding more certain. "This one was giving the orders. I saw the cha-- I saw some of the things she did. I thought..." He paused for a moment, as though considering what to say next. "I thought you might like... right of first refusal."

Right of first refusal. What a Mandalorian way to put it. I thought murder might make you feel better. Some part of you wanted to take him up on it but you had already killed today, had already broken your vow, and for a better reason than revenge. You shook your head.

"In that case," said Mando easily, and reached for his holster. You stopped him with a hand on the arm, though it took you another few seconds to find words. When you did, your voice was so cracked your still-ringing ears could barely hear it.

"No," you said. "Enough killing for one day. Leave her on the steps of the New Republic office and let them handle it."

You'd only ever given him orders once before, and never like this.

Mando shrugged. He had an uneven way of moving his shoulders that surprised you into remembering it. It had only been a few days and you were already losing details, the things that made the Mandalorian himself despite his usual silence.

You'd spent so long watching, studying, hoping and you'd just... forgotten.

Something black and awful, worse than the first touch of the chair's straps, opened up in your stomach at the thought. It drove you upright, beyond ready to be done with this place, these people.

"Get her up," you croaked. "You go in front, I don't want to see her. We'll drop her off." You seriously doubted your ability to walk that far, but you would try. You couldn't not try. "And then-- and then take me home."

There was no question of what you meant by home. The Mandalorian didn't protest, didn't argue or even apologize. He just nodded and picked up his captive and went out of the warehouse door in front of you as you commanded, into the blinding sunshine.

***

Din holds you until your breathing evens, silent and patient in a way you've never learned to be with yourself. Your own tolerance gives out long before you run out of tears, and this time you're more exasperated than upset. It makes you careless. "Why I am still crying?" you whisper fiercely to Din, shaking the last of the saltwater from your lashes and trying to sit taller in his grasp. "That was years ago. It's just a stupid fucking helmet."

There's a sound like a sigh behind you, and too late you remember Din's feelings about his own stupid fucking helmet. Kriff. Does it matter? It's not like the yellow helmet came from a real Mandalorian. But maybe it had, once, and you're dishonoring their memory or something by saying it. Kriff. If you try to fix it now you'll just sound stupid and insincere. Not for the first time, you wish you knew more about the Children of the Watch and their customs.

"Mesh'la," Din says from behind you, and the word is slow and heavy in a way that makes your stomach drop. It was a thoughtless thing to say out loud, sure, but you didn't think you'd fucked up that badly.

"About the helmet," he continues, and you're almost sure he's going to say something like, If you feel that way about it, are you sure about tomorrow?

But what comes out instead is, "Do you want me to... take it off?"

"What?" you respond, bewildered. "It's already off. And I haven't looked."

"I know," says Din. "I mean... do you want me to take it off and.. leave it off." It doesn't sound like a question. "So you can look."

"What?" you say again. Then: "What?"

"I will, you know." His unfiltered voice is calm and serious, in contrast to your suddenly sweaty palms. "Turn around right now if you want. You can."

Your mouth is hanging open. You shut it with a click, swallowing hard. "I'm not... I'm not... I don't want to-- Din, why?"

Another sigh. "It would be worse if... I want you to know you don't have to marry me to see my face."

"That's not why I'm marrying you," you say, confused. The implication stings. "That's... Din, you would -- the covert -- the clan --"

"I know," he says again. "I lost them once. The covert, the clan, being a Mandalorian -- I lost everything. And I'd do it again, for the same reason."

For the same reason. Your heart flips in your throat. You know what he means. Last time, for his son... this time, for you.

You could see his face. You could see him. You wouldn't have to do Maker-knows-what tomorrow in front of everyone, endure blank stares from unfamiliar visors. You wouldn't have to tiptoe around his beliefs. You could keep going as you have been, partners and lovers and friends, but sharing the same bunk, the same food. You know he wouldn't offer unless he meant it.

You could have Din to yourself. You wouldn't have to share him with the demands of his Creed ever again.

He would be yours, and yours alone.

You’re suddenly glad you’re already sitting down.

You have no idea what to do next, so you stall. "I already said yes, though. We're six hours out from Mandalore. Wouldn't this... change that?"

Stupid question. Of course it would, in every possible way.

"Yes." Din is still unperturbed. "It would."

"Why?" It's surreal to be having this conversation without looking at him, without even the set of his shoulders to tell you how he really feels. Maybe if you understand, you'll know what to do. "Why now? Why like this?"

The arms around you drop away, letting cold air seep under your flimsy sleep shirt. Din takes a long pensive moment before he answers. "I've broken the Creed before, and returning to it almost killed me. I survived. I could survive again, if I had to. The Way says, Keep your oaths. Return loyalty with loyalty. But above all else, guard your honor. Asking you to marry me with conditions -- letting you think the choice was marriage or never really -- it would be worse. It would be worse than..."

He trails off. You know what he means. Marriage with conditions. He would never really know if you had pledged yourself only to finally see his face. You hadn't, of course... or at least you didn’t think you had. But he would never be sure. And, you realize with a deep ripple of shame, neither would you.

The yellow helmet is still in front of you. The visor seems very dark, the faded paint bright in the dim light, but it no longer has the power to frighten you outside of your dreams. Instead, it's become a fetish, a talisman of your own power. Of what you are capable of enduring, and what your endurance meant to the man behind you. Just like Din’s helmet is a talisman, a tangible symbol of his care: every blaster bolt meant for you his armor has taken instead, every drop of blood spilled to keep you safe.

You'd almost pleaded with him to leave it when he pulled the helmet off your captor's head before tipping her unceremoniously onto the steps of the New Republic Security building. It had taken months for you to be able to look it straight on. On the way back to the ship, you'd kept your face resolutely turned away, walking on Din’s opposite side. Insofar as you could walk; by the time you'd finally made it up the gangway, he had been half-carrying you.

You don’t need to recall what happened next, the memory burned into you as indelibly as a brand. The way you pleaded touch me, please touch me to Din, half out of your mind with whatever drug they'd given you and the need to know he was there for real, not just another means of escape for a mind petrified by terror. The way you choked on a scream when he turned you to face him, the lines of his own helmet echoing across your broken face like another slap from unyielding steel. The way he touched you when he bandaged you, first too soft and then not soft at all.

His quiet words, more confession than request. Stay with me, and let me prove my honor to you.

And just like that, you know what to do. It's not a decision, because there was never any decision to make. You just... know, the same way you know every curve and plane of the helmet before you. You stand up, careful to keep your eyes ahead of you on the empty bay, and reach behind you. Din’s hand closes over yours, warm and callused with a thousand acts in your name. You take a step forward, pulling him to his feet. You still don't look, but you can feel the span of his broad shoulders behind you anyway, his breath in your hair.

"Put your helmet on, Din Djarin," you say softly. "And go back to sleep. I can wait until tomorrow."

***

[series masterlist]

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #pedro pascal #din djarin x female reader #reader insert #star wars

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weird-writes · 5 months

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it’s never been more over

#*heavy sigh*#i’m so relieved andor is already over bc it was only 2 seasons #cassian bb they’ll never touch you #never have i been so glad for a close ended narrative #star wars

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weird-writes · 5 months

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i miss the rich fields of filthy din djarin fic we were blessed with this spring

#having feelings about my blorbo again #star wars #the mandalorian #i’d fight favreau on sight just for the record

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weird-writes · 6 months

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The moment she turns away, Cass can see the telltale signs that she’s beaming.

#😭#jyn erso #cassian andor #rebelcaptain #fanart

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weird-writes · 6 months

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— JUST A TASTE

[bleed for me masterlist] | [fic preview]

vampire!boba fett x f!reader

rated e - 8k

tags: vampire!au, blood/blood drinking, vampirism, longing and pining, biting, masturbation, chosen mates (instead of fated mates), teasing, fingering, brief edging, mind-meld, implied aphrodisiacs, piv, marking

a/n: I thought it would be fun to write a halloween one-shot for Boba, in the same world as bleed for me. This is with a different Reader, so there are some references to the series, but you don't have to read to enjoy!

When Fennec Shand appears in town with her new red eyes, everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before the Daimyo will be seeking a new Companion.

Luckily, you think you know just how to make sure he picks you.

Heat still lingers in your neck, your cheeks, as you slip from your tiny cottage to rush to the town square.

Cursing yourself for almost being late to the ceremony - a long table already in place within the old tavern, moved to the middle of the room. The old wood and stone ceiling blocking out the setting sun, making it safe.

He’s there. Your eyes find him right away - all that green against the shades of brown and grey.

The Daimyo.

Positioned at the head of the table, that helmet fixed in place. Looking like a ruler with the way he sits - so strong and straight-backed in the velvet chair, brought out just for him. It sends a shiver up your spine as you slip to the back, to give your own offering.

A small goblet, brought from home. The carvings in the wood smooth, burnished from the press of your fingers over the years. Curving petals worn down at the edges - traced over with your thumb, again and again.

It’s dull, next to all the gold and glass. The candles glinting off the gifts that line the long table - an ache still throbbing in the crook of your elbow, as yours joins the flight of others.

It's warm, in the tavern. Fuller than you've ever seen - bodies packed together. Your back presses against the thick wooden wall, standing on tip-toe to see over the pair in front of you.

Wanting to watch when that helmet lifts.

The tanned skin beneath, those red eyes that flicker in the candlelight. It's a rarity to see him this bare. Something precious that you tuck away, as your eyes rove over every detail.

You think he must be starving, from the dark shadows under his eyes. You can count back two months as to when Lady Shand had stopped walking through the marketplace in the day. Appearing again in her oil-blackened armor - a new, deadly quiet about her.

Everyone had known she would turn.

It had only been a matter of time.

Secrets were hard to keep, in a town as small as this.

You still had some. Others had theirs. Most you did not care about, but when it came to the coven of vampires, in their looming castle at the top of the tall hill - it had always been a fascination.

How beautiful - how benevolent - they are.

A hush settles over the crowd, as the first cup is lifted. Restraint shown in the tip of the glass, the single bobbing swallow of his throat as he drinks.

He could gorge. He could swallow every drop, but there's a carefulness in the way he moves.

Continuing the old tradition of the town - one that the Mand'alor had not followed. But after hearing of his searching - the path that had been so set for him - none of you could begrudge his choice.

The first goblet is placed back down.

His methods are unknown - he had arrived at the castle with Lady Shand by his side, already his Companion.

Would taste from each one?

Or stop, if one is pleasing to him?

Your odds are not in your favor, with the amount of offerings. Nothing stands out about your goblet - you had no gold, no bronze. Only an heirloom and yourself.

Fifth from the end, of a line of people who all had their own reasons to want to uproot their lives. Fortune. Pleasure. Running to something, or running from.

But did any of them see him for who he was? Like you did?

You don’t really care that he was a Daimyo, not really.

He could be anyone - a lesser lord. A commoner, like yourself.

Your wishes would stay the same.

It was what he had done, that had made Boba Fett a fixture in your mind.

To him, perhaps it had been a small thing.

Not worth remembering, in the life of someone who has lived for so long, with such experiences. Barely a blip, compared to the stories you'd heard.

Bounty Hunting and Rancors and Sarlaacs.

But to you, it had meant everything.

He had saved you.

Not in such a way as the Mand'alor had done for his Queen. That sort of saving would be written in song or word, someday, with the way the story was whispered in the streets.

There had been no witches, no fated meetings. No burned towns for Lord Fett to pull you from, to whisk you away to safety. No enemies torn apart, in revenge.

But it had been no less chivalrous.

It had been early in the day, and luckily so. Mid-morning and he would not have been out, not with what he was.

A few weeks into Spring, when your little stall in the market should have been blooming with your home-grown flowers, baskets of vegetables from your leased garden.

A late frost and a family of hungry rabbits had you far behind. On goods to sell and your payment for your use of the space. The few coins you had from the week before clutched in your fist as Lord Gorian Shard had loomed over you, demanding more than what you could spare.

Cutting down your promises to pay him back, if you could just have another week - a day, even. Deaf to your pleas.

You knew what you owed, but it hadn't been fair. Everyone knew he charged far too much for his stalls. But you had been desperate then, almost as much as you had been now.

A shadow had loomed, as every last silver and copper had been shaken from your coin purse. Tucked away into deep pockets, the pitiful amount added to what he already carried.

"Is there an issue here, Shard?"

The voice had cut through the morning haze was one you thought of often, the low timber. Slicing, like a knife.

You're sure you looked pathetic. Shard's hand gripping your forearm, pinching. The half-filled stall, the dust covering your tunic - swiped across your forehead from the back of your hand, while setting up.

But, the grip had loosened. And for the first time, the Merchant had lost some of his aloof, elitist air. A flash of worry crossing his features, as a Mandalorian had approached from the shadows.

His face had been covered, since dawn had broken - but there had been no mistaking him.

Boba Fett.

"No issue, my lord." Gorian Shard had smiled, his voice changing from the sharp tone he had used with you, "Just business, I assure you. Far too small for someone as busy as yourself, I'm sure."

There was a rough buzz from the helmet, the sound of a hum.

"How much more is owed?"

It became clear he had been listening. You hadn't looked to the shadows, and your heart had sunk. Embarrassment creeping around you, tightening like vines around your ribs.

“Fifty more gold." Shard had sniffed, making a show of checking his pockets.

Another hum, "A little early to be collecting payments, isn't? The quarter isn't for another month."

Shard had frowned, "I collect monthly, thank you."

Silence lingered then, for a moment too long. That worn green helmet flicked you way - your eyes only able to hold it for a moment, before they dropped. Examining the worn toes of your boots, wondering what he must think of you.

"Give us a moment."

You had thought he meant you - getting ready to step away, to give them some space.

Not expecting the helmet to snap towards the Merchant, as another order was growled out, "Did you not hear me, Shard?"

He had been too happy to oblige, quickly finding another debtor three stalls over.

You had also not expected the soft pouch of leather to be held out, pressed into your hands from Lord Fett's own belt.

Far heavier than your own, and you had immediately found the strength to meet his gaze again - to hand the gift back.

"I can't accept this." You had protested, "It is far too much, I can't pay this back."

He had considered you, for a long moment. You had wished you could see his face - your own reflected back at you. Pinched and worried and tired.

Pivoting gracefully, as he turned to look at your stall, "If you will not accept my help, then I wish to purchase your stock. Everything you have."

It's an out, for you. Another gift, a way to accept with what little dignity you had left intact.

Even if you were both aware that he had no use for your ware. That vampires did not dine on the food of humans. That the kitchens within the castle were already stocked with the finest goods available.

The gold had been offered, again. His voice low - almost gentle.

"Please do me this honor, my lady."

This bit of kindness, his voice, his honorifics - as if your presence had meant something, as if he truly considered this a favor to him - had stunned you. Enough that you had allowed him to press the pouch into your hand.

Enough that you had allowed the woman that had stepped to his side to pack up the flowers, the vegetables. Every single piece until your stall was as empty as it was, when you had arrived that morning.

Shard had watched, with narrowed eyes.

But - your debt had been paid. This month, and then the next. And then the next.

You began to look forward to his visits. Not for the gold, of course, but for him. The snippets of conversation - the solemn way he checked on you, the low timbre of his voice.

“Have you been treated well?”

“Is this enough?”

You’re sure you had looked foolish. Ankles crossing as you leaned across the booth. Trying to hide your smile but failing, as you protested. A game, you had played.

Always the same questions, the same answers.

“I can’t stop you from buying my wares… but I don’t want a copper more, my Lord.”

His fingers tapping twice on the wooden stall, before his reply.

“As you wish.”

Boba's kindness had changed your life.

The coin used to buy better seeds. Your little, rented home slowly filling out with warm bedding and good food and sturdy clothes - things you had always scrambled to find. Luxuries, before now.

And for a while, you had entertained the thought of leaving town. Saving up every gold piece, starting a new life.

You almost had enough.

But that had been before Lady Shand had turned. Before the rumors had spread that Boba Fett would be seeking a new Companion.

Your heart had twisted, with the news.

Jealousy. Longing.

It could be you.

He had become a fixture in your mind. Your evenings filled with daydreams. Keeping you company as you worked, dirt caking under your fingernails, as you imagined another life.

You could pay him back, in a ways. Show him how grateful you were, offering your blood - yourself - in exchange. You never would have dared hope before but this… this was worth trying, wasn’t it?

So, you did something risky.

Hoping it would pay off.

Hoping that perhaps… your feelings were not so singular.

It feels like you're holding your breath, as Boba moves down the table. Those cups handed over so carefully. That same, single taste from each one.

There's a tick of his jaw, at some. A pink peek of tongue dragging over a lower lip. No tells in his expression, no indication on where his mind leads.

And then, finally - he's at yours.

The wooden goblet hefted in his hand, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the etchings, like yours always did. Your fingernails biting into your palms, your heart pounding in your ears, an ache settling low in your belly - much like the one before, as you had been preparing.

And with the tip of a hand, he drinks.

The goblet lowers, as he swallows. A waver of his hand, as makes to set it back down to rejoin the others.

But then.... he pauses.

A lift of his brow, a slow tilt back - as he indulges in a second.

Before his eyes are sweeping across the room. Halting, when they find yours. The smallest lift of his lips, with his look of knowing.

Your cheeks burn, as he chooses you.

Everything happens so quickly.

Before you know it, you’re hoisted into a horse - whisked off to the castle that looms at the top of the hill. A promise to bring your things to you, though you’re sure it would take less than a wagonful.

Barely able to glance down the long halls, the ornate, stained glass windows, before there’s a hand at your elbow, guiding you.

A woman, younger than you. Quelling some of the unease at being in a new place with her gentle tone, as she takes you deep into the castle - up a wide stone staircase, through an ornate wooden door, and into a room.

It doesn’t appear to be his room, and you don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed.

Bathed in shades of green and red and gold. Dark velvet curtains against the closed windows, blocking out the last rays of the sun.

Your guide parts from you here, a murmur that the ceremony will begin at sundown - that she will be back then to help you get ready.

Leaving you on your own to explore the space, until then.

A tall bed takes up the middle of the back wall, the frame a dark, carved wood. Thick blankets in tones of ivory and a rich forest green, lit candles on the wooden tables on either side.

There’s long wardrobe against the wall, the mirror glinting in the light. A ceramic vase painted with swirls of copper, roses and wildflowers spilling over the brim.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that some of the flowers almost looked familiar.

A door is half-opened to the left, next to the fireplace, the velvet chaise sitting in front of it. Already a thought lingers about how cozy the space will be in the winter, as you pad over to glance into the next room.

It’s all ceramic tile inside, opening up to a bathroom, The claw-foot copper tub filling with steaming water, and you long to slip into it, to wash the morning’s dirt from your knees.

And so, you do.

Your stripped clothes lie in a pile on the floor. A pleased hiss as you step into the water, the temperature tipping towards too hot. Sinking deep, up to your chin, as your head tips back against the rim.

It gives you time to think, as you all but float in the water.

Giddy, at the replay of the afternoon. That it had worked.

The way he had gone back, an indulgence. He had liked it - the taste of you - and that thought was thrilling.

A warmth settling in your bones, that had nothing to do with the water.

Picking apart the look in his eyes, where you felt certain he had been searching for you. It leaves you confident that your feelings had not changed.

The water is cold and you’re scrubbed clean by the time you leave. Lotions found on the countertop smoothed into your skin, the tired joints of your knuckles.

Fingers trace over the rack of robes you find next to the door. Soft silks and thick cotton and gauzy, see-through chiffon. Your cheeks burn at the thought, as you pull one out to hold it against you.

Imaging the red fabric against your skin. How little of you it would hide, in spite of it swishing around your ankles.

Eventually, you settle on something between the two - modest enough that you won’t be embarrassed to see your guide again.

Intentionally choosing something that reminds you of him - shades of green with thin, gold trim. The tie knotted carefully around your waist, skimming your thighs. The sleeves gathered at your forearms, the silky feeling luxurious against your scrubbed skin.

By the time you make it back to the bedroom, the edges around the curtains are dark - the sun long set. The blankets soft - the mattress dipping as you sit down on the edge, still taking in the room.

A knock comes, soon after. The gentle rapping of knuckles against the door - heavy as you pull it open.

Something flipping low in your belly, when you see your visitor.

Not the pleasant girl, who had chattered as she guided you up the steps. Smiling, as she bid you farewell.

It’s him.

Boba lingers outside your door, so unlike you’ve ever seen before. Clothed in black robes, his Beskar chest plate fitted on top. Your eyes follow down, seeing gloves and gauntlets, but no helmet - before you realize you’re staring. Your gaze quickly snapping up to his, already caught.

There’s a twitch of his lips. His own eyes wandering, though you missed them in your own exploration.

His voice low, amused as he asks, “May I come in?”

Heat licks at your skin as you nod - nerves skittering down your spine, at this unexpected development. Stepping back to allow him inside.

Ending up at the end of the bed again, your palms pressing into the bedspread to keep you from fidgeting.

“Is this room to your liking?” Boba asks, conversationally.

So casually, so pleasantly, that you’re frowning. Confused at his appearance. Assuming that he had come to feed - that he’d grown tired of waiting, his patience now thin.

“It’s beautiful,” You answer, honestly. Far finer than any room you’d seen before. The bath already feels like a dream, even though the perfume still lingers in your skin, “You are again too generous.”

“It is my pleasure.” His voice is low, his hands bracing against the chaise he stands behind, “By far the least I can do.”

A nod to your new situation. This new connection, binding you together. You knew about the ritual in the tavern, from the whispers from the Companions that visited your stall.

Flowers woven into their hair as they gossiped, your eager ears picking up everything you could.

But this, now, was unknown to you.

Was he just getting to know you? Or was there another step you were missing?

“Thank you, Lord Fett,” You smile. Fingers pinching at the blanket, gathering your nerves. A breath, before you can ask, “Are we… are we to begin now? I was told there would another ceremony.”

“Just Boba, please.” He clarifies, after a beat of silence - those dark eyes still fixed on you. That eye contact still holding, as his head tilts, “And yes, there is a ritual. When conducted, it takes place in front of the coven.”

It’s not an unpleasant thought. There’s something primal about such a ritual - the thought of him claiming you in front of his friends and peers.

Images leap to your mind, unbidden. Your imagining of the throne room, filled to the brim. Gathered up in his arms, the expanse of your neck appears as he dips you. Baring legs, baring arms, baring throat.

The flash of teeth, as they sink into your skin-

It takes another second, before you can gather your thoughts. Clearing your throat, as you ask, “Is that what you wish?”

“That would depend.” His steps are slow, as he rounds the chaise. Hands clasped behind his back, the green armor accentuating his broad chest.

“On?”

There’s the flash of teeth as he smiles, “On if you’re planning on changing.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, at the thought of your appearance. Acutely aware of the single layer that covers you, just a loose knot keeping the robe in place.

Is Boba Fett flirting with me?

Before you can answer, his head turns, “This ritual is more symbolic than binding. Any true decisions are made behind doors. We can continue here, if you’d like.”

You nod slowly. The thought of having him to yourself appealing, especially for the first night. A twinge of worry about the feeding - the crook of your arm still tender from where you were pricked to fill the goblet.

Not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting your desires to be laid out, exposed in front of everyone.

“I would not mind that.” You confess, “What kind of decisions do you mean?”

“There are many we can discuss.” His look turns thoughtful, “For one, your stall. If it is gold that brought you here, I would purchase it from Shard for you. You need not do this.”

That makes you blink - the offer kind. An unexpected, altruistic turn.

“No. That’s not why.” Your head shakes, “I’m here on my own. I wanted to-”

Your words cut off, afraid to say too much. A breath, before you add, “I have little other ties here. It was not the stall that brought me to the tavern."

Something in his face changes, a softening to that ever-steady mark between his brows. Those hands still clasped, as if stilling them, as he moves closer, “Are you not bound to another, ad’ika?”

“Do you mean a soulmate?” The question makes you blink - a little frown forming.

There were no marks on your skin. No ties to another, painted where their body had first touched yours.

You could find out. You want to joke, but it stays trapped on your tongue. A moment, before you shake your head.

“No.” A small breath, as you steel yourself, “I don’t believe in them.”

His expression flickers now - you’ve caught him off guard.

“You don’t believe? The Mand’alor has often walked the town streets with his. Do you doubt their connection?”

Curiosity tinges his words, and your head shakes again, “They were lucky, I think. And I think fate works for some. Just… not me.”

It’s as honest as you’ve ever been. Maybe he’ll laugh at you… but just maybe - he’ll understand.

Perhaps it had been luck that morning, when he found you. But fate hadn’t made him kind.

That had been all him.

And perhaps luck had also turned Lady Shand before you left - but it was you who had gone to the Tavern, goblet in hand. You who had leaned into his visits, tucking away each one.

“I’d like to think that I make my own decisions. That my own choices determine my path.”

“And is that what you’ve done?” He rasps, his eyes dark, “Made your choice?”

Your breath hitches at his tone, smooth and low. Managing a short, little nod in answer - not trusting ability to keep your voice level.

“Not all bonding is mates, little one.” He’s closer now. Enough that you can see the fine weave of his robes - the chips in his armor where a sword had peeled away the paint, “You know that, right?”

Your heart pounds in your ears - ignoring his question, as you manage to ask your own, “What do you want?”

His head cocks, the candlelight catching his eyes. That burgundy shimmer darkening. You find yourself holding your breath as you wait for his answer. Watching the way his lips pull in a smile, revealing the sharp points of his teeth.

“Oh, what do I want?” He repeats, slowly, softly. “I want you to show me what you did to make your blood so sweet.”

His voice drops then, as he moves closer, “And then I want to taste you for myself.”

Your breath comes in a ragged gasp. He knew?

The whispered rumor about making your blood near irresistible had been trusted, but you never thought he’s be able to tell.

His laugh is soft, “Are you getting shy on me now, sarad?”

Heat licks at you, embarrassment and desire swirling together into a heady combo. Your thoughts slipping between your teeth on their own, “How did you…”

Boba clucks his tongue, “It’s been a while, little one. But not that long.”

That snags in your mind, your attention shifting. You frown, fingers twisting around the silk ties of your robe, “What do you mean?”

His eyebrow lifts.

There were rumors that Lord Fett and the now Lady Shand were not romantically linked. But it had never been confirmed, and part of you had worried you were going to end up in a precarious position.

Not that you minded sharing.

“You’re stalling.” He chides again, “If I misunderstood, then-”

“You didn’t.” You’re quick to correct, the band of silk pinching around your fingers, “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

His lips quirk at your answer, your boldness. An arm braces on the foot post of the canopy bed, close enough that your thigh brushes his hip.

“It has been a decade since I’ve drank from the throat of a creature as lovely as you.” His hand lifts, the back of his knuckle brushing against your neck.

No mark blooms under his touch, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t need one to want him, or to love him. All you need is your heart - beating so fiercely, as that knuckle drags down to the hollow of your throat.

His fingers unfurling until the tips drag against your sternum, as your heart drops to beat between your thighs.

In a moment of bravery, your fingers tug on the tie. The knot loosing, and then pooling around your hips as the edges of your robe part, falling open.

His eyes follow, tracing your curves as they come into view. The rich fabric like a caress against your bare skin as you shift further back on the bed. Legs uncrossing as he steps between them - forcing them to nudge wider.

Heat pools in your belly, with his proximity. The knowledge that he truly intends to watch - close enough that his fingers could brush your skin, with how he bends - pressing his palms against the mattress.

Framing your thighs, as you lower yourself to your elbows. Nearly on display, the fabric still bunching at your waist, keeping you hidden.

If you hadn’t thought about him so often, perhaps you’d be a little more shy. But there was something so intoxicating about this. So honest and earnest in his tone - making you believe that because he said it so, he truly wanted to see you.

And you wouldn’t deny your Lord of anything.

Your eyes flip up to his, watching how he waits. Those hands still pressed flush, as his eyes rake over your form - an attempt to keep his hands from wandering.

But yours are not to tied down. Yours drift - trailing along the soft green hem. Down, towards the valley between your breasts.

It has you wondering if he can hear the way your heart kicks up a notch. At your touch, your intentions.

You think he must, with the way he shifts between your thighs, waiting.

The silky fabric pebbles at the tight peaks of your breasts. Soft as your fingertips run across them - a creak of his leather gloves with your soft sigh, as his fingers curl into the bedspread.

His eyes darker still, as you let your robe part further. Knuckles pinching, dragging over bare skin before drifting towards your navel. An urge to press your thighs together, an ache at the thought of things to come. At his words, already given.

There’s a rough noise, something gritted out that you miss, when the robe parts fully. When Boba can see you fully, his eyes dropping to where you’re slick already. Swollen and soft and warm, a pink tongue peeking out between sharp teeth at the sight.

A half-formed thought to tease - fingers parting yourself open. Your strokes slow, to dip slowly into your heat.

But it feels impossible to do so, with him watching. The second you slip against your skin, you’re sighing - quick to press and circle, your hips jolting into your touch.

He knows it’s for him. You can’t even pretend you’re still wet from before - those hours and that long, warm bath passing between then and now.

No, it’s his words. His voice, those suggestions.

Him.

From this angle he can surely see how you shine already. Knees pressing into his hips as your muscles clench, toes curling.

Can he see how your pulse thuds? How your blood races down, to where you ache?

The press of your fingers makes you whine, eyes taking in the expanse of his chest. Flicking down to where his hand rotates, gloved fingers touching down on the bed - moving to press against the curve of your thigh.

He watches your fingers, the way they press. Memorizing what makes your muscles clench, the soft sounds of your sighs.

You want his hands on you - to feel the strength of them for yourself. Molding you into his image, to touch you however he wishes.

To take you, as he tastes you.

It has your leg pressing into his touch, teeth biting into your tongue to keep you from begging.

“You want something.” His voice is soft, his eyes unreadable, “I can feel it, radiating from you.”

The air hisses through your teeth, sparks of pleasure pulsing where your fingers press. Slowing and stuttering at his words.

“You,” The word is sighed out, your eyes meeting his dark ones, “I want you.”

He smiles then, and it’s almost cruel. Teasing.

His hands curving around your thighs, moving slowly against your skin. Up until his thumbs are brushing against your inner thighs, nudging them wider apart.

“You managed just fine, before.” There’s a lilt to his voice, the raise of an eyebrow, “Or did you have some help?”

Your fingers slow as your brows knit, distracted by his question. How his fingers bump against yours, so close to where you burn - but still not touching.

“No,” Your head shakes, “I didn’t.”

I just thought of you, you want to tell him. I thought about this.

“Good.” He husks, and his hands leave you. A little whine slipping past your lips as he brings a hand to his mouth - using his teeth to rip the gloves from his fingers, “I only want your blood singing for me.”

It makes you clench, lips parting just in him for him to arch over you - a bare hand flattening against the bed near your ear. The other dipping between your lips when they part for him, sliding past blunt teeth.

You groan around him, cool and solid as they slip across your tongue. His eyes growing darker as your lips close around to suck, his thumb stroking the underside of your chin.

It’s bliss. Your mouth so beautifully full and busy as your fingers work, aiding your steady ascent towards euphoria.

All too soon they slide from you, leaving your lips glossy. Trailing down your chin, before dropping to fit between your thighs.

He didn’t need to, you’re already so wet. The tip of index finger slipping beneath yours, teasing at your opening. Sliding into you easily as you arch into his touch, feeling the fullness of having him in you. Already a bit of a stretch, and you squirm at the thought of more.

“So warm and wet.” His tone is almost reverent, his eyes dropping to your mouth, “I’d almost forgotten.”

Watching how you pant as his finger plunges deep, the pull of your brow as he slips from you, only to fit two inside with his next thrust.

Angling his wrist so he can curl them inside you, stroking against slick walls - finding a place that had your breath coming in a ragged gasp.

You’re close already. It had been easy, with him so close. Looking at you so hungrily, as you brought yourself closer. The feel of his fingers, filling and stroking you, teasing against that spot, has your muscles winding tight.

Boba shifts, leaning back. The hand pressing against the bed moves to wrap around your wrist, halting the needy circle of your fingers.

Your mounting pleasure plateaus, a frustrated sound in your throat. His fingers still fucking you, but that sharp edge slips from your grasp.

“Slower.” He rasps, pinning your hand down. Only allowing the tips of your fingers to each, “Need to get you ready for me. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” You moan - automatically, without thought.

The thought makes you tighten around his, squeezing his fingers. His smile pulls to show sharp teeth, the slick slap of his fingers loud where they press into your pussy.

“Gods, I can feel you. Do you want it that bad, ad’ika?”

Your mind swirls, the weight of your tongue making it impossible to answer. Even with the tiny flick of your fingers, you can feel the pleasure in your belly start to crackle and burn.

That pressure increasing, each breath no more than a high gasp. Your vision starting to grow blurry, eyes heavy with lust, all of your concentration focused on the sweet spot between your thighs.

His name is torn from your throat, as you come when three fingers fit inside you. Crooking and stroking against your walls as you bear down around them, as he can feel how you pulse.

It drowns out your pleasure from before - hurried movements in the privacy of your home. You’re alight now - basking in the low hum of his words. Blurring at the edges, slipping through your fingers.

Fuck, that’s it.

My sarad, bloom for me.

Can’t wait to taste you.

The hand lets go to press against your hip, pinning you down. Making you take the steady pump of his fingers, as he draws it out.

“You can. Can taste me-” You gasp, your own fingers now still. A twinge that tips towards too much, as you grasp at his wrist. His hand staying buried in you, as his other curls around the back of your neck.

You brace for the bite, as your head tilts to offer your throat. Know it was coming from the start - eager to offer yourself in every way you could.

Not expecting the way he leans over you again. The ghost of warm breath before the press of his mouth against your pulse. Inhaling your scent as your heart flutters in your throat, the haze of your orgasm settling over you.

A rough sound as you moan, as he moves higher. Teeth nipping at your jaw. Realization swirling as there’s the hungry press of his mouth against yours - your own hands scraping across armor, grasping at his robes.

Curling around his shoulder to hold him to you, as you melt further. His lips are soft - yours are already parted, welcoming the dip of his tongue. Your legs hitching around his waist as his weight presses into you.

It’s comforting. It’s enveloping - your sigh swallowed as his hand slips from you. Pulling back from your mouth, as your head rising to chase after him.

Meeting those fingers instead - slick with your release, pressing against your lower lip. His own tongue swirling against one, as you share the others.

Your teeth graze, bite down on his fingers. His groan low as mouths meet again - with your taste on his tongue, with his hips pressing down against yours. Grinding himself against your bare skin, where you can feel the hard curve of his arousal.

“See how good you taste?” He rasps, lips brushing your cheek. “Fuck, can’t get enough.”

His arm curls around your waist, slick fingers shoving between mattress and your back. Lifting you like you’re nothing, with his enhanced strength. A flip in your belly and a little yelp, before you’re set back down.

Boba’s back rests against the ornate headboard. Your thighs spread wide around his waist, straddling him. The soft robe you wear dips down across your back, the fabric nestled in the crook of your elbows.

Hands splay across his chest, cool skin and hard muscle beneath. His eyes on the expanse of your skin - the slope from your neck, to your bare breasts beneath. That hand anchoring the back of your neck again, thumb sweeping the soft spot beneath your ear.

His eyes burn. Glittering embers in their depth, the sharp points of his teeth showing between parted lips. Something inside you stirs - know deep down that he truly means to taste you now.

To drink from you, as your head tilts back to offer the soft skin of your throat.

“It will hurt, a little.” He warns, voice low. Rough, as if he’s holding himself back, “But I’ll make you feel good. I promise, mesh’la.”

Your fingers twist in his robes. Eyes fluttering shut, as you wait for it to come.

But he has one last request, an edge to his voice that that fixes your attention.

“Keep your eyes open for me.”

It’s your last warning, before he’s leaning forward. The soft brush of his lips against your jugular, before he’s biting down.

There’s twin pinches, as your skin gives beneath his teeth. A burning throb as you gasp - unable to help the way you flinch, stiffening in his arms.

He groans against your neck as you flood his tongue, and there’s the sensation of pulling, the soft suck of his mouth.

But the pain does not linger. It soon bleeds into something more, that sharp edge twisting and transforming. That thudding in your neck tipping downwards. Past your chest, past your belly.

Nestling between your thighs with a very different kind of ache. One that has you shifting against him, the roll of your hips as he keeps you pinned with his teeth.

The robes he wears are thin. Not one they go beneath his armor during the day, or to travel. Soft and fine as your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders.

Not at all concealing his need for you, something that stretches deeper than the urge to drink. Boba is stiff beneath you, his hardness trapped beneath the layers of cloth and your bare cunt.

Each squirm presses him against you. Something flickering in your mind, a sort of mirror to your pleasure. It feels like it strings out, wrapping around your limbs, tethering you together.

His teeth unlatch, when you reach down. A desire from deep inside to touch him, fingers sliding against fabric. Dampened from you, from the slide of your hips, the way you feel like you will burst, if he’s not inside you.

“Taste so godsdamn sweet.” He groans, tongue tracing over the marks on your neck. Where the blood still beads out, sweetened by your orgasm, “Knew it was yours, the moment it touched my tongue.”

Pulling back, to bring his mouth to yours again. He tastes like iron, like you - as your hand curls around him. Achingly hard under your touch, as your fingers trace down the curve of him, finding the edge of his robes.

“Fuck. You can have it, ad’ika. It’s yours if you want it.” His eyes are brighter, those shadows under his eyes less defined.

Hips lifting so you can draw him out, so smooth and heavy in your hand. On another day you’d want to stroke it yourself, feel the weight of it on your tongue. But you’re too desperate now. Already rising up on your knees, the robe parting like curtains at your hips.

The kiss breaks and there’s a soft protest as you line yourself up. Not for you to stop, for you to slow - merely for to take your time.

Though there is no desire to. The time you’ve already taken feels far too long, in this moment.

His hands move - sliding down to your hips. Resting there as you take him, the sharp stretch has the thick head parts you, as you slip down onto his cock. Even with the stretch of his fingers, it still feels like too much. A ragged gasp as your nails sink into his skin, though the fabric of his robes.

It twines with the pulse in your throat. Your fluttering heartbeat, the way you make room for him to fit inside you. His thick fingers flexing against bare skin as he bottoms out, as your thighs finally rest against his.

“Gods, you feel so good-” You keen - as you go still, for a long moment.

Breath caught in your throat, eyes widened as he watches. He shifts beneath you, the flexing of his legs as they stretch out beneath you. It moves him - a shallow thrust deep in your belly. That pleasure sparking, blending with the buzzing of your blood in your veins. Another roll of your hips, and then another.

Hands unfurling, slipping up to brace on his shoulders. Using them to aid your movements - the slow lift and drop that speeds up, as you get used to the feeling of him inside you. The way each stroke sends him against your walls.

His eyes are hazy - blood-drunk off you. Muscles strung tight as he lets you set the pace. Bouncing on his cock until you tire yourself out, until you beg for him to help you. Holding himself back, as your blood lingers on his tongue.

Your thighs burn with the effort. Head dipping down to see where he watches, the lounge of his shoulders against the headboard. How pretty you look, stretch around him. Something so fitting about how bare you are, against his layers - the edge of his armor, that bites into your wrists.

His fingers drift down from your hip, around the curve of your thigh. The pad of his thumb pressing against your clit again.

Following the rise and fall of your hips, circling against you the way he had watched yours move.

You swear you feel him throb in you, when his eyes raise. Lingering on your chest, the sticky smear of crimson against your skin - an errant drop from his eager drinking.

It’s then, that the scales tip. His body moving against yours - a hand wrapping around your back. The shift of his hips as he lurches forward, until it’s you that is pinned beneath him, back pressed against the mattress.

He’s deeper like this. Hips snapping into yours, as you cry out. Head dipping down, his tongue dragging against your clavicle. Down, to lap the trail blood from your skin as he groans.

You back arching into his touch as he presses open-mouthed kisses against your breast, a soft cry as his fingers find the other, trapping the tight bud between his knuckles.

“Could feel how much you wanted this.” His voice is a low rasp. Your thighs wrapping around him as he ruts into you. A circle of his hips grinding against your clit, slick and swollen from your connection.

Feeding off him, in your own way. Something sweet and heavy slipping through your veins. Your skin feels too sensitive - all your nerves alight under his touch. Head tilting back against the blankets as his weight settles over you.

As that feeling builds up again, faster this time. Racing, with the stretch of his cock. The way his hips roll back. Leaving you to clench around the tip, before plowing back in.

You’d never considered your morality before, but it flickers in your mind now. Just how delicate you feel. A true vampire lord, able to crush you if he wanted.

Instead, he touches you gently - as his hand finds your wrist, his fingers curling around. A swipe of his thumb against your skin as he reaches to pin it against the bed. The other tucking beneath you, cupping the back of your neck again.

It sends another wave of heat between your thighs. The pound of his cock even louder than the press of his fingers, your slick arousal audible - layering with your cries.

There’s a warning on the tip of your tongue - the words coming out slurred instead. A soft, panting groan. Your heels digging into his lower back, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds himself against the spot he had found with his fingers.

“Twice wasn’t enough, ad’ika? Going to come again?” You can hear the grin in his words How it’s an inevitability, with the way he moves in you.

Unable to look away, with the way he holds you. Not that you’d want you, you think - even if you could. The fix of his gaze feels like a gift, bestowed upon you.

Captivating, with the way he soaks in every minute movement. The sweep of his eyes as he watches you start to fall apart beneath him.

You want to feel him again. That pounding surge inside your veins, that sensation of feeling even more connected than you already are.

So, you beg him for it. Eyes heavy-lidded where they find his. Your words punctuated with the hitching of your breath as you guide him down to your throat, with eager hands.

“Bite me. You can, I’m yours-”

Your pleas are impossible to resist, when his own pleasure thrumming in his belly.

He bites higher, this time. In a spot that even your tallest collar won’t hide, teeth pricking skin. Your cry turns into a groan as the rapture courses through you, seeping into your veins. Flooding his tongue, as he drinks again.

You shatter. Caught in his grip, unable to squirm with his teeth in your neck. His weight pinning you down as you pulse around his cock, your cry high and broken in the castle room.

He groans into your skin. The suck of blood over teeth, tasting how it turns sweet. Flushed with your ecstasy, an endless loop between his teeth and the tight clench of your cunt as you come.

For a moment, your eyes flutter closed. Images flicker behind your eyelids - shown as if you were outside yourself.

Red petals against green. Your perception darkened, as if behind a visor. Visions of you, leaning over your stall. Surrounded in a wreath of flowers, hand-picked from your garden.

A throb in your chest, one that blooms - skittering down your spine, settling low in your belly. Almost like butterflies, with how their wings feel like they flutter.

The sensation disappears too fast to make sense of - breaking, as he lets go.

Red smeared across his lips as the steady thrusts become short, messy. Fingers biting into your skin with the slap of his hips, the harsh grunt that turns into a ragged groan.

Hovering over you, as he notches himself deep, one last time. The column of his throat lengthening as his head tips back - it takes everything to resist the urge to make your own mark, as he spills messily inside you.

Throbbing, chasing the high with the grind of his hips.

His eyes losing that sharp edge, when his head tips down. Soft and warm, a sunrise welcoming a summers day.

Everything moves slowly, after. The lazy relaxing of muscles. The tilt of his lips when you whine, when he slips from you. His fingers slow, sweeping - as they dip down. Teasing where he drips from you, as your mouth finds his again.

Tender, as the robe is fully stripped from you. Boba’s words coaxing and patient, as he shows you the strap of his armor. How to take him apart, until you match - a perfect pair.

The aches that linger in your muscles are soon soaked away in the bath he draws. Your second today - a true luxury. The ceramic tub large enough for your back to cradle against his front.

You don’t think you ever want to leave.

Drowsy and content, his cool fingers welcome against your neck. A salve smeared carefully over the marks from his teeth. A promise that your skin will heal by morning, soft and smooth again - unmarried by his touch.

You think next time… you’ll ask if they can stay.

You’re warm against him.

Boba hasn’t been warm in years. Too used to his skin, carved from stone. Forever unchanging.

But you - you’re supple. Soft in his hands, molding yourself to fit the curve of his chest, where you cheek nestles. A thigh splaying over his waist, fingers splayed out against his stomach.

There’s much he should be doing. The sun has set some hours ago, and there’s a long list of things that need his attention.

But for now, for this moment, he will stay. Just a little longer, before he’ll slide out from beneath you, slipping away like a shadow.

You stretch against him, calf pressing into his thigh. Words heavy with sleep and exhaustion, so soft in the night air.

“‘m glad you picked me.”

There’s a stirring, in his chest. Where he thought he was long-dead, his palm pressing down where it rests against your back.

The briefest moment before he’s answering, an idle threat as a deflection.

Hushing you instead, his voice low, “Sleep, little one. You’re mistaken if you think I’ve had had my fill.”

You can’t help the smile, even as your teeth bite into your lip to stifle it. Squirming against him, the press of your center against the curve of his hip.

A low hum of amusement in his chest, as the arm that stretches beside you curls up - tucking around your ribs, nestling you a little closer.

He listens, as your breathing grows slower. Until you’re drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

Only then, does he let his mind wander. Back to the place where it had been earlier that evening. When he teeth were bared, that moment where his armor had been so thin.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

If you had, you would have seen.

Peeling back his memories, discovering just how often he had strayed down to the marketplace, after your first meeting. Not for gold or for payment. Only to catch a glimpse at the girl that had burrowed under his skin.

Somewhere along the way, changing from a casual observation - making sure Shard kept away - to something far more intimate.

Something akin to longing, if a man like Boba Fett could feel that way.

You would have felt - when the goblet raised to his lips for the second time…

Just how much he had hoped it was yours.

ad'ika - little one | sarad - flower | mesh’la - beautiful

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 🥺💕 I wanted to explore some of the same themes but in a new way for Boba (rejection of fate, the intentional in the way they seek each other out, instead of the pull of soulmates) - I just thought that would be so fun. I hope you liked this! 💖

tagging some pals!: @margofiore, @marieg, @wingofshadow, @reaperofmen, @bobaprint, @phoenixhalliwell, @csboz, @imarvelatthestars

#good MORNING #this was just what i needed on an october weekend!#vampire!boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x female reader #star wars

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