#grogu & reader

[the-djarin-clan]

#din djarin #grogu #din grogu #the mandalorian #mando #the clan of two #disney #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal x reader #daddy pascal

[archieimagines]

touching din | din djarin

Summary: The three times that Din bends his own rules and engages in physical touch. 

his primary love languages are acts of service and physical touch. i will die on this hill. i started this one just to indulge in the thoughts of touching his lovely face. it’s been in the works for a while and although i know it’s far from perfect, i’m glad that it finally gets to see the light of day! warnings: bad language, potential incoherence? idk i’m very tired but i hope you like it tags: plenty of fluff, plenty of indulgent, sfw touching, and then a good handful of angst. rollercoaster central. this takes place over a period of time, so part of it comes after finding out grogu’s name, which is why he’s referred to as many things! word count: 4650 written by: archie support me on ko-fi!

The travelling between planets would’ve been excruciating if not for your life partner and your adoptive child. The three of you made rather an unorthodox family. A runaway from Corellia, a Mandalorian and a… a sweet ball of green. An unorthodox family, indeed, but loving.

The Child chirped and bubbled away on your lap, apparently having a conversation with you while you sat in the pilot seat. You listened attentively, made agreeing noises at all the right moments, the lights of hyperspace travel filling the cabin with slow flashes. He really was so cute. You’d tell him it often, and you’d tell him that Din thought so too, even if he’d never say it. That much was obvious.

It was in the way he carried him, the way he protected him. The occasional pat to his head, or the quiet rub to his long ears as he slept. He wasn’t the type to openly say it, but it was clear, and that was what counted.

The Child reached out to the knob atop the gearstick, fingers wiggling.

“Baby, no. We have to always ask Din about the ship, hm?” You bounced him gently on your knee in an effort to ease the sad coos- but there was no need. A gloved hand reached around you, exposed fingertips closing on the ball. It was unscrewed and placed into the waiting green hands, content whirs and chatters soon filling the air.

The warmth in your chest grew into a smile as you dropped your head back, peering up at the helmeted man that stood just out of sight. “That’s a yes, then?”

A nod. “That’s a yes.”

“I didn’t hear you come up.”

He nudged his head to the Child, voice soft, “You were having an important conversation.”

And then he did what you loved.

He reached a slow hand out and stroked it over the top of your head, coming to a gentle hold at the nape of your neck, and leaned in. Your eyes fell closed as the cool beskar met between your brows, and you didn’t need to see him to know his eyes were closed too.

A beskar kiss.

You heard a soft sigh through his voice modulator. This was the way his people would show love. He made no move to break away, even from the awkward angle at which he leant. He savoured the moment, breathed with you, his thumb running back and forth over your skin. You weren’t sure if he could feel the goosebumps that his touch rose every time, his fingertips slipping into the lower roots of your hair.

He loved to touch you, you could tell. It wasn’t easy, and these moments were few and far between with his action-packed lifestyle, but the tenderness of these touches clearly meant so much to him. To you.

Without disturbing the occupied bundle on your lap, you reached for Din’s other hand. It hung by his side until you took it in your own, slowly raising it to place your kiss on the knuckles of his fingers. You kept it there a while, backs of his fingers to your lips, his helmet pressed to your forehead. The warmth of those digits filled a void left by the cold beskar. The warmth of human touch.

Long moments slipped by as you absorbed it until you became self-conscious. He hadn’t pulled away, but you weren’t even sure how he’d felt about it with his covered expression, so you let out a resigned sigh and lowered his hand.

But he surprised you.

His fingers opened up instead, laying delicately on the side of your jaw, his similar hold on the back of your neck still in place.

His thumb reached out to meet the corner of your lips, before tentatively, almost shyly, brushing over the centre of them.

He wanted more.

You were only too happy to oblige, lips raising into a delicate peak, placing a tender kiss to the pad of his thumb. Soon, he shifted, placing his index finger there instead. Then his middle. Each of his fingers tapped to your lips, and you made sure to place your affection on the tip of each one, giving in to the urge to smile.

He loved this.

You heard the tinned sound of a sigh before his fingers slipped away once again, soon followed by his reluctant leaning away.

He stood tall above where you sat, visor staying fixed on you. He was just looking. Just peaceful. You shone an easy smile, somehow both cosy and breathless from the moment.

His helmet turned towards the green being on your lap.

He blinked up at Din, and soon, a confused coo filled the cabin.

Din shrugged one shoulder. “You’ll get it when you’re older.” And with that, he settled back into the passenger seat, arms crossing over his chest. “Rest up,” he called, presumably to the pair of you. “We’ll touch down for fuel in six hours.”

Din’s bunk was the epitome of comfort. Cramped, yes. Warm, yes. Especially with two bodies. It’d easily become stuffy in there with the panel sealed while the pair of you shared his thin mattress, and you’d always wondered how he managed to keep his helmet on even in that environment. Or perhaps… He couldn’t feel the stuffiness because of the beskar. Or maybe… He was just always stuffy in there, used to closed air.

Your eyes raised from where you’d had them closed, cheek pressed to the chest of his flight suit to mimic sleep. Early mornings after a long, well-deserved sleep often came like this, and there was something so soul-healing about laying there to absorb his calm, peaceful presence before getting up for what would likely be another day of action.

Watching his visor for long moments, working out if he was still sleeping or looking back at you- it had become somewhat of a hobby. Sometimes, you had convinced yourself, if you looked hard enough, you could see the slightest shape beneath the vision slot of his helmet.

You weren’t sure if they were really there. But, in the dim light of the bunk, you could swear the bridge of his nose casted a shadow that caused a darker shadow inside the mask. His lashes were dark and long, and they fluttered slowly as his eyes closed in steady blinks, looking back at you with such leisure.

But then… Had you made that up?

You squinted, straining your eyes until you were sure— yes, you’d made it up. He was still sleeping.

But it didn’t hurt to imagine he had long lashes and a strong nose, perhaps even a strong brow to match. It didn’t hurt to imagine you could see the faintest outlines of the man you love.

Sated, you turned your cheek back to his chest, eyes falling closed to mimic his slumber. Or at least—

“Morning.”

— What you thought was slumber. 

His voice was groggy in the modulator; that intimate morning voice. Deeper, softer than usual.

It brought a smile to your lips. “Morning, my love. You were awake?”

“I have been for a while.” His arm tightened snug around your body in his hold, half atop his. “I like to watch you wake up.”

A soft laugh. “Not creepy, hm?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Silence lapsed with his low tone. All was quiet. Not the whirring of the ship, not the sounds of the forest he’d landed the Crest in the clearing of. Only the delicate air of his breathing inside his mask, catching in the voice modulator so quietly that ordinarily, you wouldn’t be able to hear it.

The thought stirred a deep intimacy in your chest. No one else would get to hear this. No one else would get to lay with him like this, press against his armour-free body like this. You splayed a hand over the cloth of his chest, toes wiggling from an uncontainable contentment with how your leg rested over his. Not an ounce of beskar between the two of you.

But yet… 

Gentle fingertips trailed upwards, over his upper chest, swirling delicate patterns in the creases of his fabric. Your eyes remained closed, focusing everything on him, the warmth that met your touch when you worked past the collar of the flight suit, meeting the skin of his neck.

It wasn’t the first time you’d touched him so. Of course, after this long together, you’d been intimate many a time-- You were both human, after all... But the helmet had always stayed on.

Your fingertips splayed over his throat, and it vibrated with his low hum.

It was no secret by now. He loved to be touched.

You could just imagine him there beneath the visor, eyes closed, brow relaxed. His face caught in a long moment of calm where it was often riddled with worry, or effort from the fighting. Bringing him such serenity like this was the least you could do for him, showing him that he’s loved. So, so loved.

Slowly, your touch crept just a little further up, seeking his jaw. But as your knuckles knocked the edge of his helmet, a gentle hand closed around your wrist in warning. He didn’t need to speak.

Your voice was the softest murmur. “I won’t take it off. Can I just- Feel you?”

He didn’t move, not for a while. You raised your eyes, peering up at him from where you were nestled in his chest, as if you could possibly read his facial expressions.

His hold eased, thumb lazily rubbing over your veins before letting go, and you found a buzz of warmth in your chest. He trusted you with his most precious boundary. Silently, you vowed to always protect that trust.

Delicate fingers worked upwards, feeling for hair from his chin. But, a soft gasp- There was no beard. The gentle prickle of cropped hairs caught your fingerprints as they swiped along his jaw, and you marvelled at it.

“You shave?” The words came out with a soft, amused breath of disbelief, eyes rounded in surprise. For some reason, it’d always made sense that he’d be bearded, long-haired. He had no reason to shave, knowing that no one would ever see, but now that you knew, it clicked.

Of course he’d shave. Din was a particularly thorough person, he was always driving himself forward to do a perfect job of his work: of course he’d take care of himself too.

“If it grows too long, it’s uncomfortable. Catches in the modulator.”

“Ah,” you hummed, brushing along the ridge of his jaw in the confined space. There was something about feeling his jaw move as he spoke, verifying that he really was human, really did have goings-on behind the mask that shielded him from the world. There wasn’t much room in there to move freely, only your fingers able to reach his face, but it was comfortable. You could feel the soft sway of his breath on your touch. “What colour is it?”

“Black. Brown, black.”

You hummed, eyes fixed on his visor lazily, though you weren’t really looking at him. You were visualising as you studied the contours of his lower face, mapping him out as best as you could in your mind, nails brushing through the stubble on his cheek. They trailed towards the corner of his lips, where you noticed the strands got longer. A moustache?

The smile that lifted your face was automatic, beaming at the realisation. You followed the direction of it, above his upper lip, soon finding a little sparse patch on his philtrum. Your eyes drifted closed, imagining the way it might feel to kiss him now that you knew this; how his facial hair would scratch your upper lip, your chin. Perhaps it would be almost sore on your skin if you kissed him long enough, hot enough--

His lips raised to press a real kiss to the centre of your fingers. Slow, shy, even a little clumsy.

A rich gasp pulled from your throat. It was electric to feel his lips on your skin, pressing the affection directly onto you, after these long years of going without.

You let your fingertips lower, finally feeling the shape of his lips, that subtle cupid’s bow as it raised into yet another peck, slow and tender against your touch. Your brows drew together, fighting the emotion that welled up in you, trying to make you cry. You weren’t all too sure why-- this was just- so much. It was so much, to feel him like this, to receive his first kisses like this. Something you’d never even imagined you could have.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured against your fingertips, tone almost a caress. His own fingers raised to brush at the corner of your eye. One must’ve slipped out.

You didn’t even know he was looking at you. Your lashes fluttered open, gaze meeting where you imagined his eyes would be. “I can’t help it,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He’d lied to you. He’d massively, irrevocably, intentionally lied to you.

Your jaw ached from your grit teeth as you fought back angry fires in your heart, determined not to cry until you’d pulled your family safely off this forsaken, evil planet.

Din had been tasked with a mission of political undertones involving the spice market. He was masking as a bounty hunter to get information, so this time, the importance was in keeping the right people alive.

Of course, it didn’t work, and those people were now trying to kill you.

Your fingers trembled as you fought against the clock and the jolts of blasters firing at the ship to strap Grogu into his passenger seat. Your eyes were bleary, but you had to focus, secure him in safely. You wouldn’t take anyone’s safety for granted after this stupid stunt.

“Get her in the sky!” Din shouted up through the hatch, pushing his voice so loudly against the fighting and blasters below that it almost outgrew the modulator, his real voice peeking through. 

Grogu’s sweet eyes peered up at you, giving a questioning gurgle. The poor thing had no idea what was going on, was probably terrified by it all, and even your demeanour on top of it, but you didn’t have time to explain.

“We need to go!”

You buckled the baby in tightly and fought your emotions to ruffle a quick hand atop his head, hoping to soothe him even a small degree before falling into the pilot’s seat, specifically buckling yourself in, and jamming the engine on with jerky movements. 

The Crest resisted you, far too old and rickety by now to be good for quick getaways with a cold engine, but with some slow drags, turbulence from knocking through trees and extra laser blasts from below, she was finally in the air.

You heard the distinctive sound of fighting downstairs, someone being kicked off the ramp at an easy 400 feet altitude, and then the mechanical sound of the ship being closed off again. 

The ladder creaked with Din’s climbing, and you didn’t look back to him as he collapsed into the other passenger seat, not ready to talk to him yet. You were still seething, and wouldn’t engage with him until you’d pulled up safely out of the planet’s atmosphere.

Long moments of quiet dragged by. He knew you by now. He didn’t need to see more than the square set of your shoulders to know that he shouldn’t speak yet unless he wanted to upset you more. That, and you still didn’t look at him even as the minutes neared a full hour, focused on getting to the nearest hyperspace route.

He glanced to Grogu, who sat there blinking, clueless as he could be. He must’ve known something was going on, even if he didn’t know what exactly Din had done.

Din reached a gloved hand out, petting lightly on the green boy’s head. He still didn’t speak.

Eventually, your frustrated fires ebbed into a more containable state, you shifted the Crest into light speed, and unbuckled your belt with a heaved sigh. “Downstairs, Din.”

You stood, instructed Grogu not to touch a thing, headed down the hatch, and pointedly avoided looking at Din the whole time.

The body of the ship was chaos. Lazed burns in everything the three of you owned, strewn across the floor and torn from the struggle. Clearly, he’d really had to put up a fight. 

It was his own fault.

Boot on metal as he stepped onto the floor beside you. You finally looked at him.

You didn’t need to see his face to know he was exhausted. It was in the way he held himself, the way his arms just hung there by his sides, strong shoulders visibly slouched to the trained eye.

You reeled on him. “Why didn’t you let me in on it?”

Silence.

“Less of that, Din. Speak to me, I need to understand.”

There was a pause before his voice came. Firm, but gentle, as if pointedly trying to keep the peace. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.” You pulled an upturned crate closer and planted yourself on it, trying to keep the buzz in your veins under control, but your tone was clipped nonetheless as you gestured to a crate nearby. “Go ahead, let’s hear it.”

He sighed and tugged the crate over, perched on the corner of it opposite you. His knees were parted and elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together as he thought through his facts. The best way to make you see that he’d done the right thing.

“I couldn’t tell you my true location because if you knew, your presence would have soiled the plan.”

“So you’re telling me I’m a hindrance.”

“No.”

“That’s certainly what it sounds like-”

“It needed full discretion to work. I’d told them-”

“I can keep fucking secrets, Din.”

“I know you can.”

“So you lied? Told me you were on the other side of town? How was I supposed to get to you if something went wrong?”

He sighed, his head dropping forwards in exasperation. “I told you to stay on the ship.”

“That’s not always possible. You know it’s not! Hunters still have fobs fixed onto Grogu, Din, there’s no escaping that!”

“I couldn’t have you interrupting or we’d all be dead. I’d told them I was alone- no, look at me.”

Your jaw was aching from how you grit your teeth as you forced yourself to look up at that visor, the weight of frustrated tears brimming at your waterline. You gave a small nod.

“Listen,” he started. “I’d told them I came alone. If you’d known my location, you would have interrupted.”

“To save your skin? Yeah, I would.”

“Exactly. We’d both be dead, and the hunters would take the kid.”

“You think I can take care of him without you? We don’t stand a chance without you around, Din.”

He paused. Quiet lapsed, and you had no idea what he was thinking. Sometimes, he really gave nothing away, and it was infuriating. He didn’t let you in. He would rarely open up to you about what was going on inside that beskar that hid everything from you. Everything.

Sometimes, you were sure you didn’t even know the man you were committed to. He held so much of the power in this setup. He knew everything about you, everything was done by his thinking, and yet he didn’t need to disclose much at all. He’d keep you in the dark about everything.

What he was feeling, what he was thinking… Hell, even when he smiled at you he kept it to himself. You’d grown to handle those, but this, actively lying to you. As if you couldn’t follow instructions. As if you couldn’t be trusted.

You sighed as the drops in your eyes welled up enough to fall over your cheeks. You pulled yourself off the crate and approached the ladder to the cabin, calling over your shoulder. “Go clean up or something,” you sniffled, “I need a minute away from you.”

The clang of footsteps behind you, a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hey. Look at me.”

“I can’t, Din.”

“Why not?”

Such a simple question, such an impossible answer. You closed your eyes, struggling to pick out words that might illustrate what’s going on inside. The ache that sank your chest, that made your throat feel heavy with uncried frustrations. None of this was okay. Perhaps after you’d cooled down, you’d be able to see that mask as anything other than a barrier between you, that keeps him safe from your eyes. But for now, you couldn’t bare it. You scrambled to express it, but all you could let out was a strained “It hurts.”

Another moment of silence. Then, carefully, “What hurts?”

Clearly, he didn’t mean for his words to bring on the tidal wave of emotions and thoughts that you’d been keeping at bay.

“This, Din. All of this! Living in a ship, wondering if I’m gonna make it back in every time I step out of it, and not even being in on missions that risk your life! It’s like you’re cut off from me. Like we just live in the same space and I’m just there to entertain you. But it’s- it’s-!” You heaved a sigh, head buzzing with the force of the thoughts that were spilling out. They were so honest and raw from brewing for far too long. They must’ve been sharp as they came out, they must’ve hit him like a ton of bricks.

But of course, that damned beskar hid everything.

“It’s hard to be with a man who doesn’t trust me.”

For once, his voice rose. “I trust you more than anyone in the gal-!”

“You almost died because you didn’t trust me enough to let me in! You’d rather die than trust me!”

“That’s not how I-”

“That’s what your actions are telling me, Din. They always do. You never tell me what you’re thinking. I have to guess, but I can’t even read your fucking face. I live my life in question marks because you don’t even give me the option to-”

“You know I can’t show you my face.”

A deep breath left you, shaky and tired. So much pressure had alleviated in your head, like you’d finally emptied the contents of your mind onto a platter before him. And now that you could see it too, heard what you’d said, you felt almost ashamed for it.

Criticising the beskar was too far. That was his way of life, and had nothing to do with how he felt towards you. For sure, it was frustrating sometimes for you didn’t even know what your life partner looked like, but his culture was part of him. And you loved him.

“I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-- What are you doing?”

He reached by you to snatch some fabric from a nook, and he folded it into a long strip without so much as a word.

“I’m- I’m trying to apologise-”

“You don’t have to. How can you trust a man you can’t see, right? We’ve been together so long, and you still don’t know who I am.”

You were stunned beneath the guilt that crashed over you. He took your words in so deeply, and fed them back to you plainly. You could see how you must’ve hurt him, with sentiments like this.

Your eyes welled with tears again. Whatever had come over you had clearly wanted to hurt him, but that wasn’t you. Your thoughts were too chaotic to pinpoint, swarmed with hurt and pain that was only now built on by the fact that you’d treated him so terribly. You’d sworn to him long ago that you accepted his Mandalorian binds, loved them even, but you’d let them get in the way with one incident.

“Don’t cry,” he spoke, modulated voice gentle. “I’m- I’m understanding you.” A calloused thumb brushed along your outer lashes to pause any tears that wanted to fall. “Let me help.”

And there was darkness.

He tied his makeshift blindfold behind your head in a loose knot, keeping your eyes in darkness. “Din? What is this?”

He kept quiet, and you heard shifting, something being placed aside.

“Why do you never-”

You cut yourself off when his hands took your wrists and lifted them gently, until your palms splayed on his stubbled cheeks. He gave a long sigh, and you imagined he’d closed his eyes.

Your heart jolted. He was here before you, bare, no helmet. When he spoke, his voice rang out clear and pure, the true timbre of his voice without modulation.

“I said, I trust you more than anyone in the galaxy.” His face moved with his words beneath your touch. “I’d move planets for you.”

He left you breathless. You dove at the chance, fingers tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. It stood high and strong, just like you’d always imagined.

“This… This isn’t risky? I didn’t mean to offen-”

“You didn’t offend me. I know it’s hard, I feel it too.” He guided your hands to his lips, and he placed gentle kisses to your fingers.

The lump in your throat welled up again, your nose stinging from the tears that you tried to hold back. The thought of him struggling with his culture simply because he wanted to be close to you. “You do?”

“You know how many times I wanted to take it off? This seems… This is the best way. I’m not breaking any rules.”

You gave a watery, sniffly laugh. “This is the way?”

A hum of humour. “This is the way.”

You let your touch wander over his face, mapping it as well as you could. The curve of his eyelids, the strength of his browbone. He breathed softly, and you could feel the air on your palms as it pushed through.

You wove your fingertips into his hairline, pushing his locks back and bunching them up in your grasp behind his head. It was surprisingly long with unruly waves, and so, so soft.

He leaned in with a sigh until his forehead met yours, hands falling to their home on your waist.

And before you knew it, his lips were on yours. His warm, sweet lips fit perfectly against yours, and your head spun. It was so much, feeling him so close after nearly losing him, arguing with him, and your first kiss in the long years of being his. The first actual kiss.

He was unsure and clumsy in his affection, a little hesitant.

Clearly, this was his first one ever.

You let a hand trail to his jaw, guiding with a gentle touch. He soon settled in, became more confident in his kiss, even if it was still clumsy.

And it was perfect. The determined nibbles to your lips, the soft scratch of his moustache on your upper lip, the way he tugged you closer even as you were pressed against the ladder.

When it finally slowed to a stop, he murmured softly, so much closer than he’d ever been. The sound reached deep inside your mind to soothe your soul and make you crave more of his kiss. “I won’t ever treat you like that again. I’ll give you full disclosure of my missions, every single one. Alright?”

“Alright,” you agreed, breathless and flustered, “On one condition.”

“Hm?” He was clearly lost in this touch, so starved for so long, and it showed in his voice. He was utterly entranced with this new feeling, someone else’s fingers on his skin, words the last thing on his mind.

“We do this more often.”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest, nose nudging on the tip of yours. “Deal.”

#mandalorian imagine #mandalorian x reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #mando imagine #mando x reader #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian #grogu #the child #star wars imagine #star wars #pedro pascal #written by archie

[taissabelle]

The main character, played by Pedro Pascal, picks up a child who's supposed to save a daying nation. He travel around, all cranky about it, through the adventer, develops deep emotional attachment to the child, and risk his ass for them. Which one is it ?

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #the mandaloria/reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the child #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #baby grogu #joel and ellie

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Too Sweet

A/N: Hi friends. I haven't written anything in a while, as I've been tussling with my mental health and raging SAD from the weather near me. Please accept this Mandalorian drabble? Rambling? Takes place between the end of season two and Din's appearance in the Book of Boba Fett. Tags: The Mandalorian, Mandalorian x Reader, Din Djarin x Reader, Mandalorian x F!Reader, Apostate!Din WARNINGS: None Summary: You've been a safe place for Din Djarin for years. He comes to you at his most vulnerable, but always has to leave before you're ready. Title inspired by the Hozier song of the same name.

Word count: 1.6k+

Hours later, you’re still in shock.

Din Djarin is in bed next to you, sans helmet.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be in your home- hell, it would be more unusual for him not to be there between jobs. Your Mandalorian had spent years visiting, hovering somewhere in between a lover and a partner. He shows up in the afternoon one day, and is gone early in the morning before you wake. When he returns, beaten and bruised, you chastise him for leaving without saying goodbye. The routine was comfortable. Familiar. 

Except every other time he had been there, you had never seen his face. 

It feels like a dance each time he comes. You tend to his wounds quickly but gently, lathering cuts and bruises in bacta before wrapping bandages or slings where necessary to let the medication heal. Once you’ve played nurse, Din secludes himself to your study to eat dinner. And each time, without fail, he leads you to the bedroom to extinguish the fireplace and blow out your candles. His hands find your body, and he ravishes you in the darkness. 

Key word being darkness.

Today was the same song and dance. He’d limped into your cabin without greeting, shaking snow from his armored body and settling himself into a kitchen chair while you fussed. A tube of bacta and half a roll of bandages later, he silently trudged away to eat in the study. There was a distinct lack of little green child with him today, which was a major concern after the past year. You suspected it had something to do with the oppressive sense of sorrow following him through the house. So you carried on with your usual routine, asking little to no questions. It wasn’t until he’d crowded you up against the sink, bowl still in your grip as you rinsed it, that he spoke. 

“Mesh’la.”

Strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, and you leaned back into an unarmored chest. In hindsight, you chastised yourself for not noticing the words lacked the electrical buzz of a vocoder. 

“Din.” You returned.

He only grunts, right hand gliding up your side. It grips your shoulder, and presses until you turn to face him, bowl still gripped in your damp fingers. 

“You know, words are- Din!”

The porcelain bowl shattered as it collided with the kitchen floor. You’d dropped it out of pure instinct, hands flying up to cover your eyes. As much as you’d tried to forget what you saw, it was burned into your brain. Wavy hair, long nose with a scar crossing the bridge of it. Big, brown eyes that couldn’t possibly belong to someone so stern and ruthless. It flashes across your mind, and you almost tear up at the thought of Din breaking his Creed after all these years. 

But he’d pulled your hands away and explained - while your eyes are still pinched closed- that he was an apostate. The Child was returned to his own people, but at the cost of Din’s Creed. It had taken minutes of coaxing and reassurance, but you’d opened your eyes and cursed the universe for being so cruel as to hide such a face. From the set of his brow to the nervous biting of his lip, you basked in seeing so much bare skin. It took less time for him to attach his lips to yours and lead you out of the kitchen.

He’d taken you to bed, and now here you sit. 

Your room isn’t anything special. Quaint and cozy if nothing else, with two small windows that face out over the mountain’s edge. A fireplace flickers opposite the bed, its warmth trickling out to the sheets and heating your toes. Two bookshelves border either side of your headboard, with a nightstand tucked on Din’s side of the bed. On it, the usually extinguished candles burn bright. 

The firelight flickers against Din’s tan skin, highlighting each bead of sweat and curled tendril of hair where it sticks to his forehead. He’s naked, back propped against the headboard and covered in a maroon sheet from the waist down. You’ve donned a short silk robe, black and bordered with laces where it plunges between your breasts. You lay between his legs above the sheets, head on his chest. One of his large hands caresses your scalp and trails to the ends of your hair. The other hand is occupied by a half-full glass of old Corellian whiskey. 

You trace a line of yellow bruises on his hip where they extend below the sheet on his lap. 

“What happened to you?”

His chest rumbles. “I fought an Imperial Moff. And Imperial battle droids.”

Your eyes widen, and you sit up. Din’s hand leaves your hair to grasp at your waist, pulling you to face him.

“Stars, Din.” You reach out to touch a patch of black and blue skin over his collarbone. “No wonder you’re so beat up. I’ll get you some more bacta before we go to sleep.”

He lifts your fingers from his collarbone to his mouth, kissing each fingertip. “You’re too good to me, cyar’ika.”

“You deserve it.” Is your instant reply. 

If there was anything you knew about Din, it was that he never quite comprehended the good he brought to the world. 

The Mandalorian brings the whiskey to his lips and takes a swig. You opt to push an errant curl behind his ear. 

“I’m not a good man,” Your name falls off his tongue like honey. “Spent my whole life as kyramud.” 

You tilt your head at the Mando’a. He’d called you some pet names for years- mesh’la, cyar’ika. But this… kyramud was new. Without his helmet, hearing anything out of his mouth was like a drug. But Mando’a warmed you to the core, building off Din’s comfort and fondness when he spoke the ancient tongue. You yearned to know more. 

“Teach me Mando’a.” You kiss him gently, tasting the whiskey where it lingers on his lips. “So I can tell you why you deserve every bit of kindness.”

Din adjusts your legs so you’re sitting square between his, rear end on the bed and legs straddling his waist. He props you up with the ridiculous amount of pillows lying around. 

“I’ll teach you anything you want.” Din strokes your knee. “Where do I start?”

You chew on your bottom lip. “What am I to you?”

“Ner cyare.” He pauses, debating. The whiskey makes another appearance, and you’re distracted by his Adam's apple bobbing deliciously in the column of his throat. “Naysol uj par ni. Each day I see you is aay’han.”

“What does that mean?”

Din tilts your chin up. “My beloved. Too sweet for me.”

You blush. “What about the end? Ay-hen?”

“Aay’han. Mourning and joy. At the same time.” He finishes the whiskey. “I mourn when I leave you here.”

Much to your annoyance, tears prick your eyes at the reminder that when you closed them, he would be gone before you woke. “Don’t remind me. Please.”

Din leans forward to capture your lips with his. The sensation only serves to make the stinging behind your eyes worse, and a single tear drips down your cheek. He’s quick to kiss it away, large hand curling into your hair. You climb all the way into his lap, suddenly desperate for closeness. His skin is hot and damp, and you’ve never felt anything better. 

“Ni ceta. I never meant to hurt you.”

You sniffle against his neck. “Just promise me you’ll say goodbye from now on.”

He wets two fingers with his tongue and extinguishes the candles before cradling you in strong arms. Two words are murmured into your hair, quiet but sound.  

“I promise.”

You grip him tighter than ever, warmth sadly fading as the dread of morning envelopes you. 

*

The reflection of daylight off snow-covered ground wakes you. 

It bounces in your windows, bathing the room in cool white light. You blink slowly, a heaviness settled on all of your limbs. It’s a familiar soreness that aches from your shoulders to between your legs, dredging up memories of the night before. Din’s bare face, and all the sweet words in Mando’a that he tried to teach you before you remembered he can never stay as long as you’d like. You sigh, letting one of your arms dangle off the edge of the bed. The thought of turning over and seeing the candles, thinking about him blowing them out on each visit was too fresh. It’s easier to lay and stew in your sadness, watching fluffy flakes of snow fall. The clock on your wall reads ‘1457’, another unintentional reminder of your late-night escapades.

You hate to admit that the feeling makes you tear up again. So you lay in bed, curled beneath a thick comforter while the fireplace crackles its last few breaths towards your feet. It’s easier to stare at the snow than it is to close your eyes and think about Din. 

“Damn it.” You breathe. 

“What are you damning?”

You swear that you stop breathing for a moment. Despite the fact that he had already spoken, you ask aloud, “Din?”

The sounds of bare feet padding across the floor nears, and the Mandalorian appears in your vision. Barefoot and clad only in a pair of loose gray lounge pants that tighten at his ankles. His abdomen is without cover, displaying an array of healing bruises and deep scars. You sit up, letting your feet hang off the bed. 

“You’re still here?” You look at the clock again. “At 1500?”

Din smiles, kneeling in front of you. He presses a mug of steaming Caf into your hands and a kiss to your forehead. 

“If it’s alright with you… I might be for a while.”

It’s your turn to smile as he smoothes away your bedhead. 

“No arguments.” You sip at the warm mug. “I’ll keep taking my Caf in bed, though.”

___________________________________________________

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[dindjiarin]

The Concession - Din Djarin x f!Reader

gif from @rebeljyn 's gifset here

Din Djarin falls in love. Whoops.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

AO3 Link

TAGS: S2 Din Djarin, "Who Did This to You?", P in V, Unprotected Sex w/o consequences because who likes those, m!Masturbation, Fluff, Pining, touch-starved!Din, helmet-less!Din, soft!Din, protective!Din, Grogu bein a sweet shit.

WARNINGS: Star Wars cursing/slang which I know annoys some people lmao, abusive shopkeepers.

A/N: "Shit" is Star Wars canon (thank you, Andor); Din is a groaner (Chapter 5 of TBOBF); & Din is a bit of a poet (thanks pledge to Bo-Katan in Chapter 23); I have cited my sources LOL.

"No," the Mandalorian snaps. "No droids." 

A gloved hand flies to his holster and the rusty pit droids screech to a halt, beeping nervously.

Leaning against the frame of the Razor Crest, at the top of the boarding ramp, you roll your eyes at Din Djarin's back. His distaste for droids had been made clear to you the first time he'd stopped for parts.

Those droids had been considerably less polite about Din’s preference, and he had taken too much pleasure in enforcing it.

"Listen, buddy, they're my refueling dr-"

"Then I'll take my business elsewhere."

The attendant sighs loudly, glaring at the Mandalorian. The skinny, maroon male with a fin-shaped head rises from his chair behind his workshop desk. He walks toward a shaking pit droid and grabs the refueler.

"It'll cost you extra," the attendant's eye-stalks narrow at the bounty hunter.

Din comes to an agreement with the disgruntled worker, sullenly agreeing to a slightly higher rate.

As the Mandalorian keeps watch over his ship, your footsteps clang down the steep ramp, and you sidle up to him, saying, "We need some things. Ration packs are gone. And - don't tell him -" your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, "But I think Grogu deserves a treat." 

"He would agree with you.” Din’s elbow brushes your shoulder, and he realizes he’d leaned closer as you spoke.

You continue, “And you need something to relax.” 

At that, Din’s helmet turns. “I do not.” 

“You’re even more impatient than usual. You’re on an anti-droid campaign; the last time we stopped, you threatened to yank out one’s navigator circuits just for bumping your foot.” You look up at him, raising a teasing eyebrow. 

The Mandalorian goes as still as one of those droids he had deactivated. His intimidating, T-shaped slit brands into your vision. Behind it, you know he’s boring holes into your face. 

“Alright. Nothing for you, then.”

Your shoulders drop when you turn away from him, almost relieved to be out from underneath his piercing, hidden gaze. 

The Mandalorian had paid you a few days before, and this was your first real opportunity to spend your own money. You can’t stop smiling, even as you place the kid in his white pod and stuff your pocket with your credits. Grogu is as excited as you are - giggling in his quiet way.

As you pass the statue of Din Djarin, he extends a closed fist. Obediently, you hold out your hand. The tan-hide fingers of his gloves open and credits fall, clinking. You look up questioningly at him.

“For the food. Your wages are not meant to be spent on communal necessities.”

 Your lips curve into a lopsided, sweet smile that Din immediately commits to memory, and you nod.

Turning to Grogu, his fuzzy ears perked and eyes wide, you ask, “Ready, kid?”

***

The marketplace is huge. Stretching the length of the entire square, it’s busy for a planet this remote, but the size increases the options. 

Grogu floats along beside you, and you keep one hand on the lip of the pod, just to be safe. The responsibility of the kid is the greatest charge you’ve ever been given, in more ways than one. Grogu often holds your hand or squeaks to get your attention to point at something glowing or stinky or flashing. His outright affection is a lamp to your lonely heart. 

After visiting several vendors, you’ve resupplied what was necessary (with credits left over), and now you move on to something for Grogu. You’d be buying that with your own wages. Din could say whatever he liked, but what else do you have to spend your money on except the cute baby?

You walk past a booth advertising repair supplies, but when you realize it’s for clothing repair, something clicks in your brain. Grogu’s ears flop forward with your sudden stop. Your eyes run over the objects, and you select some, a smile splitting your face. You hope he will be pleased.

Several minutes later, Grogu makes a bah! sound, pointing at a live amphibian display. You’re pretty sure it’s a pet vendor, but the look on the kid’s face tells you he won’t take no for an answer. And maybe you should parent him - tell him no - but that’s Din’s job, not yours. 

“Hi. How much for the frog eggs?” You politely ask the vendor, digging in your pocket for credits.

The bug-eyed lady tells you in a language you don’t speak, but she holds up three short tentacles on her hand. She pushes six eggs toward you, which you gratefully take and set in Grogu’s pod. 

When you try to hand her the credits, she’s pushed out of the way by someone behind her. A man with a smushed nose yells in the same language the lady had spoken, and points away, clearly telling her to leave. 

You watch warily, and once the woman has gone, the man turns to you. 

“My apologies. The price is one credit per egg,” he simpers at you. 

Disliking the hike in price, you move to return half of the eggs, but he protests, “Once the item has left my possession, they must be paid for.” 

“But I can give them back to you,” you assert. “I’m not paying that much for frog eggs.” 

His smushed nose twitches up like a feral Loth-wolf, “Yes, you are.”

"I'm not." You set three eggs back on the counter. 

The man seizes your wrists, holding you in place. The crowded market is loud, but your indignant cry and the vendor's screamed accusation of theft cause several people to stop and watch. 

You try to twist out of his hold, but his scaly skin tears at yours. The snarling vendor suddenly ceases making noise, and he releases your wrists to clutch at his throat. Shocked, your head snaps to the child.

Grogu has one little, three-fingered hand raised and curled. 

“No!” You gasp, slamming the button on Grogu’s pod to close it. Far, far too many eyes watch. 

The vendor, choking and sputtering, recovers quickly and lunges at you across the table. His hands grip your upper arms, but you wrench out of his hold. Hoping to draw all attention to yourself, you punch the vendor with all your might. The vendor stumbles.

“Never seen someone pretend to choke over three credits,” your lie is an incredibly lame one, but you hope it’s enough for passersby.

He clutches his jaw; his spat insult is garbled, and he begins to inch around the long table, trying to get a better shot at you.

You turn and walk away with as even a pace as you can manage. Running would make his accusation true. The crowd swallows the two of you up well, and you lengthen your stride.

 But the vendor is regaining his volume. Nervously, you check over your shoulder. You jolt when Grogu’s pod bumps into your hip, then zooms away.

“No,” you yell again, grasping for the white vessel, but it comes to a hovering stop in front of a tall, silver man.

“Thank the Maker,” you sigh with relief. “We have to go.”

Din immediately notices the red ring of heat around your wrists and along your knuckles. He strides toward you. The closer he gets, the safer you feel - his protective aura slowly engulfing you.  

Din grabs your forearm and examines your wrist. There’s a raw quality to your skin where the man’s abrasive hands had clamped down and twisted. After a moment, his face locks onto yours.

“Show me who did this."

Cold, calm, his words are a promise.

Confused by his reaction, and still so used to answering when asked a direct question, you wince over your shoulder. Din finally seems to hear the vendor shouting in the distance as he searches the crowd for a ‘thief’ and her ‘dangerous pet’. Din abruptly straightens and steps past you.

Running after him, you reach for his gloved hand, fingers sliding home. “Din, please; we need to go.” 

The familiar contact makes him stop and turn to look at you. He says nothing, so you use the opportunity to explain.

“The ki- I made a scene, and it would be best if everyone forgot about it. A Mandalorian publicly roughing up the very same shopkeeper would give them more reason to gossip.” 

Din Djarin frowns the longer you speak. He knows you’re right. The kid is far more important than his sudden anger. He nods curtly.

The man’s vicious insults about your likely occupation and parentage echo down the street and make Din’s lip curl. But for the sake of the child, he manages to turn back toward the Razor Crest. It’s only when he passes Grogu’s stationary pod that he realizes he’s still holding your hand, fingers loosely intertwined. 

He gently flexes his hand, letting go.

____________________________________

As the Razor Crest speeds away from the planet, you smile. Vacuous and bone-chillingly cold, space is the worst. For most of your life, the inhospitable conditions had been worsened by your constant transport in the dark hold of some Creator-forsaken vessel.

But the cabin of the Mandalorian’s ship is warm and full of life, occupied by the kid's excited babbling and your semi-nervous laughter.

The kid waves his stubby arms in the Mandalorian’s lap as the Razor Crest dips and rises through a relatively calm asteroid field. Expertly maneuvering the expanse, Din Djarin has little motivation to do so except the smiles on his passengers’ faces. If you ask, he’ll tell you it’s a shortcut to the next system, which is only mostly untrue.

It’s been three months since Din collected the bounty on your former master. During that time, the Mandalorian had found one of the kid’s kind. A Jedi who could’ve taken Grogu, she declined the task. She told the bounty hunter of a place, a Seeing Stone, where Grogu could reach out for a Jedi master himself. 

Though a week has passed since learning of the Stone, Din had yet to bring Grogu to it, instead taking a couple of jobs. The stoic Mandalorian won’t admit, especially to himself, that he’s reluctant to let the child go. 

Reaching a lull in the slow-moving asteroids, Din draws the thruster back to stationary level, then looks down, his helmet nearly touching his breastplate, at the child still waving his short arms. Din turns his silver face to you questioningly.

Before he can speak, you joke, "I don’t want to learn to fly out here, if that's what you're about to ask.”

He shrugs with acceptance. Your eyebrows pinch in surprise, wondering if he’s playing along or serious.

“Okay, kid. We're done here,” he tenderly lifts Grogu and passes him to you. 

Grogu makes a protesting sound and hides one of his hands inside his robe.

“Big, mean Mandalorian is no fun,” you mutter to the child teasingly. Grogu coos in agreement.

Din shakes his head and swivels back to the control panel, flipping switches and entering data. The kid catches your attention, triumphantly showcasing a small metal sphere from his robe. You press your lips together and wink, silently promising you won’t tell. 

The Mandalorian’s gloved fingers run over his ship’s control panel like he’s conducting the Coruscant Orchestra, and then, suddenly, his right hand freezes in mid-air as he reaches for the thruster. 

“Grogu,” Din growls, spinning in his chair.

You laugh openly, “He’s a toddler, Din. You can’t close your eyes for a second.”

The Mandalorian rises, his bulk taking up the entirety of the cabin. He gently wrestles the ball from Grogu's fingers.

Long, soft ears droop, and massive, black eyes turn glassy. 

“Oh, look what you've done,” you croon, looking up at Din with an expression mirroring the kid’s.

Though he doesn't move, you can somehow see when Din’s annoyance is overruled by something stronger. Then the Mandalorian’s wide shoulders slowly rise and fall, a long-suffering sigh leaving his body.

“You are both menaces,” the Mandalorian accuses. He extends his hand, palm upward, “Grogu. Take it.” 

You hold your breath, allowing the child to focus on using his power. Grogu closes his eyes. The metal ball wiggles in the concave of Din’s large palm, then zooms to Grogu’s tiny hand.

Din makes a fist in excitement, “Great job, kid.”

Beaming at the Mandalorian, even more enthralled with him than the magic child in your lap, you wish you could see his proud smile.

Noticing your expression, Din's chin swivels to the side, clearly questioning. 

"Nothing. It's just that - it’s good to see you like this.” You shrug, trying to minimize your staring. “I know you’ve been stressed.”

The silent moment draws out as he assesses your observation. Still standing, the Mandalorian’s right hand hesitantly rises to whisper across the left side of your jaw. The gloved softness of his thumb caresses your cheekbone for an instant and a lifetime.

Din drops his hand like it weighs as much as a rancor. He turns around and sits back in his pilot's chair. Silver armor reflects the red and yellow lights around the cabin as he finishes his navigational procedures. 

Cheeks aflame, you duck your face down into the kid. 

___________________________________

“‘Occasional repairs,’’' you quote at the Mandalorian. “Every karking week there’s a new hole in this poor ship.” 

On the other side of the wing, busy soldering panels together, the Mandalorian's head snaps up. Unmoving, his expressionless mask simply stares at you. You bite your lip to prevent a grin and continue replacing bolts.

The beskar helmet remains for a while longer, hiding Din’s thoughts. He imagines what you’d look like if he put you on your knees and made you pay for your jokes. If he wiped that pretty smirk off your face. He feels a stirring in his flight suit, so he wrenches his mind away. 

The act the two of you committed in that field has not been repeated. His dedication to his helmet - to his creed - is paramount. And you tempt him too much. 

For the second time in the past year, Din has accidentally grown attached to someone - first the kid and now you. But with you, it’s a danger of a different kind.

Din had hoped that he just needed to get it out of his system. Get you out of his system. He had won that mock fight in the field, but he had yielded to his desire for you. 

Instead of feeling sated, Din feels hungrier as the days go by. Useless information, such as the number of sonic showers you've taken, clogs his mind. He would be ashamed of his counting, but he's too battle-weary to care. He does not count how many times he's taken advantage of the privacy of his bunk, remembering your eager face, your receptive body underneath him. 

All that armor wasn't worth a damn thing.

It’s easier for you. As inexperienced as Din but with your self-esteem already in the sarlacc pit, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine he'd had his fill of you and… well, that was that. Though you dream of it nearly every night, waking up to the strange feeling of both gaining and losing something.

Of course, the Mandalorian still needed you to care for the kid or help him replace several wing panels when he inevitably damaged them, as you were currently doing. 

At dusk, white trees sway behind you in the biting wind. This planet is rather cold, and Grogu, asleep inside the Razor Crest, doesn’t join you for the lovely, young Gornt dinner that Din had hunted. The two of you butcher it in silence and place it on the makeshift spit.

You then plop onto a log and snuggle down into your clothes, shivering. Though the items Din had given you months earlier are sturdy and warm, some of the chill of the night manages to seep through. You cross your arms, rubbing them.

Din vanishes from the other side of the fire - the smoky, dark air impenetrable. Squinting, you try to spot his reflective armor, but it works against you in this instance, easily blending him into the flickering, dim light.

A heavy material suddenly falls onto your shoulders, and you jump.

"Oh!" 

The Mandalorian stands directly behind you, the thick cloak he was trying to give you still partially in his hand. 

"I was focused on trying to see you through the smoke. I didn't think you'd be there." You clutch the brown garment tight around you and softly smile up at him, "Thank you."

Din nods, the clinking sound of metal audible as he returns to his log across the firelight. Your mouth gapes for a moment when you realize that the material around your shoulders is his torn cape.

"Do you not get cold?"

"I do." 

"Why not wear one yourself then?" You lift part of the cloak in indication.

"Mandalorians are taught to withstand uncomfortable circumstances. As a foundling, I frequently exercised in far less temperate weather." 

"A foundling?" You query, your eyebrow raising.

The Mandalorian leans back and shifts his legs apart to better distribute his weight.

"My youth was upended by war. When my village was destroyed, I was found by a Mandalorian."

"The name is quite literal, then?" 

"My people are quite literal," Din crosses his arms and his commanding presence is distracting.

He looks so big sitting on the log, his legs open, back straight, and arms folded. 

"We have similar beginnings," you swallow, trying to ignore the burning inside that has nothing to do with the fire.

"I was a little more fortunate in who found me," Din states. He leans forward to finally adjust the rod holding your dinner.

You lose your gaze in the flaming light, remembering.  

“I still can’t believe how much things have changed,” you murmur. 

Din Djarin can’t either. He has a life-altering decision to make, and a child to let go of, and both thoughts weigh on him like a karking Mudhorn. Din sighs internally at his unintended choice of simile.

Your eyes stray upward to the navy sky, breathing deeply. The frigid air burns your lungs, but you only draw more in, relishing your freedom to do so.

"You did not deserve that life," Din’s rough, mechanical voice answers over the sound of the crackling fire. 

You frown, "No one does." 

Running with the Mandalorian was a great way to stay ahead of the slavers. Paid employment, constant movement, and no one besides Din knowing your name - it was too good to be true.

Dropping your head from the sky, you level the Mandalorian with the most heartfelt gaze you can manage, "Thank you. I would've never had the courage to run without you."

Unable to see his reaction, you feel the distance most acutely. It isn't just flame and metal that divides you.

"I-" Din starts, but you cut him off.

"But mostly it's thanks to Grogu," you grin, trying to lighten the mood.

The helmet bobs as though he's amused, then Din sighs dramatically. 

"I need to separate you two."

"I love him," you giggle, remembering a moment a few days earlier when he had picked up a very dignified, sentient species of frog and tried to eat it. "He is such an agent of chaos." You laugh into your cloak-covered hand. 

Grateful that you can't see the fervent emotion glimmering in his brown eyes, Din studies you. Your fond smile is lit by the glowing fire and the cold winds blow redness into your cheeks and nose. You’re secure in his cloak, and it makes his chest ache.

"Shit," he breathes. The hiss through his modulator doesn't pick up the word well, to his relief. 

It's not a surprise if you do truly love the kid. He is adorable and you've been with him every waking moment for three months, but the word you've just introduced is jarring to Din.

Talking about Grogu brings the dangers you all face to the forefront of your mind. Your smile falls.

"Will you continue to teach me to fight?" You don't immediately register the sudden rigidity of Din's posture, so you press on, "It’s upsetting to me that I'm better with a blaster than with the skills I was taught and trained in by my family." 

The Mandalorian is relieved. You've given him an excuse to say no.

"I cannot teach you the methods of your people." 

“That’s alright; anything would be appreciated.” 

Din shifts his thigh on the log, agitated, and you struggle to fill the silence, “You don’t have to, of course.”

Then, as the silence lengthens, and you watch his helmet glint as he looks away, you realize what he must be so uncomfortable about. 

“Oh. I am not asking we repeat that. I’m sorry,” you raise a hand to chest height as if you’re trying to physically defend yourself from the awkwardness. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“I know.” 

“I- Din, really I only meant the…” you grimace and clamp your lips together, unable to bear the tension. Standing, you insist, “I swear to you, I never expected more.”

Forgetting to return his cape, you unconsciously hold it closer as you retreat into the Razor Crest. 

The Mandalorian does not watch you walk away. His conflicted eyes remain trained on the crackling fire. Sparring with you brings every heart tug, every little attraction he has to you to the surface, and that's too frustrating to manage while IMPs track him and he deals with letting go of Grogu. 

But Din knows he really should continue to teach you. It’s in your best interest, as well as Grogu’s. His hangup is entirely selfish, and Din is not a selfish man. 

***

Hours later, when the sun has started to rise once more on this short-cycle planet, the Mandalorian finds his brown cape hung on the door to the refresher. He jerks it off its resting place, and goes to tuck it back around himself, when he notices that something is wrong.

Frozen, the Mandalorian stares at the brown, rough material in his hand. There are no holes in it anymore, only stitches. 

_________________________________________

Combined with the sound of intentionally-loud footsteps, Din places Grogu - who had jumped between the two of you all night - on the edge of your cot, allowing the child to wake you up. Din strides to his weapons cache.

You yawn, then snicker at Grogu’s delighted face as he babbles what must be his version of Good Morning. 

“Morning, kid.” You pet his ear and he begins to purr.

“You should stop babying him,” the Mandalorian doesn’t look at you as he searches among the weapons.

“Why? He’s a baby.” 

Din shuts the doors to his stash. “He is fifty years old."

“He's what?” 

Din shrugs and inclines his head in humor. You stare incredulously at the middle-aged child who rotates his little head between you and his father. 

“His species is unknown, but they age differently than we do.” 

“Uh, yeah. Fifty?” 

Din’s modulator makes a rasping sound. It could’ve been a small laugh, but you’re not sure. 

“Is fifty so terrible?”

Something in Din’s voice makes you look up at him. He casually leans against the hull. 

Unsure if you should have the gumption to even ask, you stutter, “A-are you also fifty?” 

The beskar mask does not move as the man behind it debates his reply. He decides on honesty.

“No,” Din states. He clasps one hand over the other in front of him, adding, “But I will reach that number in less than a decade.” 

You make a small, accepting gesture as you had subconsciously placed him around his early forties anyway. In any case, it doesn’t matter to you. He is the Mandalorian who (somewhat inadvertently at first, you’ll admit) saved you. Even without that gratitude, you would feel an attraction to him. He was strong and kind and protective. Ruthless, sure, but only when necessary.

Din pushes off the wall, “You didn’t ask why I woke you.” 

“Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to you, so used to being woken up - far more rudely or violently - each morning for the prior two decades. “Alright, why did you wake me?”

He reaches behind his back, unhooking an item, and holds out the fighting stick he had used in that skirmish between the two of you. 

“I will teach you what I can.” 

***

Din Djarin is careful not to touch you, even through his gloves. He doesn’t trust himself anymore. Instead, he instructs you in tactics. After clocking your strategy in less than three moves, Din is worried about your future opponents doing the same. 

“You dislike giving ground, but there will be times you’ll have to. It’s how you will outmaneuver them,” the Mandalorian stands, hands folded, his knee cocked, as he speaks. 

“How do you know that?” You ask in response to his first statement. 

Din clenches his jaw at the memory so very close to other memories, and answers you in a contained voice, “You were not subtle.” 

You smile, abashed. “See, that is why I asked you. I’m far too inexperienced.”

Din closes his eyes in frustration.

You continue nervously, thinking about how hesitant he had been to agree to this, “My master took me to many fights, and you’re the best I’ve ever seen. I value your opinion.”

Din is used to compliments. Those whom he returned quarries to often praised him for his work. But your praise is one he actually wants, and something throbs in his chest. Then he grows irritated with his rampant, immature yearning for you. 

Din speaks harshly, “This is for the protection of the child. You are his guardian when I am not nearby.”

Locked onto that T-shaped, black slit, your eyes flicker a little at his callous, impatient pronouncement, but you nod. 

“Of course. For the kid.”

__________________________________

Unhappy to be removed from where he had curled up on his father’s pilot seat, Grogu had insisted upon sleeping in the cockpit with his little metal ball. You had assured the Mandalorian that you didn’t mind staying in the passenger chair for the night. The cushions were comfortable enough, and it made the child happy. 

An hour after Grogu had begun purring in his sleep, you’re brought to consciousness by a deeper, labored sound. Bolting to your feet, worried about the Mandalorian below, you descend the ladder. 

The door to the Mandalorian’s bunk had not fully closed, apparently jamming on some loose junk part that Grogu must’ve picked up. There is no light on in the enclosed space, so you cannot see him. But you can hear the way he mutters your name once, rough and agitated. You can hear the sound of material jerking and his rasping, vocoded grunts. 

Your throat tightens and your breathing stops. Eyes wide, you slowly back up, terrified for him to find you in this way. A molten weight in your stomach wants you to push open the door and take care of him, but after the manner in which he spoke to you the entire afternoon, and the obvious way he tries to forget about that day in the field, you can’t. You can’t even fathom why he would be uttering your name. It’s too confusing.

Dazed, you return to the cockpit and try to block him out. Sleep does not come to save you for far too long, and when it does, it provides you no escape from the Mandalorian.

__________________________________

Din’s tortured use of your name had kept you awake far into the night. When you groggily open your eyes the next morning, you know you won’t be able to let this go. You must talk to him. Bravery is a muscle you’re trying to flex anyway, so you might as well try it on the scariest thing you can think of: an angry Din Djarin. 

While Grogu plays with a ship part you pretend to have never seen, one Din had pried out of the receiving slot of his bunk door this morning, you and he traipse down the boarding ramp, intending to save the rest of the Gornt meat for traveling. 

Absolutely guessing at how you’ll begin this conversation, you decide you’ll just hope for the best. 

“I- I heard you last night.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

The Mandalorian stops dead in his tracks and you stumble, trying not to run into him. He turns on you, a solid wall of muscle and metal, but says nothing. You swallow and force what shred of courage you have to the front. 

“I heard you say my name. You don’t have to do that alone. I can help you,” your final words are almost inaudible.

The Mandalorian provides food, shelter, and companionship. Ignorant to any kind of normal relationship, friendly or greater, you want to show your gratitude. And if that was how you could help him, all the better.

Your inner self, the one that’s been unthawing since the day your master was frozen in carbonite, wants Din in a far more genuine manner. You want him. His compassion and honor, his fatherly love for Grogu, his non-pitying care for you, and his primal confidence have you in danger of becoming a hopeless devotee.

“Help me,” he reiterates, his tone worryingly neutral.

“Passage for assistance,” you try to ease the tension slightly with another old quote of his. “I can still assist you. It’s repayment for your aid.”

Even as you say it, you feel the depth of the lie. You want Din for yourself.

He’s silent. At his side, the fingers on his right hand fidget. The broad bounty hunter leans over you. As he tilts his head, the cold sun glints off his armor. 

Din’s voice is as sharp as his vibroblade but twice as lethal, “You are no longer a slave - do not make me say that again. This is not a business transaction.” 

Not a business transaction? While technically a rejection, his clarification makes you dizzy. Your breath comes out shakily, fogging in the chill air. 

“Okay. What if that’s not my real reason for asking?”

That does it. Stunned, the Mandalorian might as well be a statue made of beskar. Din had found it easy to believe you allowed him to touch you because you felt in his debt, and he hated it. Made him feel as slimy as a Hutt.

“Tell me.” 

Din watches your facial expressions run the gamut and he knows that whatever you’re about to say is the truth. 

“I care about you.” Will you ever stop whispering? “For you, not just what you’ve done for me,” your second greatest act of bravery this morning is touching his cold chestplate. You swallow as you look up into that blank face. 

Din doesn't move. Doesn't think he can move, but then his body responds before his mind does. Soft leather brushes your cheekbones as he takes your face in his large hands. He tilts his cold helmet to your forehead, and you instinctively close your eyes, sighing in relief. This was not what you were expecting when you followed him out here.

You can't hear the first thing he says, but it sounds like dank farrik. You laugh quietly in his hands.

"You are a menace,” he mutters a little louder, the modulator somehow enhancing the timbre of his voice. “You and the kid.”

Grinning, you open your eyes as he lifts his helmet from your skin. “Don’t bring him into this,” you joke. 

Din’s thumb ghosts across your lips and you shiver. The Mandalorian is calm. This is inevitable now. He need not fight himself any longer. He grasps your wrist and brings it upward. Gently guiding your fingers underneath the edge of his helmet, Din presses them to his lips.

Utterly shocked at this new gift, you gasp. A scratchy cloth wraps around the bottom of his chin, but above it, his soft, scruffy facial hair and plump lips make your skin tingle. Nerves jumble in your lower stomach. He presses another kiss before slowly lowering your hand.

You tell him disbelievingly, "I thought there was no way -” 

“What you thought was wrong.” 

Your heat signature rises at the sincerity in his voice. Din tilts his head, watching your reaction to him. He lets his covered fingers drift over your lips again, then he drags them down the column of your throat and past your exposed collarbone, enjoying your whimper. Your pupils are dilated.

“You want me now, don’t you?” He asks, his voice hoarse. 

You nod, whispering past your suddenly dry mouth, “Yes.” 

The Mandalorian crouches for a split second, hefting you into his arms with no effort. Your legs automatically wrap around his middle, arms around his neck. His hands clasp underneath your thighs as he strides up the loading ramp as though every second he delayed was one wasted. 

Din lays you out on his bunk and hits the button for the door without looking at it. He does not turn on the light. In the tiny, black room, you can hear him divesting himself of his flight suit and armor. It makes your heart throw itself against your chest. You sit up and struggle out of your own clothes, wanting nothing between you and him.

“Will I ever get to kiss you?” You ask timidly.

Din answers you immediately. His rough palms bracket your face, then he reverently pushes his lips into yours. His facial hair brushes against your skin and you weakly moan into his mouth, parting your lips for more. The Mandalorian groans, as well, enraptured by this new sensation. 

Din wraps a muscled arm around your waist, crushing you to him in the small space. His warm, broad chest forces yours to mold around him. Your hands gently drag along his torso, mapping him. He shudders underneath your fingers.

His lips break like waves around yours. You could be floating above the bed and it would feel no different. He kisses you like it’s what he needs to survive; his occasional noises of desperation stake your heart and dampen your thighs.

“Need to touch you everywhere,” Din’s real, untampered voice knots your stomach. 

“You can do whatever you want,” you breathlessly repeat the unspoken affirmation you’d given him the first time. 

He chuckles, and you shiver again, drunk with lust. Din lowers you back onto the hard bed, settling over you.

His hot mouth surprises the sensitive skin of your breast. Din moans, involuntarily you think, as he tastes you there, gently pulling and sucking. You jerk, pressing up into him with a cry. Who knew that could feel so good?

His big hands flow down your sides, pressing into you, exploring, and you get a burst of understanding. This man is starved.

Your hands comb into his hair, and while you wonder what its color is, you’re choked up to find that it’s soft and wavy. Din groans loudly when your fingers rub on his scalp. He seems invigorated by it as he growls and returns to your lips with a fever. His tongue demands you allow him inside, but there is no resistance on your end. 

Suddenly, Din breaks the kiss with a wet pop of his lips. He vanishes from above you, but then two large hands slide up your thighs. He pushes them apart and your breath hitches. 

“You trust me?” The Mandalorian knows the answer, he just wants to hear it.

Nodding dumbly in the dark, you realize he can’t see you and squeak, “Yes.”

He shifts down and presses a row of kisses up your inner thigh. His nose brushes your coarse hair, and your breathing breaks a second time. 

Din flattens his tongue and licks the spot he already knows you like. You jolt and his arms wrest around your thighs, holding you in place for him. You whimper as he buries his face in your folds, shocking your system. Your hands return to his hair, and his chest swells as he quickly shoves you toward your end. His nose continually nudges your bundle of nerves and each time it feels like you’re hurtling through hyperspace.

Your back arches when he traps your clit between his lips, and he responds with another obscene noise. This time, the vibration of his deep voice rips your orgasm from your marrow. Crying out his name, you quake, chest heaving through the waves of euphoria. 

Too overwhelmed by all his options, Din moves back to your mouth, breathing heavily himself, “Incredible.” 

He licks into you again, his hand cradling your face to allow him deeper. Taking advantage of his position, you wrap your legs around his trim waist, pulling him down. His hips cant toward you, and you feel his length fall onto your abdomen. You hadn’t forgotten how big he was, but the heft of it makes your body tremble. 

The Mandalorian could be a patient man, but this would never be one of those moments. Din fists himself, rubbing once along your soaked seam. He pushes forward, steadily feeding his cock into your tight, forgiving heat. Din grunts several times, overstimulated. 

“You don’t know what you’ve done, mesh’la,” he gruffly murmurs, his naked voice still so shocking to hear.

You have no idea what he means, and you file it away for later study. Solely focused on how he feels halfway inside you, you clutch at the back of his thick thighs, encouraging him. But then he snaps his hips, driving himself to the hilt.

“Din, oh,” you sharply gasp. 

He grinds his pubic bone into your mound, stimulating you; his chin tilts up, proud, when you shudder. The Mandalorian grabs one of your hands and brings it to where he’s joined with you.

“You feel that?” Din’s voice is weighty, meaningful.

“Mhm,” you sigh, your fingers leaving his hand to explore his dark curls. He’s right. The deviant way his thick member disappears inside you is intoxicating.

He languidly draws himself out, letting you experience every ridge and vein, pulsing with your filthy sounds. He re-enters you just as intentionally, and when he’s given you everything, he leans down and drags you into a kiss. A kiss that means something to him. His tongue surges through your mouth in a single stroke before his full lips pull on yours, one hand gripping the back of your neck.

He lets you go, trailing his mouth down your throat, obsessed with the taste and the feel of you on his skin.

Din returns to your lips, his forearms framing your head. His fingers twist in your hair, and he begins to pump faster. His length strokes along a spot that makes your eyes flutter in the pitch blackness. Your nails carefully rake at his toned back, drawing a strangled moan from him as he shoves himself inside again and again. Losing a measure of self-control, he thrusts hard, placing a palm on the back wall for stability. 

Your hands finally, finally, reach up for his face, expecting at any moment that he’ll stop you. His lips are parted as he pants in exertion, his facial hair fluttering with his breath. Din’s cheekbones are round and high; his nose is angular and fitting. 

“I knew you were handsome,” you praise, the words fluctuating in cadence with his pounding strokes. “Wouldn’t have mattered.”

He scoffs, barely conscious of what you’re saying. His forehead drops to yours again, and he can’t believe the life he’d known had unraveled so drastically. In under a year, Din had gained a child and this. 

“Turn over,” he orders.

Of course, you obey without hesitation.

His calloused fingers slide around your hips, pulling them upward. With your chest still pressed into the bunk, you moan when he slowly re-inserts himself. He nearly chokes when your body draws him in; the angle and drenched grip of you makes him shake his head in disbelief. 

“You okay?” He rumbles. 

Your chin scrapes on the metal bed as you nod, “Please move.” 

He clasps an arm around your middle, hunching forward. His scruff and lips tickle the top of your spine as he begins to rut into you. It’s already too much - Din grunting, his chest hair scratching your upper back, his muscled arms holding you in place as he fills you over and over. You begin to clench around him again, crying out harshly in a rush of pleasure. Your legs shake, giving out underneath you.

The Mandalorian’s large hand splays across your breast, and he pulls you backward onto your knees alone, welding you to his perspiring chest. As his length plunges up into you, his lips brush your ear. He’s whispering something, but you can't understand the words.

Then, Din exhales with a groan and rolls several long, pulsing strokes, burying his come as deep as he can with a final, gravel-filled grunt.

***

In the dark, there’s only the sound of two people fighting for breath. Din has leaned against the cool wall; he tugs you to him. You sit somewhat beside him, your legs tangled together. Your head rests on his heaving shoulder, and every now and then, you feel the press of his lips in your hair. He laughs once, quietly.

“What is it?” 

“Your life is not the only one that has changed.” 

Blinking rapidly, your heart glows with warmth. Yours had changed the most. This Mandalorian had come into your non-existence and given you everything. Courage, freedom, responsibility, love. 

“I know you like to fight, but this is one I’ll win,” you laugh softly. 

___________________________________

Tagging:

@morks-watermelon

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin fanfic #pedro pascal #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #my writing #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #my fics #personal #grogu

[buckyhoney]

these three are the definition of the “fuck around and find out” parenting when it comes to their found children 💀

#all three will have fucked people up for even looking at thier kids wrong #frank castle #din djarin #joel miller #frank castle x reader #din djarin x reader #joel miller x reader #ellie williams #grogu #amy bendix #star wars #the punisher #the last of us #MINORS FUCK OFF

[aduialwen]

Me waiting for all those din x reader fics set in that Nevarro country house  😂 😂 😂 

And all the tasty smut that will come out of it 😏😏😏

#din djarin #pedro pascal #mandalorian #the mandalorian #grogu #it's mando hours #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

Okay so like, I’ve never requested anything so I don’t really even expect you to see this lol. But likeeee, can I possibly request a Din Djarin x reader, where neither the reader or Din know Grogu has the armor under his robe that the armorer gave him, and something happens where Grogu gets hurt and they both lose their minds before getting to him and realizing little dude is just fine. Please and thank you 🥹

Ooooh this is a good prompt. Speaking of, if you've asked for one then it's probably on my to-do list, but i am slow🤡. plus, updates of AFS and a couple other things come before random drabbles.

Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k (i dont think I'm capable of writing less than a thousand words apparently smh)

AT FAULT

"don't let fear make your decisions." -Michael G. Manning

The quarry was laid on his back as a pool of purple blood began to settle in the sand under him. The twi'lek was motionless and your breathing was finally starting to calm. In one arm you held Grogu who seemed nonplussed by the violence at hand and in your other you held the still smoking blaster. When you managed to tear your eyes off the quarry's body they lifted to land on Din who stood stiff on the other side of the body.

"What the kriff was that?" Din snapped. His entire body was drawn taut like a wired rope pulled to tight. He was nearly vibrating in place and the anger that leaked into his voice was palpable. "Karking⏤ what the hell do you think you're doing out here!?"

His tone made your already irritable mood worse. You stuck the rarely used blaster back into the holster at your thigh. "Apparently, saving you! Maybe show a little gratitude!"

"Grati⏤” The word wasn’t even able to leave Din’s mouth. He stormed forward, boots passing the dead quarry, until he stood right in front of you. Close enough that the Mandalorian was forcing you to tilt your head up to look at him. You knew he stood that close on purpose⏤ he wanted to tower over you right now. “The two of you could’ve gotten killed! I told you not to leave the Razor Crest!”

“We’ve been on that ship for two weeks straight, Din!” You argued. “We just wanted a little fresh air⏤”

“I told you this quarry was dangerous, I said⏤”

“All your quarries are dangerous, Din. You⏤”

“When I tell you to stay on the damn ship,” Din grabbed your by the arm not holding Grogu, “I expect you to kriffing listen. Dank farrik, cyar’ika.” The way he spat out your usual nickname made you wince. “I told you this quarry was bad news⏤”

“And I told you that you shouldn't have taken the bounty!” You yelled and tried to yank your arm free. Din held on tight, and Grogu began to babble worriedly in your arms. “I told you we should take a break! Take a breath! We all need it, even you. Especially, you!”

You yanked your arm back again and this time it broke free. Din settled on placing his hands on his hips, but you could still feel his anger radiating off of him. Tempers had been running high the last few weeks, stuck on a close quarter ship while stressing over the Empire being on your heels, and it seemed the two of you were finally letting it come to a head. 

“It’s naive of you to think we have the time for a break.” Din seethed. “I take bounties so we can afford fuel to run, food to eat, and⏤” He shook his head, taking in a sharp breath before continuing. “You tell me to show you gratitude? Gratitude because you risked yours and Grogu’s life for me?” Din took one step toward you and you took two steps back so he stayed a foot or so away. He pointed to himself. “Everything I do, my only priority, is keeping you and Grogu safe. Away from the Empire. So, how about you show a little gratitude and stay on the damn ship when I tell you to.”

Grogu whined in your arms and you shifted him to the other in a poor attempt to console him. You weren’t ready to climb onto the Razor Crest quite yet. You weren’t done with this fight. Din’s anger and words only spurring you on further.

“You think I’m not grateful for all you do?” You spat. “Of course, I am, you ass! I just hate watching you burn yourself into the ground for us. You need to take care of yourself too, Din. That involves taking a break now and then! That’s why I suggested leaving this bounty untouched. I just want to help.”

Din nodded once then tilted his head. “Right. Yeah. Putting Grogu and yourself at risk was a lot of help. I feel much better. Thank you, cyar’ika.”

You scoffed, “You know what, Din? You are⏤”

The sound of an unfamiliar chuckle and your eyes snapped from the dark t-shape visor to the quarry sitting up with a menacing grin. It took less than a second. It happened so quickly that your mind couldn’t register the movements fast enough.

A blaster raised.

A blaster fired.

And, you didn’t have the time to spin away. The force of the blaster bolt knocked you right off your feet and onto the ground. 

You heard Din scream, the sound hoarse and raw and broken, then you heard another blaster go off. As you laid on your back, you realized you weren’t hurting. Your back was a little sore from landing on it, but you didn’t feel the sharp burning pain of a blaster scorching through your skin. That’s when your brain finally clicked. That’s when you realized. Grogu. Oh, Maker. Grogu. Grogu, baby⏤ Your eyes snapped down to see the little boy’s eyes closed and the front of his robe was blackened from the blow.

The scream that filled the air this time was yours. You felt the sound reverberate in the base of your throat, it rattled your chest, but the only noise you could hear was the racing heartbeats that pounded in your ears. You sat up, cradling him to your chest, and you could feel gloved hands pawing at your arms. Someone was trying to take him⏤ someone was trying to take him from you. You screamed once more, your body shook, and a gloved hand cupped the side of your face. Nothing registered until you saw Grogu blink his big eyes open. Your breath caught in your throat. That same gloved hand pulled aside Grogu’s ruined robe and the telltale shine of beskar stared back up at you. A mudhorn adorning the plate that Grogu wore at the center of his chest.

Grogu let out a soft mumble and smiled up at you. 

“Oh, thank the Maker.” Din breathed. “Cyar’ika. Cyar’ika? Cyari’ka!” A hand titled your face up, tearing your eyes away from Grogu who was wiggling in your tight grip. You met the dark t-shape visor of Din’s helmet. “Are you okay? Did it clip you? Are you hurt?”

You shook your head and opened your mouth, but all that came out was a ragged sob. Even after Din pulled you both into his arms, you continued to cry against his silver beskar plated chest until your own chest ached from how badly each sob racked your body. Grogu seemed content to be squashed between you and Din. 

Hours later, in the quiet of hyperspace, Din sat in the pilot’s chair with you on his lap, cradled against his body, while you held Grogu tight to yours. It seemed since the incident Din refused to let either of you go, and you had no desire to complain. Having his arms wrapped around you while you watched Grogu sleep was the safest you had ever felt.

“I’m so sorry, Cyar’ika.” Din whispered. His unmodulated words were muffled by the way he rested his face at the top of your head⏤ buried his lips into your hair to continue peppering light kisses anywhere he had access. In this position, your head tucked under his, you couldn’t see his face. “I am so, so sorry.”

You shook your head lightly. When you spoke, your voice was ragged from screaming earlier, “No, I am. I should’ve listened to you, Din. I should’ve stayed on the ship.” Your eyes began to water again. “I almost got Grogu killed.”

“No. No, that wasn’t your fault. Ner mesh'la cyar'ika, ibic hara cuyir pal'vut.” Din mumbled the end of his sentence in Mando’a. “You were right. I shouldn’t have taken that bounty. I can’t lose the two of you and I’ve grown… obsessive in trying to protect you.”

“It’s worked. You’ve kept us safe. If I had listened to you⏤”

“You’re not prisoners. I can’t lock you away from the world because of my fear.” Din cut in. You let your free hand trace down the small bridge of Grogu’s nose and he scrunched it up at the contact while staying soundly in his sleep. Nothing Din would say could rid you of this guilt entirely. If he wanted to claim the mistake he could, but that didn’t make it any less your fault as well. “Please speak to me.”

You closed your eyes and lifted your head so you could press a kiss against Din’s throat. He shuddered and sighed at the touch. “Can we just agree that this is both of our faults?”

“We can.” Din shrugged, his arms tightened around you. “But I'd rather you not take any of the blame.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately as we’ve learned, I’m not good at listening.” You mumbled.

Din chuckled. “Good. I don’t want you to blindly listen to me. Your ideas are equally as good as mind, if not occasionally better.” He closed the space to press a soft kiss against yours. It was sweet and tender. Not a declaration of lust or desire, but a reassurance that you were there. Din broke away to whisper. “But if you could at least let me know when you are leaving the ship, I’d appreciate it.”

“Only if you promise to take us somewhere pretty soon.”

“I’m already ahead of you, cyar’ika.” As he spoke, his lips brushed against yours and you had no desire to lean back away from him. Din moved his hand and you could feel his hand brush against the side of your arm every time he soothingly rubbed Grogu’s head. “Crest is on route to Naboo.”

You pressed another light peck of your lips against his before leaning your head back down against his chest. Din settled his head back on top of yours, and you felt the soft caress of his thumb against your arm from the hand that was wrapped around you. Din pulled you and Grogu a hair closer, and you reveled in the silence of hyperspace.

"Also, when did Grogu get a mudhorn beskar chestplate?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

mando'a translations

Ner mesh'la cyar'ika, ibic hara cuyir pal'vut. [My beautiful darling, this sin is mine.]

#asks #feel free to ask me about anything!! #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #grogu #angst/comfort #fluff

[the-djarin-clan]

He is literally so husband...

Just waiting for Fanfics of Din Djarin being a father of 15 children...

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #din grogu #grogu #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #star wars #starwars #mando #baby yoda

[archieimagines]

Imagine Din Djarin finding you asleep with Grogu.

i just wanna nap with grogu. this whole thing is entirely self indulgent, sue me. written by: archie

He emerged from the refresher after an hour, body and beskar finally squeaky clean. Sand was always too good at getting inside his armour, and after being swallowed whole by the krayt dragon outside Mos Pelgo, he knew he’d stunk of stomach acids and monster’s insides. As soon as the Crest was in hyperspace, he’d excused himself away to save both you and the Child from living with scrunched noses.

He felt much better now as he climbed up the hatch into the cabin, only to be met with a sight that brought out surprising warmth in his chest.

There you were, curled up in the Crest’s passenger seat, fast asleep. Your boots on the edge of the seat and knees drawn to point at the roof. With a stray blanket draped over your form and head bowed as you dozed, you’d never looked so cosy.

He stayed quiet and turned to the other seat to check on the Child, too- But he wasn’t there.

His brows furrowed behind his helmet. He glanced around, wondering if he was hanging by his feet like he so often was, but no. He was nowhere.

A gloved hand reached out to your sleeping from, about to shake your shoulder to ask, but-!

A soft gurgle. A twitch beneath the blanket over your chest.

The building panic melted away like it’d never existed.

He stepped in close and took the corner of the blanket, lifting it ever so carefully to not disturb either of you… And was greeted by a sight that brought surprising warmth to his chest.

His troublesome green blob was bundled safely in your arms, eyes closed and ears flopped against the fabric of your shirt. His head was nestled into your chest as soft babbles and gurgles spilled from his mouth, a little thread of drool attaching him to your shirt. It left a tiny patch of wetness that was uncommonly cute. He’d never looked so peaceful, Din mused.

He raised his eyes to your face. Peaceful, tired. It was clear you loved the Child like he was your own. With that, Din trusted you like no other.

In a pure moment of affection, he extended his finger to run a knuckle delicately down the bridge of your nose, then touched lightly on the kid’s hairy head. Each of you shuffled slightly at his touch, but didn’t wake. It was no surprise: he’d put you both through a lot that day.

He smiled to himself and tucked the blanket back the way he’d found it, soon settling into the pilot seat. He leant back and crossed his arms, allowing his eyes to fall closed, too.

With any luck, he’d see the two of you in his dreams.

#mandalorian imagine #mandalorian x reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #mando imagine #mando x reader #daddy mando #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian x reader #grogu #the child #i love him so much #im gonna cry #star wars imagine #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #written by archie

[onichangiri]

Pedro Pascal and the Heart in his Beard

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ ＊

#pedrohub #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel tlou #tlou #hbo tlou #narcos #javier pena #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #oberyn martell #GoT #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #joel miller x reader #tlou hbo #hbo #the mandalorian #mando #din djarin #grogu #the mandolorian x reader #daddy is a state of mind #game of thrones

[infectedbypedropascal]

Idk why I questioned who was gonna save the foundling when ✨DIN DJARIN✨, saver of all children, is there

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #Pedro pascal #Grogu

[livingemkayde]

strange

din djarin x f!reader | 3.1k

↳ warnings: this is rated for 18+ only! minors, please do not interact. smut, unprotected pinv, fingering f!recieving, mentions of oral m!recieving, fluff, no use of y/n. let me know if i forgot anything.

↳ a /n: hey everyone. taking a small break from my joel miller fics and coming back to my roots with this one. just needed a break and this was a super fun one shot to write. gonna post the final chapter to chaser really soon. thanks for all the support!! i love you all smsm.

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

“Say it.”  You started breathing heavy. And you knew, when he tugged you around to look down at you, a hand coming to grasp your shoulder, the part where it meets your neck. You knew what he wanted, and you bit the bullet. “Teach me.”

It's honestly quite strange, if you really think about it—which oftentimes, you try not to. 

You wait for him, and he always comes back. Always. Maybe this was the dreaded exception that will turn his perfect ten times out of ten he always comes back, to nine times out of ten he always comes back. 

You sit there, in the hull, with the kid. Approaching the three week mark since your warrior left. 

You remember seeing him out of the Crest, several feet from where you sit now. 

“Be good,” he whispered to the little one, and placed him in your arms. 

“And be safe,” he said to you, almost in a stern voice, his hands brushing yours when he passed the child to your arms. 

“Be smart,” he emphasized, a little too serious for your liking. 

Be smart, above all else. You knew what it meant. Don’t be a hero, use your better judgment. He always does that. 

Be good… be safe…be smart. 

Then he always pats your waist, feeling the blaster’s outline through the fabric of your dress. And he always gives you a curt nod, and rubs a leather thumb over your hip. A small touch, in passing. Maybe most people wouldn’t even think twice about it. But you do. It’s the only thing getting you through sleepless nights. 

It is strange. You finally decide in your head. 

The small agreement between you two. 

The Crest is mostly quiet.

Besides when the fresher makes that gurgling sound, or the exhaust sends a violent huff of air through the hull, or when the small moans coming from your own mouth split through the silence. 

You guys don’t, under any circumstances, speak about it. 

You wouldn’t even know what to say, honestly. 

You remember the first time, when you had gotten a little too brave with your words and he was getting a little too comfortable around you.

“Teach me how,” you said. The hull was dark but not pitch black and the kid was locked in his pram in the cockpit. 

“You don’t know how to shoot a blaster?”

“No.” you reached over, grabbing his own from the crate between you. You held it up to the dim light and examined the markings. The rough edge of gunpowder. The shiny bits where his fingers lie. 

“Teach me,” you said again, pointing the blaster at an imaginary person to the left of him.

“You’re drunk,” he remarked. His gruff tone made your thighs shift closer together. 

“‘M not drunk,” you bit back. He shuffled in his crate until he was more comfortable. 

“You don’t know how to hold your liquor,” he pointed out. Resting his elbows on his thighs. You looked at him in the dark light. The yellow of the small bulb turned his helmet golden. 

You weren’t drunk. It was the truth. The spotchka only made your tongue loose, not your mind. 

“And I don’t know how to shoot a blaster,” you said, “what if someone broke in, and I needed to—”

“Don’t,” he said. Not mad, only scared of the possibility. You only know that now.

You stayed quiet, and continued to feel the weight of his weapon in your hand. He contemplated for a little, weighing the options in his mind, tossing the idea around inside the helmet. 

“What the hell,” he surrendered, standing and motioning towards the hull’s entrance, “C’mon.” 

You had followed him quickly, finding your place next to him on desert sands. 

“Hold it—” he said, pushing the blaster into your hands and raising your arms to the perfect distance, “—there.”

He stood behind you. You felt the cold bite of beskar brush against your back. Your breath hitched, so did his. 

“Don’t put your index finger on the trigger unless you want to shoot,” he said, moving your finger from the small flexed piece of metal and to the side of the blaster. 

“But I do want to shoot,” you said, tossing him a look over your shoulder. He grovels behind you. 

“Until the very second you want to shoot,” he muttered. “Got it?” 

“Yeah,” you said, looking at the weapon, almost transfixed by the way his hand holds yours. 

He reached down your body, by your waist, and touched you there, ever so gently. Your tense muscles made him hesitate. 

“‘S’okay,” you whispered, worried that if you said anything more it would scare him off forever. 

He didn’t say anything, just adjusted the angle of your hips and shifted the weight of your body. To your backfoot. 

“There,” he said, when he finally got you into the position he deemed fit. 

“Are you sure this thing’s not going to kick back and rip my arm off?” you whispered into the night sky. 

“It will—kick back. It was made for me, you’re too small. But I’ll—” he hesitated again. “I’ll hold you. If that’s okay.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, just nod. So he held you, wrapped his arm around your waist, and you tensed up all the same. And his breath picked up behind you. 

You shot, and missed the scrap by a few feet, the plasma went down into the sandy ground and burned a hole there. 

“Dammit,” you mumbled. He didn’t let go. 

“Try again,” he said, touching you again, touching you more, and wringing your arms back up to firing position. 

“Farming was easier,” you joked, thinking about your previous job. 

“I’m sure it was,” he quips back, “Relax.” 

You tried, you really did. But he could feel that you couldn’t relax. Your tense muscles were taut under the leather of his gloves. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, maybe it was the spotchka talking this time, or maybe you really were sorry but you let it slip into the dark, humid air—

“No one’s ever…” 

No one’s ever touched you. Not like that. You wanted to say. 

He stayed quiet for a bit, not moving your body to the perfect position or teasing you. You remember feeling sick. 

But then he surprised you, and it was like breathing in fresh air for the first time after months of hyperspace. 

“Really?” he asked behind you, into your ear. Your eyebrows staggered and a line of elevens appeared between them. 

“Yeah,” you said, in a breathless kind of way. “Guess I never really got around to learning that one,” you tried to tease but he remained so quiet, so still, you had to push out a forced laugh. 

“Do you want to learn?” he said. Almost like he was not even really offering but just inquiring. 

But that little part of his voice, maybe, under all the modulation, told you otherwise. And you knew this wasn’t the spotchka talking. You were fighting a losing battle because that was all you, and months of pining after a faceless man who smells like pinewood, and gets your favorite snacks from the market, and makes you caf in the mornings—

“Yes,” you breathed out. 

A pregnant, tense, silence enveloped you. He was still behind you, and he still had his arm wrapped around you. Even when the arm holding the blaster dropped, he still had his arm there, holding your waist, and slowly dragging the heaviness of his hand down, down, downward. 

“Say it.” 

You started breathing heavy.

And you knew, when he tugged you around to look down at you, a hand coming to grasp your shoulder, the part where it meets your neck.

You knew what he wanted, and you bit the bullet.

“Teach me.”

So you guys don’t ever talk about it. 

In fact, you don’t really talk at all. Your invitation meant he showed you—taught you—in silent actions. He doesn’t talk when you fuck. The only sounds filling the silence are your desperate moans and the occasional whimper when he’s being particularly withholding. 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really make a sound. You’d be lying if the quiet, if the mask of him paired with his warmth didn’t make you dizzy, didn’t make you unravel in his hands. 

Because it did. 

But sometimes you’d wish he would say something, anything. Break the silence. Break up your wanton moans and just give you anything to work with. But you presume he doesn’t really do this often, and having him like that is better than having nothing at all. 

You shut the closure and push away the bassinet when you hear a clang! from outside the hull. 

You find your blaster under the fabric of your dress. You’ve never had to do this before. And you’re honestly scared. That night you begged him to teach you how to shoot, it was a secret hidden plea, maybe even flirting. You never thought you’d be the only thing separating the kid from possible danger. 

“C’mon, Mando,” you whisper to no one in particular. Maybe the maker. 

And then, suddenly, the ramp to the hull lowers and you raise the blaster, just like he taught you. 

The business end comes face to face with a shiny helmet and you let out a sigh of relief, dropping it to your side. 

His head cocks to the side like he’s saying, really?

You just stand, breathless, and push the kid’s pram up into the cockpit so Mando can get the bounty in safely. 

He’s dragging it behind him, deadweight and you gulp back an anxious breath. 

When he’s done, he turns to you. Looking at the blaster in your hands. 

His head tips again—really…?

“Yes, okay?” you say, throwing your hands up, shoving the blaster into his chest. It lands there with a small thunk!

“Three weeks, Mando. You were gone almost a month. I thought— I —,” you say, running your hands through your hair. 

“He knew how to hide,” is all he says, and that makes you laugh. The possibility of it all, the what if, leaving your body with a tense laughter at his sorry excuse of a joke. 

He grabs you then, suddenly, pulling you towards his chest. You know the routine. You both miss each other after longer hunts, even if you never say anything about it. Never say anything at all in fact. 

Din’s grabbing at your shirt, moving it up. And grabbing at your pants, moving them down. You pull at his chestplate, and his pauldrons, anything you can find. But he’s desperate. Way too desperate. This time, things feel different. 

You moan when his now ungloved fingers find wet cotton. He pulls them down too. 

He holds you, forcing you to look up at him while his calloused fingers find your swollen clit. You jump, yelp, whimper. He stays stoic. Though, this time, you can hear his heavy breathing. 

You both find the bunk, somehow. And instead of flipping you over, so you’re on your stomach, taking it like that and pushing your head down into the mattress, he leaves you on your back. You question him silently with your eyes but he doesn’t say anything—like always.

He just cups you again, feeling the growing wetness there, almost pushing a finger in, inching to the first knuckle but then he backs away and you whine. 

But he reaches down, pulls himself out of his pants and spreads your slick all over the velvety softness of his own length. It makes you gasp. 

You spread your legs for him, subconsciously. The red tip of his head looks at you menacingly. He’s big. He’s always been big, but you’re not afforded to look at his length often unless you go down on him, which is rare. 

Din climbs over you, a warm hand comes to grasp your tit and you swallow breathless moans in the back of your throat. His helmet shines golden, like all those nights before. The first night. Where he taught you that a man surrounded by beskar can be so soft, maybe even loving. 

When you start squirming, he notches his tip at your entrance, you freeze waiting for him to sink in, but he holds you there. You just whine in response. 

You grab at him, desperate. Pulling him in. To your surprise, he obliges. He sinks in, almost all the way, until you clench around him so tight he freezes. Your gasp at air. It feels like your brain is foggy and all you can see behind your blinking vision is his black visor. 

He sinks in more, you clench around him more. Three weeks is the longest you’ve gone without having him since the first night all those months ago. 

He stays there, while you try to relax around him. Just breathing under the modulation. You can hear him more clearly now, face to face. 

You have never fucked Din like this. 

Not face to face. Not with him waiting for you, not with such a tight fit. Aside from that fateful first time. 

You clench around him again. You moan again, into his space, into the small, tight, crampedness of the bunk. 

“Shit.”

You freeze. You don’t look into his visor, not right away. You lay there, frozen, with his hard cock notched halfway inside you. 

His hands tighten on your waist and you both wait there, with shallow panting breath. 

When you look up at him, he’s motionless. You might be worried that he’s turned to stone. But you plead him with your eyes—whatever you want to do, talk more, fuck me harder, stop right now and never speak of it, just — do it. 

And for a split second, it does cross your mind that he might pull out or maybe even kick you out. But that little part deep down inside you likes to think it might be different this time. That he really might utter another forbidden word or fuck you harder. 

The thought makes you clench around him again. 

To your surprise he moans a little. Something small, barely there. Almost like a — ngh from deep under modulation. But you hear it. And the sick part of you clenches around him again just to draw out something more. 

“Relax,” he huffs. It almost sounds loud, despite his whispering. But you know that’s just because he’s never done this. Never spoken when so close to you. Never spoken while he’s inside you.

You don’t even register the content of his words, just the sound of him making you tense up again. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, his helmet comes down to rest beside your head. He stays there, folded over your body. You’re still so tense it almost hurts. 

“Sorry,” you whisper out. Your voice is hoarse from lack of use the past couple of weeks combined with your panting breath. You don’t really know what else to say. 

He moves suddenly, bringing his hand down between your bodies and touches your inner thigh, inching up towards where his coarse hair almost meets your swollen clit. 

“I said relax,” he mumbles, his thumb touching your clit ever so slightly. Your hips buck and he pushes them down again. 

“Sorry,” you repeat. He just hums.

You don’t really know what to do. This is different. This is new. You wait for him to set the pace. Establish the rules. 

He starts circling your clit, he rubs through your lips to find wetness there. You try to relax into the mattress and as you do, he inches further into you. Breaking you open, splitting you in two. 

“C’mon,” he groans when you let him sink further, “Open up for me, baby,”

It eggs you on. He’s never done this, let alone call you anything besides your name. It sends a shooting pleasure to the point he keeps rubbing under his thumb and he can feel it. How you get impossibly wet and open around him until he finally sinks in to the hilt. 

“Fuck, Din,” you moan out, when he starts thursting. 

He’s groaning. You can hear it, under his breath. You feel lightheaded almost, though, it’s good to know being apart affects him in the same way. Makes him as desperate as you feel. 

You’re close then, his sounds inching you towards that white light dancing across your vision. You clench around him and he moans again. 

“You close?” he says, almost experimentally. You can barely get out your strangled yes. 

“I —” you want to say, but he’s picking up the pace, chasing after his own release. 

I missed you. You think to yourself. But maybe that’s too much, too soon. 

“What? Pretty girl — what…” he cuts himself off with a groan. Like he doesn’t know how to control his speech, his breathing. Himself. Not like this. Not when everything is new and so fucking good. 

“I mi—” you can’t say it with your staggered breathing. He’s brushing up against that spot that drives you crazy. You both know it. 

You come, without saying it. Your vision goes white and dark at the same time. A sheen of sweat covers your body. You don’t know what to do with your arms, becoming slightly limp. It sounds like he can’t hold on much longer when you get tighter around him, it spurs him on and you know he’s not far behind. 

He’s mumbling something in your ear. You really can’t hear it under the helmet. You turn your head, 

“Hm?” you mumble, he groans again. 

“Missed — ngh — missed you. Sweet girl,” he says, then he comes, hot and thick, notching himself into you, anchoring himself to you forever. 

You moan through it, so does he. 

He collapses down next to you, you can feel the remnants of him leaking out between your sticky thighs. 

You try to unscramble your thoughts. Din hasn’t come back new. Just unlocking a part of him that you’ve never seen. Or, that he’s never let himself show. 

He does something else new, something you’ve never seen him do, let alone do with anyone else. It makes your heart beat so fast you’re worried he might feel it through the armor. 

You gasp, when you hear the quiet hiss of his helmet unlock but he cuts you off when he pushes the lip of the mask up just enough so he can kiss you. 

_

#din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x f!reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin x oc #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin x you #din x reader #mando #grogu djarin #mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mandalorian fan fiction #the mandela catalogue #the mandaloria/reader #star wars #star wars smut

[pascalypse]

PEDRO PASCAL - PASCALIPSE

We present the complete Filmography of Pedro Pascal, with images of all the works that our Pedrito has done on TV and in Cinema. Enjoy!

Apresentamos a Filmografia completa de Pedro Pascal, com imagens de todos os trabalhos que nosso Pedrito fez na TV e no Cinema. Aproveitem!

Presentamos la Filmografía completa de Pedro Pascal, con imágenes de todos los trabajos que nuestro Pedrito ha realizado en TV y en Cine. ¡Disfrutar!

#pedropascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedroispunk #the last of us #tlou #strange way of life #oberyn #dave york #snl #grogu #the mandalorian #joel miller #frankie morales x f!reader #ppascaldaily #ppascaledit

[kiwisbell]

Told Before and Told Again [din djarin]

One time you saved Din, and one time he saved you.

series masterlist

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: established relationship, dubious consent due to sex pollen, unprotected piv (no following the leader), the helmet stays on, actually everything stays on, but reader gets nakey, animal handler!reader, grogu being a good kid, protective din, dirty talk, fuck or die, creampie, fingering, rough sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, thighplate riding, masturbation, top din, soft din, din fucking the babysitter, extreme amounts of fluff, allusions to animal abuse, din djarin being actually the biggest mess to ever inhabit the galaxy, happy family, din is in love, mando'a pet names

word count: ~ 7k

this is installment one of my din djarin series entitled told before and told again. please enjoy din being very bad at his job, a mysterious pouch of pink powder, and din coming to your rescue. emphasis on coming.

Told Before and Told Again

You’re getting sick of staring apprehensively into pitch-black tunnels, waiting for your warrior to emerge from the darkness. 

Next to you, a worried gurgle emanates from the floating pod. You press your lips together. “Yeah. I know, sweet one. He’s going to be okay.”

He grumbles his disagreement, reaching out a three-fingered hand toward you. You shuffle closer to him and let him clutch your index finger. “How long has it been?” you ask him. “It can’t have been that long. Right?”

Lothal is about as Outer Rim as you can get. It's a pretty planet, when you aren't trudging through a wind-blown desert to find the mountains. Not that the mountains were hard to find: they erupt from the earth in the west, snow-capped and bridged by rocky plains. The air is temperate, but you shiver, waiting for him. Always waiting for him. 

Never get brave for me. Understood? 

Something clatters to the slick, rocky ground and lands on your foot. “Ow,” you gasp, picking up the blaster and pinning Grogu with a stare. He stares back, owlish and yet somehow stern. “You know I can’t shoot this for the life of me.”

“You're holding that thing like you want to choke it out.”

You huffed, trying to loosen your grip around the blaster. “Like this?”

“You're not supposed to be scared of the weapon you're holding.”

“Unbelievable.” You closed one eye to home in on the target: the severed head of his latest bounty, a raper and pirate. “My last boss never micromanaged this much.”

The air behind you shifted. A rough, gloved hand slipped around your waist and pressed on your belly. It was an adjustment of your posture, straightening your spine, but you knew, and he knew, that he had pulled you just a little bit closer to him. His voice, modulated and raspy in your ear, knocked your knees together. “I'm not your boss. Open your eye.”

“What if it kicks back?”

“It won’t. It’s a blaster.”

“What if they take it from me?”

He covered your hand with his, shifting your fingers to tighten around the grip. “Hold onto it,” he said plainly.

You rolled your eyes and levelled the weapon at the raper’s head. The shot missed by a foot. “Better,” he said after a beat.

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“My job is to keep you safe,” he said, “not play nice. Now try again.” He placed his hand on your lower back, tightening your posture, his armour cold on the back of your thigh through the thin material of your dress. You held your breath to keep from visibly trembling against him, but he noticed. Of course he noticed. “You’re allowed to breathe.”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Good. You should never be relaxed in a fight.” He lifted your elbow slightly. “Shoot.”

“You just said I was allowed to breathe. Now I can't relax.”

“They're not the same thing, and you're stalling. Don't be difficult.”

You fired a shot at the severed head, and it blew past the target by a wider margin than the last one. You huffed, “Some people aren't meant to fight, you know.”

You sensed that he was amused. “And what were you meant to do?”

“Look pretty. Give moral support.”

The noise that rumbled out of his modulator definitely seemed amused. “Then I’ll be the fighter. You just need to know the right time to shoot.”

You turned in his grasp, forgetting wholly that you were holding a blaster. “And what if you aren’t there?”

A glimmer of sunlight blinded you as his visor shifted, tilting downward. “I’ll be there.”

You relented, firing another shot, then two, three, at the pirate’s head. Only the second one managed to graze the greasy, wily strips of hair that sprouted from its ugly head. When it was over, you slumped, pouting, against your firm warrior. 

“This is hopeless,” you told him. 

For a moment, he said nothing, and you wondered if he'd finally snapped with impatience. 

“You are, you know,” he said.

“What?”

“Pretty.” He nudged your finger back onto the trigger. “Now go on, dangerous girl. You're not done until I say you are.”

You try to peer into the tunnel but it’s so shrouded in darkness you would have to peel it aside like a curtain. When you take a step forward, the cave wails. Or, more accurately, someone inside the cave wails, howling with pain. It’s not your Mandalorian’s voice, which makes your body deflate. “See?” you say to Grogu. “He’s fine.”

But a roar erupts from the depths of the cave, followed by the telltale echo of your warrior’s pained groan, and you decide that it’s best to intervene. You’ll chew him out later. “Stay behind me, cyare,” you tell Grogu. He gurgles worriedly, but you grip the blaster firmly in your hand and press your back to the wall of the cave. 

“This is stupid,” you tell yourself. “This is very… very stupid.” You skirt along the wall, its jagged rocks catching the fabric of your shirt as you keep your blaster up near your shoulder, pointed away from your body. 

Never point the bad end toward you.

Don’t patronise me. I’m holding a deadly weapon.

Well, I’m holding a dozen. And I’d prefer if you kept your face.

My pretty face?

Shoot properly and I’ll tell you.

“Mando?” you call out, cursing the way your voice trembles. You cannot call him by his real name while he pursues a bounty. You cannot give them a weapon to wield against him. 

No one answers your call. You don’t particularly expect him to, but it still makes your stomach plummet as you navigate the darkness until the light is barely a pinprick in the direction you came. Grogu coos to signal that he is still floating behind you, but you lift your forearm and press a button to close the roof over his pod. You hear a faint clank as he pounds a fist against the door, but you will risk the consequences of his tantrum when this is over. You will not risk his life. 

You come to a fork in the cave, but another deafening roar makes the decision for you. You leap to the other side of the cave and keep your back flush to the damp, cool walls as you shuffle past the narrow opening. Grogu’s pod scrapes along both sides as it floats along, making you grimace. Another cry from the creature in the depths of the cave, something mammalian, high-pitched, screeching. It grates your ears and makes you wince as it gets undeniably closer. 

This is so stupid. For some reason, the acknowledgement of it makes you feel better. 

The cave yawns into a wide opening—one that drops precariously into blackness after two steps. You gasp, jumping backward to avoid toppling over the edge. It seems deliberate, this pit: you can see a platform skirting around the gaping width of it, and your stomach churns as you peer into its depths. You fumble for a match and strike it against the wall. When it falls, it bounces off another wall and illuminates that it's really not all that deep… 

But there's something curled up inside, and it's covering the body of your Mandalorian. 

Behind you, Grogu’s pod wedges itself into the narrow passageway. You keep your body square in front of him. All you glimpse, before the match bounces against the thing’s coiled horns and fizzles out, is a pair of black, glowing eyes. Covered in coarse black fur, breathing like a charging rancor through its large nostrils. It's got four legs and it's purposefully pinning the Mandalorian down on the floor of the pit with one wolf-like paw. You wonder how it even managed to squeeze inside this cave and squeeze back out to hunt its food. When you strike another match and catch a pair of legs out of the corner of your eye, you understand. 

The legs connect to the immobile body of the Lothalian bounty you'd come all the way to this planet for. You aren't sure if he's dead, but it doesn't matter. He keeps this creature as a pet, and it's got your warrior in its clutches. 

“Mando,” you hiss. It's a complete wager: one that doesn't pay off. He’s clearly unconscious, and the terror of it throbs in your chest. The creature’s head tilts in your direction. 

Shit. 

You think back to your days as an animal handler. The first day a Mandalorian warrior appeared on the doorstep of your facility. Your first day of adventure.

“I need a babysitter.”

You looked up from your embroidery—you wanted to hang it up inside your newest ward’s cage; he was a runt-of-the-litter loth cat who didn’t know any better, but you wanted to make it special for him—and peered around your boss, who was speaking with a man dressed in silver armour.

You don’t remember thinking much of him. You do remember looking down at his feet and gushing over the tiny, green, big-eared thing at his feet. You fell over yourself to introduce yourself to the little guy before you even looked up at the warrior. Your boss had been humiliated (“That is a Mandalorian ,” he later scolded you with a firm grip on your ear), but you think it’s exactly why the Mandalorian hired you. 

“I can pay you well. Just… protect him with your life.”

The little green thing was nestled in the crook of your arm, cooing happily and twisting your hair around his three fingers. You looked up at the masked warrior and said, “I don’t care how much you can pay. I’ll keep him safe all the same.”

To your credit, you did. Over and over again. 

You don’t remember how or when your job description began to include keeping his father safe, too.

You spent your days handling small creatures left out on the street. You don’t know how to handle this gargantuan, snarling beast. Skirting around the pit in the ground, you point your blaster at the monster’s head. It growls, lashing out with one giant paw, and you yelp, jumping backward and pressing yourself up against the wall. It backs away when you turn the blaster away from its face.

You take in your surroundings. The Mandalorian’s blaster, smashed to pieces in the pit with him. The Lothalian bounty does not carry a blaster, but you spot a plasma rod strapped to his belt. It’s the sort of tool an animal handler recognises: the length of a forearm, white as the heat of a flame, the hilt cold steel, built for a strong grip. It’s similar to an Imperial baton, but you could pick this weapon out anywhere. You were used to confiscating them from clients.

The realisation sparks to life in your head. You lean down and set the blaster on the ground. Confirming your suspicions, the creature’s gaze follows it. 

There’s a large rock nearby, so you pick it up and begin to smash the pieces to shrapnel. The beast watches you all the while until the job is complete, and your hands lifts into the air to show it that you’re unarmed. 

It shifts off the Mandalorian as it rises to all four feet and approaches you. But you aren’t afraid when it sniffs your hands. “Hello,” you say softly. 

It snorts, the smell of its breath like death in your nostrils. “That’s my friend you’ve got there.” You indicate with your head the Mandalorian, stirring slightly out of unconsciousness. You doub the creature understands you, but you keep talking. “If we take your master away and let you free, will that make you happy?”

The beast snorts again, and there’s some spittle on your clothes, but you smile. “That would make me happy, too.”

In the pit, the Mandalorian awakens with a star, rolling over onto his back and pointing the flamethrower on his vambrace at the beast. “Stop!” you cry, your hands flinging out. “Don’t hurt it!”

“Don’t hurt—” The helmet turns to look your way. “What?”

“We are going to take our bounty, and we’re going to free this creature.” You pin your warrior with a glare. “Got it?”

For a moment, he says nothing. The beast sits back on its haunches and waits patiently. Finally, the Mandalorian scrambles to his feet and lifts himself out of the pit. The first thing he does is point his finger in your direction. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Just because he’s in a grumpy mood, you let him drag the unconscious Lothalian out of the cave. He takes a different route than you did, though: it’s much larger, big enough to fit the beast if it were to squeeze through. If you had only taken a left, you would have had a much more pleasant journey into the cave.

“Come on,” grunts the Mandalorian, pulling the Lothalian by the ankles.

You shake your head. “I won’t leave it. It might think I’m abandoning it.”

His helmet levels you with what you guess is an incisive glare. “You—”

He stops himself and seems to decide it isn’t worth it. Next to you, Grogu opens his pod and gurgles curiously at the creature. The beast lumbers out of the pit once his master disappears and sniffs your fingers some more. “Look at that,” you coo at your green companion. “Our new friend.”

Grogu lifts his head toward the entrance of the cave and you can feel the Mandalorian’s presence behind you before you hear his voice. 

“C’mon. Time to go.”

The beast follows dutifully as you depart, though it struggles to fit its great width through the cavern passageway. Once you see light again, you're so blinded by the shift that you trip over a rock while shielding your eyes. A firm gloves hand steadies you at your lower back. 

Once your eyes adjust, you find yourself staring up into those giant black gems in the beast’s head. For good measure, it stomps over to its Lothalian master and gives him a firm kick in the ribs with its paw. While the Mandalorian manhandles the bounty onto the Crest over his shoulder, you turn to the beast. It bends its head low to your face and nuzzles as gently as it can against your cheek. Grogu coos next to you, and the beast turns to lumber back down the cliffs. 

You follow the Mandalorian into the ship and find him already in the cockpit, polishing some blood off his pauldron.

“Are you hurt?” you ask him.

“No,” he says.

With that settled, you stalk toward your warrior. “You’re a complete and total mess.”

He cocks his head to the side. A challenge. Oh, you’re willing to challenge him right back. Your ears are burning and your chest is heaving.

“You're clumsy.” To punctuate your point, you poke him in the chest. “You're a great warrior in an ancient line of great warriors, and you're clumsy. Why do you have to be so… so… ugh!”

You can only throw yourself against him and wrap your arms around his neck. It's metal and cloth, cold and smooth, and the faint grunt of surprise you can hear from the helmet. His arms steady you, gloved fingers on your back, cradling your head, a warm assurance. He’s alive. He’s a moron, but he’s alive. 

“Look at me.”

He gently guides you away from him. You feel rough, cracked leather swipe away a frustrated tear from your cheek. “Dangerous girl,” he says, whisper-quiet. “I’ve told you to never get brave for me.”

“It wasn’t brave,” you say firmly. “That Lothalian was just a coward. He enslaved that poor creature. You were too big and dumb and impulsive to stop and think that it might not be fond of plasma.” Your fingertip comes to rest on the barrel of his blaster. “It’s a damn good thing you have me, Din Djarin.”

His thumb and forefinger hold your chin in place, looking up at him. “I know that. Next time—” He slips a hand around your waist and digs each finger against a rib. He knows every breakable part of a body; you wonder if he finds those parts of you on instinct. “I’ll send you in first.”

When you both strap yourselves into your seats and he begins to flick switches, you find you aren’t quite finished.

“Five minutes.”

He pauses with his finger on a switch, his helmet turning to the side. “What?”

“Five minutes, Din. I left you alone for five minutes. How can you manage to get your life so fantastically endangered in five minutes?”

He swivels in his chair and folds his arms over his broad chest. “Are you hurt?”

You purse your lips. “No.”

“Then everything’s fine.” And he swivels back around. Neither of you speak again until the ship lands. 

~

“No.”

“I haven’t even—”

“But you’re about to, and the answer is no.”

“How do you know—”

“Because I know you. You stay.”

“I’m not your dog, Din.”

“No. A dog listens.”

“Oh, my sweet, charming warrior. Remind me again why I like you?”

“I’ll let you know when I find out.”

The bounty was already dead when Din finally managed to track him down on some backwater skug hole in the Otomok system. It took a day of tracking the fob through a waterlogged forest. The bounty is propped up against a tree. Something seemed to have struck him like a sickness: he's human, but a shadow of one, sallow and ashen and stiff as bone. Din curses, checking the bounty’s pockets for anything of use. All he can find is a small pouch, one Din doesn't open. He pockets it himself and leaves the body behind. 

You're dozing in the cockpit when he returns, Grogu tucked away in his compartment. Din watches you for a moment. You're peaceful when you sleep, so unlike the whirlwind he's come to know. Your smiles and your zeal and your beauty: it all knocks him off-kilter. It's distracting. It's always been. 

Your heart is something he sometimes has trouble contending with. It's so big. It spills through his fingers. He cannot comprehend how a soul like you can settle for blood and space and silence. Selfishness defies the Creed, but it is this one thing that he indulges in: you. 

You stir, mumbling, your eyes peeling open. His footsteps are quiet, but you sense him nonetheless. Your sweet voice makes his name sound like something to be loved. 

“Din?” You rub the heel of your palm into your eye. “‘Dyougetthebounty?”

He shakes his head and produces the pouch from his pocket. “Just this. Bounty was dead.”

You frown, taking the pouch and squishing the contents around over the canvas. “Feels like powder. Was he a spice runner?”

“Gambler,” corrects Din. Your fingers begin to untie the twine that keeps the pouch closed, and his gut rolls with instinct. “Don’t—”

But there’s a small opening at the top once the knot is loose, and a cloud of pale pink powder bursts in your face. 

In your shock, it drops to the floor, but Din lurches forward to catch it, hastily tying the knot that will keep it closed. You begin to cough, standing up and backing into the wall as you try to hack out the powder in your lungs. 

“Shit,” you rasp. “Shit, Din. What the hell was that?”

He shakes his head, crowding you with his body. You know he's assessing you, but the heat of his closeness lights a fire that licks at the ceiling of your brain. “Din,” you croak, blinking hard, “I’m… fine.”

His hand closes around your wrist, and the fire spreads. It's napalm where he touches you, the flame coursing throughout the rest of your body until it singes your nerves. “‘Fresher,” he commands. “Get it off you. Could be dangerous.”

You know it’s the right thing to do, but your body disagrees. A whine slips out of your mouth when he releases you. You’re hot. Your bones are candle wax, your blood lava flowing from molten rock. You need…

You don’t know what you need. 

You break away abruptly from Din and hurry out of the cockpit, scrambling out of your clothes before you can even lock yourself in the ‘fresher. 

You scrub and clean and stick your face in the stream of hot water, but when your hand glides idly down toward your cunt and swipes the washcloth over your clit, your knees buckle. 

Oh. 

You cover your mouth with your free hand when you abandon the washcloth and press your fingers to your clit, rubbing in slow circles that ease the slow drag of flames over your skin—

“Din.”

The fire only roars when you buck your hips in a desperate attempt to deepen the friction. It isn't what you need. It isn’t good enough. 

You need—

“Din.” It's a pathetic, wrecked whisper. One that rattles your brain long after it's left your lips. The ‘fresher dries you off, but your forehead is cool with sweat and your core turns and tightens with the cloying, sickening need you have. 

The powder. It’s the powder. It will not leave your skin. It's infected your bloodstream. You stumble out of the ‘fresher and rush to find Din. Your gut churns with the trembling of alarm bells. You're sick. 

Something is wrong. He knows it the instant his eyes take their fill of your face. You're paler, swaying on your feet, your pupils engulfing your irises. You hold onto the doorway to steady yourself, as if Din isn't already there, catching you around the waist. As if he isn't the only one who can truly right you. 

“Hey.” It's soft, a little panicked, his hand brushing your hair away from your face. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Don't…” You swallow, trying to look at—or maybe look through —his visor. Your eyes are glassy, unfocused. “Don’t know. I feel…” 

He sees the minute shift of your body toward him, your chest pushing out and your hips seeking contact with his, weapons and all still strapped to his belt. He grasps your hip, kneading the bone gently with his thumb, and the soft whine that slips from your mouth makes him squeeze his eyes shut behind the helmet. 

“Din…”

“Cyar’ika.” 

Between you—neither of you are sure when—a game starts. Your voice is thick, raspy, desperate when you say his name. “Din. I… I think—”

Your eyes flutter shut and he winds an arm around your waist, picking you up and depositing you in his pilot’s seat. You’re hot to the touch even through his gloves. It strikes terror inside him: your lively eyes dark and shrouded, your body quivering, your sweet smile twisted into a grimace of pain as sweat springs to life above your brow. 

He thinks back to the bounty he found dead. Powder in pouches, passed discretely from planet to planet. A drug, most likely. They can dull the senses or heighten them. This one seems to have the latter effect on you, and if your heart continues to beat at the pace it does now to keep time with the rest of your body, it could give out. 

He kneels in front of you, and your eyes meet, your lashes spidery on your flushed cheeks. “Am I sick?” you ask him. 

He nods, honest as ever. “The powder,” he says, surprised by how weak his voice sounds. He needs to be strong for you. He needs to help. His fingers brush your hair out of the way. It’s matted with sweat. “Tell me what you feel.”

Your hands grapple for his shoulders. “I feel hot ,” you whimper, squeezing your thighs together. “I’m—fuck, I’m so hot, Din. Need to…”

When you pull your hands away and tearfully grab at the ties on your pants, he goes blind. “Wait,” he tries, barely above a whisper, but you're pulling off your shirt, shucking off your pants, and your lashes stick together with tears as you pull your panties down your legs. 

He rears back, his cock stiffening in his pants at the sight of your wet cunt, unabashedly bared to him. You're lost in the haze of desire, your entire body trembling and perspiring with the lust that rapidly floods your senses. And yet, it feels senseless and desperate as your fingers dip to your clit and press down. Your hips buck, and he hasn't once torn his eyes away from your core since you presented it to him. 

“‘M sorry, Din,” you cry, one hand squeezing your bare tit as your fingers frantically rub your clit. You're so drenched that you spill onto his seat. His seat. “I can't… I feel like I’m dying.”

You've said things like that before in times of mild inconvenience, but he's always called you dramatic. Now, he's certain you don't have enough of a mind to hyperbolise. You may very well be dying, and his cock is so hard in his pants that he has to refrain from reaching down and squeezing his length to relieve the tension. 

Why can't he move?

A moan, pathetic and mewling, slips past your lips. He's never been more frustrated that he can't kiss you. He needs to grab you everywhere, melt your body into molten steel and shape it the way he wants, burn his lips on your scalding softness. He needs to possess your body. He needs it to take all of him, a shadow swallowing flame. 

And you're reaching for him, the way he now reaches for you. You do not understand what is happening to you. But Din will be good to you. That isn't his job—his job is to keep you alive. But he can do both. He will. 

He thinks he’ll die if he doesn't touch you, too, and he hasn't been assaulted by a faceful of pale pink powder. 

Your body is bare, confronted with all of his armour, and then it’s the cold press of beskar steel to your chest, your stomach, your thighs as he drags you out of the chair and turns you around, replacing you in his seat. You're on his lap, pushing your tits against his chest plate and breathing hard. His visor fogs up when you rest your forehead to his. He keeps you there with his hand cradling the back of your head, cooling you down with his body. 

“Feel me,” he tells you, and it feels like a command, even as his voice comes through the modulator like a prayer. It's soft as your name on his mouth. “You’ll die if you don’t move, cyar’ika.”

Your arms wind around his shoulders as you begin to grind down on his thigh guard. “Din,” you whisper, your brow furrowing in the pleasure of your clit sliding up against that cold steel. “Always… always feel like I’ll die if I don't touch you.”

“Now you're being dramatic,” he huffs, his helmet tipping back to get a better view of you. You're a vision, the movement of your hips mesmerising as you take pleasure in his warrior’s steel. Your lips are parted, a perpetual picture of desire, your body heat spiking in his thermal reader. 

He cannot grasp enough of you in his hands, so he holds you in place around your ribs while his other hand brushes over your hard nipples. You gasp at the touch, back arching and chest pushing toward him. Your cunt soaks his thigh guard, your body heat blurring the clear reflection in his armour as you burn and writhe on top of your Mandalorian. He’s so hard it aches, but watching you take pleasure from him is worth delaying his own gratification. The Creed propounds patience.

And yet, his fingers dig into the spaces between your ribs, watching your lungs expand beneath your skin. He watches you as if he wants to dissect you, spread you open, display your delicate bones for him to see. He needs to know that they are unbroken. He needs to ensure that you never know pain again. 

“Oh, Din,” you moan, grinding hard and fast on his thigh, your voice syrupy and breathless. He pinches your nipple and you gasp, the air pushing out against his visor and expanding your ribs beneath his hand. It's fascinating: knowing he can make you feel like this without shedding a scrap of his armour. 

You want all of him, all the time. You don't need skin to find it. He is this . The warrior beneath you, connected through generations to the steel he wears, unwavering in his beliefs and his strength. He is the armour as much as he is the man beneath it, the face you've never seen. You're just fine with that. 

“Take what you need,” he says, his voice pitching up a little through the modulator. Your mouth drops open and your head falls back, your chest pushing out even more. His cock twitches in his pants. “That's— nnh, that’s my girl.”

Ice water douses you as you come. Your body is electric; every touch, every wisp of air caresses your body like cold fire, sensitive and overstimulated even as the pain returns. Your scent envelops him. It's sweet and tangy. Your cunt has soaked his thigh guard, dripping over your own thighs, making a mess of yourself. Your lips find a spot just above his visor and rest there in a half-kiss, panting his name. 

“It hurts,” comes your soft cry. 

His heart cleaves in two. “I know. I know.” He’s grabbing at you desperately now, gritting his teeth when he kneads your ass but can't feel your soft skin behind his damned gloves. 

“You have to…” A shudder racks you, and you begin to clamber off him. “I’ll go. I’m… I’m sorry. Never should have—”

“Stop.”

And you do. His command washes over you like glass, sharp. It cuts incisions into the doubt that creeps in until all that's left is the debilitating need for something to satiate the fire. 

“You’ll die,” he tells you, his hands firm at your back, keeping you close. You’re straddling him, your thighs bracketing his. “If you don't take…” 

His forehead finds yours again. “Take. I want you… to take.” At his last words, his fingers slide leisurely down your body and two of them drag through your slit. 

“Oh.” You can only moan, clutching his pauldrons as he stokes the flame with his fingers pressed firmly to your clit. The scrape of the leather is delicious when he begins to rub them in circles. “Can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he urges. “Just look at me.” 

Your eyes slide up toward his visor, peering through your lashes into that black nothing, picturing eyes staring right back at you. He is watching you. He's breathing just as heavily from the aphrodisiac that is touching you. Just touching you. 

“Pretty,” he grunts, his helmet sliding along your cheek. “You're so— pretty.”

You mewl, warm water he can cup in his palm. His fingers work your clit until you seize, your body shattering. He does not relent when he feels the gush of warmth from your cunt, because he knows it isn't over. His gloved fingers, soaked with your wetness, make a squelching noise when they disappear inside your needy hole. You suck them in eagerly, your moan long and low as his palm drags against your too-sensitive clit. 

If it were any other person on the planet grasping at his cowl the way you do now, he would shoot off their fingers. But it is you, and you're just trying to hold on, to keep him close as he helps you through your sickness. He's stunned by the affection in your eyes, the reverence in your gaze despite the poison dancing atop your pretty skin. You want this as much as you always have. The circumstances are different, but it's you: the same woman he gets to indulge in. You're sweeter than the first breath of air when he finds solitude and takes off his helmet. You're the last gulp of freshness before he puts it back on. 

“Please,” you gasp, not sure what you're begging for. More of him, probably. 

He understands. His thumb rubs your clit until you come again. Your cry is delicious and clicking with saliva. “Easy,” he says softly as your hips buck against him, your body listing in pleasure before he steadies you. Always steadying you. “Take it easy.”

“Need more,” you gasp, your eyes falling to where his fingers pull out of you with an obscene sucking sound. “Din. Please.”

“Take me out,” he grunts. “Go on.”

You’re hasty and trembling in your rush to unbutton his pants, and it would be endearing if not for the constant reminder of the sweat on your brow, your skin that’s scalding to the touch. He's a firm and guiding hand. Always. He's there to catch you. 

You reach into his pants and pull out his cock, stiff and leaking. Spurts of precum stain the polished steel of his breastplate. Your mouth waters with the need to taste him but it's his hand squeezing your thigh that reminds you, through the haze of desire, that you need to take him. 

Clutching his cowl, you lift your hips and sink down on his cock. 

Din’s whole body jerks with the swiftness of your movement, how easily your hot, wet cunt sucks in his whole length in your desperation. He groans, cracked and high-pitched, bruising your hips with his thumbs. Your head falls forward at the first roll of your body, pressing yourself so tightly to him that your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself up. “Relax,” he whispers into your ear. The cold steel nudges your cheek to rest on him, and you do. 

Having his hard, twitching cock buried inside you is a balm to the fire licking your skin, but it isn't enough. You need to move, you need his fingers, you need him everywhere, all at once. It won't stop until—

You don't know. 

Maybe you will die here, knowing nothing but the need for him. But he's lifting his hand to your face and cupping your cheek, and you know he will not let it happen. 

“Hold onto me,” he says. 

What else can you do but obey?

He moves with your cunt still swallowing his cock, depositing you on your back on the floor, hard and cool and uncomfortable. The show of strength makes you whine his name. Din manhandles your thighs around his hips and shoves his cock so deep that the tip pummels your cervix. 

Your cry is sharp and tears are filling your eyes with the relief of having him buried inside you. Your fingers wrap around the bars of the grate on the floor as he establishes a rhythm, fucking you into the metal without a shred of mercy. It's exactly what you need. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” is vaguely what he hears from your mouth over the roar of blood in his ears. His eyes dip to where you connect. Your cunt seals around his thick cock, your slick leaking out around him and forcing filthy noises from your joined bodies with every smack of his hips into your thighs. 

“Din, oh, yes.” It’s bright and blinding when you say his name, your core tightening as your head tips back and your cunt clenches down around him. 

He doesn't once stop fucking you into the floor even when your orgasm wreaks havoc on your entire body. “Din!” you sob, grasping for his shoulders and failing, your hands falling back to the grate underneath you. 

Your chest is beautifully flushed, the colour returning to your skin, but you aren't finished. Neither is he. 

He pulls out only to turn you around, forcing you onto your hands and knees and swiftly sliding back inside your hot, tight cunt. “Nnnhh,” is the sound you hear through his modulator, rough and coarse as he fucks you from behind. You aren't much more articulate, but he's perfectly content to hear you moan in the shape of his name. 

His grip on your body is relentless, the pounding of his hips against like small shockwaves as he sucks the fever from your marrow. At some point, your hands slip, crashing onto your elbows. Your knees scrape against the grate and your body is shoved into the floor. You smell the tang of metal and your own arousal smearing against him. He tears another orgasm from your body without even touching your clit and continues to fuck you hard, your cum making it easier for him to slide inside you. 

Your throat clicks and your mouth will not close, a pleasure-touched frown perpetually creasing the space between your brows. Your eyes try to find his visor, but they slip to the back of your head when he grinds deep, the leaking head of his cock prodding your spongy front wall. 

“Din,” you croak, ruined even as your body still seeks him in your feverish need. “Wish… wish I could—”

“Me too.” His hand finds your shoulder blades, pushing down, pressing and insisting until your upper half lowers to the ground. Your cheek slides against the floor panels and it's humiliating and filthy, but it’s cool. Relieving. 

“Need…” You swallow around your groan, your hips wriggling in your need to be impossibly closer. “Need to come.”

You're so pliant and keen on this position, your cunt soaking him over and over as he bends you to satisfy the merciless demands your body gives you. It's working. So well, in fact, that he's so close to coming he can barely see through the blur of tears in his eyes. You look so beautiful, the shape of your body something made to be worshipped as your ass arches up toward him. Your hair is a mess and your body is rubbed raw from the wandering of his gloves. He gets to have you. It’s him, and no one else, who sees you like this… who makes you like this. 

“I know, cyar’ika. I know. You feel—ngh, you feel so good. My pretty girl.” He’s the only thing holding you up now, one strong arm snaking around your waist to rub your clit. “Give it to me. C’mon, save your life.”

You begin to shake from the overstimulation, your thighs squeezing together. Din shoves them apart with his own and bears down harder on your body, covering you with it as his fingers work you faster. You can't think, speak, see, hear. You can't do anything but reach blindly backward to hold onto something as you come harder than you knew was possible. 

Your fingers find his utility belt and hook into one of the loops, burying your face into your other arm. Din groans behind you, you think. You're clamping down on his cock with the force of your orgasm, gushing around him and sucking him in so deep he wouldn't dream of exiting your body. 

And he doesn't. His helmet is slick and cool between your shoulder blades as he makes a cacophony of raspy groans in your ear, his cock twitching and pulsing as he drowns your cunt in thick cum. It's that rush of liquid heat which finally douses the flames. Your body melts, your thighs so weak that even he cannot hope to hold them up. 

You both slip to the floor together, his arm shooting out to stop himself from crushing you. He rolls you into your side, his cock slipping out of you. He lands on his back, panting loud enough for the modulator to pick it up, and hastily tucks his spent cock into his pants. You hear the intermittent splatter of his cum onto the floor. Neither of you move, but he watches the gleam of sweat on your chest as it heaves. The haze in your eyes finally clears. 

“Cyar’ika.”

“Mmmmdin,” you mumble, your eyes closing. 

He holds your chin and turns your head to the side to look at him. “Give me your name.”

You tell him. 

“Now mine.”

Your blink is slow and sleepy. “Din Djarin.”

“Good.” He rests his forehead on yours, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “You're okay.”

You nod faintly. “I’m okay.”

You try to cling to consciousness by staring into his visor, picturing the eyes he's told you are brown. You picture his brown hair, you picture his mouth, and you picture it producing the sound of your name. Your body cools, the pressure uncoiling, the sweat dissolving. There's colour in your face and he can see the map in your irises again. He loves to trace the shapes inside them with his eyes. 

“I never thanked you.”

In your heavy-lidded, half-asleep daze, you draw shapes over his breastplate, where his heart is. “Hmm?”

His hand covers yours. “For saving my life.”

You manage to prop yourself up on your elbow and capture his visor in your gaze. “You should try things my way sometime,” you tell him with the wicked grin that he thinks about when he closes his eyes. “You always say to know when to shoot. I know when not to.” Your brows lift expectantly. “So tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“How grateful you are.”

Din chuckles, his helmet making a faint clank against the floor. “You're my hero.”

You roll your eyes and tuck yourself back into his side. “We’ll work on the attitude.”

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