#The Mandalorian fics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theetherealbloom · 8 months

Text

THE SILVER LINING - CH. 4

Chapter Four: What It Means To Be Saved

Summary: After aiding the Republic and the fall of the Empire, you left the Jedi Training Clan on Bogden 3 to help families needing medical care with the call of the Force. You are a kind, warm-hearted healer on Nevarro, treating the citizens and the bounty hunters. Imperial remnants still linger in the shadows, waiting to strike at the perfect moment. Leading you to assist the Mandalorian with rescuing the Child has led you to your biggest adventure yet.

Paring: Din Djarin x Empath!FemReader

Warnings: Violence, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, People pleasing, Flattery, Blood, Blasters, War, Religion References, Aliens, Sith, Character Deaths, One Bed Trope, Awkward

Word Count: 16.7k

A/N: This chapter is hella chonky and you'll probably need to sit down and have a glass of water beside you! All the likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

Song: Glory And Gore by Lorde

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist

A FEW DAYS LATER…

INSIDE THE RAZOR CREST

OUTER RIM TERRITORIES, 9ABY – SPACE

You and Din share an unspoken understanding about the quiet moments you've spent waking up nestled in each other's warmth. His solid form, a reassuring presence, cradles you as his chest rises and falls beneath your head. In these stolen fragments of time, the world outside the Razor Crest seems distant, the chaos silenced by the serenity you've found in each other's company.

By some miracle of the Force – or perhaps Din's own vigilance – you always manage to stir awake before him, despite your suspicion that he might be granting you that courtesy to spare your blushes. The realization dawns on you that it has been quite a while since you've experienced such close human contact, let alone the comforting embrace of a shared cuddle. It's a sensation you hadn't realized you'd missed until it became a cherished part of your routine.

But reality, as it often does, inches its way back into your consciousness. The little haven you've carved out within the Razor Crest's confines can't shield you from the practicalities of life. Supplies are dwindling, and the pressing need for credits looms over your small makeshift family.

The days begin to pass with a sense of urgency, the atmosphere tinged with an unspoken agreement that the days of sanctuary within the ship's walls are numbered. Conversations drift towards the necessities – plotting courses for potential bounties, discussing potential jobs that would replenish your dwindling resources. Once forged in quiet companionship, your bond with Din evolves to encompass a shared goal.

In the dim light of the Razor Crest, the two of you exchange looks that speak volumes. Beyond ordinary friendship, your connection is proof of your shared will and fortitude. As the spacecraft hurtles towards space, the ship's limitations seem a little tighter, but the sense of togetherness grows.

THE ROOST, SPACE STATION, 9ABY – SPACE

The Razor Crest settles with a gentle hum as it lands within the confines of a space station's hangar bay. The resounding silence is broken by Din's voice, a mixture of vulnerability and the weight of his past. His words carry a gravity that hangs in the air, tinged with regret and the specter of mistakes long gone but never forgotten.

"I… My past isn't something to be proud of," he confesses, his tone heavy with the burden of memories he's carried. His gaze, obscured by the visor of his helmet, nonetheless holds an intensity that demands your attention. The confession hangs between you, a shared secret that bridges the gap between your lives.

Leaving the pilot's chair, Din moves purposefully to stand before you. You tilt your head slightly upward, your eyes meeting his visor, searching for the unspoken emotions that swirl within. At this moment, he bares a part of himself that he's kept hidden beneath the armor, his honesty a raw testament to the trust that's grown between you.

His voice steadies as he continues, determination blending with vulnerability, "We just need to do this job, get the credits, and then we'll leave." The gravity of his words carries a twofold promise – one of opportunity and a chance for redemption.

The backdrop of the space station hangar seems to amplify the intensity of the moment. The interplay of light and shadow casts intricate patterns across the Mandalorian's beskar-clad figure, lending an air of mystery to his confession.

Before your own apprehensions can hold you back, you act on an instinct, a desire to bridge the gap between your worlds. With a gentle determination, you reach out and take his gloved hand into yours. The sensation of his gauntleted fingers against your skin is a paradox of softness and strength, a representation of the layers that encompass him.

Words escape your lips, each syllable carrying a weight that matches his own confession. "I… I've done some things in my past that I wasn't proud of too," you admit, your voice a mixture of vulnerability and quiet strength. Your grip on his hand tightens, a silent promise that you're willing to share your own truths.

A pause lingers, a space where understanding blossoms between you. The dim light within the ship's interior paints your forms in subtle shadows and highlights, lending intimacy to the moment. As his visor-clad gaze meets yours, you see a flicker of surprise and gratitude, emotions that can only be glimpsed in the subtle tilt of his helmet.

"But…" The word slips from your lips, gentle yet resolute as if carrying the weight of your understanding. Your voice, steady and filled with empathy, paints a portrait of shared experiences and a bond forged by the paths you've both walked. "I believe you did what you had to do to survive and for the rest of the remaining Mandalorians to survive."

In that brief moment, the space between you becomes a bridge, built upon the foundation of mutual comprehension. Din's nod is a silent acknowledgment, a testament to the connection that has grown between you, despite the vastness of your differences.

A small, rueful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. His quiet nature has never diminished the strength of his words. "So… any final warnings about Ran and his crew?" you inquire, breaking the tension with a touch of humor.

Din's answer arrives with a cadence of sincerity. "They can be… nosy." A soft snort escapes you, an amused reaction to his mild description. You can't help but remark, "That's extremely polite coming from you."

His response is punctuated by a characteristic nod, a gesture that's become familiar between you two. "Ran thinks he’s untouchable, so he’s an asshole," he elaborates, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Go figures," you quip, giving the words a deeper layer of meaning.

The hum of the Razor Crest's engine provides a constant backdrop as you and Din navigate the weight of the situation that lies ahead. The air seems heavier, fraught with unspoken thoughts and concerns. It's in this charged atmosphere that your voice cuts through the tension.

"What are we gonna do with the kid?" you inquire, your words soft but bearing the weight of the uncertainties that loom. Your hands grip the rungs of the ladder as you descend, your gaze never leaving Din's form.

He carries the child in his arms, cradling the little being with a tenderness that belies his formidable armor. There's a certain grace in his movements, a silent understanding of the fragility of the life he now holds. He approaches the small hammock bunk, a designated safe haven within the Razor Crest. Carefully, he places the child inside and gently shuts the door, his actions a silent promise of protection.

"For now, he can stay in there," Din's voice is measured, and thoughtful, as he addresses your query. "But I don't think they'd hurt him if they see him."

The weight of his words settles in the air, a bittersweet reassurance in the face of the unknown. You lick your lips, a nervous tic, your eyes fixed on the little hammock bunk that now cradles the child. The responsibility feels heavy, a burden shared between you and Din.

"Okay," you say, your tone a mix of resignation and resolve. It's a term that encapsulates your awareness of the problems that lie ahead, as well as the sacrifices you're both ready to make to protect the safety of the innocent life that has been entwined with your path.

As you stand in the silent nooks of the Razor Crest, the link you have with Din is strengthened by the unseen pledges you've made to protect, lead, and persist in the face of hardship.

Stepping off the Razor Crest, you find yourself walking in tandem with Din, your steps synchronized as you take in the bustling surroundings of the space hub. The air hums with activity and curious gazes follow the two of you as you navigate through the crowd, a sense of purpose guiding your path.

The voice of an old man cuts through the ambient noise, drawing your attention. His grey beard gives him a distinguished air as he addresses Din, his nickname "Mando" echoing in the air. You remain silent, remembering the need for discretion in front of outsiders. Din acknowledges the man's greeting with a nod, "Ran."

There is a lingering sense of familiarity between them, the type that comes from having experienced the same things in a world full of unknowns. Unspoken bonds that go beyond words are formed when they shake hands. However, Ran notices your presence and turns to face you, a look of interest on his face. You catch his eyes and, in an act of politeness, you coolly and detachedly say your initial name. His handshake is stiff and courteous, masking his acute eye for detail.

With a knowing twinkle in his eyes, Din starts to lead the way through the busy space station, and Ran's focus returns to him. Your path is accompanied by the steady clatter of footfall, which blends with the distant hum of equipment.

His comments are infused with a curious familiarity that reflects the web of relationships that ties people together in this uncertain world.

"You know, to be honest, I was a little surprised when you reached out to me. You know, 'cause I... I hear things. Like, maybe things between you and the Guild aren't workin' out," Ran remarks, his voice a mixture of inquiry and understanding. Din's response is succinct, a testament to his resilience, "I'll be fine."

Ran's nonchalant shrug and raised hands speak of a tacit acceptance of the enigmatic Mandalorian way. The undercurrent of trust that exists between them is palpable, encapsulated in a simple phrase: "Okay. Well, you know the policy. No questions." As the trio continues to navigate the space hub, Ran extends his hospitality, a gesture that holds a promise beyond words. "And you, you're welcome back here anytime," he adds, the sentiment echoing in the air like a secret promise of mutual respect.

In the midst of the space hub's bustling activity, Ran's voice cuts through the ambient noise, his words directed at both you and Din. The undertone of urgency and intrigue colors his speech, a blend of desperation and determination. "Yeah, one of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught. So, I'm puttin' together a crew to spring him," Ran's words hold a weight that hangs in the air, thick with unspoken implications. His gaze shifts between you and Din, assessing your potential contribution. "It's a six-person job. I got four."

As his smug gaze rests upon you and Din, the corners of his mouth curl with self-satisfied confidence. The challenge is clear in his expression, "All I need is the ride, and you brought it."

Din's response filters through his helmet's modulator, his words tinged with a hardness that echoes his internal conflict, "The ship wasn't part of the deal."

Ran's sneer is unwavering, and he fixes a cold determination in Din's vizor. He responds, "Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here," and the tension between them is evident. Din's head tilts slightly, his silence revealing a boiling intensity beneath the cool exterior. A tempest brews within him, the turmoil and frustration reflected in the vibrant aura swirling around him. Deep maroon intermingles with silver, a dance of emotions that transcends words.

Your gaze shifts between Din and Ran, capturing the clash of energies that defines this moment. Ran's aura shimmers in shades of yellow and black, a discordant mixture that carries the essence of deceit, betrayal, and a lingering hint of cowardice. The tension escalates, your own emotions echoing Din's as you grit your teeth in the face of Ran's audacity.

The conversation continues, with Ran's laughter tinged with mockery as he reads Din's expression: "What's the look? Is that gratitude? Uh-huh. I think it is." As he walks away down the metal bridge, you and Din are left with no choice but to continue along the path of necessity, which is paved with the ethical complexities of a universe that necessitates compromise.

Resigned to the circumstances, Ran orchestrates the introduction, pulling you both deeper into the enigmatic weave of this operation. His words take on a certain gravity, introducing you to a bald human male associated with a sharp, unyielding gaze. "Hey, Mayfeld."

The man, Mayfeld, turns his gaze toward Ran's voice, his features displaying a sense of readiness. "Yeah?" he responds, a note of curiosity tinging his tone. His attention shifts to you and Din as Ran's hand gestures towards you both, drawing you into the center of this web of intrigue. "This is Mando," Ran introduces with a significant pause, a pause heavy with the weight of their shared history. "The guy I was tellin' you about, and his girl. We used to do jobs way back when."

The heat creeps into your cheeks as Ran's words hit the mark, your instincts urging you to clarify the situation. But before you can interject, Din's touch on your wrist reassures you, his grip light yet firm. It's a subtle reminder to keep your emotions in check, to let the past remain shrouded in enigmatic ambiguity. His unspoken guidance encourages silence, a lesson you've learned to read between the lines. You nod and Din releases your wrist gently.

As the three of you stand in the midst of this orchestrated reunion, Mayfeld's entrance into the scene carries an aura of skepticism. His deliberate and measured steps lead him towards you and Din, his gaze sharp and analytical. The hint of doubt lingers in his tone as he questions, "This is the guy?"

Ran, the orchestrator of this nostalgic rendezvous, affirms Mayfeld's query with a nod, a nostalgic grin touching his lips. "Yeah, we were all young, tryin' to make a name for ourselves." A chuckle dances in his voice, the echo of bygone days resonating in the present. The story he spins is one of camaraderie and shared ventures, anchored in a memory-rich past. "Yeah, but runnin' with a Mandalorian, that was… That brought us some reputation."

Mayfeld's curiosity takes a turn, his gaze settling on Din as if assessing the truth behind the legend. A subtle inclination of his chin signals his unvoiced inquiry about Din's stake in this shared history. Ran, ever the raconteur, takes the cue and indulges Mayfeld's curiosity, his laughter weaving through the words. "Oh, yeah? What did he get out of it?"

Ran's gaze shifts towards Din, a glint of amusement lighting his eyes as he recalls a past conversation. The air remains still, Din holding his ground, refusing to be drawn into the narrative. Yet, Ran plays his part with gleeful abandon, delivering Din's retort as if it were a punchline to a cosmic joke. "Target practice. Target practice! We did some crazy stuff, didn't we?" The laughter that follows carries a tinge of nostalgia, a reflection of a past that shaped the present.

In the midst of this conversation, your gaze shifts to Din's helmeted face in a quiet effort to uncover any unsaid feelings hiding under the stern demeanor. The dialogue is punctuated by Din's voice, which is unperturbed and devoid of humor, lending the remembrance a somber tone. His words carry weight, a witness to the passage of time and the change it brings, "That was a long time ago."

In the air heavy with the weight of shared history and unspoken truths, Ran's words hang like a pivotal decision. His gaze shifts between you, Din, and Mayfeld, each word laced with implications of past and present. "Well… Well, I don't go out anymore. You understand?" His tone carries the weight of a life chosen, of paths diverging. The mantle of leadership, however temporary, shifts to Mayfeld as Ran continues, "So, uh, Mayfeld, he's gonna run point on this job. If he says it, it's like it's comin' from me. You good with that?"

Din's response is a hushed symphony of assertiveness. His gaze, unwavering and unyielding, locks onto Mayfeld. The unspoken challenge is palpable as he states, "You tell me." The encounter holds an undertone of energy, a battle of wits that crosses words.

Ran's laughter cuts through the tension, a wistful echo of times long gone. "You haven't changed one bit." The shared history he refers to is as much a testament to continuity as it is to change. Mayfeld's reaction, however, is one of stark contrast. "Yeah, well, things have changed around here."

The spotlight shifts to Mayfeld, his role in this unfolding narrative becoming clearer. Ran's affirmation of his prowess echoes through the space. "Yeah, well, Mayfeld, he's… He's one of the best triggermen I've ever seen." But the sentiment is punctuated with an air of irony, as Din interjects, "That's not saying much." Their talk has a hint of rapport to it, a familiarity formed from past experiences.

However, Mayfeld's response is swift, his tone sharp and defensive. "I wasn't a stormtrooper, wiseass." Din's silence in the face of this retort speaks volumes, while you, raising an eyebrow in response, silently acknowledge the rebuff. Mayfeld's footsteps carry him away, his demeanor a blend of defiance and self-assuredness.

“Don't take long, does it?” Ran says while chuckling, walking towards Mayfeld with you and Din having no choice but to follow. As Mayfeld and the rest of you walk towards the Crest, Mayfeld comments, “Razor Crest? I can't believe that thing can fly. Looks like a Canto Bight slot machine.”

The air becomes thick with unspoken tensions, like an electric charge pulsating just beneath the surface. Your breaths come quicker, shallower, and your throat feels like it's constricting with every beat of your heart. The anger that simmers within you threatens to erupt, a caustic mix of frustration and indignation. Your fingers clench around the fabric of your clothes as if holding onto that tangible thread of restraint is the only thing preventing the floodgates from opening. The darkness gathers at the edges of your consciousness, the urge to react in kind to their dismissive attitude and pointed jabs a fierce battle against your self-control. It's a storm brewing, fierce and furious.

In the midst of this internal tempest, Mayfeld's words resonate like distant echoes, his casual explanations drifting in as if from another world. “The good-lookin' fellow there with the horns, that's Burg.” His gesture towards the red-skinned Devaronian, whose presence seems almost trivial amidst the maelstrom of emotions raging within you, barely registers.

Burg, seemingly unaffected by the tension, sets down a crate and then approaches Din. The casualness of his movements juxtaposes the turmoil that churns within you. Meanwhile, Mayfeld's words carry on, delivered with a nonchalant tone that feels like salt on a wound, “This may surprise you, but he's our muscle.” The nonchalant disclosure of Burg's role feels like a direct challenge, a deliberate attempt to provoke a reaction.

As they carry on, your grip on your clothes remains steadfast, the tension building as if holding a dam against the surge of your emotions. Every fiber of your being yearns to vent, to express the frustration building inside you, but you hold firm, teeth gritted, unwilling to let their provocation break through your defenses. The darkness and the anger roil within, yet you maintain a fragile equilibrium, aware that giving in now would only feed into their perception of you.

Burg's gruff voice rings through the air, a snarl underlining his words as he positions himself squarely in front of Din, his demeanor dripping with mockery, “So, this is a Mandalorian.” His eyes gleam with a taunting challenge as he moves around Din, his voice dripping with condescension, “I thought they'd be bigger.”

The Devaronian's disdainful circling doesn't go unnoticed, and the tension in the air grows palpable, the invisible threads of animosity weaving tighter around the group.

As Mayfeld's gesture draws your attention, your gaze shifts to the approaching Q9-0 droid, its awkward waddle reminiscent of an overgrown insect. “Droid's name is Zero,” Mayfeld announces matter-of-factly, his words carrying a casual tone that contrasts sharply with the mixed emotions swirling within you.

Turning your attention to Din, you catch the subtle shift in his posture, a minute tensing of his shoulders that belies his true feelings. You've come to know him well enough to discern his unease, and the presence of the droid clearly isn't sitting well with him. You silently make a mental note to broach the subject later, knowing that whatever history he has with droids is undoubtedly a complex one.

The atmosphere thickens with an undercurrent of resentment, an indignant fire kindling within you as Burg's mockery and Mayfeld's offhanded comments chip away at your patience. Beneath the calm facade, you're fighting to uphold, a storm brews, a visceral reaction against the selfishness and disrespect you witness. Your internal switch is flipped, your very core recoiling from the sight of someone deliberately attempting to provoke a good and faithful person like Din.

Din's voice cuts through the air with a sharp edge, his skepticism, "I thought you said you had four." His words hang for a moment, and right on cue, a female voice, smooth as silk and laced with a teasing edge, emerges from behind you two, "He does."

Both you and Din pivot around to face the source of the voice, your eyes landing on a charismatic purple-skinned Twi'lek. Her lithe movements exude confidence as she gracefully closes the distance between her and Din, her hips swaying in a rhythm that mirrors the sway of her lekku.

"Hello, Mando," she purrs, her tone oozing with familiarity.

Din’s response is curt, his words void of any semblance of warmth, "Xi’an."

The Twi'lek's demeanor shifts in a flash as she lunges, the knife she had been casually twirling in her fingers finding its place against Din's throat. Despite the sudden threat, Din remains unfazed, his visage a portrait of unyielding calm in the face of danger.

Beside him, you react instinctively, your fingers curling around the hilt of your saber, its reassuring weight grounding you. Dark thoughts whisper in the corners of your mind, urging you to react more aggressively, but you quell them with an effort. Your focus sharpens, your senses heightening as you prepare for any outcome.

With a venomous hiss, Xi'an's words slice through the air, her intent clear and unapologetic, "Tell me why I shouldn't cut you down where you stand?" The air becomes charged with tension, her blade a mere breath away from making contact.

Din's retort drips with dryness, his voice cutting through the laughter that ensues, the sarcasm a protective shield he wears, “Nice to see you, too.” Amidst the collective mirth, you and Din remain the exceptions, your guard firmly in place.

Xi’an's purring words snake through the air, a mix of familiarity and provocation, as her knife traces a path along the beskar armor adorning Din's frame. Her gaze narrows, evaluating him with a mixture of appraisal and something more. “This is shiny,” she remarks, her tone almost admiring. A soft, almost mischievous click of her tongue follows, "You wear it well."

While the others seem to find amusement in the reunion, your eyes roll almost involuntarily. The jealousy that simmers within you is undeniable, but you push it aside, focusing on the situation at hand. A flash of protective instinct courses through your veins as Xi’an's advances intensify.

Unwilling to stand by, you interpose yourself between Din and Xi’an, employing a shove to dislodge her presence. Your voice is firm, cutting through the tension, "Alright, back off."

Xi'an's eyes narrow further, her gaze now entirely fixated on you, as if sizing you up. Her lips curl into a wicked smile, and she utters words designed to sting, each syllable laced with a calculated venom, "Well, well, look at this... Mando's new pet. Guess he got tired of real warriors and settled for a stray." The derisive sneer in her voice is palpable, a cutting reminder of her history with Din, meant to hit you where it hurts the most.

You feel the urge to lunge forward, ready to let loose your own tirade, Din's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to his solid frame. You could almost feel his warm breath ghost over your ear as he speaks softly, his voice a soothing balm, "Calm down, cyar'ika. She’s not worth it."

Mayfeld's bemused gaze oscillates between the three of you, his voice laced with humor as he suggests, “Do we need to leave the room or something?”

In response, Ran chimes in with a hint of sardonic nostalgia, revealing more about Xi’an's feelings, “Well, Xi'an's been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group.” Mayfeld takes the opportunity to mockingly address her, “Aw. You gonna be okay, sweetheart?”

Xi'an's smile takes on a flirtatious edge, her eyes locking onto Din's with an almost predatory allure. "Oh, I'm all business now," she purrs, her voice dripping with suggestion. "Learned from the best." Her deliberate fluttering of lashes at Din feels like a challenge to your patience.

A low growl rumbles in your throat, a guttural response to the surge of possessive anger and jealousy welling up within you. Your body tenses, ready to spring forward, but Din's arms wrap around your waist with a reassuring yet firm hold, anchoring you to his front. His presence is a calming force, a reminder that your emotions must be tempered, even in the face of such provocation.

Ran's authoritative voice cuts through the charged atmosphere, acting as a mediator between the tension that hung thick in the air. "All right, lovebirds. Break it up till you get on the ship," he commands, herding the rest of the group to move along. As Xi'an saunters away, her lingering wink at Din feels like a final provocation, a reminder of the emotions that had flared so intensely.

Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, the storm of emotions still swirling within you. Din's voice, calm and even, pierces through the turmoil. "You're usually not this violent," he remarks, his words acting as an anchor that grounds you in the present.

His statement triggers a moment of clarity, snapping you back to yourself. Blinking, you shake off the remnants of your reaction. Din's firm hold on your waist and his touch is a constant reassurance, grounding you further. Your voice wavers as you begin to speak, "Oh, I…"

Din guides you to face him, his hands on your hips inviting you to meet his gaze. Your gaze falls momentarily to his beskar chest plate, your cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. His gloved hands gently lift your chin, compelling you to look up at him through the vizor. Stammering, you try to explain, "I… I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I…"

His response is measured, his words carrying a depth of sincerity. "Don't apologize. I appreciated it," he admits, his admission causing a soft flutter within you. A pause follows Din, searching for the right words amidst the unspoken emotions. "No one has ever… defended me before. It… it felt nice."

The sincerity in your voice strikes a chord within him, and your words resonate in the charged air. Your eyes widen as you fully grasp the impact of your defense. "I didn't like what they were saying to you," you confess, your tone a blend of protectiveness and empathy that echoes through the space between you. "They were being mean, and you didn't—don't deserve that. Ever." Your honesty hangs in the air, tangible and raw, forging an unspoken bond between you that seems to deepen with every uttered word.

Din's helmeted gaze remains steady on you, his silent gratitude is evident. "This is the Way," he responds, a testament to the Mandalorian code governing his actions. You offer him a small smile, your affection and support unwavering. Gently, you cup the side of his helmet, your touch tender and laden with unspoken emotions. Din's gloved hand meets yours on his helmet, his fingers gently brushing against your wrist.

The weight of the upcoming mission and the necessity to keep up with Ran and the rest of the team tug at your consciousness as you slowly start to separate. Even though the moment may have ended, the words said to remain in the air as a tacit pledge of sympathy and support that will get you through the difficulties ahead.

The atmosphere grows tense as Mayfeld's holographic display illuminates the room, depicting the fortified transport ship. His voice is matter-of-fact as he lays out the plan, "So, the package is being moved on a fortified transport ship. We got a limited window to board, find our friend, get him out of there before they make their jump."

Your brows furrow in contemplation, a cascade of thoughts racing through your mind. Beside you, Din vocalizes the concern that had crossed your thoughts, addressing the rest of the group, "That's a New Republic prison ship. Your man wasn't taken by a rival syndicate. He was arrested."

With a smug grin, Mayfeld leans in over the table, his confidence undaunted, "So what?"

Burg's gruff grunt resonates with the sense of practicality that seems to underpin the group's operations. Ran's casual shrug further emphasizes the notion that business often transcends the nature of the task, as he remarks, "A job is a job."

Din's voice, laced with a tangible caution, interjects, "That's a max security transport, and we're not looking for that kind of heat." Yet Ran dismisses his apprehension with a casual wave, as if the potential risks were of no concern, countering, "Well, neither are we. So just don't mess up."

Xi'an's presence nears Din, her calculated steps revealing a self-assuredness that matches her words. Her sharp teeth gleam in the dim light as she inquires, her voice both playful and provoking, "The good news for you is the ship is manned by droids. Still hate the machines, Mando?"

The familiar hum of the Razor Crest's engines fills the hangar bay as the droid Zero returns from his systems check, his mechanical voice projecting a sense of detachment, "Despite recent modifications, the ship is still quite a mess. The power lines are leaking, the navigation is intermittent, and the hyperdrive is only operating at 67.3% efficiency. We have much better ships. Why are we using this one?"

Ran, seemingly unfazed by the droid's assessment, offers a response with a trace of confidence, "'Cause the Razor Crest is off the old Imperial and the New Republic grid. It's a ghost." Mayfeld chimes in, elaborating on the strategic choice, "Yeah, and we need a ship that can get close enough to jam New Republic code."

The hologram shifts under Mayfeld's command, revealing their plan for entry. He gestures towards the projection, explaining, "So, when we drop out of hyperspace here, if we immediately bank into this kind of attitude, we should be right in their blind spot, which will give us just enough time for your ship to scramble our signal."

Din, ever the pragmatist, voices his doubts, "It's not possible. Even for the Crest." Ran nods towards the droid, their solution to the challenge, "That's why he's flyin'."

Mayfeld's laughter resonates through the hangar as he heads inside the ship, leaving the group to prepare. Ran's attention shifts to Din, a knowing look in his eyes as he remarks, "Mando, I know you're a pretty good pilot, but we need you on the trigger. Not on the wheel."

Zero's articulated fingers snap, a gesture that coincides with its proclamation, "Don't worry, Mandalorian. My response time is quicker than organics. And I'm smarter, too."

Ran dismisses the droid with a shooing motion, a wry smile playing on his lips, "All right. I... Yeah. That's good." As Zero boards the Crest, Ran turns his gaze to both you and Din, his tone shifting slightly, "Forgive the programming. He's a little rough around the edges. But he is the best."

Din, ever cautious, questions the droid's reliability, "How can you trust it?"

Ran's response carries a touch of irony, "You know me, Mando. I don't trust anybody." As you and Din embark onto the ship, positioned by the ramp, ready to seal it, Ran's tone lightens, his words tinged with nostalgia, "Just like the good old days, Mando. Huh?"

With a decisive press of a button, Din activates the mechanism, causing the ship's ramp to ascend smoothly. The low hum of the ship's engines blends with a soft hiss as the Razor Crest gracefully disengages from the space station.

THE RAZOR CREST, 9ABY – SPACE

Both you and Din observe Zero, the droid, diligently operating the flight computer, his metallic fingers deftly navigating the hyperspace calculations. "Calculations complete. Jumping to hyperspace now. Feel free to join the others. I will handle it from here," Zero announces, his mechanical voice devoid of any emotion.

With limited options, you leave the flight deck, descending the ladder into the cargo hold, Din following suit. As you hop down, your eyes catch Burg prying open Din's gun cabinet. A glance at Din prompts him to react swiftly, a press of a button on his bracer causing the cabinet doors to snap shut, securing his weaponry.

Burg's displeasure is evident, and he attempts to engage the mechanism leading to the child's safe room. Din's hand clamps around Burg's wrist, a clear message that snooping around his possessions is not tolerated. Burg emits a low growl, his discomfort evident. Mayfeld intervenes, playing the role of a referee, his voice a soothing note amidst the tension. "Hey, hey, hey. Okay. Okay. Okay, I get it. I'm a little particular about my personal space, too. So, let's just do this job. We get in, we get out, and you don't have to see our faces anymore."

Burg's inquiry breaks the silence, “Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” his skepticism directed at Din's presence. You instinctively move closer to Din's side as Burg's gaze pierces. Mayfeld responds with a mixture of fact and myth, "Well, apparently they're the greatest warriors in the galaxy. So they say."

The snide remark follows, "Then why are they all dead?" Din remains unfazed by the jibe, his silence serving as a retort that speaks volumes. Laughter ensues amongst the group, but beneath your calm exterior, the tempest of your suppressed anger churns like waves against a shore.

Intrigued, Mayfeld presses on, his curiosity directed at Din's abilities, "Well, you flew with him, Xi'an. Is he as good as they say?"

Xi'an's smile is cunning as she balances a knife on her fingertip, her gaze locked onto Din. "Ask him about the job on Alzoc III."

Your attention swivels towards Din, his response anticipated. He keeps it succinct, "I did what I had to."

Xi'an's laughter carries a knowing edge as she playfully points her knife at Din, her eyes narrowing with a calculated intensity. "Oh, but you liked it. See, I know who you really are."

Your brows furrow, doubts creeping in as you ponder whether you truly knew the depths of Din's character. Fault lines tremble underneath your glass house, but you will yourself to push it down, trying your best not to let it show across your face.

"He never takes off the helmet?" Mayfeld questions, his curiosity apparent in his tone. Xi'an, in response, mockingly places a hand over her chest, her fist clenched in a mock salute as she echoes, "This is the Way."

The urge to grind your teeth is nearly overpowering, your jaw clenching as your eyes narrow at Xi'an's display.

"I wonder what you look like under there. Maybe he's a Gungan. Is that why yousa don't wanna show your face?" Mayfeld's taunt cuts through the air, a palpable jeer aimed at Din.

They all guffaw at that and by this point, the crew seems intent on testing your limits. Din remains adept at maintaining a façade of detachment, but for you, their provocations are as clear as day. Their mocking tones, their envy, and the swirl of colors in their auras – the varying shades of yellow, black, and red – are almost perceptible.

Mayfeld's inquiry hangs in the air like a challenge, laced with a touch of mockery. "You ever seen his face?" he questions Xi'an, his tone a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Xi'an's response is teasing and coy, as if she's savoring a well-kept secret. Her lips curl into a knowing smile as she softly gasps before her words come forth, "A lady never tells."

Mayfeld's smugness only grows, his eyes locking onto Din, determined to push his buttons. "Aw. Come on, Mando. We all gotta trust each other here," he goads, leaning into the provocation. "You gotta show us somethin'."

You and Din maintain your stoic stance, your collective resolve unyielding. Yet, Mayfeld remains relentless, his voice dripping with taunting insistence. "Come on. Just lift the helmet up. Come on. Let's all see your eyes."

A simmering fuse inside you, long-held but now ignited, transforms into a tempest of emotions. It's as if crashing waves of pitch black and pale blue swirl within your core, a tumultuous sea that surges and roars. The spark of this intense turmoil travels down the wire of your patience, each second counting down to the impending explosion of pent-up anger. The echo of this emotional turbulence reverberates through your being, akin to a widening equator, traversing a landscape of suppressed frustrations. The crescendo of dissonance builds, orchestrating your emotions into a fevered symphony, each note tuning itself with rapid intensity. In that charged moment, the threads of your self-control fray, and the brewing storm inside inches ever closer to release.

Burg goes up and positions himself in front of Din, saying, "I'll do it," clearly intending to remove Din's helmet.

As though a switch has been flipped, the storm within you roars to life. A torrent of dark thoughts, rage, and frustration surges to the surface. You're caught in a whirlwind of emotion, your surroundings narrowing into a tunnel vision. In this maelstrom, your actions become almost instinctual, driven by an overwhelming tide of intense feeling.

In the blink of an eye, you position yourself protectively in front of Din. Your arm extends in a swift and assertive motion, fingers flexed like the claws of a predator. Burg's imposing figure is abruptly brought down to his knees, a desperate struggle for breath filling the air. Your own breathing is labored, heavy with the rush of power coursing through you. The storm of emotions within has transformed into a tempest of action.

Mayfeld and Xi'an react swiftly, moving to intervene, but your focus remains unyielding. Your other arm extends, palm outstretched, fingers acting as a conduit for the Force. A powerful surge of energy emanates from you, forcefully pushing both Mayfeld and Xi'an back, slamming them against the opposite end of the cargo hold. Your control over the Force is unwavering, fueled by the potent mixture of emotions swirling within you.

However, amid this whirlwind of power and action, a crucial detail slips your notice. In his flailing struggle, Burg accidentally triggers a compartment to open, its contents exposed. Within that compartment lies the Child, vulnerable and exposed, an unintended consequence of the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

A shock of realization courses through you, widening your eyes as the gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow. In that split second, your grip on Burg relinquishes its hold, and he staggers forward, struggling to regain his breath. Your rapid step back inadvertently leads you to collide with Din's solid beskar-clad chest. The sudden impact jars you, but it's the overwhelming surge of fear from within that renders you momentarily speechless.

The atmosphere in the cargo hold becomes almost suffocatingly dense, each heartbeat seemingly echoing in the quiet aftermath of your impulsive action. Swallowing hard, you wrestle with the knot of anxiety that's taken residence in your throat. From where you stand, you can see Mayfeld and Xi’an pulling themselves up from the floor, their attention now fixed on the exposed compartment.

With a mix of curiosity and disbelief, Mayfeld's voice breaks the silence, "Whoa! What is that? You get lonely up here, buddy? Huh?" His gaze shifts to you and Din, his words taking on a taunting edge, "Wait a minute. Did you two make that? Huh?"

A pointed raise of your eyebrows is your retort, your fury simmering just beneath the surface. Mayfeld's gaze meets yours, and his words drip with a mixture of sarcasm and insinuation, "A Mandalorian and a Jedi, who knew…"

Your nostrils flare as your teeth grind together, a flare of defiance emanating from you. You respond in a tone that holds both irritation and rejection, "I am no Jedi."

Mayfeld doesn't miss a beat, his taunting tone persisting, "What is it, like a pet or somethin'?"

Din's voice, soft but firm, emerges from behind you, "Yeah. Something like that."

Xi’an interjects, her words loaded with provocation, her gaze alternating between you and Din, "Didn't take you for the type. Maybe that code of yours has made you soft."

A mirthless chuckle escapes Mayfeld as he comments, his tone carrying a hint of indifference, "Me, I was never really into pets. Yeah, I didn't have the temperament. Patience, you know? I mean, I tried, but never worked out."

Your jaw remains clenched, your patience wearing thin as Mayfeld's words scrape at your nerves. And then, his words take an unsettling turn, his tone turning almost casual as he lifts the Child in his arms, "But I'm thinkin' maybe I'll try again with this little fella. Huh?"

The sight of him holding the Child triggers an instinctual protectiveness within you. Your voice is a low, warning growl, "Put a single scratch on him and I will make sure you beg for mercy." The intensity in your tone leaves no room for doubt – this is not an idle threat.

"Dropping out of hyperspace now."

The transition from hyperspace to real space is abrupt, the jolt reverberating through the Razor Crest as it emerges above the New Republic prison ship. The ship executes a sharp, evasive maneuver, causing its occupants to stagger; the Child, unfortunately, loses balance and falls, his tiny voice emitting a startled cry.

“Commencing final approach, now. Cloaking signal, now.”

Reacting swiftly, you and Din reach for the Child, his cries driving you into immediate action. With careful hands, Din gathers the child, comforting him as he places him back into his cot.

Through the intercom, Zero's voice resounds, "Engaging coupling now. Coupling confirmed. We are down. And relax. Commence extraction now."

As the ship gently rests on the prison ship's hull, Din's presence seems to work like magic on the Child. His soothing coos become a balm for the little one's nerves, casting a brief moment of serenity amidst the intensity of the operation.

“Useless droid didn't even give us a proper countdown,” Xi’an hisses in annoyance, her frustration palpable in the tense air. Meanwhile, Burg unceremoniously discards the boxes containing their equipment, his actions reflecting his impatience.

“Z, are you sure they can't see us?” Mayfeld queries, holding a comlink in his hand, his tone edged with caution. Zero's mechanical voice responds, “The Razor Crest is scrambling our signature, and I am navigating within the prison system. It's remarkable that this gunship managed to evade Empire capture.”

With a sense of purpose, Mayfeld asserts, “All right, we've got a job to do. Mando, you're up.” In response, Din promptly moves to open a hatch beneath the Razor Crest, creating an entry point into the New Republic prison ship.

A moment of hesitation lingers as the crew stands on the precipice of action. Mayfeld's uncertainty is vocalized as he scans the group, questioning, “It's me?” His inquiry is met with Burg's laconic response, “Always you.”

Mayfeld takes the lead, descending into the shadows of the New Republic prison ship, deftly avoiding the watchful gaze of several R1 Security Droids. With cautious steps, Xi’an and Burg follow suit, as they navigate through the unfamiliar terrain. In the quiet that ensues, you and Din remain on the Razor Crest's threshold, the weight of your shared decision hanging in the air. A subtle shake of your head signals your reluctance, yet you can sense Din's gaze on you, a silent encouragement. His eyes shift from you to the door concealing the Child, and you exhale slowly, striving to regain your composure. Steeling yourself, you follow Din's lead, your footfalls echoing as you make your descent from the ship's ladder, the echoes of your internal turmoil blending with the gravity of the mission at hand.

NEW REPUBLIC CORRECTIONAL TRANSPORT, 9ABY – SPACE

The urgency in the air is palpable as Mayfeld briefs the group, a sense of impending danger hanging over the mission. "All right, we're on the clock. When we engage those droids, they're gonna be all over us," Mayfeld's words hold a weight of caution. Din's response is curt and straightforward, his voice a monotone that resonates with experience, "I know the drill."

Amid the tension, the intercom crackles to life, and Zero's mechanical voice chimes in through Mayfeld's comlink, his words reverberating with calculated precision, "Bio trackers activated. I've got eyes."

Mayfeld's nod is an unspoken acknowledgment of the information as he addresses the team, with a sense of determination in his demeanor. "All right, let's go."

Navigating the ship's brightly lit corridors, blasters are held at the ready by the crew, and your fingers find the familiar grip of your lightsaber hilt. The tense atmosphere is punctuated by the presence of various humanoid and alien prisoners, their watchful eyes trailing the group as they pass. Among them, a few Imperial officers cast lingering glances, their scrutiny prompting a quiet mutter from Din, "I don't like this." The collective unease amplifies the gravity of the mission, each step forward a reminder of the risks involved.

Xi’an's laughter is a brief, sharp sound that cuts through the tense ambiance, her voice dripping with familiarity as she teases, "You always were paranoid."

Mayfeld seizes the opportunity to playfully prod further, his voice laced with a smug undertone as he seeks confirmation, "Is that true, Mando? Were you always paranoid?"

You let out an audible sigh that sounds both frustrated and impatient. You respond to the banter with a noticeable expression of irritation as your eyes roll. The gravity of the circumstance appears to heighten your annoyance as you respond, "Were you born stupid or did you take lessons?”

A sudden growl from an alien prisoner sends a jolt through the group, causing Mayfeld to practically leap in surprise. Xi’an responds with a hiss that sounds almost maniacal, her readiness for confrontation evident. Amidst the tension, Zero's voice breaks through the commotion, guiding the crew: “Approaching control room. Make a left at the next juncture.”

Following the instructions, you round the corner and continue to move with the group. Just as you do, an MSE-6 series repair droid scurries into view. Burg's reaction is almost comically misaligned with the situation as he grunts and coos, “What? It's just a little mousey. Come here, little mousey.”

Mayfeld, seemingly trying to prevent further chaos, calls after Burg, but it's too late – Burg takes a shot, hitting the droid. The clashing reactions within the group only add to the chaotic atmosphere, and you can't help but rub your temple in frustration.

And as if on cue, the unexpected appearance of four N5 sentry droids turns the situation from bad to worse. The droids immediately detect the intrusion, their metallic voices chiming, “Intruder alert. Open fire.” Seeking cover, you all scatter, taking refuge behind the edges of the corridor as blaster fire erupts around you.

“We're too exposed here,” Xi’an warns urgently, her words strained amidst the chaotic onslaught of blaster fire. Mayfeld's response is grimly practical, highlighting the stakes: “If they get a signal out, it's not gonna matter.”

“Mando, let's go! You're supposed to be somethin' special,” Mayfeld shouts, the desperation in his voice evident. With all eyes turning to where Din had been, it's undeniable – he's disappeared. Xi’an's frustration grows into a low, threatening growl while Mayfeld's accusation echoes, “I knew it. I knew it!”

Just as doubt attempts to creep in, a sight catches your eye – a flash of beskar armor and the glint of a helmet in the fray. Relief courses through you as Din re-emerges, his appearance timed perfectly with an ambush. The Mandalorian strikes from behind, moving with calculated efficiency.

The first droid falls as Din deftly slices its foot with a vibro-knife, sending it crashing to the ground. A precise shot takes down another droid, demonstrating his unmatched marksmanship. Amidst the chaos, one of the droids manages to grab Din, hurling him against a cell door. The ensuing brawl is visceral, a testament to Din's unyielding determination. Blow after blow, he fights to break free from the droid's grasp.

In a daring move, the Mandalorian employs his whipcord, toppling yet another droid with its swift precision. Unwavering, he rips off the droid's head, further thinning their opposition. Din's resourcefulness shines as he employs his flamethrower, searing the circuits of one droid before executing a pinpoint shot to the head of the fourth.

However, the conflict is far from ending. You approach the conflict beside Din, a force to be reckoned with, as you intuitively ignite your purple lightsaber, a vibrant arc of energy. Together, you navigate the frantic dance of droid advances and blaster fire. You attack the mechanical foes one by one with careful, calculated blows that dance between light and darkness.

Din steps in at just the right time, his blaster rounds precisely timed to shut off the security droid's targeting sensors as it rushes for you. The threat posed by the robot is removed when it falls. The two of you continue your onslaught as the momentum of the fight shifts in your favor. Your perfect synchronization of fighting skill plows through the remaining foes.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Mayfeld and his companions become mere spectators as the prisoners roar in exultation, their jubilant cries blending into a cacophony of alien languages. The fallen droids bear testament to your combined might, the remnants of the skirmish a testament to your prowess.

As the adrenaline-laden air gradually subsides, your attention shifts, your gaze drawn like a magnet to Din. The aftermath casts a warm, reddish hue over the scene, and his form is etched in the ambience, beskar-clad and formidable. His chest rises and falls with each deliberate breath, the gentle rhythm of his respiration a contrast to the chaos that surrounded you moments ago. Your heart flutters at the sight, your breath quickening in response.

His figure exudes a primal magnetism, a silent declaration of power and control. The beskar plates that encase him rise and fall with his breathing, sculpting his form in an almost mesmerizing cadence. Through the visor of his helmet, your gaze meets his, an unseen connection forged in that charged moment. The emotions roiling beneath your surface rise to the fore, amplified by the intensity of the battle and the closeness of your partnership.

Within the confines of your heart, a tempestuous fire rages, drawn to his enigmatic energy like a moth to a flame. His presence is a captivating constellation, a map of stars that navigates your thoughts. In his being, you've unearthed a revelation – a revelation that he's as boundless and beguiling as the universe itself, a force that holds you captive in its gravitational pull.

As the echoes of combat fade and the prisoners' cheers meld with the gentle hum of the ship, you remain rooted in the moment. Your feelings swell, words unspoken but deeply felt, an electric current that courses between you and Din. The universe has painted this canvas of fate, intertwining your paths in ways that defy explanation.

Mayfeld's voice breaks the momentary spell, “Make sure you clean up your mess,” pulling you from the intense gaze you had shared with Din. As the group begins to move away, you find yourself still standing amidst the resonances of the fight, the rush of adrenaline leaving your chest heaving with each breath. The aftermath is a lingering unseen tapestry made of energetic and emotional strands.

Din's steps bring him closer, his presence a steadying anchor in the whirlwind of sensations. He draws near, his concern evident in the subtle tension that marks his movements. His gaze meets yours, and you're acutely aware of the dilation of your pupils, a visual echo of the internal tempest that rages within you.

With your pupils dark and dilated, your eyes seem to mirror the vast expanse of space, the depths of your emotions laid bare for him to see. Your mouth is slightly ajar, the remnants of the heightened moment leaving you momentarily suspended, needing to tilt your head slightly upward to fully meet his gaze. In this charged instant, the universe narrows down to the connection between your eyes, a silent exchange that communicates volumes without the need for words.

In that suspended moment, the silence speaks volumes, a symphony of unspoken sentiments. Your heartbeats seem to synchronize, a rhythm that matches the ebb and flow of the tide in your chest. Time dances on the precipice of this interaction, and you find yourself caught within its gravity, unable and unwilling to break free.

The universe has momentarily stilled, a canvas painted with the interplay of gazes and emotions. It's a connection that transcends the physical, forging a link that words could scarcely encompass. As you stand there, the universe around you continues its dance, but within this bubble of time, you and Din share an unspoken language that's uniquely yours.

His touch is electric, a spark that ignites a cascade of sensations within you. As his gloved hand brushes against yours, a shiver courses through your frame, a response as instinctual as the pull of celestial bodies. It's as if the very universe has conspired to send a myriad of shooting stars dancing across your skin, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake.

His touch lingers, a slow and deliberate movement that traces the contours of your arm, following an invisible path etched by fate itself. The weight of his touch is both grounding and intoxicating, a tangible connection that bridges the gap between you. His hand ascends with a tantalizing slowness, ascending from your hand to your forearm, and then to your elbow.

A soft hum resonates from within him, a sound that vibrates through the air and settles within the depths of your being. Its resonance is both soothing and electrifying, a sensation that seems to harmonize with the very pulse of your existence. The world around you blurs, your senses zeroing in on the symphony of his touch and the melody of his voice.

You close your eyes, surrendering to the moment, letting the cascade of emotions and sensations wash over you. The darkness behind your closed eyelids becomes a canvas upon which you paint the memory of his touch, each stroke a testament to the intensity of this connection. It's a stolen moment amidst the chaos, a fragment of time where the universe seems to pause and let you bask in the radiance of his presence.

In this suspended state, you're adrift in a sea of feelings, carried along by the tide of emotions that his touch evokes. It's an experience that transcends the physical, a communion of souls that defies words.

Din hums again, his voice husky as he speaks lowly to you, a timbre that sends vibrations down your spine, “Hm… is there something you wanna tell me, cyar'ika?”

Your eyes flutter open as you peer at him through the veil of your eyelashes, caught in a gaze that holds more unspoken promises than words ever could. “You’re not playing fair, Din,” you murmur, your voice a mixture of exasperation and desire.

He doesn’t offer words in reply, his actions speaking louder. His gloved hand travels down your arm once more, a touch that both ignites and soothes. Then, in a move that sends your heart racing, he intertwines his fingers with yours, the contact a firm yet gentle connection that bridges the gap between you two. His words are a magnetic pull, drawing you from the depths of your thoughts, “Let’s get this over with, and then we can talk more about this later, cyar’ika.”

With a wordless nod, he begins to lead you, his grasp on your hand guiding you through the corridors. Each step feels ethereal, as if you're treading on clouds, suspended between the moment you've shared and the mission that still awaits. As you walk together, hand-in-hand, the world around you seems to blur, your senses attuned solely to the warmth of his hand in yours, the echo of his voice in your mind, and the unspoken promise of what's to come.

The rest of the crew comes into view, their chatter and presence fading into the background as your focus remains firmly on the Mandalorian at your side. The job ahead beckons, a task that demands your attention, but for now, the connection between you and Din is a current that flows with an irresistible intensity, a silent understanding that no words could ever encompass.

“It seems your presence has been detected. Redirecting security alert away from your position,” Zero's voice chimes in once more, its mechanical tone cutting through the tension in the air. Mayfeld's impatience is palpable as he snaps at the droid, “Z, open the door!”

A brief pause follows, the artificial intelligence seemingly hesitant. “But I'm detecting an organic signature,” Zero interjects, its tone conveying its concern over the potential danger.

Mayfeld, driven by the urgency of the situation, dismisses the warning without a second thought, frustration lacing his response, “Yeah, okay. All right. Just open the door!”

A New Republic officer, his uniform a stark blue against the metallic surroundings, appears before your group, blaster raised and hands slightly trembling. His voice wavers as he commands, “Stop! Just stop right there.”

His breaths come quick and uneven, a clear sign of his nervousness and uncertainty. With a palpable tension in the air, he addresses your group, his voice a mix of caution and apprehension, “You put down the blasters right now.” You take a discreet step, instinctively concealing the hilt of your lightsaber, not wanting to inadvertently escalate the situation or draw undue attention to your own abilities as a Force-sensitive individual.

Mayfeld's mocking words pierce the tense air, his demeanor almost nonchalant as he circles the New Republic officer. His dry comment about the officer's shoes and belt creates an odd moment of levity, juxtaposed against the serious circumstances.

Din's voice cuts through, an edge of sternness lacing his words, “There were only supposed to be droids on this ship.” But Mayfeld seems to disregard the Mandalorian's concern, his focus firmly on the controls he's inspecting.

Amidst this backdrop of escalating tension, Mayfeld's voice takes on a hint of urgency as he narrows his attention to a specific cell, “Hang on, hang on. Let's see here. Uh… Cell two-two-one.”

However, his attention quickly shifts, and he assesses the officer with a touch of sarcasm, “All right, now for our well-dressed friend.” The officer's swift reaction, pulling out a tracking beacon, is met with a surge of panic from Mayfeld, his words a rapid stream of protest, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, hey. Easy. Easy, egghead. Put that down. Put that down. Come on.”

In an effort to regain control and stop the situation from getting out of hand, Din speaks in an authoritative, calm voice, interjecting, "Easy," to both the officer and Mayfeld.

Mayfeld, however, is unrelenting, his anxiety palpable, “Put it down now!” Din steps in again, his voice a steadying presence, “Easy. Nobody has to get hurt here. Just calm down.” The gravity of the moment hangs heavy, the outcome teetering on a knife's edge.

Burg's puzzled voice slices through the charged atmosphere, his uncertainty hanging in the air like a question mark, "What is that thing?"

You, the embodiment of composure, provide a straightforward answer, "It’s a tracking beacon."

Mayfeld's voice leaps in, urgency punctuating his words, “He presses that thing, we're all done. A New Republic attack team will hone in on that signal and blow us all to hell. Put it down!”

Xi’an’s frustration finds voice, her tone laced with incredulity, "Are you serious?" Mayfeld’s response is swift and resolute, "Yes, I'm serious."

Annoyance ripples through Xi’an’s voice, her accusation landing with weight, "You didn't think we needed to know that tiny little detail?"

Mayfeld's voice carries a mixture of frustration and agitation, "I didn't think we'd get to this point." A tinge of disdain colors Xi’an's response, her retort dripping with irony, "Yet here we are."

The tension between them is palpable, the air heavy with unsaid words. Mayfeld's frustration escalates, his voice a crescendo, "Are you questioning my managerial style, Xi'an?" Her response is nothing short of mocking, a low chuckle escaping her lips, "No, sir."

Din’s voice emerges as a soothing beacon, an anchor in the storm, "Hey. Listen to me. Hey, hey, hey. Listen to me, okay? Look." His blaster disappears into its holster, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Following his lead, you lift your hands too, a visual assurance to the officer that harm isn't your intention.

With a determined glance, you address Mayfeld, your tone firm and unyielding, “Hey. Put it down.”

His frown deepens, his voice more intense, “Are you crazy?”

Undeterred, you echo your words, your gaze shifting to the trembling officer clutching the beacon, “Put it down. What's your name?” The question hovers in the air, a sliver of humanity in the middle of the mayhem.

He stutters before replying, “It's Davan.”

You nod, your expression gentle as you offer your own name and introduce yourself. Turning back to him, your tone remains steady and reassuring, “Davan. We're not here for you. We're here for a prisoner. If you let us go about our job, you can walk away with your life.”

“No, he won't,” Mayfeld says, his blaster aimed unwaveringly at Davan. The tense standoff escalates as Din swiftly raises his own blaster, its cold muzzle locked onto Mayfeld, his tone firm, “Hey. You realize what you're gonna bring down on us?”

“You think I care about that?” Mayfeld's voice drips with defiance, his finger tense against the blaster's trigger. But Din remains unyielding, his grip unwavering, “We're not killing anybody. You understand?”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando,” Mayfeld's command is laced with an edge of desperation, his eyes narrowing at Din's unwavering stance.

Din’s helmeted head shakes almost imperceptibly, his voice like stone, “I can't do that.”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando!” Mayfeld's demand escalates into a furious yell, and Burg, feeling the tension surge, raises his own blaster at Din, the atmosphere crackling with impending violence. But Din anticipates the move, the flamethrower bracer extending with a threatening hiss, a wordless warning to back down.

As tensions teetered on the brink of eruption, Xi'an's blade swiftly put an end to the escalating confrontation, ending Davan's role in a fatal strike. The aftermath of her swift and ruthless action hung in the air like a heavy shroud, a stark reminder of the unforgiving tightrope they tread. Your gaze shifts to Din, his stance unchanged but the tension in the room evidently affecting him, his demeanor slightly unsettled by the abrupt turn of events.

In the middle of the mounting tension, Xi'an's command pierces the charged air and ends the argument she was having with Mayfeld. She takes the knife back from Davan's lifeless body with a nonchalant attitude while Mayfeld tries to defend his actions with the words, "Crazy Twi. I had it under control."

Xi'an's laughter is a subtle ripple of amusement that contrasts with the gravity of the situation, her dry humor punctuating the room, "Yeah. Looked like it."

The rhythmic beeping of the tracking device punctuates the room, its red glow pulsating in time with its urgent signals. Mayfeld's voice strains with panic, his words coming out in a rush, "Was that thing blinking before? Was it?"

A droid's voice resonates from the comlink, breaking through the tension, "Zero to Mayfeld. Zero to Mayfeld."

Mayfeld responds urgently, "What?"

Zero's metallic tone delivers the unsettling news, "I've detected a New Republic distress signal homing in on your location. You have approximately 20 minutes."

“We only need five.” Xi’an says happily before running down the corridor while Mayfeld commands all of you, “Let's go, let's go. Move, move, move!”

On the way, you run into a black hover security droid, but Burg hurls the droid to the floor with brute force, knocking it out. A second hover security droid appears, but Burg hurls the fallen first droid at it, knocking it out. The two droids explode into flames.

As the countdown to the impending threat ticks away, your group arrives at the prison cell. Mayfeld's command to Zero is sharp and impatient, "Z, open it up."

The droid responds crisply, "You have 15 minutes remaining."

Mayfeld's urgency heightens, a hint of desperation edging into his voice, "Come on, come on. Open it up!"

With a mechanical whir, the doors of the cell part, revealing the prisoner held within – a Twi'lek male mercenary named Qin. Din's gaze locks onto Qin's form, recognition flashing across his features. The air is heavy with unspoken history as their eyes meet.

Qin's tone is edged with wry humor, a barb aimed at Din, "Funny, the man who left me behind is now my savior. Mando."

The tension in the room tightens like a coiled spring, and just as you're trying to process the weight of the situation, Burg's aggression erupts. With a savage growl, he lunges at Din, striking him with brutal force and sending him crashing into the cell.

As the tense situation spirals into chaos, a sharp, searing sensation jolts through your body. You gasp, a high-pitched sound escaping your lips as the effects of a drug take hold. Panic surges within you, turning your limbs into leaden weights, and your surroundings seem to blur.

Your cries pierce the air as your body convulses, and in the midst of your agony, you become aware of strong arms wrapping around you. Qin's figure comes into focus, his grip firm as he lifts you effortlessly over his shoulder. The world spins as your pleas for help ring out, your voice a raw symphony of fear, "Mando! Help me!"

In the shadows cast by the unfolding turmoil, Din's form stands frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief and shock. Anguish courses through his veins, a torrent of emotions he struggles to contain. The scene before him is a nightmarish tableau, your distress etched into every fiber of his being. The tendrils of rage snake through his consciousness, coiling tighter and tighter, a tempest of anger like none he has ever felt.

As you're carried away, your voice echoing in his ears, Din's gloved fists clench, his entire body vibrating with an unquenchable fury. It's a wrath that burns brighter than the hottest star, an all-consuming fire that threatens to consume him. Every ounce of his being demands retribution, and at that moment, the Mandalorian's resolve becomes ironclad. He will unleash a storm that no one could have foreseen.

Din's gaze narrows as he peers through the small windows of his cell, his thoughts aligning swiftly with his actions. With a deft and calculated move, he deploys his grappling cable, ensnaring a humanoid New Republic security droid that strides past his confinement. The droid fights against the cable's hold, discharging blaster bolts that splinter the air and illuminate the cell's interior. The sound of metal meeting energy punctuates the struggle, an echo of determination resonating in every ricocheting blast.

Skill and unwavering purpose guide Din's hands as he manages to subdue the droid's counteroffensive, creating a brief respite from the storm of blaster fire. Amidst the lingering wisps of dissipating energy, he retrieves a severed arm from the droid, repurposing it into a tool of liberation. The cell's lock yields under his meticulous manipulation, granting him freedom.

Returning to the control room, Din surveys the array of screens and the intricate console before him. His strategic mind takes hold, weaving plans with precision born from countless battles and encounters. The rhythmic hum of technology intermingles with the rhythmic beat of his heart as he molds his thoughts into a cohesive strategy.

A symphony of calculated keystrokes and deft button presses follows as Din's fingers dance across the control panel. With deliberate intention, he commands the locking mechanism, sealing blast doors that partition the room. This division becomes a strategic maneuver, creating a barrier that cleaves Mayfeld and Qin from Burg and Xi'an, a tactical separation that enhances their chances for success.

Through the surveillance cameras, the Mandalorian's gaze remains fixed on Xi'an and Burg, their actions playing out like a holographic performance. His mind churns with calculated purpose, the cogs of ingenuity whirring as an idea takes shape. His hand descends to the floor, fingers curling around the tracking beacon. A glint of determination glimmers within his visor, setting his plan into motion.

Time passes in measured increments, each second marked by the thud of his heart. The silence of the control room envelops him, a stark contrast to the tumult that brews outside its confines. Then, like a predator sensing its prey, he perceives the Devaronian's approach. As Burg's form materializes in the entrance, the Mandalorian springs into action, his movements as fluid as the currents of a hidden river.

With a seamless fluidity, the Mandalorian ensnares Burg with his grappling cable, a vice-like grip that tightens around the Devaronian's throat. Gravity becomes his ally as he employs the cable to pull Burg upwards, an ambush executed with unyielding precision. Their confrontation transitions into an intimate dance of hand-to-hand combat, each moves a reflection of their honed skills.

Fire meets resilience as the Mandalorian deploys his flamethrower, its fierce tongues licking at Burg's form. Yet, the Devaronian presses on, seemingly unfazed by the inferno. The control room becomes an arena, an arena where every punch and parry is a symphony of strength and strategy. A console becomes a weapon, hurled by Burg with the ferocity of a beast asserting dominance.

In the distance, Xi'an's sharp ears catch the rumblings of the altercation, a discordant melody that sparks concern. Her steps hasten, her movements propelled by a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.

The steadfast commitment of the Mandalorian is evident in every deed. He extends his purpose by aiming a knife toward the blast door controls. His throw triggers a series of mechanisms, setting up a battle of might vs metal. Blast doors that are dropping vertically seem to be trying to stop him, but he fights back, his muscles aching from the effort.

But as fate's tides change, so does his plan of attack. Burg is basically rendered unconscious and imprisoned within a metal cage when a second set of blast doors that close horizontally swings into operation. The physical conflict ends, but the clash's echoes remain. The fact that the control room is still a battleground is evidence of the Mandalorian's fortitude and unwavering persistence that propels him ahead.

Amidst the ebb and flow of dreams, a sinister undercurrent tugs at the edges of your consciousness. The passage of time eludes you, a disorienting blend of moments that slip through your grasp like elusive shadows. The landscape morphs, nightcrawlers emerging and vanishing, a surreal dance of existence.

Shadows undulate like ethereal specters, their contours contorting with each blink of your mind's eye. A somber darkness descends, ensnaring your senses in its enigmatic grip. The allure of the unknown beckons, a velvety whisper that stirs long-dormant desires within the labyrinth of your thoughts.

In this realm of shifting illusions, the boundaries between reality and fantasy dissolve, and the threads of your fears weave a tapestry of surreal proportions. You tread through landscapes of ambiguity, each step fraught with trepidation. Whispers reverberate in your consciousness, playful and taunting, coaxing you deeper into the uncharted depths.

As you find yourself in this dreamscape, confusion reigns, a haze of uncertainty clouding your mind. The chronology of events eludes you, lost in a landscape of quiet desolation. The world around you is still, a void that seems to stretch to infinity. At its heart lies a serpentine river, its waters flowing inexorably toward a gaping abyss.

Your voice trembles as you call out, a plea for connection in the silent expanse, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Approaching the river's edge, you seek your reflection, only for it to warp into a visage that reflects your deepest fears. Red eyes glint beneath a dark hood, a malevolent red lightsaber casting an ominous glow. Fear grips your heart, and with a splash, you desperately scatter the reflection, ripples distorting the ominous image.

Abruptly, the river's current shifts, and the unseen ground beneath you gives way. The world dissolves into a vast expanse of water, a towering wave looming over you like an executioner's blade. The sensation of drowning overwhelms you, your struggles to break free becoming a desperate symphony of survival. The threads of time slip and warp, as if reality itself is fraying at the edges.

Beneath the shimmering moonlight filtering through the water's surface, you fight to ascend, each stroke a battle against the suffocating weight of the wave. Yet, in the depths of your subconscious, the allure of surrender tempts you, the pull of the abyss becoming strangely tempting, a surrender to the consuming waters that promise oblivion.

You shut your eyes tightly, swimming and kicking, one hand outstretched just to feel the break of the surface and then you do, opening your eyes you are gasping and gulping for air. Before you know it you see an island nearby and you swim towards it. You crawl onto shore, coughing and wheezing before laying on the sand and on your back. Smoke puffs are white and piling. Silently detonating emotions as you feel your chest rise and fall rapidly, huffing.

You feel like you’re dying in the dark, and it's written there in the stars. You're understood by so little and loved only from afar. Always going when the going gets too tough. You briefly close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat, letting yourself embrace the silence.

A gentle tap on your forehead rouses you from the depths of your dreams, a sensation akin to the soft prod of a wooden stick. Slowly, your eyes flutter open, and to your astonishment, Master Yoda stands before you. Disbelief mingles with surprise in your expression as you gaze up at the wise old Jedi.

Yoda's ancient features bear a quizzical expression as he regards you. His head tilts slightly to the right, a gesture that has always held a mixture of curiosity and assessment. With his characteristic syntax, he speaks, his voice a blend of wisdom and whimsy, “Hrm… curious are you.”

Startled, you jerk up from the sandy ground, your senses slowly reconciling with the unexpected presence of the legendary Jedi Master. As you rise, your eyes meet Yoda's gaze, an amused glint in his eyes that speaks of an understanding beyond mere words. Words spill out of your mouth in a rush, a mixture of astonishment and uncertainty, “Am I… Am I dead?”

A chuckle, soft and reminiscent of ages past, escapes Yoda's lips. He shakes his head, his ears twitching as he replies, “No, not you are. Yes, hrrrm.”

The confusion lingers, and you're compelled to seek clarity amidst the surreal encounter. Your voice trembles with uncertainty, seeking answers from the source of wisdom before you, “Then… what…?”

Yoda's gaze remains steady, his eyes penetrating to your core as he speaks with the weight of his insight, “Become powerful you have, the dark side in you I sense.”

The realization dawns upon you like the breaking of a new day, the truth you've long wrestled with now laid bare before the venerable Master. Your response is a simple and contemplative, “Oh.”

With a beckoning gesture of his hand, Yoda invites you to accompany him. “Come, a walk with me take,” he says in his enigmatic manner, and without hesitation, you comply. Following in the footsteps of the Jedi sage, you walk along the shoreline of the mysterious island, the whispers of the sea and the wisdom of a centuries-old being intertwining in a dance of insight and revelation.

In a swift and fluid motion, Xi'an pivots, her lithe form a dance of danger as she flicks a knife towards Din. The blade streaks through the air, a glint of deadly intent, and strikes true. With an unexpected clang, Din's blaster clatters to the ground, disarmed by the precision of her throw. The Twi'lek's hiss echoes in the charged air, a prelude to the battle that ensues.

Xi'an becomes a whirlwind of motion, her movements a symphony of lethal grace. Knives fly from her grasp in rapid succession, a storm of shimmering steel. Yet, Din is no stranger to combat, and his beskar bracers become his shield against the oncoming storm. The blades deflect with metallic resonance, each clang a testament to his prowess and preparedness.

Their clash is a dance of contrasts, Xi'an's agility matched by Din's stoic determination. Knives seek their mark, the air humming with tension as they narrowly miss their target. Din counters, each parry a testament to his unyielding focus. The choreography is a testament to their honed skills, the blades a dangerous dialogue in the silence of their struggle.

Din's commitment is unwavering despite the ferocious attack from Xi'an. He seizes the opportunity when it arises as it is a small window of opportunity. He closes the distance between them with measured movements that are accompanied by a controlled energy burst. He quickly and precisely grabs her wrists in a vice-like hold that renders her motionless.

As the clash of blades subsides, Xi'an's knife finds itself seized by Din's unyielding grip, its cold edge pressing against her throat. Her defiance is met with the unrelenting strength of the Mandalorian, his beskar-clad form an immovable force. The dance of conflict transforms into a tableau frozen in time, their positions a silent testament to the power struggle that has transpired.

In the dimly lit corridor, Mayfeld's wary footsteps echo, his senses heightened by the uncertainty that surrounds them. The lights flicker, casting an eerie dance of shadows on the walls, the alternating hues of red and white adding to the disorienting atmosphere. As he approaches a blast door, his gaze narrows, catching a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision.

A small mouse droid skitters past, its mechanical chatter echoing in the silence. It's an unexpected presence in this tense environment, and it's enough to startle even the steadiest of hearts. Mayfeld's muscles tense, his fingers gripping his blaster as he warily scans his surroundings.

Amidst the dissonance of flickering lights and the droid's scuttling, a presence emerges behind him. The Mandalorian, a silent predator, moves with the grace of a shadow. His beskar-clad form blends seamlessly with the darkened backdrop, his steps nearly soundless against the metallic floor.

Before Mayfeld can react, a hand clamps over his mouth, stifling any potential outcry. His blaster is deftly plucked from his grasp, leaving him unarmed and vulnerable. In this heartbeat, the Mandalorian's strategy unfolds with precision. The surprise ambush leaves Mayfeld incapacitated, his options dwindling in the face of an opponent who has mastered the art of stealth.

The corridor's interplay of light and shadow mirrors the tension between the two figures — one caught off-guard, the other poised to strike. As the Mandalorian's grip tightens, the echo of Mayfeld's startled gasp remains unheard, a secret shared only by those immersed in this clandestine struggle.

The enigmatic island shoreline stretches ahead, the waves rhythmically kissing the sand as you walk alongside the wise presence of Master Yoda. The air is heavy with the scent of salt and the mysteries that hang in the atmosphere. It's a tranquil scene, the serenity of the surroundings belying the inner turmoil that has led you to this point.

Amidst this picturesque backdrop, Yoda's words cut through the silence like a whisper carried by the wind. His voice, both ancient and gentle, resonates with a depth of perception that goes beyond the visible world. His ears twitch slightly, attuned to the emotions that ripple through the Force.

"Great fear in you I sense," Yoda utters, his ancient voice carrying the weight of his centuries of wisdom. His eyes, though small, seem to pierce through the façade you've put up, delving deep into the recesses of your soul.

With the wise sage's words, your steps seem to falter, the very ground beneath you shifting slightly. It's as if Yoda's insight has illuminated the corners of your mind that you've been keeping in shadows. Vulnerability washes over you, like a curtain being drawn back to reveal the raw emotions you've been grappling with.

Time slows as you halt, the world around you a blur while Yoda's presence remains vivid and unwavering. His gaze feels like a spotlight, exposing the layers of your being that you've been reluctant to confront. You collect your thoughts, your voice trembling slightly as you attempt to put words to the tumultuous thoughts swirling within.

“I don’t want to end up alone again,” you admit, the confession hanging in the air like a fragile thread. The weight of your uncertainties and self-doubt colors your words, making them more potent and raw.

“The destiny on the road you take to avoid it, one often meets,” Yoda's reply comes like a gentle breeze, laden with the wisdom of countless experiences and lifetimes. His speech, though cryptic in its ways, carries a profound message that resonates with the core of your being.

"Rejection and failure is one of the greatest lessons," he imparts, his tone measured and deliberate. “In the end, you become whoever would have saved you at that moment when no one did,”

His words hang in the air, each syllable carrying a depth of meaning that you find yourself unraveling, piece by piece. In the presence of this venerable Jedi, amidst the backdrop of the serene shoreline, you begin to grasp that your fears and struggles are not unique to you alone. Yoda's guidance offers a glimmer of understanding and the promise of growth, even in the face of your deepest fears.

“Qin,” Din's voice is a low growl, his tone laced with a blend of caution and tension. Recognition stirs in his gaze as he fixes his eyes on the male Twi’lek who carries you over his shoulders. His arms remain at his sides, beskar armor gleaming in the ambient light, but the muscles beneath it are tense, poised for action.

The ladder that leads back to the Razor Crest looms before them, a path that could take Qin away with you. The sight of your limp form draped over his shoulders tugs at Din's heartstrings like a merciless tug of war. His gloved hands clench, the anger he feels simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Din's emotions are a tornado in the midst of this stressful scene, a swirling combination of worry and rage. He is caught between his responsibility to get you back to safety and his burning desire to hold Qin accountable for daring to touch you. He is torn between the competing flames of his Mandalorian creed and his own deeply entrenched feeling of duty to ensure your safety.

“You killed the others,” Qin's accusation hangs in the air like a sinister melody, a reminder of the violence that has unfolded. Din's response comes in a calm yet unyielding tone, his voice etched with the weight of his convictions, “They got what they deserved.”

The tension crackles between them, a palpable energy that threatens to erupt into another confrontation. Qin's lips curl back in a snarl, the corners of his mouth twitching as his fingers curl around the grip of his blaster. In an instant, Din's blaster is in his hand, the weapon raised with the precision and swiftness that only a skilled gunslinger possesses.

The stand-off continues, each participant locked in a dangerous dance of determination. Qin's calculating gaze meets Din's unyielding stare, their intentions clashing in the narrow space between them. But as the seconds tick by, Qin's resolve seems to waver, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in his eyes.

With a resigned sigh, Qin lowers his blaster, a defeated acceptance settling over him. The tension in his muscles ebbs away as he carefully lays you down along with his weapon, his gaze flicking between you and the Mandalorian. The change in his approach is almost a plea, a final attempt to appeal to Din's sense of reason.

“Come on, Mando,” Qin's voice carries a touch of exasperation, tinged with desperation, “Be reasonable, huh? You were hired to do a job, right? So do it. Isn't that your code? Aren't you a man of honor?”

Din's internal struggle is a hurricane of emotions that rages within him as his glance travels from Qin to you. His gaze lingers on your sleeping figure, contrasting your fragility with an underlying resolve. His feeling of obligation, his developing attachment to you, and the hope for a safer future all came together at that very time.

Din gives a firm nod as his determination grows. The choice is obvious. He muses about the way ahead as his blaster gently lowers. It is immediately apparent that he is not simply a lone gunman. He is a guardian and a protector who will stop at nothing to defend the people who are important to him.

Yoda's ancient eyes hold a profound understanding, their luminous gaze fixed on you. "Abandoned, you feel, hmm? Much pain, this carries."

Your voice wavers, carrying the weight of years of unspoken sorrow, "Yes, Master Yoda. The memory is still vivid, the moment my master chose another, left me behind like I was nothing."

Yoda's ears twitch slightly as he listens, his voice soft yet firm, "Chose another, your master did, but abandon you, he did not. Understand his choice, you must."

Tears threaten to well up, your pain rekindled by the memory. "Understand? How can I? It felt like my worth was measured by his rejection, that I was cast aside like a broken tool."

Yoda's craggy face remains impassive, his wisdom a steady anchor amidst the tempest of your emotions. "Broken tool, you are not. The Force's will, sometimes difficult to perceive, hmm."

The weight of his words resonates within you, an echo of a truth you've struggled to accept. "And what of the darkness I feel within? The whispers that entice me toward paths I dare not tread?"

Yoda's eyes hold an unspoken recognition, a knowing that transcends the bounds of time and space. "Darkness, a part of all beings it is. Temptation, it brings, but choice, yours always is."

"But what if I can't resist it? What if it consumes me?" Your voice trembles, the abyss of your fears yawning before you.

Yoda's response is steady, his voice a gentle guide through the storm, "In you, the power to overcome resides. Learn from darkness, as Jedi have for centuries. Fear, it is that often leads to the dark path."

The weight of his words settles upon you, mingling with the tendrils of hope that have begun to weave their way through your thoughts. "But how? How can I navigate this treacherous path?"

Yoda's gaze is unwavering, his words a beacon in the shadows, "Learn, you must. Seek guidance, from within and from those who have walked before. A Jedi's strength, in perseverance, it lies."

A mixture of resolve and uncertainty churns within you, the turmoil of your thoughts mirrored in the currents of the Force. "And if I stumble, if I fall?"

Yoda's voice carries a sense of reassurance, "Fall, you may, but rise again, you must. The journey of a Jedi, marked by trials, but also by redemption."

Your breath steadies, a fragile calm settling over your turbulent thoughts. "Redemption... Do you truly believe I can find it?"

Yoda's gaze softens, his ageless eyes a wellspring of compassion, "Believe, I do. The Force's currents, they guide us, hmm. Trust in yourself, in the Force, you must."

As the conversation unfolds, Yoda's wisdom offers a lifeline in the darkness of your doubts. The exchange becomes a journey of self-discovery, a fragile yet profound step toward embracing the strength that resides within.

The Razor Crest glides smoothly through the darkness of space, its engines humming with a sense of purpose. Qin's presence on board, though subdued, casts a lingering shadow within the ship's confined quarters. Din's gaze is focused yet inscrutable, his thoughts a whirlwind of calculations and decisions.

Upon landing at Ran's space station, the hangar's metallic echoes resound with a blend of anticipation and tension. The ramp of the Razor Crest descends, and Din emerges, Qin following suit. The atmosphere is heavy with an unspoken acknowledgment of the unknown fate that awaits.

Ran's figure looms in the hangar, an enigmatic presence whose calculating eyes sweep over the scene. Qin's embrace is tinged with a mixture of familiarity and uncertainty, a testament to the complexities of their shared history.

"Where are the others?" Ran's question lingers in the air, a reminder of the unpredictable nature of their line of work. Din's response is curt, accompanied by a nonchalant shrug that underscores the ethos of their profession. "No questions asked. That's the policy, right?"

A begrudging agreement escapes Ran's lips, the unspoken agreement of a clandestine world. "Yeah. That is the policy."

The exchange is a prelude to the transaction that follows, a seamless handover of payment that echoes with a sense of finality. "I did the job," Din states, his words weighted with the weight of his actions.

"Yeah, you did," Ran acknowledges, the pouch of credits symbolizing a chapter closed and a debt paid.

"Just like the good old days," Din's voice holds a hint of nostalgia, a reflection on the countless jobs that have brought him to this point.

"Yeah, just like the good old days," Ran echoes, watching as Din embarks on the Razor Crest, the ship's departure marked by the ascending roar of engines.

As the ship rockets into the expanse of space, the tense air of the space station is replaced by the ship's familiar comfort. The child's presence is a quiet reminder of the bond they share, a bond that transcends the chaos of their surroundings.

Ran activates a lift that brings up a gunship and tasks Qin with killing him. However, Qin finds that the Mandalorian has left the tracking beacon on him, allowing the New Republic to track them down. Three New Republic X-wing starfighters exit hyperspace, narrowly avoiding the Razor Crest.

In the co-pilot seat, the child's innocent curiosity contrasts with the gravity of their recent endeavors. A ball from one of the levers becomes a focal point of fascination, small hands exploring its texture. Din's gaze softens, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I told you that was a bad idea," he murmurs, the words a lighthearted testament to the newfound balance he's found in his unexpected role as guardian.

THE RAZOR CREST, 9ABY – HYPERSPACE

Your eyelids fluttered open like a hesitant butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The room's darkness held an unfamiliar weight, its silence a shroud that clung to your senses. Your heart raced as your consciousness gradually waded through the fog of sleep, memories of the past hours only a blurry mosaic.

Slowly, the contours of the room took shape, and the sensation of a blanket draped over your form brought a semblance of comfort. As the door hissed, your gaze snapped towards the sound's source, revealing the figure standing there – Din, the Mandalorian.

His voice, a gentle murmur in the darkness, cut through the silence. "You're awake."

You were dragged back from the edge of bewilderment by the words, which served as a lifeline. You were unable to speak due to a dry and scratchy throat and could only nod in agreement.

Din moved closer and reached out to offer you a drink of water. As you sipped, relief flooded your body from the soothing effect of the cool beverage on your dry throat. As you put the glass aside and locked eyes with him, a quiet bond grew between you two in the darkness of the space.

"I thought you... left," your words trembled, vulnerability threading through them.

His head dipped in a small nod, the glow of his visor casting a soft luminescence over his features. "I won't leave you."

Emotion swelled within you, finding its outlet in the shimmer of your eyes. A trembling smile graced your lips, gratitude and relief mingling in a silent chorus.

"Thank you," your voice was a fragile whisper, weighted with the depth of what you couldn't fully express.

His gloved hand felt warm against your skin as you reached out, an anchor in the sea of emotions that threatened to engulf you. Your gaze met his, seeking understanding and reassurance. "This isn't your fault," you said firmly, your voice a whisper that carried the weight of conviction.

He settled onto the edge of the cot, his presence a steady comfort in the midst of your turmoil. "I should have listened to you," regret colored his words.

Your hand found his, a gentle touch that conveyed more than words ever could. Looking up at him through the reflection of his visor, you spoke from the heart. "I'm just glad we all got out of this mess okay and in one piece."

Curiosity mingled with concern, the need to understand what had happened in the gaps of your memory pushing through. "What happened after they... drugged me?"

Din's pause was palpable, his gaze distant as he navigated the memories of those tense moments. He exhaled softly, the weight of his words measured. "They took you away from me. So, I went after them."

Your brows furrowed, the puzzle pieces slowly slotting together. "Did you..."

"No," his response was swift, carrying a conviction that resonated with the core of his being. "I wanted to, but... no, I didn't. They're locked in a prison cell aboard the New Republic prison ship."

A sense of relief washed over you, a tangible exhalation of tension. "Is the child okay?" you asked, concerned for the innocent life that had been unwittingly thrust into this chaos.

"He's fine. He's asleep," Din's words held a measure of reassurance, a testament to his commitment to safeguarding the child's well-being.

The air seemed to hold its breath as your voice broke the stillness, the weight of your confession hanging between you and Din like a delicate thread. Your cheeks, warmed by the rosy hue of embarrassment, seemed to mirror the intensity of your emotions.

Din's gaze remained steady, his visor concealing the thoughts that swirled beneath. In the suspended quiet, uncertainty wrestled with hope, and you found yourself compelled to fill the space with your unfiltered feelings.

"About earlier on the prison ship..." you began, your voice quivering slightly, "I... I really like you, Din."

Silence stretched between you, a moment of suspended time that seemed to hold the universe in a breathless pause. The seconds seemed to hang on a precipice, each heartbeat reverberating in the chamber of your chest. As the seconds passed, the weight of your confession bore down on you, and the vulnerability of your words laid bare.

Just as your nerves threatened to overrun your thoughts, Din's voice cut through the tension, a calm amidst the storm of emotions. "I know," he said, the simplicity of those two words holding a world of understanding.

Your eyes locked with his visor, an unspoken connection forming between you. His silence had spoken volumes, and now it was your turn to fill the quiet with the unadulterated truth of your heart.

"I've been trying to find the right words, the right time," you confessed, your voice steadier now, "But I can't hold it in anymore. Din, I care about you... more than I've ever cared about anyone."

The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, the universe itself attuned to this moment of shared vulnerability. In the luminous haze of his visor, you could sense the intensity of his emotions, his unspoken response to your heartfelt words.

"And," you continued, your voice a soft tremor that resonated with sincerity, "I don't want to pretend anymore that I don't feel this way. The way you make me feel... it's something I've never felt before."

As the confession hung in the air, a suspended promise of what could be, a subtle shift in the atmosphere indicated Din's movement. His gloved hand reached towards you, his fingers finding your cheek with a tenderness that bespoke volumes.

"I don’t want to pretend either," his voice, a low rumble beneath the surface, conveyed an emotion that mirrored your own. "Being with you, it's different. It's real."

Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes, your heart overflowing with emotion at his words. His visor hid his gaze, but you felt his fingers brush against your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Din," your voice was a mere whisper, the space between you a sacred bridge that had been crossed.

He says your name as his response, a breathless echo, a name that held within it the promise of a new beginning. With a gesture both gentle and meaningful, you tilted your forehead, allowing it to make contact with the cool, solid surface of his beskar helmet. The touch felt almost electric, a connection that transcended the physical plane. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, a silent affirmation of the bond that had been formed through shared experiences and the unspoken language of the heart.

Amidst the quiet, a hushed stillness settled in the room, the outside world seemingly fading into insignificance. In this private sanctuary, the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the universe itself was pausing to witness the depth of the connection between two souls.

The tender exchange between you, as gazes held and fingers intertwined, seemed to bridge the gap between past and present, drawing you closer together in the present moment. It was a moment of vulnerability, forged in the crucible of challenges and uncertainty, and now solidified by the authenticity of your feelings.

In the heart of the chaos that defined the galaxy, your connection shone like a beacon of light, illuminating the path ahead. The fires of adversity had not consumed you; instead, they had forged a bond that was unbreakable, a bond that now found its expression in the unspoken language of shared gazes and the gentle touch of fingertips.

END NOTES:

LOWKEY, this chapter got out of hand… initially I had a whole fight scene planned out but I figured that it wasn’t the time… yet…

CONFESSIONS! YAY! I think after 40k words… a confession seems appropriate. I wanna write fluff and smut with these two already >u< (as well as some GOOD OLE ANGST HEHEH)

It took me a while to write this chapter… cuz obviously… 16k words… uh… yeah… ANYWAYS! We’re nearing the end of season 1! Omg… o-o

See you in the next chapter!

TAGLIST:

@wastingspaces @avengersheart @lunatic1012 @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @mxltifxnd0m @syviiss @luckyzipperscissorsbat @avengersheart @dins-riduur-anthe @lizlil @n7cje @scoliobean @ofmusesandsecrets

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x jedi!reader #ethereal writes #etherealupdates #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian fics #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #pedro pascal x reader

50 notes · View notes

ifimayhaveaword · 2 years

Text

Per the request of the sweetest lass, @saradika, for part of my birthday celly about 3 months ago, here's a podfic of this little mando + baby + reader drabble I did!

no warnings except soft

run time ~5:40

I did record this one on my mic, if only because a.) I had time alone that week that wasn't solely when i was at work, and b.) if I recorded it on the mic and it sounded like garbage, well, at least it was my own stuff and not someone else's work that got trashed ^^'

no-pressure tagging @corvueros @keeper0fthestars @ohheyitsokay @zinzinina @softanon @cinewhore

#project tag #the mandalorian fics #podfic #sorry for the exceptionally long wait my dudes.... it's been a while #and it'll be a while yet #but in the meantime #thank you J for the request & your patience & your unending support #have some soft on this bright chilly fall day #I didn't nail Din's voice in this one but I'm NOT letting myself beat myself up over it :)#thanks guys love you all mwah pls enjoy if you listen

19 notes · View notes

mearchy · 2 months

Text

7K notes · View notes

sarcasmismyonlydefense24 · 1 year

Text

"Not all men..."

Yeah your right José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal would never treat me like this

#din djarin x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x female reader #din djarin x mandalorian!reader #joel miller fanfiction #tlou x reader #tlou fanfiction #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #max philips x reader #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller #tlou

13K notes · View notes

ahhhsami · 1 year

Text

A Simple Trick for Fic Writers

Hey, if you're a fic writer and a character speaks in a different language, you don't just have to add the translation in the notes. Use the following HTML coding to add 'text on hover' to the word(s). If the reader is on a computer they can hover over the text to see the translation.

<span title="This is the text in the box!">This is the text that shows in your fic!<;/span>

Here are some examples from a fic on my AO3.

This coding here <span title="a fool, idiot (lit. emptyhead)">Eyn utreekov</span> will show this on hover.

This next example shows that you can add a lot of text. The formatting is the same as above.

PS: When doing this, there may be spacing issues, but you can edit the text through AO3's html or rich text editor. From there you can add italics (like I did), bold, etc, and fix any weird spacing issues. Just be careful not to delete the coding that you worked so hard on 😂

#ao3 #archive of our own #guide #tricks and tips #Fic Writers #Fanfiction #Writers #NiteArmor #bo katan x the armorer #The Mandalorian #Star Wars #Haven't seen this floating around so thought I'd share

11K notes · View notes

ahhrenata · 9 months

Text

[insert heavy breathing]

#those training/fighting moments in fics do wonders for the soul #dinluke #luke skywalker #din djarin #star wars #the mandalorian #sw art

5K notes · View notes

sinsofsummers · 10 months

Text

push & pull

5.7k | din djarin x f!reader

summary: after convincing him to help you hide from the guild, you teach mando how to enjoy himself. this is the way. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. canon-typical violence, but otherwise it's super canon divergent. din is a touch-starved virgin, soft touches, lap-sitting, the helmet stays on, mask kink, din does lots of whimpering, experienced!reader, mutual masturbation, virginity loss (m), praise kink, creampie, brief aftercare at the end. note: look me in the eye and tell me he wouldn't crumble at the thought of skin-to-skin contact. yeah. you can't. anyways this is so long and so self-indulgent. pls forgive me. if mando takes his helmet off by the end of this, mind ur business this is sooooo not canon. note p.2: i'm so sorry this took so long but i was hungover. also this was not meant to be this long. so count this as a big fat thank you for 1.4k as well as my bday present to you guys (for my bday.) impaired editing i apologize.

With the light of both suns in your eyes, forcing you to blink the spots from your vision, you brushed a hand across your forehead. The dry, dusty atmosphere of Tatooine was no joke, and you scowled under the cloth you'd brought with you to cover your mouth and nose.

"Figures," you mumbled to yourself, looking down to see a small pile of sand building on the tops of your boots, the wind blowing it into place. "Why would anyone choose to live here?"

Of course, you weren't looking for a resident; you were looking for a fugitive. The infamous Mandalorion, no less. You'd been given less-than-satisfactory information on the bounty hunter and the reasons for such a high reward for his capture, but it wasn't like you had much choice than to accept the job. Despite what you told yourself, you did actually need the money.

That was before you'd figured out that everyone else in the Guild had been tasked with the same job, turning a high stakes bounty hunting gig into a near-definite suicide mission. Something you didn't want anything to do with.

But alas, here you stood, practically sinking into the hot Tatooine desert. You had to keep shifting your weight to keep at least one foot above the surface. You never knew when you'd have to make a quick getaway. There were still a handful of Guild members left that presented a challenge to collecting your bounty, and of course they were the most dangerous ones.

You kicked a foot forward and watched the sand shift, cursing the trouble that was inevitably on its way. You'd managed to bribe your way to Tatooine, where the Mandalorian was apparently hiding from the Guild. And if you had found the Mandalorian, there was almost no possibility that the others hadn't found him.

Because, if you were being honest with yourself—the one task you excelled in—being a bounty hunter wasn't exactly something you were good at. In fact, you were far from it. With luck and just enough anxiety to keep your feet moving, you'd floundered your way through three years in the Guild, searching for a way out just as quickly as you'd begged for a way in.

So you'd gotten yourself into this mess. Wasn't that how it normally went, though? Quick decision-making skills weren't necessarily a blessing if the decisions you made would determine your chances of living past thirty (spoiler: the chances were significantly slimmer).

You rubbed the dust out of your eyes once more and saw some movement in the distance, the subtle glint of beskar blinking toward you as it reflected the sunlight. Gotcha, you murmured inwardly. The Mandalorian was here, and you were going to get him. Not to turn him in, no; you held no loyalty to the Guild and its cult-like policies.

This job was an escape mission. If he could stay hidden, maybe he had room for one more. You'd cut a deal.

There had to be something you could offer him, if not your skills in combat, or stealth, or—

Or simply human mobility, you groaned inwardly as you felt your ankle roll underneath you, the sand softer than you'd anticipated. It'll be a good day when I leave this damn place.

—

It was a wonder that the two of you had survived. You'd hardly gotten the chance to give your proposal before he was aiming his blaster at you, and then at the Guild members that showed up in droves behind you. It was all you could do to get out of the way, knowing you'd be hopeless in the fight.

Now, with their bodies scattered around your feet, the Mandalorian standing a few feet from you with his chest heaving, and his beloved ship somehow still functional, you had your chance.

"You're not...very good at this," he said, the helmet masking his voice in a way that made it scratch along the insides of your ears as it traveled to your brain. "You do know that?" he asked, but it sounded more like an accidental insult than a real question.

You threw your hands up, letting them fall heavily to your sides. "Yeah, I told you that," you scoffed. "That's why I'm asking to go with you. Wherever you're headed."

His head tilted, the beskar shining in the setting suns, and you wondered what his eyes looked like under that helmet. Would they be sparkling with mirth or lined with mockery?

"I thought you were kidding," he said sheepishly, shifting his weight. "To get me to underestimate you." He looked like the picture of careful relaxation, although his blaster was still held tightly in both hands, poised in case he needed to aim and fire.

You couldn't help the exasperation in your tone as you lifted your head to the sky, squeezing your eyes shut and placing a curled fist over your eyes. "Why would I do that when I don't want to turn you in?"

He didn't answer.

"You know that there's only two ways out of this, right?" He still didn't answer you, just held his blaster taut and his head tilted to the side, so you continued. "You killed every Guild member that's left. Now it's just you and I. If I don't bring you in—which I'm not exactly dying to do—those rich fucks that are more powerful than us are gonna come find us."

"Find you," he corrected. "Why would I want to add another target to my ship?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, they probably will. But that's only part of the first option. Either they come for me, and you leave me here, and I die—also something I'm not particularly thrilled to think about—or the two of us..." you gestured with your hands to imitate the pair of you getting on the Razor Crest and flying away from Tatooine and its dusty expanse of a landscape.

"Could be a third option," he said quietly, "if you think about it." He lifted his blaster until it was lined up with your chest. "I might just kill you and cut my losses."

Fear might have struck you, but you didn't have the energy to entertain the panic unspooling in your chest. "That wouldn't be very humanitarian of you. Besides," you insisted, hands lifting to portray the image of surrender, "I'm light. I'm quiet. I won't stay with you longer than I need to. Once you get me off this planet, I'll find a place for you to drop me off."

He didn't answer for a moment.

"Literally," you pushed once more, "you can open the back door and push me out for all I care. I just want out of the Guild and all their dumb shit."

You'd known Mandalorians to be quiet, pious, and ruthless, but something about the way his helmet betrayed no hint to what he was thinking or how he might respond...it made you more anxious than you'd ever been in your life. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm. "Well...you're not coming with me. Ship's full."

"Your ship?" you said, incredulous. "That thing would be gone without me."

"Damn luck, that was." His voice had gone hard, but his body was still.

This was...partially true. Your mind flashed with a memory of the way you'd accidentally pulled the trigger on one of your blasters, effectively stunning the last Guild member who'd been attempting to strap explosives to the hull of the Crest. It was the only good thing that you'd done all day.

You curled your lip, annoyance rippling off you in waves. Lifting a middle finger in front of the helmet, you scowled. Hope he can see this under all that beskar, you snarled inwardly. "Still counts."

With a soft huff that you could hear come from under his helmet, the Mandalorian lowered his blaster. "One jump into hyperspace. The first little space rock that's big enough to stand on—"

"Perfect," you interrupted firmly. "I'll be out of you...armor...soon enough."

—

You'd missed your stop about three years ago. One jump into hyperspace had turned into four, and then ten, and...now you had your own spot to rest your head at night on the Razor Crest.

On that first day, you hadn't known the Mandalorian—"Din Djarin," he'd introduced himself reluctantly one day—was still traveling with Grogu, the sweet child that had begun his journey across the galaxy, hiding from the Guild. But you'd quickly decided it was nice to have another partner in crime, to interact with whenever Din was in the middle of one of his quiet days.

As the days had turned into months, and subsequently into years, the inability to meet Din face-to-face had become less frustrating, although sometimes you wished you could sneak a glance at his hands, or his wrists, or something that might resemble the human underneath the armor.

Once in awhile, deliciously, you could tilt your head just the right way and look forward at him when he was in the cockpit, his helmet pulling away from the cloth under his armor. Between helmet and armor, a sliver of golden skin would glimmer back at you, just begging to be touched. Of course, you never gave in to your silent desires.

This was not the Mandalorian way; you knew this well. Even when you felt his head turned toward you, even when you were sure his hands were reaching for you when you needed his help climbing somewhere, you kept your distance.

Well, for as long as you could. Until he forced your hand.

It wasn't long before you were unable to keep your hands away from him; going up and down the ladder on the Crest, or climbing over the occasional boulder on the routes you walked along when forced to take a respite on an unknown planet. His gloves were always rough in your grip, but you couldn't ignore the way his hands seemed to squeeze yours, tighter than might have been necessary.

And you'd begun letting your hands linger on the beskar of his armor for moments longer than you should—his helmet, tracing the indented curves of the spot where his cheekbones rested underneath, or on his chestplate, where you swore you could feel him lean into you, as if pressing your hands closer and closer to his skin beneath the armor.

You stood beside him as he sat in the chair in the cockpit, guiding the Razor Crest through the galaxy once more, aiming for some undisclosed location he'd neglected to tell you. He usually did things like that; you'd learned not to be offended by his unbreakable instinct to keep things to himself.

It hadn't occurred to you just how long he'd been wearing that helmet until you looked toward him again and noticed the soft curl of a few brown strands of hair that crept from the edges, kissing the back of his neck. They were short strands, but they were long enough to wink up at you as they curled around each other, begging to be touched.

"Din?" you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the thought.

He didn't look at you, but he tilted his head in your direction, just a centimeter. It was enough.

"Why'd you let me stay with you?" you gripped your hands together, as if they had a mind of their own and couldn't be trusted to remain at your sides. "I was horrible at any aspect of being a bounty hunter."

You were used to the way that it always took him a few seconds to answer, coming up with an evenly-expressed response. This, of course, gave you more time to stare at the tendrils spilling from the edges of his helmet.

"You were a risk," he admitted with a shrug, the helmet (of course) not betrayed anything. His voice was calm, even as he continued softly. "I have a particular...proclivity for picking up foundlings," he said with a tilt of his head toward Grogu, who cooed at the mention of him.

You lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not a foundling, though."

If you could have seen his eyes, you were almost positive that they'd be giving you a look that said, are you sure? Instead, he only spoke in his perpetually smooth voice. "You were lost, though, mesh'la."

You still weren't sure what each word in Mando'a meant—he'd been dropping a few words here and there, as if he knew you couldn't interpret them—but you blushed all the same. Before you knew it, your hands were releasing their grip on one another and reaching up to comb through the curls at the base of his neck.

They were softer than you'd imagined; smooth and thick in your grip. "Alright," you said gently, "maybe I was. I never got to thank you, you know."

Your hands were moving on their accord now, silently twirling the curls around the tips of your fingers. You were used to his silent, immobile exterior, so you didn't think he'd be able to feel the way you pressed your hand to the back of his neck. He'd never said anything before that gave the impression that he was aware of your ministrations, so when he leaned back into your touch then, something strong and addiction bloomed in your gut.

When he spoke, you were surprised to hear how shaky his voice was. After three years of hearing nothing but steady syllables fall from his masked lips, you nearly flinched at the stutter in his voice.

"Thank me?" he said quietly. "For..." you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat flutter rapidly in his neck when he trailed off. "For what?"

You pulled your hand away, pretending not to notice the way he shuddered at the loss of touch, his shoulders slumping as if in a pained relaxation. You hid your smirk. "You're not seriously asking that, right? Without you, I'd probably be dead by now." Or worse, you reflected with a quiet pang in your chest.

Din's response was quick this time, an unusual—but not unwelcome—surprise. "And without your perfectly timed luck, I might be without a ship." His voice was thick, trembling with something that might have sounded like desire had it been someone else speaking.

You didn't even think Din had the capacity to know something as heavy as desire. Well, not that he was incapable of feeling desire, just...you'd never thought about what he might do if he did feel it. Would he shove the temptations down, destined to die in the corners of his mind and body?

Your cheeks warmed at your next thought. Perhaps he took care of it himself in the dead of night on the Razor Crest, or on those mysteriously long patrol walks that he insisted on doing alone.

"Yeah, well..." your answer was pitiful and you knew it. But you were too busy looking at the way his body was slumped in his seat, facing forward despite every limb beginning to turn toward you, as if you were a magnetic beacon.

His fingers twitched in his gloves, angling toward you just as his knees began to do the same thing. "Will you..." he trailed off, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Mesh'la," he breathed, and he leaned to the side, as if his shoulder was chasing your touch. "Put it back."

You were going to ask what he meant, but you didn't have to. Even with his helmet on, you could practically see the pleading in his body language. Here he was, a devout Mandalorian, begging you to put your hands back on him.

"Please," he said quietly, almost a question. It sounded so unlike him that you wondered briefly if he'd been killed and replaced with an imposter. But by the way that his hand trembled as he took his focus away from flying the Crest and moved it toward you...this was Din.

"You...okay?" you asked, but you obliged his request in return, replacing your hand at the base of his neck. You watched in an unfurling dizzying sense of satisfaction as he reached up his own gloved hand to cover yours, squeezing it gently. "Din," you started, but he shook his head.

"I've never disobeyed the Way of the Mandalore," he said, his voice muffled under the mask. You strained your eyes, wishing you could see beneath the beskar. "I've never wanted to. Not before..." he brought your hand around to rest on his chestplate, and you could feel the pressure of his chest leaning into your touch. "Not before I knew what it might feel like to want someone like this."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull your hand away. "You...what?"

His head tilted down. "For once, I don't know how to manage this." He stood up, and suddenly he was towering over you, the cloth under his armor making your fingers itch to tear it off. "How do I manage this?"

"I..." you couldn't hide your shock. "I don't know. It's...isn't it against your religion? It's not the Way."

Din shook his head. "No, it's not." He spread his hand down your wrist and extended it toward your own chest, the leather of his glove seeping into your skin. "But I've also never told anyone my name. Never heard it spoken since I was a child."

You swallowed roughly. "So?"

He huffed a chuckle. Lifting your hands to his helmet, he let your fingers find the divots of the beskar. You didn't miss the way his chest shuddered with a stuttering breath at your touch. "So," he said, "to hell with the Way. For tonight, at least. I need to know you in every way I wish I could."

Such a harrowing request, given the circumstances. But you couldn't stop your hands from tracing the lines of his masked face. "Din..."

"Please." His voice cracked over the single syllable, and it was all you needed.

To hell with the Way, your thoughts echoed his words, and you nodded softly. "Alright," you acquiesced. With one look down, you saw the tent growing in his pants, sending a spike of desire down your spine, settling in your core. "How'll you have me?" you asked.

He let out a soft noise that sounded like a whimper. "Any way that I can," he choked out, his hand returning to your wrist and enclosing it in his grip. "I'll have you any way you'll have me."

You could hardly speak, so you didn't. With a gentle nudge, you pushed him back into his seat. When he sat back, his legs fell open; there was an inviting space between them.

Standing in the spot, just inches from his face, you stared into the black mass of his helmet, hoping you'd get a glimpse of his face. Of course, you knew he would only go as far as he wanted to. If the mask was destined to remain, then...so be it.

With your eyes on his, you moved his hands to your waist, pressing them to your skin and enjoying the feeling of his leather against your body.

He shook his head. "Take them off," he said, again with that whimpering voice. "Please."

You nodded wordlessly and shed his hands of the barriers, heat pooling in your core at the sight of long, thick fingers, his skin finally exposed to you. Returning his hands to your waist, you tilted your head back at the sensation. You were never going to forget what his skin felt against yours.

The melody of shuddering breaths that fell from his lips was unreal, and you wanted to soak up every second of it. Without more than a second thought, you slid your legs over his, straddling his hips and pressing your chest to his chestplate. His hands remained on your waist, but he let them wander, curling them around to cup your ass.

The feeling of his hands on your body made you unconsciously roll your hips forward, which released a strangled moan from his lips. "Oh, god," he mumbled. "Mesh'la, please take it off."

You paused. Your hands fell to your lap, and your eyes were wider than saucers in the reflection of his helmet. "What?"

He picked up your hands in his own, the rub of skin against skin an intoxicating intimacy. "Please," he begged. "If I'm going to touch you like this, I need to see you, cyar'ika. Nothing in the way."

You were going to argue further, but you couldn't ignore the pulsing need that was clouding your thoughts, the same need that pushed your hips further down into his lap. It was impossible to miss the way his cock twitched against your clit, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

“Are you—”

“Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I’m sure,” he begged, and he squeezed your hips under his hands. “Never been more sure, mesh’la.”

This time it was your turn to let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, more to bolster your own confidence than his own. His resolve was clearly rather strong in this matter, and nothing would change his mind.

With a hand on either side of the helmet, you gently pulled it up and away from his face, hardly able to believe that he’d agreed to let you rid him of his every barrier. For a moment, as each inch of skin was revealed to you, you caught yourself frantically wondering what he might look like.

Would he look like anyone else? Would he look familiar to you in that way that only lovers can? Or would he be hiding a deformed brow bone or an abnormally small nose or a crude smile?

Of course, you shouldn’t have even worried. When the helmet lifted off of his head and you let it fall to the floor with a hard thud, you smiled at the face that blinked back at you in wonder. With those brown strands that were just long enough to hang down over his forehead, and the matching brown eyes that twinkled with the moonlight in his pupils, Din Djarin was exquisite.

“I knew it,” you hummed, your eyes tracing every line on his face, every strand of hair that clung charmingly to his forehead.

His response was a strangled moan, and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord when you dragged a finger along his jaw, then the hooked line of his nose. “Knew what?”

“I knew you’d be one of the pretty ones,” you grinned, and you leaned down to press your lips to his, swallowing his groan of ecstasy.

You drank it down like the sweetest liquor, the sound pulling your own moan from your chest. His lips were chapped and dry from lack of care, but his mouth was warm and wet and his tongue was deliciously shy as he darted it towards yours. His hands stuttered as they pressed further up your chest and felt for your breasts. You weren’t sure how long he’d last; his chest was already heaving.

“Din,” you pulled back with a grin. “Din,” you repeated when his eyes remained closed. “Thought you wanted to look at me?”

“I do,” he said, his voice choking in his throat. “I do, mesh’la, I just…I think I might come in my damn suit if I look at those lips too long.”

You cooed, letting a hand search for the roots of his hair, finding a home on his scalp. You curled your fingers in the strands and watched his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw go slack, and felt his hips buck up into yours. “You’re so sensitive, baby,” you hummed, your mind running wild with thoughts of what this could mean.

“Never been touched like this,” he mumbled, voice cracking again. “Feels perfect, mesh’la.”

“I need you to look at me, Din,” you nodded. “It’ll keep feeling good, I promise. I just need you to look at me.”

When his eyes opened, you could have fallen apart right there at the sight of his glassy brown depths. His lip quivered and you almost thought he’d cry, but then he was letting his hand fall from your chest to your waistband, trailing his thumb along the skin there. “Can I?” he asked gently.

Nodding, you stood up. “Just keep breathing, pretty boy,” you said softly. “I’ll make you feel good. Show you just how good it can be.” You guided his hands to your waist and let him pull your pants to your ankles, revealing the front of your glistening slit to him.

Din was just starting to understand the drug-like effects of physical touch, so you weren’t surprised when he leaned forward, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the soft skin of your stomach, breathing deeply as if he were a zealot bent to pray at the altar.

“C’mere,” you whispered, though unable to hide the growing smirk on your face. There seemed to be nothing more addicting than the sight of the Mandalorian on his knees before you. “Sit back down for me, baby,” you said, tilting his chin up to look at you. “Take those pants off, they look awfully restricting.”

He nodded quickly and obeyed, slipping his pants down to his knees as he sat back on his chair. It was downright sinful—the beskar on his chest but his helmet removed and his cock springing free, the tip red and angry and leaking. “Please,” he begged. “I—”

“I know,” you breathed, stepping closer to him. “We’re gonna make each other feel good now, yeah?”

Din nodded once more, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please, please.”

Well, how were you going to deny him then?

You straddled him once more, your clit throbbing at the sight of his cock underneath you. But rather than shock him with the feeling of your pussy milking him for all he was worth, you hovered over him, just enough that the head of his cock lay just an inch from your entrance.

“Mesh’la,” he begged, “please don’t tease. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good, I swear to everything I’ve ever believed in—”

A finger pressed to his lips, you shook your head. “I know,” you repeated. “Deep breaths for me, Din.”

He inhaled sharply and shoved his breath out of his chest. For a moment, his eyes cleared.

“Good,” you encouraged him, relishing in the look of his wide eyes at the praise. “Such a pretty boy, baby.” You moved his hand to your core, guiding his fingers to your clit. “Rub little circles for me, baby. Make me feel good and I’ll make you feel good.”

He obliged quickly, rubbing tentative circles to your clit in a way that had you smiling gently, loving the sacrilege you were participating in. “Is that g—oh!”

Din’s question was interrupted by your hand reaching down to grip his cock, delivering a quick stroke and making his hips stutter. He tried his best to lift his hips from the chair, clearly aiming for your entrance, but one hand on the beskar on his chest had him sitting back.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, “just like that. Just touch me for a while.”

Ever the gentleman, Din kept his eyes on you and his hand on your pussy, pulling sweet sounds from your lips just as you wrecked him beneath you. Your thumb slid against his tip and he almost came; you could tell by the way his breath caught in his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, lip trapped between his teeth.

You wanted his fingers to wander toward your dripping entrance, but you knew he might not last long enough for any more foreplay. Next time, you thought smugly.

Now…now you needed him inside you.

“Gentle, baby,” you reminded him when he gripped your hip too tightly. You didn’t want to tell him you enjoyed the near-bruising strength; that would be for another time. You could already see that you were close to losing him, and you weren’t going to end this experience without riding him until the both of you saw stars. “One more deep breath, yeah?”

He was a mess of tumbling words in Mando’a that you didn’t understand, and his brow was furiously furrowed, as if it was taking all of his focus not to come on your hand. As a matter of fact, it probably was taking all of his focus. “Please, mesh’la,” he said again.

You wondered briefly if you’d begin answering that now; treating it as your name. Mesh’la.

“Deep breath, baby,” you reminded him, and when he obeyed, you sank your hips towards his. The tip of his cock slid in with no resistance; you were wetter than you’d ever been in your life. “Good boy,” you moaned as you kept your hand on his neck, softly cupping the underside of his jaw to look at you. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The stretch of his cock inside you was delicious, and pleasure licked sharply at your insides, begging for a quick release. You knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together much longer based on the whimpers that still crumbled from his throat, broken and jagged.

“So fuckin’ pretty?” he repeated, his voice a high squeak. He gripped your hips and threw his head back. “So fuckin’ pretty for you?”

Your breath rushed out of your chest in a strong blow and you had to take a deep breath yourself to calm down. “All for me, Din, that’s it,” you continued, and you lifted your hips up. Dropping them back into his lap, you soaked up the feeling of being filled so completely by his cock. With every shred of patience left in your body, you pushed your lips back to his and tasted his moans on his tongue.

His hips began lifting into your own, the only clue you’d get to his desperation for more. Without a word, you began moving faster, more rhythmically, as you bounced gently on his cock. With the base of his cock pulsing against your clit at every drop of your hips, you were approaching that edge quicker and quicker. “Din,” you moaned, “baby, I’m gonna—”

“Please,” he said, “I want you to feel good, mesh’la. Use me, please, use me, please…”

You were sure your brain short circuited. With no more patience left in your bones, you picked up the pace and chased your own orgasm, knowing he wasn’t far behind. With every squelch of your pussy on his cock, your moans became less coherent, and you leaned your head forward against his neck.

Pulling back to press a kiss to his jaw, you felt his loins tense beneath you. Something nearly snapped inside you at the sound and sight and sensation of his pleasure so close to release; at the knowledge that it was you who had done this to him. “Good,” you mumbled against his jaw, getting closer to his ear. “Pretty boy, just for me,” you mumbled.

Din’s chest tightened and his moans became longer and more high-pitched, true whimpers if you’d ever heard one. “Mesh’la,” he begged, “Mesh’la, I—”

You dipped your head down and, while grinding your hips back and forth on his cock at a feverish pace, you darted your tongue out to his neck. Licking a stripe from the crevice of his neck to the spot just behind the soft part of his ear, you groaned in his ear as you crumbled on him, releasing the tension in your body as you came hard.

Din was ruined beneath you, with his neck bobbing and his eyes shut, his head thrown back. Mouth opened in a wide moan, his voice broken over the sound, you felt his release sink into your fluttering walls. He let out a deep cry of words that you didn’t recognize, but you blushed all the same. With the way that his eyes glossed over when he said it, you were sure it was something that reeked of sin and sweat and sacrilege.

“So good,” you mumbled again, “you’ve done so good for me, Din.” Your face tucked itself into the crook of his neck, and you inhaled the heady scent that belonged only to him. You sat motionless on his lap, but you could still feel his head pulse inside you at the overstimulation. “Did that feel good?” you asked, your hand reaching up to smooth down his hair comfortingly.

He let out a breathless laugh. “If this is sin, I’ll want more of it,” he replied, his arms snaking around your middle to tug your chest closer to him. “I’ll never know how to thank you,” he finished, sighing deeply. His eyes twinkled at you when you pulled away to look at him.

You shook your head. “No need,” you assured him. “Just catch your breath, brave Mandalorian. Then we’ll talk.”

He nodded, his eyelids growing heavier with the expense of energy now catching up with him. His cock had grown soft inside you, but he made no move to lift you from him. “I did well?” he asked. This wasn’t surprising; you’d known him to be quietly confident, but the Mandalorian was never one to pass up the opportunity for someone to reassure his talents.

You grinned and leaned forward to press your lips to his hooked nose, fighting the urge to nip at it with your teeth. Next time, you reminded yourself. “You did well,” you nodded. “Feeling okay?”

He splayed his hands on your back and inhaled near your chest, his face buried into the soft skin of your breasts. “Never better,” he reassured you, rubbing his hands along your spine. “So sweet to me, baby,” he murmured, repeating your own affection back to you.

The two of you remained like that, just wrapped together in a mess of limbs and sweat and come mingling together. When he began to wince with the overstimulation, you lifted off of his cock but remained in his lap. You pulled back and leaned your forehead against his. You watched his lips, plump and sitting perfectly, waiting to be kissed again.

“What does mesh’la mean?” you asked instead, the word strange and unfamiliar on your tongue.

He looked at you for a long time, bringing a finger up to trace the line of your mouth. “Put your lips on mine again and I’ll teach you,” he offered casually, as if his pupils weren’t still blown wide, his eyelashes still fluttering from the power of his release.

You smirked. “This is the Way, huh?”

For once in his life, Din Djarin smiled at you. “This is the Way.”

tysm for reading! so glad to be back, i'm sorry if the smut scene seemed rushed and out of pace! again: i was hungover. pls forgive. lemme know what you think!

adding tags here cause i'm going grocery shopping at 8:30pm BYEEEE

this is a good morning fic for @thetriumphantpanda and the aftercare bit at the end was specifically for @cavillscurls i know u crave it girl

the rest of the taggies: @mingiast @iluvurfather @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @darkroastjoel @tightjeansjavi @chaotic-mystery @dinsdjrn @huffle-punk @tommymilllers @milly-louise @struig @butiknewyoudlinger @alejaa-a @worhols @thegreat-annamaria @easaud @country2212 @sleepdeprived-feelalived @pertinentpostmortem @lailaispunk

#din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #virgin!din djarin #din djarin x experienced!reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian #star wars #star wars smut #star wars fic

4K notes · View notes

puchosdementa · 1 year

Text

i luv him guys this is real

5K notes · View notes

artanis-draws · 4 months

Text

#farewell #dinluke #Has anyone by chance written a fic about such a situation?#cause i need jedi drama #star wars #star wars fanart #my art #jedi #luke skywalker #procreate #digital drawing #luke skywalker fanart #din djarin fanart #din djarin #the mandalorian #din grogu #grogu

1K notes · View notes

talaok · 3 months

Text

The carpet

pairing: Pedro Pascal x fem!reader

Summary: You and your husband Pedro prepare for a red carpet, but once you're there you have a wardrobe malfunction, luckily, he's there to help.

Warnings: just so much fluff for no reason

a/n: i havent written something for Pedro that wasnt a request in literally 9 months, but guess what the hyperfixation is hyperfixating lately and I just needed to write down what i've been daydreaming about all day.

"wow" he exhaled, closing the door behind him, his eyes trained on you.

You chuckled, looking at him from the mirror, as a choked "aww" escaped Linda, your make-up artist's, lips at the reaction.

You gave her a look and she just grinned, checking her work one final time before whispering "Seeing you two is better than watching any rom-com, I can't even remember the last time my Mark looked at me like that", making you laugh once more with a playful roll of your eyes.

"you look stunning sweetheart" Pedro breathed, right behind you now, his hands already on your waist

Another dreamy sigh fell out of Linda's lips before she decided it was time for her to go.

"i'll go wait downstairs then... leave you two lovebirds some time alone," she said, excitement piercing through her tone as if she was watching her daughter walk down the aisle.

"thank you Linda, we'll be down in a moment" You nodded, smiling sincerely at her as she started for the door.

But just when a foot was already out into the hallway, she turned around, a serious expression on her all of a sudden.

"And Pedro" she shot him a look "Just this once, try not to mess her lipstick up too much, will ya?"

You couldn't help but laugh, loudly, wholeheartedly, but Pedro, ever so honest only answered with a "I can't make any promises Linda", before the poor woman groaned and shut the door behind her.

Just as the soft thud of the motion bumped from wall to wall, Pedro turned you around in one swift motion, getting to see your pretty face better.

"hi there" you smiled, placing your hands on his chest, softly playing with the hem of his tuxedo's jacket.

"hello sugar" he grinned, letting his eyes drink in all of you.

"You look handsome" you murmured, your right hand going to his face, feeling the soft stubble of his beard graze your palm.

"mhhh" he hummed, leaning closer already, much to Linda's disappointment "Well you know how it is... if my lady's gonna be the most beautiful woman on the red carpet I gotta step up my game"

You huffed out a laugh

"'s that right?"

"need to at least try and look like you're not miles out of my league" he cocked an eyebrow, his hands on your waist pushing you flush against him.

"You're a bad man Pedo Pascal" you stifled a smirk "A bad, bad man" you whispered as his lips finally met with yours.

They were softer than usual, but heavenly just the same.

His hold tightened on you and you melted right into his arms, whimpering weakly into his mouth, before after what was probably a good two minutes, he pulled away.

"we gotta go" you murmured

"I know" he groaned, half-heartedly leaning away.

And as you checked yourself in the mirror one last time, you couldn't help but chuckle, as your gaze fell to your lips.

"Oh Linda's gonna be pissed"

__ __ __

the carpet was booming tonight,

celebrities filled every inch of the crimson rug, and the flashes of the countless cameras pointed at you were so strong you swore they would have blinded you if you weren't so used to them.

You were posing to show off the gorgeous dress you were lucky enough to be wearing, and once you had exhausted all the poses you knew, you turned to your husband on the left as he offered you his hand, which you took with a smile, walking to his spot and leaving a soft kiss on his cheek the photographers seemed more than a little enthusiastic about.

But as you posed together, his arm on your back drawing soothing circles, an almost inaudible pop made its way to your ears, and all the sudden some pressure was gone from your chest, and when you looked down... when you looked down the button that was holding the two pieces of fabric covering your boobs had popped, and said fabric was starting to fall.

"oh my god" you blurted, but before you could do anything, your reflexes slowed down by the shock, Pedro's hand found your chest, salvaging the falling pieces of the dress.

"I-" you stuttered, not knowing what to say, or do as he moved in front of you, his broad build doing a hell of a good job of shielding you from the photographers

"I was about to flash so many people" you finally breathed, your voice faint.

"yeah" he said, trying, really trying to suppress the chuckle down his throat, but failing miserably "Yeah you were sweetheart" he laughed softly, his hand still holding your dress.

"are you- don't laugh!" you gasped, although with one look at your face, you could feel a bubble of laughter making its way up your thoat "It's not funny" you smiled, chuckling too now.

"no" he shook his head, sarcasm spilling out of his every pore " there's nothing remotely funny about this sugar, absolutely" he smiled, making you want to roll your eyes

"hold the dress for a sec" he said, having you do just that as he took his jacket off and instead, put it on you.

"thank you" you smiled, looking up at him.

"you just worry about keeping that jacket closed" he murmured, kissing your cheek "I've already seen too many men's eyes wondering a bit too much"

"oh shut up" you laughed, rolling your eyes as he escorted you off what must have been the worst red carpet of your life.

"Whatever you say flash" he laughed, obviously very proud of his own joke

"god I hate you so much" you sighed, smiling widely into his chest nonetheless.

1K notes · View notes

wannab-urs · 1 year

Text

My weird spreadsheet with a bunch of pedro pascal fics

So recently I shared that I made a spreadsheet to keep track of all the Pedro fics I've read. I made a shareable version without my random thoughts and whether I've read them or not.

You can find that sheet here.

It's mostly smut. Fair warning. I'm a freak.

tag me in ur fics and i’ll add them to the list ❤️

264 notes · View notes

moncuries · 1 year

Photo

my personal favourites hehe

#star wars #fanart #my art #the mandalorian #boba fett #grogu #rey #poe dameron #finn star wars #din djarin #luke skywalker #my fav is when the jedi order is like... some business conglomerate #or that one fic where mandelorians were just an extended family of greek people based on my big fat greek wedding #srry if this is hard to read i rlly dont care

7K notes · View notes

thefrogdalorian · 27 days

Text

The Arrangement

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: You entered into an arrangement with Mando find some physical relief from the monotony of hyperspace as you travel through the galaxy together as a formidable team of bounty hunters. When you did so, there were three clear rules: that it would not impact your professional relationship, that there were no strings attached and most importantly of all: that Mando would never, ever remove his helmet.

When you carelessly let your emotions get the better of you and undermine those rules, you fear you have lost the man who means everything to you and discover that you miss much more than merely the physical encounters…

Word Count: 7.1k ✯ Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI ✯ Content Warnings: Smut, light angst, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex. ✯ Author's Note: Well, this was by far the spiciest thing I have ever written and I hope you like it! I get the urge to write smut very occasionally and it was actually pretty fun to explore this side of a relationship with Din. Thanks to the lovely @decembermidnight for helping me out with this one and encouraging me through it! Very much a "Goooood Anakin, gooooood," dynamic. Nervous about posting this one so I'm going to run and hide now but hope you enjoyed it! :)

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

As you lie forlornly on your bunk, isolating yourself further from the man who has already put distance between the two of you, you rue the day you ever allowed yourself to enter into an arrangement with such an elusive man. You think back to all the moments you have shared since your paths first crossed, reminiscing over each one of your encounters.

Tonight is not the first night you chastise yourself for allowing yourself to become entangled with a Mandalorian; far from it.

Since you and Mando first started sleeping together, there have been frequent occasions when you have regretted the day that you gave into your desires and ever allowed yourself to end up underneath him, especially since he is so reclusive and aloof by nature. His reserved nature occasionally frustrates you, though you have always successfully hidden that. Well, almost always.

Mando’s withdrawn, quiet nature began as an attractive trait. His stoic, quiet nature first drew you to him as a business partner.

Except, now you have become something more to each other, such a trait prevents you from knowing him entirely.

And, boy, do you want to know him entirely.

Unfortunately, it seems as though you never will. A fact that you are painfully aware of now Mando cannot even stand to be in the same room as you. He is always hiding away in the cockpit.

You are frustrated at yourself for ever allowing yourself to feel so deeply for him.

What started as a casual arrangement is undeniably something more to you now. He means something more to you now. The man whose presence you cannot bear to be without. The man whose absence creates a great cavernous void in your chest that feels overwhelming.

The arrangement between you and Mando started as a physical release for you. A way to scratch an itch. With no strings attached, the arrangement was merely a way of passing time as you hurtled through hyperspace to collect the next bounty.

You were instantly attracted to Mando since you first glanced at him in the Cantina on Nevarro. With his broad shoulders, narrow waist and imposing form, it was impossible to tear your eyes away from him when he strode in. Even though mostly hidden beneath his armour, you were certain he was gorgeous.

Then you heard him speak.

Maker. His voice. So deep. His tone was so even, including when he was frustrated by the conversation with the head of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild on Nevarro. Even in the face of adversity, Mando kept his composure. The hulking warrior seemed so composed, so certain. His voice was calm and steady.

As a fellow member of The Guild, you were unable to resist the tempting urge to eavesdrop on his conversation with Greef Karga. You heard all about how Mando was struggling to afford the interest on paying off the ridiculous loan he had taken to buy the antiquated Razor Crest. You discovered he was having increasing difficulty covering the fuel that the old girl guzzled. After hearing about his predicament, an idea formed in your head.

It was rare for two members of The Guild to collaborate in such a way. After all, Mando should have been your competition. Something about him was drawing you to him, though. You felt compelled towards him, as though some invisible Force was pushing you together.

You proposed an arrangement to him.

In return for keeping the credits from your jobs, this mysterious Mandalorian would provide transport, lodgings and fuel in his ship. Considering it was an offer to have one of the best Bounty Hunters in the parsec come aboard his ship, you knew it was an offer he could not refuse. Sure enough, Mando accepted.

You had been together ever since.

At first, the arrangement was strictly business. You both kept yourselves to yourselves. Never prying into the other’s affairs.

However, after a couple of months spent traversing the galaxy together, there was a shift in your dynamic.

It turned out that two people existing together in a confined space with only each other to converse with to break the monotony of endless hyperspace lanes would find conversation and, eventually, friendship in each other. Despite their best efforts to avoid such a dynamic.

While friendship blossomed, so did other feelings.

You had never been able to deny your attraction to Mando to yourself. Pretty soon, you could not even deny it to him. Not when he asked you outright after imbibing one too many flagons of spotchka.

The first night you slept together was after a particularly heavy night of drinking at a seedy Cantina next to the shipyards of Corellia. There had been an unavoidable tension in the air that night. The alcohol had only enhanced your existing attraction towards each other to the point where it was no longer possible to ignore. The booze finally gave you the courage to vocalise them.

The tension which lingered in the air all evening was only magnified when you finally staggered back to the Razor Crest. It was practically suffocating being so close to him in that old ship.

In hoping that you would quickly fall into Mando’s bunk alongside him, you had vastly underrated the meticulousness of your business partner.

Even in your inebriated states, he had taken the time to lay out the ground rules. Despite how desperate you were for him, every inch of you aflame, Mando had insisted on setting some boundaries before your first time together.

Firstly, he insisted that sleeping together should not get in the way of your professional relationship. Mando would not give you favourable rates or discounts, nor would he expect them from you, just because you were sleeping together. He made it abundantly clear that, at any time, either of you could back out. The end of the arrangement would not impact your life together.

Secondly, there were no strings attached. No feelings. No declarations of love were wanted nor expected. Ideally, no emotions at all; this was strictly a physical relationship. You were to enjoy each other’s bodies and bring each other pleasure, but that did not necessarily mean that feelings ran any deeper than merely enjoying the way he relentlessly pounded into you, night after night, as you soared through the stars together.

Thirdly, and most importantly to Mando: the armour stayed on. All of it. Including the helmet. You were never, under any circumstances, to question this rule. You were never to attempt to remove any of his armour. If you did, it would not only terminate your physical arrangement with Mando. But your professional one, too.

You were so desperate to finally relieve the tension that had been simmering for months that you were more than happy to agree to terms.

You did not regret your decision for even a moment once Mando ended up in the bunk with you.

In allowing your desire for him to win out, you discovered that he was a skilled lover, even with the limitations of his armour. You could not touch him, see his face or feel his mouth, but he made it work. He always ensured you came first, knowing exactly how to please you.

Your encounters with Mando were a way to blow off steam, a release you both craved. It broke up journeys and brought you closer together. Your professional lives went from strength to strength. You were attuned to each other’s bodies. With each encounter, it felt as though you were slowly becoming one.

Even if you feared catching feelings for Mando, you always consoled yourself that it would never amount to anything. You were sure he did not feel for you in that way.

Whenever you doubted the arrangement, you thought about how the positives far outweighed the negatives. After all, keeping your sexual encounters in-house, so to speak, was a far safer option than putting yourselves in such a vulnerable position, entirely at the behest of others. Your reputation as a formidable bounty-hunting team preceded you throughout the galaxy. You were certain that there would be no shortage of people who would be keen to seduce you and Mando for their benefit.

The arrangement was perfect for both of you. It satisfied your carnal desires.

At least, at first, it did.

The closer you grew to Mando, the more your lives became intertwined, the more difficult it was to respect how strongly he felt about keeping himself covered when you slept together.

To begin with, Mando only took his cock out of the confines of his flightsuit. His armour remained on, digging into your skin. The various plates of his armour colliding roughly with your skin was a sensation you did not mind one bit, especially the touch of his cool beskar on your flushed skin.

Although you were entirely naked before him, with every inch of your skin displayed. At first, Mando did not even remove his gloves.

During those early encounters, you would barely even touch him. Fearful of being scolded, of ruining what you had. He often took you from behind, pounding into you after he bent you over the crates or the edge of his bunk. Sometimes on the cockpit's dashboard itself, if you were particularly desperate for each other and could not make it down the ladder to your bunk.

Still, the more you and Mando got intimate with one another, the more desperate you were to reach the man below.

When he finally allowed you to ride him as he sat on the red leather seat of the cockpit, your ass brushing against the cool metal of his thigh plates, you took your chance.

You frantically pushed through the coarse material of his cowl and moved the material which guarded his neck so you could place your lips upon the soft, golden skin you discovered there.

Mando did not seem to mind, never pushing you away.

It became a ritual whenever you slept together. You, delighting as you sucked marks that no one else would be able to see, while Mando groaned and praised you.

You knew the marks were just between the two of you, for your eyes only. Still, their presence nonetheless gave you a thrill in the days afterwards. Especially, when you saw him interacting with others. To know that you had marked him. You had claimed him as yours.

It was a heady prospect that this formidable Mandalorian warrior had been reduced to a whimpering mess by your lips, by such a simple act. He had allowed you to claim him.

It was also a dangerous prospect… to think of him as yours.

You did not dwell on it for too long, however.

After that first time you desperately sought out his skin as you rode him in the cockpit, something shifted deep within Mando.

That small action had clearly awakened some previously untouched feelings in him. The next time you slept together Mando allowed you to remove his flightsuit. You had not acknowledged this shift or dared to believe that it could mean that he held any deeper feelings for you than the lust and desperation borne out of your encounters.

Still, from that day forth, rather than just taking his impressive length out and nothing else, he would undress himself and wait for you on the bunk, clad in nothing but his helmet.

It was a sign of ultimate trust. Of vulnerability from a man who you knew rarely allowed himself to feel such an emotion.

Now you lie here despondently at the knowledge that you have ruined everything.

Your heart constricts as you remember how close you and Mando once had been. How much you had trusted each other. Entirely. Unquestioningly.

Those times seem so distant now.

Now that you and Mando have stopped speaking.

Since your last encounter more than a week ago, which happened in the aftermath of a particularly stressful job on the forest planet where you had collected your latest bounty, he has not said a word to you.

Mando has been completely ignoring your existence… and you have a pretty good idea as to the reason why.

In fact, as you think back to your most recent encounter, turning over the thoughts in your mind once again, you are certain of the moment you ruined everything…

✯✯✯✯✯

You had barely made it to the bunk, so desperate for each other after spending days camped out in the undergrowth. Dirt still clung to your pores, invading every crease of your body. There had been no opportunity to use the sonic. You were preoccupied with loading up the bounty, as Mando started the Razor Crest’s launch sequence. Despite your dishevelled, filthy appearance, Mando did not seem to mind. He initiated another encounter without hesitation.

Your condition seemed to unlock something primal within him when you bore yourself to him, traces of dirt on your skin. The musky scent of the forest planet clung to him as he bared his hulking form to you after stripping out of his flightsuit. He was feral, desperate for you as he pounded into you at a merciless pace. Mando moaned loudly and chanted your name as though it were a sacred prayer until he finished with one long growl of your name in his deep, gravelly voice that strained under each syllable.

In the aftermath, as you lay on his strong chest, you allowed your mind to wander. You wondered what the man beneath the helmet looked like. Whether he was as attractive as the rest of his body suggested. His body was firm and toned without being overwhelmingly muscular. There was a softness to his belly and chest you appreciated. A physique more than appropriate for a man of his age.

You ached to move your hands beneath his helmet, tracing his features with your fingers so that you may see him in the only way possible for you to do so. To catch the vaguest of glimpses of the man who had brought you so much pleasure over the last few months.

Still blissed out from your multiple orgasms and barely comprehending the gravity of your words and how dangerously close to the line you were stepping, you said something which you wished you could take back almost as soon as the words were out of your mouth.

“I wish I could see your face when you moan my name, Mando,” you sighed as you lay there in the afterglow.

The shift was immediate. You felt Mando tense beneath you. Your comment had unsettled him. The guilt was immediate.

“Wait, Mando,” you quickly added, your blood ran cold as you realised your carelessness, “I wasn’t asking you to remove it… I was just thinking out loud. Please, Mando, I…”

Your words were cut off when he shuffled out from beneath you, disentangling himself from your limbs that had been entwined ever since you collapsed in a heap of breathless satisfaction after your latest encounter.

Without uttering a single word to you, you heard Mando’s heavy footsteps echo throughout the metallic hull and disappear into the fresher to finally wash the grime from his body.

When he finally exited, you attempted to apologise to him one more time. Unfortunately, he was thoroughly uninterested in anything you had to say. You stood before him, the threadbare blanket from the bunk wrapped around you, pleading for mercy. A formidable bounty hunter reduced to a trembling wreck, begging for Mando's forgiveness. Mando did not respond to anything you said. Instead, he immediately excused himself while mumbling about checking the hyperdrive generator.

✯✯✯✯✯

Throughout the last few miserable days, you have distracted yourself from the uneasy atmosphere which hangs heavy in the ship by thoroughly polishing each one of your blasters and thinking back to happier times.

Like the time when Mando stripped himself from his flightsuit for the first time and allowed you to finally see him almost entirely. As entirely as you ever would.

The way his taut, toned flesh felt underneath your fingers as you traced each ridge of his muscles with delicate, tentative fingers. His sweaty skin slapped against yours, an obscene noise which reverberated throughout the rest of the ship.

As you lie back on your bunk, you cannot help your fingers trailing down your abdomen. Lower and lower until they reach between your thighs.

You are stunned by how wet you are before you have even touched yourself, so turned on by merely the memories of Mando.

You gather your wetness with your fingers before you begin moving them in a circular motion over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

You think back to that first time you laid eyes upon Mando. His impressive physique. The way he picked up the pace to fuck you even harder when you raked your nails down his flesh. Moaning and grunting into your neck as you left marks down his broad back.

You remember the unmistakable scent of sex that lingered in the air afterwards, amplified by the fact there were now two bare bodies during your encounters, not just one. It was almost overwhelming to your senses, the scent of him. So masculine and musky. So Mando.

You groan at the memory, clenching around nothing. You feel so empty, desperate to feel the delicious burn as Mando’s thick cock stretches you and reaches parts of you never filled before. You slide two fingers inside yourself and begin thrusting out. Although it satisfies the ache, it pales in comparison to the fullness and completeness you feel whenever Mando snaps his hips forward and thrusts into you in one fluid motion.

You try to remember how he felt, pathetically imagining that your fingers are in any way comparable to his touch. To his length. It is the best you are going to get, for now.

Your nipples pebble and tighten beneath the thin cotton shirt you wear. The material provides some friction, but nothing as satisfying as when Mando would roll them between his thumb and forefinger, causing you to throw your head back in ecstasy. Still, you moan at the memory, continuing to thrust your fingers inside of you with one hand while the other massages your clit.

“Mando,” you gasp when you pick the pace up.

Both hands and your fingers working in tandem still are nowhere near as satisfying as even one of Mando’s thick, calloused digits.

“Kriff, Mando!” you yell as your legs begin trembling.

You are so close now. That familiar feeling builds somewhere deep inside of you. A coil tightening, ready to release.

A familiar voice behind you, tone full of concern, “Are you okay? I heard–” followed by a gasp of surprise and hastily retreating footsteps kills the mood instantly.

“Sith hells!” you exclaim, annoyed to have been interrupted when you were so close to climax.

That frustrated feeling soon gives way to embarrassment as you realise that Mando probably heard you from all the way up in the cockpit. He has spent much of his time up there, only descending the ladder to use the fresher or prepare himself rations. Even then, he usually only comes down when he can hear that you have sealed yourself into your bunk for the night.

You must have called his name far louder than you had realised in the throes of passion. You wonder how you will ever face him again. You pull your pants up and step out of the bunk, keen to at least attempt to converse with the stubborn buckethead.

Fortunately, you do not have to wait long. Mando soon emerges from the fresher. There is an awkward silence. He stands there, clad in his flightsuit and helmet, clenching and unclenching his gloved fists at his sides repeatedly. It is a mannerism you recognise well, usually seen when he is trying to size up a target or decide his next move. Is that how he sees you—as prey?!

“Mando,” you breathe, “Please, can we talk?”

Mando does not move a muscle. He stands perfectly still, at full height. A looming, intimidating presence in the darkness of the hull.

“Look, I know I upset you the other day,” you begin, sincerely laying out your feelings and hoping that he comprehends how remorseful you are. “I’m so sorry, Mando. Please believe me. I know what I said was thoughtless, but I wasn’t thinking. I would never expect you to take your helmet off for me. I know how much being a Mandalorian means to you. I would never try to come between you and your Creed,” you promise.

You briefly pause, searching Mando’s body language for the smallest clue as to his feelings. Unfortunately, he is so used to hiding his emotions from the rest of the galaxy that you cannot glean even a crumb of information.

“I miss you, Mando,” you sigh, “And not just like that!” you hastily add, hoping that he does not think your apology is in any way related to the compromising position he just caught you in.

Mando remains perfectly still. It’s progress, at least. He has not retreated. You take that as a sign to continue.

“I miss the nights we spent together in the cockpit, sharing memories of our past and discussing our hopes for the future. The way you would always make sure there was a warm cup of caf for me each morning when I finally hauled myself from the bunk. You were always so eager to rise, while I have never been a morning person,” you smile fondly, attempting to fight the tears that have suddenly pooled on your waterline. “Remember when you showed me each of your weapons? Showing me just how you liked them polished and ordered. Somewhere along the way, they became our arsenal, Mando. Our weapons are together in the locker, side-by-side. Just like us.”

You finally get the first clue of the impact your words are having on Mando when his broad shoulders rise and fall. The shaky breath he takes is amplified by his vocoder. Reminiscing has left him emotional on some level, too. It’s a positive sign. You make headway with it.

“I will forever be grateful for the day I overheard that conversation with Karga in that Cantina on Nevarro. Even though I used to curse this ship after I first came aboard, I think it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Without it and the loan you took out to cover costs, you would never have required someone else. I know…” you sigh, choosing your next words carefully as you are painfully aware that you are likely going to come dangerously close to overstepping another boundary. “I know that you do not always take kindly to strangers, Mando. I know that you have been alone for so long that you have probably forgotten what it feels like to be with someone else. But what we had was something special. I miss that. I miss us, Mando.”

Mando’s helmet falls, then. His unrelenting, steely gaze is finally off you. You are getting through to him. You keep talking, hoping that your words have the desired effect.

“You mean so much more to me than our encounters, Mando,” you confess. “I enjoyed every second, don’t get me wrong. But I would take them all back in a heartbeat to go back to how things were before. I would rather have only had you in my life platonically than having you like that and losing you…

What happens next catches you completely off-guard.

Firstly, Mando tilts his helmet up. His helmet is finally level with you again, focused on you. You look into the dark, T-visor where you imagine his eyes would be. You can almost feel his eyes on you. Your heart starts thundering. You feel that connection back. That spark.

Before you even have time to digest his actions, Mando’s deep voice finally breaks the silence:

“I love you,” he says simply.

Does he love you?! You are sure you misheard him. Your desperate mind is playing the cruellest trick of all.

“Y-You love me?” you choke out in disbelief.

“I do.”

“Oh, Mando, I love you too,” you tearfully whisper.

“Din,” Mando rasps.

You look at him questioningly.

“My name,” Mando nods, “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

“Din Djarin,” you murmur the name of the man you love with such reverence, as though it is a sacred prayer, enjoying the way your mouth curves around each letter.

Your head is still spinning from Din’s declaration and the reveal of his name. You have barely had time to process the events which have just transpired when he drops the next bombshell on you.

“I want to remove my helmet in front of you,” Din declares, “I want you to know me entirely.”

“Din, I wouldn’t expect such a thing,” you shake your head frantically, “Just because we have confessed our feelings, I would never expect you to take such a drastic step.”

“That…” he sighs, “Is precisely why I am taking such a step.”

You do not have time to vocalise any further protestations. Before another thought can enter your mind, Din lifts shaky gloved hands to the side of his helmet. You hear the unmistakable sound of a Mandalorian helmet depressurising. Something you had only ever heard through the door of the fresher until now.

Din trembles as he lifts his helmet. The emotion of the moment takes its toll as he prepares to finally bear his face to you. Your mind almost goes blank. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and his heavy breaths.

As the gleaming helmet finally begins to lift across his features and reveal his face to you, you get your first glimpse of the man you love.

You see patchy stubble across his jawline, a neatly trimmed moustache plush which sits atop plush, full lips, a strong nose and then, with his helmet fully removed, his most striking feature of all. His eyes. The most soulful pair of deep brown eyes that you have ever encountered.

Din Djarin is stunning. Heartachingly so.

With just one look at his face, you know that you will never be able to allow this beautiful man to slip through your fingers.

“Din,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as he stands there before you, his helmet clutched before him as he looks up at you.

There is so much nervousness and anxiety in his gaze that your heart aches for him. Unable to bear the eye contact any longer, Din bends down and places his helmet at his feet with a satisfying clunk.

He stands up straight again, but not to his full height. With his face bared and the slight tremble evident in his body. You no longer see a hulking Mandalorian warrior and feared bounty hunter. Instead, you see a frightened man, who has never known such intimacy before.

“You are so handsome, Din Djarin,” you whisper, as you close the distance between you.

Din’s mouth hangs open as your words sink in. You raise your hand, realising you are trembling with emotion, and timidly place it along his jawline. The patchy stubble is scratchy underneath your fingers.

“Devastatingly handsome, in fact,” you clarify.

“Thank you,” Din nods gratefully.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Din swallows thickly, steadying himself. When his brown eyes fly open and meet yours again, you notice the apprehension has been replaced by something different altogether.

Din’s brown eyes are aflame, burning with desire for you. You sense he is desperate to act on his feelings, but unsure of how to proceed.

“Can I kiss you?” you request.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” Din murmurs, closing his eyes again.

“You’ll learn quickly,” you say encouragingly.

Din nods slowly, without opening his eyes.

You close the distance between you, hovering an inch from his lips. You want Din to make the final move, to bring your lips together.

When he finally does, it is so achingly sweet and timid that you are surprised this is the same man who has bent you over crates and driven into you over and over, at a relentless pace. Until you were bruised and sore the next day from the force.

Din pulls away, breathing deeply. A simple touch has been almost overwhelming for him.

You wait for his next move, allowing him to take the lead with what he is comfortable with. When Din finally leans in again, he is more eager to claim your lips. The kisses deepen, growing increasingly frenzied as your tongues collide. Your hand trails along Din’s jawline and grazes along his neck. When you move your hands into his hair and tangle your fingers in the soft strands there, Din groans and presses his body against you.

In response, you lean your head to the side to give him unfettered access to your mouth. Din does not hesitate to take advantage, deepening the kiss without hesitation. He moves his enormous hands up to your cheeks, cupping them in his enormous hands.

Your kisses grow more desperate and frenzied, the moaning and panting increasing. Although Din was inexperienced and clumsy at first, your teeth clashing and his tongue searching yours desperately before he learned a more pleasurable ratio of tongue to mouth, you discover that he is indeed a quick learner. He nibbles on your lip, using his teeth in a way that he discovers you like as you throw your head backwards and gasp his name. You are still getting accustomed to the novelty of being able to call him something other than Mando.

When your lungs burn, Din finally pulls away. The two of you furiously gulp air into your lungs, steadying your breaths as your eyes meet. You allow yourself to look at Din once again, admiring the features which are so new to you. Yet somehow, comfortingly familiar. You feel as though you have always known his face. In Din’s brown eyes, you see awe, shock and lust. Despite their already dark colour, they are blackened by something primal.

You are about to suggest taking this to your bunk when Din drops to his knees before you, a dark look on his face. You are about to question the gesture when he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your pants and shimmies them down your legs as he goes.

He kisses a path up your legs, pushing himself up so he kneels one leg as he pays particular attention to your inner thighs. Din takes his time teasing you. He removes the final barrier between you, discarding the pesky fabric elsewhere.

When Din finally kneels before you, your glistening core bare to him you feel your knees weaken as he licks his lips at the sight in front of him. You groan, barely able to remain vertical. Thankfully, Din is holding your hips firmly in position, his gloved hands digging into your flesh.

At the sight of him on his knees like this before you, you think that this experience cannot possibly be any more arousing.

Then, his tongue touches you where you have been aching for him to place his mouth most of all, and you discover how wrong you were.

He wastes no time sliding his tongue through your wet folds. Din makes up for his inexperience with enthusiasm and you move your hands down to run your fingers through his soft, dark curls. Keen to keep him in just the right spot, especially when he finally places his tongue where your fingers had been frantically circling minutes ago.

“Din!” you gasp, when his tongue picks up its pace, clenching your thighs around his head and feeling his facial hair tickle your inner thighs.

Hearing his name fall from your lips in such a desperate manner only encourages him. He continues lapping at your core with a renewed fire and determination.

“Just there, just like that,” you praise.

Din continues for a few more moments and you feel your orgasm gathering pace within you. When your legs begin to shake, he moves his head back and you almost scream in frustration. But then you see the look on his face, and his sins are soon forgiven.

“Know how long I’ve wanted to bury my face between your thighs?” Din rasps, his voice barely audible and muffled thanks to his current position. “So beautiful,” he adds, before his tongue is on you again and all coherent thought leaves.

The pace is relentless now, Din swirling his tongue around your most sensitive spot as he seems driven to please you. To have you screaming his name so loud they can hear you all across the galaxy.

You chant his name over and over as your orgasm finally breaks, causing pleasure to reverberate throughout your body. Every inch of you is on fire for him. Din looks up at you, his brown eyes practically black. He makes an obscene slurping noise as he seems determined to collect everything on his tongue, not allowing a single drop of you to go to waste.

“Delicious,” Din rasps as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you with a satisfied smirk.

You cannot believe how much he seems to relish in your release. How much it arouses him. You know he has always enjoyed pleasing you, just as much as receiving his release. Now, his benevolent nature is on full display once again.

Satisfied you can at least stand by yourself, Din rises to his feet. He looms over you, eyes meeting yours and softening briefly, with something which looks suspiciously like love. You wonder how long he has looked at you like that. How many affectionate glances have been stolen from your eyes by his helmet?

None of that matters, now.

Your train of thought is interrupted as Din resumes kissing you, pinning you up against the cold metallic walls of the Razor Crest. You can barely breathe, unable to move for a few moments as he kisses you. Once you regain feeling in your trembling legs, you begin nudging Din in the direction of the bunk.

He never breaks the kiss as you stumble across the floor. Din cannot get enough of kissing you, his enormous hands roaming all over your body.

The kiss is only broken once the back of your knees hits the bunk. You sit on the hard surface, looking up at him flirtatiously through your eyelashes. You decide Din is far too clothed for your liking and move to free his straining bulge from his tight brown flightsuit. Before you can feel his familiar length in your hand, he places his hand on your wrist and moves you away from him.

You look at him in confusion before he whispers, “Lie back, cyar’ika. Let me take care of you.”

You do as he says, but not before divesting yourself of your clothes. You lie back, awaiting him. Buzzing with excitement to finally lay eyes on Din Djarin in his entirety.

You are entranced as you watch his muscles contract and relax as he removes his flightsuit. Broad muscles and chest bared to you, then his stomach and lower... his muscular thighs and toned calves. The most incredible sight you have ever seen.

Din crawls up the bunk and positions himself on top of you, supporting himself with his elbows as he resumes your makeout session with just as much veracity as before. He plunges his tongue into your mouth over and over, desperate to taste you.

It seems as though Din is scared that he will never have a chance to claim you like this again. Later, you will remind him that you are his for the rest of your days.

For now, you cannot form words, conveying your pleasure only through broken sounds which are torn from your body by Din’s skilled mouth.

The usual straining metallic groans of the Razor Crest as it hurtles through hyperspace are joined by its occupants’ moans and gasps as they collide.

You notice that Din has finally shed his gloves when he takes your breasts in his hands. Squeezing the soft flesh and staring at them as though it is the first time he has ever laid eyes upon them. In a way, it is the first time he has seen many of your features with his own eyes, finally free from the dark visor that distorts everything.

Suddenly remembering he can take your flesh in his mouth, Din begins kissing the valley between your breasts. He trails kisses along both of them, one at a time, paying them equal attention. As though he is worshipping you. Discovering new ways he can show his affection for you. With his helmet removed, an entire galaxy of new possibilities has been opened to him. Now, there are so many ways to demonstrate his affection for you, to revere all the parts of your body he loves so much.

Although you are enjoying his ministrations, you are growing somewhat frustrated by Din’s languid pace. The frenzied kisses and touches have given way to gentle, almost timid, exploration of your body from Din’s lips. When you are about to whine pathetically and beg him to pay attention to your aching buds, Din finally envelops them in his wet heat. He begins paying careful attention to the most sensitive part of your breast. The place where you most wanted his mouth.

You gasp as he begins mouthing sloppy kisses around your nipple, before finally swirling his tongue around your hardened peak. You arch your back off the bunk, giving more of yourself to him. Even in your desire-addled state, you think about how much better his mouth feels than gloved fingers and hands kneading your breasts.

You grind your hips up against Din’s hardness, desperate for some friction. Clenching around nothing as he continues sucking your nipple, each swirl of his tongue only making you more desperate for him.

When you can take it no longer, you place your hand on Din’s head and pull his hair lightly. He looks up at you, raising a dark eyebrow at you.

“Din, please,” you whine, desperate for him to finally take you.

Often, the man you knew only as Mando would tease you at this point. When he had used his deft fingers to draw an orgasm or two from you, leaving you desperate for him. You knew he was satisfied that you were ready for him, but he still wanted to hear it from your mouth. Before giving you what you wanted, he would command you to use your words in a firm tone. Imploring you to tell him where you wanted him.

Fortunately, it appears that the man who has confessed his love for you, will not cruelly tease you. Din is just as desperate as you are; aching for that moment when he finally enters you.

Din kisses a hot trail up the column of your neck, thrusting his hips against you in desperation. He joins his lips with yours one last time before leaning up and taking himself in hand to line himself up with you.

“Wanted to savour this moment but, kriff! You’re so perfect…” Din rambles, “Don’t think I can wait,” he grunts as he notches himself at your entrance.

“Then don’t,” you sigh, begging him to put you both out of your misery.

Din nods, joining your lips one last time before he slides himself into you in one swift, fluid moment. You practically see stars.

Somehow, he feels even bigger. It has not been too long since your last encounter. Even still, you have forgotten how impressive his length is. Your fantasies could not accurately capture how his hardness touches places so deep inside of you that you wonder how it is possible.

Although the friction and sensation are delicious, particularly as Din keeps pressing kisses all over your face and neck, you know that you won’t last long. Since Din caught you earlier when you were so close, you have been on the edge almost continually. Now, he is thrusting into you at a relentless pace. That familiar ache is back. This time, there are no interruptions. Din does not slow down or pull away. You quickly come with another gasp of his name.

After watching you come undone, you are surprised that Din does not let himself go. That he does not allow himself the release you sense he is so desperately chasing. Instead, he continues to ride out your orgasm as he thrusts into you harshly.

“One more,” Din encourages, cupping your cheek in his hand, “I know you have one more for me.”

You nod shakily, eager to please him. In response, Din clashes your lips together, grunting against your lips as he finds a new increased tempo that you are stunned he could muster. All the while impressively maintaining a steady rhythm.

“That’s it,” Din encourages as he feels the way your pants increase and your legs tremble.

When you come with another shout of his name, Din finally lets himself go. His thrusts become increasingly erratic before he finally comes with a shout of your name, burying his face into your neck. His pants are warm against your neck as he paints your belly with hot, thick ropes of his spend.

Din stays like that for a few more moments, careful not to hurt you with his weight as he regains his composure lying on top of you. You feel so content and begin absentmindedly tracing circles into his warm, broad back.

Then, he lifts himself from you. You smile when he lays his head next to you on the pillow, still feeling your heart leap as you realise that you actually get to look at his face. Din looks thoroughly pleased with the events of the night. Happy that he could please you over and over.

“I love you, Din Djarin,” you whisper fondly as you bring your hand up to his jawline, stroking his cheek softly with your thumb.

“I love you too, ner kar’ta,” Din smiles in return, turning his cheek to press a kiss on the palm of your hand.

Since that first encounter in the Cantina on Nevarro, you and Mando have always been partners. Travelling through the galaxy as a formidable, feared pair of bounty hunters.

Now, you and Din are partners… in every sense of the word.

#din djarin fic #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #mando smut #my fics #BYE hope you like this

581 notes · View notes