#when the sun sleeps in canto bight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spvce-cowboy · 4 years ago

Text

reunion

ch. 3 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous-ch. 2: “gentle things”

next-ch. 4: “songbird”

rating: mature

8k words

warnings: alcohol, drug use mentioned, jealous/protective mando, animal cruelty, descriptions of gore

summary: the luxurious rot of Canto Bight is enough to put anyone on edge. Mando is forced to ask for your help in finding a high profile quarry.

Mando leaves the fighting ring before the caterwauling nexu is able to deal the killing blow.

He can still hear the sound of the gore spraying against the floor as he climbs the stairs towards the exit, the roaring jeer of the crowd obliterating the speakers inside his helmet. The inevitable outcome of the fight was clear from its onset given the state of the nexu’s opponent, some kind of sand-bear, who was already injured upon entering the cage-like structure.

This wasn’t the Outer-Rim fighting rings he was used to. This place has carpets and a fucking chandelier suspended right above the blood clotted, dirt floor of the pit. It has pipe smoke and dark liquor, the low rumble of voices that only rise in tandem with the progression of the fight. There’s a strange reserve among this crowd that Mando has never seen before, not in this context at least.

The patrons still had that starved look in their eyes though—bloodlust, pure and simple. Somehow, all the tuxedos and hair gel makes it far more sinister than it normally would be.

Karga sent him here to gather information about the quarry, but after an entire day spent searching along with the past hour he’d spent floating around the fight hall where the informant was rumored to be, he knew to give it up before he wasted any more time.

Mando exits the underground arena, stepping into the late afternoon heat just as it begins its gradual descent towards an oncoming chill. Upon arriving at Canto Bight, he had learned very quickly to avoid the main streets. There were too many eyes and whispers for a bounty as high profile as this one for him to be spotted on his own like this, obviously searching for something.

There’s something about this city that makes him absolutely revolted. It’s not the strongest testament to his resolve or his character, but, at the same time, it’s not something he can necessarily help.

Mando still has absolutely no clue what Karga was thinking, but here he is, regardless if it made any sense or not.

He returns to the Crest, deflated after a second unsuccessful day of trying to gather information about the quarry’s whereabouts. He is desperate for a lead, two of three informants proving to be completely useless and his patience growing thinner every second he has to stay on this forsaken planet.

Closing the ramp behind him, Mando heads straight for the cockpit, needing a moment to regather his thoughts. To brainstorm a better plan of action before it becomes too late to rendezvous with Karga’s third, and last, possible informant.

The problem was that there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to get into the racetracks on his own. Getting into the fighting pit—which was considered “seedy” by Canto standards--was already a total hassle, costing him far too many credits and straining what limited negotiation skills he had.

The second problem was that he’d rather take a blaster to the leg than involve you in one of his missions. But now that was kind of his only option.

Mando rubs a hand over the forehead of his helm as he paces. When that doesn’t work, he settles himself in his pilot’s seat, hunching over slightly against the weight of the beskar against his bones. Maker, he is fucking tired.

Swiveling his head to the side, he notices a pile of something on the console that he can’t exactly make out until he leans over it.

Resting on the command board is a leather string, a few palm-sized pieces of stained glass already fashioned to hang from it by smaller loops of the same material in varied lengths. It looks like you were in the middle of working on it when something else distracted you, several more discs of glass piled onto one another to the right of the unfinished project, and a few loose scraps of leather in a pile on the copilot’s chair.

Mando allows himself to admire it for a moment, rubbing his gloved thumb over the glass’s surface. By the time he glances up through the windows of the cockpit, looking at all the people milling about outside, his breathing has somewhat evened. It’s easier to think straight, at least.

He stands and climbs back into the hull, rounding the corner to peer into the space you’ve made for yourself.

It takes him a moment to see you over the pile of blankets you’ve kicked off your mattress. You’re asleep. Under the table. The kid taking a nap with you. Of course that’s where he expected you to be if you weren’t in the cockpit but—but.

You’re on your belly, head buried in your folded arms. You have one, bare leg hitched up over pillow. The length of your calf spills over onto the floor, socked foot delicately pointed. That’s not really what stops him in his tracks. Well, it is in part.

But you’re wearing one of his shirts.

It must have just been a mistake, he knows that. He’s seen you in one of your own that’s the same general color and cut, but he knows this one is his because of the hole in the elbow where it had caught on an exposed screw and torn a few days previous. He’d been too busy to mend it.

Mando tries to wake you before his thoughts could go anywhere else. He says your name quietly, then a little louder. It wakes the kid, who yawns and blinks up at Mando, making happy sounds up at him from where he’s snuggled into your side.

When that doesn’t work, Mando nudges your calf with the tip of his boot. You startle awake, a protective hand shooting out to automatically bring the child against your chest, blinking rapidly up at him.

“Oh,” you wince slightly at the light coming into the cabin but otherwise doesn’t visibly react when you realize it’s him. Your arm loosens from where it had wrapped around the kid. “You’re back. I thought you’d be gone a while longer.”

“I need your help with something,” Mando crosses his arms in front of his chest. It gives him something to do with his hands and how awkward they feel just hanging at his sides as you prop yourself up into a sitting position to listen to him, the loose material of his shirt pulling up to reveal little glimpses of your lower back and belly as you do. “I have to have a companion with me, to go into the racetrack. They won’t let me in if they think I’m looking for a quarry.”

You nod, rubbing your eye with the heel of your palm, voice croaking and still hazy with sleep. “Yeah, yeah sure. I wanted to check it out anyway. Just lemme get changed and we can head out.”

You pick the kid up and place him back on the floor of the hull. He toddles over to Mando, nearly falling—your hands automatically reach out to hover over his sides--but he manages to catch himself on Mando’s pantleg, tugging the fabric in a determined up, now.

Your brow furrows. “What’re we gonna—”

“There’s a nursery. Karga cleared it,” Mando reaches down and scoops up the kid.

“Gotcha,” your voice already sounds clearer. You reach out a hand for Mando to pull you up, he obliges. The blankets fall from where they’ve pooled around your lap as you do.

You pad down the length of the hull towards the fresher, your hips sway with the movement as you lift an arm to continue rubbing the sleep from your face. The shorts you’re wearing are a few sizes too big, you have them rolled twice at the waistband to keep them up. Mando looks away sharply once he notices.

“Alright womp rat, how does some dinner sound?” Mando smiles to himself when the kid gives an impatient squeak. “Yeah, yeah okay alright. I’m the worst caregiver in the galaxy, I know.” The child keeps giggling as Mando makes his way into the cockpit.

Mando is running through some of the Crest’s vitals on the command board when he hears you climbing up the ladder.

“Do you think this would be okay, for the racetrack?” There’s a certain timid quality to your voice he doesn’t think he’s heard before. You have also literally never asked him for approval on something, so he’s already a bit surprised before he turns to look at you.

The clothes you chose were simple, a fitted long sleeve and a pair of loose-fitting pants long enough to at least partially conceal your work boots. It shouldn’t have felt like much of a departure from your usual roster of outfits because it really wasn’t, but for some reason there’s something different about it that he can’t put his finger on.

You have your hair piled on top of your head in a bun. With it pulled back like that, all attention is drawn to the canvas of your neck, your delicate throat that gently eases into the soft planes of your face. There’s a nonchalant beauty to you that sucks all previous thoughts straight from his head.

“You might want to bring something warmer, a jacket or something.” He turns back to the command board, desperate to look busy and hide how long he looked for. “Temperatures drop on Cantonica as soon as the sun starts setting.”

“Oops—yep. Desert planet. I forgot,” you sigh. He hears the sound of your boots scaling the ladder back down.

He purposefully doesn’t look up when you enter the cockpit again, when you announce you’re ready he nods curtly, making brief but direct eye contact with you before setting a quick pace out of the Crest and into the streets of Canto Bight.

The nursery is tucked away, out of reach and notice, protection guaranteed. He leads you through a series back-street passages to get there, too nervous about the attention the three of you would get with the kid and the main roads. You carry him against your hip most of the way, occasionally adjusting the little hood you’ve fashioned to cover his most distinguishable features with every person you pass.

The door is nondescript, positioned in the alleyway behind a semi-busy restaurant. Mando can sense your apprehension the second he steps up to press the buzzer. Within seconds, there’s the sound of a series of bolts unlocking.

A warm faced woman opened the door, wearing the clean white uniform of a nurse. “When Karga called in I hardly believed it,” her voice is light, but there’s a grating, nervous squeak to it that makes Mando scowl. Maybe it was just the day he was having, but just about anything was able to set him off.

Mando and the nurse exchange a few blunt words about pricing and care. He winces, slightly, at the cost, but it’s not anything either of you could notice. Right as Mando is about to turn to take the kid from your arms, you speak up.

“Is this… safe?” You ask again, holding the kid a little tighter to your chest. He realizes that it’s the first time since you’ve joined them that you’re separating from the kid, Mando thinks his anxiety is partially feeding off of yours.

“Karga gave me his word. It’ll only be for a few hours.” Mando glances at the nurse, who was giving the two of you her very best customer service smile. “C’mon pal,” Mando nods towards the nurse. The child’s big eyes stare apprehensively up at you, then at Mando. One of his small hands unfixes itself from your shirt to reach out towards the bounty hunter. The nurse clucks her tongue, her hands on her hips.

“Someone seems like he’s already gonna miss his daddy.”

His stomach drops without warning. “I’m not his father.” The correction is biting in a way he doesn’t intend it to be. He’s vividly aware of your sharp inhale at his words. The nurse looks startled for a half second before blinking her eyes and retaining composure.

“Yes, yes of course,” she stretches out a hand as an offering of assurance towards the child, who has resumed clinging to the fabric of your shirt. “Hey little guy, c’mon. I’ve got a lot of friends for you to play with, and some snacks. You like the sound of that?”

Mando catches your smile at the child’s ears flicking with interest, despite the fact that his hands are still firmly attached to you. Mando mutters something under his breath before taking the child from you, handing him off to the nurse and trying to push down the terrible feeling it gives him hearing the kid give a small whimper as the two of you walk away.

The racetrack is down a major boulevard, towering sandstone buildings line either side, their circular doors illuminated by bands of glowing yellow neon. The streets are a different kind of polished stone that makes Mando’s skin absolutely crawl for not discernible reason.

He thinks you’ve caught on to his worsening mood because you try to keep the conversation warm and light in a way he’s never seen you do before. Your eyes are fixed to a constant arcing movement, taking in as much of it as you can, but your mouth keeps moving about anything but Canto Bight. You avoidance just draws more focus towards the situation at hand, but he appreciates the effort.

When the two of you reach the racetrack, you stop talking completely as you scale the stands. You and Mando settle on two chairs pulled up to a tiny table, overlooking the standing room crowd below. Mando faces the crowds more than the track itself, however you angle your chair so that you can look at the racing fathiers with ease. Eventually you turn away, grimacing.

“What is it?” He asks, out of curiosity as well as a desire to fill the silence.

“They’re so beautiful,” you cast one more glance over the track as the group rumbles past to the sharp roar of the crowd. “But they look so sad.” You keep looking at the beasts for a beat longer before fixing your gaze to your hands clasped in your lap.

Mando finds his words slowly. “This planet… this amount of abundance. There is always a cost. They always make someone else pay.”

You wince, shifting your body so you’re only facing Mando and the expanse of the crowd that’s over his shoulder. You don’t look at the track for a while after that, purposefully keeping your body turned to keep your gaze away.

Mando finds fleeting solace in the fact that he was at least able to keep you away from the fighting ring, which is quickly replaced by guilt in exposing you to a similar cruelty in a less bloody form. He does his best to remind himself that you mentioned wanting to see the races previously, that the indecipherable emotion on your face was not entirely his fault.

The wait spans an hour. The tension in Mando’s shoulders grows with each passing minute.

“He isn’t coming,” Mando eventually grits out. “It’s… Maker I—”

Jobs have started off way worse than this, he’s not sure why he’s allowing all of it to get under his skin. It’s this damn city, something about it makes him feel like there is a knifepoint digging between his ribs.

You tap his hand lightly. Twice, with your index and middle fingers. It happens so quickly he’s almost able to believe he’s imagined it if it weren’t for the fact that you were still adjusting your hands in your lap after your hand had retreated. As if you didn’t know what possessed you to do that, either.

“Hey. It’s fine. It’ll work itself out, yeah?” You maneuver your head to stare directly into his visor. For some reason that alone is infinitely more intimate than your brief touch. “We can just stay here for a bit longer in case the informant shows up, then pick up the kid, grab something to eat and hunker down in the Crest. Tomorrow’s a new day, or whatever.”

Mando looks you over, then nods.

The sun is setting on the horizon, the tracks illuminated by the last vestiges of its light. This is the beginning of most everyone’s day, yet the drinks are already flowing, and have been for quite some time.

There are far too many extravagant outfits, ridiculous little hats barely teetering on large skulls. The roar of the crowd grows with their drunkenness, the races becoming crueler the more the stands fill. Mando will never understand the value in any of this and he’s genuinely not sure what’s worse—the icy coolness of the fighting rink or whatever all this is.

“Who’s the quarry?” You blink up at him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Tyreus Cavill. Some filthy rich kid who doesn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut. He’s taunting the Gild to the point of insult,” Mando rubs his hand over the brow of his helm. “It’s been confirmed that he’s supposed to be at some kind of party tonight. That was just about the only information I could get.”

“Was that why Karga mentioned deep cover?”

Mando nods. “He said it would be my most viable option, which doesn’t make any kind of sense. Especially with no pre-existing contacts that could get me any intel on where he’s hiding.”

You speak up after a while. Mando isn’t sure how long, too comfortable in the silence as is.

“You know my mother worked for the Alderaanian court?” You say it softly, quickly looking at the racetrack to avoid drawing attention to your words. You’re kneading the hem of your sweater, a nervous tick of yours he couldn’t help but notice. “I still remember all the things she had to teach me when we went to dinners at the homes of the survivors, the etiquette and everything. I’m positive it’s much of the same, here. All this,” you twirl your index finger in the air, gesturing to the whole of the track and presumably what lay beyond. “Seems very familiar. I could help, if you need it.”

“Your mother?”

“She was the court singer--or, well, one of them,” your voice is tense. “My father was a professor. I don’t remember a lot, just that they loved me very much.” Your eyes are searching the crowd in some desperate search for something, he’s not sure what. Probably for any kind of distraction, or any reason to keep your eyes away from his. He waits in silence, patiently. “They moved to a different planet to have me, a few years before the annihilation, there were a few other survivors who were off planet when it happened. I remember my parents hosting them, and they us, on a few occasions. It was always a multi-day affair of trying to remind me what proper manners were.” You wrinkle your nose. “It’s all very stupid, if you ask me. But,” you turn your head finally and look at him evenly. “I can—”

Mando watches as your gaze floats to a space just above his left shoulder. Your entire body visibly tenses, lips parted in what he can only think is total shock. Your hands drop the edge of your shirt and hover in your lap, as if you don’t know what to do with them.

Before Mando can ask what is wrong, you’re getting up from the table and pushing through the crowd. It takes him a beat to register what has just happened before he is up and following after you, making considerably better time in catching up given the fact that the crowd seems to naturally part for him. He almost reaches out to touch you, but instead settles for aiding your pursuit by keeping pace and staying at your side, clearing a path for you with his body and an outstretched arm to motion people to the side.

“What is it?” He tries to keep his voice low enough to not be overheard, his head in a constant survey of the crowds before you. You shake your head and keep pushing forward, higher into the stands, swerving around servers with platters stacked high with strange looking drinks. “Hey—if we go any further we’d need clearance—" the higher in the stands, the richer the patrons get. They wouldn’t let either of you in without identification after the eighth flight, which you’d just swiftly pushed past. Mando checks over his shoulder and, sure enough, a server is murmuring something to a guard droid, pointing up at you.

You’re so far up by that time that you have at least a minute until the droid catches up with the two of you. You climb onto one of the raised platforms dotted with various aristocratic parties, dining over bright white table cloths, centerpieces of bizarre orange flowers bursting through the tables. You make a beeline for the centermost table, where a Twi’lek woman is dining with an Abednedo and a human male.

You approach the Twi’lek in three swift strides, grabbing her shoulder. “Febhana.”

When the woman turns, standing, there’s a kind of wide-eyed shock of absolute wonder that immediately turns into pure joy. The two of you leap into one another’s arms in a cacophony of ecstatic, indistinguishable sounds. One of some long awaited reunion.

The Twi’lek woman, Febhana, holds your face in her hands, yours slide over hers. There are tears in her eyes as the two of your chatter over one another in breathless delight.

“I thought you—”

“I had no idea that—”

“I’ve tried to find—”

You both cut each other off, staring into one another’s eyes before laughing again and embracing tightly.

From over your shoulder, Febhana gives Mando one of the quickest, scathing once-overs he’s ever received. He can’t help but automatically have a little bit of respect for it, especially compared to the terrified, diverted eyes of her companions.

“Who is this?” She asks, pulling away from your embrace slightly. You open your mouth to respond but she’s already babbling over your warmly. “Oh! No. Don’t tell me. Not yet. Let’s do this over drinks at mine—please. Please indulge me. Maker, look at you.”

You let loose a laugh Mando doesn’t think he’s heard before. A certain tonal quality of complete release, familiarity. You nod as Febhana clasps your face between her hands again, in marvel. Mando doesn’t blame her, with that look of utter joy on your face he’d—

Well.

“Do excuse us,” Febhana swiftly addresses her dinner mates, they nod and mutter forgiveness, eyes still fixed to the ground. Mando knows for a fact that at least one of them has a fob on them by the tight anxiety exchanged in their brief glances towards one another. He ignores it for the sake of maintaining the moment between you and your friend.

Mando trails behind the two of you by a few paces. As Febhana guides you through the crowds, she waves off the guard droid with an elegantly manicured hand.

Febhana’s apartment could be considered a house twice over by Mando’s book. She leads you and him through so many tall-ceilinged hallways and rooms to get to the… lounge, he guesses would be a proper term for it… that he genuinely can’t remember where the entrance is.

The room contains a bar stocked better than any cantina on Nevarro, a few odd pieces of furniture, and a large fireplace. Heavy, dark blue curtains hang from windows so tall he has to crane his head upwards to see the top. He guesses the luxury is communicated through the refusal to occupy the space with much else, despite the fact that it could be considered a small banquet hall.

Febhana makes you and her drinks while you settle on one of the sloping, white couches, scanning the room in the same way Mando has been, with a little more plain wonder in your eyes.

Mando hovers on the periphery, unsure of where to place himself until you motion him over to sit on one of the opposing chairs, equally abstract as the rest of the furniture. Febhana settles across from you on the couch, handing you your drink before leaning back and kicking off her heels.

The two of you are in a constant chatter that has so many names and dates and overlapping speech that Mando has a difficult time keeping up. What he does catch is limited and mostly inferred: the two of you escaped from the same warlord at different times, Febhana was able to scale the social ranks of Canto Bight with ease and an inherited wallet--most importantly, the two of your missed each other very much.

It’s been at least an hour since the three of you sat down when Febhana directly addresses Mando for the first time.

“And what are you doing here, Mandalorian?”

Mando feels your eyes on him, burning, as you take a sip of your cocktail.

“She saved my life,” he manages as a straightforward reply. “I’ve hired her as a medic.”

“Febhana,” you say. When you’re slightly tipsy like this, you have a breathless wonder in the way you go about describing things. “It’s… it’s been so good. I’ve been practicing all these languages and… Maker, all the places I’ve been. It’s just like you described, when we would tell each other stories to go to sleep. Everything’s so big and there are so many people.”

Febhana throws back her head in a laugh, nodding. “Well I know that, darling. Oh, stars, it’s so good to look at you again.”

You and Febhana go back and forth a while longer still, Mando happily settles into the rhythm of it. There’s the warm, familiar way women get so engrossed in one another that he finds completely novel, if not enviable. It softens something in him to see you so relaxed as you prompt Febhana to detail her exploits, the excited yip you make when she flashes you the wedding band strung on a series of thin gold chains looped around her neck.

Then again, the way the two of you seem so physically intimate occasionally makes something in his chest constrict uncomfortably. He isn’t sure where it comes from, all the little touches you give each other seem to come from a place of purely platonic joy in reunion. But there’s a little jolt in his stomach whenever he sees it happen. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it as jealousy, but… she gets to feel you. So unabashedly.

At some point there’s a lull in the conversation. You take this moment to stretch your arm across the couch, clasping Febhana’s hands in your own. “We’re actually here for a specific reason,” you say. “And I’m only asking you out of genuine, pure desperation—Mando… has a job, here. That’s gotten a little tricky. The bounty is on the head of Tyreus Cavill.” Febhana’s eyes widen considerably, but other than that she maintains composure. Taking a deep breath, you continue, “He needs to find him, Febhana—there’s intel that he’s supposed to be at some kind of event. Possibly tonight.” You glance up at Mando to check if you’re getting the details right, he gives you brief nod of assurance when you do. “Do you know anything about it?”

Febhana scoffs, shaking her head and withdrawing her hand from yours to grab her drink resting on the low glass table in front of you. “If you’re referring to what I think you are, it would be the Gathering of Rams, one of the most exclusive events hosted on Canto. I’d imagine that’s why he’d dare show his face, even with the price on his head. Unless you already have an in, you’re fucked, Mandalorian. That place is more fortified than a warship.”

You visibly deflate. “What do you mean?”

“It’s an old, and I mean old, money tradition. A dinner for just about every despicable person in the galaxy. I’ve only heard rumors about what goes on, definitely some serious cult-y type shit, oaths, rituals, the like.” She chews on a nail as she thinks. Something in her eyes lights up. “Wait. I think I… yes! Yes, I got the announcement a few weeks ago. Stars I think—” she looks down at the device on the inside of her wrist, tapping on it until—“Christ you two are the luckiest couple of bounty hunters in the galaxy, you know that? The Tagges are hosting the afterparty, tonight. The most eligible of all of Canto Bight will be there, and then some. I was invited a few weeks ago, I’d completely forgotten. With any luck he’ll be dumb and drunk enough after the Gathering to go.”

“The Tagges?” Your voice is filled with apprehension. You glance to Mando, then quickly back to your friend. “Febhana, there’s no way he can get in.”

“Hm, I’d think so too but there could be a chance…” Her eyes narrow, her face breaking into a toothy grin. “No, I’m a complete idiot. Maker, this is gonna be perfect--most of the ladies in waiting here dress their guard droids as glorified curtains. It’s a new thing if you get what I’m saying. If we go in together and disguise the Mandalorian as even more of a hunk of metal than he already is—” Mando grunts at the slight jab—“all one of us would have to do is get the target by himself with a little eye-batting and it would be a done deal.”

You and Mando speak in unison.

“I am not going to be a honeypot.”

“She will not.”

Febhana raises a brow, one side of her mouth pulling up in poorly concealed amusement.

“Oh I suggested no such thing, I’d happily volunteer. But I do need a wing-woman, for appearance’s sake. I am taken, you know,” she flashes the wedding band again, pulling the collar of her dress down a fraction to do so. “Would be unbecoming to go on the prowl in public like that without pretending like I was just assisting.”

Mando glances over at you, trying to gauge your reaction to her proposal before he came off as to overbearing. He didn’t have the right to, he knows that. But there’s some raw part of him that winces at the very thought of you and your safety getting involved in one of his jobs. Maker if you got hurt in any way—

Febhana’s voice breaks his thought before it can be fully formed. “Oh, this is going to be excellent.” She practically purrs, jumping off the couch and extending her hand towards you to help you up. You comply, giving Mando a raised-brow glance of well, let’s see where this goes.

As Febhana begins leading you across the room, Mando stands.

“Should I contact the nursery to let them know to keep the child overnight?”

“The child?” Febhana’s eyes flick between you and Mando quickly. “I’m sorry, what?”

You curse under your breath, pressing your hand against your forehead. “A kid we’re looking after,” you clarify for Febhana. “I’m so sorry Mando, I got excited so it completely slipped my mind. I…” you bite your lip. “If you feel like it would be safe doing that I… guess that should be fine.”

“My wife could also look after it,” Febhana regards Mando evenly for a moment. “If you’re worried about safety. Would that be sufficient?”

Your eyes brighten slightly, glancing at Mando, tilting your head in question.

Mando nods, addressing Febhana directly. “If she trusts you, I do. I can travel back and get him while the two of you get ready.”

“I’ll send a car for you,” Febhana throws the remark over her shoulder, already busying herself by flinging the double doors that lead into the hallway back open.

You inhale sharply as if remembering something, tapping your friend on the shoulder before she begins to walk down the hall. “Wait, Febhana—the car, is there maybe a taxi service you could call? With an actual driver? He… we don’t really ‘do’ droids, if possible.”

“I have an ‘actual’ driver, darling,” Febhana playfully chides. Her eyes flick towards Mando. “I’ll ring him, he’ll be downstairs in a moment. You remember where the entrance is, right?”

Your delicate rephrasing, that “we,” rings in Mando’s ears for the entire trip back to the nursery.

Mando quickly returns with the child, slightly weirded out by the enclosed landspeeder Febhana sent for him. It’s unlike anything he’d seen before, more like a carriage than any hover-craft he’d ever set foot in. There’s a dividing curtain between the passenger cabin and the driver’s seat, which he has pushed away to make sure the silent man at the wheel doesn’t try anything.

The driver has a stony demeanor that seems very similar to Febhana’s—she clearly wasn’t one to suffer fools, and the people she surrounded herself with seemed to reflect that. Thinking back to the way you initially interacted with Mando, he could potentially see how your shared history with Febhana could have informed that. The characteristic briskness, the unflinching resolve.

The child spends most of the returning trip chattering in relief, little hands reaching out to touch Mando’s beskar in a continuous greeting.

“Right here, kid. Always right here,” he affectionately rubs the corner of the child’s ear. There’s a heavy guilt that had settled itself in the bottom of Mando’s stomach since dropping him off.

He wants to apologize in some way, to blame it on his mood or the mounting anxiety surrounding the job, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete jackass. So he settles for bowing his helm to bump foreheads with the kid in a small display of reassurance. It seems to settle something in both him and the child almost immediately.

Mando glances up sharply, nearly forgetting the parted dividing curtain. The man, a wiry looking human male, glances back at the two of them through the thin pane of the rearview mirror, then returns to chain smoking while wildly maneuvering his way through traffic.

The hover-car’s abrupt stop breaks him from his thoughts. He glances out the window, recognizing Febhana’s apartment building. The entire block is in a similar style as the boulevard you both had walked down earlier, circular doors outlined by bands of glowing yellow light. The only difference were the towering, wrought iron gates in front of each building and a set of tall stairs made of the same sandstone leading up to each house. The driver gets out and opens the landspeeder’s door for Mando and the kid, then steps forward and unlocks the gate, holding it open for the two of them.

“Sir.” The driver’s voice is more of a growl. If it weren’t for the enhanced settings of Mando’s visor, it would be too dark to see the mass of scar tissue that formed a jagged line across the man’s throat. The old wound is only partially concealed by the lapel of his coat pulled up against the drizzling rain. He’s abnormally tall, so thin that it looks as if his skull is actively attempting to escape his face. “Febhana’s apartment is the third buzzer. The service droid will let you in. She told me you should follow it.” The cigarette balancing against his lip bobs as he speaks, his heavy drawl disrupted only in part by his eviscerated voice box.

Mando’s lip curls slightly but he nods, thanking the driver, ducking out of the hover-car and climbing the steps leading to the apartment’s door.

Just as the driver said, the front door of Febhana’s apartment is opened by a droid. Mando stiffens despite the fact that the thing just barely reaches his knee. It gives off a series of little sounds before turning away and maneuvering down the front hall. Muttering something unsavory about Canto Bight under his breath, Mando follows it inside.

When he arrives at the threshold of Febhana’s dressing room, she’s only just started pulling out dresses for you to try on. He deflates slightly, really hoping that the two of you would have gotten this part over with so he could begin scoping out the Tagge mansion as soon as possible.

Mando accepts his fate and seats himself for the time being, placing the kid on the ground to let him toddle over to you. You lean down immediately and scoop him up, lifting him in the air with a happy: “Hey, stinky!” The child giggles as you snuggle him to your chest, pressing kisses all over his face in reunion.

You keep gently playing with the kid as you and Febhana resume your conversation: wiggling your fingers over his face for him to grab, tickling his tummy, gently pinching his socked feet. It’s something you sink into so naturally Mando can’t help but be mesmerized by it. It calms something in him, to see both of you like that. He pushes the implications of that feeling away for the time being, as he always does.

Febhana gives the kid a bit of a once-over but looks overall disinterested, turning her attention back to rummage through her closet. “So it’s supposed to be a formal dance, but if it’s anything like the similar things I’ve gone to, that shit quickly disintegrates. But it’s still weirdly important for them to keep up the illusion of appearances, even though most rooms with closeable doors are occupied by people railing lines or fucking. Or both. Usually both.” The Twi’lek woman plucks out some kind of red, silken shift, holding it in the air then shaking her head and returning to her hunt. “I’ve been to enough Tagge parties to be a familiar face, we can play you off as an old friend of mine, some kind of lady-in-waiting thing or whatever. Crowds like these don’t tend to prod too deeply into personal histories, and with tits like yours I don’t think they’ll be interested in asking too many questions.”

Mando clenches his jaw so hard something starts hurting. You give a bit of an embarrassed laugh, quickly diverting the conversation. “So how do we get introduced to Cavill?”

“Honestly? The easiest thing to do would be getting you to snuggled up with one of his friends. He runs around with a group of bachelors who are not… pleasant company by any standards. Snotty rich kids,” she makes a face. “But if that’s not an option I could try to push some of my contacts there to get us into their circle. Seriously, darling, with men like this involved it is probably going to be one of the easiest bounties he’s ever going to collect.”

The strain being placed on every cell in Mando’s body in response to this conversation alone says the exact opposite.

Febhana continues pulling out dresses, layering some over a bench and discarding others all together.

“Febhana, will they know?” You ask it suddenly, your tone—not tense, necessarily, but definitely controlled, as if you were expecting an answer you didn’t want to hear but were willing to take regardless.

“It’s the Tagge family, so of course they know what happened to that fucker, but I don’t think they would care,” she waves off your fearful tone with a shake of her head. “Just as long as we make a bit of an effort to conceal your identity, for formality’s sake, it’ll be fine.”

“What happened to who?” Mando asks. Once he does, all the air is immediately sucked out of the room.

After an extended moment. “You didn’t tell him?” Febhana’s head cocks, you visibly swallow.

“I um…” your nostrils flare with the sharp inhale you take as you search for the right words. “When I escaped…”

Febhana interrupts. “She stabbed the shit out of the warlord who owned us. All his wife found was pulp. Didn’t take it well, the cunt. Nearly catatonic. The rest of us were able to practically waltz out of there because of this one. Owe this gorgeous bitch my life. All of us do.”

You smile at Febhana, reaching out to squeeze her hand. She winks at you, covering it with her own before turning to go rifle back through her closet. You keep your gaze to your hands when she does, lips pressed together. Mando doesn’t remove his eyes from you as Febhana continues.

“So it might be a little difficult getting her in there, but to be honest the Tagges hated him anyway. Rival business type stuff, though, not the whole holding women captive or worker’s rights violations and debt bondage thing,” her voice drips with a kind of contempt that Mando prays he’ll never have directed his way. He notices your hands tighten slightly from where they lay in your lap, your arms loosely looped around the kid who now sits upright in your lap. “I know someone who can forge some papers well enough to present to the guards, he owes me some favors anyway,” Febhana continues. “They’ll be ready by the time we have to leave. Doll you up enough and I’m sure it’ll be fine—ah!” It is only then that Mando looks back over to the Twi’lek woman. Her eyes are lit up, fanged mouth pulled upwards in a triumphant smile. The dress in her hand is a deep plum color, fabric so thin he cannot make out what it actually looks like without a form to fill it. You reach out to it, rubbing the dress between your thumb and index finger.

“Perfect.” You and Febhana say it in unison, your widest smile of the night parted up at her. There’s a delighted, mischievous tilt to your mouth he’s never seen before.

Mando swallows, despite the sudden tightness in his throat.

He waits outside while the two of you change, sitting on a strange tufted seat pushed against the hallway’s bay window. It’s piled with an obnoxious amount of silken pillows—it seems the longer you’ve been with him, the more surfaces his beskar encounters that it never would have otherwise. A part of him is able to find the humor of that, despite the discomfort of feeling wildly out of place in your friend’s luxurious home. He settles with his legs slightly spread, back hunched to brace his elbows against the tops of his beskar-clad thighs.

After about thirty minutes, a woman comes down the hall, absentmindedly cleaning a pair of large-framed glasses with the corner of her sweater, a thick, leather-bound book tucked under one arm. She looks as out of place in this hallway as he does—more like a Galactic librarian than a resident of an apartment like this. She puts her glasses back on and stops in her tracks once she sees him.

“Who are you?”

Mando clears his throat. “A friend of Febhana’s.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am--well. A friend of a friend.”

Her eyes narrow quizzically. “I’ve been married to that woman for five years now. I think I would know if she had a Mandalorian as a ‘friend of a friend.’”

As if on cue, Febhana emerges from the beaded curtain suspended over the entrance of her dressing room, barefoot and wearing a blue gown. She pads over to the woman, something bulky tucked under one arm, the other carrying the child in a sleeping bundle. Febhana places him in her wife’s arms delicately. “Lovely, we’re just getting ready for the party. Don’t mind her play-thing,” she tilts her head towards Mando without directly looking at him. “He’s just here for decoration.”

Mando physically bites his tongue.

Febhana’s wife glances at Mando, before leaning up to gently kiss Febhana. “Alright, I’ll be in the study. Wake me when you get back.”

Febhana cups her wife’s face gently. It’s such an intimate gesture that Mando looks away, feeling as though his presence alone is an interruption. The couple talks quietly for a moment, then her wife exits through the same door she came in from.

“Here is the guard’s uniform. The measurements should be right,” Febhana stands in front of Mando, handing him folded pieces of dark fabric, and then a helm. It’s two halves of a black metal shell meant to fit and tighten over the face of a droid. There’s a thick pane of darkened glass cutting through the middle of the mask, presumably to not disrupt a droid’s sensors but it will render Mando’s absolutely useless. This night just keeps getting better and better.

The whole thing is not something Mando has ever seen before, though he was never one to frequent circles like Febhana’s. The only distinguishable features are symmetrical dips cutting severe cheekbones into the object’s silhouette. Two fixed pieces of gilded metal form a swooping triangle that hovers just over where his nose will be under the helmet’s featureless surface. Looping, thin chains dripping from the decorative structure to partially conceal the mask’s lower half. When he holds it up in the low light of the hallway, their movement creates glinting waves of light.

All of it is purely flare, for the most part. At least the tailor made plenty room for armor beneath the--as Febhana put it--glorified curtains usually meant to conceal a droid. He heaves a sigh, taking the uniform from her. “This is the only option?”

Febhana shrugs. “Unless you want me and your girl going in by ourselves and trying to lure him out to you--which is certainly an option--yes.”

“She isn’t ‘my girl.’”

“Oh, trust me,” her smile is biting. “I know that.” She tilts her head towards the dressing room. “C’mon, the pretty one is almost done. You can use my room to change.”

When he enters, you’re seated at Febhana’s vanity. All the air is sucked out of his lungs.

The dress is really nothing more than a series of gauze-like drapes that spill from your body and pool onto the floor. The expanse of your back is completely exposed, the dress only resuming to cover you right above the base of your spine. One long piece of fabric serves as the illusion of sleeves, cinched at the swooping neckline by delicate, medallion-like embellishments that rest at the dip of both shoulders. The sleeves’ near-transparent fabric are fixed to ovular gold rings you have on the middle fingers of both hands.

Mando watches the fabric shift over the bend of your arm as you use said finger to swipe a little pigment on your lips. It glistens in the mirror he looks at you through. In that initial moment of deep focus, you have the severe look of a high official’s wife. Utterly untouchable. The most beautiful creature he’s ever witnessed.

His entrance breaks your concentration, you smile up at him, warmly, through the mirror.

“I’m almost done,” your voice breaks him from his stupor. Your other hand dips a small brush into a pot of powder. You dab it under your eyes and then stand, going to a crystalline bar cart and spraying some kind of perfume on your neck.

Febhana steps into the room behind him. After a moment Mando finds his voice.

“And you said she isn’t supposed to be the honeypot?” It’s hard to keep the pain out of his voice as he says it. At this point it’s like the two of you are actively trying to kill him.

Febhana laughs, and the smile you give him is expansive yet strangely private at the same time. As if you and him were in on some secret, some inside joke. You cross the room and pat him lightly on the shoulder twice, before moving him aside in order to link arms with Febhana.

The two of you leave the room, picking up whatever conversation you were having before Febhana left to give Mando his things. He stands there until his heartbeat steadies, then moves behind the wooden room partition to put the uniform on.

It’s going to be a long night.

a/n: mando, babes, u don’t even know the half of it

jokes aside i am so excited for the next chapter you guys have no idea how much fun this is to write !! love a good ol’ fancy party w a bunch of degenerates.

tag list: @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11 @walkingthegrounds @roseallisonparker @kaitlyn2907 @dinsbeskar

please let me know if you would like to be added/removed!

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mandalorian and grogu #grogu #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch.3 #fanfic #star wars fanfiction

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insomniamamma · 3 years ago

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Blue Morning: Fennec Shand x F!Twi’lek Reader

A/n: for Writer Wednesday. Don't @ me about canon this second dose of the covid shot is kicking my ass. Thinking of that blue Twi'lek chained to Bib Fortuna's throne in the sneak peak we got of The Book of Boba Fett. I’m not sure who to tag so @autumnleaves1991-blog, and @clydesducktape, and @flightlessangelwings. Also, this is my first time writing fxf fic so please be gentle. ‘Spotchka froths’ are mentioned. Picture a neon blue Sno-Cone with booze.

Warnings: Mentions of enslavement, cannon typical violence, Fennec Shand in formal wear is her own warning, mentions of death in a mythical context. Food mentionsl Alcohol consumption.

“Kiss me again, like you mean it.” (i botched the prompt a little)

You scrunch your eyes shut, expecting the blaster-shot to be the last thing you ever hear, chain still gripped in your hands, as if you haven't tried this every day since being sold to Bib Fortuna. You tug the chain in your sleep sometimes, curled on the rough-hewn stone, wake yourself up doing it, Fortuna and his cronies laughing at you. You open your eyes and you are somehow not dead. The gunslinger stares at you, her mouth slightly upturned, jerks her head towards the tunnels, telling you to run. And so you do.

Your bare feet slap over the cool, damp stone of the tunnels, carrying you to your quarters without any thought. You have to go. Blaster fire echoes above. The door to your chambers slides open and you close it behind you. You can't lock it. Slave quarters have no locks. "Kriff." Your tiny closet holds only the filmy costumes you are permitted to wear. You can't make it across the desert in any of this. You have nothing to your name but these ribbons and silks. You don't even have proper boots, just dainty slippers meant for nothing except looking pretty in. Part of you thinks to just run. Just grab what you can and bolt, twin suns be damned. No, think, Blue, you've got to play it smart. There's speeders in the bay. Swoop bikes, you make it there and none of the rest of it will matter. Get a speeder and you can be to Mos Eisley before the suns have time to cook you, you think you know the way, stole glimpses through the half-shuttered windows of the hover-barge that brought you and the other unfortunates here. You grab a few things out of your quarters, the slippers, a few pieces of gaudy jewelry, probably fake, but might net you a handful of credits. Kark. The suns are going to cook you. You yank the threadbare sheet off your cot and wrap it around yourself in a makeshift robe. Now or never. You creep your way towards the bay. The vast doors are open, why wouldn't they be? The palace has plenty of speeder traffic, though you don't see anyone moving, maybe the raiders found what they wanted and cleared out, maybe-- "Going somewhere?" Dank farrik. Your skin prickles from the ends of your lekku to the tips of your toes. You raise your hands instinctively. The gunslinger. The one who shot through your chain and not your skull. “You told me to run," "And I assumed you weren't stupid," she says, "You got a pickup waiting? If not, you'll be dead in half a day." "You're going to give me back to him," "Who?" "Bib Fortuna." "Bib Fortuna is dead," she says. A ghost of a smile touches her lips, "But you are not. What's your next move? You got any contacts in Mos Eisley?" You shake your head. "Fennec? Sitrep." You hear the crackle of her comms. "Found a straggler," says Fennec, "Non-hostile." "Bring them up."

Fennec grips you arm lightly, leads you back up through the tunnels to the throne-room. Your insides quiver. Nothing good has ever happened to you in this room. The only thing that came close was when Fortuna would have one of his lackeys bring you the beautiful old Nabooan hallikset to play for a spell. He kept it displayed on the wall, just beyond the reach allowed by your chain, but when you were allowed to play, the room would grow quiet, the lackeys and scumbags and hangers on would stop their chatter and just listen, and there would be something like peace for however long Fortuna would grant it. He'd flick a hand at one of the guards who'd take the hallikset from your hands, and then he'd wrap an arm around you in a sideways hug, and sing your praises as if you were his talented daughter and not his property. And now he's dead, lying in a heap in front of his own throne. You eye the corpse. His eyes are wide open and clouded, obviously dead, but still-- "What have you brought me, Fen?" You look up at the man on the throne. Oh, Maker, a Mandalorian. You've never met one, but you've heard tales. They are feared for their efficiency and brutality in battle. And yet some of the stories paint them as honorable. "Found her in the vehicle bay," says Fennec. "Come here," he says, "Let me get a proper look at you." Fennec nudges you, her hand on the small of your back in a gentle push. "Go on," she murmurs, soft so only you can hear. You step around Bib Fortuna's cooling corpse like it might still try to reach out and grab you. The absurdity of the situation hits you. The man on the throne will decide your fate one way or another, a blaster shot through the heart or he'll send you packing or he'll keep you here, just another Bib Fortuna, maybe better and maybe worse and here you are, wrapped in a bedsheet. "Show me your hands," he says. The dark of his visor reveals nothing, but he offers his own gloved hands, palms up, so you do the same. The Mandalorian examines your hands. “So you have worked with your hands." “Yes, sir." "Good." You feel something loosen in your chest. If he was going to shoot you, he would have done it by now. He brushes your fingertips. "You play an instrument," he says. Your eyes flick to the wall where the hallikset hangs. "Yes," you say, "I was an apprentice--" Here you struggle, to translate what you were supposed to be into Basic, "Tale-singer?" Kriff, it sounds stupid in Basic. Before you were taken, you were tasked with knowing the stories, the songs of Ryloth, but also given the responsibility of finding new tales to tell, not all of them truthful. Utter fabrications and harsh truth are both equally dull, your mentor had told you, lie enough that the tale has interest, but keep truth enough that the message comes across. "Bard. I guess." "Show me." His helmet jerks towards the wall where the hallikset hangs. The collar is still around your neck, the stub of the chain thumps against your spine, but, for the first time since you were brought here, you go and get it by yourself, cradling it to your chest like a baby. You sit yourself at the foot of the throne and play like you have so many times before, the first song you learned, a lullaby old as Ryloth itself, the three moons racing across the sky as bothers, big brother and middle brother get in a fight, and the youngest wins the race. You sing in Ryl. You end the song. No one speaks. "I'm sorry. I'm rusty. It's been some time." The dark visor gives you nothing. You gingerly lean the hallikset against the throne and back up, careful not to tread on Fortuna's robes. You back into Fennec, who grips your arms gently. "What is your name, girl?" You give your name in Ryl. "But everyone just calls me Blue," you say. "I am Boba Fett." He says, "My associate is Fennec Shand. You work for us now. We will discuss the exact terms later. Take that collar off her, Fen. Find her some proper clothing." "You should have seen your face," Fennec grins at you. "Are you out of you suns-stroked mind?" You mean to yell, but it comes out more like a choked-off laugh "Why didn't you warn me?" You stab your arm back towards the throne room, "That's Boba karking Fett! If I'd've looked at him wrong he could've SHOT ME!" Fennec laughs, a brief baring of teeth. "He wouldn't have hurt you," she says, "He's Mandalorian." "What does that have to do with anything?" "Mandos have a habit of adopting people," says Fennec, "You are part of clan Fett now, like as not." No one touches you. No one makes you dance wearing leather and ribbons. For the first time since being abducted from Ryloth you are treated with dignity and respect. They pay you. It's not always much, but it's something, your own money, your own room with proper locks on the doors. Sometimes you play court musician, sometimes scribe, sometimes bartender, sometimes majordomo. Whatever role is required, your instructions are the same, eyes and ears. You are a soft thing in a crowd of hunters and hustlers, people have told you the most incredible things, thinking you are too naive, too stupid to understand, all happily spilled to Boba and Fennec over spotchka shots once the audience chamber clears out. And when Boba doesn't need you? You and Fennec are free to explore. The palace complex is huge, full of tunnels and chambers that the two of you are slowly mapping, marking the doorways and passages you've explored with bright paint. The B'omarr monks who built the palace still skitter through the passages. The first time you the two of you ran across one, Fennec drew her rifle. "No," you said and stepped between her and the stiffly walking spider droid, the brain inside it's housing bobbing gently in the cloudy liquid, "They have no weapons. They can't hurt us." You place your arm over hers and gently lower the rifle. "So you just let them wander around?" "They don't do anything. There's no point in hurting them." "Huh."

"Maker and stars," you mutter, "All this was down here the whole time?" The room looks like a Canto Bight rummage sale. All manner of art objects, furniture and rolled tapestries in stacks. Plast-sheeted clothing on racks. Paintings leaned haphazardly against the walls and each other. "You tell me," says Fennec, "This is your stomping ground." "Yeah, but I've never been this far down." You run a finger along one of the ornate frames, greasy with thick dust. "You think the boss will want any of this?" "Perhaps some of the art," says Fennec, "A lot of this is very old. Could fetch us some credits." You wander over to a rack of clothing, colorful dresses and robes in all lengths and cuts, some plain and some gaudy with pearls and lace. You lift the sheeting and stroke fabric that's softer than anything you've ever worn. "You might as well pick out a couple," says Fennec, "It'll all end up in market stall or a burn-pit anyway." "A couple? I'm taking this whole karking rack. Help me shove." "Stupid," she chides, "Let's call the mule-droid." "You know, this one with the dewflowers on it would look really nice on you." Fennec gives you that barely there smile, though her eyes glitter with merriment. “Never. In. Your. Life." You twitch your lekku in the equivalent of a shrug. "Fennec Shand, you are no fun." She raises an eyebrow. "I'm fun," she says, "I'm tons of fun." “Threatening to murder people does not count as fun." Fennec grins. "Don't knock it till you've tried it, Blue."

Slave One streaks up into the bright sky. Boba has to go off world for a handful of days, some sort of personal business to attend to. I expect to see this place still standing on my return, he'd said, try not to get yourselves arrested. "Who, us?" Said Fennec. "You end up in the drunk tank it comes out of your pay." "Noted."

"There's a festival in town tomorrow," you say, moving the cards in your hands. You and Fennec are playing Sabacc, a friendly game, no stakes, just to hone your skills and learn each other's tells so you can hustle in the cantinas. Not because you need to but because it's fun. "Yeah? An official one?" "No," you say, "Just a local thing." The Republic and the Empire both had sanctioned holidays, but in the Outer Rim that doesn't mean much. "The festival of the Twin Suns," you say, "It's about love. About being in love." You feel heat creeping from the tips of your lekku and over your face. You shake your head. "I don't know the whole story. Something about star-crossed lovers with a bad ending," you say. “You've never been," says Fennec. "No," you say, "But I always wanted to. They dance in the street. Everyone wears bright colors. Fortuna had after parties some times. Everyone seemed so happy." "We should go," says Fennec. "Really?" "Why not? Unless you just want to hang out and lose at Sabacc."

"Holy-karking-hell--" You mutter under your breath. Fennec wears a long, double-breasted jacket that looks straight out of some Old Republic holodrama, a tie the exact same blue as your skin tied at her throat, her traditional braid exchanged for something less severe, blue ribbon threaded through instead of the usual red. "Close you mouth before something flies in," she says. "Fen...wow," You clean up nice too. Let's go."

The Twin Suns Festival is every bit as loud and colorful as you imagined, brightly colored flags hang from every building, rainbow pennants and lanterns strung over the streets. Treaded crawlers drag mobile stages through the thronging streets, laden with musicians and dancers. Every so often, the sky explodes in a riot of fireworks. You and Fennec walk arm in arm so not to lose each other in the swelling crowd. You find a row of food stalls and share bantha kabobs so spicy your gums try to peel back from your teeth, followed by chilled spotchka froths to kill the burn. You share syrup smeared haroun bread and smile sticky smiles. In the streets, people hug, people kiss, people dance, all kinds of people, humans and Weequay and Twi'leks, a pair of Gamoreans lurk in a doorway and rub noses. A pair of Trandoshans point up at the starbursts of light splitting the night, their child laughing, gripping their parent's head ridges, a Bothan leans doubled over in laughter at something his Rodian friend just said. But not everything at the festival is happy chaos, as two of you wind your way towards the Great Square, things become more subdued. Rainbow colors still fly, but now the sills and doorways are lined with low burning lanterns and small candles. Small make-shift altars line the streets, again and again a portrait of two women, one in the simple garb of a moisture farmer, the other in a gown and headdress befitting a queen. Some iterations are crude, stick drawings pressed into tiles of sun-baked clay, others are ornate, woven tapestries threaded through with gold, bright pigments painted on stretched, scraped bantha hide. “This is them," you say, "The lovers. The twin suns." A pavilion stands in the center of the Great Square, draped in gauzy white fabric and lit with small hanging lanterns. Fennec takes your hand and tugs you towards it. "It's a shadow-play," she says, "I've never seen one." "Me neither." The Rodian at the tent entrance greets you warmly, presses printed flimsy flyers into your palms, a playbill of sorts, the names of the puppeteers and voice actors in bleared ink. You toss a few credits in the basket marked "donations" and make your way inside. You and Fennec seat yourselves towards the back. Children and smaller species sit on cushions right in front of the parchment screen. The screen is framed with heavy fabric on all sides to block the light.A few more patrons drift in and then they hood the lanterns. Delicately cut and articulated paper puppets tell the tale. The voices and narration are done in Basic and Huttese, one following the other, but the story is simple. A princess and the daughter of a moisture farmer fall in love. They keep the affair a secret until the princess is betrothed to an Outworld royal to cement a political alliance. The shadow-puppets dance behind the screen, backlit by flickering lanterns. A dance as old as the galaxy. A princess ensconced in a tower, pining for her true love. A clever pauper who scales the tower and frees her princess in the moonlight. Lovers who ran across the wastes and were swallowed up by the sands. "Searchers spread for days," says the narrator, "But the great dunes had drunk everything down. The hot winds erased every footprint." On the flickering screen two cut-paper women hold each other and slowly sink beneath swaying ripples of sand and then the line of the screen itself. "The shifting stands of our world are unforgiving," says the narrator. The light behind the stage changes color to the pinks and violets of dawn, "But it is said that the love the farmer and the princess had for each other was so powerful that the old gods of rock and wind and dune rejected their deaths." The shadowed dunes shift and sway and the lovers rise from beneath them, the ornate puppets replaced by simpler shapes, no crown for the princess, no dusty robes for the farmer just two mirror images facing each other. "Their souls rose from beneath the dunes and were carried on the currents of the Force--" They rise, paper girls floating in an imaginary sky "--to the suns that shine upon our world--" And with this the paper women flash into red flame, a collective oooh from the audience, and two stars appear, the greater and lesser Suns, cut from some red material that the light shines through, filling the white tent with ruddy light, the color of blood, but also of life "--The Suns of Tatooine burn hot, because, even through ages long lost and forgotten, their love for each other remains strong. The warmth you feel after the long cold night, that is their warmth, their gift to you, and to all of us."

There is a beat of silence and then applause erupts. Your cheeks are wet with tears. The puppeteers and narrators emerge from behind the dark curtains and bow. You paw at your face, hoping Fennec doesn't notice, which is futile. Fennec notices everything. She puts her arm around you and squeezes, her eyes seeking yours. "You ok, Blue?" She asks, but she's not teasing at all this time, her face gives nothing but concern. "Yeah, I'm good," you say, "I never knew the whole story. It's really kriffing sad. I kinda knew what to expect, but still--" Fennec tugs you to your feet. You were so engrossed in the shadow-play that you didn't realize you were still holding her hand. "C'mon," says Fennec. Her eyes shine in the low light, but that little smile creeps across her face, "Let's get a couple more of those spotchka froths so we can cry into them." You snort laughter. "That sounds like a plan."

"Oh, kriff," Fennec's expletive snaps you back to reality. You'd been lost in the music, grooving out to the horns, dancing because you wanted to and not because some sleemo holding the end of your chain expected it, moving your body in the way it wants to move. Fennec sounds scared and you are instantly a shade more sober. "Oh, kriff what?" "Kanjiklub," she says, and jerks her head towards the other side of the street, a trio of armed roughs argue loudly with a vendor, "They've got a price on my head. They see me, I'm dead." She pulls you into a shadowed doorway, "Quick, kiss me like you mean it!" You press your mouth to hers, flick at her lower lip with your tongue and she opens for you. The kiss is slow and languid, the gentle slide of your tongues, the plush heat of her mouth, the soft sounds she makes in the back of her throat. You cup her cheek, the pad of your thumb stroking the faint scars there. Her fingers brush the length of a lek, the faintest of touches but enough to light you up. You push her into the wall and kiss her harder. When you break the kiss, the two of you stand, foreheads pressed together, arms wound around each other, your chests heaving in tandem. "Hey Fen?" You breathe against her lips. "Yeah, Blue?" "I think..." you press your lips to hers again, a chaste kiss that she smiles into, "I think I meant it." "I think I meant it too," says Fennec, "How about we go home and do something about it?" "Yeah, let's go home. Just keep any eye out for those Kanjiklub goons." "What Kanjiklub goons?" She smirks and you huff. "Menace." "Your menace."

@honestly-shite , @draper-bobbie, @artemiseamoon

#writer wednesday #fennec shand x f!reader #fennec shand x f!twi'lek reader

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sithsecrets · 4 years ago

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beside one another | din djarin x reader

The hunt for a quarry takes the Mandalorian and his crew member to a fancy hotel in Canto Bight. The two lie beside one another under the cover of darkness, and the meaning of home comes into sharp focus.

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3.3k words

Mentions: typical rich people bullshit, people are a little scared of din, a little bit of pining, “there’s only one bed!”, sharing clothes, NO SMUT

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When Mando tells you that the next quarry’s hiding out in Canto Bight, you can’t help how excited you sound when you ask how long you’ll be staying. He’s his usual stoic self, even in the face of your curiosity, but you do detect a hint of annoyance in his voice as he tells you not to get excited.

“But it’s Canto Bight!” you declare, and the baby echoes your tone by cooing brightly on your hip. “It seems so glamorous!”

“You’ll feel differently once we get there,” Mando states, and then he’s punching coordinates into the navigation system, seemingly done discussing the matter. You buckle into the passenger seat with the baby, settling him on your lap so he gets a good view through the windshield during takeoff. He loves this part for some reason, despite all the rattling and the noise, and he squeals in utter joy like you thought he would.

“At least someone’s excited,” you declare, teasing the Mandalorian for being so grumpy. The man himself says nothing to this, but you’re too pleased with yourself and the prospect of visiting a new place to care.

Before Mando hired you to be his one and only crew member, you’d never really left the Tatoo System. Sure, you’d made a quick trip to here and there, visited a moon or two in your time, but never anything of substance. New places are your favorite thing to collect right now, and you can’t wait to cross Cantonica off your list. You heard stories of Canto Bight when you were little, saw a few holograms of the opulent streets— you can’t wait to see it all in person, even if Mando’s not excited in the slightest. You’re sure it’s different for him, all the traveling and the going to places he’s never been, but the novelty hasn’t worn off for you yet.

The journey to Cantonica is a short one, and before you know it, the Crest is touching down in a sleek, high-class receiving hangar. The landing coordinator sounds like a snob over the comm, making more than one comment about the state of the Crest. But the tone shifts completely once you, Mando, and the baby emerge from the ship, all of the personnel suddenly very accommodating. You’re used to seeing people (the smart ones, anyway) regard Mando with equal parts respect and fear, but this is just excessive. Someone ushers you and the baby out of the sun and into a small office, rushing to offer you a cool drink, and the foreman himself comes out to talk business. The content of he and Mando’s conversation is lost on you, though you do get to watch them talk through a little window.

(Later, you’ll learn that the man let Mando park the Crest here for a fifth of the usual price, but this won’t come as surprise by the time you find out.)

Mando hails a cruiser for the three of you, and then you’re zooming across the dessert on your way to Canto Bight. As the sun slips lower and lower in the sky, the lights of the city become brighter and brighter on the horizon, stoking your excitement. Mando’s minding the baby, so you get to fully enjoy the ride, taking in all you can as the vehicle flies over the sand. Within minutes, sand becomes grass, grass becomes pavement, and then you’re in Canto Bight proper, surrounded on all sides by wealth and luxury. The driver drops the three of you off in front of a grand hotel, and then he’s off without a word, speeding away to pick up another fare.

You, Mando, and the baby make your way inside, and you’re immediately blindsided by the realization that this hotel isn’t a place for you, not really. The interior, much like the building’s exterior, is more opulent than any other building you’ve ever been to, but it’s the people that make you feel like you’re a stain on their carpet. Every single being in the lobby, human or alien, is made up in the galaxy’s finest fabrics and most expensive jewels. They glitter and gleam in the light, and your casual, comfortable clothes looks like rags in comparison. A ball of nervous, self-conscious energy forms in your stomach, the anxiety only made worse by the fact that all eyes are on you. Well, all eyes are on Mando, as they so often are, but you as part of his entourage are subject to scrutiny by mere association. Thankfully, the patrons of this establishment seem more awed than judgmental, but that doesn’t the attention is any less disconcerting.

Before you and Mando can so much as approach the reception desk, you’re stopped short by a man dressed in sharp clothes. His dark hair is perfectly combed and parted, and you catch a hint of expensive cologne as he introduces himself as the resort manager. Mando declines to shake his hand, but you let the man squeeze your palm for a brief moment.

“We need to book a room,” Mando states, trying to use this as an excuse to end the exchange. The resort manager, however, brushes off the attempt with ease.

“That’s already been taken care of, sir.” He gestures towards the elevators with one well-manicured hand, smiling what you can only describe as a customer service smile. “If you follow me this way, I can show you and your companions to your accommodations.”

“We don’t have lines of credit on this planet,” Mando cuts, tone taking on an edge as fishes around for some money. “We just want—”

“Sir,” the resort manager presses, and you have to admire the way he keeps his voice steady even though he looks like he might piss his pants any second, “I assure you that it’s been take care of. Now please, follow me.”

Mando pauses for a moment, staring down this well-dressed, handsome man as if to size him up. But then he nods, and Mr. Manager leads the three of you to the elevators. You ride up up up in a private car, sitting in relative silence the whole way. The manager does most of the talking, asking a few subtly invasive questions about why you’re here— right up until Mando essentially tells him to fuck off. After that, conversation centers mostly around the baby and the amenities available at the hotel, and then you’re walking out into a quiet corridor. It’s not a private floor by any means, but the spacing of the doors lets you know that not many people stay up here. That’s a bit of a relief, at least in your opinion, because the guests here seem rowdy. And drunk. So fucking drunk…

The suite is— Well, the suite is fucking ridiculous, to put it bluntly. It’s four rooms, five if you count the little kitchen area as its own space, and everything is decorated just so. The furnishings are opulent, the upholstery is rich— the ‘fresher alone is bigger than the common area of the home you grew up in. The manager says something about how you shouldn’t hesitate to ask for anything you need, but you barely here him, awestruck in a way by the luxury all around you. Mando sees your escort out, and you can’t believe how casual he’s being about all of this.

“Do—?” The baby makes a discontent noise, ready to be let out of his pram, and you lower him down without giving the action much thought. “Do people always do things like this for you, or…?”

Mando turns to look at you. “Only when they’re scared shitless. As far as all those people are concerned, they’re my next quarry.”

Having received the message, you leave the conversation at that, opting to go and unpack instead of prodding Mando further. The baby toddles about the suite at his leisure, oscillating between cooing at his father and playing on the bed while you work. He’s broken into a basket of complimentary snacks, and you watch as he munches on cookies and chips and a full range of other fine foods. You should probably stop him on the premise of all that ruining his dinner, but Mando’s making noises about going out to do some reconnaissance this evening. With him gone, it’ll just be you and the kid, and you think he can have a treat just this once. Besides, he might crash from the sugar rush, and you could score an evening to yourself in this big fancy hotel room.

“Send me a comm if I’m not here when you wake up,” is all Mando says before he leaves, though he does tilt his head in acknowledgement when you tell him to be safe.

As you suspected, the Child begins to wind down not long after his father leaves, lapsing into a junk food-induced coma with a bag of chips still clenched tightly in his little green hand. You clean up his face and lay him down in his pram for the night, tucking his blankets just so before you click the cover shut.

Virtually alone now, there’s not much for you to do besides bathe and get ready for bed. And so, you do just that, lingering in the bathtub simply because you can. When the water’s gotten too cool for your liking, you climb out and play with the products that have been left out on the countertop, rubbing some expensive lotion into your skin. After that, it’s time to curse quietly to yourself in the bedroom— in all your haste and excitement to pack for this trip, you managed to forget to bring something to sleep in. Mando packed two extra shirts for himself instead of one, however, and you study one of them at arm’s length for a long moment. Wearing another person’s clothes to bed is definitely something you should ask permission to do, that much you know, but… but Mando’s not here, and you need something to wear now. Finally, you slip the garment over your head, deciding that you’ll just apologize later if he gets worked up about it.

Dressed and freshly bathed, your next order of business is to procure some food for yourself. The baby’s still asleep when you get out of the bathtub, so you forgo getting him anything. You do, however, order something that’ll be good for Mando later, something filling that can be eaten lukewarm or even cold when he gets back. Everything is delicious, and you climb into bed full and content.

Even though you’re tired, sleep doesn’t come easily. You find yourself thinking of Mando, and you lie awake wondering what he’s up to— wondering if he’s safe. He’s always doing this, going out for indeterminate amounts of times to hunt his prey, and you worry about him each and every time he’s gone. It’s silly, you know, and for so many reasons. He’s a Mandalorian, for the Maker’s sake— he can take care of himself just fine— and it’s not like he’s yours to fuss over anyway. Sure, the man employs you, but your emotional investment in his safety has grown a bit intense over these past few months. As much as you hate to admit it, Mando’s different to you now, more important than he used to be. The fact that you have feelings for him at all like this is borderline idiotic, but… but sometimes you wonder if he feels things for you too. You don’t have any concrete evidence, your assumptions largely based off of two passing comments and the tilt of his helmet, but still, you cling to the hope that he wants you the same way you want him.

It takes some time, but the sounds of the city do eventually lull you to sleep. You don’t wake again until the early hours of the morning, disturbed by movement in the other room. The clang of Mando’s spurs is a dead giveaway, and you relax as soon as you realize that it’s just him. You try to settle down and drift off again, but you find that you’re suddenly wide awake. So instead, you listen to Mando go about his business, tracking his footsteps from room to room. You hear the shower run in the ‘fresher for a little while, and then a chair scrapes against the floor in the dining room a few minutes after that. The tinkling of a utensils tells you that Mando’s eating the food you got for him, and he must like it, too, because he doesn’t just inhale the plate and move on.

Earlier, after you and Mando realized that the suite only has one bed, he offered to sleep on the couch, and you’d agreed to that. Now, though, you don’t like the idea of him trying to fold his beskar-clad body up on the cushions in the living room. He’s the reason the three of you got this room in the first place, even if he never asked for the special treatment, and you think he’s entitled to at least sleep on the ridiculously soft bed. Still, it’s a presumptuous thing, asking him to lie down with you, and you’re not sure you’re brave enough to do it. You are brave enough, however, to ask him how his surveillance mission went, so you slip out of bed and pad towards the dining room.

“Mando?” you call, voice sounding rather loud in the still darkness. You wouldn’t want to catch him without his helmet on, so you’re giving him a warning.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Mando affirms, and you know the coast is clear by the electronic tinge to his voice.

He’s still sitting there at the table when you turn the corner, and the Mandalorian does seem a bit taken aback by the sight of you. Only now do you remember that you’re wearing his clothes, and two thoughts cross your mind: Will he be pissed with you? Does this shirt even cover your ass properly?

“Is—? You’re wearing my clothes.” Mando is expressionless in the helmet, of course, but the tilt of his voice is indicative of surprise.

You flush, tugging on the hem of the shirt. “Yeah, I— I forgot to pack something to sleep in, and you had an extra one. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” the Mandalorian says at once, cutting you off. A pause, and then he’s much more collected, much more like himself again. “It’s not a problem, really. No big deal.”

You nod at that, and then things are casual again. You ask Mando if he got any good information about his quarry, and he says that he did. He thanks you for getting him some dinner, and you say that it was no trouble.

“The baby’s sleeping?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, jerking your head towards the bedroom. “I have him in his pram. I think all the sweets put him in a diabetic coma.”

Mando doesn’t laugh, but the little huff that comes from his vocoder is enough to tell you that the joke landed. “Good,” he says, “I’m glad somebody’s getting some rest.”

There’s a lull in conversation, the two of you looking at one another from opposite ends of the dimly lit dining room. You lean in the doorway, mock-casual as you toy with the hem of your borrowed shirt.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know,” you say softly, finding it difficult to make eye contact with the visor as you speak.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” the Mandalorian replies. “You got in bed first, so I’m not going to make you move now—”

“No, no,” you chide, interrupting him. “I—”

You take a breath, deciding that now is as good a time as any. It’s time to rip off the bandage, and if this goes to shit, you can always chalk your actions up to exhaustion later.

“I mean, you could come lie down in bed too,” you say quickly, fidgeting nervously. “With me.”

Mando doesn’t say or do anything for one long, agonizing moment, and you’re sure you’re going to throw up. But then…

“Do you want me to lie down with you?”

His voice is quiet through the modulator, almost soft in a way, and the sound of it makes something inside you flutter.

“Yeah.”

You’re almost whispering, and you wonder what the Mandalorian thinks of you in this moment, how you look to him standing there in his clothes, asking him to come to bed with you. It must not be an ugly sight in his eyes, because he stands and walks to you, murmuring, “Come on.”

Mando checks on the baby as you crawl back in bed, rearranging the Child’s blankets, giving him an affectionate little pat. The pram clicks closed, and then Mando’s faltering at the edge of the bed.

“I can’t—” His abandons his words in favor of a display, gesturing towards the armor on his body, to the room as a whole. “This isn’t—”

“I know,” you say softly, because you do. The armor makes him feel safe, makes him feel strong, and he won’t be able to sleep if he takes it off in this strange, foreign environment. “Just take your boots off. Or are those made of beskar too?”

It’s a silly joke, but it earns you a little huff through the vocoder nonetheless.

“No,” Mando retorts, tone light. He takes off more than just his boots, unclipping his utility belt before he sits down on the edge of the bed. It takes Mando a minute to unlace his boots, but when he’s done, he finally lies down beside you, not even untucking the blankets on his side.

“You don’t want some covers?”

Mando shakes his head, and you have to admit that his big, beskar-clad body looks out of place in this even bigger, soft bed. You wonder idly if it would be different on the ship, if Mando would take all the armor off and lie beside you there too. You could never ask him to take the helmet off, that would be too much, but if he was on his own turf instead of holed up in some hotel suite… It’s too late to be worried about all of that now, though, so you force yourself to relax and enjoy this moment.

“This place is sort of fancy,” Mando says to you, voice cutting through the darkness, and you nod in agreement.

“Yeah, but I like the Crest better.”

“Really?”

You nod again. “It’s… warmer. Everything in this city is so cold. The building’s are pretty, and the streets make a pretty picture, but nobody’s supposed to live here. It’s all for show. Very plastic. I see why you weren’t excited to come here.”

Mando says nothing to this, though somehow you know that he’s not taking pleasure in being right.

Feeling bold, you move a bit closer to the Mandalorian. “I’ll be happy to go home.”

“I’m getting the quarry tomorrow,” Mando says, “probably before nightfall. We can be back on the Crest and off Cantonica before it’s time for us to sleep again.”

You like to think there’s a promise in that, an indication of what’s to come, but you’ll just have to wait and see. You’ll just have to hope.

“Good.”

And as your last act of bravery for the night, you reach out across the sheets and grab Mando’s hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

#my writing #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin

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dirty-holy-things · 4 years ago

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The Space Between (your heart & mine)

Chapter 16 has been posted to Ao3, and below to Tumblr. Catch up on chapters 1-15 on Ao3.

Notes: 18+, explicit!!!! This chapter is the ‘burn’ of the slow burn we’ve been developing for 15 chapters. We’re finally there, for those of you who have been long-time readers. Please note, I’ve never written this much smut before. It’s A LOT, and I mean a lot of this chapter. M & F, oral receiving and penetration. Unprotected sex for the sake of storytelling, but please wrap it before you tap it IRL. Praise kink, because Din and Reader need validation. Some fun and adventurous positioning and activities. Also, very romantic ending.

Words: 9.1k update, 75.7k total.

If you would like to be added to my taglist, please fill out this form!

Having stepped into the dimly-lit club, your eyes took a moment to adjust and take in the scene around you. Low-slung leather chairs and booths were scattered throughout the dark room, their occupants being some of the more fearful individuals in the galaxy. These cruel and cunning men, however, were in varying states of disarray due to the large amounts of alcohol and spice that were brazenly displayed on the tables they were seated at. In addition to the smoke-stained booths, there were several raised platforms that held women who were twisting themselves around metallic poles, their bodies scantily clad as they danced sensually for the crowd of drunken onlookers.

And that was where you would find yourself shortly after being allowed into the club.

They had assumed you were one of the dancers.

A large, burly man grabbed you by the arm and you instinctively threw your elbow back into his gut at the sudden intrusion of your personal space, your arm connecting with a solid expanse of hard muscle. “C’mon, babydoll, don’t be so sensitive,” the man grumbled, hauling you towards the unoccupied pedestal. “Do your fucking job and don’t bitch about it.” He tossed you forward into the velvet-covered platform, and as you caught yourself on your hands, you understood that you had about three seconds to decide what you were going to do next.

Do you confront the man about the mistaken identity, and risk causing a scene? Risk losing the bounty, or possibly getting yourself hurt once they realize you’re not meant to be here?

Or do you get up there and find a way to make this unexpected plot change work for you?

Credit due to @knivesareout for the perfect moldboard and for her undying love for me and my fic.

Also tagging @soyelfuegoquearde for beta’ing my project and giving me all of the constructive criticism and positive feedback that has helped me grow as an author.

And my love @emmikmil / @bdavishiddlesbatch for her never-ending love and enthusiasm for Din and Reader.

I love you all so very much.

Chapter 16 - Read More

The things that you had heard in passing about Corellia were too kind in their assessment, and they had been harsh to start. There was a filmy scum that lingered in the air and clung to clothing, surfaces, even to the air in your lungs. The industrial planet was bleak and grim, and you were almost beginning to regret your offer to assist Din with this bounty; would it have really been so bad to hunker down here in the ship, sleep for a while, maybe even pick up a book in town to keep you entertained? However, you also knew that if you had to spend an undetermined amount of time cooped up in the ship, without Din, trying to manage the kid on your own, no view except that of a dirty industrial cityscape, being constantly terrified that Din could get hurt again — you would probably lose your mind. So you decided to step out into the grisly world of Corellia, Din at your side.

The towers of steel and metal that warped up towards the sky were certainly a departure from the organic beauty of Bardotta that you had grown accustomed to during the last job. You tried to find something appealing in the architecture, your eyes scanning the horizon, and came to the conclusion that there was certainly... dedication and precision in the construction, and that was something that you could appreciate. You needed to find something agreeable within it all.

The kid was sleeping in his cradle, the wampa having been tucked under his short green arm, left to rest in the ship during the course of what was predicted to be a short job. Din navigated the two of you through the dirty, narrow streets of the city and away from the shipyard. He didn’t seem to notice or mind the filth too much, as he stomped onwards through puddles, mud, trash, splashing it onto his clothing and armor — and being a bit more hygienically minded, you took the extra effort to keep yourself clean as you sidestepped what could reasonably be avoided. It was unnecessary self-preservation as the cleanliness of your boots probably didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, but it was just in your nature.

Din was leading you both to a well-concealed speakeasy, known for hosting an intriguing assortment of characters that preferred to avoid the prying eyes of the galaxy, and partake in... questionable activities. Din had made contact with an acquaintance who was able to provide you with instructions for how to enter into the underground club, including the password that was changed frequently specifically to avoid situations like yours. It was mean to be a safe haven for the rich and powerful; there would be drinking, music, smoking, gambling, bloodshed, prostitution, drugs, fighting, and that was on a quiet night. Gods only knew what else the oncoming evening could hold. You weren’t particularly worried, however, knowing that the towering bounty hunter that stalked along in front of you would keep you safe if worst came to worst. And you didn’t have any significant worries about this job, the nature of it being simple and familiar.

The setup of this job was similar to the one you had helped with back on Canto Bight; you’d flirt with the target, have a drink, bat your eyelashes, and draw him away from the crowd with a thinly veiled proposition. It wasn’t rocket science, luring a man; there were quite a lot of things in life that were harder, like navigating a ship or even firing a blaster. And yet Din seemed incredibly nervous and stressed on your behalf, holding enough worry for the two of you. While you had grown used to periods of silence from him, this one felt different. This one had an undercurrent of tension that rolled off of him in waves, so thick you could almost see it — or maybe that was just Corellia, and you were reading too much into this.

The sun was beginning to set along the horizon, reflecting beams of orange and crimson and gold throughout the city’s structure; you remembered how Din had shared with you that his favorite color was orange, and you wondered if he was finding some sort of beauty in this moment as well, or if he had even noticed. He hadn’t said anything to you for quite some time now, having navigated you from the outskirts of the city and its shipyard, to the bustling urban center that housed a variety of species and droids that were frankly quite rude. You had been bumped into on more than one occasion without so much as an ‘excuse me.’ You figured you had just grown used to the niceties that were afforded on a planet like Chandrila, and reminded yourself that you had chosen to leave that place in favor of travel — which would include a change in attitudes and social customs. You still made a point to apologize to those you collided with though.

Having seen the industriousness of the capitol city here on Corellia, you were increasingly intrigued by what this speakeasy experience would be like. Din had informed you that it was a popular spot for those working with Crimson Dawn, the Hutts, the Pyke Syndicate — violent, ruthless individuals. The target for this evening was a Twi’lek who had been working for the Hutts, who had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared with a large shipment of spice; it was suspected that he had run off with it for himself, feeling brave enough to try and hide. It was a stupid choice, even you knew that — while Orron had never tell you much about the spice dealings, you still knew that double crossing the Hutts was borderline suicidal. The sheer confidence and conceit of such a bold move was intriguing, that couldn’t be denied; but hiding from the Hutts was nearly impossible, and his bold stupidity would be catching up with him today.

You had worked to prepare yourself adequately for the evening, having brought along a pack of supplies that would transform you into an appealing bait prior to your arrival. You had correctly assumed that dressing for a party before trekking through the city would be a poor decision, and you applauded yourself for your foresight, seeing the grim state that your clothing was now in. The sun was descending lower into the skyline and you knew that you were getting close to the destination, based on the projected timeline for the job.

Picking up the pace so you were now walking in stride with Din, you tilted your head in the direction of a small shop that would likely afford you some space in a fresher to change and finish preparing. He nodded silently in agreement and you disappeared inside, finding a young boy with mousy blonde hair sleeping behind the counter. He was startled awake by your unexpected entrance, and you tossed him some credits to accompany your question about where you would locate a fresher. He pointed to the back of the store wordlessly and you thanked him before disappearing.

You closed the door behind you and locked it securely, before stripping out of the clothes that had accumulated a fair amount of muck in the past hour’s journey. You wriggled your way into a sparkling silver dress that just barely skimmed your thighs, admiring the shimmer of the sheer fabric as it clung to your body. The dress choice had been intentional, the versatility of it appealing; you knew it would sparkle like diamonds when caught by bright lights, and would set off a soft, illuminating glow in low light. Either way, eyes would be drawn to you. You slid on a pair of white boots that propelled yourself a good four inches higher into the air, and added a few pieces of jewelry to round out the look. You pulled your hair out of the buns you had tied it up in, as it now fell around your shoulders in casual waves, and you put on just enough makeup to highlight your features. Assessing that you looked enticing enough, you slid back into your dark grey coat that would hide your glamorous appearance from the city-dwellers until your arrival at the club.

As you stepped out of the shop to rejoin your companion, you readied yourself to say goodbye for the evening, trying to shift your perspective to the job at hand rather than the part of you that was incredibly sad to be parted from Din. Even knowing that the separation was only temporary, you would still be eagerly looking forward to being reunited. Staring up into the visor of the helmet, you stepped closer to him and placed your arms on his hips, wanting to pull him in closely but also understanding that it may not be an appropriate choice as you were out in public. He placed a gloved hand on your shoulder and another on the small of your back, the helmet coming to rest against your forehead.

“Do you have the blaster? And the knife?” He asked, his voice sounding constricted even with the modulator. You were getting better at deciphering that which the modulator tried to hide.

“I’ve got the knife, but the blaster doesn’t really go with this outfit,” you joked, reassuring him that you were protected. “This’ll be easy, I promise.” You whispered, trying to build up his confidence and sense of security. “Just like last time. We can get the job over with quickly, and then go home.”

You heard a soft sigh come through the modulator as he nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon, Din.”

***

Getting into the club had been ridiculously easy, especially once the guard at the door saw the way that you were dressed. For being so secretive of a club, you were shocked at the ease with which you were able to sneak in; you assumed that they just didn’t worry too much when a beautiful young woman turned up at their door. Din was going to take more of a… back-door route into the club, dispatching the guard who protected the service entrance, and he would find a discreet place to hide and watch out for you and the target. You had kept the knife, and the comm that was connected to his, and you would alert him when you had lured the Twi’lek away from the party and the crowd. Din would then join the two of you, disarm and cuff the target, and then you would go home to the Razor Crest. It was a simple plan, with a hefty payout for an evening of easy work.

... Or so you had thought.

And that was where you would find yourself shortly after being allowed into the club.

They had assumed you were one of the dancers.

Do you confront the man about the mistaken identity, and risk causing a scene? Risk losing the bounty, or possibly getting yourself hurt once they realize you’re not meant to be here?

Or do you get up there and find a way to make this unexpected plot change work for you?

You bit the inside of your lip to the point of bleeding as you quickly came to your decision. You brought yourself up onto the well-worn, blood red platform and into the blisteringly hot stage lights that were turned on you and the other dancers; taking a moment to pretend to bask in the cheers and lewd hollers that followed your entrance, you tried to get a feel for the rhythm of the music that you would now have to dance to.

Fuck, let’s hope they’re high enough to believe this.

Closing your eyes, you sank into the rhythm and melody of the music that the band was playing, and you began to move your body in time with it, trying to put on a show despite never having danced before a day in your life. This would be an awfully convenient time for some Force abilities to show up.

You had no such luck, but the drugged and drunk patrons didn’t seem to mind much; you were there for their amusement and pleasure, to fuel their egos and sense of power. You were also just one of several dancers; subtly turning, you observed the others so you could try and copy their fluid and sensual movements, the muscles in your thighs and core being worked in ways that you had not experienced before. You kept an eye out in the room for the target, and eventually you spotted him sitting about three booths away, a group of nasty looking mercenaries at his side.

Alright, let’s get this over with before my legs give out.

Batting your painted eyelashes at him, you winked at the Twi’lek and blew him a kiss before turning your focus back to the dance that you were trying to pull off.

The band changed songs, and the other dancers kept going, adjusting to the new tempo and you assumed that’s what was expected of you as well. You wondered when this would end, when you would have an opportunity to get this night over with — your legs were burning as you stretched, bent, spun, flexed in different and new ways, all while trying to maintain some semblance of decency — you didn’t want anyone but Din to look at you how these men were.

Keeping your focus on the target, you saw the Twi’lek man gesture to the burly man who had brought you up here; a quiet conversation took place during which he pointed directly at you, and then you witnessed the Twi’lek hand the man a stack of Imperial credits.

He was buying you.

It was a departure from the original plan, but then again everything about this night had been. The original plan had been left in the dust, and you just hoped that Din would be able to keep pace with the changes. Following the men’s transaction, you watched as the Twi’lek disappeared through a hallway into a private room, and the large man made his way to the platform you had been brought to. Coming to a halt in front of you, he grunted something entirely unintelligible over the sounds of the music and the crowd, but the meaning was not lost on you. Your services had been bought.

You climbed down from the platform, the glow of the hot stage light leaving you, and you sighed in relief; the man pointed in the general direction of where the Twi’lek had gone and you wordlessly took your cue to join him. Slinking your way through the tables, you ran your hand along the knife that had been carefully concealed, hidden underneath your dress and pressed against your ribs; you were suddenly very grateful for Din’s insistence that you carry it. You then retrieved the small comm from the bosom of your dress, having cleverly hidden it there; you pressed the button on the side once, twice, three times, alerting him that you were moving and the final phase of the plan was in action.

You arrived at the end of the hallway to find the door to the private room; it was one of many discreet doors, but this was the only one that was cracked just slightly to indicate to you where to go. Feeling your heart start to race, you hoped that Din would be close behind you, as the thought of being alone with this man for an extended period of time was admittedly quite terrifying; the thought that he had bought your... services, and would be expecting you to engage accordingly, made your skin crawl. The nervousness that you hadn’t felt previously was starting to catch up with you, and you had a bit more understanding of why Din had been as concerned as he was.

You could feel an acidic, stabbing pain of nervousness in your gut as your feet carried you closer and closer to the dark walnut door. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, pushing that nervousness and fear away, you knocked softly on the door to indicate your arrival. You stepped into what was a surprisingly clean and relatively quiet room; it was free from the colorful and flashing lights of the rest of the club, instead being dimly lit with candles that illuminated comfortable-looking furniture, and a table with a bottle of sparkling wine.

You turned your gaze to the Twi’lek in front of you; he wasn’t unattractive, but the fact that he had the audacity to try and purchase sex from a woman — no, he wasn’t even purchasing sex from a woman, it was from a fucking pimp — was nauseating, and the smugness that rolled off of him threatened to make your nose turn up in disgust. Forcing aside your personal assessments, you smiled at him and took a seat next to him before pouring you each a glass of wine. You knew you needed to focus on playing your role and getting the job over with.

Taking a sip of the wine you had poured, the carbonation tickled your nose and you giggled instinctively, not accustomed to the sensation. The man took it as an indication of interest, however, and his hand moved to your upper thigh, pushing the hem of your dress to the side. He downed the rest of his drink quickly before turning to place his other hand on your shoulder — and then his body was moving closer and closer towards yours, and your heart pounded, your head screamed at you to get the fuck out of here, where is Din, fuck, should I kill this guy?

Right at the moment that you had moved to make a grab for your knife, the heavy wooden door you had walked through opened quietly and you breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the beskar that glowed in the lamplight. The Twi’lek kept his hands where they were on your body, but turned from you to speak to the intruder, growling, “Hey buddy, get the fuck outta here, can’t you see we’re busy?”

You winced and concealed a laugh, knowing that while this man may not die tonight, he would not be feeling too great once Din was done with him. The door closed and the three of you were concealed from the party, contained in the privacy of the room together. Before the man had time to touch you any further, Din reached out to grab the Twi’lek and roughly hauled him off of you, only slightly throwing his body into the glass table that shattered on impact.

You didn’t need to see Din’s face to know that he was absolutely livid. Having been removed from the unwanted grasp of the Twi’lek, knowing that you and Din were both safe, there was a part of you that got a sort of thrill from the protectiveness that Din displayed for you. It was also shockingly and undeniably attractive watching him rough the guy up, and your biological, hormonal response to the sight caught you a bit off guard.

The Twi’lek was unconscious, but thankfully not dead; after having been thrown through a glass table by your protector, he was... quite easy to disarm and handcuff. After Din had thoroughly secured the situation at hand, he stomped over to you angrily, the force of his steps echoing around you, and you could feel the rage and possessiveness that was positively boiling underneath the armor. “Are you alright?” He asked brusquely, pulling your scantily clad body into his heavily covered one.

“Yes, Din, I’m fine — things didn’t go exactly to plan, but I’m—“

He cut you off as he brought his hand down to cover your eyes— surprised, you started to recoil on instinct, until you heard the click of his helmet being removed; and then his lips were on yours, kissing you greedily and intensely in a way that you had never experienced before. Instinctively, your hands reached out to pull him closer into you and you were hit by an absolute tidal wave of need for him. You bit down on his lip, an animalistic drive taking over your body, and he growled underneath you. “Fuck,” he grunted, pulling away from you but keeping his hand securely over your eyes. “Fuck, fuck, not here — get you home —“

You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or not, but you whined as your body screamed out for more contact, more attention than what you were receiving. You heard the helmet click back into place and your chest deflated, knowing that you would not be getting what you needed; at least not yet. His hand moved away from your eyes and you saw Din standing in front of you, breathing heavily and roughly. You clearly weren’t alone in your own desires, but Din at least had the foresight to know that this was not the time or place.

He wordlessly turned to grab the unconscious man and haul him out, being rougher than you had expected as the man’s head knocked into the door frame with a thud. You followed along behind him, trusting him to know what he was doing despite the adrenaline and the hormones that were rushing over you both like Naboo’s waterfalls. He navigated you carefully out of the speakeasy, until the two —no, three— of you were back into the cool, muggy evening air of Corellia. You saw a guard had been dispatched by Din at the back door, and a M-68 Landspeeder that was presumably stolen was waiting for you. Din lifted the unconscious body into the back seat and allowed it to slump over before he was then reaching out to grab you, his hands planted tightly on your waist as he lifted you up, as though your weight was nothing for him, and set you down into the passenger seat of the speeder before climbing in next to you.

The journey back to the ship was blessedly short compared to the initial journey into the city, thanks to Din’s questionable acquisition of a vehicle, but it was just as silent as the day’s earlier journey had been. You weren’t sure of what was going on in Din’s head, but you knew that you were aching to get back to the security of the ship and to be able to be alone with him. You felt excitement blooming within you as the Razor Crest came into your line of sight, but Din remained maddeningly silent.

He got the limp body securely sealed into carbonite with impressive speed, before picking your tense and wanting body up and out of the vehicle. Much to your surprise, he didn’t set you down on the ground, but rather carried you up the ramp and into the ship you both knew as home.

You could feel the adrenaline and desire pumping through your body as you felt Din’s strong arms wrapped around you, carrying you gently but with a force and determination that was a bit nerve-wracking. You were fairly certain that you could hear his heart hammering against the beskar chest plate that you were pressed against, and his gloved hands just barely dug into your skin, making your heart race in anticipation for what was undoubtedly about to come next.

The lights in the cabin of the ship had already been turned off, and your sense of anticipation heightened with the deprivation. Din takes his helmet off in the dark. He placed you down unexpectedly, your feet fighting to keep you upright, and that coupled with the darkness was momentarily disorienting. He stepped closer into you, his frame eclipsing yours as you were backed into the wall of the cabin and you could feel the steel paneling against the skin that your silver dress had left exposed. The cold steel coupled with the desire that was burning through you, radiating from your core, gave you an intense sensory overload that left your chest rising and falling rapidly as your breaths became more shallow, a soft whine arising from you.

Your hands reached out, grasping for any bit of Din that they could reach, and you somewhat forcefully dragged him into you, using his body to pin yourself against the wall of the ship. You heard a grunt come through the modulator and the fire inside you crawled up your chest as you told him in no uncertain terms to “Take that off, right fucking now.”

You heard the helmet drop to the floor not a second later, with no regard for its integrity — but honestly, it was beskar, you’d be more worried about the integrity of the floor than the helmet — and the impulsiveness of the gesture only fueled the scorching fire that was running through your veins, setting every nerve ending alight. Finally having been freed from the restrictiveness of the helmet, Din growled your name under his breath as he leaned in to kiss you, echoing the fierce desperation with which he had kissed you in the speakeasy. His arms wrapped around you in a vice as his hands grabbed your ass, and he licked into your mouth, the heat and the taste of his tongue making you moan underneath him reflexively. You kissed him deeper, needing to be as close to him as possible — the cool beskar pressing into you made him feel even more domineering, powerful, but you resented its presence and the way it barricaded you from Din’s body.

“Never doing that again — not going on another job with me —“ Din grunted, his words partially lost in the heavy, bruising kisses he was trailing up your neck. “Saw you— saw you dancing, saw that motherfucker pay — should’ve killed him —“

God, the possessiveness and the protectiveness was fucking hot. There was something within you that reveled in his intense desire to protect you and keep you to himself. Memories of the fresher came back to you, how he had called you his good girl, and the prospect of hearing those words spoken into your soft skin again made you achingly wet for him. You sighed into him, your body melting underneath his touch as he kissed and harshly bit at the soft skin of your neck, loving the way his teeth felt scraping and sinking into you. It felt as though there was a storming, angry ocean of desire and desperation crashing into you ceaselessly, so overwhelming that you worried you might drown in it before Din would be able to give you what you needed.

You tangled your hands into the hair that you noticed was growing even longer, the curls feeling so real and so human, despite the forced disconnect of armor and anonymity. “Din,” you sighed, tugging his curling hair gently, trying to pull him out of the smoldering anger he was experiencing, and back into this moment with you. You didn’t want to hear any more about the job, the club, any of it — you wanted to hear Din tell you that you look so pretty taking his cock, you’re his good girl, your pussy feels better than anything in this galaxy.

“My girl,” he whispered roughly, digging his fingers into your exposed skin, the warm baritone of his unfiltered voice setting off butterflies — and for a moment you wondered if he could actually read your mind.

You nodded in agreement —you’re his girl, always — whimpering as one of his hands moved from your backside to roughly cup your breast; you felt the aged leather of the glove against your skin and realized he was all too clothed in comparison to your exposed form. Your dress had shifted to bunch around your waist as Din had pressed you into the wall, progressively revealing more and more of you to him. You reached out to grab his gloved hand, bringing it up from your chest and to your flushed face. He paused for a moment, waiting to see what you were doing; and then you brought his hand up to your soft mouth, gently biting down on his thumb and pulling the glove off with your teeth. The taste of gunpowder and leather lingered on your tongue, and there was some small piece of you that got a thrill from it.

It had been an experimental move, one that you weren’t sure how he would respond to, but the groan that echoed through him shot your adrenaline and confidence sky high, knowing that you made that happen, knowing that you were giving him what he wanted. And although he had you pinned against the wall, you still tried valiantly to remove some of the layers that separated you — you needed to feel his skin against yours, needed to be able to kiss him all over, wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him in new ways.

He took your cue and backed up slightly, allowing your chest the room to expand with much-needed deep breaths as he rushed to pry the armor and equipment off of himself, each thud and clang of beskar on the floor sending stronger and stronger waves of heat through your body; you wondered if this is what it was like to catch fire under the unforgiving suns of Tattooine.

You heard something soft and distinctly not-beskar land next to the two of you, and assumed that he was finally beginning to work his way out of his underclothes. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and yanked him back towards you forcefully, needing to feel the heat of his body pressed against yours. You could feel the defined muscles of his abdomen, the assorted scars that scattered his frame, the broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms; you kissed down his neck and to his chest, biting down harshly and then soothing the area with your tongue, loving the way that he writhed and moaned against you as he held you against himself.

Your hand moved down from the wide expanse of his shoulders to palm at the rock hard erection that was unfortunately still barricaded by Din’s pants; and as you curled your fingers around his cock, Din growled and gathered the sheer fabric of your dress in his hands, pulling it down rapidly and aggressively, leaving you to try and extricate your arms from the delicate straps before he ripped it entirely off of your body. Eventually shimmying yourself free of the dress that had blessedly remained intact, you felt the pile of tulle and sequins fall to your feet. You kicked the garment away from you, a subtle hint to make Din distinctly aware of how exposed you now were. You pulled at the rough utility fabric that concealed the lower half of his body, that concealed his throbbing erection that you so desperately needed to feel within you — and Din stepped out of the clothing, the two of you breathing heavily at the amount of skin to skin contact you now shared; you wondered if he had ever been this bare, this exposed, with anyone before.

Although it was dark within the cabin of the ship, you knew each other’s bodies well, having spent several nights sleeping together, and your previous interactions during the shower having brought you closer than ever before. Your breath hitched in your throat as you had a sudden feeling of nervousness; you couldn’t understand why you were suddenly anxious, as this was something you had wanted for so long — but apparently you weren’t the only one with some nerves. Din’s breath shook as he pulled your body into his, whispering your name. “I don’t know that the bunk will be, ah... comfortable, or, you know, enough... space.”

That was a fair consideration, remembering how close you slept next to him; it wouldn’t offer enough space for anything other than sleeping.

An idea occurred to you; you leaned forward and kissed his shoulder, before you pulled away from his grasp, the chill of the cabin catching up with you as you crossed to retrieve the well-loved blankets from the bunk as you placed them onto the floor, creating a makeshift bed for the two of you. “Problem solved,” you whispered, grabbing his hand and guiding him onto the softened surface with suddenly confident steps.

He laughed gently, and you could feel a smile working its way to his face as you kissed him. He swung you up into his arms with ease, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carefully brought both of your exposed and nude bodies down to the floor. You were acutely aware of how his muscles flexed and contracted as he held you closely, his sculpted and scarred body feeling incredible as it laid on the floor next to yours. Now, being able to effectively move and maneuver yourself around him, you were emboldened to try something you had never done before, feeling confident as your adventurous ideas had been well-received so far.

Your soft and gentle hands pressed Din’s wide shoulders down into the unyielding floor and he complied, willing to let you have the control right now. You positioned yourself over his body so that your head was pointing in the direction of his feet, while you propped yourself up above his impressive, large frame on your palms, the arch of your back offering him a perfect view of how wet you were for him, damn near dripping onto his chest. He groaned explicitly as you bent forward to take his cock into your mouth, and you could feel the tension moving through his body as you took him deeper into your throat, your tongue swirling around him and tasting every exquisite, velvety inch of him.

You were relieved when Din’s broad and calloused hands came up to rest firmly on your ass, understanding what you were needing from him, and he pulled your aching center down to his stubbled jawline, to allow his tongue to trace gently over your clit, finally offering you the pleasure and stimulation that you had been needing since Din had kissed you feverishly in the club. You felt your eyes roll back with a wash of pleasure and relief as he sucked gently on the bundle of nerves, flicking his tongue across it in rhythmic circles, occasionally allowing his tongue to explore further into your body and enjoy all of the wetness you offered him — and you hummed in satisfaction against his thick cock, as you moved your mouth up and down his length, enjoying the wet sounds sounds it produced as you continually swallowed around him, loving the deep grunts and animalistic groans you received in response. The humming must’ve added some enjoyable stimulation for him, as you tasted his precum on your tongue; and then he slid two fingers into your tight cunt, working to open you up to be able to take the considerable length of his cock. You loved the deliciously wet and sloppy sounds that came from the two of you; your mouth, as you continuously drug your tongue along the underside of the cock that was hitting the back of your throat, and your pussy as Din finger-fucked you on the floor of the ship.

He added a third finger to your tight entrance and you instinctively cried out at the stretching sensation, your body writhing as his thumb moved to tweak continuously over your clit with varying levels of pressure.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Din sighed with a laugh. “If you think three fingers is a lot, you’re in for a surprise.” His voice sounded like gravel, rough and breathy and cracking beneath you, sending you higher and higher with his cocky assessment. Well, you were never one to shy away from a challenge.

You could feel the weight of your orgasm building within you, the heady and hot tension that had coiled at your center spreading its way out to your stomach, your thighs, threatening to break at any moment. Your muscles constricting, you chased that peak, that high, and your mouth slid off of Din’s cock as you gasped for air — “Din, fuck, Din, I’m gonna cu—“

And then he quickly pulled himself away from you, right as you were right there, and you cried out in exasperation and frustration at having been denied your orgasm; your entire body was screaming with anger and deprivation, and you felt as though you might shatter with all of the tension.

His body moved away from underneath you as you came to rest against the makeshift bed of blankets, and in the dark, you had absolutely no idea what was going on or why he had done this to you. “Din, what the fuck?” You hissed angrily, your hands reaching out to try and grab him and bring him back to you. But then you suddenly felt two strong, familiar hands grasp your waist from behind, and you were abruptly yanked upwards by your waist and onto your knees, the blankets ruched up underneath you; the disorientation of the darkness was intimidating but also incredibly exciting — although you were still somewhat pissed at Din for his asshole move.

You were on all fours, desperately waiting for Din to do something, anything.

“Look at my pretty girl, waiting so nicely for me.”

You felt Din’s muscled thighs and his thick cock press up against your exposed backside; you were able to determine that he was on his knees behind you. You whined in anticipation, not minding the hint of desperation that crept in with it.

“Gods, look at you. Fucking dripping wet, making a mess for me. Is that all for me, sweet girl?” He hmmed confidently, dipping his finger inside of you and bringing your wetness up to his mouth for a taste. “Bet you’re just dying to take this cock, to cum on it for me, aren’t you?”

You whined once more, a small, needy sound that would’ve been embarrassing had you not been so desperately wanting to cum after your earlier denial; your muscles still quaked and tensed as you hovered right on that edge. You pressed your ass further back into him, trying to get some sort of stimulation against your aching cunt, but Din just cupped your ass and pressed your shoulders down into the floor; you felt the wool blanket against your cheek as you writhed against him in frustration.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Please... what?” There was a somewhat maniacal edge to his voice and you felt a thrill of anticipation shudder through you.

“Din, please!”

“Please what?” His voice cut through you like steel.

You could feel the blunt and swollen head of his cock pressed against your throbbing entrance, and fuck, while you didn’t want to beg you couldn’t help it any longer, the unyielding desperation coursing hotly through you as you just gave in to what Din wanted. “Fuck, Din — please, please fuck me, please let me cum for you —“

A satisfied chuckle coming from deep within his chest, Din finally pressed forward into you with a ragged, shaking moan — and the resulting moan that came from your body echoed his own, as he buried himself impossibly deep into your tight and soaking cunt, while effectively pinning your shoulders to the floor and rendering you immobile. You had thought you would be prepared for the sheer size of him, the girth, the length that you had taken in your mouth and throat, but it was unlike anything you had ever experienced before — he really had been right in saying that three fingers wouldn’t compare.

For a brief moment you wondered if you would even be able to take all of him inside you — and your question was quickly answered as he pulled back from you, dragging his cock along your inner walls, before his hips snapped forward to slam into you with a shocking and devastatingly incredible force. Feeling his cock sink deeper and deeper into you, your body offered little resistance to this pleasure as you cried out at the stretching and filling sensation, hurting but in a good way that just made you crave him even more.

Din’s hands found their place along the bend of your hips as he pushed and pulled your willing body into his; and with each thrust forward penetrating you even deeper, you felt the edges of your mind starting to go white-hot with pleasure once more. You reveled in the sounds he made, needy and wanting, loving that he wasn’t one to shy away from letting you know just how fucking incredible this felt for him, too.

This was unlike anything you had ever experienced with a man before, Din was unlike anything else in this galaxy, and you knew that even if you spent a hundred years with him you would never get enough of this feeling — the feeling of his throbbing, veined cock dragging against your sensitive walls, hitting spots inside of you that you never even knew existed. You could feel the ever-increasing slickness of your cunt that allowed for him to slide in and out of you repeatedly, while the lower half of your body started to constrict with that same heat of pleasure that he had ripped away from you just moments ago — but that didn’t matter anymore, you had no room for grudges as he completely filled both your body and mind.

He said your name over and over, the sound spilling from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a promise — and you reveled in the sheer adoration of each utterance that tumbled from him. You wished that you could give him the same verbal adoration and praise that he offered you, but you were completely incapable of doing anything except making lewd, high-pitched, unintelligible sounds that echoed and radiated through the walls of the ship, becoming more desperate with each powerful thrust into your clenching and tight cunt.

“Gods, I knew you’d take my cock so f-fucking good, look at that — such a pretty girl, such a g-good girl — fucking knew you’d feel incredible from the m-moment I saw you, wanted to fucking split you in half on my cock —“

The praise and dirty words Din offered you tickled a previously-repressed, unexplored part of yourself and after this awakening you wanted more of it. Seeking out that praise and reinforcement, you decided to take back some control in this situation and initiate something more — Din had you fairly well pinned against the floor, his hips ramming his cock into you relentlessly, but you were able to shift your arms in a way that allowed for you to reach around the back of your thighs and spread yourself open even further for him. Your movement caught him off guard as his hips snapped into yours forcefully, his cock penetrating so far into you that you thought you may never recover from it — and the force of his thrust collapsed both of your bodies into the floor as a guttural fuck escaped from him.

You felt his broad chest and the heaviness of his frame crushing you into the floor, but you didn’t mind, loving the pressure of his full body weight against you while his cock was buried inside you so deeply that you could feel him twitching inside of you, could feel each beat of his heart pulsating through his body.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he gasped, pushing himself up off of your body and off of the floor. “I don’t know what the fuck you just did, but I’m going to need you to do that again for me.”

You grinned, somewhat delirious from all of the stimulation and physical sensations you had experienced here on this makeshift bed. And yet for all of the wonderful, amazing, beautiful things you had felt — you still hadn’t cum, and your very skin felt as though it was crawling with a fire that left you aching with every second that passed by. You wanted to cum, wanted Din to make you cum; and you wanted to make him cum in return, giving each other the release and bliss you had been wanting since your first meeting on Chandrila. If you were to tell the truth, you’d tell Din that you had wanted him from the very first day, even though you had fought so hard to quell those feelings.

You couldn’t see well in the darkness that shrouded the cabin — couldn’t see anything, to be honest — but you could feel your hands connect with Din’s shoulders and you shoved him back down onto the floor, appreciating his willingness to follow your lead. Your hands traced gently down his body, feeling every hard line and ridge of him, feeling every scar, and loving every inch of him that he had allowed you to see, at least in this way. You swung your legs over his waist and positioned yourself above him, guiding his thick and still-wet cock back inside of your tight and enveloping cunt; the two of you gasped at the sudden, clenching contact and rush of adrenaline, and you began to ride him in earnest, loving the sound of your skin slapping against his as you crashed into him over and over and over again.

“Gods, you just love it when I ride your thick cock like this, don’t you, Din?” You said with a malicious grin, hoping to draw out the same kind of dirty words he had given you earlier. “Just falling apart for me so easy—“

“Fuck, yes, I do love it my sweet —“ He choked out, his hands finding their way up your body and coming to rest at your breasts, tweaking your hardened nipples with his rough touch. “Love watching that tight pussy take my cock, love how you feel on me, love how you taste — you’re just so fucking incredible—”

“Show me how much you love it,” you challenged, an edge creeping into your voice. “Cum for me.”

His groans turned into irregular grunts of pleasure as he moved to hold your body in place, restricting your movements as he fucked up into you, sounds spilling forth from him. “Believe me, I will cum for you — I’ll cum inside that sweet, perfect pussy. But you’re gonna cum for me first, sweet girl.”

Din’s threat— or promise, depending on your perspective — echoed through you and a crashing tidal wave of need threatened to collapse your chest and inhibit your very breathing. Your body was positively aching with tension and strain now, your muscles screaming out in exhaustion — you needed to cum, you needed the release, you needed to fall over that peak and then rest next to Din. “Yes, please, please, please,” you cried, each word becoming more and more deranged and desperate than the last.

“Tell me what you need, sweet girl,” Din panted roughly, continuing to hold your shaking body in place as he fucked into you relentlessly.

You weren’t sure what you needed except more of Din, and you didn’t even know how to ask for that as he was clearly giving you everything he had, thrusting up into you and offering up each and every groan of pleasure that your pussy wrung from him. More. You just needed more.

“Kiss me, Din Djarin.”

He laughed softly and you could hear the smile in it; for all of the dirty words and debased, debauched actions, this sweetness was what you wanted and what you needed. He pulled your body in close to his, planting a soft kiss on your cheek before rolling the two of you over so you were now laying against the blankets. His cock never left your center, even in the transition; and then his hands brought your legs up to rest on his shoulders and he began drilling into you with an unholy force, crumpling your body in half with each thrust as he bent downwards to kiss you. He was panting and you could feel a bead of sweat drip from his forehead as he worked to get you there, fighting off his own orgasm, needing to get you there first.

As his lips pressed repeatedly into your soft and hot flesh, you could feel it coming on; that tense and aching heat coiled within you, your back arched up from the floor, and your hands rose up to pull Din in closer to you, gripping his hair forcefully. You couldn’t see anything in the blackness of the ship but your vision was changing regardless, as your body readied itself to jump from that cliff, giving you the release you needed. “Din—“ you gasped out, your muscles constricting.

“Yes, yes, cum for me sweet girl — wanna feel you cum on my cock,” Din grunted, thrusting into you with each word. He leaned in to kiss you once more and it was everything you needed.

It felt as though a seismic charge went off inside the small ship, your muscles contracting and quaking as your body was taken over by wave after wave of undulating pleasure. Your skin felt like it was vibrating at a new frequency, each nerve ending heightened and feeling overstimulated as you cried out in unintelligible but unmistakeable pleasure. Your cunt clenched around Din’s cock, spasming with each new wave of pleasure that overtook your body.

Din snarled at the feeling of you clenching and coming undone around him and you knew that he was close; you drug your nails against his scalp, his hair tangling between your fingers, and you leaned up to gently capture his earlobe between your teeth, tugging slightly. “Want you to cum for me, Din. Want you to cum inside me.”

The rapid movements of his hips became increasingly irregular until you felt the heat of his release within you, his body collapsing on top of yours as he inhaled deep and ragged breaths, you could feel him shaking on top of you, could feel his muscles and his cock twitching as he was lost to the overwhelming pleasure of his orgasm. Hot ropes of Din’s cum coursed through your pulsing and throbbing cunt, coating you and filling you in a way that made you writhe in pleasure and self-satisfaction; you couldn’t help but think of the way you’d be left dripping from him, a mix of both of your orgasms coating you in a messy, magnificent bliss. When he finally pulled away from your feverish and trembling body, you felt the mix of fluids cascading down your thighs in a way that almost made you want to climb on top of him again.

You were both left entirely breathless, every ounce of energy spent in giving the other what they needed and had been denied for so long. Din’s body rolled off of yours, allowing you to breathe deeply and you inhaled lungfuls of cool air, quieting the fire that coursed through your body. His chest taking deep and ragged breaths, he pulled you in close to his chest, his arms wrapping around you securely as he sighed and kissed every inch of exposed skin that he could reach. You were utterly wrecked, entirely devastated, and more blissfully happy than you ever could have imagined you could be.

This life was turning into everything that you had ever wanted, and feared you would never get. You felt tears of happiness pricking at the corner of your eyes, and you smiled into Din’s chest, never wanting to leave this moment.

He must’ve felt the tears that had slipped out and onto him; bringing your face up to his, his hand cradling your cheek gently, he kissed your forehead. “Sweet girl, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, a brilliant grin spreading across your face. “Everything is perfect. You’re perfect. This life here, with you, is perfect.”

You would later blame it on the rush of dopamine and oxytocin, but truth be told, you could no longer deny the truth to either yourself or to Din. Feeling emboldened and safe in this space with him, the truth tumbled forward from your lips, unable to be concealed any longer.

“I love you, Din Djarin.”

It felt beautiful and exhilarating to speak it out loud, to acknowledge the truth of your feelings. You didn’t even necessarily need for Din to say it back; that’s how secure you felt in this moment, in this feeling of love. You would love him endlessly, would love him through hell or high waters, would love him whether you were right next to him or lightyears away. You couldn’t hold back the truth, and nor did you want to. You loved Din Djarin, more than you had ever loved anything in existence, and while it was exhilaratingly terrifying, it also felt like the safest, most comforting thing in this galaxy.

And it was a whole new kind of bliss that was revealed to you when he spoke to you in response.

“And I love you.”

#Din Djarin #Pedro Pascal #Din Djarin fic #Din Djarin x Reader #the Mandalorian #Mandalorian fanfic #Din Djarin fanfiction #the space between

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nurseofren · 4 years ago

Text

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 27 (NSFW)

Read on AO3 | Read on Wattpad

Read Chapter twenty-six

Title: There is No Redemption

Words: 7.4K

Summary: Happy trail worship? Happy trail worship.

ST Rambles: Hello readers, I hope you enjoy this part. I am in my final semester for my ADN and cannot promise even monthly updates at this time. Please, please, please comment your thoughts because I don't want to produce content that is not enjoyable. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

[MASTERLIST] || BANNER / @elmidol

Stress enveloped your skull in throbbing pain, Karmen’s six-hour rundown stinging your senses and drawing you inward. Halfway through, you had already begun to feel the excess of information take its toll; Zag’s voice – unpleasant in small doses – grated into you, each word coming too fast and leaving too soon. Thankfully, no doubt to cover herself, she had left you with a thumb drive; it summarized everything she’d mentioned.

After the ordeal, when she left by the sharp click of her heels, you understood why it was recommended to arrive two days prior to the initial hearing: you were utterly and dreadfully exhausted. After unpacking – ensuring easy access to your favorite socks and keeping Snoke’s letter tucked into the back drawer of a desk – you had sat in bed for an hour trying to refresh with the thumb drive’s contents; you’d were determined to be prepared for tomorrow’s shift at Canto Bight’s recovery wing. If nothing else, you would not make a fool of yourself during your practice here. This you swore to yourself.

At some point you had drifted to sleep, waking to find your cheek stuck to the datapad that’d been propped up before you. The sunset woke you with a searing ray of light, screaming fuchsias and hazy purples warming your outstretched arm as they cast through open curtains. The breeze rolled off of the bay and tickled loose hair over your nape, a deep breath stretching your lungs awake before you unfurled from yourself.

The radar at your wrist indicated Kylo Ren was near but not in his quarters, probably not inside the building. It was a confusing feeling – the unsteadiness you felt when revisiting your earlier interaction, the vagueness of his words contradicted by the certainty in which they’d been delivered, but simultaneously this calm in your chest since you had left him. Although you had no idea what he’d gone on about, or what in time meant, his mere presence – the fact that he was near and would continue to be – allowed you these glimmers of peace.

Not since Starkiller. Not since Snoke. Not Mason and his baseless confidence, no matter how much you wished to latch onto it; not Talia, who had helped you back from your darkest moment. The only things that stilled you were the known proximity of your master, and the nature of the words he’d earlier spoken. You’d felt it that recent night on the Finalizer, how it lingered in your muscles just before you’d dozed off, how it seemed his presence had scared your nightmares away.

However ridiculous and backwards, Kylo Ren – the one whose pain is printed on your skin, who led a slaughter just strides away from you – had become a constant. It was never what you had expected, but when you thought of the trial now, what eased your nerves was nothing less than the raven-haired warrior whose face was slashed with midnight hues of pain.

Much like you, you’d come to realize, he had survived Starkiller, and the event changed him. Though you could not know for sure, you began to wonder if what had gone on had not only left him with the wounds that’d wet your skin, but perhaps ones that were deeper – ones that were not so visible. Something happened before that explosion, something more than whatever fight had earned him that scar.

You shook your head; this was too much to think on right now. With a throw draped over your back, you trudged through the room and out into the chill of your side-balcony. This sky held more beauty than any you’d ever seen; you watched the sun descend, spying a domed, octagonal pavilion at the far left of the side gardens. It dripped with violet-petaled ropes and emerald ivies, was supported by scalloped columns entwined with twinkling blooms welded from gold, the whole stage centered around a sunken fire pit.

Considering for a moment, you saw it would have a better view of the sunset, and you’d been cooped up since arriving. It was a quick decision, catching view of a spiral of stairs that led to the grounds, but only after noting the pair of doors a few paces left of your room’s. They were closed, and the inner curtains seemed to be shut, the room behind them dark. Empty.

No, Kylo Ren was not here, but – a thumb over your radar – he was not far. Somewhere off on his own business. Training, maybe. At least, that’s what you supposed kept you from traveling with him, the thought frustrating. Maybe – no, undoubtedly – he would never admit to it, never show it, but he was still recovering.

Ten days ago he was in a medically induced coma talking about someone named Ben and how he’s dead. Bacta works wonders, but it means nothing if a patient is noncompliant with post-operative restrictions, like swinging around a plasma sword for hours on end, or doing trial runs with the Force – which, although you knew little about, one could easily assume it put strain on the body.

Maybe you were wrong and your master was completely fine, maybe the Force aided in healing. No matter, you worried; for him, mostly, never forgetting how he appeared in that medbay, but also for yourself. It was clear that you cared for him – for fuck’s sake, when you thought you’d never see him again you wanted to tell him you loved him – and you knew his pursuits could very likely be the death of him. Stubborn as you might be to acknowledge it, so long as he was okay and not recklessly shredding through healed wounds, so long as he returned to you, you could rest somewhat soundly.

Hugging your blanket, tighter when the wind blew, you wandered down to the courtyard’s trim lawn, along the overflowing flowerbeds that brimmed with brilliant colors, until you met the few steps that led to the pavilion’s stage. Flames shocked you when you stepped onto the eight-sided base, your presence triggering a hidden system. The rectangular pit exploded into a rainbow of fire, thin veils of flames ascending elegantly into an ordered myriad. The pit was massive, consuming the base but for a few paces from each support.

Much like everything else, the pavilion was grand in size and decoration; the hearth’s hues danced along the draped flora, at least ten paces separating each gold-threaded pillar. Everything here was explicitly luxurious, so big and gorgeous. You wanted to settle into it, but it was temporary, and you would not know how fatal that fact was until it was too late.

Farther out, flames rippled over the bay; the sinking heat of the sun endeared your skin, the warmth at your back growing in distance as you gave in to the silent call of the scorching sky. First tracing the tip of one of the gold leaves woven to a pillar, admiring the detailed stems and ridges, you curled up against the column’s wide base. Head caressed by the smooth, cool stone, knees curled close to your chest, you were glamored by the water’s rhythmic sway, wondering if you would ever have the chance to feel it on your skin.

It took little effort to keep Karmen’s lecture from your thoughts, too lost to the burgundy of dusk that bloomed as the sun wilted toward the bay. A stillness surrounded you, and then you tuned into the chirping whispers of bugs that remained hidden with the fall of night. It did not bother you in the slightest, their distant songs a reminder of your life before the academy. A passing thought, fond amusement lazily humming in your chest – there are no crickets in space.

You remained folded against the pillar for some time, watching night creep over the city, more grateful for the heat on your back as warmth waned, the moon climbing higher with each lulling minute. The stone iced into your cheek. You went to leave, but your commlink buzzed at your waist, and you knew it would be wiser to keep this particular conversation outside.

Elbows to your knees, you ruffled a hand through your hair, closed your eyes, and answered Mason’s call. “How’s your day, McCarty?” There was no use in starting an argument if he had moved on from earlier.

“Probably better than yours, if I had to guess.” He sounded chipper. It was a relief.

“Well, what went on? Where’d you go? Who’d you see? What’d you eat?”

“I’ve really just been hanging out at the house since getting here. Caught a nap, which was nice. Soto sent me a transmission detailing updates on a few patients.”

He wasn’t hostile at all. Hopefully it meant he was done being weird. “I also got a nap. Which, agreed, is definitely nice. Especially after being kept in a room with Zag for six hours and trying to keep my head from exploding.”

“Six hours? With Zag? Are they trying to get you convicted of murder?”

You shared a laugh, scooting along the stone floor and peering up to the ceiling. It was tiled with mosaics, the fire’s vibrant colors reflecting off of it and shifting along the intricate designs. The view of the city was wider from this position, distant lights shimmering in windows that peered into whatever parties were undoubtedly happening.

“She isn’t that bad. It’s just her voice. And I barely have a handle on anything other than the fact that I have my first shift tomorrow, and then two days after that is the initial hearing. And I don’t even want to think about that to begin with, so…”

“Well,” he sighed your name, “I’ll be there. Bright and early, just like you. Wearing my second-best attire, saving the very best for the official trial, of course.”

“Jeez, that’s another thing, right? They fly us out here, put me up in some military-grade villa, but they give me nothing to wear, are aware that my residence just exploded on Starkiller, and then still say I can’t wear my uniform. I just find that a bit unfair. But that’s what I think, which we both know has not mattered since the very beginning of all this. I don’t even know why I expected anything different. I’ll just have to request transport to the shops or something. And then make credits appear out of thin air to pay for it.”

With notably increased enthusiasm Mason said, “Actually, I, uh, I was going through the house earlier and there’s actually a lot left over from my family’s recent trip. You’re free to come over and take some stuff back to your embassy if you want.”

“Alright, first – not my embassy, and if we’re calling it anything, I vote palace. Seriously—” you stared at a trellis that overflowed with wild blooms of every shade of red, the dead, fallen petals mocking you in the familiar way they pooled beneath. “—this place is too beautiful for any of the old businessmen who stay here. It’s actually ridiculous.”

“So it’s not homey, after all?”

A bellowing laugh came from the center of your chest, echoing up to the domed roof and into the growing dark. “No. No. Not homey. Not quaint. None of that. Just giant and spectacular.”

“Well, whatever it is, do you want to come over and grab some clothes?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. That’s a lot better than spending credits I don’t have. Although maybe I’m worrying for nothing? Don’t they forgive your debt when you die, anyway?”

Mason did not laugh, did not even speak, and your amusement fell into alarm. An edge menaced along each pointed word when he spoke; “Maybe they’ll forgive your debt, but I won’t forgive you for dying.” He grunted in rejection. “You’re not dying, so I don’t know why we’re discussing this.”

Silence swallowed you both, and for a moment you could hear him trembling, hear the shakiness of his breath. A sharp exhale startled your hand from your ear. And then it was quiet again. He cleared his throat, and you noticed how thick it had become. Was he crying?

“Mason, you need to tell me what’s going on. And don’t say-,”

“Nothing is going on. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“Funny, because when you say that, when you tell me we’re fine when I didn’t ask, it makes me think the exact opposite.”

He sighed, but at this point there was a good chance it was more exasperation or fuming than anything else. “I’m not having this conversation when I can’t see you.”

“Well, I’ll just turn my transmission on and we can-,”

“No.” Clipped, barked. Final.

It concaved your chest. Mason had never spoken to you like this. Your teeth scraped at your bottom lip. “Should I be worried?”

He paused. “No,” as it gritted through his teeth, your name was contoured with wisps of ire. An ounce less of restraint and whatever he was holding back would crack this hardened, taut façade.

The worst came to mind. All you could manage was a terrified whisper, “Are you revoking your seat to testify? Is that what this is about? Am I about – fuck – am I about to- I can’t lose you. I can’t-,”

“I told you. I told you I will be there.” Frosted fury swept through his following pause. His flat tone was laced with quiet hurt when he next said, “Do you really think I could do that to you? Leave you in the dust like that?”

“No. I guess not.”

“You guess not,” he thought aloud, a long drag of breath crackling into your ear. “I’m glad that you’re settled in, and… good luck during your shift tomorrow. You don’t need it, I know, but nonetheless.”

He was dismissing you. You hated it. “I’m not hanging up until I know we’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” he said simply, too fast. Mason cleared his throat. “Request transport for the morning after your shift. You can shop around the closets and after, we can order lunch and… and we can talk. About things. Everything.”

It was apparent he would not give anything more away, but you knew from his flat tone that whatever it was, was detrimental to him. Or you. Or both.

“Yeah. I’ll put in the request after shift tomorrow.”

Another long, aching silence. You listened to his breath, trying and failing at ignoring the knives in it. The line remained silent, the hanging static a backdrop to the hidden, harmless creatures humming in the night.

“I love you, Mason,” you prompted, teeth catching your trembling lips, time choking you with every halved second that trudged along.

It killed you, every inhale adding to the weight in your chest, every empty, wordless moment he spent cutting into you with a silent blade.

Another second and you turned back to the heightening tide of the bay, the clear night sky dying it a deep navy. Even as you tried to focus on the waves that foamed along the distant shore, there was no sound louder than Mason’s nonresponse.

“Goodnight,” Mason said, small, far enough away that it splintered through your heart like ice wedged through rock.

“Good-,” the line went dead, the static dying, a night-kissed wave crashing in your periphery, “-night.”

The iridescent veils of hearth rippled before you now, turning away from the seemingly infinite expanse of water. Even so, you shivered, and you were sure it had nothing to do with the weather. Tucking your commlink into your waist pocket, loosing a long-kept breath, you stood from the stone and clasped your blanket over your shoulders. With a final glance, chin to your shoulder, you appreciated the beauty of your first night here.

Whatever awaited you tomorrow, the next day, and in the weeks to come? It would remain. For now, just this one moment alone, you could pretend that everything was okay. Just for a moment.

A soft touch brushed your shoulder, but when you turned to meet whoever it belonged to, you found there was no one around. But a light caught your eye, one that had not been there before. Maybe that interruption to the dark captured your attention, but not at all was it what kept your gaze above the gardens.

Through the clear night, a breeze danced through the flora, glittering scarlet petals into the shadows. Above those dwindling rubies, leaning over the balcony’s curve, was Kylo Ren. Behind him, the golden light of his quarters caressed his back, small fragments draping over the sharp, toned muscles of his shoulders. He was staring down to you, his gaze laving along your figure, eyes those of a predator aware their prey was no match for them. The ever-heightening moon was all that lit his front, but it was enough. No, so much more than enough. Entrancing. Captivating. Beguiling.

Light cascaded along the taut strength of Kylo’s abdomen, his broad, thick chest emanating with the smooth white of the dusk’s sun. Once more, like it always did, the scar skating through his features kept your attention. From a distance it was less intrusive, but its presence sank your heart like the sun had wandered into the sea.

A whip of night air pushed his hair back to tease his ears, his head slightly cocking to the side when you found his eyes again. There was no color to them, none that you could see so far away, but you felt their heat slink along your lips, then your neck, over your chest, and lower still. When they claimed yours once more, they were sculpted with steadfast steel, strong and slithering, ordering your compliance to the smoking promises beyond.

Without noticing, that chill from earlier had left you, and you gathered the blanket so it hung from your forearm. Kylo held you with his eyes, the fire’s warmth falling away when you stepped off the platform and wandered, in leisure, down the steps and into the plush lawn. A dew was readying to form on the grass beneath your bare feet, the coolness welcome under his blazing attention. One step, two, another, and a final; small, shuffling, like you were hypnotized – truthfully, you could have been, but there was none but your own intent in the steps that carried you closer to him.

Only when he straightened to his full height, standing away from the balcony’s edge, did you halt your advance. He paused there, watching you, so gracefully still you were unsure of his breathing. From his new position you could no longer see his hands, but – you could feel them. A pressure along your cheek, your heart stammering at how its span so completely matched his own, and then around your throat, dizzying when it teased your carotids. Breath shivered from your slack mouth, catching when that – his – ghosted touch skimmed down your sternum and pushed into your rib cage.

Kylo made no sound, but when the night’s quiet scattered around your faint, gasped moan – feeling the whispered hands smooth over your hips, around the front of your thighs – you saw his jaw flutter, darkness and moonlight tangling when he gave you one final glance. The phantom touch left, a feline smirk flickered along his lips, and when his brows descended and veiled those deep, deep eyes, Kylo turned and sauntered out of sight.

But you understood his message, the silent one that only his body spoke, and you knew that his leaving was not goodnight, but an invitation. One you fully intended on accepting.

The trees swayed above you, the beds of perfectly spaced flowers blowing with the gentle breeze and combining with the sea behind to fill your head with the salty, fresh aroma of a Canto Bight night. Each step you took along the patterned grass shimmered anticipation through your veins, heady, wanton thoughts brimming in your mind.

The cold stone that marked the ground level’s patio shocked through you, wet crimson petals that had pooled below the trellis now clinging to the soles of your feet. You did not have time, or at least were desperate to not waste any, to pluck them off, allowing them to travel with you as you led them up the curved staircase. As you climbed the steps, you stole a fleeting glimpse of the bay; from this height the city’s nightlife sheened along the shore, a few private ships zooming above the skyline and carrying their passengers to events unknown to you.

Events that you could not have cared less about, not when you arrived to the second-level balcony, not when you saw the swaying curtain beyond Kylo Ren’s open, waiting door. No, those events meant nil, exceedingly so when you found the beginnings of a trail leading into his room, the first crumb that of pooled, discarded athletic pants.

Instant, overwhelming chills clamored about your skull, the blanket draped over your arm joining the black bottoms when your limbs went wobbly. Through the wind-swept gossamer you spied the second addition – one long, impossibly large, black sock – and when you came closer, the cool of night waning as you met the threshold, your heart thrummed louder at the nearing shaft of light that fled the refresher’s entrance.

Heated tiles warmed your first steps into Kylo’s room, the coquettish curtain kissing the tip of your nose before the door at your back locked shut in near silence. You brushed past the veil of fabric and took in your surroundings, quite different from what they were earlier. The golden rays of morning had since been overridden by soft panes of night, only the moon reflecting onto the light tile, not a single star to join it. The bed’s canopy remained shut, its thin sheets cascading around the bed so there was ample space to walk within its soft confines. And from that canopy, from the circular track above, bloomed delicate, mild light; it melted midway down the canopy, fading to nothing before it breeched the polished ivory below.

Another step and you noticed the trail of scarlet, dew-drop-covered petals you were leaving in your wake. On the step up from the bed’s level lay a second sock, so you padded to it, and tuned into the sound of heavy, rushing water that became louder as you delved further into the dimly lit room. This level was dark save for the glow of the open refresher; you followed that light like a lost vessel in space, hands trembling as you passed through the sitting area with soundless strides. Finally, as you’d calculated at the earlier bareness of his chest, you found the piece of clothing that signaled your final destination lying at your feet.

Atop the refresher’s threshold lay a pair of black boxer-briefs – unfolded, just as they’d appear fresh off the heated, muscled body from which they’d come. A smile played at your lips, remembering how the pair he’d so generously provided you the morning after you’d first slept next to him had hugged your hips with subtle compression. Those, unfortunately, were undoubtedly obliterated with everything else that had exploded with Starkiller.

Kylo Ren was nowhere within view, but running water tucked behind a corner to your left, and when steam swirled around an inlet that bordered a sleek, unbroken wall of ash-grey tile, your lungs lit with need, with want, your thoughts only focused on the body and man that waited for you just beyond view, just out of reach. Suddenly you became aware of how overdressed you were, so you turned to your right and found a mirror that ruled its own wall and plucked open the top button of your uniform.

The fogged silver expanse provided a blurred, softened outline of your near-bare body, scalding goosebumps scraping up your neck at the thought of Kylo’s slicked, dripping body. Hands hooked behind your back, you loosed your bra and smoothed the straps down the sides of your arms. And then all that covered you were the lack-luster panties the Finalizer had provided all those months ago, but they soon joined the small pile at your feet, leaving you naked and anticipatory and adamant.

Plopping your watch onto your clothes, you squared your shoulders, fixed your posture, and approached the heat of the hidden shower. Its warm embrace evoked such a calm through you, first loosening your shoulders, then steadying your breath.

Beyond the smoke hued barrier was a chamber of luxury, the water cascading from above like it came from an invisible storm cloud; its volume suggested a harsh pressure, but, stepping beneath the jets that seemed to span the entire stall, your skin was graced with the pleasant fall of a spring shower. Looking up, blinking through the misted warmth, you found the navy night sky peering down at you through the clear glass ceiling.

All light but that of the moon left the stall, and when your attention shifted down, you saw him through the sheets of water that kept you apart. The air was thick with fog and mist and night, but he remained the most devastatingly gorgeous person you’d ever seen, ever known. You needed him to be closer, you needed to be closer to him. No matter if you’d been with him those few nights ago, and though you’d spoken just hours ago, there was a tautness that tightened as your steps brought you to him.

Arms at his sides, stance strong and confident, Kylo Ren was a stride away from you, and you stopped. Inky black hair dripped down his neck, and his mouth was set in a flat, unreadable line, but all you could think of was how it felt you were seeing him for the first time all over again. He was different now, body scarred and worn from the passing of time. You did not stare at the red and black that had only been there for such a short time now. You appreciated it.

Kylo observed you, and a measure after your gaze followed the ebony ribbon rested in his countenance, you lifted a hand to it. He tensed and you caught his eyes, giving him a small nod before the very tip of your fourth finger kissed the start of his scar. You watched him, vaguely aware of your hand slipping along the marked path through his brow and down his cheek. Breath pushed from him in eased waves, his eyes danced between yours, and when you reached the line of his jaw and tapped your finger to the raised, pinking skin there, you closed your eyes and leaned up on your toes so you could press an aching kiss to it.

That tenseness that’d clanged into him at your touch was instantly gone, the heated streams above not a match to the stifling relief that fogged from his nares. So near to him, a second hand pushing through wetted, onyx locks, you remembered how he’d stared up at you on the Command Shuttle, how unreadable his expression was when his new scars had still been fresh wounds.

Your touch found the tail end of his healing flesh, and you swallowed down a thick, betraying sob. “Why did you believe me?” you whispered, not looking up to him. “When I told you I hated you and I wanted to quit. When I said,” you winced, “when I called you a bastard and said I wished I could forget you. Why didn’t you fight it longer?”

Kylo was quiet for a moment, body still but not reluctant to the steady meandering of your fingers. Something haunted him when he said, “Irredeemable bastard, if you’ve forgotten.”

“No,” your throat bobbed, “I haven’t. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day. Any, any part of it.” Looking up at him, you smoothed your hand over the scar settled into his shoulder. “After that morning, after everything, why did you believe me?”

“You were saying goodbye,” he murmured, like he’d mulled over that day time and time again and never considered the possibility. “Before Takodana. You knew. He’d gotten to you by then.” A note of betrayal sharpened his tongue, a snarl lighting when he referred to Snoke.

The hand that wasn’t tracing circles along his scarred muscles now toyed with his ear, the tip of your index finger molding to the curved pinnae. “Kylo,” just a breath, nearly drowned by the water ricocheting at your feet, “answer me. Please.”

Smooth, low, he began, “Because who could-,” he swallowed, considering you before starting over, “Because I’ve never known anyone who didn’t hate me. And I’ve always been a bastard. So when you said those things, after that morning, after you’d ran through Starkiller to tell me and kept saying them…”

Memories fluttered behind his eyes, and as their burning brown centered glittered against the navy night, you lifted your hand so you could hold his face, hold it like a parent would caress their child’s tear-sodden cheek. Kylo blinked back to you and you comforted the purpled skin beneath his eye.

He did not want to voice the answers you sought, but you watched as, piece by piece, you dented one of those walls he’d erected in that time-stained interrogation room. Perhaps it was a hopeful thought, but you swore you felt him ease into your hand.

“I stopped fighting because only a fool counters the truth of his life.” Kylo’s throat bobbed, his deep, shadowed gaze swallowing you whole. He caught your hand and led it flat along his broad chest, and then to the panes of his abdomen, placing it over the bruised, raised flesh of the scar you’d yet to explore. “I believed you because there was no reason to doubt you.”

The showering heat from above shielded that which was blurring your vision. He believed you because he believed those things of himself. After seeing him wear so many masks, physical or phantom, you saw it in his eyes that he still thought those things and had for his entire life.

And then it made sense, and the realization dragged jagged, thorn-wrapped talons through your heart. You whispered through the water, wondering if you were speaking only for yourself when you said, “That’s why you didn’t look inside my head. You didn’t think it would show you anything different. You didn’t think I could ever feel differently.”

You ran your thumb along the uneven ridge of the scar forming over his side and tucked your other arm around his waist. With the force that kept moons anchored to their planets, you pulled him in and nestled into the notch of his breastbone.

Through your teeth, “You are not a bastard. Or irredeemable,” your fingers dipped to the center of the healing tissue, “I’ve learned that we make the choices we think are best, and if that’s true, if I believe it? What do either of us have to be redeemed for?”

Kylo said your name, clear as the night that loomed overhead, and a patient finger tipped your chin up. “Nothing. Because there is no redemption for those who do not want it.”

Intensity hardened his face, and once more you felt that sense of equality between him and you. Long fingers smoothed into your drenched hair, and you found a prompt in his brow. Sighing, lungs stuttering, you asked, “What, then, if not redemption?”

The hand that he’d set over yours shifted to your hip, thick fingers prodding at your flesh. Kylo’s touch left your chin and the pad of his thumb rolled over the faint scar that cut into your hairline, a twinge of pain lighting at the memory of its origin; it had healed days ago, but you would never forget the sound of it cracking open when Robbie knocked your skull against the durasteel door.

Kylo stopped musing when he heard you wince, his eyes meeting yours in a stark, unwavering gaze. He smoothed over the blight a final time and proceeded to skate his fingers along your jaw, his thumb coming to rest over your bottom lip. Similar to this morning, yet colder and with a quiet fury breathing beyond his eyes, he looked at you with solidarity.

Calm, sure, adamant, Kylo said, “Retribution.”

A moment to process was spent in his gaze, studying how unbreakable it was, swimming in the shadowed hazel that poured into you. Kylo’s eyes flicked to your lips, and before he could look away, you leaned up so you could reach his own. The swirled hair at his nape slithered through your fingers when you swept you hand from his abdomen and up his torso. Massive, enveloping hands trailed praise along your body until they were mirrored under your breasts.

Exploring his skin, your fingers took residence over the small of his back, digging red trails along the slick surface. You moaned into Kylo’s mouth when a capable hand claimed your supple chest and kneaded into you. He growled in response, a predatory sound that rippled through your nerves and tightened deep, deep in your belly. The pliant pads of his thumbs circled your nipples, the very tips of his nails flicking upward before he added his forefingers and pinched the sensitive peaks to his will.

Kylo mouthed the hinge of your jaw, the bridge of his nose slipping along the bone until you surrendered your neck to him. He hummed against your artery, sucking away the beaded moisture that’d collected for the past few minutes – or had it been hours? Time evaded you further when the schemes of his tongue at your throat delved deeper, revealed themselves further when he laved at your clavicle, shifting between kissing and biting and marking as he made his way to your breastbone.

His muscled back flexed as your fingers routed to his front, dipping low until you found the haze of soft, wet hair that grew from his pelvis. Kylo continued his endeavors and pulled you in by the curve of your back so he could bare your chest to him and run his nose under the base of your breast. His need for your body was evident in the way he bent you to his will, cradling your back so he could have you, but also permitting a sense of safety in the relentless strength that flowed from his forearms through to your marrow.

Near limp in his hold, you tread your fingers down his pelvis and savored the feel of that patch of hair, feeling his pulse beat beneath it, reveling how water collected and fled in such a slow, teasing manner. His chest was to yours, so you felt, rather than heard, the pleasure vibrate from him, deepening when you grazed the very foundations of his hardening shaft. He breathed into your skin, mouthing at your breast and sucking painful paths as he went. The heat of his mouth melded around your nipple, and he bit, and even when you winced and writhed with satisfied hurt, Kylo kept on; not until you were sure he’d drawn blood did his teeth – their unique ridges now throbbing into your breast – leave you, replaced by the salve of his plush, scorching lips. The body of his tongue was structured with adamant, laving over your pebbled peak until poems of pleasure groaned from the depths of your chest.

He leaned you back up and shifted his attention to the remaining half of your body, but you needed him just as much, and you wanted to litter his body with the same pleasure he’d given yours. So, snaking your hands to his jaw, you kissed the hinge opposite to his scar and pecked harder and longer, sucking at his skin like the blood that bruised would grant you eternal life. Falling to your knees in a steady, unrushed descent, you kissed every inch of his abdomen, every bump and ripple of skin that was present around the mending injury. With eyes peering up, hands cherishing the fronts of his thighs, you tongued the scarred tissue and watched him shutter with ecstasy, eyes half-lolling, mouth slackening for a second before he swallowed down whatever satisfaction would have left him.

You teethed at the soft, raised skin, watching him, content when a guiding hand pet down your slick hair. Shifting to his middle, you hummed from one hip bone to the next, feeling the tickle of hair that fled from his naval and dispersed in an even, thick layer of black atop his pubis. Hunger ravaged your throat and you nuzzled into the soft bed of obsidian hair. A kiss to it, then a nip, and then the tip of your nose swirled around the dark patch, his cock twitching at the side of your face.

Anchoring your eyes to his yet again, you dragged the flat of your tongue through the maintained, drenched hair and pushed both your hands along his inner thighs. The muscles beneath your touch sang, streamed just as fluidly as the droplets that were trickling down your spine. Pulling away from him, you faced his cock and observed how it bobbed with your eyes on it, watched it strain for friction when your hands teased both sides of his base, sifting through the dark curls beneath.

The moonlight painted his shaft with subtle, breathtaking contours – a shadow cast under the spongey ridge of his head, light glinting off the misted moisture that’d caught on his flushed shaft. Each prominent vein cast a winding whisper of darkness just a measure from the next. It hypnotized you, the way they overlapped and crossed at points, bulging out from his cock and shifting with each throbbing pulse of blood that clamored through him.

Curious fingers flitted along the heavy, hot column of flesh, tapping it and listening to the thickening breath from the man watching you through ravenous eyes. A smirk curved your mouth, and you peppered a light, whispered kiss to his slit, pushing his cockhead just so it met your teeth, and leading your lips away so the teasing burned through him. You pulled a hand away from his leg and sat back on your calves, taking a breast into it and kneading as he had before, plucking your nipple through each space between your fingers.

“A teasing little whore tonight,” he purred, voice thick.

You hummed, pleased you were getting to him. “I’m your little nurse, remember?” The tip of your tongue teased circles into his frenulum. “And you are my master. Isn’t that right? Master Ren?” Fuck, the title even got to you, cunt fluttering with the hope to be overflowing with him.

“Good girl, teasing whore, nasty slut? Little nurse? You have so many names now.”

“And all of them belong to you.”

You teased his tip and finally laved a flat tongue on the underside of his shaft, flicking it side to side and gripping into his structured, rippling thighs. Something animal, completely primal, roared in his throat, and sooner than you knew, Kylo Ren had joined you on your knees, the weight of his cock slicking down your middle and slapping up to your slit when inertia bounced through it.

A masterful tongue slipped into your mouth and licked your hard pallet, next dropping down and pushing against the side of your own tongue. A muffled moan – one that you were unsure was his or yours or both – clouded through the shower’s downfall. But then a throat-thick huff, aggressive and impatient, gnarled through the air and you were spun on your knees so your back was flush with his chest.

“Yes,” he rumbled, “they do all belong to me.” A possessive hand pushed you into him with might, taking residence in the valley of your breasts. “Your names, your body. Everything.” His hips canted, and the tip of his cock knocked against your clit, fire billowing in your belly, quicker and deeper now.

“Everything,” you echoed, finding his free hand and guiding it so it lay over the permanence etched into your thigh. “I’m- everything. It’s yours. I am yours.”

Unrelenting digits bruised more marks around the one he’d made prior, and when you felt his cock fall in line with your entrance, you thrust into him as he did the same, and you took all of him, at once, in one, fluid, aching motion. An unabashed cry echoed euphoria throughout the moonlit stall. Before you could fully recover from the first thrust, his hand – the free hand that didn’t remain under your own, clutched to your thigh – dipped into your folds and that blooming fire from earlier mushroomed at the graze of his thick digits against the buzzing nerves.

Thrust after thrust after thrust, fucking into you and filling you to the brim and then some each time, knocking the air from your lungs and burgeoning those sweet spots within with each paced, violent pass. All of that pressure combined with the winding circles and strokes he racked your clit with, you felt the breath of climax rise first in your chest, and then upward into your throat.

Kylo was panting by your ear, sucking the skin behind, clutching you to him so it became uncertain where his body ended and yours began. You hooked your arm above your head and clutched at his drenched tresses, flailing for a better grip and settling on clasping your hand onto the back of his neck.

“I feel you,” he groaned.

“Feel me,” you huffed.

“I know you.”

“know me.”

“You’re mine,” your name was laden with yearning claim, lilting from his tongue so it caressed your mind, body, and soul all in one fell swoop.

“Yours,” you heaved, “all, yours.”

You came. Simple. Body swimming in the schemes his fingers and cock and tongue and voice forced into you until it became too much. A few thrusts more and his pace faltered, cum spurting against your walls and dripping out of you as more and more left him. Full lips pressed fleeting, lulling praise into your nape, your shoulder, until he angled your head to his and branded his lips to yours.

Spent, emotionally and physically, you fell into him and enjoyed the image of his legs framing your own. But then your eyes lolled shut and you simply breathed, settling into this moment as best you could, and tried to memorize the tide of his chest slicking against your back.

Barely aware in the vague, misty stall, you only realized that Kylo had begun cleaning you when he guided you back to your feet to rinse you free of soap. Even then you just leaned into his chest and let the jets spray silken streams down your skin. And then you were wrapped in a heated towel and cradled in his arms, leaving the steamy refresher and coming into the gentle atmosphere within the golden gossamer canopy.

With less than a word, maybe a breath, the light from above waned to nothingness, and the room was black save for the glinting eyes that studied your own. The towel discarded to the floor, you now lay beneath the thick comforter and linen sheets of Kylo Ren’s bed. Both naked, you huddled together in the center of the expansive mattress, legs wrapped together in an impossible knot, each breathing in the other’s warmth.

Ease trickled into your muscles, and you shifted so your forehead could rest in the heat of his chest.

“What changed? From the other night?” you yawned. “What convinced you? About Snoke.”

He was tired, too, you knew, the hand tucking you into him tracing lazy, distracting circles into your back to keep him from sleep. “Perspective, really. Seeing things clearly for the first time in… Seeing things clearly.”

For now, fatigue caressing you, that was an answer you could accept. He’d given you more of his mind tonight than ever before, and you did not care to mar that fact with a half-wit interrogation. Perhaps you would listen to him this time, given how little you potentially had left, and do as he’d said this morning.

Trust me first.

It was sound advice, and not worth questioning on the eve of your first shift on Canto Bight. So you nuzzled into him and giggled when the tip of your nose nudged that black healing ribbon over his collar bone.

“I like your scars,” you hummed.

You could not be certain, sleep plunging you into its riptide, but just before it pulled you under, you swore you heard the fatigued rumble of Kylo Ren’s voice whisper, “I like yours too.”

#keeping your promise #st kyp #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren smut #angst #fluff #ao3 #wattpad

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vercopaanir · 5 years ago

Text

Bad Men

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 13

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Words: 4.8k

Rating/Warning: Teen-Mature for violence and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Summary: The Mandalorian finds you.

Notes: Y’all got me nervous to post this chapter, now. I hope it uh. Delivers? But! Everyone who sent a message, left a comment, shared, and liked this story has my heart. You can’t believe how much this has uplifted me, especially having some health problems the last few days. I appreciate each and every one of you!

AO3

It’s been days.

It’s been days since you breathed in the sleeping agent that knocked you out from under your own feet, leaving you with a throbbing headache. You overhear two men laughing about it, later, that you were carried right by the Canto Bight police. When they’d stopped to inquire, they were told you simply had too much to drink. That they were helping you home.

It’s been days since you could feel your arms. The binders securing your wrists are enclosed around a metal pipe, and your arms are twisted so tight that they’re asleep within minutes. It stinks where you are, a musty, spicy odor that must be from animals, because you can hear them close by. You can’t move your legs, you can’t even stand up or walk. When they take you like an animal on a leash to relieve yourself, they laugh when you fall, and they continue to laugh when you try over and over to stand.

It’s been days since you could open your eyes. Freedom has made you irreverent, giving you a confidence you never possessed before. When the man who had drugged you brings in a chair to sit, you glare as hard as you can, and he grins with wide, straight teeth. He has no hair and large, dark eyes that seem to reflect the light, even when there is none.

“You know where you’re at?”

“I’m blind.”

“Yes, and not stupid.” You lean away instinctively when he brings a hand close to your face, waving it in front of your line of sight. “Ah...so you can see some things.” You scowl when he leans away, bracing his elbows on his knees and staring down at you like you are some kind of specimen. It makes your skin crawl, and you shift uncomfortably on the floor. He cocks his head to the side and demands, “How much are you worth?”

There’s a cold trickle of fear working it’s way down your back, and you feel sick to your stomach. He chuckles at whatever secrets your face betray, and you grimace. Of course, he’s a gambling man, after all. He can call your bluff, see your tells.

“I know slaves enough to see the signs. Come on, now. Is it that low a price?” he laughs, and your hands flex behind you. When you say nothing, he grins with wide, white teeth. “I’ll guess, then. A few thousand credits? Your hands are soft, skin clear, hair long and...pretty.” Tears form in your eyes when he reaches forward to tilt your chin up, and you try to blink them away. They fall, and you can’t stand the tenderness in his touch. “How much did he buy you for?”

“I-It’s not like that,” you whisper, flinching when he laughs again, a barking, grating sound.

“No? A Mandalorian did it out of the kindness of his heart? Assuming he has one, it wouldn’t be yours. You’d know that if you were smarter.” He almost sounds sorry for you, letting your chin go. “You know who I am? He tell you?”

You blink the misty vision away, sniffing and looking down at your lap. “Tycho Ivalice, gambling ringleader. Wanted by...someone.” You frown, trying to recall the conversation you’d had with the Mandalorian, what he’d said. All you can remember is how soft his voice was, how he’d asked for the closer side of the bed. How he called you Cyare, and made your heart ache.

Tilting his head, Tycho hums. “And my brother. Know where he is?”

In carbonite, on the Crest.

“No.”

His hand connects with a solidity that you fear dislocates your jaw. Your ear rings, head spinning with a liquid imbalance that has you slumping to the side. The shock settles in, having gone for so many years without being struck, and you know holding your breath will only delay the inevitable. When you open your mouth, your lungs instinctively contract, forcing you to breathe. Heat courses through your neck and face, a throbbing, pulsing pain that leaves your vision pricked with black dots.

“I don’t like liars,” Tycho says after a moment, as if letting you gather your thoughts that he’d just slapped out of your still-ringing ear. “But we’ll come back to that.”

He did come back, every day, to ask the same questions.

Where is the ship you arrived on?

Where is his brother?

Who is the Mandalorian?

You think you must have smiled at the last one, because he grows impatient, and powerful men who do not get their way are more dangerous than loaded weapons. You feel your eye bleeding when he strikes you for that, the hot, sticky mess painting your cheek and neck as it drips and stains your torn dress. The scent of dirty copper gags you, and you want to cry so badly, but you know that will only make it worse. When your cheek puffs, the delicate skin swelling and shutting your eyes, you find some relief because it stops the bleeding. You don’t smile after that.

A small child visits you that night, no older than you had been when you’d gone blind. She uses the dirty hem of her dress, dipped in the water cup they’ve given you, to clean the dried blood away. You thank her before she disappears again, saying nothing. You think you can hear her crying somewhere nearby at night, and you wish more than anything to sleep.

It’s been days since you’ve seen the child. Your child, you think pitifully in the dark to yourself. The little one you’d come to give your whole heart to, with eyes as dark as ink and a tiny smile that makes you proud to take care of him, to be a source of his affection. You hope he doesn’t miss you, because you don’t want to be cause for his sadness. You desperately pray he is far from this damn city, from people like these who could hurt him.

And you do pray.

Servants and slaves alike give up the hope of something higher, too tired or scared or sick to afford the luxury of dreams and thoughts that could save them. But you have kept your prayers close to your heart ever since you were small. Ever since you cowered beneath that old bed the stormtroopers dragged you out from under, making you look at your father with his dead eyes staring up and seeing nothing, you felt it was an act of defiance. You prayed for your lady when you heard the Moff strike her, and you prayed for that Moff to go far, far away. You prayed for the girls misused in the brothel near the cantina.

You pray for the child, every night, that he would grow up happy and sweet and good.

You pray for the Mandalorian. You hope he assumes the worst-that you took money and left, rather than what truly happened. You think it might be better, because it would mean he’d move on sooner, and you don’t think this place is good for anyone. You pray for Din Djarin more than yourself, and when you allow yourself to think of his name, it keeps you as warm as his cloak.

On the third or fourth day, there’s a small boy who brings you moldy bread. You thank him after he reaches for your face and pushes the hair from your eyes, and he helps you eat without saying a word. On the fifth day, your jaw feels healed enough to dare to speak to the young girl, this time.

“Where am I?”

You hear her fear; it’s in her hesitation, in the way her knees knock together as she kneels beside you. Her small hand shakes when she tugs the torn shoulder of your gown up, for you were left indecent before by the cruel men who made you walk when you couldn’t feel your own feet.

“A stable,” she whispers. You frown, wincing at the pain it causes, and she shuffles closer. “The fathiers are noisy, it covers the sounds of people calling for help.”

You focus very hard on swallowing down the thick desperation threatening to send you into a panic. It would not serve you now. The desire to tug at the binders, as useless as it is, is strong, but you no longer feel your arms so you don’t even attempt it.

“What’s your name?” you whisper, leaning your head back against the metal pipe. You lick your lips, tasting sweat and blood and something foul. You can hear her shuffling beside you, and you imagine she draws her knees up to her chest, hugging herself. You did it, too, when you were her age and scared, wishing to make yourself small.

“Corde.”

“You are very brave, Corde,” you whisper, feeling tears sting your eyes. Maker, it hurts, it burns like fire, like that first time the sun left your eyes so scarred you couldn’t see. You try to blink through your swollen eyes. “I’m sorry you have to be here.”

She is quiet for a long time, and your sleep deprivation begins to find you. You’re almost nodding off when she tugs at your torn dress again. It won’t stay up. “Did you get sold, too?”

You push your head to the side, towards her, hoping your injured face doesn’t make her nervous. She seems so sweet, and lonely, and sad. “Once, a long time ago. Not this time.” You think of that woman’s voice, oily and inviting like a flower with three leaflets, the kind the child would be tempted to pick that you would never let him near. You swallow hard. “This time it-it was my fault.”

Corde frowns, and you can hear it when she looks up at you and says, “I don’t understand.”

You lick your cracked lip again before you answer her. “I...I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.”

I trust you to be smart.

Stars, you want to scream, to lash out. He was right, he was right, he was right…

“Bad men,” Corde whispers, and you feel a bubble of a laugh threaten to come out. You fight it down and simply nod, gritting your teeth. Bad men always find ways to hurt little girls.

The two of you sit in silence, and inch by inch, the child scoots closer until you feel her pressing against your side, leaning her head against your arm. The sound you make, a mangled whimper, escapes your lips before you can hold it in, and there is more salt stinging your eyes. “I-I don’t even know why I’m here,” you whimper, sniffling against the stink of animal. “It’s wrong.”

Corde’s voice is so small, and you can feel how thin she is when she leans against you. Her voice trails off, though, and you can hear her fear again. “Will…?”

You try to shift from your cramped position, sighing deeply when it’s for nothing. “Will what, sweet girl?” you ask, angling your chin down toward her.

“Will...when the Mandalorian comes, will he take me and my brother with you?”

The question shakes you to your core. You can’t move, you can’t breathe. Your mouth opens and closes, working on words that won’t come out. When you finally speak, your voice is hoarse.

“What...what are you talking about?”

“Tycho said it,” Corde whispers, and you can tell she’s got one hand beside her mouth to muffle her noise as she shares her secret. “He said there’s a Mandalorian coming for you.”

The questions Tycho asks you now make sense. It was a trap, and you were the bait. You feel even more ashamed than before, even more foolish than a stupid no-named girl from the outer rim. At least someone else in that cantina would’ve been smarter, you think. He could have picked anyone. But he chose you, and he chose wrong.

“The Mandalorian isn’t coming.”

Even if you wanted him to, it had been days.

Saying it out loud doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. It’s simple, an understanding you had known from the beginning that the man had told you himself. He would protect his child at all costs-no matter the cost. You like to think some part of him held affection for you. But he’d trusted you, trusted you to be smart, and look where you are now.

You wonder how this gambler had formed such a half-brained idea.

“Oh.”

You detest how heartbroken she sounds, because you have nothing to offer her by way of comfort. You wish you could tell her that you would take her with you, that you would protect her, but how could you say such a thing when you can’t even protect yourself?

Children know better, and they know the lies of people who swear false promises. If you could be anything for her, you would be someone who would at least tell her the truth.

You learn the little boy is Corde’s brother, Venka. He doesn’t speak at all. Corde tells you he hasn’t spoken since they were sold. They sleep in the empty stall beside yours, and they’re waiting to be moved where other child workers are kept. When Venka brings you a wet cloth to press to your swollen eyes, you finally cry in peace, the salt washing away with the dirty water. He wipes your face with gentle, pudgy hands, and you whisper your thankfulness. He hugs you around your neck, and you have never, in your life, wished to harm another person so much as you do the men who keep these children locked in the dark.

The privilege, however, is not yours.

It happens near midnight of the fifth day after you were taken, and a jolt goes through you, waking you from the half-sleeping slump. The two children are nestled close to the spare warmth of your body, the girl laying against your side and the boy with his head in your lap. You’re unsure why they were allowed to remain with you. Usually they’re forced into their own stall, but you soon realize the door to your paddock is open as if someone forgot to shut it. Both children are awoken by the sharp, short burst of gunfire that sounds like it’s echoing just outside the building.

Your heart is beating like a bird losing feathers, mad to get out, and Corde sucks in a breath. “It’s him, isn’t it?” she whispers, the hope in her voice prettier than a song.

“Get behind me,” you tell them, voice harsh with your own fear trapped in your throat, threatening to climb out. You didn’t want to hope it was him, wishing for nothing but for him to take his son and run far away from this foul city. But you feel a rush of relief against your will, and stars, of course it’s him.

The paddock door slams when a body hits it, and you tense when a mass of footsteps storm right up to you. A familiar odor of stale beer and unwashed skin hits your nose, and Tycho has your binders off before you can wonder what he’s doing. Tiny hands grab at your dress, and your arms fall uselessly, weak, in front of them.

“Up we go,” Tycho rumbles, and Corde cries out as you're dragged onto your feet. Is this the last thing you’re going to see? Is this some kind of mercy kill before he’ll give the Mandalorian the satisfaction of finding you?

“I-It’s okay,” you whisper to the two cowering children, shaking at the idea of being led away to be silenced. You wonder if your father knew, before they beat him to stillness, that he would die. Perhaps that’s why those lies people tell children come pouring out of you. “It will be alright, I promise-”

When Venka won’t let go, Tycho’s boot reels back and lands squarely, knocking him into his sister, and all three of you are screaming, trying to fight him. Stumbling on legs that you can’t feel, like a newborn foal, you fall as he drags you by the back of the neck, and cry, “D-Don’t hurt them!”

There’s a brighter light where he drags you from the stall, but you don’t have time to try and open your eyes before his robust arm, thick with muscle, traps your neck against the front of his chest, forcing you to try and balance on your unsteady feet. Everything is a swath of blurred shadows, a dim, running painting of mangled shapes that you have no way of discerning, and all the blood rushing to your limbs leaves you breathless. You are not unlike a rag doll that’s been abused, dizzy and lightheaded, and you keep your swollen eyes closed, focusing on staying conscious.

“Not so trigger happy now, Mando?” Tycho bellows, and you can hear the power of his deep voice all the way into his chest. It rattles your bones, and you suck in a breath when his arm tightens around your neck. “I’ll take my money back, now. And an apology.”

The Mandalorian’s shape, familiar even in your disabled vision, even from between aching, pained squints of your eyes, stands still as stone, a gun still smoking held in his hand. There are bodies on the floor, blood dripping from one of his gloves. His voice, though, is like thunder, quiet and rolling and cresting deep from within, and hearing him is like an allowance you don’t deserve. “I’m not negotiating with you,” the forbidding baritone bites out. He is raspy with anger, and severe enough to make you fear what he is capable of.

“No?”

Tycho’s arm tightens, and tightens, and tightens, drawing you back until the tips of your toes barely brush the floor, and your voice breaks on a whimper for air. Your hands shake and scratch at the thick, corded muscle of his forearm, but you might as well be an insect he can’t be bothered to swat away.

And nothing happens.

You wonder, briefly in your dazed, slowly slipping mind, if you die here, what will become of the two children in the stall. You hope someone is kind to them, and does not fail them like you have.

“S-Stop. Stop it.”

Tycho’s arm loosens, and you gasp in the dirty, stinking air of the stable, gagging on it as he allows you just an inch or so of leverage. “Ready to negotiate now?” he asks, giving you a small shake in his hold. You feel your teeth rattle, your body swaying as if drunk.

There’s no sound, no movement for a moment until you hear a loud metallic clunk hit the ground.

“Good. Now put your blaster down, and kick it over to one of my men.”

Don’t do it. Please don’t give him that.

The clatter of steel on the concrete floor follows bluntly, and you hear the rattling scrape when it’s sent skittering across the ground. A man nearby picks it up, checking the chamber and release before aiming it at the Mandalorian. Your heart grows hot with indignant anger in your breast. This-this animal didn’t deserve to be cowered to, not worthy of anyone’s deference. Certainly not by the Mandalorian.

Tycho releases you and in the same, abrupt motion, kicks your feet out from under you so that you land hard on the floor. The use of your legs and arms are still shaky, and your whole body spasms with pain. Beskar hits the ground when the Mandalorian kneels over you, and you’ve never felt so weak, so pitiful when he pulls you up against his blessedly cool chest plate.

Desperate, leather clad hands cradle you with urgency, and he leans you back against his leg, propping you up so your breath fogs the shine of his armor as you inhale the scent of clean skin and cool woods. His helmet kisses your brow, and you can hear, now that he’s so close, how labored his breathing is, how tight and tense his arms are while he rocks you. His whole body shakes like a vibroblade, like the electricity before the crack of lighting, and you have never felt safer.

You smile, a small, sad thing that doesn’t meet your eyes. “You came.”

A tiny, pathetic sound slips from beneath the lip of his helmet, and one of his gloves cups the side of your face, his thumb pressing just beneath the bruised and reddened skin of your eye. You can’t stop yourself from leaning into the cool leather, biting your cracked lip with relief, but a chuckle from somewhere behind you makes both of you go still as stone.

You hear the click of a blaster being aimed, and you know it isn’t trained on the impressively armored man who holds you in his arms.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Tycho says, towering above where the Mandalorian stays kneeling over you, and forcing the bounty hunter to look up with an air of utter hatred. You have never felt him so angry, so glacial and still. “If you both want to leave, I’ll need something else. Let’s call it interest for the disrespect you showed me and my brother.”

You press your cheek to his chest plate, your fingers curling into the fabric at his waist. If you were going to die with a gun to your head, at least you won’t be alone, and you won’t be without this man, you decide. It is more than you hoped for, even if the way he breathes, like a wild animal, makes you wish to comfort him.

There’s a nigh imperceptible tilt of the Mandalorian’s helmet, and Tycho smiles and says, “I want your helmet.”

Your fingers dig into his waist with desperation, nails biting into the skin, and you suddenly can’t be close enough, can’t stop what’s happening. “N-No,” you whimper, struggling against the Mandalorian’s firm hold, trying to clamber to your feet. “You can’t do that-!”

“I’m no longer negotiating,” Tycho growls, leveling his blaster’s aim at the crown of your hair.

“Stop, please-” he chokes out, arresting you so tightly against his chest, you can’t move. You want to fight him, you want to shake this dear man under the steel because he shouldn’t sound like that, like a ruin. He should be brave, no matter the cost. “I-I’ll do it.”

“No!” Your entire body is a force to be reckoned with, adrenaline dumping into your system, but the Mandalorian traps you around the middle, locking his arms around you so you’re pinned to his chest. You turn your face into his neck, tears forming in your eyes. “No, y-you can’t-!”

Two men move to flank the bounty hunter, and you feel him tense, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap. That is what you expect of him, the urge and hunger to fight. Your breathing is so heavy, your mind so alight with passion that your entire frame hums.

“I want her to do it.”

“I will not!” you shriek, something feral and foaming bursting from your chest when you wrench against him. Everything begins to flicker before your eyes, the fireside touches, the hand stroking your hair by the stream, the arm that has held and supported you over worlds. He is stronger than you, but he doesn’t seem interested in seeking to detain you as much as he seeks to keep you from hurting yourself against the beskar covering his body.

“Cyare,” his deep baritone rumbles against your ear, too low for anyone else to hear. “Trust me.”

You go still, your arms slowly circling his waist and tucking your cheek against his chest plate. His heartbeat is like a war drum beneath the armor, and you bite your lip when you feel his arms slowly release you. You keep your eyes closed, your heart squeezing in Tycho’s fist as he and his men begin to chuckle at such a great warrior defeatedly drawing his hands down to his belt while you lift yours to cradle his helmet. Your lip trembles, fingers smoothing over the beskar warmed by your own skin, and then-

A clap of thunder, followed by an overwhelming flash, and the Mandalorian throws you to the side, rolling you beneath him just as the flash grenade he’d detonated sends everyone into a panic. Blasters suddenly go off in every direction, and you’re thankful when the Mandalorian crouches over you because you aren’t sure which way is up. His leather glove brushes your cheek, and you can’t hear what he says, but he disappears from your line of sight. There are muffled shouts, screaming, and you curl in on yourself, listening to the sounds of battle. You can hear a blade slashing flesh, smell the residue of gunfire, and you feel when a body hits the ground one after another.

And then there’s silence.

It takes an olympic feat of strength to pry your eyes open, and the pain is nearly unbearable. You see a blurry set of boots striding towards you, and you let your gaze fall closed when the sweet sound of beskar brushing the concrete floor meets your ears. You feel the cool leather touch your face, moving to your neck and up to cradle your head. No longer able to open your eyes, you manage to move your fingers enough to touch his wrist where a small sliver of heated skin is bared. Veins of hot blood that you had traced in the dark sing beneath your touch, and a tear slips from the corner of your eye.

You hear him muttering in another language, fast and rapid beneath his helmet, as if everything that has happened is too much for his mind to translate in the moment and he’s only able to speak the words he learned as a child. It’s the sound of that beautiful speech that breaks you.

He lifts you up into his arms, trying to hold your bones together as your body spasms through sobbing, wailing, because you’re still alive somehow. You can’t control it, you can’t stop it, and you’re worried you won’t be able to. A leather glove, wet with blood, turns your head so your hysteria is smothered into the fabric of his shoulder, and your hands can’t find a place to hold onto, wrenching and pulling at this man who’s saved you twice over.

When you are exhausted beyond speech, beyond the ability to lift your head from where it lolls against his neck, the Mandalorian moves to rest you back against the wall. His gloves cradle your injured face, and you again wonder what he sees. Does he see your foolishness? Certainly, your weakness. Bile rises in your throat, and it’s all you can do to choke on it as well as your pride.

A sound, not unlike the skittering of a mouse, triggers the Mandalorian. He draws his blaster and cages you between his body at the wall faster than the flash grenade, and you hear a small gasp come from the paddock.

“D-Don’t,” you mumble, your lips cracked and your voice dry from your outburst. You imagine the two children, staring at what is rightfully known to be a legend who coldly holds them at gunpoint, cowering back behind the soiled hay. “Don’t hurt them.”

You hear the strain of leather where the warrior holsters his weapon immediately, but nothing happens after that for a long, tense moment. There’s another shift of fabric, and he’s kneeling over you now, sighing wearily.

“They helped me,” you murmur, forcing your eyes open enough to see his visor is tilted in the direction of the little girl and her brother. “They’re-”

“I know.”

The Mandalorian stands and approaches the children, and you strain your ears to hear what he says when he begins speaking softly to them. Corde tells him something, ever the brave little thing you’ve come to know, and he seems satisfied when he kneels back down beside you.

“We need to go, Cyare. Can you walk?” he asks, touching your jaw with a brush of his fingers.

You wince when you move your feet in your boots, and that seems to be enough of an answer for him. He leaves you again, speaking to the children, and your mind wanders until you’re not sure if you’re awake or asleep. Perhaps it is the lack of food and water, or not having slept for nearly a week, but it feels as if your body is shutting down. The shock from everything is wearing off, and you can’t even feel his arms when they slip beneath you to lift you up.

“You were right,” you murmur, laying your cheek against the warm fabric of his shoulder. You can feel his helmet tilt down to you, almost as if telling silently for you to go on. You close your eyes. “We can’t trust anyone.”

Mando’a Translation

Cyare - beloved, loved

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tabbyrp · 3 years ago

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@goodlawman

In Canto Bight, life moved fast. Guests wanted – and waited - for nothing. The finest delicacies. The fastest races. Brightly hued drinks which spilled like fountains into gaping maws. Only credits flowed faster, traveling from palm to machine to table to pocket to casino, and sometimes back around for another turn.

Tatooine was different. Slower. Impatience brought scant rewards on such a harsh, unforgiving planet, and for the truly unlucky, a desiccated ending was all that came from haste.

None of which offered comfort while Tabitha sat, waiting. She stole sleep when she could, mostly as the twin suns cast strong light and other beings sheltered in turn, leaving scalding streets for cooler shade within the palace. Only an idiot would seek out Cobb when Fett and Shand were in residence. No, it was in the darkness that Tabby kept most vigil. A weighted hitting stick upon her lap, legs crossed beneath, and the hum of the bacta tank as company. Looking at Cobb for too long roused memories of his blood on her palm, red on sand, and a force-shattering fear of his death twisting her apart. Instead, Tabitha watched the bubbles, an endless marker of life persevering.

It was the firm guidance of Fennec Shand that forced Tabby into a separate room when time came to extract Cobb from the tank. Assurances made as to how he would not wake immediately. That he would not be alone. To keep patient a little longer.

The new room was tucked away. Quiet, until Tabby dragged her battered seat up against the foot of the bed. She still could not keep her eyes on Vanth – her friend, her savior, the bravest man she had ever known – and now the bubbles were gone. Only the rise and fall of his chest evidence he lived, and it still hurt to watch too closely. Tabby sat, folding herself in tight, and began to wait again.

#goodlawman #au: circle in the sand (star wars)#{any errors due to not having seen TBoBF can be fixed}

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desiraypark · 4 years ago

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When the Sun Sleeps in Canto Bight [5]

Previous Entire Work CHAPTER PLAYERS

The Knights of Ren: Ushar, Cardo, Trudgen, Ap’lek, Vicrul aka “Vic”, and Kuruk) Kylo Ren, Leader of the Knights of Ren Ruby Girard, The Beautiful Singer CHAPTER CONTENT N*FW -| Sexual content; mention of sex work; alcohol; language; back-story Additional Notes: Galactic Standard Calendar | 1920s Stockings, Tights, Nylons, Socks History by Vintage Dancer (scroll down to see how women of color (particularly Black women) wore their stockings) Word Count: 2,721

“I don’t get it. You fuck ‘em good, you give ‘em money and nice clothes—put ‘em up in a nice place, and they still aren’t satisfied. If I was a broad, I would be a-fuckin’ okay,” Ushar said, leaning back in a chair and smoking a cigarette. “She wants the ring, man. She wants the ring,” Cardo said. He was cleaning his gun. “Well, I’ve got a damn wife! Shit!” Ushar proclaimed. The Knights of Ren—all but Kylo, Vic, and Kuruk—were sitting in office of The Garden Lounge—their flagship establishment for over thirty years. It was a placed that lived up to its name: beautiful plant décor in the lounge; sky blue walls and plush brown carpeting—girls dressed in just enough to not be obscene, but just a little to remind you of “nature”, if you will. Vic was out front entertaining guests and Kuruk was manning the office. Trudgen was leaning against the teak-wood desk, downing a glass of whiskey, while Ap’lek was stretched out across the chaise. Finally, Kylo came in.

“Evening, fellas,” Kylo said. “Evening,” they responded. “Where’s Vic?” Kylo asked as he sat behind his desk. “Minglin’,” Ap’lek answered. “Do you have your fuckin’ shoes on my couch?” Kylo asked. Ap’lek sat up and planted his feet on the floor. “Sorry, Boss.” “What’s goin’ on with the wife?” Kylo asked Ushar. He shook his head. “Wife’s fine. It’s the other one that’s bein’ a fuckin’ brat,” he responded. “Why don’t you get rid of her?” Kylo asked, organizing things that didn’t need organizing on his desk. “Pussy’s too good, man.” The Knights chuckled. “Can somebody get—” Kylo started. At that moment, Vic walked through the door and left it open. Kuruk stood outside but stayed close enough to the office to hear what was going on. Vic sat beside Ushar, and Trudgen sat beside Ap’lek on the sofa. Kylo looked up at Kuruk and waved him in. “Come on in, Kuruk. Nobody’s gonna barge in here,” he said. Kuruk nodded, closed the door, and leaned against the wall beside it. “What’s goin’ on, fellas? Ap’lek, anything you wanna discuss?” Kylo asked. “Nope.” “I hear the Kesyk gang’s got a hold of some new toys. Automatic. Fast,” Cardo chimed in. “What makes ‘em special?” Kylo asked. “Faster. More precise. Lightweight,” Cardo answered. “Interesting. Look into it. How’s tricks?” “Steady,” Ushar answered. “The johns are startin’ to get a little bold, though. One of ‘em got a little rough with Hela and she cut him.” “Why can’t these bastards shoot their fuckin’ nut and leave?” Kylo asked. “How’s Hela?” “You know her. She’s cool but she said she’ll do it again,” Ushar answered. “As she fuckin’ should.

“Yeah, but--you think that would drive men away?” Ushar asked. “These fuckin’ johns would step over alligators to get some ass. And they know we’ve got the best fuckin’ girls and guys in Canto Bight. If they act like they have some sense, they ain’t gotta worry about nobody pullin’ no fuckin’ blades on ‘em.”

Ushar shrugged in reluctant agreement, and Vic smiled to himself.

The booze?” Kylo asked.

“Booze is flowin’. Hearin’ more complaints from South Side, though,” Vic answered. “They still waterin’ the shit down?” Kylo asked. “No. This time they’re puttin’ in too much,” Vic answered.

“People goin’ in for a couple of drinks and walkin’ out eatin’ the fuckin’ concrete,” Trudgen chimed in. He polished off his whiskey. “Fuckin’ idiots. I guess the only thing we can do is give them a fuckin’ recipe book or somethin’,” Kylo said. “Anything else goin’ on?” “Nope/No, boss,” the Knights said in unison. Vic cleared his throat. “There is one thing. Ren’s cousin reached out to me,” he said. “Sheev? That fuckin’ weirdo. What does he want?” “He was very vague. Said he wanted to discuss business and his “retirement”. Said to swing by the Death Star anytime. I was thinking Primeday? Around 2?” Vic suggested. “No can do. Got plans on Primeday. Centaxday. Afternoon.” Vic nodded. **********************

PRIMEDAY

Kylo had spent the afternoon before dreaming up the perfect Primeday dinner. Everything usually closed or closed early on Primeday, so he had to think fast. Once he got an idea, he made his list and headed out to the markets—the butcher for lamb chops; the produce vendor for potatoes, mushrooms, lemons, and carrots. He’d even snatched a bottle of wine from the Garden Lounge’s inventory, and bought a chocolate cake from the bakery. Ruby agreed to be picked up at three.

When Kylo pulled up at about 2:55, Ruby stood outside her building wearing another pink dress, blue baby doll heels, white stockings, and holding a white clutch in her hand. Thick curls peeped out of her white cloche hat. As she walked to the car, he climbed out and lifted his hands. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked. Ruby froze. “What?” “You’re supposed to wait for me to come to your fuckin’ door,” he said. Ruby shook her head and kept walking, and he walked toward her. She looked him over—his tall figure dressed from head to toe in black: black trousers, black shirt, black vest, black oxfords. “I just thought it would be more convenient for me to wait outside for you,” she fibbed. Truth was, she didn’t want Crystal sizing him up and asking him questions. Kylo took her hand and led her to the car.

Kylo had called Ruby’s building a dump. His building was nice, but so lifeless and empty. No art on the walls; no flowers. His own apartment was similar. Clean. Very clean and neat. But no art. No colorful accents to catch your eye. He had a gramophone but owned no records. At least he had a radio. After he’d poured her a glass of wine in his tiny kitchen, she’d taken it upon herself to go into the living room and turn it on. Then, she got a better look at the place—no pictures. Just a burgundy couch that appeared to never have been sat on and a dining table with only two chairs in the corner. “You gonna leave me in here by myself, Babydoll?” Kylo called from the kitchen. Ruby smiled and walked back into the kitchen. Kylo had taken off his vest and rolled up his sleeves. He was standing over his stove, putting potatoes into a pot of water. Then, he went into the icebox and pulled out a thick piece of brown paper—stuffed with something. Ruby leaned against the counter and watched him work, trying to bite down a smile. “Tell me about yourself,” he requested. Ruby took a sip of her wine. “You first.” She saw his chest rise and fall, trapping a chuckle. “What do you wanna know?” Ruby thought back to the things Crystal told her. Where to start? Why did he call himself Kylo Ren if he was a Solo? An Organa? She chose to point at the most intriguing target. “Did you try to kill your father?” she asked. Kylo dropped pieces of meat into a bowl he’d filled with water. “I didn’t try to kill him. We got into a fight. He was winning. I pulled a knife on him to scare him off.” Ruby’s jaw dropped. “Oh…” Kylo didn’t continue. “May I ask what the fight was about?” Kylo sighed. He grabbed a bottle of vinegar from his cupboard and poured some into the bowl.

“I’d been out with some friends. Fuckin’ around. Stayed the night with some br--some girl--and didn’t come home until the next morning. I was 18. Thought I was a man. My dad wouldn’t let me inside. Told me I was falling to the Dark Side...that I needed to repent and start coming to sanctuary with him, yada-yada-yada. I told him to shove his sanctuary up his ass and we just started brawlin’ in front of the neighbors.” “So, you’ve always been a little smart mouth,” Ruby joked. Kylo laughed. “Not always. I was just tired of people telling me what to do.” Ruby put her wine glass on the counter, grabbed the edge, then lifted herself to sit high. Then, she yanked off her hat and fluffed her hair. “What did your mom have to say about all of this?” she asked. “She did what she usually did. Defended me in front of him. Because she hates him just as much as I do. But told me how much of a disappoint I was to her behind closed doors.” Ruby’s watched Kylo move about in silence--moving the meat around in the bowl. Everything was making sense. The typical tale—poor little rich boy, rebellious and angry. He glanced at her, then avoided her sympathetic stare--placing his eyes on the pot of boiling potatoes instead.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” she said. He shrugged and washed his hands.

"Eh. I’m over it. It was a long time ago,” he said. He dried his hands on a towel, then poured himself a glass of wine. “Your turn,” he said as he poured.

“What do you want to know?” Ruby asked, echoing him. “Tell me about your parents.” He rested his hip against the counter and took a sip.

“I think…my mom is essentially your dad,” she said with chuckle. “Everything is dark-sided to her. Singing about anything unrelated to the gods. The radio. Picture shows. Lipstick. She didn’t have to put me out. As soon as I turned 18, I was outta there.” Kylo listened to Ruby speak, but found himself getting lost in her--her hands that moved with every word she said; brown legs that lifted by the knee when the edge of the counter started cutting off her circulation. Even when she talked, there seemed to be a melody in her voice. She spoke highly of her father—apparently he was a laid-back and funny man—and she justified her mother’s puritan ways by admission of her being protective and caring. “So, mom wouldn’t think too highly of me, huh?” Kylo asked. “Oh, she’d probably melt into a puddle, she’d be so incensed,” Ruby said with a laugh. She guzzled the remainder of her wine. Ruby’s laugh made him smile. He tapped his fingers against his wine glass. “What does Ruby think about me?” he asked. A stillness fell over her. She stared at Kylo’s face—dark eyes boring into her; long waves draped over the side of his face as the result of a side part. Her eyes fell onto the stitches on his cheek, then back at his irises. “I think you’re impulsive and hot-headed,” she said. Kylo rolled his eyes and smirked. “…and passionate. Maybe even loyal...in search of something…” Potatoes began to knock against each other in the pot. Kylo stared into Ruby’s eyes, then at her painted lips. They parted just a centimeter, as though tired of being pressed together. Tired of not being touched. Kylo leaned in close and stopped. Ruby traveled the rest of the space and pressed her lips to his. He moved to stand directly in front of her and held the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as she rested her hands on his waist. He stopped kissing her but didn’t pull his face away. “You want me to stop?” he asked breathlessly. His heart was pounding and he silently prayed that she said “no”. “No,” she said. Kylo pressed his lips back against hers and ran his hand up her thigh. She held the back of his neck and deepened their kiss—pushing her tongue into his mouth. He let her tongue in, and the hand that was on her neck, moved up to grab a handful of her curls. Ruby moaned into his mouth and opened her knees. The feeling of Ruby’s knees moving against him made Kylo stiffen. His hand moved further up her thigh, and in between them. He slipped two fingers past the seat of her panties and rubbed them against her outer lips. Then, he rubbed his way to her warm core and pushed them inside. Ruby pulled her face away and rested her head against the cupboard. Her eyes were wide. “Your fingers are big,” she said with shock in her voice. Kylo smiled and kept fingering. He pushed her left knee open some more, then watched her face crinkle. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lip—allowing ecstasy to overtake her. Then, he stopped fingering her and bent at his waist. Just as he did so, the water on the stove began to boil harder. He jumped up—annoyed at the stove for doing its job—turned the burner off, yanked Ruby’s panties down, and put them in his pants pocket. Then, he pushed back the skirt of Ruby’s dress. She tilted to the left to lift the right hem, then tilted to the right to lift the left—revealing the hooked garters that pressed into her fleshy thighs and held her nylons up. She let the bottom of her dress bunch at her waist.

Kylo stared at her vulva—everything. The lips; the slit leaking from its top and probably down to her core with arousal; the brown rosebud that was fighting to be seen. Ruby pressed her palms against the counter and opened her legs more. Kylo smirked. “Anxious?” he asked. “Yes. I am,” she answered—breath loud, hot, and sure. Kylo bent at the waist and turned his body to the side. He dipped his head between Ruby’s inner thighs, and without hesitation, rapidly flicked his pointed tongue against her clit. Ruby cried out and grabbed a handful of his hair, moaning as he lapped her up. He didn’t abandon an inch of her—tongue venturing around, over, and inside of her—causing her to grind against his face. With a mouth full of pussy, he stared up at her, ego steadily growing with every squirm, every twitch of her brow and every bite of her lip. When he stuck his fingers back inside, she tightened her grip against his scalp and finally looked down at him. The sight of him looking up at her with darkened eyes made her own eyes close again, but he put space between his lips and her flesh. “Look at me when you come,” he said. A chill went down Ruby’s spine and she looked down into Kylo’s eyes. He inserted a third finger and massaged her walls as he sucked and ravaged her clit. Suddenly, he felt her contracting over his fingers. Her jaw dropped and a strained sound left her throat. Then, she let out an endless high-pitched moan and tried to pull away from his lips—but Kylo didn’t stop until his tongue absorbed the very last drop of her sweet cum. She fell backward and rested her head on the cupboard again—loud breaths filling the quiet of the kitchen. Barely giving her a minute, Kylo peeled her off the counter and tossed her over his shoulder—making her squeal as if she were on an amusement ride. He carried her to his bedroom and dropped her onto his bed. He pulled off her shoes, then pulled at the buttons of his vest. Ruby sat up, pulled her dress over her head, unclasped her bra, and tugged at the hook on her right garter. “Keep those on,” he said. He stared at her thighs and licked his lips.

Ruby moved her hand and fell back. She watched Kylo get completely naked. She barely got a good look at him before he was on top of her, planting kisses against her neck. He grabbed her right leg and pressed it back so that her knee was over her chest. Shortly after, she felt something warm and stiff rubbing against the outside of her core—it pressed into her, and the pressure sent a wave throughout her entire body. “Fuck…” they whimpered at the same time. Then, they chuckled. Kylo kissed her lips and inhaled her moans as he pushed more inches into her. He caught her grabbing the blanket in his peripheral, and slowly penetrated her until he couldn’t go any further. “You okay?” he asked. “Yes,” she strained to answer.

He grabbed her left hand and placed it over the meatiest part of his waist. Then, he dragged out of her, and drove back in. He held on to her right thigh, the leg still pushed back, and dipped in and out of her—fast enough to please, but slow enough for the both of them to feel their lover’s every twitch and pulse, and grip and stroke.

#when the sun sleeps in canto bight #chapter 6 coming thursday

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stubbychaos · 4 years ago

Text

Princess

Summary: You and the Mandalorian relax and reflect after a long and tiring job on Cantonica.

Rated: Explicit for sexual content and language.

Word count: This was supposed to only supposed to be 2,000 words and it somehow turned into 5,700 because I wanted more chemistry between reader and Mando lol. There’s obviously an established relationship between them and I just wanted to, y’know, expand a little on that bc I’m a hopeless romantic.

Warnings: Brief mentions of reader being harassed by Burg. Other than that, this is mostly fluff and smut lol

Notes: This is literally the first time I’ve ever really written smut that I’m somewhat happy with and even though I’m terrified of putting it on Tumblr, I sincerely welcome any advice or constructive criticism. I just ask that you keep your comments somewhat polite because I’m a sensitive bitch lol. I have like half of a second part outlined if you guys want another chapter of this <3

You aren't sure where the sudden surge of audacity comes from as you and the Mandalorian make your way onto the Razor Crest after a long day of work on Cantonica.

You watch as he gingerly tucks the little one into his secret little cubby and closes it so he can sleep more peacefully; your heart swells in your chest at how gentle he always is with his foundling--his son. The sun is now setting over the horizon and a cool breeze wafted into the hull of the ship, causing your dress to flutter a little, ultimately exposing your thighs through the long slits in the dress you wear. Your long waves tickle your collarbones and you’re not used to exposing so much skin, the wide, dipped neckline coming to a stop right at your sternum. Despite the cool breeze that intrudes the normally stale atmosphere of the Razor Crest, your skin feels like it’s on fire as he turns to gaze at you through that unforgiving Beskar gaze, his eyes undoubtedly taking in all of the exposed skin that you only ever let him touch.

The beautiful dress you’re currently wearing had come in handy for a job in Canto Bight where the Mandalorian had been asked to capture a quarry that owed over a few thousand credits to an owner of a wealthy casino. It was the kind of job where you and the green bean had been dragged along for the ride, not having the choice of staying on the ship because Din had deemed it too dangerous to stay on the Razor Crest in such a populated city. It wasn’t often that the notorious bounty hunter urged you off the ship whenever he took a new job, but whenever he asked you to follow him to whatever destination his bounty was currently residing at, you knew it was imperative to listen to the Mandalorian.

The quarry he’d been hunting all day enjoyed frequenting a high class casino and while your Mandalorian’s Beskar armor already established him as a wealthy, notorious hunter--despite living from paycheck to paycheck most of the time--the flimsy fabric of the thin black tunic and leggings you usually wore weren’t up to standards with what an established woman should look like in a wealthy city like Canto Bight.

The thought of you trying to be an ‘established’ woman nearly makes you giggle, knowing damn well that there was nothing established and respectable about a young woman traipsing through the galaxy with a bounty hunter and a green toddler with astounding abilities.

You were sure you would never be Canto Bight’s expectation of a wealthy woman.

Not that you or Din cared, but that being said, you both knew you needed to blend in and he had surprised you months earlier with a dress that he had bought for you when they had been on Brentaal IV after a close call with a few Imps trying to take down the Crest. He had seen you eyeing the beautiful white fabric in the marketplace, tracing the hems and jeweled straps with admiration, though you had refused to buy it, insisting that you needed to save the credits for the baby and ship repairs. Realizing that you hardly ever spent your credits on little things for yourself, the Mandalorian had told you that he had some business to take care of and would meet up with you by the twilight hour--your favorite time of the day, no matter what planet they were on.

Needless to say, you had been in tears when you found the dress on your stiff cot later that night.

“Thank you for the dress,” You murmur and slowly approach him, stopping halfway when you finally notice the way he lowers his helmet with a slight tilt and you know he’s gazing at you attentively, “You never told me if you liked how I look in it. Do you think I look pretty in it, Din?”

He stares at you through the safety of his visor and you nearly rip off his helmet right then and there, though you restrain for the sake of whatever flushed expression he’s currently wearing on his scruffy face.

The white dress is pretty simple and falls to your ankles, slits going up to the middle of each thigh; the neckline of the collar exposes more cleavage than what you are used to and had been embroidered in a beautiful yellow floral pattern by a talented seamstress. Shimmering gems had been carefully sewed in the center of each yellow flower that seemed to shine brighter with the golden rays from the sunset that bathed you in its ethereal light. You had seen him glancing at you periodically throughout the evening and it wasn’t until the third time a man came up to where you had been standing at the bar--your eyes carefully scanning your surroundings as you held the curious green bean--that the Mandalorian decided to put you out of your misery and come to your aid. You had jumped a little upon feeling a familiar, leather-clad hand on the small of your back and was surprised to find that his helmet was tilted downwards a little more than it normally was when he would look at your face.

You wondered if he had been looking at your cleavage and the thought had you blushing the whole night.

“You look...” The Mandalorian lets out a strange noise that sounds garbled through his modulator and you hope it’s because he’s overwhelmed in the most pleasant way by what he sees through that emotionless visor. Typically, you weren’t one to fish for compliments, especially from him because you know that the normally stoic bounty hunter isn’t the best with sweet words, doing most of his talking when he has his head between your legs or his cock buried deep inside of you.

Most of what he usually says is either incoherent babbling or hushed compliments in his native tongue, not that you ever mind his inept way with words when it comes to certain matters. Something about watching a fearless Mandalorian--someone that most felt an overwhelming sense of fear just upon sight--getting nervous when talking about his feelings or giving you compliments always reminds you just how human he was.

He was endearing without even realizing it most of the time.

Your scruffy Mandalorian had shyly admitted numerous times in the year and a half you’d been working for him that he found you to be physically beautiful, but the thought of someone genuinely finding your personality and soul attractive made your toes curl and your cheeks heat up. The intimidating bounty hunter always insists that you meant a lot to not only the kid, but to him as well, and even though you had been initially hired to take care of his foundling, you found yourself taking care of the reckless bounty hunter as well.

Where once he would begrudgingly admit he didn’t need your help, he slowly started to cave in and grew warmer towards you whenever you would bring him a warm, cooked meal to the cockpit, rather than a cold ration bar. Gratitude would fill his voice whenever you would treat his wounds with soft hands, numbing gel, and precise stitches if they were out of bacta, rather than making him take care of it himself with an old cauterizer that caused him unnecessary pain. Instead of constantly feeling exhausted because he rarely got to sleep consistently before you showed up, he taught you how to pilot the ship and would let you take care of navigating the Crest while you took care of his mischievous foundling so he could get some rest after a particularly rough job.

He always insists that you need to look after yourself more, but you’ve never had a family of your own and you want to take care of the tiny clan that the Maker had for whatever reason blessed you with.

You want to take care of the man that had given you a job when you had been at your lowest, along with a sense of purpose and hope for the future.

You want to take care of the only human being that has ever truly loved you.

Din makes his way closer to you, his footsteps slow and he seems to hesitate before he takes his gauntlets and gloves off and lets them fall to the floor with a loud clunk; you’ve been with him for so long, yet he still sometimes fears he’s going to accidentally hurt you, as if you were made of cracked glass. A bare hand reaches out for you and you feel courageous and beautiful as you stare up at him, shivering with delight when his calloused fingers brush along the thin strap that had kept falling off your shoulder all day and evening, his palm moving up to cup your jaw with the utmost softness instead. He leans his helmet down a little when you stand on your tippy toes, a smile spreading across your lips when you feel the cold press of his Beskar forehead against your bare one--a Mandalorian’s version of an affectionate, tender kiss--and the two of you remain like that for a few peaceful moments.

“May I?” You murmur politely with a tilt of your head when your fingers cautiously curl under the lip of his helmet, only lifting the heavy Beskar off his head when he nods his approval with a small chuckle, making you pout a little. Despite being his wife and owning the privilege of seeing his face when you two are alone, you can’t stop yourself from always asking him if you can remove his helmet and armor, or instinctively closing your eyes when he removes himself in the cockpit or his private quarters. You had convinced yourself for such a long time after being hired by him that you’d never see the stoic Mandalorian’s face, let alone watch him bare it willingly to you.

How he had certainly proved you wrong about that.

Stars… he always seemed to surprise you and you loved him even more for it.

Thinking about it now--given everything you two had been through together--you find it funny that you had once been intimidated by the fearless bounty hunter and had struggled to even meet the expressionless gaze of his helmet. For at least the first month, you would merely stare at his shiny cuirass whenever he would ask about his foundling after he would come back from a job, only answering in a meek voice until he seemed satisfied. Suspecting he wasn’t much of a talker, you were more than happy to sit in silence in the hull of the Crest, just past where he kept bounties in carbonite, and you would only venture up to the cockpit to put the child in his pram or give your boss a warm meal.

It wasn’t until the Mandalorian had defended you against the terrifyingly huge Devaronian, Burg, and the rest of Ran’s band of misfits that had been assigned to help Mando on a job, that you found yourself trusting him more.

Your face grows warm as you remember how furious Din had been when he’d climbed down from the cockpit to find you backed up into a corner near the armory, shaking with fear as the Devaronian inspected you with a massive hand painfully squeezing your cheeks hard enough to bruise your sensitive skin while the rest of the team cruelly taunted you. The Mandalorian had immediately expressed his anger--his fury--as he easily ripped the massive man away from you, slamming him into the metal ladder before crushing him into the secret compartment where he normally kept the child hidden against unwanted visitors.

You remember how frantic he had sounded when the group eventually departed the ship, his voice only softening when he noticed the tears in your eyes and the shame burning bright in your red cheeks as you weakly apologized to him, though the shame belonged to Burg--something he would later remind you of after having a bad nightmare of the whole incident. At the time, Mando had merely shaken his helmet at the tremble in your voice before urging you and the child to stay in his private quarters, despite you never being allowed in there.

He had left you on the ship with the untrustworthy droid, but not before cautiously cupping his leather palm to your sore, crimson cheek, your eyes finally meeting his visor for the first time as his thumb traced your cheekbone and the gentle slope of your nose with a pleasant touch that was far softer than the ruthless Devaronian’s.

You found it easier to look at his helmet after that, finally trusting the quiet Mandalorian after he had physically shown how protective he was over you two.

“Ner kar’ta,” Din breathes out before leaning down to press his lips to yours and you immediately melt at how he always kisses you so passionately and slowly after taking his helmet off at the end of the day, like a moon slowly beckoning gentle waves to a sandy shore. You briefly wonder if he’s the ocean and you’re his moon, lighting up his dark, endless nights and you know he wouldn’t hesitate to cause destruction and chaos if you unwillingly disappeared or someone dared to even think about harming you

You shudder when he moves his other hand to the Beskar pendant that hangs between your collarbones and you listen to the soft sigh that leaves his modulator at the implication of the familiar, mudhorn signet that shows the galaxy that you belong to his little clan. In a similar gesture, your hand finds his pauldron as he gazes at you with intense reverence while you carefully trace the outline of the signet as if it’s going to break despite being made of Beskar; you don’t even realize you’re smiling so fondly, tears threatening to burn your eyes.

‘The Djarin Clan…’

This was the only family you ever had and he reminded you nearly every day that even though the green bean wasn’t theirs by blood, it made him no less of a son.

‘Aliit ori'shya tal'din…’

You never doubted him for one moment.

Din seems a little startled when you gently grab his wrist, his helmet tilting up a little to look into your eyes through his visor, probably worrying that he had already done something wrong even though he’s merely grazing your collarbones and shoulders so tenderly.

He doesn’t seem to realize that you want more and you know it won’t take long to get him to be a little rougher with you--just the way you both enjoy it after a particularly taxing job.

A strange, delighted noise comes from the back of his throat when you firmly guide his hand lower, his fingers splayed wide and you feel your eyelids flutter a little when his calloused fingers graze the swell of your breasts underneath the beautiful dress. The two of you both let out a little moan when you gently maneuver his hand further down underneath the scooped neckline until his rough hand is firmly palming your breast. Immediately, your nipple peaks from the familiar sensation and he tilts his heated gaze to regard the half-lidded, blissful expression on your flushed face.

He can sense the yearning rolling off of you in waves and you know it by the way his thick cock twitches against your thigh.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” He groans, not sure whether you are talking about the dress or your body, but he doesn’t seem to care at that moment, only saying what comes to his mind, “That dress is… you’re an angel--with or without it.”

“Something tells me that you prefer to see me without it.”

“It doesn’t matter to me what you are or aren’t wearing, mesh’la,” His voice is barely there and it almost sounds similar to the occasional crackle that leaves his modulator; you can’t help but to squeeze your thighs at how raspy he sounded, “I fucking want you all the time.”

Slowly, you brush the thin straps down your shoulders and arms, not tearing your eyes away from his face as the swishy material pools at your feet and leaves you vulnerable in front of him.

The first time he’d seen you like this, you had felt self conscious and had tried so hard to cover yourself from him, not sure if he would like what you had to offer.

Now, as he lowers his head a little and stares with half-lidded eyes at all of the flushed skin he wants to explore with his fingers and his mouth--despite memorizing the map of your body long ago--you feel like the most beautiful woman in the galaxy. Your body is completely nude, save for the tiny white shorts that leave nothing to the imagination and the pendant he had given you long ago that rests between your collarbones.

His rich brown eyes meet your sparkling ones before flickering up to the silver circlet crown that rests loosely around your head, the beautiful metal adorned with jeweled stars and a crescent moon that rests against your skin just inches above the center of your brows. A matching armlet that he had gotten for you as a late birthday present was wrapped around your bicep, the diamond encrusted stars shining brightly in the remnants of the vividly rose gold sunset that filters into the Crest. You had been mad at him at the time for spending his credits on something so materialistic, though he insisted that he had more than enough credits after turning in a high class criminal with a hefty price on his head.

You never took the beautiful gift off and it always warranted unrelenting teasing from your partner.

“Never gonna get tired of you. So beautiful, ner riduur," He whispers in a strained tone and you merely continue to stare up at him with those wide eyes as his warm hands graze your bare shoulders and arms, his fingers lightly tracing your beloved armlet, “These stars could only ever hope to be as beautiful as you are,” He continues when you blush furiously from the charming compliment, “They could only wish to shine as brightly as you do.”

Tears form in your eyes and you don’t know why, but you suspect that the pure tenderness of his gravelly voice has something to do with it. You’re not sure what to say as he cradles your cheeks and gazes at you in a way that is somehow softer and sweeter than the compliments he had just showered you with, so you silently let him caress your warm cheeks for a few moments before his mouth is on yours again.

“Mesh’la,” He coos, saying it over and over as he kisses the corner of your mouth before his lips find purchase against your jaw instead.

You half expect him to remove the pieces of jewelry, but he merely skims his lips along the underside of your jawline in search of the spot that he had long ago discovered was sensitive. A needy whimper beckons him to sink his teeth into the delicate skin and you can feel his cock twitch against your belly as whimpers turn into heavy moans when he makes sure to leave a deep mark behind.

“You look like a fucking princess with that crown,” Din groans against the slope of your neck as he corrects himself, “No, you look like a queen and they all thought so too,” he informs you, leaving another crimson mark that would later turn into a bruise at the curve of your shoulder, “Bet all of those dirty men in that casino would have bowed at your feet just to get a taste of you, cyar’ika.”

You huff out a laugh at the jealousy tainting his usually cool and calm voice, though it quickly dies down and is replaced with a choked sob when he drops his head to nip the swell of your breast. Immediately, you drag a hand up between the defined valleys of his shoulder blades and up his nape; a shudder wracks your body when he brings a hard nipple between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

“Something tells me you wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Would have fucked you in front of all them to get the point across,” his hands grip your hips so tightly that you’re sure they’ll bruise and the thought makes you warm and wet, “That casino was too disgusting for someone as beautiful as you to be in--too disgusting to fuck you in that pretty white dress.”

You grab his cheeks firmly, efficiently halting him from where he was currently grazing a constellation of freckles underneath your breast, and bring his scruffy face up until his parted lips are pressing against yours, his tongue licking into the hot tavern of your mouth. The kiss is nothing like the one you two shared earlier when you had taken off his helmet, instead, it’s now sloppy and dirty; it’s a silent promise that he’s going to wreck you in the most pleasurable way.

Much to your amusement, Din pouts a little when you pull away from him before you playfully tease him by taking his earlobe between your teeth, causing his already rough grip on your hips to grow slightly painful. He learned long ago that you didn’t mind it, that even though everyone perceived you to be tiny and meek, you were anything but when it was the two of you behind closed doors.

“Yet you’ll have your way with me against the wall of this dirty ship,” You remind him, amused by the grunt he lets out as you tug his earlobe a little painfully.

He traces his hands down your hips and roughly grips the soft globes of your ass, pulling you flush against him until all you can feel is cold Beskar steel and a cock against your belly that feels just as unyielding.

It leaves you lightheaded.

“Tell me then, mesh’la,” He pins you until the middle of your back is pressed up against a long shelf bolted to the wall and your heart pulses with anticipation, “Where would you prefer me to fuck you on our ship?”

You mewl faintly when he grabs your sore hips again, effortlessly lifting you until you’re sitting on the long metal shelf bolted to the wall and he’s surprisingly cordial enough for once to not tear your shorts straight down the middle, instead helping you to shuffle them down your legs before unceremoniously launching them in the general direction of your discarded dress. Your breath hitches when he remains kneeling down where your feet are currently dangling in front of his face and he makes quick work to remove your strappy sandals, untying the thin leather straps from around your calves and letting it fall to your ankles. A single dimple appears on his scruffy cheek when he removes the sandals completely and watches as you lightly roll your ankles around now that they’re not restrained and being chafed by rough leather.

“You never answered my question, princess,” He places a tender kiss against the inside of your sore ankle and you think it’s the first time he’s ever called you that, but it makes you grow wetter and your cheeks burn like coals as your cunt flutters and clenches around nothing, “Where would you rather be right now? You don’t want to be pressed up against this wall with my face between your thighs--eating that pretty pussy?”

“I quite liked the--Din!” You whine and squirm when he roughly nips your lower thigh, just above the inside of your knee where he somehow discovered long ago was another sensitive spot, “I uh, the c-cockpit was kinda fun, yeah?”

He huffs out an amused sigh against your smooth skin and as he continues his tortuously delicious ascent, you don’t hesitate to wrap your thighs around his scruffy face when he gets dangerously close to the apex of your thigh, “Yeah, until you fell onto the control pad and almost blew up the damn ship.”

“That w-was--” A sharp bite at your lower hip is a warning, one that you choose to ignore in hopes he’ll punish you, “Your fault for making me ride you backwards.”

His mustache tickles and burns your skin as he moves his head until he’s just centimeters from your throbbing clit, “Thought you’d like to see the stars while you fuck yourself on my cock, princess.”

You open your mouth to backsass the stubborn Mandalorian, but all that comes out is a breathless sob as his mouth covers that little bundle of nerves that he seems so obsessed with every time he ends up with his head between your legs. When the two of you had first started becoming intimate, even before he had asked you to be his ridduur and you two had taken your vows, Din had always been so insistent on tasting you and could do it for hours on end if he had it his way. It must pertain to him wearing the helmet for so long and never having the opportunity to be selfish and take it off during sec, you briefly think before he licks a hot stripe up your slit and ultimately lands back on your clit.

You nearly lose all thought as your fingers thread through his curls, damp with sweat from donning his helmet all day, though you don’t care and hold on tightly to keep him in place, “P-Princess? I thought you said I looked like a queen.”

He removes his mouth and before you can whimper at the agonizing loss, you’re stretched around two of his thick fingers and you nearly concuss yourself when you throw your head against the wall behind you, feeling his lips curve into a smile against your belly button before his tongue grazes the tiny divot in your abdomen. You don’t know whether to moan or laugh--what with his fingers curling so deep inside of your slick heat, but his tongue teasing such a ticklish spot on your body--and the noise that comes out of you is an awkward whine of a chuckle. His shoulders shake under the back of your thighs and you know that smug asshole is laughing at you.

“You always look like a queen, mesh’la,” He’s still laughing breathlessly as he slips a third finger inside of your intense warmth, making you painfully arch your back at the delightful stretch of his thick digits, “Sometimes you act like a bratty princess though, especially when it’s just us.”

“Maybe I--” You think he’s ignoring you as he lowers his head and roughly grabs your hips, drawing you forward until you’re about to fall off the shelf before eagerly spreading your thighs wider to get a better look--a better taste--of you, “M-Maybe your attitude rubbed off on me.”

His unforgiving fingers dig into your thighs and you yelp at the punishing gesture, your own fingers curling tightly into his unruly curls when he licks so deep inside of you that it makes you lose your breath. The Mandalorian is good at punishing you in the most pleasurable way, coaxing you to the brink of your orgasm before pulling back and leaving you crying from desperation; it’s something that you simultaneously love and hate, though it’s mostly the former. You try desperately to wrap your thighs around his head, but the esteemed bounty hunter refuses to let you have it your way and tauntingly spreads your legs wider, earning him a loud whine and a painful tug at his hair.

“Din, please!” You cry out when he eases the pressure off of your clit and his fingers slow down, “Please, please--”

He barely lifts his head, but it’s enough to make a tear trickle down your cheek from the loss of his talented mouth, “What’s wrong, princess?” He chuckles when you clench around his fingers upon hearing the new pet name he’s bestowed upon you and you want to slap that smug, dimpled grin off of his stupid stubbly face, “Suddenly you decide to have manners? Is this all I had to do to get you to say please and thank you? Shove my fingers in your wet--”

“Just fuck me already,” You wail, eyes screwed shut as he curls his finger deep inside you and the muscles in your thighs tense as you desperately chase your release, “Please! I need to… I need you to…”

Your voice trails off with a needy cry when he huffs out an amused chuckle against your sensitive skin, “You’re gonna cum in my mouth and then you’re going to thank me for it, princess, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yes, I promise! Just--”

He cuts you off by burying his face against your pussy and you cry from relief when he lets you squeeze your thighs around his head, further muffling the mouthy Mandalorian and his sweet praises. The bounty hunter can be cruel sometimes, but you’ve learned that if you beg or cry hard enough, he’ll almost always give you what you want--what you need--and he always knows how to give it to you. Always eager to please, Din had learned pretty quickly where you liked to be kissed and licked, how hard to press his fingers or thumb to your clit, when you wanted to be fucked hard or when you wanted him to make love to you. Your riduur knew how to make you squirm just by saying sweet praises to you in that low, guttural voice and he knew how to bring you to the brink of pleasure with his mouth alone.

You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you hear--and feel--Din moaning against your cunt and you pry your eyelids open to gaze at your lover.

The sight of him leaves you wrecked and heaving, eyes landing on the thick and achingly hard cock he’s currently fisting in a tight grip, his own eyes closed in bliss. Something about him getting off to the pleasure he’s inflicting upon your trembling body has your cunt clamping down like a tight glove around his fingers and you curl forward to press your hands into his broad shoulders.

“Right there,” You let out a breathless sob when his fingers curl deeply inside of your slick heat, “F-Fuck, right there. Please don’t stop.”

His hand pumps his length faster and more erratically at the sound of the desperation in your voice, pre-cum leaking from the tip when you tighten your thighs around his head and your nails dig into his taut shoulders, leaving red scratches in their wake. Tears are threatening to fall down your cheeks from all the overwhelming sensations and emotions--from the way his own moans and whimpers grow desperate as he continues to taste and lap at your pussy like it’s a tall glass of water and he’s been trekking through a Tatooine desert for weeks on end.

“I’m gonna--”

“Fuck, d-do it, princess,” He finally opens his eyes, though they’re still half-lidded and filled with desire as he observes the way you’re unraveling beneath his mouth and hands. You lose yourself in him and the way he attentively coaxes you closer and closer to your sweet release, your hair standing up pin straight on the back of your neck as the muscles in your thighs grow unbelievably tense and sore, despite your lover being nowhere near done with you for the night.

His thumb swirls the few beads of pre-cum over the head of his cock and down his length, his rich brown eyes never leaving yours, and you’re absolutely done for.

If you weren’t so wrapped up in the way you convulsed around his thick fingers or how sensitive your throbbing clit felt between his lips, you would have been more mindful of how tightly you squeezed your thighs around his head or how hard your nails dragged along his shoulders. You felt like such a greedy little thing as you focused on how good he was making you feel and how easy it was for him to make you cum in his mouth, seeming to care more about your needs than his own as he fervently stroked his hard cock.

“There you go, mesh’la,” He groans when your toes curl so tightly that cramps threaten to numb your feet and your head falls back against the steel wall, mouth agape as your body simultaneously grows numb and burns with absolute bliss. You’re not even aware of how you’re pathetically repeating his name like a desperate prayer--like you’re suffering and he’s the only one that can stop the pain.

You suppose he is the only one that can relieve the intense ache and he has no qualms in doing so, gladly guiding you through it all and offering you sweet praises as tense muscles eventually relax around his head and your hands move up his neck to gently stroke the curls there. Tears are shimmering in your eyes as he easily kisses his way up your stomach, earning a breathless whimper that sounds similar to a chuckle as he rubs his stubbly cheek against your belly button.

Your chest is still heaving when he carefully guides you off the sturdy shelf and you’re grateful for his strong arms as you nearly buckle under the weight of your shaking legs, already feeling sore as he lifts you until your thighs are wrapped around his hips instead. How he has the strength to hold you up after all of that, you have no idea, but you don’t complain when he gracefully carries you to the cot that you used to sleep on before you found yourself crawling into his private quarters more often than you should have.

As he gently lies you down on the uncomfortable surface of the stiff padding, you remember his words from earlier when you had been begging him to let you cum around his fingers--in his mouth.

Din covers your relaxed body with his much larger one and you’re quick to press your lips against his earlobe, making sure not to break your promise from earlier.

“Thank you, my riduur.”

He huffs out something reminiscent of a laugh against the curve of your neck, “Don’t know why you’re thanking me when I haven’t even begun.”

Ner kar’ta= My heart

Aliit ori'shya tal'din= Family is more than blood

Ner riduur= My partner, spouse, husband, wife

Cyar’ika= Darling, sweetheart

Mesh’la= Beautiful

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #my writing #im so sorry if this is shit lol #it's literally all just foreplay #loool oh well

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