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millersdjarin · 2 years ago

Text

Don't Wanna Look (at Anything Else)

I Only See Daylight - Chapter Eleven - Smut Scene

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: E (Explicit, SMUT)

Warnings/Tags: smut scene from Chapter 11 of I Only See Daylight, fingering, hand jobs, a little bit of dirty talk & praise kink, clothed sexy times, snuggling

For context: Din and Reader have recently started their romantic relationship, they've only kissed a few times with Reader's eyes closed, and they're on a long hyperspace journey with time to kill ;) (spoilers for the rest of IOSD, obviously)

Length: 5.5k words

He’s sitting like that again.

Except this time, he’s on the bench in the living area, one arm stretched along the back of it. His whole body is just one big temptation. The expanse of his chest beneath his chest plate, so open and inviting with his arm out like that. His thick thighs, spread wide enough for you to just settle right between them, his hand splayed on top of his left one like you want to be.

And he’s looking at you already, the second you come up through the hatch. You’ve put the kid to bed. It’s just the two of you up here. His eyes are on you, and you can feel them before you see them; hot, exploring. Somehow, you know he’s looking at every inch of you.

The way his helmet is tilted slightly, watching you.

Gods.

You just stand there for a minute, a couple metres in front of him, moving away from the hatch lest you step back and fall down it like a complete idiot, because he looks so good and you already feel weak in the knees.

“Come here,” he requests into the heated quiet.

You step forward, giving a playfully suspicious frown. “What’s going on?”

He lifts up his hand, pats his thigh. “Kid’s asleep. We’ve got nothing but time,” he taps it again, inviting you. You hear the soft sound of the leather glove against the beskar, drawing your eyes to it, to the wide set of his leg. Then, low, he says again, “Come here.”

It’s like there’s a string pulling you towards him. Something you couldn’t resist even if you wanted to. (Why would you want to?)

You get closer to him, taking small, tentative steps. He brings his legs just a little closer, sits up a little higher. Keeping your eyes on his visor, watching for any negative reaction that says Nope, not what I wanted, you stop in front of him, your knees brushing against his. You separate your legs a little, and move so that you’re straddling him, still standing up but feeling his knees against the insides of your thighs. Kriff, even that is enough to get you to come apart.

He brings up the hand that isn’t splayed across the back of the sofa, and places it on your hip, firm and trusting. He’s looking up at you, his gaze never leaving you. Not since you got here.

Gently, he tugs on you. “Come here,” he says again, and the only way you could possibly get any closer is if you sit in his lap.

So, you do. So slowly that it hurts your knees. You feel vulnerable like this, just bending down, placing the underside of your thighs on the tops of his. The beskar is cool and hard beneath you, your ass only just touching it while the rest of your middle just hangs in between the small gap between his legs. When you sit down with your weight on him, your legs bring his closer together, so it’s more comfortable.

His hand still on your hip, he sighs. You see the rise and fall of his chest. “You look so beautiful like this,” he says softly. Your heart lurches. “Mesh’la,” he adds, like he’s saying it to himself.

You place your hands on his shoulders, steadying yourself. Though, you don’t need it; he’s holding you so well in place with his one hand and that sign of strength is enough to have the space between your legs pulsing already. You stare down at him, gazing into his visor, feeling the heat of his body even through all the armour. Of course you wish he could be free of it, just in his flight suit, so you could feel his softness beneath your hands, your legs, your ass.

But it’s okay. This is more than enough.

“It’s not fair,” you say, lifting a hand to stroke down the side of his helmet. “It’s not fair that you get to look this beautiful, so beautiful without me even seeing you..”

He squeezes your hip, slides his hand up to your waist. It almost rucks up your shirt. Not quite. You’re fine.

“Din,” you whisper, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “Can you kiss me? Please?”

He nods and, on instinct, you close your eyes, ready to hear his helmet being removed. The sound doesn’t come, though. Instead, Mando shifts underneath you, and you look down at him to find him leaning across to the switch panel on the wall just a foot away. He flicks them, and suddenly, you’re plunged into darkness. The only light is coming from the cockpit, just the faintest flashes of blue and white as you fly through hyperspace.

You look around the room, getting your bearings. There are barely any shadows. You can only just see Din beneath you, the tiniest reflection of hyperspace glinting from one side of his armour.

Keeping his eyes on you, he lifts his hands, places them on each side of his helmet.

You close your eyes. Just in case.

“Cyar’ika,” he says softly, “you can open them.”

“But…I might be able to see…”

“You won’t,” he says. “It’s dark enough. I’ve already tried it.”

“Oh,” you breathe, something warm piercing through your chest. He’d planned for this. All you can see is his silhouette as he lifts his hands again, carefully taking his helmet away from his head. You hear the hiss, and it’s so ingrained in you to close your eyes at that sound, that you have to force yourself not to. The beskar catches the small light when it’s higher up before he moves it down and puts it on the bench beside him.

You can still only see the outline of him. He’s a shadow, a dark figure. There are a few wispy curls atop his head that catch the light, though. And it’s more of him than you’ve ever seen.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask him, suddenly feeling the need to speak in nothing more than a whisper. “You don’t have to. I can close my eyes.”

You see the silhouette of his head shake. “I’m sure,” his voice is pure, unmodulated. So clear. You wait for him to touch you, to lean in, but before he does he lifts up his hands and pulls off his gloves.

Oh, kriff.

You can see his hair in front of you, the vaguest shape of the outline of his face. You’re in his fucking lap, just like you’ve always wanted to be when he sits like this. And now he’s going to touch you with his bare hands.

Fuck.

You find your hands are shaking just a little as you lift them up to touch his face. Every muscle in you relaxes at the feeling of his beard beneath your palms. Your fingertips slide back into his hair, and he sighs so softly, just a relaxed exhale of air that you feel against your face.

He moves his arm from the back of the sofa, instead reaching for your waist so he can hold you on both sides.

“Please kiss me,” you whisper. You want to make sure he’s ready. That he’s truly okay with this.

And he is. Because at your request, he leans in, and captures your lip between his own, so softly and tenderly. It’s only been a few hours since your last kiss, since you last felt him beneath your mouth and your hands. But still, a sharp breath of desperation pulls into your nose as you push your lips further into his. You moan just a little, maybe closer to a whimper. His hands on your waist tighten. You want him to touch your face, your neck, your hands, put his bare skin against yours until you can recall the feeling of his touch just from a single thought.

He moves against you, pulling away, drawing back in. His kiss is soft but passionate, like he’s trying to drink in every moment. You ball your hands into fists, grabbing gentle handfuls of his hair. He sighs, one of his hands lifting up to cup the back of your head, cradle you close to him.

For a second you lose control, finding yourself pushing further down into his lap, your centre still open and untouched between the small gap of his legs. The insides of your thighs brush against his crotch. You’re just hanging there, your thighs stretched open over him, and you can feel his hardness, just brushing up against you through his flight suit.

On instinct, you grind down.

He moans in response. Tilts his head in the other direction, teasing his tongue into your mouth, just testing the waters. You accept it gratefully and slide your tongue right back against it. One of your hands moves down from his hair to his cowl, holding him right where you know it’ll keep him there.

He takes a gentle handful of your hair. It sparks pleasure down through the roots and all the way to your toes. Your body pushes in closer to him, pressing your chest as close to him as it can get without breaking the searing, delicious kiss.

Your hand is finding its way from his cowl, all the way down his chest, towards his crotch. You just can’t wait to feel him, to take hold of him.

Before you can touch his hardness, he grabs your hand, gently stopping you. “Don’t.”

You pull your hand away in an instant, heat flushing onto your cheeks, “Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

He shakes his head. For the first time, you see it, the outline of his bare face in the darkness. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he says, low, husky, “Gods, I do. But if you do, I might come apart.”

Heat blooms in your belly. You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

Like he’s holding himself back, he lets out a breathy, barely-there moan. His hands squeeze at your waist as he leans in, presses his bare forehead against your neck. You feel his nose, the heat of his breath, the brush of his facial hair. It’s intoxicating. He’s intoxicating.

And then, as if he’s purposefully trying to make you come right here on the spot, “Let me take care of you, this first time. Please.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You try to swallow it down. “Alright,” you reply, a shaky whisper.

His lips press against the pulse point on your neck. As your eyes flutter closed, you hold the back of his neck, feeling him open his mouth over your skin. Fucking fuck, it’s wet, hot, his teeth just grazing your skin as he sucks.

“Maker,” you curse. “Din, that’s…that’s good.”

“Mm,” he hums his agreement and the vibration of his voice over you is enough to send your knees shaking. He does it again, sucks at a new spot, just under your jaw. The sensation is electrifying, pleasure and desire sparking into your veins and thrumming through your entire body, all roads leading back to your cunt. Which is throbbing now, and you know you’re already wet.

Clinging to the back of his head, you tangle your hands in his hair—his hair—and pull lightly as he sucks just a little harder, a tiny sting coming from his teeth. It’s so fucking good. A breathy whimper comes from your throat. He seems to like it, his hands tightening on your waist again, one of them sliding up your ribs and the side of your breast.

“Din,” you pant, suddenly out of breath, “I—I don’t know what you can give me, but I—”

“What do you want?” He asks into the join between your shoulder and neck, darting his tongue out to lick shapes against your skin.

You almost can’t get your words out. “Whatever you can give,” you tell him earnestly. “Touch me—please, Din…”

The hand on your ribs slides back down again, though this time it doesn’t stop at your waist. It ghosts over your hip, your middle, taking a gentle and tender hold of the rolls of your stomach. You gasp as his thumb brushes over your belly button. He starts to ruck up your shirt, but you freeze, stopping him in his tracks.

“Not yet,” you tell him, taking a gentle, warning hold of his wrist. “Not—my shirt stays on. Please.”

Without question, he nods. His hand resumes its path downwards, eventually letting his fingers catch over the waistband of your trousers.

“Can I?” He requests softly, voice still against your neck, his other hand holding you steady at the waist. “It’s okay if not.”

You’re nodding before he’s even finished asking. “Yes,” you breathe, “yes, please…”

With his mouth just ghosting against your neck, he slowly undoes the button on your trousers, pulls down the zipper. Your underwear is already wet; you can feel it, now that the cool air has chance to hit it. A shiver runs down you. He feels it; rewards it with a kiss to your lips as his hand carefully stretches out the fabric that covers you, allowing him space to get his hand there.

Over your panties, he presses his two fingers to the hood of your clit. Just testing.

Your thighs try to clench together as soon as you feel it, catching on the beskar beneath them instead of finding the friction between your legs that they want. He presses harder against you, waiting for your approval.

“Kriff,” you gasp, “Please, Din, I—please touch me. Do whatever you want.”

He kisses you again, soft and slow on the lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs. His breath is hot, curling its way into your mouth, your lungs.

“How long?” You ask him, and gasp again when he dips his fingers below the top of your panties, brushing through the hairs as he slowly, so slowly, moves them closer to your clit.

He nips your jaw, then licks it better. “First moment I saw you,” he breathes, and finally, finally, his bare fingers are there, pulling back the hood and pressing gently against your clit—“I’d never seen someone so perfect.”

Your eyes falling closed, you hold on to the back of his head, anchoring him to your neck. His two fingertips start pressing just a little harder, moving in tiny circles around the bundle of nerves, not quite touching it but touching just enough to send red hot waves of pleasure through your core. “I was—I was pointing a blaster at you,” you recall breathlessly, half-lost in the feelings he’s giving you.

He huffs out a little laugh. Fuck, feeling it against your skin is a whole new level. “I’m a Mandalorian, remember? I like weapons.”

You laugh, too, a breathy chuckle that soon fades from your mouth the minute he slides his fingers through your folds, down to your entrance to gather wetness. “Oh, kriff, baby—” it slips out, the first time you’ve ever called him something like that, something other than Mando or his name. At first a twinge of panic is there in your stomach, but then he presses harder, putting his finger right against your clit and working it even more intensely than before.

“I like that,” he all but growls into your neck. “Say it again.”

“Baby,” you moan, because you would do anything he says, anything to keep up that pressure on your clit, the burning pleasure coiling low in your stomach—“Baby, that’s so good, please I—I need more…”

“Tell me what you need, Mesh’la,” he requests as his lips trail up from your neck, to your jaw, your chin, finally settling on your lips, pressing a barely there kiss to just your bottom one because your mouth is hanging open in pleasure. “I’ll give it to you.”

You grind down against his hand that now cups you fully, his palm pressing against your clit as you push down into it. Your hands grasp tight to his shoulders. “Please,” you beg, “fuck me. However you want. Your fingers, I—I’ll take anything you can give me…”

There’s a soft, urgent moan from him again, somewhere between desperation and bliss. “Fuck, Cyar’ika. You don’t know what you do to me.”

The feeling’s mutual. Still grinding against his hand, you feel his fingertips start to tease your folds, just pushing against your entrance enough for it to drive you crazy. His palm still grazes your clit and you can’t stop circling your hips down into it, finding just the right pressure, the right pace.

Then, slowly, he pushes a finger inside you. Warm, bare, him.

It’s heaven. It’s fucking heaven. It’s—

It’s not enough.

“Din,” you whisper, “baby, please…I need more—”

He pushes in another alongside the first, and the slight extra stretch is perfect, stroking your walls just right so you can feel yourself pulsing over his knuckles. He tilts his hand a little so his thumb is at your clit, rubbing in tight, firm circles.

“Oh, fuck,” you almost sob, biting down so hard on your lip that it hurts. As he slowly strokes his fingers in and out of you, experimenting, getting you used to it, you scramble to take hold of his face, bring it up to meet yours. “Kiss me,” you whisper, “please.”

Instantly, he does. He synchronises the push and pull of his lips with the pushing of his fingers inside you, getting faster, more urgent. His thumb against your clit, you still grind down onto him, feeling the brush of his palm against your folds every once in a while, the extra heat and sensation too much to bear.

You’ve wanted this for so long. You never thought you’d have this. He’s here, helmet-less, his face hot and warm and perfect pressed against your own, his hair curled and tangling in your fingers. The hand that isn’t inside you ghosts around to grab your ass, taking a tight hold.

It sends you to new realms of pleasure, of want. “Mm,” you exclaim in approval, managing a quick nod before he’s diving back in for another kiss. It’s all you can do to just let him hold you, let him touch you, fuck you on his strong fingers and push your clit so hard that it almost hurts.

“Mesh’la,” his voice is husky, his lips moving over to the shell of your ear, leaving a wet trail in their wake, “Mesh’la, is that good?”

“So good, Din, I—” he curls his fingers, hitting that spongy spot inside of you at the same time as his thumb runs a particularly strong circle around your clit. “Fuck! Fuck, baby, do that again, I’m so close—” Pleasure is coiling, getting tighter the more he presses against that spot every time he pushes hard on your clit. You’re using your feet on the floor as leverage, fucking yourself on his fingers as he fucks you right back, both of you coming to a rhythm and working together to get you there.

“Cyar’ika, please come for me,” he begs into your ear, “Please. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you come on my fingers, wanted you for so long, please—”

“Keep talking—”

“Kriff, you feel so good around me, Cyar’ika, so hot and wet…you have no idea what you do to me, you’re so fucking beautiful, could just touch you like this forever…”

“Baby…”

“Come on, Mesh’la, let me feel you…take what you need from me, that’s it…doing so good…”

Your breaths get faster, and you feel it, the heat building past the point of no return as your orgasm tumbles over you like a wave, starting in your middle and washing over your entire body. “Din!” You cry out, tipping your head back. Your hands grasp so firmly on his shoulders, one of them trying to find purchase anywhere, eventually settling on taking a tight hold of his hair. His moan only spurs you on, lets you stay at the highest point of your orgasm for as long as possible. “Holy shit—holy shit, gods, kriff…” It tumbles and tumbles and tumbles, pleasure rubbing every nerve in your body, setting you alight.

He fucks you through it, only slowing when he feels you start to come down, your pussy pulsing and clenching over his fingers. Breaths are coming hard and fast into your lungs. It feels amazing. He feels amazing. Everything feels amazing.

“Din, that was…” you laugh, breathy, feeling sweat on the back of your neck as you feel the aftershocks start to set in. Your legs are burning from the strain of holding yourself up for so long, of bouncing up and down on his fingers. “Kriff. That was good.”

You feel him smile against your neck. He kisses you, still inside your pussy.

One of your shaky hands reaches down into the space between you. “Can I?” You ask, smirking when you continue, “You’re pretty hard under there.”

“Never been harder in my life, Cyar’ika. But you’re still recovering. I don’t want to…”

You shake your head. “My hand is still in working order,” you say, giving him a smile, even though he can’t see it.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

In answer, you slide your hand down his stomach, fingers catching on the beskar and then settling on the flight suit at the bottom of his belly. “Does this thing open?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, and reaches down his spare hand to find the zip, unearthing it from its hidden pocket. Only a second later his cock is springing free, surrounded by the rest of his clothes. You wish you could see it. Wish you could admire how vulgar it must look for everything else to be clothed except his dick.

Your hand is on it in an instant, after dipping down and gathering your own wetness to slick it up. He groans, low and guttural. His fingers are still inside you, twitching every time your pussy does.

Your thumb rums over his tip, and the gasp that comes from his mouth is just delicious. You want to pull that sound from him over and over and over again. Never stop hearing it. Never stop feeling him here, beneath you, waiting for you to make him feel as good as he just made you feel.

“Can you stay inside me?” You whisper against his mouth.

“Please,” he says, making you smile in response. He smiles too, but soon his mouth drops open in pleasure as you take his length in your hand and pull. “Oh, Cyar’ika…”

He starts to move his fingers in you again, in time with the strokes you give to his dick. There’s wetness gathering at his tip. You take it, mix it with your own. Pump him into your fist, imagining that it’s inside you, imagining what it would feel like to have him fuck you this fast, this hard, his bare chest beneath you.

“Can you come again?” He asks, voice strained. “I’m not gonna last.”

You shake your head. “Just feels good to have you inside me, baby. I don’t need to come again—just come when you’re ready. I’m ready for you, Din. Just feel me.”

He moans, wanton. Tips his head back against the back of the sofa as you fuck him with your hand. It’s so wet that you hear it, alongside the wet sounds of him pumping his fingers in and out of your tired, still-pulsing heat. You won’t come again, but it feels so good to have him in you, and you know that him still feeling you like this it’s what’s driving him closer and closer to the edge.

“Gods, you feel so good,” he whispers to the ceiling. You can’t see his skin, but you can see the outline of his neck, stretched out before you. Diving in, you suck at the expanse of him, leaving a mark right on the base of his neck where it meets his chest. “Shit, Mesh’la, I’m gonna fall apart—you’re going to make me—”

You grin into his neck. You can feel his balls tighten, his cock pulsing and thrumming in your palm. “Come for me,” you whisper, “come for me, baby.”

He does.

Barely keeping himself quiet, he gasps his way through it, and his finger inside you starts to stutter, his pace faltering as he comes. His hips buck up, stopped only by your weight in his lap. His spare hand runs through your hair like you’re a lifeline, and you let him, enjoying the feeling of his nails on your scalp.

“Oh, fuck,” he curses as he comes down, his chest heaving, the sharp lines of his armour the only thing visible in the near-darkness. He moves his hand to the back of your neck, pulls you in close to his face. “Kiss me,” he requests. “That was so fucking good.”

You oblige, of course. Kiss him so intently, so quickly, that you only just notice when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel empty and full all at once. He’s still only just coming down from his high, you can feel his blood racing beneath your palms, his heart rate fast. The fevered kiss begins to slow to something calmer, languid.

He cradles your face between his hands. Kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters. Like this is all he ever wants to do.

Your hands hold the back of his neck. You hope that when you kiss him, he can tell how you feel. That he can feel the beat of your heart, the yearning in your chest, the warmth that blooms every time he’s around.

Soon, the kiss turns to just holding each other. You put your face in his shoulder, forehead pressing against cool beskar. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close, kissing the side of your head. Peppers kisses over your shoulder.

“You said you’d never kissed anyone before,” you say quietly, tracing patterns in the beskar over his arm, “but if you tell me you’ve never done that before, I don’t think I can believe you.”

He chuckles. “I have done that before,” he says. “But not…like this.”

“Like this?”

As if it’s his answer, he presses a long, lingering kiss to the apple of your cheek. “Without my helmet on,” he confesses, a whisper in the dark.

Your heart lurches.

You cling to him. Wishing you could put into words how that makes you feel.

It’s a while later that you move. The lights are back on, and so is his helmet. You sit on the sofa while he goes over to the kitchen sink and wets a cloth.

He asks you to go to bed with him, to let him sleep beside you.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he assures you as he runs the warm cloth over your shirt where his release has coated it.

You look down at him and smile. “I think this shirt is just gonna need washed for real,” you say with a smirk, appreciating his best efforts. Your underwear is gonna need changed, too.

He huffs a laugh. “Alright. You’ve got sleep clothes now, anyway.”

You nod. Before he can walk away, you take hold of his hand—still bare—and press a kiss to his fingertips. “Just one for the road,” you tell him, gazing up at him without moving your head.

He brushes his other hand down your face.

You close your eyes into the touch, tilt your head to kiss at that hand, too. “I’ll get changed,” you whisper, “then we can sleep.” You stand up, hand still in his.

He studies you for a second. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “The bed’s much smaller than the one at the hotel. Might have to snuggle in real close to me.”

“You snore.” He says, a smirk in his voice.

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do.”

“Oh, Gods,” you cover your face with your hand, feeling your cheeks flush red. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? I’m sorry.”

He chuckles and removes your hand, showing your face again. “It’s alright,” he says, still chuckling, and it’s a beautiful sound, “I don’t mind. It’s nice.”

You raise a dubious brow. “Nice? That I snore like a bantha?”

“I never said it was that bad,” he says, still holding your hand in his, threading your fingers together. “It’s just nice to know you’re there.”

Your heart swells. You step closer, smile playfully, “You can’t block out the sound through that helmet?”

“I could. But then I wouldn’t be able to hear anything at all.”

“Fair point. I’m going to change.” You head for the ladder.

“I’ll make sure everything’s good up here, then I’ll be down. Get comfortable, okay?”

You nod in response, then lower yourself down into the hull.

Then, once you’ve changed, you’re in Din’s bed.

It’s just big enough for the two of you, with your back almost touching the wall. Grogu is asleep in the hammock above you; you can hear his tiny little snores.

When Din comes down the ladder, you see him approach the bed chamber, and he’s already removed his cloak and cowl. Now his neck is on full show, and there’s a mark on the right side of it, just under his jaw. A mark that you left.

Absently, your fingers brush over the marks on your own neck. You understand, now, why he does that. Why that’s a thing people do; to mark their person. Because the swell of pride in your chest when you see it there, a dark red mark on his lovely skin, a sign of the way he let you close, let you not only see but touch that part of him—it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

You watch as he removes his armour. He does it methodically, carefully, like it’s a routine. A ritual, even. Something well-practiced, handling each piece of his protection with care and precision. He lays them out on the floor outside the door, all folded and arranged properly. It’s fascinating to watch. You wonder how many times he’s done this. If it’s like muscle memory.

And then, he turns to you. Catches you staring, and tilts his head.

“Sorry,” you say, quiet, “I’ve just never seen you do that before.”

“You never watched a Mandalorian strip?” He teases, deadpan, crawling up the bed towards you.

You giggle quietly. “Can’t say that I have, no,” you take hold of his flight suit, pulling him close.

“Easy,” he chuckles, “let me get comfortable first.”

“Sorry,” you say again with a sheepish smile, letting him go.

“Don’t apologise for wanting to hold me.”

You swallow heavily, watching as he rolls onto his side, pulls the blankets up over both of you. Then, with his head settled on the pillow, he reaches out and runs his bare hand down your arm, over the fabric of your pyjamas. As it reaches your wrist, he hooks his forefinger over your pinky, then slowly threads your fingers together. The touch is barely anything, just his hand, and yet it sends a shiver running down your spine.

You’d reach out and touch his helmet if you could, but he’s still holding your hand, and the other is tucked up under your chin. So instead, you shuffle closer to him, close enough to press your forehead into the cool beskar over his.

He sighs. It’s blissful; even though it’s modulated, you can tell.

“I know you like to read before bed,” he says softly, letting go of your hand and instead tracing his finger up and down your arm, over and over. “Don’t let me stop you.”

You shake your head. “I just want to lay here,” you whisper, “like this.”

He brushes a piece of hair back from your face. It’s like he’s made it a mission to run his fingertip over every part of you that he can see. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. This will calm me down before I sleep.”

He nods. Then, after a beat, “Can I hold you?”

“Yes,” you answer, not even needing to think about it. Your heart does a lovely little leap in your chest when he lets his hand slide around to your back, pulling you closer, both of you shuffling in to close the distance. You lift your leg, bend it, slot it in between both of his. Your arm reaches around, draping over the slight curve of his waist, enjoying the softness that lays there without the armour. Your hips are almost pressed flush together, your foreheads resting against one another, only beskar separating you.

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