#Din Djarin has a lot on his plate

[hapan-in-exile]

It's alright to just admit that I'm the fantasy

A Mandalorian One Shot

Yeah, I know your little secret...

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Reader: You are a courtesan at the Dark Garden, Coruscant’s most prestigious pleasure house. Owned by the crimelord Boss Set’ki and operated by his lieutenant Mistress Anassa, when business meets pleasure, you’re expected to entertain soldiers on the payroll. But there’s one—a Mandalorian you’ve come to know and respect—who’s never taken advantage of your services. Until one day, he asked, What if next time I said yes?   

Word Count: ~9K

Pairing: dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI, 18+ only.

Warnings: Roleplay, bondage, blindfold, fingering, oral sex (m+f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spanking, hair pulling, choking, biting, protected anal, unprotected piv, rough sex, edging (him), explicit consent, aftercare.

If the above looks super intense, please know I wrote a soft(er) dom Mando—no extreme degradation. Lots of checking in! Lots of praise!

A/N: This is a one-shot set in the same universe as my ongoing Mandalorian fanfic series. It has no bearing on the series plot.

No description of skin, hair, or eye color; no description of age or body shape.

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Tales from the Dark Garden

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says disinterestedly, sliding the pile of neatly stacked credits into his waiting palm. “Please extend my gratitude to Boss Set’ki for his generous and timely payment.”

You watch him tuck the metallic ingots into one of the leather pouches sewn to his belt—right between the buckle and a string of explosive charges. There’s a dull thunk when the butt of his rifle knocks against the table’s edge as he turns to leave. 

It's quite the arsenal. The bounty hunter certainly cast an imposing figure. 

It’s a miracle those shoulders made it through the hatch.  

You’d heard rumors from the other girls at Dark Garden about the fearsome Mandalorian who visited Mistress Anassa. This just happened to be one of those delightful twists gifted by the universe, where the real thing exceeds expectations. He was terrifying. And sexy as hell.

That first moment when you’d opened the door to see him standing there in full plate Beskar was a shock to the senses that would have reduced a younger you into a stream of inane babbling. 

Good thing you had a lot of practice controlling your expression—the demands of professional decorum, after all. It would ruin your Mistress’s reputation if you started drooling over the customers.

The armor suited him. It accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his forearms, and his powerfully muscular thighs. The belt slung low around his tapered waist, and the quilted canvas hinted at the taut abdominals concealed beneath.

All the adrenaline that surged through your body at the sight of his weaponry had  immediately transformed into excitement, raw and primal. 

This man made you feel…

Sweet gods, divine and merciful.

“Of course,” you smile, leaning forward to place your elbows over the polished tabletop so that your breasts rise enticingly. Lacing your fingers together, you gently rest your chin atop your knuckles. “I will happily deliver your compliments to my master.”

The Beskar gleamed in the candlelight despite an ashy layer of soot. From the state of him, he might have come straight from the lower levels where he’d tracked his quarry. Your eyes linger over the blood splattered across his helmet, sending a shiver of panic down your spine. What sort of violence had this man committed mere hours ago?

Arousal surges within you, fear and wanting intertwined. 

The gore and grime are a stark contrast to the lush surroundings. Draped in silk tapestries, with thick woolen rugs and brocade pillows, your shuttle interior was designed to be a sanctuary from the vulgar world outside. 

But you suspect the Mandalorian wrapped brutality around him as tightly as the cloak hanging from his neck. It would take a woman of considerable charm to remove either.  

Which is why Anassa chose you.      

“It is my honor to serve, Master Set’ki,” you reply, rising artfully from your chair and gesturing toward the lounge where you’ve laid out a modest tea service. “And my duty to please.”

The Mandalorian pauses midstep on his way to the door.

“Excuse me?” he asks, curiosity peaked.

Shrugging out of your robe, the silken fabric pools at your feet. You kneel onto the plush carpet before pulling back, sitting on your heels, and reaching for the enameled pot. “My master thought you would enjoy the companionship. A chance to indulge in softer luxuries before you return to the Outer Rim.” 

The Mandalorian’s helmet gives away nothing, but you can feel his eyes tracing over you.

Looking up at him through dark lashes, you explain, “The use of this ship—and myself—are yours for the night.” 

Despite the layers of cloth and metal, when he folds his arms across his chest, you see the muscles in his back ripple. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. 

And right now, he’s imagining taking you. 

The fear is still there, but by now, it had sharpened to anticipation so intense that it ached. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. Yet, his words did not match his actions. Instead of continuing on his path toward the door, he turns to face you, uncrossing his arms to hold them at his sides.  

Is he simply nervous? Sometimes, warriors hardened on the battlefield liked to yield dominance in the bedroom. Maybe you should try throwing him against a wall and climbing him like a tree. 

No. If submission were his preference, Anassa would have chosen someone else—Katlin with her barbed whips or Bat’ya with her cruel tongue. 

You need to coax him without pushing. The subtle art of persuasion. 

Let’s start with coy seduction. 

Turning to look at him from over your shoulder, you toss your hair just so, sending shimmering waves down your back. You twist gracefully at the waist until your bodice gapes, revealing the contours of your body.  

“Think of it as a reward,” your voice is supple as the velvet cushions surrounding you on the floor. “Someone to take care of you. My only desire is your comfort and pleasure.”

With that, you pour the tea and walk over to him, proferring a cup.

“That is indeed generous,” the Mandalorian cocks his head. “But I usually find more comfort in solitude.”

Yet, again, he makes no attempt to leave, accepting the cup from your hand graciously. Worn leather caresses your skin as your fingers brush against each other, reaching around the warm porcelain. The jaw of his helmet lifts, and you catch a glimpse of bronze skin and coarse black hair while he raises the cup to his lips.

Surprisingly full lips.

What did he mean by offering resistance? Was this a challenge? Some test of your professional acumen?  

A skilled courtesan is, above all else, a student of human nature and hidden desires. She must know what her clients want before they speak the words. Before they know it themselves. This Mandalorian wanted to be…tempted. 

Timidity would yield nothing. 

You arch an eyebrow, “I have never known a man who preferred solitude to my company.” Then, you stare directly into the jet-black surface of his helmet’s visor. Meeting his gaze, you place a delicate hand over his chest plate and fill your voice with honey, “Let tonight be a rare exception to the usual.” 

The Beskar feels cool against your palm and the pads of your fingertips. You hadn’t realized how flushed you’d become with your heart beating this fast. The insistent yearning between your thighs matches each pulse coursing through your veins.

“I am here to satisfy your needs. Whatever the Mandalorian desires is his for the taking.” 

While the bounty hunter remains stubbornly silent, you can hear his breathing grow shallow through the modulator.

Having made your supplication, you draw back. “If it is tranquility the Mandalorian desires, perhaps I could play the valachord or sing for him?” 

“Sing?” he huffs, sounding amused. It’s funny, hearing the smirk on his lips.

Well, at least he’s not completely immune to your charm. 

“Pleasure takes many forms,” you say, flashing him a demure smile. “As such, we courtesans are skilled in many arts. I’ve been told my voice is exceedingly lovely. And I know all the Twelve Ballads of Kiergaard.”

You shift onto the edge of a thick cushion to pour yourself some tea. When you raise the cup to your lips, the look of elegant femininity slips—just for a moment, so he can see the earnest hunger filling your gaze. You fix him with your most smoldering stare, “Though I can certainly think of other ways to please you with my mouth.”

The tea tastes bitter on your tongue, but you hardly notice, waiting for his reaction.

The Mandalorian says nothing as he pulls the rifle over his head, settling it against the door frame. He walks over in a slow saunter that makes his hips dip and sway. Slowly, he extends his hand to take your face in his leather fingers, lifting up your chin. 

“You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Your breath catches in your throat. A wave of arousal courses through your body, emanating from your clenching belly until it ripples over every surface of your skin, pinching your nipples.

“If the Mandalorian—” but he cuts off whatever beguiling line you intended. 

“I thought this was about what I wanted?” he demands.

Suddenly, you’re too flustered to speak, confused by the sudden shift in dynamic. All his polite reticence had been an act. He was done testing you. He wanted to assert dominance. 

In answer, you lower your gaze.

“That’s right,” he says cooly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re remembering what you’re for.” The Mandalorian takes the cup from your hands and tosses it aside. “There’s no more need to talk. Don’t open your mouth unless I tell you.” 

Then he reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it. 

And to think you worried he’d be too self-conscious for roleplay. This is going to be so good.

“You’re here to give me whatever I want?” he asks, his tone gruff and intimidating.

You don’t look up, just nod.

He laughs, “I’m glad we understand each other.” 

With your gaze locked on the floor, you watch the tread of his boots make their way to a lacquer armchair in the corner of the room. His knees splay wide as he leans back in his seat. “Answer my question.”

“Whatever the Mandalorian desires, I will give him.”

“Because tonight, your body is for me.”

It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding in confirmation. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You answer truthfully. “That you’re a dangerous man, and I should do my best to please you.”

“Smart girl,” he says in a rough whisper. “But don’t worry, I have no intention of harming you. I’m going to make you come. Then you’ll sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Senaar'ika. Little bird. 

Your whole body flushes with heat.

“What do you know about Mandalorian customs?” 

When you hesitate, he adds, “You can answer me.”

“I know that it’s a sacrilege to look upon your face. That to touch your helmet, even by accident, is to forfeit my life.”

“Then you’ll understand why I need to tie you down.”

At that, your head snaps up to look at him.

“Or tie you up. I haven’t decided yet.” 

Part of you is terrified by the thought of being captive to this man for hours, splayed wide and helpless. The other part of you wishes he’d do it this second. 

“You can undress while I make up my mind.”

Obeying his command, you stand and reach behind you for the lacings of your bodice.

This, at least, is an art in which you can make your mistress proud. The trick is to envision it’s a private ritual, something deeply intimate. That you always loosen the silken knots this slowly. That each row of the lacings must be pulled free, one—by—one. 

You lift your elbows so that he glimpses the soft curves of your breasts as you move. Slip your right arm from its fitted sleeve, then the left, until you’re certain the dress will fall, cascading over your body like waves caressing the shore. 

Only then do you turn, rolling your hips and then your shoulders, displaying your nakedness, before you finally look over to where he’s sitting, as though you’d forgotten anyone was watching. 

At some point during your performance, the Mandalorian had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together in wrapt attention. 

“That was beautifully done,” he murmurs. “You may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart swells, hearing his admiration—perhaps because it sounds so genuine. Suddenly, all you can think about is how best to please him, the things you’ll do with your lips and fingers.

“I understand the Hapan courtesans from Dark Garden are the most expensive, the most prized companions in all of Coruscant.” The hunter’s voice sinks into a low, husky rasp as he says, “But tonight, I’m not interested in your talents, though I’m sure you have many. This is about what I want to do to you. Tonight, you belong to me.” 

It’s just as well he demanded your silence because you can’t speak. 

You know he can see you breathing, shallow and fast, from the rise and fall of your breasts. See your pulse thundering against your throat. He’s feeding off your fear, you realize. That’s why he keeps trying to catch you off guard like this. The Mandalorian wanted to shatter your artful calm and see something raw and real in your eyes. 

You know you should be afraid—and you are—but you’ve never been more turned on.

So when he gets up from his seat to approach you, you don’t bother hiding the way your whole body trembles in trepidation.

The Mandalorian crouches to pick up the belt from your discarded robe.

“Give me your hands.” 

He uses the fabric to tie your wrists together, wrapping the belt around and between them in a complicated knot. Then, his strong hands pull you under one of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling. 

Cupping it in his palm, he lifts the glowing orb from its hook to set it down beside the abandoned tea service. The cabin grows dim, like he’s wrapped you in shadows.

That’s when you realize what’s about to happen. Unspooling the cable from his whipcord, he loops it through the empty hook. He’s going to suspend you from the ceiling by your wrists. 

The breath coming from your nostrils is so fast now that it’s the only thing you can hear in the close, quiet cabin of your shuttle. But you say nothing. You can’t protest; you can only submit. 

After securing your bound wrists to the cord, he inspects the knots. 

“Not too tight?”

You release a deep breath and shake your head no. 

“You remember the signal?” Mando asks with concern, breaking from the fantasy entirely. 

“Yes,” you smile up at him with more confidence than you really feel—trying to ignore the insistent throbbing between your legs. 

“You can stop me at any time.”

“I know.”

“Alright,” he says before his voice drops into a rough whisper. “You’re giving me total control. Anything I want is mine.”  

Fuck, just hearing him say that makes you ache with need. That same trembling emanates from inside you, fear and arousal, two halves of the same coin. You don’t know precisely what the bounty hunter plans to do to you—and the suspense just makes the fantasy feel more real. 

Within seconds, you’ll be tied up, defenseless against him and his desires. The only way to stop him is to say the safe word, and you already know you won’t. You want it too much. 

You’ve spent months building up to this—years, really. It’s my choice, you’d told him. It’s different when it’s my choice. 

“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly.

Then he pulls down on the whipcord, and your arms lift above your head. 

For one panicked moment, you think he’s going to haul you entirely off the ground, but your feet remain on the floor, bearing your weight. You remind yourself that this is his domain. He knows how to bind, what the body can withstand. 

And for now, the tension feels manageable. Slack enough so you don’t feel the strain in your joints; taut enough so you can grip the cord to steady yourself. 

Yet you remain utterly helpless, unable to turn your head or move without losing your balance.

He takes a few steps back, leather boots creaking, and you watch as the Mandalorian strips his gloves off before removing the Beskar from his arms and chest.​​​ The fabric underneath outlines every contour of his powerfully muscular body.

Though not as graceful as your tradecraft, he certainly knows how to build anticipation. Each time his hands grip, pull, and tug, your stomach clenches. 

Soon, you feel volatile, ready to explode, waiting for him to touch you. When he finally does—when you feel the tip of his calloused finger tracing over the length of your spine, it burns through you, down to your core, so hot your cheeks flush scarlet. 

“It’s a good thing we have all night,” he murmurs. “There’s a lot I want to do with you.”

As he circles, the view plate sweeps up and down your body as though inspecting some prize captured in a snare. All you can do is stand there on display, completely exposed, until he makes a satisfied sound, a hummm that vibrates through the modulator. The hunter, pleased to discover what he’s caught.

“I feel deeply honored to receive you as my reward,” the Mandalorian sounds eager, standing behind you, voice full of hunger. “Now spread your legs.”

The breath catches in your throat, hearing that tight ache—the same raw yearning to match your own. You want to obey. 

But there’s no give to the whipcord. The bindings on your wrist pull tighter the farther your feet draw apart. Though you can still balance, your shoulders start to burn from the stretch. Slowly, you rise onto tiptoes. But not fast enough—

Wrapping an arm around your waist, the Mandalorian lifts you from the floor. 

“Wider,” he commands, gripping you roughly by the knee to pry open your thighs with his other hand. You have to bite back a scream. By now, you’re so wound up that just the sensation—the air cool against your wet center, his powerful chest pressed against your back, his fingers digging into your skin makes you drunk with lust. 

“You’re so wet already, senaar'ika. It’s slicking down your thighs,” the Mandalorian groans, breath warm against the back of your neck. His hand gripping your knee slides upward between your legs, tracing toward the heat of your skin. “No wonder you were begging me to fuck you.”

His fingers part and probe—massaging in slow, firm circles that spiral until you’re panting. Every stroke sends pleasure pulsing through you, and you can’t stop yourself from whimpering. 

“You like it when I use my hand?” he asks, voice maddeningly calm. Only the persistent throbbing against your hip, matching each beat of his heart, betrays his arousal. When you release a sigh in desperate delight, he says, “Maybe this is how I should start.”

And fuck, if Mando doesn’t knows exactly where to touch you—how much to bear down and how fast to go.

“Mmmph,” a moan of deep satisfaction escapes his lips as he thrusts two fingers inside you, sending a gush of wetness welling against his palm. He pushes them in and out, obviously relishing the obscene squelching sound.

Wait! When did he take off his helmet? 

No. No, this is forbidden. This is dangerous. 

You couldn’t move your head to look at him even if you wanted to, but your eyes shut tightly just the same. The fear of seeing his face, the dire consequences, amplify every panicked thought running through your mind, heightening every sensation—his fingers curling, his thumb pressing down over your clit.  

Your breaths come sharp and shallow now. All the blood in your body rushing between your legs. The stimulation is almost too much to bear, the excitement and panic roiling within you—the Mandalorian dipping his fingers inside, slipping them out to circle and stroke. Drawing a wet line between your cunt over and over.

Desire ripples through you in waves. Your body tightens, muscles clenching. Your bound hands keep straining in their futile urge to grab his wrist, your knees fighting against him to shut tight around his thrusting fingers. 

You’re close now. So close, you’re on the brink.

He kisses the back of your neck, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

“Aaangh!” That’s when he presses harder, circles faster, and you come, “Haaa-aah!” 

Your orgasm crashes through you in a tidal wave that upends gravity. You cry out desperately with all the air left in your lungs—the relentless pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums making you dizzy. 

“Haa-aah! Aaah!” 

Losing equilibrium, you sway, and the bindings pull painfully around your wrists. You’re at the limits of your flexibility, fighting to keep your balance before the Mandalorian’s muscular arm tightens around your waist, until he’s bearing enough of your weight to keep you upright.

“I’ve got you,” he says gently, pressing a tender kiss over your head. “Stand up. Come on. Legs spread. You know what I want.”

You shift on your heels, testing your unsteady knees. “I can’t—” but your words break off into a gasp when he clasps his hand around your throat, warm and sticky with your come.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against your temple. “I told you not to open your mouth unless I said so.”

His tone is soft, and he kisses you tenderly again through a tangle of damp hair, your forehead glistening with sweat. But his fingers grip tighter in warning. 

“Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more.”

You nod once in understanding.

“Smart girl,” he says, and without the helmet on, you can hear the wry grin on his lips. “I’m glad we understand each other. It’s going to make everything so much easier. But just to be sure—”

His wide palm fans out from your waist, gliding down your body to slip over the curve of your buttocks. 

Then he brings it down in a sharp smack that echoes through the quiet cabin. Hearing that slap, feeling the sting on your skin, the burning heat that radiates from his handprint—shakes you from the hazy lust. 

It’s not enough to want to obey. 

“I’m going to take good care of you, senaar'ika. But you have to do as you’re told.”

While he’s playing a role, the pain is very real. Yet this fantasy is about your powerlessness. Whatever the Mandalorian wants to do to you, you have to take it. Yes, the pain is undeniable—but the adrenaline?—it sharpens the hunger.

When you finally regain your balance and tilt your pelvis forward at just the right angle, your ass brushes against his straining erection, and he groans, a low vibration you feel through his chest. Arousal arcs through you, and you gasp responsively. Even now, as your body tingles numbly in the aftermath of climax, your cunt still aches, longing to be full of him.

With his entire body sealed against you, you feel the firm pressure swelling against your ass. It throbs, heat radiating through the canvas flight suit. The coarse fabric is rough, rubbing over your slapped skin. 

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding the entire length of his cock against you. “That’s what you’re going to take for me.”

Holy fuck, he’s huge. Thick, too. Your mind reels at the impossibility; can you really fit him inside you?

“You’re going to take it all,” the bounty hunter huffs, as if he’d heard your thoughts. “You’re going to come with my cock buried in your ass.”

Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! 

It’s something you’ve talked about, something you said you wanted and prepared for, but….you’ve never had anyone this big up your ass before. He’s going to tear you apart. 

“Are you scared? Because trust me, I’m going to make you ready. You’re going to beg me for it. Then you’ll come so hard with my cock in your ass, nothing else will ever feel as good.”

The hormones that suddenly surge through your body make arousal indistinguishable from panic. You should be so afraid, and yet, you want this. Under the fear, you’re still full of need, urgent, and emphatic.

“After that, if you’re lucky, then I’ll fuck your mouth.”

Shit! Shit, that’s…you try to banish away the shame washing over you. He’s going to claim your body in every way imaginable, use you filthy—and it feels like you shouldn’t want this. But you do. 

“Don’t worry,”  he sighs, voice sounding softer now, gentle. “I’m not going to rush this. First, I want to explore your beautiful body.”

You feel the cold Beskar plates against the backs of your thighs and shiver.

His hands slide outward along your shoulder blades, curving down and around just enough for his fingers to lightly brush the sides of your breasts. Then, the Mandalorian’s arms circle you, reaching up to grasp them in both hands. Arousal rekindles as he kneads and squeezes, pressing them together tightly. Igniting as he tugs and pinches. 

And when your nipples are so tender you whine, “Mmmph!” he soothes them in his wide palms. 

“You—are—so—beautiful,” he moans, kissing the curve of your jaw. 

Behind you, his lips trail soft, open-mouth kisses down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, along your spine, and lower, until he drops to one knee. His hands trace over your ribcage, your sides, the indentation of your waist, and the flare of your hips. 

The pads of his fingertips are coarse but tender.

“Look at you. Legs spread. Open and wet for me. When I dream of you, this is what I’ll see.”  

Then he crouches between your knees to press lighter, softer kisses up the inside of your thighs, teasing you until you grow desperate with anticipation. “Haa!” you gasp, already panting. 

Spirals of arousal coil through you, so dizzying you have to grip the whipcord for balance. 

Soon, you’re lost to anything but the desire for him to taste you. That he’s risked so much by removing his helmet is the only thing keeping you from breaking position, regardless of the punishment. That’s how much you long to tilt your hips and rub yourself against his mouth. 

Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more. Would he like it if you begged?

“Please,” you whimper, voice full of desperation. 

He groans in satisfaction before making one long sweep of his tongue, right through the very center of your urgent longing. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes!”  

“I like hearing you beg.” Then his lips press firmly between your thighs, enfolding you in his warm, wet mouth.

Okay, wow, he’s good at this. He’s really, really good at this. 

The Mandalorian’s tongue searches for your clit, stroking and circling in a rhythm that drags you back to the brink almost instantly. But slowly, agonizingly slowly, to hold you at the edge of pleasure—like he could do this, keep you suspended there—forever.  

“Show me how much you want it,” he says, hot breath tickling against your delicate skin. 

If you could bury your fingers in his hair, you would. Instead, you shift all of your weight onto one leg, using what remains of your equilibrium to drape the other over his shoulder, feeling the rough stubble of his beard and the shell of his ear press against the inside of your thigh. 

Helping you balance, one strong hand grips you by the hipbone while the other slips over your knee before guiding his mouth between the sopping wet folds of your cunt. 

You tense every muscle, digging your heel into his sinewy back to try to keep him there. Right there! 

He rewards you by lapping faster—and then, when you cry out, speeding up even more. “Sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Every throb of pleasure ripples through your body from your nipples to your scalp, all the way down to your toes, until you can’t help yourself from rocking your hips, increasing the pressure just a little more. You feel each bob and turn of his head as he keeps at it, caressing you in spirals as a long, luscious wave of ecstasy swells inside you.

Mando’s fingers tighten around your thigh to hold you in place. He keeps going, maintaining his rhythm so that you can ride each cresting surge. It builds low, climbing and arcing higher, and when it finally overwhelms you, when you let go, and it rushes through you—you do sing. You cry out in one long wail that lasts the length and breadth of your climax.

Your body goes limp once the orgasm fades, and just like last time, the Mandalorian is the only source of strength to keep you upright. Hands clutching your hips, he pulls back to place a wet, sticky kiss low on your belly, then says, “We’re not done yet, little dove. Not nearly done yet.”

Gods in heaven, how much more of this can you take? You’d love nothing better than to sink to the floor in post-orgasmic bliss…but his cock is still in his pants. 

Too afraid to look down, you feel his body shifting between your knees and wonder, what next? Should you offer to reciprocate? Fuck, you want to. Right now, you want him in your mouth so badly that it’s all you can do not to beg for it. 

Your lips part, the words ready on your tongue—

When suddenly, he lifts you by the back of your thighs, settling you on top of his shoulders. You barely have time to gasp, to grip the braided cable between your hands—to think—before he buries his face between your thighs again.

“Oh, gods!” you gasp. “Oh, haah…!”

The tension in the whipcord keeps you from falling backward, but you feel precariously weightless sitting on his shoulders. Reeling, overstimulated from your last orgasm, you instinctively try to writhe away from the press of his wet tongue, his hot mouth, the coarse hair of his beard, and nearly lose your balance. 

Mando steadies you, wrapping his arms around your lower back, ass braced against his thick biceps as he works, tongue parting the soft creases of your cunt to find your sore, throbbing clit. 

This time, he holds nothing back, laving and shaking his head until your vision starts to blur; the pleasure is so intense it’s blinding. 

Oh shit! Merciful gods, this might break you. It’s too much. Too much. But you can’t move. Caged in his arms, you have to take what he gives. It feels so good. 

You don’t think it can get any better until he starts to suck. After that, you can’t think about anything anymore. Your mind is just blank. Static. White noise.

Fuck! You’re at the brink again—so fucking close—your heartbeat is thundering against your ribs. The muscles of your inner thighs lock, clenching around his jaw. Your body is poised right there. Right there! That exhilarating moment before—

And at that's when the Mandalorian slips a finger, slick with your come, inside your ass. 

The sensation kindles alarm, and your entire body tenses in response. All your instincts awaken in primal fear to remind you just how vulnerable you are.

Okay! It's okay! Just relax. 

In answer, his other hand begins sweeping up and down your thigh, caressing and soothing the tension away. 

That’s right. You have to relax. He’s doing this for you, to make you ready. Right now, your pleasure is the only thing that matters. Focus on his tongue circling your clit, his finger gently caressing millions of tiny nerve endings. 

But he slides up so seamlessly, so deep inside you, the pressure pools in your abdomen, and you gasp, “Oh, gods!” again.

Don’t resist the sensation—yield to it. Work with it. Take what you need.

Pulling on the whipcord for leverage, you thrust your hips against his mouth. He groans in encouragement, responding by sucking harder, licking faster—and then, spearing his tongue inside you.

Okay, yes. Yes! Gods, yes! You have never come so soon after your last orgasm, but he’s going to get you there.

That’s when he adds a second finger. 

You feel it stretch you, but your body doesn’t resist this time. And when he starts working them back and forth in rhythm with the thrusting of his tongue, it starts to feel so good. So good.

Each rut of his tongue and stroke of his fingers sends heat coursing through you, so flushed now that your skin seems to be on fire. Your hair clings to your sweaty cheeks. But nothing is as hot as his breath between your thighs. 

So you move faster, rubbing yourself against the raw stubble of his chin, the tip of his nose, drowning him in your cunt. All the while, he increases the pressure of his fingers just a little more, massaging inside you. 

You start to shake, the muscles in your legs trembling, as the Mandalorian twists his hand, rolls his wrist, and you feel the brush of his knuckles against the tender skin of your asshole. 

Then, he sucks your clit between his teeth, and you come in a burst of ecstasy so sharp it makes you scream. There’s a second when your vision goes entirely white—like staring into a bright sun—and your heart thumps so hard you hear the blood rushing in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your stomach.

His fingers gently slip out of you so he can grasp you by the ribcage with both hands, bracing you as you shudder through the ricocheting aftermath of your orgasm. 

“You taste like heaven.” 

He would know. His face, his hands, his neck, and shoulders are all covered in your come.  

“I told you I’d take care of you,” Mando’s broad hands stroke the length of your back, and the sound of his voice melts away any lingering doubts. He knows when to be gentle and when to be rough. You can trust him with this. 

When the bounty hunter ducks his head out from between your thighs, you think you’ll have to stand up again, get back into position. And you know you’ll be punished—but you can’t. You’re shaking too much for that. 

It doesn’t matter. Your feet never touch the floor. Bending you at the waist, he slings you over one broad, muscular shoulder, so that you dangle limp and dizzy, upside down as he steps into a lunge to lift you both off the ground. Tearing your wrists free from the whipcord at last, your arms fall numbly behind him, blood rushing back into your digits.

Draped over his shoulder like a hunter’s prize, he strides across the cabin toward the bed. 

Perhaps you’re delirious—you must be after three orgasms. Or maybe it’s because your fingers are so desperate to find new life. But when you look up (or is it down?) to see his perfectly sculpted ass outlined in dark gray canvas about a foot from your face…weak as you are, you can’t stop yourself from reaching for it. Your hand stretches lower until you feel its firm contours press satisfyingly against your palm. And gods help you, but you squeeze. Hard.

The Mandalorian chuckles, a deep booming laugh that has your knees jostling against his chest. You’re breaking from the submissive fantasy, but maybe he won’t—

“I knew you wanted it,” he laughs, voice full of triumph as—fingers splayed wide, he slaps his hand down over your ass cheek—the exact same spot as last time—so hard the sting brings tears to your eyes. 

Fuck! Your jaw drops. The pain sharpens all of your senses, bringing everything into focus. Your thighs squeeze together, cunt clenching against the sensation. Fuck that stings. Right. He’s back in the role. Time to be rough.

“You’ve wanted my cock inside you since the moment I stepped through that door. Haven’t you?” 

When he tosses you onto the bed, you fall onto the mattress, flat on your belly. But before you can get to your hands beneath you, he presses a knee down between your shoulder blades to keep you from moving. 

“You want to beg me some more, senaar'ika?”

The silk belt of your robe slips over your eyes, and he lashes it tightly behind your head. 

“Tell me!” he demands, like he’s making you confess to something. 

“Yes,” you whisper into the sheets, words muffled by the bedding. 

“Yes, what?”

“I want your cock.”

“Where?” he asks, and the sound of him tugging down his zipper fills your ears.

“In—inside me,” you gulp. “I want your cock inside me.”   

You hear him tearing open the condom wrapper, “That’s right. Beg me to fuck you.” 

“Please—”

Then he’s on top of you, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your face, his knee lifting from your back to part your thighs, his massive weight pinning you underneath him. 

Reaching between your naked bodies, he wraps a hand around the base of his shaft to rub the swollen head of his cock along the cleft of your ass, back and forth, slicking the entrance before he pushes inside you.

You cry out in shock. 

So does he.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s so tight! Haa, haa!”

Leaning forward, he places a soft kiss atop your head, pausing with just the first few inches of him inside, letting your body stretch to fit him. 

“You okay?” he whispers quietly against your cheek, his face damp with sweat. 

When you nod, he begins tracing his tongue over your earlobe, kissing your jaw and the corner of your mouth. His beard is still drenched with your come.

“This feels amazing,” his breath is hot in your ear. “Just this. You're gripping me so tight.”

You’re tempted to stop here, to say the safe word. And you trust Mando to stop; you know he would. That’s why he’s reminding you. And this does feel amazing, his body enfolding you, the rub of his bare skin over yours, the feeling of every firm muscle pressing into your soft curves—the pressure inside you. 

But you want this. You want all of him.

“More,” you moan.

The aching burn is so intense as his enormous cock plunges deeper inside you—slowly, but without ceasing. “Oh fuck!” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, that feels so good. Almost, ha-aah…almost. It’s almost in.”

The burn as he opens you—the way the entire universe narrows to this bodily sensation, until you perceive nothing but its fantastic pressure—only anal sex does this for you. But its so hard to trust someone to be careful, to make you feel safe in spite of being so vulnerable and powerless. Mando does that. 

“I’m going to start, haah…I’m going to start moving, okay?” he says, panting from arousal and restraint.

Adjusting his weight onto his elbows, he rolls his hips gently, strokes building. There’s so much lubricant on the condom; each shallow thrust is frictionless, but you’re still trembling like one of the strings of your valachord. 

“Haah, you feel so good. So—nnngh—so fucking good!” Threading his fingers through your hair, his forehead drops against your neck, and the heat from each ragged breath spills over your shoulders. “Anngh!”

Then he starts fucking you in earnest. He pushes deeper now, pulling out further to feel the grip of your asshole squeeze up and down the length of his shaft. Already, you feel arousal peaking within you with each long, slow stroke. 

Mando’s width and length stretches you, makes you burn. And you moan, fingers twining in the sheets as the pleasure becomes indistinguishable from the pain. 

“You like this?” his voice is teasing again, getting back into the role.

“Mm-hmm,” you moan, unable to form words. 

It’s like you can’t feel anything but him moving inside you, pleasure surging in ebbs and flows, like a tidal current. It’s hard to describe. The barrier between your cunt and anus is so thin you feel him everywhere. It burns, this inner blazing heat. 

It’s a sweet agony, like the handprint on your ass, making everything tingle with sensitivity, amplifying every sensation. Even the pressure of the mattress against your clit is enough to send a thrill through you.

“Is this the biggest cock you’ve ever taken?” 

You cry out in torment and desire as he shoves into you harder this time, and your whole body bends and turns in a desperate effort to accept every inch.

“Yes,” you want to sob into the mattress. It aches. It’s so fucking good you could scream.

“You’re taking it so good,” he whispers as he sinks in even deeper. “That’s it.”

And he’s finally all the way inside you now, so deep that when he starts thrusting, you feel the slap of his sac against the dip of your cunt. Each stroke presses you harder against the mattress—hitting you where it feels best inside and out. 

And strong, so strong he pushes your body upward on the bed.

“I want to fuck you like this all night.” His voice is tight with strain—just barely holding on, waiting for you.

But he’s not moving fast enough for you to come.

“More,” you whimper into the damp folds of silk.

Mando pushes in again, burying himself balls-deep inside you before whispering against your shoulder, “What's that?”

You need more. “I need more…I need—”

“You worried I won’t fuck you hard enough?” he laughs, plunges in deep, and bites the soft flesh of your shoulder. It’s not enough to break the skin—but you cry out from the painfully sweet ache of it.

“Beg me, senaar'ika,” he says, sitting back on his heels, filling his lungs with each heaving breath. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

But this time, you don’t want to obey. You don’t want to say please. You want to find out exactly how hard the Mandalorian can give it to you. If you want to come with him, you need more, and you know how to get it. 

You turn your head so he can see the jut of your chin, fill your voice with challenge and say, “Mercy of the gods, shut up and fuck—me—harder.”

The bounty hunter scoffs in shocked bemusement.

His arm hooks around your elbows, pinning them behind you, “You’ll regret that, little dove.” 

Then he yanks back on your arms, pulling you off the bed, and against his chest. Your ass presses into the bowl of his hips, thighs sealed against his. His other hand slides up your stomach and between your breasts to clasp around your throat. A touch that means possession. 

The Mandalorian owns you now, and he knows it.

Mando slams into you, and you want to cry out—but you stifle it somehow. You don’t want him to stop. You’re so wound up that tears well against your eyelids, dampening the blindfold. It scares you how much you want this. Gods help you, but you do. You fucking love it.

His thrusts remain slow at first. Deliberate. Punishing. Yes, punish me! His pelvis clashes against your buttocks like the snap of a paddle. But the tempo increases as he starts to get into it. Soon, he pumps into you so hard that it makes your breasts bounce, and your entire body starts to sweat. Your hair swings around your face, tendrils sticking to your neck, your flushed cheeks and forehead.

He never loosens his grip. Your shoulders start to ache from being pulled back so far—your throat throbs against his palm—and yet you want nothing more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock filling you. It’s like he’s reaching to the core of your very being with every thrust.

Yes, you think, fuck me. Make me take it.

The bounty hunter’s hand tightens around your throat—unconsciously, you think—because of how close he is. Each ragged breath vibrates against your back. You can still breathe, but his grip keeps you dizzy and light-headed. 

A sharp thrust, and your arousal climbs. Another, and it goes higher. Mando bucks and bucks, and the world behind your eyelids becomes bright and sparkly around the edges. Sensation shivers upward through you, strengthening by the moment.

The climax builds from somewhere deep inside you, and you sink into it with every thrust, slipping deeper into pure instinctive sensation, until it claims your whole body in white-hot ecstasy. When you come, the desperation in your wordless cries transforms into a feral scream as you fall forward, tumbling back onto the sheets when he releases you. 

The silk feels so cool and smooth against your feverish cheeks. 

“Haah, aah! I knew you’d love it,” he groans triumphantly. “Nnngh!”

But he’s almost at the brink himself—his body contracting, abdominals clenching. That’s when he pulls out, denying himself release.

The mattress dips and creeks as he climbs off you, and off the bed. 

“I’m not done with you yet, senaar'ika. We’re not even close.”

You hear the snap of latex when he removes the condom.

What next? You’re limp and dizzy, lying sprawled across the covers. Will he make me come so hard I pass out? Fuck me until I can't walk straight? You shouldn’t want that as much as you do, but complete surrender can feel so sweet. 

“I can do this all night,” Mando pants.

Then, he lunges across the bed and grabs your ankles so tightly you feel the press of his thumb dig into your bones as he drags you down the mattress, until your legs dangle off the side. The tips of your toes brush against the floor. 

“You thought you could push me?” His voice has lowered almost to a growl. “But that’s not how this works. You belong to me.”

He pushes your thighs apart roughly, then clutches your hair and tugs back hard enough to bring renewed tears to your eyes. Bent over the edge of the mattress like this in front of him, you feel his other hand seize you by the hip, and with that, he shoves the whole thick length of his cock inside you.

“Aaah!” you cry out as he starts thrusting faster. His fist in your hair tightens as he pumps into you, and already you know you’re going to come again. How is that even possible?

“That’s right,” he pants. “You know you have to take it, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

Yes, make me take it. Gods help you, but you fucking love it. There’s nothing you love more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock. “Yes!”

"Because you're mine. Mine to fuck."

"Yours...I'm yours."

Mando fucks you so hard and so fast. Your ass would not have been able to take this. Shallow rapid thrusts until, growling, he rams his full length into you. Then he’s pumping inside you again and again. By now, the shame you think you should feel at being taken like this—held down by your hair and fucked with every ounce of strength in his body, every bit of force he can put into it—has been eclipsed by the pleasure surging within you. 

Every single goddamned stroke of the Mandalorian’s cock sets you on fire. A wildfire so hot it consumes you, burns you down to nothing. You press your face into the mattress and feel the tears welling in your eyes spill down your cheeks, pooling against the sheets.

The only sounds in the cabin are his guttural grunts of pleasure and the slap of your bodies against each other. Just hearing it turns you on even more. 

He’s moving faster now, and you’re nothing but heat. Pleasure tightens, blazing inside you. 

Mando fucks you, and fucks you, and then you’re coming again, clenching around his cock. "Fuck! Oh, fuck! Holy shit...it's so good!"

"Mmmph, you like that?"

"Yes! Yes, please! Don't stop...please don't stop!"

"Haa-aah, I knew you'd beg me for it."

You come so hard that consciousness is nothing but white light, white noise. Your cry is muffled by the sheets and blankets, but you wail it out anyway, unable to hold back.

“Yes,” he whispers as he pistons even faster than before, his hand on your hip gripping tighter. “Fuck, yes—yes!”

The Mandalorian groans as he throbs inside you. He goes tense, makes an animal sound that seems to come from low in his belly, and slams into you one more time.

Then he’s pulling you off the bed and onto your knees. You feel his wet cock press against your face. His voice is hardly more than a whisper, trembling with need. “Open your mouth.”

His fist in your hair doesn’t leave you much choice. You open, and Mando pushes inside. "You're going to swallow all of it."

It’s all you can do to take him in, to brace your palms against his thighs. You taste your come slick around his cock as it slides between your lips. He’s so huge that you can barely use your tongue, but you bob your head, doing your best as he thrusts, shallow and then deep.

The Mandalorian's grip takes control, sometimes pushing no more than the head of his cock into your mouth, and you suck, hallowing your cheeks—then shoving into your throat, making you choke and gag around him.

It doesn’t take long.

"Haa-aah! Aah!"

He shouts out, and then he comes, filling your mouth with each hot pulsing spurt. You swallow it down, every drop, the sensation of him throbbing between your lips, almost lost in the spasms of pleasure still echoing through you.

The Mandalorian pulls out then. The fingers buried in your hair release their grip. Pausing one long moment to regain his breath, he brushes the sweat-soaked hair from your cheeks. 

“You have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

Really? Blindfolded. Flushed and sweaty, legs tangled beneath you, slumped against the bed frame?

But the honest tenderness in his voice has you pressing a hand to your chest. 

His cock is still half-hard, nuzzled against your cheek, and there’s a second when you’re tempted to pull him down to slide back onto it. But…you’ve reached your limits. 

And the Mandalorian is in no better shape. You hear him collapse onto his knees beside you on the floor, crawling over on his hands and knees to reach for something. His helmet, maybe?

But it’s not his Beskar. 

Gently, he drapes the soft folds of your robe over your shoulders and gathers you in his arms. He leans back, sitting propped against the bed, settling you onto his lap. You let your head fall against his chest and delight when he rests his chin atop your head. 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you manage to form words. “Just give me a second. I’m…melting.” 

That makes him chuckle, and for a while, you both stay like that, laughing, breathing hard, barely able to move.

“I wasn’t too rough?”

“No! No, you were perfect. I loved it. It’s like—like you read my mind from that night we met. It was everything I wanted. You took such good care of me.”

His voice remains concerned. “But you’re shaking all over?” and his arms wrap tighter around you.

“It was just so intense.” 

“Here,” he says pressing a cup of tea into your hands, then lifting it to your lips when your fingers tremble too much to grip it tight enough. Fatherhood has softened him.  

“Are you?” you ask timidly.

“Am I what?”

“Are you okay?” You feel strangely shy in front of a man who just fucked you senseless. “I mean, was it okay that I asked you to do this? Are you okay with being—with what we did?”

“It was amazing,” he sighs, kissing your temple. 

But that doesn’t really answer your question.

Honestly, this is the part you were most afraid of…that it would change everything. That no matter how good the sex had or hadn’t been, you thought, afterward, he’d lose respect for you, and it wouldn’t be worth it. 

You don’t want his judgment or pity for needing this.

But there's no contempt in his voice. He doesn’t sound righteous. Or cold, or callous. And he doesn’t seem intent on sneaking out to leave you alone in regret. 

“Before, I was worried that I might hurt you…and that was hard to balance against my instinct to protect you," the Mandalorian says thoughtfully. "But you made more than enough noise to let me know how much you enjoyed it.”

“Oh gods,” you laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth, absolutely mortified. 

“That was the best part,” Mando lifts your hand from your face, tilting your chin up to kiss your nose, then your lips, not shying away like some men do, after they've come in your mouth. So you part your lips and feel the brush of his tongue against yours. His fingers wrap around your neck, deepening the kiss, and pulling you closer.

It’s not the unbridled passion from before–it’s tenderness and longing. Two lonely hearts finding shelter in a precious moment of fragile intimacy.  

“I was just surprised, given…”

“Some of my clients never touch me. Some have hurt me—said horrific things. Most are rich businessmen,” you shrug. “Nervous about cheating on their wives. Regardless—given what they pay, they all expect a performance... 

So it’s nice to let someone else put in the work,” your lips tug into a sly grin. “Seriously, five times? And your dom talk is shockingly good! The growling is very hot!” Guess it's true what they say about the quiet ones. "Now I get why Anassa keeps offering you a job."

"She told you that?" He scoffs.

"Hmm, she likes to tease me about having a crush on the Mandalorian."

Nestled into the crook of his arm, you feel the rumble of renewed laughter building in his chest. 

"She told me I could keep the armor on."

You reach a hand behind you to stroke his jaw and bury your fingers in his hair. "I'm glad you didn't."

Mando's head turns in your grasp to place a soft kiss against your palm.

“And you don’t think differently of me for…wanting this?”

"I know the difference between fantasy and reality," then he leans forward to stroke your earlobe with the tip of his nose. "And I bet I could make you scream just as loud, taking you soft and sweet."

Now why does that make you blush redder than your slapped ass?

“Maybe next time, we can switch roles. Then I’ll understand better why you like it.”  

Next time? You love that! He’s already thinking about the future. 

Your brow arches, “Maybe I'll tie you up—borrow one of Katlin's whips to smack that tight ass of yours.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

There are no words for the wicked anticipation in Mando’s voice. 

Next time...

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

Thanks so much for reading!!

[mellowswriting]

domestic life with din

pairing || Din Djarin x f!Reader

word count || 2.2k (OOF)

summary || ever wonder what domestic life would look like with Din?

content || SMUT, soft and sweet sex, dorks in love, DOMESTIC FLUFF to the extreme

a/n || this started as a headcanon and very quickly spiraled out of control 🤠 which is why this is a very informal format (unusual for me tbh) but still great imo

Din Masterlist  |  Main Masterlist

Domestic life has been kind to Din.

A year has passed since the two of you settled in the cozy Tudor-style home nestled away in the woods, and a lot has changed. Without the constant commotion of bounty hunting, Din can finally explore that softness he has hidden away beneath his rough exterior. It takes a bit of time for his mind to adjust to the sharp shift in lifestyle.

For a while, he still slept like he was on a cramped ship instead of a huge bed - body rigid, laid out in a straight line on his back, dressed in less than comfortable clothes. He couldn’t sleep more than five hours a night no matter how hard he tried. A blaster was always within reach. The back of his neck would prickle with apprehension at every creak of the house settling. The whole thing was just so abnormal to him.

He looks to you for guidance. Din watches the way you wander through the house, barefoot with your robe tied loosely around your waist. A book hangs loosely from your fingers and a mug of coffee is in the other, and you pace absentmindedly as you read. Your hair is still messy from sleep and one leg of your lounge pants is rucked up over your calf - and he swears you have never looked more beautiful. Seeing you so in your element helps you find his.

You’re so comfortable in your own skin, in this space - he can’t help but want the same. He carefully edges out of his comfort zone. New, comfortable clothes. The trial and error of learning to cook real food. The warmth of alcohol singing in his veins as the two of you sip wine in the middle of a sunny afternoon. Consuming entire books in mere hours. Slowly but surely, Din learns who he is as a man and a husband - not just a bounty hunter.

Mornings are his favorite, which he never expected. Keeping a typical sleep schedule was damn near impossible before and he relishes in the structure of it. Din rises at the same time each morning and takes a moment to savor the sight of you still asleep next to him. Glowing in the few streams of sunlight that peek through the curtains, a bit of drool gathered in the corner of your mouth. His beautiful wife, absolutely dead to the world. Din kisses your forehead, tugs the blankets up to keep you warm, and slips off into the kitchen to make some coffee and breakfast.

Din’s love for cooking hit him hard and fast. Was he good at it at first? No, absolutely not. The windows have been left open many times to clear out the smoke from meals gone wrong. But Din is nothing if not a strategist. He learns from his mistakes and soon, he’s plating meals like a pro. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to cook or don’t like to, because he is more than happy to do the lion’s share of the cooking. He loves it when you sit on the counter and chat with him, a glass of wine in hand.

If you want to help, though? Expect excitement in those pretty brown eyes. Quality time spent together in the kitchen is something he can’t get enough of. He’s the type to come up behind you and help guide your hands. His chin resting on your shoulder, chest pressed against your back. It’s so hard to focus with him so close, his low voice rumbling in your ear as he instructs you, but your husband is patient. And maybe, just maybe, he likes the attention. He likes watching your hands falter as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. He likes hearing your stuttered exhale as you shake your head and try to focus on the task in front of you. He likes how you whisper his name like a warning, one he never heeds.

Din likes waking you every morning. He starts out soft and sweet. Gentle brushes of his fingers, calling your name in a low voice. Usually it’s enough to get you up and going, but you can be stubborn sometimes. That’s when Din pulls out the big guns and tugs the blankets back entirely to expose you to the cool air. He ignores your indignant pleas and climbs into bed to hover over you. You look so cute, blinking up at him with those sleepy eyes and begging for “just a few more minutes”.

“But I made breakfast.” Din murmurs. He kisses down the line of your throat, along your collarbone - a surefire way to wake you up completely. You make that soft sound low in your throat and Din smiles into your skin. His tongue flicks out to trace your heartbeat and your fingers tangle in his hair to tug him up into a real kiss.

“You’re a menace, Mr. Djarin.” You whisper against his lips.

“And you love it, Mrs. Djarin.” He whispers right back. All you do is roll your eyes and drag him in for a slow, deep kiss. It’s easy to get lost in the softness of your lips, the happy little sounds you make.

“Mm, your scruff is perfect.” You rub your cheek against his like a content loth cat, all but purring as you love on him.

It doesn’t take long to get you out of bed and eating breakfast and fuck, it feels so good to see you content and happily eating the food he made you. He can’t help but feel proud in a very instinctive, deep-rooted way. Providing for you, nourishing your body - he feels like a good husband. The two of you forgo the dining table to relax on the couch. You sit with your legs draped over his lap, squished between his broad body and the arm of the couch. Right where you belong.

Soon the dirty plates are stacked on the coffee table and you’re snuggled into his side as Din watches some soapy holodrama. His newfound love of cooking has given him a bit of softness to his belly that you adore. He’s all well-fed and happy, and you love the way it looks on him. You’re practically glued to him; your head rests on his shoulder, your thigh hitched over his lap, one arm slung over that soft tummy. His fingers trail nonsensical lines into your arm and warmth radiates from his body.

For the thousandth time, you are struck by just how lucky you are. How much you love him. How unbelievable it is that the two of you finally have this life together. You love him so much that you can barely contain it. It swells and bursts in your chest, rushes through your veins like a drug. You shift against him, trying to press impossibly closer, aching to truly feel him. Desire rocks through you - meanwhile, Din is too lost in the action on the holo to notice how needy you’ve become.

“I swear if Rhysa goes back to that asshole after everything he’s done…” Din grumbles, sounding genuinely irritated, but you’re too distracted to do more than hum in response.

Your fingers stroke lower on his belly, through the wispy hairs of his happy trail, and Din makes a pleased sound low in his throat. It isn’t enough. His eyes don’t stray from the screen but that’s okay. You have more than a few tricks up your sleeve to get his attention. You shift your hips until his thigh is pressed between your own and a throb of arousal warms your belly. The slow grinding is nearly imperceptible, especially with his attention so otherwise occupied.

You tilt your head up to kiss his neck, finally eliciting a curious sound from your husband. His hand settles on your waist and squeezes as he gives you a knowing look, mirth glinting in his eyes. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, nothing… wouldn’t want to distract you from your show…” You reply as innocently as possible. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his lounge pants and the holodrama goes entirely forgotten from that moment on.

It’s all hot and desperate and messy - and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Din guides the rolling of your hips until you’re an absolute mess. You whine into his neck as you grind against him, your hand stroking his cock sloppily beneath his pants. It doesn’t take long for neediness to consume you both. Clothes discarded on the floor, your knees pressed into the cushions - you take him right there on the couch. Messy kisses, hands in his hair. Mumbling that he’s such a good man, such a good husband - and Din loses it.

His fingertips dig into your waist as he rocks his hips up to meet yours. He can barely complete a sentence, broken praise falling from his lips with every exhale. You’re ethereal above him - your head tipped back to expose the long line of your throat, sweet sounds of pleasure falling from your lips, the bounce of your breasts mere inches from his face. Everything about you overwhelms his senses and he wouldn’t have it any other way. His hand covers yours where it’s braced against his chest and twines your fingers together.

“Let me,” Din whispers as he draws your hand up to his lips to kiss your palm. “Please.”

He pleads so reverently, breathless in his devotion - and you can't say no to him. Not when he aches so deeply to worship at the altar of your body. The moment you give him that sweet fuck yes, Din drags you down onto the soft carpet. You find yourself on your back, a pillow tucked carefully beneath your head and your husband kneeling between your thighs. His hair has grown out the last few months and those dark curls are the perfect place to bury your fingers as he fucks you the way you deserve to be fucked.

His beautiful, perfect wife. You absolutely amaze him and he needs to show you just how much he loves you. Din angles his hips just right and you cry his name like it’s a prayer, supplicating yourself before him with every quiver of your cunt around his cock. It’s almost too good to be real. Fuck, he can barely believe this is his life - that he gets to fuck his wife right in the living room of his home without a care in the damn universe. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t enjoy it to the fullest.

Every long, deliberate stroke makes you choke on your breath. Leave it to your husband to fuck you so thoroughly that you’re devastated within ten minutes. An orgasm already hovers in the peripheral. The stretch of taking him is almost too much to bear and each throb of his cock makes you shiver. Your nails bite into the back of his neck as his thumb brushes your clit and honeyed praise falls from his lips. Din leans close, that deliciously deep voice low in your ear as he murmurs, “That’s it… come for me, sweetheart.”

An order, one rumbled in that commanding tone that you have never been able to refuse. The pressure tightens and bursts in your belly, soaks into your very soul until you’re left trembling beneath him on the floor. You babble nearly indecipherable praise at him as he fucks you through it, buries himself so deep that he grinds against the seal of your womb. Tears prick your eyes as he follows you over the edge, the hot pulse of your cunt dragging him into a devastating orgasm.

It takes a lot of control for him not to sink his weight into you like he usually does. Even though he bought and installed this carpet for the express reason of it being soft enough to fuck you on, the floor isn’t quite comfortable enough for him to squish you like he prefers to. With a put-upon sigh, he opts to roll onto his back to catch his breath. You cast a glance over at him and the moment you lock eyes, you let out a dazed giggle that is painfully irresistible.

“You are ridiculous, you know that?” Din shakes his head with faux exasperation but there’s no fighting the grin on his face.

“Well, you’re the one who married me…” You shrug.

“Best decision of my life.” He reaches out to caress your cheek, affection warm in those brown eyes you love. You lean into his palm and kiss the soft skin of his wrist.

“You’re a sap.” You sigh before tossing your arm over your eyes to block out the late morning sunlight. Din props himself up on his elbow to take in the sight of you. The slow rise and fall of your chest as your breathing returns to normal. The flick of your tongue wetting your lips. The sweat drying on your skin. This… this is all he ever needs in this life.

There’s no life or death, no violence, no endless traveling. Just you and him in the life you’ve built together.

[magpie-writes]

Catching Snowflakes

Part One

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Wordcount: 1.6k

Summary: Din and his latest bounty crash land on an ice planet. Can you trust each other enough to survive?

Tags: Enemies to lovers. This chapter is pretty tame but things will, ahem, heat up soon. Pre-Grogu.

Author’s Note: Unbetaed, but thank you to @acrossthesestars for gently bullying me into getting back on the writing horse. Thank you also to @radiowallet for her advice about all things fic. I love you both lots.

“Is this what you meant by bringing me in cold? Because I gotta say, there must be an easier way.”

The Mandalorian kneeling beside you in the snow responds with an irritated grunt - which is more of a response than you’ve gotten in the hours since the two of you crash landed on this icy planet. You feel a surge of triumph at getting that much of a win although, with your hands in binders, you know it’s nothing more than a hollow victory.

Still, if all you can do is needle him with your words, jabbing in between the unprotected places in his armor like the stinging sleet currently sliding down the back of your neck, you’ll take it.

Neither of you are dressed for this. Standing in the grey leggings, lavender tunic, and thin woolen coat he’d tracked you down in, you’re halfway to frostbitten already. Still, smug satisfaction curls in your belly as you take in the ice riming the bounty hunter’s normally shining beskar. Opaque white crackles over the plates of his armor like frost on a windowpane, its crystalline branches spreading further and further the longer he crouches beside the open panel of his Razor Crest. One of the engines blew hours after he captured you, forcing the ship into a tailspin he’d only just managed to pull out of before making a heavy landing into powdery drifts of snow seemingly as tall as he is.

He’s spent the time since then swearing under his breath and wrestling with various tools, neither of which has accomplished more than getting a few lights to blink on and off, and delaying the inevitable - him handing you over to the people who hired him, collecting the bounty on your head, and leaving you to your fate.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the weather runs through you at the thought.

“Dank ferrik!” The Mandalorian throws a wrench into a nearby drift and rises to his feet to, you can only assume, glare down at the offending mechanism.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Is this going to delay you collecting your reward money? That’s such a pity for you.”

The black void of his visor turns to you and it takes every stubborn bone in your body not to quail beneath that flat, empty stare. You lean against the ship instead, a look of mock sympathy on your face.

“Why don’t you wait in the ship?” The hunter extends an arm towards the still-open hatch in exaggerated “invitation,” his deep voice tight with impatience.

“And miss all the fun?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, all innocence. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

Luckily for your extremities, the Mandalorian manages to wrestle some systems online not too much later. The Crest remains grounded, navigation and comms are still down, and he doesn’t seem optimistic about the weapons system, but the atmospherics flicker back to life, filling the Crest with light and welcome heat.

For a little while, at least.

Before you’ve even finished thawing your chilled fingers over a vent, your captor powers the ship down until all that’s left are a few low lights and the barest whisper of heat. When you shoot a look at him, he shrugs one metal-clad shoulder.

“Need to conserve power.”

Raising your manacled hands, the steel as frigid as the air outside, you demand “Think you’ll still get full price if I’m missing pieces?”

You try to force down the thought that he probably would.

He shuffles his feet for a moment, uncertain, then pulls something out of a nearby crate with a sigh.

“Come here.”

You scoff and take a step backward, your hands raised in defiance. “If you think I’m getting any closer to you than I have to, you soulless, money-grubbing -“

The Mandalorian catches your hands in his gloved ones, his grasp firm but not painfully so, and shoves something smooth and metallic against your palm, making you gasp.

It’s warm.

Your fury temporarily forgotten, you almost groan at the relief as heat radiates to the tips of your fingers. You cup your hands around the polished metal blazing like a tiny sun between your skin and his gloves.

“A hand warmer?” You look up to find the Mandalorian studying your expression, his helmeted head tilted to one side, before nodding once.

“Why didn’t you get one sooner?”

“I just have the one.”

As the heat spreads between you, the ice on his gloves begins to melt, the moisture rising into the cold air as steam. If you were anywhere else, with anyone else, you’d make some flirtatious joke about it. Surprised as you still are by the kindness of his gesture, that humor surfaces despite your better instincts, and a wry smile tugs at your lips.

“Do you hold hands with all your bounties, or just the half-frozen ones?”

The Mandalorian drops your hands like he’s been burned. Only your lightning quick reflexes save the handwarmer from dropping to the floor and, caught off guard, you attempt to hand it back to him.

“Keep it.” He nearly stumbles over a crate in his rush to put more distance between you. “I’m uh, gonna go work on the ship some more.”

Before you can think of a response, he turns and walks back into the howling wind. Alone.

-

Hours later, you toss and turn on the bunk you found while exploring the confines of the ship. It’s surprisingly comfortable, if small, the mattress thin but serviceable, and the blankets thick enough to wrap yourself in. They’re cleaner than you’d worried they’d be, carrying only a faint hint of what you guess must be the Mandalorian’s scent. Worn leather, softened by what you suspect may be beeswax. The tang of metal and burn of carbon. And something subtler. Warm, almost spiced. There’s something oddly comforting about it - or would be, if it didn’t remind you of the man who was hauling you to a grisly fate.

With a sigh, you flip yourself onto your back and stare up into the darkness. Where *is* that man, anyway? If he dies out in the cold, there’s no guarantee you’ll be better off. Not with the comms down and the ship grounded. You could take your chances that there might be a settlement nearby, but you hadn’t caught any glimpses of one as the Crest was plummeting to the planet’s surface. Besides, with no winter weather gear, your odds of making it any distance before collapsing are… not great.

You’re up and moving before consciously arriving at a decision.

-

The wintry night air whips around you, lashing the warmth from the blanket clutched around your shoulders before you can brace for its icy onslaught. It’s shockingly, brutally cold. Killing cold. Your teeth are chattering by the time you make it to the Mandalorian’s side.

Snow has drifted against his broad form and icicles cling to the cowl around his neck. He’s not moving and for a moment, you wonder if he actually has frozen to death out here by himself.

Somehow, the possibility doesn’t cheer you the way you thought it would.

“Mando?”

Reaching out, you shake his shoulder hard enough to send snow tumbling down his back, nearly jumping out of your skin when he turns to look at you.

“Maker, don’t scare me like that. What are you doing out here?”

“What do you t-think?” Despite his obvious sarcasm, the Mandalorian’s voice is dull, oddly flat. “Trying to f-fix the engine.”

He tries to rise but wavers on his feet. Instinctively, you reach out, taking his weight when his numbed feet stumble. His Beskar armor is freezing to the touch. You can only imagine how cold he must be beneath all that frozen steel.

“Come on,” you urge, slipping an arm around his waist and encouraging him to lean on you as you make your way back into the moderately warmer ship. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“You sure you wouldn’t rather leave me to f-fend for myself in the snow? Can’t say I’d b-blame you.”

You cut a glance at the bounty hunter, not sure if he’s joking.

“Oh, I considered it,” you admit breezily as you close the door behind him. Without the furious howling of the wind, the dimly lit ship falls into a hushed silence, quiet enough for you to hear the Mandalorian’s sharp bark of a laugh.

“What changed your mind?”

You shrug, not entirely sure yourself.

He stands and stares at you for a long, long moment before nodding once, murmuring a quiet thank you, and settling onto a nearby crate.

“Wait, Mando, are you going to sleep out here? In your armor?”

“That’s the plan.” He sounds tired, resigned.

“There’s not another bunk? Or…” You’re about to offer to switch places with him but stop, remembering that you’re his captive. His bounty. Why should you care where he sleeps?

“Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying to me when all your joints rust.”

“I’m not a droid.”

For the first time, there’s heat in his voice. It’s enough to make you turn, to glare at him and demand “No? Because you’re heartless enough for one. Tell me something, Mando. Do you even know what they’ll do to me? The people that hired you to bring me down? Or why they put a bounty on me in the first place?”

There’s a long, tense moment and then, “I didn’t ask.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“I never do.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t you think you should start?”

Without waiting for an answer, you turn your back and make for the small cabin. Alone.

It’s only later, when you’re on the blurred edge of sleep, that a question of your own occurs to you: what sort of bounty hunter gives up his own bed for a captive?

[sofasoap]

Mending Heart

Pairing : Din Djarin x f!reader. featuring Grogu, Paz Vizsla + OC.

Summary:  sequel  to heartbreak and Wrenching heart. Din is a big di’kut. His ad’ika to the rescue.

Slightly AU-ish, Din didn’t get N1 after Razor Crest got blown up.he got something similar. And his relationship with Paz isn’t that bad. He is still trying to redeem himself but didn’t get kicked out of the covert completely. Mummy Armorer is still pissed off at him though. 

Warning: Mature theme. strong languages. Alcohol use. 

English isn’t my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes. 

A/N : I seem to be writing all the Din fic for the University students at the moment to push them on ( Trust me, I know your pain. been there done that)   @groguspicklejar and @deakyjoe this is for both of you.

MASTERLIST

I am happy, I am back with Armour buir.

But where is Singing buir?

“She’s not here anymore, ad’ika.”

Why do you look so sad, armour buir? Armour buir isn’t happy anymore, I can feel it in the force.

There’s singing buir! We found her! She is happy to see me! But why isn’t she happy to see Armour buir? She is sad too.

Why are you crying Armour buir?

“I messed up, ad’ika. I really messed up.”

“You are a di’kut.” “ I know.” “ The biggest di’kut out there.” “ You don’t need to repeat that.” “Utreekov.” Din sighed. Sitting back to back with Paz, he Lift his helmet up slightly, downing another shot of spotchka. Trying to drown himself in alcohol and sorrow. Paz turn towards Grogu, “Gar buir kaysh mirsh solus” ( your father is an idiot ) “ Coo??” “ Can you not teach my ad’ika weird words.” “ He needs to learn some Mando’a you know.” Paz grab the cups, pour both another serving of spotchka. “Did you present her with a courting gift?” “.. I did, with my signet on it too.” “Hmm. Then I don’t know where you went wrong then.” “ Did you explain to her what it means?” Paz’s riduur chimed in as she put a plate of fruit and dried meat down for the men to snack on. “......NO.” “ I swear you Mandalorians always assume everyone should know all the hidden meanings behind the actions.” She sighed. Turning to Din, “You know Paz chuck me a knife the day after he saved the village, hover around me for days, expecting me to say something to him.”  she rolled her eyes. Din remembered. Paz kept sneaking out to the village, and when the Armorer ask him what he is doing, all he replied was, “Just to see everyone is alright at the village, I have to make sure the security is up to date.” 

His vod was so love struck by the woman who fought valiantly to protect her village, he didn’t even care she is a non-Mandalorian, he dug through his family weapon cache and gifted her a sacred heirloom. Pass down only from Father to son. It’s not until his now-riduur went up to him and push the knife back into his hand, “ I don’t need another knife, I have plenty in store, we got a stash full of weapons in the armoury here, Mandalorian. Keep this for your covert.” Only then did Paz realise his mistake in approach. 

He remembered laughing at Paz, from the great Vizsla clan,  who could have ANY Mandalorian, hell, there was no lack of warriors trying to throw themselves at him, he went for a non-Mandalorian. The chaos that ensued after that. How the tide turned. 

“ I am a di’kut.” Din groaned. “ I did tell you.” “Shush Cyare. Stop making fun of your Vod.” Sitting down by Paz, she consoled Din, “ Look, you can still redeem yourself…” “ I feel like I am redeeming myself a lot lately. This is probably going to be more impossible than finding living water on Mandalore.” “ As non-Mandalorian.. I can suggest gifting her more… conventional gifts? Flowers… sweets.. What does she like?” Din look at Grogu,  what do YOU like? Oh dear.

“Patu!” Turning your head as you heard the sound, narrowing avoiding the sharp edges of the wingspan of the ship you are fixing. Peli has been commenting on how you are really not concentrating lately. Connecting the heat exhaust vent to the life support system,  putting the fuel intermix back to front. You are embarrassed. You pride yourself in quality jobs, and here you are, mind wandering over the places. Giving back the vibroblade back to Mando was your own way of cutting the tie with him completely.  Forget about him. Moving on. He doesn’t care about you. You convinced yourself. Yet. You find yourself thinking of him even more. No. You just miss the little green pea. “ Patu patu!!” Now you feel a little hand smacking your thigh. Looking down, Grogu was there by your feet, trying to get your attention. “What are you doing here?!!” you shuffled out from under the wing, picking him up, he extended his two little arms, and presented to you dried flower in his tiny claw-hand. “ Aww, thank you little pea, is that for me?” You look around the hanger nervously, Grogu is here, does that mean Mando is here too?? Makers, that is the last thing you want. You spotted Boba Fett standing by the hanger door. What is the Daimyo here?? “Greetings Daimyo, what can I do for you today? Do you require me to fix one of your transporters ....” “ Relax, please, just call me Boba Fett. No need to be so formal. I am babysitting the little green thing here for the day. He insisted on coming here and giving you the flower.” You let out a breath of sigh. At least Mando isn’t here. The way Boba Fett is looking at you, you feel like there is something else he isn’t letting on.  Few weeks later, Grogu is back again, this time with a little colourful stone in his hand. Fennec is with him. With amusement written all over her face. Next was some hard-boiled sweets. The time after that was a bottle of perfume from Pasaana. A scarf from Coruscant. Cloud puffs from Bespin. 

Wasaka berry from Khashyyyk.

Five-blossom bread from Naboo. Your favourite pastry from your younger days. Now you are getting more and more suspicious about the gifts. The little Pea definitely didn’t choose them. Deep down you know who was instructing him to bring the gifts. Coward. You thought. Getting his son to do the job for him. “We got a secret admirer here?” Peli teases you. “You mean either the Daimyo or Fennec? I doubt it.” You rolled your eyes. The gift just keeps coming. Always Grogu bring them, accompanied by either Boba or Fennec. Until that night. Peli has gone out again, to one of her dates. “Zeltrons,” she commented, “ great drinking companions, they hardly get drunk with their second liver!”

You decided to take advantage with a bit of solo time, dragging one of the crates to the centre of the hanger, enjoying the beautiful light of the three moons with a glass of light liquor you save up for occasions. Hearing the slight clunk sound of metal door opening, you assume Peli was back from her outing, you made a comment without turning around, “Your date didn’t go as planned, Peli?” You were met with the sound of heavy boots coming towards you. That’s not Peli, alarm bells ringing in your brain. Why didn’t the security droid alert me? Out of habit, your hand went to your belt, grabbing the vibroblade, only to realise, you returned it to its original owner. Worse of all, you left your blaster in your bunk. 

Slowly turning around to face whoever the intruder was,  you saw something shiny reflecting under the moonlight. It’s Din. He strides towards you, only stopping about arm length distance away. You always admire the confidence he exuded when he walked towards his bounty, his prey. His helm tilting down slightly, looking straight at you. Suddenly that confidence he was showing disappeared a little. You swallowed hard. Why is he here? 

He spoke first. “... .You got all the presents?” “Yes.” So your guess was right. It was from HIM. Fidgeting your hand, you wait for him to say more. Instead, he reaches around to the back of his belt, and brings something forward to present to you. 

The vibroblade. The same one he gifted to you before. “I… In… In Mandalorian culture,” You can hear the wavering in his voice with the slight distortion through the modulator. “ We.. gift a weapon, with our clan signet on it.. To.. um… someone we intended to court..” He was shifting a bit on his feet. “ I.. I am sorry I didn’t explain it to you the first time I gave it to you.” You can tell he was getting nervous. “I came to apologise and.." he was practically begging by this point, “ Please forgive me. I have been a di’kut.. An idiot for pushing you away. I was only thinking for myself.. I didn’t realise you were just as equally as hurt after losing Grogu..”  “Please come back.. We miss your presence…. I MISS YOU…” You reach towards his helmet, he flinches and moves back a bit with instinct. Pausing a bit, silently letting him know you have no intention of removing his helmet, he shifts towards you a little bit more. Pulling him down, you rest your forehead against his helmet. You hear a gasp was too soft to be picked up by the modulator.  Din wonders if you know the significance of the action. “You are the biggest, most idiotic, most frustrating Mandalorian I ever dealt with, Din Djarin.” Din’s knee nearly gave out upon hearing you using his real name for the first time. “ I convinced myself to forget about you, but how can I forget our time as a family? As a clan of three? You were too good to us, Din….” Tears were slowly falling down your cheek.

“ I realise you care about us in your own way, but you really need to tell me what is going on in that beskar brain of yours.. I can’t guess what you are thinking all the time.” You were sobbing by now. Din moves one of his gloved hands towards your face, wiping away the tears. “You were ignoring me, not telling me what your problem was, I was so hurt. I thought we had something going on between us, yet you keep pushing me away, I don’t feel wanted anymore, just like my family.  Throw me away when I was no use to them.” Din’s heart tightened. This is the first time you let out any details of your former life.

“Yet, you wouldn’t let me go.” sucking in a deep breath, you continue pouring your heart out. “ I am not an object Din, you can’t trap me with you without giving me one good damn reason. So I ran. I ran as far as I could. But you still found me.” “ By pure chance.” he softly added. “ By pure chance. From that point I was actually believing the Force was leading us together. I wasn’t planning to stay here this long.” “But I didn't want to get hurt again. I want to cut my ties with you once for all.” “ That is why you gave me the vibroblade back.” Din replied with saddness in his voice. “ I didn’t know the significance of the gift. Though, even if I did, I would still have given it back. For what you have done.” Din looked down to the ground with shame. 

You sighed.  Pulling away from him, you push his hand with vibroblade back towards him. 

His heart dropped. 

“I am going to ask you again, do you miss me only because you have Grogu back and you need a maid to look after him again? To have someone fix your ship, clean up after you two, and throw me away again when I am not needed anymore?” You growled. “NO! It’s not like that Mesh’la… I..” He stepped forward and blurted out.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.” 

Your eyes widened. You vaguely remember the meaning of the sentence from your studies.

“I will know you forever..” You whispered. Din’s head whipped up, shocked. “ you…. “ “Yes Din, I know what it means.” you reach out to his hand and take the vibroblade from him. “ I can’t leave yet , Din. There’s too much work going on for Peli to deal with on her own. Come and pick me u in a few months. In the meanwhile. I will keep this gift of yours.”

Din pulls you into a tight hug. You bury your face in his hard beskar breastplate. It’s a start. You’ll see how this goes. You are allow yourself to hope again. 

If in doubt, use Grogu. He will melt anyone’s heart. Din was trying his luck with whatever he could find, hoping to hit the mark with one of the presents. Reader has been hurt so deeply, she needed a lot of reassurance from Din before she accepted his love. I can’t believe i am saying this.. I might write a bloody part 4. Gosh. 

If i feel like it...I might write about Paz and his riduur’s comedic courtship sometime. 

Thank you so much for reading, any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! 😀

Tag list:

@frogtits1, @READINGFAN, @memester-png @jake-g-lockley @novaethecosplayer @foxgirl95

[justagalwhowrites]

Beskar Doll - Ch. 47: Plans

You and the Mandalorian work with your allies to save your son. A continuation of Beskar Doll ch. 1-46 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut :D No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 3.8k

You were relieved when Sosha dismissed Pell and a handful of assistants who were hovering just outside the door. She closed you, Donné and Din into the salon and hugged you again, tightly. 

“I’ve missed you,” she said quietly. “I never should have sent you away…” 

“It was the smart move,” you said, holding onto her, the one person left who knew you before you became what you were now. 

“It wasn’t the right thing to do,” she pulled back from you and took your hands before looking at Donné. “Have the others here by morning, we leave first thing. Arrange for the fastest cruiser we have to be ready.” 

Donné bowed her head and left the room, too. 

“Well, since this is just between friends,” Sosha smiled a little toward Din. “Including some new ones, let’s get you out of those wet clothes and start finding your boy.” 

She led the way down a grand hall - all gleaming stone and soaring ceilings - to her chambers. 

“Normally, I wouldn’t allow a man back here but, given that he’s your husband, I think we can make an exception,” she led the way to her dressing room and paused, getting you a towel and a robe. It was disconcerting, having Sosha get things for you, look after you. Not that she never had, of course, but the nature of your relationship the last time you’d seen her had been decidedly reversed. She hardly treated you like a servant but you regularly helped her dress in the elaborate robes of the queen - including making sure there enough protective fabrics and plates to keep anyone from taking her out too easily. 

“It looks like we’re still the same size,” she said absently, going to her massive closet. “But I’m guessing you don’t wear the kinds of things we used to much anymore…” 

“Can’t say I’ve had much of a reason to,” you laughed a little as you toweled off your damp hair and started taking off your wet clothes. “I’ve been spending more time in the… less reputable parts of the galaxy lately. And we’re bounty hunters…” 

“You’re a bounty hunter?” She raised her eyebrows. You nodded. She laughed once. “Can’t say I expected that!” 

You wrapped yourself in a robe and she pulled a gown out of the closet, one that you knew was simple by the standards of a former queen but was more elaborate than anything you’d worn in years. 

“Once you’re dry, so you have something appropriate for dinner,” she said. “Of course, we have more… practical options for when we leave.” 

“You mean the things we used to wear to sneak around on Imp bases?” You asked, smiling a little. She smiled a little back. 

“So he knows about all the trouble we used to get into?” She asked, looking at Din again. He just looked at you. 

“He does,” you said. “We ran into Teav a few years back…” 

She nodded slowly, going to something that looked like a vanity. But she pushed a button on the side and it opened to reveal screens and panels. She keyed in a code before stepping aside. 

“This has all the information the rebellion had known Imperial bases,” she said. “It’s a lot of data but if you have an idea of how to narrow it down?” 

You sat at the vanity, Din standing at your shoulder. He put one of his hands in the middle of your back, his fingers splayed wide, like touching you was making him feel better. 

“We can start with research facilities,” you said, looking up at him. “Those are going to be more limited…” 

“Anything tied to genetics,” he leaned over, his body curving over your own. “Was there anything you saw? Either when you were on his ship or through Grogu?” 

“Not that I remember,” you sighed, adjusting the search parameters and drumming your fingers impatiently against the surface of the vanity. “Do you know what they wanted him for? Besides the obvious?” 

“The obvious?” Sosha asked. You felt Din stiffen at your side and you put a hand on his. 

“Grogu is… special,” you said. “Remember when my mother told us stories about the Jedi she knew when she was young?” 

“Of course,” she smiled. “Handsome sorcerer warriors? Like I’d forget that.” 

You smiled a little. Sosha had hung on your mother’s every word when she talked about her time with Amidala. Like she’d known, even when you were both just five or six, that she’d one day be queen, too. 

“Grogu is like them,” you said. “He has powers and the Empire wants him. We’re not sure why, outside of research…” 

“Who has him?” She asked, coming to sit beside you on the small bench. You moved to the end of the bench, pressing yourself against Din. 

“Gideon,” you said. “He’s also particularly interested in old Rebellion information, he wants to know how we moved information, how we embedded spies into Imperial systems…” 

“He’s got to be planning something big, then,” Sosha said absently, shifting to information gathered on specific Imperial officers. She pulled up the information on Gideon and a chill ran down your spine when you saw his face. “Looks like he had an interest in cloning…” 

She switched back over to the information on bases. 

“Just two cloning facilities,” you leaned in closer to the screen. 

“That narrows it down,” Sosha frowned. “Any way you can tell which…” 

“It’s Phindar,” you said, looking up at Din. “It has to be Phindar. I can feel it, he’s there.” 

“How…” Sosha began but you felt Din’s fingers on your back tighten against you. 

“He’s taunting us,” he said. “It’s in Mandalorian space. He took him to Mandalorian space. Because he knows I don’t have other Mandalorians to call on for help.” 

“Made another Imperial enemy?” Sosha asked, brows raised. 

“Something like that,” you ground your teeth. 

“Good,” she said. “All the more satisfying when we destroy him.” 

“He’s ours,” you said, looking at the image of Gideon on the screen. You let the heat of hate soak you. You wanted him, you wanted his blood, you wanted his pain. He took what was yours, the most precious thing. You wanted to make him pay. “No one kills him but us.” 

“He’s yours,” Sosha said, putting a hand on your arm. “All yours.” 

She turned her attention to the Mandalorian. 

“I’m afraid that during chaos of your arrival, I didn’t catch your name,” she said, looking him over. 

You went to give an excuse but he spoke before you had a chance. 

“Din,” he said. You looked up at him, surprised. “Djarin.” 

“Would you like us to find something for you to wear to dinner, Din?” She asked. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what Mandalorian traditions are, we didn’t have any dealings with your people during my reign so it’s a bit of a blind spot…” 

You half smiled at that and wondered if you’d have gotten over Din’s armor sooner if you’d known better. 

“I don’t remove my helmet in the presence of anyone but my wife,” he said. “But I appreciate your offer.” 

“Really?” Her brows went up. “In that case, I will have something sent to your room after, assuming you’d like to accompany your wife to dinner?” 

“I would.” 

“Good,” she smiled. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse us while we dress for dinner. I’m sure Captain Pell would love to discuss some finer points of the plan of attack. He always hates it when I sprint things on him…” 

“Please tell me you’re not still causing trouble!” You gaped at her. She shrugged. “Sosh! You can’t just…” 

“I can do whatever I want,” she smirked a little. “And I believe I’m no longer your concern.” 

You glared at her but she just looked proud of herself. You turned your attention back to Din. 

“I don’t have to…” you began but he cut you off, cupping your cheek and tilting your chin so his eyes could more easily meet his own. 

“Stay, Cyare,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” 

You watched him go for a moment, a knot forming in your stomach at the distance. You knew you were both safe here, that nothing would happen to him here, but so much had happened within the past few days. The only secure place you had was with him. You’d lost so much, you couldn’t lose him, too. 

“You love him,” Sosha said. You spun to face her and she was smiling softly. 

“I do,” you smiled a little back, the most you could bring yourself to smile under the circumstances. “I really, really do.” 

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever find that again,” she said, getting up and changing the vanity back into a vanity with the press of a button. “I’ve been worried that you were alone but you’ve found someone who is more your match than you could have ever found here.” 

She picked up a brush and started running it through your hair. 

“Sosh…” 

“Oh hush,” she cut you off. “I did your hair now and then when I was queen, too. Let me do this, it’s been far too long.” 

You closed your eyes for a moment, focusing on the feeling of your oldest friend untangling your hair and starting to plait it. It was a comfort, the knot in your stomach easing. 

“So,” she said conspiratorially. “The helmet…” 

“Yes?” You asked brows raised, a small smile on your lips. 

“Did he really leave it on for EVERYTHING until you were married?” She asked. 

“Sosh!” You elbowed her lightly. 

“What!” She laughed, pinning a braid into place. “I met a Mandalorian, a few years ago. I think she takes a different approach to the creed, though, as her helmet came off rather quickly… she was plenty talented with her tongue, though…” 

“You met another Mandalorian?” You spun, eyes wide. “When? Where? Also, a talented tongue? How fast do you work now that you don’t have to meet the standards of royal decorum?” 

“Just fast enough,” she winked before putting her hands on your shoulders and turning you back around. “Now stay put or I’ll never finish. I can find all the information for you, but it was at least four years ago…” 

You deflated a bit at that. 

“Have you been in touch with her since?” You asked. “I know most of the Mandalorians Din knew were wiped out about a year ago…” 

“Oh no,” she frowned. “We haven’t kept in touch, it wasn’t exactly that kind of relationship. But I hope she’s OK…” 

“Me too,” you fidgeted with the sleeves on the robe before meeting Sosha’s eyes in the mirror. “How have you been? Are you happy?” 

“Now I am,” she nodded a little, focusing on a braid. “It was hard, after the war. You were gone, my reign ended not long after, Naboo was still in tatters when it did… I had a hands on role rebuilding which was a blessing, it kept me busy. Gave me purpose. But I’ve since become the Ambassador to the New Republic, which has been fulfilling. And I’m not married yet but… Well, there is someone.” 

“There is?”You smiled turning to look at her. 

She rolled her eyes and gripped your shoulders again, facing you to the front. 

“Stay put,” she said, stern but smiling. “But yes, there is. Maybe, once we find your son, you can meet him. You’d like him, I think. He’s a flyboy, just your speed.” 

You laughed a little. 

“You never answered the helmet question, by the way,” she said, sweeping some of your hair back. “Was it really on the whole time?” 

“I didn’t see his face until the day we got married,” you said, cheeks hot. “But… he took it off in the dark plenty before that.” 

“Good, because I’d have tried to talk you out of marrying him if you were going in that blind,” she teased, pinning the last chunk of hair into place. “Who knows what kind of bad decisions we’d make without each other.” 

You laughed once. 

“Who knows.” 

***

Din liked Pell. The man was smart, thorough, dedicated to Sosha’s safety almost as much as Din was dedicated to yours. 

“I’ll have 20 men with me,” he said, pulling up a schematic. “This is what we know of the facility. With the firepower of the ship, we should be able to brute force our way in at this point, it should be away from any holding cells and ensure that your son isn’t in danger.” 

“That will put us in a funnel,” he frowned below the helmet. 

“Which is why you and I will be the first in,” he said. “We’ll be able to take out the first volley of troops and get Her Highness and the Ladies in quickly. They can disperse from there, searching the facility. I’ll leave five men to hold the entry point, we’ll send three with each Lady. I’ll stay with Her Highness, you will stay with your wife. We’ll keep them in one piece, find your son, kill Gideon and get out.” 

Din nodded. 

“Gideon is ours,” he said. “He’s too dangerous to leave alive and he’s taken too much from me. He’s ours.” 

Pell nodded once. 

“I don’t care what makes the man fall as long as he falls,” he said. 

“I appreciate…” Din started to say but the words died on his tongue when you came into the sitting room. 

He’d never seen you look quite like this, even when you’d gotten them into the party on Coruscant. Your hair was mostly up and back with some hanging in curls around your bared shoulders. He wanted to remove his helmet and trail his lips over those shoulders to your neck, your cheek, your lips.  The gown you borrowed from Sosha fit you like a second skin, highlighting every curve, your breasts full and soft and all but spilling over the structured top of the gown, the skirts flowing around your legs while hinting at your shape. You’d done your makeup, too, your lips lush and dark, lashes long. You were living art, something too beautiful for him to touch. But you smiled when you saw him. 

“Cyare,” he said, going for you. It was automatic, an instinct. The anxious ache in him eased when his hand went around the back of your neck and your hand held his wrist, your eyes finding his below the helmet. He felt some of the tension leave your body at the contact. 

“How’s planning?” You asked, your unoccupied hand finding his waist. 

“As far as we can get it for now,” he said. “We’ll need to go by the Crest before we leave. There’s something I want you to have before we leave.” 

You frowned a little but nodded once. 

“Then, as long as Captain Pell is OK with it,” you glanced around Din. “I’d like to borrow my husband.” 

“He’s all yours, My Lady,” Pell bowed his head a little when he finished addressing you and you smiled a little before taking Din’s hand and leading him toward the dining room. 

“The other handmaids will be here overnight,” you said, pressing yourself against Din’s side. “I feel so… foolish, getting dressed up and eating and doing anything else right now…” 

“We’ve done what we can for the moment,” he gave you a squeeze. “It’s your first visit home in years. We’re getting him back. That’s what matters.” 

You just nodded, your hand slipping around his bicep. 

“You look beautiful, Cyare,” he said, knowing it was an understatement. But he wasn’t sure how else to say it, especially now. How could he say that stars you loved so much paled in comparison to you? That, in all his travels through the galaxy, you were far and away the loveliest thing he’d ever seen? 

“Well I have to try to hold my own against all that beskar,” you gave him a small smile. “You’re always dressed to impress…” 

“Not like you,” he tugged you closer. “Never like you.” 

Dinner, Din was surprised to find, was a pleasant affair. The other handmaids were still on their way so it was just the two of you with Sosha and Donné. 

“Normally, this would have been a much happier evening,” Sosha said. “Reuniting with our sister this way is bittersweet. But, since I know we’d like to know what you’ve been up to and I’m sure you’re only able to think about your son, please, tell us about him.” 

You looked at Din and laced your fingers through his below the table. 

“Din saved Grogu from an Imperial bounty,” you said, looking at him, your hand tight in his own. “And he’s just the most precious little boy.” 

“He’s a troublemaker,” Din smiled a little below the helmet. “Obeying is not his strong suit.” 

“And he’s very good at letting you know exactly what he wants,” you smiled broader. “If you don’t get it for him, he’ll figure it out on his own and Maker help you if that happens…” 

It felt good to talk about him, to focus on him. It made it easy to forget, for a moment, just how afraid he was. How much he hated standing still, even though he knew that this was the best way to help him. 

A meal had been delivered to the room that you were led to after dinner and you closed and locked the doors. Din removed his helmet and caught your arm as you passed, bending and trailing his lips over your shoulder to your collarbone to your jaw. 

“Din,” you breathed. 

“Just needed to kiss you there while you looked like that,” he whispered against your ear, your cheek against his. You were so close. It was right that you were so close. Having you close was the only safe thing. 

You took down your hair and he watched you while he ate. He thought the food must be good but it was hard to taste anything, between the fear and stress and you. 

“Are we ready?” You asked, looking at him. “At this point, I don’t care if we are or we aren’t, we have to go get him, I can’t wait anymore…” 

“I know,” he said, glad that he could look at you without having to look through the mask right now. It would feel wrong, having that barrier between you when you were this distraught. “But we’re ready. Because of you, we’re ready.” 

You nodded, fisting the fabric of your dress in your tense hands. 

“Come here, Cyare,” he said, getting up and going to the end of the bed. “Let me help you take that off.” 

You just nodded before going to him, sweeping your hair over your shoulder and exposing your back to him. The gown laced up and he removed his gloves before he untied it, sliding his fingers into the spaces between the ribbon, loosening the corset and brushing against your skin as it became exposed. 

When it was so loose that you had to hold it up, he slid a hand over your shoulder to your chest, splaying his fingers wide over your rib cage and tugging you back against him, your head on his chest as you looked up at him. 

“Do you think you can rest tonight, Cyare?” He asked, his nose brushing yours. 

“No,” you breathed. 

“Then let me help you,” he said. 

You dropped the dress and stepped out of it, exposing your all but naked body to him. He nudged you back down on the bed and slid your underwear - your last remaining stitch of clothing - off your body. 

“Din,” you moaned. 

“I know,” he said, removing his armor quickly, followed by his flight suit. He left it all with the dress, crawling up your body. He brushed your hair back, searching your eyes.

You were afraid, like him. Hurting, like him. You were his mirror and he was yours and he needed to be one with you. 

He kissed you, gently, his hand tracing down your body to the apex of your thighs. He lightly brushed and teased your clit, making you whimper. 

“Promise me it will be OK,” you begged him, your lips brushing his own. “I need you to tell me it’s going to be OK…” 

“It’s going to be OK,” he said, not sure he believed it himself. He believed you’d given them the best chance, the best hope, of it being OK. He knew he wouldn’t rest until it was OK. “I promise, it will be OK.” 

You clung to him and he worked your clit faster, sliding two fingers into your wet heat. Your velvet walls gripped him tight and he groaned, ready for it to be his cock inside of you like this instead of his fingers. 

He pressed his fingers into the soft space inside you that he’d claimed as his own over and over again until you came with a gasp around him. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, looking at him, your eyes wide and pupils blown. 

“Need you,” you were panting. “Please, need you close…” 

“Need you, too, Cyare,” he said, taking his swollen cock in his hand, spreading your wetness over himself. He notched himself against you for a moment before sinking into you, your fingers digging into his back as he entered you. 

Your back arched and he slipped an arm below you to hold you closer, your skin impossibly soft against his. You rocked your hips up against him, hooking a leg over his hip as he pressed into you as deeply as he could, your body tightening around him. 

“Din,” you panted, holding your whole body against him, like you couldn’t be too close. “Please…” 

“It’s going to be OK, Cyare,” he managed, so focused on how you felt it was hard to be aware of anything else. “It’s going to be OK. I have you, we’re in this together, it’s going to be OK…” 

You came with a strangled gasp and the tightness of you set him off, filling you. 

He held onto you, your body all but completely wound around his as he enveloped you. He liked it this way. That you needed him to be this close, too. 

“I love you, Cyare,” he panted, holding your face in his hand. “I’ll protect you. We’ll save him. It’s going to be OK.” 

“I know,” you took a shaky breath and nodded. “I know.” 

[burnwater13]

A giant ice spider on Maldo Kries. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 2, The Passenger. Calendar by DateWorks.

Grogu loved a good scary story. A story that was filled with atmosphere. Creepy characters. Scary locations. Strange and wondrous actions. The very heart beat of doom setting the tempo of the tale, with people huddled next to each other, worried and impressed at the same time. The sort of story his dad was completely incapable of telling. 

Fennec had asked Grogu why his dad shied away from the spider/mechs that carried around the brains of the Monks of B’omarr. Grogu had laughed and told her it was a long story and he’d need to eat a full meal before he told it. She seemed satisfied with that answer, but then went and asked his dad as soon as she saw them both speaking with the Daimyo. The fink. 

His dad of course made a hash of the whole thing by saying, “We ran into some spiders on Maldo Kreis. They made a mess in the Razor Crest.”

What?! That wasn’t the story! The story was much creepier and far more terrifying than that. Typical of his dad to down play the danger. Mandalorians didn’t think something was dangerous unless it had leveled other planets and even then they would kind of shrug and mutter, ‘didn't happen to Mandalore’. Uff. They were so frustrating.

“Okay, kid. How would you tell the story?”

His dad was just humoring him, but Din Djarin forgot that as a former Jedi youngling Grogu had spent a lot of his time dealing with Jedi Knights and Masters who did the exact same thing to him. He knew it for what it was and no Mandalorian was going to trick him into not telling the real, accurate, truthful account of the horror story they had barely survived. 

He waited for just a moment and began the story at the beginning. His sign language had improved with practice and thought this was a great opportunity to show off what he’d learned.

‘It was a dark and stormy night. The only sound was the crackling of ice crystals forming on the husk of the Razor Crest. Even the few water droplets from our breath froze instantly as a biting wind began to swirl through the breached panels of a ship that could have become our silent tomb…”

“Grogu. Buddy. Stick to the facts. It wasn’t night. We were just underneath the ice shelf on that ice planet. Of course it was cold. The planet is covered with ice. You can find that in the galactic encyclopedia entry for it.”

Grogu gave his dad a look. A sharp, angry, I’m going to pout at you for the rest of eternity look that he hoped would sear his ice cold dad to his very core.

“Fine. It’s your story. You tell it.”

Ha! He knew the Mandalorian couldn’t hold up under a look like that. If there was one thing Grogu had learned since the bounty hunter had collected him on Arvala-7, was that Din Djarin had no stomach for pouting. It was his secret weakness and Grogu planned to exploit as much as he needed to in order to tell the story of their near demise. 

“Our passenger, a Queen frog, from a long line of royal frogs…”

“Grogu…”

Huff.

“Our passenger, a lovely lady frog, who had a desperate need to reunite with her husband for the sake of their children, was so cold her teeth plates were chattering.”

Grogu looked over at his dad and the Mandalorian nodded his head. Good. Fine. Whatever. 

“I must protect my offspring Mandalorian. We must escape from this place. My prince of a husband will pay you handsomely.”

“Grogu, she wasn’t married to a prince. He was just a regular frog person. Plus, this has nothing to do with the spiders that Fennec was talking about.”

Grogu folded his arms over his chest and sat on the floor and pouted. He aimed his pout at his dad, hoping it would cause the Mandalorian to reflect on how rude he was being. 

“Buddy, just start the story at the point it really began, with you eating that baby spider because I stopped you from eating more the the frog eggs.”

This was ridiculous! How was Grogu supposed to tell the tale of the spider who crept up on them if his dad just kept interrupting and adding in details that didn’t make a difference? 

“You mean he actually ate one of those spiders on Maldo Kreis?” Fennec seemed impressed, disgusted, and amazed all at the same time. 

“He sure did. After the about fifty thousand of those damn things came after us and almost destroyed the Razor Crest.”

“You have no idea how lucky you are. Those critters are venomous!” Fennec was giving Grogu a very strange look. 

“We know that. That’s why we got the heck out of there.”

“Mando, I mean he could have died when he ate one. He was very lucky. He must not have eaten the outer wrapping.”

What! “What!” What?

Grogu stayed where he was sitting. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell the rest of that story now. It was too terrifying.

[littleferal]

sleeping habits

headcanons for simon "ghost" riley (call of duty)

a/n i return once again to my silly headcanons, cod boys now included 😌 and since i'm a poly girl this includes ghost x reader x soap, though it's mostly ghost x soap. also shoutout to this particular fic and the series by thirteen bullets for giving me sleep thoughts rating general word count 1284 words. warnings none.

benny miller | din djarin | ezra | frankie morales | javier peña | santiago garcia | simon "ghost" riley | jack daniels

Insomnia is one of Ghost’s constant companions, and always has been. Between being too wired by his work to sleep, and having too many waiting nightmares to return to, he rarely, if ever, gets a) enough sleep and, b) good sleep. He’s found that in order to get both normally requires complete exhaustion, since relaxation doesn’t come half as easily.

(Except at the hands of one particular Scotsman and you).

Most nights (and early mornings), if Ghost hasn’t retired to his room he’s going to be found in the gym. It’s the fastest way he knows to knock himself out for a few hours. When done right he has just enough energy left to shower before passing out in his cot, but there has been a few times where he’s only made it back to his room before sleep takes hold. On the worst nights if Ghost hasn’t slept by 5am he’s just going to get up and go about his day.

Ghost is very particular about his sleeping space. The room needs to be: tidy, dark, cool, and silent. His room on base (and at home) are kept meticulously to these conditions (the mess that is Johnny MacTavish non-withstanding).

Even the times when his sleep space isn’t dark enough for comfort, he doesn’t like to use a sleep mask. Maybe Ghost will pull an old shirt over his eyes in the comfort of his own room, but he usually just suffers the lighter conditions. He doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with having something over his face other than his mask, particularly an item that could be used against him.

Keeping to his standards on mission is a lot harder, but ironically Ghost actually sleeps better on mission. It’s something about how simple it is - he has his orders, he follows the steps, and he ticks off the to-do list, x number of hours of sleep included.

It’s also something to do with having someone that trusted close to him, knowing they’re keeping watch. Price, Soap, or Gaz, he never has to worry with one of the 141 watching over on mission.

On the other hand, trying to get sleep surrounded by unknown soldiers is next to impossible. He can manage it if one of the 141 is nearby, but if not then he usually dozes, and always seated upright.

Ghost prefers to sleep without his mask on, despite what the rumours say, and on base it only comes off when the door’s locked. It matts his hair horribly, dries his skin out and is just all around uncomfortable, especially the one with a solid plate. (He learnt this early on into wearing it, when it got twisted up during a bad nightmare and pressed painfully against his nose.) It doesn’t come off on mission though, so he’s learnt to stay still when sleeping and propped up to avoid any additional discomfort.

Even without a mask Simon doesn’t really move when he sleeps. Often once he’s found a position he’s comfortable in, that where he stays. He finds Johnny’s endless shuffling before he drops off endearing (and occasionally annoying).

Ghost’s military lifestyle means waking early everyday, and an alarm clock is rarely required. This effortlessly carries over into his time off, and he hates alarm clocks with a burning passion. The last time he heard one against his will (Johnny needs one to wake during his time off), it got broken. He wasn’t even fully aware of what he was doing, instead just blindly reaching over, grabbing the offending item and slamming it back down into the bedside table hard enough it went dead. (He apologised to Johnny, after a fashion, and offered to buy a new one but Johnny didn’t take him up on it. Something about not needing one with Simon around.)

Ghost isn’t a particularly tactile person, so when he does accept someone’s contact for any extended period of time it’s only because he likes it. In fact, one of the first signs he had of having feelings towards Johnny was because he slept best around him. And not just best when Soap was on watch, but best when they were pressed against each other. Thigh to thigh in a creaky safe house, no reason other than because they both want to. Johnny’s head eventually lulling onto Ghost’s shoulder, the background sound a comforting murmur from Price and Gaz on watch. Even Gaz commented on how well rested Ghost seemed the following morning.

Simon learnt the same lesson with you, and was shocked by how easily he fell asleep around you.

When Ghost and Johnny first started sharing a cot, Simon had the best sleep he’d ever had, so learning to accept that Johnny’s presence alone isn’t enough to keep his nightmares at bay was tough to do. Simon’s frustration at that alone caused enough rifts between them on its own, and was one of the reasons he was wary of adding another to their relationship. But then he learnt that nothing and no one gets him back to sleep peacefully like the two of you do.

When sharing the bed with you and Johnny, Simon always positions you between the two of them. It’s partly because he doesn’t like to sleep in the middle, preferring to be able to get out bed easily, and partly simply because he’s protective like that. He’ll sleep with one arm pulling you into him and the other under both you and Johnny, his fingers gently threaded in Soap’s mohawk.

If it’s Simon and you, he almost always sleeps wrapped around you. Again, partly out of his protectiveness, but partly out of the sheer novelty of having someone to hold so closely. It’s not that Johnny doesn’t encourage this, but there’s a different, quieter energy between the two of you Simon cherishes.

If it’s Simon and Johnny, he always has to let Johnny drop off before making himself comfortable. On a mission, it never takes long, but back on base or off Johnny is a more restless sleeper than him, so Simon ends up sleeping however is comfortable for them both. 9.5/10 he really isn’t bothered, and is actually a lot endeared, by this.

There are times when it’s all too much. When Simon’s nightmares get the better of him, and it’s hard to keep his breathing and hands steady. Those are the only nights he’ll sleep between the two of you. It’s rarely a comfortable position you all find yourselves in initially - one of you holding his head close to your chest, the other holding him however else they can - but once he’s calmed and you can all sink back into the bed it’s bliss.

Simon doesn’t often do being the little spoon. It doesn’t come naturally, or comfortably, to him to be so openly vulnerable, and he doesn’t like being the center of attention (unlike Johnny who shameless hoards the spot). However, the few times he’s found himself in this position, it turns out he really doesn’t hate it. But he’s still coming to terms with that.

The first time you and Simon slept together he didn’t really know what to do with himself. Johnny was one thing - demanding, sure of himself and their relationship, and large enough to fill the space between Simon’s arms - but you were different. You’d seen Simon first, not Ghost. You’d approached him with softness and kindness from the start, so he’d learnt to do the same back. So now he held you with that, and it made him feel lost in being someone who was seen and treated like that, and in being someone who had somehow found 2 people to love him.

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Four.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count:   2.1K 

summary: Din cannot stop laughing, Marathel ends up in a tree, and eggs are thrown with extreme prejudice 

warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, violence to unborn ovoids 

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Din was still somewhere between dreaming and waking. He could only see soft, fading images in his mind: a gentle curve of a jawline, a slope of a pale-skinned shoulder. He heard a soft voice, quietly saying, “No . . . we can’t . . .” This denial made him furrow his brow even as he dozed, still gently supported in the herbal-scented clouds of sleep. Whyever not? He thought in his sleep. “No . . . don’t . . .” the soft voice pleaded again. No, don’t say ‘no’, he dreamed, but his dream was cut off like hitting a brick wall when he heard Marathel say, “Grogu! No, don’t!”, and Din felt the pounce of the little green goblin on his lower abdomen, not quite his area but close enough to make him grunt loudly with an “URGH,” and struggle to a sitting position with a babbling Grogu in his lap. 

Marathel, outside the dark curtained cubicle, stammered, “I’m so sorry, Bounty Hunter! I told him not to wake you . . .” 

“’s all right,” Din muttered as he pushed himself to a standing position, Grogu in the crook of his arm. “Time I was up. What the shab is so important, huh, buddy?” He stepped through his curtains and looked up to see Marathel standing primly in the center of the room, her hands clasped over her stomach. His first thought was that she was doing her best to look anywhere but at his face – well, helmet -- and his second thought was that she looked quite pretty today. Instead of her usual tunics and pants of dull tans, greens, and greys, she was wearing a gown of sunset yellow that fell into a swirl of fabric just above her ankles. Over this she wore a smock of deep charcoal grey, embroidered with yellow flowers around the neckline. Her silver hair was pulled back in a matching yellow scarf that was twisted around her shock of hair and tied off at the end.  

Marathel looked dismayed that Din was awakened in such a startling manner. “I told Grogu that I needed his help this morning, but we couldn’t leave until you had awakened. I did not want you to find him missing. But . . . he is impatient.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To collect eggs.” 

“Eggs? Already?” 

She looked at his helmet for the first time, confused. “What? Oh . . . no. Not Dahl eggs. It is not quite time for those. Chook eggs.” Din tilted his helmet at her in his quiet way that she already knew meant that he needed more information. “Chooks are, uh . . . fluttery, rather stupid ground birds. They lay lots of eggs that are good for eating. I thought it may be fun for him.” She gestured to the table, where a covered plate waited. “I made you some breakfast. Grogu has already eaten. We will just be past the vegetable garden, if it is acceptable to you?”  

She had returned to her nervous formality of a couple days previous, Din noticed, as she dropped her head, and her hands began to go up her sleeves. Din stepped over and placed Grogu in her arms before her hands disappeared. “That is fine with me. That is within shouting distance, I think." 

Marathel turned a light shade of a very becoming pink having Din so close to her. She nodded, and said, “We will not be long. You will have privacy, and I will shout as we get near.” She turned towards this kitchen, cooing to Grogu, “Yes, we can finally go now, little one.” The two stepped off the platform and disappeared around the rock ridge. Din waited a few more moments, and sure he was alone, removed his helmet and gloves. He lifted the cover off the plate: toasted slabs of bread with soft cheese and fruit, with some pan-fried meat. A fresh mug of her herbal tea. He had been eating better these past few days than he had the past few months – not that he was complaining – but food was not a high priority for him. He could get too used to this kind of treatment. And the bread. Osik, she made good bread. He shoved a slab into his mouth before he even sat down.  What a good wife she would make, he thought idly, before he quashed that idea. He was not in the market for such an arrangement. He had all he could do to keep the child safe from the Imps, as well as keeping his Creed without entangling with a woman or any partner on a long-term basis. He had told Omera essentially that, and he hoped that she had found the person she needed. 

And what – or whom – did Marathel need? He scoffed, and muttered, “She got what she needed last night,” under his breath with a smirk, and then silently chided himself for such an unkind thought. He finished eating, and then took the opportunity of being alone to clean himself up, washing his hair, cleaning the bite wound again with a fresh layer of salve – this brought a small grin to his face -- and changing out his thermals and flight suit for a fresh set he had brought with him from the ship. He was in the process of reattaching his cuisses when he heard a distant shriek. Certain that it came from the direction of where Marathel and Grogu had gone, Din leapt into action and was already running that way, strapping on his jetpack and two of his most favorite blasters as he went. He heard Marathel scream, “Bounty Hunter! Bounty Hunter!” making him panic. He was already thinking the worst: Grogu was hurt in some way, a chook had pecked him in the eye, a rabid Dahl was making off with the both of them – as Din tore past the vegetable garden and leapt over the fencing that enclosed the chooks, noticing that the chooks she spoke of were indeed some sort of chicken. Skidding to a halt in the middle of the enclosure, sending chooks fluttering and clucking in all directions, Din saw that Grogu was fine. Grogu, in fact, looked perfectly pleased with himself, sitting on the ground, the basket beside him, as he held an egg in each hand. He looked quizzically up at Din and then ate one of the eggs whole. But Marathel was nowhere to be seen. Din spun around, shouting, “Marathel? Marathel! Where are you?” 

“I am . . . oof . . . up here!” 

He followed the sound of her voice, looking about 10 meters up the large tree that shadowed the chook pen. There was a distinct rustle of branches and some leaves fell, as he finally saw her perched up in the tree, balanced on her belly on a branch, reaching down to the next branch with her swinging feet. “What . . . what are you doing up there?” 

Marathel struggled a bit with a grunt, but finally made it down to the next branch. “He put me up here!” she yelled, pointing at Grogu. 

Din was finding it impossible to hide his amusement. “Why?” 

“Because you have taught him no manners!” She began to try to climb down to the next branch and was not succeeding at all. “Oof . . . I told him to stop eating all the eggs . . . I scolded him . . .” Marathel scraped her bare foot on sharp piece of bark. “Ow, ow, damnych! I scolded him, and the next thing I knew, I was up this tree!” 

Din gaped at her, then looked down at Grogu, who grinned cheekily at him, and then back up at Marathel, who was glaring back at him in fury. The laughter burbled up from deep in his gut, from a place that had not been so tickled in such a long time, and he could not help it, he burst into peals of laughter that made his sides hurt. He held his sides, bent over, trying to get control of himself, but he looked back up at Marathel standing so haughtily in that tree, and then she stamped her foot, shouting, “It is NOT funny!” The sight of her stamping her foot set him off again, and tears were rolling down his face at how ridiculous she looked. She clumsily scrambled down to the next branch, and then yelled down to him, “Are you going to help me down or not?” 

Din could barely catch his breath. “You . . . look like you’re doing just fine on your own!” 

Marathel struggled down from branch to branch, cursing at Din in her old language and muttering. “Just as bad as Grogu, you are . . . just like a child! You aren’t doing that boy any favors . . . putting me up a tree . . .” and then her gown caught on a twig and tore a large rip in the back of the skirt, effectively shutting Din up instantly. Marathel gasped in horror, twisting to see the back of her dress, crying out “Oh, damnych and double damnych!” She was close to the bottom of the tree now, so she set herself hanging from the lowest branch she could by her hands. Din went to her, putting up his hands to catch her as she came down. Unfortunately, his hands were on her smock over her waist, and the smock slid up against her dress as she slid down, and his hands ended up bracketing her breasts and holding them high against her chest, accidentally -- mostly. Marathel gasped in outrage and shoved Din as hard as she could. “Why, you . . .” She stomped away from him, spitting over her shoulder, “Y mallawer perlys, on chydich mown dynion!” 

Din chuckled quietly. “What does that mean?” 

Marathel grabbed the basket. “It means, ‘there is much virtue in herbs, but little in men!’” You’re not wrong there, thought Din. She swept a chook out of the way with her foot, sending it fluttering away, Grogu giving chase. She grabbed two eggs out of a nest with too much force, smashing the shells. Disgusted, she threw the broken eggs on the ground, snapping, “Now look what you made me do!” 

Din tilted his helmet. “Why are you so mad?” 

“I am NOT mad!” This, of course, was a lie, and Marathel grabbed another egg, this time throwing it into her basket with enough force to annihilate both it and two more eggs in the basket. She grunted in rage and picked up some more eggs.  

Din shifted his weight to one hip, crossing his arms over his cuirass. “You know, for someone who’s not mad, you’re sure making one hell of a mess out of those eggshells.”  

Marathel glared at him, and chucked an egg right at his head, where it exploded on his visor. Din fell about laughing again, wiping the egg mess off his helmet. “Whoo! Look out, Empire, we have a Stormtrooper who can actually hit something!” 

“Oh, shut up!”  Marathel stomped off through the gate of the pen, slammed it shut behind her, and began marching down the lane back to her hut. 

“Seriously, they could use someone like you!” Din shouted at her back. She whirled around, throwing another egg, which he tried to catch against his hip in his hands as it smashed into mush. “That’s what I’m talking about, lady!” he said, laughing even harder. 

“RHAFF CODIEH!” Marathel screeched over her shoulder. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“It means PISS UP A ROPE!”  

Marathel continued to march away so fast she was kicking up clouds of dirt at her ankles, her torn skirt swaying with each step, arms pumping at her sides. Din continued to laugh until he was certain she was out of earshot. He stood there, hands on hips, chuckling. “Ahhhh . . . Haar’chak.” He looked down at Grogu, who was covered in feathers and holding another egg, completely nonplussed by all the activity around him.  Grogu looked back at Din, grinning. Then he ate the egg. With a sigh, Din picked up the little green morsel, brushing the feathers from his tiny robes. “I think we’re in trouble, kiddo.” 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

[noxturnalnymph]

WIP Wednesday (Cold as Ice)

Thank you to @xdaddysprincessxx for the tag!!

This is a WIP I have been working on for a while and I'm too nervous to share it. It features the Mandalorian Din Djarin and a mysterious beskar-clad soldier hiding on a moon in the outer rim. This is a snippet of the nearly 20k words I currently have written. This is unedited, unbeta'd, and idk if it's good but I like it.

CW: Self-harm, cutting

Luck is on your side, as the moon you call home is currently in the shadow of its nearby planet, reflecting no sunlight for the evening, bathing it in a rare darkness. You know your environment well enough to be able to stay camouflaged, but this darkness has made your approach nearly effortless.

You now stand behind a large boulder, having made it to within easy firing distance of the old gunship’s open hull and the shiny asshole on board appears none the wiser. Still, you’re not the best shot even from this short distance. You don’t want to miss this shot. You can’t miss. Your lack of confidence in your aim combined with your over confidence in your close-combat skills presses you forward eagerly.

You round the boulder to close the distance and freeze. He’s cradling that little green thing in his arms. The fucking adorable creature with the huge eyes. He’s trying to shove some kind of - food? - at it while it begins to wail in his arms.

“Fuuuuck… It’s a baby. It’s a fucking big-eared, wide-eyed, too cute for words baby. FUCK. What now?” Realizing you’re standing out in the open with your gun raised in front of you, you step back behind the boulder. “What are you gonna do now? Run over there and kill the Mandalorian in front of it? Kill it too? OBVIOUSLY NOT. Kill the Mandalorian and… take the baby back home? Raise it yourself? I mean…. Slightly tempting, but no, not feasible. You have a lot on your plate, you don’t have time to snuggle and smooch that adorable green face, why are you even thinking about that? Fuck.”

You peek your head out over the top of the boulder, watching the baby take the food and stop crying. You keep watching as the Mandalorian continues to rock the baby for a while longer before setting him down in a tiny hammock at the front of the hull. The baby is quiet and still now, he must be asleep.

“Why are you still watching this? Why haven’t you gone over there yet? He has been distracted this whole time. This is your chance. You’re wasting your opportunity.” You don’t move. “He is taking care of that baby. If you kill him what happens to it? Who will feed it? Who will rock it to sleep and tuck it into its little hammock?”

You remain statue still behind the rock while you watch the Mandalorian stand at the ramp, looking out as the hull door slowly closes. “This is your LAST chance. Shoot him. FUCKING SHOOT HIM, HE’S LEAVING!!” You don’t move an inch.

Moments later the engine roars to life and the ship begins its ascent back into the atmosphere. You watch it lift into the sky and continue to stay tucked behind the boulder long after it's out of sight. “You’re so fucking weak. You couldn’t even put down one man accompanied by a tiny, helpless baby. He knows about you. He knows about your armor. He knows where you are. He wanted to take the armor. What else did he want to take?”

You shake your head, hoping to rattle loose the poisonous thoughts circling around your brain. It doesn’t work. “He could come back. He could send other people here. Your secret isn’t safe. He’s going to get you killed. You’re going to get yourself killed. You’re so fucking weak. You failed. Again.”

You rip your glove off and push up your sleeve, revealing skin covered in lines. You unsheathe your dagger and drag it across the inside of your forearm, silencing the voices in your head. You watch the red line form and slowly drip onto the ground. After a few quiet minutes, you resheathe your dagger, push your sleeve back down, and put your glove back on. You force the ache in your chest down deep and focus on the pain in your arm.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you head back to your home built into the ridge nearby. “A fucking Mandalorian. It’s always a fucking Mandalorian.”

[iamsherlocked-1998]

IN GOOD AND BAD TIMES...

The old palace on Tatooine was quiet, since the pyke syndicate was eliminated there was less to do. Cobb was sitting at a large table in an endless meeting that he couldn't postpone anymore but he couldn't avoid it either, after all Fett ruled the place and was responsible for his healing.

The man's tirade was interrupted by someone trying to enter. A nervous support droid slithered across the room.

-Mr. Fett someone requests to see you.

The older man turned annoyed.

-Say I'm busy.

-The guest insists, sir.

Fett snorted before giving in to the demand in annoyance.

-Okay, whoever can come in.

The marshal's surprise was more than evident when he saw two Mandalorians walk through the door next to a floating pod, one of them wearing a very familiar silver armor. Fett's expression seemed to harden.

-What the hell?...what happened, Kryze? Is that damn saber again?

The woman tilted her helmet in annoyance as the Mandalorian leaned against her to walk, breathing hard.

-It has nothing to do with it, he went to explore the mines of an uninhabited planet to "redeem himself" and let's say we both had a rough day. He asked me to come here.

-"For God's sake, Mando!" Cobb hurried across the room to assist the bounty hunter, followed by Fett. Shand stood close, watching expectantly.

-"Vanth?" Djarin spoke for the first time in a harsh voice.

-Hello partner, I'm glad to see you too... (Cobb frowned, those words sounded more sarcastic than intended).

The woman moved so that the Mandalorian leaned on both men, they led him to a seat to settle, the capsule came closer revealing the small green creature, trying to reach his father.

-I'm leaving, I would invite you to a meal when you recover, Din, but I suppose that's not going to be possible... (Kryze's tone was humorous as she left the building).

The marshal blinked in confusion, the day had been frankly disconcerting...

________________________

An hour had passed since the busy reception and the bounty hunter was sleeping.

-What will happen to him?

-He is sore, but he has been checked by the medical droid and he will recover.

Vanth sighed in concern.

-I would really like to help, now he needs to be here for medical assistance, but when he's better I think it would be convenient to take him to Freetown to rest, it's a quieter place.

Fett looked down thoughtfully.

-You may be right, I don't think he likes the hustle and bustle that is currently around here. Meanwhile there is a room next to him, in case you don't want to come and go continuously, since you both seem so close... (That last sentence was accompanied by an almost jocular tone).

-Of course... (said the marshal raising his eyebrow subtly).

----------------–------–-----------------

Djarin began to move slowly, turning his helmet to the right to find the marshal sitting in a chair with Grogu in his arms as he entertained the little boy, who automatically reached for his father again.

-Welcome back, partner.

-Vanth... you're alive (the man sounded perplexed as he got up with difficulty).

-You know you can call me Cobb, and I think I'm the one who should tell you that (the man let out a subtle little laugh).

-No, you don't understand, after the fight with the pykes your people told me that he shot you in cold blood.

Vanth was thoughtful until he showed an expression of realization.

-Wow, I guess that explains a lot, fortunately not, that undesirable failed, although he left me a gift.

He then showed a metal plate that was attached to his shoulder.

-I'm sorry about that...

-Please, let's stop being formal, I don't blame you for any of that, you know that nobody would force me to do anything.

The Mandalorian nodded firmly as he held his son in his lap, who had already begun to drift off.

-------------------------------------------------- --

Time passed slowly, Djarin continued to recover but his condition required patience. The marshal had entrusted his duties in Freetown to a good friend, as he refused to leave until Din got better.

One day, having given him time to eat because of the helmet, Cobb went over to Din's room, intending to help with the bandages.

-Okay, I think the wounds are much better, they don't seem swollen anymore, of course that thing did a good job on you…is there anything you need?

-That's not necessary, Cobb...

The man narrowed his eyes in frustration.

-I said I was going to help you and that's what I do, now just say what you want.

 The Mandalorian looked down at the ground with what looked like embarrassment.

-I would like to take a proper bath, until now I have only been able to clean myself, but my leg still does not respond well.

The marshal's words stuck in his throat for a minute.

-Okay, let's go.

----------------------------------

Din leaned on the man until he reached the palace baths, whose existence on a desert planet seemed wasteful.

Arriving at the edge of the small pond, the bounty hunter sat down, getting rid of the baggy clothes that they provided him when he arrived at the building, which were sweaty due to fever. Cobb held the cloth just long enough to keep it from chafing a jagged wound on his side. He quickly found himself naked except for his helmet.

The marshal tried to look away as much as possible due to the circumstances, but he felt his own pulse quicken. His chest was firm, his arms ripped nicely. The other man's skin seemed paler than his nature although it presented a healthy tone contradicting the lack of sun, he observed how the lower part of his belly softened slightly despite his good physical shape, he noticed how the hair began to curl towards the area below…no, that wasn't fair, this was a friend who was trusting him in a moment of need.

The man began to apply a mild soapy substance, until his movements became clumsy and pitiful. The marshal approached him solicitously.

-Leave it to me, the wound will open.

The Mandalorian nodded as Vanth came up behind him and began to brush the cloth against his exposed skin, finding several knots in the muscles as he passed, which he massaged effectively. The man made a soft sound as he relaxed, which his helmet modulator barely picked up.

Feeling a wave of heat rise to his face, Vanth finished his task and deposited the small scented cloth next to the other man.

-Wwell…I'll leave you privacy so you can wash your hair…I'll wait outside.

The Mandalorian didn't answer, engrossed in the scent and dampness of the clean water next to him.

-What? Yes, sure, thanks...

Cobb nodded, walking to the entrance without really being aware of his surroundings, leaning his forehead against the wall and sighing.

----------------------------------------

After a few weeks the stay in the palace became expendable, for which they thanked Fett and set off in the direction of Freetown. Despite the difficulties of the terrain, the trip passed without incident.

Quickly the small house owned by the marshal was fitted out for the occupancy of three, including a small separate shelter so that Grogu could sleep but be close to his protector.

Din settled into the spare room, stretching out on the comfortable bed to catch the rest, though he insisted it wasn't necessary. The marshal proceeded to close the windows and cover them from the sun to avoid the rise in the temperature of the desert.

-Well, I'm leaving, I want to catch up with the affairs of the city.

-Okay, but first, Cobb…could you come here?

The man nodded, sitting on the mattress next to Djarin.

-Close your eyes, please.

Vanth frowned in confusion but complied. A sound similar to a whistle filled the room, without giving him time to ask, he noticed how the other man approached, mixing their breathing in harmony, a few seconds later the bounty hunter's lips brushed against his gently in the form of a kiss.

He listened as the other man put his helmet back on, his eyes widening with a wide smile.

[prince--thomas]

SwynWriMo Day Twenty-Six – Character #Inspo

Thomas Richard Edward Harrington as...Rick Grimes, Sayid Jarrah, Din Djarin, and Faramir, Steward of Gondor.

So, I only went with four characters because I didn't want to shoehorn another one in to make it five, but I feel like these four all really fit and shift around for the different facets of Tom's personality in ways that work really beautifully and I didn't want to fuck up the vibes. So, instead of talking about them individually, I am going to talk about them in ~~ themes.

as a son with a legacy...

This one leans heavily on the Faramir end of the spectrum, of course. Tom was a disappointment to his father. He didn't have an older brother to do it better, so all of it fell on him, but I think he shares a lot of similarities with Faramir...aka one of my favorite LOTR characters. There is the sense of duty, even as he has been used and abused by that very system. His loyalty to his family, even despite the bad things. His willingness to die for the cause, his steadiness, his kindness, and his ability to recognize the good.

as an Order member...

This one is very Din Djarin coded, but also on a lesser scale it is all of them: Rick Grimes (copaganda), Faramir (soldier), Sayid Jarrah (soldier). But, of all of them, Din Djarin really embodies it. Truly, when I was watching the Mandalorian I was screaaaaming, because ~~spoilers~~ but Din finds out he was literally raised in a cult and that what he grew up believing is not the real creed of Mandalore. It was just so good, watching him unlearn all his previous teachings, though also still clinging to some of them out of comfort.

as a father...

Tom is truly so Rick Grimes core!! I didn't realize it, tbh, until I started working on this list but--yeah, it's so true. Especially now that he's a sheriff but that's for the next part. Anyway--the only two characters on this list that are dads are Din and Rick, but Tom is sooooo dad-coded in the same way. Would absolutely go to the ends of the earth for their kids!! Their kids are their everything!! Single dads!! Yeah.

as a leader...

All the characters on this list are leaders in a way. And not just leaders--but reluctant leaders. Natural leaders. That is who Tom is. He doesn't necessarily ask for the responsibility. And, in fact, when it is Tom, John, and Phil together--John is clearly the leader. However, Tom has been thrust into these positions of responsibility and he steps up to the plate every time. He is good in a crisis, compassionate, fair, and just. He doesn't always make the right decisions but he always sticks to them and gives people someone to follow. I think he has the most Sayid energy in terms of leadership.

Sayid is never the de facto leader, but he is skilled, competent, and compassionate. He very often is second in command but that's because the actual leaders trust him and lean on him. And when the de facto leaders aren't around, people look to him to lead. That is the flavor of leader Tom really is.

Also, special shout out to Sayid for ALSO having the worst luck with women in the history of the world...

[vercopaanir]

Who You Are

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 5

Masterlist for this series

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: Just when things begin to settle, a dogfight between the Mandalorian and another bounty hunter leaves you injured, stranded on Tatooine, and in need of money.

Rating, Warnings: None. I honestly don’t think I’ve needed to warn for anything so far, but if I miss something, please let me know!

Notes: This chapter contains some Mando’a that I found via the internet. Translations are at the bottom, and inspired by @themandjalorian​’s “i imagine how your name would sound.” It was the first story I read from this universe, so I dedicate this part to her! Go read her things! This is also on AO3. Also, I did write in a part directly from the show. I’ll try not to do this too much in the future, but let me know what you think!

Ever since your argument on Quanera, you and the Mandalorian fall into a comfortable, if not an easy rhythm.

It goes something like this.

In the mornings, you take the baby outside and let him run through the grass, which is almost too tall for him to see over. He often chases insects and climbs on top of small rocks. One afternoon, just before it started to rain, he picks every blue flower he can find, and when you both return to the Razor Crest as the heavens open up, he waddles up to the Mandalorian to present the drooping bouquet.

The bounty hunter kneels on the floor of the hull, using a soldering iron to fix the wiring of one of the ship’s consoles, but he sets it carefully aside to take the wilting flowers from the child. “Thank you,” he whispers, resting his gloved hand on the baby’s head with gentle affection. You see, later that evening before you retire to bed, the pale blue flowers resting in a clay cup of water on the control panel of the cockpit.

After a little exercise, you feed the baby mashed fruit, and he tends to try to feed his stuffed bantha toy some, too. You have already washed it more times than you thought possible, sure it will fall apart any day, now.

Then, in the afternoons as the child sleeps, you find things to keep yourself occupied. One day, you walk up behind the Mandalorian while he cleans one of his many weapons. The noises of scrubbing and tinkering draw you over, but you cannot tell what weapon he’s disassembled. The small table is absolutely littered with different parts, gears, and oiled cloths. It would look the same to you whether you were blind or not. But it’s the bit of light shining through the holes of his cloak that cause you to frown.  

“This isn’t the one you lent me,” you say, picking up the hem. You feel with your fingers the holes and tatters. One portion of fabric is nearly worn away entirely.

He turns his helmet towards you, pausing his ministrations of scrubbing off the carbon of the barrel of a gun. “No.”

“Why don’t you wear the other?”

There is a heavy pause where he grows very still, and you have the distinct impression he isn’t actually looking at you.

“Because you’re wearing it.”

A blush blooms in both your cheeks, and you flex your fingers over the fabric that you still hold between your hands. You have taken to wearing the cloak whenever you go outside, since Quanera’s air is still cooler than what you were accustomed to. It does not seem to phase the Mandalorian at all, and he hasn’t asked for his cloak back. You use it as a lap blanket when you join him in the cockpit, either perched in the pilot’s chair to practice your landing and take-off, or nodding off in the co-pilot’s seat. You prefer it to the hull, since there’s more light, and the three of you are together.

“That’s ridiculous,” you finally insist, ignoring how weak your voice sounds. With a frown, you step closer behind him, and you rest both hands on his pauldrons. “Here, take it off.”

Immediately, he grows so tense you can taste it in the air. You tilt your head, trying to gauge what the problem is. “I have a needle and thread,” you say after a moment, fingering the fabric where his shoulder and neck meet. “I may be blind, but I can sew a hole or two.”

You see the moment his shoulders drop by inches, and for a moment, he continues to remain still. You don’t think he is actually going to acquiesce from how long he hesitates, but then he turns back to the gun he is cleaning and mutters, “Suit yourself.”

With a short sigh, you begin removing the pauldrons that secure the cloak beneath, your fingers working beneath the beskar to locate the leather straps that keep them secure. The armor itself draws your attention as you lift one shoulder guard between your hands, and you form an idea. He appears distracted enough, so you remove the other before taking the cloak and both pieces of beskar with you.

The Mandalorian finds you that evening sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, one leg crossed over the other as you feel with your fingers every stitch you made, careful not to prick yourself and bleed all over it. In the pilot’s chair, his pauldrons shone like beacons, freshly polished and his thicker cloak you’d been borrowing folded nicely underneath.

“I gave this one to you,” he had said, sounding tired and petulant. His voice was thick with another emotion you can’t put your finger on, and you lift your chin up and set your sewing in your lap, the well-worn cloak resembling a black banner against your legs.

“And now I’m giving it back. It’s terribly heavy,” you insist with a wave of your hand, looking back down at the seams you’ve created on the thinner one you were mending.

“Then-then I’ll get you another one,” the Mandalorian huffs, sounding endearingly irritated. He begins to put the armor back on, thorough and precise with every movement. “That thing isn’t worth the thread you’re using on it.”

“You were wearing it.” It’s an accusation, and you mean it that way. His armor is beautiful, but what should keep him warm is so thin even you can see through it. “Besides, I don’t intend to wear it.”

And you don’t. What you do is reline the child’s cradle, using the older, thinner blankets as padding and attaching the newly mended cloak on top. You notice the little one burrow under the blankets more than once, and one evening when you pick him up, his ears feel near to freezing off. This project takes you several days to complete, your penchant for a well-done job motivating you to perfect the cushion of the cradle and securing the lining in neat, hemmed rows.

When the baby finally crawls in, he practically bounces from the soft stuffing, cooing in wonder. You cannot keep from beaming with pride at your work, your fingers a bit more stiff and sore than before, but it is worth it to see the child fall asleep so quickly. You wonder if he is comforted by the scent of his father.

The Mandalorian says nothing of it. He finds some work collecting a renegade mechanic who had stolen a ship from Cantonica, and when he returns-wearing the cloak you’d forced back onto him-he seems too tired to even hold a conversation. You manage to take off without needing his supervision, and you assure him you would let him know if you needed help.

Returning to your own bunk that night, you find bolts of fabric that have your mouth falling open. The different textures feel as silky as water against your fingers, softer than anything you’ve ever worn before, in shades of the sea. Blues, greens, greys, darker but rich in a quality you could never afford. Your eyes sting at the kind gesture, unsure what to make of such a gift.

You stay up that night until the sun appears on the horizon, sewing and hemming until your fingers are too raw to even pick the child up, but you know the Mandalorian sees the midnight blue dress that replaces the old threadbare clothing you wore before. He even helps secure the cloak you’ve sewn for yourself, his leather gloves whispering over the pewter material when he fastens it at your shoulders before going out with the child.

That was this morning, before you took off. Now, you’ve set course to a planet called Nevarro, where the Mandalorian says he needs to speak with a business associate from the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. You have plenty of curiosity for the venture, but now you are distracted.

There are few sounds in the world that make you as happy as listening to the child laugh. The burbling squeal, thick with joy, makes your face crease with a helpless grin as you lounge in the pilot’s seat in the Razor Crest’s cockpit. The ship is currently cruising on autopilot, and you are facing the co-pilot seats where the child is propped up in his cradle in one, flailing his arms and hiccupping with laughter as the Mandalorian sits across from him, attempting to speak sternly in Mando’a.

“Ori’skraan,” the Mandalorian is saying, holding out a small bite of a herb encrusted bread to the child. When the child simply giggles so hard his ears fluttered up, you can’t keep from laughing either, covering your mouth. The Mandalorian chokes on his own chuckle, dropping his helmet forward and shaking his head side to side. “Epar, verd’ika!” he insists, wagging the bit of food at the small green creature.

The baby falls back into his cradle, giggling and kicking his little feet in joy at the Mandalorian’s fruitless language lesson, and you throw your own head back with laughter.

“He’ll starve at this rate,” the bounty hunter snorts, dropping the small slice of bread onto the plate he’d brought for the child.

“Oh, I doubt that,” you snicker, missing the way the gleaming helmet with it’s sharpened visor tilts towards you. “And I have a feeling that he’s taking in every single thing you’re saying. One day he’ll just simply start speaking full sentences.”

The Mandalorian glances from you to the child, then back again, radiating skepticism. The baby still wobbles from his laughter, toddling back upwards to grin with all his teeth. When the bounty hunter looks down at him, the child tilts his head as if daring the armored warrior to continue.

“Duraani, burc’ya?”

Immediately, the child squeals laughing, and you have the rare pleasure of listening to a true belly laugh modulate from the Mandalorian’s helmet, his armor nearly shaking with laughter. He leans forward in the co-pilot’s seat and lifts the baby out of the makeshift cradle, setting him in his lap. Your eyes slip closed as you savor the sweet sounds of receding laughter echoing off the metal walls of the ship, a small smile on your face.

When the Mandalorian speaks again, his voice is soft, almost too quiet for even the modulator to pick up. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad,” he murmurs to the child, and you open your eyes in time to see him do something you find incredibly strange. He bows his head and taps the smooth beskar crown of his helmet to the child’s little wrinkled forehead. The tiny three fingered hands reach up to pat just beneath the visor, and the baby coos in response.

It is one of the most tender sights you’ve ever witnessed, and you’re compelled to turn your eyes away.

“Mesh’la,” whispers the Mandalorian, and when you turn back, you find that both the bounty hunter and the child are gazing at you. The child coos in his arms, looking up at the armored guardian before blinking back at you. If you didn’t know better, he seemed to understand.

“What are you telling him?” you ask with a soft smile, raising your eyebrows when the beskar helmet looks away from you. Amused suspicion lingers in your voice, not trusting the conspiratorial tone of the hunter or the curious ear perk of the little one he holds.

“I am telling him who you are.”

The quiet, reverent way he says the simple words stirs something in your heart, and your mouth goes dry as bones. You certainly do not speak Mando’a, which he’s certainly exploiting in the moment, but you suddenly desire fluency from the gentle, beautiful language from the way he speaks it alone.

And then, everything falls apart.

A thundering explosion throws everyone and everything in the cockpit forward, the Razor Crest lurching from the hit of enemy fire. You’re thrown to the side right out of the chair and land half sprawled across the control panel. A sudden impact to your side from a gear shift radiates pain all the way from your hip to your shoulder, and you can’t muffle the painful cry that bursts from your mouth.

The Mandalorian hits the wall of the cockpit, turning his body just in time so he absorbs the fall and the child in his arms doesn’t smash into the metal siding. You shove yourself up, scrabbling for the controls, and you pull the ship up, every instruction and piece of advice the Mandalorian had instilled in you falling into place. The whole right side of your body is burning with discomfort, and when the bounty hunter grabs your shoulders and pulls you out of the seat, you can’t help the dry sob that tumbles from your throat.

“Move!”

You change places, stumbling quickly to the co-pilot’s chair and struggle with the buckles. They click in place not a moment too soon, because all of the sudden the ship is crashing into a high speed, and you shut your eyes from dizziness.

A voice breaks the silence over the communications link. “Gotcha, Mando!”

The vocoder is all static when the Mandalorian growls with annoyance, gloved hands conducting a symphony over the controls to push the Razor Crest into flying maneuvers that leave your stomach somewhere down in the hull of the ship. With the thrusters fully engaged, the ship is flying faster than you’ve ever experienced, and it seems the child feels the same terrifying tension you do.

You reach over as best you can, lifting him from his cradle and wrapping your arms around him, focusing on how he nuzzles beneath your neck and coos at the attention rather than the pain radiating in your side.

“Hand over the child, Mando,” a voice hums over the communications link, and you realize belatedly what’s actually happening. He had told you the Empire was after the little one, that there was danger hanging over his head wherever he went. Your heart begins to pound in your breast, and you know the child can feel it, because he whimpers and clutches at your clothing.

Instinctively, you hold the baby closer to your body, feeling the Razor Crest dip before tilting back and up to gain speed. Another hit on the back of the ship causes it to lurch forward, and you and the child would’ve gone careening into the floor had you not been buckled in.

“I might let you live,” comes the voice again, half a threat and half a taunt.

More impact from enemy fire sends the ship shuddering, and alarms begin to go off, blaring in the cockpit. Something off to the left side of the ship implodes, and the crackling of fire on metal resounds in the walls. The baby whimpers and begins to fuss against you, and you’re only dimly aware that the Mandalorian responds to the threat by flipping several switches all the while ignoring the blaring alarms.

“Hold on.”

You slip your arms tighter around the baby, pressing your face between his ears, and you feel the ship turn quickly in a move that dodges excess fire. The red glow of the alarms distorts the cockpit, and all you can see is the gleam of the beskar helmet as he leans forward over the controls. It occurs to you in that moment that there is a certain thrill in something like this, a horrifying adrenaline rush that dangles you between safety and risk.

“Come on,” the Mandalorian mutters, angling the ship back and forth to avoid the shots.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the pilot says over the radio, and those words sink into your stomach like a stone.

You don’t have time to consider the ramifications of the threat because the Mandalorian suddenly grabs the controls and rips them back, causing the ship to thrust backward in space. The starfighter flies past, directly overhead, and you suck in a breath when the ship clips one of the Razor Crest’s engines.

“That’s my line.”

The starfighter is in view one moment, and the next it’s a brilliant shower of sparkling vermillion clouds. The communications link dies, and the engines are shut off, allowing the Razor Crest to list in space silently.

For a long, horrible moment, the alarms going off feel like they’ll never stop, and you’re afraid you’ve forgotten how to breathe in the midst of the chaos. The Mandalorian tests a few gauges, flicking a switch or two before saying, “Losing fuel.”

With a few more quiet clicks and punches, the alarms are swallowed by the quiet and darkness of the engines powering down. The child giggles in the dark, his ears perking up and down curiously, and you’re glad he’s having fun, at least. When the Mandalorian turns in the pilot’s chair, he seems to remember the both of you and leans forward, putting his gloved hand on the baby’s head. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes are closed, head bowed to try and breathe. The panic from such jeopardy would have been one thing to deal with, but the hot pain spreading up your side from landing on the control panel is becoming harder to ignore. You bite your lip and jerk your head side to side, and there’s a shift of fabric in the darkness, followed by a quiet clink of metal on metal when the Mandalorian kneels in front of you. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think I hurt myself when...earlier,” you frowned, trying to remember how it even happened. Everything was a blur, both mentally and physically, and it seemed like years ago now when the two of you were laughing at the child’s giggle fit. You shifted and swallowed a painful groan building in your throat. It came out as a muffled noise. “It’s hard to breathe.”

Without missing a beat, the bounty hunter takes the child from your arms and places him in the cradle in the opposite co-pilot’s chair. Turning back to you, he places a hand on your shoulder, and you suppose he must see how you’re favoring one side, holding your right arm across your abdomen.

His hand gently squeezes your shoulder, and he rumbles from behind the helmet before nodding.

He’s got a stubborn urgency about him now, leaning over you and pressing several controls. A switch clicks, and the engines power back up. He retakes his seat in the pilot’s chair, and you let out a shaky breath, the pain growing from your side like a hug-around your back and up to your chest. You listen to the beeps of the console and the radio static that hums back to life.

“This is Mos Eisley Tower.  We are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, over.”

“Copy that. Locked in for three-five.”

You lean your head back against the headrest and try to ignore your heart palpitations when the engines sputter and pop, closing your eyes. When the Razor Crest lands, you are surprised at how gentle of a landing it is considering all the damage it’s taken. When you open your eyes again, it’s just as the Mandalorian is turning in his seat to look at you, and you wonder what he must see. You certainly don’t feel your best, and you think you must look it because he murmurs, “Stay here.”

The child fell asleep once the ship entered the landing program, and the bounty hunter gathers him in a blanket before disappearing down the ladder and into the hull. When he returns, you feel your throat begin to tighten at the worry of being able to breathe. It’s hurting worse now, and the pain is sharper. He says your name, but when you don’t respond, his hands are unbuckling you from the seat. Gloved fingers ghost over your temple, and your eyes lift open.

“Can you walk?”

You consider it, and the very idea of anyone lifting you up makes your entire body viscerally react with dread. You nod but add, “I need help standing-and going down the ladder.”

He nods and gives you his hand, his other resting behind your shoulder. You bite your lip on a noise building from your chest, feeling weak and useless. Surely he’s nearly come close to dying, and here you are, hardly unable to stand all because you fell. Hot tears of shame prick your eyes, and you hold onto his offered hand as he helps you down the ladder. When you start to walk the length of the hull, your head drops to the side until it’s propped up against his shoulder. His arm naturally curves around your back, but you hiss when he touches your side.

You adjust his fingers and shift them up beneath your arm, muttering a quiet thanks as he helps you walk down the ramp.

The sun is hot and the air is dry on Tatooine, and you shut your eyes against the bright light when you both step out from the shadow of the Razor Crest. So when three pit droids begin chittering and ambling toward the ship, you nearly jump out of your skin when the Mandalorian unholsters his blaster pistol and shoots with smooth fluency.

“Hey!” a shriek from within the bay makes you wince. “ Hey! ”

“You won’t make friends with warning shots,” you whisper under your breath, leaning into him as he walks with you off the ramp, still tucked under his arm. He ignores you.

“You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” A woman strides out from the operating booth, and her fiery, direct attitude is a refreshing change from the quiet and stoic atmosphere of the ship. If you had full possession of yourself, you would appreciate it more, you think.

“Just keep them away from my ship,” the Mandalorian warns, adjusting his arm behind you so that you lean more of your weight on him. Though his tone is usually the same reserved, level baritone, you notice his voice takes on a more unflinching edge when he mentions the droids.

“Yeah? You think that’s a good idea, do ya?” the woman asks, her own unflappable and direct voice a match for the bounty hunter’s. She puts one hand on her utility belt before gesturing with the other. “What’s wrong with her?”

You’ve closed your eyes again, sweat beginning to prickle your brow in the heat, or perhaps it’s from the strain of keeping yourself upright. The beskar helmet tilts down towards you before regarding the mechanic again. With no answer, and you are almost thankful for it, the mechanic gives a short sigh. “Needs a doctor? There’s one down the road.”

When both of you hesitate-, it’s easier to hear your pained breathing. The woman shifts uncomfortably, glancing between both of you before huffing. “Well why are you just standing here? Get her to the doctor!”

“But the ship-”

“Oh, it’ll be here when you get back,” she says with another huff. “And don’t think I’m not charging you every minute for it!”

The two of you set off down the sand trekked street, and you feel the Mandalorian take a deep breath. “I could carry you, and we would be there faster.” It might have been a complaint, you think, if his voice wasn’t suddenly so tender and quiet.

“If you even try, I think I’ll pass out,” you whisper, unable to fathom your body bending with the pain in your side. Underneath the armor, you wonder if he’s rolling his eyes. Surely he didn’t prepare for this contingency, and you bite your lip on the feeling of guilt remembering the baby is alone on the ship. “If I can get to the medic, you can go back. The child shouldn’t be alone.”

“I can’t just leave you,” the Mandalorian shoots quickly, his tone full of surprise.

“I’ve survived without you this long,” you murmur with a small smile, and he’s quiet at that until you reach the medical service center. The name itself is a bit too grand for the small dusty building with sand on the floor and aged equipment. You suppose your face must be washed pale from the pain, because there are several on staff who rush forward to help you when the Mandalorian shoulders you through the doors. They all ask questions and begin to escort you to the back, but the bounty hunter speaks up before they get too far.

“Wait.” Everyone freezes, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Standing and breathing are becoming two things you aren’t sure you can handle at the same time, swaying between two physicians who keep you propped up. “Be careful with her. Please.”

You don’t turn your head to look back at him, but you wonder if he remains until you’re out of sight.

-

Mando’a Translations:

Ori’skraan - a delicacy, a real treat in terms of food

Epar - eat

Verd’ika - “little soldier”

Duraani, burc'ya? - You looking funny at me, pal?

Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad - an adoption vow, literally translated “I know your name as my child.”

Mesh’la - beautiful

-

Taglist: @lavenderl3mons​, @itzagoodthing​ @letaliabane @yodaswrinkles @rzrcrst​ @kateb013

[pedrito-friskito]

Happy 300!! ❤️❤️ Can I have Din with “🍑” please 💕

thank you sweetpea! 💕 omg yes you can I’ve had so many din thoughts lately and this was the perfect place for them

a/n: this turned into a whole ass fic too lmfao because I physically cannot write din djarin without LOTS of exposition so here we go - would be considered an au I guess since this would be after the events of book of boba fett/we don’t know what season three brings yet

ANYWAY ENJOY THANK YOU!!! ♥️

sweet like sugar - manda’lor!din djarin x serving girl!fem reader

warnings: a whole lot of descripton lmfao, p-in-v sex, din has a bit of a dirty mouth, wrap it before you tap it people

✨kay’s 300 follower celebration✨

Din’s still making sense of it all.

It’s everything he never asked for; the crown, the palace, the responsibility. The weight on his shoulders that just seemed to be replaced every time a different weight was removed. The only bright spot most days is his son by his side, Grogu often taking to following Din around the palace grounds, his little feet much quicker than they were before he trained with Luke Skywalker. It’s another thing to add Din’s list, another thing to process.

Boba and Fennec, Cara and Greef, they’d all given up their stations to come with him, to help Din take the throne of Mandalore, to get his feet under him and be the friends he’d come to know them to be. His advisors, his Council. Boba was splitting his time between Din’s Council and the Daimyo seat on Tatooine, and Fennec went where she was needed. Cara was glad to stay and Greef was just happy to be included.

And it’s helped, some. Helped him make sense of what he’s agreed to, show him where his attention is most needed. Sure, there are advisors galore on Mandalore, Bo-Katan and her crew desperate to be heard, but Din’s trust lies with his friends. With his son, with his family. The people who have proven to him time and time again that there is, in fact, good in the galaxy. It sometimes just looks a little different than imagined.

+

He first notices you the day of his coronation.

The palace’s great hall is filled with people, murmurs and whispers moving through the crowds as Din strides through. Darksaber on his hip, his comfortable cloak replaced with something much finer, the fabric thick and heavy against his back as he walks. The Phoenix is hidden away in his personal armoury on one of the higher levels, but most of his beskar remains, including his helmet.

Bo-Katan had given him hell when she realized he would keep his face covered for the ceremony. His head still swam with confusion at the memories; the refinery on Morak and his face being scanned into the Imperial systems, Grogu’s hand on his bare face on Gideon’s lightcruiser, the Armourer’s assertion that he was a Mandalorian no more.

But he had a saber, and according to every legend he’d pulled from the Archives, Bo-Katan’s adamant refusal to take the weapon from him, and every other person he’d come into contact with since winning the saber from Gideon, that made him heir to the throne. And, by some stroke of idiocy, he’d agreed to it.

So here he is, on a seat he never asked for, darksaber twirled in his palm, surveying the crowds before him. It’s not something he ever dreamed of, when he was young. He never longed for wealth or station or a crowd full of people listening to his every word. He’s a strange mix of comfortable and anxious, glad to have at least some of familiarity around him. Boba and the rest sat at a table nearby, and Grogu’s crib had been upgraded to his own smaller version of Din’s throne. The kid is thrilled to pieces, babbling away beside him, sticking his little fingers in anything that’s presented to him.

“Can I get you anything, your majesty?” a soft voice asks, stepping up the dais to refill the tiny cup of juice beside Grogu’s plate. He coos happily, grinning up at you, and behind the helmet, Din is blushing.

You’re beautiful.

There’s no other word for it, and it catches him off guard, back straightening in his seat, gloved hands gripping the arms so tightly Din’s shocked they don’t snap off. Dressed in the same soft garb as the other servants, your hair braided ornately around your head, a silver pendant at your throat. It’s beskar, he knows; every servant and worker in the palace has one, a symbol of their loyalty.

Vaguely, he hears you repeat the question, your eyes nailing him to the spot. His tongue feels too big in his mouth, and Din fumbles for an answer, shaking his head. “N-no, I’m fine, but thank you.”

Beside him, Grogu has managed to pour his entire cup down his front, and you make a little surprised noise, bending down and pulling a rag from your pocket. “Careful, ad’ika,” you say, and the kid gurgles in response as you wipe the juice from his face. “I’ll get you some more.”

He’s pretty sure his mind goes blank at the term of endearment slipping from your lips. “You speak Mando’a?” he asks, nearly sputtering out the question. Why is he suddenly so nervous?

“Yes, your majesty,” you reply smoothly, a grin painting your lips. “Many of the servants do. I was born here.”

His brows raise. “You’re from Mandalore?”

Another nod, the grin growing wider. “Yes, your majesty. My family was killed in the Great Purge. Until it was announced you would take the throne, I was making my way on Coruscant. Then I returned here.”

“You returned to be a servant?”

“Yes, your majesty. My family has served the Manda’lor for many generations. It’s an honour.” You bow your head, knees bending in a curtsy, and Din still can’t tear his eyes from your face. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I could get you?”

“Your name?”

A blush blooms through your cheeks, and just when he thought you couldn’t be any more beautiful. You give him your name softly, knees still bent, and Grogu chirps happily as you say it. Din repeats it back, leaning forward in his seat and offering you his hand. You take it hesitantly, and he can feel the warmth of your skin even through his gloves.

Another servant calls your name, and your head turns towards the voice. “I’m coming!” You look back at Din, offering another smile. “If you need anything, just ask, your majesty.”

And then you’re gone.

+

In the months that follow, Din finds himself more restless than he’s ever felt in his life. Things were so different before, when it was just him and the kid on the Crest. When he could go anywhere in the galaxy without notifying anyone, without needing an entire security detail following him around. When his days were filled with bounties and adventure, not policies and votes and debates that made him want to fall asleep in his chair.

It’s important, his position, he knows that, still feels the weight every day, but damn if it isn’t boring sometimes.

His nights are restless, sleep evading him more often than not. He wanders the halls of the palace, occasionally with Grogu’s floating crib at his side, but usually on his own. It’s much more quiet at night, any visitors either gone from the palace or retired for the evening. Sometimes he runs into a servant or two, but the hallways are generally empty.

Tonight, however, he finds himself inching towards the kitchens, his growling stomach taking over his wandering feet. He’ll find something to snack on, something he can sneak back to his all-too lavish rooms on the highest level.

He’s not expecting to find someone in the kitchens at this hour, least of all you.

Your head doesn’t lift as he steps into the room, the door whooshing shut behind him. Your face is smeared with flour and spices, your hands covered in more flour and something purple. “I’m almost finished, Myla, I swear,” you say, focused on the task at hand. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know.”

“I’m not Myla,” Din manages to say, his voice strained and awkward. It’s not the first time he’s seen you since the coronation; you’ve been everywhere, in every corner of the palace, at every meal, inching into the corner of his vision everywhere he turns. You flinch at the sound of his voice instead of your friend’s, neck snapping up so quickly he’s concerned you’re going to hurt yourself.

“Oh, gods,” you mutter, immediately starting to reach for the bowls and containers spread across the counter. “Your majesty, I’m so sorry. I was just…” Din tilts his head to the side and you inhale sharply. “I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“You were here first,” Din says slowly, grinning beneath his helmet. “Doesn’t that mean I’m disturbing you?”

“Oh,” you stutter, linking your hands together in front of you, staring down at them. “You could never, your majesty.”

Din steps further into the room, coming to stand before the stools lining the opposite side of the counter you’re stood at. You look up at him through your lashes and his stomach lurches. Your face has been etched in his brain since the first time he set eyes on you, but still, having you there before him is another thing entirely, making his breath stutter beneath his helmet.

“Is there something you need?” you ask, and he knows you’re flustered more so because there’s a pause before you add, “your majesty.”

It gives him an odd sense of satisfaction, knowing he has a similar effect on you that you do on him. It levels the playing field some, and he pulls out one of the stools, sliding atop it. “I was just looking for something to eat.”

“Of course,” you say brightly, wiping the purple from your hands. He’s still curious to know what it is. “Anything in particular? They delivered some really good fruit this morning; I think there’s still some left. And I could make you some tea?”

“That sounds perfect,” Din replies, and you give him the most dazzling smile, tucking your rag into your back pocket and setting to work. A few minutes later, there’s a plate of neatly sliced fruit slid to him, along with a steaming cup of tea.

He realizes then that he’s still wearing his helmet, and watches the realization pass across your face. “I’ll give you some privacy, your majesty.”

“No,” Din calls far too quickly, feeling his cheeks heat under the helmet, and your freeze, eyes glued to him. “You can stay, it’s all right. I’d…like the company.”

“All right,” you say, your voice quieter than he’s ever heard it.

The kitchen goes deathly silent as Din hooks his fingers into the rim of his helmet and lifts it off his head.

If it’s possible, you’re even more beautiful without the slight distortion of his visor. Your eyes are brighter than he thought them to be, your skin smoother. Gods, it’s been a long time since he’s felt like this, this attracted to a woman. And he knows the cliché of it all: the king and the serving girl. It’s a story that’s been told a million times over, but he doesn’t care.

There’s a wry smile on your face as he sets the helmet down on the table. “What?”

“Nothing,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just…there are rumours, about what you look like under there. And you…you’re very handsome, your majesty.” Your eyes go wide and you clap a hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry, that was much too forward.”

Din actually laughs, the sound almost startling him. He’s not used to hearing it so loud and clear, not processed through his helmet. His cheeks are heating at the compliment, and he reaches for the tea. “You need to stop apologizing.”

Your brows raise. “I’m so—” You cut yourself off, making a little huffing noise that makes Din grin. “Yes, your majesty.”

“What are you doing down here so late?” he asks.

You pause. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” you say quietly, reaching for the rag again. “I’d hate to get myself into trouble.”

“Your secret is safe with me, mesh’la,” he tells you, leaning his elbows on the counter. “I give you my word, as Manda’lor.”

+

Did he just call you beautiful?

“What did you…” you start, but then you shake your head. Your heart is hammering around in your chest so hard you’re worried it might jump out of your throat. He’s here, in the kitchens, in the one place you’ve been able to hide from him since your first encounter at his coronation.

You still played over that first conversation in your head, but this? Sitting across from you, drinking the tea you made, helmet discarded and those gorgeous eyes staring back at you. He is handsome, there’s no denying that, but the way he’s watching you, the way his eyes dart from your mouth and back up again every time you speak, it’s making something in you heat.

But he’s the Manda’lor. And you’re…you. Nobody.

You’ve done a good job, thus far, you think. Keeping yourself scarce when you can, but there’s only so much avoiding you can do when it’s your job to serve him. And gods, he’s so kind. It’s distracting, the quiet way he has about him, so shy and yet so commanding at the same time.

Watching him interact with his son is another thing entirely.

He reaches across the counter, fingers closing around your wrist, and it’s then that you realize that you’ve never seen him without gloves on. His fingers are long, knuckles calloused and criss-crossed with scars, more on the backs of his hands beneath the light dusting of dark hair.

He’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for your admission, and you rub a hand across the back of your neck, staring down at where his hand is still holding your wrist. He can probably feel how wildly your pulse is racing, but he says nothing, just watching you.

“I stay down here most nights, after everyone’s gone to their quarters,” you say, the words coming out in a rush. “It’s quiet, once they’re all gone, and I like it. It’s nice, helps me clear my head.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Why would you think you’d get in trouble for that?”

“I…” You trail off, at a loss. “I’m sorry, your majesty, but you make me very nervous.”

Slowly, he slides off the stool he’d been occupying, and rounds the counter, coming to stand right in front of you. He keeps his hold on your wrist as he moves, fingers tightening slightly as he stops before you. “The feeling is mutual.”

You blink. What? “It is?”

He nods, the moment slow, eyes darting all across your face. “It is. Since that first night I saw you, I haven’t…” He shakes his head. “I cannot get you out of my mind. Do you know what that’s like?”

Yes. Oh, sweet Gods, yes. “Y-yes, your majesty.”

He’s so close now, looming over you. He’s tall, too, his chin at the perfect height to rest atop your head. Slowly, he releases your wrist, drags his hand up your arm, until it reaches your shoulder, and then his fingers are under your jaw, keeping your face tilted towards his.

“Din. You call me Din, mesh’la, you understand? My name is Din Djarin.”

Your words are gone, caught in your throat, so you just nod.

Din. Din Djarin.

“Can I…” he starts, then pauses, clears his throat, and lifts his hand to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. He murmurs your name. “Can I kiss you? I don’t…I don’t know how to a—”

Before he can get another word out, you lean up on your toes and kiss him.

It shouldn’t surprise you how soft his lips are, but it pulls a little noise out of you when his hand dives into your hair, the other reaching down to rest at the small of your back, pushing you until you chest touches his.

He tastes sweet, like the vormur flower tea you’d made him and the sharp tang of fruit. There’s something else too, something that just belongs to him, and you wish you could bottle the taste. He’s so tall, all broad shoulders and hard muscle beneath the soft clothes he’s wearing.

When his arm tightens around your waist, you can’t stop the little whimper that slips between your lips. You reach up, taking his face in your hands, feeling the scruff lining his jaw tickle your palm. Before you know it, the arm around your waist sinks beneath your ass, and he lifts you up. Your legs seem to wrap around his hips of their own accord, and Din sets you on the counter, mouth still hungrily attached to yours, kissing you like he’s been walking through the Tatooine desert forever and you’re the first drop of water he’s found.

It’s hungry and it’s heated and there’s something so forbidden about it that you have goosebumps, nervous energy rioting around in your gut. He keeps one hand in your hair, and the other moves to rest on your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh. It sets everything in you alight, lust and arousal searing through your veins.

The soft fabric of his pants is doing little to mask the evidence of how aroused he is. It’s a bold move, you know, letting once hand skim down his chest, dropping to cup your palm against him. You’re rewarded by the way his jaw goes slack, mouth still moving against yours, a debauched moan sliding from his lips to yours.

“I need to be inside you, mesh’la,” he whispers. “Please.”

You nod frantically, and there’s a quick shuffle of clothes, your pants yanked down past your ankles and dropped to the floor, Din’s pushed down his hips. It all happens in an instant, his hand sliding up your thigh and hitching it over his hip, pulling you to the edge of the counter. His lips meet yours just as he presses into you, and you gasp into his mouth, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt, the other reaching around to sink into his hair. It’s ridiculously soft, the strands curling about your fingers.

And then he starts to move.

Your head is a mess, still confused as anything by what exactly is transpiring. Not half an hour you were here by yourself, and now you’re…

“Din,” you groan. He sets a ruthless pace, hips snapping into yours, jaw dropped as he stares down at where you’re connected. You tilt your head back, kissing his cheek, pressing yourself into him as much as possible, meeting his every thrust.

It’s filthy, the way the sounds of his flesh against yours fill the kitchens, the slick sound of just how wet he’s got you echoing through your mind. He barely touched you, but you were ready before your pants even hit the floor. His kiss has awakened something in you, and you can’t get enough.

He’s big, and it’s a stretch, but the slight burn just makes it better, the pain ebbing just as quickly as it arrived. Your ankles lock around his back, drawing him closer, tipping your head back as he fits his face against your throat.

“You have the sweetest mouth, mesh’la,” he murmurs against your pulse, nipping at your thin skin before laving his tongue over the spot. “I wonder if you’re just as sweet somewhere else.”

His hand drops from your hair only to snake up underneath your shirt, palm cupping your breast, swiping his thumb across your nipple. You keen up into the touch, back bowing to push your chest towards him, but then it’s gone, hand dropping between your spread legs. He kisses your throat almost roughly, beard scratching against you, but you barely notice as he slides two fingers through the wetness spilling out around his cock inside you, then draws them up, moving in a perfect circle over your clit. It knocks you breathless, yanking at his shirt desperately.

Then he pulls his fingers away, pushing them between his lips and moaning at the taste.

“I was right,” he murmurs, dropping his hand again, drawing another circle around you. “Just as sweet.”

Your brain is swimming with pleasure, unable to push a coherent thought past your lips, nothing but his name drawled out, bouncing off the walls. “Din.”

“I’ve dreamed about this for so long,” he grunts out, thrusting deeper than before, tightening an arm around your waist again, keeping you close. You drape your arms around his neck, pushing your face into his collar. “Touching you like this, being so deep inside you. Hearing the sounds you’d make for me, tasting your mouth. Gods, mesh’la, you’re more than I ever could have dreamed.”

He rubs a hard circle against you and you cry out, digging your hands into his shoulders, holding on for dear life. “Please, Din.”

His hips continue to piston against yours, and his fingers continue to circle your clit. Your nerves sing in response, sparks of pleasure shooting up and down every limb, your jaw going slack against his chest as it starts to pulse through you, hitting you like a blaster bolt to the stomach. Your whole body seizes, nails digging in hard, and Din gasps, pressing his mouth against the crown of your head, hips still moving. “So tight,” he chokes out, “are you…? Can I…?”

“Implant,” you whisper out, and there’s only a breath before he’s finding his own bliss, gripping you so tightly you can barely breathe. You lift your head as he gasps, grabbing his chin and tilting his face so you can kiss his pretty mouth, swallowing down his sounds until he stills against you.

You legs are numb, fingers and toes tingling as you both catch your breath.

And then you both start laughing.

It’s blissful laughter, interspersed between kisses and gentle touches. He stays there, fitted between your legs, pushing the hair from your face and kissing every inch of your face until you’re giggling helplessly, gripping his waist like a lifeline.

A knock at the door makes you both freeze.

Myla calls your name. “Are you coming or what?”

You look at Din, open-mouthed, and he just starts to laugh. “Be there in a second!”

It’s a slightly awkward shuffle apart, both of you wincing slightly as he pulls out of you. You both redress yourselves, righting clothing that had been moved askew, running a hand through your hair. Din pulls up the collar of your shirt, pressing it against your throat. “I left a mark,” he admits, his voice a little sheepish, and you lean in to steal a kiss, your lips soft against his.

“That’s okay,” you tell him, fingers under his scratchy chin. “I like it.”

He blinks down at you, tilting his head to the side, letting his hand span your ribs. “Can I see you again?”

You just nod before you lean up on your toes to kiss him softly once more, and then you turn on your heel and disappear out the door, careful to make sure it closes behind you, keeping him hidden.

+

You see him again the next night.

And the night after that, and the night after that. A few days you go without, only to deter the other servants who have been asking questions, wondering where you’ve been disappearing to. You can only chalk so much of it up to late nights spent in the kitchens, especially when your bed lies empty and you appear the next morning in the same clothes as yesterday.

Before long, it’s been months of secret trysts and stolen kisses.

Sometimes, he comes to you in the kitchens, like he had that first night. Other times, he requests you specifically to bring him dinner in his chambers. He’ll happen to walk down a hallway and find you walking the opposite way, and pull you into a darkened corner, kissing the breath from your lungs before letting you go.

Eventually, he asks to have you moved to the servants quarters on his floor. Your things are moved upstairs, and are very quickly deposited in his rooms. Your every night is spent by his side, and you love it.

You love him.

As time goes on, you learn everything about each other. Your histories, your pasts, the things you love and the things you hate. Every planet you’ve ever visited and the ones you can’t wait to see. Din is planning the trip to Naboo seconds after the words are past your lips.

You voice your hesitation to be with him, what people might say about the king courting a servant girl, but he doesn’t seem to care. “It doesn’t matter what you are, mesh’la,” he tells you. “It matters who you are. And who you are, is the woman I love.”

And then, one night…

You’re both sprawled in his bed, naked as the day you were born, the silk sheets covering you from the waist down. Din’s on his back, head nestled in his pillow, and you’re on your stomach, lying on his chest, your fingers tracing over the scars that litter his body, evidence of the life he once lived. He’s relaxed, but when you glance up, you can see the hard expression on his face. It’s almost like you can see the wheels turning in his head.

“What are you thinking about, cyar’ika?” you ask, leaning up slightly to press a kiss to his jaw.

“I’m thinking,” he starts, and you lean up higher so you can see his face, stare into those gorgeous eyes, “I might like to make you my queen.”

—————

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[lowlights]

Please for the love of everything Din x “Keep your eyes on me.”

I am f e r a l for this man

Oh, my darling. This got SO far away from me. I am so sorry. I hope you like it anyway. <3

I See You

Din Djarin x f!reader ; 1.8k words

Warnings: Takes place before the show, after Mando leaves Ran's crew. It's very melancholy, this is your warning. Yearning, tension, PinV sex (unprotected), fingering, a smidge of cumplay. The helmet stays on, babes. Younger Mando makes some poor choices.

Series Masterlist

*

The sun has long ago set on your lush little planet, leaving the world dark with only the fireflies to light the path to your small abode. He lumbers down the twisted path, much too exhausted to care that he’s making so much noise. He knows you’re alone out here, he scanned the area before stepping out of the Razor Crest. Not even a bordok is wandering out in the distance. 

It’s just you. 

He needs to lay low for a spell, to get out of the skies and hunker down somewhere safe. They’d be looking for him, at some point. 

He makes it to your door, beating on the wooden planks with his fist until you finally swing the door open. You’re clearly still half-asleep, and look as angry as a worrt. 

“Mando? What the hell are you doing here?” you demand, eyes wide with surprise. He’s filled out a bit since you last saw him, his shoulders somehow even broader than before. His arms are clearly bulkier as well. It had been almost four standard years since you last saw him, after all. 

He clears his throat. “Can I come in?’ 

You cross your arms over your long sleep shirt. “Who’s after you this time?” You’re not about to repeat what happened before when he pissed off the local spice runner, just as he was starting his bounty hunter career. 

He rests his left thumb on his belt, his right hand fidgety at his side. “No one right now, not really. I just need to keep the Crest offline for a while. I’ll explain everything, just…let me in.” 

You sigh and step to the side, wondering internally why you bothered to put up a fight. It’s not like you wouldn’t go to the edge of the galaxy for this man if he asked. Not after you hemmed and hawed first, but still. He’d saved your life, after all, before he helped you escape to where you were living now. 

Memories come rushing back when you see him standing in your little house, with one hand on his hip and his leg cocked out. You never thought you would see this image again. Or see him again.

“So?” You ask, mirroring his stance. 

“Can I sit?” he asks, motionless as a pillar. He’s gotten better at that, you think to yourself. Being intimidating without moving a muscle. 

You go sit at the tiny table and watch him fold himself up into the chair across from you. You stare, and wait. Mando always took a moment to find his words, never one to spill his secrets. 

The story comes out, slowly at first like a trickle of water falling down a leaf. He’d fallen in with a rough crew, led by someone named Ranzar Malk. Something had gone wrong - really wrong - and he needed to leave. Mando wasn’t usually the squeamish type, so you knew that his reluctance to talk about it meant that it had to be really bad. 

You didn’t ask questions. You just listened. When he finally stopped talking, you reached out and took his gloved hand in yours. 

Preemptively answering the question that you knew was coming next, you told him he could stay as long as he wanted. There was a lot that you needed to say to him, but tonight wasn’t the night. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his beskar-clad shoulders, a far cry from the cocky young man that left you so long ago. You make him a plate of food and leave him to eat, giving him the privacy he needs to take off his helmet. 

You roll out a little pad and put some bedding on the floor, not knowing if he would stay here or in his ship. You go back to your own bunk, the adrenaline in your body finally wearing off. 

**

In the morning, you damn near trip over Mando as you walk out of your room. 

“Oof- Mando! This is not where I left you last night,” you grumble, stepping over him and heading to the kitchen for some much-needed caf. 

He doesn’t know how to tell you that he slept at your door because he wanted to make sure you were safe. Never mind the fact that he’d been gone for years, leaving you presumably alone. He follows you into the kitchen and sits back down at the table, watching you move around the room before joining him at the table. 

“Where’s Shankari?” he asks you, bemused at how you still curl yourself around your morning cup of caf. 

That sends a pang to your heart. “That old tooka-cat died about a year ago, Mando. She’s buried out under the tree where she used to harass all the birds.” 

He’s silent. 

You’re silent. 

“A lot’s changed, hasn’t it?” he asks you quietly, voice cracking a bit through the helmet. 

“Yeah. And nothing at all, it seems,” you reply, taking a long sip of the hot beverage. It burns your tongue, and you’re grateful for the excuse not to talk. 

This continues for weeks, this odd dance between the two of you. You’re frozen in time, suspended between the way you knew each other from before and whatever the future held for you both. You’re content where you are, happy to live a quiet life amongst the trees. You know it’s not the life meant for Mando, but he hasn’t figured that part out yet. You realize that nothing you can say to him right now would help anything, so you let it all go. The hurt you carried from before doesn’t matter right now. 

Like a kettle that’s slowly coming to a boil, he can feel the pressure building and the temperature rising between you. When he isn’t making upgrades to the Crest, he’s sitting back and watching you. He watches as you bake bread and mend clothing and talk to the trees outside. The feeling that builds in his chest is scary and unfamiliar, and something he can’t put a name on. 

You smile at him, and it’s so different from anyone else before. Not that there’s been many. But there were the young Mandalorian women in the coverts, and whatever the kark that thing with Xi’an was. He might love you, and it’s getting harder to ignore. Especially when he thinks you could love him too. 

The proverbial kettle boils over one night when you fall asleep on him in the living room. The beskar (minus the helmet) had been shed weeks ago, and you had taken to curling up with your head on his lap in front of the fireplace at night. 

Din didn’t tell you those were his favorite moments of the day. 

You wake up to his finger tracing circles on your arm, and look up at him. “Am I bothering you?” 

“No.” He continues tracing along your bare skin, then across your belly and up, up, up slowly over your shirt in the valley between your tits. He watches every expression on your face, looking for any sign that he should stop. You only nod at him from where you lie across his lap, and he dips his hand under your shirt. 

He cups your breast with his large hand, rubbing your nipple to a stiff peak with his thumb. You moan at how good it feels, and how warm his rough hand feels. He draws his hand out of your shirt and instead dips down into your pants. All the while his visor is trained on your face, watching every minute expression of arousal dance across your beautiful features. 

When his finger finally pushes into your wetness, you dare to look down to see his hand moving in your sleep shorts. 

“No,” he commands gently, “Keep your eyes on me.” 

Your eyes snap back up to the t-shaped darkness staring back at you. You’re not sure if it’s the glow of the firelight or your imagination, but you swear you can see two big eyes staring back at you. 

He gets you so wet that the squelch of his finger moving in and out of you should be embarrassing, but you both think it might be the hottest noise you’ve ever heard. You whimper when he pulls his hand out of your shorts, but he quickly helps you into your bedroom and is peeling off your clothing, situating you in bed. 

He leaves his helmet on, of course, but strips down quickly himself. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand as he watches you - always watching you - spread your legs out for him to shimmy between. 

Then he’s easing himself into your aching cunt, and you wrap your arms and legs around him. His pace is tempered but far from gentle, years of unresolved feelings and the weight of what his life has become compelling him to get as deep inside of you as possible. You accept every inch of him, every snap of his hips and grunt from his mouth, and scream out his name when you come. 

“Mando, Mando! Oh, stars, yes!” 

As your pussy flutters around his length in the aftermath of your orgasm, his page quickens. 

“Din. My name is Din. I just- please, look at me. Keep your eyes on me, sweet girl,” he begs, barely moving in and out now as he just ruts himself against you. 

“Din. Din, I see you. I see you, Din.” You stare at his helmet, past his helmet, and he swears you can see into his kriffing soul. 

He pulls out and comes on your stomach and your wet curls with a low moan, watching rope after rope decorate your skin. He wishes more than anything that he could rip off his helmet and kiss you when you reach down and scoop up some of his cum with one finger, bringing it to your mouth and sucking on it like candy. 

“Dank farrik,” he mutters, taking one last look at you before fetching a cloth to clean you up. After, you pull him into bed with you and immediately fall asleep in his arms. Din, on the other hand, doesn’t sleep a wink. 

**

When you wake up in the morning, you’re alone in bed. You stumble out to the kitchen for your morning caf and instead of finding Din waiting for you at the table, you see a note leaning against the canister of grounds. Your heart sinks, and you almost don’t need to read it.

You read it anyway. In somewhat messy, capital letters it says: 

I’M SORRY. I’LL BE BACK WHEN I’M THE MAN YOU DESERVE. 

[aresrambles]

i just found ur blog!! and went thru all of your writing, and i loved them!!! could i plz request something fluffy then spicy for din djarin, like he comes back from a hunt and sees reader in the bunk sleeping in our of his shirts?

Hunter's Prize

mando x gn!reader - fluff turned nsfw, afab terms, tired!din, sleepy!reader (1109 words)

a/n: first off, i cannot apologise enough for how long it took for me to complete this request, thank u for being so patient. secondly, AAH thank u so much! that means so much to me. i had a lot of fun w this request so i hope u enjoy reading this!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Din's body ached with every step he took onboard the ship; the only thing keeping him afoot being the remnants of fiery adrenaline from the bounty chase earlier on. It had ended even more successfully than Din hoped it would, with the bounty struggling to put up any sort of a fight. He came along willingly after short game of cat and mouse, and even strangely requested to be frozen in transportation. Whatever, the Mandalorian wasn't about to complain about his luck. At long last, his body would be able to surrender itself to the alluring call of slumber and sink into that almost comfortable cot of his, and-

Ah. 

A seemingly, occupied, cot of his. There you lay, the rise and fall of your chest being the only indicator of life in the otherwise all-too silent room. But Din was never one to complain, not when you looked like that. Tired eyes rake over your sleeping form, elegantly splayed out in amongst those itchy blankets he had gotten Maker knew how many moons ago. You made his den look like the most comfortable place in the galaxy. And perhaps, the safest, too. Even through the helmet, he was able to smell you, faintly. The soft scent of what would've been yours and Grogu's dinner, your sweet-smelling shampoo from the market, you, you, you. 

The Mandalorian begins his nightly routine of shedding the layers of beskar that conceal him from the world, it has almost now become ritualistic. First his gloves, then his forearms, shoulders, cape, chest-plate, thighs, calves, boots- 

He stops at his helmet, fingers skirting along the ridges before dropping back down to his side. For now, this is enough. A fleeting thought of its removal passes through Din's mind before it is trampled upon by his better judgement. At least, what Din thinks is his better judgement. These days, it is becoming harder to tell. 

The low shuffling from his cot brings him back to the room, to you, and before he knows it, the Mandalorian is at your side, palm resting upon your head.

"I'm back." He murmurs, though it comes out bluntly through the modulation of his helmet. 

"All in one piece?" You ask, only half-joking. Your hands reach out to him under the dim lights, as if to confirm this is indeed true, before you feel a soft chuckle rise from his chest. He grunts in what can be loosely translated as a 'yes', and flops onto the cot right next to you.

"Hey, you almost crushed me!" You laugh, now a little more awake. You feel strong arms snake around your waist and tug you closer to him, and breathe a sigh of contentment. It hadn't been long since Din had left, yourself and Grogu had become used to waiting much longer, but even a few hours away from the man resulted in an embarrassing amount of yearning. You craved Din's presence on this ship. His heavy footsteps from above in the cockpit, the way in which he fathers Grogu. The domesticity of it all makes you feel like some sort of family. The thought makes your tummy fizzle.

"Stop squirming around."

"I can't. It's cold."

"That's definitely not why you're wriggling like a sandworm. You're wearing my thermal."

Your face gets hot as you look down and realise that Din is indeed correct. Wearing his clothes wasn't unusual for you, but he had never caught you in the act. Usually you would curl up in one of his old capes or undershirts while he was away, and safely return it when you felt like the Mandalorian would show up any time soon. But this felt like he had caught you red-handed. 

Din on the other hand, felt hot elsewhere upon making this realisation. Blood coursed downwards as he rested his helmet into the crook of your neck, dragging his fingers underneath the tight cotton against your skin. "I don't mind." He murmured, "It suits you."

"You can't even see me." You groan, rolling your eyes.

"Yes I can. My helmet has night-vision. When you're underneath me, when you're on top- I see it all. I can see everything."

Silence. Your eyes widen in horror as you think back to the countless nights of intimacy. Expressions you thought remained unseen by your partner in the darkness of the room, had indeed been witnessed. Forget about earlier, your stomach was now doing backflips.

"And... And I want to see it again. Now, I mean."

Permission, he's asking for your permission. Din's hands feel so hot all of a sudden on your waist, as you become hyperaware of his dick pressed firmly against your ass. Despite the slight embarrassment, your grind your hips against him in approval. The Mandalorian always made you feel at ease, and this was no exception. Din grunts as you apply pressure on his crotch and begins murmuring sweet nothings almost immediately.

"S'fucking beautiful, you're so beautiful." He whispers, moving against you in slow rhythm. "You're always so good for me."

You feel yourself get wet at his words and put your hand through your thighs, relieving Din's cock from its restrains and guiding it to sit against your clothed pussy. You had only your underwear on under his shirt, but it almost felt like nothing against the head of Din's dick. You were so wet that he would've been able to make out every detail of your pussy through the slick material of your panties. It clung against you like a second skin. You feel the back of your neck begin to prickle with sweat as you guide the tip against your folds, holding back moans everytime it grazed your clit. Din brought his fingers up to your mouth and stuck them inside, opening it up wide and playing with your tongue.

"Louder." 

It was a command you were more than willing to follow, allowing your frustrated moans to reach his ears. Din flipped you over with ease pushing your panties to the side and sticking two fingers inside of you. The pressure almost makes you cum there and then but you try your hardest to refrain, clenched around the slow pumping of his fingers. 

"Just like that, pretty thing." He mumbles, the cool of his helmet being the only thing to stop you from overheating. The way he's slumped against you tells you that despite all of this, Din is tired. His shoulders are slouched and his movements a little duller than usual, not that you mind.  Tonight, you will laze in bed until dawn, bodies intertwined and hushed confessions of love before he will once again take his leave. But for now, this is enough. His closeness, his touch. It is enough.

[burnwater13]

Boba Fett riding a speeder bike with various Tuskens also riding them across Tatooine. From The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 2, The Tribes of Tatooine.

Grogu could listen to Daimyo Fett tell him stories all day long. He was a thorough and captivating storyteller. Whenever they were on Tatooine, Grogu demanded that his dad bring him to visit the Daimyo so he could get wheedle a new story from him. His dad always agreed, but he had been pretty plain about his jealousy.

“You shouldn’t bother the Daimyo, he’s a busy man.”

Which Grogu translated directly to meaning, ‘you don’t find my stories about discovering the best armor polish with that sort of rapt fascination. What’s he got that I don’t have?’ 

Funny stories. Scary stories. Adventure stories where everything goes wrong, but he still survives! They were great and interesting and deeply personal. And, they had absolutely nothing to do with who had the best deal on a tin of goop that Grogu got yelled at about every time he tried taste testing the stuff.

This time the Daimyo had been telling him the story about teaching the Tuskens how to ride speeder bikes and how they went after the people who were attacking their encampment. It was both a harrowing and a humorous story and Grogu thought that his dad could learn a lot about story telling if he just spent more time listening to the Daimyo and less time discussing the pro’s and con’s of various methods of sighting weapons. 

Sure. Grogu knew that was an area of expertise that the younger man felt very strongly about, but sheesh! Couldn’t he have that conversation when Grogu was sleeping?

“No. You never sleep when you’re here, kiddo. Your dad knows that. He also knows that the Daimyo really likes having such an attentive audience for his story telling. I usually take those moments to catch up on my sleep now, making you the best possible victim… uh … listener.” 

When Fennec explained that, Grogu was a bit put out. He did sleep when he was visiting with the Daimyo. He’d learned, the hard way, that Boba Fett couldn’t tell stories when he was resting in the bacta tank. And by hard way, he meant that he hit his head pretty hard against the tank walls when the Daimyo tried to tell him about the sarlacc pit. Then his dad had picked him up by his middle and Grogu had clunked against the tank again. All he got for his trouble was Mr. Crabby Pants snapping that he shouldn’t hide under the bacta tank if he didn’t want to be carried that way. 

“Now, listen kiddo, don’t get all ‘sad eyes’ at me. I’m sure your dad has stories just as fun and interesting as the Daimyo’s. Boba Fett can’t be the only Mandalorian who lead an interesting life. What about the time your dad was going after that guy from Crimson Dawn? He had to go all the way to Bracca to collect him. Put up quite a fight, I heard. You ever wonder why your dad’s original armor was in such rough shape? Well that trip is why.”

What?! Din Djarin had adventures like that and never bothered telling him about them?! That just wasn’t fair.

“Nope. It’s not fair. He’s been holding out on you kid. That’s just one example. You people don’t just hand a Mando a bunch of beskar so they can have armor fabricated. Nope. They got to fight for every scrap of beskar that goes into it. You should ask him about the time he had to go to the brothel on Cantonica to retrieve that old chest plate he had. I understand the some of the more adventurous folks had been using it as a sled, with fathiers dragging it up and down the beach.”

Wow! That sounded like fun. Grogu wasn’t surprised in the least that Din Djarin’s armor had more fun than the person wearing it. 

“Fennec! Don’t tell him that stuff. Din Djarin has proven himself to be very helpful to the people of Tatooine. We don’t want him to get all huffy and refuse to bring my bu’ad for visits. Then you would have to stay awake when I’m explaining how some action from the past could assist us in the future.”

Fennec had sighed at that, which made Grogu giggle. She didn’t sigh softly or grumble under her breath like his dad did. Nope. She sighed as if all the air had been let out of her pistons at once. 

“You gotta point, Boss. And no one wants to deal with a mopey Mando.  Come on kiddo, let’s go down and visit the Rancor. He misses you whenever you go off on your own adventures with your dad. You know, you should tell him all about it.”

“Good idea, Fennec. No one wants Din Djarin to mope around the place. Go on ad’ika. Have fun with the Rancor.” Boba Fett waved as Grogu left with Fennec, giggling as they walked out of the room at a quick pace. 

He was giggling because he had been pretty sure that Fennec was talking about the Daimyo being mopey and not his dad. Whatever. He was going to visit Ranky and he liked that as much as he enjoyed the Daimyo’s storytelling.

Maybe his dad could join him and they could both tell the Rancor stories about their adventures?

“Fennec!”

Uh oh! Boba Fett must have realized that Fennec had meant him. 

“Hey kid. You know the way. I’ll send your dad down to get you as soon as I take care of whatever cranky pants wants.”

Then she was gone so fast it was like she had disappeared. Grogu wanted her teach him how to do that. Specifically when his ‘cranky pants’ dad was bellowing his name. He was sure that would be a story worth telling Ranky.