Hello, everybody! Please call me Belle. This sideblog is a sanctum for all of my self-indulgent reader fics that I will be writing soon. I love taking requests as well so please send them in!
Here are some bullet points about my writings:
Third person | No Y/N
Smut Warning marked by R18
Sensitive Content will be tagged/warned
Archive of Our Own Link
Masterlist
Din Djarin
♠️ Dead Man's Hand — COMPLETE
Series. Loose canon s3 timeline. Gambler!Reader has to help the Mandalorian win a sabacc tournament to get the grand prize: five ingots of pure beskar. Contains smut.
🎼 Silk For Armor — IN PROGRESS
Series. Loose canon TBOBF timeline. In his quest, the Mandalorian crosses paths with a mysterious dancer whose past may help him decide his future.
🍎 The Heart of Snow White — IN PROGRESS
One-shot. Fairytale au. The queen's instructions for the Mandalorian were clear: take the princess to the edge of the forest, carve out her heart, and bring it to her.
- Requests / Asks -
Hush Hush — explicit smut, creampie, some very light d/s tones, staying quiet, shower sex
Welcome to The Pedro Library, a collection I’m putting together of Pedro Pascal Character Fanfiction to celebrate and spread the love of amazingly talented fanfic writers 💘💖💕
Works are sorted alphabetically by author with ratings G(green) T(yellow) and E/M(red). The Library will tentatively be updated weekly. Look for the Panda emoji 🐼 to see newest authors I’ve added. Bold S in front of title indicates work has multiple parts.
All authors are welcome (or message me if you would not like your fics included, I 100% understand). Fanfics + one shots + drabbles + poems are included. However, I do not include headcanons.
Everyone please read and be aware of the warnings the authors have included for their fics. Minors DO NOT read explicit fics. Just don’t, okay? There are plenty of General and Teen fics out there that are fantastic reads 💘
Final note. I’m human. So I’m going to make mistakes somewhere or accidentally forget a listed author’s fic. If that happens, send me a nice message and I’ll fix it as soon as I can 🙂
Pairing: Sex worker!Din Djarin x Female Reader
Rating: E, 18+
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: smut, sex work, first time p-in-v for reader, first kiss for Mando, fingering, unprotected p-in-v
Summary: You pay a visit to the Mandalorian for your first time.
Notes: Written for an anon request. The perspective shifts back and forth between Din and the reader.
Thank you so much to @thefact0rygirl and @fisforfulcrum for reading this over for me! xx
perfect gif by@bestintheparsec
DIN
In the beginning, Din is conflicted.
It’s such an appealing idea, though, that he can’t shake it once it occurs to him. There’s no question that he’d make more money and make it faster. He’d even be able to stay in one place—fuck, the absurd luxury of that simple prospect—and that would mean fewer credits spent on overpriced fuel and less time wasted in hyperspace.
Still, he feels hesitant. There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s been to brothels before, with no shame whatsoever. But there is no denying the fact that sex work would be a nontraditional choice for a Mandalorian, and that’s putting it lightly.
I could stop at any time.
Then, he realizes how readily the clients line up—and how much they’re willing to pay—and Din finally appreciates the nuanced effect his armor and mystique have on people. He’d always thought it was pure intimidation. He thought of himself as scary—as too menacing—and he did what he could to mitigate that in friendly company. He kept his hands in everyone’s line of sight. He moved slowly and carefully. He announced his intentions. He unclipped his Amban rifle and propped it against the table. He spoke softly, politely.
But now? He knows that in some cases, there is a healthy dose of attraction mixed into that fear. The staring, the stuttering, the lingering glances that trail down his metal-clad body, the inability to meet the severe gaze of his visor?
It turns out, for many, fear and lust share a blurred edge, and Din can make thousands of credits playing in that murky in-between space.
So he settles into it.
His average client is wealthy and adventurous. They’re senators and merchants and sometimes even royalty. A thousand credits an hour mean nothing to them. They want novelty. They want danger—or, really, the illusion of danger. Some want hunter/bounty role-play, some want restraints, some want gun or knife play. He’s open to it all.
His Creed remains intact: the helmet always stays on. Most clients insist that all of his armor stay on, in fact. They want the full experience. So he pleasures them with his fingers and his cock, and no one ever complains. He knows the reason for that is twofold: how can they be upset when they’ve cum six times? And who’s going to complain to a fully armored Mandalorian?
So now, Din spends his days in high-end hotel rooms on plush feather beds. He’s well-rested and well-fed all the time. He sends an obscene amount of money back to the covert.
It’s ridiculous how much better this life is—there’s no contest between being run ragged from hunting and this. He doesn’t chase credits anymore; clients come to him. And for him because he is excellent at this job. His endurance and attention to detail easily transferred between occupations.
The one disappointing constant though, the one thing about hunting he hasn’t been able to shake, is the loneliness. There’s little companionship in being a companion, he’s found.
***
YOU
This is a great idea.
This is a terrible idea.
You pace back and forth in front of the hotel room door, eyes fixed on the sleek metal floor under your feet, trying to control your frantic breathing.
You can’t believe you’re actually here…about to blow half your savings on a night with a Mandalorian.
You heard about him through your wealthy clients at work. They rave about him—about his attention, his hands, his shoulders… his armor, his cuffs, his voice. His cock. They whisper—loudly, purposefully—about their multiple orgasms.
You’ve been hearing about him for months. Getting hornier by the fucking minute.
Just do it.
You’ve already paid, credits wired over this morning, so you might as well get your money’s worth. I’m ready. You’re completely sure of that.
You stop in front of the silver door and reach out to swipe the key card across the scanner when another wave of embarrassment hits you—not because you’re here but because you’re going to have little to no idea what you’re doing.
And he’ll know.
That’s too much to take. You turn on your heel and stride away, but you’ve only taken two steps when the door slides open behind you.
“Hi.”
Fuck.
You whip around, your face set in a guilty smile. “Hi.”
He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his elbow propped over his head, the other leather-clad hand tucked into his belt…casually, as if he hasn’t just stepped directly out of your filthiest daydream. He’s tall, broad… the black t of his visor fixed on your face, head slightly cocked, his silver armor glinting in the dim light. You can’t decide if you’re more intimidated or more turned on. He trails his gaze down your body, and you decide it’s definitely the latter.
“Are you here to see me?”
Shit, they were right: his voice is fucking sexy.
You take a steadying breath and say, “Yes.”
He steps back, gesturing you inside with a gloved hand. And that’s enough to make up your mind for you.
There was no way you were leaving once you saw him anyways.
***
DIN
The first thing he notices is that you’re just his type. If he met you anywhere else, he’d pursue you. That’s irrelevant though.
The second thing Din realizes is that you’re not his average client.
You look... normal? You’re not some heiress or politician. And you seem nervous in a very different way than he’s used to. Usually, his clients are excited, often a little apprehensive and awkward at first. You, on the other hand, look legitimately worried.
You immediately make your way to the bed and sit on the edge, looking anywhere but at him, your hands fussing together in your lap. He stands, watching you for a moment, his thumbs tucked into his belt.
He hasn’t encountered a you yet, but he knows what to do.
He turns and takes a seat on the couch across from the bed, a low coffee table between you, pointedly giving you plenty of space. He studies you for a moment, and raptorial interest stirs in his chest as he moves his eyes over your body—your parted lips, your gorgeous tits. Din tamps that down and focuses on the job, on getting you comfortable.
“What’s your name?”
You look up quickly and tell him, then ask, “What’s yours? They just called you The Mandalorian—”
“Mando is fine.”
“Right.”
He rests his arm on the back of the couch and lets the silence simmer for a moment. Then he gets the most important thing out of the way: “My helmet always stays on. No exceptions, no touching it.” You nod solemnly, and he continues, his voice low and smooth: “Tell me about you, what you like.”
“What I like?”
“Mhmm.”
“I don’t—uh—I don’t have anything in particular in mind,” you say, still not looking at him. “Just…” you trail off, gesturing vaguely at yourself and then at him as if that will explain. “I’m just—I’m not sure—well, okay so...here’s the thing—”
He can’t help but smile behind his helmet. You’re cute when you’re flustered.
“I meant in general, not just sexually.”
“Oh…right.”
You seem surprised but relieved to start somewhere easy. To his immense satisfaction, Din watches the tension leave your shoulders as you walk him through your job and your hobbies. He asks follow up questions throughout, and soon enough, you’re actually looking at him, eyes trained directly on his visor.
“What about you?”
“Me?” He’s not expecting you to turn it around on him.
“Yeah,” you prod, “tell me about you.”
So he tells you some general things about how he used to be a bounty hunter, and you listen with warm attention, leaning back to brace yourself on your palms. Every time he thinks you’re going to be ready to move on, you prompt him with another question.
You like his voice. He can tell.
That’s not uncommon, but usually clients don’t want to spend their valuable time listening to him make small talk. He indulges you though, enjoying the way you seem to be defrosting, relaxing. Soon, you’ve slipped back to rest on your elbows, your shoes kicked off and feet hanging off the edge of the bed.
Finally, you let the conversation dwindle, and you seem comfortable enough that Din decides to move forward.
“Tell me about why you’re here.”
You sit up a bit, some of the discomfort returning to your posture. You consider his request for a moment then blurt: “I’ve never had sex.”
The words hit Din like cold water, and everything makes sense—everything except why you chose him for this. People come to him to add spice to their sex lives not to begin their sex lives. Who chooses a Mandalorian warrior for that?
“This is your first time,” he states bluntly, trying to process.
“Yeah...it is.” You shift around on the bed and meet his visor again. “I mean, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been with men, just not…all the way. Is that okay?”
Din isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s never had to make this decision. He doesn’t know if it’s okay, doesn’t know if he wants this responsibility.
What he does know is that every time you look vulnerable, his hands itch to soothe you.
“Are you sure you want it to be with me?”
You look him dead in the eyes, even through the barrier of shadowed glass, and say, “Yes. I’m sure.”
For someone who came into the room so tentatively, with quiet steps and wringing hands, you look completely self-assured now. Your shoulders are squared and eyes clear. Din’s own uncertainty dissipates, and his gaze lingers on your slightly parted lips. Something primal nudges at his hindbrain, and a realization drips down his spine like warm honey: he decides he’s going to like the privilege of being your first time. He’s sure of that.
He nods.
That seems to embolden you because you stand then and cross the small space to sit next to him on the couch. Close. Almost touching.
You look up at him with bright eyes and ask, “Can I touch you?”
He chuckles quietly at the unexpected question. “Yes, you can touch me.”
You smile wryly at him, and he ignores the urge to brush his thumb over your bottom lip. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and places it on his knee in an effort to break the ice, but you don’t leave it there. You bring it up and trace the severe curve at the side of his helmet with a feather-light touch, your eyes fixed on his visor.
It catches him off guard, and Din stops breathing. He feels unnerved by your direct gaze—pinned and laid bare—like you can somehow see his eyes even though he knows it’s impossible through the dark tint of the glass.
His thoughts slow, and he sees in you what he sees in himself: you’re looking for intimacy, for closeness. What surprises him is that the barrier of his beskar doesn’t seem to be preventing you from looking for that—for finding that—with him.
You run your finger back up the arched line of metal, and somewhere vague in the back of his mind, he knows he should reach up and catch your hand in his, like he always does when someone tries to touch his helmet. Instead, he abides. He couldn’t tell you why if you asked. Maybe it’s because he feels sure you’re not going to try to remove it. Your expression is open, curious—reverent, even.
“Oh, fuck,” you curse suddenly, pulling your hand back like you’ve been burned by the cold metal. “I’m not supposed to touch your helmet. That’s your main rule—I’m sorry, I just—I got caught up. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Oh, right. That is a rule.
He nods, catching your hand and holding it between his. He wants to say it’s okay, to reassure you, but he knows he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be okay.
He brushes one hand over your cheek, and your guilty expression gives way to a smile. You scoot closer, your knee nudging his thigh. You’re quiet, your face serious, as you run your hands over the lines of his armor. Din watches your face, his helmet cocked as he studies you.
“Can I take this off?” you ask, looking up at his visor as you trail your fingers idly down his chestplate.
“Yeah, I can—” he reaches up to start the long process of undressing himself.
“No,” you say, stopping him with a hand. “Can I do it?”
“Yeah,” he says, “sure,” and shows you the complicated releases for his armor.
In general, if a client wants him naked—and they usually don’t because the armor is a large part of his appeal—they wait expectantly and impatiently for him to undress, knowing their time is ticking away as he removes each piece of beskar. So, undressing is typically a harried process of Din stripping as fast as he can while a client waits, tapping their fingers restlessly.
With you, the process is slow and intimate. You take your time to remove each plate and set them neatly in a row on the coffee table before moving on to his bandolier, his belt, his cape, his cowl. The last things to come off are his gloves, and when you spend a long time admiring his rough hands, he doesn’t know what to do or say. He lets you continue.
When you’ve stripped him down to his duraweave, you surprise him again by climbing directly onto his lap—asking, “Is this okay?” as you go—and settling in with your back against the armrest of the couch, your legs laid over his thighs, when he nods. He reacts on instinct, slipping an arm around your waist to hold you close.
You’re soft, your weight reassuring, and for some weird reason, his throat feels a little tight when you slide your arm around his shoulders and rest your head in the crook of his neck. He sets one hand on your thigh, the other rubbing reassuring lines up and down your back.
You stay like that for a long time, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. Din is not acutely aware of the passage of time like he usually is when he’s with his clients.
“Okay,” you proclaim unexpectedly, extracting yourself from his embrace and getting to your feet to stand in front of him. “I’m ready now.”
To your credit, you do look about a hundred times more relaxed.
But he likes this languid pace; he wants to maintain it. So he reaches out to catch your wrist and guide you back onto his lap, this time facing him on your knees, straddling his thighs.
“We have all night, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”
Din already knows you like his voice, but he watches the word sweetheart wash over you and realizes how much you like it. Your gaze softens, and your pupils dilate: some heady mixture of affection and lust shivers down your spine.
Din feels his own answering interest pulse through his veins. His vision narrows, and all he can focus on is your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to swipe across your lower lip. He’s grateful you’re perched over him, so you can’t see the very immediate effect you’re having on his lap.
It’s partially selfish—this desire he has to take his time with you. Some part of him feels a little guilty because he wants to take care of you because it feels good for him. It’s both, though. He wants it for you, and he wants it for himself too.
He cups your face, and you melt into his touch.
“Will you let me take care of you? Let me take my time with you?”
You close your eyes and nuzzle against his palm like a pleased cat, going supple and yielding in his hands. “Mmmm, yes.”
For the first time, Din thinks he might be in over his head.
***
YOU
The anxiety dissipates. You forget to be nervous. The acute feeling of cortisol singing through your veins is replaced by a pleasant haze, by a low thrum of pleasure, and you’re keyed into every place Mando is touching you. The sensations are overwhelming. They swallow you whole: his large, warm hand sliding up the back of your shirt, his cold helmet leaned against your temple, the pads of his fingers skating down your spine, the press of his muscular thighs against the insides of your legs.
You want more.
“Can you take your shirt off?”
Mando nods and reaches up to undo the short set of buttons at the top of his shirt, then pulls it up and over his helmet, tossing it somewhere on the floor.
Yes, this.
You splay your hands wide over his pecs and scooch backward on his lap to get a better view of the expanse of skin underneath you. He’s so warm and real, so human under all that metal, and all at once, you’re desperate to feel his skin against yours. You reach for the hem of your shirt, but before you can pull it off, his hand stops you. You look up at him, and he quirks his helmet.
“Can I?”
You nod.
You keep expecting to get acclimated to his voice—for it to stop thundering through your nervous system like a cloudburst of warm rain every time he says something in that low, rolling bass—but apparently that’s not going to happen.
He undresses you with careful hands, easing your shirt over your head. He urges you to stand, and he unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips, your hands resting on his bare shoulders.
Something about his concentration and care makes you even more needy—even more ready. When he has you down to your underwear and bra, he pulls you back onto his lap, and you melt against his solid chest, your lips finding his neck. You place a tentative kiss there, and he wraps his long arms around you and holds you close. Emboldened by the quiet hitch in his breathing through the modulator, you work your mouth over his neck while your hands wander, trailing over the thick, corded muscles of his arms, down the dark hair dusting his sternum, across his soft stomach.
The anxiety returns, hitting you like the wide side of a bantha, when your hand pauses between his legs. Shit. You pray that he’s fully hard because if he’s not…there’s no way anything bigger than this is fitting inside you.
The want running through your veins, however, is much louder than the fear.
***
DIN
Din feels it the moment your uncertainty returns, and he covers your hand where it’s sitting in his lap with one of his.
“We’re only going to do what feels good for you,” he reminds you gently. “Whatever you want.”
You nod against his neck then pull away to look into his visor, your fingers tightening around his cock. “I want this.”
He hums deep in his chest, his eyelids drooping closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your hand on his aching cock. He can’t help it—he wants you to want his cock. He knows he can make it feel good for you. He gives your hand an encouraging squeeze where it’s wrapped around him.
“I can make it feel good for you. I promise.”
You press your face back into his neck and make a sound of enthusiastic agreement—something between a hum and a whine that makes his cock throb.
Din’s control is slipping, and he knows it: that carefully constructed wall he keeps between himself and his clients seems to be ineffective with you. Or maybe, he’s tearing it down himself.
“Have you cum before?”
You tense a little under his hands. “Yes.”
He hums again, his mind flashing to a vision of you with your hand between your legs, panting and arching. His mouth waters. “Good. Are you ready for me to make you cum now?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
He pats your thigh. “Let’s move to the bed.”
***
YOU
You lay out on the big bed, Mando kneeling beside you. He eases off your last layer, blindly tossing your bra and underwear over his shoulder, his helmet glued to your bare body. That black t rakes over you, raising goosebumps in its wake—down and back up—and stops on your face.
He watches your expression to gauge your comfort level as one large hand cups your breast, the other trailing down your body. You gasp—in relief and pleasure—when his palm rides the curve of your mound and he dips his fingers into you with a groan.
“Already wet?” he asks with a cocky little jaunt of his helmet.
You’re gearing up to reply with something sassy when he puts a sudden pressure on your clit—not moving his finger, just keeping it still and steady—to silence you.
The words die on your tongue. You drop your head back on the pillow and close your eyes. He waits a moment then circles his finger firmly, and your eyes snap back open, your mouth falling open in a soundless exhale.
He continues like that until you’re writhing and whining—pleading with gasped words and wide eyes—and he slips one… and then two thick fingers inside your slick cunt.
He takes you apart—once, twice—with expert precision, with care.
You watch his hands as he does. You can’t help but fixate on them when they’re wringing so much pleasure from your body. One works relentlessly between your legs, the other providing a grounding weight over your sprinting heart.
The hand splayed on your sternum rises and falls in tandem with your rapid breaths, the obscene spread displaying the range, the reach of him. His hands are big, wide—you study the meandering blue veins that fork like rivers between the mountains of his knuckles. His fingers are long and thick, his nails blunt and well kept. Utilitarian.
He presses up against something inside you that radiates pure bliss. You arch for him; you keen.
And you’re so caught up in the intimacy that your imagination runs wild: you can envision his hands doing other things—his palm smoothing over your fevered temple, brushing away a bead of sweat with aching care, just as much as you can see his knuckles split and bloody from the pure lust of possession. You want that. You want him to possess you, to leave someone else black and blue for coveting what is undeniably his.
The weight of his warm palm leaves your chest, and he glosses his knuckles over your bottom lip, dragging it slightly, opening your panting mouth a little more so your humid breath fans over his skin. The black void of his visor is fixed there, and you can feel the want in that gesture—the need. And for a moment, you can see past the helmet with perfect clarity.
He wishes he could be touching your lips with more than his hand.
You feel completely sure of that.
He shifts and leans into you, collapsing onto his side to spread out along your body, pressing his cold helmet into the space between your ear and your shoulder. You gasp and flinch back at the initial shock of contact but bring a hand up to keep him in place when he tries to move away.
You want him close—like having him here in your space as you cum around his thick fingers for the second time—but you can’t help but wish—
“Fuck, I want to kiss you,” you breathe against the curve of beskar.
As soon as the words are floating out there, though, you realize that’s a shitty thing to say to him when there’s nothing he can do about it.
He goes completely still and grunts through the modulator, and for the first time, you have no idea where you stand. You realize he’s been keeping you tethered this whole time—with his calm demeanor, his directness—because suddenly you’re adrift.
“Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know it’s—”
Before the words of your apology are out of your mouth, though, he’s pulling away from you, sliding off the bed and striding to the other side of the room. Panic surges through you. He’s been so good to you, given you everything you need, and still you asked for more.
You scramble to the end of the bed, perched on your knees. “I’m sorry, I won’t say it again, I promise—”
You hesitate when he stops in front of the small, square control panel on the wall by the door, punching several buttons. Before you can wonder what he’s doing, every light is extinguished, and the blackout curtains on the other side of the room close with a swish. You whip your head around at the sound, watching as the last sliver of the blinking city lights is doused.
You look back to where he’s still standing. “What are you—?”
His silhouette is imposing in the dark. The mattress dips when he sits beside you, and he reaches up, slipping his thumb under the lip of his helmet. There’s an unfamiliar hiss, and you watch in astonishment as he eases the black shadow off his head and tosses it carelessly on the bed.
Your heart stops.
You’re shocked into silence, staring at Mando’s dark outline.
You’re not sure who’s more surprised by this turn of events—you or him. You can tell he has stunned himself by the stiff way he’s sitting, completely frozen, all his ease and confidence gone. You feel a surge of affection at how human and vulnerable he suddenly seems. You can see the outline of his tousled helmet-hair, and you’re desperate to soothe him, to hold his hand and guide him through this softly.
Just as he was doing for you.
***
DIN
Suddenly, the roles are reversed. Din’s breath is shallow and shaky, and it feels like the basic control of his body has shifted from autopilot to manual without his permission. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. They’re sitting uselessly in his lap, and his arms feel unwieldy and long.
He’s lost.
And what’s even worse? He knows that you can tell he’s lost, even in the complete darkness.
Is this how you’ve been feeling all night? He’s struck in that moment by how brave you are for staying because after feeling this way—this untethered and unarmored—for about thirty seconds, he is on the verge of vaporizing.
He’d ripped off his helmet in a fog of overwhelming desire—of reckless, desperate passion. You’d whispered that you wanted to kiss him, and it felt like a sign. He had been fixated—possessed by—the same thing, and the tight space inside his helmet became unbearably thick and suffocating. Years of denying himself suddenly weighed too heavy on his shoulders, so heavy that his resolve splintered…but now reality is crashing down on him.
He’s supposed to be the professional here. You paid him for this, and his job is to know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s supposed to be making sure your first time is good for you, and he just let his own needs—his own wants—take the driver’s seat.
You slide closer to him on the bed, one of your palms settling reassuringly on his chest, and Din is acutely aware of how obviously his heart is pounding.
“It’s okay,” you say, your hand sliding upwards over his pec. “Can I—can I touch your face?”
He should say no. That’s too dangerous, too familiar. It’s not worth the risk. His heart hammers irregularly under your fingertips.
“Yes,” he says, and your soft hand cups his cheek. He shudders, leaning into your touch. It’s overwhelming. It’s electric—the sensation is so good and acute that it burns. He wants you to touch all of him, to kiss every plane of his face, to sear away the pain until all that’s left is pleasure.
Right on cue, you lean forward, and Din remains completely still, paralyzed by this unfamiliar feeling of being totally out of his depth. Some panicked part of him is convinced that if he doesn’t move at all, at least he won’t have done anything wrong.
“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” you whisper against his stubbly cheek. “I’m totally fine with just—”
The only thing he’s sure about is that he wants this.
He covers the hand on his chest with his own, his other large palm cradling the back of your neck, keeping you in place, and he can feel you smile against his cheek. He wants to tell you I want this—please kiss me, but he knows if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll hate the waver in his voice.
“Let me take care of you,” you say, reflecting his words back to him, and the ice in Din’s chest thaws. You’re sweet and soft, and he knows that even if he fucks this up, you’ll still be kind to him. In a way, he thinks he might be giving you exactly what you want. What’s more intimate than vulnerability?
It feels safe to move again. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, and holding you gently in place, he tilts his head and fits his lips against yours.
He starts slow—gentle and tentative. You’re patient with him: you let him acclimate to the sensation, grounding him with the steady presence of your hand over his stuttering heart, the other framing his jaw. You press a few light kisses to his lips and start to lean away, to give him some air, but he doesn’t want air—he wants this. He wants the vacuum of space, asphyxia.
Din curls his fingers firmly around the nape of your neck to lock you in place. He leans in and kisses you harder, pressing his mouth to yours until your front teeth click together. He huffs out his embarrassment and adjusts, but you’re unfazed. You venture further, parting your lips to deepen the kiss, sliding your tongue against his when he does the same, and Din is immediately addicted to your mouth.
He wants it everywhere.
He wants your tongue teasing his nipples, your spit dripping down the length of his cock, your teeth set against his neck, your lips mouthing over his balls.
He wants.
***
YOU
Mando moans against your lips, and you feel like you’re being given a gift with the raw sound of his unmodulated voice.
The kiss goes from sweet to needy, and you both feel it. All at once, you’re pulling him on top of you while he’s pushing you back on the bed. Awkwardly, without interrupting the kiss, you scramble backward together, feeling your way through the darkness until your head hits the pillow. He’s braced over you, a muscled thigh situated between your legs, his newly bold tongue in your mouth.
He pants against your lips, forcing the words out between kisses and labored breaths: “Are you ready for me, baby?”
Something inside you turns to liquid when he calls you baby.
“Fuck—yes, please—”
You can hear him working at the fastenings on his pants, freeing himself. Despite how wet you are and the fact that you’ve already cum on his fingers twice, you're braced for some amount of pain. You’ve heard it hurts. And his cock is massive—he shucks off his pants, and it’s resting heavy and thick and long against your inner thigh—so you’re convinced it’s going to hurt even more than you anticipated. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to focus on how good it feels when he kisses you, but you’re sure he can feel you tensing beneath him.
You’re desperate for him to fill the empty ache inside you, and you’re also scared.
The pad of his thumb smooths over your furrowed brow, and he pulls away: “Relax,” he purrs. “I promised to take care of you, remember? I’ll make this good for you.”
You nod in the darkness.
He presses his lips to yours again, and your entire body unclenches. Approval rumbles through his chest, and he kisses you deeply as two of his thick fingers sink easily inside you again. He pumps them languidly before easing a third in alongside them.
It’s so good and not enough.
“I think you’re ready for me.”
“Yes,” you breathe against his lips, “I’m ready.”
“I’ll go slow. Tell me if you want me to stop, if it hurts.”
You nod again, and he swipes his cock through your folds before he fits the blunt head against you. You cling to him, one hand around his neck, fingers tangled in his messy hair, the other flat on his back. He eases his hips forward, pushing just the tip inside, and you know he’s going agonizingly slow for your benefit.
Oh yeah, it’s fucking tight.
He murmurs brokenly against your parted lips as he slips inside: “That’s it. Tell me if it’s too much. Ngghh—you’re doing so good for me.”
It doesn’t hurt though. There is no pain. It’s uncomfortable for a minute. The stretch is new, and the pressure feels foreign, and then he’s all the way inside you, his hips flush against yours, and oh fuck—
He lets out a deep, desperate groan, and you whine loudly against his ear, but you’re so overcome with the feeling, with the sheer fullness that you aren’t even embarrassed by how needy you sound, rendered wordless by pleasure.
His voice is strained when he asks, “How does it feel? Are you okay?”
“Yes—you feel so good—so big—please fuck me,” you slur, and you can feel him smile as he huffs against your cheek.
He holds you close to his chest—to his beating heart—while he fucks you slowly, deeply, and the end of each one of his strokes touches something inside you that aches in the best way. He takes his time with you, just like he promised. You pant in the dark together—for minutes? Hours? Days?
“Tell me,” he prompts again, his voice a hoarse whisper, “tell me how it feels.”
You wish you had the right words for him, wish you could string together the requisite poetry. Instead, he gets a mumbled, “Fuck—mmm—Mando it’s so good—yes, like that—”
The way he sets his teeth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and moans makes you think he gets it anyway.
When the pleasure gets so acute that it requires remedy—when it’s so good it’s almost unbearable—you start to meet each of his thrusts, canting your hips up to chase the sensation, the fullness. He grunts lowly and responds to you: he pulls back to reach between your bodies, trailing a hand down your stomach, to start rubbing attentive circles over your clit.
“Knew you could take me—now you’re gonna cum on my cock.”
He starts to fuck you faster, and you do; he coaxes it out of you.
You pulse and tighten around him, and it’s different than what you know— a widespread pleasure, bone-deep and all-encompassing. You arch your back, nails digging into the skin of his neck, and let the heat roll through your body while he gives you his cock, again and again.
When it starts to fade, you melt into the blissful haze, muscles going warm and slack. You drop your hands over your head, and Mando reaches up to pin your crossed wrists with one huge hand, his elbow braced on the pillow beside your ear, as he follows close behind you.
After a few more punches of his hips, he rips himself away and cums across your stomach—warmth spattering across your skin—pumping himself with a broken groan.
You’re flattened, sweaty and panting, lost in the afterglow of the best orgasm of your life. He disappears into the ensuite refresher and returns with a warm washcloth, carefully cleaning you off as you catch your breath. When he returns again, he braces himself over you to kiss you deeply—and the press of your bodies, of your lips doesn’t feel new anymore. It feels familiar, comforting: like warmth and intimacy cultivated over time.
He rolls onto his back, slumping beside you on the pillow, your breathing a quiet chorus in the darkness.
You hear the muted rustle when he turns his head to look at you, so you do the same, admiring his dark silhouette.
“...are you hungry?”
“Starving,” you breathe.
And you both laugh, a long breathless laugh that has very little to do with the fact that you’re both hungry and everything to do with how easily your hands find each other in the dark.
Before you can ask what you should do about this conundrum, he’s rolling out of bed and sliding his helmet back on. You try to ignore your answering surge of disappointment. Of course it makes sense that he’d put his helmet back on.
He clicks one of the dim lamps on, and for the first time, you’re treated to the full view of him.
Your jaw drops shamelessly.
“What?” he asks, frozen.
The words are out before you can really consider them: “Stars, you’re pretty.”
He scoffs, shaking his head—the warm, golden lamplight skating over the mirrored surface of his helmet—as if you’re kidding. You’re not.
He extracts a datapad from the drawer of the bedside table, and the bed dips when he lays out beside you. He clicks it on and navigates around the interface, asking you what you want. While you decide what to order together—selecting enough food to easily feed four people—you admire the long spread of him, his wide shoulders, the hard lines of his hip bones, and the soft curve of his belly in this slightly hunched position. And all you can think about is how much you want to taste all of him.
When the food is ordered, he clicks the datapad off.
“How long will the food take?” you ask.
“Not long, probably half an hour—”
“Perfect,” you reply, a wicked smile on your lips, as you sit up and throw a leg over him to straddle his thighs. “Plenty of time.”
He tosses the datapad somewhere on the bed and pulls you down on his lap. “Oh yeah?” You can hear the smile in his voice. “For what exactly?”
“I’ll show you,” you purr. You lean forward and suck a hard kiss under his jaw, and he runs his hands up your back.
The long, low sound that emanates from his chest makes you think he likes this just as much as you do.
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t give you a hickey,” you laugh, sitting back on your heels to look into his visor.
“Mmm, I don’t mind,” he says, lazily tipping his helmet to the side and guiding you back in with a hand on the nape of your neck.
“Oh well, in that case…”
***
DIN
He shouldn’t let things go any further, shouldn’t let them spiral. It’s already gotten out of hand. Din knows he should leave his helmet on for the rest of the night and focus on the fact that this is a job.
…but he’s hungry. And he’s already taken it off once in your presence. Would a second time make it worse?
No, he decides, not worse.
And so he lets things bleed a little further into a muddy, unprofessional territory. Control slips a little further out of his hands, unspools.
Even though he should, he doesn’t really mind that feeling anymore. What felt like a loss of control is starting to taste like…joy?
You sit back-to-back on the bed, lights low and his helmet staring blindly next to his thigh, and chat while you eat. An hour passes easily like that, maybe two. He finds himself telling you about his life—his real life—when you ask. And you tell him about yours—about your past relationships, how you’d found companions and potential lovers but no intimacy, so you’d left each one and searched on.
That hits him somewhere deep in his chest.
When you’re done eating, you offer to close your eyes so he can turn the lights off again, to keep his helmet off. He should say no, thank you and put his helmet back on. He should leave it there—in its rightful place—for the rest of the night.
But he can’t take back what’s already happened—he doesn’t want to.
So he lets the line go a little more slack. And it feels good.
He agrees and shuts all the lights off, climbing back into bed with you and pulling you to his side. You don’t even have sex again. It doesn’t come up. You just lie together, close, always touching, and talk. You kiss, taking turns initiating long stints of making out, of mapping each other with your lips, but the rest of the night is largely not even sexual. Just… intimate.
His arm slung around your shoulders, your face settled in the crook of his neck. His head resting in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair.
For the first time in a long time, Din doesn’t feel alone.
It’s a night of firsts, apparently, for both of you. In addition to his first kiss, it’s the first time he falls asleep in the presence of a client. It feels natural though: his eyes drift closed late into the night, your head on his chest, your fingers laced through his.
***
YOU
When you wake in the morning, Mando is gone, the bed cold. You knew he would leave when the time you paid for was up, but the hopeful, sensitive part of you—the part that thought maybe, just maybe, he’d also felt something for you—still feels stung.
You stretch, and your body is the tiniest bit sore, but mostly you just feel just fucked-out and relaxed, warm and lazy. Some part of you wonders if it was a bad idea to have him be your first. You’re pretty certain it’s not ever going to be better than that.
Too late now.
You sigh and sit up, looking around for your clothes. You know you left them strewn all over the room, but now, you find that everything is folded in a stack on the dresser.
You slide to the edge of the bed, and that’s when you notice a note written in neat, squared-off letters on the bedside table.
It says what must be his real name, Din, and underneath, the digits of his personal com.
Starting off the stardust reblog challenge rather spicy~
I'll be honest. I thought I wrote good smut... then I read this. And it knocked me out of the ring. I've re-read it multiple times for both the fun sensuality and also to study it on how to write better spicy scenes.
Silk For Armor Masterlist
tags: dancer!reader, singer!reader, reader has backstory, s3 not canon, diverges around TBOBF, half fix-it fic, half super self-indulgence, original locations and lore, eventual reveal of reader backstory, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut
chapter summary: The Mandalorian receives a strange request. He begins to suspect that there is more to this job and dancer than meets the eye.
WARNINGS: attempted assault, attempted SA, coercion, major violence
note: WHEW It's been a while since I uploaded. I'm so excited to share this very long chapter with you all but PLEASE PLEASE mind the warnings. Thanks!!
“Kidnap me.”
The Mandalorian jerks himself back, startled by the bold request. The wording also throws him off, but that’s the least of his worries right now. “E...Excuse me?”
“Kidnap me!” she echoes. “Please. You have to take me away and take me away soon.” She clasps her hands in front of her chest, a burning desperation in her eyes.
“Why?”
“Kaslur. He’s… getting impatient.”
“Impatient for what?” She drags her gaze away, looking at the floor. Din’s eyes widen behind his visor. “What… is going to happen to you?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not entirely sure, but Kaslur has been begging me to quit dancing to go live with him. We’ve been playing this game for years, but the fuse is wearing thin.” As the realization sinks in for him, he thinks about how a girl like her has little options in a place like this. No one can help her. No one would, lest they wanted to incur the wrath of a crime lord, himself included.
“And if I do? He’d come after me. Might even chase you to the ends of the galaxy.”
The dancer pouts. “I… I-I’ll help you. Or, when you take me back home, I’ll make sure you’re properly compensated.”
“Home?” He thought someone like her was out of place here. “And where is home?”
She straightens her posture. “...I will tell you if you agree to this.”
“Now’s not the time to be keeping secrets.”
“If you knew my secrets, then you’d know why I keep them.”
He stares at her, scrutinizes every bit of her. How confusing this dancer is… She carries herself with a certain grace that only performers of her caliber are capable of. Her manner of speaking is eloquent. Yet, there is a certain spark in her eyes that wouldn’t be found on anyone else on this planet, not after its corruption takes hold. Beneath the humble clothes, behind the extensive makeup and costumes, there is someone who clearly needs his help.
“...I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “I can’t make any guarantees.”
“In that case, I’ll sweeten the deal.” She smiles with confidence. “Let me help you on this job that Kaslur has for you.”
“And how would you help?” She doesn’t look like a fighter, but this girl is full of surprises.
“First of all, you’re new to this planet, aren’t you? Tebin Ramm operates a certain way and I can help you navigate through the channels. Second of all.” She glances around. “You need a place to stay the night where you can actually get some sleep, right? Unfortunately, most of these hotels charge by the hour if you understand my meaning.” He nods. “I have a flat above the theater. It’s… cozy. And since it’s my place, it’s technically protected.”
Din holds up his hand. “Won’t Kaslur object?”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She reaches into a pocket and pulls out something small, popping off the cap and twisting the bottom. Before he asks what it is, she presses the red wax to her lips and applies it, bringing out the color of her skin. Then, she rubs some of it on her fingers. “Give me your arm.”
“W-Why?”
“You just walked into a working hotel. It’d be strange if you didn’t come out with marks.” She holds out her hand. “C’mon, it washes off easy with just some water and it’ll cover our tracks.” Mostly hers, he’s guessing. With a sigh, he gives her his arm. The dancer smudges the cosmetic onto his beskar then makes another smear on his chest. “And now…” She steps forward. “For the final touches.” She closes her eyes and plants a quick kiss on his chest armor, leaving a red mark. Din is about to stumble back, but she leans up on the tips of her toes and catches him, kissing the bottom of his visor.
“H-Hey!” He lifts a hand to wipe it off, but she shouts.
“Don’t! Not until you get to my place.”
Din groans, his hand finding it hard to leave all those marks in place. “I look ridiculous.”
“So does everyone else on this forsaken planet.” She glances back at a clock on the stand. “We’re almost out of time. You leave first. Tell no one I was here. When Kaslur’s men have ditched the front door, just enter the theater and I’ll take you to my place.” With that, she pulls the hood of her cloak over her head. “I’ll go now. You wait ten minutes, then go back to the theater.”
“...Fine.”
Din can’t remember the last time someone got that close to him and lived. The last — and only — person to touch his face was Grogu. Each time he thinks of his companion, his heart yearns. Though, he is thankful that Grogu does not have to see any of this planet. As he walks back to the theater, escorts and bystanders call out the marks, flushing red to his cheeks. This better work as an alibi.
He returns to the theater, finding that it has emptied itself of gangsters for the time being. Workers wipe down the tables and stage and when the last of them has gone, the dancer reappears. She takes him around the back and up the stairs into a loft that overlooks the entire red-light district. It’s a humble apartment, but it is kept tidy and clean. “Are you hungry?” she asks, putting her cloak on a coat rack.
“I am. But I cannot eat with you.”
“I know.” She points to a covered plate on the counter. “I warmed up some soup for you. I’m going to change, so I’ll close the door. Knock when it’s okay to come out?”
This girl… she has everything so perfectly planned out. From the meeting, to taking him in, right down to his food. Din stares at her for a moment. Who is this woman? And what is she doing in a shithole like this?
“...Sure,” he replies. He watches her go into the bedroom and waits a few seconds to confirm that she is gone before walking over to the covered plate. Sitting at the counter, he hesitates, but he takes off his helmet finally and sets it next to him. Steam touches his face from the noodle soup, its salty scent wetting his tongue. He isn’t polite about practically inhaling it, shoving large wads of noodle and beef into his mouth and swallowing the broth. Din eats fast, as usual. When he finishes and cleans his face, he puts his helmet back on and puts the dishes in the sink, noting its cleanliness as well. He wanders to the room and knocks.
“Come in!”
Come in? That throws him off. He opens the door and walks in. There is a single, rickety bed inside the room along with at least two different dressers. Various dancing costumes hang about with special accessories. Her room is a flourish of color that distracts him momentarily from the sight. She reaches for the top of one of her dressers to place a jewelry box back in place, her short robe showing off those shapely legs that he spotted earlier. When Din catches himself staring, he mentally berates himself and looks away. “How was dinner?” she asks, turning back around.
“D-Delicious. Thank you.”
She nods, her hands resting on her hips. “Alright, well, I know this is kind of a mess.” She laughs, looking around her room. “But, I made the bed for you. Talk to you tomorrow.” Just before she can leave, Din holds out his arm, blocking her from the door.
“I’m sleeping in here?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, I have a couch.” She tries to go; he stops her again, this time by holding her arm. The dancer tenses.
“You’re going through an awful lot of trouble for me.”
She lifts her chin. “Because I hope that you’ll do the same for me.” Kidnap me. “It’ll be dawn soon, Mandalorian. Please, get some rest. The sooner we find Kaslur’s man, the sooner we can both get off this awful planet.”
“I haven’t entirely agreed to take you.”
She grins. “Then I have a whole day to convince you.” She lifts her hand, thumb swiping some lipstick off his helmet. Shit, he forgot that was there. “Red’s a good color on you.” He lets her go immediately and she leaves the bedroom all to him. Now, Din is alone with her bed and her army of costumes surrounding him. As he removes his armor to clean off the makeup, he takes in the sight of every piece. Some outfits are… more revealing than others. He recognizes the one she wore earlier and then his eyes wander to some of the accessories: fans, feathers, all sorts of fun things. Din wonders how she uses them.
Just before he settles into bed, he has half a mind to look around. This woman is more than dancer, that much he can surmise, but to what extent? He’s curious, but he knows better than to violate her privacy, especially when she has been so considerate of his. When he settles into bed, her scent assaults him: clean and flowery. It oddly calms him and lulls him to sleep fast.
“So, who is the unlucky fellow?” she asks, sitting at the counter and eating a piece of bread. Din remains standing and slides the puck towards her, turning it on. Her brows lift in recognition of the Weequay. “Huh, that’s Mazarg Eq.”
“You know him?”
“Used to be an enforcer for Kaslur a few years back. Last I heard, Kaslur caught him in one of the spice dens, getting high on the boss’s supply. He’s not dead? That’s… lucky?”
“Kaslur mentioned something about him having a necklace.”
“A necklace?” She strokes her chin. “Don’t know anything about that. But, if I were Eq, I’d likely still be hooked on spice. Unfortunately. But I can’t get high at any of the dens that are supplied by Kaslur. So… I’d have to go to a rival’s supplied den. You know, for sanctuary.” Din slowly turns his head so the T of his visor faces her directly, as if asking how in the hell she ascertained that. The dancer shrugs. “That’s just the way things are around here.”
“...It would make sense. Also, if that’s true, then that’s the reason why Kaslur can’t send any of his own men. He’d start a turf war.” Din stands up, swiping the puck off the table and sliding it into his belt. “Would you know where these rival dens are?”
“I would.” She stands too, grabbing her cloak. “It’s not gonna be pretty.”
Once again, she is correct. Din’s throat tightens as she leads him through the district. Nearly everyone he sees is either stumbling, passed out, or expelling some body fluid in some way right in the street. No one seems to care. But, when he comes in, shiny expensive beskar on his chest, the junkies take notice. They lick their chapped lips, gaze with blood-shot eyes and fantasize about how much spice they can get with just a scrap of his armor.
Din is ready for someone to try to take it, but he hopes his imposing walk will hold them off.
He glances towards the dancer, her hood up as she stays close to him. “You being spotted here won’t be a problem, will it?” he asks.
“Technically, no. I’m not affiliated with anyone. That being said…” She scans the area. “I’d rather Kaslur not find out I was here.” She taps his shoulder. “In here.” He follows her into an alleyway with a single door, a faded neon sign blinking on and off above it. As soon as the door slides open, the foul stench of spice assaults his senses, even behind his helmet.
Smoke fills the den and makes it so hard to see that Din adjusts his visor to seek out heat instead. He sees red and orange shapes lounging on couches, taking long drags from pipes, and draping on other people. He prays that Eq is here, because he doesn’t want to comb through another one of these.
A Twi’lek man approaches them. “You gotta pay up before you take a seat.”
“We’re not here for spice,” she says. “We’re looking for Mazarg Eq.”
The Twi’lek flashes a look at the Mandalorian then back at the dancer. “And who is looking for him?”
“A friend,” she responds. She tilts her head up, giving the Twi’lek a glimpse of her face. “I know how this works.” She folds her hands together in front of her. “We need an address. How much?”
He grins. “...How about some of that beskar?”
Din leers at him. “Try again.”
She steps forward. “You deal with me, not the Mandalorian.”
“I don’t know what you can offer me, sweetheart.”
The dancer closes the gap between them, leaning in. “Tell you what.” She holds him close. “If you stop by…” She whispers, giggling and drawing shapes on his chest. The Twi’lek’s eyes bulge as she sweet talks him, ending her offer with a kiss on his cheek. She steps back with a polite smile. Without another moment to lose, the Twi’lek blurts out an address that Din commits to memory.
“Thanks… sweetheart.” She blows him a kiss. “Tomorrow right, remember.”
And with that, they leave. Once they’re out of the den, Din turns to her. “What did you offer that man?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“...You’re not seriously going to do it.”
She laughs. “We’ll be on a Razor Crest tomorrow night already in Hyperspace. C’mon, let’s go find our guy!”
One of the benefits of his helmet is being able to scope and scan any person of his choosing with discretion. Din sneaks in a few glances at the dancer as she walks with her hands behind her back. She hums, reminding him of the powerful vocals she displayed the other night. She is remarkably odd in a place like this. She is so… normal. Her demeanor, her manner of speaking doesn’t fit in with the rest of the people on Tebin Ramm.
Din wants to ask about her, but he isn’t curious enough to actually open his mouth. In fact, he knows it’s for the better. He’ll get her off this planet and drop her somewhere and that will be the end of that. Everyone that entered his late Razor Crest had their own stories — some he knew, some he didn’t, but most of the time, he didn’t care what they were. The dancer will simply be the girl that helped him get his ship.
Daylight does not last long on Tebin Ramm and the veil of space is nearly done creeping over their heads. Not that anyone can see any of the stars through the pollution. They wander further from the city’s center, finding crumbling buildings and tiny shacks for housing. The air is deathly still, but the stench of bodily fluids and trash wrinkle their noses. She pulls the collar of her cloak up to cover up her lower face.
“Stay close,” Din says, his hand hovering over his blaster, ready to draw.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” She walks closer, their shoulders brushing against each other. They close in on the address given to them, standing before a tall building with cracks along its walls and broken signage. “He must be squatting here.”
“C’mon.” This shouldn’t be hard. When he first began bounty hunting, Din felt pity for the easy targets. That changed when every target became easy. They entered and went up the stairs, passing by bodies (asleep or dead?) sprawled on the floors and against the walls. He feels her hand cling to his cape. Din doesn’t wait anymore and he draws his blaster as they creep towards the marked door. “Stay here,” he says to her at the end of the hall. She nods.
The Mandalorian takes a few hunkering footsteps towards the door. Before he knocks, he gives it a nudge to see if it’s open. It is. He inhales fast and kicks it open, brandishing his blaster. On the floor, a Weequay yelps in surprise and stares at the tall mass of silver beskar in front of him. He scrambles backwards until he hits the wall. “Mazarg Eq?”
“Wh-who’s askin’?” The Mandalorian says nothing. Instead, he pulls out the puck and clicks the button, showing Eq’s face. “Aw shit… who hired you?” he asks between hyperventilating breaths.
“None of your concern.”
“It was that fucking prick Kaslur, wasn’t it?” he asks, voice panicked. “Shit, sending a fucking Mandalorian after me.”
Din continues, voice cool and collected. “You’ve got a necklace. Or did you hock that for spice?”
Eq laughs, body trembling. “Oh, that’s what you’re after! Look, if I hand it over, will you leave me alone?”
Din’s pulled this trick before. “Where is it?” Eq wobbles as he crawls a few feet away to where Din sees a crowbar. He’s ready for Eq to swing it at him, but to his surprise, the Weequay uses it on the floor instead, prying open the floorboards. Inside a secret compartment are a few credit chits, a handful of spice bags, and a black box. Eq crawls back to the Mandalorian, presenting the box to him. “Take it. If it gets Kaslur off my back, just take it!”
He holsters the blaster, giving the Weequay a false sense of security. Din takes the box and opens it. His brows furrow at the contents. It doesn’t look like a necklace, it looks like a small, metal collar with a small crystal charm. Kaslur described it as having the finest jewels… was that a lie? He goes to the door-frame and beckons the dancer over. “Necklace.”
She takes the box and looks down, peering at it. “Really? This? But it’s so… simple…” Shrugging, she closes the box. “Get Eq. We’re almost done. You go to Kaslur, I go home and grab my things.”
“You think it’ll be that easy?”
“Been thinking about it the entire way.” She smiles and steps back. “Do your thing.” Once she is a safe enough distance away, Din looks back inside.
“So… is that it? You said you’d leave me alone, right?”
The Mandalorian stalks forward. “Never did.”
Din drags Eq’s unconscious body through the halls and down the stairs. Kaslur would give him more credits if he brought him in alive, and fuel isn’t any cheaper these days. The dancer carries the black box for him for now, but something in his gut tells him that there is more to that “necklace.” He can’t worry now.
Soon, he tells himself. Soon, a new Razor Crest. Soon, off this awful planet.
The dancer opens the door to the outside and freezes. She gasps, finding a crescent of mobsters surrounding the exit. Din keeps a calm head, already running his eyes over their blasters and conjuring strategies if they cannot talk their way out of this. But then he sees Kaslur there in the center, tall and wide. He claps slowly, an unfriendly grin on his face. “Well done, Mandalorian. Well done. Though, you can’t take all the credit for this job, can you?” His eyes gloss over to the dancer’s, an uneasy stillness within them. All Kaslur has to do is gesture with his head and two mobsters dart forward. One yanks the black box away from her while the other grabs her arm.
“Hey!”
“Stop!” says Din. “Don’t punish her. I’m the one that needed her help.”
“Punish? My precious doll?” The mobster drags her over to Kaslur. “She helped you. Which meant she helped me.” He turns to her, stroking her cheek. “And I know the perfect reward. Mando, hand over Eq.” The Mandalorian hesitates, eyes flicking towards her. She nods. He steps forward and shoves the Weequay forward who barely registers what is going on. Another two thugs hold him up by his arms while Kaslur opens the black box. “Don’t you love it?” he says, presenting it to her.
She bites her bottom lip. “It… is very lovely.”
“I know it’s simple. But I went through a lot of trouble to acquire this for you, darling. You want to see what it does?” She remains silent, eyes flashing to the Mandalorian. Kaslur takes the choker and walks up to the moaning, half-awake Eq and clips it around his neck. “Hm. It doesn’t look as great on him as it will on you, my dearest. But you see, this collar is made of kyber crystal.” Her eyes widen and her skin pales. Kyber? Din thinks. “And I have its sister right here.” Kaslur presents a small bracelet around his fat wrist. “And with a touch of a button… it can do this.” He presses it.
It happens in the matter of seconds. Eq’s head falls clean off and topples to the ground as the inside of the choker fills with a hazy white light. It too falls to the ground, having cleanly sliced the flesh it wrapped around. She lets out a horrified shriek and Din knows that he cannot let this go on a second longer. He brandishes his blaster but gets more than a few barrels pointing at him. As if that would stop him.
“I’m sorry, darling,” says Kaslur. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. But we could have prevented this.” He holds her head, not caring that she is the one having panicking breaths now. “I’m tired of waiting. You’re coming with me.” She shakes her head with a whimper that he shushes. “Don’t worry, love. I won’t press the button if you do as I say.”
“Not happening,” says Din behind gritted teeth. “Step away.”
Kaslur lifts his head. “Look around you, Mando. It’s five against one.”
“I like those odds.”
He laughs. “Of course you would, you fucking Mandalorian.” Kaslur stands up straight, his hand falling on her shoulder. “’Course if you did, then there’s no way you’re leaving here alive, much less on a Razor Crest. That was the deal, wasn’t it?” He snaps his fingers and a gangster brings him a comm device. With a few button clicks, it displays a hologram of a Razor Crest. “Walk away now and I transfer all ownership of this ship to you. My men will let you ride off into Hyperspace.”
Din freezes. The Razor Crest was the only reason he came to this planet in the first place. He needs it. It’s right there in front of him; the hard work is done already. But then his brown eyes flash back towards her.
She breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Just go, Mando,” she tells him. “Go. Take it.”
“I-I…”
“Go.” She forces a smile, tears welling in her eyes. “One of us should get off this awful planet.” And just like that, Din watches the tears streak down her cheek as she gives up her dream. His hand shakes as he lowers his blaster as the weight sits uncomfortably on his chest and shoulders. Someone walks over to grab the choker off the ground, placing it back in the box.
“I’ll get that nice and cleaned up for you,” says Kaslur. He presses a few buttons more before the hologram disappears. “Alright, she’s all yours. Congratulations.”
Din wants to punch him right in the teeth. He stands still as a statue as the mobsters move out, dragging along the dancer. She does not resist, she doesn’t even falter in that smile. One of us should get off this awful planet.
Most bounties leave a somewhat bitter taste in his mouth, but only one made him feel vile and wretched. Now, that number is two.
Din starts in the direction of where he can pick up the Razor Crest. Kaslur’s men greet him with ease and show it to him. They go over the details, but honestly, Din cannot concentrate on them. With every explanation, every demonstration, he sees her face. He sees her smile as the tears stain her cheeks. He hears the horrified scream she let out when they saw the collar.
And he imagines it on her neck. Always present, always a threat. He imagines a broken smile on her lips as she does everything Kaslur asks of her, too afraid to refuse.
The men leave him alone in the Razor Crest. He sits in the pilot’s seat and thanks to muscle memory is able to power it on and go through the motions. Good, he succeeded, he has a home for the time being. Yet, any thought of celebration is rebuked with disgust.
And her smile.
He knows what he has to do.
Never before had a choker had a more apt name. The dancer sits at the end of the fancy table in Kaslur’s dining room in his penthouse overlooking the city. Across from her, he tears at his food, getting juices stained on his chin and shirt. Her body trembles and she stares at her untouched plate. The thought of swallowing against the choker vanishes her appetite. “I’ve already sent for your things,” he tells her, startling her. “No more dancing for ungrateful twigs.”
She keeps her hands on her lap. “Am I… never to dance again?”
Kaslur laughs. “No, my dear. You will simply dance for me. And only for me.” His voice lowers to a certain register that makes her skin crawl. “And this time, darling, everything is going to come off.”
“E...Everything?”
Kaslur wipes his lips with a napkin. “Come, I’ll show you your room.”
With wobbling knees, she stands and follows him. Kaslur takes her hand and leads her through the large space of his penthouse, opening the door to an ornate bedroom. The windows are ceiling to floor and the bed is large with plush pillows and a canopy. He shoves her inside and closes the door.
Oh no.
“I’ve been dreaming about this day for years,” he starts. “The day I finally claim you… how should I do it? Should I make you dance for me? Or sing? How you seduced me every night with your voice, your body…” He creeps closer to her as she steps back. “I don’t know where you come from, my love, but I know a one-of-a-kind woman, especially on this shithole of a planet.”
She gulps. She feels the choker around her.
“Haha… I digress. So I was thinking, how do I want this night to go? Then, I realized… it doesn’t matter.” He laughs. “You’ll do every single one. Tomorrow, you’ll dance. The day after, you’ll sing. On day three, I want you crawling to me, offering your body.” Kaslur shoves her onto the bed. She tries leaving, but he rests a knee on her legs. “For every fucking year you made me wait for this, you’re gonna do everything I want, understand?”
“P-Please—”
Kaslur grabs the fabric of her dress and tears it off with a loud rip, making her scream. “And don’t give me that look! You’re gonna enjoy every second of it.” He seizes her breast, twisting the flesh and making her whimper in pain. “If you don’t, if you’re not enjoying it, there’ll be consequences.” He groans. “Fuck, your body is so beautiful.”
She shuts her eyes. She wills time to turn faster. How foolish she was to think that she could escape this place, escape him. More tears well up in the corner of her eyes, but she is afraid of crying. His hand curls around her neck as he tears away more of the fabric. She thought she heard the sound of a door sliding open, but Kaslur does nothing about it. He forces his hand between her legs and she is about to cry out.
Something knocks Kaslur to the side. In a flash of activity, she sees a blur of silver and sees Kaslur tumble to the floor. A blade of pure black light materializes and stabs right through Kaslur, choking him and expiring his life. The dancer sits up, her eyes taking in the sight of the Mandalorian sheathing his weapon and standing over him. He turns his visor towards her before quickly looking away from her state of undress. “I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t here in time.”
It takes her a second to process what has happened. When she realizes that she was rescued, that she didn’t have to endure what she braced herself for, she chokes out a sob. She lunges forward and hugs the Mandalorian despite her nakedness. He lifts his hands before looking around the room, finding nothing. With a sigh, he takes off his cape and wraps it around her shoulders. “We don’t have a lot of time. We have to go now. I’m sorry.”
“We...We’re going?”
“Yes.” He steps back, away from her. “I’m getting you off this planet.”
“I’m…” Elation fills her expression. “Wait.” She leans down and grabs the bracelet from Kaslur’s wrist. With bated breath, she clicks the other button and just prays in that split second she doesn’t die. Then the collar falls from her neck. The relief almost brings her to tears. With that, she takes the cape and holds it around her torso. Then, she gives one last look at Kaslur's corpse. With a rare scowl, she kicks his head. “Okay, let’s go.” She turns away, her expression softening.
“Do as I say,” he says. “This will be rough.”
“Okay.” She follows him. “Thank you, Mando. Thank you…!”
tags: snow white!Reader, huntsman!prince!Din, medieval fantasy setting with star wars elements, fairy tale
summary: The queen's instructions for the Mandalorian were clear: take the princess to the edge of the forest, carve out her heart, and bring it to her.
PART 2 - MASTERLIST
The sun beamed down and filled the meadow with warmth that made the flowers bloom and the birds sing.
For the first time in many years, the princess wore a finer dress and her hair was neat and combed. She delighted in picking flowers, humming to herself a merry tune and cradling them in her arms. How long had it been since she had a break from all the work in the castle? Of course, she knew her step-mother meant well, but over the years, it started to take its tolls.
Upon hearing that the Mandalorian was to take her to the fields to pick flowers, she could hardly believe it. They used to be together all the time, going to the markets, attending performances, even just sitting by the fire while he told her all about Mandalore.
And it would be just the two of them. There wouldn’t be another opportunity like this for a while. In her head, she considered it. She considered telling him.
“It’s been a while since we did this,” she told him. He grunted in affirmation. “When we were younger, we were always out doing one thing or another. Remember when you used to take me to the market for bread and sweet buns?”
“I do.”
“Oh! And the Life Day festivals too. I miss those. Maybe we can ask my step-mother to go to the next one?”
“I… I think that would be rather difficult. The festivals have stopped,” he said. “Haven’t had one in years.”
“Oh…” She turned her back to him and knelt down. The warrior instinct in him told him that this would be a good time. He took a cautious step closer. “You’re away often,” she continued as he stalked closer. “It feels like you’ve been… not around since my father passed away.”
He stopped for a second. “...I’ve kept busy.”
“Yeah. So have I. It’s good.” She picked more flowers as his shadow loomed over her. “But I’m so grateful for this.” She paused, her heart racing. “I feel so fortunate that it’s just us.” The Mandalorian pulled out his dagger. “I…” She noticed then the shadow that blocked out the sun. Turning her head and looking up, her eyes widened at the gleam of the raised dagger and the darkness of the helmet staring at her.
Wh...what? Never in a million years did she think she would see this: The Mandalorian with his dagger raised, ready to sink itself deep into her chest. She froze in place, unable to scream, unable to do anything but stare in utter despair as hot tears welled in her eyes.
Din’s hand trembled like it never did before. Her wide eyes pierced through his visor and broke his heart into pieces. “No…” He dropped the dagger before the weight of his sin pushed him to his knees. “I… I can’t. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
The princess stared at him with pale fear. “Wha...what? Why, Din?”
Din. He hadn’t heard his own name in years, it felt like. Too ashamed to look her in the eye, he hung his head and let his shoulders droop. “The queen,” he answered. “She… she ordered me to kill you.”
“W-Why?”
“I-I don’t know. She’s…” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Princess. I should have never… I should have refused.” Guilt weighed in his voice. “Stars, please forgive me.”
Though her body still quaked in fear, the princess dared to reach for him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “So you… you don’t hate me?”
“Hate you? I… I could never hurt you.”
Her heart swelled with hope. “I forgive you. But what will we do? I-If the queen wants me dead, then...”
“It’s not safe for you here.” He grabbed his dagger and stashed it away, standing up. Din took her hand and forced her to stand with him. “We have to get you someplace safe.” He trampled over the bouquet of flowers she had put together as he pulled her deep into the woods.
He had been there plenty of times and was used to the dim light, the spooky sounds of owls and critters, and the moaning wind. She, however, clung to his arm and kept her whimpers muffled behind her lips. Din had to think — they couldn’t be wandering forever and if he didn’t return, then the queen would send someone after them.
Then, recalled a place that he once found with the late king nearby.
The princess turned around, taking in the sight of all the tree houses and the small, furry creatures that inhabited them. Many of them had swung down from the ropes and surrounded her, touching her skirts and smelling her hands.
“Okay,” said Din, returning to her. “I spoke to the chief. They’ll let you stay.”
“Me? You’re not staying with me?”
He shook his head. “I have to report back to the queen.” Just as he was about to leave, she frowned and called after him.
“Din!” He stopped. “Why are you going back to her?”
“I…” It was hard for him to answer. He knew that at this point, there was no excuse, that the queen nearly drove him to kill someone so precious to him. But what could he do? Run away? If he returned to Mandalore now, she would simply hunt him down and bring war to their gates. No, he had to figure this out; he would not disgrace his family and kingdom by forcing them to solve his problem. “I have to do this,” is all he said.
The princess frowned. “You have to?”
The Mandalorian turned away, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to express himself perfectly. “I’m sorry… stay here for the time being. I’ll come back.” Before he could receive confirmation, he walked off, disappearing behind the trees. The princess watched him, her heart heavy even with the company of the Ewoks.
Din…
While one his way back towards the castle, he heard a rustle in the bushes and the snapping of twigs. In a second, he braced himself and reached for his blade, closing his eyes and listening for the sound of galloping feet. Once he pinned the direction it came from, he readied himself and side-stepped out of the animal’s trajectory, slicing it cleanly with his sword. Din saw that it was a wild boar, albeit a smaller one than usual. With a squeal, it toppled over on its side and bled, whining in pain.
Using a smaller blade, he knelt down and pushed it right in its neck, ending its suffering. Din stayed there for a moment, recalling the day that Rarga had passed. If only he had been this swift. If only he had been stronger…
Dwelling on it was useless now. He reached for the box that the queen wanted the princess’s heart in and held it open.
Din had failed to keep the king alive — he wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to her.
He delivered the pig’s heart to the queen and she smiled in satisfaction while his eyes burned with hatred. How could he have almost followed her orders? How could he have almost killed the princess? He imagined taking his sword out right now and driving it through the queen’s chest, expecting it to be an empty cavity. Unfortunately, that would solve nothing.
"Tell me," said the queen while she eyed the box like a piece of jewelry, like a trophy. "Did she put up a fight?"
Din's jaw clenched. "No."
"Ah." She chuckled. "She was always so fond of you. Not so hard, was it?"
"...Easy."
The princess gazed up at the night sky from the balcony of the tree house, letting the warm breeze pick up her hair and billow her nightgown. She waited, hoping to see a flash of silver emerge from the trees. Lately, she found herself missing him more and more as the time between visits lengthened. And they were always brief, basically just him checking to make sure she lived and the Ewoks were treating her alright. Then he would leave.
She yearned for the day where he could stay for a day, maybe a week. Would it ever come? Before she could contemplate it more, one of the Ewoks waddled up to her, patting her leg. They gestured towards the inside, asking if she would follow.
“I suppose it’s that time, isn’t it?” She nodded and followed. The Ewok turned their head over their shoulder, chirping an inquiring sound. “Oh, nothing,” she sighed. “I’m fine.” The princess joined the other Ewoks inside, sitting on the cot that they had made to accommodate her. “I’m just in my thoughts,” she continued. Instead of leaving, the Ewoks remained quiet, staring at her expectantly. “Hm? Oh, well…”
The princess hugged her knees. “...I was just thinking about the time when my father was alive. It would be nighttime just like now. I would sit by the fire with a book until Din and my father returned from their training or hunts. Then Din would tell us about Mandalore.” She closed her eyes, remembering the scent of pine from within that room, the crackling of the fire… and the warmth of Din’s voice, despite his helmet. “I could listen to him for hours. I would imagine what he looked like underneath his helmet. He told me that he could only remove it if he ever married. Oooh, how I used to imagine... oh, never mind.” She giggled and as soon as it faded, so did her smile. “We used to be so close… but now Din feels as though he drifts from me further and further.”
She lied down, staring at the ceiling. “And I know that one day, he’ll just be gone.” She held her hand above her head, letting go of its fist and going, “poof. Just like that. I’ll never see him again…” Turning her head, she faced the Ewoks. “But at least I have all of you.” They made happy sounds and drove away the sad thoughts for now, but she knew that when she closed her eyes that night, they would return.
Her heart would ache and she would see him in the darkness.
This time, when he returned to the palace and entered the throne room, the queen was not there. He looked around, puzzled that she would summon him and not be present. Din turned on his heel about to leave when the doors closed and two guards stood before it, spears at the ready. He heard the clanking of armor behind him — two more guards. His muscles tensed as his hand wiggled near the hilt of his blade.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked from behind his helmet.
The guards surrounded him, closing the circle that they made. “The princess lives,” one answered.
Din clenched his jaw. He glanced again towards the throne, its emptiness all the more alarming now. If the queen was not here, then where…
He darted forward, unsheathing his blade and driving it through the gaps of armor between one of the guards. The Mandalorian pulled his sword out and kicked the body down before he dodged the incoming swings from the spears. With the last spear, he yanked on it and punched the guard right in their helmet to knock them away. Right now, his only focus was getting through this fight as quick as possible — he was already out of time. Din slashed and kicked, elbowed and stabbed with effort until all four guards were dead at his feet. He wasted no time to mourn them, simply sheathing his dark blade and sprinting down the hall.
Princess!
When she returned from the forest, a basket full of berries cradled in her arm, she heard the Ewoks in some sort of uproar. They trilled and hissed, creating commotion. The princess rushed forward, eager to see what the ruckus was about. It couldn’t be Din, could it? No, they know him, they wouldn’t be afraid. She came upon a scene where they surrounded an old woman in a cloak, cowering from their spears and shouts.
“Stop, stop!” said the princess, shooing and swatting away their spears. “Put that all away! She’s harmless!” The princess knelt down before the old woman, holding her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, madam. Are you alright?”
The old woman’s eyes squinted, as if her sight were long gone. She trembled in her cloak, clutching a basket of bright red apples. “Oh… a friendly voice… thank you, child.”
“Please forgive my friends. They only wish to protect me.” The old woman attempted to stand, but her knees wobbled beneath her dress and she clung to the princess’s arms. “Hey, hey, easy! Come inside and catch your strength.”
The Ewoks watched in confusion as the princess lead the old woman into one of the ground houses. There was a certain scent lingering in the air of something foul emanating from that woman.
“Ahh, bless you child,” said the woman, voice meek and gentle. “I was picking apples in the orchard when I seem to have lost my way.”
“Orchard? There’s an orchard nearby?” asked the princess, sitting her down on a cot to make her comfortable. “I haven’t seen one in my walks.”
“Oh, it’s my own little secret,” said the old woman with a chuckle. She extended a bony hand towards the girl, beckoning her to come forward and listen to her whispers. “It’s a magic orchard.”
“A magic orchard? How so?”
“These apples,” said the old woman, “possess a rare quality.” She picked one up from her basket, presenting it to the princess. “These apples can grant wishes.”
“Wishes? Haha! Like a genie in a bottle?”
“Precisely.”
The princess blinked in disbelief. She had heard faraway tales of genies that could grant wishes, of springs that flowed water of everlasting youth, and of cursed spindles that brought forth death. Never in her life did she expect to be face to face with a piece of magic… if it was magic. “And… how does it grant wishes exactly?”
“All one must do is whisper their desire to the apple and take a single bite.” She rubbed the apple. “My dear… there wouldn’t happen to be a wish in your heart, would there?”
“Hm? W-Well…” With a dash of pink on her cheeks, she darted her eyes to the side. Of course she had a wish, but she was not about to put all of her faith onto an apple of all things. The old woman placed the apple in her hands, pressing them against the fruit to hold onto it tight.
“You saved me, my darling. And for that, I am grateful. Allow me to return the favor.”
“What? No, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist!” The old woman waved her wrinkled hand. “Whisper your wish into the apple and take a bite! A single bite! I promise it shall come true.”
The princess pouted, staring into the red of the apple. She wasn’t about to believe that this apple could possibly fix everything. Even so, it would be rude to reject the woman. And really, she had nothing to lose… She closed her eyes and brought the apple close to herself and lowered her voice.
“I wish…” The woman watched her with wide, eager eyes. “I wish for Din’s return… wait, no, I wish…” She sighed, a smile creeping on her lips. “I wish he will return and take me away. And I wish… I could tell him how I feel. If I’m lucky… really lucky… he will make me happy.”
The image was so clear in her head. She imagined him holding her hand and leading her through the forest, guiding her down the long winding roads between the kingdoms. His armor shone against the sun and maybe, just maybe, she could see what he looked like under the helmet. She could feel her fingers on his skin, she could tell him how she felt all these years.
It was him. It was always him. From the day they met, to all those days and nights spent together, she knew. He was there on the best days and on the worst, and he gave her reason to approach each day with a smile. Din had done so much for her; he deserved to know how much it all meant. How much he meant to her.
“That is my wish.” With her heart swelling, joy filling her chest, she took a bite. The crunch of the apple rang in her ears as she chewed, its sweet juices running over her tongue. A numbing sensation filled her body as she swallowed and she found herself unable to move. “Oh…” Dizziness struck her, blurring her vision and making everything spin. She was so disoriented that she thought she saw a wicked smile on the old woman’s face. “I feel… I feel…”
Her eyelids grew heavy. Losing feeling, her knees gave out. The princess collapsed onto the wooden floor with a large thud, the apple falling out of her hands.
There was no Din. There was no sunlit stroll through the forest. There was no touch of his hand. There was only pitch black darkness.
taglist: @aerangi @letmehavemyfictionalmen @threeheadedlamb
divider by @saradika
reblog if your inbox is always open for new members of the fandom who may be a little shy or intimidated. doesn’t matter whether or not you’re a “popular blog”; everyone here is equal and if you’re reading this as a new person/someone considering entering the fandom, we will not turn you away!!!! talk to us!! make friends!! i more than understand being shy but trust me this fandom is chill come join us in this hellhole
Silk For Armor Masterlist
tags: dancer!reader, singer!reader, reader has backstory, s3 not canon, diverges around TBOBF, half fix-it fic, half super self-indulgence, original locations and lore, eventual reveal of reader backstory, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut
chapter summary: In search of a replacement for his beloved ship, the Mandalorian ends up on an Outer Rim planet.
WARNINGS: language, sex work, drug mentions
note: Hi y'all! I'm having a teeny bit of Writer's Block for Snow White atm so I thought I'd upload the first chapter of this one. I hope to get back to the other one soon, but in the meantime, please enjoy the first installment of this fic!
Once again, Din Djarin finds himself all alone in the galaxy.
Then you are no longer a Mandalorian.
He replays the words in his head over and over, unable to protect himself from the sting against his chest and head. What a fool he was for thinking that he could come back and pretend that nothing happened, that he wasn’t automatically an apostate for removing his helmet.
But he did it for Grogu. He did it for his foundling, for the one most precious to him in the entire galaxy, and in that, he cannot say he regrets it.
As he stumbles away from the covert, underneath the darkness of the night sky, he hears a beep from his belt signaling an incoming transmission. Din hesitates in answering, unsure if he is in the right head-space for anything of the sort, but he decides that he could use the distraction; it beats spiraling into despair when he thinks too hard about what he wants to do next. He retrieves the device from his belt and holds it in his palm, clicking a button. From the small screen, a hologram of Peli sits on his hand, her hands on her hips and a grin on her face.
“Hey, Mando!” she calls, waving. “I’m so glad you picked up! Boy, I’ve got great news for you.”
He doubts it. “What is it?”
“Remember how you asked me about finding you a replacement for the Razor Crest? Well, I found one!”
“You did?” This could be good — finding a new ship might just be the perfect distraction right now. If he dwells on the looming realization of his solitude, he might descend down the wrong path. Yes, this can work. “Should I come to Tatooine?”
“No, no.” Peli waves her hand. “No need. I just received word from a contact on the planet Tebin Ramm.” Din’s fist clenches. Tebin Ramm is a wretched hive that made the old Nevarro seem like Coruscant. “Told me his boss-man would be willing to negotiate with you on a fair price for a Razor Crest.”
“I doubt I’d get anywhere near a fair price on Tebin Ramm. They’re more likely to rob me than speak to me.”
“Yeah, I knew you’d say that. Well, that’s the price of a Razor Crest.” She points back with her thumb. “Of course, if you just need a ship, I do have something right here that I can fix up for you. She’ll make any dusty old Razor Crest look like a bantha cart!”
Din sighs, taking a moment to think. “You trust this contact?”
“Never steered me wrong in the past. But hey, I get it, no one likes to go to Tebin Ramm. Which is why, if you want a guaranteed deal, I can fix that baby I’ve got–”
“I’ll go meet this contact.” Peli slumps over. “Where can I find them?”
“Really? That didn’t work? Pssh.” She rolls her eyes. “You and your Razor Crest. Okay, fine, I’ll send you the information and let him know you’re on your way.”
“Thanks.” The transmission ends and he pockets his device, standing in place to think. Tebin Ramm is the last place he wants to go, but since he doesn’t have to worry about escorting anyone else, he should be fine. As long as he keeps to himself and spends the least amount of time there as possible, he can walk — or fly, rather — away from this with a Razor Crest.
Finding passage to Tebin Ramm is something of a challenge for him. No commercial flights dare venture close to that section of the Outer Rim, meaning he has to bargain with some smugglers to let him hitch a ride back to their base there.
It is a lawless planet if he’s ever seen one, and he has seen plenty. Nearly every hunter in the guild refuses to take jobs in Tebin Ramm and the ones that do are rarely ever seen again. All he knows is that the planet is a hive for gangsters and criminals, with different dons and lords running their sectors how they please. As soon as he steps off the smugglers’ ship, a chill runs up his spine.
The streets are dimly lit only by the gaudy neon signs of the tall buildings and a sort of fog permeates throughout the area. Rough-looking people of all races and genders walk around with blasters openly placed on their hips. They yell at each other from across the street, harass others that pass them by, and overall cause ruckus. He sees people spilling drinks from bottles underneath the hazy signs. Bracing himself and adopting his usual intimidating walk, the Mandalorian ventures forth into the streets.
He gets looks and stares, which is to be expected. Many of the thugs he passes give him a once-over, as if sizing up how many credits they can swim in if they took his beskar. Others turn alluring eyes towards him, one woman even licking her bottom lip in plain view. Just keep going, he tells himself. Unfortunately, he knows it’s about to get worse. Peli’s information tells him he has to turn the corner and step into the sleazy alleys of a red-light district. Women leaning against the buildings instantly turn their attention towards him, bending over to show off their cleavages, pulling up their dresses to tempt him with their thighs. They call him, beg him, reach for him but never make contact. On the balconies of the buildings he walks in between, even more half-naked women dance and beckon the patrons on the street.
In one instance, he can clearly see one of them pressing her hands against the window while a customer uses her from the back while she keeps her lips firmly shut. Din shivers, keeping his face forward. Now, he almost wishes that there is no Razor Crest.
Tucked away in the red-light district is a small theater, marked only by the neon. From the outside, it doesn’t seem impressive, but Din clocks the two bouncers at the front that suggest otherwise. Din approaches them, keeping his hands clear.
“I’m here to see Kaslur Vandor.”
The two bouncers exchange glances before they nod and step aside, granting him entrance. Din braces himself once more and crosses the threshold. The theater isn’t as grand as some of the other ones he knows are in this place, having only a few round tables around the stage. It’s more intimate that way, he supposes. One of the bouncers points him towards the table right at the end of the stage’s catwalk, the one surrounded by thugs with a very prominent man sitting at its center. A thin layer of sweat forms on Din’s brow — Peli’s contact was a big shot? He supposes it has to make sense, considering who is likely to have Razor Crests in this day and age. Steeling himself, he saunters over. Immediately, every man at that table stands up and forms a wall between him and Kaslur, staring him down.
Without looking at Din, the large man still sitting waves his hand, his fat fingers sporting multiple rings. “Let him sit.” The man closest to Din shoves him in a rickety chair next to Kaslur, who ignores him for now in favor of scooping clams and sucking on their meat. “So, you’re the Mandalorian? I gotta say, it takes a lot of balls to walk in here wearing as much beskar as you do.”
Din lets silence fill the air for a few uncomfortable seconds. “I hear you have a Razor Crest.”
Kaslur laughs. “Business already?” He turns to Din, letting him get a good look at his greasy over-comb and scarred face. “You need to slow down, Mando. The show’s about to start.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Ohoho.” Kaslur’s grin is anything but welcoming. “You don’t gotta be. But I’m warning you: you keep quiet during her performance.” He points a dinner knife towards him. “If you talk to me or even dare to clear your throat, you’ll leave here without one, got it?”
Din glares at him, his eye twitching but thankfully masked by the helmet. “...Got it.” The lights dim and the spotlight shines against the red curtains. Immediately, the rest of the audience, including Kaslur, applaud until the sounds of a single drum quiets them down. Din crosses his arms and expects some ill-dressed girl to come out and disrobe even more… not his idea of a great performance.
The curtain parts and the first thing he sees is a foot coming forward. A woman steps forward in time with the drum, golden jewelry adorning her ankles and wrists. Her legs peek through a slit-skirt with coins around her hips that jingle with each step. The small top that wraps around her bosom exposes her midriff. And finally, her face is covered with a veil, showing only her piercing, hypnotic eyes.
She lifts her hands and assumes a dancing position, feet pointed, wrists crossed. Then, when an exotic sounding horn and more percussion begin, she sings. Din’s eyes widen when he hears her voice, so pure and strong. The woman is mystifying as she dances, twirling around and removing pieces of scarf and tulle from her skirt. She uses them in her routine, her moves sensual, but not raunchy. His vision tunnels as he focuses on her, hearing her beautiful voice, watching her take off pieces until her legs are completely bare. Strutting down the catwalk, she baits the men that sit near her feet, blowing kisses and swiping herself away from their reaching hands. When she reaches the end where they sit, she falls to her knees.
Din stares right in her eyes as she focuses entirely on Kaslur, singing right to him. She reaches for him, cupping his cheek as a giddy and hungry look overtakes him. It’s in this moment that she briefly breaks eye contact with Kaslur and her striking eyes meet the dark T of the Mandalorian’s visor.
And time stands still. He cannot see her mouth, but her eye makeup betrays how wide they go. She stares for a moment as she holds her note, and Din cannot help but keep her gaze.
Then it ends. She turns back to Kaslur and slides back, her touch fleeting. Standing back up, she twirls again during the music’s swelling finale. As the horns and drums play together, she falls to her knees again with a dramatic flourish, the song ending with a large strike from the instruments. The theater is dead quiet for just a second before it erupts into a standing ovation. The men whistle and rave, pounding their tables and spilling their drinks.
She elegantly stands back up and turns on her heel to walk back down towards the curtain. Before she disappears behind it, she glances over her shoulder and Din swears she looks right at him. As soon as she is gone Kaslur sits back down with a thud and chuckles.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” he asks Din. “That’s my girl.”
“Your…?” Normally, Din doesn’t give a womp rat’s ass about anyone personal relationships, but something about this one strikes him as odd. Though he could not see her face, he knows that she has to be beautiful, especially from her eyes. A singer and dancer as talented as she is somehow with this mobster? It would make sense if she were a common escort or dancer, but she is neither of those things.
“That’s right. So don’t go making googly-eyes at her, got it?”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he says. “Now, about the Razor Crest.”
“Alright, alright.” Kaslur sighs. “Yeah, I’ve got a Razor Crest.”
“When can I see it?”
“You can see it when you’ve paid up.” Din tilts his head in a way that shows his disapproval. “Trust me, Mando. I wouldn’t drag you to this shithole if it wasn’t legit. Besides, scamming is a poor con man’s job.” He leans back in his chair.
“So… credits?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m not a poor man. While I would appreciate your credits, you’ve got something more valuable.” Din’s ready to hear him ask for the beskar. “You’re a Mandalorian. I wouldn’t need five fucking bodyguards if I had a Mandalorian.”
“...You want me to work for you?”
Kaslur waves his hand. “I want you to do one job for me. One measly little job and the Razor Crest is yours.”
Din knows better than anyone that one measly little job is never as temporary as it seems. One job lead him to Grogu. One job upended his life and catapulted it into a completely different trajectory. But, to get a Razor Crest for doing one errand is a bargain; he knows it and Kaslur knows it too. “What’s the job?”
“Need you to find a guy for me.” Kaslur takes out a puck and slides it over. “You can bring him in dead or alive, doesn’t matter to me. What does matter is this.” He leans in. “He stole something from me. A precious necklace made of the finest jewels money can buy.”
“A… necklace?”
“I know.” Kaslur puts a hand over his heart. “I’m a sentimental guy. What can I say?” Somehow, Din doubts that. “That little weasel has it. Or, maybe he sold it already. Bring me him and the necklace and the Razor Crest is all yours.”
The Mandalorian taps his finger on the table, weighing the options in his head. Guy would be easy to find. Necklace less so. If the guy was smart, he would have separated it and sold the jewels, so Din has to pray that he’s stupid.
Finally, he nods and takes the puck. “Deal.”
Din leaves the theater, his footsteps slower and his eyes heavy. He needs to find someplace to rest for the night… that isn’t one of these regular hotels. In this planet, he may be better off sleeping in his armor wherever he chooses to stay. He keeps his eyes forward, not inviting any of the escorts on the boulevard to call him.
Just before he turns the corner, a woman’s voice yanks his attention. “Congratulations!” A Twi’lek woman with purple skin jumps in front of him. “You’ve won a free night with one of our most popular girls. C’mon!” She pulls on his hand, but he doesn’t move, his feet planted firmly in the ground.
“Not interested,” he says, pulling his hand back. When he takes a step forward, she blocks him again.
“Uh. Please, sir? W-We’d really appreciate it—”
“No thank you.”
Her jubilant expression falls into one of worry. “Please, wait.” Her voice drops low. “Sir, she really, really needs to talk to you. And this is the only way.”
“Who does?”
“I…” She glances around. “I can’t say it here. He has eyes everywhere.” The Twi’lek pleads with her eyes. After dropping the act, Din has a hard time saying no to her. Something is strange and though he knows that he should move on and focus on his job, he caves.
“Fine,” he sighs. “This better be just a conversation.”
Instantly, the Twi’lek smiles. “Of course.” When she pulls his hand again, her voice is louder. “Oooh, we’ve got ourselves a lucky, lucky man!” Stars, he hopes that this is just a cover. If it’s not, then he’s leaving immediately.
She leads him into a den with lighting even worse than the theater. People around him wore exotic clothes, some bound in leather, other hidden behind feathered masks. The smell of drugs wafts through the air, accompanied by light chatter in the dark corners. They stare at him as the Twi’lek weaves him through the crowd towards the back where there are various rooms. Din hears screams and moans, he hears whips and slaps. What the hell has he gotten himself into?
He follows her up a few flights of stairs that are considerably quieter. Some of the doors are open, showing parlor rooms where patrons and escorts talk and flirt. Finally, in the back, she gestures for him to enter. Din gives her a lengthy pause before he steels himself and opens the door.
The room is small, having only a plush, purple love seat and a decorative chandelier above. There is someone there: a woman, but she isn’t dressed in the way he would expect the women here to dress. She wears a cloak over her shoulders and plain clothes of earthy tones underneath it, her hair tied back. The door closes behind him.
“You came!” she says. “Oh, thank the Stars. Please, sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
“O...kay.” She nods, taking a step back.
“Who are you?”
“Who… oh, you don’t recognize me?” She smiles at him. “We… well, we didn’t meet, but you saw me dance earlier.” Din’s brows lift. This was the dancer? When he looks further into her eyes, he recognizes them now without the makeup. He sees the rest of her face and his chest tightens. What a transformation between the sensual dancer — and amazing singer — he witnessed earlier and the humble woman that stands before him. She bows her head and tells him her name, just her given one. “I apologize for the choice of venue, but I had little options.” She crosses her arms and turns her head. “Kaslur has eyes and ears nearly everywhere.”
Din steps back towards the wall, leaning against it with one shoulder. “You don’t want to be seen talking to me?”
“He’s rather… possessive, let’s say.”
“Sounds like you need a new boyfriend.”
The dancer laughs. “Boyfriend? Is that what he told you?” She sighs. “Trust me when I say that I would rather have my throat slit than even kiss that man.” Her brows furrow together in disgust. “Why are you here on this awful planet, Mandalorian?”
He crosses his arms. “I could ask the same thing of you.”
She chuckles and takes a seat on the couch. “You could. But unfortunately, we only have so much time.”
Din purses his lips. “I’m going to do a job for Kaslur. In exchange, he’s going to give me the Razor Crest.”
“The Razor Crest? Oh, that old thing. I haven’t the faintest clue why you’d want it, but to his their own.” To Din, it’s extraordinary that her voice is melodic, even as she talks. At least he can confirm that there is a ship to begin with. “But in any case, that’s good. Great, even.” She stands and takes a step towards him. “And then I assume that you’d be planning to leave, correct?”
“I would.” Where is this going?
She stops in front of him, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. Biting on her bottom lip, she holds her hands and twiddles her fingers. “If that’s the case, then I… I must ask you of something. When you get the Razor Crest...” She drops her hands on his arms and he flinches, pushing himself off the wall. “Please.” The desperation from her voice gives him pause. The dancer squeezes his forearms and locks in on the darkness of his visor, as if she can see past the black and right into his dark eyes. “Kidnap me.”
Summary: Exiled from his covert, the Mandalorian yearns to restart his life anew. Then, he crosses paths with a mysterious dancer whose past may guide him towards redemption, perhaps even ascension... or certain death.
Din Djarin x F!Reader (she/her) Rated Explicit
Tags: dancer!reader, singer!reader, reader has backstory, s3 not canon, diverges around TBOBF, half fix-it fic, half super self-indulgence, original locations and lore, eventual reveal of reader backstory, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort
WARNINGS: mature violence, sex work, mentions of sexual assault, attempts of sexual assault (not by din), sexual tension, eventual smut
I've finished the first draft of my original novel, woo hoo! Which means I finally have time to return to Din and Snow White. I'll also be posting the masterlist for Silk For Armor soon and WILL be taking requests to be on that taglist!!!
tags: snow white!Reader, huntsman!prince!Din, medieval fantasy setting with star wars elements, fairy tale
summary: The queen's instructions for the Mandalorian were clear: take the princess to the edge of the forest, carve out her heart, and bring it to her.
PART 1 - MASTERLIST
It is customary that those from the kingdom of Mandalore whom have come of age to depart from their homes and brave the outside world, for experience is the best teacher.
Often, they serve as mercenaries or guards; a good kingdom will attract the fearsome warriors to their borders. All Mandalorians must do this, including their own royalty.
When Din Djarin set out on his own journey, he stopped in a beautiful kingdom called Crir for lodgings, expecting to depart in the morning. The then King Rarga was told of a traveler wearing beskar, precious metal found only in Mandalore, and he summoned him immediately.
“Crir is a peaceful kingdom,” said Rarga from atop his throne. Din noticed that the throne to the king’s right was empty. “And we do not have any Mandalorians within our walls. You would do us a great honor if you stayed.”
Din chose his words carefully. “I apologize, Your Majesty, but it is as you said: you rule a peaceful kingdom. I do not seek peace.”
“And why is that?”
“I am a Mandalorian. If I am ever to return home, it must be with new skills and experience. I’m afraid a peaceful kingdom will teach me nothing.” He turned on his heel, prepared to leave after making his point.
“Wait.” The king stood. “What if I can promise the knowledge you seek?”
Din did an about-face. “How so?”
“Duel me,” said Rarga. “If you win, then indeed, I have nothing more to teach you and are free to travel. Should I win, however…” He smiled. “I would like you to stay.”
Din thought about this wager, letting silence permeate throughout the throne room. No one was quite sure what the Mandalorian would choose. “Fine.” He rolled his shoulders back. “I accept.”
To the training grounds they went, the king’s court huddling together and forming a circle around the dirt arena. Din drew his sword, a beautiful black blade that gleamed in the sun. Rarga took note of the sword as he entered the ring with armor and a sword of his own. “I know that blade. It belongs to the royal family of Mandalore.” He grinned. “Apologies for not addressing you properly, Your Royal Highness.”
Din flinched. “We do not use titles when on pilgrimage,” he said, lifting his blade.
“Then what would you prefer I call you?”
“...Din Djarin.”
“Very well.” Rarga readied his sword. “Have at you, Din Djarin!”
To the Mandalorian’s surprise, the king had a stronger arm than he expected. Though it was easy to catch his sword, Din’s eyes widened at how much strength he had to use to fend him off. He parried the next attack and exchanged blows with Rarga a few times before they began circling around each other. The king was swift, nearly tripping him. Din summoned all of his focus, using techniques and stances that he reserved for stronger enemies, but Rarga matched him each time.
It all happened so fast. Din’s wrist flinched as Rarga knocked the blade out of his hand, earning a grunt of pain. He kicked him square in his beskar chest-plate, forcing him to the ground, then he pointed the tip of his sword under his neck. As Din fought to catch his breath, the crowd burst into cheers, praising Rarga’s skill. With a smile, the king stashed his weapon and offered his hand to the Mandalorian. He took it and stood, giving him a nod. “You fight well.”
“As do you.”
Din put away his sword. “It seems you have much to teach me.”
“Seems so. Come.” He extended his hand. “Now that you will be staying with us, I would like to introduce you to someone.” The king pressed his hand against Din’s back and lead him towards the crowd, seeking out someone in particular.
Din could tell who it was as soon as he set eyes on her. She had to be almost a decade years younger than him, he thought, and she had various traits of her father. When they approached, she smiled and gave a small bow. “This is my daughter,” said Rarga. “The Princess.” She gave Din her name, but said it with such humility that it caught him off guard. This was not a stuck-up noblewoman, he could tell.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard of Mandalore — it sounds like the most fascinating place. Would you mind telling me about it sometime?”
Din shook his head. “Not at all, Your Highness.”
---
Thus, the Mandalorian became a huntsman for the royal family of Crir. The king gave him plenty to do, from joining him on his weekly hunts, to chaperoning the princess to various outings, and serving as a sparring partner. Din hated to say it, but he did learn a great deal more than he expected from a prospering kingdom. Rarga taught him arts beyond the martial, giving the prince advice for his own eventual rule when he returned to Mandalore. It was easy to see just how loved the king was.
The princess grew attached to him too, asking him to regale her with stories of Mandalore. Stories and tradition were important, so he was pleased to indulge her. He told her about the Way of the Mandalore and chuckled when she asked if he was ever allowed to take off his helmet in front of anyone. When he took her out to the city, he watched her like a hawk — none would harm her if he was close.
Din was there when the king courted a beautiful duchess from another kingdom over. She was sweet and caring, so much so that when they did eventually marry, the entire kingdom celebrated. Even the princess was happy for her father, welcoming her new step-mother to the family with open arms.
Then, it all ended one day.
The Mandalorian still isn’t sure exactly what happened. He was out hunting with Rarga as they usually did, and while they were giving chase to a fox, a boar charged from their blind side and gored the king. Din retaliated and quickly downed the boar, but the damage was done. He carried the wincing, moaning king back to the castle. Rarga suffered well into the night before eternal sleep finally eased his pain, surrounded by a sea of mourners.
The queen held the princess against her black dress, letting her sob into her skirts as she dabbed her under-eyes with a handkerchief. She had to be the only one not openly weeping.
He never did get to defeat him.
---
The months passed and Din threw himself into working for the queen, who tasked him to find those who would conspire against her new rule. Shedding blood was the best way to deal with his grief, he decided. Curiously, he noticed once when he returned that the princess had a simpler dress instead of her ornate one, and she carried rags in her arms. “My step-mother said that the best way to learn how to care for a castle was to work,” she explained with a chipper smile. “A fine idea, is it not?”
Din agreed, seeing as how it mirrored his own pilgrimage. But then a year passed and her humble uniforms deteriorated. Her skirts turned into rags and the soot clung to her face and arms. Her hair, once neatly swept into a formal updo and curls, now dropped and framed her face in dry, messy strings.
And yet she still smiled, even as the work grew, as her riches were taken one by one, as she scarcely was a princess in anything other than name anymore.
---
In the years after King Rarga’s passing, The Mandalorian of Crir made a name for himself as a fearsome hunter. The queen sent him on perilous missions that he always returned from, bringing her whom or whatever she desired.
On day, she summoned him to the throne room, which once was bright and full of people. Now, it was draped in dark colors and she was the only one, sitting on her throne with great pride and vanity. He bowed his head. “Your Majesty,” he greeted.
“Greetings, Mandalorian. I have a special task for you today.” She fanned together her fingers. “I would like you to take the princess to the edge of the forest and let her pick some flowers.” He nodded, as it was a reasonable request. “Then.” Her voice darkened. She stood up, her long, purple dress trailing behind her as she stepped down the stairs and drew closer to him with each menacing step. “I want you to carve out her heart and bring it to me… in this.” From behind her cape, she procured a small, red box. The latch was a sword driven through a heart.
Din’s eyes widened. “What? Why?”
She frowned. “You do not need to question me. You just need to do it.”
“She’s done nothing wrong,” he stated.
The queen glared. “Your queen gave you an order.” She shoved the box into his hands. “Bring me her heart or I will have yours instead.”
Din was too stunned to speak. He gripped the box as she turned on her heel to return to her throne. With a heaviness in his chest, he bowed his head towards her. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Summary: The queen's instructions for the Mandalorian were clear: take the princess to the edge of the forest, carve out her heart, and bring it to her.
Din Djarin x F!Reader (she/her) Rated Teen
Tags: snow white!Reader, huntsman!prince!Din, medieval fantasy setting with star wars elements, fairy tale
