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netherfeildren · 7 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter XII : Venus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A/N: I realized shortly after posting chapter 11 that I’d made a small mistake in the timeline I’m intending this to follow. I included a line from Din saying Paz had already tried to take the Darksaber from him and failed, but where we’re at now, chapter 5 of The Book of Boba Fett hasn’t happened just yet. So I’ve gone back and deleted that small detail from the previous chapter, and why am I even telling you this, idk, but if you guy could do me a solid and pretend to forget my fuck up, I’d love you forever for it.

Writing Star Wars is hard

Also, the indomitable @dirtysouvenir has rendered the most gorgeous artwork imaginable of Din and Sithy, and I still can’t quite believe my eyes every time I look at it. Everyone please go show Jonis all the love and praise she deserves.

Anyways… like always, forgive me for the wait. I love you all for being so patient with me. And shout out to chapter four of Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband which served as inspiration for this. You will always be famous to me!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

CHAPTER XII : VENUS

What are we doing here, and why are our hearts invisible?

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

“Just like that, yes. Good girl–keep doing what you’re doing.” His hand slides to circle your wrist, leather and the thick weave of your tunic, the slight shake of your nerves caught between. “Grip it firmly, but squeeze it gently. Yes– yes, good. You’re doing so well.”

You suck in a trembling breath, too hyper aware of the feel of his chest plate brushing against your back, the cap of his left knee gently bumping the back of your own, his arms wrapped in a loose and careful cage around your frame where he’s helping you direct the blaster at the target he’d set up several meters away for practicing. He’s got one of your wrists wrapped in the leather of his fist, the other cupping the underside of your elbow to keep your shaking arms steady.

“I don’t know why I’ve never been very good at this,” you whisper over the sound of the burning desert winds lashing you in the brow. “It’s just never come very easy.”

“That’s alright. That’s why we’re practicing again.” The hand cupping your elbow moves slowly to your waist, all his handling of you these past few days has been so intentional, cautious and patient and aware of himself and you and your reactions. Your heart beats, thumps and thumps hard enough to make you a little dizzy, a little sick. “Keep your right arm firm, but fluid. Try not to lock your elbow, let the recoil move through you steadily.”

He’d covered your hair and face in soft white linen wraps to keep you from being scorched by the sun and sand, and his voice is so deep, head pitched low so that the modulator is vibrating right at the level of your ear, the sounds of him sluicing through the linen to curl around your ear. You shiver again, squeezing your fist too tight around the butt of the blaster. You’d asked him if he’d help you practice just before you’d made planet fall a few hours ago, and now here the two of you are. A few clicks outside of Mos Eisley, he’d found a cluster of sandstacks to land the Crest amidst for a couple hours of target practice—near an area he’d told you is called Beggar’s Canyon.

You’re not sure if it’s just an excuse to have him touch you, but here you are now, in the circle of his arms, shivering with nerves and heat and want. The sun burns, but the places where he grips you burn worse, and your heart rings in your skull.

“Focus your gaze between the eyeline, eventually, it’ll come naturally, your aim, but for now, use the field the blaster sets. Squeeze gentle–” He grips your now healed elbow firmly, anchoring your arm, the hand holding your wrist moves to your waist, securing you in his hold so that when you pull the trigger, the zing of the blaster bolt leaving its chamber moves through your limb, into your chest cavity, electrifying your heart, and his hold is steadying all the way through. He’s there to keep you up, keep you strong, and so it’s almost thoughtless when you do it, a gut instinct or some muscle inside your brain desperate to flex and stretch or come awake because faster than you can blink or think, you take hold of that bolt of plasma with your mind, freezing it midway between where the two of you stand and the target he’d set.

You feel his hands flex around you, but he keeps still and silent, watching, waiting for what you’ll do next. And your heart beats faster and faster, the bright of the sun gleaming and nauseating, refracting off the sand, the plasma, your eyes. The bolt screeches and writhes and defies the laws of nature by your hand, and it does not feel good, but it does feel right.

The first time you’ve really wielded the Force since the night you escaped.

There’s something painful and uncomfortable and familiar about it coming back to you. Your breath goes fast within your chest, the taste of the desert on your tongue and the grit of sand sneaking beneath your clothes, sweaty line of anxiety down your spine, and his steady, calm breaths up against your back every other moment, this power inside of you that’s always been the cause of everything bad and only some things good. It vibrates in everything, moves through all living things, the Force, within you, within him.

“Let it go, cyare. It’s okay if you miss.” You shut your eyes and let it fall away and now it’s not the Force or you or anything else, it’s only him keeping you up against the rest of everything.

The two of you, like grief and the mountain.

“How did you meet this woman again?” You ask for about the third time, seemingly unable to keep your mouth shut and your nerves to yourself.

“She’s been keeping up maintenance on the Crest for a while now. And she helped out with the kid, watched him for me a couple times—I trust her.”

“Peli,” you repeat the name contemplatively, taking in the sight of him as he checks the pre-landing codes, flipping switches and punching toggles a little too roughly. He’s agitated, covered and swathed in it. You know he’s worried about you, the way you’ll feel being around someone else, scared you’re still feeling fragile or tired or weak. And you’re accepting it for now because you are. You are tired and you do feel fragile and you do need taking care of. If only for the time being, if only for a little bit longer. A sort of end feels very near, and you’re still working out what that such end is going to be.

“Peli,” he sighs, hitting the last button and finally swiveling in his chair to face you, and you eye him suspiciously, you know that sigh and head tilt. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not tired?”

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

Hurts. “Fine.”

“Cyar’ika.”

“Din.” Another sigh. Another shake of his head. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes at you beneath that stupid lug of metal he wears on his fat head. But you hope that he’s smiling too, and you give him a soft, small one of your own, twisting your fingers together tightly in your lap. You want to reach out for him, to go to him and sit with him and kiss him again like the other day. But you don’t feel ready again. Again, fragile, tired, a weakness of heart within you that you can’t understand the source of, or you can, but you don’t want to accept it, you want to be able to move on, to get over it, to be like you once were. But that you also know he’ll let you feel for as long as you need to.

“I promise I feel okay, and that I’ll tell you if I don’t.” The target practice had left you tired and awake, and there is something moving inside of you—a recognition of sorts you can’t pinpoint exactly, but which you know is going to show or tell you something about yourself soon, the Force, the things you’d done or the things you’d do. And there’s patience too, a waiting, a readiness to receive whatever this would be without pressure or urgency. You feel entirely strung tight, a knot about to be set loose, entirely at ease, as well. Something strange about the anxiety you carry within yourself, like it doesn’t really matter much anymore and is only waiting for the right moment to be expelled.

He gives a soft grunt and turns back to face the control panel. The rolling golden sands of Tatooine like an ocean before you, and then there in the distance, the littered smattering of sand blighted little buildings that make up the spaceport of Mos Eisley. He directs the Razor Crest towards Hangar three-five, the ship jostling with the lowering of the landing gear.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” You ask nervously, following him down the ladder once he’s eased the ship into the landing bay, fretting over this ordeal of having to meet someone else from his life, a friend, which wasn’t even something you were aware he knew how to have. You hear the heavy thud of his boots against the durasteel, and then his hands are circling your waist and pulling you down the rest of the way, paying no mind to your indignant squawking.

He’d been strange with his touch, as well. As if he couldn’t help himself some moments, overcome by habit and familiarity, and then afraid and cautious in others. And you can’t understand how you feel about this either. Grateful, a sort of soft that makes your eyes smart and your cheeks bleed with heat. He’s so aware of you, so aware of what you might want or need, but then overcome, as well, needing you, wanting you. And you feel so afraid you won’t be able to give him those things—the ones he wants or needs, that you won't be able to find your way back to the way things had been between the two of you before.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, little compassion to be found for your fretting. You stick your tongue out at the back of his head, rolling your eyes and steeling yourself as he lowers the hatch, and a chirpy little voice calls, Mando!

The plank lowers, and lowers, and lowers, and finally, a mess of springy dark curls come into view. The small woman, Peli, claps her hands excitedly and spreads her arms in wide welcome of him, and something in your heart throbs.

A friend, indeed.

“Peli,” he greets her, heavy, swaying gate stomping down the gangplank, voice serious and not all matching her enthusiasm. You roll your eyes at him again as the reverberations of his steps tickle your feet through the soles of your boots.

“Hey, look everyone! It’s Mando,” she says to the chittering droids whirring around her. You follow him slowly, slinking directly behind him so that the breadth of his shoulders conceals you for a second longer before, “And who do we have here? Another unlikely companion?”

He pivots, letting you step into full view and brave shyness, a hand coming up to hover around your waist, urging you forward, but not actually touching you. The sound of your name rings in tune to the thump of your heart through the modulator. Careful, so careful, and it makes you hurt at your own self. Wanting to touch you one moment, unable to stop himself from ripping you into his arms; another, afraid, feeling like he can’t even put a gently motioning hand on your body, and how will you ever fix this? How are you going to ever be able to get the two of you back to where you were?

You take a hurt little step away from him, swallowing the heat in your throat several times before you can force a smile onto your face.

His body shifts and sways towards your retreating one.

But the small woman steps towards you, pit droids spinning and skittering frantically around her, and she claps a work hewn hand on your shoulder. “Let Peli take a good look at you.” Her gaze is cheerful, full of a youthfulness that belies her age and an even more cheerful, gap toothed smile. “Pretty girlfriend, Mando.” She waggles her bushy brows up at him. “Brought me another set of bright eyes, didn’t’cha?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Peli.” Your throat feels humiliatingly tight when she takes your hand in her smaller one, giving it a swift shake, no gentleness about the way she handles you, and there’s something comforting about the forsaking of the kid gloves. Your fracture isn’t obvious for the whole world to see, there’s still normalcy to be found for you.

She looks up at Din as you avoid his burning gaze, laughing scowl on her sunny face. “Who woulda thought you had it in, ya, huh?” She thumps a fist on his chest plate, shaking her head and moves to take a look at the Crest. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Chasing down some elusive bounty? Carbon scoring’s worse than last time.'' She chatters a million miles a minute, pulling out some sort of electric scanner, assessing the old gunship.

“We had a long trip,” he sighs, hands fisted on his hips as he watches her impatiently, turning his gaze back to your face every few moments. You want to bare your teeth at him in a snarl and tell him to stop fucking worrying. You want him to take you into his arms or hold your hand.

“Long trip, sure. That’s what he always says,” she tells you over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes. “Turns out it’s usually a gun fight or something just as idiotic.”

You snicker, enjoying the easy way she handles your Mandalorian’s surliness, grateful for the cheerful buffer she provides between your own internal angst and his overzealous worrying. “It was a long trip this time, I swear. We’re coming from the Core,” he grumbles, and the two of you follow her while she inspects the damage on the ship, and in a moment of bravery or desperation for normalcy or closeness or just him, you reach up to grip two of his thick fingers in your fist. His hand immediately adjusts and curves to wrap around yours, intertwining your fingers and taking you securely in his grip. You feel him turn to look down at you questioningly, but you refuse to look back. This is normal, this is how it should be, this is what feels right even if you need the barrier of his gloves to feel like you can breathe.

“The Core! Long way’s.” Hmm, she muses as she goes. “Got a fuel leak.” Again. He huffs. “Taking a vacation now?” She turns back with another smarmy smirk.

“Something like that.”

“Nice little honeymoon?” She teases. “I could use one of those myself.” She scans something else, and the pit droids chatter and chirp around her, almost full her height, she’s so small.

“Peli–” he grumbles. Your grumpy, shy boy; you wonder if he ever blushes under that thing, squeezing his hand in yours as tight as you can.

“Yeah, yeah. No droids, I know. When are you gonna get over that nonsense, huh Mando? It’s about time, you know!” She bends to inspect something closer near the landing gear, covered in carbon scoring here too, examines her scanner again, then clips it back to her utility belt. “Alright, here’s the deal–” But he cuts her off, pivoting while pulling his blaster in one fluid motion to shoot at a poor little droid that's gotten too close. “Hey! Hey! What’ve I said before? You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” She shouts.

“Din–” you scold, gripping the thick of his arm to pull the weapon down.

“What’ve I told you?” He barks.

“No droids. No droids. Blah, blah. You have got to get over that! I’m tryn’a make a deal with you here, ya womp rat.”

He jerks aggressively towards another little droid that wanders too close, sending it skittering away in terror, and you pinch his arm beneath the thick duraweave, frowning up at him, be nice, when he looks down at you, giving him a jut of your eyebrow and thrusting your chin at Peli. He groans, cursing low and grumpy in Mando’a. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“If you let them work on the Crest–” She jerks her chin at the little pit droids quivering behind the crates strewn about the hangar in abject terror of the mean Mandalorian.

“No,” he cuts her off, stubbornness in every line of his frame.

“Din!” You scold again, bumping your hip into his.

“Come on, Mando! I’ll charge you half price–”

“Deal,” he cuts her off again immediately, the cheapskate.

“Ha!” She hoots and claps loudly. “Droids! Get to work on this lovely man’s ship. Lemme see the cash.” She holds out a grubby palm, wiggling her fingers. “He’s pretty easy, you ever notice that?” She says to you conspiratorially.

“Constantly,” you can’t help the laugh in your voice. Your first laugh in what seems like years.

“Loose knickered is what they used to call it back in my day.” And you have to turn your face into his arm to muffle your cackling, listening to him start up another string of curses beneath the helmet.

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that before, ever,” he mutters sullenly.

“Well, you’re young.”

“Not that young,” you provide helpfully, big cheesy smile that feels slightly unnatural and rusted spreading across your face.

“Whoopee, Mando! I like this one! You really do know how to pick ‘em.” She claps him roughly on the shoulder, her little paw slapping loudly against his pauldron. “Anyway, I’ve got somewhere to be for the next couple of days, you see. I’m dating that Jawa again—the one I’d told you about,” she announces, proud as anything, big smile across her leathery face.

“A Jawa?” You repeat, making sure you heard right.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, bright eyes. They’re quite furry… very furry, but…” She clicks her teeth together, “You know…” Grins.

You look up at Din, squeezing his arm in your grip. “Guess I gotta try it.” You’re pretty sure you hear him grumble something to the effect of over my dead body, before he’s agreeing to Peli’s deal with a clap and a shake, and the promise of two hundred and fifty Imperial credits and absolutely no harm done to her droids while she’s gone and they work on the Crest.

“Treadwell, get in there!” She shouts, and the little pit droid chirps fretfully, trembling behind an R5 unit. “You can’t say no, you’re a droid. Oh, he’s not going to shoot you. Stop being a coward! What is this, a democracy all of a sudden?” Losing the fight, the droid wheels forward to get to work. “Yeah, thought so.” She turns back to you and Din. “You two can stay here, look after the shop while I’m gone? It’ll only be a few days.”

“We have some resupplying to do, but we’ll stay until you’re back,” he promises.

“And you’re not going to shoot my droids?”

“And I’m not going to shoot your droids,” he agrees, but later, you catch the too rough nudge he gives one of the little droids with his boot when he thinks no one’s watching. This man and his droid complex, you roll your eyes.

“How’s the N-1 keeping up?” He asks as she’s packing up to go.

“Just how you left her. That honey’s faster than a fathier. You should take her out while you’re here, give that baby a spin. Oh! And I added that turbonic venturi power assimilator I’d mentioned before. Remember? S’how I reconnected with my Jawa,” she nudges you with a wink. “You’re gonna be the fastest ship on the Outer Rim.”

“You got a new ship?” You ask curiously.

“Just a side project we took up while I had some spare time.” But the way he says it is a little strange, making you pause to look up and try to read the blank face of his helmet. Ah, and he smooths that same hovering hand from before along the line of your spine, an attempt to soothe or quell your curiosity without actually giving you the gift of his touch.

Peli leaves a few hours later, and she really does have a Jawa lover. The little critter comes to collect her right before the suns set, off to catch the sandcrawler before it journeys off into the desert, leaving you alone with only Din and the little pit droids for company.

And suddenly, that shyness from earlier is back for some reason. The distraction of travel and the buzz of hyperspace lost to the calm silence of the quiet spaceport as the suns set over the horizon and night settles in, cool winds coming in on the sand gusts from deep in the desert. After hours of work, Din posing as the menacing overlord barking orders and complaints, intruding on their work when it isn’t up to his ridiculous standards, the droids finish up for the night, and Din engages the hangar security system, and then the ship’s, locking the two of you in safely for the night.

“Dinner?” He asks as he moves slowly around the hull, pulling the cloak from his shoulders, a river of sand sluicing in a rain sheet onto the steel floor. The sound of it has a shiver moving through you as you lower yourself to the floor, crossing your legs beneath you at the edge of your makeshift bed. You desperately want to crawl between the covers without a shower and find the peace of evasion through sleep, secure in the knowledge that he won’t follow you into bed. He’d refused since you’d reunited, even though you’d invited him several times to share the much more comfortable pile of blankets than what you know his pilot’s chair or bunk provide. He’d not taken you up on the offer yet, and right now, fluttering heart and hot eyes and sweating nape, you’re glad for it.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you—or you do. You’re overwhelmed with want and fear, of him, of his touch, of having lost what the two of you had before. And as you watch him start to pull his armor from his body, first one pauldron, then a vambrace, then a thigh guard, no sense of congruity to the pattern with which he divests himself of his Creed, it’s suddenly like he’s standing right in front of you, and yet you miss him anyway. Miss him in a way that makes you sick and devastated.

You must make some sort of sound, a funny look on your face or a change in your breathing because he turns suddenly, a too worried, “What’s wrong?” on his tongue.

“Nothing.” You look up at him from your spot on the ground, head falling back on your neck, and you can feel the wet of your eyes, trying to force yourself not to blink so that they won’t fall—the tears. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He comes to a slow crouch before you, long legs folding down, down. “What is it? Tell me.” Half missing his armor as he poses now, it’s like he’s half him, half yours, half only-man, half Mandalorian. A little bit like what you feel yourself; half, half, half.

Pulling one glove from his hand, he lifts it, palm spread towards you, showing you his intention before he carefully cups the side of your face; thumb at your pulse, pointer and middle fingers giving your temple a soft pressure, pinky poised at the bridge of your nose. Your lashes brush against his index every time you blink, and his skin is smooth and rough at the same time, and warm—sun-hearted man.

You press your face harder into his palm, letting him support the weight of your head, nuzzling against the rough of his calluses, blaster blister scratchy against your carotid, and heat pulses all through you from the crown of your head, sliding down the length of your, still yet, too long hair, the back of your neck, your chest, pooling to settle deep in the pit of your belly.

And yet there’s something missing or different or off, like you feel empty but too full of trepidation to conjure up that old desire you’d always had, that need for him to fill, fill, fill you. Like the heat is there, but it’s remembered, not necessarily present. It all makes you want to cry and scream and go to sleep.

The truth, and plainly: you’re terrified of anything that might hurt, can’t fathom the idea of it.

Your heart beats in your throat, you taste it on your tongue, and it mixes with the sad when you say: “Do you remember when we were on Kashyyyk—when we sparred?”

“I remember,” he says, voice deep and low—through the modulator. You hate his helmet. You wish you could get beneath. You wish you were brave enough. The feeling of it coming on sudden and unexpected, thought, bitter and foul and not something you’d necessarily felt before, certainly not so viciously. It’s just that you hate that all this has happened—you want to feel the press of his lips at the crown of your head and the wash of his breath like heat moving through your hair—that you are not in the same place you once were, that you’re too afraid to move forward.

“When we switched weapons—”

He hums: “Yes.”

“It was so green there.” You turn your face further into him so that you’re speaking into his palm now, words pooling there in the cup of it like a well of truths and fears.

“It was.” The pointer and index stroke your temple, press once, twice, thrice—harder on the latter. It feels good, it feels real and reminding. He lets a heavy silence pass for a moment, he’s thinking of something, contemplating a push. “Do you remember—” He passes a swallow you can hear the thickness of, “Do you remember how I had you in the dirt—like a fucking animal? How you let me do whatever I wanted, however I wanted.” He gives the hardest press he’s given yet, at your temple, you think you feel the press against your brain, and you open your mouth to let the edge of your teeth dig hard into the meat of his palm. He growls a rough sound, a hungry sound, a sound like one he’d have made when he had you in the dirt like a fucking animal.

You drag your teeth along the hill of his palm, closing your mouth at the end. You don’t give him the wet of your tongue, you don’t feel ready to taste his skin like that just yet—an assimilation of violence.

“Yes,” you finally say, realizing that he understands what you were thinking without having to say it, or knowing how to, that you’re full of memories of past desires and how badly you want them back and how out of reach that all feels, but also, that suddenly now, in a single blink, the heat in your belly isn’t remembered, but present, alive, awake. That you’re cunt clenches once, twice, thrice around nothing—harder, hungrier on the latter. That you’re wet for him. “I remember.”

“Good. I remember every single thing we’ve ever done.” You roll your face in his palm so that you can look up at him now, feeling something like brave. “Every word, every breath, I remember all of it. Alright?”

“Alright,” you say quietly.

“And if you need me to help you remember too, then I will.”

“Alright.” And then: “What if I can’t, though?... What if we can’t ever have that again? What if I can’t remember? What if I can never give you that again?” A tear slides over the bridge of your nose, and now it’s not only truths and fears cupped in the palm of his hand but the saltwater of grief too.

“Then we’ll find something new. A new way, a different way. We’ll do it however you want now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, cyar’ika.” It’s very much a promise, a new Creed being established here.

“Okay.”

He nods, “Okay.”

The water is warm verging on hot verging on scalding. It feels incredible slithering over your tired and sore muscles, the ligatures in your arms still trembling from the blaster practice earlier today, from your overwhelm of emotions.

You hate that you’re not good at it, that the only weapon that seems to become you is a lightsaber.

The suds of his earthy smelling soap slide through your hair, slipping down your spine, over your ass and along your legs to pool around your feet and disappear down the drain. You shiver once, as though letting something fall away as you slide your hand down, over the swell of your belly, to cup the palmful of your cunt, wedging your hand between your thighs. You pet slowly at the wet curls there, realizing some of it is also the sticky slick of your desire. You were right, you’re wet for him and your clit pulses, slightly swollen and wanting. Your body is awake and hungry for him for the first time in what feels like eons.

You explore slowly, your cunt slightly trembling at the feeling of being prodded and touched for the first time in you can’t remember how long. Moaning softly, you pull your fingers from between your legs, hands sliding up now to cup the weights of your breasts in each palm and squeeze tightly. Oh, you want him, you want him, you’re afraid. Your head falls back on a thump against the fresher wall, loud enough that you hear his lurking voice through the door, you okay in there? And instead of being annoyed at his overbearing caution, his hovering, you shiver again, something coming back to you now.

Your desire.

You shut the water off, grabbing one of the soft linens he’d slung over the warm pipe for you to wrap yourself in. He knocks a knuckle against the wobbly little door, “Cyar’ika?”

Looking at yourself in front of the steamy mirror, too long, naiad hair, bright, strange eyes, you want him, you want him, you want to feel alive, awake, anything. You can’t deny your shortcomings, fears, whatever they might be called, but there is yet still a soft place inside of you that they’d not snuffed out, that wants Din still.

You turn to slide the fresher door open just as he’s readying to knock again.

He’d showered before you, after he’d fed you your soup and your disgusting fake bread he’d promised he’d find a real substitution for soon enough, and you’d needed a moment alone to sit in your grime and silence, digest your feelings. He’s clad now in one of his soft, dark undershirts, his flight pants and the helmet, opposite your towel and water dewed skin, steaming from the hot fresher.

You watch a swallow pass through his throat, words caught, slow and heavy. He clears it once, twice, tilts his head down to take in the state of you, before he says, “You alright?”

You nod, wide eyed awake. He’s standing right in front of you and you miss him and you want to shock him wide eyed awake too. “The water was too hot. I got dizzy,” you lie, swaying towards him a little, letting your lashes flutter dramatically.

Not all the way, but enough, just a little, as much as you can bear, that’s what you want from him right now.

His hands come up to grip the sides of your arms immediately, his bare hands, soaking up the wet of your skin. He pulls you into himself, pressing you carefully against his chest, and you shiver and shake against him, teeth rattling with a sound entirely lacking temperance. Your blood feels like it’s boiling, there’s desire alive and writhing in your tummy, and you squeeze your thighs together tightly, shifting from one foot to another while you drip a puddle onto the cold floor.

“Come here, sit down,” he murmurs, gently moving you to your bed, easing you down onto it slowly. “You need to take it easy,” he clucks over you, gripping your elbow to let you down carefully, keeping his hands on your bare skin until the last moment. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re still tired, you’re still recovering. And you never listen. You have to listen to me when I’m trying to take care of you. You don’t eat enough, and I know your shoulder still hurts, little liar. Your elbow is barely better, and I saw you making strange faces when you were walking up the plank the other day. Your hip hurts doesn't it? Or your knee, something. No, don’t answer. I know you’ll just say no.” He talks and talks and talks, and you love him and you think that—

There’s a name for this…

He’d told you he loved you and he’d not said it again, neither had you, it felt too huge a thing to talk about again just yet while there was still so much left to discuss and bridge, but what does it matter if your body sings or screams in pain when you have the love of this beskar titan? What could you care for all the rest of everything?

Yes, Din. Yes, Din. Whatever you say, Din, as he huffs and puffs and arranges you, brings another pillow and blanket from the bunk, his only one in there, not that he cares, lovely man.

And it’s not only that you feel like you need to give him the things he wants or needs, because of course you do. You love him, you need to be able to give him things, everything, you want to be able to give him the whole galaxy. But it’s also that you want to. That to give him what he desires is to feed yourself, to live together, to be together, to give each other the things you need to stay alive.

You let yourself fall back onto the soft blankets slowly, this nest where you’ve always felt so safe and so protected and so loved, even when neither of you knew it was love that was holding you here. And you watch him for a few anxious moments as he pulls the covers this way and that, tucking them here and there, trying to avoid looking at the bare expanse of your dew damp legs. But then, taking hold of his hand, you still his nervous movements, and he finally looks up at your face, letting go of his fretting, taking hold of the bravery in the palm of your hand.

Shy—but brave. Brave—and wanting.

“We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?” You want to tell him you love him again, but there’s something slightly terrifying, gloriously intimate and fragile about the words.

“Always.”

“And we’ll keep each other alive?” Maker, I hope we keep each other alive.

“Yes.”

You take hold of the edge of the linen covering you, revealing your naked body to him slowly, exposing your soft underbelly. You hear his breath hitch, exhale on a groan that sounds like dying. His grip on your hand goes tight to the point of bone crushing pain for one brief, brief moment before he remembers himself and gentles again. You shiver at the pain, belly swooping and quivering with fear and nausea and lust.

You wish you could see his eyes, his face, his want.

“You—” he stutters, swallows, “You don’t have to, my love.” My love. He doesn’t need to say it out loud again now with teeth and tongue, he says it in all the things he does.

“You have to know that I want you so much. That I want you more than anything, Din.”

“I do know,” he says immediately. “I’ve never doubted that.”

“I want to show you.”

“You don’t have to. I know—” His other hand comes up to grip yours with both of his, caging your limb within the strength of his fists—to keep himself from touching you anywhere else, you think. But you can feel the intensity of his gaze along your skin, over your bare breasts, quivering with your hitching breaths, water droplets translating the frantic beat of your heart in their trembling on the surface of your skin. The line of your belly, the slope downward to the soft place between your thighs.

He’d seen the scarring on your hand, it was inevitable as much as you’d wished you could hide the deformity they’d left. As much as you wish you could’ve kept it from him, held an illusion for the rest of your lives together to spare him from the reminder of the things that’d been done, happened, chosen. But now… now he is to be subjected to the whole truth of it. Scars like cobwebs, strangely shimmering in silver lights beneath the surface of your skin—they’d been clever and ingenious in their torture—covering the whole circumference of your left hand up to your elbow. But also, from the lowest point of your last rib, over your right hip, traversing lower down the contours of your skin to wrap around the uppermost swell of your thigh.

They’d left their mark like they’d intended, and it wasn't something you could ever hide from him, the reality of what’d been done, what you’d chosen. It was obvious in everything, etched into your skin, a chasm in the still present distance between the two of you.

You feel like a bruise; tender, vulnerable, incongruously desperate to press on it harder and feel that dull throb, dark and ugly and on display.

His hands go tight around yours again for a moment, before he’s snatching them back to grip his bent knee, white knuckled, silent anger on display when his eyes reach the scarring.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smoothing a hand over your hip down to your thigh to grip yourself there, digging your fingertips lightly into the plush softness. Your skin vibrates. “It doesn't hurt now.”

“What did they do?” His voice is like gravel, restrained fire-full fury.

“They wanted to see what it’d take to leave a mark. They figured it out.” The helmet turns away sharply, a short, brutal curse spit from his mouth. The tongue of his mother, beautiful despite his violence.

“It’s okay, Din.” You take hold of your thigh, pulling it up and apart, spreading yourself for him. Brave, wanting heart, be brave. He turns back immediately. “I want you to see how much I want you,” you whisper. “How much I still need you.”

You let your fingertips flutter lightly over your swollen, needy sex, and you can hear the obscene, sucking sound of your wet lips spreading apart when you part your legs wide enough for your sex to bloom. Cunt hungry and weeping for him.

Fuck, he spits, leaning closer, and his hand snaps forward to grip your ankle all the way around, pulling your foot up onto the uncompromising muscle of his thigh—your only point of contact.

“Show me, cyar’ika. Show me how much that pretty cunt missed me,” he growls.

You start slow, wide eyes fixed on the dark tee of his vizor, fingertips swirling around your clit slowly, it pulses and throbs and beats to the rhythm you can feel his own heart beating at within his own chest. But you pet it slowly, teasing both of you, and then feel lower down to the clenching mouth of your cunt—fuck, he spits again—slicking your fingers in your sticky wet. You start to rock your hips against the flat of your hand, the sound of your cunt, loud in the quiet hull, nothing to interrupt but the too desperate sound of your mutual panting. His fingers around your ankle are so tight they’ll leave a sore spot, and you can't think of the later hurt now, afraid it'll scare you out of this, all you can focus on is the beat of your cunt, the way it cries for him.

You swirl your fingertips at your opening, again, again, “Put them inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” And it’s a demand.

You start with one, slow and tentative, a little, shocked gasp as you probe shallowly within the tight, little hole. Then further, wiggling inside until you’re impaling yourself with your own small finger, the first thing inside of you in so long, and suddenly, you wish it was him. Your eyes fill with tears at the thought, spilling over at the wish that he could’ve been the first thing inside of you after all this time, but the reality that you’re just not ready for it yet. The salted proof of your inevitable shortcomings slide back along your cheeks to drip into your ears.

“Another,” he demands. “Oh, it sounds so pretty, little one. Give it another.” You pull your single finger out, sucking, wet-cunt sound that he groans in tune with, to press another one in, mewling at the pinch and stretch of it, the slick slide. Yes, just like that. You’re doing so well, he says, a mirror of his earlier words to you today during target practice. “Roll your hips, ride your hand.” You hitch another sob, “Don’t fucking cry,” he grits, pressing your heel hard into the meat of his thigh. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re going to come for me, you’re going to let me see it.” He spreads his thighs wider in his kneeling crouch, pushing his hips forward into nothing, drawing your gaze to the heavy bulge behind the plaquette of his flight pants. He’s so hard.

You crook your fingers inside yourself, hill of your palm against the swell of your engorged clit, fingertips against the spongey ridge at the front of your cunt, rolling your hips faster, chasing the orgasm you need to give him. Your foot feels numb in his grip, your cunt, on fire, so tight it hurts. Your belly hitches and heaves, open mouth gasping and you cry his name, moaning and writhing wantonly, your stomach slick and glistening again with sweat now instead of water. One of your palms reaches up to take hold of your breast, nipple caught between your fingers, squeezing tight, tight, tight. And suddenly he’s surging forward, letting go of your ankle to lean over you and rip his pants open, freeing his furious erection. The tip is red-purple and swollen fat, drooling a thick string of sloppy, white precum, and he wraps one massive fist around the angry thing. Din, Din, Din. He beats at his cock furiously, the sound of your name, the slick thwack, thwack, thwack of it sends you spilling into your orgasm, belly pulling tight, cunt twisting even tighter.

“Fuck, fucking come—fucking come,” he snarls as he twists his fist cruelly around the head and the thick white viscosity of his semen starts to spill from the fat head, bubbling up and over his fist and between his fingers, splattering heavy and hot onto your spasming cunt, coating your fingers so that you’re pushing the thick of his come into yourself, slicking you further. “Yes, yes, yes, like that. Let me fucking see it…Look at what you do to me.” And there's so much furious want in his voice, and he’s so big, long and thick, and you know it’s going to hurt when he puts it inside of you for the first time again—you remember how it hurt before, how you loved it—and you’re afraid you’re not going to be able to handle any sort of pain ever again, not even the sort you’d been so hungry for before.

But your womb pulls tight, pulses and throbs, and suddenly your two skinny fingers arent enough, you want the thick heft of his cock fucking hard and fast and deep inside of you, punching at the deepest spot within you.

His orgasm ends on a fierce groan, panting, thick chest heaving, his head hangs low between his shoulders. You pull your shaking fingers from your clenching hole, and he gives a few last lazy strokes, squeezing the last drops of come from the slick tip to splatter against your pussy. “I fucking missed this—your cunt covered in me.” His dripping cock bobs so close, and you have the sudden insane thought of him just shoving it in, holding you down prone and fucking all of his spend into your sloppy cunt, forcing you to take it and be his again. “I can’t wait to eat it. I can’t wait to fill it with my come again and eat it out of you.” There’s a part of you that might want it, that might wish for it.

“Maker, Din…” you moan, rubbing the thick semen into your overstimulated clit, your mound, up the curve of your belly, slicking yourself in him.

If you can’t have his touch, this is enough, and you bring your sticky, soaking fingers up to your mouth, sucking the come from them. He groans, not fair, sitting back on his knees, spent cock hanging obscenely from his open pants, wet and glistening. He reaches behind his head to tug his shirt up and off, leaving his sweaty chest bare and gleaming. Your eyes flutter shut, cupping your cunt in the palm of your hand, covering the slick curve of it, and you arch your back, spreading your thighs further, putting yourself on display for him.

“Gorgeous, cyar’ika,” he says between pants. “So pretty, my love.” He reaches down to squeeze his half hard cock once more. “I can be patient for you, I promise. You’re so worth it.”

He lays beside you in the dark, stretched out long and entirely clothed, but here with you, forced and convinced to share your bed with a line of pillows as a protective moat between the two of you at his own insistence.

You’re on your side, hands folded beneath your smushed cheek, wide eyes searching fruitlessly for the shape of him in the pitch dark. You want to say something else. You want to tell him you love him again, to hear the words fall from your tongue.

“What are you thinking?” He asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” You hum a barely breathed laugh. And then, “I know you’re scared or regretful or worried that we’ll not get back to where we were,” he reads you.

“Yes.”

There’s a name for this…

He sighs long, goes quiet for longer, and then finally: “What’s happened’s happened, which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the galaxy.”

“Fate?” You muse, a little unbelieving.

Dark red—

“Call it what you want. We met, we separated…you were—gone. We waited. Now we’re here again. It’s meaningful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You believe in this—fate?” I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you.

“Call it what you want, but yes.”

—String.

There’s something about this that you need to consider, chew on. The fact that you’d felt, all your life, cursed to know how a thing would happen, be, end, always. Something like fate, perhaps, the whisper of it making a home for itself within the shell of your ear, and now the truth that he too believes in this thing you’ve always lived with. Destiny, what have you—you believe in the same things, you believe in each other.

“Will you hold my hand?”

He turns over, reaching to twine his fingers through yours; large, rough palm against small, soft palm. You want to tell him you love him again, you want to hear the words for him, but they feel trapped, tender, timid.

You’d always thought your destiny fixed, poised, on the tip of your tongue. A thing was what it was birthed unto the galaxy in perpetuity, and no amount of desire could absolve you of its sunken teeth. But this—this desire is like the creation of myth, that dark red thread that goes by the name of fate being pulled taught, humming in accord with a frequency heard only by the two of you.

Now: “Will you kiss me?” A beat of silence, his fingers around yours going tight, tight.

“Come here,” his voice blends with the darkness, and tugging you into himself, protective border between your bodies and his hand around your jaw, he slips a kiss onto your tongue. His mouth holds the hot recollection of being alive; the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the taste, your fingers weaving through his hair, your names sounding together, a pair because they belong on the same breath.

You pull back, and it’s only a small brevity, but it’s enough, and that confusion from earlier, that shiver of letting something go or taking it back into yourself, settles.

You’re afraid or regretful or both, yes, sure. You also find yourself to be, suddenly, forgiving, full of empathy. You won’t be able to have him unless you take possession of yourself first, and on the tail end of a comet breaking across the sky: I love him, but I must also love myself. He deserves someone who loves themself, but more than that, I deserve it too. To be able to give him the things he wants and needs: I deserve to be in love with myself.

You let the Tartarian memory become nothing.

Love manifests itself primarily in forgiveness.

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burnwater13 · 1 year

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Moff Gideon! Grogu was so tired to thinking about Moff Gideon. He didn’t like how smug the human was. How ‘Know it all-ish’ he acted. How prone to tantrums he was. Uff. Couldn’t that guy just go away?

Grogu was pretty sure that the Mandalorian felt the same way about the former war lord. Former because the Empire was over and done with. No more Emperor. No more Vader. No more Sith. So why did this guy even exist? Why wasn’t he hiding somewhere? Why hadn’t the New Republic taken care of him yet? It was so annoying to have lots of questions and no answers.

When Grogu felt frustrated like that there was just one thing to do. Go fishing. That’s right. When Grogu got frustrated with everything and everyone he would get his fishing pole, his creel, his bait box, and his lures and his fishing hat and take the long walk to a suitable body of water. Some places that walk had been more of a trudge. On Tatooine it had been impossible until he met Fennec Shand and Daimyo Fett.

Grogu was having one of those frustrating days, having just heard that Moff Gideon had been spotted in the Outer Rim doing war lord things again. Din Djarin had just brought them to Tatooine to visit Boba Fett to check on how Marshal Vanth was doing with his rehab and suddenly had to go off to fix the ‘Gideon problem once and for all’. This time, instead of bringing Grogu with him to learn more about bounty hunting, he’d asked Fennec and the Daimyo to host Grogu for a couple of days.

Now you know why Grogu was having a frustrating day! His dad was headed off to danger without him and that just didn’t seem right. He was very annoyed with Din, but since he was already gone there was no way to convey it to him directly. Instead he stomped around the palace until the Daimyo asked him what was wrong. Grogu tried to explain how he was feeling as succinctly as possible, when Fennec appeared out of no where.

“Boss, the kid’s mad at his dad. He thinks he should be with him risking his neck on dealing with the Moff. I think he needs to go fishing and burn off some of that energy.”

“Fishing? On Tatooine, Fennec?” Boba Fett had asked. He seemed pretty surprised at the idea.

Grogu was surprised that Fennec understood exactly what he needed. Did his dad blab to her about his passion for fishing?

“We can take him out to the Pika Oasis. Vanth needs to get some exercise. He can come with us. He likes the kid.” Fennec replied with ease. Huh? Was she just looking for a way to get out of the palace and do something fun for a change?

“Very well, Fennec. Let the MajorDomo know. We’ll leave at once and take the barge. We do still have a barge?” Boba asked to thin air. Fennec was already gone.

How did she do that? Grogu didn’t know. No one knew. He shrugged at the Daimyo who returned the shrug. That was comforting.

The next thing he knew, Cobb Vanth was scooping him up with his left arm.

“I heard you wanted to go fishin’. Sounds good to me. Didn’t know there was an Oasis on Tatooine and I’ve been livin’ here my whole life.” The marshal grinned at him. Grogu grinned at Cobb Vanth. He was grateful that the marshal had been saved by Daimyo Fett.

“Hey, that wouldn’t have happened if my operatives hadn’t learned about as soon as they did. Okay, kid, Vanth, let’s go.”

Fennec was back just like that and off they went. Grogu could feel the waves of relaxation rolling over him and dragging the frustration he’d been feeling away. It was a good feeling.

“So who taught you to fish, little one?” Boba Fett asked as he put bait on his own hook, once they were settled at the Oasis.

“Forget about him Boss, who taught you to fish? You’ve been here for as long as I’ve known you.” Fennec asked, incredulously.

“I did have a life before I met you Fennec. I grew up on a water world. I went fishing everyday with my father. It was very nice.”

Grogu smiled at that and baited his own line and cast it very effectively into the Oasis, while the rest of them watched. This was great. If he couldn’t spend time with his dad, at least he could spend time with his friends and plan their next father-son outing. Grogu bet that Din Djarin would love fishing. Who wouldn’t?

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jedijesi · 3 years

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A Mandalorian Halloween

Din Djarin x f!reader

Masterlist

Warnings: Angsty Din, Fluff, Jealous Din, spicy moment😏 she/her pronouns

Summary: You and Grogu want to go all for Halloween, but Din is too stubborn to enjoy the holiday.

Word Count: 3,400+

A/N: HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Finished this at 4am! Im so excited for you all to read this! I’ve had this idea in my mind all month! Anyway, I’m going to the Nightmare Before Christmas Concert today! What are u guys up to?!!! Ok, enjoy!

“He’s finally asleep.” You gave a sigh of relief with a paltry smile.

“Thanks for doing that. I’ve been so exhausted lately.”

“Well,” You take a seat in the co-pilot’s chair, wrapping your arms around your legs like a child. “you better rest up and regain your energy for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah! The big night!” The beskar helmet continues to stare at you without a word. “Halloween, Din.” You shake your head at the forgetful man.

“Ugh.” Din rolls his eyes, swiveling his chair to look at the stars again. “We’re not doing that.”

“Why not?” You pout. “Grogu and I already have outfits ready.”

“No.” He says, unfathomed.

“Please, Din? We do the same shit every day. We deserve some fun. Plus, it’ll be the kid's first Halloween.”

The Mandalorian continues to stare out towards the stars. “No. It’s not happening, so drop it.” He snaps.

Your hopeful face falls at his sudden tone; a tone he’s never used with you before. “Oh… okay. I’m- I'm sorry to overstep. I should go get some sleep now. Bye, Din.” Quickly, you exit the cockpit, trying your best to avoid any further conversation with Din.

What you didn’t see during your rush out of the room was Din’s demeanor. It took everything in him not to chase you out of the room and put that gleaming smile of yours back on your face, but he was far too stubborn to let some silly crush make him so vulnerable. He was a warrior, a mandalorian, The Mandalorian. Things such as feelings shouldn’t occupy his mind when his responsibility it’s to keep you and his kid safe. Yet, when The Mandalorian closes his eyes, he continues to dream about your lips against his and a life he could never obtain.

. . . . .

“Time to wake up, we’re here.” The deep, booming voice shakes you and Grogu awake.

“Oh, wow, already?.” You yawn, pulling the baby snuggled up into your side closer. “You hear that kid? We're going to see everyone!”

The sleepy baby, suddenly wide awake and as excited as ever. Din smiles under his helmet as he watches you and Grogu coo and makes faces of excitement at each other.

“Alright, that’s enough. Go get ready, they’re waiting.”

Taking Grogu into your arms, you shimmy yourself out of the compartment and into the hull while Din waits in the cockpit. As you change Grogu, he looks over and points at the crate behind you. “Hmm?” It’s your crate. “Oh… I’m sorry kid, but we’re not dressing up. Your dad is interested in watching us eating junk and looking crazy.”

Grogu coos, expressing his dissatisfaction with his grump of a father.

. . . . .

“Mando!” Karga’s voice echoes through the bar, standing up with his arms open to greet the three of you.

In typical Mandalorian fashion, Din doesn't make a move. You and Grogu, on the other hand, squeal and run to embrace Karga. “It's been too long, Karga!”

“How dare you, Mando; keeping my two favorite people away from me!”

Din tries his best not to smile under his beskar helmet as he watches the three of you giggle. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He walks over to the table, greeting everyone with a nod.

“Good to see you again, Mando.” Boba nods back.

“You guys didn’t dress up?” Fennec asks as Karga relinquishes the baby to her.

“Oh… no.” You say, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Why not?” Bo-Katan asks in her painted armor to simulate some sort of Sith.

You look down at your twiddling fingers before looking to Din for some sort of answer. Unfortunately, he left you to fend for yourself. “You know…” You shrug. “Just seemed a little silly to get all dressed up for one night.”

The group nods, not wanting to press you for more questions as you stand there, clearly uncomfortable.

“Well, let’s eat!” Karga cheers, shifting the mood.

You place Grogu in a high chair at the head of the table before taking your seat next to him and Fennec. It surprises you how big Din is as he sits down across from you. His broad shoulders take up most of the space around him. You realize you’ve been staring too long when Din’s helmet tilts to question your gaze. Quickly, you shake your head and draw your attention to the laughter coming from the other side of the table.

“You guys going trick or treating?” Fennec asks you.

“Hmm? Oh… I don’t think so.”

“What! You guys aren’t dressing up, and you aren’t trick-or-treating? It’s the baby’s first Halloween!”

“We might,” Din interjects.

“We might?” Your question.

“M-maybe.”

“You guys should! The whole town has gone all out!” Karga joins the conversation. “I made sure of it.” He sends Grogu a wink, prompting the baby to coo in excitement.

As much as you’d love to get excited and run back to the ship to change, you knew this wasn’t what Din wanted.

“Din,” The visor turns to look at you. “Can I talk to you?” You nod your head to the privacy of the outside.

He nods before standing to follow you out. “What’s wrong?” He asks, pulling you into the alley.

“I- I don’t know.” You shrug. “I just don't want you to be uncomfortable. I understand you have some particular feelings about Halloween, and I don’t want to push you. I shouldn’t have assumed you celebrated Halloween.”

Din sighs, turning to look down at the decorated street. The setting sun, triggering the orange lights to flicker on. Children running up and down the streets laughing in their handmade costumes. “I used to love Halloween.” He sighs. “My parents and I used to make our costumes together every year. I dressed as a clone trooper almost every year.” A chuckle escapes him, remembering his once innocent childhood.

You giggle, picturing a small Din in a makeshift clone trooper costume painted by him. “Wow, you've always loved helmets, huh?”

Din shrugs, “I guess so.” He turns back to face you, admiring how the orange lighting casts a golden glow on your skin. “I haven't celebrated Halloween since they… you know.”

You reciprocate Din’s vulnerability by bravely taking his hand into yours. “I’m sorry, Din.”

“It’s fine, you didn't know. It was just a fond memory I had with my family… but I guess that's over.”

“It doesn't have to be over, though. You could still make memories with your new family.” You smile sympathetically.

Din could feel his heart clench. Not only because you looked gorgeous, but the fact that you were right, he could make those memories with his son… and you.

“Go get, Grogu.”

Your eyebrow quirks. “Hmm? Why?”

“Take him back to the ship to get dressed. I'll meet you back here in 30 minutes.”

You beam and hop up onto your toes. “Thank you, Din!” You squeal before placing a kiss to where his cheek would be.

. . . . .

While you and Grogu were busy getting dressed in the ship, Din hesitantly sought out the help of Boba and Fennec.

“I'm not dressing as a kriffing Jawa!”

“Well then, I'm all out of ideas!”

“Enough bickering, boys!” Fennec walks over to them with a handful of items. “I found the perfect costume.” She smirks.

“Ugh, what is it now?” Din groans.

“I think you’d make the perfect Jedi.” She holds up Boba’s old robe and paints.

“A Jedi?” He grimaces.

“Yeah! It's perfect!”

“I don't know. I'd rather leave the Jedi stuff to The Kid.”

“Oh, come on! It's Halloween! It's kind of the point!”

Din shakes his head, remembering the gleaming smile you had on your face and how disappointed his son would be. “Fine.”

“Give me your spear.” Boba holds his hand out. “I'll paint it green for your lightsaber.”

With attitude, Din handed over the spear before walking over to Fennec.

“Alright, take your armor off and put this on.”

“No.”

“No? Come on, Jedis don't wear Mandalorian armor under their robes.”

“Well, this Jedi does. Now, give me the robe.” Din holds his hand out.

“Fine. I can't spend another minute arguing with your stubborn ass.” Instead of placing the robe in Din’s hand, she launches it at his helmet. She shakes her head before she puts Boba’s helmet back on for her costume and adjusts the oversized armor. “Stubborn Mandalorians.”

. . . . .

“What do you think, Grogu?” You twirl, causing your dark red dress to fly. “You think your dad will think I'm pretty?” You look up to the kid for an answer but laugh instead. “Oh, sorry little guy!” You readjust his makeshift helmet so that he could see. “Now, how do I look?” The kid coos excitedly as he makes grabby hands. “Good! Okay, we gotta go meet your dad. Come on.”

You place the kid on your hip before making your way down the ramp. The cheers and laughter get louder as you draw closer to the center of the town. The group stands outside the bar, laughing as they reminisce over past battle stories.

“Is that you, Hon?” Fennec gasps, being the first one to see you.

You grin sheepishly as everyone gasps at your and Grogu’s costume. All the praises and eyes on you were fun and all, but the only eyes that really mattered were the brown ones under the beskar helmet.

Din’s eyes widen at the sight of you. He felt wrong for staring, but he couldn't help but take in your costume. The heels, the long red dress with slits to expose your legs with a deep v-neck, the intricate jewelry, the white face paint, it was perfect.

You were perfect.

If Din wasn't already in awe, he sure was after seeing Grogu’s outfit. “Is he- is he?”

“Grogu wanted to be you for Halloween.” You smile, handing off the baby to his father.

“You- you look good, kid.” Your eyes soften, hearing the emotion laced in Din’s voice. After a moment of admiring his kid, Din brings his attention back to the beautiful woman in front of him. “You look… incredible.”

You can feel a searing heat rise to your cheeks as Di's comment. “Thank you. You look… like Grogu.” You giggle. “I can finally see the resemblance.”

“That's a grand compliment, thank you.” He looks back down to the happy baby in his arms.

“Alright, everyone, let's get some candy!” Karga cheers.

The group takes off down the cheerful street, talking and laughing about anything and everything. While everybody was busy chatting, you watch Din and Grogu go door to door, trick-or-treating. Your heart gleamed at the sight of the excited father and his excited son.

“So, who are you dressed as?” Karga asks, interrupting your longing stare.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m a Night Sister!” You pick up the ends of your dress to show it off. “I used to read books about them all the time, so I just had to be one!”

“Well, you're the most beautiful Night Sister there is.” You smile and resume walking. “Mando thinks you're beautiful too.”

“He thinks I’m beautiful?” Karga nods with a knowing smirk.

“Of course he does. He may not have said anything aloud, but he doesn't have to. It's obvious he’s always looking at you.”

“You can't tell if he's looking at me or not!”

“I can! Not once has he let you out of the visor's view! Even if he's walking he always makes sure you're within distance.” He nods over to Din who stands at the door with Grogu. “Even now. He could be facing forward, but for some reason, he stands sideways. It's almost as if he were trying to watch multiple people at once.”

“That doesn't mean anything, Karga. He's probably making sure we're all safe and sound.” You try to reason.

Karga sighs at your forced ignorance. “I won't argue with you, dear. Just… pay close attention to the details. You’ll realize I'm right soon enough.”

. . . . .

“Wow, bud, you've got a lot of candy!” You hold up the hefty bag of goodies.

“I hope there's still room in there. We still gotta go to Mos Pelgos’ Halloween Party.” Fennec says, taking off her helmet.

“A Halloween party at Mos Pelgos?” Din questions.

“Oh, yeah. It's their thing.” Boba confirms. “You don't wanna miss it, trust me.”

“I don't know. The kid is probably tired.”

“He can sleep there. Come on, Din. It sounds like so much fun!” Your adorable pouting face breaks through Din’s hesitancy.

“Alright, only for a little bit.” You bounce up with energy before skipping towards the ships with the kid.

“You two can ride with us.” Boba points to you and Grogu.

“That's okay. They can stick with me.”

“What's wrong, Mando? You wanna spend some more time with your lady?” Karga grins.

“No! It’s just- She's not- fine! I'll meet you all there.” Din pouts before storming off to his ship.

“Careful, now, Karga. You're going to break the poor mandalorian.” Bo-Katan chuckles.

“That's the plan.” He shrugs.

“We all know how smitten that Marshal is with that girl,” Fennec interjects. “We're just… helping move things along.”

Bo-Katan throws her hands up in surrender. “This is your plan, not mine. If he sets the village on fire, then, I told you so.”

. . . . .

“Oh my…” Your jaw drops in awe of the decor. Nevarro had gone all out, but this… this was on another level. There were lights and sand sculptures everywhere. Everything was illuminated in shades of purple, green, and orange. There wasn't a corner insight that wasn't decorated to its max.

“I've seen better.” Din shrugs.

“Friends!” The Marshal walks over with his arms spread to welcome you all. “It's wonderful seeing you all again!” Cobb smirks as he makes eye contact with you. “Especially you, Darlin.” Cobb strides over to you, taking your hand into his and kissing it.

The sudden urge Din gets to beat Cobb into the ground flourishes, but out of respect for the many children around, he chooses not to. The rest of the group notices Din’s clenched fists and smiles in excitement.

“It's great seeing you again, Marshal-”

“Oh, no, darlin! You call me Cobb. None of this ‘Marshal’ stuff!”

“Well, Cobb, is there somewhere quiet for the kid to rest? He seems to have passed out on our way here.” You gesture to the baby sleeping peacefully in Boba’s arms.

“Of course. Let's get him settled in, and then I can buy you all drinks!”

Cobb helps you and Din set up a bed for Grogu in one of the guesthouses before taking you all to the cantina. It took everything within Din to not rip the Marshal's arm off when he offered you to take it. He thought the pining would cool down once inside, but Cobb continued to use his best tricks on you. He pulled the seat out for you at the bar before taking his own, but that wasn't the worst of it. Din watched from beside you as he pulled you closer to him so that your knees were touching. He was about to speak up when Fennec joined him out of nowhere.

"Hey there, Mando."

"What?" He unintentionally spats out.

"Woah, now. I was just here to make friendly conversation. What's got you all riled up?"

Din watches you from the corner of his visor. "Nothing, sorry."

"Cobb seems to be really smitten with her, huh?"

"Mmhmm." Din hums, unable to trust that his words would be appropriate.

Fennec noticed the quiet flame inside of The Mandalorian and decided to fuel it. "They'd make a cute couple. Even cuter babies."

"No, they wouldn't!" Din says, personally offended by the idea.

"They totally would. Hell, I wouldn't blame her if she drops everything tonight to stay here in Mos Pelgos."

Right after Fennec's comment, Cobb makes the worst move he could ever make. Feeling bold, he places his hand between the small of your back and where the curve of your ass starts.

You gasp. Not only at the placement of Cobb's hand but at the fact that he was flat on the floor in a split second.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Din shouts, extending his green-painted spear towards Cobb.

"I wasn't trying to do anything, now. Just being friendly."

Din scoffs before turning to you, taking your hand into his and rushing out of the bar. You stumble behind him, trying your best to run in your heels.

"Slow down, Din! I'm not equipt for running, let alone running in the sand!"

With a huff, Din turns around and picks you up bridal style. Soon enough, you two are inside one of the extra guesthouses where he sets you down.

You were too nervous to say anything and settle on watching the man think. In irritation, Din throws the robe off so that he was in his normal form again.

"Din?" He continues to pace back and forth in the small room. "Din? Did I do something wrong?"

"You can't leave me!" He snaps. "I won't let you run away with him! It's not fair!"

"Wha-"

"Grogu and I need you, okay! I need you! Not Cobb! Me!" Din rants passionately, his finger pointing at himself to get his point across. "You guys wouldn't make a cute couple! He- He's ugly and scary and constantly covered in sand! Not to mention that he probably smells since he's out working in this hot desert! Oh, and if you two had kids, the only reason they'd look adorable would be because of your genetics! Not his! And how could you ever expect him to protect you?! Not that you need protecting, but in one move, I kicked his ass. What if he lets something happen to you! What if he lets you get hurt! I- I'd kill him! I-"

"Din!" You finally put an end to his extreme rant. "I'm not leaving you."

The man pauses for a moment, trying to comprehend your words. "What?"

You sigh and take a few steps towards him. "I don't have any plans on leaving, Din. No time soon, no time ever."

"You don't?"

"Nope." Your precious smile returns to your face, easing Din's worries.

"So... You and Cobb-"

"Are nothing but friends? Yup."

"Hmm." Din looks away, drifting off into thought.

You take the sides of his helmet and adjust his visor so that it's pointing towards you. "Din, there's no one else I could love more than you." The room becomes still. The music and laughter from outside disappear into silence. "Well, maybe Grogu." You shrug teasingly.

"I love you, my sweet girl." Din smiles under the helmet. "Do you trust me?"

"With everything."

"Close your eyes."

A hiss accompanied by a thud sounds throughout the room. A moment later, there is a tearing sound followed by a piece of cloth being placed over your eyes, prompting your mind to wander, but you're pulled back to reality when two soft lips are pressed tenderly to yours. Hastily, you throw your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss as much as you possibly could.

"I love you." Din whispers against your lips.

"I love you too." You mumble quietly, not wanting to distract from the perfect kiss.

You let out a moan as Din nips at your bottom lip. "You like that, huh?" You can hear that devious smirk of his shine through his voice. "Hmm... I wonder what else I could do for you to make more of those pretty noises."

Din pushes you up against the wall, leaving kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking marks into it. You both knew what he was doing. You both knew that tomorrow he would be joyfully showing you off to Cobb, mocking the man's pathetic attempts to entrance his girl.

"You know... Cobb's house is right next door." You feel Din's lips curve upwards.

"Din! We- we cant! We shouldn't!" You try to sound as serious as possible, but it's difficult when the rewards are far greater.

"Come on, now, Sweet Girl." You hum as Din's big hand cups your heat.

I can feel you dripping through your panties."

"Mmmmm, I love you, Din."

"I love you, my girl. Now, let's celebrate Halloween with a treat."

A/N: IT TOOK EVERYTHING IN ME TOO KEEP IT WHOLESOME! I wanted a smut scene so bad but I was like “no no. Let’s be wholesome for once😒” Let me know if anyone wants to be put on the Permanent Taglist! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

Permanent Taglist: @what-iwish-you-knew

#A Mandalorian Halloween #jedi jesi #Din djarin x reader #din djarin fluff #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin angst #din djarin imagine #din djarin #the Mandalorian #the mandolorian fanfiction #the mandolorian x reader #pedro pascal x reader

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rina-cyarika-writing · 3 years

Text

Officer Brown Eyes

One Shots ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: During the events on Morak, Reader sees Din’s face for the first time, and isn’t sure how to handle it.

Warnings: Language, angst, SO MUCH FLUFF

⟸ Starfighter Shenanigans ❖ Moving On ⟹

They had to get the child back. By any means necessary. Which meant having to pick up Migs fucking Mayfeld to help them out.

“Dank farrik, I do not like this idea,” you said dramatically. “I don’t like the fact that we have to team up with Mayfeld yet again, especially after what happened last time!”

“If we want to get the kid back, we don’t have a choice,” Din replied as you all waited for Cara to get back with Mayfeld. You’d traveled with him since before the Child entered the picture and had learned to pick up how Din was feeling based on the way he spoke and his body language. Din Djarin was a man of few words but fewer facial expressions, so having to gauge how he felt through his modulated helmet was hard for most people, but not for you. You could tell that Din was worried. He was afraid that The Child was hurt or worse. You knew that Din would do anything in his power to get the Child back, even if it meant busting out an ex-Imperial sharpshooter who’d double-crossed you both the last time you ran into each other.

You watched from the shadows as Boba and Fennec went out to greet Mayfeld. You smirked as you saw Mayfled stop in his tracks and look at Boba, having to do a double-take.

“You know, for a second, I thought you were this other guy,” Mayfled stated in relief with a smile. You watched as Din took that opportunity to descend the ship's ramp to greet Mayfeld and saw the color drain from his face.

“Mayfeld,” Din greeted coolly.

“Hey, Mando. Long time,” Mayfled greeted nervously, not sure if Din would blast time where he stood or something else.

“What, you came here to kill me?” He joked.

“All you need to know is that I bent a lot of rules to bring you along,” Cara replied begrudgingly.

“Why am I so lucky?” Mayfeld retorted.

“Because you’re Imperial,” Cara glared.

“Hey, that was a long time ago, all right?” he defended.

“You still know your Imperial clearances and protocols, don’t you?” Din asked, cutting right to the chase. Mayfeld looked worried and watched as Cara and the others walked up the ramp before he finally sighed and glanced back at the prison planet he’d been assigned to. He wasn’t sure if he preferred to be going with them or if he should just stay, but he chose to leave with them anyways. As he boarded the ship, he saw you looking at him with a look that would kill anyone in an instant, and he gulped as he sat down.

“We need coordinates to Moff Gideon’s cruiser,” Din stated as he took his seat next to you.

“Moff Gideon?” Mayfeld scoffed. “Yeah, forget it. Just take me back to the scrapyard. I’m not doin’ that.”

“They have his kid,” Cara explained with annoyance. Mayfeld looked at Cara, then to you and Din, actually looking a little concerned.

“The little green guy?” he asked.

“Yeah, the ‘little green guy,” Cara replied, annoyed with Mayfeld’s attitude already.

“So…..I help you guys get him back, you guy let me go?” Mayfeld asked hopefully. Cara rolled her eyes.

“That’s not how this works,” she replied

“Well, then what’s in it for me?” Mayfeld retorted. You were ready to gouge his eyes out at that statement. You tensed and straightened your posture, looking Mayfeld dead in the eye.

“A better view,” Cara responded.

“You get to live,” you replied heatedly. “You either help, or you somehow end up blown to oblivion, and Cara writes it off as if you tried to escape custody.” Mayfeld gulped and took a moment to ponder his choices.

“All right, but here’s the thing. I can’t get those coordinates unless I have access to an internal Imperial terminal. I believe there’s one on Morak,” Mayfeld finally stated.

“Morak? There’s nothing on Morak,” Din replied, not trusting what Mayfeld had to say.

“It’s a secret Imperial mining hub, okay?” Mayfeld replied. “If you can get me in there, I can get you the coordinates.” You looked at Din skeptically but nodded.

“Fett, punch in the coordinates to Morak,” Din instructed Boba through the commlink.

“Copy that,” you heard Boba reply and felt the ship take off towards Morak.

“If you’re lying to us, Mayfeld, I just want you to know that you will suffer an excruciating and prolonged end by my hands,” you threatened as you pointed a knife at him before going to sharpen it. Mayfeld visibly gulped as you felt a hand on your knee.

“Whatever it takes to get the kid back,” Din said softly to you in an attempt to quell your fears. You nodded and went back to sharpening your blade.

Due to Boba’s initial scan, you all decided that a full frontal assault would be too risky, considering the refinery was crawling with Imperial troopers, so you decided to go in quietly. After some debate on how to get into the refinery undetected, you chose to have Mayfeld and one other disguise themselves as stormtroopers to get into the refinery. Din had insisted on going with Mayfeld while you stayed with Fennec and Cara.

“No, I’m coming with you both,” you insisted, leaving no room for argument. Din sighed.

“Fine, but you have to promise me that you’ll be careful,” he said, looking down at you through the visor. You nodded, feeling the worry in his tone but knowing he wouldn’t convey it any other way due to present company.

“I promise. I’ll make sure that things go according to plan,” you said with a shrug.

Once you, Din, and Mayfeld had successfully hijacked and disguised yourselves as stormtroopers, you began to make your way to the refinery. Things have been going smoothly so far until you came across a village on route to the refinery. The villagers watched as you slowly drove by, and the air was tense.

“Yeah, Empire, New Republic, it’s all the same to these people,” Mayfeld said as you gazed out the window at the haggard villagers. “Invaders on their land is all we are. I’m just sayin’ somewhere someone in this galaxy is ruling, an others are being ruled. I mean, look at your race. Do you think all those people that died in wars fought by Mandalorians actually had a choice? So how are they any different than the Empire?” Mayfeld questioned. You rolled your eyes and could feel Din doing the same thing.

“Watch it, Mayfeld,” you warmed.

“If you were born on Mandalore, you believe one thing, if you’re born on Alderaan, you believe something else,” Mayfeld continued. “But guess what? Neither of them exist anymore,” he said with a shrug. You growled, getting annoyed the more he spoke.

“Hey, I’m just a realist. I’m a survivor, just like you,” he defended.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Din replied, “You and I are nothing alike.”

“I don’t know. Seems to me like your rules start to change when you get desperate,” Mayfeld said with a glance. “I mean, look at ya. You said you couldn’t take your helmet off, but now you got a stormtrooper one on, so what’s the rule? Is it that you can’t take off your Mando helmet, or can’t show your face? ‘Cause there’s a difference. Look, I’m just sayin’ we’re all the same. Everybody’s got their lines they don’t cross until things get messy. As far as I’m concerned, if you can make it through your day and still sleep at night, you’re doin’ better than most.”

At his words, you glanced over at Din, not being able to tell how he felt since you sat behind him but sensing the thoughts coursing through his mind. The Creed forbade him from removing his helmet in front of any living being, but lately, you’d witnessed differently from other Mandalorians. Boba Fett and Bo Katan were evidence of there being a different way that Mandalorians lived, and you’d hoped that maybe one day Din would take up their way of life instead of the stricter way that the Tribe lived, hiding in the shadows and never showing their face. You hoped that maybe one day Din would see it fit to remove his helmet unless going into battle, and you’d be able to gaze into the eyes of the man that you were hopelessly and secretly in love with. But that was a spice dream at this point. Mayfeld’s other words rang through your ears. You and Din had become desperate in more ways than one to get the Child back. At this point, you’d do anything, and everything to ensure the safe retrieval of the Child and knew that Din was very much on the same boat.

As you made your way to the refinery, things took an unexpected turn that neither of you foresaw. It seemed that on Morak pirates wanting to blow up the rhydonium, and you were getting very annoyed with having to do things the hard way just to get some information on Moff Gideon. Luckily, the three of you had made it safely to the refinery after some excitement and with a bit of assistance from the Empire.

“Dank farrik,” you muttered as you saw the stormtroopers line up and salute the transport. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The three of you finally disembarked from the transport and were greeted warmly by other stormtroopers, thinking you were a colleague of theirs. Oh, were they wrong. Mayfeld guided you and Din to the officer’s mess hall where he suspected the terminal would be, and low and behold; it was there. You watched through the visor of your helmet as Mayfeld began to walk into the mess hall, abruptly stop, then turn back around and made his way back to you and Din.

“I can’t go in there,” Mayfeld stated

“Why not?” Din asked.

“That’s Valin Hess,” Mayfeld replied.

“Who?”

“That’s Valin Hess. I used to serve under him,” Mayfeld stated nervously.

“Will he recognize you?”

“I don’t know,” Mayfeld said. “I was just a field operative, but I’m not takin’ the chance. It’s over.” You held your arm out to stop Mayfeld from walking away.

“Let’s just do this quick, and we can get out of here,” Din said sternly, also blocking the way.

“I can’t do it, okay? We have to abort. I’m sorry.”

“No, I can’t,” Din said. “If we don’t get those coordinates, I’ll lose the kid forever. Your heart broke at his words. You know that Grogu meant a lot to Din; he meant a lot to you too, but you knew that Din would do anything to get him back.

“Give me the data stick,” Din said.

“It’s not gonna work,” Mayfeld replied. “In order to access the network, the terminal has to scan your face,” he explained.

Well fuck, you thought

“Give it to me,” you heard Din say, and before you could respond and go in yourself, you watched as Din walked into the mess hall himself with the stick. You grew anxious watching the officers watch him awkwardly salute and then make his way to the terminal. Your anxiety rose once you saw him get to the terminal and then turn to glance at the officers and you. Your heart nearly stopped as you watched Din remove his helmet as he faced the terminal and place the data stick into it. You watched with bated breath as Valin Hess approached Din at the terminal and faced him. You looked at Mayfeld, hoping he’d have some sort of solution but saw he was just as fearful as you were. You heard the officer ask Din for a TK number and knew it was over. The mission was blown.

“This is my Commanding Officer, TK-593, sir,” Mayfeld interjected as he walked up to Din and Valin Hess, you following close behind him, your helmet removed as well at this point. “I’m Imperial Combat Assault Transport Lieutenant TK-111, sir.”

“TK-660, sir,” you added as you stood next to the two of them, watching as Din awkwardly looked at you and Mayfeld and back at the officer, his body rigid.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up to him a little bit since his vessel lost pressure in Taanab,” Mayfeld smoothly said. Valin looked over at Din.

“What’s your name, Officer?” Valin loudly said. Din pretended not to hear and raised his eyebrows.

“We just call him Brown Eyes. Isn’t that right, Officer?” Mayfeld covered as Din looked at him and nodded with a slight smile.

“Sir, we should go fill out those TPS reports so we can go recharge the power coils,” you interjected. The three of you proceeded to walk away but were stopped when Valin said you weren’t dismissed.

DANK FARRIK, you thought. Valin proceeded to praise the three of you for being the only transport that successfully delivered the rhydonium that day and insisted on a drink.

You were on edge the entire time Valin and Mafeld were speaking. Mayfeld just had to bring up his history with the Empire and Operation Cinder, and you instantly knew that this was going to end badly. Very very badly. You saw Din glance at Mayfeld at one point and slightly shake his head as if warning Mayfeld not to start anything, but Mayfeld paid him no mind. Things ended up going astray yet again that day, and the three of you ended up in a firefight to get out. You were getting tired of this. You managed to kick open part of the window and climb up to the roof, where Boba swiftly rescued you, and he was able to swiftly release a seismic charge to stop the two tie fighters that were on your tail. You let out a breath as you finally were clear of any dangers and got up to take off the stormtrooper uniform, ready to get out of the blasted thing and never speak of what happened again today.

You walked over to the bag that held your clothes and Din’s armor when you felt a presence behind you. Closing your eyes and sighing, you turned around to look at him as he stood before you in the cursed stormtrooper uniform.

“Din, I….I’m so sorry that you had to go through that,” you started, as tears well in your eyes. Knowing just how much the Creed meant to him and knowing that you were part of the reason why he broke it tore you to pieces. You looked down at the ground as he approached you and placed his hand under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.

“It…..It had to be done,” Din said softly. You looked at him bewildered. “Whatever it takes to get the kid back, remember?” You nodded.

“Yeah, but no living being can see your face. That’s part of who you are,” you pleaded, tears now fully streaming down your face. “I don’t want to be the reason that you’ll no longer be able to wear the helmet or armor.” Din shook his head, taking his hand away from your face.

“You could do nothing to control what happened, cyar’ika,” Din reassured you. You shook your head and shut your eyes.

“….Mando…Din….I just…I can’t unsee what I saw. You have to fix it. I’ll leave if you want, or if you have to do what must be done, then do be it,” you urged. Din shook his head.

“I already lost the kid; I can’t lose you too,” he stated as he took your hands in his. Your eyes widened at the revelation. You watched as Din brought your hands up to his helmet and placed them on the bottom, with his hands resting gently on your forearms.

“It’s ok. I’d been thinking about this for a while now, and I want this,” Din softly said, gazing down at you, his voice quivering slightly from nervousness.

“……Din, you…You don’t know what you’re asking,” you tried to reason as you tried to remove your hands from his helmet, but his hands held firmly onto your arms and kept them in place.

“I do, cyar’ika,” he said as he moved your hands up, lifting the helmet slightly. “I’d rather it be you to remove my helmet by your own terms than by anyone else.” You still couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You respected him too much; even seeing part of his neck and chin made you avert your gaze.

“I….I can’t….” You spoke softly.

“You can. I want you to see my face,” he said as he guided your hands to lift his helmet once more.

“You…..You’ll have to do it,” you pleaded. “I can’t do it.” Din chuckled and nodded. You watched as he guided your hands to lift the helmet more. First, you saw the rest of his chins. Then his lips. Followed by his nose and then his eyes, until finally, the helmet had been completely removed, and he stood before you. You averted your eyes again, but he swiftly stopped you and tilted your face until you were yet again looking into his eyes. His beautiful brown eyes. Eyes that seemed to stare into the depths of your soul and know everything that you were thinking. You chuckled, and Din looked at you puzzled.

“Mayfeld called you Officer Brown Eyes while we were at the refinery,” you stated. “I think it’s very fitting; I might just call you that from now on.” Din chuckled and shook his head.

“If you want, but only you’re allowed to call me that,” Din stated as he stepped closer to you until you were pressed up against his chest. “But on one condition.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” you questioned, feeling the heat radiating from him as your gaze shifted between his eyes and his lips. You licked your lips and gave him a small smile. “Name your terms, Mando.”

“Say you’ll be mine,” he replied as he licked his lips as well and brought his face closer to yours.

“I think that can be arranged,” you said softly before closing the gap, and your lips met.

As your lips met, you felt a fire ignite within you, and electricity pulse through your body. It rippled down your arms and legs, and you brought your hands up to rest on his neck and play with his brown curls, deepening the kiss. Din brought his hands to rest on your hips and pull you closer as he slipped his tongue between your lips, further deepening it. After a moment, you both pulled away and rested your foreheads together.

“I’m yours, Din Djarin, now let’s go get our child,” you lovingly said. All he did was nod and close the gap between you yet again with a smile.

.fin

⟸ Starfighter Shenanigans ❖ Moving On ⟹

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #officer brown eyes #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the mandolorian fanfic #din djarin fanfiction

104 notes · View notes

hansoulo · 4 years

Text

how will I know; walk slow

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader (gender neutral, no Y/N)

Word Count: a humble 1.4k

Warnings: cursing, light angst, a kiss (sorta), spoilers for chapter 15 of the mandalorian

Gif Credit: (x) by @/bestintheparsec

A/N: hello bros and hoes it is me and i am back with another oneshot this time set right after chapter 15 with a title from this song by james blake

You bounded down the hangar ladder and stood toe-to-toe, heart stuck in your mouth and lodging up in your tonsils until the word came out thick and without eloquence. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” the Mandalorian offered. He didn’t really have anything to be sorry for. Sometimes the guy was just polite to a fault.

“It’s alright.” The words left your chest hushed, conscious of the footsteps up and around you that echoed tinny on the walls of Slave 1. Soft assurances. Gentle platitudes. “You’re here now, yeah?”

Mayfeld was “dead” doing Maker knows what. Fennec and Cara were both off in the ship somewhere, probably polishing blasters and trading war secrets with each other as intimidating Outer Rim women tended to do. That or in the communications monitor room below deck, doing far more risque things. Boba was piloting and making sure none of you died. And the Mandalorian was here. Standing in the cold metal cargo hold. In front of you.

His chest, in beskar now, not that shoddy Imperial shit, shook with a sigh. “Yeah,” the helmet rasped. It sounded like he was speaking more to himself. “Yeah.”

Why do you do that?

Do what?

You’re very… monosyllabic. It’s unsettling.

Unsettling.

You know you’re just continuing to prove my point, right?

Mhm.

Maker, you’re infuriating.

Yes, I am.

Hey that was three words! Progress.

Your throat tightened with a swallow when you realized you still stood only inches apart from him. Feet shuffled backwards in the small hangar until he was left at a larger, more friend-appropriate distance. “That’s good. I’m… I’m glad.”

The air in the ship was thick, with relief and with another heavy thing. Regret, maybe? But what did he have to regret?

“Mando,” you called out as he turned to step up the ladder. Names were sacred things. You didn’t want to use his here. To dirty it by sharing. “Hey,” your hand met the cold metal of his pauldron, urging him to face you again. He was still. Always so still. “Did something happen?”

I’m fine.

You’re hurt.

It’s nothing serious.

Let me help.

I’ll take care of it.

Or let the kid help. Somebody.

I said I’ll take care of it.

Let me take care of you. Please.

His words came almost too quick. He was like that when he tried to convince you of things. “No. No, we… we got the coordinates. Everything went-”

“According to plan,” you finished for him, though your brows were still furrowed.

What’s the plan?

We get the kid back.

So… what you’re saying is that there is no plan.

There is a plan.

What’re you gonna do?

Whatever it takes.

You’re so dramatic.

“Mayfeld wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened before he fucked off, though, which is weird because usually he never shuts up and I just...” you sighed, wiping a hand across your face and letting it drop unceremoniously beside your hip. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look,” and here your voice paused, waiting for the words to fill themselves in. “Rattled.”

You look like shit.

Thanks.

Welcome. You good?

You just said I look like shit.

Well yeah, but I’m trying to redeem myself. Throw me a bone.

Then yeah, I’m good.

You’re a horrible liar.

Hey, you asked.

Yeah, I guess so. Take it easy for a bit? Can’t have you falling asleep piloting.

Glad to know your only concern is for your transportation.

Don’t forget the paycheck.

That too.

Seriously, though. Go get some sleep. I’ll be here.

There was a pregnant pause, only filled in by your quiet expectance and the sounds of beskar shifting on fabric. He moved his weight from one foot to the other. Looked down, then up.

And then, before you could go to actually leave, not wanting to pry a thing open that the man wanted to keep shut and done with having to reach the words out of his mouth, you were picked up and turned around. Like a sack of ration flour.

In literally any other circumstance this would’ve made you seethe but Din’s hands, although surprising, weren’t unwelcome. The furthest thing from it, actually.

There were two warm palms on your sides and your feet stumbled on top of each other until they both left the floor again, suspended above the metal sheeting as you were lifted up and crushingly close to a man that smelled like blood and sweat and someone else’s clothes but who still held you until your ribs cried out for breathing.

You were set down after a moment, but not let go. Silent words seemed to fracture in the way his fingers dug into the skin of your hip, almost bruising in their insistence. He couldn’t tell you what happened, but something obviously did. Something ugly and beating loud in the two-inch gap between your chests and really, really bad.

There were only about two things in the galaxy that he was afraid of. Losing the kid was one of them. Breaking his Creed was the other.

So what’s with the helmet?

What about it?

You can never take it off?

No.

Like, never? In front of anyone?

Not unless it’s family.

And what happens if you do? Take it off in front of someone else, I mean.

You can’t ever put it back on.

Oh, right. Sorry.

It’s okay.

No, it’s not. I- I shouldn’t have asked. I dunno. It just seems…

Bad.

No, not bad! Not if it’s something you believe. Just… different.

And suddenly you knew why he was holding you the way he was.

The words were hitched, almost keening as your arms wound around his neck, over the thick fabric of his cape until his hands reached around the lower slope of your back to steady your ground. You could feel the indentations of his metal vambraces against your skin. You couldn’t have cared less about it. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. He only let out a breath, the sound so rattled and tremulous you could almost taste the salt dew gathering in his eyes. Eyes that someone else saw.

The muscles of his arms grew firmer around you still and your body sagged, heavy in its aching realizations. “I’m so sorry,” you repeated.

To someone else more ambitious this would probably be a good time to do… a gesture. Of the sentimental variety. Neither of you lacked courage in the traditional definition, but this kind of stuff was messy. Uncharted.

“Din,” you whispered. His helmet shot up at the monosyllable, nearly knocking you in the chin and you stumbled backwards, shaking off his apologies. So the charting of said uncharted stuff was going swell. “I,” you began, your eyes shifting around the walls and floor instead of meeting his visor. “I care about you. A lot. I hope you know that.”

There was a loud whirring overhead when the ship lurched forward, righting itself with an awkward turn and giving you a good excuse as to why you suddenly felt nauseous. Maybe you overstepped or he didn’t hear you because he hit his head? Holy shit, did he get a concussion? Was that why he was-

“I know.”

Oh.

So no concussion.

You only realized you’d been biting the bottom edge of your lip when a gloved thumb came up towards it, pressing against the soft flesh and pulling it gently out from between your teeth. A breath choked in the bottom of both your lungs. And you waited.

You couldn’t kiss him.

At least, not now. Not here. Not yet.

You were both thinking about it.

So you did something decidedly ambitious. You leaned forward and pressed your mouth to the crest of his helmet.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really. But he still tilted his helmet up to meet it with two broad hands and you still left a smudge of mouthmark where your lips were damp and tender and so somehow this imitation kiss, this substitute in between a moment that was over and a moment that was coming, was real.

Your bounty hunter echoed his reciprocation after you’d turned away, the rungs of the ship ladder icy in your palms. You always did like to one-up each other.

“I love you.”

#i spent like a half hour googling slave 1 diagram maps and the ship layout is still incomprehensible to me so pls dont hate i am Trying #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian oneshot #din djarin oneshot #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin/reader #the mandalorian spoilers #?

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pedro-pascal-love · 4 years

Text

Officer Brown Eyes

One Shots ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: During the events on Morak, Reader sees Din’s face for the first time, and isn’t sure how to handle it.

Warnings: Language, angst, SO MUCH FLUFF

⟸ Raise Warriors ❖ Moving On ⟹