#i swear every time i draw this man his facial expressions get increasingly ridiculous

[alchemisticramblings]

drew douxie again because he's surprisingly fun to draw

your local nine hundred year old man is suffering from poverty

@skryae hey look it's your emo brit boy

[crystalessenceswrites]

Burden of the Survivors--Excerpt

*not my gif*

Burden of the Survivors

Pairs: Din Djarin x fem!reader Rating: T (at the moment- subject to change) Warnings: uh smooches? making out? not beta’ed cause I don’t have time for that rn *no spoilers- takes place in Season 1 timeline* Summary: You didn’t trust Ran and his crew anymore than you’d trust a stormtrooper to hit a target from 50 paces and they proved you right with that bantha-shit show of a job. You figure that’s whats got Mando so tense, turns out he has something else on his mind.

A/N: I notoriously write fics out of order because I’m a scatter brain and when I’ve got a thot I’ve got to write it before I lose it. I’m behind on Chapter 2 because of the holidays and now work is being a bitch so enjoy some first smooches with one Mandalorian while I get my ass in gear to finish the next chapter. Also thots are appreciated on whether or not this scene should be continued and how spicy ya’ll want them to get

[Masterlist] [Chapter One]

The tension on the Crest simmers after you put the baby down. You can see how Mando walks around with squared off shoulders, hear the leather of his gloves creaking as he continues to clench his fists. He’s wound up and you can’t wrap your head around why. Mayfeld, Xi��an and Burg were currently sitting in a cell on a New Republic prison ship, Ran and Qin had been blown up by the X-Wings and you’d been paid for it all. Despite the initial bumps in the day, it had come out in your favor in the end. Yet you still felt like you were walking on eggshells. What had gotten into him?

You wondered if Xi’an and Mayfeld had gotten under his skin more than you had originally thought. Or maybe he just needed space after getting shoved in a cell? It had not been pleasant being stuck in the cell, as brief as it had been. It wasn’t as if the Razor Crest allowed you to give him much space, especially with the Child sleeping up in the cockpit. His energy was starting to rub off on you too; it had you worrying your necklace in one hand while you tidied up the ration pack that had served as your dinner.

So wrapped up in the palpable pressure you didn’t notice Mando’s approach, or maybe he didn’t want you to hear him approach. Surprisingly silent for a man covered in metal. Metal that now had you pinned up against the Crest’s tiny built-in kitchenette.

You spin around in his hold, peering wide-eyed up into the emotionless visor. “Mando, what’s going on?”

One large hand falls to your hip, the other cups your chin with a subtle tilt up. The warm leather a sharp contrast to the frigid metal boxing you in. He’s so close he fills all your senses; he smells of blaster residue and weapons cleaner and something sharp. You’d never been this close to him before.

“You could have left me behind back there. Taken the ship and the child and have been in the wind, long gone by now.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why haven’t you done it, Kyber? You’ve had plenty of chances after you said you were only in this for the Child. You said you didn’t care about me. So why have you stayed all this time?”

You had said that hadn’t you? “I-I don’t know-”

His grip tightens on your chin, “that’s a kriffing lie and you know it, sweet girl.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, “Mando…”

His helmet tilts as your voice trails off. Curious how a blank helmet can be so expressive.

“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll stop-” his thumb starts lazily drawing tight circles above your hip bone- “but I know I’m not wrong.”

That you stayed because of him?

Your eyes flutter closed as heat rises to your cheeks. How do you admit something like this to someone when you won’t admit it to yourself? “You’re not wrong… Mando…”

His voice is almost smug, “keep your eyes closed, sweet girl.”

You nod, eyes screwed tight. His hands pull away, leaving your skin tingling where he’d touched.

What was this man doing to you?

The lights in the hull drop before he’s caging you in again, both hands framing your face before his lips brush against yours with a gentleness you wouldn’t suspect the bounty hunter possessed.

His lips.

A sound somewhere between a groan and a moan bubbles up in your throat as the realization the faceless man has taken his helmet off. For you.

To kiss you.

You melt into him, chasing after his lips when he pulls back. He chuckles and his unfiltered voice nearly turns you into a puddle on the spot. How could someone’s voice be so attractive?

As he slots his lips against yours again you can’t help but smile at the slight tickle of hair against the soft skin above your lip. You had never pictured him with facial hair.

It’s rough and patchy but you can’t be bothered as he presses in closer, his chapped lips moving in time with your own. He’s insistent, barely pausing to let either of you breathe. You wonder where get got so good at this.

He gingerly releases your face, one hand returning to your waist, leaving trails of burning skin where his fingers ghost along your torso. The other tangles itself in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back ever so slightly into his lips. You find yourself wrapping your arms around his neck, drawing him impossibly closer, sliding your fingers through his ridiculously soft locks.

He has curls.

You’ve seen the peaks of bronze skin under all the metal and his hair at the base of his helmet when he lets it grow too long. You know its somewhere between black and brown, the sort of shade that glows reddish brown when the sunlight hits it just right. The image you have of him wavers back and forth between green and brown eyes. A sharp, piercing green would suit him and his quick reflexes but a deep soulful golden-brown would fit as well, hidden away behind that dark visor.

His aquiline nose bumps against your own as he licks at your bottom lip, a silent question. You willingly open yourself further to him, his tongue mingling with yours as he licks into your mouth. He swallows you moans as his hand toys with the edge of your top, fingers sneaking along you skin until his large hand stretches out across the curve of your waist, his thumb resting beneath your breast band, teasing. His rough skin sends shivers down your spine and you lean further into his touch.

The two of you barely pull apart for air as your kisses grow increasingly desperate. His hand tightens in your hair and you let him guide your head to the side. Lips trail down your jaw and you sigh as they meet your exposed neck. You’re panting as he sucks and licks at the sensitive skin.

“Mando… Maker Mando…”

“Din.”

You brain is too occupied to process the three-letter word, “wha-”

“My name is Din,” he nips at the shell of your ear, voice rough in a way you’d never thought you’d hear. “You best use it when you tell me what you want, sweet girl.”

Sweet is not a word you’d associate with yourself after all you’ve done, but you swear you swoon like a lovesick teenager every time it leaves his lips.

“Din-” you’re breathless as his name leave your lips for the first time- “Din don’t stop.”

He smirks against your neck, “wouldn’t dream of it, sweet girl.”