no babe, lemme get the clippers, razor, and shaving cream. we have so much body glitter left over and i need more space. we’ve got to shave your head, for the body glitter of course
transphobes need to shut up forever for a myriad of reasons, but one of them is that so many of the fears they monger abt us are so much fucking cooler than what we had in mind and they’re giving me ideas
Summary: Din is your best friend. He shows you his face before he disappears to rescue his son. He returns a fractured man. He hasn't removed his helmet, not even for himself. You help him. He lets you pull him apart so he can put himself back together. Takes place before chapter 16 then after.
A/N: (Concept inspired by the very weird 2014 film Frank, where Michael Fassender wears a papier mêché mask/helmet and never takes it off.) Very heavily inspired and influenced by Leonard Cohen's song Hallelujah. I listened to the Jeff Buckley version on repeat and I implore you to listen to it.
Warnings: Extremely touch starved Din, not fluffy, I made sad and dirty sensual? Gratuitous descriptions of Pedro Pascals face. A bit of thigh riding but no actual sex until part 2. My Hair kink on blast. Depressed Din, tattooed Din, an alcoholic drink and I might have gone over the top near the end but I don't care.
You've always been patient, and time has always slipped by you unnoticed. Of those two attributes, the first was a virtue, the second was only true until he left. It took time and patience, building your friendship with Din Djarin. Din has come to your small, specialty shop on Nevarro for supplies, mostly ammunition for a long time now. From the first time he walked in you were captivated by his voice, his weaponry, his Mandalorian armor. Din is an intimidating man, but he's never scared you. With enough observation you can tell he's going out of his way to show he's innocuous, unless deserving otherwise.
With enough time you see him, he's tired, maybe bored, maybe even lonely. Because so many are afraid of him, he revels when people don't make a wide girth around him and instead look and offer a friendly gesture. So, you gave him extra attention, showing him your latest gear and even special ordering anything he might need. He'd linger longer and you'd encourage it, offering to oil his leather pieces, like his bandolier or holster. He declined your initial offer, but when you asked if he was sure and stared right into his visor, he slipped his bandolier off and laid it across your counter. You smiled and he thanked you.
Then his armor changed and something about him did too. You noticed him relaxing a bit more after he earned all that beskar. With that, his body language changed as well and it told you he was interested in more than just your shop.
After about half a cycle, you were showing him the intricacies of a new scope and were having trouble unscrewing the lens. He towered over the metal counter, his swagger never wavering. He looked at his dusty gloves and slipped them off. Like it was utterly mundane for him to show you his skin. Skin you had yet to see and had laid in bed imagining. His hands were clean and lightly callused. His skin tone was fair but with a touch of warmth. Just as masculine as you'd imagined they were.
"Here, let me try," He said as he offered his big palm out to you. You struggled, responding wordlessly.
You set the scope in his hand and let your index finger drag along his palm longer than was called for. Your attraction to him was becoming more obvious. His magnetism grew stronger with each visit.
He'd spend an hour in your shop, waiting patiently as you dealt with customers. A new one started to behave in a way that was too aggressive. Pounding on the counter when you refused to negotiate on a rare thermal detonator, calling you a bitch. Din was right there.
Moving his hand slowly to rest on his blaster, he threatened, "Turn around, walk away. And pray I don't catch you here ever again." His tone was dark, heavy and gave no impression of a bluff.
The man backed out, without a word. And after that incident, work has been pleasant. Word spread that you were good friends with The Mando, some of that turned to crude rumors that you let roll off you. Din eventually opened up to you more, especially when he started showing up with the kid. You invited him to sit for a moment in the back room with you–as you've done many times now–so you could hold the baby. You held the child and got the kid to giggle. Din laughed. A gentle laugh with a slight wheeze.
"Mando. I love that sound."
"What sound?" He tilted his helmet
"Just…you."
He said nothing as he looked to the floor and for a moment you wondered if you embarrassed him.
"Din. My name is Din Djarin."
You put your hand on top of his as you sat at your back table, "I like your laugh Din."
Over his visits you shared pieces of your life story with him and he listened to each tale with occasional excerpts of his own. He related his own experiences to yours even though his life had been much harder. You got to know him well enough, but he has secrets, a side you haven't seen. You still trust him and after he left you alone with the kid and the especially interesting day he showed you how much of his armor is attached. You had no doubt he trusted you. He's one of your best friends. But, he's more to you than that and you don't know how or if you should confess that to him.
Din shows up with more friends, no kid, no ship, no Amban Phase-Pulse Blaster. He explains their mission and why they are restocking. You feel sick. You offer to join the mission to get the kid back. Din pulls you into the back.
"No," He shakes his head.
"Why!?"
"Because…" Din puts his hands on either side of his helmet and lifts.
"DIN! Stop…"
He cuts you off, "It's already done," He says softly.
You take all the mental pictures you can and file them away. His pretty, soft, brown hair is messy and curls. His eyes are deep brown, earnest and kind. His stubbled jaw is stronger than you have pictured and his nose is a perfection you never imagined. He reaches his hand out and holds your cheek briefly before letting go. His face, this is his face, you're in shock. You stare at him, holding your hands over your mouth. His eyes flick nervously to the door. You reach out quickly to touch him but he flinches almost violently and pulls back.
You throw your hand down, "I'm sorry."
His frown turns into a sweet crooked smile. He's boyish when he smiles and you're melting. "Don't be. I just…" his voice is soft and smooth out of the helmet, "...I'm not used to…that."
"It's okay," You nod as your face fills with understanding. "It's probably overwhelming for you." You want to throw yourself at him and run away simultaneously. Your legs are weak and your heart races. Maker, if you could just touch him, kiss him. You flex your hands, your palms sweat.
"I can't let you come, it's too risky," Din says, his hand hovers over your shoulder, before he drags his knuckles down your arm. "I can't lose both of you." You watch his eyes looking at your mouth. You wonder if he's always done that, if his face always looked at you this gently under the helmet.
"Din. I care about you, deeply. I need you to know. I mean…deeply," You reach up but stop yourself. If you touched him now, you'd never let go, so you don't. "Go, save the kid. I'll be here."
He nods, "Thank you Mesh'la, for everything." He looks at you with a sort of regret for a moment before he pushes his helmet back on. That's when you can't help it, you hug him. His armor has a sweet metallic scent, it's always been uniquely divine. He wraps his arms around you and squeezes. He touches the cold metal of his helmet to your forehead before he lets go and turns to leave. You hear him sigh. You hold back the lump in your throat.
Watching them all go, not knowing when or if they'd succeed was painfully difficult. You closed your shop for two days because you only imagined the worst. Moving forward was nearly impossible after finally seeing his face and knowing the feelings were mutual. You've always believed people come into your life for a reason. But this made no sense, what was the point of this? You met just to keep each other company for a short time and then it's over. No, you have more faith in what you felt than to believe that.
You know he's out there but Cara Dune and Greef Karga say he's a ghost, he doesn't want to be found. He barely spoke to anyone and left for Coruscant after the kid went away. There is always off the books work on Coruscant. Months pass. You notice the rotations in a way you hadn't done before. Nothing. No word. Until one day. You hear a knock, after dark, the shop is closed. There is a hesitant knock and then another.
"We're closed. Come back tomorrow." You stand by the solid durasteel door for a moment waiting for a response. Then faintly you hear a modulated voice.
"Mesh'la?"
You smack the keypad and the door flies open, creating a breeze that hits your face. "It's really you," You throw your arms around the armored man and squeeze, slowly he brings a hand up and rests it at your lower back. His weight pushes on you, as though whatever had been holding him up fell away and you were the one to catch him. You breathe in. You're not met with his usual handsome scent. He smells sweaty, musty, and odorous. His normally polished armor looks dingy. His shoulders are slumped. You back away and look him over, "Are you injured? Din?" You take his hand and bring him into the dark shop.
He hesitates and you swear you hear him choke before he speaks, "No. I'm not injured."
You stand looking at the man you were falling for. He's not well. Something is very wrong. "Come. Let's go upstairs," You take his rough, leather gloved hand in yours, dragging him through your shop to the back room to the narrow stairs. His footfalls are heavy as you climb up to your apartment above.
When you step in, Din looks around the humble one bedroom, he's been here once, when you watched the kid for him. You motion to your sitting area and Din removes his jetpack and then falls back into a black, tufted chair. It's quiet and the streets outside are lit up for the night. Your apartment glows dimly. The beam from the streetlight through your window hits his armor and disappears. It doesn't gleam or shimmer. A black hole sits in your chair, not a man, a vortex.
"Tell me everything," You say gently. You try not to be pulled in by his gravity because if you were, you might disappear too.
He tells you about the fight with the Moff. The beating by the dark troopers. He motions to the lightsaber on his belt. He tells you about the kid going away with the Jedi. More details than you got from Marshall Dune. He tells you he doesn't want to rule Mandalore. He tells you he needs to find his tribe. He then tells you that it's been awhile since he's taken his helmet off.
"You mean, just not in front of anyone? Like for me or Grogu?"
"At all, basically."
"But you have to eat and drink," The statement sounds obvious and stupid.
"I lift it up, for that."
You lean in and scoot to the edge of your seat, your fingers laced together. "Ok. So you lift it to eat. What about your hygiene, your teeth?" You look into his visor that is angled in a way you can tell he's having a hard time looking at you. Asking your dumb questions.
"I brush my teeth," He says, insulted. He shrugs. "It's been awhile since I showered," He shifts, his beskar on the leather chair squeaks, "When the kid left, he looked so sad, I made a mistake, it was all a mistake," He huffs, folding his arms over himself.
You shake your head. What do you ask? What do you say? The child has become his world and now that world is gone. "Din. How long have you been like this? Hiding from yourself?"
He speaks bluntly, "97 standard rotations."
Your eyes well and disbelief coats your words. "You haven't taken your helmet off for almost a hundred days? That's impossible."
"I've gone without it a few hours a few times but, Mesh'la, I, I need to take it off…"
You stand and position yourself in front of him while he is sunk in the chair. It's too late, his gravity is pulling you in. You need to see what lies at the center of this void so you can bring it back into the light. He doesn't move, your presence has him pinned.
"Where have you been?" You move your hands to his shoulders and begin to unhook his pauldrons.
He watches, "Nowhere, everywhere."
You unhook his cape and see his hair poking out from under the helmet. "Trying to find your tribe?" You push the fabric to drape behind him on the seat.
"Only part of the time." His voice cracks through the modulator.
"Why didn't you come back here sooner?"
He inhales. "I wish I had. I didn't want you to see me–" His fingers curve as he motions to himself, "– like this. I can't even look in a mirror much less…at you." He's collapsing in on himself dragging you in further.
You bend down and remove his shin guards.
"Mesh'la please. You don't have to do this," He whispers as he lifts a hand to you before dropping it. Guilt settles in around Din.
You're on your knees as you take his hand, jerking on each finger, the leather gloves gliding off. His hands are chapped, his nails are dirty. You knead his palms and massage them. Din shifts and sighs before you speak again, "You're not immune from feeling Din. You can't hide forever." You can see where he looks thinner, his padding looks loser and his belt has moved a notch.
Din, through broken breath, "Why?"
"Why?" You repeat him as you remove his boots, ignoring the grime and odor.
"I don't deserve you."
"Give me some credit Din. If I thought you weren't worth the time I would have given up long ago, kept you from lingering and walked you to the door."
Din gives a slight chuckle from his helmet.
"Uh huh, you've seen me do it," You give him a mischievous grin.
"I have," He says. You can almost hear a smile. Then he breathes in deep and looks at the dirt and scuff marks he left on your floor, "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," You say simply and delicately as you stand. You slowly put your hands carefully on each side of his helmet. He reaches up, laying his hand over yours and pushes where his release is. It hisses.
He then holds your wrist. "Wait." He let's go and you take your hands away.
Softly, "Whenever you're ready Din."
He nods. He puts his hands at each side and slowly pulls up, revealing his chapped lips. His beard is long and a little grizzled, you're surprised it didn't stick out from the helmet. He keeps going, you stifle your gasp when he lifts it higher over his eyes. You see bruising and raw skin below them, where it fits tight on his cheekbones. His hair in knots and mats as it flops out, greasy and flat to his head. The skin of his forehead is raw and irritated. You know the functions of his helmet and while they can be worn for long periods, a few days, never ever this long. It's too heavy, seals too tightly and needs maintenance. He sets it in his lap.
Tears are silently falling down your cheeks, you taste one on your lip as you gaze into his sad eyes. The capillaries on the left are broken, red surrounds his beautiful brown iris.
You reach out and hover your fingers over it, "What happened to your eye?" Din recoils. You pull away.
"I don't know, I haven't seen it," His voice is quiet and tinged with embarrassment. "You're crying. It must be bad," He huffs a nervous laugh. Giving you a hint of his smile.
You hastily wipe your tears, not realizing how many you had shed, "No…nah, it's, well. It's not good. It looks painful. Are you in physical pain?"
"No.".
You don't believe him. "I have some good quality bacta gel and spray."
You leave him and grab a chair from your kitchen and place it at the sink. You hear Din standing, removing the rest of his armor. In the fresher you open your cabinets and get out your first aid kit and wire basket of grooming supplies. Your shaving foam, razor, good scissors and even hair clippers an ex left behind years ago. You walk back and lay everything on the table. You pour two tumblers of brown liquor laying them next to the supplies.
Din's armor, jetpack and cape are now in a pile on your living room floor. He remains in nothing but his musty flight suit. You reach out.
"What are you doing?" He looks at your hand confused.
"An act of grace, come on," You stretch your fingers and beckon. "Stop me if it gets to be too much."
He takes it and nods hesitantly. You feel the connection all this time later. You want to shiver from his touch. His hands are rough and warm. You have him here, finally. In the kitchen, with the lightest touch you press his shoulder and he sits. Again you guide him, he tilts his head back over your sink and you rest a towel under his neck. He shifts his shoulders, he's uncomfortable but you continue.
You wet a cloth with warm water and gently wipe his face. His eyes are closed as you wipe over his long lashes, resting it on his forehead and then his cheeks. You rinse and press the cloth over again, even paying attention to his ears. You carefully apply the bacta to his bruised chapped face and lips. You turn on the faucet and use a cup to rinse his hair. He hisses in pain when your hand is at the back of his head. You move his hair and see a red, raw patch beneath it from the friction of his helmet for days and days on end.
The long mats and tangles loosen but don't come out. Gently, you scrub him clean. You rinse and do it again. Din's eyes are closed and while you massage the suds in you see a series of tears escape the corner of his eye. His face is relaxed, except when you see a twitch of discomfort. It takes time, and ultimately, he needs to shower as well but this is a start. He is still rigid and reluctant.
You rinse and squeeze the moisture out with a towel. You sigh, he opens his eyes and darts them away when you give him a caring smile. You pay it no mind. Your voice stalls, and a whisper comes out, "Up."
You shift the chair so you can stand behind him now. He sits back down. You find the patch of raw skin at the back of his head and soothe it with a bacta spray. You're both silent, and while the room is absent of words, there is still an exchange happening. Every touch tells Din he's safe and every wince from him tells you he's in existential agony. You want nothing more than to stop his entropy and stand still with him as long as it takes.
You stand in front of him and dab on more bacta before holding a small hand mirror in front of his face. He freezes, transfixed on the man reflected, he doesn't recognize him. Din pulls at his eye, looking at the broken capillaries. The bacta is working quickly, his skin already calmer. His fingers fold over yours as he pushes the mirror away. He's seen enough. He looks at the tools on the table and the drinks. He reaches over and takes one. You follow and take the other, clinking your cup against his before you sip, it burns a little going down. He throws his back without flinching. You take his glass and set them both on the table, exchanging them for the scissors.
"Can you make me look different?" He finally speaks, filling every crevice of your being with his deep voice.
"Different how?" You put your hand under his chin and tilt his head so he's looking at you, exhausted and desperate.
He falters as he confesses, "Like a, a different person, not how I am now or how I was before," His eyes fall to the clippers and back to you.
You exhale, pulling one long curl down over his face and wrapping it around your finger. You nod yes in a matter of fact way.
His hair is long, past his nose, it's soft in parts, brittle in others, impossibly tangled where his helmet fits closest. Beautiful, if it wasn't completely ruined by his own self abandonment. His beard is almost patchier than it was before, his mustache covers his top lip. He's currently a marvel, in the way a flood or a fire is.
He's careful and only moves when you touch him. Leaning in front of him, you cut away the long whiskers before you lather his face in a soothing foam. He swallows and keeps his eyes shut tight. You're nervous as you swipe up his neck and over his jaw, worried you're somehow hurting him. Like the sharp blade of your razor is stinging his skin from the contact alone. He's so warm, heat radiates off him and charges the space between you.
"Are you okay? Does it hurt?" You pause looking at him as his gaze still avoids yours.
As if the words are trapped coming out, pushing through his psyche before reaching his lips, he whispers, "Not at all." You notice one hand is gripping the side of his pants while the other is balled into a fist.
He closes his eyes again, letting you finish, revealing the perfect bow of his top lip and the wonderful angle of his jaw. Gently you wipe away the foam and whiskers. You run your hands over his smooth face before he suddenly grabs your wrists as he leans forward. His grip is strong but careful. He rests his forehead on your stomach. You're frozen as he buries his face in you. You feel him break. He releases your wrists and grips the cloth of your shirt on either side of your waist. His weight tugs and stretches the fabric. His body trembles as hot breaths flow through the thin garment. He barely makes a noise, just quiet moans of misery into your body.
You let him shatter the pieces of himself on your kitchen floor. You'll gladly pick them up. You'll measure and catalog each fragment before you put it back in place so you'll remember where they go in case he ever breaks again. His tears soak through your clothing as you hold him to you. You stand amongst his ruins as a pillar. He releases a sigh that comes from somewhere deep, it escapes as a gust. He settles his sobs as you circle your hand on his back. Feeling his sinewy muscles under his flight suit.
"I'm sorry," He sniffles and mutters into you.
Your voice is tender, "Don't be. Please. Don't be."
Reaching over, you grab the scissors from the table. His forehead is still resting against you. You gather the worst tangles at the crown of his head and cut them away, dropping the long matted pieces to the floor. Din watches them fall and picks one up, rolling it in-between his fingers. He lets go of you for a moment, his shoulders have slumped in defeat. You mess with his hair more and see that the bacta spray has already worked on his scalp.
He pulls you into him again, laying his head against you he closes his eyes and sighs. His battered and neglected visage improved quickly by the miracle medicine. The overhead light casts a sort of halo over you both in the quiet room. His weight rests on you, you find your footing so you can help hold him up.
His interlude with his sorrow seems to have broken down a wall. He doesn't even realize how his hand is caressing your curves nor his fingers kneading at your back. His touch is filled with a desperate longing. He doesn't need words to tell you he hasn't been held with any amount of meaningful care in a very long time.
You exchange the scissors for the clippers and turn them on as you pull the hair at the nape of his neck up. Din hears them and combined with the sensation of you holding his hair, fills his body with a shiver you can feel.
It comes in waves and ripples into you, you absorb the turbulence of his reaction like a seawall. He grips you and mumbles into the flesh of your stomach something that sounds like a prayer. He breathes heavily again with trepidation. You lay your hand on his back and feel his lungs expand as he grapples with controlling his breathing. You told him to tell you if it was too much. He answers you before you can ask, "I'm okay, go ahead with it." He mutters into your stomach, his whole body quakes again, in a way that is utterly surreal of the Mandalorian.
Setting the clippers at the base of his neck you drag them up. The cold durasteel blades touch his skin. He gasps loud enough for you to hear and grips you tighter. The long waves at the nape of his neck fall feather light over your hand to the floor, tickling as they do. Virtually nothing left in their wake. Din squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw against you.
You pull away, "Does it hurt? I can stop."
"No. I'm fine. Keep going, please." He says as his face is still buried in you. Din sighs and turns his head. A little less scared, a little less overwhelmed. You card your fingers through his hair until they get stuck in tangles. Holding it back off his face you swipe over his ear and then again over his temple.
You pause to watch his face as more of him is revealed. He looks at the long hair on the floor and reaches up, rubbing the minuscule fuzz. His expression serene, like he's finally found home. He looks up at you as his lips curve into a hint of a tender grin. He glides both hands up your thighs. You sway your body as he holds your hips and pushes you further away to see you better. His panic is replaced with passivity.
His big brown eyes look you up and down, with an affirmation of his desire. His fingers dig into you and you feel your body warm up. You use your leg to push his knees apart. You position yourself on one of his thighs. You clear your throat but say nothing. You don't balance delicately, you sit firmly on his strong thigh muscle. An ache grows. You push the long wavy hair back off his face, so you can see the path you make as you glide the clippers back. With each swipe Din relaxes, his fingertips find themselves dragging slowly up the side of your leg.
The clippers tickle his scalp. He's channeling his sensory overload into controlling his desire for you. But you run your fingers through his hair again and he struggles. Din stares through the hair that's fallen in front of his eyes at your neck, imagining the taste of your skin there. He's never shaved his head. He doesn't really care if it suits him if it means getting to start over and turning his lap into your throne. He wishes he was better with words. Right now he can't muster any that adequately express how much he doesn't deserve your grace or your time or your acceptance. His limbs feel light and cold out of his armor. Your considerate touch feels like a blessing. He breathes in your smell and suddenly his mind is quiet and the only thing he hears is you, the creak of the chair and the hum of a tool that's renewing him. Din bites his lip as he suddenly feels his scar from the explosion at the cantina exposed to the air. He feels naked, raw, yet glorious.
You pause and run your finger along the thick scar tissue. Before continuing. Din drags his hand up and holds your waist high, under your breasts and speaks in a language you don't know.
"Cin Vhetin." He breathes the words out, like a mantra being chanted.
You don't interrupt him as he says the words again. What started as an experiment in mercy and grace towards the fallen warrior has turned into a test for both of you. You rock your body against his as you tilt his head sharply to the other side. You're less gentle now. You move with more urgency, more hair falls and Din's body gets a chill as he can feel the cool air of the space more than before.
He has a mess of long curls left on top of his head. Din tilts his head back and closes his eyes. You hold back the last bit of hair in your fingers, gripping it, you look at his face and his strong, thick neck. You lean in to kiss his throat but stop yourself. Your nose drags along his jaw as you change your mind. Din feels your hot breath on his throat and lifts his foot, pressing his thigh into you. You squeeze tight as you refocus. He lets out a moan as you cut away the rest of his rich brown locks.
Hunks of hair have fallen in-between you both. Piles of it on the floor and pieces hanging off his shoulders. Din rubs the meat of your thighs as you push his head around, dragging the clippers over, making sure it's even and clean. You flick them off and reach over, setting them on the table.
His eye is still red but he's almost healed already. You hold his face as he looks back at you. No long whiskers, his messy, romantic curls are all gone. What's left is a smooth face and hair reduced to light brown fuzz with many flecks of gray. His scalp is visible beneath it, revealing several scars at the nape of his neck and one near the back of his head behind his ear. Despite his big sincere eyes, he could maybe be mistaken now for a cruel man, someone heartless. It's a serious look, hard and lacks imagination. He looks so different from the images of him you filed away before he left.
You sigh as you wipe little hairs from his face. He flinches and crinkles his nose. You rub both your hands over his head as he keeps his eyes closed. It makes your fingers tingle. He no longer backs away from your touch. He now leans into each one.
Din moans, "Does it look as good as that feels?" He asks, relishing your touch.
The dull ache in-between your legs is still there and you worry if you look at him straight on you'll devour him whole. But still, you hold his jaw and pull his face to look at you. His eyes meet yours and you clench. Without a word you practically jump up from his lap. His brows draw together curiously as he tilts his head.
His face is still beautiful. His aquiline nose is perfect, with a faint scar on the bridge. His jaw is chiseled, his cheekbones high, his brow is strong and his eyes are impossibly innocent and deep, with expressive lines etched around them. His bottom lip is pouty, his mouth is perfect for kissing. His hair, although hardly any remains, is still thick on his head. Your intensity grows each second you take him in. You hand him the mirror.
Din looks disappointed, confused even, before he looks in the mirror. He reaches up and rubs his hair and then his face. His expression turns to surprise as he views himself. He's silent.
"Well, you look like someone else," You say, inhaling as you brush off your lap, looking everywhere but at him, lest you turn feral.
He gives a wry smile, showing off the lines you love, it fades quickly into seriousness, "I do. It's perfect." He looks one more time before setting the mirror down and rubbing his head. He watches you avoiding his eye contact. "Mesh'la, if you don't find me…attractive like this, that's–"
With that accusation you move fast to cradle each side of his face, "Din. I liked you before I ever saw this face-" your thumbs rub his cheeks"–or that hair." You nod to the piles of it on the floor. You stand in between his legs, "You happen to be the most handsome man that's ever given me the time of day." He raises his eyebrows as you press your lips to his.
He freezes as you hold your mouth to his. He lets out a breath, you swallow it and feel his lips lock onto yours. He pulls you against him as you balance on his lap now. Exchanging slow small kisses that build deeper as the inexperienced kisser takes your lead. The way his hands move over your body, it's clear kissing is the only lesson he needs and he's a fast learner. It's everything you hoped for, soft, delicate, passionate. You begin to press harder to him.
Din stops kissing you. His forehead resting on yours, "Vor entye par te cin vhetin." He fiddles with the hem of your shirt as he speaks in Mando'a.
"What does that mean, Cin Vhetin?"
"It means you've given me a fresh start." He kisses your cheek tenderly, "Mesh'la?" He raises one eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"I really could use a shower."
You tilt your head and sigh, scratching your fingers over his head. You crawl off of him but his hands linger on you as you do.
He walks to the fresher, his gait still has his swagger. It wasn't the armor that made him that big, he really is just that broad. Hair and whiskers tumble off him. In the fresher doorway he undoes his flight suit. In full view of you he peels it off and pushes it down, stepping out. His back to you. He's thinner, but still strong. A very large purple bruise can be seen under one arm, lots of old and new scars on his warm skin. The most surprising thing is the tattoos. In the center of his back in black ink, a mythosaur skull, several inches long. On his right shoulder is a large red Mudhorn, the same design as his signet. He looks tough, and with the extreme haircut, he looks dangerous.
The shattered broken man you held in your arms is whole again. He lamented, pulling from your very being the mercy he denied himself for weeks on end.
"Maker, help me," You say out loud, unconsciously.
Din looks over his shoulder back at you, "And what is a God going to help you with that I can't?" He looks away and pulls off his briefs, bare assed heading straight into your shower. You gulp.
He turns it on and you watch him. The water pours and flows over every dip and curve in his body. He closes his eyes and holds his head under the water, it runs off his shorn head quickly. You watch him take your rag and scrub the dirt away. He has one arm lifted, scrubbing his armpit when he finally looks at you, he stares with a smoulder. His perfect member is practically ready for you. His deep voice echoes in the fresher chamber. "Well, are you going to just keep standing there or join me? I could use some more of that grace Mesh'la."
.
.
A/N Might write a sequel if anyone asks Kinda proud of this so...
