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Oh… oh my gawd…

(credit to Phunamation Etsy)

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Rough Day (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 3.1K

Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a “fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob” kind of day today but hey, who knew that agreeing to babysit a bounty hunter’s weird, green little child would be so full of surprises.

Warnings: Smut, language, handjobs (duh), dirty talk, Pedro Pascal (deserves his own warning), mentions of blood, spoilers for the Mandalorian.

Maker, why is this even a thing?

You don’t know his name.  You’ve never seen his face.  He barely says a word, doesn’t even move much unless he needs to.  If he didn’t have such an obvious complex about droids, you would’ve thought he could be one himself, quietly forged and hidden beneath gleaming beskar armor for an untold number of years.  You know practically nothing about him other than the few things you’ve heard about his culture—most likely either grossly exaggerated or just flat out nonsense.  Everything about him is an enigma, even down to the vaguely impersonal things, such as the technical name for his “poof gun” or what insane percentage of his body weight metal has to account for.

But that doesn’t stop you.  Nope, the fact that you’ve never even seen a strip of his skin doesn’t stop you from nursing a stupid, helpless crush on the quiet bounty hunter.  Stars, it’s ridiculous.  The modulated, low baritone, the intimidating way he carries himself, so stoic and dark and foreboding and tall—

He terrifies you.  You’re absolutely terrified of bothering him, of being too forward or inquisitive.  You sit in the cockpit with him for hours in dead silence, kid perched on your lap in the copilot’s seat to keep him from touching anything, hypnotized by the way his helmet subtly reflects the streaks of hyperspace as they race by and thinking about all the impossible things you want to know but can never ask about.  The last thing you want to do is accidentally test his patience, possibly get marooned on some backwater planet somewhere because you just couldn’t accept something so beautifully mysterious for what it is.

So you ultimately strive to be almost as quiet as he is, always helpful but never in the way.  You troubleshoot mechanical issues with the vessel when they make themselves known, take the baby in one of the secluded areas of the hull and play peekaboo for a bit when he gets too fussy, or just pick up a rag and start cleaning when there’s nothing else to occupy your time.  You sleep occasionally, curling up on the floor of the hull with a blanket to avoid taking up too much space, living out of your suitcase and making a generous ten percent of his commissions just by copiloting and keeping watch over the child while he works.  With the strict schedule he keeps, your pay is always handsome and consistent, even if it is all a bit boring.

Watching him wrestle his bounties into carbonite is admittedly the most exciting part for you, the rest of your days filled with nothing but the interior of the vessel as it either travels through hyperspace or sits stationary on a planet.  He always returns to you bruised and dirty, manhandling and shoving his bounties up the ramp and into the carbonite chamber one by one, not bothering with the fuel needed to collect payment until at least three or four have been retrieved.

You try not to constantly replay the incredibly vivid memory of one of them snarling something sexually obscene at you once and how quickly the bounty hunter whipped his fist out and broke his nose before freezing him.

“Isn’t… isn’t he still conscious in there?”  You remember asking, studying the disgustingly crooked angle of the man’s shattered silver nose, to which the Mandalorian shortly replied, “Yes,” before clambering into the cockpit and taking off.

Keep reading

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Don’t look at me, look at this glorious post by @johnathot-seed and blame her! Full Res Version here it’s probably worth it  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 

He’s supposed to be standing on sth with one leg but I cut it cause I didn’t vibe with the low res shoes

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Look, I'm not saying I'd let Mando blindfold me and rail me from behind so he could take his helmet off for some frickle frackle...nevermind, that's exactly what I'm saying.

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ooh I just thought of some delightful mandalorian smut! like the reader strips down and teases until daddio rails her in the piloting cabin.

obviously bebe is tucked away snoozing.

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An interesting series of events

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Did some Elsamaren prompts suggested by the lovely people on Arendelle Kingdom discord ;)

https://discord.gg/GwKMueT

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the father

the son

and the holy spirit

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“Taylor Swift couldn’t go to the Women’s March because she’s too famo-”

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Zendaya for Lancôme

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Harley Quinn 1.01, “Til Death Do Us Part”

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This is my favourite thing

(Source)

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love me some enemies to friends to lovers trope

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CYAR’IKA 

summary: affections are shared. rating: i just wanted from tooth rotting fluff ok. pairing: the mandalorian x reader a/n: i wrote this in twenty minutes in my notes, nothing is capitalized, i am so sorry

like the hearts of two dying stars, you both implode – the inward spill over of months worth of tension is hot enough to burn on contact. at first, there’s nothing tender about the exchange – it’s heated words after a call too close for comfort, a blurted admission of weighted concern that breaks into splinters of shameful adoration.

“– and i don’t know what i would do without you,” you finally breathe, shoulders sagging as you slip the facade of fearlessness from your face.

the words steal his heartbeat away; they peel away the glimmering, beskar armor there and claw it from his chest. you could devour his heart whole, then, standing there between his quarters and the piloting cabin – he’d let you, willing the sweetest death he could imagine in cycles. 

dyn reasons this would happen eventually; him, pulling you by the hand and cornering you in the place where he sleeps. the weighted danger of change hangs in the air – and when you look at him, eyes all wide and wondrous, he thinks that he could throw away this life before him all for a kiss. 

he could. he could show you his face. then, he could kiss you senseless.

but at the end of it all, when the glow dissipates and when the shame creeps in, he wonders what good it will do – to throw away the life he’s built for himself under the guise of his religion and devotion. 

so, he speaks curtly.

“close your eyes.”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

and so you do. your lashes kiss your cheeks gently and not a moment later, there’s a hand in your hair and a mouth on your own, pressing you greedily into the shelf by the dresser. the kiss is like a hot poker to the chest, spurring you to whine and collapse a bit against the hearth-like heat of his armor. just like the heart of a dying star.

you understand then, why your eyes will stay screwed shut for the time being. 

“dyn –”

it’s muttered between the parting of lips; there’s stubble that brushes your cheek, that darts to your jaw as you grapple with his shoulders – the hair at the base of his neck is thick, and you wonder what color it is. 

(you really could never picture him as a blonde.)

“promise me,” he mumbles, stealing another kiss and then another and another, “that you won’t open your eyes.”

you swallow thickly and nod, words flush with promise. “i won’t.”

“i’m… i’m sorry.”

“don’t be,” you breathe, moving to kiss him – but, you miss. you catch the side of his lips and he’s smirking; it spurs you to laugh, like stardust glittering in the sun. 

(you can’t see him but he’s glowing, happier than he’s been in cycles – you’re beautiful, standing there with your arms stretched out and knotted in his hair. your eyes screw tight when you smile, prompting him to lean forward and kiss your brow.)

“i am,” he says, quietly with a breaming amount of adoration, and you realize how warm his voice is outside of the helmet. his lips meet your temple as you card your fingers through the thick tufts of his hair, “i – just, not yet.”

(maybe he could be blonde, if you really thought about it.)

“do you trust me?”

“… yes.”

“then i won’t open them,” you say, fingers moving to find the curve of his jaw and the jut of his chin, “and i’ll just poke and prod until i’ve made some sense of your face in my head.”

your fingertips brush his lips and a kiss rises up to meet them, his hands sweeping you close – you tumble into the touch happily, awed at the bubbling affection that comes with the absence of his armor. 

you wonder, as you kiss dyn jarren for the first time, if that’s the point.

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