#din djarin x reader

[httpsastral]

marriage is scary, what if he isn't Pedro Pascal?

[redroses07]

i loved this series so much!!!

Bloodlust (Part Nine)

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

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

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

rating: M

word count: 4.485k

masterlist ⟹ part one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din nods dutifully. “Promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s purposeful, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din furrows his brow. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

masterlist ⟹ part one

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day eight: fuzzy pink handcuffs

ᰔ pairing: din djarin x reader

ᰔ summary: the mandalorian is on another bounty mission. he expects to find who he's looking for, not himself cuffed in your bed.

ᰔ author's note: i read a post by @psyzook that talked about how din is more awkward and touch-starved, and i knew when i made this list, i had to put him in the fuzzy pink handcuffs. it's like a rite of passage. also i am not a big star wars girl so please forgive any misuse of information. i did so much research, but i'll always be a trekkie at the end of the day ✋😔 i tried my hardest— anything for my baby din

ᰔ content warning: 18+ // MDNI!!!! sub!din, dom!reader, oral (m!receiving) afab!reader (mention of breasts), din is is silent and awkward, premature ejaculation, fuzzy pink handcuffs

Din felt as if he had met his match when it came to you. He had seen it all, every corner of the never-ending universe threw a fastball at him. He had seen the depraved and the greedy in every form. It was hard to look towards the light when he had been face to face with darkness time and time again.

When he agreed to take a bounty job on Zeltros, he knew it would be a struggle from the start. Many who had tried to follow through with war or overtaking had failed due to the nature of the planet. Din had heard of the failing of other bounty hunters, but he was sure he was stronger than whatever temptation the others had faced.

The mission was easy enough. Find one of the wealthiest residents and return them to the Imperial Center. Din knew to not dig his helmet into business that wasn't his, but he wondered what was so important that the bounty was well beyond the standard price. Whoever's head it was must have been important if he had to bring them in alive.

Easier said than done, but the Mandalorian didn't back down. He had faced a few zeltrons in his time, and this one was no different.

You, though?

You were beyond anything he had seen in his time, in any interaction he'd had. Din was unsure if it had been the way you held yourself, or how easily you had tempted him with your sweet words.

"I believe I've heard of the head this bounty is plastered on. Please, follow me." You turned, not waiting for him to accept the invitation. Even the way your sheer red robes flourished as you ascended the front steps had Din bewitched. He followed without a word, his head ducked down as if to hide how his chest tightened.

"You could tell me the information out here," Din returned. Despite his argument, it didn't stop the way he followed you. He hoped to find the information he needed and continue on with the hunt for his bounty. He was on a mission.

"And have others listen where they're not welcome? I prefer to speak in private. As a follower of Mandalore, I'm sure you understand the importance of privacy." You glanced over your shoulder with a smirk.

"I suppose." Din left it at that. He kept a bit of distance between you. As he took in the decor, he was surprised by the lively coloring and flourish that had donned each piece of furniture.

"You mentioned this bounty had to be brought in alive. May I ask if they've provided a reason why?" You led him into the open space that was the center of your home. It was covered in warm oranges and pinks, sleek and polished in preparation for any visitor. On the walls and in display cases were various art pieces you had collected over time.

Din took notice of each item. He recognized some of the art styles, all front different sectors of space he had been in. How you had acquired some pieces, he wasn't sure. As he took in the details of your space, he realized how little he knew about you. The tip to talk to you had been an anonymous message, but it was as good a place to start as any.

"I tend to not ask unless it's imperative to the bounty." He kept a hand on the blaster on his hip. It wasn't subtle, but Din only relied on the art of subtlety when there was something at stake.

"You amuse me, Mandalorian. I hope I can be of service," you mused. You waited for a response, but there was a silence that filled the air. Din cleared his throat, and you turned to see what he was looking at.

"Ever seen anything like it?" You smirked as you moved towards the case. In the tall glass case was your most novelty possessions, some from your home planet and some from stretches beyond your sector. Even with the mask on, you felt his gaze follow your every move as you opened the glass.

At the center of a black velvet pillow was a set of cuffs. Din had seen plenty of bindings for every set of appendages on the body. From high tech to basic, they had all been similar in shape and fashion. These were unlike any he had seen; never before had he seen something so frivolous.

"No," Din finally quipped. "They look useless."

It was true. If he had tried to use pink, fuzzy handcuffs on a bounty of his, they'd laugh right in his face before they made a break for it. Not that he blamed them, considering they looked flimsy from where he stood.

"I suppose in your line of work, they would be," you chuckled. "However, I must attest to their usefulness in other situations." You held the handcuffs, brushing a thumb over the exquisite fur that donned it. It had been sourced from a loth-wolf pelt and dipped in fruit dye— that, you had done yourself. The muddled white and grey did no justice for your tastes. Now, it was a vibrant pink thanks to the meiloorun fruit you had wrung dry.

"How? I fail to see how you could detain someone with these." You let the Mandalorian take the cuffs out of your hand so he was able to examine them. It was amusing to see him shift them in his hands, his gloved thumb brushing over the fur.

You were quiet for a beat before you moved closer to the bounty hunter. As you did, you shifted your shoulder to let the edge of your robe slip. Even with the chill in the air, you didn't mind how it left your skin exposed.

"It's not so much what you detain them with, but how you detain them. You should know that well enough, Mandalorian. I'm sure you've captured your fair share of brutes with far less than those."

Din was quiet for one beat, followed by another. He marveled at the handcuffs, then your shoulder. While he had been propositioned by plenty of people, both bounties and bystanders, this felt different. His body felt tense as it dawned on him, what you were implying.

"I have," he broke the silence. "It's about the situation— how you keep them compliant." His gaze flicked towards your face. He hadn't missed the smirk on your lips, not that you tried to hide it.

"Exactly. These require submission." You grabbed for the cuffs again, yet you didn't put them back in the case.

"Submission?" Din asked. You nodded and reached for his hand, which he let you take. It surprised both of you, but neither acknowledged it. Instead, you popped one side of the cuff open and placed it wound his wrist. It settled in the leather divot left where the two metal pieces of his armor divided.

You gently tugged Din's hand, and it moved without much resistance. He was thankful for the mask; it hid the way his eyes had widened. He had never been willingly cuffed, let alone moved without force.

"I'd like to show you just how useful they can be." You waited until his helmet shifted, a slight nod that you made out. Without another word, you led him down the hallway by way of the other cuff in your hand.

Din felt stiff and awkward with each clunky step towards your bedroom. He wasn't sure what to say, how to break whatever simmering tension had built between you two. Out of all the propositions he had faced, why did he falter at yours?

Just like the rest of your home, your room was vibrant with hues of oranges and pinks cast across the furniture. Din noticed the large window that allowed him to take in the vast horizon of Zeltros, an overview of the bustling city below.

As Din took in the sight, you gave another gentle tug towards your bed. He hesitated, his movements stiff as he shifted in his spot. You started to speak but before you managed to get anything out, he sat on the bed. His back was flush against the headboard, which had been made of repurposed copper pipes.

"When using these," you began as you sat in front of him. "You must relinquish some control. Unable to use your hands, it requires the ability trust in your partner." Your robe slipped further down to expose your bare chest as you looped one of Din's arms through the pipe. As you clasped the other cuff around his other hand, you felt him sink further into the bed. You glanced down to see your breasts spilled out of your robe, right above the bounty hunter's helmet.

Din had never been more thankful for the safety of his face covering. He was completely flush; it would have been impossible to hide the way he stared at your breasts. He cleared his throat before he spoke up.

"Why should I trust you?" Din was even more thankful for the modulator, which warped the tense tone in his voice.

"You have no reason," you shook your head. "Just as I have no reason to trust that you won't break one of my prized possessions." You settled between his legs, both your hands on his sturdy thighs. Even through the fabric of his pants, you saw what effect the pink handcuffs had on him.

"You use these often?" Din asked, as if deflecting distracted him from the ache in his cock. It had been ages since he felt any sort of release, and even longer since it had been at the hands of someone else.

"No. Only for special occasions." You moved for his belt and fiddled with the latch. It dropped off his waist, pooled underneath as it fell on the bed. He watched your hands under the armor chest plate to undo the button on his pants.

"What makes this so special?" Din asked. He felt his chest tighten, his breath short as you released his cock from the confines of the linen pants.

"It's not every day that a Mandalorian comes to my home, looking for my help." You didn't give the answer much thought, your own form of deflection. Instead of focusing on the conversation, you brushed your thumb over the head of his leaking cock as your hand ghosted over his shaft. You smirked as he shifted at the gentle touch.

"How long has it been? Since you've felt the touch of another." As you spoke, you leaned down to press a light kiss on his slit. Even the voice modulator couldn't hide the choked back sound he made.

The Mandalorian was silent, as you expected. His hips shifted as you swiped your tongue along the underside of the tip. The way he twitched in your hand only made you swipe your tongue again.

"Not one for casual conversation?" You mused in a teasing tone. "I suppose that comes with your occupation, bounty hunter." When your lips weren't on his cock, your hand was wrapped around his shaft as you slowly jerked him off.

Din was overwhelmed by the slow, tantalizing pace at which your hand moved. He resisted bucking up into your hand, to chase the high you gave him, but it felt near impossible. He had denied himself so much over his life, and this moment of weakness ate at him. He had to remain strong—

Your head dipped down again, the warmth of your mouth too much for him to handle. Before he managed to speak, hot, thick ropes hit your tongue and the back of your throat. Your hand continued up and down his shaft as you coaxed him through his orgasm.

"Sorry," Din's voice was gruff, even with it being altered. He felt a different type of heat crawl up his neck and all over his face.

"No need to apologize," you assured him once your lips popped off his cock, not without a string of white saliva popping as you pulled away. "The throws of pleasure can do things to us that we cannot predict." Before you sat up straight, you wiped at your lower lip and licked your finger clean.

"It's... it's been some time. Since I've found myself in someone's bed," Din admitted. Even after the pleasure that had shuttered through him, his body craved more— anything you were willing to give him.

"Well, if you ever crave a warm bed to find yourself in," you leaned in and braced yourself on his sturdy shoulders. "You find me. Maybe I'll wear the handcuffs next time, if you think you've learned your lesson."

You pressed a kiss to the top of the bounty hunter's helmet before you tucked him back into his pants. While you wanted to keep him there for hours and keep him pliable, you knew he had other business to tend to.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize that his bounty had been right under his nose this entire time. Amazing what a set of fuzzy pink handcuffs could do.

[aphrcdites]

the bond between a girl and their favorite fictional man is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object

[baronessvonglitter]

WE GET A PART 2????

prisoner - part 1 (f!reader x din djarin)

wc: 4.6k | other fics | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 | part 2 (coming soon)

summary: this time our fav bounty hunter is the bounty and you're on a mission to capture him and claim your reward

note: big thanks to @wannab-urs for hosting the dmamc25 event !! i'm looking forward to catching up on the other amazing fics!

this was my wip for the campaign but i missed the deadline (not a soul was surprised). i'm splitting it into two or possibly three parts, so the man doesn't get dommed yet, but i still wanted to acknowledge the inspiration for the whole thing <3

tags: 18+, my interpretation of pre-canon younger din djarin aka as they said in the 1991 action/thriller classic Point Break he's "young, dumb, and full of cum" aka moody reckless and virile din, some canon typical violence, one (1) tranquilizer injected by needle, dirty talkin' din, bulge riding, opposite of a virgin kink if u squint? mayhaps a filthy whore kink?  (dubcon to come in part two bc of course i would, sub!din djarin will also be coming in part two)

thanks to @syd-djarin @auteurdelabre and @swankyorange for support <3

The first time you see him, he’s in everyone’s way. A blunt, metal block that the crowd on the street parts and weaves around. He stands, scanning for something, oblivious to the vendors peddling their wares. He’s completely uninterested in their lives or their products. 

Instead, he forces the world to bend around him. 

And when he moves, they move. Everyone gets out of his way–and quickly–hustling and veering around him. Not out of fear or respect, but because he gives them no other choice. 

It would drive you nuts if he interrupted your path, but from your viewpoint on the rooftop it’s almost amusing. You stretch languidly, enjoying the warmth of the sun as you watch. You catch the glint of his helmet as his head swivels in search of something. It’s the only polished piece of his mismatched armor. The rest is scraped, dented, or painted over. A testament, you assume, to the brutal and dirty life he lives. 

When he surges off again, stiff and hurried, stalking whatever he’s tracking, you’re drawn to the hunger in his movements. His physicality. You expect a Mandalorian to be calculated—efficient. And he is. There’s urgency that bites at his heels. 

But there’s something else, too. Something reckless in his movements. The way he shoulders through a circle of street performers without a care. The way his hand hovers near the blaster on his hip, ready to draw at the slightest provocation. 

In broad daylight. 

It’s like he’s not just looking for something. He’s daring the galaxy to give him an excuse to destroy it. 

It’s that volatility that makes you curious. The danger that curls around his edges. It entices you. 

You’ve met men like him before. Men that burn with the kind of fury only youth and disillusionment can sustain. 

Their drive gives them strength, but they have a glaring weakness. 

The second time, you’re closer. 

At some rundown, backwater outpost cantina—the kind of place where a fight is as common as a drink. You watch the dust particles swirling in the streaks of light filtering through the windows as you sit at a table waiting. It’s not long before the Mandalorian storms in. 

He rocks up to the bar with heavy footsteps, ready to slam down some credits in exchange for answers. Unfortunately, he misjudged the stubbornness and the loyalty of the wiry bartender. He lacks tact. 

The barkeep offers clipped responses to the questioning. From under your hood, you can see the Mandalorian’s fist clench. A few nearby patrons snicker as the encounter seems to be futile and his patience snaps. 

In seconds, his gloved fist is wrapped in the bartender’s jacket, dragging him halfway across the counter. A glass tips and shatters on the floor. And a few heads turn both toward and pointedly away from the scene. 

“Try again,” the Mandalorian demands, his voice loud enough for you to catch. It’s deep, modulated by the helmet but still laced with venom. It suits him, you think. 

The bartender flails, his eyes widening before he sputters out something. You can’t help the small grin that curls at the corner of your lips.

The Mandalorian is far from subtle but it works. He drops the bartender and storms off just as pressed as the way he came in, his tattered cape flicking behind him as he disappears. 

You stay seated as the chatter picks back up. 

The Mandalorian is impatient, you note. Unconcerned with the attention he draws if he gets what he wants. 

Your smirk grows wider. It’ll be satisfying to watch him unravel when he doesn’t get his way. 

The third time, you’re following him. He’s tracking someone through the city, his strides long and swift, no hesitations. You slip from shadow to shadow, quietly leaving enough room to vanish if anything goes wrong. 

When his target fucks up–darting into the wrong alley–you’re almost disappointed. You know what happens next. The fight is over fast. Brutal. Mechanical. 

The Mandalorian is pure force, absorbing every counter attack with only the slightest stagger. Until his opponent crumples to the ground, groaning and bloody. The Mandalorian hauls him to his feet muttering something you can’t quite hear. 

He drags his prize toward the shipyard, his grip unyielding and his pace unrelenting. You trail along continuing your observations. 

The Mandalorian is ruthless. 

It’s no wonder the reward is worth your time. You can only imagine the grievances he’s racked up on his violent crusade. You look forward to the payout, considering what you might spend it on as you slip behind another ship. You surveil him long enough to learn one more thing. 

He’s restless. 

A cloak of unease clinging to him that never fades. 

Not when the chase is over. Not when he hands off his mark to the crew of miscreants he flew in with. Not when he’s at rest while the others indulge in their night off. 

He’s a raw nerve encased in dented metal. 

You can feel it buzzing off of him even when he’s sat still. Vibrating at a similar frequency to you. Resonating. 

You’ve watched long enough. 

The next time, you’re waiting for him. 

Din doesn’t know it, but he’ll find you. 

Adrenaline burns hot in his veins, twisting violently in his gut. The day was pure chaos. Betrayals, near-deaths, plans unraveling. He’s on edge. A live wire thrumming with an unspent charge. 

He’s only a man, but the insatiable call within him feels more suited to a beast. 

He stalks through the dark streets like he’s hunting something. Or daring something to hunt him. His jaw clenches tight, his teeth grinding against the insides of his cheek. The city streets are loud, the nightlife too busy for his liking, but the thoughts ruminating in his head are louder. 

Their plan was doomed from the start—but the failure still stings.

His crew had been bickering over who was to blame, the voices a blur of petty insults and clashing egos. Din didn’t care who was right or wrong. He just knew that the first one to point the blame at him was getting put through a wall. Or worse. So before anyone found out what worse could be, he left. 

So he continues tromping down the street on a warpath. No plan or purpose. Just fuming with the displaced energy that should’ve been released by now. He’s unsure how long it’s been, or how far he’s wandered.

It’s instinct, more than anything, that leads him to where you’ve been waiting. He’s pushing through the doorway before he even realizes where his legs led him. He’d been too busy wrestling with his anger, and now it’s a physical thing, radiating off of him in waves. 

Heads turn when he enters the bar. His presence draws attention. Even with his banged up armor, a Mandalorian is still a sight to behold. The cut of his visor sweeps the room like a weapon and most eyes dart away, unwilling to meet it.

The establishment is otherwise lively. It’s packed with a misfit crowd full of sly glances, nervous shifting, and raucous laughter. There’s tables for games and smoking, dancers—barely clothed in bright shades of magenta and gold, and a band with instruments he couldn't name with a gun to his head. 

But he’s not interested in drinking or gambling. He’s looking for something stronger. Someone more potent. 

He begins to circle the room when his steps quickly falter. 

The dark fabric draped around your curves catches his eye first, the way it shifts when you lift your glass to take a slow, deliberate sip. He’s drawn to the line of your neck, the tender, smooth skin and the soft roll of your throat as you swallow. 

And then you look right at him. 

Your sparkling eyes pierce him. Snare him. Capture him whole. 

You tilt your head toward the open seat next to you. The invitation is subtle, but the pull is magnetic. In a heartbeat, he’s moving in. 

He drops into the seat, heavy as a man made of metal, leaning an elbow on the bar. You don’t look at him directly, but he sees the way you adjust your shoulders and the faint curl of your lips. It’s enough to tell him you know. That you’re baiting him. Good. He’ll bite. 

The bartender approaches, but Din waves him off without a glance, keeping the full weight of his focus on you. The low hum of his anger begins to ease as he takes in the details of your profile—the sweep of your lashes, the plush curve of your lips, your smooth skin.

You take another sip of your drink before turning toward him. Something wicked flashes in your expression before you acknowledge him with a smile. 

“You’re not drinking?” Your voice is melodic, stirring his appetite. 

“No.” 

You take one last sip from your glass before pushing it across the counter slowly, drawing his attention to your hands. He’s tempted to grab one just to marvel at the size of it in his. So delicate. Focus. 

“You want another?” he asks bluntly, curious. “No.” 

The corner of his mouth quirks under the helmet. Amused. You mirror his sharp tone without hesitation; you’re not afraid of him. 

“The pleasure of my company will cost you more than a drink,” you say, tilting your head slightly. 

Ah. His curiosity sharpens. 

“Good,” his voice is low, but tight. “Not interested in cheap.” 

You’re close enough that the conscious brush of your thigh against his spends sparks through him. Your very existence is temptation and his composure is razor thin. 

His body screams at him to grab you–right here–to bend you over the bar and see just how much you’re worth. But he waits, wired and anxious, for your next move. 

You bite your lower lip, rolling it slowly between your teeth as if you’re reading his thoughts, and flash him an alluring smirk. The charge in the air between you is alive, pulsing with its own heartbeat. 

“What are you interested in, Mandalorian?” you ask, your voice steeped in seduction. 

He studies you with the emotionless visor. “What type of company are you offering?”  

You laugh softly, a sound that winds around his restraint and pulls tighter. “I know a few tricks you might enjoy.”

Your finger dips into your empty glass, drawing up the last drop of liquid before slipping it between your lips. The motion is intentional and filthy.

His chest tightens. His hands flex. His cock twitches as he watches you drag your finger back out of your mouth, devastatingly slow. 

You mistake his silence for hesitance, and decide to turn up the charm. You lean in closer, your breath brushing the edge of his helmet. “But, you’re in luck tonight,” you say, your voice dipping lower, “if you’ve got the credits.”

The next words are glazed with false innocence, cloyingly sweet. “I came to the city to save my family's farm, you see. I’ve not got much to send them yet, so I’m willing to offer it all for the right price.”

You bat your lashes demurely, in complete juxtaposition to your finger sucking move merely seconds ago. 

“I’m untouched,” your voice lilts. “Fresh. And now with a warrior like yourself in front of me?” You rest your hand on his forearm, just above the vambrace, along the tougher material of his flight suit. “A Mandalorian? Seems like fate.” 

Din shifts in his seat, as if adjusting his weight could relieve the feral itch clawing within him. Your lure is powerful, but the mischief in your eyes gives you away.

“Untouched?” he questions like he’s weighing something. You give your best virginal smile. 

“You’re lying,” he decides, in a gravelly, hostile tone.

You feign offense, leaning back with a pout that barely masks your amusement.

But he leans in closer, compressing the air between you until his commanding presence is nearly suffocating. His voice drops lower. 

“You better be.” 

You huff with irritation. 

He curls and uncurls his fist, but his gaze doesn’t waver, locked on yours. He drags one massive hand up his thigh, slowly–ever so slowly, but pointedly–until it’s resting on the heavy bulge between his legs.   

“I’d prefer to fuck someone that knows how to take this.” 

The air crackles between you at his explicit assertion. 

Inky darkness floods your eyes before you smirk, daring him to break the control he’s barely clinging on to. And then you speak, low and sultry. 

“Follow me.” 

You slip off your seat, sauntering toward the hallway without looking back. 

Din rises without hesitation, his boots heavy behind you, his decision already made.

You lead him to a small room–more of a storage space really–hips swaying as you float down the hall like you didn’t just scope it out hours ago.

Maybe he was expecting soft drapes and plush furniture. Instead, there’s a single, worn chair. 

Good enough.

The dim light is warm enough to make the shadows dance in the space. The sound of the cantina dampens, leaving just the two of you. You push the door shut behind you, projecting confidence. 

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the only seat in the closet-sized room. You see the stagger in his momentum at your order. 

His head cocks slightly, the cold shape of his visor locked on you. There’s hesitation, not in fear, but in defiance. You feel his shoulders tightening, his body coiled, ready to strike—or tear your clothes off. 

Impatient. 

So you push. Hands on the durasteel pauldrons on his shoulders, not forcing him with strength but wielding him with your audacity.

His compliance comes with resistance, his body slow to relent, but he drops into the chair finally. Like he’s claiming it.  

The Mandalorian sits, like, well…a man. His legs wide, owning the space despite the walls closing in. His armored body is broad and rigid, all sharp lines and angles. 

The testosterone pours off of him, nearly choking you, but you have his attention. His rapt attention. 

Your eyes flick to his hands. His fingers flex. Poised to grab, to take, to claim. But your draw keeps him still. For now. 

“Let’s see then,” his husky words wind their way right to your core. Molten and sticky. 

You straddle his lap without further teasing, adjusting to the cool, firm steel on his thighs, ignoring the faint creak of the chair. You settle closer, shifting your weight, nestling into the cradle of his hips and trapping the rigid length of his erection between you. Your lips part, taking in a sharp breath at the unmistakably generous size of him, even stifled beneath the tactical wear. 

It’s an ego trip in having such a powerful figure wound up and straining beneath you. It quickens your heartbeat and makes your cunt throb. 

The plates of his armor bite into the meat of your thighs, but it’s the solid mass beneath that has you slanting your pelvis, rocking against him with purpose. His body responds instantly—an involuntary buck of his hips upward that forces a hiss through his helmet. His gloved hands hover just shy of your waist, trembling with the last thread of his restraint.

You want to feel the rush, the untamed strength. Your spine tingles with anticipation. 

“What’s the matter, Mandalorian?” you purr, “Afraid to touch me?”

A deep and guttural sound rolls through him and his hands latch onto your hips with bruising force, dragging you tighter against him. The action is rough, desperate, on the verge of losing all civility.  

A victorious smile spreads on your face as you grind against him, unabashedly revelling in the friction, you hum in your throat. Each roll of your hips lights a fire beneath his skin. The heat building between you is scorching, even through the layers of armor and fabric. 

His breaths come faster, heavier, as he mutters a string of curses. Some of it is in a language you don’t know, but the vehement desire in his tone is clear in any language. 

His gloved fingers dig into your flesh, emphasizing the contrast between your softness and his sharpness. It heightens the charge between you, the magnetism that doesn’t relent as you rub against each other like animals. 

For a moment, he’s lost in it. Lost in you. His helmet tilts forward like he’s leaning into the touch, and his grip on you is vice-like, pulling you impossibly closer.

Until he forces you still.

A pained look pulls your brows together. You were enjoying that. 

“Enough,” his ragged voice is quiet, but commanding. “I want to fuck you now.” 

“You will,” you assure, in nearly a whisper. You trail your hands up his chest plate, sliding over the broad expanse before wedging your fingers beneath the cowl around his neck. His body jolts at the skin contact, a groan escapes him, and his grip relaxes. 

You resume the dance, chasing the friction, the pressure. Letting a broken moan ring through the air. A sound that overrides his thoughts and sends his hands on a mission. Moving higher, brushing over your ribs to cup your breasts. You gasp, rhythm faltering for only a second. But the raw and unbidden response incites him. He gropes at you roughly, trying to draw more sounds from you. 

It pulls a sinful smile to your face as you wrap your arms around his neck. 

You’ve got him. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider letting it progress. Chasing the release that your body is aching for. Letting him fuck you. Just enough to know, to feel what it would be like. The thought of his thick cock filling you to the brim, driving deeper and deeper, has your pussy clenching. Your thighs tremble. A tear of frustration wells along your waterline. 

He grunts with frustration, needing more. 

It’s exactly what you wanted.

Your fingers skim the heated skin of his neck again, brushing the edge of vulnerability he keeps hidden. His groan vibrates through you, rich and unguarded. You swear you can hear his real voice beneath the distortion of the helmet. 

Din is so engrossed in your touch, your movement, your body writhing in his lap. Drunk off of you. 

And then the needle sinks in.

The sting is immediate. His entire body tenses beneath you, the realization dawning too late. His hand flies to his neck, but the tranquilizer works fast. The tension in his muscles melts into dead weight, and his grip on you slackens.

“What the—” His voice is sluggish, slurring before he can complete the sentence. 

You hop off of him with ease, sinister smile widening on your face as you strip him of his blaster, then his vambraces, with swift and practiced hands. 

“That was even easier than I thought,” you tut. 

His head lolls to his shoulder, fighting to keep his eyes on you. 

“Disappointing, honestly,” you keep rambling as he fights to remain conscious. “Big, strapping Mandalorian. Fearsome warrior. Nobody would even take the contract.” 

You step back, assessing the way his shoulders droop. He’s fading fast. You let loose a heavy sigh, frustrated for more than one reason. 

“I was hoping for a challenge.” 

A weak sound is choked out of his throat before his tips forward, chin to his chest. Your disappointment was the last thing he saw; a blade carving into his pride as the sedative drags him under.

Din wakes up slowly.

His body is uncooperative and heavy. A dull ache radiates from the base of his neck, through his shoulders and down his spine. His mind is still foggy, clarity flashing in short bursts. He recognizes the sterile hum of a ship.

Din shifts slightly, testing the restraints. Metal cuffs dig into his wrists, holding his arms taut above his head.

“You awake already?”

Your voice slices through the haze, cool and serrated. He turns his head, his helmet amplifying the groan that rumbles out as the movement worsens his headache.

His throat is dry and sore when he tries to respond, but it’s nothing compared to the rage simmering beneath his skin. He knows better than to let his guard down, but he had been careless, reckless. 

And you. 

You had been such an irrefutable seductress, in ways he doesn’t even have words for. The memory of the way your body felt in his hands, like you were molded just for him, still seared into his senses. The weight of you in his lap, the sounds you made in response to him, the pitiful look on your face when he’d stopped your momentum. It all swirls between the fury. 

Because now he’s here. Bound by you. Humiliated by you. Forced to endure whatever ridicule you have planned.

Best he can do to respond to you is a grumbling, “hmph.” Yeah, he’s awake. 

You step into his line of sight, arms crossed with a cruel expression on your face. 

Seeing you makes it worse. His face is hot. His mind races, thoughts spiraling, berating himself. He fucked up. Let his dick do the thinking. Letting you think you bested him—even if you did. 

You lean against the wall, studying his attempts to fight the restraints. The chain scrapes against the ship's hull, each pull more furious than the last. You don’t even bother to hide the gratification. It beams off of you. Like the energy he wastes struggling powers your radiance. 

“That’s cute,” you say finally, eyes lingering on his heaving chest. The raw strength he has, useless in his current predicament. “Do you think that’s going to work?”

The rage that flares in his posture is enough to make you laugh. You can picture his teeth gnashing beneath the helmet like a caged animal. Trapped but still defensive, prepared to shred anything that gets close. 

“I thought Mandalorians were supposed to be…impressive,” you taunt in a smooth voice as you step toward him. He curses at you—well, you assume, it’s in another language. 

You cock your head, assessing him leisurely, taking your sweet time to make sure he knows that you’re detailed, precise. He braces against the cuffs. The chain groans under his force. He’s still menacing. His shape and stature, let alone the outrage emanating from him. 

But stripped of his weapons and strung up like a prize, he’s still merely a disappointment. A frustrated, metal clad, man with a foul attitude and a libidinous weak spot. The thought causes you to frown. 

He was too easy to catch. Too impatient to actually fuck. 

“I thought you’d put up a fight,” you confess. 

You slink back just as he lunges toward you, scraping the chains against the hull and no doubt snarling, baring his teeth under the helmet. 

“Pity. Most of my bounties are painfully boring. And ugly.”

He juts his chin toward you like an insult. “You lure the rest the same way?” he snaps, disdain ricocheting between you. 

“No.” You reply, turning and walking back out of sight. “Was just curious what you’d be like up close.”

He yanks harshly at the chains again, grunting at the exertion. The ugly sound of metal on metal reverberates throughout the ship. 

Din wears himself out trying to force his way out of the cuffs, adjusting and tugging trying to find any kind of leverage. He wears out every muscle in his arms and back, taut and bulging, as sweat trickles down the back of his neck. It only exhausts him. 

To the point where he’s unsure if he’s drifting in and out of consciousness or hallucinations. When he sees you next, he’s unsure if you’re real or a figment of his madness. A focal point for him to hurl insults and garbled frustrations at. 

He’s unsure how much time has passed when he notices you again,sitting on a crate, observing him.

The anger and humiliation still grate on him, and a fresh wave of adrenaline lends him another attempt at breaking free. But he’s weak. 

It’s unsuccessful.

You laugh, brightly and sharp as a knife. The sound is torture. 

“I should untie you just for the sport of it,” you muse, as if it’s a passing thought. “I could use some combat practice. Something to stroke my ego. It’s terribly anticlimactic to have captured such an overhyped trophy without even breaking a sweat.”

You draw nearer, checking for anything out of place.

“Even worse, we didn’t get to have any other fun first.” His head jerks at that. You imagine an incredulous sneer under the beskar.

A fleeting thought winds through his consciousness about his own unfinished conquest. He clenches his teeth, shoulders stiffening, adopting the proudest posture he can.

You merely prod and taunt him more as you continue whatever it is you’ve come to do. The ache behind his eyes is sharp as needles, and his arms and legs are cramping and stiff. 

The longer you keep talking, the shorter his fuse gets. You make one more comment about how you’d wasted time learning about him, doing recon and research, when he fell prey to the promise of something tight to sink his cock into. 

His breaths are ragged now, hostility dripping from his pores. Your voice incenses him, ringing in your ears even when you aren’t talking. Taunting him endlessly, like a thousand tiny cuts stinging and inflamed, never an opportunity to heal, you just jab and slice over and over. 

And now you step closer. Too close. 

“Gloat all you want. There’s no honor in using tricks,” he spits, his voice jagged and venomous, “like a filthy whore.”

The words hang in the air as you pause.

Your breath stills, the mocking glint in your eyes hardening into something severe; dangerous. He absorbs the shift in your posture—how you go perfectly still, save for the faint twitch of your jaw. The silence is blaring, swarming with something that makes his obstinance waver. 

“Seemed to me,” you say as you circle him slowly, your boots scraping against the floor like a predator’s growl, “like you were rather keen on filthy whores when you followed me out of the cantina. Does honor only matter when your cock is soft?” 

Din seethes with indignation—yet, a shameful thrill spasms through him, too. He ignores it, attributing it to fatigue, or the desire for retribution. He can’t see you. You’re behind him, silent. A retort is on the tip of his tongue, but it never makes it past his lips. 

In a blinding flash, he’s slamming into the floor. His knees make a loud thud as they bang against the hard surface. The pain in his joints is sharp; he curses loudly. 

His muscles are stiff and screaming after being in one position for so long. His gaze sweeps across the mostly empty space before you step in front of him once more. The pain is familiar, a constant he’s learned to live with. A sensation he almost craves. He swallows it down, along with the exhaustion, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

“Look at you,” your voice is drenched in condescension. His head tilts up, the visor pointing directly at you. Despite all of his current disadvantages, he’s still a threatening sight. But not to you. Not when you have control. 

You crouch, facing him, hands braced on your thighs. Your lips curl with satisfaction and a hint of pride. “You don’t intimidate me.” 

You see his fists clenching and the taut brace of his shoulders. All that power and hostility, once again straining–itching–to take it out on you. It’s an addictive rush that makes your blood pump hotter and your heartbeat sink to your cunt. 

Your fingers tap restlessly as you stare each other down. You wouldn’t mind seeing him snap. You chew at your bottom lip, maintaining presence of mind. But you let one more thought slip out in a provocatively lush tone.  “You look good on your knees, prisoner.”

let me know if you enjoyed this or if you want to fight me over my din djarin interpretation, either way part two is coming

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

tags for babes:

@lovely-vamp-princess

@auteurdelabre

@adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange

@itwasntimethatdidit40

@ivoryandflame 

@magneticecstasy

@indiegirlunited

@syd-djarin 

@harriedandharassed

@bbyanarchist

@94namkooksworld

@slimybeth69 @yxtkiwiyxt

[l0caltiredgirl]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[itshelia]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[moonxnite]

y’all ever fantasize about a fictional character a little too hard to the point you’re convinced you should be admitted to a mental hospital?

[reaperofmen]

Ok. I've had time to process, and can actually sit down and do a real reblog...

I am, as always, blown away by the vividness and beauty of your descriptions. This line gave me CHIIIIILLS.

He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face.  And he will be the first to fall. 

You do such a great job of *showing* not *telling* how their relationship has come so far.

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?” “Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire.  “I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say. “I know.”

They've grown so much, but he's STILL patiently teaching her.

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?” “Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice.  “How many?” “At least four.” “Count them.” Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

OHMYGODS, IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE XI'AN?!?! Get her ass, Scout!!

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

And finally. HOLY shit. That cliffhanger. My tincan baby!!!

nighthawks (20)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 6k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, language, x fem!reader

a/n: wow - um, hey, guys. so after my year long hiatus, i am here. hello. i truthfully to not expect anyone to flock to this story again after how inconsistent i have been. but din & scout came to me fully formed almost four years ago, and i must finish the story within. you are, of course, welcome to come along for the ride. 💛

please forgive me if this is utter shite. it has been a long time since i wrote much of anything, so i am, as the kids say, pretty mid at this.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH 

The wind whips and rages, stinging your cheeks with nettles of ice. 

From the bowels of the Sunder, Din unearthed a paltry speeder, hardly big enough to hold you and him, let alone any apprehension. That barbed, scared part of you stayed behind, and there it will remain, buried beneath mounting layers of snow and the shadow of the Sunder . You are resolute now, sure in your finely-tuned senses. Your heart thumps against your ribcage: Ren-dell Cr-ik, Ren-dell Cr-ik.

By the stars, you’ll get the bastard if it is the last thing you do. 

Hoth is exactly as your father said it would be: hostile, fierce. Downright predatory. A cold unlike anything you have ever known crawls beneath your outermost layers and settles on your skin like permafrost. The wind screams as it whistles through the frozen ends of your hair. If a decade-old rage did not simmer in your gut, you might feel the urge to shiver. Even so, you have a sneaking suspicion the planet has the means and the motive to end your life before Crik even gets the chance. If the cold doesn’t finish you first, then the Wampa (Maker forbid you should stumble across one) surely will.

You twist your fingers beneath the frosted metal of Din’s pauldrons. Figures the Sunder would come equipped with a single-rider speeder. Figures you’d end up behind Din on that bike, your face against his shoulder blade, your ass out for Hoth’s taking. Your leg muscles scream, pressed tight against Din’s hips.

The speeder races across the snow-covered landscape, current destination unfolding. 

Crik’s fob blinks like a heartbeat from the sloped dash of the speeder. He’s here—on Hoth—breathing the same atmosphere, feeling the sting of the same snow. Though the fob confirms it, you can feel his slimy presence to the marrow of your bones. He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face. 

And he will be the first to fall. 

Din tilts the speeder to the right, and you shift with the motion, leaning into the slant. With so few sentient lifeforms on Hoth, the options for where to begin your hunt are limited. Outpost Beta, Gamma Base—you could start at either but with rumblings of growing tension between the Rebels and the Empire, neither you or Din are sure a Rebel outpost is the best place to start. Hoth is too expansive to meander in the hopes of stumbling upon Crik, and without the aid of a heat signature, Din’s tracking tech does you a fat lot of good. You are left with the path of least resistance for now, even if it seems to you the least effective: find the closest cantina and ask around without raising suspicion. No self-respecting planet, sparsely populated or not, can get by without a cantina, and Din seems confident Hoth is sure to have at least one. You’ll start there and work your way out, carving through the snow and the ice and the bitter cold with your sheer determination and his iron fist. 

“Cantina. Three klicks ahead.” Din’s voice filters through your ear, tinny and warped by ill-used ear pieces. “Karga found it.” 

As the speeder darts across the frigid terrain, you rest your forehead against the back of Din’s helmet. You cannot afford to let your mind wander on this mission; there is precious time, precious energy, precious resources, and ruminating on previous conversations is wasteful. You push the thoughts of Mandalore, of your father’s proclamation of marriage, away. You must be single-minded, a sharp edged knife against the world and all in it.

The speeder angles upward over a rise, and you pull your head away from the chilled metal of the helmet. There, in the distance, a dark brown speck amidst the sparkling ice and snow: the cantina. It develops, blooming larger, unfurling, as the speeder draws closer. 

Your temporary destination is a brown craggy rock set in the base of a larger hill, carved into an oblong mass. Discrete, easy to miss on a ship overhead as a simple geological formation, but the slate gray door etched in the center of the rock speaks otherwise. Laid in white stone above the door, small red lights blink in alternating patterns. If you thought it meant anything, you may pause and determine if the lights communicate anything other than a siren’s call.

Din brings the speeder to a halt alongside a four legged creature tied to a post beside the door. Snow tangles and matts between the animal’s blue-hued fur, and a rusted chain at the beast’s ankle jangles as a bitter wind gusts over the hilltop. The creature swings its head as you dismount, braying woefully, revealing a mouth of sawn-off teeth. Pockets of puss and blood line the animal’s jaw where its teeth should stand upright. You look away and check the blaster at your hip. 

Din lifts Crik’s fob from the speeder, hides it within his pocket, then nods at you. “Let’s go.”

The door to the cantina slides open on a hiss, internal mechanisms excreting plumes of white-gray chemicals. You’re glad for the scarf wrapped around your nose and mouth. Chemicals aside, the cantina smells like shit. A foul odor hangs in the air, rotted flesh and spoiled meat. You cringe beneath your mask and steel yourself against the pervasive fumes as you follow Din through the scattered tables and chairs. 

The cantina’s sole room is quiet save for the sound of the wind outside and a scanner beeping behind the curved bar. A few patrons, none of any interest to you, duck their heads as Din passes. You feel them shrink into themselves, and it is just as well. You have no time for them. 

Only Crik.

Behind the counter, a lone man watches your approach. He braces both gloved hands against the bar, his brow knit in a tight frown. His eyes slide from Din to you then back again. 

“You’re not from around here.” His voice is knotted and thick, as though he rarely speaks above a whisper. 

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

Pushing forward, you move to stand in front of Din. He towers over you, the breadth of his chest a comfort against your back. His hand, the one not resting on the counter, settles at your hip, fingers tucking around the grip of your holstered blaster. 

“My partner and I… we are looking for someone willing to part with information in exchange for credits.”

The bartender’s frown deepens. “Credits won’t get you nowhere here.”

You expected as much, but refuse to let the momentary disappointment show on your face. You arch a brow. “Really? The brand new cycler rifle hanging on the wall there tells me otherwise.” The bartender does not glance in the direction of the weapon, but his eyes narrow. “We deal in credits, not weapons, but we are willing to be generous.”

Tilting his head back, the bartender studies you. “What makes you think I have what you need?”

A saccharine smile unwinds the terse pout of your lips. “Call it women’s intuition.”

The bartender huffs and drops his hands from the bar counter. “You can ask, but I can’t promise I have the answer.”

“That’s fine. Give us what you can.” It is the first time Din speaks in the dimly lit cantina. He is impatient in these middling moments, but you don’t mind them. You have always enjoyed the seemingly inconsequential decisions and conversations that ultimately propel you to bringing down a bounty. It is in the series of unknowns before the inevitable downfall of your mark that you find the greatest thrill.

Cocking his head to the side, the bartender shuffles for a room adjacent to the bar. You follow, two steps, three, then pause as the man orders the straggling customers to fend for themselves. Five minutes, he says. You inhale, swallowing the lump in your throat. Five minutes.

The storeroom of the cantina is reminiscent of the storeroom in which you first met the Mandalorian. The same cramped and crowded closet in a backwater cantina. The same smell of dust in the air and spice hidden within boxes. The same man, cloaked in gray, corded with power. If you had the time, you would pause to reflect on the change in you, the change in him, these past one-hundred-ten days, but as it stands: time is running thin. 

“Before I tell you anything”—The bartender turns around from the door, leveling an accusatory finger at you—“you tell me who you are.” 

“No.” Din stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands set firmly on his hips. “The deal is information for credits. That’s it.”

“But I—”

“No info, no credits.”

Any further protest sours on the man’s tongue. His lips curl upward. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. “What do you want to know?”

You resist the urge to glance at Din for approval. It has been a long time since you took the lead on a bounty. Since the disaster with Breeth, you have felt uncertain about your abilities as a bounty hunter. But Din stands beside you, patient in his silence, so you will your thumping heart to settle. 

“What can you tell me about this man?” 

Reading your cue, Din unearths Crik’s blinking fob from his pocket. He presses the center button, revealing a holographic image of Rendell Crik that rotates in a circle. Pale blue illuminates the chrome of Din’s helmet as the bartender studies the image.

The bartender raises a finger to his chin in thought. His eyes narrow. His lips purse. A flash of impatience tightens your chest. How long does it take to string a thought together, for Maker’s sake? You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ve heard tell…”

Impatience gives way to intrigue. You lean forward. “And?”

“About thirty klicks from here. There’s a camp.”

“What kind of camp?”

With a smirk, the man tilts his head. In his eye, a greedy twinkle. “That will cost you.”

Thud. The bartender’s back hits the wall, and a row of jars on a neighboring shelf clang as they jostle together. Din holds his forearm against the bartender’s neck. He angles the visor of his helm so that the bartender must look down, down into the face of destruction itself.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I told you! A camp—thirty klicks away!” 

Din leans in, his forearm pressing, pressing into the man’s neck. The bartender’s face contorts into a pained grimace. His ankles bang against the wall behind him as he struggles against Din’s grip. You hold your breath.

“That’s not enough.” Din’s voice is terse, the swipe of a whip against the ground. “You know more.”

Shaking his head, the bartender sputters. “Not much! Only rumors from the other bounty hunters!”

Din’s feet shuffle as he steps closer to the wall, pushing further into the man’s already limited space. A flush begins to rise from the base of the man’s neck. His eyes grow larger, wider, rounder as they bulge outward from the leathery flesh of his face. 

“Only what? Say it!”

The bartender will be of no use to you dead or unwilling. You see the opportunity for information begin to fade like blood in a watery pool. Your five minutes are almost up.

Stepping forward, you place a hand on Din’s shoulder. He stills, and the man’s panicked eyes dart to you. He pants against Din’s forearm, sweat like a crown upon his brow.

“Tell me what you know of Rendell Crik and the camp,” you say, tone even, gaze soft. “And my partner won’t kill you.”

/ 

The bartender was not bluffing when he said thirty klicks to Crik’s camp. 

By the time the speeder sputters to a stop behind a jagged outcrop of ice one klick away from the camp, you are sure the blood in your veins is frozen. Despite the layers covering you head to foot, a cold unlike anything you have ever known has melded to your bones, chilled the breath in your lungs, squeezed the life from your very soul. You are tired, bone weary from the frigid air and unrelenting wind. 

Gods-teeth! Hardly a few hours into the hunt and already the elements have taken their toll. Your father’s warning rings loud in your ear: Hoth?! No one survives out there. Maybe he was right. Maybe, after everything that has transpired, Hoth is too much of a risk. After all, you have rekindled the relationship with your parents. Isn’t it enough to be returned to the family fold? 

No, it’s not. So long as Jeelia’s space at the table your father carved with his own hand is empty, it will never be enough. You cannot stop now, not when you have come this far. 

Leaning against the wide base of the ice block, you lift your head from the crook of your arm where you press your forehead into the dark and frigid abyss. Frost hangs at the end of your lashes. You blink, searching for Din and his stupid helmet between the swirling colors of gray sky and white snow. Panic grips the raw edges of your psyche, and for a moment, you are in Coruscant, alone and afraid.

But he is there, as he always is, beside you. He kneels at the edge of the ice block, one hand against the ice itself, the other tight around a pair of binoculars. 

“So, what now?” 

Din twists to look at you over his shoulder. Something in your face—perhaps the chapped skin at your cheeks, the glassy look that surely clouds your eyes—makes him turn away from the camp. He hooks the binoculars to his hip. 

“First we eat something.”

You frown and sit up as Din shuffles through the contents of a pannier draped over the speeder. “I can go on. We don’t need to stop. Not when that guy said he heard from others that—” 

“Forget what he said. We got the information we needed and we made it to the camp. Anything else he said was bullshit. Don’t let it fester.” Din passes you a cloth secured with a piece of twine. “Now eat. We won’t get to Crik on an empty stomach.”

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a triangle of tea-smoked silk bread. A lump forms in your throat. You skim your thumb across the flaky crust, layers of sugared and spiced silkwheat falling from the confection. Your favorite, your mother’s best recipe. Memories of afternoons beside the hearth, your fingers sticky with fresh dough, flood your mind.

“She gave it to me.” Din’s whisper cuts through your reverie. You look up to search the impassible gleam of his helm. “Before we left Inora. She said it was your favorite and I should keep it for the moment you need it most.”

With a rueful chuff, you tear off a corner of the bread. “Is this that moment?”

“You’re doubting yourself. I can see that much.”

You wince. His words ring true, clanging against the rising fear that clutches your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you cannot help but feel that your future rests in the outcome of this hunt. Is it worth it—to go on after catching Crik? Could you continue to skate through the stars on a whim and a prayer and the hope that you (or Din) don’t fall to a well-aimed blaster? Would the Mandalorian come with you if you asked him to shirk the Guild, or Mandalore, or his son?

You suppose the outcome of this hunt will answer the unanswerable. 

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?”

“Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire. 

“I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say.

“I know.” Din moves from his haunches to a crouch. He pulls his blaster from the holster at his side. “Ready?”

Ghosts of your mother’s tender touch seep through the bread cloth in your hand, warming you. Ghosts of your sister’s gentle spirit tangle within the memories dancing in your mind. Your mother, your sister—they urge you onward. 

You shove the bread cloth in your pocket. “Ready.”

/

Crik’s alleged-camp sits square in the middle of fuck nowhere. It stands in contrast with the rest of its surroundings: a hastily built circle of tan buildings, each connected by long rectangular passageways, like a spider sinking in a glass of bantha milk. A flickering orange light emanates from the center of the compound, creating a halo over a godless palace. 

Clearing your throat, you swipe the sleeve of your arm under your dripping nose. No more time to waste. No more moments of silence to descend into murky pits of the unknown. You told Din you were ready—and you are. Once and for all. 

“What’s our plan?” You cock your head in the direction of the camp. “We can’t just waltz up and knock on the door.”

Din huffs in amusement. “Looks like some already tried.” 

He passes you the heavy electrobinoculars. Pressing the lens to your eyes, you swing your gaze around the corner of the ice block. The world shifts to a hazy blue, lines of numbers and text bleeding across the top of and bottom of your vision, but you are able to make out the entrance of the camp in the distance. You zoom in. 

A head on a spike. Bloated, black tongue hanging from a broken jaw. Blood frozen in thick streams that never reached the ground. Above, dangling from a watchtower, a body. Neck snapped, head bowed, indistinguishable. Swaying, gently twisting in the harsh wind.

You push the binoculars away. “So the plan?”

Din considers your question before pointing to the right side of the compound. “We go in that way. A service entrance from what I can tell. A carrier went in not too long ago. Crik seems to be stocking up for the long haul.”

Before you stop yourself, you mumble, “Not if I can help it.”

Din pierces you with a sharp look. “Now isn’t the time to get cocky.” 

“I know. I just—”

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?”

“Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice. 

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Count them.”

Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

“Good. So we go in through the service entrance and work our way closer to Crik from there. But before we go any further”—Din wrestles with the chest plate beneath his cloak—“put this on.” 

He offers his chest plate with little fanfare. It is merely a thing in his hand which he is presenting. The flight suit beneath his armor is dark. His uncovered chest rises and falls, patient, even breaths as he waits for you to accept the offering. 

“What?” You balk, spreading your hands in a sign of rejection. “Absolutely not! That’s yours! What are you even thinking?”

“Take it, Scout.” 

“Mando, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.” Din grabs your hands, forcing them to wrap around the chilled metal. The outward facing side is cold, but the inside is still warm where it rested against his chest, where it covered his heart. “You will put it on and then maybe I will be able to fucking breathe through this thing.”

You look up, and not for the first time, you feel as though you are looking onto his naked face. The chest plate weighs heavy in your hands, but Din’s words weigh heavier. The warning signs posted around the camp are clear enough: this won’t be easy. It won’t be safe either. Din Djarin will do whatever it takes to get you the justice you so deserve. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too.

You refuse to look at him as you press the chest plate to your body. He leans forward, reaching around your back to fold and adjust the clasps at either side. His touch is light. His movements are unsure. Reality hangs tenuous between you, fragile like thin glass. One wrong step, and Maker, you may break. 

He pulls back, chest plate secure, and his fingertips skim the rough fabric of your trousers. 

“Thanks.” Your whisper plumes in the air. You hold your hand to your armored chest. 

He nods. And then he is moving, reaching for you, and you cannot help but reach for him too. 

Your arms clutch his pauldrons, fingernails digging into the human flesh you find there. He is real. Right now he is real, and you are safe, and you can still touch him. Moisture lifts behind your eyes, but you push it down. There’s no time; not now.

“We’ll be fine.” You close your eyes, digging your teeth into the skin of your cheek to keep the mounting emotions at bay. “We will laugh about this on the other side.”

Hands clasped against either side of your face, Din presses his forehead to yours. “I lo—”

“No. Don’t say it.” You press your fingertips to his helm, to the shape of his mouth somewhere beneath layers of steel. “After. Tell me after.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay.” A single finger catches in your hair, and you wonder if he is memorizing you. “After.”

You are the first to move, rising from your crouch to a battle-ready stance. 

By your rough estimate, the service entrance to the compound is one klick away. Five guards patrolling the perimeter, barely any natural formations to give you cover as you cross the terrain. With Din’s reduced armor, his black flight suit may as well be a beacon in this white tundra. You could go by foot and risk someone catching sight of Din’s flight suit, or you could use the speeder and take the chance that someone may hear the engine running as you approach. 

You decide to go on foot. Between the unrelenting wind and drifting snow, you will pray to the Maker the patrolmen are shortsighted. Once you get closer to the service entrance itself, you will transition to a crawl. From there—

You’ll figure it out if you manage to make it that far.

At his behest, Din walks in front of you. He is bigger and therefore blocks more of the wind. His footfalls create an easy path for you to follow through the mounting snow. Both combined will make for a shorter trek. 

Step after step, you trudge through the shin-deep blizzard. You clutch your scarf to your mouth, breathing hard as you slog. 

“Forty yards then we crawl.” Din’s voice crackles through the earpiece snug in your left ear.

Large flakes of snow catch in your eyelashes when you glance up to the battlement. The camp widens as you draw nearer. A well-camouflaged cancer, you think. Tucked away in some remote corner of the universe, silent but deadly, growing with every passing day. Sickness oozes from every crack and crevice of the stone facade. You can practically smell it. 

He’s there—in the camp—lounging or eating or fucking—and you are here, outside, waiting to strike.

Din lowers to his stomach when the camp’s shadow falls across his boots. Though the snowfall has picked up, adding another layer of cover, you can never be too careful. You follow his lead, crawling across the ground, using your knees and forearms to propel your movement.

Snow and ice gathers in the folds of your suit; the damp, moist feeling is quick to follow. The mineral-taste of fresh snow laden with atmospheric junk sours on your tongue. You spit, shaking your head free of the snow catching and freezing to your hair.

“Almost there.”

Your forearms ache, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood at your knee. Rugged ground beneath your arms and ice at every turn threatens to push you to injury before crossing the threshold of the camp. You suck in a breath and push forward. 

Finally, the service entrance pokes through the thickening wall of snow. The hangar door stands open, and a pale yellow light attempts to pierce the unrelenting white of the landscape.

When Din stands, you too rise on quaking limbs. “The snow,” you gasp. “I think it helped.”

He checks his vambrace. “Sensors read an incoming blizzard. We got here at the right time.”

You could say something about the total whiteout surrounding you already being of help, but you save your breath.

Din holds his blaster close, gesturing to the one at your hip with the muzzle of his weapon. “Be ready,” he says. “Whoever, whatever—take it out.”

You nod. 

He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, and you think this would be the moment he could shed his helmet and kiss you. Man to woman. Human to human. You would readily accept the moment, bleed into his kiss, meld into his body, but—

He simply nods. 

Turning, Din hugs the wall as he stalks the length of the empty hangar. You keep to his shadow, footsteps light and practiced. At the other side of the room, there is a door which must enter the sanctity of the camp itself. After skirting workbenches and mislaid tools, you reach it. Din tries the handle. It swings open.

Warmth billows from the corridor like the breath of hell. You squint against the firelight that swallows the hallway and the meeting room beyond. No time for hesitation; no time for adjustment. You squeeze your eyes open and shut and follow Din into the hallway wrapping around a communal hall.

The hall, square and narrow beneath a triangular roof, is void of life. A fire roars in the center of the room, logs piled high, flames licking out like demon tongues. You step quietly, studying the crates and barrels cluttered around the fire. No discernible features on any of the wooden boxes. Still, you doubt anyone will be feeding them to the fire anytime soon. The compound is too silent, too distracted. You feel it in the air, the false security of an incoming storm. 

Only the storm is already here.

Din’s footfalls thud in the stone hallway. You grit your teeth, praying to the gods everyone is asleep or otherwise distracted. You are here for Crik and only Crik. 

You curl your trigger finger against the blaster’s sear. 

“Hey!”

A voice—behind you. 

Twisting at the hip, you shoot before you see, but it does not matter. Din said whoever, whatever and you agree. If it takes Crik down, if it gets your sister the eternal rest she deserves, you will tear the camp to pieces with your bare hands.

Your shot hits the shoulder of a guard at the opposite end of the hallway. He grabs his wound, doubling over with a shout of pain and alarm. Din pushes past you, moving fast, his blaster holstered, his hands free. He grabs the guard before he can right himself. The guard looks up, eyes wild, mouth open to shout a warning signal. 

But you are there before he can make a sound. Your blood runs hot. This is it. It is happening, unfolding before you in slow motion. Justice tastes sweet. 

You cram the muzzle of your blaster in the slack-jawed guard’s mouth. His eyes drop to you, and he grunts, his tongue flailing against the barrel of your blaster. You shoot, you retreat, the body hits the ground as Din steps back. 

Down the hall now—away from the fire and the body, into a darker part of the camp.

Music wafts from some secret corner of the compound. Din looks at you as if to ask the question: That way? You nod. 

Your footsteps are the only sound as you follow the stonework of the compound’s hallways. The music, some lilting birdsong, grows louder, and your blood runs thicker, hungrier as Crick draws nearer. 

Another guard steps out of a dark alcove, blaster raised. Din withdraws a throwing star from a compartment in his vambrace. He flicks it outward, catching the guard’s wrist. The blaster falls, and you scoop it from the ground. Din’s fist lands against the guard’s cheekbone. He falls back, holding his face in pain. You bring the blaster grip down on his temple. 

Onward. The music pulses now, or maybe it is just your heartbeat. Your sister’s face floats before you, some ghostly image or vision that buoys you forward.

“Wait.” Din holds out his arm, and you nearly run into it.  

You stand in the doorway of a new common area. Music spills into the hall. A singer you cannot see from your vantage point sings about love. Their voice lifts over the sound of conversation, each syllable a honeyed-tenor. The song builds, words of devotion and ardor, feelings of passion and desire. You do not allow yourself to fall prey to the heightening emotion; you keep your eyes fixed on the room within. On the man with the shaved head and the scar on his cheek.

The song hits its crescendo, the singer’s voice frozen in a high note.

Din snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Bursting into the room, you shoot blindly. You counted five men when in the doorway. Five of them, two of you. You like those odds. 

Blasterfire pings in every corner. You drop, rolling across the floor to swing your leg outward against a pudgy man’s knee. He curses as he falls, and you bring your dagger to his neck. You slice without thought. Blood gushes over your hand, staining your fingers, but you press on, knocking the man to his side.

On the other side of the room, Din carves his way through Crik’s sycophants. He moves with ease, throwing his elbow, bending to a twist when a blaster shot arcs over his head. He is heading for Crik, and you are eager to get there with him.

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

She thrusts first, and you parry. You whirl on your heel, bringing your blade in a wide arc over your head and shoulders. The Twi’lek ducks and catches the back of your leg with the point of her sword. You clench your jaw, but do no more to let the pain show on your face. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a nearby chair. The Twi’lek pauses for breath, pauses to watch her surroundings, pauses to watch the blood that streams down your leg. 

Big mistake.

You lift the chair in your hand and swing. It catches the Twi’lek in the stomach. She stumbles backward. You do not let go. You run, pushing against the Twi’lek with the seat of the chair. She frowns, fingers grabbing for the legs of the chair for some upperhand, but you push harder, forcing her across the floor until she hits the wall with a heavy thud. You drop the chair and bring your blaster up, eye level with your opponent. 

“Fucking bitch,” she mutters. 

You can’t help but grin. “Always.”

You slam your forehead against her face. Stars wash over your vision, but you feel her nose crack against your forehead. 

Stumbling backward, you shake your head free of the immediate pain of the headbutt. The Twi’lek curses as she clutches her nose, blood dripping from beneath her fingers. She looks up at you, rage like a steel trap in her eyes. 

She bolts. Blood flows from her nose, leaking onto the neck of her shirt, flinging in a shower of droplets onto the ground. Arms pumping, she advances on you. You stand your ground, dagger in one hand, blaster in the other. 

You’ll take her down. You know you can.

You brace for impact, but the Twi’lek veers for the right. You frown, stepping back to adjust your position. Only she is up, in the air, jumping, her foot hitting off a support beam in the center of the room. She pounces, and she is flying, circling over you like a predator over prey.

Now it is you who is stumbling. You card backward, glancing from the incoming Twi’lek to Din, who advances on Crik with one of the remaining guards at his back. Crik strikes outward with a shortsword. He hits Din’s unarmored stomach, and Din stops his advance, pausing long enough to show a moment of pain. 

Your attention slips. The Twi’lek descends. The hilt of her sword lands hard on the left side of your skull.

Pain explodes over your head in radiant bursts of light and fire. You fall, shouting out as you collapse. Your forearms break the fall as you catch yourself with whatever sense you have left, but you cannot rise to your feet. A bell clangs in your head; your mind feels sluggish. It is as if you have been rendered mute and immoveable. You have become a rock, and the stream of life flows all around you. The fight continues on, but you cannot join in. 

Blood pools in your mouth. A tooth? Your tongue? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Tears well in your eyes as the clanging continues. Your head feels heavy, and your stomach heaves against the pain. You wretch, and the revolt in your stomach pushes you on to your hands and knees. You vomit, and somewhere overhead the Twi’lek laughs. 

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely a bitch.���

You stumble to your feet, eyes lazy as they swing from one side of the room to the other. You are underwater, surely. You cannot hear, and you cannot see, and you cannot think. You must be drowning. This is what drowning feels like.

You mumble something around a thick tongue. The Twi’lek cocks her head, laughing still. “What was that?” she asks. “I didn’t really hear you.”

There are two of her now, twins that ebb and flow like the tide, a double of evil. You cannot determine the true twin, the one who must have come first, but you see them both, and you hate them both, and that must be enough. 

With a cry, you fall forward, your dagger pointed and at the ready. The Twi’lek catches you, but she does not catch your dagger, the one hidden beneath your sleeve. It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. You grit your teeth as you push harder, harder, until the hilt seems to disappear within her oozing and bleeding flesh.

She is silent as she falls, her eyes bouncing between yours. Blood rises to the corners of her mouth, and she gasps for breath. You drop to your knees with her as the life floods from her face. You place her head on the ground, and you hover over her, watching as her soul slips.

“Fuck-k-ing bii-tchh,” she gargles. Blood spills over her lips as she gags. 

Gasping, sucking air into your throat and your lungs and your soul, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s never been a question.”

Her head lolls to the side. 

You look up across the room to Din. He stands face to helmet, arm in arm, with Rendell Crik. Though your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, you cannot stop. He is near, at your fingertips. He is surrounded by the bodies of his stupid, oafish lackeys, and you are here, and he is held by the most powerful man on the planet. 

You rise on shaking legs. You swipe your hand over your mouth. Rendell Crik fills your vision. You take one step forward.

A shot rings out.

The Mandalorian falls.

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

[kurogxrix]

me when the READER in the X READER has a name:

like babe the fic ate but i do NOT look like an Aurora🙁

[theshamelesssimp]

When you're reading a fanfic and suddenly the reader has a name

[cinnamoodles]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[luffyssa]

[writerstruggle]

I can't-

[the-djarin-clan]

When you look for a fic on Tag Reader and the main character already has a name and social security number...

[noonecareslol]

i don’t write fanfics i literally just repost them and sob my eyes out.