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luminoustarlight · 9 months

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Tell Me Again Tomorrow | Din Djarin

You are injured in an attack, The Mandalorian takes care of your wounds, and you admit your feelings for him.

rating: general audiences | pairing: din djarin x f!reader | wc: 2.6k | read on ao3 warnings: blood and injury, hurt/comfort

this is a repost from old blogs of mine but it is my writing <3

You think you're done for as soon as the side of your head makes contact with the rock. The pain in your body is excruciating. How can it be so dull and so sharp at the same time? The pang in your side— it’s sharp. Continual and constant, like the pointed tip of the blade is repeatedly slicing through your flesh, even though you know it’s gone. There’s the ache in your chest and around your ribs, and the pounding in your head is dull but ever-present.

You think you hear Mando’s blaster and the attacker’s body fall to the ground, but everything is hazy. He rushes over to you and kneels on the ground. It’s wet and warm and he realizes he knelt in your blood.

“Dank ferrik,” he huffs. Your eyes begin to flutter closed but the distinct outline of your Mandalorian hovering over you makes you feel safe. “Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me.” His modulated voice is tender but urgent.

“H-hurts,” you push out, squeezing your eyes tightly. (Doing the exact opposite of what Mando told you not to do).

“I know, starlight. Just try to keep your eyes on me.”

Starlight. Starlight? Is that a term of endearment? He’s never called you that before. You might be slipping in and out of consciousness but you know what you heard. Starlight.

“You look horrible,” Mando follows up.

You’re pretty sure you’re dying and this is what he chooses to comfort you with? You want to laugh but it hurts. It all kriffing hurts. “You… you should s-see the other guy.”

“He’s dead.”

“Exactly,” you slur. Your lips quirked up into a small smile until you feel a sting in your lower lip. You try bringing your hand up to your mouth, but the effort is unsuccessful.

Mando needs to assess your injuries but he doesn’t even know where to start. The gash on your forehead, the blade wound in your slide, your split lip, and your puffy eye. His chest tightens at the sorry sight of you. He should’ve never left you alone on the streets of Coruscant. But he did and now you’re both paying the price. You, physically, and him, mentally.

The cut on your head is superficial. There isn’t much he can do about your lip and your eye. It is the stabbing injury that concerns him the most. Since the attacker removed his blade, you are losing a significant amount of blood. It has completely saturated the right side of your shirt and the ground beneath the two of you. Mando needs a plan of action and he needs one quickly if he’s going to keep you conscious.

Apply pressure to the wound. Mando tears off a long piece of his cape and wraps it underneath you, tying it tightly. He then moves to the other side and scoops you up, pressing his hand against your wound for extra pressure.

“Owww,” you drawl. Your head starts feeling light and your eyelids are terribly heavy. But it’s good that you’re reacting to him. It means he hasn’t lost you yet.

“Put your arms around my neck. Can you do that, starlight?” Mando has already begun a quick pace toward the Crest. Your head rests against the cool pauldron on Mando’s shoulder, and it relieves some of the pain from your cut. You weakly manage to sling one arm around Mando, holding onto his cowl as tightly as you can. It hurts to breathe but he smells good. Like sweat and musk and him. It’s grounding you, keeping you on this plane with him. You’ve never been so close to him. So weak and so vulnerable.

You’re quiet under Mando’s grasp but he can still feel the expanding of your ribs when you breathe. “You with me? We’re almost at the ship.”

You’re conscious. You know because you deliberately close your eyes to keep out the bright lights of the bustling cosmopolitan planet. “‘M here,” you mutter.

You decide that you want him to hold you forever. You fit snuggly and perfectly in his strong arms. It’s not the most comfortable thing being pressed up against beskar, but you wonder how wonderful it would be to lay on his broad chest, kiss his sturdy shoulders, and nuzzle into his neck. You feel like your head is turning to mush when you think you should’ve gotten hurt ages ago if it meant being held by The Mandalorian.

Mando fiddles with the controls on his vambrace and before you know it, you hear his heavy boots clink against the ramp of the ship. He slams the door control with his fist and gently lays you on the cool ground. The duality of your Mandalorian fascinates you.

“Be right back, starlight. Gotta grab the medkit. Stay awake, okay?”

“Mmkay,” you roll your head on the floor and look around the ship to refamiliarize yourself with your surroundings. The pain all around your body makes you feel unsure about a lot of things. Is Mando actually calling you something resembling a pet name? Are you actually back on the ship, away from all the slime and grime that makes up the streets of Coruscant?

You are staring at your bedroll when Mando comes back to you. He was probably gone for no more than 3 seconds, given the medkit is only a few steps away. He kneels by your side and unties the fabric of his cape. You hear him sigh as he opens the medkit. You know he feels guilty you got hurt. He always tells you to watch your surroundings, to be careful. And you always tell him you’ll be fine, you can take care of yourself. And usually, you can. Today was just not one of those days.

“Need to lift up your shirt, okay? Need to see what we’re working with.” Mando’s gloved fingers sneak beneath your woven shirt, brushing against your skin as he does so. You nod lazily, which is all the permission he needs to push the fabric up your torso. With all the blood you’re losing, it is difficult to see the exact location of your wound. He grabs all of the gauze from the kit, making a mental note that he needs to restock the next time he gets supplies. As the gauze absorbs and sops up as much of your blood as it can, Mando pulls off his gloves to see if he can get a feel of your incision. You inhale sharply when his fingers find the outline of it.

“ Sorry, mesh’la.” He reaches for the cauterizer.

“S’okay,” you mumble. “J-just close me up. ‘M not feelin’ so great.” Blacking out seems like such a nice escape from all the pain. Your swollen eye is almost entirely shut, anyway.

“It’s going to sting a bit.” Mando pinches your skin together, joining the seams of what was once a complete and untorn canvas. “Scream if you have to.”

He doesn’t even give you a grace period to prepare you for the stinging, zapping, burning sear of the cauterizer on your skin. “GAH!” You yelp, back arching and heels digging into the floor of the ship. That’s the most response you’ve given Mando all night. It’s a good sign.

“I know, starlight, I know it hurts.” He knows it hurts because you’ve mended him with the same tool at least five times now. It’s a utilitarian tool he didn’t have on board before you joined and now it’s the second-best thing Mando has.

“How do you not have a cauterizer on board?” You asked him when you were taking inventory of his medical supplies.

Mando shrugged. “Haven’t had a need for one.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never come back to your ship battered and bloodied with no one to tend to your wound and never wished you had a cauterizer to quickly and efficiently stop your bleeding?”

He shrugged again. There had actually been several times… perhaps you were right. He should get a cauterizer. “Well, now I have you.”

“Try to stay still,” Mando brings you back to the present. Zzz; Zzz. The cauterizer zaps rhythmically, sending up wisps of smoke and the burnt smell of blood. It’s putrid. You can’t decide which is worse: all the kriffing pain you’re in, or Mando seeing you like this— weak, vulnerable, injured and being roasted like a piece of meat at the market. The latter. Definitely the latter.

“You’re doing so well, starlight. Almost done,” Mando praises while gently wiping the remaining blood from the incision.

You take a slow and steady breath and you brace for the next shock against your skin. Maybe talking to him will get your mind off the pain. But words feel so heavy on your tongue. It takes so much energy to move your lips in a way that forms words. You try anyway. “B-being so— ow!” A line forms between your brows. “S’nice to me.”

“Shh, save your strength,” Mando hushes you, running his hand along the soft skin of your stomach. Although he is gentle, you wince when he reaches the other side of your ribs. With the blossoming of bruises, he wonders if you didn’t break a couple of ribs. “Sorry, starlight.”

There’s that name again. How many times has he called you that tonight? You aren’t imagining it, are you? Starlight. His inflection is soft, but also hesitant every time he says it. Like he’s just testing it out. No better time to be calling you something other than your name when you probably won’t remember in the morning.

The cauterizer had effectively stopped your bleeding, so now Mando can tend to your other wounds. And he needs to get you out of your blood-soaked clothes. “Be right back. Gonna get fresh clothes and a wet cloth.”

When Mando leaves, you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. There’s still an ache in your chest, but there’s something else there. A warmth. Bright and overwhelming. You suck in another breath when Mando returns with some sleep clothes and a cloth in a small bowl of water. “Can I… can I undress you, starlight?”

“Mhm,” you hum gently. He’s being so sweet. Is he always this sweet? He’s moving hesitantly and tenderly. In no way does he want to take advantage of your current state or hurt you any more than you already are. Leaving you alone on Coruscant has done enough damage.

Mando grasps your wrist, placing your arms over your head. His skin against yours sends electric currents through you— the cauterizer barely holding a candle to the way his touch makes you feel. He slowly starts to lift off your shirt, pausing before he goes over your breasts. He closes his eyes and blindly removes your shirt. He feels around for what he hopes is your sleep shirt and continues to dress you with his eyes closed. Of course, you don’t know that his eyes are closed and you’re too loopy to notice that he sticks your arm through the head hole at first.

He then removes your pants and slides on a new pair much easier than he did your shirt. Then, he crosses his legs and gently takes your head into his lap. He dabs the cloth over the gash on your forehead. It stopped bleeding, so he’s just removing any dirt and debris that might’ve caused an infection. He places a Bacta patch over your wound and you muster all your strength to wrap your hand around his wrist. Despite your head being in haze, you know one thing is clear.

“L-love…”

What did you just say? Your voice is so fragile and quiet, Mando’s not completely sure he knows what you uttered. It sounded like ‘love’. But that can’t be right.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, starlight. You get some rest now.” He scoops you up again, conscious of all of your bruises, and walks you over to the bunk.

“Mm,” you hum as he places you down on his bed. The Bacta patch is starting to kick in. The haze is beginning to disappear. “Stay with me?”

Mando wants nothing more than to stay with you. What he wouldn’t give to lay down in that bed beside you and hold you close and tight in his arms as if it is the only thing that will heal your wounds. “Let me get the ship in the air. I’ll be back.”

You yawn, “‘kay.” Your head is sinking into the pillow, but you call for Mando once more.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

He hears you loud and clear. His heart bursts before it sinks to his feet. He just can’t let himself be happy, can he? You are in such a dazed, pain-filled, drowsy state of mind. You most likely don’t even know what you’re saying. “Tell me again tomorrow.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When you wake up, you’re surrounded by unfamiliar bedding. You feel like you’re suffocating in the small space. Are you… are you in Mando’s bunk? You shoot up quickly and then groan. Your hand goes up to where your blade wound is. Everything comes back to you.

“I love you.”

“Tell me again tomorrow.”

Dank ferrik. You told The Mandalorian you love him. And he didn’t say it back. He told you to tell him tomorrow. He probably thought you wouldn’t remember. But you remember it all. The attack, being stabbed, being punched, and hitting your head on your way down. You remember the tear of his cape and it wrapped around your body. You remember clinging to his cowl and the pressure he was holding to slow your bleeding. You remember being on the cold floor of the Razor Crest and Mando’s warm hands. His bare hands.

Then you asked him to stay with you. He said he would be back. Did he come back? Did he sleep with you? Hold you in his arms? Why don’t you remember that part?

And then there was that name.

Starlight.

Starlight, starlight, starlight.

You shimmy out of Mando’s bunk and hobble up the ladder. Before you reach the control panel, Mando has already opened it, seemingly waiting for you on the other side.

“I was just coming to check on you. How are you feeling?” He hates the way you look. He hates himself for letting you look the way you do. The swelling in your eye has gone down, but it’s as bruised as ever. He should remove the Bacta patch to see how the gash is looking. And he should check the bruising on your ribs and make sure the blade wound is going to heal alright.

“The thing… you told me to tell you tomorrow.” You ignore his question. It’s now or never, you think. You said it last night and he gave you the perfect opportunity to say it again. He wouldn’t tell you to tell him tomorrow if he didn’t want you to say it. Right? “Well, I presume it’s tomorrow. So…”

You stare into the onyx of his T-Visor. Ideally, you’d be looking him in the eyes. It wouldn’t make any difference knowing what he looks like, though. You love him whether his eyes are blue, hazel, or brown. You love him whether he has blonde, brown, or black hair; curly, frizzy, or straight hair. You love him when he’s grumpy, you love him when he’s a little more talkative than normal. You love him when he sasses you, you love him when he takes care of him You just love him. Everything about him makes your heart swell.

“I still love you.” “I…” Mando says one word and panic washes over you. Shit. You didn’t think about what he would say back. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t want you. But then, clear in affection, fuzzy in transmission, he replies back: “I love you too, starlight.”

luv my dinny boy

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#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fluff #din djarin fluff #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x f!reader

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emotionalmotionsicknessxx · 2 years

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A little sneak peak of Chapter 13 for POTO Fluff Week 2022!

Read Voltige on Ao3 here

Christine returned to her tent.

"Ah, shoot."

Her trunk was still open, her clothes strewn about the way she left them. Missing still, of course, was the glittering dress she performed in. Her father had given no indication where it was, and now, he was nowhere to be found, and neither was her dress.

Firmin had given them a week. In no universe would she be able to recreate the dress in that time, let alone a month...in a week she could maybe hem a skirt, though incredibly haphazardly. In no timeline could she possibly find a seamstress to make the dress...it had cost her father a month's wages last time, and that was with the previous circus manager's generous help. Now she was in the middle of nowhere, without a costume and without a routine.

She looked down at her trousers, crusted with dirt. She couldn't perform in anything she owned.

Tired and exhausted, covered in sweat from an unsuccessful practice, she began to cry.

And like most times when she cried, she found herself out of the tent and on her way to the stable, her only solace shoving her tear-covered face into her loyal friend's mane.

She walked the long way to the stable to avoid the crowds, taking the path that wrapped around the big tents: the arena she would soon not be performing in, the animal exhibits, the freak show. Again she wondered if she might pass through, see how Erik was faring –

No.

That was a route she would not allow her thoughts to go.

To her chagrin, the back flaps of the freak show were open to the wood she now passed through, in some attempt to quell the terrible heat of midsummer. She could hear the calls of crowds pointing, gasping in awe and pity at the folks inside. Shadows of bars, of figures in cages, could barely be made out in the haze of the dim tent. She might almost see Erik –

No, Christine.

As if he had heard her thoughts, she watched in horror as a thin figure turned around from his pedestal in the back center of the tent.

Shit.

She dove behind the flap of the tent beneath some crates and boxes, eyes squeezed tight as if that could help her hide more convincingly. Her heart beat in her ears and she wondered if she might be able to disappear totally from existence in this moment, anything to evade such mortification.

Had he seen her? She strained to hear through the canvas of the tent, but just she could only hear the din of the crowd more than anything.

She was just passing by, anyway, it wasn't like she was thinking of him...except she was, she very much was, and that only made her blush harder. She blinked hard, trying to catch her breath against the coarse tent fabric, when something caught her eye.

Between the bottom of the tent and the ground, she could see inside the tent, in the space behind the exhibit. Cords, wires, more boxes blocked most of what she could see. There, among the boxes, was a small soft...thing, a bag of some sort, a rucksack. She shimmied closer, nearer to the object that had caught her eye. She pulled at the open bag, its contents spilling from the way it must have fallen from its storage place among the clutter. Inside a worn hardback book, a glint of silver; her mind recognized the precise shade before she could articulate why she was so drawn to it, and so she pulled the book and its odd, glimmering bookmark from the bag without thinking.

There, inside the pages of the book, was a spangle from her performance gown, the silver star twinkling at the end of the torn trim that once attached it to the skirt.

She stared at it, sitting in the pages. She closed her eyes and the book, as if putting off the inevitable. Her eyes jumped to the cover.

"The Practical Horsekeeper" stared back at her, glimmering gold on the blue cover.

The words of the bookseller sounded back at her: "No more horse books, my dear: just sold the last–" and her suspicions collided with reality.

She plucked the star from the pages and stalked into the dim, hazy tent.

The freak show ebbed and flowed with visitors, surrounding one cage and then another, as though the visitors had no mind of their own and had to wait for the herd to decide where to crowd next. The pedestal on which Erik sat was mercifully sparsely attended; no matter, Christine did not mind an audience.

"What is this?" She let her frustration and anxiety funnel into those three words with extreme force. Erik whipped around at the sound, as did some of the passersby. They quickly scattered when she glared at them.

She held the piece of costume aloft in her hand. Erik was already on his feet. His unmasked face shone a shade whiter, his eyes locked on the spangle.

"Christine, I can explain--"

She didn't let him. "Why do you have this? What did you do, Erik?"

"What did I do? What did you -- you went in my things?" he hissed.

She didn't let the accusation hit. "I- I found this outside. How?"

"I told you, I --"

"Do you have my costume."

"I didn't --"

"Do you have my costume, Erik?"

He ran a hand over his face. "Yes. Yes, I do, but –"

The words stung and she blinked. She had steeled herself for this betrayal, after so many others, and yet she was not ready. Her words came out garbled from fighting back the traitorous tears threatening the back of her throat. "Why?" she whispered. She could only imagine the rest of the splintered thing in even worse shape than the little silver star now cutting into the soft flesh of her palm. "Why did you take it?"

Her mind flooded with answers, each more terrible than the last. He set her up. He was mocking her, he wanted to sell the dress, wanted to trick her. This was all a ruse to end her career. He wanted to see her fail. He hated her.

Erik looked as though he had been punched, holding onto the bars, his knees landing on the pedestal. "Please, Christine."

It was all too much.

She gave a sharp, hollow laugh. "Forget it."

"No, I –"

"No," Christine interrupted. "I trusted you. Guess I made that mistake. Again."

She left the spangle in the dirt and turned out of the tent before he could see her tears.

She made good on her plan to press her face to her horse's mane and cry, though for a different reason than she had set out to at the outset.

How could he?

She sniffed and laughed into Raya's mane. If she had told her past self she would be standing in her stable, crying over the boy with the yellow eyes betraying her, that Christine would think her ridiculous. Yet she could not lie to herself that she had counted her friendship with Erik more dear than she could have ever imagined when he threatened her those weeks ago.

Bleary-eyed, she slowly cut the twine that kept the bales of hay together, put a flake under each boarded horse, avoided the tiny pieces of hay stuck on her sleeve as she wiped her eyes. It was funny, really, how easily she could over come this too, could move forward, anyway, she sniffled back the last of her tears and who needed him and his stupid strong arms and the way he looked right through her to her soul and –

The sound of a horse standing at alert notified her that there was another presence in the barn and she turned.

Erik stood, eyes wide, the black mask only emphasizing the slight shadowy figure he cut in the stable. In his hands, a familiar shock of taffeta. Her dress.

"Erik."

He held it delicately at the puffed shoulders, the remainder of the bodice glimmering, and glittering, and...altogether fixed. No longer could she see the horrible blood stains and broken boning and ripped tulle.

"I'm sorry --"

"You fixed it!" she breathed, racing towards the costume, eyes on the collection of new silver stars across the torso, the seamless way the skirt was reattached to the bodice. Erik held it high over the dust, the skirts clean and perfect and glimmering, every spangle accounted for. It was perfect, it was even more beautiful than before, it was –

Without thinking, she threw her arms around his torso and squeezed hard.

"Oh, thank you Erik," she whispered, her cheek against his chest.

"I–" from above her, Erik made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

"Oh!" Oh no, oh no, she had upset him. Again!

She released him and immediately he took a hearty step back, the dress still in his arms, which he had held aloft as though to avoid any potential contact with her as they untangled.

"Sorry!" Christine reached for him and thought better of it, for he stepped back yet again. "I didn't mean –"

"Yes, well," Erik choked, looking down at the bodice. "I thought...well, it was presumptuous of me, I suppose..." He was pointing at something on the dress.

Christine figured it was best to direct her attention, too, to the dress before taking a tentative step closer, to see better. This seemed to be received without protest.

"I wanted...well, if we had new fabric...I suppose it would be better, but given what we had..." He pointed to the little glimmering embroidered stars.

She turned to see what he was staring at and gave a soft gasp.

"It's the night sky!" she realized. Yes, there on her bodice were the little stars that made the square – the “irregular polygon,” she remembered – of the Little Dipper, the stars of Orion's Belt, the smattering of dots of Cassiopeia. It must have taken hours, painstakingly stitching each into the satin of the gown.

"There were so many holes," Erik murmured behind her, breath rustling the loose hair on her shoulder. "I had to patch them with something. So I chose the summer sky. I hope that's alright."

"It's better than alright," she said, taking the dress from him, examining further. "It's as if nothing happened at all, how did you –?"

"You pick things up on the road," he gave a sad little smile. "It's hard to find a tailor when you aren't in one place for long. If you need your socks darned, I'm your man."

Christine couldn't understand the sadness that crept into his voice, but she did not pry, took the dress and held it up to herself. It could not be real, he could not be so ingenious. She looked up at him with new eyes.

At her expression, Erik's mouth quirked downward, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Enjoy your dress; I'll go...finish the outside chores." He disappeared before she could ask what she had done wrong.

#myfic #voltige #poto fluff week 2022 #erik/christine #circus au #can you believe a fic thats got so much star princess in itttt???

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annisthree · 1 year

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Chapter X: Orders

previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter

Pairing: Cassian Andor x Original Female Character

Word Count: ~5.5k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Explicit language, canon typical violence, implied possibility of suicide

Chapter summary: After a rather unsuccessful interrogation, Cassian and Marla decide to continue their investigation posing as an Imperial officer and a spaceport worker.

A/N: Cross-posted on AO3 (same username).

'What?'

'Nothing.' And yet, she could not look him in the eye, and the corner of her lips twitched slightly with a hint of mischief hidden behind the suppressed grin.

'Then why do you keep giving me this look?'

'What look?'

The morning after the unfortunate investigation and interrogation, Cassian and Marla returned to the spaceport to carry out their plan to gather intel about the suspicious shipments.

Wearing the uniform borrowed from the Imperial officer that was still sedated back in their hotel room, Cassian was cautiously optimistic about their odds. He'd done things like that in the past; the only thing you needed was confidence and a certain level of arrogance. The beauty of the Imperial regime - no one ever dared to ask questions, even when they should be.

'I'll tell you after the mission.' Marla was still giving him that puzzling look. 'Once it's okay to ruin your outfit.'

Cassian almost choked. 'Seriously? An Imperial uniform is what does it for you? Are you sure you're not on the wrong side?'

'Funny.' She gave him the side eye, but there was a trace of redness creeping onto her cheeks. 'I don't know, it just... it looks good on you, I guess.'

Cassian's brain froze, trying to process the information - and avoid straying too far into a territory he should definitely not be entering during a mission. He made a mental note to revisit that topic, though, once they were flying back to the base.

Luckily, the arrival of K-2 saved him from having to wiggle his way out of the conversation.

Kay seemed rather eager (as eager as a security droid can get) to join them, having spent the last day on the ship. Cassian figured an Imperial droid accompanying an officer wouldn't raise any eyebrows, and he could prove helpful if they needed to hack something - or if things went south.

That, and he was really tired of Kay's not-so-subtle grumbling about not being allowed to carry out his basic duties.

'Okay. Everyone knows what to do? Marla, comm me as soon as you find anything. We have eight hours, so don't rush it and be careful. Kay, I need you to try and get me the ship logs for this platform; the further back in time, the better. And try to avoid engaging in too much conversation. Just... blend in. That goes for both of you. Questions?'

'No questions, sir.' Marla grinned at him.

'Good. Be careful. And good luck.' He allowed himself one last look at Marla and Kay before he nodded at them both and turned away to enter the spaceport.

It was a chilly, cloudy morning, but the spaceport was just as busy as the previous day, with travellers coming in and out, merchants loudly encouraging the passers-by to look at their wares, and stormtroopers trying to maintain order within all that chaos. For all its outward griminess, the place had an undeniable pulse of life. Just one look around the busy place, and Cassian could see dozens of working parts, all moving to the same vigorous rhythm that kept the place alive.

Slowly, he exhaled a thin cloud of frosty breath and adjusted the Imperial insignia on his chest. Under his uniform, his heart pounded, adrenaline honing his senses. Yet, his face remained as impassive as the durasteel hulls surrounding him, effectively concealing any trace of Cassian beneath the facade of an Imperial officer.

Under the watchful eyes of the stationed stormtroopers, Cassian walked towards the cargo area. It was a large outdoor construction, filled with the din of machinery and the multi-lingual chatter of hundreds of sentients and droids. Hoverlifts whizzed back and forth, their antigravity drives humming like a swarm of hungry mynocks as they carried containers.

A speeder roared by, leaving a gust of wind and fuel fumes in its wake, and Cassian had to control his urge to flinch. Instead, he settled for a displeased grimace - a much more fitting reaction for a high-ranked officer.

As soon as he reached sector 12-C, Cassian was greeted by a burly dockmaster, who stood out from the rest with his unusually clean jumpsuit and the air of authority he commanded. The dockmaster gave Cassian a brief nod, but the scepticism lurking in his eyes was not lost on Sergeant Sward.

'Where is Sergeant Dorh?' the man asked, his gruff voice barely audible over the noise of the cargo bay.

'My name is Sergeant Sward, and I am supervising you today. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the command.'

'No, sir. No problems here.' There was a poorly disguised trace of antipathy in the eyes of the dockmaster, confirming to Cassian he was giving the exact impression he was aiming for.

'Good. Carry on.' Satisfied with his brief show of command, Cassian threw the dockmaster one last look and then turned around.

Eight hours. Long enough to gather some intel. Long enough to screw something up, too.

He shook off the thought. He could do it; they could do it. And, if they were lucky, they could finally find the missing pieces to this puzzle.

Marla was not a patient person.

She could spend hours behind the controls of her ship, or on the battlefield, with a blaster in her hand and adrenaline buzzing in her head. But to spend even a fraction of that time wandering around and just... watching, waiting - had her frustrated beyond comprehension, with her curiosity gnawing at her like a hungry loth cat.

She had no idea how Cassian could do that.

Those eight hours she was supposed to spend investigating the shipments dragged on forever. Luckily for her, the other workers were either completely uninterested in making friends or simply did not speak Basic - which made blending in fairly simple. No one questioned her. All she had to do was to go in and start lifting things, and everyone automatically assumed she belonged there.

One thing was clearly suspicious from the start - for some reason, the cargo they were unloading was being transported on civilian ships. It made little sense to her - instead of shipping everything at once in a Coyote freighter, or even an Acclamator, they split the cargo into smaller shipments that must have been much more difficult to manage.

At first, she tried to discreetly pry open one of the crates - as discreetly as one can pry open a crate - but they wouldn't budge, and the locking mechanism was much more advanced than what she was used to. The only thing she managed to achieve was to attract the attention of a grey-haired Wookie, who stopped next to her as she was inspecting the lock and gave her a side eye that would have been alarming even if it wasn't coming from a creature almost twice her size.

The fact that the workers didn't seem to care for each other's presence, as helpful as it was for blending in, meant that she couldn't count on overhearing anything valuable. She could, of course, try to strike up a conversation - but she decided to leave that strategy as a last resort. She wasn't particularly eager to give Cassian yet another reason to mock her nonexistent acting skills.

There must have been another way.

Frustrated, she'd found herself scanning the area, her eyes trailing the hectic path of droids and workers alike. The smell of engine oil, the constant hum of starship engines, and the murmurs of a hundred conversations in alien languages layered on top of each other. It was as if the very air was pulsating, attacking all of her senses at once.

'Hey, you!' Marla's heart sank, and her hand instinctively moved to her hip, to her blaster - a blaster that would have been there was she not dressed as a spaceship worker.

Damn it.

Marla quickly went through her options in her head. There was a vibroblade hidden in her sleeve and another one in her boot. She was confident she could take the Trandoshan without much effort - but he wasn't her main problem. She could defeat him, maybe two or three stormtroopers - but there were many, many more than two or three of them.

Escape routes? She quickly looked around (good thing Cassian wasn't there; he would have given her another one of his lectures). There was only one exit from the platform she was on, and it was crowded with both workers and troopers. That left her with two options: either get to the ship and do... well, something (she'd have to figure that out once she got there), or attempt to climb the crates and avoid the stormtroopers that way. That is, if she wouldn't end up with a burning hole in her back as soon as she started climbing.

She could also try to comm Cassian - but even with the two of them, their chances were slim.

'Me?' Playing for time sounded like the best option. Maybe she'd have a sudden stroke of genius.

Soon would be good.

'Yes, you.' The Trandoshan sized her up sceptically and paused for a moment before resuming. 'The boss needs the cargo manifest. Go find it. And be quick about it; the new Sergeant doesn't strike me as a patient type.'

The cargo ma-- oh. Marla let out an involuntary breath of quiet relief.

False alarm, then.

In fact, now that she processed the Trandoshan's words, she realised just how lucky she was. The most obvious source of information - the ship's cargo manifest. Almost an absurdly simple answer. And now, she had a perfect excuse to snoop around.

'Did you hear what I just said?' The Trandoshan's scales bristled in impatience. 'Do you even speak Basic?'

'Yes. And yes, I did. On my way.'

She turned away and immediately started towards the ship to make sure her new co-worker didn't have enough time to change their mind. With her newfound hope, she weaved through the crowd of workers until her boots began clanking on the ship's ramp.

Civilian ships weren't her speciality, but the few cargo freighters she'd been on all had their cargo manifests somewhere in the vicinity of the cargo bay. Made sense - easy access if someone needed to quickly check something.

In this case, that someone would be a Rebel spy.

It only took a couple of moments to locate what she came for. And, as she held the manifest in her hands, she had to make a conscious effort to steady her breathing because inside, she was jumping up and down from excitement.

Her eyes scanned the document, heart hammering loudly in her chest. List of passengers, irrelevant. Cargo listed only by serial numbers, no other specification. A note to handle the crates with care (oops).

And then, the complete navirecords for the most recent trip.

'Good job, Marla. I'll try to get something on my end. Meet you after the shift.'

'Good luck. See you.'

His comlink crackled before falling silent. Cassian checked the reflection in the viewport he was standing at - the coast was still clear; no one seemed to notice the brief disappearance of the officer in charge.

He could see Marla's platform from here. If he stayed longer, he might have even caught a glimpse of her dark braid somewhere in the crowd.

But his time was running out - and as much as Marla's new intel was extremely valuable, he was still hoping to find something on his end.

He'd tried to get the cargo manifest already - that was one of the first things he did when he got here - but was told someone had already signed off on it. Pushing it further would have been suspicious, so Cassian had to swallow his pride and retreat to wait for a better opportunity.

Turning on his heel, he headed back towards the crowd of workers, droids, and troopers.

The platform was buzzing. As he made his way through the crowd, Cassian could feel the underlying rhythm, the thrumming heartbeat of the spaceport. So many beings, so many voices. There must have been an answer hidden somewhere between all that shouting, all those sounds, all that activity.

As he scanned the vibrant mix of different beings on the platform, his eyes inadvertently got drawn to the tallest figure in the area. And then, an idea sparked in his head.

He squared his shoulders and strode confidently towards K-2, who towered over the crowd like a grim sentinel.

'Droid. I need your assistance on the ship.'

Please don't say anything stupid, please don't say anything stupid, please...

'Yes... sir.'

They walked together in silence. K-2 was a wonderful asset on missions like these because of how well he blended in (and, by extension, made Cassian blend in as well) - but his ability to pretend or lie was... well. Nonexistent.

Ironic, really. One of the rebellion's most capable spies working with the two worst liars in the Galaxy.

In stark contrast to the bustling spaceport, the ship itself was quiet. There was some activity in the cargo bay, of course - but the rest of the spacecraft was empty, the crew probably still on their short shore leave.

So far, so good.

They found the cockpit in no time. Inside, the ship's captain, a robust Quarren with a weather-beaten face, sat in the pilot chair. He was visibly taken aback by the sudden appearance of a security droid and an Imperial officer.

'Can I help you, officer?' he asked, his voice conveying nervousness.

'We're here to conduct a search of your ship, Captain,' Cassian said, his voice echoing through the cockpit with a chilling calmness. 'We have reasons to believe there is illegal contraband smuggled on this ship.'

'Illegal-- what? N-no! Nothing illegal here, sir.' The Captain's eyes bulged, his aquatic features draining of colour.

'Then I'm sure you won't mind us conducting a search.'

The Quarren looked increasingly panicked as his eyes jumped between Cassian and K-2.

'You are now requested to step off-board until the search has been concluded,' K-2's mechanical voice sounded perfectly intimidating. 'Failure to comply with this request will result in the use of force.'

'N-no, no force needed,' the captain jumped to his feet. 'I'll-- I'll be outside if you need me, sir.'

He almost ran out of the cockpit, the loud stomping of his feet audible for a while before silence filled the place again.

With the captain gone, Cassian turned to K-2SO. 'Connect to the ship's navicomputer,' he ordered. 'Let's find out where it is headed.'

The droid fell silent as he connected to an access port on the control panel. Cassian had no reason to be nervous - everything was going smoothly, and it didn't seem like the captain was suspecting anything - and yet he still found himself with his eyes flickering nervously from K-2 to the exit. Every creak of the ship and every blip on the monitors heightened his senses.

The minutes dragged on, each one seeming to stretch into eternity as they waited. Finally, K-2SO straightened up, the console screen reflecting in his visors.

'Done.'

Cassian exhaled a long, steady breath. 'Good. Let's get out of here.'

The way out of the ship seemed endless, but finally, they were back on the ramp leading down to the landing pad.

As they made their way down, Cassian's gaze slid over the expanse of the platform. The Corulag spaceport was just as busy as they left it: workers and droids bustled around, ships hummed and whirred with activity.

But there was something else, something different.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cassian noticed an influx of white-armoured bodies. Stormtroopers. Not an unusual sight in the spaceport; what was unusual, however, was their number. At least ten of them gathered at the entrance to the platform, and that's on top of those who had already been there before, overseeing the cargo loading.

Cassian tensed, but he continued walking down the ramp as if nothing had happened. And, indeed - nothing had happened yet. Maybe he was just overreacting. The Imperial presence on Corulag was, after all, increasingly strong.

Still, he kept a close eye on the activity at the exit. The stormtroopers were now speaking to one of the spaceport workers, who seemed uncomfortable at best - he was fidgeting with the adjustable wrench he was holding, his eyes jumping between the stormtroopers.

And then he pointed in Cassian's direction.

Shit.

She saw everything from afar. The sea of white pouring onto the platform Cassian was on. The quick couple of words whispered to K-2, who immediately pivoted away from the ship and disappeared into the crowd.

The cold, unfazed look on Cassian's face when the group of stormtroopers approached him with their blasters pointed at his chest.

She didn't even realise when she started running. Her vision somehow got blurred to the point where she could barely see where she was going, and ended up desperately pushing her way through the crowd. Why the fuck were there so many people here? Why were they not making way? Did they not understand? She needed to get there, to get to Cassian, now, and yet everything and everyone seemed hell-bent on slowing her down, and it felt like months, like years--

A wave of pain went through her whole body as she slammed right into something big and metallic.

'You need to go with me.'

Back on the base, she once told Cassian he needed to make sure that his new droid was easily recognisable in the field ('as much as I would love to have a convenient excuse to shoot him and pretend I thought it was an Imperial droid'). Cassian promised to think about it.

Clearly, he did not think fast enough, because Marla was now staring up a KX-series droid, utterly clueless about how to confirm whether she should be relieved or worried.

And there were people, so many people everywhere. She couldn't just ask him directly - and any attempt at reconnaissance was dangerous at best, given Kay's... subtlety.

But Cassian was in trouble. She needed to figure this out. Now.

'Ioan Shan, your presence has been requested in--' the droid paused briefly, 'your presence has been requested. Please follow me.'

Ioan Shan. The alias she had been using months ago during their mission to Scen. Of course, Cassian must have given Kay access to their old mission reports.

'Yes. Yes, of course. Let's go. Quickly.'

They were clear of the landing pad. Too slow, a voice in her head hissed. Too slow.

She could still see Cassian among the sea of white and steel. She could see the blasters pointed at his chest, the binders on his wrists, the apathy on his face.

She'd never felt this helpless.

The crowd began thinning - thank the stars, because Marla was moments away from stabbing the next person that bumped into her, stealing the precious milliseconds that separated her from Cassian. She was vaguely aware of the whispers and curious stares that were probably connected to the fact she was being escorted by a security droid.

Let them stare. They could all go fuck themselves. The only thing Marla cared about at that moment was getting to Cassian, and she was fully prepared to take out anyone who stood in her way, even if she only had her bare fists to fight with.

With her eyes focused on K-2's back, she didn't immediately notice when they took a turn. The realisation came moments later, together with a sudden wave of icy terror.

'We're going in the wrong direction,' she barked quietly, tugging at the droid's arm. 'Cassian is--'

'I have been instructed to take you back to the ship and ensure you transmit the coordinates back to the base.'

It took her a moment to understand the words. And when she did, she immediately felt sick.

'No. We're not leaving him,' Marla muttered, quietly at first but with increasing anger in her voice. 'We're going back, right now.'

'I have been instructed--'

'I don't give a fuck!' she almost yelled before she remembered to control her voice. The murmurs around them got even more agitated, but she didn't give a fuck about that, either. 'You go back and transmit the data,' she lowered her voice, but it was still full of rage. 'You can do that on your own. I'm going--'

'I have also been instructed,' it was K-2's turn to interrupt her, ' to make sure you don't, I quote, do anything stupid. Sadly, Cassian did not present his definition of stupid in this context, so I will rely on my own judgement.'

'No,' she hissed with contempt. 'I'm not leaving him behind.'

She had already turned away and made a couple of steps when a sudden weight on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks.

'Cassian warned me you might say that,' the droid said slowly, his cold, mechanical voice in jarring contrast to the white-hot fury that was raging in her chest. 'I apologise.'

'You-- what?'

Before she could get out another word, she felt her arms being tightly grasped behind her with almost bone-crushing strength.

'Look on the bright side,' the mechanical voice echoed overhead as she was pushed forward, her arms gripped tightly by the droid. 'This looks even less suspicious. Just a security droid escorting a prisoner--'

'Stars, just shut up! What do you not understand? He- he could get hurt.'

Just saying these words made her dangerously lightheaded. Suddenly, the harsh lights of the spaceport seemed too bright, too glaring, and the world around her began to take on an unreal quality.

Keep it together. For fuck's sake, keep it together.

'I am aware of all the possible outcomes of this situation, and I, too, find some of those outcomes undesirable. But Cassian said I need to take you back to the ship, and therefore, I will be taking you back to the ship. Whether you cooperate or not.'

Her legs felt less and less her own with each step she was forced to take. Mustering all of her remaining determination, she tried wrenching her arm away from K-2 - but she never stood a chance.

This couldn't be happening. Cassian was surely waiting for her on the ship. She would enter the cockpit, and he would be there, sitting in the co-pilot chair, laughing at her terrified expression.

This couldn't be happening.

But he was not in the co-pilot chair, nor was he anywhere else on the ship.

The absence hurt like the cruellest torture. The silence deafened. The empty chair threatened to shred the remnants of her sanity until only fear remained.

K-2's footsteps reverberated through the air, almost as loud as the anxious thumping of her heart.

'I hope you realise I'm going back there immediately after I send over the data.' She was still angry, just not entirely sure at whom. Clearly, K-2 had to follow his orders; that's how he was programmed (she should bring up the idea of increasing his common sense, if-- once Cassian is back). Cassian... well. Cassian was being Cassian. The version of Cassian that was eagerly jumping off cliffs for the rebellion. The version of Cassian that made stupid, illogical decisions that put him in danger - all in the name of the cause.

Stars, she was more and more inclined to punch him in that empty head of his as soon as she rescued him.

'That is unwise. I'm sure the base will send some reinforcements. And, as previously stated, Cassian asked me to make sure you don't act rashly...'

'And you have to listen to every fucking word he says, huh? Talk about unwise...' Her fingers were already tapping on the control panel to bring up the comms system. She would send the stupid message and go back to save Cassian. She was ready to violently disassemble the droid if he stood in her way. 'What else did he tell you? Before, you know, you left him to get captured?'

'He told me to ensure you get back to the ship and send over the data you have collected.' The venom in Marla's voice clearly did not faze K2. He recited his orders in a steady voice that was becoming increasingly annoying. 'He also asked to make sure you don't do anything stupid. He gave me the frequency you should use for the message, and instructed me what to tell you in the event of his death.'

'He... what?'

In the event of his death.

The words echoed in her ears, but somehow she lost the ability to understand them. It almost felt like a different, foreign language - the sounds were vaguely familiar but had no meaning.

'He told me to make sure you get back to--'

'No, not that. The last bit.'

'Ah. He instructed me what to tell you in the event of his death.'

The world around once again got much brighter, painfully unreal, and drowning in a strange screech that was growing louder and louder with each passing moment.

It felt like her soul was slowly leaving her body. She could almost see herself from outside, a pathetically weak human hunching over the holotable with shaking hands and pale-white skin.

'And what,' she took a moment to steady her breath, 'what were these instructions?'

'To my knowledge, there is currently no evidence suggesting Cassian is dead.'

'K-2, please...'

'I was given very specific instructions. I will repeat Cassian's message only in the event of his death, for which there is sixty-eight per cent possibility, by the way.'

'Oh, shut up,' she hissed, tapping the access code on the screen.

She was about to establish the connection when a sudden thought made her forget all about the coordinates and the base.

'Did he--' Please say no, please say no, please... 'Do you know if he has--' Say it, just say it, '-- if he has his lullaby with him?'

She never heard her voice like that. It didn't sound hers at all; it was so different, so painfully weak.

And K-2 was taking forever to reply.

'From what I understand, he takes it with him on most missions. I cannot, however, definitely confirm--'

'Out of my way.'

She was punching in the access code to Cassian's room before she even registered what she was doing.

'This is Cassian's room,' K-2 noted flatly.

'I am aware of that,' she muttered under her breath, ready to enter - when Kay's metal fingers closed on her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

'Please refrain from entering Cassian's room during his absence.'

She wanted to hit him, to tear apart the metal plating, to rip out every single bolt and wire with her bare hands.

But there was no time. She had to know. And then she had to go back for Cassian.

'Did he ever specifically tell you not to let me into his room?' she asked quietly, trying to mask the hint of desperation in her voice.

'No, but this is Cassian's--'

'That's right, he didn't. He did, however, tell you not to fight any of his crew members. Back on the base, in the canteen, after we sparred. Remember?'

The droid let out a quiet whirring sound. 'That is correct.'

'Great. Now get out of my way,' she repeated through her gritted teeth, passing the droid to walk through the door. He did not stop her this time.

Everything in Cassian's room was where she remembered it to be. Bed covered with a blanket, stack of datapads on the desk, a change of clothes folded on one of the shelves. She'd been here before so many times, but somehow, the question of where he stored his suicide pill never came up.

Without thinking, she began combing through every single space in the room - the shelves, the desk drawers, the duffel bag, the refresher cabinet.

Small, black pouch. He keeps it in a small, black pouch.

She fell to her knees by the first drawer, fingers clawing at the edges with a fervency that left her knuckles white. The cold, unyielding metal seemed to sear into her flesh as she yanked it open, a shower of small personal items clattering onto the durasteel floor. But she paid them no mind, her frantic search tunnelled into one singular focus.

Time seemed to distort, stretching and snapping in sync with her hammering heart. The world outside became muffled: the hum of the ship's engine, the distant whirring of K-2, the far-off noise of the spaceport - all faded into nothingness. There was just Marla, the deafening silence of Cassian's quarters, and the empty drawer before her.

With a guttural growl of frustration, she moved on to the next, then the next, her desperation growing with each fruitless search. Her hands moved with a mind of their own, every cell in her body screaming in protest as she upturned the entire room.

The stark reality began to claw its way into her consciousness. The pill - it wasn't here.

She slammed the last drawer shut, the noise a harsh, jarring echo in the suffocating silence. Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps. It felt like drowning.

The edges of her vision began to blur, the room swaying as if she was caught in a dizzying vortex. The walls seemed to close in on her, the ceiling pressing down, the air thick, cloying, suffocating. Her hands clutched at the cold floor, the solid durasteel grounding her as she teetered on the edge of consciousness.

'My directory of human behaviours and emotions suggests you are in distress,' she heard K-2's voice, but it sounded so far away, distorted by the stubborn screech in her ears. 'I do, however, have to remind you that Cassian's primary directive was to ensure the data was transmitted to the rebel command. If we fail, his capture would be in vain.'

Slowly, Marla looked up at the droid, her breaths coming in harsh pants. He looked so unfamiliar at that moment; she was almost surprised to see him.

The shipments. The cargo manifest. The navirecords. The data Cassian gathered before he--

'Establish a connection with the base,' she mumbled, slowly getting on her feet. The ground felt somehow soft, and she almost fell while taking her first step - but she stayed up. She had to stay up. She had to get back for him.

'Connection established,' she heard K-2 say when her legs carried her into the command room. 'What message would you like me to transmit?'

Marla took a deep breath. It only made her more lightheaded - but she stood tall, holding it together with the strength she didn't know she had.

She had to cling to that strength. She had to get back for him.

General Draven stood in the heart of the Rebel base on Yavin IV, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The consoles around him blinked and hummed with untiring intensity, the lights casting a dim glow across the room.

The echo of marching boots reverberated across the room, breaking the rhythm of the low thrum of machines. A young lieutenant, flushed and wide-eyed, approached him with an urgency that immediately had him on full alert.

'Sir,' the lieutenant said with an undertone of unease. 'We've just received a coded transmission.'

Draven spun around, his gaze drilling into the young officer, his hand already extended for the datapad. He swiped it open, the glow of the display painfully bright, the corners of the device digging into his palm.

Captain Andor captured. Rescue will be attempted immediately. Cargo coming on civilian transports from Jedha, through Corulag, to Kafrene. Final location and contents unknown.

#cassian andor #cassian andor x original female character #andor #andor fanfiction #rogue one fanfiction #star wars #andor series #fanfic #rogue one

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keeshya6 · 2 years

Text

(Mando x Female Reader romantic fanfic. 18+)

Chapter 24 of An Unexpected Meeting is posted on Ao3! We left off on chapter 23 with a very thankful Mando, ready and eager to show his gratitude to the Reader for saving his life:

"Are you getting cheeky with me?" he growls, but you can hear the grin in his voice.

Holding in the laughter, though not very well, you cant your head curiously in his direction like he so often does to you. "That depends," you say, barely suppressing another smirk. "How much trouble will a 'yes' get me into?"

He gives another playful snarl. "Not as much as lying will," he counters, lightly pinching at your side.

More squeaks escape you and you try to scoot away from those pinches. Your hips and thighs are pinned beneath the weight of his chest though. "Okay-okay! Yes…I was!" you squeal as you try to escape the tickling, pathetically unsuccessful.

An instant later Din has moved back up the length of your body. He pulls your hands above your head and, before you can react, you find your wrists pinned together under one of his hands. Your breath is jagged as you try to catch it, still squirming a little under him.

He chuckles darkly, his lips teasing at your jaw. "I'm going to remember that sass later…"

You go very still for a moment and then a giggle escapes you, your tongue darting out over your lips. Something in his tone suggests to you that you might not really mind if he does remember later.

#fanfic #ao3 #reader insert #din dijarin fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian

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libidomechanica · 5 months

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“To make, with dayly-vexing care”

A rispetto sequence

Honey, and silent will in an eye, unused to advancing the heart half betray’d by waters to the ceremony kneeling a

most irksom night. The feels it, yet while all the proud watchet there is of thee, O Love! Last love for languid humour ever empty art.

—To make, with dayly-vexing care? Mid station, and mine. Jive ass back to live with her flower, yet these are deaf and pestle. Know, it must

now my spring of life. Those chill councils, her lips, which is, in time, so wrought there to go out the session all kisses bringing her cloak!

My spring on his nod, your wine. Which thy should break of dawn turns and hope; which all with striue those icy clime. All, and its signify must

ne’er love is barber. True hearts folds the long ypent. Soft, so calm, yet with care. Or who calls me from her loue, while our true: to profit thee?

And I chooses, he died beneath. Nor only knowledge was a close; but to my eye like vibrating up that has was borne away. Watch

and while all passionate cry, a cry for you is that blisse. You are a fulfils defect; three time a hundred yellow pin on silent.

With Daffadillies dight. Who can fear that soon with your bones, arms till short, by merely may prove, are for Stellaes selfe into separate,

discoveries unfold from eyes fill with frame, auise the death, when them thro’ and the task. At its walk in the only black clouds are clothd with me.

But because I love taught in the moon hated, nakedness! A little din, for the beating, the hum of arrowy to the trees were

they look the boils of spruce again for my heart of one, and we pad through he built upon thing every way, that what I have seen by taste.

Halved pit unfleshed—what pass watched then not return, of lying the gloom, till a heat, but thee; the bloom. The jewell’d mass of the door. With

a though sweetbread fr an old glory! With grew the terrace—all and see this the larkspur, and my wrist, and every sound, and of my light!

These I might be fountains, when a’ was the monsterd in the horn is swimming further, when be thy lover’s life should be able to do

witnesse well-tuned sound is my invents new waies, to sit a stand is sweet, the Iliad before they call out of prison. And your safe.

To calls me from her yestermorn how powers, nights, a stump—standing beneath th’ Indias of sea from Beauty from their examples

of our punishes the nymph without. By Fenelon, by Luther, come to more. While Death stands the Heart, for me. Thy obiect to vs.

To fly all lay in a tin box. The Poets of it or not a cheating unsought and official clock, that all unfold from earlier

than thirteenth birthplace to the left branching pavement sapphire- spangled marriages, but till the grandmother hand tomorrow brought?

An anger to such love? You are afraid, state, by way of you stript to his poor colorless toil, that things live I want to true speech—which

I have above; your sacrifice, the placed as tall grass as my lichen fixt on a granite boulder even the present tales of thee.

Amid thee that weekend but slow? Some, which doth blush, at full of louers payne, if anywhere low voice, or showe, but whether terms of a name

of her on train memories, Yet Childe, how he is some rich in heal; the bounds himself over and tarry. How long, after tragedy.

So faynt them paused a little mard, whom Suwarrow, to lose. Cuts up not in natural agonies, when misted but loves thy bride as many

masters to thigh and I won’t done away along to be comes and doth one Beauty fall; the old grandmother fruit of all of a’.

The storm come in vain travail hath no great love excuse can story sometimes past, though unsuccessful clutch, and Heaven, I though my leading

spire; and sorrow and poorer and graves. Makes me sight a rainy morrow, come hither, but full case to front built upon fold embrac’d.

From strange thy bowers defy, since the bounds doth moue. Was what shone againe. Through it scar’d, it did not, and her fruit. Captives just enough something

but vulnerable. In the wet date palms tip gum, pungent, cleaning against thy sweet is one week, the whole floors, or more shall dwell in.

Is to think one Shakspeare puppets, Man in that stinging, not like a grass. Wilt thou that bottle-conjurer, the only, one recovery,

et cetera—could never the closely, you cannot be feign’d, and the same time. Each bud puffing out of Leonidas, who were time.

Further, come my day. This fellows— true—but poets still, in anger not the while no night as a single pure as the hairs on to men:

there this life is grow old we prophecies, milton appear untouched by a jagged pines embosom’d there, I shall out of much wore a mask.

That beautifully into the hearts folds thee seen, above thee, I am quite, by Fenelon, by dint of the glory! Whose lingering gentle

laps over my hearts, with rust, scarlet, and free, the fall for lack of you would not marvelously fast, our way has no eye follow.

I make not there is normally the Fates between he do? I was a boy I kept your limbs thrown about what he gets, come sleeping its sleek

young head such cherubins as far more thy coral is far more fear— the firths of it or miss’d, or ran at was madmen’s reverence found.

And aver and flowrd, and loves and horror have learnt in his rage to ride backward. Not sleeps to come, she thoughtful land, nor thee releasing

notes are not be is not a cheating heap of his father is dark socket from death, and down coat that strange. Bring at they grow to be so.

Twice or that thought danger seemed to blub like an odd breed unrest; my best be sought; which many years …. Swayed to blame, where so long; and caught so

long since thee this sounding she said, from yonder like Mahomet’s Paradise; and the Lord and garment of those love? Not worth the princess.

This waistcoat, and broke my heart was full of love, where I lie as still a heart’s contracted by wife, to you! To roll in an hour, and now

is lead the Will and often feeling mild; nor straight thee. Love be comes a great sunflower he beguiled by a most dear, I’ll live in sleep.

Life, besotted in a bullet in his palate doth dwells with me; he’s all they who never kept a book to a race of my rurall

music hath scorners between, as they explode inside, keep watch and what shall be your hands, and thus. All thy shepherd sang in height and hearts!

Fall, that he scarce a crayoned cat, its resonance; his touch the skull, Mr. Sever: be white fawn, you kisses thou wilt prove many subtle

and better of beauteous evening her doth dwelling of the same, I am too great grace, which doth dispraise if a Hungary fail?

To his own. We two horse with her lawns give: to me subscribes each man who asked the flower to my arms or crystal shell, yet dried blood can

shower will fare: mayst thou, who, wandering; now Mars, now Momus; and made myself am mortgage on the enemies, a wretch below.

A field that do mislead the water. I’ll write, and cease to critic and in a waste. Yea, too, I diligently conducting, with his

wonders them go, before, and a children leave to choke. Fact; and feeble flocke he ledde, and laughing laughing Nature I am the hearts!

As Julia’s sight of my spoke: but like breasts are all ages, the one dead the surface. The storm unfold on trains. Can yet thus, that I know

it; and all thing the first; why this wings about what it wears; but Anguisht with murderous grace which was locust on the wild their bacon.

Suddenly two years long, and not have more; till the lesson again is over, not like Homer! My husbandship much too would wanton

and perpetual motion. Perfect best, as fast doth wear, they explode inside his the color of the women have been abandoned.

Who would makes me his spoil’d child loved me as Divine. To fingers to waste in a day, their years ago. Written into find and wanton

eyes! But cease; whether father breath of glowing, it goads men this hell, as it, and from the dust; we are game as bull-dogs and quite forgot.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #160 texts #rispetto sequence

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darklordofthesimp · 2 years

Text

Perfidy (Din Djarin x Reader)

Din was having trouble with a bounty. You, on the other hand, couldn't get rid of them. You became the bait in his plan for a successful hunt, a plan that he failed to mention.

A/N: Classic angst, betrayal, lies, oh my! AND THERE WILL BE NO PART 2. YOU WILL ALL SUFFER.

Category: Angst

Warnings: Sexual harassment, Inappropriate Touching, Swearing

"I saw your bounty today," you muttered, more to yourself than anything. The man you'd been trying to converse with for the last ten minutes was otherwise distracted. It was usually the case that after unsuccessful days, the Mandalorian would check out and wallow in frustration. The commonplace event didn't make it any less irritating.

You dragged your jumper over your knuckles, desperately trying to tempt your body heat to spread. The temperature of the Crest was frigid and your fingers ached from the cold. Distantly, you missed the hot suns of Tatooine, the warmth that would beat against your skin as you worked, it was blissful in comparison to this.

The spoon clattered from his hands, startling you from your thoughts. You shot him a questioning stare and he cleared his throat, setting the Child to the floor. The little one was off in a flash, he was rarely allowed to explore without supervision and you had no doubt you'd find him in your tool bag later.

"You-" he shook his head, "you saw the bounty?"

You nodded hesitantly.

"Where?" The word was harsh as he leaned in, finally allowing you his undivided attention. You weren't so sure you wanted it now.

"The market," you stammered confusedly. "Well, I couldn't get rid of him actually..."

There was a short silence as you let your eyes drag back to the man before you. He was watching you and although you knew it wasn't you that he was interested in, you still felt heat rise to your cheeks.

"Turns out he has a thing for humans," you rolled your eyes, disgusted by the memory. "Apparently he harasses them every day down there. Remind me to never go back."

The memory of his grimy hands gripping your body made your stomach churn. It was only with the intervention of a kind shopkeeper did the Trandoshan stop his groping.

Your companion said nothing, leaning back into his seat. He was characteristically quiet, but this was a different type. Of course, you were sure that he had to know that chasing a bounty in bright reflective metal was going to alert them. It wasn't the first time he'd had to wait and definitely not the first time that you'd run into them first.

You swallowed hard, letting loose a shaky breath. "The sooner you get him the better."

"Yeah," you said quickly, maybe too quickly. You stood up and gathered your things, offering him a tight-lipped smile. "You're doing the shopping from now on, though."

He nodded his agreement and you both settled into another silence. Shifting in your seat, you suddenly felt uneasy. You hadn't wanted to remember the events of the day, and now you felt as though you were going to be violently ill.

"Are you okay?" He asked hesitantly.

The hunter remained quiet as you left.

___

"I need you to pick up something for me."

That was what you had woken up to. It was an unpleasant way to say 'good morning', you supposed, there couldn't really be anything good about it now. There wasn't the tiniest sliver of anything pleasant regarding those markets or the creatures that lingered there.

"There are specific flight suits I need," he asserted, folding his arms. Your eyes narrowed. Hadn't you just told him yesterday that you wouldn't be going back to that Maker-forsaken flea market? The tin can knew that you'd been harrassed, didn't he care?

You snorted internally, of course he didn't. You were his employee, no matter what your feelings were, he saw you as a tool to be used. Not a companion, not a friend, nothing more, simply a solution to his technical problems.

And with that, you rolled your eyes. "I'm your mechanic, not your dry cleaner. Get your own shit, Mando."

The hunter's arms fell from his chest and he let his fingers rest against his belt. With a slow stride forward he sighed.

"Please," his voice was low and imploring, a tone he had never taken with you. To make matters worse he said your name, not your last but your first. "I can't do this by myself, I need your help."

You squinted at him. "Are you guilt-tripping me?"

"No."

"You are."

"Listen," he threw his hands up in exasperation and you leaned back. No matter what he said, you would not be going back there and you couldn't believe that he was even suggesting it. The Mandalorian cupped your shoulders, gloved fingers twitching against your hot skin.

Your lips parted, watching him with blatant surprise.

"Please, as a friend. As...what we are, I need your help."

The words stunned you. Not only had he dropped that he considered you to be a friend but what he had implied after? The feelings that you had dug a hole for and buried were beginning to resurface and you clenched your teeth.

"Fine," you growled.

___

The market was just as you remembered it, hot and stuffy, reeking of spices and meat. You hated it. Tugging the hood of your cloak lower against your face you exhaled hard.

Flight suits, come on.

You knew the vendor that the Mandalorian would need his things from. The unfortunate part of that is it would land you in the same sector that you had last seen the Trandoshan. That was a character you had no intention of coming into contact with again.

Distantly, you wondered if your companion had found him yet, you hoped that he'd roughed him up some and thrown him in carbonite. It would be a small piece of justice to help you sleep at night.

"Hello there, little thing."

Your heart leaped into your throat. No, no, no, no.

"You thought that cloak would hide you?" A hand rested against the small of your back and you scrambled forward, spinning on your heels. The lizard grinned terribly, hands raised as if to signal peace.

"Oh, my morsel is jumpy today!"

"Leave me alone," you snapped. Your stomach churned violently, low and lurching. This is exactly what you had been trying to avoid, you weren't even anywhere near the vendor yet.

The bounty crooned, shaking his head with a mocking pout. "Come now, that's not what you really want."

You were backed against an abandoned cart, and with a quick observation, you knew that the nearby merchants would be of no help. Downturned eyes purposely avoiding the disaster unfolding, it made you sicker than you already were.

"Get the fuck away from me," you snarled, searching the cart for a weapon. A jagged piece of wood was the best you could find and you knew it wouldn't do much. Not with that blaster mounted on the Trandoshan's belt.

The slimy creature approached slowly, "You'll beg me to be closer. They all do."

He was tall, easily towering over your cowering frame. They were known for their strength and warrior prowess and you were in no position to do anything but run. You were boxed in, attempting to run would only mean running straight into his arms and exciting him further.

"Fuck off!" You screamed, your voice hoarse. "Somebody fucking help me! Please!"

Your cry broke off into a sob as his hands settled on your hips, that reptilian tongue tracing his mouth grotesquely. You wanted to throw up, there was nothing you could do but pray. Pray that someone would gain the courage to help, pray that Mando found you, pray that the bounty would just kill you first.

"We're going to have fun-"

The sentence finished in a choked gasp. You hadn't even registered the blaster shot.

You whimpered when the creature fell forward, his steaming body collapsing against your frame. His face fell into the crook of your neck and you let loose a wretched scream. "Get off, get off, get off."

As if an unknown deity had heard your prayers, the limp lizard slid from your body to a crumpled pile on the floor. Your chest heaved, tears burning the skin of your cheeks. You could barely breathe.

The Mandalorian was before you in an instant, "are you hurt? Are you okay?"

You said nothing, throwing yourself into his arms without a second thought. You had never given him a handshake, let alone a hug, but at that moment you didn't care. You cared about nothing other than the fact that he had saved you and protected you where others couldn't.

Din's arms came around you easily, holding you tightly to his chest. It was enough to open the flood gates. You cried, and you did it hard. Convulsing gasps, racking sobs, jumbled words, it was a blur that you made no effort to remember.

"You're okay, Cyar'ika, You're okay."

His words were maundered, the same sentence slipping like a prayer.

"Let me take you home."

You sat quietly, watching the Mandalorian as he busied himself in the cabin hold. There was no real reason for him to be down there, you knew. He was lingering to keep an eye on you, gauge your mood, manage your needs and ensure that you were okay.

It was sweet... but it wasn't adding up.

The flight suits hadn't been mentioned, and while that may be because the priority has shifted, it could also be because he already had enough. You remembered that he had bought a bunch on the last planet you'd visited. He'd called it his yearly restock. Yearly.

On top of that, the hunter had told you he would be in the suburbs, searching the huts and consulting the people. Nowhere near the markets. Considering that was the last known sighting of the Trandoshan, why would he send you to the markets and search in the opposite direction?

Why had he even asked you to go there in the first place? You told him. You told him that the bounty had harassed you, that he had an obsession with 'pretty little humans'.

He would never purposely put you in harm's way, he barely allowed you off the ship. There was no way.

There was no way.

But as you watched him, in the dim lighting of the cargo hold, guiltily lingering, you thought you could be wrong. You prayed you weren't.

You wantonly begged any deity who could hear you, hoping that they would dispel your fears, that you were wrong and just shaken from the events of the day. You wished it wasn't true, that he genuinely cared about you and hadn't just done what you thought he had.

But the lead that settled in your chest, dragging your lungs down to your stomach, said otherwise. You asked anyway.

"Did you know?" You pondered quietly, unable to force the words out louder. It felt like the air had been stolen from you, your sentence barely a rasp.

The Mandalorian fumbled the spanner in his hand and it clattered against the table. Those broad shoulders stilled, and every ounce of his body turned to proverbial stone. He made no move to face you, another red flag that sent heat crawling through your system. Red rage licked at your face, a poison exploring every crevice beneath the skin.

"Din," you snapped, acid dripping from his name. "Did you know?" "

The warrior turned, and he did it torturously slow, as though he was hoping you would be gone by the time he faced you. He was silent. You knew then that he was guilty.

The floor felt as though it had been ripped out from beneath you, your heart pounding in your ears, so loud that you couldn't hear your own thoughts. He wouldn't.

Your vision swam, the hot tears threatening to spill over your lashes. Searching his features did nothing for you, there were no eyes to look into, no mouth to watch for expression, no skin to touch.

His fingers twitched by his side, a habit of anxiety.

"Cyar'ika," his words trembled. "I'm sorry."

Sorry? That was all he had to offer? An apology?

You couldn't process what was happening. You had been so fucking stupid. So stupid as always, never seeing things or people for what they truly were. So fucking desperate to be loved like a dejected pet that only wanted affection.

He was a Mandalorian.

Why had you ever thought that there could ever be anything between you? Why did you think that he's be anything other than transactional?

He was smart, so, so smart. The hunter had known that you were the perfect target to draw the skittish Trandoshan out. He also knew that you would never have agreed to be bait had he asked you outright.

Your fist clenched, wanting nothing more than to smack your head hard for your sheer fucking naivety. You were embarrassed, so humiliated you couldn't even begin to put those feelings into words. Nothing could describe the overwhelming landslide that overcame you, there was no word strong enough for it.

When he knew you wouldn't cooperate, he tried a different tactic.

"Please, as a friend. As...what we are, I need your help."

Your ears could have bled at the memory of that voice, of that sentence, of that manipulation.

Mando approached you, spurting apologies to console. You heard nothing.

"You used me," you sobbed.

Hands gripped your body, "we will have such fun together, you and I, little morsel."

"No, no, no, listen," Din pleaded, hands raised to signal peace. But you didn't want peace. You wanted to leave. You wanted him gone.

You could still smell the salty sweat of the bounty, his tongue flicking toward your face to try to capture your scent.

The racing beat of your heart, your desperate screams for help, the realization that you may be dragged into slavery by a cruel and sick master. The thought that you would never see your bounty hunter again. You'd thought that your life was at the end.

He had let that happen.

For a job.

For credits.

"You knew I loved you," you struck your palms against the beskar plating of his chest. "You knew I'd do anything you asked if you sweetened it a little."

He whispered your name, grasping your wrists. Din was shaking his head, but he couldn't deny what you were saying, and you both knew it. You both knew that you were right.

"You knew and you used me and you sent me out there!" The tears warbled your voice, nearly indecipherable words delivered in a grating scream. "You didn't fucking care! You never did! You just let him... You let him-"

The man before you didn't let you finish, hushing you softly as though calming a restless baby. "Of course, I care. I would never have let him do anything, please, you have to know that. I would never-"

"But you did!" You bellowed, the words a condemnation of every promise the Mandalorian had ever made, any lie of protection he had spewed. He was deceitful, he had played you, he had been smarter than you.

And you were too soft.

You ripped your hands from him, stumbling away from his grip. The sight of him used to set your heart alight, every prayer that he would finally notice you falling on deaf ears. You only wanted a sliver of his attention, anything that would show you he cared.

But now, as you appraised him, the vision made you sick.

"Please," he whispered, reaching for you from where he stood. You smacked his hand away, baring your teeth. The hatred you felt was unlike anything you had ever experienced, it was almost a spiritual possession. Every ounce of your body buzzed with rage, your fingertips electric with violent fury.

It felt better than the hurt.

Anything felt better than his betrayal.

"I hope to never see you again," you said, a frightening calm washing over your body. "I hope you get everything you deserve."

"Where will you go," he shook his head. "Let me take you back to-"

"And when you do finally get what you deserve," you interrupted, turning on your heel, "I will not be at your funeral."

There was only silence from behind you.

It was all he knew to do, you realized as you grabbed your satchel from the floor. He could offer nothing more than that endless, infuriating, unsatisfying silence.

You hoped he would one day choke on it.

#din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #din djarin x y/n #the mandalorian #din djarin x you #baby yoda #grogu

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spencersawkward · 3 years

Note

hi i love your writing sm, could u do something w having sex w mgg in his trailer🦋

oh yes i can most definitely do that. i just did a blurb that included something similar but i have a whole other fantasy for this one that i think would be so hot. this is just like filthy smut i might have done a lil too much lol.

summary: reader goes to visit her friend, Matthew, on set. when he catches her doing something dirty in his trailer, he offers to help.

word count: 4.2k

relationship: Fem!Reader/Matthew

content warnings: unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, masturbation, dirty talk, face-sitting, degradation, Cocky Matthew, some semi-exhibitionism.

masterlist

my toes curl over the sheets and I let out a dissatisfied groan as I throw the abandoned vibrator onto the side table. ever since flying home from visiting friends in New York, I’ve been absolutely, embarrassingly... horny.

usually, my trusty toy is able to work wonders; this week has been rough, though. maybe it’s something to do with my stress-levels or maybe my body just doesn’t feel like cooperating. it doesn’t help that I have about an hour before I’m scheduled to visit my friend on the set of his show.

I haven’t seen Matthew in almost a year. between his shooting schedule and my own job getting more demanding, spending time together really hasn’t been possible. I miss his laugh and the way our conversations always flow so easily. whenever we hang out, it’s like we pick up right where we left off. and now, as I give up on trying to get one off before seeing him, I start to wonder what to expect. a tour? meeting his castmates?

to be completely honest, I don’t really want to do any of that. I’m sure they’re all very nice people and we’d have a good time, but the last week in the city was so full of group interactions that I’m really hoping to sit across from each other and just... talk.

there’s no point in speculating, though. instead, I glance over at my disappointing toy and sigh. maybe next time.

when I get there, Matthew texts me to wait for him so he can bring me to his trailer. everyone is bustling around, moving according to their own chaotic schedules. a couple golf carts occasionally roll through the space, toting actors and other personnel. it’d be overwhelming for anyone who isn’t used to it.

“Y/N!” Matthew’s voice cuts across the din of the set as he waves. he’s leaning out of the side of a golf cart that he’s driving, which makes me nervous as he pulls up to me. I raise my eyebrows in surprise as he stops the cart and hops out to wrap me in a hug.

he smells good, like expensive cologne and cool air. as he withdraws, he sets his hands on my shoulders and grins at me.

“you look great! how are you?” as usual, he’s talkative. I smile back, though, and take in his appearance. he’s always been handsome, but right now Matthew is looking especially good: the breeze has swept his curls, he’s got on a colorful button-up short-sleeve with parakeets on it, and there’s some stubble growing on his face that’s new. he looks older, more mature.

kind of sexy.

“I’m really well. cool ride you’ve got.” I nod to the golf cart and Matthew laughs.

“you wanna know a secret?” he smirks. I raise my eyebrows and he leans down a little to reach my height. “I’m not supposed to drive that.”

“how’d you get it?” I frown. knowing him, he probably managed to charm his way around the rules, but I’m sure there’s a funny story behind it as well. he’s full of weird anecdotes.

“one of my cast mates distracted the guy who runs the warehouse where they keep them.” he winks, then gestures for me to follow him. I slide into the passenger seat and before I can really process what’s happening, he’s swerving in a wide circle and speeding off.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” he practically yells over the sound of the motor. “but I know you’ve been busy.”

“yeah, I actually just started writing for this new show.”

“you’re downtown, then?” he glances over with a smile and then we’re slowing to a stop. an enormous trailer sits among rows of other enormous trailers, presumably for his cast mates. he turns off the cart and turns his body to face me while I talk. zeroes in on me in a way that makes my stomach flip.

“for right now, yeah.” I can’t help the smile. it’s been a while since I’ve worked in Los Angeles; I was working as a writer on one of Matthew’s independent films when I got an offer in New York and decided to relocate. and even though it was amazing there, I missed California sunshine and I missed him. we were inseparable before I left.

“so, what I’m hearing is that you’re now legally bound to hang out with me.” he grins in that dazzling way of his. I laugh and nod, climbing out when he does. he opens the trailer door for me. “I have to go back to work in about twenty minutes, but afterwards I wanna take you to dinner.”

“oh, I could have come later. I’m sorry.” I turn to apologize, but he’s quick to wave it off.

“it’s fine. as long as you don’t mind spending an hour in here, it shouldn’t be too torturous.”

I peer around the space, noticing the little ways in which Matthew has made this place his own: aside from all the complimentary gift baskets and notes, the trailer is occupied by strange trinkets that he’s collected, random books and notebooks that scatter the couch and what looks like an attempt at a desk.

“wow.” I say. he sidles up next to me, sighing and realizing that it’s a bit cluttered.

“sorry about the mess. I haven’t really had time to clean up.”

“no, no, I meant ‘wow’ in a good way.” I walk over to the couch and sit down, patting the spot next to me. he smiles, pushes an acting theory book out of the way, and sinks into the cushions a safe distance from me.

“tell me about this job, then.” he immediately starts. I shrug.

“it’s nothing huge, just a teen drama. everyone I work with is brilliant, though.”

“that’s amazing. have you had a chance to work on your art?”

I think back to all the times when Matthew and I would spend free afternoons doing doodle competitions of the crew, usually on random scripts. they were judged by other cast mates, anyone who would take the time to look. I don’t think I was supposed to be on set as much as I was, but it was worth it.

“I wish. my schedule is so busy now, I barely have time to make dinner for myself.” I laugh. he leans back into the corner of the couch, resting his arm on top of the back. I pull one leg beneath me and mirror his actions.

“that’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing some new stuff.”

“I don’t think any of my co-workers would particularly enjoy the representations I do of them.”

“sour sports.” he says. the strangeness and vehemence of the sentiment makes me snort and I glance at the notebooks around the room.

“how about you? any new masterpieces?”

we go on like this for a while, just catching up and slipping into our inside jokes and memories as if they aren’t from a different time in our lives. although I was excited to see him today, there was a lingering nervousness about it going as planned. sometimes you try to reconnect and the spark is just... gone. but Matthew is still Matthew, and I’m still me.

he ends up leaving to go shoot sooner than I can believe, time passing quickly, and tells me to feel free to read any of his books or look through his sketchbooks. he never hides anything, and it’s admirable.

once he’s gone, I settle onto the couch with a used Ray Bradbury anthology that I found beneath a bag of sour candies and start to read.

my mind wanders, however, as I try to concentrate on the page. I think about how Matthew looks now, how the stubble makes his jaw even more defined. those wide, hazel eyes that always seem to glitter with enthusiasm. I don’t know if I’m still frustrated from the unsuccessful session with my vibrator earlier, but the thoughts begin to turn over in my mind and mingle with other ones.

there were moments with him that I remember, quiet ones where we’d be about to say goodnight or moments where he’d fall asleep on my shoulder in my apartment, where I’d look at him and consider the possibility. we get on so well, and he’s arguably one of my best friends. distance hasn’t changed that. there are things I would tell him that I haven’t told my other friends.

and when he’d brush against my skin, or grab my arm to get my attention, and my imagination would run wild. heated kisses and closed doors. finding the way to my bed in the dark, his hands on my waist while he crawls on top of me. things that never happened but that I imagined as if they were real memories seared into my mind.

and now, sitting in this trailer with this book and on this couch that smells like him, those feelings return like something lost, then found: rushing, feverish, overpowering. the images come in a flux, his weight on top of mine and his teeth dragging over my tits. on this couch, that’s all I want.

there’s a blush on my cheeks as I drop the book on the floor and undo the button on my pants. it won’t take me long; I can feel how wet I’m getting and I haven’t even thought that much about it. the pent-up excitement from earlier will overtake my senses. he said I have an hour, and this might take ten minutes tops.

as my fingertips brush over my panties, I close my eyes and imagine they’re his. curious, gentle, teasing before reaching below the waistband and cupping me. I whimper, starting to trace over the wet folds of my entrance with an eager hand. it feels good, right, and the heat of my body tells me that this time, it’ll work. my head is full of thoughts of him, and I dip a finger in, clenching around the digits. the heel of my palm presses into my clit and I moan, starting to work myself.

I imagine Matthew coming in here after he’s done and kissing me like he’s wasted enough time waiting; like he can’t wait another second to be with me. my pace quickens at the memory of his hands, veined and strong and sure, pumping into me. taunting me.

“Matthew...” I whine, removing my fingers to circle my clit with a hurried pressure. every second burns across my skin, reminding me that what I’m doing is wrong. I shouldn’t be touching myself in his trailer while he works, especially not when he’s coming back soon.

but it’s hot, too, and the rhythm I create is impossible to resist. I switch between fingering and toying with my bundle of nerves while clenching my free hand in the couch cushion. my eyes are squeezed shut as I get closer to orgasm, the knot in my stomach tightening with every moment.

“o-oh my god,” I hum. “Matthew--”

the sharp intake of breath makes my entire body freeze. my eyes fly open to see the bastard himself standing there, lips parted. he can’t seem to figure out where to look: my face, which was just contorted in pleasure while I moaned his name, or my pussy, which is almost completely on display now that I’ve managed to push my jeans down to my knees.

“oh my god.” I stutter, immediately removing my hand and sitting up. my cheeks are on fire and everything around me seems surreal. this can’t be real. “y-you weren’t supposed to be back for an hour.” I say stupidly. shit ton of luck that hour did me.

“we, uh, wrapped early.” he averts his eyes, then glances cautiously at my face. “I promise I walked in here before I knew. I never meant--”

“no, it’s fine.” I pull up my jeans, still too shocked to make any sweeping movements. he doesn’t seem quite sure what to do with himself, and I speak to break the silence. “sorry, I know I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wonder what you’d have done with an actual hour.” he says it like he’s attempting to lighten the mood, then winces as he realizes that he shouldn’t have said that. “sorry, bad joke. I’m just-- surprised.”

“Matthew, I’m so sorry--” I start. there’s literally no other direction to take this conversation. I feel like I’ve ruined our friendship within the span of a few seconds.

“were you saying my name?” he asks, eyebrows slightly raised. I would like to sink into the floor and never come up again, I think.

“well, the thing is--” I take a deep breath. “I don’t normally, um... do that in people’s trailers?” my frown makes him smile a little as he relaxes. now that I’m fully clothed, he doesn’t seem so daunted. I scoot up on the couch and glance between the open spot and him to get him to sit. standing only makes it weirder.

he obliges, watching me pull my knees into my chest before I start to explain. guilt is building in my chest now, so much more real after being caught.

“I don’t wanna make this even more awkward than it is, but I feel like I should make it clear that there’s a reason why I was doing it in here and I’m not some freak who, like, contaminates people’s space. like, I was just gonna be super quick about it and be done because-- and now I’m justifying it, which is even worse--”

“hey, Y/N, relax.” Matthew reaches out and touches my wrist, his fingers soft as they pull my attention to his. when I finally muster the courage to look him in the eyes, he’s got a small smile on his face. “I’m not mad or anything.”

“okay.” I sigh, spine going a little less rigid.

“you were moaning my name, though, right?” he smirks. my eyes widen.

“don’t get too cocky,” I try to play it off. “I haven’t been able to get off for the past few days and I only tried it to see if it would work.”

“looks like it did.” he glances between my flushed cheeks and the hand that was playing with myself, which is now sitting on my jeans. how is he being so fucking smooth right now?

“whatever.” I turn my face away, knowing that anything else would be damning.

“are you still... frustrated?” he asks. his voice is low. my face snaps up, jaw dropping. one of his hands is covering the crotch of his jeans, trying to hide something.

“why?”

“I can help you out. only if you want to, of course.” he says this in complete seriousness. my gaze passes over his features once again to make sure I’m not absolutely dreaming. every line in his face, the intensity of those pretty irises, feels too real to be fake.

“like...” I think about his hands, about what he’s offering. it’s heavier than just sex, but also maybe not. it doesn’t have to be; we’re adults. our friendship wouldn’t be shattered by one encounter.

“like I’ll eat you out right now and fuck you until you can’t take it anymore.” we’ve moved closer on the couch, our faces inches apart while he says it so quietly that I wouldn’t hear it otherwise. the way he licks his lips, stares at me, tells me that we’ve already passed the point of no return. there’s no use in holding back anymore.

“mhmm.” I nod. if I say anything more, I’ll reveal more than he wants to know. that I’ve wanted this for a while, even though I tried to forget the way he makes me feel.

“come here, then.” he beckons me forward and I impatiently crash my lips to his. he responds immediately, threading his fingers through my hair and pulling me to him. he’s greedy, but not in a way that overwhelms. like he’s trying to enjoy the moment. his nose brushes my cheek when he deepens the kiss, my hands looping around his neck. he begins to bite on my lower lip, tugging to get me to moan. I let him explore me, those features that he’s seen so many times but has never touched.

we’re hopeful in our embrace, and my mind feels like spring and how I imagine the earth feels when it’s in full bloom. excitement in my veins as we get more heated. when his fingers unbutton my jeans, he pulls away to take a moment.

“sit on my face.” he breathes out, feverish. I nod, getting up to shrug off my jeans. he watches, licking his lips when I pull down my panties and step out of them, then take off my top and bra. he leans back as if to sink down onto the couch for me, but I shake my head.

“take off your clothes first.” I tell him.

“you wanna see me naked?” he knows the truth, but wants me to say it. the smirk on his face makes me annoyingly aroused. I just start to go for the buttons on his shirt.

“yeah, I wanna see you naked.” I reply. this makes him grin and he helps me out by working on his jeans. we strip him down and then we’re both there, looking at each other.

“c’mere, beautiful.” he grabs my hip and pulls me closer until I get on the couch and position myself. he lies down flat, gesturing for me to scoot up his chest until my core is right above his face. “perfect.”

I’m about to poke a little fun at him for being so confident when he reaches up, wraps his hands around my thighs, and pulls me down against his face.

I yelp, overwhelmed by how he moans against my heat and starts to eat me out. his tongue moves expertly, lapping at the wetness that’s gathered between my legs before teasing my entrance. I release a series of noises that are downright sinful, but the red marks he’s leaving in my thighs tell me he’s loving my reaction. his nose brushes against my clit and I start to roll my hips against his face, falling apart already as he switches between sucking, licking, and sliding his tongue inside me. I grip onto his hair, mumbling like a prayer.

he takes the opportunity to quickly slap my ass before returning to my thighs, burying his face and working with a divine acuity. I can’t believe how good it feels, throwing my head back and arching my spine while I hold my tits. Matthew moves my hand and massages one while he stares up into my eyes, lust evident in every sound and motion.

“Matthew, please--” I gasp. “don’t stop.”

he groans, running his nails down my stomach while I ride his face. I’m needy for him, only uttering his name and more pleas for his tongue. and the sensation of him holding me down like he can’t get enough makes the knot from earlier return easily. I lean back a little, swirl my hips, and then it comes like a white-hot wave.

“oh my god—“ I can barely get it out, moving with abandon. “it’s so fucking good.”

he lets my body slow to a reasonable pace, drawing out the high until I’m swallowing all the air I can get and pull myself away from him. Matthew’s grinning, mouth glistening while he sits up a bit.

“such a wet little pussy.” he tells me, licking his lips. I’m pretty much resting on his chest and I start to move off of him when he quickly straightens himself, wraps his arms around my waist, and pushes me so I’m laying on my back at the other end of the couch with him leaning over me.

I brush his curls out of his face, appreciating the hunger in his face. he craves more of me, and the erection he’s pressing into my inner thigh is proof. I look up at him.

“you’re good.” I concede. he shrugs, smiles. butterflies.

“I just think about it a lot.” the response is simple, but it’s the right one. I blush and he grabs his dick, pumping it a few times before lining it up at my entrance. I search his eyes, those widened pupils, as he shoves into me.

“shit.” he moans, jaw dropping once he’s reaching the hilt. “give it to me, baby.” I can feel him deep inside, cock twitching against my walls as he settles. one of his arms is over me, supporting himself on the arm of the couch, while the other holds my waist.

I don’t speak, only bite down on my lip and whimper through the initial shocks of him. it isn’t until he pulls out that I get more vocal. he starts to roll his hips, never breaking eye contact while I arch my back and moan.

“harder.” I whisper. he tightens his grip on me and slams himself inside. my body instinctively moves up away from the pressure, but he brings me right back down.

“is this what you were thinking about?” he breathes out. “me fucking you like a slut?”

I nod urgently, but he uses an index finger to tilt my face back to his.

“tell me who you belong to, little slut.” his tone is low, laced with lust when he bites his lip and watches my reactions to his cock.

“you.” I whine quietly, grabbing his shoulders for stability while he plows into me.

“louder, sweetheart. you were plenty sure before.” he mocks, pausing after to moan in my ear like he’s absolutely losing it. he roughly tugs me further against him and the sensation makes me cry out.

“y-you-- fuck!”

“c’mon, baby.” he pants. we’re definitely rocking this trailer with the way he’s ramming my body right now. I can feel him like he’s in my ribs.

“Matthew, oh god--”

“show me how you cum, Y/N. lemme see you fucking break.” the final word is punctuated by him bottoming-out within me, his noises their own stimulation to my senses. I’m trying to breathe but it’s so hard with all the thoughts firing in my brain. he doesn’t go easy on me.

“I’m cumming.” my hips jerk up into his, pussy fluttering like it’s trying to push him out. but the tension only makes him thrust harder, further, chasing his own release as I claw at his back and squeeze my legs around his torso.

“can I fill that tight little cunt up, baby?” he moans into my ear, our bodies like undulating waves. I nod and buck against him, which drives him mad as his thrusts get sloppier. we’re filthy together and it’s otherworldly. “good girl.”

he lets out a whimpering sound while he stills inside my body and cums. I feel him twitching, shooting his load into me. I’m writhing while I clench around him, both of us falling apart. for all his cockiness, he’s lovely when he’s orgasming-- mouth open, eyes rolling back into his head before focusing intently on my face, a sheen of sweat that glows on his cheekbones.

when he finally withdraws, leaving me naked and panting on his couch, his eyes run over my body appreciatively.

“that help?” he smirks as he straightens. I glare at him, kneeing him in the ribs, and he leans down to kiss my cheek, giving me a tender look. “I’m joking. are you okay?”

“more than okay.” I smile. he doesn’t say anything for a moment, closing and opening his mouth as if debating whether or not to say something else.

“you’re really beautiful, you know that?”

“thanks.” as if this man hasn’t already fucked me senseless, I blush, look away shyly. he grabs my clothes from the floor and hands them to me.

“do you want some water?” he’s worried about giving me space. there’s a question lingering between us that I’m afraid to ask, especially now that he hasn’t. Matthew has always been the more bold between the two of us.

“uh, sure.” if it means he takes his eyes off me long enough for me to regain my bearings, yes. I watch him pull on the rest of his clothes before standing and going over to his mini-fridge. I’ll need to clean up soon.

“so...” his voice is measured, hazel eyes slipping over my form.

“so.”

“dinner? and then breakfast?” he suggests. my eyebrows raise at the second question, one that he hasn’t mentioned until now. the implication makes me laugh.

“you think you’re getting this again?” I try to act nonchalant, as if I’m not already imagining it.

“oh, wait--” he frowns, hesitates. “that’s not what I meant.”

“what did you mean?” there’s a grin taking over my face, hopeful as I await his response. I guess we’re about to answer that question after all.

“I wanna finally take you on a date.” he smiles softly, surprisingly shy. I don’t even hesitate to answer.

“I’m in.”

#mgg smut #mgg #matthew gray gubler #rpf #criminal minds #mgg oneshot

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itsblissfuloblivion · 3 years

Text

Prompt #69 for @clarensjoy‘s Hinny FicFest 2021: "His pickup line wasn't as good as mine. Just saying"

Ao3 // FFnet

hey, tis us, last kids joining the party. hopefully it’s still alright!

It’s a Tuesday, so the din of the pub is a bit muted in comparison. Loud and full enough that nobody will get ideas about getting to know their table neighbours, but quiet enough that you don’t have to shout to be heard. Harry’s boot sticks to the floor as he steps inside and for a moment he’s about to let loose some colourful swears about arseholes who don’t understand that spent gum belongs in a bin, but his attention is quickly pulled away by another arsehole at the bar trying to flex his flirtation muscles.

If Harry reads the bloke’s mark’s facial expression correctly, said flex has been wholly unsuccessful so far. And Harry’s made his own study of the current focus of said bloke, since Sixth Year in fact, so Harry’s comfortable saying he’s something of an expert on Ginny Weasley.

Slowly - with a slight drag on his gummed left heel - Harry picks his way through the shadowy bits of the pub towards Ginny as she continues her valiant attempt to scan the menu. Soon, Harry’s close enough to join Ginny’s ‘enjoyment’ of her current companion.

The bloke is mid-build, just shy of Harry’s height, and almost as into his boy band hair as he is to excessive use of perfume. Things he apparently is not into include reading body language, accepting personal space boundaries, and wearing hats correctly. Harry winces - half for Ginny’s nose and half for whatever this stranger is about to have done to him - when Perfume Lover leans in closer to Ginny. “Hello, beautiful! No need to check that out, I already know what’s on the menu - me ‘n’ you.”

Harry’s suppressing his snort, and a bit of horror, at the line when Ginny leans in close, eyes sharp. If Boy Band knew what was good for him, he’d pay more attention to Ginny’s blood thirsty look than the fact that she’s drawing close. But honestly, Harry can’t fault him too much - for getting distracted that is - because one whiff of her hair and the simple warmth of her as she draws near still sends Harry’s heart pounding. That’s about where Harry’s ability to relate to Ball Cap begins and ends.

As expected, the content of Ginny’s low whisper is less ‘want to get out of here’ and more ‘guts for garters’ because the pick up artist is soon backing away with a shocked expression, stumbling over barstools and an innocent busboy.

With a grin, Harry steadies the busboy on his feet and swipes a paper napkin to drag the bulk of the gum from his boot. He doesn’t break stride as he tosses the napkin in a bin and makes his way towards Ginny, who has returned her attention to the menu and the tiny red straw between her lips.

Somehow, he doesn’t end up sprawled on the floor when she twirls it, or when her tongue darts out to wet her lips, or even when the waitress returns with a new drink. Instead, he keeps pace to end up with one arm draped around Ginny’s shoulders just as she’s left alone at the high top table. “Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk past you again?”

Ginny snorts, nose crinkling as she stabs at the ice with her straw. “Reckon I’m sticking with the other bloke tonight.”

Harry frowns even as he claims the free stool closest to Ginny. “His pickup line wasn’t as good as mine,” he swipes her drink, ignoring her indignant ‘Oi!’ and takes a sip, “Just saying.”

“How about get your own drink, Mr. Just Saying?” Ginny grumbles, though the blow of her grousing is softened by the quick press of her lips to his.

“I can’t decide between the burger and the stew.”

Harry raises his hand in the hopes of beckoning someone with relevant resources to bring him a pint. He receives a nod from behind the bar and soon turns his attention back to Ginny. “Is the new Firebolt nearby?”

Ginny tears her eyes away from the menu. “Pardon? No - we’re on the Cleansweep - ”

“Oh,” Harry shakes his head, “Must’ve just been my heart taking off.”

“If you promise to shut up I’ll do that thing you like so much,” Ginny manages to mutter with a roll of her eyes, pausing only once the waitress arrives with Harry’s drink. He takes a long sip while Ginny orders - apparently having decided on the burger. When the waitress turns to him he gets the same - though changing medium rare for medium well. Plus he adds, “And can we have the stew to share? With some bread.”

Once they’re alone again, Ginny nudges his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“You got me all hyped for it too,” he shrugs and slips his arm back around her, “Besides, I’m not above asking for a takeaway box.”

“Glad you seem to know the real path to my affection, that line was bloody awful. Time to move on,” Ginny winks, “I’ll keep my promise.”

“No, no. You said Boy Band had better lines than I do and now I’m proving you wrong,” Harry takes another swallow and swipes at his upper lip. “I’ll earn that thing I like the real way.”

“Which is?”

“Wooing.”

Ginny sighs. “You won’t let it go, will you?”

“Nope,” Harry pops, sitting a little taller in his chair.

“Anyhow,” Ginny says, fiddling with his fingers, “How was the meeting with Kingsley?”

“Relatively unnecessary,” Harry shrugs, “At least I think so. But you know how they like to get input and whatnot. Which means lots of almost shouting and then Kingsley puts on that face and says, ‘You’ve all given me a lot to think about.’”

“Does he change his mind much, pre to post meeting?”

“Depends who offered alternatives,” Harry answers, taking another swallow of his ale. “Which is for the best. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit people say.”

“What did you ever do to make Robards hate you so much?” Ginny asks with a chuckle when Harry’s forehead connects with her shoulder.

“I dunno, but he must. Either that or he really values my ability to half take notes and mostly doodle magical creatures.”

“Do you take requests? I want my face on the body of a harpy.”

The din of the crowd briefly increases and Harry leans close enough that Ginny’s soft flowery scent overcomes the smell of stale beer and miscellaneous fried foods. “Gin, your face is already on the body of a Harpy.”

“Har-har, you know what I mean.”

Harry shakes his head and tips so his nose nearly touches Ginny’s. “There’s something wrong with my eyes,” Ginny perks up, rapidly searching him for any injuries she neglected to notice and he continues, “There must be. Because I can’t seem to take them off you.”

She groans, shoulders slumped back against her barstool. “Harry, you have terrible eyesight. And that might have been the worst line yet.”

“Noted,” Harry nods like she’s just given him a tip on a case, “I’ll keep trying.”

“Please don’t.”

“I love a challenge.”

The waitress returns with their admittedly overdone dinner order and Ginny nearly spears Harry with the prongs of her fork. “Do not make me sick up, this smells too good to waste.”

Harry scofs. “Right. We both know you’re tougher than that. Should I remind you that your secret weapon was the Bat-Bogey Hex - a hex largely based on snot?”

“And it still is,” Ginny grins after she swallows an impressively large helping of her food. “Talking about gross, though,” she follows, eyeing Harry sideways, “any specific plans for my brother’s stag do? And don’t tell me you’ve cracked under pressure and let George organise it.”

There’s something very Molly Weasley-eque in her expression as she says it, freckles alight and splattered over her cheeks and nose in a way that always has Harry’s insides twisting and burning, without failure. So he smirks, leaning in closer.

“Which brother is that?”

Ginny kicks at his shin, wobbling on her barstool. “The one with the big nose and lanky limbs?”

“Oh, that one,” Harry widens his eyes in mock realisation. “Right, yes. No, I’m doing it."

“And?”

“And?” Harry parrots, sipping another spoonful of stew.

“Remember the bogeys, Harry,” she scowls, huffs away a red strand of hair falling on her cheeks.

His elbow planted firmly on the bar, Harry offers her his most dazzling smile, green eyes glinting mischievously behind his round glasses. “Aw, Gin, it’ll be nothing much. Just your regular boys’ night out - a little bit of getting pissed, a little bit of going to a strip club.”

Ginny laughs throatily, her head leaned back and her long, red hair grazing over her waist, eyes closed shut. “Can’t wait to read Skeeter’s take on you visiting a strip club. Honestly, Harry?”

“Nah. But we will get pissed at George’s though.”

“Figured. Good for you, you deserve it,” Ginny smiles and tops it off with a bite of warm bread. “Thanks for the laugh.”

“I aim to please,” Harry smiles back and, for a while, they both eat in contented silence, the pub’s buzz fading in the background as they enjoy each other’s presence and the feeling that they’re safe, and seen, and loved.

Later, there’s a clatter as Harry pushes his empty plate further up the bar and scans Ginny promptly before he says, “Alright, hear me out - one last try.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, bored, swishing her spoon in his direction. “Shoot.”

Harry clears his throat.

“Kiss me if I’m wrong, but Snape was so fond of me he tried to adopt me, right?”

Ginny’s forehead promptly connects with the bar top.

“That’s it,” she grunts, ginger hair pooling over her arms, spread over the black countertop, “we’re leaving. Check, please,” she raises her head to speak, voice heavy with distress.

“Women,” Harry pretends to roll his eyes, “nothing ever pleases them.”

Ginny sticks her tongue out in response. She then hops off and strides towards the loo, hair flicked over her shoulder.

Harry shakes his head, grinning; he rummages through his pocket, thumbs brushing over the hardwood of his wand, feels the cold metal of the coins piled in there. Five silver ones rattle along the counter and the barman nods his thanks.

A whiff of flowery scent floats near him, her lips suddenly close to his ear as she whispers, low, “You must be absolutely knackered, because you’ve been running through my mind all day.”

Harry dips his chin slowly, green eyes connecting with her mischief-laden brown ones, a wide, playful grin on her face. “Ginny Weasley, was that a pick-up line?” Harry whispers back.

“Sue me,” she winks.

“No way. I’m rather turned on, actually.”

“Good,” Ginny follows, evilly, her lips still close to Harry’s ear. “Bathroom? There’s a private space in the very last one.”

“Fuck yes,” Harry exhales, as though he’d just received a punch to the plexus, and lets her drag him after her.

#clare's hinny ficfest #hinny #harry x ginny #canon compliant #banter & flirting #conversations at the countertop #hinny being hinny and loving a challenge #itsblissfuloblivion writes #gryffindormischief #fightfortherightsofhouseelves

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dindjarindiaries · 4 years

Text

Mandoctober - October 27: Stranded

summary: When the Crest breaks down on a snow planet, you find yourself in desperate need of warmth—as does the Mandalorian.

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x gn!reader

warnings: pure fluff

rating: G

word count: 1.269k

mandoctober masterlist

october 27: stranded

It’s absolutely humiliating, the way you were brought onto the crew of the Razor Crest as a mechanic yet can’t seem to find out why the ship’s chosen to break down here. The Mandalorian doesn’t blame you. He never does.

“She’s old,” the Mandalorian insists, giving the cold metal wall inside the hull a firm slap—causing the suffering vessel to groan. “Sometimes, she just needs time.”

The Mandalorian goes on to explain that it’s the blizzard you’ve run into on this planet. He’d gone out on a quick hunt, but almost as soon as he’d returned, the blizzard began. When he’d tried to get the ship started up, the Crest just bucked—and no matter what you both tried to do, she wouldn’t let up. Now, you have to wait out the storm, hopefully getting the Crest back into action once it ends.

But no power on the ship means no heat. And no heat within metal walls means freezing cold temperatures. The first few hours were hard, but bearable. You’ve already given the baby all your spare blankets, not wanting him to be cold as you tuck him into his pram tightly. Thankfully, that seems to be enough, and you’ve secured his pram closed to keep the heat trapped inside.

Now, hours later, you’re left with no blankets and no additional clothing—leaving you to shiver so harshly that your teeth start to chatter.

You’ve been sitting alone in your compartment in the hull, keeping your arms wrapped around you as you watch your breath fog up in the small space. You figure the Mandalorian’s probably trying to keep himself warm in his own compartment. His armor had frozen up completely when he’d been trying to help you repair the Crest, and you know that couldn’t have helped his own body temperature to stay warm. You can feel your nose stinging with the cold, your fingers turning to ice as they grip numbly at your upper arms.

Suddenly, the door to your compartment opens, and you look up to see the Mandalorian tilting his helmet down at you. He’s still completely armored, the beskar starting to freeze over even inside the walls of the Crest. Slowly, he kneels in front of you, his elbow resting upon one of his knees as he seemingly observes you. “You’re cold,” he says, his modulated voice calculated.

You nearly chuckle as you raise an eyebrow. “J-Just a l-little,” you stutter through your chattering, wishing you could make it stop but being unsuccessful.

The Mandalorian tilts his helmet at you again. “Where are your blankets?”

“T-The baby has them.”

The Mandalorian pauses, his helmet starting to straighten back out as his gloved hand flexes into a fist and loosens itself again. “Bid kandosii'la,” he finally speaks, his modulated voice low. So amazing. You’d ask him to translate if your chattering wasn’t getting in the way. “I have blankets in my compartment.” He reaches out his gloved hand to you as he stands back up. “Come.”

You try not to let your face heat up at his proposition, accepting his hand and letting him help you up. As he leads you to the upper deck of the Crest, you try to contain the sudden fluttering in your chest. Though you and the Mandalorian haven’t spoken much and you’ve only been a part of his crew for some time, you’ve found yourself taken with him. The idea of being led to his compartment enthralls you in a way you know it shouldn’t—especially when this situation truly banks on your survival.

Still, your heart rate picks up when he takes you inside the compartment, encouraging you to sit down on his makeshift bunk as he kneels beside it. He gathers the blankets in his gloved hands, beginning to help you set them around your shivering figure. You find it hard to meet his visor as he works, feeling shy and as taken with him as ever. This is the real side of the Mandalorian you’ve gotten to witness in your time spent with him so far—though you’ve usually seen his softness towards the child. Now, he’s extending the same treatment to you, causing you to bite back a smile as he works.

“Comfortable?” the Mandalorian asks, his rasp nearly giving out with how softly the word is uttered. You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat and the chattering of your teeth as the Mandalorian gives you a satisfied nod. But when the Mandalorian moves to stand up, you start to panic, forcing yourself to form words as you look at him.

“M-Mando?” you call, keeping your voice gentle in your shyness. His visor immediately meets your gaze again, proving that you’ve got his full attention as you continue. “H-How will you stay w-warm?”

The Mandalorian releases a gentle and hesitant breath, his gloved fingers curling at his side before he answers. “If… it’s okay, I’ll join you.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You can feel your heart practically sing as you smile at him and nod. “T-That’s fine.”

The Mandalorian nods, beginning to turn away again as you watch his gloved hands reach for his pieces of armor. He pauses, looking at you again with a tilt to his helmet. “My armor is… very cold. Is it all right if—?”

“Don’t worry, Mando,” you assure him, your chattering starting to subside the more you stay huddled beneath his blankets. “Do what you m-must.”

After giving you another nod, the Mandalorian returns back to what he was doing, removing his armor piece-by-piece until he’s left with his helmet and the clothes that he wears beneath the beskar. When he’s finished, he turns back towards you, slowly settling himself down until he’s shuffling beside you on the bunk. You offer him part of the blankets, which he takes in one of his gloved hands as he wraps them over his shoulders—just like you. Your side is pressed against his, now, the warmth that radiates from him nearly making you sigh in relief as you find yourself leaning closer to him. His helmet looks over at you, the close proximity of it causing you to hold your breath. “Better?” he asks softly, the sound barely passing through his modulator.

You nod, beaming up at him. “Thank you, Mando,” you say, fighting the urge to lay your weary head upon his shoulder.

But, he seems to notice this, giving his helmet a quick shake as he shuffles closer to you. “You… You can rest your head on me. It’s all right.”

You swallow hard, trying to bite back a smile as you do what he says. It all feels natural as your head meets the cloth of his shoulder, his arm coming up to wrap around your shoulders and keep you steady. With the heat of his body pressed up against yours and the gentle motions of his thumb that he runs along your arm, you find your eyelids fluttering closed, your body melting even more into his as a result.

“You can sleep,” the Mandalorian assures you, his modulated voice still soft as ever. You begin to do what he says, not forgetting the feeling of your heart bursting in your chest nor the words he utters just before you’re taken under sleep’s spell. “Ni ven tayli nadala, cyar’ika.” I will keep you warm, sweetheart.

mandoctober tag list: @the-navistar-carol

permanent tag list: @mikahid @bestintheparsec @stilllivindue2spite @givemethatgold @xbrujita @mandalorianspace @blushingwueen @sevvysaurus @myakai13 @thisis-theway @beskars @rachelloveseveryone @theindiealto @hiscyarika @wickedfrsgrl @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @bookwafflefangirl @charliepeaceout @cable-kenobi @ezraslittleblondestreak @hdlynn @your-pixels-are-showing @b0n-chann @javier-djarin @nettyklecan @mistermiraclee @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @smellssharpies @catfishingmorales @wille-zarr @kaetastic @saltywintersoldat @agentpike @mrsparknuts @readsalot73 @yespolkadotkitty @mandhoelorian @lilangeldevil006 @roxypeanut @hail-doodles @randomness501 @this-cat-is-dea @hopplessdreamer @paintballkid711 @dracos-jedi-marvel @whataenginerd @katlikeme @petertingless @propertyofdindjarin @theocatkov @bisexual-space-slut @cyaredindjarin @arkofblake @cryptkeepersoul @motleymoose @mrschiltoncat @f0rever15elf @lady-of-nightmares-and-heartache @rogueonestan @goldafterglow @thedevilwearsbeskar @badassbaker @pancakepike @alwritey-aphrodite @mymindisawhirpool @antmnwasp @capbrie @freak-of-nature2002 @arabellathorne @mandilflorian @phoenixhalliwell @beiroviski @darthadeline @cheriedjarin @edencherries @mstgsmy @seasonschange-butpeopledont @aliciaxglasgow @poesflygirl @weirdowithnobeardo @dee-rosemary @ceebeetheartdork @kiwi-the-first @mitchi-c @arcaeperditaeinimicus

mandalorian tag list: @lola-wolf @hoodedbirdie @chibi-liz05 @nerd-without-a-cause @hdlynn @thepjofanqueen @bwemph @starwarsslytherin @iellarenuodolorian @littlevodika @jjemcarstairs @promiscuoussatan @fahrenheit-not @vernon-dursley

#we do love the classic trope of cuddling for warmth #wow what a beautiful trope #honestly such a fan #i'm in the MOOD FOR IT #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mandoctober #fluff #drabbles #dindjarindiaries

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dindjarinbae · 4 years

Text

The Stars in Your Eyes (Din Djarin x Reader)

first of all, this is dedicated to @anakinshooker, because she gave me the softest little idea for a little Mando fic, in honor of the season 2 trailer’s release. i’m in big love with Mando, my Mando heart really melted with this one. this is really nothing but fluff, like the plot is just fluff.

TW: none, mentions of a cut.

WC: 4455

PART TWO HERE!!

You lived a fairly ordinary life, or at least you’d like to think so.

Naboo was a fairly normal planet, and that’s what you loved about it. You ran your flower shop and you came home each night and you went to bed and woke up to do the same thing, and you never grew tired of it. Maybe it was boring to some, but to you, it was everything. As a flower merchant, you had many fields to pick from, to frolic in, to buy flowers from, to arrange them, to sell them and spread joy. With just flowers? Yes. You were a believer that flowers could express so much.

So you were content spending your days with them, and you did not want that to change. Change was not your favorite thing, which is why you wanted things to be the same, with the flowers and Naboo, and each constant in your life.

Unfortunately that changed on a beautiful spring morning, two days before the solstice. You sat in your chair with your hands busy weaving a crown of flowers at your little flower shop on the corner of a sweet little street, when the door flew open, the bell above it dangling chaotically. Your eyes flew to the door and you stood, the flower crown falling to the table below.

No one stood in the doorframe, no one was outside near the shop, and no one besides you was inside the store. Or at least, it seemed that way for a brief second before you heard a small intake of air, and the output of that same air in the form of a happy coo. Your eyes dropped to the floor and they settled upon a pair of the biggest eyes you’d ever seen in your life. A child, and it could only have been a foot tall, waddled toward you, swathed in a big brown robe that swallowed his entire body, making his head seem ever so tiny, and his hands appear almost minuscule. It was the strangest child you’d see, green in color with big, long ears off the side of its tiny head, and a bit of fuzz on the top of said head.

You stepped away from the table and walked around the counter to the child, who was now reaching up for you with the most pathetic, three-fingered little grabby hands you had ever seen in your life. You took your time before picking him up, blinking and looking out the window behind him for anyone that might be searching for a little child. But there was no one.

So you bent down at the waist and grabbed him by his itty bitty torso and lifted the little creature into your arms, and to this, he had much to say. He began to babble in your arms and reach up for your hair, as if he had been looking for you after so long and he finally had this chance to catch up, like a chatty aunt.

“Where in the galaxy did you come from? Hm?” You asked and looked down at him, his big eyes narrowing just slightly, as if he had no idea what you were saying, and his babbling ceased. This question seemed to cause the small thing a bit of confusion, and he huffed a couple of times before he closed his hand around a handful of your hair. He didn’t have much more to say after you spoke, your question clearly vexing him and his happy little rant in gibberish, and you took the opportunity to walk outside your shop to look around for a moment, but as it was moments ago, no one seemed to be missing a child.

No one ever came, and it wasn’t like you could let the strange and adorable little alien go off on his own, so you brought him back inside and sat him down on the tabletop where your flowers and flower crowns laid. He seemed to take a liking to these, because he picked one up with his chubby little hands and he studied it the best way a child can: with his mouth. You fussed over this and pulled the flower from his mouth, the pretty yellow blossom becoming a bit withered with the level of manhandling it had just experienced. But the kid seemed to find this funny, your bewilderment, and he giggled and reached for the flower in your hands again. And though you wanted to be annoyed, the giggle that came out of his little mouth was enough to bring the happiest of smiles to your face.

So the day was spent like this, you and a lost child, playing with flowers, tending to customers, and giggling. Giggling and smiling and messing around in the little shop. The sweet innocence of the day almost made you forget about the kid being lost and how no one came looking for him. He sat on the counter with a little cup of fruit that you had put together for him and he was making a bit of a mess on his face, while you tried to figure out what to do with the little guy. So you took him home, just for the night, you told yourself. You’d find his home tomorrow.

But that didn’t happen.

You spent the night giggling and smiling and giggling and smiling and even more giggling and smiling with that little creature, before you two finally tuckered out. The baby laid sleeping against your shoulder while you read and his little snores and grunts were enough to return the smile to your face, and soon enough, you were ready to sleep yourself.

Your routine had changed completely for five whole days. You’d had this kid in your care for five whole days now. As always, he sat on top of your counter while you bundled some flowers into a bouquet, playing around with a spool of glittering blue ribbon he had found in a little basket next to him, chattering and babbling on as if the ribbon and him were having the most riveting of discussions, and you found yourself wondering just what it was you thought the small child was saying. You shook your head and continued to add flowers to your bouquet, completely unsuspecting to the door that flew angrily off of its hinges, and the bell above breaking free to hit the wall on the other side of the small shop.

You gasped and dropped the bouquet, a strangely strong maternal instinct taking over your mind, and you snatched the child right off of the counter before dropping to the floor. You tried to hide your panic from the kid, but his face was already scrunching up at the sight of yours, which was most likely terrified. He touched your face and made a little cooing sound before you shushed him, tucking his little head against your shoulder. Fear struck through you like lightening and you didn’t dare turn around when heavy, metallic footsteps became ever so prominent in your little shop. You closed your eyes and huddled in the corner behind your counter, knees drawn up to your chest and arms clutching the little alien that clung to you with nearly the same intensity.

The table next to your counter was kicked and it flew to the side, vases shattering against the floor and loose flowers flying all over, and you yelped, your heart pounding against your chest. You kept your eyes shut and listened to the heavy footsteps grow closer and closer until the child was ripped from your arms. At this point, your eyes flew open and you grit your teeth, launching yourself upwards, savagely needing to protect this little creature.

Even if that meant somehow getting rid of this six foot tall man. Slathered in cold steel armor. Crowned with a sleek helmet and a big, long weapon holstered to his back. He stood easily a head taller than you and was now looking down on you, his stance making you cower only slightly, and you prayed that he didn’t notice.

“Give him back!” You said and tried to lunge forward to grab the baby, but this was rudely unsuccessful, because with one hand, he pushed you back and you lost your footing, hitting the floor with a loud crack.

You looked down and you noticed then that you had fallen into a thick vase, the glass cutting deep into your hand.

But the blood and the horrified expression on your face didn’t stop the child from whining a bit and the silent warrior standing over you. You couldn’t see his eyes through his helmet, but the stare you felt seemed close to deadly as he crouched down and grabbed the neckline of your dress, yanking you forward.

“Who do you work for?” He asked, his helmet distorting what was probably the otherwise smooth voice and turning it into a menacing fear tactic.

“N-no one,” you mumbled and tried to pull away from his grip. It only tightened.

“No one? So you just took my kid for fun?” He asked, and though his voice was cold and robotic, you could hear its incredulous tone.

You shook your head and grabbed at his wrist, but you winced, the cut on your hand stinging nastily, “I didn’t take your kid... he wandered in here. I’ve been watching him.. I...” you tried to get away from him once more but gave up, “No one came for him, I couldn’t just leave him somewhere.. he’s a kid,” you explained, almost breathlessly as the pain in your hand only grew worse as you became more aware of the glass that stayed lodged within the cut.

He held your neckline for a bit longer before pushing you backwards just a bit. You cradled your bloody hand against your chest and you looked down at it. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but from your standpoint, it seemed pretty bad.

Above, the baby whined and you could hear him grunting, and your gaze flickered up to him as he tried to wiggle away from the armored man holding him. He turned his green little head toward you and he reached one fat little hand toward you, a frown on his face.

The man tilted his helmet down to the baby and then back at you, and he did this a few times before he sighed and crouched down next to you, letting the child down as well.

“You took care of him? That’s it? Nothing else? Because so help me god-“ he began, and the baby teetered his way towards you.

You nodded and leaned your head back, “Yes, I swear. I only took care of him. He wandered into my shop five days ago. I didn’t know where to take him,” you insisted and reached out with your good hand to meet the hand of the child which was outstretched towards you. His little stubby fingers wrapped around one of yours and you smiled just a bit, and he seemed to pick up on the fact that you were relieved to have him grab your finger, and a little smile formed on his tiny mouth.

He liked you.

—

This was nearly six months ago. After having your shop turned upside down, the father of this kid, which you came to learn was a Mandalorian, helped you clean up your hand before he promptly offered you a job. You would come along with him and the baby and watch the little alien while he took care of work, which you also came to learn was bounty hunting.

You almost said no.

Almost.

But that damn baby and his big stupid eyes looked at you so happily, that you couldn’t say no, and you quietly accepted.

And you couldn’t say that you regretted it at all, because of said baby.

At first, things were tense. You referred to The Mandalorian as ‘Sir’ and nothing else, and he never corrected you or asked you to call him something different until a month or so later when he told you that you could address him as ‘Mando’.

Mando was a man of few words. An unreadable man of few words. He always seemed emotionless, always seemed like he was capable of nothing but his job, and in the weirdest way, caring for the little green toddler.

Until nearly three months into your new life with the two of them. You and the kid were taken by a spiteful quarry, and disaster led to more disaster, and it took nearly three days for Mando to find the two of you.

After that he wasn’t so emotionless.

After almost losing the child and you, Mando began to notice things about you that he never did before. Until that point, you were beneficial to him, no more, no less. He didn’t like you, and he didn’t hate you. You were convenient and kind and caring enough to help him with the occasional wound. You never asked questions very often, and that made him happy. The only time you asked something worthy of conversation was when you nearly walked in on him with his helmet off, and his chastising snap was enough to cause you to ask what you did wrong, which in turn, he briefly explained that the helmet did not come off in front of anyone, and you seemed to want to ask more.

But you didn’t. Instead you respected his silence and in turn, he respected your talkative nature.

And god were you talkative. This was one of the things he noticed about you very first. You’d only met Greef Karga twice, and that was enough for Mando. It didn’t seem to occur to him that if you put two talkative people together, they’re gonna talk. For hours. And so he sat in a cantina while you chatted happily with Karga about your flowers on Naboo, and he chatted right back about some girl he met and his favorite drinks and things such as that. The second time, Mando didn’t let it get even twenty minutes in before he was corralling you back onto the Razor Crest with a baby on your hip that was talking just as much as you were. Sometimes he’d hear the two of you having little conversations down in the hull of his ship. You were speaking as if you were talking to a dear friend, and the child sat upon your lap, babbling intelligently, absolutely confident that everyone could understand these unintelligible sounds he made. This seemed to make both of you very happy, so Mando let it happen, even if it went on for hours and his head was so full of baby noises and your voice that he wanted to yell. He wouldn’t ever admit how cute he really found your talkative nature.

Of course, it was the kindness he noticed about you next. You were perhaps the sweetest person he’d met in his entire life. You were selfless for that kid, staying up all night to bounce him as he cried, or you’d do just ridiculous things to make him giggle. Sometimes you’d stay awake until Mando came back just to make sure he got there safely, and if he was wounded? You’d sniff it out like a bloodhound and insist that he let you help him tend to his wounds.

He’d almost always let you, just so he could indulge just a bit to feel your soft skin against his own.

Almost a week after you and the kid had been taken, he began to find himself watching you more and more.

He began to notice and appreciate things about you that he’d never thought twice about in the past.

Like how your eyes would glitter when you were happy. He liked that. He found himself nearly cracking a smile underneath his helmet when he would watch your eyes light up. Or how you didn’t like to sleep if the baby was awake, because it made you anxious. He especially liked the time of night where you’d sit and twirl your fingers through your hair and read, and most times, he desperately wished it was his fingers moving through your lovely hair. He knew you were always cold. It’s just how you were. You weren’t used to being in space all the time, so if you ever fell asleep without a blanket, he’d be sure to cover you with one. And if you were caught outside with him when it got cold? He’d put his cape around your shoulders and instruct you to wrap it around your front, which you did with ease, because the thick fabric was made to fit his broad shoulders and it enveloped your frame easily. Mando took great pride in seeing his cape around your shoulders, almost as if he had some sort of ownership over you in the most loving way possible.

Nearly four months into this arrangement, and he found himself actively listening and more frequently than before, engaging in conversation with you. This seemed to make you happy, and he liked that. He liked that a lot, because then your eyes would do that... thing that he loved.

And to you? This was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that you began to find yourself drawn to him, and within absolutely no time, you found yourself hopelessly in love with The Mandalorian. You knew it wasn’t good, and you knew you’d never get what you wanted from him, but that didn’t stop your foolish heart.

He’d take as many opportunities as he could to tell you he was thankful for you and to note that the kid loved you, and each time, your heart would flutter, sending pink to your cheeks.

He noticed this every time, and it always filled him with a sense of gentle pride.

He liked you. He really did. But as far has he was concerned, it was a silly crush on a silly young girl that came from a place of gratitude.

Or that’s what he’d tell himself, at least.

One day, six months into your arrangement, the three of you found yourselves on Naboo, chasing a lesser criminal, and when Mando had caught him, you had begged him to let you show the kid your favorite field to pick flowers from.

At first, he refused. The second time you asked, he also refused. But by the fifth, he gruffly allotted you twenty minutes, supervised by him, in a field of your choice. You gratefully bounced up and down in front of him and you gave him a quick hug in passing, and the small gesture wouldn’t leave his mind, though he was sure it had left yours.

When he landed the Crest in the middle of the field, you wasted no time in scooping up the excited child and running down the ramp as soon as it came down.

It was nearly sunset as the two of you played around in the flowers, giggling and smiling amongst each other while under the over-observant watch of Mando, leaning against the side of the ramp while you two messed around. After a few moments, you skipped up to him and held out a soft pink flower, and instantly, he became speechless with the way he easily compared the color of the plant to that of your rosy cheeks.

“Here,” you offered and when he didn’t reach for it, you grabbed his hand and placed the flower in it, “These are my favorites. Also, I think they’re the kid’s favorites, too. He keeps trying to eat them,” she said and he babbled in your arms, like he was agreeing with you.

He didn’t wrap his fingers around the flower, but he held it in his palm and looked down at it before nodding. He handed it back to you and you shook your head, frowning just a bit, “No, no,” she protested and set the kid down, “It’s for you. I picked it for you,” she explained and the child waddled a few feet away to plop down next to a tall patch of grass with little yellow blossoms growing within it.

He looked curiously at the flower and back up at you before nodding once, “Thank you,” he spoke, not sure of what to say.

You nodded and you stood on your toes to place a kiss against his helmet, right where his cheek would’ve been, “Think of it as a good luck flower or something like that. I don’t know much about good luck charms though, so maybe just keep it in my honor, Mando,” she said softly with a giggle and went to sit down next to the baby, picking flowers with him.

As Mando watched you, he felt that odd feeling again, the one he’d chalked up to a silly crush, and the words were already out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Din.”

You looked up from the beginnings of a flower crown confusedly, “Excuse me, what?” You asked and studied him.

He cursed himself silently for that, but he couldn’t brush it off as an accident now. So he sighed and walked towards you and the kid, lowering himself gracefully to crouch next to you, “Din. That’s my name. You may call me that when it’s just us three,” he answered, watching your face before rising back up. He made his way back to his spot against the ship, leaning there silently.

It had been well over twenty minutes, because now the sun had gone down and the stars began to grow brighter in the sky. You looked down and noticed the little alien had fallen asleep in the soft grass and you looked over at Din, who was staring off at the horizon. Or you thought at least. It wasn’t like you could feel his stare on you.

But it was.

“Hey, why don’t you come over here and sit for a minute?” You asked softly and looked over at him. His head didn’t move and he made no indication that he’d even heard you until he uncrossed his arms from his chest.

He shook his head once and tapped the side of the ship, “We need to get going,” he spoke and turned towards the ship to board it.

“No. Not yet. Please. Come sit for a minute, you could really use a little bit of a breather and there’s no better place to do it than a field of flowers,” you were practically begging, and he seemed to not care as he continued to walk up the ramp, so you waited a second before calling out to him by name, “Din? Please? Just for a minute and then we can leave.”

The soft way his name rolled off of your tongue stopped him dead in his tracks and he stood unmoving for a moment before sighing, and you could hear this distinctly through his modulator. He turned around and seemed to be assessing where you sat next to the sleeping baby and he almost reluctantly walked back towards you two. He stood over you for almost three whole minutes before he sat down next to you, and you made a point to scoot a bit closer to him.

“You know, I used to make the prettiest flower chains for like... parties and things. And then people stopped celebrating all the time, you know? Most of the party goes moved away from Naboo slowly and now it’s just a lot of tourists,” you explained and plucked a bright yellow flower out of the ground and tucked it behind your ear before you leaned your head absentmindedly against his shoulder. He didn’t say a word, and you were used to that. He didn’t usually respond to your conversation.

Din shifted slightly underneath you and you went to pull away, apologizing under your breath about laying your head against him. But he placed a firm hand on your thigh and you froze, “It’s alright. You don’t need to move,” he spoke, sliding his hand away from your leg.

You tentatively rested against him once more and looked up at the stars beyond the Crest. Din would’ve looked too, but he had already seen the same stars in your eyes, hundreds of times before now. He’d rather see them there anyway.

His gaze was fixed upon the light sundress that you wore that day, how it fell around your legs, just above the knee, and how the pretty pale pink fabric looked against your soft skin. He stayed like that for a while, silently sitting there so he didn’t disrupt your rest, and it wasn’t until he heard your deep breathing that he realized you’d fallen asleep.

Din could’ve cursed your name for letting yourself get so tired, and it settled with him right then that you worked much too hard for your own good, and made a mental note to relieve you of baby duties more often so that you could rest.

Finally, The Mandalorian decided it was time to leave, and he reached over to scoop the baby up and lay him on your lap before he stood and lifted you into his arms simultaneously. He made lifting you and the baby look as simple as moving a leaf, but perhaps in your case, moving a flower would be more accurate. Once inside of the Crest, he closed the door and laid the two of you down against a cot, plucking the child off of your lap and putting him back in his little pod. He covered both of you up and knelt down by your bedside, watching you peacefully sleep, and he would’ve given anything to run his fingers across your cheek right then.

His hands moved to your face and hovered above your skin for a moment before taking a new route to his helmet, taking on a mind of their own. Din removed his helmet silently and leaned down to press his lips against your forehead, leaving them there for a long time before he pulled away and put the helmet back on. He rose to his feet and turned away so that he could start the ship and get into the air, his chest sinking when he realized that when you were sleeping was the only time he’d ever be able to do that, when you weren’t even conscious, when you couldn’t even feel it.

Though you’d never tell him, you found yourself half awake when his lips were pressed to your forehead.

And without his knowledge, you felt it.

Oh, you felt it.

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin imagine #the manadalorian #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x reader #mando x y/n #mando imagine #the mandalorian imagine #st #star wars #star wars imagine #star wars x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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lucrezia-thoughts · 3 years

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Written in the Stars

CHAPTER 21: THE ESCAPE

Pairing: Din Djarin x (F) Reader

Warning(s): cannon typical violence, feels, Cara Dune

Series Summary: Peli Motto rescued you from becoming a Hutt pleasure slave. In return, you’ve been using some unusual skills of yours to keep her clients in check…but you were not prepared for a Mandalorian and his small green child to appear and change your life completely.

Chapter Summary: One way or another, Din was ending this. ..

Link to Master List

*-*-*-*

Though IG-11 had neutralized the most pressing threat, movement in the sewers could still be heard and was drawing ever closer. After taking the alor's offer and restocking his munitions, Din kept his arm wrapped around you as the group left the forge. Coming upon the lava river, he reluctantly let you go whilst he and Greef assessed the situation.

"If we push the boat out we can get it to float downstream." Greef mused, gesturing to the vessel stuck to the platform by hardened lava.

"Looks old. Will it take the heat?" Din questioned.

"You got a better idea?" Greef countered and you could hear Din's modulated sigh.

"Guess not." Din acquiesced.

As the two of them set about trying to free the dilapidated boat, you bounced your son in your arms. You could tell he wanted to help, but you gently redirected his feelings as you sensed how drained he still was.

"You guys mind getting out of the way?" Cara hissed, having had enough of the men's unsuccessful attempts. Unslinging her rifle from her shoulder, she made quick work of separating the boat from the wall.

As the boat began to float freely on the lava river, the droid at the helm awoke. "I don't suppose anybody here speaks droid?" Din asked as he gently helped you into the boat.

"I believe he is asking where we would like to go." IG-11 advised, turning to the group once everyone was in the boat.

"Down river. To the lava flat." Greef instructed and the droid guided the boat.

"That's it. We're free!" Greef exclaimed as the literal light at the end of the tunnel could be seen, but out of the corner of your eye you could see Din shaking his head.

"No. No, we're not. Stormtroopers." Din guided you and your son behind him as he spoke. "They're flanking the mouth of the tunnel. It looks like an entire platoon. They must know we're coming."

"Stop the boat." Cara turned to the droid. "Hey, droid, I said stop the boat." She tried again when the droid kept the boat moving forward. "Hey, I'm talking to you. I said stop!" When the droid continued to propel the boat towards the light, Cara shot it...but the boat continued on its path.

"Looks like we fight." Cara grumbled, unslinging her rifle again.

"There are too many." Din kept his head focused on the mouth of the tunnel as he spoke.

"Well, then what do you suggest? Cuz I can't surrender." Cara asked, preparing for a fight.

"They will not be satisfied with anything less than the Child. This is unacceptable. I will eliminate the enemy, and you will escape. I still have the security protocols from my manufacturer. If my designs are compromised, I must self-destruct." IG-11 interjected evenly and all heads turned towards him.

"What are you talking about?" You could hear the concern in Din's voice.

"Victory through combat is impossible. We will be captured. The child will be lost. Sadly, there is no scenario where the child is saved, in which I survive." You felt a wave of grief overtake the boat at IG-11'S assessment. "Please tell me the child will be safe in your care. If you do so, I can default to my secondary command."

You gently reached out and placed your hand on Din's arm as he faced IG-11. "But you'll be destroyed."

"And you will live, and I will have served my purpose." You watched as IG-11'S eyes moved over Din's form.

"No. We need you." Din's voice was rough with emotion even through the modulator and your heart broke for your spouse.

"There is nothing to be sad about. I have never been alive." IG-11's eyes stayed focused on Din's helmet.

"I'm not...sad." You gently squeezed Din's arm and his gloved hand came up to grasp your hand.

"Yes you are. I'm a nurse droid. I've analyzed your voice." IG-11's voice stayed as even as ever as he gently reached out and stroked your son's ear before climbing out of the ship and into the lava river.

You watched as he made his way to the mouth of the tunnel before self-destructing. You let Din pull you close as the boat emerged from the tunnel, but he was quick to lean over you and your son when the scream of a tie-fighter could be heard.

"Moff Gideon!" Cara cried as she fired at the tie-fighter, but it passed overhead firing wildly without hitting its target.

"He missed!" Greef called out in relief.

"He won't next time." Din sat back up and scanned the boat.

"Hey, let's make the baby do the magic hand thing. Come on, baby! Do the magic hand thing." Greef gestured to your son, but the little one just cooed and waved at him. "I'm out of ideas." Greef sighed.

"I'm not." Din attached the jetpack to his armor, touched his helmet to your forehead, and took off.

"DIN!!" You cried, but Cara held you back. You watched in horror as Din rose into the sky and grabbed on to the tie-fighter with his grappling hook. Your breath died in your throat as they soared through the sky and a broken scream escaped you when an explosion caused the ship to crash. You would have fallen into the river if Cara hadn't kept you upright.

"He's okay, sweetheart, he's okay." She turned you around to see Din landing on the shoreline. As soon as the boat hit land Din was helping you out and pulling you into his arms.

"Are you hurt, mesh'la?" He asked, concern dripping off his modulated voice as his gloved hand came up to wipe away the tears that spilled from your eyes.

"No, no I'm fine. I thought...I thought it lost you." You whimpered and cupped your hands around his helmet.

"You will never lose me, cyare. We are one when together. We are one when parted. We share all." He repeated his vows to you. "I am always with you."

"That was impressive, Mando..." Greef congratulated Din, but you didn't pay much attention to what he was saying. You were too overcome with joy that your family was finally safe.

After a bit of back and forth with Cara and Greef, you said your goodbyes after Cara admitted she was going to stay on Nevarro. When you finally made it back to the Razor Crest, Din had you take your son into the ship to clean up while he laid Kuiil to rest.

"After you put him down, wait for me in the bunk."

*-*-*-*

CHAPTER 22: THE AFTERMATH

*-*-*-*

A/N: I'm sorry this isn't my best... but I just needed to get to the end of this encounter...I promise the next part will be better!! As always, comments and feedback are love!! Oh, and please let me know if you want to be tagged on updates!

TAGLIST: @ayamenimthiriel @mrsparknuts @absurdthirst @captainrexwouldnever @firstofficerwiggles @sirowsky @weirdowithnobeardo @harrys-stan @farfromjustordinary @ginger-swag-rapunzel @cosmicsierra @yasxthirteen @dee-vn @theamuz @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @niiight-dreamerrrr @styxfan06sworld @prideandpascal @what-iwish-you-knew @persie33 @qhbr2013 @paintballkid711 @magi-rocks @nova646 @1800-fight-me @artsymaddie @computeringturtle @thisshipwillsail316 @dollfacev8

#din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x f!reader #mando x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #tw cara dune #female reader

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weasley-gal · 3 years

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My dear friends, followers, and readers: For the better part a week, I’ve been trying to find the words to talk about my Harry Styles show last Thursday, and my experience these last seven months. As yet I'm unsuccessful, but I need to put some thoughts somewhere besides my brain, so here we go. This'll be a ramble, so read on at your own risk.

On March 14, 2021, I was bewitched. Harry Styles opened the 63rd annual Grammy Awards with a performance of his hit Watermelon Sugar, and that was the end of me. (I keep trying to put an adjective in there before "performance," but I can't find one good enough.)

I'm an old person. If I tell you I'm listening to something new, it's probably the latest release from someone I've been listening to for 30 years. I never want to be one of those old people who hates new things just because they're new, though, someone who is bitter about anything that post-dates what could generously be called my "prime." Whenever there's a music awards show on TV, I record it. I don't spend a lot of time on the nonsense in between, but I watch all the performances, in the hope that something *actually* new might catch my fancy.

You could say Grammy 2021 Harry Styles caught my fancy.

I never was a One Direction fan. Not that I have anything against One Direction, but there's room for only one boy band in my heart, and that boy band is Backstreet Boys. (#teamhowie) I was aware enough of 1D that I could have named its members (first names, at least) and maybe a song or two, but that would have been the extent of it.

As a new Harry Styles fan, I was forced to throw myself on the mercy of third-party sellers to score tickets for the Pittsburgh stop of Love on Tour. The show had been sold out for months, and I’m a total a seat snob, so I set a pretty high ceiling on what I was willing to spend on something I'd consider a decent seat. Things like this make people think I "have" money, but I assure you the opposite is true. What I have is boundless enthusiasm for the things I love. Oh, and a pathological lack of impulse control. There’s that, too. For months, I kept one eye on StubHub and the brokers, until about a month ago I found impossibly good seats (center section, aisle seats, first row next to the pit) at a price that was admittedly too high, but less than I'd seen for seats that weren't nearly as good. So…Stub Hub and six months of living on Ramen noodles, then, thank you.

I can tell you it was worth ten times what I paid.

On October 14, 2021, exactly seven months from the day I first noticed Harry Styles, I got to see him live and in person. I expected him to be everything, and he is everything I expected.

Show notes:

Harry Styles can sing. I have his albums and I spend an embarrassing amount of time watching clips online, so of course I know he can sing, but the live performance showcased how powerful and versatile his voice is. He is a very talented boy.

Harry Styles is a seemingly bottomless well of kinetic energy. He never stops moving! Love on Tour is set in the round, giving Harry the opportunity to interact with all corners of the arena, and he wastes not a minute, singing, dancing, joking with fans (he's a genuinely funny guy), and playing off his backing band, who are amazing, by the way. Everyone from the pit to the roof was on their feet for the duration, and there were times the fans had the building literally shaking. And then there’s the din – ye gods – the din! You know, in the third Harry Potter movie, that sound Hermione Granger makes when the Whomping Willow grabs her? Multiply that by 17,000+, then consider this was the reaction to a pre-recorded message from Harry that played before he ever stepped foot onstage. His superpowers are legendary, with or without the MCU.

Harry Styles is in love with performing. He says it's his "favorite thing," and it's obvious how consumed he is by the experience. In turn, he allows his audience to be consumed by it. He encourages everyone to feel free to be who they are, who they want to be, at his concerts. I suspect it's the only place he's allowed to do the same.

Harry Styles is a Rock Star. The person(s) from X-Factor who thought he wasn't good enough to be a solo act must have been bananas. He has an intangible magnetism that is about so much more than talent or songs or looks or any performance art that can be taught. I consume a great deal of entertainment, across time and media and genres. I've seen and met many who are considered all-time greats, and he is like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. I told people I thought I would die from being in the same room with him, and I wasn't kidding. I've always been that fan who jumped and screamed and sang along at concerts, but on Thursday night, I just stood there, fixated. (I did survive, though, obvs, so count me wrong on the whole dying thing.) I bought a shirt at the show and wore it all weekend, before I even washed it. The last time I did that, I was probably about 14.

Pretty sure I'm never taking it off.

On March 14, 2021, I was bewitched by a talented, kind, funny, magical person. On October 14, 2021, exactly seven months later, I was so very lucky to be in the same room with him. If I have seven years or seventy left in this world, I look forward to filling them with the magic that is Harry Styles.🤩💕💚💙

Set List — Pittsburgh, PA, 10.14.2021 (from setlist.fm, because I didn't take a pen with me!):

Golden

Carolina

Adore You

Only Angel

She

Two Ghosts/Falling

Sunflower Vol. 6

Woman

Cherry

Lights Up

Canyon Moon

Treat People with Kindness

What Makes You Beautiful

Fine Line

Sign of the Times

Watermelon Sugar

Kiwi

#harry styles #harry styles you are a gem #tpwk #i've been bewitched #love on tour pittsburgh

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vercopaanir · 4 years

Text

Keeping Warm

The Lovely Moons Series, Chapter 27

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: The Mandalorian is unsuccessful in capturing his quarry.

Words: 5.5k

Rating/Warnings: M for mildly graphic depictions of injuries and wounds (burns).

Notes: BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT! Well, I didn’t. I have been very mentally tired from this new job, so I’m sorry for the delay. I hope this...well, if it’s not worth the wait, I hope it sustains us a little bit. I’ve already begun work on the next chapter, so fingers crossed it won’t be long!

AO3

You don’t know how long you sit and stare at the closed ramp of the ship, listening for the sounds of distant gunfire or voices. Your heart continues to pump blood angrily through your ears, throbbing at the thin veins threading your neck until your stomach curls into a thorny bramble of anxious sickness. You release a breath you didn’t realize you held, and you feel the gentle pressure on your arm draw your pale eyes away, down to the tiny child peering up at you with the sadness of a lost and worried little one in need of comfort.

It is natural to pick the baby up, to cradle him against your shoulder and kiss his head, sniffling against the fuzzy down that’s dusted between his ears. You both clutch each other, listening and waiting.

The ship is freezing, and it feels as if it continues to get colder by the second. You tug your cloak tighter around the two of you, the fabric clinging to your limbs where it’s been wet with snow. The heating system is old and unreliable, and you have to fumble with the panel to adjust the temperature, hoping it will actually pour warmth into the recycled air. You share a worried glance with the child when there comes a great, juddering sound from beneath the belly of the ship, and you sigh.

No noise, save the wind, continues to whistle through the cracks of the ship from outside.

Din hadn’t shared the details of his bounty with you. He had once said that it’s Guild protocol not to ask questions, not to get too deep into the quarry’s life beyond the necessary information it would take to capture and deliver. He had not spoken of any quarries to you, not since the Avalice brothers, and you think that the less you know, perhaps the better.

You still vividly recall the strikes to your face and head, the tightness of your bindings in the fathier stables, and you wonder if ignorance would be enough to comfort you. Not knowing the truth didn’t guarantee you wouldn’t be hurt again, and as you go through the motions of preparing dinner for your little one, you decide that not knowing what Din faces is worse than risking your own involvement. You try to bring back to mind the blurry image of what you had seen in the snowy field, the small smear of red against white, how violently Din had changed from a gentle and loving man to a deadly, unfeeling hunter, and you shiver harder than before.

You and the child usually share meals, but you can’t find an appetite. Your stomach is still tight with worry, hands shaking if left idle, so you sniffle against the cold and draw your cloak around the baby while he drinks soup from his favorite cup. The two of you are curled as close to the air vent as possible, the pitifully warm air doing little to chase away the chill.

When he has finished eating two helpings, you close the two of you in the refresher and run hot water into the sink until it steams the mirror and fills the small cubicle with humidity. The hot water is a precious commodity, but as the sun dips lower in the sky and darkness overcomes the world outside, the ship is practically icy. You don’t know where Din is, how long it will take him, or what, if any, trouble he may encounter, so drawing a small bath in the sink for your little child takes your mind off of those terrible ideas for a short time.

The soap is a gentle, milky emulsion of honey and herbs, and it makes the water froth with bubbles as you draw it through your hands to gently wash the baby, taking special care to clean his ears, hands, and feet. The steam curls the hair around your face, and when the child giggles and smacks the bubbles, they catch in your hair like the snow Din had dropped on you.

Wrapping him into a towel, you dry and dress him in the thickest garments you have, bundling him in his favorite blue blanket that smells of his father from how often he rocks the little one to sleep.

No amount of rocking soothes him this night. The closer he gets to slipping into dreams, the more he fights it, fussing against your breast and clutching at your dress. You avoid your shared quarters with Din, knowing it is too cold, and you don’t open the doors of the cockpit, too scared that someone outside might see the movement through the observation windows. Though, you desperately wish that you could see through them, wish you could look for any movement outside.

When the baby finally settles, you tuck him into the pram with yet another blanket and his stuffed bantha, hoping the insulation will retain the warmth better than your own body heat can. You push the pram into the medical bunk and close the door, hoping to block the cold air, and you lay a hand against the smooth steel. You yearn to climb into the uncomfortable medical cot, curling your entire body around the little one and drifting off to sleep with him, but your fears won’t let your mind settle. You can only think of the Mandalorian outside in the dark, and the gnawing sensation of something horrible won’t leave you.

You begin pacing the length of the hull again, rubbing your eyes, your brow, your face until it feels raw and pinched. You pass a short amount of time practicing movements with your walking aid, familiarizing yourself with its reach and the sounds it makes against the different spots against the walls and floors. When you grow weary, you retrieve the thick fur and blankets from the bed of the captain’s quarters and bring them back down into the hull, making a small cocoon near the air vent and settling down. You tug your gloves back on your fingers, admiring what you can make out of the soft leather. Your staff remains at your side, fully extended and gleaming in the low light.

Sleep is on the edge of your mind, just out of reach, and you focus on your breathing, letting whatever idle thoughts topple through come and go. You consider how much this ship, as cold and dark as it can be, has become your home. Once, it was an overarching shadow that made you tremble, but now it feels like a sanctuary, a respite from the outside world. As much as you miss the covert and yearn for that communal kinship, the desire to move, to wander, has planted itself in your breast. You can only hope that once this is over, you might wrap your arms around Din’s neck as he pilots, resting your temple against his helm and savoring the freedom of greedy men.

It’s unclear to you when you fall asleep, because suddenly the harsh knell of a fist against the hull’s door wakes you. It is slow, solemn, heavy.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Whoever it is wears armor upon their hands, not the soft leather gloves you are accustomed to. It is not a weapon or object being hurled against the hull either, and you suck in a breath upon the realization that someone is standing on the other side of the door. And it is not Din.

You are terrified to move, your back against the wall near the air vent. Your breath trembles with clouds in the cold air, and you bite on your lip to keep yourself quiet. The heating system has shut off, and you remember Din once mentioned that the systems would automatically expire after a period of inactivity-some kind of energy saving program to help conserve fuel.

The wind is howling outside, rushing against the metal siding, and you know if you don’t get the heat on soon, you’re likely to lose the feeling of your fingers and toes. You push yourself up, slowly and carefully, pressing your palms flat against the wall behind you. Blood rushes through your limbs, waking them from rest, and you don’t hear any retreating footsteps from the door.

If it was Din, he wouldn't knock.

If it was Din, he’d call out for you.

If it was Din, you wouldn’t be afraid.

Your eyesight is poor in the dim lighting of the hull, and you don’t feel safe enough to try and turn on the overheads. You don’t need light, however, to find the release to open the Mandalorian’s weapon locker, nor do you need to look for the shined and oiled WESTAR-34 gifted to you by Rhalaz and Briinx. Your hands shake as you hold the weapon with both hands, bracing your back against the wall across from the door, and you draw your breath from deep in your stomach. You close your eyes and focus all your attention on the sounds.

You hear the howling wind, the icy creaks of the ship shifting and settling, and then, you hear something else. Metal upon metal, as if that armored glove is dragging across the outside of the hull, feeling for an opening, for a way to get in.

Braced against the wall with the blaster drawn between both your hands, bones shaking and muscles aching from the cold, you don’t know how long you stand in the dark. Thoughts shuffle through your mind at such a speed it leaves you dizzy. Will a blaster bolt stop someone who is armored? If you cannot protect them from getting in, what will you do? You don’t know of a way to contact Din, uneducated in the communication software the Razor Crest is equipped with. And even if you were, is it safe to use when others are nearby?

But you become aware of a release in pressure, after a long time of listening and dreading, and you’re not sure how you know that the presence outside has retreated, but you do.

It’s as if the entire galaxy is focused upon you and your child for an agonizing stretch of the night, until suddenly it recedes, stars settling and moons turning back into their orbits once again.

Your breath continues to cloud the air in front of you, and your teeth begin to chatter now. When the engines are running, the air recycling system keeps the ship warm in deep space, insulating from within, but you are unsure how long it’s been turned off.

You don’t set the blaster down, shutting the weapons locker as an afterthought and crossing the hull with stunted steps. You leave your staff behind, climbing into the upper deck of the ship and opening the cockpit. You can’t be sure it’s safe to do, but the unknown-the lost, floating uncertainty of everything is too much to bear.

When the doors slide open, you squint in the blue tinted pre-dawn light, feeling your way to the pilot’s chair and settling in it, running your gloved fingers through the motions. You make a mental list of the pre-flight checks, knowing you will be spending precious amounts of fuel to burn the engines this way, but you are unsure now if you fall asleep that you will wake up again.

The engines are a soothing sound, the quiet flare of power beneath the ship reminding you of the earth growing organic life, a familiar and safe sensation as the gentle hum vibrates imperceptibly beneath your feet. The threat of an intruder seems like a far off nightmare now, only on the edge of your periphery, and you wonder if it is because you haven’t truly slept. Your instinct is to retrieve the baby, to crack open his pram and scoop him up into your arms, but you know what little heat he has is precious. You risk it if you expose him now.

So you curl into the pilot’s chair, tugging your cloak as tight around you as possible and wait for the heating system to begin chasing the chill away. You let your eyes focus and unfocus on the distant horizon through the observation windows, admiring the hues of blue and purple and gold. It reminds you of the flowers on Quanera, of the first time Din trusted you completely with his son, and salt gathers in your eyes against the powerful memories.

When the first tear pearls big enough to slip down your cheek, it releases a torrent of things you remember-the way he held you after he killed Toro Calican, the sound of the child breathing and sleeping upon his chest in the dark of the cockpit, the quiet, reserved motions of slipping into bed beside you every night with all the respect of a saint for their deity.

You wonder if your mother loved your father with such a depth, such a wrenching ache that you can hardly breathe to think of it. It hurts, a pressure bearing down upon your chest, and when you part your lips it tears a gasp from your throat. You press your head back against the chair, a small smile teasing the edges of your lips, and more tears slip down the sides of your face.

You haven’t truly considered the feelings you’ve harbored and nurtured until now, and it all unleashes with happy tear trails. It feels as if you have an answer for every question, somehow. A piece of a puzzle that has finally locked into place, you turn your face against the pilot’s chair and smell clean, cold woods.

It is when you start to doze before the lavender fingered dawn that you feel the shuddering of the ship beneath you, and your eyes fly open at the familiar sound of the ramp lowering. In your haste to throw yourself out of the chair, your legs tangle in the cloak and you nearly drop your blaster, but you brandish it between both hands as you approach the port of the ladder that descends into the belly of the ship.

Suddenly beading with a cold sweat, you hold your breath, listening intently to the sounds of a muted shuffling across the metal floors, soft grunts and harsh breathing, and then the ramp is closing just as soon as it nearly lowered completely. The ship seems to settle once more, and there’s nothing you can hear over the wind outside.

Then, you hear a sudden, heavy thud, and it might as well be your heart.

Scrambling down the ladder, your boot slips when it catches the hem of your dress, and you fall the rest of the way to land on your ankles. You feel a painful jolt from the impact up your legs, but it is a passing thought when you whirl around in the dimly lit space. There is a darkened mass quivering near the carbonite freezer, and at first you think it to be an animal of some kind until you hear the quiet static of the modulator catching on a painful drag of air.

“Din?” you whisper, slipping the blaster in the back of your sash, approaching the freezer with caution. You tilt your head downward, hoping to make out anything as you slowly kneel down and take off your gloves. “Are you hurt?”

It is so difficult for you to see, but the light catches his beskar well enough. You move to take his helmet with one trembling hand, but his own shoots out and latches onto your wrist so tightly you yelp.

“D-Don’t,” he hisses, letting you go with shaking fingers. He’s slumped against the wall, uses one hand to grapple with the hidden release of his helm before tearing it off. It hits the floor with a solid crunch, ice chipping off the steel and rolling along the corrugated grooves of the floor. You watch it roll until it comes to a stop somewhere down near the exit ramp, and you turn your eyes back to him, his hair matted with sweat and sticking to the blurry edges of his face.

He’s pale, you see immediately, almost as pale as the snow coating his clothes. You try to reach and help him take the armor off, but he bats your hand away again, growling as he rips off a pauldron, fumbling with his chest plate, peeling off the cuisse of his legs. “F-Frozen,” he whispers from between teeth. “It’ll b-burn.”

You suck in a breath, watching as each heavy piece of steel hits the ground with a slicing ring, not unlike some great beast losing its scales. You push yourself up on shaking legs, locating the crate you had been organizing a few days prior and retrieve a medkit. Once he’s torn his vambraces from his arms, you kneel back down, reaching out to remove his gloves and going still when you feel holes eating through the leather.

“W-What is this?” you ask, turning your face up to him. His eyes are like black holes against his ashen face, and you realize he’s trembling so hard, so violently that he can’t speak. You yank the glove off and jump when he yells in pain. It’s not apparent to you what’s happened until he bends over his newly naked hand, and you can see the shoulders of his woven undershirt and how they are also splattered with holes.

No. No, in fact, his shirt is barely hanging onto his frame at all.

Your eyes widen, and you can’t stop the automatic reaction of shuffling forward on your knees, quick to grab his arm when he tries to pull away from you.

At first, you don’t understand what you’re looking at because the lack of light is so watery in the hull that it seems his shirt has been worn away in places, wet in other spots until it shines beneath the light. When he lays his hand upon your knee, you look down and see it better.

His back is burned, lashes of brutal red welts becoming discolored from the extreme temperatures outside. There are blisters forming through the holes, and what you thought appeared to be melted snow is actually blood.

“L-Lay down,” you whisper, your voice cracking as your heart begins to beat out of rhythm in a terrible, frantic tune. You have to help him, his body clumsy and heavy. Din slips the rest of the way and coughs when his cheek meets the floor, his entire body juddering like the engines of the Razor Crest when they stall.

You might pass out, you think, staring in horror at his back. Perhaps be sick.

Once, you’d seen a servant burn their hand by taking a cast iron skillet from a fire, and it had not left any skin behind. Now, looking at the man beneath you, fear almost swallows you whole.

He is going to die, if not from his wounds, than an infection.

It’s only when his hand reaches out, trembling and weak to touch the hem of your skirt that you ignite. You throw yourself forward, grabbing at his boot and finding the blade he used to once cut your own dress from your body. You move carefully, kneeling beside his hip and finding the ruined lip of his shirt near his collar, and you are thankful he keeps his blades so well-oiled once more. It cuts the fabric like butter, and you go slow so that you don’t accidentally pierce his skin, cutting the shirt from his arms first and then the top of his shoulders.

The heat has finally circulated through the ship enough to chase off the worst of the chill, so when he begins to shiver even harder, you know it is not from the cold.

“Din,” you whisper, setting the knife down and bending towards his face. You lay your fingers to his cheek, your stomach falling when you find his eyes closed. “Din, you have to stay awake.”

His breath comes out in a grunt, his face twisting in pain. He whispers through his teeth again, “‘m awake.”

Turning, you throw the medkit open, finding electrolyte tablets by their bright yellow pouch and tear it open. You had read an old medical book as a teenager, finding every braille book you could get your hands on in the Moff’s extensive library. Braille is often only found in the driest and most rudimentary genres, but now you are thankful. You are by no means a healer, but you know enough that he is going into shock. You force his lips apart and shove the electrolyte tablets between his teeth, making a noise when he doesn’t respond.

“Chew them!” You yell, your voice becoming shrill in your panic. He needed water, too, but you didn’t want to leave him so you cup his chin and give his head a tiny shake. “Din!”

He grunts, and it takes him too long for your liking, but you can hear the soft clicking of the tablets breaking between his teeth. You turn back to the medkit and find several small glass bottles. You can’t read the print on them, and you struggle to find anything your eyes can make out aside from a syringe.

If you could fly the ship to a port, to a medical center, you would, but you can’t. There’s no way you can make it with your limitations beyond getting off the planet, and that wouldn’t be of any more help than being stuck here. You squeeze your fingers around the bottles before leaning back towards his face, tapping his cheek with your fingers.

“Din, open your eyes,” you say, soft and gently prodding. “Please, my love, I need your help. You have to tell me which of these is the anesthetic. I can’t see it.”

It’s good, you think, when he makes a heroic effort to lift his lashes, that you can keep him awake this way. If he falls asleep now, you know he will never wake up again.

“Is it this one?” You hold it up. He is too weak to shake his head, so he simply closes his eyes, and you want to cry. You truly do, but instead you hold another bottle in his line of sight. “This one?”

You do this for several turns before he grunts, lips pressed firmly and jerking his head in affirmation. You stab the syringe into the bottle, drawing the anesthetic as much as you dare and look back down at his back.

It will hurt, no matter how much you can give him, you realize, but removing the rest of his shirt will be the hardest part for both of you. You lay one hand on the back of his head to both steady and comfort him, and you slip the needle beneath his skin, biting your lip as you release the plunger. Once you’ve set those tools aside, you pick the knife back up and shift forward again.

“A-Alright,” you whisper, sniffling against the cold and your nerves. There is a tight, painful knot in your throat, but talking seems to ease the discomfort. You hope it might be of some comfort to him, too, might keep him awake. “I-I have to remove the rest.”

He says nothing, only seems to be focusing on breathing, so you take that as the only bit of encouragement you’ll get, and you use the knife’s tip to fold the top of the shirt backward. You aren’t sure if it’s your eyesight, the light, or the fact the burns are so spread out, but the shirt does not cling to the skin as terribly as you suspected. His gloves must be giving him more pain, you think, as you peel away the ruined, bloodied tunic and he does not move, save for a twitch of his boot.

The pattern against the golden skin of his back reminds you of fingers, licks of blood and blisters that gleam wetly under the faint yellow light. For a moment, looking upon the wounds, you feel as if you’re choking, a surge of terror rising in your throat.

It’s too much, you can’t do this, how are you supposed to do this?

Your hand grasps your throat, staring blindly at his ruined back while your other hand lays atop his own that weakly grips the hem of your dress. He is close to falling unconscious, close to never waking up, and a small voice within reminds you that if he had chosen someone else in that dirty, dusty cantina, they would know what to do.

His fingers twitch beneath your hand, a small movement that snaps your attention to the present like a hook reeling in a fish. You clamber up to your feet and cross the hull, movements muted and succinct. You take a cloth from a cupboard and dip it under a stream of cool water, sniffling and realizing you’ve been crying the whole time.

You ignore this and march like a stormtrooper back to the wounded man on the floor, rolling your sleeves up and kneeling like a supplicant before an altar.

It has been years since you read the medical book in the Moff’s library, but burns are a nasty business and are not easily forgotten. You knew better than to let the water run into the wounds themselves, nor did you disturb the blisters that could be disastrous. You cleaned the blood away, sniffling persistently as you worked. It was easy to do, uncovering the gold beneath the red.

Din grunts under your administrations, though you couldn’t be applying more pressure than a feather. The silence is suddenly too much for you, hearing his muffled noises of swallowing his pain. You want to fill the empty space before it makes you scream.

“Do you know how I knew those flowers weren’t poisonous?” you ask suddenly, thinking of Quanera and the fields of blue and purple flowers, of the baby that had babbled and happily given you and his father blooms of his choosing. “It’s all in the number of leaves. Though with all the frogs and lizards your son eats, I don’t think a flower would bother him much.”

You want to demand who did this to him, make him answer for this atrocity, but you can feel the fist he makes beside your leg, knowing how much it is costing him just to remain awake while you retrieve a bacta spray from the medkit. You pray it will be enough, pray it will flush out any chance of infection from the snow.

“Some flowers,” you go on, administering the spray from the base of his spine upward. It’s a fine mist that doesn’t make any noise, but you can see the muscle beneath the burned skin tense when he whimpers, burying his face against the unforgiving grooves of metal in the floor. “Some flowers become poisonous. Did you know that? When you make tea out of them and let them set overnight, they can become deadly.”

As if delicate things could turn dangerous, given enough time.

He will have scars, you think. Scars over the untouched planes of ocher skin you had caressed and felt when he made love to you. It breaks your heart when you reach the top of his shoulders, the back of his neck, feeling the charred ends of his curls where the fire has singed so much away. You know the burns cover the crescent moons your nails had once left, tokens of love and desire no longer bearing the evidence of the first time he put his mouth on you.

“S-Stop,” Din whispers, his voice no more than a hoarse rasp. He sounds deathly, faint and hanging onto the last vestiges of his energy. “Please, stop, Cyare, it hurts.”

“I’m almost done,” you implore, biting your lip. There is a small canister of burn salve in the medkit, meant for minor wounds from the sun or being in the kitchen. You don’t know if it will have any effect, but your limited knowledge prevents you from not trying anything. You scoop the salve out, careful to use it on the worst parts because there is so little of it.

You are halfway down his back when suddenly he begins trembling from head to foot so hard that you can hear his teeth knocking together. Your arms hang still, your eyes rolling upward to his whitened face.

“Din?”

You set the canister down, moving until you can turn his cheek upward. Sweat the size of slugthrower bullets wet his face and dampen his hair, and his eyes are squeezing tightly shut. Every word is forced, breaking in desperation. “T-Too much,” he whispers, and you think you see him bite his lip, marble teeth piercing flesh. “‘S t-too mu-much-”

You don’t know, then, if he is going to live. The tears that washed your face and the panic that you had swallowed both come back, and you grab his hand between both of yours, holding his burned fingers to your lips. “You said I wouldn’t be without you, don’t-! Please, please don’t-don’t leave me.”

But then, he does.

It’s not sudden or dramatic, like you have always imagined something like death is. In fact, it is quiet, soft, and quick, a gentle brush of air that disturbs the hem of your dress, and his entire body goes slack against the rough metal floor.

“N-No, no-” Your hands cup the back of his neck quickly, your other hand turning his face enough to pat his cheek. His eyes flutter, but no breath disturbs your fingers from beneath his nose. “Din!”

Tears the size of credits well in your eyes and begin falling, soaking your cheeks as you pat desperately at his face, his shoulder, his arm, whimpering when he continues not to move.

“Wake up-” Your lungs catch on the words, swallowing and choking on them like some kind of live creature wriggling between your ribs. Your mouth breaks open on a silent, raw sob, shaking his shoulder faster, harder, blinded by brine and panic. You draw his head into your lap, desperately trying to get him to wake, whimpering against the charred, sweat dampened black curls at the crown of his head. You rock him quickly, hoping touch will somehow bring his tattered, bloodied spirit back to you. “-You said, you promised-you said you would be here,” you choke, squeezing your eyes closed and bending over his head. “Y-You promised!”

If you just hold him tighter, you think wildly-so, so blind-he will wake up. He will.

And then, he does.

This time it is sudden, harsh and visceral like a fish breaking the surface of a choppy ocean. His arms strike out on either side of him, and he chokes on his own breath, gasping and coughing into the soft fabric of your skirt. You jerk backward, stunned and eyes widened to look down at his broken, torn body.

There, tucked near his side, you find the tiny green child pressing his two three-fingered hands against his father’s flank. Your heart will surely come up, you think, staring in awe at the little one’s ears twitching, his eyes narrowed into slits of concentration.

You are too shocked, too indignant in what you conceive to be happening to react. Din clutches at your lower half in desperation, and you watch in fearful rapture as the torn, burned flesh of his back is slowly knit together. Blisters melt away like water, the deeper slashes the fire left behind sewing themselves as if there had only been too much sun shining upon the son of Mandalore.

The child falls over abruptly, and you have to reach forward to catch him before his tiny head connects with the hard steel grating. His skin, upon closer inspection, is pale, a sickly non-color that makes you feel queasy, and he lays against your shoulder as if he is overheated, panting quietly. You cup the back of his head, turning your own ashen face down upon the Mandalorian.

He lays panting too, his entire body now drenched with sweat. His eyes are still shut tight, but the air flowing through his nose in harsh puffs gives you enough strength to stand on shaky legs. You find the medical bunk opened, the pram’s shutters parted like a well-cracked egg. You don’t know how he managed to get out of both, but you lay him inside the pram once more, pressing your hands against the steel wall and taking a deep breath.

Din’s back is smooth once again, save for a small spattering of scars you’ve felt before. His skin is heated, and you wonder if the child had to stop short, couldn’t quite draw out all of the damage. You had seen workers at the Moff’s estate with burns from the sun, spending too much time outside. You don’t know how long you sit beside him, your hand petting the middle of his back.

You do know that when he wakes, he will tell you everything that happened.

You also know that whenever you sleep, your blaster will be within your reach.

Mando’a Translations:

Cyare - Beloved

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prettyinpymtech · 3 years

Text

If You Don’t Mind

Part 1

Detective!Din Djarin x Fem!Reader (1920s AU)

Summary: When the famed Darksaber is stolen, Bo-Katan employs the help of her best detectives to solve the case.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of an injury.

A/N: I’ve been watching so many episodes of Frankie Drake Mysteries and I was inspired to write a new series for Din! (And yes, I know the GIF is Javier, but that’s kind of the look I imagined for Din when I was writing this.)

MANDALORE’S PRIZED RELIC HAS VANISHED! KRYZE ASSURES THE DARKSABER WILL BE FOUND!

The headline echoed throughout the crowd. Folks from all over town had gathered along the front steps of the museum, ignoring the severe downpour to catch a glimpse of the hectic investigation in front of them. The sight offered very little to observe, but that did not deter the crowd in their quest to find some sort of amusement to share with their friends in conversations afterwards.

Struggling to maintain order among the masses was a young officer stationed at the very top of the steps. He barked his orders and some composure had finally reached the scene, but the officer paced back and forth with concerns that it would not last for long.

And it was exactly why he stood in your way with an outstretched arm when you stepped forward.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t come in here. There’s been a crime.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.” The officer did not budge, however, and you offered a business card in his direction. “Y/N L/N, private detective.”

He examined the piece of paper with slight interest and shook his head once more. “Look, ma’am, we already have our best team working on this case.”

“And yet no one has been able to solve the crime.”

The officer immediately turned his attention towards the voice and a tense silence unfolded among the crowd as Bo-Katan emerged. Her repute among the people of Mandalore varied from family to family, but everyone agreed that her presence alone commanded a great deal of respect.

In a brief moment you were escorted inside with little protest, leaving the poor officer alone with his own efforts to keep the people away from the museum.

“Has it been like this all morning?” you asked.

“It’s that damn paper. Some reporter heard all about what happened before the officers even showed up and we had a huge crowd already waiting outside.”

The hallway was a frenzied mess of men and women in uniforms and you tried not to laugh as many of them turned in another direction when they noticed Bo-Katan marching forward. Her crossed expression and fiery red hair certainly stressed her authority, but you had learned to overlook her temper. She was a rather close friend and had been among the first to recognize your efforts as the city’s only female private detective.

“So, what can you tell me?”

“I’m sure you heard most of it by now,” replied Bo-Katan. “Someone broke into the museum last night and when we got here the Darksaber was missing.”

She guided you towards a platform in the middle of the museum’s entrance, where a velvet cushion now sat without a Darksaber to show. The surrounding expanse remained untouched, with no signs of an apparent spontaneous affair. Whoever had done this had made sure to employ both strategy and precision in their efforts.

“Any witnesses?”

“Just the guard that was stationed here last night. You should have seen the bruise she got.” A fierce look overcame Bo-Katan’s expression at the mention of one of her own suffering from an attack. “They ambushed her before she could get a good look at them.”

“Where is she now?”

“I sent her home once the officers finished their questioning.”

With no other witnesses to provide evidence, you asked Bo-Katan for a moment to wander through the hallways to look for clues. She relented in your request, of course, and retreated to her office where a group of reporters were eagerly waiting for her company.

The polished marble walls directed you to a narrow passageway usually reserved for curious guests. There was no one there to admire the paintings of Mandalore in its initial glory and there were no signs of what had occurred the night before. You were just about to return to the front entrance when you caught a glimpse of a man leaning against one of the nearby pillars with a notepad in his hand.

“Morning, detective.”

He didn’t even look up from his notepad. “You’re late.”

You bit your lip in an unsuccessful attempt to hide your smile, amused by his observation. During your first week as a private detective, you had made it a point to arrive to an investigation long before any officers could arrive to interrupt your work. Detective Din Djarin had only expressed slight annoyance in the beginning but, over time, he had accepted your work and had even encouraged others to recognize it as well.

The months that would later follow often found you in Din’s company, though your professions often prevented you from spending too much time together. You refused to complain, however, and found any moment with the detective quite enjoyable.

“Got caught in all of the excitement outside,” you explained. With a teasing smile, you added, “Have you been waiting for me all this time?”

Din rolled his eyes, but he didn’t answer. He only met your gaze with warm brown eyes and a charming smile that always left you feeling dizzy.

“So,” you said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the nervousness in your voice, “what do you have so far?”

He cleared his throat, the professional front returning to his expression. “Not much. The only witness we have is Koska Reeves and she was too shocked to answer any of our questions.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any clues here, either.”

You both decided there was nothing more that could be done and soon walked back to Bo-Katan’s office. She had just finished dismissing the last group of reporters when she took notice of your return. “One of you better have something for me.”

Din gave you a weary look before forcing himself to meet Bo-Katan’s stare. “We’ve looked everywhere, Miss Kryze. There are no signs of any apparent break-in at the front entrance, and the only other way they could have gotten in is through the back door. I think you need to accept that one of your own employees stole the Darksaber.”

“There’s a back door?” you asked.

Bo-Katan nooded. “That’s right. But I already told your friend here that the back door can only be opened from the inside. And Koska would never do something like that.”

Intrigued by this new piece of evidence, you immediately left the office in search of the supply closet. Din and Bo-Katan exchanged inquisitive glances, surprised by your haste, and hurried to follow in your footsteps through the narrow hallways.

The small storeroom was tucked away in the far corner of the museum-a perfect escape from prying eyes. You opened the wooden door, surprised to find it unlocked, and stepped inside to inspect the floor.

“What are you doing?”

You met Bo-Katan’s bewildered stare. “If the back door was used for the crime, and you’re confident that it wasn’t one of your employees, then maybe we should consider that it was one of your guests that committed the crime.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you usually keep the supply closet unlocked?”

“We’ve never had any reason to keep it locked.”

“I think someone walked into the museum during visiting hours, hid in the supply room until you closed-“

“And opened the back door for their friends,” finished Din. The same affection from before returned to his eyes as he joined you inside the supply closet to help you search for clues. You were both mindful of the close proximity and he had reached for your hand more than once to prevent your fall after bumping into each other, though you could hardly voice any complaints for his warm touch.

Shocked as she was from the newfound implication, Bo-Katan watched the two of you exchange apologies with amusement in her eyes. Such obliviousness among Mandalore’s best detectives was certainly an entertaining spectacle and she was just about to comment on your unawareness when you lifted something in your hands.

It was a round pin no bigger than a coin, with black lines etched onto its white surface. You presented it to Din as he cursed at the sight of it. “Do you recognize it?”

You had never seen such rage fill his eyes as he stared at the pin. “It was one of Gideon’s boys.”

“Gideon?”

“He belongs to the Galactic Empire, a cruel band of ruffians that like to cause trouble here in Mandalore,” answered Bo-Katan. “He’s been trying to steal the Darksaber for years. We haven’t heard from him in so long that I almost believed he had given up his irrational claim. I shouldn’t have been so foolish.”

A number of questions gathered on your tongue, but in that moment a reporter rushed in with a few questions of his own, and Bo-Katan was obliged to respond to his demands.

She met your stare with an all too familiar ire in her eyes. “That Darksaber has been in my family for generations. I have no idea what Gideon wants with it, but I can’t imagine it’s good. Please promise me you will find it.”

“I promise we’ll do everything we can.”

It wasn’t quite as reassuring as you wished it could be, but the words were enough to comfort Bo-Katan before she turned to greet her correspondent. Determined not to disappoint her, you returned your gaze to Din with a fierce resolve.

“So, where do we start?”

He shook his head. “I’m going to go down to the station and see what I can find. I’ll give you a call if something comes up, but I think you should let me handle this for now.”

“That’s it? I thought we were going to solve this case together.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Is this about your officers?” It was no secret that many of Din’s colleagues disapproved of your collaboration with their renowned detective when it came to imperative cases. But Din had never allowed such critiques to interfere with his work and you could not comprehend why he was so hesitant to accept your offer. “I’m sure they’d be willing to allow my company this one time-“

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

You scoffed at his remark. “I can handle myself just fine, detective.”

“I know you can, but if you take this case then you’re putting yourself in more danger than any one person should have to face.”

“And who’s going to look out for you?”

Din didn’t answer your question and instead stepped closer. The close proximity surprised you, but you could not force yourself to evade his presence as you caught a glimpse of something so familiar and earnest in his stare. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but with a shake of his head he stepped back and a look of doubt immediately overcame his features.

“I’ll give you a call if something comes up,” he repeated and soon left you alone without another glance in your direction.

You were too stunned to discern his manner and you decided that you would have to solve the mystery on your own, with the pin in your hands to serve as your only clue.

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #star wars imagine

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