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magicalbats · 3 months ago

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Kinktober 2024 Day 11: Gepard x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 4812

Warnings: Afab!reader, childhood friends to lovers, uniform, sex in public, clothed sex, dry humping, much talk of marriage plans, this one is very soft and unproblematic lol

A/N: I love, love, love Gepard, you guys. Fun fact, actually, I kept pulling for him on the standard banner to no avail and I thought for sure I was going to have to wait until I got my free 5* pick at 200 pulls but then I finally got him on Valentine's Day this year! And Serval came with him so I took that as my sign that it was meant to be and she approved of our relationship. lmao

⭐

It was always easy to pick Gepard out in a crowd for a handful of reasons.

The least of which was his considerable height which made him, quite literally, stand out amongst a population of citizens that didn’t skew much towards being tall. There were a handful of other men who evenly matched him and even fewer still who managed to surpass his size, but they were in the minority by a considerable margin.

What further distinguished him from the rest was his hair. That pale blond wasn’t an overly common color one could find in Belobog, though certainly not unheard of. It was, however, something of a signature for the Landau family. All of them seemed to have it and the particular shade never differed all that much between them.

So it was safe to say if you spotted someone who was rather tall with a boyishly tousled mop of soft blond hair atop his head, it was more than likely the Silvermane captain. And should you still have any doubts, the strong voice of conviction that he used to delegate his men and issue commands was another dead give away. There wasn’t anyone else quite like him wearing the pure white armor of Belobog’s militaristic armed forces who believed in what he stood for with quite so much steadfast tenacity.

It makes it very hard for you not to smile as you work your way through the densely packed street on a sure trajectory towards the object of your affection. You’d caught sight of him further back at the far edge of the bustling throng of bodies, just as you always did, but now you were close enough that you could clearly hear him speaking over the general din.

The final nail in the coffin comes when you sidle up alongside him much to the querious looks of the men gathered before him and he turns those striking, crystalline blue eyes on you. Even amongst his fellow Landau’s you’d never seen anyone with eyes quite like his.

“Oh.” He blurts, clearly surprised at your sudden appearance beside him. “You’re already here? My apologies, I didn’t realize what time - -“

Giggling softly when he cranes his head around in search of any clocks in the immediate vicinity, you reach out to gently tug on the corner of his jacket and bring his attention back around. “Don’t worry, you didn’t lose track and forget about me. I’m just early, that’s all.”

The tension in his shoulders immediately recedes, and Gepard fixes you with a small but pleased smile. “Ah, I see. I’m glad to hear it then. You had me a bit nervous for a moment there.”

“It’s okay. I know how busy you are.”

“Yes, well …”

Trailing off, he somewhat awkwardly turns his gaze towards his men again and you follow his line of sight to find them rather blatantly watching the scene play out. Shameless gossips, all of them.

Not that you could really blame the soldiers for their interest considering how stringently upright and respectable their captain was, so getting to see him interact with a woman wasn’t something they were very used to. Even Serval, his older sister, was rarely seen with him despite her past ties to the Silvermane’s so it doesn’t exactly come as a great surprise that they would be curious.

But it’s clear that Gepard isn’t entirely comfortable having a rapt audience like this, and he gives a deliberate cough to make sure they were listening. As if there were even any doubt.

“I’m going to step away for a moment but you all have your orders. Make sure you don’t get distracted just because there’s a festival going on. I’ll be back momentarily.”

Turning towards you again to a masculine chorus of ‘yes, sir’s, Gepard politely reaches out to take your elbow so he can steer you away from the onlookers. You send them a quick wave over your shoulder but allow him to direct you where he wants, happy to go along with him wherever he might choose to go.

The two of you had known each other since you were children, though it was kind of hard not to be at least passingly acquainted with everyone who happened to be in your general age range when Belobog had such limited space to offer its citizens. The reopening of the Underworld had returned the settlements' range back to its former reach though, and now there were even efforts being made to expand outward as well. And although you’d seen less of each other at the onset of adolescence and into early adulthood, there was still an infinite wealth of trust between you and him. If he suddenly said to run out of the city into the barren, frozen tundra beyond you wouldn’t have even thought to question it.

Luckily he just pulls you away from the busy square and down a quieter side street though. You’re glad for it since you weren’t wearing anything heavier than a thick sweater to keep you warm, and you don’t think you’re up for a trek through the endless snowdrifts outside the walls.

Stopping together just short of one of the many heaters dotting the street, he finally moves to look down at you again. It’s with a much more at ease smile this time and you can’t help the resulting pang you feel in your chest.

It wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t always so tall and filled out, and you didn’t always have to tip your head back to look him in the face.

You also didn’t always feel quite so compelled to tug him down for a kiss, but in terms of developments this one was still quite new. Even his strict father didn’t yet know about the recent change in the dynamic between you and his son, and there was very little that ever managed to slip under his radar. Perhaps he was just finally starting to slow down in his old age though.

“You look lovely today” Gepard tells you in the here and now, giving his uniform a vague gesture with his gloved hand. “I almost feel out of place wearing the same thing I always do when you’re dressed up so nice. I’m sorry I can’t run home and change.”

“I don’t want to hear another word about it. You look dashing, as always.” Pinning him with a sly grin, you reach out to slip your finger into the fur sash around his waist and give it a brief tug. “I like your uniform, but you already knew that. I’m not sure if anyone else pulls it off quite like you do.”

Eyes widening to accompany the faint splash of pink that creeps into his face, Gepard steps back from you with a surreptitious glance over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was looking. “Don’t joke around like that! My men are already whispering - -“

“Then let them whisper. Your father has to find out about us at some point.”

“That’s not what worries me.” He insists, sending you a rueful glance. “You know this isn’t proper. If people start to suspect we’ve been … intimate before I’ve even asked for your hand, that’ll cause us both a whole world of problems.”

Feigning a soft huff, you bring your hands up to brace them on your hips in an intentionally haughty pose. “There’s an easy fix for that, Gepard. Would you like to hear it?”

He tips his head, blinking at you rather inquisitively now. “Certainly. If you’ve got such a great idea then - -“

Stepping into him and cutting Gepard off, you reach up to grab hold of his collar at the same time you bounce forward on your toes. Despite being both much bigger and much stronger than you, he doesn’t even pretend to fight it and just lets you pull him down into an eager kiss that makes him noise a soft little sound of surprise.

He’s much too good and chivalrous, you think to yourself when his hands come up to politely curl around your shoulders rather than anywhere else he could have grabbed you. His upbringing shows in everything he does though, including the way he tentatively kisses you back as if you hadn’t already made it abundantly clear just how much you enjoyed feeling his lips on your skin. It seemed he was always going to let you set the pace though, at least until some inevitable tipping point was reached and he couldn’t help but let go of those pesky inhibitions holding him back.

Oh well. That just meant you had that much longer to teach him a few more things before setting him loose on your body. And you were certain he’d take these lessons to heart because he was nothing if not resolute in every task he took on. You didn’t doubt for one second that love making would be any different in that regard.

Finally rocking back to peer up at him, you give Gepard a great big smile. “Propose to me then. They can’t say anything about it if we’re already engaged, right?”

Taking a moment to search your face with a glimmer of fond admiration reflecting in his steady gaze, the Silvermane captain eventually breathes out a slow sigh through his nose. “There’s nothing I’d love more, you know that. But there’s a certain way these things need to be done.”

“Such as?”

“After I get permission from both our parents’, for starters.”

Now it’s your turn to sigh as you look up into his handsome face. You almost wished you had the capacity to be annoyed with him and his adamancy for following the rules, but you really just can’t find fault in it. There wasn’t anyone who embodied the spirit of the Amber Lord’s preservation quite the same as he did, after all. It was an admirable trait to have, even if you yourself weren’t much for upholding tradition or customs.

“That little wrinkle you get between your eyebrows when you’re thinking too hard about something is very cute,” He murmurs, a fond note dancing in his voice now as he bends closer to place a soothing kiss to the spot in question. “But I still wish you wouldn’t fret over this so much. You have my word that what I feel for you is true and my loyalty cannot be called into question. It may not be officially sanctioned yet, but I’ve already sworn my vows to you as far as I’m concerned.”

“I know.” You murmur, all but preening under his tender, doting affection now. “Thank you, Gepard. I’m just eager to be with you.”

“As am I, rest assured. But we’ll get there soon enough. You just need to have patience, sweetheart.”

Your smile takes on a mischievous edge as you bring your hand up to meaningfully tug on his jacket. “Then let’s do it. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Right here?” He asks, incredulous. “You’re crazy. We can’t possibly do something like that in public. And I can only stay for a few minutes more before I’m needed back at - -“

“Please.” You cut him off, imploringly batting your eyelashes up at him.

Visibly conflicted, Gepard opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it and closes it again. Grumbling a low sound under his breath, he turns his face from you as if he couldn’t bear to look for another moment longer without folding, but you could tell you’d already won. Those vows he’d spoken of had been sufficient enough for him to bend the rules just a little bit, as much as he was likely capable of. It wasn’t much once you got right down to it and you suspected this arguably small allowance caused him much more grief than simply waiting it out would have, but he was much too softhearted to say ‘no’ to you indefinitely.

This part of your dynamic, at least, hadn’t changed one bit over the years. He’d always had a hard time not giving into your demands, going along with whatever cockamamie game or scheme you concocted even when he was nearly in tears while doing it. That just showed how seriously he regarded the tradition of marriage though, if he still refused to budge that last little bit even now.

But on this one thing he was grudgingly willing to relent and he does indeed give in to the coaxing tug on his jacket with another low rumble, allowing you to pull him into the cramped alley you were standing next to. It’s noticeably chillier the further you move from the street heater but you trust him to keep you warm, just like he always did.

You can’t help giggling an eager sound as you back up towards the wall when you deem that you’re far enough from the lip of the alleyway that you wouldn’t be easily spotted should anyone happen by. He obediently shuffles after you, bringing one hand up to firmly brace against the rough bricks just next to your head as he hunches close to cage you in. The other he uses to slip under your chin and tip your face up at him, that steady, tepid blue gaze meeting yours. Feeling your anticipatory excitement wind just that little bit tighter, you reach out to give his waist an encouraging squeeze.

“Here should be fine, right?”

“This is hardly what I would consider fine,” He grumbles back, resigned to his fate but clearly not entirely unwilling. “You’ll be the death of me some day if you keep this up. I hope you know that.”

“As if I’d let you get away that easily.”

Grinning, you once again rock forward and go up on your toes so you can entice him down for another kiss. It works, of course, and he bends closer to slot his mouth over yours with a stilted sigh. His lingering reticence quickly dissipates though as you work your lips over his, tasting him in such a full bodied head rush that it almost leaves you dizzy.

The clean scent of him mixed with the vague smell of ozone swarms your senses and makes you want him even more, hungrily tipping your head to deepen the exchange. Gepard hesitates to do it, still ever mindful of where this was taking place, but he gradually opens his mouth to allow his tongue to come up and brush against yours. It had taken you about a week to convince him that this kind of intimate kissing wouldn’t break the rules so terribly that his father would disown him on the spot if he ever found out about it. And you bask in it now, relishing the warm push and enticing pull of his tongue as it dances with yours.

At the same time you let your hands wander over the front of him to feel along the cool press of his armor, all the bits and bobbles on his uniform. You hadn’t been joking earlier about liking it. In fact, you really liked it and you were glad for his willingness to humor you while wearing it. He’d always been a cute kid with those sweet, sweet blues in his eyes and age had only improved on what was already there.

But he’s much more reserved than you are about allowing his touch to drift any lower than where it’s somewhat possessively curled around the side of your neck, so you reach up to grab at his blocky wrist. Gepard noises a soft sound into your lips as you drag his hand down and redirect it to your chest. At first his fingers remain stiff and unreciprocal when you push the palm into one breast but then a faint shudder works through him to accompany the quiet rumble of a masculine groan.

Carefully closing his fingers around the swell of your tit, he gives it a brief, groping squeeze to almost make your toes curl in your boots. He was always so gentle and hyper aware of how he handled you, which was a good trait for someone as big and strong as he was to have. You knew he could have hurt you if he really wanted to and it would have been exceptionally easy for him to do so, but the loyal captain had never so much as even raised his voice at you. He was the exact opposite of his father in so many different ways and his strictly disciplined self control assured you he would never become like the man who’d raised him.

It was kind of sweet, in all honesty. How he insisted on treating you like fragile glass that might shatter in his hand if he wasn’t cautious enough despite your insistence to the contrary. He was much too soft for roughhousing. Always had been.

But the more he kneads at your breast through the front of your sweater, the more comfortable he becomes with doing it. Just as every other time, after that initial uncertainty wears off, Gepard takes to it with natural aptitude.

His hands are big to match his considerable size and he makes easy work of palming the swell of your chest to squish and slightly lift it. Still exceedingly gentle, still mindful of how much pressure he applies, but so incredibly attentive to the task that you can’t quite stifle the needy mewl that crawls up your throat. You could feel the nipple slowly growing stiff and pebbled against the cup of your bra, and you finally pull back from the kiss to look up at him again.

“Ohh. That feels good, Gepard. Keep doing it, just like that.” You encourage him with the softly issued, hushed praise as you dreamily slide your fingers over the gauntlet he’d been gifted by the previous Supreme Guardian. Each metal ridge and divot registers in your mind and yet you hardly even notice it at all when he was groping your chest like that.

It seems to be the same for him on some level, and you can tell he doesn’t perceive anything other than you in that moment when he bends his head close to lightly press your foreheads together. The world may as well have come to a screeching standstill at that very moment for as little as anything else mattered, and you tip your face up slightly to better look at him from this angle.

“You’re doing such a good job.” You tell him earnestly, giving your back a subdued arch to press your tit further into his hand. “I can’t wait to finally have you on our wedding night.”

A low, long suffering groan rumbles out of him, eyes sliding shut while he rides out the faint tremor that seems to work down his spine in response. “Don’t say that. It’s already hard enough to behave myself when you’re so …”

“So what?”

His eyes open again to look at you as the hand braced against the wall comes down to hesitantly join the other in kneading your breasts. “So perfect. So beautiful and smart. And frustratingly clever too.”

“Oh,” You breathe out when he lifts your chest in both his palms to pinch and squeeze at you more vigorously. “Is that what you’re calling it now? Clever?”

“Yes. Trouble is probably more accurate but I was trying to be polite.”

The two of you laugh at that, Gepard’s masculine rumble intertwining with your girlish giggles to create a truly harmonious sound that almost seems too good to be true. It was at times astounding how much you actually complemented each other, to the point where your relationship now seemed like a foregone conclusion in retrospect. Where he was unfalteringly honorable and stubborn, you were soft and playful. It was a good balance, you’d quickly come to find.

And when you reach down to feel across the front of his neatly ironed slacks only to find him hard and eagerly straining towards you, you’re filled with a giddy sense of wonder at how you’d managed to coax him even this far. Doing this in the privacy of your little apartment was one thing and already an impressive feat. But to do it here, outside on the street where anyone could happen upon you at any time? It was downright unbelievable, or it would have been were you not seeing it with your own two eyes. Had you not been holding the weighty proof of his feelings for you in the palm of your hand.

Feeling your cunt squeeze in anticipation, you tip your head back to accept the kiss he leans down to press into your mouth with a faltering groan. To get his pants undone you need to bring both hands together to work in tandem, and your lips hungrily push back against him while you work on the series of buttons keeping his placket shut. You’re admittedly a bit surprised he doesn’t change his mind right then and there, but just as with everything else once he’d made up his mind about something there was no going back on it.

Taking your time, you carefully free him just enough to let his rigid length slip out into the open, making him hiss a soft sound at the chill on his skin. His cock bobs between your body and his, looking like it wanted to retreat back into the warm safety of his slacks but was just a little too excited to truly flag. Cooing a gentle sound of comfort at him, you shuffle close to throw your arms over Gepard’s broad shoulders and he gratefully wraps his around you so he can pick you right up off your feet.

Once he’s got you secured to the front of him, he shuffles closer to the wall to pin you there. Your skirt is all askew around your thighs now, trapped in the press of your bodies as he settles comfortably into the space of your parted thighs with his cock pressed right up against your panties. This was as far as he would allow it to go, always insisting that the thin final barrier of your underwear remain until all of the customary criteria were met first. But oh, you’re so incredibly grateful for even that much as you shudder at the tight, hot press of him right along your slit.

Sometimes it felt like he was driving you mad, and this was very much one of them. You could have screamed for him to just take you already, public decency be damned, when he starts up a slow, steady grind that has his stiff length digging into your cunt. It feels good as far as compromises go and yet it just makes you all the more eager to feel him touching you skin to skin, moving inside you rather than this.

You move with him though, working your hips to help guide him and set the pace you want which he happily obliges. The intense look of concentration on Gepard’s face urges you to lean further into him so you can kiss over his brow, his temple, the bridge of his nose. He moans a breathy sound when his focus starts to slip because of what you’re doing and the power behind his thrusts picks up a notch to match that spike in his arousal. He was particularly sensitive after years of waiting with only his own hand for company, but something told you he’d still display this same lack of willpower even many years after you were married. There were some things even experience couldn’t change, and his puppy-like eagerness to please was no doubt one of them.

Working your mouth lower to glance over his smooth cheek, you once again find his mouth and you coaxingly kiss him to encourage his efforts. Just as you’d expected, he does a sufficient job of keeping you warm like this, two bodies moving in near perfect unison with each other to reach the finish line. You hardly even notice the now distant chill as you rake your hands through his enviably soft hair and clutch him more firmly against you.

A ragged, tortured sound slips out of him when Gepard eventually pulls back just enough to gasp into the scant space and you take advantage of that opportunity to nip at his bottom lip. He made you so hungry, so deeply irrational with want that you momentarily forget where you are. And you think the same goes for him because he presses his weight more firmly into you, all but flattening you against that smooth bricked wall as his hands travel lower to take greedy, grasping handfuls of your hips.

If the chance of discovery were not so great you would have liked to simply reach down and guide him into your waiting cunt, consequences be damned, but you have to make do with simply pressing back on the rigid length digging into you to get your fill. You just become more wild with it as the seconds tick by, enthusiastically writhing in his arms until you can feel the gusset of your panties starting to soak through with slick. He really was driving you mad.

“Keep going, Gepard.” You whisper to him, breath hitching in your chest to make your lungs stutter. “I’m getting close. Don’t stop.”

“I am too.” He hisses back.

It’s not hard to see he’s struggling against the exact same urges you are, his jaw tight with the clench of his teeth, but he admirably maintains his noble bearing throughout. No matter how wild or desperate your squirming becomes, he just keeps steadily holding you there against him while the distant sound of an ongoing festival drifts in your general direction from a few streets over.

You realize exactly how dangerous this is, of course, and you’re sure he does too. Yet that doesn’t deter either of you from chasing your pleasure together, and your pussy achingly throbs when the motion of his hips starts to turn stiff and uneven. The way Gepard rattles a high strung sound of pure, unfiltered bliss into the still alley nearly sends you careening right over the edge, and you blindly clutch at him when the internal pressure starts to reach its breaking point.

But he seethes, holding back his own release until the tension in you finally snaps and you cum with a jerky spasm. The immediate rush of live wire sensation has your eyes rolling back in your head while you whimper a frazzled yet deeply satisfied noise of pleasure, shaking fitfully in his hold until the spasms recede a drawn out moment later.

It’s only then that he nudges you up a little higher to let his twitching cock slip out from between your legs. The strength he exhibits when he jostles you around like you weighed little more than a child, reaching under you with one hand to politely gather the back of your skirt out of the way, is incredible in its own right. There weren’t many who matched him in strength, even amongst the Silvermane’s, and that was never more apparent than it is in situations like this.

Twisting your fingers into the shoulders of his uniform, you lean in to catch his kiss-swollen lips again, and he responds with a rumbling sound of relief into your mouth. He shudders almost instantaneously, wheezing through his nose while he impotently shoots off into the air, splattering the wall and the ground with his spend. It’s such a full bodied release that you can feel his orgasm working through him where you’re pressed right up against one another and you seethe a sensitive sound at the thought of how he might feel cumming inside of you instead.

The worst part is that even though he always seems to feel it right down to his very bones he still recovers quicker than you, and you mewl a quiet, dreamy sound when he straightens from the bent kneed slouch he’d fallen into. Turning your face to drop it against his shoulder, you allow yourself a content hum of satisfaction that he mirrors back at you with a low rumble of his own.

“I’ll say it again,” He murmurs, pressing his mouth against your hair in a lingering kiss. “You’re going to be the death of me at this rate.”

Smiling and giddy, you force your body to cooperate even though it really doesn’t want to, sluggishly leaning back to look at him. “I’ll make it up to you later, Captain. Promise. But for now, would you like to go enjoy the festivities with me?”

He pins you with a boyishly earnest smile, his lovely eyes dancing with delight. “Of course I’d love to. Nothing would make me happier, sweetheart.”

⭐

Cross posted: here

#gepard landau #gepard x reader #hsr #star rail #self insert bullshit

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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months ago

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Gold Chain

Din Djarin x Female Mandalorian Armorer Reader

Content & Trigger Warnings: fluff, light angst, slightly jealous / possessive Din, Mandalorian culture, canon-typical swearing, reclaimed Mandalore, Din’s POV

Word Count: 4.3k

Din intended to take Grogu with him back to Nevarro after Mandalore was reclaimed. Duty kept him in the ruins of Sundari, helping Bo-Katan and the other Mandalorians in their efforts to rebuild. Over time, an Armorer from another tribe caught his eye. Din is drawn to you, visiting repeatedly. Seeing everyone else around him find happiness, Din finally decides to seek it for himself.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // fluffuary 2024 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart ka’rta beskar – iron heart Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum – I love you Ori'haat – It’s the truth riduur – spouse / partner Vor entye – thank you

The Great Forge of Mandalore is not a singular forge but several.

The large, tree-like monoliths are connected to each other like the collective beating heart of the Mandalorian people. Only three of them are in use as the rest sustained damaged during Imperial aerial bombardment. Like the people they represent, the dead forges are undergoing repairs.

Soon, they will burn and build again.

It requires more than a lone Mandalorian Armorer to keep the fires lit, to shape and bend the beskar, to smelt and refine the metal, to dig into the earth and excavate the ore. For a small covert on a distant planet, one armorer is enough. The forge used is special but tiny. A drab replica of the real thing.

That is no longer the case.

Mandalore belongs to the Mandalorians again. Its people flourish. They thrive, and the urge to rebuild—not just the cities but to grow as a people—is an innate, desperate need felt by all. It is a pounding, driving force like the beat of ceremonial drums.

The air should ring with the sound of a hundred hammers. Foundlings and younglings should be roaming freely, their shouts of joy floating in the breeze. The clans, while different in the ways they adhere to the Way, should be a united front.

All of this deserves to be true, but that is not the reality.

The air does not ring with the sound of a hundred hammers. It only rings with a few.

Foundlings and younglings are not free to roam. There are too many dangers lurking in the dark.

The clans are not a united front. There are plenty who are stuck in their ways and refuse to budge for the sake of the whole.

Some Mandalorians perceive this as a failure.

Din Djarin does not see it that way.

For him, he remembers a time when his ideas about what it meant to be Mandalorian consumed his reality. His covert and their principles were the only thing that mattered to him. The urge to adhere to that life was severe to the point that Din pushed other Mandalorians away.

He no longer holds to those strict ideals. Every Mandalorian here and elsewhere are important to him. Every foundling. Every youngling. Every clan and tribe. All of it.

They deserve to be protected.

They deserve to live on.

They deserve to endure.

That is why Din skulks in the shadow of the Great Forge like a kriffing idiot. He is looking for someone—a woman. Behind the visor in his helmet, Din observes the massive room. The Mandalorian Armorer from his tribe stands near one of the forges. Several helmeted younglings surround her in a short half-moon. They hang on her every word while in her hands is a raw piece of beskar that she turns end over end.

Din is not here for her. He is searching for you, and you are always here. You, who has been on his mind these last few months.

His gaze rolls past the Armorer, finding you near a mountainous pile of beskar. Like the Armorer of his tribe, you are also a Mandalorian Armorer, but there are no younglings or foundlings at your feet.

Picking up a piece from the pile, you examine it, turning it over between your hands before depositing it into one of three nearby bins. Some of it is raw and untreated but there are also helmets, pauldrons, and other pieces mixed in. All of it pulled from the Mines below.

Din has never seen your face, nor does he care. He only knows what his heart wants. It is an insistently nauseating need to be close to you. Solitude and clan are comforts to Din, but they are not enough. Not like they used to be. Every day, Din watches other Mandalorians find happiness and contentment. Their peacefulness is like spice to him, causing him to wonder about what his life could be.

This idea plagues him, and it is why he comes to the Great Forge every day. To see you.

But what is today’s excuse? It’s almost always Grogu.

Din will bring him along and casually mention the importance of watching the Mandalorian Armorers work their craft. At some point, Grogu will be handed off to someone, and then Din lingers near your workstation while he attempts to make conversation.

Attempt is the important word here. Small talk is a genuine failure of his. He doesn’t understand. What comes out of him is fragmented bits of conversation that don’t entirely make sense. Din is awkward, stumbles over his words, and is genuinely flustered by your presence.

Moving out of the shadows, Din ascends the stairs up to the Great Forge. The Armorer briefly glances in Din’s direction before returning her attention to the younglings. You haven’t noticed Din yet, and he takes this moment to admire you.

The armor you wear is unique and unlike anything Din has seen before. The beskar is painted black, the mid-day light reflecting off its shiny surface as you pick up another chunk of untreated ore. Around the t-shaped visor and the ka’rta beskar, is golden paint. But the focal point are the horns on the helmet.

The Armorer of Din’s tribe has horns as well, but they are small and only five in total. Yours curl out and around like Bantha horns. From the base of the bottom-most curl, thin gold chains hang down from small puncture holes in the metal. The ends rest against the fur that lines your shoulders. One of the holes is empty, clearly absent a chain.

At first, Din thought the choice odd, but it’s a nod to your people and how they revere the title of Armorer. It’s ceremonial. Not functional.

Din strides toward you, and when you finally notice his approach, you immediately place whatever you’re holding down, turning toward him. Warmth instantly blooms everywhere, rushing through Din’s limbs like the heat of Tatooine.

“Din Djarin,” you breathe, and it is a gentle sigh.

He loves the way you say his name, as if it’s a secret between the two of you.

“Armorer,” he replies, just as softly.

You laugh and Din flushes behind the helmet. He wants to hear your happiness all the time. “You can call me by my name. We know each other well enough.”

Din inclines his head but does not use your given name. It feels too personal. Too forward. This is new territory for him. He longs to draw you close but fears accidentally pushing you away.

He’s taking things slow. He’s taking things carefully. You are important to him and he doesn’t want to mess it up.

“Where is Grogu?” you ask.

“School,” Din replies instantly, knowing he cannot use the foundling as an excuse.

“That’s wonderful. Lady Kryze mentioned they were trying to put one together.”

Din shrugs. “It keeps him busy.”

“First day?”

Din nods.

“You’re nervous,” you observe.

You’re good at reading him which is startling to Din since he never removes his helmet. Your clan allows it with immediate family and one’s riduur, a fact Din is highly aware of.

“That’s normal,” you continue. “You love him. Want what’s best.”

“We’ve rarely been apart,” replies Din quietly.

“He’s safe.”

“I know.”

The two of you fall into silence and Din doesn’t know where to go from here. He almost always starts these conversations by asking if you’re in need of anything like beskar. Kriffing hell, he’ll even run errands for you. Fetch whatever you ask.

As long as it keeps him in your proximity.

“I—” he begins, cutting off quickly to try and formulate the next thing he wants to say.

“Yes?” You step closer, your arms nearly brushing.

Din is losing his nerve. You’re so close, and Din leans in a bit, pretending that this is more than what it is.

He clears his throat. “Did you need anything? Can I be of service in some way?”

You pause, helmet glancing toward the overflowing piles of beskar. “More of it comes from the Mines every day. I’ve been taking inventory as it arrives.” You sigh heavily. “I worry about the groups that descend into the Mines. I shouldn’t but it’s dangerous, and us Mandalorians are already so few.”

“Your clan helped with that,” says Din, because it’s true.

Bo-Katan had to explain it to him, that your tribe left Mandalore almost a thousand years ago. Disagreement ran rampant, and they headed for a distant planet far in the Outer Rim, nearly into the Unknown Regions. Flourishing where they landed, your people left the galaxy to its own troubles.

“I suppose we did,” you answer.

But they heard the call to return, and Bo-Katan only knew about your clan’s existence because of the Night of a Thousand Tears. They were too late to help, but they went on to save as many Mandalorians as they could, even going so far as to raid Imperial vessels and storage facilities that held beskar.

“You could help with that.”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Anything.”

“Anything?” you ask, and Din hears the tease in it. The soft way it drops from your lips.

Yes. Anything.

“Command me at your pleasure,” purrs Din.

You clasp your gloved hands in front of you. “Your help pleases me, Din Djarin.”

He melts into the floor. Becomes a puddle. “What would you like me to do?”

You glance at the massive pile behind you. “It all needs to be sorted. Unrefined beskar goes here.” You point to the barrel on the far left. “Helmets, vambraces, or anything with wiring needs to go in that bin.” You turn toward the final bin. “Everything else goes in there.”

Din might not forge armor, but the structure and functions of it are as natural to him as breathing. He approaches the pile, begins sorting. The two of you work in tandem, and anything he’s not completely sure about, he brings to you.

The best part of this is your presence. The worst is that Din wants to talk to you but isn’t sure how. His tribe is not one for small talk, and this is excruciating to him. Din desires to hear your voice, to keep your focus on him, even if it’s a fleeting moment.

Din picks up a dented chest plate and deposits it into the correct bin. “Do you have everything you need?”

You glance up from inspecting a vambrace, looking around the area directly in your vicinity. “Yes?”

“I meant outside this.” Din extends one hand outward, indicating the Great Forge.

Slowly, you drop the vambrace into the bin next to you. “Am I missing something?”

Me, thinks Din. You’re missing me.

“Adequate food? Shelter?”

“My basic needs are met.”

Din picks up a helmet and places it into the correct bin without looking. “And beyond that?” He strides toward you, wanting to find something in your life that he could insert himself in to. Even the smallest thing is enough.

“What do you mean?”

There are so many ways to answer that. What Din truly wants to know is if there is anyone else in your life. If there is anyone else he might have to compete with for your affection. It’s not like he hasn’t subtly asked around or kept a careful eye on the other Mandalorians you speak with on a daily basis. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t missed something.

“Are you happy, cyar’ika?” The word of affection slips out without thought. Din cannot take it back.

There is a gentle shift in the way you draw back. It’s not from revulsion, disgust, or even anger. It’s only surprise. He has startled you, and Din is unsure if this will derail everything he’s tried to build.

“Yes,” you respond after a short stretch of silence. “But I could always be happier.”

Hope blooms in Din’s chest, slithering out like vines to wrap around his ribcage. He moves closer, one gloved hand reaching out, itching to touch.

“Din Djarin.”

You and Din turn abruptly.

Bo-Katan Kryze lingers near the edge of the stairs, her helmet tucked under arm. “I need to speak with you.”

Din turns back to you and your nod. Placing your hand over your heart, you bow your head. Din knows this greeting and goodbye. It’s normal for your clan to use it with people they’re close to. But then you extend your hand outward, gloved fingers lightly brushing the side of Din’s helmet before dropping away.

“Vor entye.”

Din inclines his head, stepping away from you and toward Bo-Katan. His heart pounds in his chest, the sound rattling in his ears, making the helmet seem small and claustrophobic for the first time in his life.

Din’s gloved thumb rubs up and down the small gold chain in his hand.

It’s thin enough to be a necklace, but that is not its purpose. The gold chain is a replacement piece for the one you’re missing. He discreetly asked the Armorer to make it, and she did so without question, taking great care to create an exact match to the ones you already have.

He holds it in one hand, absently stroking the material as he walks toward the Great Forge. There is no plan to hide in the shadows this time. With the gold chain clenched in his fist, Din strides forward with purpose with the intent to give it to you just like all the other gifts he’s given.

As the enters the large room, Din’s gaze first knocks the Armorer, but when he finds you, and time comes to a grinding halt.

You are not alone.

Another Mandalorian, a man that Din has seen around but doesn’t know, talks with you near one of the working forges. The armor he wears is red and faded. He stands entirely too close for Din’s liking but that isn’t what truly irritates him.

This man keeps touching you. He’s not grabbing for you or forcefully entering your space. Every movement is light and delicate. Sometimes he briefly rests his hand on your arm, waist, or shoulder. He leans in like he can kiss you through his helmet. And Din cannot tell if you’re receptive or not.

You’re not reacting. That much he can see. You do not touch back or lean in. Not like you do with Din. While that comforts him, all he knows is that someone else is pushing in and making a move into his space.

Din quickly ascends the stairs, his strides long and poundingl. The male Mandalorian shifts slightly as you glance over his shoulder before fully turning in Din’s direction. The moment he notices Din, he steps in front of you as if you need protecting.

Cold fury flares within him, igniting a path from his stomach to his head. You step around the stranger, brushing past him to reach Din.

“Din,” and your greeting is just like yesterday, breathy and soft. All that anger starts to melt away because you’re in front of him, and that is all that matters.

You come to a stop just shy of Din’s right shoulder. Gently, you rest your hand on his bicep, the part that isn’t covered by his pauldron.

Turning back to the Mandalorian in red armor, you dismiss him. “Thank you for coming by, Rhuk.”

Rhuk’s t-shaped visor is angled toward Din as he inclines his head in goodbye. “Be well, Armorer.” Din watches him go, tracking his every step until he’s down the stairs and moving away from the Great Forge.

So focused on Rhuk, it takes you three firm squeezes of Din’s arm to draw his attention away.

“Did you bring me something?” you ask, glancing down at his hand.

Din opens it, presenting the small gold chain. You glance up quickly.

“It’s a replacement,” says Din, nodding toward the side of your helmet with the missing link.

You’re hand automatically reaches up, fingertips lightly brushing against the empty spot. It hovers there briefly before falling to Din’s open palm. With gentleness, you slip your fingers under the gold chain.

“Would you like to attach it?” you ask, your helmet tipping upward. Even with it on, Din feels your eyes on him, assessing.

“Is that okay?”

You turn toward a collection of tools. Heading toward it, you select a tiny torch and bring it back to Din.

“Use this,” you offer the torch to him and he takes it. “Slide the chain through and weld it like the others.”

Turning to your left, you present the side of your helmet. Din tucks the base of the torch into his belt. With both hands, he hooks the end of the chain into the hole, pushing it through, guiding it until it sits equal on both sides. Removing the torch, he starts it, turning it to the lowest setting. Din switches, changing the angle of the torch from one side to the other, slowly fusing the two pieces together. Satisfied, Din turns off the torch and admires his work.

“I’m not an armorer,” says Din.

“It’s perfect.”

“You haven’t checked it.”

You shrug. “I don’t need to.” Pride swells in Din’s chest but he remains silent. “Are you staying?” The question hangs in the air, and that quick flood of pride fades a bit. You sound so hopeful.

“No. I can’t stay,” answers Din.

“Well. Thank you.” You lift your hand and tap one finger against the new gold chain. “Tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. You want to see him…tomorrow.

Din nods. “Tomorrow.”

Din begins slowly backing away from you. Turning at the last second, Din nearly misses the top step. He recovers quickly, but hears your soft, stifled laugh from behind him.

Heat flaring in his cheeks, Din descends, heading for the hall that will take him toward Bo-Katan’s council room.

“You should be honest with her.” The Armorer appears at Din’s side like a golden shadow. His head swivels in her direction. The Armorer continues looking forward. “Their tribe is different. You must follow their lead and do as they do.”

Din frowns. Why is the Armorer involving herself?

“How do I do that?” he asks slowly.

“The one that was here pursued her in the way that is custom. You must be as aggressive, Din Djarin.”

She’s giving him advice.

“That is not our way.”

It’s true. Din’s tribe is restrictive when it comes to personal attachments. There is the attachment to tribe, and there is attachment to one’s foundling. Everything is and has always been in service to the whole, never the individual.

“No,” agrees the Armorer. “But it is hers. And she is still Mandalorian.”

The Armorer made an exception with Bo-Katan. Now that all of the clans are together, are the lines somehow blurred? To Din, her words sound like encouragement.

“Then it is permitted?” he asks.

“You seek a happiness that will only strengthen us as a people. It is a noble act. A welcome one.” She pauses. “Do not fear it.”

Din opens his mouth, words forming on his tongue, but the Armorer is already walking away, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.

Bo-Katan’s council room is a blur. It is monotone voices and forgotten ideas. They fuse and dissolve into background noise that is a dull droll in the recesses of his consciousness. You consume his thoughts, occupying his mind, pushing everything else out. The Armorer’s words repeat in his head.

Din stands in the very back of the room, leaning against the wall. The council room is packed full of Mandalorians. There are representatives of multiple tribes and clans. There are updates on the mining operations, discussions about farming and food cultivation, and debates on how to design and start a working energy grid.

While Din keeps one ear trained on the room, the rest of him is elsewhere. Din has always considered himself a man of action. He takes initiative, he faces countless dangers even with the potential for failure, and he never gives up. But with you, Din is as cautious and unsteady as a Rancor’s temper. He only wishes to make you happy, for you to choose him over everyone else.

Aggressive. The Armorer said to be aggressive, to pursue you in the way of your tribe.

Din cannot wait until tomorrow.

The moment Bo-Katan dismisses everyone, Din is off like a blaster bolt, heading back toward the Great Forge. It is late, and there are long shadows across the massive room as he enters. The Armorer is not there, but you are. With your back to him, you have not noticed him yet, and Din takes these solitary seconds to calm his racing heart.

Nervousness seeps in like water finding the openings beneath his armor. The tips of his fingers buzz with anticipation, and all of Din’s senses are heightened and alert like he’s facing down a Mudhorn and not simply about to tell you how he feels.

Swallowing down the trepidation and solidifying his resolve, Din heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“May I speak with you?” he calls out, voice ringing loudly in the empty hall.

You start, turn, shoulders immediately softening when you realize who it is that is speaking. Already, you’re moving toward him and Din’s heart hammers with how quickly you respond. He strides forward, meeting you halfway.

“You came back,” and there is such joy in your voice that Din cannot help himself.

One hand reaches out to rest against the lower-half of your waist just above your hip. Instinct rushes in, and Din’s gloved hand tightens, drawing you closer against him. Your own hand rises, stopping at his chest plate, finding respite just shy of the ka’rta beskar in his armor.

“I needed to see you,” replies Din. Absently, his other hand brushes through the gold chains, finding the new one, only for his fingers to lightly twine around it.

You press in a bit closer, and Din relaxes into the embrace. There is a naturalness to it, the way the two of you stand together. It is its own thrumming drum, something that sits within Din’s chest, beating beside his heart. It moves and twists, the feeling snaking outward to slither between rib bones and around his lungs. Everything comes together, and Din knows that this is right.

This is how it should always be.

“To talk?” you ask.

“To talk.” Din’s fingers release the newly added gold chain. That hand falls, coming to a stop at your elbow. “Come with me.”

You turn with him, the two of you heading deeper into the shadows of the Great Forge. There is no one else in the room but Din wants no interruptions.

“Is there something wrong? Is it Grogu?”

“No,” says Din quickly. “He’s fine.” Reaching out again, Din draws you back to him. You go without resistance, the two of you nearly fused together.

Din needs to just say it. Why have any doubt? You’re hanging on his every word and literally hanging on to him. Every day, Din comes to you. Every day for months. Every day you greet him with tiny touches or gentle greetings. You are always so open, always so warm, and Din misses it—misses you whenever you’re apart.

So, he says it, plainly and without hesitation.

“I missed you.” Your fingers tighten on his arm, chest rising slight, and Din catches the small inhalation. “I miss you all the time,” he continues. “The moments I’m not with you are lonely ones.”

“But you see me every day.” Your voice is a whisper, one so soft that the voice receiver in your helmet hardly picks it up.

“And it is not enough.”

“Din—”

“I wanted to leave after. To take Grogu and return to Nevarro. But I stayed, not just from duty, but because I was drawn to you.” Din shakes his head absently. “I didn’t understand at first. I didn’t want to. But as I spent more time with you, I never wished to leave your presence. I needed to be near you all the time.”

Your arms start to slide around him and Din melts into the touch, the two of you coming together in the shadows.

“I wake and my first thoughts begin with you. Before I rest, my last thoughts end with you. My happiness and future are tied with your own.” Din lowers his voice. “I only make an offer and hope you’ll accept.”

Din’s next inhale is a shudder. “Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”

“Din,” you sigh, and he has no idea if you sound happy or sad.

“Ori'haat. I say these words from my heart.”

You place one hand on his chest, this time right over the ka’rta beskar. It slides upward, and gently cups the side of Din’s helmet. He leans into the touch, sighing with contentment.

“You’re an honorable man, Din Djarin. To hear you say this brings me joy.”

Din immediately tightens his hold, every nerve in his body telling him to take you away, to exchange the words and be done with it.

“I am happiest when you’re with me,” you continue. “I am always at ease. At peace. Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, Din. I wish to never be apart.”

Din lowers his head, his helmeted forehead pressing lightly to your own.

The instinct to kiss you flames within him, but Din does not remove his helmet. It remains in place. In time, it will happen. In time, he will gaze upon your face and find peace within your eyes. All of that will happen.

He has gone without you for this long.

Until it is official, Din can wait a little longer.

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @kayden666 @cherryofdeath @enfppuff @cinnabeanz @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @ferns-fics @beebeechaos @thepetitemandalorian

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xmissrogersx · 3 months ago

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Mine | Din Djarin

tags: a lot of fluff, and when i say a lot is A LOT. Grogu being adorable as always.

my writing is entirely my own. Any adaptation and/or copy is forbidden.

i hope you are enjoying my stories! U help me a lot if you give me a ♡! All the love.

priscila masterlist

-Being a fugitive princess had not started easy. "How can you say that, you have your freedom, isn't that what you wanted?". Of course, no one said you had to face every danger out there, right? With the risk of crossing who knows what a lunatic who could...

-Cyar'ika...

-What? He loves that I tell him that story, doesn't it, baby? —I asked looking at his big eyes, to which Grogu laughed stretching his little hands towards me.-Your father is only jealous of not being able to tell stories like I do.

Din laughed under his breath to refocus on the next jump, while trying to be cautious not to show where they were going.

He thanked the creator every damn morning when he saw her face when she woke up next to him. The way his body molded to his, as if he had always lacked a part of himself.

That part was Priya.

-Where are we going? —I saw how the Crest navigation course changed.

-It's a surprise —he replied while keeping the autopilot.

-Surprise? What kind of surprise? Because you know well that the word "surprise" envelops... —he walks towards me to get up and put me on his right shoulder. -Din, take me down now!

-It's time to rest, cyar'ika.

-Oh, please, just give me a hint, and as a reward maybe I'll use the handcuffs you have saved —I exclaimed soncarrona.

-Don't abuse, mesh'la —he said, placing me on our improvised bed.

I turn off the lights in the bedroom, proceeding to remove part of the armor.

-For Odin, you're killing me —I heard his laugh because of my comment.-You're depriving me of the show, Din Djarin, and that's unforgivable.

He lay down next to me, wrapping us both in the blanket he had bought at Naboo.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

From meeting the Mandalorian 1 year ago, I knew that the mystery was already part of it, but I must admit that this time it had exceeded my expectations.

-Now are you going to tell me where we are? —I asked, feeling the Crest ramp because of the blindfold that covered my eyes, while Din held my hand.

-Patience is not a virtue of yours, mesh'la.

We walked a few meters, until I felt it stop.Suddenly, the clarity flooded my eyes and I blinked repeatedly without believing what I saw before my eyes.

A large library stood before me. Volumes and books of different sizes and colors. I smiled with tears in my eyes.

A slight whistle paralyzed me, following an object placed on the ground.

-Din...

-Happy Birthday, cyar'ika —I heard his answer, with his voice without the modulator.-Please, turn around.

-You don't have to do it, you know I would never force you.

-I can't stand it anymore, I want to take your face in my hands and be able to see you without having the helmet in between. Please, Priya.

I turned slowly with my eyes closed, and approached him. I raised my hands towards his face, and felt how he kissed my palms, as I had already done countless times.

Take the courage I needed to see the man under the beskar.

Brown orbs, in combination with their beautiful brown hair with their waves.

He looked at me with doubt and fear, as if my response to his face was decisive.

I smiled again, letting the tears run down my cheeks. Joined our breaths, making him see that he never wanted to leave. But this time it felt different from the previous ones. No blanket covered my eyes and I could admire the beauty of his features.

-So, what do you think? —he asked as we parted.

For Odin, Din Djarin, you are beautiful —I replied nodding, while distributing small kisses on his face.-I love you, in this and in all universes, no matter how you look under that bucket.

-You and the child became the only thing that matters in my life. You are my family, and if I had to cross the galaxy for you I would never doubt it -we both turned around when we saw Grogu trying to reach the shelf.

I turned to see him again, and I could notice how his orbs acquired a glow that sent an electric wave down my back.

-Now that you've seen my face, what would happen next —he exclaimed as he knelt in front of me.-It's what I've been longing for since the day you got on the ship, Priya.

Small tears threatened to fall from my eyes, and without waiting for him to ask me, I threw myself into his arms, knocking us both to the floor, flooding the place with our laughter.

-Would you be my riduur, mesh'la?

-In this, and in all universes, I accept Din Djarin.

#pedro fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro x reader #pedrostories #pedro pascal fanfiction #mando x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din dijarin x reader #din djarin fluff #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #mando x f!reader #mando fanfiction #the mandolarian

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else.

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored.

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story!

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism.

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are.

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on.

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man.

Mandalorian.

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk.

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room.

This is the first of many lies you will tell him.

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you.

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed.

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar.

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response.

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity.

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold.

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know.

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now.

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured.

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness.

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish.

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this.

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian.

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time.

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again.

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a.

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people.

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now.

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind.

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you.

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems.

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway.

And then he’s there.

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now.

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself.

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over.

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt.

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong.

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath.

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather.

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock.

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move.

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too.

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been.

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement.

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you.

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you.

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?”

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over.

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically.

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor.

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest.

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely.

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else.

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs.

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again.

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you.

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive.

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore.

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours.

But then: a person without a soul could not cry.

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed.

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

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#TCC fic #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #the mandalorian smut #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #the Mandalorian

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deadlynavigation · 5 months ago

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(Little) Intruder Alert

Warnings: mention of weapons/breaking in/mariticide, female pronouns used (lmk if you want a male/nb version!), empty threats

Author’s Note: yall are the best, thank you for being SO patient these past couple months. Send in requests of any kind, even fandoms I previously said were closed. thanks again, love you guys 💕💕

Navigation

“He’s down?”

“Down is a strong word. I kind of just dumped him onto the bed and shut the door.”

Din snorts. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did, cyar’ika.”

You sigh, wandering into the dark cockpit. The lights have long since been turned off for the night, leaving only the bright stars sitting outside the windows to guide you. As you move, they catch on different things, illuminating everything from one of the child’s toys left lying around to your husband’s polished armor. It’s messy, sure, but it provides you with a little comfort after the day you just had.

Speaking of- “The bounty’s been frozen, right?”

Din grunts from his spot in the pilot’s chair. “Yeah.”

You exhale sharply, a weight leaping off of your shoulders. The bounty today wasn’t exactly easy. He had been on the run for weeks now, reportedly heavily armed and off his rocker. No other bounty hunter wanted to chase after that, so of course, you and Din were assigned to him.

“We should probably pick up the pace now that he’s on board. I don’t want the child near him for too long.” You worry, subconsciously picking at a hangnail.

“He’ll be fine, Y/n.” Din’s sleepy voice trails off as you get closer to him. He must have been dozing before you came in, catching up on the sleep that he can no longer afford to lose now that he’s an old man. You have to muffle your laugh with your sleeve. He’s such a dad, taking random naps in spots that he knows will hurt his back while his child runs rampant.

“I just don’t want him to get curious and–” You’re rudely interrupted by Din pulling you into his lap like it’s nothing and wrapping his arms around your waist to make sure you stay put. “Maker, Din. You can’t just do that.”

“Hmm.” Din’s hands slouch to your hips as he melts into the chair again. “Rest, cyar’ika. No more work talk.”

“Din, you know full well that if you fall asleep here—“ He drags a hand up to cover your mouth. Which is unfair, considering you can’t lick the filthy glove, but you’re not strong enough to force him away, either. Instead, you pin him with a glare, trying to burn holes into his helmet.

No words are spoken as he slowly rests his hand against your hip once more. His head is now tilted back, his posture broken, and with you in his lap, it’s only a matter of time before soft snores start coming out of the helmet.

All of a sudden, the peace is broken by a soft whimper in the entrance to the cockpit. Your head snaps over to see a green dot, drowning in his favorite blanket with tears streaming down his tiny face.

“Oh no, baby. Did you have a nightmare?” You coo to the child, rising from Din’s lap and rushing to where he pouts. You scoop him up and wipe his tears from his cheeks, trying to be as gentle as possible so as not to spook him. “Come on, let’s go back to bed and we can talk all about your dream…” Your voice trails off as you climb back onto the lower level of the Crest, to where Din can hear the faint sounds of you settling the child for the second time tonight. He’s left in silence for a good two minutes, settling back into the chair and running through tomorrow’s schedule while trying to keep his eyes open for you.

Eventually, you scale the ladder and make it back to the cockpit with no child situated in your arms. You fall back into Din’s lap where he gladly welcomes you, running his hands up and down your back in a soothing motion.

“He’s down?”

“Don’t you start with me, Din Djarin.” You mumble half-heartedly into his shoulder. He smiles softly, turning his helmet to get a better view of your tired face.

“Ready for bed?” He asks, leaning his forehead against your hair.

“Please. But give it five more minutes–your hands are working wonders right now.” You say in a blissed-out state. He chuckles, adding a little more pressure to your spine.

“Heard that before,” Din murmurs. You snap back up to stare at him, suddenly ready to go all over again.

“I did not just hear what I think I did,” You murmur in awe. His helmet stares at you in a deadpan, yes-you-did manner. You’re seconds away from ripping that helmet off and doing unspeakable things to his face when–

Creeeaaak

Din shoots up from the chair, sending you tumbling to the floor. He pulls his blaster from his waistband in one hand and catches you by the waist with the other, taking on a battle stance to confront the intruder.

But strangely enough, when he scans the room, there’s not a soul to be found.

You’re used to this, though. You grab Din’s chin and tilt his head down, pulling his eyes closer to the ground, until he catches the small green creature at the entrance, this time pulling along one of his many stuffed animals.

“Your turn, baby,” you laugh wearily as Din sighs. He stomps over to the smiling creature, and for the second time that night, the child is carried down the ladder and into his bed. You stand around waiting for Din to come back, knowing that the chair is going to be uncomfortable and stiff without him to sit on. You’ve always wondered how he puts up with it, especially for longer periods of time. Then again, he is a fan of self-imposed suffering.

Finally, Din clambers back up to the top. “Ready for bed, mesh’la?” He questions, barely standing as sleep threatens to take over.

“Yes, but quickly, please. As much as I love him…” You leave Din to fill in the blanks. He nods silently and stalks over to you, hesitating for only a moment before reaching over and hoisting you over his shoulder, subtly shifting you to make sure your abdomen isn’t pressed against his pauldron.

“Din-!” You cut yourself off, not wanting to risk waking the child. However, that doesn’t mean you can’t squirm a little just to let him know that he’s not getting away with this.

“Hold still,” Din grunts, shifting you into a steadier position as he makes his way towards the exit to the ship’s upper floor.

“Din Djarin, don’t you even think about it–” You don’t even have time to finish your sentence before he launches himself down the chute, skipping the ladder entirely. You both land with a thud, pausing for a second to listen for the child’s wails. Nothing.

“I’m going to kill you. You’re going to wake up in the morning, and I’m not gonna be there, and it’s going to be all your fault…” you carry on with empty threats, trying to get a rise out of your spouse as he carries you to the newly-placed bed. The cot directly underneath the child was getting a little aggravating, so you committed to convincing Din of the need for a real bed in a real room. Evidently, your plan worked.

Once the door is open, Din takes the few steps required to get to the bed and unceremoniously dumps you onto it. He doesn’t move after that, taking his time in admiring you, and you swear you can feel the smug little smirk forming underneath that armor. You huff at him and roll over.

“Hide all you want, cyar’ika. Not going to change my plans for tonight.” He turns to the little compartment haphazardly labeled ‘armor’, starting the long process of unclipping, untying, and when he gets impatient, ripping off his beskar. It all gets placed in the correct spot, ready and waiting for tomorrow. Once that’s finished, he heads to the basket you forced him to get to store clothing, digging through folded laundry until he finds some casual pants. Back at the start of your relationship, he would’ve kept looking for a loose sleepshirt, but as time passed and you both became more comfortable, the shirts stayed in the basket.

Din looks over at you and shakes his head. He goes back to the basket, rifling through until he lands on one of his older shirts–a faded gray one, large enough to drape down to your knees. Perfect. He walks over to the bed in a relaxed manner, gets down on his knees to plant a kiss on your forehead without any metal blocking it before smothering you with the shirt. You gasp as he runs away, ripping the shirt off your head and pinning him with an outraged stare. Still, though, you undress and throw the shirt on.

“Stupid husband–in sickness and in health–all lies…” You mumble angrily as he watches on in amusement. “Protector–yeah, ok. Caring, etcetera… should be ashamed, treating me like this…” Eventually, the shirt makes its way onto your body, and you collapse back into bed. Din crawls under the covers as well, pulling you into his chest and covering your face with gentle kisses.

“Done trying to murder me?” You pout, still not giving in to him. He laughs before starting up with the kisses again. One to your forehead, one to each cheek, one to your nose, and finally to your slightly parted lips before repeating the pattern as needed.

“You love it,” He grins, going in for another kiss. You mumble something about mariticide before giving in to him, losing the tension in your back as you wrap your arms around him–

A series of small knocks comes from the closed door. You both gasp and leap away from each other, ready to kill whoever’s escaped your carbon-freezer. The door creaks open, and… no one appears.

You sigh heavily and look down. A small green creature waits for you there, this time two blankets trailing after him. He smiles once he meets your eyes, blinking twice at you.

“Maker,” you sigh as Din flops back onto the bed. You drag yourself to the child, taking him in your arms for what is hopefully the last time as you rock him back and forth in a steady rhythm. His bug-eyes slowly start to close, and soon he is fast asleep in your arms. You sneak back to his little room, laying him down as quickly as possible and shutting the door before nearly sprinting back to Din and, more importantly, your bed.

“Last time. Please, Maker, let that be the last time we see that child tonight.” You pray. Din chuckles, staring at you with those big brown eyes. You’re struck by the depth in them; no matter how many times this man takes off his helmet, bares his face to you without fear of judgment, you will never get used to the striking beauty in every single one of his features. You flop into bed, trying to communicate this with a kiss. Din responds eagerly, pulling you into him with strong and weathered hands that stroke your sides like you’re the last woman on earth.

And all of a sudden, a cry echoes from the child’s room. You almost scream, instead choosing to burrow into Din’s neck, refusing to let go until the cries get louder. Din braces himself for a very unhappy kid, getting up begrudgingly and leaving you with a squeeze.

“I’ll be right back, mesh’la. And then we can continue…” he leaves the promises floating in the room as he leaves you with a squeeze. You watch him go, frustrated beyond belief with the kiddo. Hopefully this not-sleeping stage ends soon.

When Din returns, you are fast asleep, spread out across the bed, blankets tangled under you. All he can do is chuckle and lay across you, falling asleep as soon as his head rests against you.

And that’s how you stay–until a certain child decides to test how loud his voice can go at three in the morning.

#star wars #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #star wars x reader #requests #stay tuned #din grogu #grogu djarin #baby grogu

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auroramoon-draws16 · 5 months ago

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Have I done this one before? I hope not

Assassin’s Creed x The Mandalorian

Dadalorian edition

DinLuke (you can keep it platonic if you want, but I’m a sucker for this ship, sorry not sorry)

Din adopts eldritch kid Desmond.

Desmond does his usual thing, aka dies, and gets isekai’d to a whole different galaxy. He doesn’t remember the full extent of his past, but he does remember shitty dad and early assassin training. (Plus ancestor memories in the form of dreams) He’s like… 6 at this point, first grader age.

He wakes up in an ancient force temple where Din was scoping out some kind of Jedi artifact for Luke, Desmond happened to be holding it when he appeared there.

Din finds Desmond and immediately goes “ah yes, a free child, mine now” but in his own way. Desmond is a nervous baby, but he eventually goes “tall scary armored man, he’s blue tho, and has food, so… friend? Friend.”

Din takes baby Desmond and the artifact back to Luke who’s grateful and fond at how sweet Din is being with both Desmond and Grogu.

Cue adorable fluff and domestic cuteness, also angst because Desmond describes how his og dad was like and they’re both just like: “yeah, no, this is our baby now, no take-backsies”

Also force shenanigans, Luke was nervous at first, due to how Desmond seemed so comfortable using the dark side of the force, but ultimately accepted how light side Desmond is about it and how calm he is, so he lets it slide.

Bonus Mand’alor Din

Murder baby Desmond taking out an assassin by himself, Din is both bamboozled and proud while Luke is very concerned but also proud. The Mandalorians adore the young heir, he’s very sweet and also efficient.

#desmond miles #assassin's creed #someone write a fic #din djarin #star wars crossover #mand’alor #luke skywalker #grogu #baby desmond #not literally #crossover time bitches #dinluke #the mandalorian

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papurgaatika · 8 months ago

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Reason Comes on the Common Tongue of Your Loving Me

Pairing: Din Djarin x F! Reader

Minors DNI with my work please !!

A/N: Happy happy mando Monday!!! this has been a long time coming, I started this at the end of March and then got swamped with family and finals and I JUST got some time off to relax thankfully. thank you my loves @joelsdagger and @carlynkurin for beta testing, your screams in the comments continue to feed my delusions. Din Djarin you are my sweet angel baby ilysm. And yes the title is ONCE AGAIN from a hozier song, I didn’t actually mean for it to happen this time but it just felt right. Thank you for reading and i love yall <3

Tags: brat taming, overstimulation, edging, oral (m! receiving), dom reader, dry humping, mild degradation, praise, cumplay, spit kink, d/s dynamics, use of pet names (baby, sweet/pretty boy, sun and moon), Din Djarin loves tummy and thighs (canon, i said so), fluff, a few slaps, no use of Y/N Word count: 2.5k

Summary: A week away from each other leads your sweet boy to act out, forcing you to remind him of the rules.

It had been a long week for both you and Din. He had been out chasing a bounty for about two days longer than either of you had expected, leaving you both pent up and in dire need of each other. He had finally made it back to the crest, covered in dirt, blood, and other substances you weren’t sure you wanted to ask about. You roll over in the bunk to watch him strip his armor off and shoot him a lazy smile. He presses a soft kiss to your head before making his way into the fresher to wash off all the grime that undoubtedly clung to his skin. You hum contentedly and roll back over, still half asleep, but throw the blankets off of your body knowing full well that Din was going to warm the bed up like a furnace and you weren’t going to deal with twice the heat.

You were half asleep by the time he walked out of the fresher, and felt him slide up behind you, shifting so that your thighs were pressed up against his. And maker did he love your thighs, especially when he could see the plush of your skin when you wore one of his old shirts. He loved how strong they were, how he could see the muscles while you worked on the crest, how they felt around him when you sat on his face, how soft they were in moments just like these. You giggle lightly when his fingers brush up against a ticklish spot and roll over to face him, pressing a kiss just over the pulse point on his neck. Din tucks his chin over your head and lets his fingers dance over the skin of your waist, moving down to your tummy and just holding you, admiring how lucky he was to be with someone who made him feel this safe.

“Missed you, my Moon,” you mumble into his neck, tucking one of your legs over his, biting back a sleepy grin when you can feel his length pressing into you. “You miss me too sweet boy?” You hear him let out a small whimper, nodding when he presses into your thighs again, his cock straining against his pants. “‘S’okay, baby. Go ahead. Want you to feel good for me.” You can barely hear Din mumble out a soft thank you, his voice between a sigh and a moan, before letting himself rut against you.

Seeing Din like this was truly exhilarating for you. It didn’t matter how long the two of you had been together, or how many times you saw him like this, there was something special about seeing the difference between him as The Mandalorian and seeing him as Your Din. When you two were in public, under the prying eyes and the weight of him in the armor, his restraint was unmatched. Controlled and reserved, never doing as much as to ask for something he needed, simply taking it. But when it was the two of you, he was truly all yours. Pliant and complacent to the things you ask of him. If you say stop, he stops. If you tell him to keep going, he keeps going. Your good boy.

One of your hands makes its way up to stroke his curls, unruly and damp from his shower, and much longer than he likes to keep it; you need to remind him to let you cut it again. Your nails rake against his scalp and you can hear his breaths starting to come out in soft needy pants. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips as he grinds against you. He was your good boy, you loved him, but you were also a little mean, whispering that he needs to stop softly into his ear. “Din, enough.” Your voice was growing sterner, not usually having to repeat yourself to him. But there you were, repeating your instructions to your sweet darling boy, who was so close to cumming he could barely comprehend the words leaving your lips. His fingers tighten around your hips, and his lips part open, a broken moan falling from between them as he cums against your thighs.

You pull your lips away from his ear and grab his jaw, squeezing and tilting it so that his gaze meets yours. He blinks in an attempt to focus on you, small beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, breathing shaky, blissed out on his orgasm. You raise an eyebrow at him, lips pressed into a thin line, waiting, more patiently than you should, for him to either explain himself or apologize. “Nuh uh, none of that. Look at me.” He refuses to meet your eyes, opting to nuzzle his head into the crook of your neck and leave open-mouthed kisses instead of saying anything. “Use your words. What’s the rule, I know that you know what it is.” You twist out of his grasp to sit on top of his hips, a whine leaving his lips when he feels the pressure of your body over his.

Din’s eyes finally met yours, big brown puppy dog eyes that were almost warm and desperate enough to allow him off the hook. Almost.

“‘M’not supposed to cum until you tell me to..” You can see his lips tremble softly, waiting for your response ever so patiently. You shift slightly so that your weight is pressed against his dick, still sensitive and softening inside his pants.

You tsk at him lightly and let your eyes rake over his body. He truly was beautiful. All tanned skin, with scars he lets you kiss and muscles you get to massage. All yours. “You know the rules so well but can never seem to follow them, baby..” You let out an exaggerated sigh and shake your head at him. “It’s almost pathetic how needy you get. Can't even wait to let me touch you properly.” You push yourself off of his lap and move to one side of him, shooting him a look when he tries to grab you, before sliding your hands to the waistband of his pants and pulling them off. “Oh baby,” you croon, “You made such a mess of yourself.” You swipe your fingers across the cum in his underwear and raise them to his lips. “Open.” Din complies immediately, his lips parting and taking your fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling across them. You press down on his tongue forcing his mouth open, before leaning down and spitting in his mouth. A strangled moan emits from the back of his throat before you remove your fingers and let him swallow, “Finally following directions. Good boy.”

“Now,” you tilt your head, an expression of mock pity plastered to your face, “What am I supposed to do with you now, hmm?” You chew on the inside of your cheek and drum your spit-covered fingers over the toned muscle of his thigh, not touching his cock but sitting close enough that a movement of your fingers sent a shock through his core. “I could.. tie you up and make you watch me get off?” Your hand slides further up his thigh, “Think you’d like that one too much though.” You let your nails swipe softly over his thigh, relishing the feeling of the goosebumps forming on his skin. “I could just not touch you for the foreseeable future, finally teach you how to mind your manners?”

The effort he had been making to stay still and composed falters at your words. “Nonononono, please-” You raise your eyebrows at his begging, eyes narrowing as he continues. “Anything else, please I’ll be good I promise.” You let out a small puff of laughter, genuinely amused by his pleas, before giving a kiss to his thigh.

“Okay, sweet boy, not that one either then.” Your hand finds its way to his cock and softly palm over it, watching his hips jolt, either into or away from your touch. You aren’t sure that either of you knows which one it truly is.

“Fuck-wait-sensitive,” a pitiful whine leaves Din’s mouth. His eyes roll back and shut before snapping back open to meet yours when you give him a few light slaps to his cheek.

“Oh I know you must be, my poor baby” You take your hand away to lick a stripe across your palm before bringing it back to his cock. “That’s just too bad, hmm? Maybe if you knew how to follow rules we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.” You let your hand curl around the base of his dick, now red and leaking precum, basking in the broken whimper that leaves his lip when you give a small squeeze. “Never listen to me, never fucking learn your lesson either. What am I supposed to do with you?”

You take your hand away and situate yourself so you’re straddling one of his thighs, your cunt so wet that he can feel your slick through your panties. You move one hand to palm over his cock, slow and gentle before squeezing with your other again. “Maker, fuck- I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be so good for you, please.” You smile at the pure beauty of the sight that lay in front of you. Head thrown back on the pillows, eyes clamped shut, mouth open and begging for you. Your beautiful boy.

“Oh baby I know you will.” You squeeze your hand a bit tighter and move the other faster, getting him as close to the edge as you possibly can. “Oh sweetheart, I can feel you shaking. What do you want, my Moon?”

“Stars- I need to cum, please please I’ll be good I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of his mouth almost incoherently, so fast and repetitive he barely makes sense. You force yourself to bite back the grin that was playing its way on your lips and press a soft kiss to his head before stilling your hand.

“I don’t think so, baby,” you loosen the grip you had wrapped around the base of his cock, taking the look of absolute desire and despair in his eyes. His hips, always having a mind of their own, were met with a sharp slap when they continued to buck into the air, trying to chase your touch. “Oh come on, do not give me that look. You have to learn your lesson somehow. It is not my fault you’re a needy slut.” You sigh with mock pity lacing your voice and features. You slide off of his thigh to settle between his legs, looking up at him through your eyelashes. You press a soft kiss to the head of his cock, spreading the precum over your lips. “You are so fucking pretty. My pretty boy.”

Din’s breathing is shallow and fast, attempting to regulate his body. His head is still thrown back, with one hand fisting the sheets to stop himself from reaching out to you, and his other hand tucked over his face. “Look so needy like this baby,” you lick a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, watching how it twitches under the gentle sensation of your tongue. “Are you not embarrassed by how pathetic you get for me?” you lick another stripe back down to the base “About how pathetic you get?”

Din simply mumbles out a quiet just for you, only to cut himself off with a strangled whine when you take the head of his cock into his mouth, sucking softly at the tip. You swirl your tongue around him, before taking him deeper into your throat, broken moans leaving his mouth. You pull off of him for a moment to let a string of spit fall onto his cock before taking him back into your mouth. You can feel the strain of his thighs, the sheer concentration it was taking him not to move, to be your good boy.

“Okay, okay, baby,” you say, placing soft kisses over the shaft of his dick, “You can use my mouth, I want you to use my mouth, but do not cum, understood?” You hear him whimper out a gentle yes ma'am before you take him back into your mouth, letting him set the pace this time. Unlike what you had expected, his thrusts were not hard and fast, mostly just trying to get you to take him deeper, restraining himself so he doesn’t cum. You feel him hit the back of your throat and moan around him, making his hips jolt in your mouth.

Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe his scent in through your nose, taking all of him in. Wanting to be consumed by and to consume him. You bob your head up and down, meeting the thrusts of his hips. You can feel the mess of your spit on him, moaning at how filthy the sounds you two make are.

“Wait wait- fuck- my Sun, fuck- gonna cum,” Din’s voice is desperate and pitched up. You can feel his muscles tighten and see his eyes grow wide as he bites into his fist trying to keep his moans at bay when you hollow your cheeks out around him.

“‘S’okay baby,” you say, pulling off of him, licking another stripe from the base, “Want you to cum on my face. Can you be good for me and do that?” You let your face rest on his thigh, next to his cock as you watch him start to come undone for you.

His forehead and chest are covered in a sheen of sweat and his breathing is erratic. You spit in his palm and watch as he strokes his cock, fucking his own fist for you. His lip trembles with grunts and moans as his orgasm hits him, cum landing over your lips and cheek. You look at him with a cheeky grin on your face before swiping it off with your finger, taking it into your mouth, and sucking it clean with a pop as it leaves your mouth.

“You did so fucking good for me, sweet boy. Always do so well for me.” You smile as you prop yourself up and take in his fucked out expression, before moving to lay next to him again. You press a soft kiss to his temple, still covered in sweat, and murmur a soft I love you so much into his skin. Din looks down at you with a sleepy smile of his own, before trailing his hand down between your thighs, to be met with a small shake of your head. “Not now, my Moon, just rest okay?”

You move his hand so that it rests across your waist, feeling his rough fingers gently tracing patterns into your skin. “Wanna take care of you too, my Sun,” His eyes meet yours. Big and beautiful and pleading to please you, to be yours.

You just press a kiss to his pout feeling a smile forming on his lips. “Later, my Moon, we have all the time in the galaxy. Just shut your eyes and rest. I love you.” You feel your eyes starting to slip shut again, faster than you had expected, but not unwelcome.

Din just presses your body closer to his and nuzzles his face into your neck. “I love you too, my Sun. Forever and always.”

#din djarin #din djarin x y/n #din dijarin x reader #mando #the mandalorian x y/n #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian one shot #the mandaloria/reader #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #the mandolarian fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #papaya writes <3 #mando smut #mando monday

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penvisions · 10 months ago

Text

of beskar and kyber {chapter 18}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader) ; brief Force Sensitive! Reader and M!OC

Summary: There are restrictions for entering the main city, some of them Din could agree to and one he absolutely could not. His helmet would need to be left behind, but isn't removing it what caused this entire situation to begin with? Meanwhile, you wake to a new environment, cautious of the things around you and the words of your mother.

Word Count: 10.5k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, we meet readers betrothed and he needs his own warning, reader's mother also gets her own warning, kidnapping, reader is being kept against her will, hostage situation, use of narcotics, use of drugs, sedatives, self-depreciating thoughts, thoughts of self-harm, ptsd symptoms, medical trauma, past medical trauma, feelings of inadequacy, sexual themes, sexual content (not detailed), there are a few more but they will spoil the chapter!

A/N: more din pov! because it's so much fun and there are some things y'all need to see through his eyes before some explanations are given c;

all of you were right to think din is gonna need a disguise! but i don't want anyone to think that the desert environment and the choice of clothing is ignorant on my part in light of what is going on in palestine. i've had this original arc planned before the first chapter was even published. here are some resources for aiding those that need help. i've also provided a link to the moodboard for this particular arc, which does include a visual for din's new attire

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Maker, your mother was really doing her best to keep you to herself. It was smart to warn the protection around you of him, to anticipate that he would make an attempt to take you back. But he loathed how much harder it was going to make even just getting into the city.

The weapons he could forgo, but his armor? She knew from her past experience with Akiz that it was a punishable offense for a Mandalorian to remove their helmet. And it was frustrating that she was using his religion, his Creed, his culture, his way of life to keep him at bay and to keep you under her control.

It was an injustice he couldn’t wrap his head around. It was just so conniving, and it was hard to believe how you had turned out so drastically different when being surrounded by someone capable of such extremes. He only hoped that your mother hadn’t done anything drastic to you, caused you to take matters into your own hands. He only hoped that you knew he had spent the last several weeks tearing through the galaxy in search for signs of what had happened to you. That he had rushed toward the planet you were taken to the second he had found it out.

Din needed you to know that he was trying, that he was searching for you, that he missed your presence by his side and aboard his ship. And not simply for the fact that you were a strong, capable fighter. But because the things he had whispered and promised you before he ruined it all were true. He did care for you. He had begun to care for you alarmingly fast after that first encounter.

And maybe it should’ve scared him, been a warning he heeded, the way his heart had lightened and opened up to you. Even despite the circumstances and the breaking of his contract with the Guild. He had been willing to change the circumstances, to do away with the contract he took on when his fingers closed around your offered tracking fob. Because it had felt right to do so, despite the inherent break of what he stood for in that moment. His willingness to do so, it only made him realize that this was real, because he had never felt like this with anyone before. Had never wanted to provide for anyone aside from those that made up his covert before. He had meant it when he had choked out those words back on Nevarro.

“I can’t wear that.” Din had been cautious as he looked out the cockpit viewpoint and down into the hangar space. The looming racetrack just beyond it, offset from the main city. Crowds and clusters of people swathed in billowing layers and a severe lack of weaponry was a worrisome observation. Upon her return from the markets, offset from the other side of the city, Cara had held out a bundle of clothing to him.

“I did enough recon to know the guards are the only people permitted into the palace without verification. That Sarad’s always surrounded by at least two of them when outside of the palace, though her mother never joins her outside the walls.”

“Because she knows I’d kill her on sight.” Din can’t help the growl of his words, knowing the truth behind them was all too real. Because he would, without hesitation, take out the threat that had presented itself after lying in wait. Striking at the most opportune moment even months after having first contracted your return to her when it seemed like it was fruitless.

“This the only way you’ll get close enough to her, by blending in.” Cara shimmied the bundle at him, wanting him to take it from her despite his trepidation.

“My face will be exposed.” He argued as he stepped away from her. His mind and thoughts at war with the notion of having to remove his armor and the one of doing it in order to save you. He picked up a grumbling ad’ika from where he had been settled in his pod. Taking a pack of dried jerky from the pouch attached to his belt and handed it to him. Happy coos filled the hull of the ship, Din helping to reach into the pouch for each piece the child devoured.

“They wear head coverings and cover their faces. More than a third of the people I saw. Both men and women. I know it’s not ideal, Din,” Cara risked using the man’s real name. Wanting him to hear her and believe that this was the best way, the only way to move about with having to worry about being stopped or appearing suspicious. Hoping to convince him it was the best scenario to avoid showing his whole face should he have to forgo his helmet. She didn’t seem too keen on having to don similar clothing that left little room to conceal a weapon. “Some have mesh over their eyes.”

Din reached out, taking the outfit from her. He would try it on, get a sense of how he felt in the clothing before making his decision. He had half a mind to fly the ship directly into the palace grounds and open fire until you were safely back in his arms. But realistically he knew that was a terrible plan. The man who you had been promised to was entrenched in the New Republic, someone of high standing and to attack him would bring on a whole new level of concerns into his life, into your life.

Setting ad’ika back down into the pod, Din tucked your cloak around him before making his way to the room.

What use was all his armor and weapons if he couldn’t keep you safe? The thought was sharp in his mind as he set about removing each plate, the clasps snapping in the silence of the ship. He stored them in a crate he had brought from his own ship. In it was the pair of pauldrons you had left behind. The armor settled together tugged at his heart, making his chest tights as he wished for you nestled beside him in his bed much like the beskar in the crate. Closing it and setting a lock on it, he already missed the feel of his vambraces, of the weapons hidden over his frame.

Despite being alone, he kept the cowl about his neck in place. The necklace of his people hidden beneath it and he wondered where the one he had gifted you ended up. The ship foreign to him, giving him pause in removing it as he looked over the robes Cara had collected for him. They were all black. Made of a light, flowing material that would cover his entire body. And he began to pull the wide legged pants over his legs.

The top was less a shirt and more of a tunic, cut shorter in the front to fall just below his waist. It offered coverage of his crotch, while the length billowed out down to his knees on either side. He wondered if he should chance donning the chainmail he had retrieved from your home on Tatooine underneath it. He felt exposed, too vulnerable even as he set about fastening the brown leather harness to cross over his chest from his shoulders and the belt that had an empty pouch fastened to it on his left.

Two arm braces made of bronze had been folded up in the clothing, and he slid those over his forearms, grateful for at least something similar.

Thankfully Cara had been able to find something that would allow him to cover his face- mostly. His eyes would be exposed, and he wouldn’t be entirely comfortable forgoing a visor or something similar to hide them behind.

But he set about containing his trimmed curls underneath the cover, wrapping it around twice before securing it with a black leather tie around his forehead, letting the rest of the fabric fall over the back of his neck and shoulders. The smaller black kerchief was secured over the cowl, adding another layer to hide his identity from the world, fastened behind his head and tucked into the leather keeping the head cover in place.

It would be harder for him to track you, to pick up on threats without the settings of the helmet, but he knew that it would immediately warrant attention. He had to leave it behind, depart from the ship without it. It was the only way he would be able to do his own reconnaissance.

Sighing, he turned to face the mirror set into the wall beside the door.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. He was swathed in flowing black from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. His boots no longer weighed down with a hidden blade or the ring of bullet casings for his pulse rifle.

Sharp brown eyes set under thick, dark brows the only visible part.

Still far too much to be seen. To be witnessed so easily by those around him. By you.

Worry spiked in him, you wouldn’t know it was him. At least, not at first glance. He hoped you would feel a pull to him similar to the one he felt when around you. A comfort in the closeness of your body and presence. A familiarity and sense of connection, the things you had found in each other allowing you to recognize that it was him beneath the different clothing, what was always beneath the armor and helmet.

Self-consciousness, he realized, was the feeling making his stomach flutter and his nerves jittery. He hadn’t been outside of the ship and around people without his armor since he had been inducted into the training corps. He hadn’t been without his helmet since swearing the Creed. The thought of this breeching such a commitment crosses his mind. And while…yes, he had removed his helmet, his face was still concealed.

It was much like the unspoken loophole of removing it in the cover of darkness. The intention of which would have allowed him to give into your pleas for his lips on yours. That he had wanted to do, despite the skimming of lines that should not be crossed. The lines that defined his Creed.

He looked…like one of the natives of the planet. And that was the only consolation he could find in the need for the outfit.

They’re merely walking through the marketplace, when they see you among the stalls. Din’s instincts urging him to turn onto the street.

You’re right there.

You’re real.

You’re okay.

His heart skips a beat and then quickens, nearly vibrating it’s so fast a pitch. His breath stolen from his lungs as he sees you moving among the crowds. You…you’re so beautiful and luck seems to be on his side as you look unharmed. You seem to be at ease, moving from stall to stall with a pair of guards trailing behind you by a few yards. Black flowing robes much like his own, but the rapier style swords fastened to their sides acted as a silent threat. Weapons in the main part of the city were forbidden.

But you…you were so magnetizing, and Din’s feet were carrying him toward the stall you had stopped in front of. Distantly, he heard the hush of Cara warning him to be cautious. But it was as if the world had shrunk down to just you, his eyes tracking you as if you would vanish should he look away for the barest of seconds.

The fabric of your rather elegant dress a mix of soft white and pale cream. It highlighted the natural golden hue of your skin, though the only part visible was the length of your neck down to your chest with a rather low neckline. The supple skin of your breasts was accented by sparkling golden beading along the collar, creating a dip between them where it was concentrated. The bodice of the dress was cinched by an intricate belt made up of diamond jewels set into gold that created a floral shape right over your stomach before the skirt of the dress billowed out in flowing layers.

The sleeves were long, bishop in style, allowing for the fabric to be loose before cinching around your wrists. Allowing for you strong, capable hands to be exposed. Golden designs of lace woven into the fabric of them and the front of you below where the belt rested on your front. You were sparkling, from the bangles around your wrists to the delicate headpiece that kept your hair away from your face. He could see it as you moved about to take in the fruits of the stall, the way that thin netting was laid over the length of your hair, stones glittering in the sun as you did so. You were a vision bathed in white and gold, his brain short circuiting at the sight of you after so long apart.

But you didn’t look to be a captive, aside from the guards keeping close. No, you looked like you were free of worries, complicit in the life you had been stolen away to be a part of. It was as if this was just another day to run errands and take in the sights of the city, no undertones of eyes glancing around to look for an escape. No tension in your muscles as if poised to run at the first chance. And alarm bells sounded in Din’s mind, loud and harsh. Stirring unease in his middle, bubbling up to tighten in his chest.

He couldn’t help but approach you, even if he had no clue what words to breathe should he be able to find his voice. Even if he had no clue how you would react to seeing him after the emotional fallout from so many days ago. But when you turned to him with a smile, lips closed and eyes kind, they only flitted over his face before they moved down along his body toward where ad’ika had popped his head and chest over the top of the bag slung over his shoulder.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to recognize him, he was without his armor. And though you knew the shape of his body and the way it reacted to your touch; you didn’t know him as he stood beside you now. In flowing black robes and brown leather, a head cover secure over his curls and a flowing material hiding his face aside from his eyes. He realized you wouldn’t be able to recognize them, having never seen the brown of them before. And he greedily drunk in the sight of you without his helmet, delighting in the way the sun lit up the features he had come to admire.

But your attention wasn’t even on him, it was on the small form that had reached out for the bundle of berries in your grip. Plucking one and popping it in his mouth with a satisfied hum. But there was no recognition that flickered over your face upon seeing ad’ika either. It was as if you were seeing him for the first time, a polite curiosity in your gaze. And Din’s gut lurched.

It hadn’t been long enough for you to forget the child, forget him. Forget the life the three of you had carved out from circumstance. Unless you were playing along to not alert the guards of being reunited, not wanting them to suspect anything was amiss. But…but Din didn’t think you were pretending. There had been no fast glance back to him upon seeing the child crop up, there had been no hitch of your breath as realization of him standing beside you set in.

It was as if you didn’t know him at all, know the small form of the child holding your adoring attention.

“Well, hello there, little one.” Your voice was so smooth and calming, like silk against his ears after having not heard it in so many days. He watched as you tilted the bowl closer, making it easier for a tiny green claw to retrieve another berry. A laugh bubbled from you as the child smacked on the fruit, happy sounds flowing from him unbidden.

And then, with a simple question, Din’s heart shattered.

“He’s rather cute, is this your child?”

You had focused your attention back up to him, though you avoided his eyes again. Something he was beginning to think was just a part of every version of you. Because the one standing in front of him was not his own. It couldn’t be.

Words, so many of them, burst to life and died on his tongue in the silence between you two. None of them making it past his lips, his voice lost in injustice of finally being reunited with you and you having no clue as to who he was. Of how much you had been through together, the promises you had whispered to each other, the soft sighs of waking up together, the harsh grunts and desperate whimpers shared between yearning bodies. You had no clue what you meant to him. The only thing he was certain of, was that he was a stranger to you.

Clearing his throat, he managed to utter an affirmative to your gentle question.

“I’ve never seen any like him before, he seems like the sweetest thing.”

And he wanted to tell you that you allowed for him to be so, for the child to have the protection of your skills and caring heart to be just a child after being held a captive for so long. That he had stolen him away from those who wished him harm with your aid. But suddenly, you were being approached by the vendor, your attention splitting from them both beside you.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to pay for- oh, Princess Cala. I’m so sorry.” Strict words and steal façade falling as the man approaching realized who you were. Princess. Because that’s what you were, had been swiped from him to be another’s wife. All memories of your commitment to him forgotten in a cruel twist of fate that Din was determined to get to the bottom of. To rectify. Though he had no clue how to even begin such a daunting task as he was still struggling to accept that it was so. “I was unaware you were in the markets today. Please, take whatever you wish. I will send for payment from Sir Cala at the end of the day.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright.” You appeased gently, hands digging into a small pouch hidden among the layers of your dress. Credits clinked as you set them down atop the table, the jingling of your bracelets catching ad’ika’s attention and he reached for them. “It’s just a little snack today, nothing too crazy.”

As the vendor turned back to duck inside, away from the bright sun and the watching eyes of the guards, it happened.

Ad’ika’s skin connected with your own and you were buckling at the sudden energy that Din could feel flow between you both. Ripples of is cascading through the air. Body overwhelmed and knees weakening at the onslaught as a strangled gasp fell from your lips. Just as you had done back at the compound, history repeating itself in a way he hadn’t expected. He was quick to close the distance, to wrap his arms around you and hold you up. You allowed him to pull you close, your chest flush with his as heaving breaths matched his stuttering ones.

His body igniting at the feel of you against him once again. Of the way your hands gripped his arms to support yourself. The prick of your fingers digging into his muscles and the way your mouth had fallen open in surprise. It was all so normal, the reactions of your body against his. Natural, the magnetism between your bodies making everything feel alright even if it was just for the barest second.

“I’ve got you, mesh’la. Are you alright?” Voice low, he felt it robbed from him when your lashes fluttered, and your eyes met for the first time. They glinted with something and then –

“Unhand the princess, no one is to touch her!” Twin forms of the guards watching over you were suddenly closing in. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to not take all your weight securely into his arms and run. Hush of swords being pulled from their sheaths had you tearing your eyes away from him, had you shifting your footing to hold yourself up a little better though you didn’t let go of him. And he was grateful for the prolonged seconds of getting to feel you in his arms.

“It’s alright!” You assured the guards, halting them in their steps with a polite smile. “I just tripped is all!”

Loosening the hold he had on you, his hands remained steady as you stepped back from him to stand on your own once again. He was aware of the hard looks aimed at him, as distance bloomed between your bodies.

Endlessly considerate and caring toward the ad’ika, even if you didn’t know it, you carefully handed the bushel of berries into his small claws.

You were bidding him goodbye with an impersonal bow. And he wished to feel the unspoken greeting and departing habit of your forehead nudged against his own you two had established over the course of your time together.

He fell in line behind them, a safe distance away to not attract their attention or suspicions. His focus so completely on you, the captivation you held over him even now, especially now, spelling his feet forward through the last of the market and through the streets. He was silent as Cara fell into step beside him, questions flowing from her that fell on his straining ears. You were talking with the guards, though it seemed like you were merely confirming the rest of the plans for the day.

And they would know, they would be by your side every time you left the palace, he mused as he watched your trio wait outside of the large wooden doors that led into the place you now called home. It was surrounded by a large, easily fifteen-foot wall made up of decorative tiles and white stone. He caught a glimpse of large gardens, complete with bright blue ponds and lush plant life making a beautiful backdrop to your form. But his eyes snapped back to you, taking notice of how the guards had begun to walk away and toward a small building that must act as their command center. They were replaced by two young women, dressed in long pale blue layers that followed your every step.

As you began to move along the paths lined throughout the garden, a figure approached you. And the tension Din had been worried to not see in your shoulders seemed to slam into you. The figure moved from beneath the shade of a large palm, having been waiting on a bench. It was a woman, one who bore a strong resemblance to you from tone of skin to the color of your eyes. Your mother.

Arms were slung together and Din could see even with the distance how her touch made you uncomfortable. And it was all so confusing. You remembered your mother, memories of her intact but you had somehow forgotten who he was, who ad’ika was. Forgotten who you were enough to not make an attempt to escape, submitting yourself to the life your mother had created for you.

And then, a man in elaborate robes adorned with jewels and lace designs much like your own approached you both. He was dressed in colors that complimented your own clothing. His own jewelry fastened over his head cover much like yours, though decidedly heavier, more masculine to the dainty feminine of yours. Matching.

A hand came over his shoulder as he realized he was breathing harshly, no helmet to disguise the deep push and pull of it as he watched you disentangle from your mother and step into the man’s personal space. The front of your bodies touching together as his hands splayed wide on your shoulders, as your own wrapped around his neck. As you perked up to press your forehead to his, in the way that was Din’s.

His chest hurt, his hands clenched, body alight with the need to rush forward and tear the two of you apart from each other. His ears hurt with the silence pressing against them too firm to shake. To press his own forehead against your own and plead with you to see him, to remember him. Remember what you meant to each other.

It was a small blessing of the Maker that your back was to him, because he didn’t think he would be able to take the way your gaze had softened as you looked into the eyes of the man holding you. The same one he would find aimed at him throughout the day, mirth in your eyes as your lips pulled into a soft smile. Adoration and admiration soothing the concentrated look you normally held. Not when the man looking back at you held the same exact expression.

The one always hidden behind his visor.

The same face that was now hardened in a flurry of emotions, his jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding, and eyes ablaze as he watched the man dip his face and press his lips to yours in a kiss.

A kiss.

The very thing that had unraveled the entire life you two had created out of circumstance and connection, the very thing you now shared with another.

Your easy laughter was what brought his senses back, though it was cut off from him as quickly as it had been delivered as you began to walk hand in hand with the man down the path leading to the palace entrance.

Din’s mind was working, working, working. Trying to figure it out, trying to come up it a way to figure it out. To rectify it. To make it right. To make everything right.

And as if a chip was falling into place, he realized. They could fall into line as a guard and a handmaiden.

It was so obvious, so easy, the plan coming together in his mind as the wooden doors swung shut and stole you away from his watching gaze.

“Mando…” Cara’s voice was gentle, as if she was worried she would startle him. Spur him into movement toward you, tackling the obstacles that stood between you both despite the consequences. “I don’t know exactly what-“

“We’ll talk back at the ship.” His words were rough, voice rumbling as if he had just swallowed gravel. It felt thick in his throat, coating his tongue and making it hard to speak.

“It’s customary for visitors to stay in the tourism sector.”

“I’m…low on credits.” He admitted, aware that his words were carried on deep exhales, air hard and solid when breathed in. Aching, hurting, stinging in his throat as he closed his eyes to rid himself of the image of you embraced so intimately with that man, with your husband. But the image was burned into the backs of his eyelids, pressing on him even as he clenched them shut.

“Good thing I’m not. Let’s go, I have a feeling you’re going to tell me this isn’t going to be as simple as sneaking in at night and whisking her away.”

Din followed the woman’s lead through the city, through the gates and toward the collection of tourism amenities. The sounds of the ocean waves getting louder the further they moved away from the palace.

The suite was grand, decorated lavishly in soft earth tones. Bright jewel tones accenting it all around.

But Din’s eyes were unfocused, unseeing as they stared down at the carpet, his head in his hands as he sat rigidly on the couch. With a deep breath pulled in and then let out, he deflated. Chest tight like he was being retrained with ropes, his limbs tingling as if the blood was having trouble flowing through them. His nerves felt both numb and overwhelmed all at the same time.

Cara just paced around the room, searching for potential bugs while she ensured ad’ika was settled in a chair with the fruit you had bought for them in a bowl for him to occupy himself. Din’s voice returned to him when he felt the couch shift with her weight on the other side.

“She doesn’t know who I am.”

“I wouldn’t recognize you, Mando, it’s just the clothes. I’m sure she was just pretending to be clueless to avoid suspicion. She saw ad’ika and even got him those berries.”

“No. Cara.” He surged up, feeling the need to move. To be on his feet, his mind hurling endless self-depreciating thoughts. This was all his fault, you were in the arms of another man because of him, your mother had been able to snatch you away because of his carelessness. His lack of speed when chasing after you, his lack of ability to have tracked you down and bring you back to the Crest as quickly as possible. He had failed you, he had failed you beyond comprehension and you didn’t even remember it.

He meant nothing to you, he was a stranger to you. While you willingly lived alongside that man who had every intention of letting you know how much he wanted you, desired you, who kriffing kissed you.

Aware of her eyes on him, Din paced back and forth in front of the couch. Feeling the need to move, to run, to chase, to track, to fix. She was watching him, a conflicted look about her features as she thought over the things they witnessed. The blatant issues that they had to move around in order to get to you.

Maker, what if…what if you shared the man’s bed. That would add another layer of complication to breaking you free of your imprisonment. Was it even imprisonment anymore? Did it qualify if you didn’t know the people who surrounded you were the ones who had manipulated you so completely, so intricately that they had somehow wiped your memory and fed you a story of what they wanted their lives to be in order to make it a reality?

Even if he could manage to convince you that you weren’t meant to be a dank ferrick princess in a palace, how would he prove to you that you were meant to be with him? His ship was old, needed repairs too often, his way of life, it all paled in comparison to the residence you had now, the quality of life you had now. How was he supposed to make you understand that he cared about you and that you cared about him if you didn’t know who he was?

Your mother certainly knew what she was doing. From the wiping of your memory to make it harder for him to convince you that your life was a sham, a lie, a false thing made up by those around you to the warning posters of him plastered around the city. The version of you he knew was wary of strangers and he would bet everything in his name that you still held that reservation. That anything he or Cara had to say wouldn’t be taken lightly, most likely result in their immediate order of removal should you find them guilty of trying to manipulate you.

“She doesn’t remember me. Or ad’ika. Her mother must’ve done something to her. There was no recognition in her eyes.” Heart thudding hard in his aching chest, Din couldn’t stop the sob that wracked through him. “I’m nothing to her.”

Darkness and the pull of the cold feeling drumming through your veins lightening ever so slightly as you begin to rouse, body limp and not heeding your commands to move. Alone. You’re alone. Metal clinking and heavy around your wrists and ankles. Around your neck.

You’re shackled, restrained, drugged.

Like so many times before, like you had never wanted to be again.

It’s quiet, unnervingly so.

Opening your eyes doesn’t allow you more of the setting you’re in, only darkness of the room you’re hidden away in. Gravity lurches and you know, can sense it: that you’re aboard a ship that has just taken off into the air. Traveling and distance growing, taking you away from them. From him.

Had he even realized you were gone? That you had been seeking solace, a way to return to him without shame prickling your skin and guilt flooding you, body tight and mind remorseful.

Everything was a haze. Everything jumbled up into a messy recollection. The pleasure that had been igniting you, the feel of his fingers deep and hitting that spot just right, building you up and tearing down your inhibitions. Enough so that you had pleaded with him for the one thing you knew he wouldn’t give you. And then it was gone, shifting to rejection. The blank, emotionless helmet shielding the way he must’ve been so repulsed by your question, your desperation to have more of him when he had already given you so much. Needy, selfish, you had been so wrapped up in him that you had offended him beyond words. Warped the path you two had been traveling together, guiding him without realizing it, off the distinguished trail and into the unknown. To the forbidden. Toward sin.

You had tried to convince him to break his Creed.

Heart heavy and mind trying to piece everything back together, you convulsed. Shocks ripping through you at the sudden movement.

Whimpering, you felt it was more than deserved. This punishment, being forced to submit once again at the hands of your mother. All of it was because of the temptation you had dared to whisper to a man so devoted. He would’ve lost everything had he followed you into it. From the very identity of himself to the new standing of a clan he had just been granted. All gone.

And for what? A measly kiss with someone who didn’t even know how to want without asking for too much. A shared mingling of breath and teeth and tongue with someone who should’ve been long dead for their own sins.

Brightness burst into the room, assaulting your senses as footsteps shuffled close.

The prick of a needle sharp, the swoop of your nerves being calmed and then raised to tingling heights.

A gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the last thought you had before you were pulled back into the darkness heart more than anything your mother could do to you:

He hadn’t come after you. He had let you walk away.

We can’t…I-I don’t...

Through the hull and off the ship, let you slip into the crowd where he hoped you would disappear from his sight. Vanish from his life and taking the sins you had tempted him with.

Compliant. You would be compliant this time around. Now knowing that there was nothing else for you, the entire galaxy making a mockery of your attempt at finding a life other than this. The blood of so many on your hands and cleaned off the hilt of your saber, the reason as to why you didn’t deserve happiness or comfortability. That you hadn’t deserved him.

And it hurt. More than the throbbing high spurred on by the drugs in your system. More than the memories of everything you had ever known being ripped from your desperate hands, not once but twice. The thought of him simply sat on that cot still, slowly dressing, gathering the things you had left behind and shoving them in a crate to never be opened again, hurt. The thought of him climbing toward the cockpit and bringing the ship to life, of guiding it up into the air and leaving the planet behind, leaving you behind, hurt. It was devastating.

Because you knew, you know he would’ve come to your aid if he had known what had happened. That you had been on your way back to the ship with an apology on your tongue when you had been ambushed. You know he would’ve protected you, even if he didn’t want you. Out of some sort of personal obligation, out of the empty commitment he had made to you that now felt like a ploy to get you into his bed.

He had known your past, seen the evidence of it in your words and nightmares. He had known to how use it to his advantage, to whisper sweet nothings and notions of care beyond what you could provide him with your body to get exactly that. He had known to not pressure you, to let you come to him and he would get what he wanted all along. The same as every man, only seeing you as a body to warm your bed.

But…he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum. I love you.

He had said it first, as he bled out on that dirty cantina floor as the building crumbled around you both.

Anything spoken by a man of few words had to mean something. Had to be genuine. Had to be real.

And that hurt far worse, that he cared and had still let you walk away. Disappear into the crowd of the planet, only to be taken hostage and away from him. That he had let it happen.

The confusing and painful thoughts circling around in your sluggish mind were cut short, turned to smoke that wafted away when the metallic clang of what had to the locking mechanism on the door to where you were being kept. Artificial light filtered into the room, blinding you as your eyes tried to adjust to the sudden shift from near blinding darkness. A soft voice was speaking to you, thought you couldn’t make out the words. Brain scrambled and too loaded up to understand.

It was astonishing, really, even through the haze, that your mother’s hands were gentle on you despite the things she subjected you to. Comforting caresses and fingers moving your hair and clothing in ways to avoid pinching or pain as she removed the shackles and began to untangle you from the chains that had wrapped around you. It felt like a loss, to no longer have them pressing into your skin, no longer holding you up as your head rolled on hard to hold up neck.

“Oh oh oh, it’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got you.” Your mother’s voice was syrupy sweet, coating you in its allure. The only thing you truly knew was real in this moment of time. Her hands helped you up on weak legs, arms going around your waist to hold you to her, support most of your weight. “We’re home, my darling. I think it’s gonna treat us well, this time around.”

Confusion colored your senses and prompted a warbled sound to fall from your lips as she led you to the fresher. She helped to disrobe you, carefully peeling the clothing from your scuffed and sweaty skin. The weight of your hair being let loose from its braided updo stirred the beginnings of a headache. Trying to establish itself even in the presence of the drugs thrumming through your veins.

She washed you free of the sweat and grime that had built up on your skin in the time it had taken to guide your sluggish and unaware form onto a ship for travel.

Hands that didn’t feel like her own filled your senses. Larger than hers, rougher than hers, more intentional than hers. The feeling being washed away along with the suds and bubbles down the drain as you felt the prick of something in your neck and everything became fuzzy.

Things slowly returned to you as you felt the hum weighted over you lighten. Gravity shifted and a feeling of foreboding bubbled up in your stomach, prickling the instincts compressed inside your mind until they could do nothing but trigger ever so slightly. The hush of the door opening had you shifting atop the bedding, looking toward it to see the shadow of your mother approaching you with a cloak.

But it wasn’t yours, because the one you had been gifted, the one with the beautiful floral clasps to keep it closed, had been left behind in your haste. Haste to run from the feelings of inadequacy and heartbreak that threatened to overwhelm you even if you couldn’t piece together the specifics. Too overcome with the things your mother pressed into your veins to have you sluggish and heeding her commands.

The flash of a shiny reflection of sunlight against the metal of a sword stirred something in you as you walked alongside her. She was supporting most of your weight, guiding you along down the ramp of the ship and you paused at the sight before you. Blinking, ensuring that the image wouldn’t melt away and that it was real, you couldn’t believe your eyes.

A garden. Lush and green, was stretched out before a grand palace of white and sandy stone. Pillars and domes accent the different parts of grand sight. It was magnificent and entirely too complicated for you to be able to find a way to escape once within the walls. Guards cloaked in black were stationed at the main entrance and along entryways within the halls. Women in rich jewel tones scattered about the palace as your mother guided you through it, being led herself by a man who held an air of authority about himself.

Your heart beating fast, dizzyingly fast and your breath becomes labored, pitchy. It garners the attention of your mother, the shift from quiet to increasing panic as your led further into the maze of halls and buildings. She holds the control to the shackles about your wrists and ankles in her hand, waving it at you to quell the twitching of your muscles as you tried to resist running, of harnessing the Force to send everyone around you flying through the wide hallway. The silent threat of the electricity sparking through your synapses paired with the way the world didn’t feel quite right, everything off kilter and slightly blurry, fuzzy all around you had you obeying her without a word.

She commanded the people around you both as you were ushered through a door into a sterile room, medical equipment and first aid supplies collected in a large cabinet. The medical center, you guessed through the haze and worry spiked through you. What was she going to have them do to you?

With soft words, she urged you to lay down atop one of the cots. Smoothing your hair away from your face with gentle hands as the prick of a needle startled you. An attendant, a man dressed in dark red billowing layers, had stuck you with a syringe.

Before you could form your lips around a question, a plea, the edges of your vision blurred. Within seconds, the room was spinning and your eyes fluttered shut. The last thing you thought of before being pulled under the influence of the sedative was a plea for Din and ad’ika to be safe, wherever they may be.

“Alright,” Your mother chirped once you had fallen unconscious. The man in red regarded her with a blank expression, knowing that he was here for one reason and one reason only. Being paid generously for the use of his skills and the machinery that he possessed. He was one of the few who had been sought out by the New Republic to recalibrate and repurpose something used by the Empire that would prove useful for them as well.

Rumors of such a machine were whispered across the galaxy, most believing them to have been destroyed. But they would be wrong, they were very prevalent in the reformation and reintroduction of the Empire’s countless forces back into the general population. To break the spell of indoctrination imposed on them with low force electric vibrations. The Six-O-Two Mitigator, otherwise known as a Mind Flayer. Curtesy of the royal families firm standing within the New Republic and their generous donations to help fund their endeavors.

“Is it ready?”

“Yes, it’s been calibrated to perform at a higher voltage to achieve what you’ve requested.” He spoke as he watched two attending medics wheel the cot you were laid upon toward the doorway that lead into another room. He followed them, with a wave of his arm to allow for your mother to proceed him. She did so with a dip of her head.

“I’m sure you know how to oblige what is being requested of you. From me and from the Prince. We will settle for nothing less.”

“I do, you want me to target the memory glands.”

“Yes, eradicate anything that sparks in response to the Mandalorians and the Jedi. Warp them if you have to.”

“I will do my best, it may take multiple sessions.”

“That’s quite alright, we are here now. We have the time.”

Something was wrong. Something was missing.

And your head was pounding, a dull pain throbbing at your crown and moving down, down, down to coat your entire body. Groaning, you realized you were laying in a large, plush bed. Pillows and soft blankets surrounding you, having allowed you the comfort to sleep deeply. Deep enough that you couldn’t recall the location of where you were.

The room is beautiful, all pale, soft tones that match the way you had always wanted to decorate your own home one day. But it was a lost thought, something that would never come to fruition. A personal home that you would never have, a home that you would never share, because the people that you love no longer exist to you, faded into blips you can’t recall. But there was one shadow that you could sense in the back of your mind. And it was making you worry about the way you couldn’t fill it. The underlying feeling of something wrong settling low in your gut.

The room is completely foreign as is the scene of a desert city surrounded by large, formidable walls of stone. You now stood on the balcony, having crossed the spacious interior decorated with tapestries and thin beaded curtains to take a look outside. Your body protested the movements, sluggish to respond to your need to figure out where you were.

The door creaked open, a pair of young women with a tray froze as they say you out on the balcony.

And then, a familiar figure shouldered past them with a wide smile.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my sweetheart, how are you feeling?” She was across the room, her arm over your shoulder as she guided you to take a seat in one of two chairs that surrounded a small, low table. Across from them, on the other side, a long, curved couch that looked to be velvet stretched out.

“I feel okay, I’m just a little confused. When did we move….here?” You felt like something was missing still, aside from the curiosity of the foreign environment. You were looking around the room, trying to nudge that vague shadow of whatever it was into a more concrete form. And then it did, the shadow took the form of a man and your heart skipped a beat. “Is he okay?”

“Who, honey?”

“Um…the man I’ve been traveling with. He- he was injured, his…his head!” You felt panic ripple over you, very real and so overwhelming. You had been traveling with someone, that much you knew. But the name, the specifics of him weren’t coming to you. But it felt so real, the phantom feel of the man who you had been with, you carried him with you, and you needed to know if he was okay.

“Honey, he wasn’t the one that fell. You were.”

“Where is he?” Her words didn’t shake the panic settling into your bones. A memory of kneeling in front of an injured man, cradling his face in your hands as he lay before you flashed in your mind’s eye. The feeling of heat washing over you, as if trying to consume you.

“He’s a very busy man, he was going to visit this afternoon.” You mother tried to console you, moving to sit on the arm of your chair and reaching out to cusp a hand over your shoulder.

“I need to see him now!” You stood, anger spiking. Lungs aching for air, for the vision of the man whose touch was ghosting over your skin, whispers of promises and comfort filling your ears. All coming back as the shadow in your mind grew larger and larger, taking space and becoming all consuming,

“Alright, honey, hold-“ She caught your hand as you walked past her, set on searching for him. Needing to see him, to ensure that he was okay. The feeling of warm blood thick on your hands.

“That’s quite alright, Lena.” A deep voice spoke from the open doorway and you felt your knees buckle as you looked over toward it. The tall figure of a broad man was standing there, dressed in orange and gold. He had dark, thick hair on the top of his head and decorating his face. He looked healthy and relief replaced the panic. The feeling of comfort at his few words urging you back up from where you had reached out for the couch. Memories of laughter and teasing, of time spent together coming back to you as if he had brought them into the room with him. “I had a spare moment today, is everything okay here?”

“I-I just…I needed to make sure you were okay.” The words left you in a shaky breath. His image filled the form of the shadow, pushing you toward him. He opened his arms and you moved into them, lifting up on your tip toes to press your forehead to his own and everything whirling around in your mind calmed.

“My heart, are you alright?” His breath fanned over your face and your eyes focused on his lips. Waiting for an answer to flow from them. For all the memories that had flooded back when you first looked at him, you couldn’t recall the feel of his lips on your own.

“I’ve got you, beautiful. Everything is going to be okay.”

Before the last word was uttered, you were surging up and pressing your lips to his.

Weeks go by, the days spent with your mother and the maidens assigned to look after you and ensure you had everything you needed. Prince Cala was accommodating, doting almost when he was free from the responsibilities that came with running a successful city. He was a prince, you learned. Set to inherit his royal standing of king and full control over the city once the marriage he had proposed to you in your murky past came to fruition. He was all soft, casual touches and kisses pressed to your temples. He hadn’t kissed you fully since that first day you had woken up and you could understand his hesitancy. You were still struggling with your memory, no exact recollection of your lives together.

Assurances spoke from both him and your mother that this was indeed your life, even if everything seemed so new and part of a routine you didn’t quite feel like you were a part of. You were…slightly uncomfortable in your mother’s presence, when alone. An almost fearful undertone as you watched her movements closely, feigning focused interest in the things she told you and shared with you to mask the way your eyes catalogued everything. There was a faint weight that pulled in your gut when she would touch you, her hands always gentle but it was as if… it was as if your body was waiting for the gentle to give way to something more sinister, more ill-intentioned.

You felt more at ease with the man who had filled the shadow in your mind, his presence calming and kind. You weren’t waiting for his touch to sour, though it didn’t spring forth any feelings of desire or yearning from you. A causal intimacy between you both. Slightly disjointed in the way that you had separate room when you could recall sleeping beside a warm body before your accident. In the way that he would press his forehead to yours in greeting each morning and departure each night, the warmth of his skin against yours feeling….wrong as you recalled a coolness in the memories of the practiced motion. In the way that your flowing gowns and light layers looked beautiful in every color provided to you helped to alleviate the heat of the planet but felt too…impractical when you could recall feeling different clothing against your skin, practical, durable.

But for all the things that felt slightly shifted, you also found familiarity.

The ever present heat and bright sunshine of the planet, so unlike your own world of K’ath and yet it was almost comforting in a way. The food you enjoyed at the words of your mother and fiancé to the kitchens to keep on hand. Fresh fruits, crispy vegetables, and warm bread slathered with salted butter fresh from the ovens. Plenty of soups served over rice and easy broths for you to sip from ornate china, never anything too heavy or slathered in rich sauces. Sweet treats in the form of artisan chocolate, decadent cakes with frosting covering them in intricate designs and an endless supply of fresh, strong caf.

But you took it all in stride, spending time in the gardens, memorizing the walkways that wound through them and around the cerulean ponds filled with colorful fish. Spending time in the library and reading through the history of the planet and the city. Spending time in the lush sunroom decorated with plush rugs, overstuffed seating, and a nice view of the grounds just beyond it. Spending time overlooking the beautiful sights of the city and the distant ocean from your balcony, unable to shake the feeling like you were supposed to be somewhere else.

You tried to ignore the guards hovering around you as you explored the streets of the market. You had earned the outing after your good behavior, showing restraint in the questions you had wanted to ask but didn’t want to repeat yet again the night before. Shaking those thoughts from your head, you reached up and adjusted the dainty crown atop your head. The beautiful netting sprinkled with jewels fanning the base of it cascading over your hair in quite a nice way and it would look beautiful if the piece weren’t a deadly threat. It was a little overkill, you thought. Even if you had been nothing but willing to play along to your mothers and husbands’ words despite feeling like something was wrong, missing, like this wasn’t your life. But they were all that you knew right now, the figure of your mother familiar from childhood and you heeded her words.

You were at a stall that had an array of colorful and fragrant fruits, the sweet perfume of them blending together too tempting for you to bypass without checking out. A creature of habit, your mother called you. A woman of expensive taste, teasingly aimed at you from your husband. They knew you

You paused to hold a bundle of sunset orange berries up to inspect. A small green hand with three fingers suddenly reached out for the bowl in your hand and you jumped only slightly at the sudden company you had as you perused the stalls offerings. You turned a cautious look over but a smile broke out on your face at the cute visage of a small, wonderous face peeking out from a canvas bag that seemed to be his safe space.

“Well, hello there, little one.” You lowered the bowl for the small creature to reach for a berry, the fruit stuffed into his mouth with a happy sound that had a laugh bubbling up from your chest unbidden. “He’s rather cute. Is this your child?”

You canted your attention up, at the broad man dressed in all black who was wearing the child’s bag over a shoulder. His clothing was nondescript, matching that of the priests who littered the town. Flowing cassock and wrap atop his head. His face was obscured, much like their own by black gauzy material draped from underneath it. His dark brown eyes were the only thing visible, and you smiled at him trying to come across as friendly. You didn’t want to anger anyone in town lest they had a connection to your new family.

The figure didn’t speak for a moment, seeming to take stock of you, gauging if you were a threat or not, something everyone seemed to be doing when interacting with you. A newcomer, an outsider, not one of the many tourists visiting the city for their own amusement, but someone brought in to be a part of the ruling family. Confirmation sounded through the fabric masking his face from you and you nodded to show you heard. “He is.”

“I’ve never seen any like him before, he seems like the sweetest thing.” The child let out small coos, as if knowing he was being talked about. He reached for another berry but held it out to you this time. You shook your head lightly and another laugh bubbled up even as you felt the heavy gaze of his father on you.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to pay for- Oh, Princess Cala, I’m so sorry. I was unaware you were in the markets today. Please, take whatever you wish, I will send for payment from Sir Cala at the end of the day.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright. It’s just a little snack today, nothing too crazy.” You smiled wide at him, hoping your behavior will be relayed back to your new family and they will lower their intensity. But you also genuinely appreciated this man, he treated you like a person while everyone else in the market kept a wide berth around you. Afraid of either you as a newcomer or the guards that tailed you, you hadn’t been able to work it out yet. You reached for the small pouch attached to your belt, the jingling of the bracelets on your wrists drawing the attention of the child.

You felt the tug of on them as you reached out to place a few credits for the bowl of berries on the stand, nodding your thanks as you turned to face the child again. He was gripping the bracelets tightly, his skin touching yours as he did so and a clash of emotions flooded you, causing you to gasp and your knees buckled. Before the guards could reach you, the tall man had stepped close and his arms were wrapped gently around your back, holding you to his chest to help steady you.

“I’ve got you, mesh’la. Are you alright?” His head was pitched so his voice was right beside your ear, and it sent a shiver through your body, the timbre of it so alluring. It was all you could hear though you were aware of the soft babbling of the child close to you and the harsh voices of the guards. You felt completely calm with him, like returning to your home after a long day. Comforted, safe, cared for. His touch was so familiar, the way he held you feeling like a faint memory though you had never met him in your life.

“Unhand the princess, no one is to touch her.” The guards closed in around you both, trapping you between their bodies and the stall.

“It’s alright! I just tripped is all!” You raised your voice even though it was rather hard to concentrate with the strong body pressed up against you and holding you. You felt the man loosen his hold and step away as you stood straighter. You weren’t quite sure what happened, but he had been quick to help you, even at the expense of drawing the guards’ attention. You smiled at him, something genuine. The feelings he had stirred in you were confusing but not unwelcome. You had no idea why. He was a stranger after all.

“We must return now, Princess Cala.”

When his touch retracted, the warmth that had blossomed in your chest and the quickening of your heart beating against the cage of your ribs didn’t wane.

You retrieved the bowl of berries and held a few out to the slightly dejected child, his large ears turned downward. “Here you go, little one. Make sure to share those with your papa, okay?”

Another glance roved over his face, a soft smile just for him, and you were bidding him a good day with a bow of your head. The urge to press your forehead against his strong, but you resisted, knowing that it felt too personal a thing for the stranger standing beside you. Your brow furrowed slightly, unsure of where the need to do so rose from. The comfortability and underlying feeling of complete and utter safety that the man stoked in you confusing you, he was a stranger, and yet it felt like there was a string wrapped around your heart that pulled taught and uncomfortable as you began to move away from him.

And with that you were turning and walking away from the stall, two guards leading you back to the palace and two behind you. You could feel the kind man’s brown eyes watching you as you did, daring to look over your shoulder to get one last look at him yourself.

Your breath hitched as your eyes met his even from the distance of the street and you felt the heat from his intimate touch and soft words encompass you completely. A dull pain throbbed in your temple, forcing you to turn away.

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 8 months ago

Text

What Can Still Be Known

A/N: This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge... which I meant to have finished weeks ago, but since it's May the 4th, today seems like a good time to post it even if it is later than I originally planned. Thank you so much to Gin for putting this together! I love music prompts, so this was right up my alley. I can't wait to catch up on the other stories written for this event! Make sure you all go check them out, too! You can find them here.

Prompt: My song was Butchered Tongue from the album Unreal, Unearth, and my character was Din. I was delighted to get this prompt, because that song speaks to my soul. It's melancholic and beautiful, and I think it fits Din so damn well, so I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: angst, mentions of canon typical violence, mention of death of parents/family, you know, Mandalorian stuff.

Word Count: 3,545 (oops.)

Summary: Din doesn't remember much about his parents or his life with them... but that doesn't stop him from wishing it were different.

Nevarro’s sun burned bright and hot as Din crossed the scrubby stretch of flatlands that separated the town from the Mandalorian encampment. Shifting the crate he carried under one arm, he tilted his head down to where Grogu hopped along beside him, using the Force to propel himself every few steps to accommodate for his father’s much longer stride. The sight, along with the string of happy gurgles and babbles spilling from the kid’s mouth, made a smile sprout beneath the man’s helmet.

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it buddy?”

Grogu looked up at him and squealed happily, nodding and pointing one clawed finger at the semi-permanent settlement growing closer with every step they took.

Though the efforts to reclaim their homeworld had been successful, a small group of Mandalorians remained on Nevarro during the rebuilding process on Mandalore - mainly those responsible for teaching and raising the foundlings and other young children that were not yet ready to start their trials. There were two combat instructors, two teachers whose focus was on the tenants of the Resol’nare, one additional teacher who was responsible for teaching Mando’a, as well as a dozen or so students and their guardians. Eventually they’d all join the rest of their people on Mandalore, but until things were more solidly settled there, Nevarro was as safe an option for an outpost as could be found in the Outer Rim.

Din chuckled. “I’m sure your friends will be happy to see you again, too.”

That response sent the kid bouncing with excitement, hopping high enough so that he could fit in a flip before touching down again, the rondel and small pauldron he wore clinging together like chimes with his motion.

“Go ahead,” Din urged him, jutting his chin out in front of him. “You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll be right behind -” But the child was gone before the last word left his lips. He sighed and shook his head in amusement. “-You.” He watched through the tinted screen of his visor as Grogu darted towards the sparring grounds, no doubt in search of Ragnar.

It had been a few months since they’d been back on Nevarro, Din busy taking Grogu through his apprenticeship, teaching him skills that he would need in order to move on in his training. Tracking, hunting, navigation, survival, negotiation, just to name a few. Every lesson took them to a different planet, some of them coming with the added bonus of coinciding with a bounty or paid favor. The most recent one, a lesson in tracking on Rodia, had resulted in uncovering a stash of beskar ingots that had been defaced with an Imperial stamp.

Immediately after finishing up on Rodia - Din showing Grogu how to incapacitate an enemy without killing them - they’d taken the recovered beskar back to the Armorer on Mandalore, so that she could fashion it into new pieces for the foundlings. It was strange, but good, to see the glass encrusted planet so teeming with life. It was a relief to know that what his people had fought for for so long, what so many had given their lives for, was finally secure. Finally theirs.

But despite the fact that the Mandalorian people finally had a safe place to call home, Din had yet to feel that sort of connection with the planet. Unlike Bo-Katan, he hadn’t been born there, nor had he spent any time there as a child. He’d heard stories about what the Great Forge had been like in its glory, how lush the gardens of Sundari had been long ago. But to him, a foundling Child of the Watch who had never set foot on Mandalore until he was a grown man, they’d always felt like stories about some fictional, far off place. He wondered if that would change, if he would ever feel at home in a place that brought him no nostalgia or warmth.

A part of him hoped that it would. Because it wasn’t just Mandalore that he felt that absence of connection to. It was everywhere he went. A side-effect of losing every home he’d ever had, it turned out, was not knowing where your roots would grow if they could grow anywhere they chose.

He knew he had a home once. A true home, one where he could have collected a whole life’s worth of memories, enough of them so that when he returned there they’d all come rushing to fill his heart with warmth and welcome. He knew he had a family before the Tribe had become that for him, too. A mother and father who loved him so fiercely that they sacrificed their own lives to save his. When he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still find their faces. His father’s was easier to recall because he himself wore so many of the same features. Every time he saw his own reflection he was reminded of the man who carried him through the battlefield that their village had become.

His mother’s face was more difficult to recall in detail, but that didn’t mean he had forgotten her. He remembered her thick, dark hair and the way it curled at her shoulders. He remembered the texture of the red robes she wore, remembered tracing the intricate pattern of woven stitching on the cuffs of her sleeves with the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t be sure, but he had the thought that he must have remembered these things because she was the one who comforted him when he was hurt, sad or scared. That what he really recalled when he thought of his mother was the feeling of safety and warmth that her embrace provided.

He remembered the tone of her voice, soothing but strong. His father’s was full and confident and always sounded like a smile was about to appear. He remembered that the two of them sang often. Sometimes he’d be hit with a snippet of a melody, the lyrics lost, turned to dust and ash like the rest of his homeworld, but he’d find himself humming and realize that it was one of the songs his parents used to sing.

The forgotten lyrics were only a small part of a larger loss, though. They were written in a language that had died when the population of Aq Vetina had been snuffed out. So he could remember his parents’ voices. He could remember the melodies they sang. But the things they said, the words they used, the meaning behind them? All of that was gone. For all the languages and means of communication he did know, the first one he’d ever heard and learned escaped him. And in all of his travels since leaving his homeworld in the arms of an armored stranger that had become his Buir, Din had never met anyone who spoke his native tongue.

It made him wonder if anyone else had survived the attack on his home that day, or if he was the last living member of a completely slain culture.

Before he could ruminate on that thought for too long, though, Azil, one of the combat instructors, saw him walking towards the sparring grounds and waved him over. “Olarom, Djarin!” He pointed at the crate Din carried, tilting his helmeted-head in question. “Gifts from home?”

The contents of the box shifted as Din handed it over, newly cast cuiresses ringing together in answer to Azil’s inquiry. “New beskar,” Din responded with a nod. “Freshly forged on Mandalore,” he added in answer to Azil’s question about where it came from. “I was told to deliver them to you for distribution to your students.”

Azil set the crate down and clapped one gloved hand to Din’s shoulder. “Vor entye, vod.”

Returning the gesture, Din did the same. “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” Azil echoed, and then immediately set about unpacking the box of armor, sorting it by size, leaving Din to see where Grogu had gone.

It didn’t take long for him to find his son. The long, green ears were a giveaway, sure. But so was the small crowd of other children gathered around to watch him levitate a black chunk of volcanic rock while Ragnar Vizsla practiced blasting it with training darts. With each successful hit, the other kids would cheer, a collective sound of amazement coming from them each time Grogu managed to evade the blast by redirecting the rock.

Din stood watching for a few moments, silently appreciative that these children had this opportunity to laugh and learn and grow together somewhere open and safe and free. He could remember playing similar training games and showing off new skills with the few other children in his covert, though then it was all done underground, in hiding. But he couldn’t recall the kinds of games he might have played with friends in his village. If there were any nursery rhymes or tall tales he might have known once, they’d long since faded from his memory.

It made him wonder if he’d eventually forget what little he could remember about his native culture. Would he lose it piece by piece? Until not even a familiar tune or the color red or his own reflection sparked any feeling? He hoped not, but it seemed inevitable.

At least, it had.

Suddenly - from a different group of children than the one gathered around Grogu, much to Din’s relief - a small child went darting by his boots, arms outstretched in front of her, the distinct sound of sniffles and cries trailing after her. Turning away from the training grounds, he watched as the child was scooped up by a woman who had just stepped out of one of the tents. He assumed that whatever sent the girl running was just the result of one of the other kids being a little too rough. Or perhaps one of Nevarro’s reptilian species had frightened the child. Either way, it was clear that there was no real danger and that the woman had things under control, so he started to turn back towards Grogu and Ragnar’s shenanigans.

But then he overheard the woman begin to soothe the young girl in her arms.

“Ny mo yariin, necta.”

It stopped him in his tracks and sent his head swiveling back in the direction it came from. His heart pounded beneath the elongated diamond stamped into the center of his chestplate as he felt something unlock in his memory.

He’d heard those same words before. So long ago that he was stunned when he recognized the phrase. So long ago that the meaning behind them was lost. But he knew they were spoken to him as comfort. He knew that they were words steeped in love. He watched the way the woman cradled the child to her armored chest, his eyes catching on the piece of red fabric that was pinned to the cowl of her flight suit.

No matter how impossible it seemed that the words he’d just heard had survived what a whole settlement of people hadn’t, no matter how unlikely it was that it was there of all places that he’d heard it, no matter how slim the odds were that the tattered scarlet linen was the same fabric that he remembered from his home, Din found himself drawn to her.

To you.

— — —

You were rewiring the com device in your helmet when you heard Tira’s cry.

Though you knew that she was probably fine - there were dozens of other Mandalorian adults present in the settlement, and you knew that none of them would allow any real harm to come to the children - you immediately set your work down and stepped outside, senses heightened. But as soon as you saw her running towards you, you relaxed. She wasn’t hurt or being chased. She’d likely just been knocked over by one of the bigger kids while they played one of their games. Tira was small, but didn’t like to be told that. And since her older brother had begun his trials and wasn’t there as often to make sure she didn’t get pushed around by the others, she’d been having trouble adjusting.

It didn’t help that less than a year ago, she and Maj had lost both of their parents in the battle to retake Mandalore, which is how the children had come to be in your care.

As a former foundling yourself, you were more than willing to step in and raise them as your own, just as the Mandalorian who rescued you the day your village was attacked and your parents were killed would have done had he not been able to reunite you with your kin. You’d been brought to Corellia, where your mother’s sister lived with her family, and they’d taken you in and raised you instead. It wasn’t until you became an adult that you rejoined the Mandalorians and took the Creed, choosing to commit your life to the very people who had saved it.

But though you mainly spoke Galactic Basic and were muddling your way through learning Mando’a, it was still your first language that came to you when you scooped a sniffling Tira into your arms and cradled her to your armored chest. It was still the words your parents - and then your aunt - had spoken to you when you’d been hurt or scared that you used to comfort the girl.

“Ny mo yariin, necta.”

You’re safe with me, sweet one.

You knew Tira and Maj didn’t speak Aquitto. They only knew the meaning of that one phrase because you’d taught it to them. And since your aunt had passed away, you knew that you were possibly the only person left in the galaxy who would even recognize it let alone speak it. As far as you knew, there hadn’t been any other survivors from your village that day. It struck you that every time you spoke it could be the last time it was ever uttered.

Pushing that thought from your mind, you focused on Tira, kissing her cheek and letting her clutch at the sculpted pin that held a piece of red fabric - a remnant of the hooded robe you’d been wearing the day you were rescued on Aq Vetina - in place on your cowl. The pin had belonged to your mother, the woman pressing it into your hand before disappearing to go try to fight off the monstrous machines with the rest of the village. As a child you would trace the design on it with your fingertip whenever she held you, whenever she made the same promise you were making Tira.

“Ny mo yariin, necta.”

By the time you’d said it a second time, the girl had stopped crying. The words themselves weren’t magic, but the sentiment in them was. Even if they were the last scraps of the Aquitto language to live on, you hoped that one day Tira or Maj would pass them along to a child who needed to hear them, too.

Whatever had brought on the sudden storm of tears had passed, and Tira wriggled in your hold as she caught sight of some of the other children watching as the Jedi foundling levitated chunky rocks for Ragnar to blast with darts. You chuckled at her eagerness to get back out there with the big kids. “Okay, necta. But watch out for yourself, got it?” You set her back on the ground, stooping down to her level and ruffling her hair. “I know you’re a tough one, but you still have to be careful.”

She nodded enthusiastically, telling you that she would be, and then she was gone, scurrying back across the crusty flatland towards the other kids. When you stood back up, you were met with the dark visor of Din Djarin - a man you’d never personally met, but who you’d heard a great deal about from the others in the settlement on Nevarro. You knew he was the Jedi foundling’s adoptive father. You knew he had previously wielded the Darksaber and that he was instrumental in helping Bo-Katan Kryze and the others take back Mandalore. You knew that he was responsible for reclaiming the beskar that your armor had been forged from.

– – –

“Oh, hello,” you greeted him, a small laugh in your voice that he figured was a result of the way he’d caught you off guard. You lifted a hand and reflexively tucked the piece of red fabric at your collar into place. “It’s Din, right?”

“Yes. Din Djarin. I’m sorry I don’t know your name, I-”

You waved him off and introduced yourself. Smiling, you pointed in the direction that the little one you’d just set down had run off in. “That’s your son over there, isn’t it? Tira was excited to see him.”

Din turned his head to follow your finger, though he didn’t need to look to know that you were indicating Grogu. “It is,” he confirmed, facing you again with a small shrug. “He likes to show off.”

You laughed at that. “I would too, if I could do what he can.”

“He’s a special kid,” Din replied, and you smiled again.

“He is.” You nodded, and it was clear to him that you were still unsure of why he had approached you. “Is there-”

“Can I ask you something?” He tilted his head, hidden eyes fixed on the fabric at your neck - and on the sculpted pin that held it in place, the designs so familiar to him he could feel them on his fingers.

You furrowed your brow, expression turning serious. “Of course. Not sure if I’ll be able to help you with it, but-” You held your hands up, palms to the sky. “Ask away.”

“The words you just spoke to that little girl… Tira?” You nodded so he went on. “How do you know that language?”

He watched your eyes widen with your blink. “You… You’re familiar with Aquitto?”

Din sighed, giving a slight shake of his head. “I didn’t even remember what it was called, but… Yes. Or, that phrase, anyway. How do you know it?”

You let out a breath. “I… I was born on Aq Vetina. It was the language my parents spoke. It…” Again your fingers came up to the pin and the fabric that it secured. “It was my first language. I was lucky that my aunt knew it, too, or else I would have forgotten it completely after our village was destroyed and-” Something dawned on you and your eyes widened again. “You said you were familiar with it?” He nodded. “How?”

You asked the question in a way that made him think you already knew the answer, but you needed - or wanted - to hear him say it. So he did. “Same as you. I was born there. It was my parents’ language. But I haven’t heard it spoken since the day droids raided our home.” He blinked, somewhat stunned that only moments before he had been mourning the loss of his native language and culture only to find a source of it right in front of him. “I didn’t know there were other survivors.”

Your mouth fell open slightly as you stared up into the visor that hid his eyes from view. When you spoke again it was quiet, your words equally full of disbelief. “Neither did I.” Your lips twitched into a small smile despite the way your eyes had started to water. “I’m glad we were both wrong, Din.”

“I am, too.” He felt a tightening in his chest, but it was unlike anything he felt before. It wasn’t from sorrow or anxiety, it wasn’t to alert him to a threat or caused by regret. It felt more like a connection forming - like meeting you had brought him closer to his own heart somehow. Instantly, a thousand questions popped into his mind for you, and he imagined you might have had some for him as well. But there was one thing he needed to know first. “Can you tell me what it means? What you said to Tira? My… I think my parents used to say it to me, and…” He trailed off, waiting for your response.

“It means, ‘You’re safe with me, sweet one.’” You smiled again. “It literally translates to ‘You’re in my heart’ though. It’s… It’s what you say to the people you love most.”

Just then, Grogu and Tira came tearing over, Din bending down to pick up his son and you settling your hand on the little girl’s head as she clung to your side. “Hey, Buddy. Remember when I told you about my parents and what I remembered about where I came from?”

“Patu.” His head moved up and down, ears flapping with his nod.

“Well, this lady comes from the same place that I do, and she just taught me how to say something in my old language. You wanna hear it?”

“Patu!” He spread his clawed fingers over Din’s chestplate.

Din looked over at you - at the warm smile on your face as you smoothed the little girl’s play-ruffled hair and gave him an encouraging nod - and then back down at Grogu. “Ny mo yariin, necta.”

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