I would like to share my Transformers OC named Kharoma Mekhit! She is a pitch-black Predacon, older than the original Primes, born before the time we know about Transformers (when Cybertron was ruled by Predacons). Kharoma has two beasts modes (a dragon, like Game of Thrones dragons design/ and a horse) and bot mode (like transformers seem like when they're not in alt mode.)
It's a loooong and detailed story about her and I want to share it with you all as soon as I can ❤️ I have watched Transformers One many times and been thinking how my OC would fit in it.
My OC is original. Do NOT repost/post/use in any other site, or any other way without my permission. I had a hard work planning her beasts modes and bot modes. I had a hard work to plan her backstory (pre-modern cybertron, pre-cybertronian war), and her current life. Unfortunately I have seen people stealing OCs that aren't theirs in years I've spent here on Tumblr, and I'm afraid that it could happen with mine.
Request: Reader struggling with insecurities and being unable to look at Din because his beskar reflects them, Din realising and stepping in to help. CW: insecurities caused by shitty parents, angst, minor breakdown, mental health, Din being so soft and lovely. [4K. Re-uploaded from my old blog.]
It’s one of those days.
The days where your mind decides to be your worst enemy and spits insults like acid, firing up each and every insecurity you’ve ever felt in rapid succession like a never ending horror reel in your brain whilst you stare with too sharp eyes at the mirror.
And shutting them doesn’t work.
The image lingers, imprinted. Distorted. Your mind turning it to something monstrous to fit the words that blaze incriminatingly across your features.
It’s the type of day where you compare yourself to everyone that goes by even though you know you’re only feeding the parasitic thoughts behind your self-loathing behaviour.
But you can’t stop.
You can’t snap yourself out of it with kind affirmations no matter how hard you try, positive mantras like I am enough - I’m perfect just the way I am - they sound weak in comparison to the other things ramming against your skull. False even.
You can’t even distract yourself with the job you’re supposed to be doing, you're that unfocused, and of course Din notices.
He noticed the moment your mood shifted, the moment your smile became a tiny, hollow thing and the wild spark of your eyes dulled.
He noticed the moment your shoulders sagged as if struggling under some colossal weight and he could almost sense you shrinking into yourself, trying to make yourself appear smaller, unnoticeable to everyone including him, even as the two of you leaned side by side against the sticky bar of a run-down cantina waiting for an informant.
Din just doesn’t understand why.
You were born to burn, not fade to shadow.
You burned right through him - his armour and his unimaginably high walls that he thought he would never lower for anyone until you came along and showed him it was okay to depend on another every once in a while.
Before he had loathed the idea of sharing his work with someone, his home, but then he had found you.
You, who had stunned him from the first time he warily approached you. With your sweet expression and mischievous smile - the way your eyes glittered as light bounced off the dagger that you flipped so effortlessly in your hand.
You who had immediately launched into a vividly detailed plan of how you and him could slip into the bounty’s hideout and rip it apart from within from the moment he reluctantly had suggested he might need some help.
You had been glorious, destruction in your veins and blood streaked across your face, your neck, your bruised knuckles as you sunk a blade into one man's spine and twisted.
Together, they had broke against the bounty’s muscle with the force of a tsunami and by the time there was no one left, no one except the cowering heap that you dropped at his feet with a warm, buttery smile, Din had been fucking starstruck.
He’s remained that way ever since. His awe flourishing, blooming, into something that takes his breath away even when he watches you do the most mundane things.
Every move you make seems to hold a beauty to it, a whisper of lovely power, something unique he can only ever link to you that makes his heart seize behind his ribs.
And he can’t understand why it feels like he’s now watching that flame that burns within you go out before his very own eyes. Why you’re trying to make yourself invisible and refuse to meet the dark gaze of his visor even though he knows you can sense his eyes on you.
“What’s wrong?” He prods quietly.
You sigh then, a flicker of something pained passing over your features before you can hide it. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re not usually this fucking nosy.” You snap, muscles tensing, still refusing to spare him even a single glance. “I said I’m fine, Mando. Drop it.”
His brow pinches in a frown, eyes narrowed to slits as he lets your sudden burst of anger crash against him. Tasting the defensiveness and frustration brushed through it.
He knows this.
He’s all too familiar with becoming aggravated when he doesn’t know how to get shit that’s bothering him off his chest, the way he would allow it to bleed out through rage or violence because trying to form it into words made him feel foolish.
It seems like you’re both similar in that way, maybe you don't need him trying to gently coax it out of you.
Maybe you need a fight to let it all come pouring out.
**
You’re furious by the time he’s dragged you into the tiny bathroom. Baring your teeth like a snarling beast as you yank your wrist from his tense grip.
The contact had thrown you. Your heart stopping before it broke out into a chaotic gallop that you could almost believe would be heard by the Mandalorian as he took an intimidating step closer.
The blank slate of his visor had bore into you and you had felt it so excruciatingly - the weight of his assessment, the crushing force of your own insecurities as he crowded you.
Close enough that everything you considered a flaw was laid before his eyes in startling clarity and reflected back at you in the mirror sheen of his helmet.
It made your stomach churn, anxiety crawling through your chest, an icy hand that winds around your neck and grips tight until his sudden touch had shattered its hold.
“Come with me.” He’d growled.
And temporarily stunned, you’d gone.
Stumbling to keep up as he all but dragged you away from the roaring noise of music and clashing conversations to a room so quiet you could hear your blood rushing in your ears as your surprise gave way to anger.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, ripping away from him as he slams the door closed behind him. “We’re supposed to be waiting for someone.”
You make to push past him and he doesn't budge an inch, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he looms over you. An immovable wall of solid beskar. “We’re not doing anything else for this job until you tell me what’s going on with you.”
You glare at him, fists clenched tight at your sides “I said it was nothing.”
“And like I said, you’re a fucking terrible liar.” He shoots back.
Why do you even care, you want to scream.
There’s a fierce energy building inside you, the volatile kind, self-destructive. Born from too many emotions spinning through your head.
You try and focus on the steady drip of the faucet to will it down, counting specks of mould on the worn tiles, how many times the light can flicker in between each uncomfortable breath you take.
“It doesn’t matter.” You grit, attempting to assert some kind of authority of the situation. “All that matters is that we have a job to do and we’re wasting time.”
It doesn’t work.
“No. We’re out. I’m calling it.” He advances on you slowly, his tone creeping towards irritation at the stubbornness of your denial. “You’re too distracted, lost somewhere in your own head. You might not give a shit that it could get you killed but I do.”
Suddenly there’s a wave of tears building, burning incessantly behind your nose, those nasty little voices beginning to purr through your skull as you gape at him.
Useless.
Can’t even do the one thing he keeps you around for, your job.
Why would he ever look at you the way you wish he would when all you are is a constant hindrance to him.
And then you get defensive, that energy bursting hot and fast through your blood before you can choke it down and lock it up nice and tight.
“You don’t get to make that decision for me Mando.” You snarl, swatting away his outstretched hand that reaches for you when expression threatens to crumble. “Don’t. You don’t have to keep pretending you care, I know I’m dispensable, if I die you can get another partner anywhere.”
He reels back as if you’ve struck him. “You really think I’d do that?”
“Why not! It’s not like I’m special is it? There’s heaps of other hunters out there, one’s more skilled, more reliable. Probably easier on the eyes too.” You laugh humourlessly, eyes stinging with salt as you begin to pace. Ignoring the gentle lilt of your name that he tries to offer as a grounding force, something to bring you back to him when you’re clearly beginning to spiral.
“Hell you could replace me right here and now if it’ll make your life easier.” You babble and oh stars, it's like you can't stop. “Just think of all the credits you can rake in, not having to put up with my shit anymore.”
Your breaths are starting to come quick and shallow and before you can say anything else Mando is immediately in front of you - his hands snatching at your shoulders before he drags you into a bone-crushing hug.
You struggle against it for a moment, a fighter down to the last possible second, and then you fall apart. Harsh, ugly sobs wracking your frame whilst his gloved hand smooths over your hair, his helmet pressed to your temple as he makes soft mouthed sounds to try and comfort you.
He waits until your cries quieten down, until the quake of your body lessens to a light shudder and then he tilts his head to look at you. “Look at me. Look at me, mesh’la, please.” He murmurs.
You shake your head. You don’t want to see how pathetic you look, can’t bear the thought of what will stare back at you in the reflection of his beskar.
“Please.” He repeats.
You bury your face closer into his cowl, croaking “I can’t.”
There’s a beat of silence - disrupted only by the rhythmic drip drip drip from the faucet. And then he’s sighing, a desperately sad sound that twists something in your aching chest until you're sure you’ll feel a snap.
“Can you tell me why?” He murmurs, hesitance bleeding through him as you stiffen in his arms and he swallows thickly. “It’s not just now is it, you haven’t been able to look at me in days and if it’s because of something I’ve done - if I’ve made you feel this way - then I need to know. I need to make it right, because I can’t lose you.”
Oh - oh no - he thinks it's his fault.
Your throat closes up and for a moment you feel like you could cry all over again.
He carries a guilt that has never been his to bear and it wounds you in some way, that this man who has only known you for such a short time takes your happiness so personally that he would beg to right a wrong that he’s not even sure he himself had made.
He says that he can’t lose you like he refuses to entertain a scenario where you’re not by his side and you don’t even realise that you’re practically crushing him to you in another fierce embrace until you feel the gentle weight of his helmet resting against the crown of your head.
"It's not you Mando." You blurt, a soft flutter brushing through your chest when he squeezes you tight as his body sags with relief. But only seconds later he stiffens again and you know he’s heard it.
The implication.
It’s not you. There’s someone else causing this.
You know he’s worked it out by the sudden change in how he holds you, the subtle shift from comforting to protective, his body all but curling around yours.
He growls. “Who.” And you shudder.
You need to explain and fast before he decides to storm out of the bathroom and track down everyone who’s come into contact with you in the past few days.
This job you’ve been on had required a lot of stealth so as to not tip off your target and if you were going to pick up where you left off after everything then the last thing you needed was your Mandalorian going on a vengeful rampage.
He lets you untangle yourself from him reluctantly, follows like a shadow when you point to a spot on the floor and state lamely. “We should probably sit for this.”
**
You can feel his eyes on you as you slide down the wall, as you fold your legs only to stretch them out in front of you not even a moment later.
He’s not stupid, you know that, you know Mando is wisely giving you the time you need, refraining from pushing whilst you try and get your head together under the guise of making yourself comfortable on the grimy floor.
When you’re as ready as you think you’ll ever be you take a deep breath to begin but suddenly find yourself hesitating. Were you really going to tell him? Could you let every sad little truth pour from you when you've spent so long plugging it up, shoving it down. Building a damn in your mind and your heart to keep it from making a mess for those around you.
Hunters were meant to be strong, an undeniable, deadly force.
They didn't do insecurities, self-doubt. Weaknesses.
At least that's what you'd always been told. It's the impression you got from every one that you had ever met, including Mando.
So how could you tell him that you were haunted by all of them. That every now and again they ripped into you and made you feel like your worth was less than nothing. How could you lay yourself emotionally bare like that and expect that he would still look at you the same after?
…Except hadn't you already?
You had spiralled before his very eyes. You had screamed and cried and shattered to pieces and yet… there had been no judgement.
There had been nothing from him except comfort and patience. The press of his body against yours as he held you like you were infinitely precious, like he wished nothing more than to be a barrier against all these things he was clueless about except for the fact they were trying to hurt you.
“Did you know I always wanted to be a hunter?” You ask so suddenly that he jerks, surprised.
It makes you smile when he softly shakes his head , when he shifts from his relaxed position against the wall and tilts his body towards yours as you offer a rare glimpse into the life you had before him.
“I thought it sounded like the coolest job ever.” You recall. “Getting paid to chase down bad people and learning how to use a shit load of weapons? What more could I want? And it turned out I was good at it, better than a lot of other things I’d tried to force myself into growing up.”
He makes a soft noise of agreement, like he gets it, and your lips twitch. “When I returned home after a really long time of taking pretty much every job that came my way, I thought my parents would be proud. I thought they’d be happy I had made some kind of a life for myself and that I wasn’t struggling for money like they had worried I would when I decided to make my own way instead of relying on them.”
You close your eyes as the memory resurfaces. “They weren’t. My dad basically said I was no better than a vulture, feeding off other people’s misfortune, but my mum…”
You swallow against the crack of your voice, fingers picking at a still healing wound on your hand before a gloved one stops you. Silently lacing thick fingers through your own as you struggle not to sob.
“My mum told me I had ruined myself. My face and my body. I had forgotten how obsessed she could be with our family’s image and legacy until she told me that no one would want someone who was covered in scars or who’s nose or teeth weren’t perfectly straight because they’d been damaged too many times fighting like some kind of wild beast.”
He sucks in a breath and you can feel it. His disbelief, his rage. His devastation.
It pours from him in waves as he visibly bristles beside you, drenching his voice when he rasps your name and you have to hurriedly continue. Shoving the rest of the story out of you because if you stop, if you let yourself wallow in the emotions clawing at the pair of you, then you may never fully get the weight of it off your chest.
“I told her I didn’t care.” You spit. “That if my appearance bothered people that much then maybe they were the type of people I didn't want to be around. And it had been the truth, I fucking meant every word.”
“But then I started noticing the way some people would look at me, the way they’d be scrutinising my face or my hair or what I was wearing and I’d hear her voice in my head again.” You don’t realise you’ve trailed off, gone distant, until the soft pressure of Mando’s thumb drawing circles on your hand brings you back.
“I started wondering if they thought the same as her when they looked at me too and then it was like I couldn’t stop. Eventually it happened enough that when I was looking at myself, sometimes I started to think it too.”
His fingers tighten around yours, the soft, aching sigh of “Cyar’ika” slipping through the modulator wrapping around the pain in your chest and dulling some of those sharper edges.
You sniff and your voice comes out thin - watery. “There’s days where I still hear it and when I look in the mirror, or something reflective like your armour, it’s all I can see. But at least I’m still a good hunter right, I’ve got that left? Only, today I completely fucked that up too. So when I can’t look at you Mando, it’s not because you’ve done anything to hurt me or piss me off, it's because when I do, all I can see is how much I disgust myself.”
There’s silence between you as he digests everything. It stretches out and allows your thoughts to wander with it, undecided if what you feel after all that was said is relief or something else.
It’s nice that you’ve been able to talk about something that has pained you for so long but now Mando has another piece of you that no one else does, the part of you that is most vulnerable, and you don’t really know what to do with that.
“They don’t deserve you.” He mutters suddenly, so quietly that you almost had to question if you’d simply been hearing things.
You frown. “Who?”
He has your hand in his lap now, cradling it in his larger one as he traces nervous patterns with the other. His voice is steady however, utterly serious. “Your parents, the people who give you those looks. Anyone who can look at you and not see how incredible you are.”
Your chest spasms and you look at him in surprise before your lips attempt to curve into a weak imitation of a smile.
“I appreciate you trying to make me feel better Mando but–”
“Don’t do that.” He chastises you gently. “Whatever voice is telling you right now that you aren’t worthy of being told what I’m about to say to you, I want you to tell it to shut the fuck up and listen to me.”
You snort and the way he tilts his helmet in your direction makes you pretty sure he’s currently got his eyes narrowed at you, an expression on his face that would probably say if you don’t listen, I’ll find a way to make you.
You nod for him to continue.
“You are incredible.” He reiterates. “You chose to make something of yourself when you could have had an easy life and you fucking excelled at it. You’re one of the best hunters I’ve ever seen even on your off days and you’ve saved my ass more times than I’d like to count.”
You murmur a sly “seven” and quicker than you can react he pinches your thigh. A yelp bursts from your throat followed by a shaky laugh and it’s a quick reprieve from the way the pride in his voice was making your ribs constrict.
“You’re a genuinely good person, I have never seen you turn away a single person who’s come to you for help and you constantly go out of your way for people. Even those who probably don’t deserve it, like me.” He sees the way you open your mouth to argue and quickly holds up a hand to stop you, shrugging.
“I was an asshole when we met, don't deny it.”
He had been.
But you had sensed that there was something underneath it all, that there was more than meets the eye when it came to this particular Mandalorian and you had been intrigued.
And also right.
He shifts next to you and then there’s the brush of buttery-soft leather at your jaw. Hesitant fingertips tilting your face fully towards him as his helmet hovers just above your forehead and you gulp.
“Mando–” You whisper.
“Your mother called you ruined but that’s not what I see when I look at you.” He breathes and you tremble as he palmes your cheek. “Every part of you is beautiful and there is nothing that black eyes, bruises, broken bones and scars can do to take that away. They only add to it. They prove that you’re a fucking warrior. That you’ve lived and fought and survived everything the galaxy has had to throw at you. How can your body be ruined when its remained strong and kept you alive despite the hell you’ve been through?”
Something breaks inside you - you’re crying and you don’t even realise it until Mando’s other hand leaves yours to gently swipe away the tears with both thumbs.
It’s the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to you and it seems to highlight the fucking number that those words from your mother have done on you, the fact that you have no idea how to take what Mando has said.
How you're supposed to believe it.
But you want to.
You desperately want to believe it so you can drown out the poison in your head with it. Take all those pretty words and lock them safe in your heart for when you next need them.
And unsurprisingly, thanks to how adept you've become at reading the other, Mando instantly catches on to your internal struggle.
"You don't have to believe me right now." He tells you softly, patiently. "I know it won't magically make everything go away and you'll suddenly see yourself the way I see you."
He leans back and pulls you with him, tugging you into his chest as his arms wrap around your shoulders and waist. His chin notched at your crown and the venomous voice in your mind quiet for the first time in days as you ease into his comfort.
"But one day you will and until that happens I'll gladly be there to remind you as many times as you need me to."
You choose to believe that.
A hopeful smile tugging at your lips before you lift your face from its place buried in his neck, pressing a sweet kiss to the cheek of his helmet as you whisper. "Thank you Mando."
You choose to believe that you'll always have him by your side. That the dark stain of your mother's words will eventually fade away.
That one day you'll see yourself as the warrior you've always been.
Part One Summary: After two years of working for the Mandalorian as a babysitter for his foundling, you fall into bed with him. Months later, you fall pregnant with his baby. You still haven't seen his face.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: accidental pregnancy, female masturbation, gratuitous smut, porn with plot, use of Mando'a (used this website), inaccurate description of the Razor Crest interior (click here to see my made up floor plan), Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, repressed!Din, touch starved!Din, allusions to religious trauma/guilt, intimacy issues, family fluff, pregnant sex, dirty talk, body worship, armpit sniffing and one kiss/lick, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, angst
Word count: 10,987
Read on ao3 here | Read Part Two Here | dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Author's note: friends, I tried to post this as a long shot like the poll agreed on, but it was too long for Tumblr's formatting :( so here is the first half, and the second half is already posted. anyways, my knowledge of Star Wars lore/their politics is small, but my love for DILF-y Din Djarin is vast. so if something doesn’t make sense, pls forgive me. I have been working on this fic on and off since January, and it is literally my baby. this idea has vaguely been in my head since summer 2022 when I was listening to "Moon Song" by Phoebe Bridgers on repeat while reading Din Djarin fanfiction. I have seen the movie; this fic was never meant to follow the movie. even I am unsure of the timeline here, but Bo-Katan and what Din learns from her (helmet/creed stuff) is mentioned and kind of a theme here, and he has Grogu, so I guess this is post s3 with no cabin in Nevarro. anyway, I hope you enjoy, and I love you as much as I love DILFs, <3
You came along with the Mandalorian and the child to provide childcare for Grogu when his father was hunting bounties. Mando allowed you on this ship to take care of his child because you wanted to see the galaxy, and this babysitting job was the best way to do that at a low expense.
He met you when you were a struggling artist. He was at the flea market with Grogu to look for mittens in preparation for a stretch of bounties on cold planets.
The mitten booth was next to yours, where you were selling plates, silverware, bowls, as well as paintings and drawings. Everything, at least in his opinion, was very carefully crafted, priced fairly, though maybe a little too fairly.
As Mando purchased Grogu’s mittens, the green child toddled over to your booth and stroked your painting of a porg.
“Grogu, don’t touch that,” he scolded as soon as he handed the mitten attendant her credits.
He scooped up his son and looked at you. “I’m sorry. He gets excited. He didn’t scratch it, did he?”
You shook your head, an easy smile on your face.
“No, it’s okay,” you said, barely glancing at the painting, too transfixed by Grogu’s large eyes. “Y’know, your kid looks easy to draw, Mando.”
He scoffed beneath the helmet. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I’m sorry for the disruption.”
He was about to walk away when you asked, “You need a babysitter?”
Mando stayed silent for a moment. “Why?”
“You’re a bounty hunter, and he’s a little kid. Unless you’ve got a lady, then I guess… Anyway, if you need one, take me with you, wherever you’re going.”
He was shocked at the pair on you. What kind of stranger just asks to babysit? Out of the goodness of their heart? Fat chance.
“What would you get out of babysitting the child?” Mando asked. “Are your sales that bad?”
You sighed, trying not to give away how much that offended you. “You’re a bounty hunter, right? I mean, if you’re not, you have to start carrying yourself differently.”
He nodded.
“That means you go all over the galaxy, hunting dangerous bounties. I want to see the galaxy; your kid needs stable childcare.”
Selfish reasons. Mando could accept that. You were right. Leaving Grogu with the nearest person and shoving an obscene amount of credits in their hands wasn’t the best idea.
“You may accompany us today. I’ll let you take the reins for the day. Depending on how you do with him, I’ll make my decision,” he said.
He watched you take the lead with Grogu that day as if you knew the child from birth. You directed him easily, clearly, and fairly.
When Mando dropped you off outside your apartment building at the end of the night, he told you to pack warm, that he’d be back for you in the morning, and that was that.
///
One night, after working for him for a year and a half, he came back to the ship in the middle of the night after a hunt, limping. Someone threw a knife, and it landed in his leg, particularly in a spot that the beskar didn’t protect. Once you fixed him up, you excused yourself. He had whined and moaned and panted the whole time, and it all went straight to your core. You needed to relieve yourself.
He saw right through you.
“Do it here,” he rasped through the voice modulator.
You turned on your heel with a mortified look on your face.
“I saw you rubbing your thighs together the whole time. If you’re going to take care of that ache between your thighs, do it here, in front of me.”
“Mando–”
“Tell me you’re not about to slip your fingers under your panties,” he interrupted, “and I’ll let it go. We’ll forget this happened.”
You stayed silent for a moment, then lowered yourself to sit on the floor in front of him.
The Mandalorian lost control that day; he let himself get hurt, and he almost lost a bounty that he needed the credits for to pay you and care for his child. Fear struck him as he realized how much he depended on predictability, on him keeping it together, on keeping you and Grogu safe.
Mixed with the fear was something else that made him feel raw in a way he wasn’t sure if he liked. Losing control terrified him, meant he was vulnerable, and he wasn’t comfortable with that. In that moment, he desperately needed the control back, and you were going to give it to him.
You kicked off your shoes and socks and pulled your pants down. You weren’t totally sure where he was looking exactly, but you knew he was focused on you. Either on the way that your nipples began to harden against your thin shirt and bra, the wet spot that grew in your panties, or the tremble in your thighs occurring because of his scrutinizing gaze, or at least what you think is his gaze.
Slowly and tentatively, you sat down on the cold floor in front of the Mandalorian, about two feet of distance between the two of you.
“Do it the same way you do when you’re in the shower,” he instructed.
Your eyes widened. Fuck, he heard that? Fuck.
You started with what Mando could only call a pet to your clothed pussy. You gently repeated the motion a few times, then added more pressure.
“Take them off,” Mando said, his voice clear and demanding.
He watched you bite your bottom lip, probably to suppress a moan or a whine as you pulled your panties down.
Mando let out a soft groan, muffled by his helmet’s modulator, when you bared your cunt to him.
“Finger yourself,” was his next demand, but his voice shook, and the dichotomy of his making a demand with such a pitiful tone of voice was nearly enough to make you come on the spot.
You did as he said, and when he told you to add a second, then a third finger, you complied then too.
“Fuck, Mando,” you mumbled softly, your entire body on the verge of convulsing.
Pleasuring yourself was always something you did in private, not shamefully, but definitely privately. But doing it in front of the Mandalorian, simply because he asked, was sending a rush throughout your body that you couldn’t explain.
“I’m gonna come,” you whined softly, so as not to wake the child.
“Good girl,” Mando crooned. “Good, show me how you come. Be a good girl for me.”
With a silent shout, you clamped down on your fingers as you came. Mando’s breath hitched as he watched your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you came down.
Carefully, Mando inched closer to you as you caught your breath. He picked up your discarded panties and gently pulled your hand away from your cunt. He used the panties to clean your own juices off your hand and off your vulva.
Then he tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for you to remove the garment.
As you stripped naked, Mando unzipped his flight pants and yanked out his devastatingly hard cock, red and dripping pre-cum.
“Fuck, I need you,” he rumbled.
His voice, altered by the voice modulator, went straight to your core.
You nodded and lay back on the floor, legs spread so Mando could fuck you.
You weren’t normally so pliant under the people with whom you’d had sex with in the past, but Mando… If the way he shot the man in the leg who made lewd comments about you at a cantina about six months ago was any indication, you knew he’d rather cut off his own arm than hurt you.
He lined himself up and gently pushed inside, checking in with you along the way. He thrusted a few times, probably for less than two or three minutes. Then he was whining and pulling out, coming all over your red, puffy cunt.
“Shit. Fuck,” he panted. “I’m sorry. I–”
You shook your head. You knew he was repressed—not a virgin—but definitely repressed, probably more so after he took in Grogu. What kind of single father has time for one-night stands?
“It’s okay, Mando,” you assured him. “If you want… We can have a do-over sometime.”
From there, things escalated. You started sleeping in his bed with him, rather than the hammock in the hull after the night he fucked you in the cockpit.
You had straddled his lap, and the beskar of his thigh plates dug into your ass, but fuck, it was worth it. His gloved hands roamed your body and pinched your nipples through your shirt and bra. You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of his helmet and came with a soft yelp.
As he tucked his cock back into his pants, he said he was heading for bed.
When he saw you toeing your boots off in front of the hammock in the hull that you’d called a bed, he gently wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you into his bedroom.
He tucked you in, handling you so carefully that you worried he was hallucinating you to be mere inches tall and green-skinned.
Mando instructed you to face the wall, and once you were, you heard the clink and clank of him removing his armor. All but the helmet.
His hands were warm on your body, his arms were strong as he held you. You’d never felt safer in your life. You could live with never seeing his face.
What he allowed you to have of himself was surely ten times better than the whole of any other man.
A few months after that was the first time he fucked you without his helmet. You think that’s when it happened. He barely pulled out of you, so it made sense.
He had quietly tiptoed into the bedroom after meeting with Karga to collect more bounties.
You turned over in bed and blinked the sleep from your eyes.
“Mando?”
“Sorry,” he murmured as he began removing the armor.
You sighed and faced the wall again, but stretched your hand out behind you, a silent plea for his touch.
Once Din removed everything but his helmet, fully nude with the exception of his head, he climbed in behind you. He wasn’t quite sure then, and still isn't sure, what made him remove the helmet at that moment, but he did.
You heard the soft pull, then the quiet thud of Mando setting his helmet on the floor, which filled the small bedroom.
“Mando!” you whispered, your voice tight and clipped, almost panicked.
You froze, your eyes trained on the metal wall, unsure what to do now. To your knowledge, Mando took his religion very seriously, was part of a very devout sect, and would only remove his helmet in the presence of his clan.
Did it not count if you didn’t see? What was his plan here?
“It’s alright,” Mando whispered in your ear, his breath warm on your skin. “I trust you.”
That sent a tingle down your spine.
“Just keep your eyes trained on the wall,” he warned softly.
You swallowed roughly, then nodded, the back of your head moving enough for him to see. “Okay.”
Mando pulled at the panties you wore while you removed your sleep shirt, baring your body to him. The idea of being fully naked with him, even if you couldn’t see him, was thrilling.
He gently started rubbing your clit, eventually pulling soft whines from your mouth. It was like music to Mando’s ears.
“Oh, you’re such a good girl for me. You’ll do anything I tell you, huh?” he whispers in your ear as he circles your hole with his fingertip. “You like this? Watching me come undone for you? Huh?”
You gasped out softly when his finger penetrated you. His words were melting you, making you putty in his hands.
“Mando, I… Oh, fuck, I need you,” you whined, your voice a high-pitched whisper.
The Mandalorian growled in response to your vulnerability. He worked you open with two fingers, but didn’t bother making you come. You needed him, and he needed you just as much.
He’d gotten you wet, but not quite wet enough to take him, so he spit on his palm and rubbed it onto his cock before pushing inside of you.
Mando buried his face in the back of your hair for the first time so he could muffle his groans. It was heavenly, having your soft hair rub against his face.
“Fuck, cyar’ika,” he mumbled against your hair, squeezing his hands around your body. “Ori’meshla.”
You clenched around Mando’s cock as he spoke in his religion’s tongue. He was really giving it to you with both barrels. Removing his helmet in your presence and speaking in his native language while he was balls deep inside of you felt like a fucking marriage proposal, but better.
“Oh, my–Fuck, Mando,” you cried.
He started thrusting and set a quick pace immediately. He still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the sensual side of things, and you’d been a bit apprehensive to dare make things more emotional in addition to physical.
The dirty talk, though? That just kept getting better.
“Your cunt is so good,” he whined in your ear, one hand busying itself with rubbing your clit, the other groping your breast and rolling your nipple. “Oh, shit, I shouldn’t want you this much. I’ve never wanted anybody this much,” he whispered.
“Oh, fuck, Mando, I–shit–I want you so bad. Your cock is… Oh!” you babbled, completely drunk on his cock.
“Fuck,” he moaned, sounding absolutely pitiful. You only wished you could see the facial expression that went along with that sound. “Fuck. I take off the helmet, and suddenly you’re cock drunk? Huh? You usually don’t get like this until round two, sweet thing. What? Does it turn you on knowing all it would take is you turning your head around for me to break my creed? Huh? You like the danger of it?”
You buried your face into the pillow beneath your head and let out the most pathetic whine Mando had ever heard from you. If only you could’ve seen the smirk on his face.
He picked your head up by your hair and made you stare at the wall.
“Don’t hide your sweet noises,” he whispered in your ear, his facial hair rubbing against you.
Fuck, he was definitely attractive. No one could act like that and not have the face to match the behavior.
“I won’t,” you promised, hissing softly when he pulled on your hair before releasing it from his grip.
“That’s a good girl. Yeah, you’re my good girl, huh? You feel special because I took off the helmet for you? Hm? You like hearing my voice clear and unmodulated? Did you like feeling my beard rub on your ear? Tell me.”
“Oh!” you shrieked. His fingers just pressed harder against your clit. “Fuck, I like it, Mando! F-Feel so fucking special. Your voice is so–mm–so smooth and, oh, shit, your beard! Fuck, so sexy, Mando, fuck! I need you!”
He had you right where he wanted you: completely dumb for him. He’d watched you, a highly competent woman, care for his son when he was away and when he was tired, watched you intelligently converse with store merchants and negotiate for the best deals on clothing or snacks for Grogu, listened to you list off facts about the new planets he brought you to. You were smart, and you had your shit together, so making you lose it with just his body made him feel like a fucking king.
“Yeah? Gonna come for me?” he whispered in your ear again, rubbing his cheek against your ear to scratch you with his beard.
“Mm! Yes! Oh, gonna come, Mando! Fuck!” you yelped.
Mando began to rub your clit a little faster, and the orgasm he pulled from you was world-shattering.
Your pussy clenched down on his cock so hard that he thought it might fall off.
“Want you to come now,” you panted. “Come on, Mando, use my pussy.”
The Mandalorian whined in your ear and bit down on your earlobe. He took hold of your hips and gently pushed you to lie on your stomach.
“That okay?” he asked breathily.
“Mhm!”
With your okay, Mando started ramming his cock into you, the small room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin.
“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath.
His orgasm overtook him; he was already coming by the time his tip exited your body.
“Sorry,” he gritted out as he pumped his cock over your ass. “Still have your implant?” he asked, already reaching for his underwear to wipe his cum off of you.
“Yeah,” you murmured softly.
Mando tossed his underwear to the floor and turned you on your side, facing the wall. He wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “Close your eyes.”
You did so and mumbled, “Closed.”
He gently brought his hand to your face and turned you toward him. You could feel his breath on you, and you held yours.
When his lips pressed against yours for the first time, it was like ecstasy ran through your body. He was unsure, didn’t use his tongue, but you could feel his passion.
He pulled away and kissed your shoulder, then tightened his arms around you.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and you weren’t sure what to say.
You just took hold of one of his hands and brought his knuckles to your lips.
///
It’s been six weeks since the Mandalorian barely pulled out of you in time, and you’ve been sick a few days over the last two weeks. Unrelated, right? You fucking hope so. When Mando lands the ship, he slips some credits into your hand for shopping, like always, but this time the quantity is greater.
“Find something to make yourself feel better,” he says.
“Hm?” You furrow your brow.
“I’ve heard you in the bathroom,” Mando says softly. “If you’re looking after a child as rambunctious as Grogu, you need your energy. Get better.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, taken aback.
You watch as he heads down the ramp, then look down at Grogu, playing with his silver ball in the corner.
“How does a trip to the market sound today, kid?” you ask softly as you walk toward him.
Grogu coos excitedly in response, and you pull your bag over your shoulder, then help the child get situated inside.
It’s a nice town that Mando’s landed in. You wish he would take the time to explore it once he collects the bounty; it seems all he ever does is hunt for bounties rather than a shop that carries his new favorite product. He has a hard time enjoying things and taking everything in, in your opinion.
The walk to the market is easy. Grogu coos excitedly every once in a while as you make your way through the shops, buying items you’ll need for the week.
When you make it to the medical shop to stock up on first aid, you notice a doctor’s business card left by the box of bandages. Why not get a quick checkup for you and Grogu?
When you enter the clinic, it’s empty, save for the receptionist.
“Walk in?” they ask.
“Uh, yes,” you reply. “For the kid and me. I wondered if we could just get checkups?”
They nod, not looking at you as they search for the forms.
“Fill these out. I’ll let the doctor know.”
You take a seat, take Grogu out of your bag, and set him on the chair next to you.
“Don’t move,” you tell him, your tone stern but loving.
He makes a sound of discontent, but does as you say while you fill out the paperwork.
Then the door opens, and an older man simply asks, “Ready?”
Unprofessional at best, but you still pick up Grogu and head down the hall with the doctor.
Grogu goes first. You don’t even know what species he is, so the doctor ends up grumbling while taking the child’s history.
Eventually, your green charge is deemed to be in good health.
“Alright,” the doctor sighs after handing Grogu a candy. “For you? Just a physical?”
“Uh, I’m actually more concerned about, um, just checking my vitals,” you say.
The doctor furrows his brow. “What was the day of your last cycle?”
“I guess seven weeks ago. Maybe eight?”
He shakes his head. “Let me go get the bioscan device.”
The doctor steps out, and you turn to Grogu. “You keep this between us, buddy, and there’ll be extra cookies in your future.”
The child beams at you, then the doctor comes back. He unceremoniously scans your body, looks at the results, then sighs when he looks at you.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re pregnant. One human baby.”
Fuck, is all you can think.
“Do you do birth control implant removals?” you ask after a few moments.
The doctor nods.
Once the procedure is done and you’re bandaged up and prescribed anti-nausea medication, you take the kid and split, heading back to the Crest.
Shit, what kind of idiot gets pregnant by a Mandalorian? Wait, that’s being too hard on yourself. The birth control failed. This isn’t anyone’s fault.
Oh, fuck, what is Mando going to say?
You’ve never seen his face. Never. Not in the two years you’ve worked for him. He’s fucked you senseless, let you touch his face in the dark, even kissed you with your eyes closed, but you’ve never seen his face.
Sometimes he’ll walk around the ship in just his pants, the helmet on. Sometimes he’ll even be naked, except for the helmet.
You’ve gotten over it. He’s given you other pieces of himself. His bed, his cock, his trust, as well as his seed.
His fucking seed.
You’re pregnant with the elusive Mandalorian’s child, yet you've never seen his face, and you still don’t know his name.
When you get back to the Crest, Mando’s already back, sitting at the small table in the hull, the bounty encased in carbonite.
Grogu coos excitedly and jumps out of the bag, toddling toward his father.
“Hey, kid,” Mando murmurs softly as he picks up his son. “Get everything we need?” he asks you.
We. Fuck.
“Uh, yeah,” you say, setting the bag on the small table. “I even took Grogu to the doctor, just for a checkup. He’s healthy.”
Mando cocks his head to the side, slightly confused. “Why did you take him?”
You take a deep breath in through your nose. “Because I needed to get a bioscan. Figured, since we were there, y’know.”
He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue as he lets Grogu hold his finger.
You thought you’d sit on it for a few days, let the news sink in on your own. Just looking at him is enough to break you. Grogu will still get his cookies; you don’t break promises.
“I thought I might be pregnant.” Your breath hitches. “I am. The doctor gave me anti-nausea medicine.”
You say it with feigned nonchalance. You may appear stoic on the outside, but on the inside, you’re terrified. These are not technically the proper circumstances to carry a child in, much less to raise a child in, despite the fact that Grogu does so well.
This stage of your life, traveling and babysitting, was never meant to be the time you raised a baby. It was meant to give you some perspective on the galaxy, help you get to know yourself.
You aren’t sure how your baby will fare, raised by a woman who does not yet fully know herself and a man who takes his faction of religion so seriously that those in the same religion consider it to be a cult.
But what if this is how it’s meant to be? What if this is how you grow into yourself? What if this child is the last piece of yourself left for you to be whole? There are so many what-ifs, and that’s what’s tearing you apart.
Grogu may still be technically similar to a human toddler, but he’s also had decades to learn to adapt to life. You’re not sure how your baby would do with adapting to a new climate so often. It would be entirely different from Grogu’s experience; the baby would be human. What’s more, what if Mando can’t handle this? What if he pulls away?
He’s said taking care of Grogu has been the greatest honor of his life, and that Mandalorians pride themselves on raising foundlings. What if biological children are seen as less than, as adding a soul to the world who didn’t ask for it?
You’re realizing more and more that you really have no idea how Mando thinks, what his values truly are, and that scares you more than you’d like to admit.
Mando still hasn’t said anything, and it’s making you uneasy. You wish you could see his face to at least know what he might be feeling.
On second thought, maybe not knowing is better.
Mando eventually leans his elbows on his knees, then straightens up again. He’s fucking fidgeting. The first time he’s moved in about twenty seconds. “You’re… Okay. Wow.”
You’ve never seen the Mandalorian falter. You’ve never wanted to. You definitely didn’t want to be the reason.
“Mando, I swear I had the implant,” you assure him. “I got it out today, though; it’s obviously shit.”
You lower the hem of your pants to show the bandage over your hip. “See?”
Mando shakes his head. “I believe you. It’s okay.” A breath. “So, anti-nausea medicine… You intend to keep the pregnancy?”
You hesitate, then sigh. “I-I guess so. I don’t… I’m not sure I could bring myself to terminate. Y’know, personally…”
He nods. “That’s your decision. I… If you’re keeping it, I can’t allow myself not to be involved.”
It’s part of his creed to be united with one’s family. Mando’s already an amazing father to Grogu; your child won’t have to worry.
“I understand,” you murmur softly. “That’s good, y’know? Good for the kid.”
A moment of silence goes by, like you’re both silently begging the other to continue or end the conversation. Eventually, Mando is the braver party.
“Grogu. He’s a rambunctious child,” he says, looking at his son in his lap. “Will you be able to continue caring for him when I’m away? I could get another sitter; I’d make it work.”
You shake your head. “I’ve got him.”
Mando gently sets Grogu on the floor, then stands slowly, rising to his full height in front of you. He places a gloved hand on your shoulder as he takes a step forward. He takes another step and drops his hand.
He turns to face the other way and takes another step toward the bathroom, but it’s like he can’t. Eventually, he turns his body ever so slightly.
“My name is Din Djarin,” he says over his shoulder.
Your stomach drops. You never expected he would tell you his name, but then nothing with him has ever been expected.
“I figure you deserve to know the name of the man whose child you bear.”
And then he disappears into the bathroom, leaving you reeling.
///
The night that follows you telling Din that you bear his child, all you can think about is his name. He trusts you enough to tell you his name.
Din Djarin…
It’s a simple name, but strong, like him.
That night, after your shower, you find him in the bedroom, clad in boxers and his helmet, sitting on the edge of the bed. You drop the towel and bare your naked body to him. He grunts softly in appreciation and holds his hand out for you.
You pad over to him and straddle his lap. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you hold up a scrap of fabric.
Live with a man for two years, and he’ll know what you mean without you having to say a word. Or at least Din will.
Din takes the scrap from you and holds it over your eyes and ties it off behind your head, blindfolding you.
“So gentle, Din,” you whisper.
He hums softly in response, but otherwise stays silent.
Big day, big news; you understand. You won’t push tonight.
Din takes in your body. He just had you last night. Neither of you knew a child was growing beneath your heart, but now you do know, and it feels different, like someone’s watching.
You look the same as you did months before. You shouldn’t look different quite yet. He knows that. It’s still too early for any visible changes to your body. He’ll love them; he knows that. It’ll be his seed growing inside of you, responsible for the changes to occur down the line.
This situation feels precarious, and he isn’t sure why. All he knows is that whether or not this baby was planned, he needs to protect them with his life and show you all the care and adoration in the world in the meantime.
He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to spread the ability to be a father between two children, but he knows he’ll try. He’ll try with everything he has, regardless of how scared he is.
Din slips his boxers off and removes the helmet.
You moan when you hear the beskar hit the floor. Tentatively, your hands go to his cheeks, letting his beard scratch against your palms as your hands make their way to his hair.
He’s come to understand that his hair, any of it–whether it be his beard, the mop on his head, arm hair, leg hair, his bush, even his fucking armpit hair–is your favorite part of his body. You fucking love it all.
“Can I kiss you, Din?” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.
The sex, neither of you has a problem with. You know that kissing is another story for him, so you’re in the habit of always asking before you kiss him.
He nods, then remembers that you can’t see him.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Please.”
You lean forward blindly, and when your lips meet his, you moan. He seeks entrance into your mouth by tonguing the seam of your lips. He gets better at this every time.
You tug gently on his hair, and he whines into your mouth.
“Oh, shit, sweetheart,” he moans.
His hands are all over you. It’s like he’s mapping your body out, looking for any changes. His right hand eventually stops above your hip. He gently drags his thumb back and forth over your lower belly. Soothing himself? You? The baby? You’re not sure, but it leaves a pit in your stomach, and you whine into his mouth.
“Din, fuck,” you whine, leaning your forehead against his.
You grind on the erection growing beneath you and sigh.
“Get inside me, Din,” you whisper breathlessly.
He’s quick. You hold your hips up, and he drags his tip through your wet folds a few times, then helps you sink down when the tip is inside.
You throw your head back in pleasure, and Din scooches back on the bed. He wraps his arms around you and lies back, then turns the two of you on your sides so that you don’t have to do so much of the work.
He’s quieter than normal, and it makes you want to overcompensate by talking more than usual, but you hold back. He needs to process in silence. It’s what he’s used to, so you bite your bottom lip and moan each time your lips want to move.
You whimper and moan when his thumb starts circling your clit, when his other thumb starts tweaking your nipples, so sensitive with the new rush of hormones in your body.
“Shit,” you pant. “Oh, so good, Din.”
“So pretty,” Din murmurs to you as he thrusts a little harder.
“Oh! Din!”
“I got you,” he whispers before kissing you again.
He keeps a steady pace of his hips, as well as his thumbs, pushing you over the edge in no time.
“Din, shit,” you whine. “Fuck, baby.”
He swallows your whines and fucks into you with no abandon as he chases his own high. You’re carrying his baby. His seed is growing inside of you. He got you pregnant. Oh, fuck just the simple thought is enough to make him come.
He spills inside of you and doesn’t pull out halfway through for the first time, and it’s divine. His cum is warm and thick and comforting, and you swear you might want it as a snack later.
You moan softly, and Din watches your ribs rise and fall as you regain your composure. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles.
“You like my name,” he whispers.
“Hm?”
“You couldn’t stop saying it.”
You shrug.
He smiles.
///
Even with the anti-nausea medicine from the clinic, the first trimester of pregnancy isn’t easy. You’re always so tired and hungry, but you often have trouble sleeping, and pretty much no food ever sounds good.
Din is understanding. He keeps his distance, but is sure to show his support.
After a hunt on Naboo, Din coaxes you out of bed and out to the flea market.
You don’t say much, but he figures fresh air and things to look at other than the contents of the Crest might do you good.
Grogu makes noises of excitement as he toddles along with you and Din.
Usually, you’re much more eager to try the vendors’ samples and make a few purchases, but you honestly look dead on your feet.
“Was this too much too soon?” he asks you in between vendors.
Your arms are crossed, hugged closely to your body, just trying not to keel over from all the overwhelming sounds and smells. He tried to do a good thing, a sweet thing, and you know that’s a little hard for him. He’s not used to being sweet.
“It was a nice thought,” you whisper softly, squinting as you look up at him, the sun hitting his armor reflecting right into your eye.
“I thought the fresh air would help with your fatigue,” he murmurs softly, a gloved hand reaching out to gently caress your bicep.
You just shrug. Grogu approaches, his hands pulling on your boot.
“He’s… He’s been cooped up the last two days,” you say softly. “I don’t want to ruin his fun. I’ll go into the cantina, try and choke down some broth. Come find me when he’s ready.”
You’re already walking away, a kind smile on your face.
Din shifts his weight awkwardly. Grogu looks up at him like it’s his fault you’re gone.
A woman in the booth nearby shoots Din a knowing look. He cocks his head to the side, and she smiles.
“The first trimester is difficult,” she says as Din walks closer with Grogu. “Her body is getting used to not belonging solely to her anymore. She’s starving but struggles to keep food down. Tired, but has a hard time shutting off her mind long enough to get to sleep. And it looks like she’s already got a little one to look after. An energetic one, by the looks of things.”
The woman nods over to Grogu, a few feet away, jumping up and down in front of some children, practically begging for them to share their cookies with him.
Din calls Grogu over, then looks back at the woman.
“I thought coming here, getting some fresh air and exercise, looking at all the shops would make her feel better,” Din admits, feeling a little silly saying it.
The woman smiles. “I sell a tea that is sure to at least ease your wife’s symptoms.”
Din doesn’t even realize that this woman has mistaken you for his wife at first. For a moment, he grapples with whether or not it matters that she knows you’re actually his son’s babysitter turned dubious hookup turned mother of his second child.
“Mando?” The woman’s voice is calm, like she’s making sure his train of thought doesn’t take him too far.
“Right. I’ll take it,” Din says, glancing over her prices and handing her extra credits. “Thank you. I’m sure my…wife will be grateful.”
The woman smiles and watches him walk off with Grogu.
Din’s seriously buzzing under all the armor at referring to you as his wife. Is it wrong? He’s not sure. But is it so bad to live in that fantasy where everything is plain and simple and easy and not scary and hard and awkward, for just a moment?
He buys a couple of staples for Grogu’s snacks, then finds you at the cantina, sitting in the back booth, a half-full bowl of broth in front of you.
“He have fun?” you ask, the bags under your eyes darker than when you left.
Din looks at the smiling child, then to you, and shrugs.
“He missed you, mostly. Though, I gave him a cookie to soften the blow,” he tells you, and you let out a soft laugh through your nose.
“Find anything interesting?”
“In a way,” Din replies. “A woman noticed our conversation before you left.”
You tense slightly in your seat. For some reason, the image of a woman ready to be Din’s bubbly arm candy, happy to be at the market, ready to replace your cranky, grumpy self, enters your head for a split second.
You don’t like the idea, and you don’t like the feeling it gives you.
“She caught on to your…condition. She said this tea might help,” he says, pulling the box from the bag. “I can go up to the bar and have them make you a cup.”
Normally, you’d just make the tea on the ship, but the walk from the town to the ship is longer than you’d like, and you feel like death warmed over, so you nod, and Din’s out of his seat.
He speaks to the barkeep for a moment, then stands in wait, occasionally looking over his shoulder at you and Grogu.
Just a few minutes later, he’s back at the table with the tea.
“It’s hot,” he warns.
You sigh and rest your chin on your knuckles, your elbow on the table. Grogu stares up at you, and you smile.
“Wanna blow on it for me, pal? Cool it down?” you ask softly.
The child smiles and blows air out on your tea, though a little too harshly, making a noise that pulls the first genuine laugh out of you that Din’s heard in a few days.
Eventually, Grogu deems the tea cool enough for you, and gently pushes it toward you.
You take a sip, and make a slight face of disgust, then eventually, one of acceptance.
“Fuck, I hope that works,” you mutter.
And it seems to. Half an hour later, the three of you are walking back to the Crest, and you’re in better spirits, smiling at Grogu, cracking the occasional joke.
For the first time all week, you take care of Grogu’s bedtime routine.
On the inside, Din is buzzing, utterly pleased with himself that the tea has worked.
He takes a quick shower while you put Grogu down, and once you’re washed up for the night, you meet Din in the bedroom, his helmet and boxers down.
Once you’re settled in bed, Din removes the helmet and kisses your cheek, spooning you.
“Thank you,” you mutter softly. “For the tea and trying to make me feel better.”
“Don’t mention it,” he whispers.
///
When Din realizes you’re showing, he’s feral.
He’s more pleased about the pregnancy than you thought he’d be.
As the months have gone on, he’s been silently examining your body every day, scanning for new changes, changes that tell the world that his baby is inside you, growing and healthy.
So when you come to bed tonight, he notices the curve of your stomach, more defined than it was last week, not as soft as when you’re bloated, and he feels all the blood rush to his head.
You squint at him. “Am I paranoid, or are you staring at me?”
“You’re showing,” is all he responds with, sitting on the edge of the bed, helmet and boxers on.
You laugh it off, but then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward him. He has you standing between his legs. He pulls your shirt up and sure enough… There’s an undeniable bump.
“Hm. Guess you’re right,” you mutter.
“How can you be so nonchalant?” Din asks, disbelief creeping into his voice.
“What?”
“You’re showing,” Din says again. “People can look at you now and know, undoubtedly, that you are with child. You are visibly pregnant with my child.”
You furrow your brows, not quite grasping why Din feels so intensely about your bump. “Yeah, I know…”
Din sighs and brings both his hands to stroke your belly.
He’s just completed a hunt on Umbara, and you’re still here, landed in an isolated area. Sunlight doesn’t reach this planet. All you have to do is turn off the soft lamp, and you’ll be in complete darkness. Din won’t have to keep the helmet on, and you won’t have to wear a blindfold.
“Turn the light off,” Din whispers, his voice dominant and commanding.
You hesitate for a moment, then reach over and turn the light switch.
Now in pitch black, Din removes his helmet and sets it on the floor.
You’re already leaking into your panties.
He removes his boxers, then gently tugs on your shirt and helps you get it off, then your sleep shorts and panties.
He palms your cunt and moans appreciatively.
“All this for me? All we’ve done is get undressed,” he whispers.
“Hormones,” you mumble.
In the dark, he smirks, and the tip of his middle finger breaches your entrance.
Your breath hitches, and he pushes it deeper inside.
“I’m gonna make you come on my hand,” Din rasps, “and then I’m gonna explain to you how amazing your new body is with my cock.”
You moan at his words and clamp around his finger, then his speed picks up just a little. He adds clitoral stimulation, and with his other hand, he gropes your ass. He leans forward and meets your breast with his lips. He wraps his lips around your sensitive nipple and moans around it, sending vibrations through your body that quickly send you over the edge.
“Shit, Din,” you whine, a hand tugging on his hair for balance.
“Good girl. Did so good letting me get you all wet for my cock. Now, we’re gonna lie down, okay?”
“Okay,” you pant.
Din maneuvers your pliant body with ease. He stands and turns you around, lying you down in the middle of the bed. He may not be able to see your body, but he knows it inside and out, and he’s ready to worship its new changes.
With you flat on your back, Din runs a hand from your cheek, down the side of your neck, over the curve of your breast, to caress your new bump. He shivers when he holds his palm over it. He swears he could die right here. His child is under his hand, and just the thought is making his cock harden.
Your breathing is deep and heavy, and the sound is music to Din’s ears. He leans down and kisses your belly, just beneath your belly button.
“You have my child inside of you, visibly growing and healthy,” he mutters against your skin. “Do you understand what that does to a man like me?”
A man like me… You can’t even begin to understand all the implications there. Din, who has only ever had physical intimacy since his parents died. Emotional intimacy has only been found with Grogu, yet it wasn’t enough for Din.
To have his child growing inside of you, to see what it’s doing to your body, what his touch did to you… He hadn’t touched another person in decades, and never the way he touches you.
His touch was one of passion, clearly, and it resulted in the beginnings of new life.
New life that is now palpable.
“This is so special,” Din whispers as he kisses his way up your body.
He hovers over you, one hand planted next to your body as he lines himself up with your entrance with his other hand.
When he pushes in, you both sigh, relieved and excited.
He lowers his face and kisses you as he gets you used to the feeling of him. It’s almost hungry on Din’s part, and you love it.
Honestly, you were wondering just last week if he would back off once you were really showing. You wondered if he might be too scared or just uninterested. Evidently, neither is true, because he’s barely controlling himself from grinding against you.
“Din, you can move,” you tell him breathily. “It’s okay, baby.”
Immediately, Din starts thrusting hard, but not too fast.
“Oh, shit, pretty girl,” he whines. “Do you have any idea what this is doing to me?”
You just giggle in response, and Din snakes his hands under your body and pulls you up. Now, he has his left foot planted on the floor, his knee hitting the side of the bed, his right knee sinking into the bed. He has you balanced on his right thigh, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and shoulder. His hands roam your back and side, and his cock is hitting deeper places inside of you than ever before.
“Fuck, you look so incredibly beautiful carrying our baby,” he pants as he goes to kiss your neck.
You moan and arch your back, giving him more access to your neck, and the feeling of your bump pressing into his abdomen makes his cock twitch inside of you.
“Oh, shit, sweetheart,” he rasps, his fingers flexing against your skin, his head resting against your clavicle as you both meet the other’s thrusts.
“Fuck, feels so good, Din. Shit!”
All that’s heard in the small room is the sound of skin slapping against skin and breathy moans and whines. It’s pure ecstasy, and neither of you wants it to stop.
“So good to me,” you whine. “Taking such good care of your pregnant slut, huh? Making sure my needs are met, Din? Huh?”
“Don’t call yourself a slut,” Din pants, still thrusting. “You’re perfect. You have my baby inside of you. You’re all mine. Mine.”
“Mm, all yours, huh? Wanna keep me for yourself?” you ask before licking a stripe up his neck.
“Mhm. Mother of my baby. Such a pretty mommy…”
You moan and let yourself fall back a bit, pulling Din with you. He has this musk you can’t describe, and you need a closer angle.
“Smell so good,” you pant, kissing up and down his neck.
Din grabs your jaw and lazily licks the outline of your lips before kissing you again.
You scratch your nails down his triceps and clench around his cock when he hisses in pain.
He moves his arm so he can cup the back of your head, and you lean in to smell his armpit.
It shocks him, and he gasps, but you moan and hold his arm up so you can keep sniffing.
“Fuck, you smell so good, baby,” you moan dreamily.
It’s taboo, even a little gross, to sniff your lover’s armpit and claim it smells good, and you wouldn’t normally do that, but Din knows it’s your hormones. Your hormones are out of whack because of the baby he put inside of you, and now you love the smell of his armpit.
It’s enough to wreck a man.
He feels your nose brush against his armpit hair, and he shivers. Then you have the audacity to kiss and lick his armpit, and the moan that comes out of you has him blowing his load in under ten seconds, which triggers your own climax.
By the end of it, you’re both sweaty, stupid messes.
Din kisses your bump about eleven times before he finally lies down.
///
Five and a half months pregnant and bored while Din has been on a hunt the last two days, you manage to scrounge up some old sketch paper from a box in the back of the ship.
It seems that since you entered the second trimester, you haven’t been drawing as much.
You start with Grogu. He sits beside you while he eats his lunch and plays with his silver ball. You’re halfway through when he peers over your shoulder and oohs and ahs at it.
“Like it, buddy?” you ask.
He smiles in response and drags his fingers over the ears you drew.
You smile. “Accurate?”
Grogu nods.
Next, you draw your new side profile, hoping it will make you feel a little better about it. Din may be crazy for it, but it’s taking some getting used to for you.
You work on it on and off, watching Grogu play outside, then in between bites at dinner. By the end, you’d like to say it’s worked at least a little, in terms of being a confidence booster.
After you put Grogu to bed, you sit back down at the table and stare at your paper and pencil.
You’ve mapped out every inch of Din’s face with your hands. Maybe you could try to sketch his face?
For some reason, that makes you nervous, so instead, you sketch his body, fully nude, and you don’t forget even a single scar.
You’re so into it that you don’t hear the ramp open and close or Din’s footsteps when he approaches you from behind, a hand resting on your shoulder.
You jump in your seat and turn around, your heart beating out of your chest.
“Shit,” you laugh softly to yourself.
“You were in the zone,” Din remarks, sitting next to you, looking over your shoulder just as Grogu had done earlier.
Like father, like son.
“Is that me?” he asks softly when he notices the scar you’ve sketched on the figure’s right side.
“Yeah,” you answer simply.
He stares at the drawing for a moment, eyes squinting inside the helmet.
“My cock’s not that big,” he mutters softly.
You snort out a laugh, then cover your mouth in embarrassment. You smile and look from his crotch to his helmet, hopefully making eye contact with him.
“Din, yes, it is,” you manage to say in between laughs.
He shrugs and focuses back on the drawing, then notices you’ve started drawing his jaw and wonders how far you’ll go with that.
“Do you think you can draw my face?” he asks.
You inhale sharply and consider it for a moment.
“I’m not sure.” Then you look up at his helmet-covered face. “Would it be okay if I tried? You wouldn’t have to tell me if it was right, or close, or anything.”
Din sighs and removes one of his gloves, then reaches out to rub your belly, something he does lately when you say something that makes him think.
“I’d actually like to see what you come up with,” he says.
You smile, pick your pencil back up, and get to work with the rough sketch.
As he watches you draw, he scoots his chair to be behind yours, his arms settling on top of your bump, his hands able to roam the globe of it while you work.
He watches you sketch sparse hair on the cheeks for his patchy beard, the almost exact slope of his nose, the messy waves of the mop on his head. You get close to the size and shape of his eyes, his chin. All of it is…strangely close to accurate for someone who’s never seen his face.
Din doesn’t say anything until you’re finished, and you hold the piece of paper up for him to assess.
You’re almost nervous by how long he’s been silent; then he speaks.
“You’re a hell of an artist, sweetheart,” he murmurs before standing from his chair.
That night in bed, you shut your eyes and move your fingers over his facial features once again, as if you’re trying to identify any mistakes you made in your drawing, and also the parts you got right.
///
The first time the baby kicks, it’s the middle of the night.
You feel some pressure on your bladder and are mentally preparing yourself to blindly crawl over Din to get to the bathroom without catching even a glimpse of his face when it happens.
A little flutter.
You gasp and bring your hand to the side of your belly. With a gentle press against your skin, you encourage another flutter, which pulls a breathy laugh from you.
Behind you, Din stirs, his hand flexing on your hip.
“Okay?” he mumbles tiredly.
You take his hand off your hip and push it against your stomach.
Din’s eyes are barely open as you drag his hand over your belly. He’s always down to feel your bump, but he’s not quite sure why it has to be now.
Then he feels it.
“That’s them?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep but full of awe.
“That’s our baby,” you whisper, staring down at the small ripple of your skin under Din’s hand.
There’s a lump in both your throats. You’ve both known this was happening for months, that a baby was on the way. Din’s been in a state of perpetual protectiveness since you told him you were pregnant, and it got worse when you were showing, and now the baby can move, and you can both feel it and see it, and it’s miraculous and amazing, and neither of you feel worthy of this child.
Din kisses the back of your neck and peers over your shoulder, his beard rubbing against your ear as he watches the small movements made by the baby in your belly.
“What does it feel like?” he whispers. “On the inside, what does it feel like?”
You inhale deeply as you think about how to answer.
“Kind of like when your leg twitches, or maybe tiny taps, but from the inside,” you mutter softly, your hand on the top of his forearm while he gently strokes back and forth across your stomach.
“It doesn’t hurt?”
“No. No, it’s just strange. It’ll take some getting used to.”
Din hums contentedly and kisses the top of your cheek. The two of you just stay like that for a few moments, your hands roaming your stomach, following the baby as they roll around in your womb.
He kisses your ear and lets you gently push his weight off of you.
“I have to pee,” you whisper, turning your face toward him with your eyes closed.
He chuckles softly at the sight and takes your hand, carefully guiding you out of bed and out to the bathroom. He dutifully waits outside the door for you. While he waits, he feels the phantom movements on his palm, like his hand is still on your stomach. In all his travels, Din has experienced a great deal of amazing things, but nothing has come close to feeling his child move in your womb.
When you open the door, eyes shut and your hand held out for Din, he takes it and guides you to the bedroom. He pulls the covers over you both once you’re in bed and holds you until you fall asleep.
Slowly and carefully, Din pulls the covers down for just a moment and leans down to kiss your stomach. He’s not sure why he does; he just feels the need to. Like when Grogu sits on his lap, and he carefully squeezes his son’s little body.
He nuzzles his nose against your belly and sighs. There’s an urge to speak to the baby like he often catches you doing these days, but he isn’t sure what to say, plus he doesn’t want to wake you up again.
So Din presses another kiss to your belly, then straightens out his body again, his hands cradling your stomach as you sleep. With one more kiss to the back of your neck, he shuts his eyes, ready to fall asleep again.
///
Din just completed a bounty yesterday, but he hasn’t set the course for a new destination yet. You don’t have any complaints; traveling has fucked with your stomach for the last month. Seven months pregnant and constantly flying in the Crest can’t be the healthiest way to live while pregnant, but you don’t have another choice.
Or maybe you do, but you just don’t want to make it.
You’re sitting outside the Crest on a smooth rock in front of Grogu, who’s currently focusing on moving his silver ball with the Force. It’s actually going pretty well, and you cheer him on when the ball moves even an inch.
The ramp is open, and you can see Din inside the Crest, flight pants and helmet on. Nothing else. The fucking tease.
You like that he feels comfortable enough to bare even just the top half of his body. In the three days you’ve been set up here, not another soul has shown up.
“Any progress?” Din calls out, leaning against the opening of the ramp, crossing his feet, his arms around his chest.
“A little,” you reply, leaning back on your palms.
He chuckles softly and walks down the ramp toward you and Grogu. He takes a seat next to you and lets his pinkie brush against yours.
“He’s getting stronger every day,” Din remarks.
You nod. “Tough little green guy.”
That pulls a soft chuckle from the Mandalorian. You lean your head on his shoulder. Quiet intimacy, something that began when you got pregnant.
You didn’t realize you had been doing it, but Din did. It startled him at first, but he was often tense when you touched him anyway, so you didn’t think much of it. Eventually, he relaxed when you leaned into him.
Right now is no different.
“I heard the dinner served at the café in town is good,” he says softly.
“Mm. I want stew tonight. Do they have stew?”
“They should.”
There are a few moments of comfortable silence before Din slowly brings a hand to your belly. He still finds himself feeling awkward initiating the casual side of intimacy, but he knows you need it. You need the reassurance that he’s there for you and the baby, that he’s not just here to get his dick wet and fulfill his biological duty.
The baby rolls under your skin in reaction to their father’s touch.
“Mm. Always so excited to tell you hello,” you murmur, adjusting your weight as you sit, your body upset at the baby’s movement. “Mmph.”
“Are you alright?” Din asks, an edge of concern in his voice.
“The kid’s energetic at the moment,” you say, your voice calm and even, which lets Din lose some of the tension in his shoulders. “Restless, like their father.”
Din scoffs softly at that.
“It’s true.” You shrug.
Underneath the helmet, Din smiles.
After a few more minutes of play for Grogu, Din heads into the Crest to get dressed in his flight suit and adorn his armor.
The walk to the café is somewhat long, but it’s good for your heart, which is good for the baby, Din says.
The three of you are seated rather quickly. No one wants to make the pregnant woman, accompanied by a wordless Mandalorian, wait.
That’s one of the things Din appreciates about you; you do all the talking with strangers. If he can help it, he prefers silence and observing.
When he met you, you basically offered the role of Grogu’s babysitter to yourself. You were a struggling artist who only sold one piece worth enough to feed you for a year, but you sent that money to your parents to pay off their debts. After that, you hit a rough patch until you met Din and Grogu. You talked your way out of that rough spot, and Din still admires you for it.
Halfway through the meal, an elderly woman approaches your table with the biggest smile on her face.
“My dear, you are positively radiant,” she exclaims, taking your hands in hers.
“Oh, thank you,” you reply kindly, giving her a soft smile.
“I haven’t seen a woman carry as beautifully as you are in ages,” she continues.
Across from you, you know Din is tense, anxious about the attention you’re receiving, scared that this woman will pull you to the floor, maybe take the unused knife from his place setting, and stab you in the belly. He can tolerate the simple congratulations you often receive, but getting interrupted at dinner to hear about how you carry so beautifully is making him uneasy.
“That’s very kind,” you say.
The woman keeps beaming and notices Grogu.
“Ah, the little one will soon not be the littlest one. Going from one to two is a whirlwind, I must warn you,” she cautions.
“Well, we’ve been preparing, so hopefully it won’t hit us too hard.”
The woman sighs and looks from you to Din. “Well, if I know anything about Mandalorians, I’m sure your husband will at the very least protect all of you with his life. Good luck to you and your sweet family, dear.”
And then she’s off, but there’s something hanging in the air now.
Husband…
Is Din even allowed to be your husband? Who even are you to him besides the mother of his second child, who also happens to love his first with all your heart?
After dinner is wrapped up and the walk to the Crest is complete, Din goes about Grogu’s bedtime routine while you wash up.
When he meets you in the bedroom, you’re sitting up, your back against the metal wall he makes you face every night.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly as he removes his gloves.
You shrug.
“I’m fine. I just can’t stop thinking about that woman mistaking you for my husband,” you admit, your hands gently caressing the sides of your bump.
“Oh,” he says, removing the armor from his arms.
“Oh? That’s it?”
Din sighs and leans back against the opposite wall. “I’m not sure what to say, sweetheart. I… I didn’t know until recently that Mandalorians could marry outside our religion, that there’s the possibility of living while showing your face to the world.”
You don’t say anything for a moment. Din chews on the inside of his cheek and removes the armor from his legs, then from his front and back, now just clad in the helmet and flight suit.
He sighs again and inches toward the bed, sitting on the edge, but turning his body to face you. He takes one of your hands from your belly and holds it.
“I never had intimacy before I met you,” he whispers softly. “Sex, sure, but not intimacy. I want to do right by you, make sure you receive what you deserve.”
You take a shaky breath in and then exhale.
“I can go at your pace,” you whisper, your voice breaking.
Din’s heart thumps roughly in his chest at the sound of your voice breaking. He wishes he could wrap his arms around you and protect you from everything bad in the world. You, Grogu, and the baby in your belly are all he cares about.
“I know,” he whispers. “And you… You’re amazing, sweetheart. Better than I deserve.”
You let out a soft whimper at that, too emotional to rebuke his statement, but so, so capable of doing so.
Din sighs.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.
You nod and shut your eyes, awaiting the sound of his helmet coming off, but instead you hear his voice.
“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs.
Your eyes open, and he tips back his helmet, revealing his chin, his bottom lip, then his top lip and cheeks.
Just the bottom half of his face is so utterly beautiful, you think you might be sick.
You sniff, and with his free hand, he pulls you closer and presses his lips to yours. He tastes a tear on your lips and licks it up.
In the past, you had mapped out his features with your hands in the dark. You knew his bottom lip felt plush and slightly curved, but to see it, and to see the patchiness of his beard, to see the shape of his chin… It’s all overwhelming.
When he pulls back, he reaches up to kiss your forehead, then lowers the helmet again.
“I love you,” you whisper through your quiet tears.
Din’s heart almost bursts in his chest. He feels sick upon hearing your words. He’s dreamed of hearing that for months now. He tries to make his lips move, tries to say it back, but he’s paralyzed.
He’s scared he’s upset you further, frightened that you’re about to turn over and shut your eyes for the night, but you don’t.
What actually happens breaks his heart even more.
“Din Djarin, I love you. I wouldn’t change a thing about you. You’re the love of my life,” you say in between sniffles and wiping your eyes. “You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known, and our children are lucky to have you as a father.”
His stomach twists, and you give him the kindest, softest smile he’s ever seen, and then you lie down, pull the covers over your body, and face the wall.
Read part two here!
all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea
tags for this work: @anqieluv @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @madscamp02
t.w.: Soft Dark, Smut, Dub-con, breeding/pregnancy kink, Reader is pregnant, fingering, kidnapping, forced pregnancy, hints of Stockholm Syndrome, barely proofread (forgive me)
a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with any of my works. 18+ Only!!!
Love at First Sight Masterlist
He’s been conditioning you. He revels in the way your thighs clench together whenever his hands wander over your body.
At first, he let you isolate yourself, keeping yourself in the bunk as he piloted the ship, letting you take the cot every night. He didn't even try to interact with you, keeping himself busy with the child, his bounties and credit collection.
He would allow you outside of the ship, trusting you to be completely alone with Grogu. He was surprised by how you never once triggered the tracker embedded on your bracelet. He didn't know you knew that he had modified a cattle tracker into a shiny golden pendant.
You'd woken up with it your first morning in the Razor Crest. The soft hum of it was hard to locate at first. You lacked the tools to deactivate them. You were as sharp as a whip with technology.
A skill you wouldn’t use in a long time since you were taken.
He had plans. He wanted to find a home planet. Preferably somewhere adequate to raise his children and continue his life with you. The holopad he conspicuously left out in the hull while he was out one evening was full of data files on hundreds of mid-rim planets.
Most of the planets he landed on were among those in the holos. They were safe, quiet, and isolated. Once you had found the pad, he checked which images you would stare at the longest, which descriptions you would read with rapt attention.
He shakes his head remembering the first thing you did with the holopad. Immediately locating the communications feature and finding it disabled, the transmitter chip at the back of the device thoughtfully missing.
He would watch as you would glance outside of the ship, your stare would wander often when the ramp was open. You clearly had a preference. Your eyes would glimmer in regions with cooler temperatures, lots of trees, deciduous and changing with the seasons.
You dozed off to the soft sounds of animal chirps and rainfall when he would leave for a bounty.
By the fifth month of your Razor Crest residency, he lost his patience. He thought finding a planet would come easier. Some were perfect but the people were too hostile. For some, the people were peaceful but the planet was too unpredictable.
He was tired of your lack of communication. The moment you were alone with him, the room grew deadly silent. The only sounds that would react to him were of Grogu, coincidentally the only person you willingly interacted with.
Despite this, you were still pliant. Your pregnancy had made you sick early on. He’d make you food, soothe your back, bring you ginger tea and other higher quality rations he’d use extra credits on to make sure you were comfortable.
He started to condition you to get used to his presence; the way he could make you feel. If only you would give him easier leverage.
You would often hear him pleasuring himself, murmuring about how you looked so beautiful carrying his child. How you would look so pretty all cock-dumb and fucked out over his bed in a real home.
You would try to sleep after, but you couldn’t help but think of the way wetness dampened your underwear and how a part of you thinks back on how he pleased you back in your home. Before you realized his plan to take you.
You’d stare half awake at the panels above you. Shifting uncomfortably against the small bunk that only seemed to get smaller as your belly grew.
He broke the silence one day as he was making portions. He stated how he had enough credits to buy an isolated cottage near farmland, of which planet, he didn’t say. Sleeping Grogu was taken out of your arms and tucked into his metal bassinet. With a press of a button it was closed shut, leaving you alone with 'Din'.
You'd spoken directly to him a couple of times since your kidnapping. He revealed his name to you the day you had woken up. Despite your anger, the fear, and the desperation to be free, you often caught yourself thinking of it.
Who would have known a bounty hunter to have such a simple name. You loathe the fact you would have chuckled in any other circumstance.
You blinked up at him in confusion as the baby's pram closed shut. He sighs wistfully. As he sat down on the blankets and pillows he set up on the floor as a makeshift common area in the Crest, he reached for your hand.
You let him pull you down against him. He’s strong enough so that he could position you any way he wants without your assistance. He pulls his helmet off, the magnetic connection between it and his flightsuit hisses as it deactivates. He motions for you to pick up the plate of food he set on the small wooden tea table he had found in a market somewhere.
“We’ll be home soon,” he soothes as you eat slowly in his lap, pieces of his armor digging into your body. His cuirass was cold behind you, making you shiver.
You look back at him, eyes blank. He just smiles and caresses your cheek briefly with a swipe of his thumb, a slight chuckle escaping him at your ‘pout’. His hands skim over your tunic and stop on the swell of your belly, lightly tracing it up and down with the tips of his fingers.
He cups the underside of the bump, his nose pressing against the side of your neck.
Your defeat was present from the beginning. You never fought back, barely argued. Things couldn't have gotten much worse than life in your village, barely able to make it through a work shift without passing out from dehydration or starvation.
Chills run down your spine and goosebumps start to rise. He holds you against his chest for a couple of minutes, urging you to continue eating. Breathing in the scent of your hair and lightly caressing your belly.
Then his hands move further down to caress over your mound, you shiver. A shot of pleasure goes up your spine. He continues to ‘accidentally’ rub against you in between his praises of how well of a mother you’ve been, especially to Grogu, whenever he was gone.
You were throbbing by the time you were done with the portions, mumbling that you were full to excuse yourself away from the table.
That prompted him to ask you to feed him spoonfuls in return. He didn’t want to put anything to waste. It felt very intimate, especially with the way he loudly chewed next to your ear and groaned as if he were eating something gourmet, almost mimicking the sounds he made when he last had you in your bedroom back in your home planet, his mouth to your cunt.
The baby gave a sudden cry in his pram, you were grateful for the respite, especially as Din was starting to graze over your inner thighs to spread them. You excuse yourself to the restroom and curse yourself. It was the hormones, it had to be. You shouldn’t be this affected by his gentle touches otherwise.
He’s been doing the same technique for a little over a month afterwards. Grazing over your ass as he walked by, ‘accidentally' cupping your breasts and lightly squeezing as he mewled over your bump. Having you sit over his erection whenever you ate 'together' and the baby was napping in his soundproofed pod.
You hate the way your body responds to a simple touch on the shoulder and jumps to imagining him thrusting into you against the side of the hull.
It gets worse when you are finally 'home'. He was able to get his hands on a small cottage. It was far from the other housing units in the town, not quite secluded but not as neighborly. Despite the isolation, he didn’t allow you to even step outside the door. He said it was too dangerous.
You questioned him, considering you were a long way from other people. He never answered. Instead, he would hold you close to him and reassure you that it was safer for you and the baby.
Grogu was off to school, taken by his father almost every day. He wasn’t fussing constantly over him.
The one positive from being stuck ‘home’ was that he was barely there. You rarely had moments where he would make you want to rip his armor off and feel his skin on yours like the months before.
You had more time for yourself. To acclimate to the sudden shift in your center of gravity as your seventh month of your unexpected pregnancy began.
He was often away to earn credits working odd jobs. He'd leave you with the promise that soon, if you complied instead of ignoring all of his advances at becoming a family, you too would accompany him out one day.
He didn’t like the idea of keeping you as if you were a nanny to his children. Just a doll he could stare at and fondle. It was unbecoming of him and yourself.
But because you were currently pregnant and you didn’t reciprocate his kisses and affection, he thought it was best to keep you where you were. You had enough time alone to think about ways to escape, but with your growing condition the thought was dissipating quickly. You felt tired, nauseous, heavy. Your feet were swollen and even thinking of the months to come made you dread even thinking of being alone. In some sick way the bastard has debilitated you in this form.
Though that didn’t stop him from praising you. He likes to watch as you start to waddle around, chasing after his son, now yours, and play with him. Pride surges in his chest when he watches Grogu pat your stomach in question and you softly explain how there was a tiny person growing inside.
“The villagers have been asking for you,” he says one night, his shoulder leaning against the doorway to the restroom as you apply cream to your face in front of the mirror above the sink.
You hum absentmindedly, looking anywhere but the reflection as he steps closer behind, wrapping his arms around you.
“Is that so?” you question sarcastically. He ignores your tone.
“Mm.” He slumps over you, resting his head on top of yours. His eyes lower to your stomach and his brows furrow.
Skimming past your third trimester you outgrew all of your old clothes, including those of the man behind you. His stare made you fidget. You feel embarrassed as you try to tug the tunic as far down as it can go. A sliver of your skin still peaks through.
Tears well and blur your vision, you try to look away from his now worried gaze. Your hands move to cover your face as sudden emotion floods through your body, an unstoppable wobble from your lips gives you away. He stops your hands from hiding your face quickly, asking you what was wrong.
“My clothes don’t fit,” you whine. You think of how stupid you must sound. The way you could be thinking of many other worse things that he’s done to you, and you think to complain about this.
“I’m so big. I'm just so...,” you sigh weakly, hands fluttering over your body in an exasperated gesture. His grip tightens on your hands reassuringly and he presses a kiss to the side of your head.
He’s always liked his women with meat on their bones. He liked the thought that your body was changing because of him. Seeing you now, insinuating that you're not the most beautiful creation the maker has ever made, made his eyes twitch in irritation. Not at you, of course, but of the way you view yourself, of how people may have led you to believe.
In his culture women are respected as if they were goddesses. They are the foundations of their kind. Seeing you now look at yourself in disdain made him feel like a failure. He failed to take care of you as a spouse should.
All because he never touched you properly, fully and with his full intentions, he thinks. He's teased you for months, never going farther than a few raunchy touches.
He kisses up your neck and you freeze. His hands wander downward, under your stretchy maternity pants and underwear. His hand was so large that you could see it straining the seams of your pajamas.
“You’re beautiful,” he says as he flicks his wrist to palm over your mound, grinding it against you. You gasp as he continues, watching over you through the mirror as you twitch and lean your back further into his chest.
You sigh shakily as he inserts a thick finger inside of you. Then another as your eyes close shut tightly. The sound of your slick cunt resounds around the small room, your hand makes its way behind his head, pushing his mouth against your neck and shoulder.
He nips and sucks, groaning as he feels your walls squeeze around him. His palm grinds down harder, a quicker rhythm that makes his hand sticky with your arousal. He presses his pelvis forward, allowing you to feel the outline of his cock against the plushness of your ass.
He brings you to climax easily. Your legs threaten to collapse but he catches you.
The rest of the night he praised your body, your caring personality. Often mentioning how you would be such a caring mother to your next child and children.
You were barely awake and on the verge of passing out. You felt as if you exerted yourself trying to keep up with his burning touches. You don’t think you’ve ever been cared for as much as you have been with him.
“Tomorrow we’re going into town to get tunics.”
He presses himself against your back maneuvering a pillow under your body which lays on its side.
He finally presses a kiss to your lips as he pushes a strand of hair from your face. He smiles as he sees you respond back weakly, your eyes closed and lips slack in a light pucker.
--------------------
I'll upload parts every Wednesday! Next one will have actual full-length smut. I'm a tease, I suppose.
Part Two Summary: As your pregnancy nears the end, you and the Mandalorian come to important realizations about the future of your clan of four.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: accidental pregnancy, gratuitous smut, porn with plot, use of Mando'a (used this website), inaccurate description of the Razor Crest interior (click here to see my made up floor plan), Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, repressed!Din, touch starved!Din, allusions to religious trauma/guilt, intimacy issues, family fluff, pregnant sex, dirty talk, body worship, angst, labor, childbirth
Word count: 12,067
Read on ao3 here | Read Part One Here | dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Author's note: friends, I tried to post this as a long shot like the poll agreed on, but it was too long for Tumblr's formatting :( so here is the second half, and the first half is already posted. I hope you enjoy, and I love you lots !!! <3
The days that follow are less tense than Din thought they would be. Really, he’s the only one making things tense. You told him you loved him, took it a step further and declared him the love of your life, told him you count Grogu and the baby in your womb as lucky to have him as a father.
He’s not so sure. What kind of father is he if he can’t tell the mother of his children that he reciprocates her love? He’s never said those words in the romantic sense, and hasn't used those words since his biological parents died.
You haven’t stopped touching him. Last night, you pulled his arm over your waist and covered his hand on your belly. At breakfast today, you caressed his shoulder while he fed Grogu.
The way you speak to him hasn’t changed. You still tell him when the baby’s overly active, about something silly Grogu did when Din wasn’t looking. You’ve asked what the flight plans are, what he wants to eat, and you even asked him if he’s ever gotten a sunburn, to which he answered with a stare.
You’re not upset that he hasn’t told you he reciprocates your love. You’re not holding it against him. So why is he? Why is he beating himself up over it?
The answer comes to him fairly quickly; he doesn’t feel worthy of your love. Not for a second. Yes, he tries to be worthy of you. He does. But every day he grapples with what to actually do, trying to decide what he even believes in anymore.
You’re kind and soft and friendly, and he’s grumpy and harsh and not very welcoming.
Yet, apparently, you love him… You love him, and you’ve taken in Grogu as your own, and you’re happy to carry his unborn baby inside of you, and you love him.
Right now, you’re both in the cockpit. Grogu’s in your lap, perched on top of your belly while Din sets the navigation system for a nearby planet to hunt his next bounty.
Din looks over his shoulder at you and his son, and you smile softly.
“Are we all set?” you ask softly.
He nods. “Yeah. Should be a few hours.”
About thirty minutes after takeoff, you fall asleep, and Grogu toddles off your lap and up Din’s.
“Hey, kid,” he murmurs to his son.
Grogu only coos in response.
“Y’know, when the baby comes, I’ll need your help to keep things running smoothly for your mom. I hear newborns take the energy from their parents, their mothers in particular. All I need from you is for you to stay on your best behavior. Can you do that for me?”
Grogu nods, a serious look on his face.
“You’re a good kid, pal. Mhm, and your mom’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh? She’s better at the discipline voice than I am. Hm… She’s got me wrapped around her finger, too.”
Grogu just smiles up at his father.
There’s a moment of silence, and then Din continues, an epiphany happening in real time. “Besides you, she’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”
You begin to stir then, and Din turns the pilot’s chair to face you. Your eyes are tired as you rub them with one eye and your belly with the other.
“Do you need anything?” he asks.
You shake your head and stand from your chair.
“I’m gonna go to bed. You got him?” you ask, stepping closer to caress Grogu’s head.
Din nods and lets you take hold of his hand.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asks softly.
You nod and bring his hand to the side of your belly, where he’s greeted with a kick.
“He’s restless,” you say with a yawn. “Wearing me down is all. I’ll see you in the morning?”
Din’s heart stops at the sound of the word he. Usually, you and he simply say they or the baby. Mother’s intuition must be stronger than he previously thought.
He nods and runs his hand over the side of your belly. “Of course. Good night.”
As you descend the ladder and head to bed, you try not to think about the fact that Din is so tense, so awkward, more so than usual. You hope it’s not all because of what you said. You can only hope it won’t affect the baby.
A few hours later, Din lands the Crest in Nevarro. It’s late. He tucks Grogu into bed, washes up, then heads to bed himself.
He slips in behind you, and for the first time in days, he initiates touch. His hands are warm and protective on your belly. He kisses the back of your head and sighs.
“Baby?” you mumble softly, barely coherent.
“I’m here,” Din whispers, a possessive tone creeping into his voice. “I got you. You’re mine, you hear that? I’m not going anywhere. It’s you and me, Grogu, and the baby. Nothing else matters.”
You’re barely awake, but you take in every word and let them wash over your body.
“I love you,” you whisper, covering one of his hands with yours.
Din kisses your hair and whispers back, “I got you, pretty girl.”
Your breathing evens out again, and Din murmurs against your hair, “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”
It doesn’t matter to him that you don’t understand what he’s saying, that you’re probably asleep. He means those words with his entire being, and one day, he’ll repeat those vows to you when you’re aware of them being spoken, and when you’ll speak them back to him with a smile on your face.
///
Now, as your due date becomes more imminent, you don’t do much besides feed yourself and Grogu. You used to take the child on little adventures while Din was out on a job, but that is no longer the case.
Your feet are swollen, and your back aches. You can’t keep up with a creature as quick as Grogu anymore.
Din’s just finished his last bounty before the baby comes. The plan is to head to Naboo to have the baby, but Din wants to take Grogu on one last family outing before the baby arrives.
You’re lying down in bed, a book in your hands, when Din comes in, clad in only his pants and his helmet.
He kneels in front of the bed and takes your hand in his. You drop the book, open so you don’t forget your page, resting it on top of your bump.
“Would you be up for one last outing with just the three of us?” he asks softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the back of your hand.
You sigh deeply, a great effort on your part these days with how little room the baby inside you leaves your lungs to do it.
“What kind of outing?” you ask, eyes fixed on the contours of Din’s chest, his abdomen. His pants sit low on his hips, revealing his V-line, completely and utterly tantalizing you.
“Low energy,” he says, and it sounds like a vow. “Something fun for Grogu, that’ll make him feel special. Perhaps a holographic for children?”
You smile softly at the idea and nod.
“I think that sounds nice,” you say.
And that’s what the three of you do the next day. You wake to the view of the metal wall. You can feel Din’s body warmth as he drapes his arm over your waist, his hand covering your belly button.
His cock is hard, like it is most mornings, poking you in your lower back.
You don’t want to move; you want to stay here, with his warmth pressing into you, but the baby shifts inside of you, and your current position is no longer comfortable.
As you try to shift to get more comfortable, Din grabs your hips in his sleep, though it’s clear he’s waking up now.
“Feels good,” he mumbles, nearly incoherent.
You whimper at the rough sound of his voice, but also at the dull ache in your hips.
Din doesn’t realize he’s prolonging your discomfort when he starts humping you. You feel the outline of his cock through your panties. He didn’t wear boxers to bed, and he’s so warm this way. It almost takes your mind off how badly your body is telling you to lie on your back or switch the side you’re lying on.
The sound of his skin moving against the soft fabric of your panties isn’t helping either. That, paired with his deep breathing, has you leaking into said panties.
He moves one hand forward, pulling up the t-shirt you wore to bed so he can feel the warm, taut skin of your bump while he keeps humping you.
You feel his breath on your neck, then he dips his head against the base of your skull, and you almost cry out.
He hasn’t been this needy this early in a while, and it’s a lot to take in.
“Din.” Your voice is almost a sob, and that’s when he stops moving his hips.
“Sweetheart?”
He mumbles for you to close your eyes, and as you do, he gently turns you over to lie on your back, and that’s when you let out a deep sigh of relief.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone concerned.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur, slightly out of breath from the slight excitement.
Din furrows his brow. “You sounded… I’ve made you whine plenty of times, and never has it ever sounded like that. Did I do something? Did I hurt you? The baby?”
You shake your head. “I was just tired of that position. My hips started aching.”
You aren’t saying it to make him feel bad or to gain pity. Din knows that. But the fact that he unknowingly prevented you from getting comfortable when comfort is so rare for you these days makes his stomach twist.
Din kisses your cheeks, then your lips.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and it almost sounds like his heart is breaking.
It’s kind of sweet.
“I’m okay. Just par for the course at this point, right?”
Din hums discontentedly to himself, like the idea of you in any sort of pain, no matter how normal and little worry is actually warranted, makes him angry.
He lies his head on your pillow, facing your cheek. If you keep your eyes trained on the ceiling, you won’t see his face. For some reason, he really wants you to open your eyes, even though there’s the danger of you seeing his face.
“Open your eyes. Look straight up at the ceiling,” he whispers, his lips tickling your ear as he speaks.
You moan softly, like the danger that you might see his surely perfect face excites you. Slowly, you open your eyes, and though you’re only met with the metal of the ceiling, you’re pleased with your current situation.
“How can I make you feel better, pretty girl?” he purrs in your ear.
You whine in response at first, then he nips at your earlobe.
“Come on. Be a good girl and let me help you…”
“Mm… Your mouth. Please, Din,” you moan, on the verge of begging.
He smiles, pulls the covers down, then kisses down the length of your body, from your neck to your breasts, making sure to give each of your nipples a peck, then your belly, all the way down to your clothed cunt, which is dripping through the fabric.
“Got wet just from my morning wood?” he teases, nuzzling his nose between your folds through your panties.
“Unh! Fuck, yes, Din,” you whine.
He smiles and kisses you there, his saliva dripping through the fabric. Eventually, he pulls your panties down your legs, then plants a real, sloppy kiss to your juicy cunt, practically making out with it as he teases your hole with the tip of his tongue, moaning against you like he’s eating his favorite snack.
“Oh, shit, Din!” you cry out in pleasure. Your hands go to bury themselves in his hair to encourage him, which pulls a groan of pleasure from Din that reverberates throughout your entire body.
You can feel the smile that’s now adorned on his lips against your pussy, which pulls out another moan from your throat.
“Gonna come? Hm? Gonna come just from me licking your pussy?” Din rumbles against you.
“You’re not just licking my pussy–Motherfucker!”
His teeth graze your clit, and it’s like your whole body is on fire.
“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me see how good you’re feeling. You’re so sensitive these days, respond to my touch so quickly… Let me see how I made it all better for you.”
With a few more whines, Din pulls your orgasm from you like free-flowing water. He continues to lick you as you come down, then wipes his chin on the back of his hand.
He comes up, kissing your belly on his way, then lies next to you, finding your eyes still trained on the ceiling.
“I bet we can lie here about five more minutes before the kid wants breakfast. Which I will handle today,” Din murmurs, his lips moving against your shoulder.
“Thank you,” you sigh, still breathing heavily.
“No problem.”
Din ends up being right, and a few minutes later, Grogu’s coos, begging for attention, are heard from outside the door.
After breakfast, Din lands the Crest and takes you and Grogu to the theater. It’s mid-morning, so it’s not too busy inside, save for a few other families with small children.
Another mother congratulates you, tells you that you’re glowing. You hear it all the time, and you swear each time Din hears people say it to you, he beams with pride under his helmet.
Inside the theater, Grogu’s eyes stay trained on the screen the entire time, making soft cooing sounds of awe and amazement, occasionally giggling at specific scenes.
Din’s pretty sure you doze off a few times, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s just glad Grogu is having fun with both his parents before there’s a new baby to share all their attention with.
///
It’s late when Din enters the bedroom after putting Grogu down. He quietly opens and shuts the door to his small bedroom, thinking you’re asleep. He begins removing his armor, quietly setting each piece down, hoping not to wake you.
“Don’t have to be so quiet,” you mumble softly. “Your baby won’t let me sleep.”
He looks over to see your eyes open, head lying between your pillow and his. You probably wanted to smell his scent while he was gone. One of your hands rests on top of your bump, trying fruitlessly to calm the energetic baby inside.
“Sorry,” Din whispers, like it’s his fault the baby is so active right now.
He continues undressing, now in just his boxers and helmet. On his way to the bed, he picks up the silk sleep mask you’ve been wearing to bed recently, so you don’t have to sleep in the same position every night. He helps you put it on, then you hear the hiss of his helmet clicking off.
The sheets rustle as Din joins you in bed, his hands immediately going to your bump, half covered by the now too-small tank top you once loved wearing to bed.
He gently presses against your skin, alerting the child within you to their father’s presence. He leans down and kisses your stomach, murmuring against your skin, “Please go easy on your mother, little one. Your big brother is rambunctious enough for her to handle without you using her organs as punching bags.”
You smile softly at the gentle scolding from father to unborn child. You also can’t deny how good it feels to hear him refer to Grogu as the little one’s “big brother.” You enjoy the notion that the four of you will be one family. Or clan. You’re still not too sure what language Din would prefer.
He kisses your bump one last time before laying his head next to yours, gently rubbing his forehead against yours, grateful for human contact for the first time in hours.
“Tomorrow I’ll set the course for Naboo,” he rumbles in your ear. “You can bring our child into this world on a peaceful planet.”
You hum softly so he knows you heard him. “Sounds perfect.”
Din rubs his warm hand across the globe of your belly, pushing up your tank top while he does.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asks softly. “I heard some women like to bring certain things with them when they deliver their children to make things more comfortable.”
He sounds shy, like he’s nervous he’ll say the wrong thing.
You open your eyes, but are met with the black silk of your sleeping mask.
Right.
“I actually do have a list of things to get from the market once we’re in Naboo,” you reply with a yawn. “Just a few comforting items.”
Din nods even if you can’t see, but you can hear it. You hear his (probably) gorgeous hair rustle against his pillowcase with the movement.
“I’ve set aside a few credits just for that,” he tells you, his thumb stopped just above your belly button.
You smile and feel your once again shut eyes well with tears behind your sleep mask.
“Thank you,” you murmur, and Din can hear the emotion in your voice.
He leans forward and gently kisses your lips.
“Sleep,” he orders gently.
///
After setting the course, Din tells you it will take about two days to get to Naboo. You nod in understanding and sigh, hoping you'll make it the two days without going into labor.
The first day of traveling is fine. Din spends most of it cleaning his weapons, while you fold and re-fold all the baby clothes. Grogu is either floating around or playing with his ball; you're not sure. Din said he’d keep an eye on him to give you a peaceful travel day.
By the time Din gets Grogu down for bed, you’re already cuddled up in bed. Din slips his armor off, stripped down to his boxers and helmet. He reaches for your sleep mask and hands it to you.
Once it’s on, he removes his helmet and slips into bed next to you. He wraps his arms around you and rests a hand on your bump. The baby appears to be resting, which he silently thanks his lucky stars for. All he wants is for you to be as comfortable as possible.
“Thank you for doing this,” he whispers against your hair.
You’re barely awake and don’t really have a clue what he's talking about. “Hm?”
“This,” he mumbles, punctuating the words by gently pressing against your bump. “I care deeply for Grogu, but I never thought I’d...have this.”
“Oh. Well, it’s, y’know, just how it happened,” you mumble.
Din grumbles out a sound of disapproval.
“It may not have been planned, but it is everything to me. It’s not something I ever thought would happen, much less the way it’s happened, but I cannot begin to explain to you how much it means to me. You are giving me a child who is half you. You are amazing, and I could never thank you enough.”
You sigh. That’s probably the most words to ever leave Din’s mouth in such a short window of time. You bring your hand up to cup his cheek. His facial hair, you’ve learned, is sparse, but you love it. He has a full mustache, but patches on his cheeks and jaw. It’s grown out a bit, soft against your palm.
He’s opened up to you, told you what happened to his parents, the story of how he came to be a Mandalorian foundling. His parents died, and even though the Mandalorians took him in, he was still alone in the world. No one took responsibility for him in the way a parent would.
He was a clan of one for decades until he met Grogu, and he’d struggled with feelings of inadequacy. Maybe Grogu deserves more than just a father who struggles to whisper sweet nothings in his son’s ear when he’s had a nightmare.
Then you came along, and Din felt something settle. And when you got pregnant, he was definitely scared, but he knew it was right. His parents would live on with him and could continue to do so through this child.
You don’t know what it’s like to live the life that Din has, but you can understand why this all means so much to him.
“Don’t worry about thanking me too much,” you mumble sleepily. “Just be here.”
Din turns his face to kiss your open palm. Your lips curl up slightly to smile, then he leans forward to gently press his lips against yours. Chaste, soft, sweet.
“I am here,” he rasps, taking your hands, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “I am here, and you don’t have to worry about anything.”
///
In the morning, you wake to an empty bed, though Din’s side is still warm. You open the door and see Din and Grogu sitting at the small table, eating breakfast. Din has the helmet off, back to you.
You pad over to them and wrap your arms around Din’s chest from behind. You kiss the crown of his head. You’ve never seen his hair in the light. A few times, you’ve seen the back of his head in the darkness of the bedroom, but never in the morning light. It’s magnificent.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, covering one of your hands with his.
“I’ve slept worse.”
He squeezes your hand and brings your knuckles to his lips, then reaches for his helmet so he can turn around and look at you.
“We should land on Naboo by this time tomorrow,” he says, looking up at you through the visor of his helmet.
Grogu coos beside Din, eager for your attention.
You brush past Din, dropping your hands from his body, and pick Grogu up, who perches himself on top of your bump.
“He’s excited,” Din murmurs, and you swear by the cadence of his voice that he’s smiling beneath the helmet.
You smile down at Grogu, and he babbles something at you, clearly very excited you’ve woken up.
“Are you excited?” you ask softly, directing the question to Din.
Din nods slowly. “I am. Are you?”
He’s sweet, perceptive, and so caring. He didn’t use to be. He softened slightly when you started having sex, but it seems almost all his walls fell the minute you told him you were pregnant.
“Oh, I’m just trying to get through these last few days,” you murmur.
“I wasn’t aware of just how difficult these final stages are,” Din says, his tone sympathetic. “I feel sorry for being responsible.”
You sigh and take a seat next to him.
“You should,” you deadpan. Then you smile. “It’s okay, Din. I’m tough.”
Underneath the helmet, he smiles. “I know you are.”
///
You spend most of the day pacing around the hull, trying to alleviate the aches in your body. When you’re not pacing, you’re sitting at the table with Grogu, playing whatever game he likes.
Throughout the day, you have a few back spasms. They’re painful, and at one point, you have to stop what you’re saying to Grogu when one of the spasms gets intense.
Din looks up from his spot on the floor where he’d been cleaning one of his blasters, concern in his body language, his brow furrowed beneath the helmet.
“Mm. Fuck. Okay.” You look from a frightened Grogu to a concerned Din. “I’m okay. Gotta be those practice pains or something. I’m okay.”
Din doesn’t say anything and eventually goes back to cleaning his gun, but his heart is about to beat out of his chest.
Grogu scoots closer to you, like he hopes to keep you safe with his presence.
By the time you get an anxious Grogu down for bed, you’re exhausted, and your body is beyond sore.
You head to the shower and hope the warm water will help alleviate your pain.
Outside, at the table, Din hears your occasional soft groans of pain over the sound of the shower hitting the shower floor. It breaks his heart, and he has half a mind to barge in there and demand that you tell him how he can help you.
However, he knows you’d call for him if you needed help, and that you’ll tell him when you’re sure you’re in labor. Plus, at this point, he’s getting anxious, so he instead heads up to the cockpit to check the time left until you all arrive in Naboo.
He’s disappointed to read that there are thirteen hours left on the clock. Can you last that long?
As Din descends the ladder, he hears the shower turn off, then watches you walk out of the small bathroom, a baggy sleep shirt and boy-short panties the only things covering your swollen body.
He’s immediately at your side, gently hovering his hand underneath your elbow.
“Sweetheart? Are you alright? More false labor, or is it something more?” he asks calmly, his tone not reflecting how he feels on the inside at all.
You whimper softly and wrap your arms around his neck.
“I don’t know. Shit, it hurts, but I can’t tell if they’re consistent,” you say, your voice wavering.
Din nods in understanding. “It’s okay. Why don’t you lie down or sit, and I’ll time everything? Does that sound alright?”
You nod and slowly waddle into the bunk and sit back against the metal wall while you try to get comfortable in bed.
Clad in only pants and his helmet, his bare hand holds yours. Still sitting next to you, he leans down and pulls a stopwatch out of the drawer beneath the bed, at the ready for your next pain, which comes three minutes later.
After over an hour of consistent contractions, Din asks you with a shaky voice, “What do you want to do?”
You just look at his visor with a pained look on your face.
Din sighs. “I can send out an emergency signal—”
“No.” You shake your head. “We land in Naboo in the morning. I can make it. First babies are supposed to take longer to come.”
“He’s coming two weeks early already,” Din points out.
Your stomach twists. “Still. The labor should take upwards of a day.”
“You’ve been in pain all day.”
“Not active labor,” you counter, your teeth gritting.
“So what do we do?” Din asks, the frustration evident in his voice and demeanor.
“I’m going to labor in the comfort of my own bed,” you say simply.
Really, it’s not that comfortable a bed. The thought of you being in pain for hours on end with no relief, no midwife or doctor to check your progress, no medical equipment fit for labor and delivery in sight, is terrifying to Din.
But he doesn’t want strangers telling him where to land over the comms system and infiltrating the Crest to wheel you out to a low-grade medical center any more than you do.
Laboring in bed will have to do.
“Okay,” Din says softly. “Okay, I’m here.”
Over the next few hours, Din does everything in his power to keep you comfortable. He helps readjust your position when you get sore. He rubs your back and hips to help alleviate your pain. He even stimulates your nipples when you ask him to, and doesn’t make you explain the science behind the excerpt you read about this, even though he’s dying to know.
He holds your hand when you pace around the hull, lets you dig your fingernails into the back of his neck when a contraction comes, and all the while, he whispers praise in your ears.
When a particularly painful contraction washes over your body, Din keeps firm hands on your hips and doesn’t complain when he feels blood pool underneath your fingernails at the back of his neck.
He whispers in your ear, “You’re doing so good, pretty girl. So good. Your body knows what she’s doing. You’ve got this, and I’ve got you. I’m here, sweetheart, I promise.”
You whimper softly in response, and when the contraction eases, you rest your head between his pecs and sigh.
Throughout the whole laboring process, you’ve been relatively quiet. One of the last things you want is to wake Grogu, causing anxiety and upset. You limit yourself to low groans, soft gasps, and whimpers.
Slowly, you raise your head from Din’s chest and look straight at his visor.
“Get my mind off of this,” you whine softly. “Please, Din.”
Din stutters for a moment and feels frozen for a moment before his thumbs press deeper into your hips. “Um, what names have you thought of for him?”
You let out a soft moan of pain and a huffy breath.
“I… Fuck. M-Maybe Ezra. Finn is good. I don’t know,” you pant, a line forming between your eyebrows. “How about you?”
Din sighs and gives it a moment of thought. “I haven’t. I… I didn’t think much about the sex of the baby until you started saying he. And I guess I figured you would name him.”
You let out a soft moan of pain, your eyes pinching shut, then you shake your head.
“No. No, we… Ow, fuck. We do it together. We’re both his parents,” you insist.
“Okay,” he whispers, his tone soothing. “We’ll decide together when we see him.”
“Okay,” you mumble, resting your head on his chest again.
A couple of hours go by, and you’re back in bed.
Din holds a warm hand over your belly, underneath your shirt, trying to soothe the baby. The kid doesn’t seem to want to be still in between contractions, and Din is attempting to get the baby to sleep.
You’re in pain and restless and moody, and there’s nothing he can do. Except for showering, apparently.
“I don’t know what it is, but you fucking reek,” you bemoan. “You’ve been sweating, and you’ve got my sweat on you, and… Go shower. Please.”
“You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own for a bit?” Din asks, concern in his tone more present than ever.
“Yeah,” you answer, just a little too snippy.
Din gently rubs a circle on your belly before standing from the bed to head to the small bathroom for a quick shower and the first moment alone he’s had all day.
The baby is coming. He thought he’d be more scared when you went into labor, but extenuating circumstances aside, he’s not terribly nervous. Sure, he’s got some healthy fear for your and the baby’s lives, but he thinks if you were laid up in a medical center’s labor ward bed, he’d be fine.
A baby… You’re having his baby. He never thought he’d have this. Truly. He lost his parents, got taken in by the collective Children of the Watch, never quite anyone’s sole responsibility. He didn’t think that he would feel that specific feeling of belonging that he had with his parents ever again.
He has Grogu, and he loves him dearly, but Grogu will probably have a dozen parental figures over the course of his very long life. This child you are about to bring into the world is solely his and yours. He contributed his DNA to make up half of this child, and Din will be his only father.
He’s still deep in thought when he gets out of the shower and pulls his boxers on. He’s adjusting the elastic when he hears a thud outside the bathroom door and some banging on the door.
Din slams open the door and looks around, only looking down and to his left when he hears you breathing heavily, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom.
When he makes eye contact with you, your eyes go wide, then they shut as you let out a low groan.
He’s on his knees in front of you, a gentle hand reaching out to caress your cheek.
“What happened?” he asks, an edge of concern present in his voice yet again.
“Fuck, you didn’t put the helmet back on,” you groan, eyes still pinched shut like you’re trying to wipe the memory of his face from your mind.
Din’s heart drops to his stomach, then rises again, then probably beats out of his chest, all in the span of five seconds. Surprisingly, he doesn’t care about the helmet at all right now.
“That’s not the concern right now,” he says with a shaky voice, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth against your cheekbone.
“Din, are you serious?” you pant, eyes still shut. “Ow, fuck, shit. Din, I–”
He shakes his head, and with his free hand, he puts your hand on his cheek.
“You know this face,” he whispers. “You’ve mapped out every feature of this face in the dark. You’ve drawn it, cyar’ika. This face belongs to you and our children. No one else. This face is yours to look at.”
You whimper and shake your head. Din brings your foreheads together and sighs.
“Why did you get out of bed?” he asks softly.
“Needed you,” you whisper.
“You have me. All of me. I’m here.”
At that, you whimper, and your eyes begin to open. You look him in the eyes and almost melt into him.
“You’re handsome,” you say softly.
Din’s cheeks warm at the compliment. He has the urge to brush it off, but doesn’t feel like making you put your energy into arguing.
“Thank you. You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
“I… Wow.” You pull back and lean your head against the wall to get a good look at him. “Wow, I hope he has your nose.”
He chuckles softly and gently presses his lips to yours.
“He’ll be perfect, no matter what he looks like,” he whispers.
The two of you are granted another minute of peace and calm before another contraction peaks. It has you digging your nails into Din’s shoulders, pulling his forehead to yours, and whimpering through gritted teeth.
He rubs his thumbs into your hips and whispers words of praise.
“That’s it, sweetheart. There you go. Just breathe through it. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and gravely and thick with affection.
He kisses the tip of your nose, and you sniff. He watches a tear fall from your eye, and the concern inside him grows.
“Hey, what is it?” he asks.
“It hurts,” you whine, your voice broken and riddled with pain.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers.
Din looks down and watches your tightened belly soften, then wraps his arms around you.
You bury your face in his neck, and Din tries not to shed tears of his own when he feels yours stain his skin. He brings a hand up to gently caress the back of your head, your hair soft against his palm.
The two of you stay on the floor of the hull between the bedroom and the bathroom for minutes or hours. Neither of you can tell, but eventually, you feel something leak out of you.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve wet yourself over the course of the pregnancy.
But the look in Din’s eyes is strange.
“What?” you ask softly, your face screwing up as another contraction comes.
“Your water broke,” he says.
“Huh?” you grit through your teeth.
Din’s hands rub your hips, and he kisses the top of your head when you rest your head on his chest.
“The smell. Plus, it’s still coming. You don’t urinate this long.”
Once the contraction passes, you plant your hands on Din’s shoulders and use his body to stand. The liquid has soaked through your underwear and continues to flow down your legs. He’s right; the smell is off.
“Oh.” The word is soft and breathy as it comes out of your mouth.
Din slowly stands up as well and plants his hands on your waist.
Before he can say anything, a grimace appears on your face.
“What?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“I… There’s so much pressure in my fucking vagina,” you say, your voice tight.
You thought all that pressure was from sitting on the floor too long, but it’s distinctly concentrated in your pelvis even as you stand, and it’s different from before.
“Okay,” he says, still trying to stay calm. “I’m going to take your underwear off, okay?”
You nod.
Din hooks his fingers in the elastic of your boy shorts and pulls the wet fabric down your body.
“Do you feel like you might need to push?” he asks, looking up at you through his lashes.
“I don’t know,” you admit softly.
“That’s okay. What do you want to do?”
You take a breath and run a hand through Din’s mostly dry hair.
“Can we sit in the shower?” you ask. “Can I sit in your lap?”
Din nods, then stands again and carefully walks you into the bathroom. He’s keeping his boxers on so as not to accidentally stimulate your sensitive privates.
He turns the water on, and once it’s hot enough, he steps in and waits for you.
You take off your shirt, already feeling a bit overstimulated from the wet panties earlier, then step inside the shower.
Din sits on the floor with his back to the shower wall, and you straddle him, your thighs on top of his and your hands on his biceps.
Another contraction comes, and the warm water cascading over your back actually helps some with the pain. Din dutifully rubs his hands over your hips and lets you press your forehead against his lips.
When it’s over, you lift your head and bring your lips to his. They’re soft and plush, and you think they go so well with the rest of his face. A hand goes to cup his cheek, and the other buries itself in his hair.
“I love you,” you whine against his lips.
Din doesn’t respond. He just keeps kissing you, one hand buried in your hair and the other caressing your back.
“I’ve got you,” he vows. “Do you hear me, sweet girl? I’m here for you and our child. My hands are steady and waiting.”
You moan softly and kiss him again, the oxytocin releasing in your brain and easing your pain.
Your moan of pleasure quickly turns into one of pain, and the pressure between your legs is only growing more intense.
“Din, I need to push,” you pant when the contraction passes.
Those words suddenly break down every wall that was left standing inside the usually stone-cold Mandalorian. Yes, he is unbreakable; his hands are steady and waiting, and he’s here for you, and he has you and the baby, but he never thought he’d be here, sitting in his shower with his riduur laboring in his lap, about to push.
Luckily, at the last appointment, while you were in the bathroom, he asked the doctor at the clinic what the important things were to remember should he have to deliver the baby. She instructed him to gently place his hands on the baby’s head when they crown, do not pull the baby out, be mindful of how slippery the baby will be when they’re out, and immediately put the baby on the mother’s bare chest to help regulate temperature and hormones.
He goes over each step in his head over the few moments he takes to prepare himself, and you, as you wait for the next contraction.
You bear down in Din’s lap and push with all your might. When the first push is over, Din kisses your face and tells you what a good push it was, how brave you are, and how strong you are.
The last time you spoke with the doctor, she informed you that pushing can take anywhere from ten minutes to three hours.
When twenty minutes pass, the tears start flowing again.
“Hey.” Din’s voice is soft and supportive. He brings his thumb to wipe the tear off your cheek, though maybe it’s water. “You’ve got this. It’s okay if it takes a while. It’s normal. You’re doing amazing, mesh’la. I’ve got you.”
“Din, this is so fucking hard,” you sob, your arms wrapping around his neck.
One hand rests between your shoulder blades, and the other cradles the back of your head.
“You’re a warrior, pretty girl. Warriors do hard things. Only a warrior could put up with Grogu and me.” He kisses your cheek.
“I don’t know,” you whine.
“Well, I do,” Din says confidently. “You’ve been laboring in a ship that was built before the New Republic, with no pain relief, and only a bounty hunter to help you, all without waking up Grogu. That sounds like a warrior to me.”
You let out a dry laugh at that, which then turns into a soft whine.
“See? You’re laughing in pain’s face,” he whispers, his voice soothing while his hand runs back and forth over your spine. “You’ve got this, I promise. Now, on the next contraction, you’re gonna push with it. Okay, sweetheart?”
You nod begrudgingly, and Din pecks your lips.
Another hour goes by, and your body goes slack in Din’s arms. It’s all too much, and you’re tired and hungry, and you just want this baby out of you.
“I can’t do it,” you sniff. “Din, please make it stop. I can’t… Oh, fuck, it hurts.”
The sight of you sobbing in his lap and the feeling of your body being so weak break Din’s heart as much as when Grogu left for Jedi training.
“You can,” he insists, picking your head up with gentle hands so he can look you in the eye. “You are. You’ve been doing it all night. You’re so close. The baby is about to crown.”
All of that goes in one ear and out the other. You shake your head.
“Sweetheart, I love you, and I wish I could do this for you, but I can’t, so I need you to keep being brave and push so you can hold our baby in your arms,” Din says softly, his voice full of urgency.
“You don’t love me,” you whimper, your heart twisting at his words. “You’re only saying that because you want me to push. If you love me, you would’ve said it back when I said it the first time.”
Din furrows his brow and gently cradles your face in his hands.
“I’ve loved you since you started loving my son,” Din says, his voice firm, as if you don’t comprehend what he’s saying, he might explode. “That day I came back from hunting that Ithorian, and Grogu had fallen when he was playing, and you were holding him and kissing his bandage, and telling him how brave he was. That’s when I knew.”
You sniffle. That day was two months before you ever slept with him. For some reason, that adds to his credibility.
You still haven’t answered, so Din goes on.
“I didn’t think you deserved to hear from a man like me that I love you. I didn’t say it back that night because I didn’t feel worthy of saying it, but I know now it’s not about that. It’s about being what you need. A few nights after you told me you love me–”
He’s cut off by a contraction. “Okay, okay, push, sweet girl. You got it. Good job. Nice, big push for me. Good, don’t forget to breathe.”
When it’s over, you lean your forehead against his and ask, “What happened? What were you saying before?”
“I… That night we landed in Nevarro, I spoke the Mandalorian marriage vows to you as you slept.”
Your tired eyes widen. “Say them again.”
Din inhales deeply, but is in no position to argue. “Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar’tome. Mhi me’dinui an. Mhi ba’juri verde.”
You whimper as your next contraction peaks. “What does it mean?”
“It means: we are one together. We are one when we are parted. We share all. We will raise warriors,” he tells you, his thumbs still adding counterpressure to your hips.
The contraction dissipates, and you take a deep breath in. “We are one together. We are one when we are parted. We share all. We will raise warriors.”
Your voice is fraught with tension and pain, but also love, and Din doesn’t feel deserving.
“That’s right. We are one,” he vows. “I love you more than life itself, cyar’ika.”
You peck his lips. “You call me that all the time, and I never thought to ask what it meant.”
Din kisses your cheek. “It translates to sweetheart or darling. It’s a pet name for one’s riduur.”
“What does that one mean?”
“...Partner, or spouse. Wife.”
He speaks softly, like he’s shy, and you’ve come to know that he can be, and you love it.
“You’re my husband,” you declare.
Din nods. “You’re my wife.”
It seems like that was all the encouragement you needed, because on the next contraction, you crown, and Din keeps his hands steady on his child’s head as he coaches you through the next contraction.
“That’s it. You’re almost there. Come on, one more, riduur. Please, just one more. You can do it. I’m right here,” he assures you.
With a soft groan, the head is out.
“Head’s out, sweetheart. Now the shoulders. You got it; come on, sweetheart.”
Din is in either shock or awe as half his child’s body is in his hands, the other half inside of you still. It’s the most miraculous experience he’s ever witnessed, and he’s in complete love with you.
“Shit,” you gasp when the rest of the body is delivered. “Fuck, is he okay?” you ask, your heart filling with joy when you hear your baby’s cries for the first time.
“She’s okay,” Din assures you. “She’s a girl.”
A tired laugh escapes your lips as Din places your daughter on your chest for the first time.
A daughter. You’re thanking your lucky stars. You had been secretly hoping for a girl the entire pregnancy, but recently started referring to the baby as a “he” in order to minimize any disappointment you would have if the baby were a boy. Luckily, she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen.
“She’s amazing,” you sigh, a look in your eyes so full of life and hope and wonder.
“She is. So are you,” he replies, a hand still on the newborn’s body.
“Hello,” you whisper down to the baby. “I’m your mama. Hi, baby girl. I love you so much. You are so loved, little one.”
You lean your head down to kiss her head, and her cries seem to quiet.
“You’re amazing,” Din tells you, his other hand now cradling your cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.
“I love you, little girl,” Din whispers to the baby before kissing her head. “I love you with everything that I am.”
Din holds the two of you in his lap for a while, even through the delivery of the placenta.
Eventually, your legs catch up with your body, and you need to move, so Din shuts off the water and carefully stands, being mindful of the baby. He wraps a towel around you, then tells you to wait there for a moment.
You lean against the shower wall with your daughter in your arms, the towel lazily draped around your shoulders as you await Din’s return.
He comes back with a clean knife and cuts the cord connecting your daughter to the placenta and ties it off with a scrap of fabric.
Then he helps you to the bed and finds some underwear for you to wear, and he sticks a makeshift pad into it to absorb the slight bleeding. Then he trades his soaked boxers for dry ones.
He feels terrible about how unprepared he was for this, but then you pull his hand, and he joins you in bed with the baby. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and places his other hand on top of his daughter’s back, protective and loving.
An hour goes by, just lying in bed with his girls, before the cockpit sends a signal to the hull that Din has to land soon.
He begrudgingly leaves the bed and dons his flight suit, armor, and helmet, then settles into the cockpit to perform the landing. While he does so, he calls the medical center you planned to give birth in and alerts them of the situation. They arrange for a vehicle to be waiting once the Crest lands.
After the landing is complete, Din helps you dress and haphazardly swaddles the baby before returning her to your arms.
Then he finds Grogu and wakes him up.
“Guess what?”
Grogu coos tiredly in response.
“You’re a big brother now.”
Grogu perks up and smiles.
“Mom’s got the baby in our bed. It’s a girl. She’s very tiny, and Mom is very sore, so be gentle. You understand, kiddo?”
Grogu nods, and Din carries him into the room.
You light up when you see his green face.
“Hello, little guy,” you whisper from your spot sitting on the bed. “Do you want to meet your baby sister?”
Grogu nods, and Din sits next to you, Grogu in his lap.
Your son smiles at the baby and reaches out the most tentative hand you’ve ever seen from him. He gently strokes his sister’s head and smiles when she grunts in response to his touch.
“She likes you,” you tell him with a smile.
Grogu seems to blush.
“We’ve got to take Mom and your sister to the hospital. They have to get checked over by the doctors to make sure everything is okay,” Din explains. “You’ll come with us, though. We’re not leaving you behind.”
Grogu nods, and Din gets a signal that the pickup vehicle is here.
Carefully, he helps you down the ramp with the baby, then he goes back to retrieve the placenta, which he stored in a metal container. He isn’t sure what to do with it.
Grogu follows and hops into the car while Din stands awkwardly in front of a nurse with the container.
Once things are sorted out, Din gets in the vehicle and sits next to you, making sure your seatbelt is secure but not too rough on your tender lower abdomen.
After you’re checked into the hospital, it’s determined that you and the baby are healthy, and Din is given a pat on the back from the doctor for successfully delivering his own baby.
“Most men would choke, Mando. Good on you.”
They keep you overnight for observation, and in the morning, they ask if you have a name ready for the birth certificate.
The two of you stare at her for what feels like hours before you say it. “Sage.”
Din nods. “Sage. I like it.”
With the paperwork filed, you’re given the okay to go home.
When you make it back to the Crest, Din makes it his mission to make sure you and Sage are comfortable. He doesn’t even think to take off his armor until you take his hand.
He looks through the visor at you, Sage in your arms, Grogu at your side, captivated by his younger sister.
“We’re all okay, Din. There’s water on the nightstand and snacks in the drawer, and everyone’s diaper is dry. Be with us,” you say softly.
He nods, and for the first time, you get to watch him remove the helmet.
Throughout Sage’s delivery, you were fully aware how special it was that Din was showing you his face, however unintentional it was. But you couldn’t really take it in. Now, without adrenaline running through you, your hormones trying to settle, you can take in the face of your husband.
He has a strong jawline, a very plush bottom lip, a patchy beard but a respectable mustache, wrinkles both from stress and age, a strong aquiline nose, his hairline is intact, and his brown eyes are soft and welcoming.
You see him in Sage. Her nose seems to be a mix of both her parents, but her lips are all Din, and you can’t help but think they’re the cutest thing ever.
As Din strips down to his boxers, he crawls into bed with you, allowing Grogu to crawl over your lap and give his father a cuddle.
He feels vulnerable now with your gaze stuck on him. You’re not occupied by contractions or your daughter’s head being lodged in your birth canal anymore. His face has your full attention. Yes, you called him handsome in the throes of labor, but what do you think now, with a clear head?
“There were times I wondered if I was pregnant with a homely child,” you admit.
Din scoffs and shakes his head.
“It’s shallow, but it’s true,” you go on. “It wouldn’t have mattered, of course. Though now, looking at you… There’s no way Sage would have ever been homely.”
He smiles softly at that and leans over Grogu to kiss your cheek.
“Yeah, you’re not so bad yourself, mama,” he whispers against your skin.
Then he leans his head down and kisses Sage’s head, her downy hair soft against his lips.
She coos softly at the feeling of her father’s lips on her head, and it’s the sweetest sound.
“You wanna hold her?” you ask softly.
Din hesitates. Even though she’s now thirty-two hours old, he still has yet to hold his own daughter for longer than a brief moment. While waiting to land the ship and transport the two of you to the medical center, he was more worried about regulating your hormones, as well as Sage’s, and he thought the best way to do that was to keep her on your chest.
Now she’s home, and both of you have a clean bill of health, and you shouldn’t have to hold her all of the time. He doesn’t want your arms to get tired.
He nods and holds out steady hands to take the baby.
She’s only six and a half pounds, but when he lays her on his bare chest, Din feels glued to the spot. He can’t imagine a better feeling in the world than the weight of his daughter on his chest.
Grogu coos, needing attention too, so you hold your arms out, and your son readily cuddles close to your side as you watch your husband with your daughter.
Over the course of your pregnancy, you bought a few clothes for the baby, but not a bassinet or anything else a baby might need. It would reduce the Razor Crest’s abilities.
“Din, we need to… We can’t live on the Crest with a newborn,” you say softly.
He looks from Sage to you. You expect some pushback, but instead, he nods.
“I know. I don’t know why I thought she’d be like Grogu, but… She’s not. She needs a house,” he says.
Within the week, Din secures the deed to a three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Naboo’s capital. When he takes you to see it, you wonder where he got the credits for it. Then you remember he lived as a single man for over a decade before he took in Grogu. The pros of starting a family later in life.
Din dutifully assembles the furniture for both children’s rooms and lets you decorate however you want. Over the weeks you take decorating the house, Din loves watching you walk around, scrutinizing every bare spot with Sage strapped into the baby carrier, her cheek smushed against your chest.
When Sage is a month old, Din comes to bed with a serious look on his face.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly when he pulls the covers over his legs.
He nods and scrubs a hand over his face. “I want to ask you about how you’d feel getting our marriage officially blessed.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Would it make you happy?”
Din nods again. “The leader of Mand’alor is Bo-Katan Kryze. I know her. I believe getting our marriage blessed by her would be painless.”
“Well, why wouldn’t it be painless?” you ask, your brow furrowing.
He sighs. “It will be. Don’t worry.”
You nod and gently peck his lips before turning off the light at your bedside and lying your head on Din’s shoulder.
The only way to make getting a marriage blessing painful would be to go back to the Armorer. She wouldn’t approve of his situation with you, and while there’s a part of Din that is upset by that, it’s not loud enough for him to care or to hesitate with you any longer.
Sage is here, and she doesn’t yet know how to deal with unpredictability. Her parents need to be officially married.
Two weeks later, Din sends a message to Bo-Katan, and she agrees to him and his family coming to Mand’alor for a marriage blessing, though she does seem like she’d rather be doing something else.
Regardless, when Sage is two months old, Din packs up you and the children and makes the trip.
The entire walk from the Crest to the palace, you’re in awe. It’s technically Din’s homeland, but it’s also not, and beyond that, it’s beautiful.
When the two of you stand before Bo-Katan at her throne, another Mandalorian offers to hold Sage for you. You hesitate. Why would you give your baby to a stranger? But Din seems willing, so you carefully hand your baby to the strange Mandalorian and watch Grogu toddle nearby, seemingly ready to protect his sister if need be.
You and Din stand facing Bo-Katan, hands held.
Bo-Katan clears her throat and stands from her throne.
“Marriage is a sacred covenant between people in love,” she begins. “I didn’t think Din Djarin would ever marry. I must admit that seeing the two of you together gives me hope for the galaxy. I wish you and your family infinite happiness. As the ruler of Mand’alor, I bless the marriage between the two people standing before me. This is the way.”
Din squeezes your hand and turns his helmet-clad head toward you. You smile and kiss the pauldron on his shoulder.
The momentary babysitting Mandalorian approaches you, and Din takes Sage from their hands. You crouch down to pick up Grogu, and your little family is off.
At home, you have Grogu’s favorite dinner and go about the nighttime routine. Din bathes Grogu while you sit in the nursery with Sage, rocking her and nursing her.
He brings your son in to say good night, and you place a sweet kiss on the green boy’s head. With a gentle hand, Grogu caresses Sage’s head, then heads to his room with Din to be tucked in.
He comes back, just as Sage comes off your breast. Din isn’t sure if there’s a greater sight than his wife nursing his daughter. He kneels in front of the glider chair, kisses Sage’s forehead, and takes her from you to burp her.
All you can think about is that he really looks good. Ever since he unceremoniously revealed his face to you, Din mostly walks around the house in just pants. All the windows in the house are tinted so no one can see inside, and everything is just so perfect.
Sage eventually lets out a loud belch, which brings a smile to Din’s face before he lowers her into her crib.
He holds his hand out for you and helps you up, bringing you to the bedroom.
The two of you shower together quickly and soon after, crawl into bed.
You lie on your sides and stare at one another.
It’s been two months since you had Sage, and the doctor cleared you two weeks ago for all activity. She even gave you a birth control implant. You told Din about it, and he simply insisted that you take the lead on your return to intimacy.
The night your marriage was blessed must be as good a night as any, right?
Slowly, you lean forward and kiss him. Kissing never stopped, but this one is heavier.
His hand settles on your waist, and you scoot closer to him.
“I want you,” you whisper against Din’s lips.
Din moans into your mouth, then kisses down your body.
Your breasts, swollen and full of milk for his baby, have never looked better, in his opinion. You’d have to agree, and not even from a conceited standpoint. They just really do look that good.
You feel less confident about what lies below your swollen and perky breasts. Your stomach has shrunk down some, but it’s still soft, the skin is still loose, and the new stretch marks don’t look as beautiful as they did when they adorned a full belly, in your opinion.
Din feels you tense up beneath him and watches your face turn to the side when he gets to your sternum.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life,” he says softly. “Human or otherwise. There is not a woman in the entire galaxy that I could find more attractive than you, mesh’la. You bore my daughter, gave birth to her right in my lap. I watched you grow her for nine months, and you looked so pretty doing it. I love you, and I am not deterred by the current state of your abdomen. I love your body in all its phases. Do you understand me, riduur?”
You turn your head and look down at him. You brush his hair off his forehead and smile.
“Yeah?” you whisper, your voice giving away how insecure you feel.
He nods emphatically. “Absolutely. I love you and your body. You’re perfect.”
“I love you, too,” you whisper, your hand cradling his cheek.
Din leans into your hand and smiles softly. “What are you comfortable with? I planned to make you come on my tongue first, but I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I want that. Just be gentle,” you whisper.
“Of course,” he says, his face schooled into the most serious expression you’ve ever seen.
You smile again, and Din continues kissing his way back down your body, lingering at your lower abdomen before making it to your inner thighs.
He kisses your outer labia, then up and down your slit, then his tongue finally peeks out, and he licks a stripe from your hole to your clit.
He licks up and down for a moment, and when you start squirming, he takes your clit in between his lips and sucks.
His hands move up and down your thighs, keeping your legs open and also just feeling you.
You moan and gasp softly, and Din drinks it all in. He’s buried in his favorite place in the galaxy. This is the place he’s spent countless times buried in over the last year and a half, and it’s the place from which his daughter entered the world. There isn’t a single thing in the world Din could love more than your cunt.
“So pretty,” he moans in between licks.
He looks up at you and asks, “Can I add a finger?”
You nod and whimper out a yes.
Din gently pushes his middle finger inside of you, and once you’re accustomed to it, he slowly fucks it in and out of you while his tongue laps at your clit.
“Fuck, Din,” you whimper as your cunt flutters around his finger.
“Good girl,” he rasps. “Just let yourself feel good.”
“I’m gonna come,” you warn him, your voice tight and high-pitched.
“I know,” he soothes. “Good girl. Come on my tongue.”
You whimper, and your walls squeeze his finger as his tongue stimulates your clit. He doesn’t move away until you yank on his hair.
He crawls up your body and gently kisses you.
“Did so good for me,” he whispers. “So good. I love you.”
You smile against his lips and pull to the side to look at his face. Since Sage was born, it’s like all Din can say is that he loves you, and all you can do is look at his face.
“Love you, too.”
He lies on his side, and you roll on yours. You reach out and start stroking his cock.
Both of you inch closer and watch as you line Din’s cock up with your entrance.
Slowly, he pushes inside, one inch at a time, keeping a close eye on your face at all times, watching to make sure he’s not hurting you.
When he bottoms out, you let out a deep sigh of relief. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close.
“Feel okay?” he asks softly, successfully holding back from giving in to his instincts that are telling him to ram his cock into you.
You nod, panting softly. “Mhm, I’m good.”
You reach a hand up to gently cradle his face.
It’s the first time you get to see Din in his rawest form: fully naked, inside the woman he loves.
“Fuck, this is amazing,” Din grits out, his voice tight. “Everything about you is… Shit, I can’t explain it, but you’ve somehow become even more perfect.”
You smile and lean forward to kiss him, your hand creeping up to bury itself in his hair.
“Mm. Din, you can move. But gentle, baby,” you moan against his lips. “Slow.”
He nods against your forehead and gently pulls out of you the tiniest bit, then back inside, then he repeats the motion.
“Like that?” he asks softly.
“Mhm. Perfect, baby. You’re so good to me.”
“You’re amazing,” he coos, keeping a gentle pace, his hands gently exploring your body. “Gave me a daughter, made this house a cozy home for our children, nursing the baby, still paying enough attention to Grogu, still making me feel like the luckiest bastard in the galaxy… You’re incredible. You’re the most spectacular woman I’ve ever met. Plus, you’re gorgeous. I’m drunk on you,” he babbles.
You hum contentedly and press your lips to his, swallowing his words of praise.
“I love you,” you mutter in between kisses. “Already knew you were a good dad, but seeing you hold Sage, no shirt on… Swear, each time I see it, I could die.”
Din moans and goes to kiss the underside of your jaw. There’s no reality where him doing skin-to-skin bonding with Sage is the biggest undoing possible.
“Know what’s worse?” he moans. “Watching you nurse her. You’re so good at it. Always so calm and so pretty, so careful with her. Such a good mommy.”
You gently scratch his scalp as you bury your hands in his hair and start meeting his thrusts with your own.
“Yeah? Are you happy you put a baby in me? You like watching my body do everything for our baby?” you whisper teasingly in his hair, his mouth on the top of your breast.
He groans against you, sending vibrations through your body.
Din looks up at you through his lashes and sighs shakily. “You have no idea how amazing I think you are. I’ve always thought so. You basically gave me no choice but to let you start as Grogu’s babysitter, just by talking. You’re an incredible artist, a good cook, intelligent beyond comprehension, a fantastic wife and lover, and the best mother I’ve ever witnessed. These days, I get hard just looking at you. I love you. I would do anything for you.”
Your eyes glaze over as he fills your ears with praise. You gently stroke his cheek and sigh, pulling his face closer so you can kiss him.
“Nothing I come up with right now could even come close to that,” you whisper.
“That’s okay,” Din says. “I don’t need you to say anything. Just feel how much I love you.”
You nod, and he kisses you again, the heat behind his thrusts picking up as he brings a hand down between your bodies to rub at your clit.
“Mm, fuck… You know I never thought about this when I was growing up,” you murmur. “Marriage, having a partner.”
Din furrows his brow, a silent way to tell you he’s listening while he focuses on fucking you.
“I sometimes thought about kids, so Sage… That was easy. Barely thought about it when I found out outside of some healthy panic,” you joke. “But I never thought I’d have this.”
He sighs and kisses the side of your mouth. “I love you.”
You smile and kiss his mustache. “I love you, and I love our life together, and I’m so happy.”
Din moans at your words.
“What, you get off on my happiness?” you joke, brushing his hair off his forehead so you can see as much of his face as possible.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you once more, his thumb pressing harder on your clit.
“Mm, good.”
The simple response pulls a soft laugh from Din, and he hugs you closer and gently angles his head so he can kiss each of your sensitive nipples, which pulls eager whines from your throat.
“Shit, I’m gonna come,” you whine.
“Good, that’s good, pretty girl. Come for me. Squeeze my cock,” he rasps in your ear.
You pull him in for another kiss, and he swallows your moans as you clench around his cock.
“Did so good,” he coos. “My pretty wife. I love you.”
Din kisses you as his cock twitches inside of you. When you come down from your orgasm, you mumble against his lips, “Fill me up.”
He moans, and his thrusting picks up speed. His fingers flex against your back, and soon you’re full of his warm cum, watching his brows furrow and his mouth gape as he comes.
The first time you’ve ever seen his face when he comes, and all you want is to see it again and again.
You kiss him and whisper, “I love you, Din Djarin. Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”
Hearing the Mandalorian marriage vows spoken by you is almost enough to make Din’s heart stop. He kisses you fiercely and tightens his arms around you.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “I love you so much, I can’t even describe it.”
The post-sex haze is broken by Sage’s cries down the hall, but neither of you is even the slightest bit upset.
///
When Sage is three months old, Din makes the decision to take a step back from bounty hunting. He still hunts, but less often and focuses more on high-paying bounties. He gets a steady and predictable job working as a pilot for the Royal Space Fighter Corps. You get a job as an art teacher. When you come home and grade projects, Grogu likes to sit and watch, usually doodling something of his own.
“Like mother, like son,” Din says.
As Sage grows up, there are conversations about whether or not to teach her the Mandalorian ways. Din still struggles with how much of it he even truly believes in, and you don’t believe in much of anything besides being a good person.
You both decide on teaching her about as many perspectives as possible and taking her to Mand’alor twice a year as she grows up.
It seems that Sage didn’t only complete you, but she also settled something inside of Din. You’re not sure what, but as she grows up, Din seems calmer than he did when you met him. It’s like he’s lighter, not so rigid.
Even if his relationship with the way of the Mandalorians is less intense than it once was, one thing is still for certain: you and he are one, no matter where the other is, there are no secrets, and as Grogu and Sage mature, it’s clear. They’re growing into warriors.
Read part one here!
all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea
tags for this work: @anqieluv @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @madscamp02
The fact that Din Djarin, hardened Mandalorian warrior and bounty hunter, in the middle of a fight to the death against a gigantic venomous water snake that wanted nothing more than to eat him... Took one look at his son holding a grenade and that's what made Din react with "... Dank ferrick..."
Just thinking about it makes me cackle 😂😂😂
Din is such a daddy and knows his little gremlin so well! 😍🥹
(Also have to say I'm not a parent yet, but my heart also kinda stopped when I saw Grogu packing up grenades to take on the trip to rescue his daddy 😅)
So, all you cool folks out there…as you can probably guess by the title and the graphic, today is a VERY special day today. Specifically if you’ve ever loved “The Mandalorian” series, got yourself hyped up for the new movie that premiers today, or—if you’re a little like me—had the time and energy to do a bit of both.
Therefore, in order to start a few celebrations off in style, I would like to ask a small question of the audience—what is YOUR favorite moment from “The Mandalorian” series (no movie spoilers, please!) ?? Feel free to sound off in the comments or reblogs, and maybe I’ll be able to join you after work today.
And now, without further adieu, here are my picks of the week!
THE MANDALORIAN FANART
“Aliens!”, by @nomekohaji.
“Boba Fett”, by @vaahtisart.
“Bo cuz she’s pretty”, by @bodin-shiper2011.
“The Orphan”, by @carolinetano7567.
“Moff Gideon”, by @galacticcountdown.
“Grogu a tinta china”, by @terrorweiler404.
THE MANDALORIAN FANFICTION
“Stop that. Hold still.”, by @reluctant-mandalore.
“The Seed Of The Moon Shall Set Everything Right! - Chapter 1”, by @colaqueenalt.
“Imagine Din Wants To Marry You”, by @darthmaulification.
“Protecting What’s His”, by @jobean12-blog.
“A place for three”, by @plum-is-writing6.
In conclusion, as part of my mission to poke around the Star Wars fandom and highlight those creators who might otherwise go unnoticed…I hope you will check out the links I have included for yourselves and like, comment on, and reblog them, as well as also giving the writers a few more followers to their Tumblr pages.
Please also like and reblog this latest installment so that these links can be spread around to as many other fans as possible, just in case not all of them can tune in at the same time.
An additional thank you goes to @djarrex for making the divider I used earlier in this post, but still want to give credit for.
If anybody likes what they see here AND would enjoy seeing more posts like this; please drop the rock star emoji (👩🎤) into the comments or reblogs, and I’ll be sure to tag you when the next update comes.
And finally, so that I do not forget…thank you to my friends, thank you to this fandom, and above all else, please stay safe out there.
Summary: You, a Mandalorian, want to meet the other notorious Mandalorian you've heard about
Pairing: Din x Mandalorian!Reader
Words: 1,151
Warning(s): None!
The ship shudders as it settles into the docking cradle, the hull giving one long, tired groan before the engines begin to wind down in uneven, dying pulses. The vibration rolls up through the deck plating and into the soles of your boots, a final aftertaste of motion before stillness takes hold.
You remain in the cockpit a moment longer, gloved fingers resting against the controls as the cooling systems hiss and click around you, metal ticking softly as it sheds the heat of the journey. Through the viewport, the station sprawls in layers of corroded durasteel and exposed piping, a jagged maze of patched-together corridors and shadowed overhead bridges. Amber maintenance lights flicker weakly along its spine, too sparse and too tired to push back the haze that clings to every surface.
It is the kind of port that exists because law does not. The sort of place where smugglers came to vanish, where bounty hunters came to trade names they did not ask for, where pirates drank hard and slept lighter than they should have. A forgotten knot of metal at the edge of civilization, half-lit and half-broken.
The sort of place a Mandalorian could disappear inside.
Which is exactly why you came.
The station beyond the cockpit churns with constant motion and noise. Cargo lifters drift overhead on whining repulsors, dragging massive freight containers through the haze while chains rattle somewhere above the docking lanes. Dock workers bark at one another in clipped bursts of Basic and half a dozen other languages you recognize only in fragments- harsh Rodian chatter, the low growl of Trandoshan, the rapid mechanical stutter of binary from overworked service droids weaving between moving shipments.
Somewhere off to your left, a voice rises loud enough to cut through the industrial noise. Angry. Drunk, maybe. Another voice answers just as sharp. Metal scrapes against metal.
The kind of argument that usually ended with somebody reaching for a blaster.
Normal.
Your helmet display scrolls silently across the edge of your vision, filtering local transmissions and heat signatures automatically. Exit routes illuminate in faint overlays across the station interior. Movement patterns. Weapons pings. Structural weak points. Your visor processes the station faster than any ordinary pair of eyes could hope to.
Nothing immediate.
No active threats.
Still, your hand brushes the blaster holstered against your thigh before you rise from the pilot’s seat, thumb grazing the worn grip for half a second.
The boarding ramp lowers with a deep hydraulic growl, chains clunking somewhere beneath the hull as locking mechanisms disengage. Warm air floods into the ship immediately, thick with the scents of fuel exhaust, machine oil, overheated wiring, and the sour trace of stale alcohol drifting from somewhere deeper within the station.
Your cape shifts lightly behind you as you descend the ramp. Boots strike the docking platform with a heavy metallic clang that echoes through the bay.
Several nearby workers glance at your direction immediately. Then glance away just as fast.
Even now, after the Empire’s collapse, after the glassing fires of the Purge, after Mandalorians were reduced to rumors traded in bounty dens and scattered across sealed Imperial reports, the armor still means something. Beskar carries a reputation heavier than its weight. Entire worlds remember what Mandalorians once were: warriors descending from the sky in burning drop packs, clans marching through blaster fire without slowing, helmets staring emotionlessly through smoke and flame while armies broke around them.
The Empire tried to erase that history.
Instead, it turned it into myth.
And myths survive longer than empires do.
You move through the dockyard at an unhurried pace, cape trailing softly behind you while the station swallows the sound beneath machinery and distant engines. Your helmet remains angled just enough to catch reflections in darkened transparisteel windows and polished cargo containers as you pass. Distorted shapes slide across the edges of your vision: workers, drifters, armed guards, scavengers.
A pair of dockhands fall silent as you pass. A gambler near an open doorway subtly shifts his blaster farther beneath his coat. Two Nikto standing near a freight lift glance toward you once, then immediately decide they have somewhere else to look.
One mutters quietly to the other.
“Another one.”
Another one. As if Mandalorians are suddenly multiplying from the cracks in the galaxy.
Then notorious Mandalorian is supposedly here.
That is all you know.
You descend deeper into the station until the cleaner docking levels give way to older corridors where the walls sweat condensation and exposed wires hang from ceilings like vines. Neon signs buzz overhead in mismatched colors. Music rattles faintly through thin walls.
The cantina waits at the far end of the corridor beneath a sputtering blue neon sign missing half its letters, the remaining symbols flickering erratically enough to paint the walls in uneven pulses of electric light. The doorway breathes noise into the station- bursts of laughter, shouted arguments, the sharp clink of glasses against metal tables.
You slow as you approach, stopping just outside the doorway. The corridor suddenly feels quieter here, as though the station itself is waiting to see whether you walk inside.
To your right, dark transparisteel lines the wall beside the entrance, scratched and clouded by age. Your reflection stares back at you through the haze.
Scarred beskar dulled by years of hard travel and harder fights.
A weather-worn cape hanging heavy from your shoulders.
A helmet marked by old blaster scoring near the brow line, the metal warped slightly where a shot once came close enough to kill.
Not ceremonial armor. Not polished clan-forged pride displayed for glory or honor. For a brief moment, your hand tightens slightly at your side.
You almost turn back.
Because this is foolish.
Not the meeting itself. Mandalorians sought one another out sometimes, especially now, scattered like fragments after the Purge. But coming alone? Walking willingly into a place full of strangers because of rumors and half-spoken stories?
That feels less like strategy and more like the beginning of a cautionary tale told over drinks by bounty hunters who survived when someone else did not.
And then the cantina door slides open.
Conversation inside drops immediately. Not fully silent. But enough.
Your helmet turns slowly as you scan your new environment.
At the far end of the room, seated alone beside the wall with clear sightlines to every exit, sits another Mandalorian in unpainted beskar armor. And beside him, small green ears peek over the edge of the booth.
The foundling looks directly at you, then makes a curious little noise.
The other Mandalorian turns his head afterward, visor settling on you with unreadable stillness. For several long seconds, neither of you moves.
The armor is real. Not imitation plating hammered together by scavengers pretending to be something they are not. Beskar.
Then the man finally speaks, voice low beneath the helmet.
Chapter summary: You jump at the chance to spend Nevarro’s annual fifteen-day winter lockdown at a secluded cabin instead of among the usual communal chaos, but your so-called quiet retreat turns out to be anything but restful.
Rating: Explicit (18+) overall, but mature for this chapter.
Chapter word count: 6,600
Chapter tags/warnings: OFC!Reader’s POV; worldbuilding; family dynamics; overprotective Karga; use of a nickname for OFC!Reader; Grogu being adorably well-behaved (except for when breakfast is unattended); deadly weather; panic-induced angst; major character injury; graphic descriptions of severe injuries; strong language.
Author’s Note: The female protagonist can be read as both a reader insert and an OC (she’s physically a blank slate but has a canon-compliant background). Odd-numbered chapters are from OFC!Reader’s POV, with you/your pronouns (written in the second person) and he’s referred to as Mando. Even-numbered chapters are from his POV, with she/her pronouns used for OFC!Reader (written in the third person) and he’s referred to as Din. He doesn’t know your/her real name, so he uses various nicknames for you/her throughout the story, both in his head and aloud, and Karga has his own nickname for you/her. As always, I’ve added detailed notes at the end.
The locals have a saying about Nevarro’s winters: “Three months of gloom, three weeks of doom.”
It’s no exaggeration.
As you hurry toward City Hall, daylight is dimming by the minute, and you can smell the forecasted doom on the wind. The volcanoes have been vomiting toxic sulphur clouds for weeks, rebelling against the crisp winter air and choking the sky. And their misery is about to become everyone’s problem.
You take a shortcut through the bazaar, checking your chrono and swearing at the readout. Just over an hour until lockdown. You shouldn’t have left it this late.
Behind you, a shopkeeper slams down his durasteel shutters, startling a nearby stall owner who is frantically packing up their own wares. A mother bustles past you, dragging her reluctant children toward shelter; one wails as it loses its toy in the rush. You curse again as you hastily sidestep a sweeper droid zooming down the middle of the street. Kriff, the countdown has forced even the non-sentients into a state of panic.
Every morning for weeks, the weather droid has been droning on about increased sulphur counts and plummeting temperatures. The whole city tunes in daily, but nobody really listens until the droid delivers the one forecast they’ve been dreading. Lockdown will begin tonight. Suddenly, Nevarrans can think of nothing but the brutal weather event they learned about as children and live through each year.
Snowfall.
For the next fifteen days, stepping outside means dying outside – in the deadly acid snow.
By now, most citizens have gathered in larger homes or public shelters for the compulsory lockdown, though only the old and the young go in smiling. The officials call it ‘communal bonding to boost morale’. You call it three weeks of psychological torture. The enforced proximity, the constant noise, the performative cheer. The total lack of privacy, with every opinion, argument, and bodily function becoming public knowledge. You can’t stand it.
But this year, you’ve scored your ticket out of that sweaty, noisy hell. A secluded cabin, stocked provisions, and blessed solitude during Snowfall. Credits for looking after some creature while its owner’s off-world. With minimal duties and total privacy, you’re kriffing thrilled with the assignment.
Your uncle, however, is not.
You figured he’d be sorry to lose you this year – perhaps a little worried about you being alone. But when you make it through the nervous crowds to his office at City Hall and finally break the news, the storm in his expression rivals the one brewing outside.
You drop your holdall at your feet and slap both palms down on his desk, leaning forward. “It’s more credits than I ever made at the cafe, for less work,” you exclaim, glaring at your overprotective guardian. “What’s your karking problem?”
He stands from his chair and rounds his desk in four heavy steps to loom over you. It’s the same bullish tactic he deployed when he caught you sneaking home reeking of Corellian whiskey at the tender age of fourteen. “My problem,” he retorts, voice lowering to a venomous pitch, “Is that I don’t want you anywhere near someone like him.”
CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3
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Summary: After months of lingering glances and silence thick with tension, you and Din finally gave in to what had always been waiting. The silence between you is no longer empty. It’s full of love.
The wind howled against the outer shell of the wrecked transport, muffled only by the makeshift insulation Din had rigged over the hull. Outside, the world remained painted in ice and snow, an endless sea of white under the morning light.
Inside, the world was still.
You stirred slowly under the thick furs, breath warm against the bare skin of Din’s shoulder. He hadn’t moved all night. Still in his undershirt, arms curled around you.
His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and for a brief moment, you simply laid there and listened.
His skin smelled like cold metal, fire, and the faint trace of something quieter.
Him.
Your hand rested just above his heart. He was warm.
And last night had not been a dream.
You remembered the way his gloved hand had shaken before he touched your cheek.
The way his voice cracked when he said your name.
The way he had kissed you, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to, and then kissed you again like he couldn’t stop.
It had been soft. Hungry. Clumsy in moments. Gentle in others.
It was everything.
You moved slightly, and his arm pulled you closer.
“You’re awake,” you whispered, though your voice was barely louder than the wind.
He didn’t open his eyes.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, voice low, rough with sleep and something else. “Didn’t want to miss this.”
You smiled against his chest. “Miss what?”
His arm curled around your waist tighter. “You. This. The morning after.”
You tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were open now, dark and unreadable as ever, but softer than you’d ever seen.
He blinked slowly, and when you reached up to brush your fingers across his jaw, he leaned into the touch.
“Are you alright?” you asked quietly.
His brow furrowed faintly. “Are you?”
You gave a small nod. “More than alright.”
He exhaled, chest loosening. “Good. I... wasn’t sure if it changed anything.”
“It changed everything.".
He looked at you like you were something holy. “I wanted it to mean something.”
“It did,” you whispered. “It does.”
His hand found yours. There was a silence between you, but it was full now. Full of warmth and love.
You turned slightly so you could look at him properly, tracing the line of his collarbone under the fabric of his shirt.
“You don’t regret it?” you asked, not because you doubted him, but because the morning could be cruel to dreams.
Din shook his head. “No. I regret waiting this long.”
Your breath caught. “Din…”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I didn’t know how to be with you. I still don’t. But last night, when you touched me like that... I felt whole. Like I finally arrived home.”
You brought his hand to your lips and kissed it, soft and sure. “You are home.”
He shifted closer, his forehead brushing against yours. “Say it again.”
You smiled. “You’re home. With me. You always have been.”
Din sighed into you, and you felt his hand move slowly down your back. “I’ll protect this. Whatever it is. Us. Even if I don’t have the words yet.”
“You don’t need words,” you murmured. “You have me.”
He kissed you then. As if he had all the time in the galaxy.
Outside, the wind howled again. But inside the broken vessel, you held onto him.
And he held onto you.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
He's inside you. Around you. Embraces you with all his love and affection, clinging to you as if he's afraid you will vanish beneath him forever.
"Y-yes," you reply back, his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps in their path as he kisses your neck and sucks so tenderly on your nipples. He trusts inside you with unbridled passion, giving you every inch of his body and soul.
"I love you. please, don't ever leave me. If i can't have you, no one else will."
The words flows through your mind like a distant echo. They should concern you, feel like a threat. But something inside you numbs those thoughts out. All you feel is him.
Din. Your beloved Mandalorian.
He brings you to the peak of pleasure, lifting you to new heights as your climaxes ripples through your body. His growls of pleasure vibrates through the room as he fills you with his love, his shaking voice whispering your name as his seed paints the inside of your womb.
A smile graces your lips as you embrace him, caressing the top of his head as he buries his face in your neck.
Your beautiful Mando.
A loving and passionate man who loves you beyond words and would move heaven and earth to protect you. To you, he is everything.
~
Seeing you beneath him, Din still can't comprehend the truth of it.
That you're his.
The first time he laid eyes on you, his soul felt connected to yours, your bodies and souls intertwined in a messy chaos. He was a part of you, and you were a part of him. You were one. His love for you seemed to have no limits, no boundaries. It grew and deepened and consumed him. Every inch of his body ached for you. Every thought in his mind pertained to you.
Din wish you could feel the way that you make his heart soar with a simple look. He wish you could comprehend the infinite times a day he thinks of you and smile. You tore down his walls like they were nothing and showed him what it meant to live. Really live.
How can he ever let you go?
When you are the one he wants to spend eternity with. His red string. His friend. His lover. The love of his life.
Chapter summary: A sparring lesson turns into more and you ask Din a question about family.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings.
A/N: Really enjoying thinking up scenarios for Din and Reader to have sex and then deal with deeper feelings - i.e. a bit of a plot 😛 If anyone has suggestions, let me know 😂
Part One/Part Two
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
For once, it’s quiet onboard the Crest – no pursuit, no atmospheric chop, no proximity alarms screaming about Imperial remnants or Guild rivals breathing down the exhaust. Just the steady drone of the hyperdrive and the gentle tick of cooling plates somewhere behind the cargo netting.
Which leaves the hold all to the two of you.
You've been lying flat on your back on the cold durasteel grating for what feels like an hour, arms splayed, hair fanned out, staring up at the bundle of conduit that runs along the curve of the ceiling. You've counted rivets and reached seventy-three before you give up and roll your head to look at him.
Din is at the weapons rack, doing what Din does when there’s nothing pressing to be done – maintenance. Always maintenance. The man can field-strip a blaster in his sleep and probably has. The pulse rifle lies in tidy components on the workbench, each piece arranged with that quiet, ritual precision that you've come to recognise as a kind of meditation for him. The beskar catches the low amber light of the hold, dulled and scarred and gorgeous, the T-visor angled down at his work.
You watch him for a long time – the shift of his shoulders under the flight suit beneath the cuirass, the flex of leather across his back where the harness crosses, the slow, deliberate movement of his gloved hands, knuckled and competent.
Before you met him, Mandalorians had been people to fear, hidden behind their armour. Now, you can’t help but think it’s the most arousing thing you’ve ever seen.
"Din?”
He doesn’t look up. "Mm."
"I'm bored."
"Read something."
"Read what, your weapons manuals? I’ve read everything on this ship at least twice. Next time we pick a planet to land on, I want to be sure there’s either a bookstore or a library."
"There's a holo in the locker."
"It's a sabacc tutorial from before the Clone Wars."
He exhales faintly through the modulator, not quite a laugh, but the shape of one. Then he sets down the bore brush and finally turns his helmet toward you, that black T-slit fixing on you with a patience that’s become deeply, infuriatingly familiar.
You prop yourself up on your elbows. "Teach me to fight."
The visor doesn’t move. "You know how to fight."
"I can shoot, sort of. You said yourself my left guard is a disaster, and the last time someone got me at close range I almost ate a vibroblade. If I'm going to keep flying with you, I want to be able to put someone on the floor when it goes sideways. And let’s be honest here, it always goes sideways."
“If you’re going to keep flying with me?”
You try and fail not to smile, because there’s no if about it. He’s keeping you and you’re keeping him, regardless of what you want to name it.
“Okay,” you nod, “because I’m going to keep flying with you…yada, yada, yada.”
He considers you for a long moment. You can’t see his face, of course, but you've learned to read the helmet by now – the tilt of it, the pauses, the way the visor lingers on you a beat longer than necessary when he’s deciding something.
He sets the brush down, pulls off his gloves, folds them, and lays them on the workbench beside the pulse rifle's disassembled receiver. Then he reaches up and begins unclipping his pauldrons.
Your stomach does a small, traitorous flip. If seeing a Mandalorian in armour – your Mandalorian – is the most arousing thing, then watching your Mandalorian remove it is off the scale.
"Up," he says.
You scramble to your feet, suddenly very awake.
He sets the pauldrons aside and unclips the cuirass next, lifting it off over his head with a practiced economy. Underneath, the dark flight suit clings to him in ways that the beskar always hides, and though you’ve seen him out of his armour before many times, there’s something different about watching him take it off in the middle of the hold under the workbench lights.
Methodical. Intentional. Like he’s preparing.
The vambraces stay on. The greaves, the boots, the codpiece, the belt and the helmet. He strips down to the parts that won’t bruise you if he has to take you to the floor, and you understand, with a small thrill, that he’s taking this seriously whilst you’re looking to end up on your back.
He rolls his shoulders, the flight suit pulling across the breadth of him.
"Centre of the hold," he says. "Feet apart. Shoulder width."
You go where he points and set your feet.
"Wider."
You widen them as he circles around behind you. You feel the warmth of him before you feel the touch – a hand at the small of your back, the other at your shoulder, adjusting, broad and hot.
"Bend your knees. Keep your weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. If I push you…" his hand comes to your sternum, flat, and gives a small, testing shove, "…you should be able to absorb it. Try again."
He pushes and you stagger.
"Again."
He pushes and you hold.
"Better."
His voice through the modulator is always a little flatter than a person's voice ought to be, a little more metal-edged, but you've long since learned to hear the texture underneath – the dry approval, the rare, gravelled humour, the rasp when he’s tired. Right now, it’s patient and instructive.
He steps around to face you, the T-visor angled down, and you look up at your own warped reflection in the dark of it.
"Hands up."
You bring them up.
"Higher. Cover your jaw. Elbows in. You're inviting me into your ribs."
You adjust and he nods once.
"Now I'm going to come at you slow. Don't try to hit me back. Just keep your guard and move your feet. If you can put your hand on my chest and keep me from getting past you, you win, yes?"
"Yes."
He comes at you slow, a wall in dark fabric and battered beskar at the wrists, and he doesn’t punch, doesn’t grab – he just walks into your space with the inexorability of weather. Your hand comes up to his sternum, and you genuinely try to keep him off you, but he simply puts a hand on your wrist and turns it and you’re suddenly facing the other way with his arm across your collarbone, your back flush to his chest.
"Dead," he says quietly, right next to your ear, the modulator buzzing against your hair. "Again."
He releases you and you shake out your hands, trying not to think about how solid he had felt behind you, all that warm fabric over all that warm man, the shape of him pressed up the length of your spine for one held second.
You set your feet and he comes at you again. This time you get a half-step further before he hooks your ankle with his boot and you nearly go down. He catches you, his hand fisting in the front of your shirt and arresting your fall with a casual strength that turns your knees stupid, and holds you there for a beat, suspended, while the visor tips down at you.
"Watch my feet," he says. "I telegraphed that. You looked at my shoulders."
"Maybe I like your shoulders."
The visor tilts and you feel, rather than hear, the small exhale through the modulator.
"Focus."
"I'm focused."
"On the lesson."
"Mm-hm."
He sets you back on your feet, steps away, and you see the deliberate way he resettles himself – rolls his neck once, plants his stance – and you realise with a flush of triumph that you’ve gotten to him, just a little. Just enough.
You set your guard.
On the next pass, he moves faster. Not full speed – you know that full speed from him will put you on your back before you blink – but faster, real enough to mean it. You watch his feet. You move when he moves. You keep your hands up, and when he steps in, you slide your palm onto his chest, push and pivot at the same time, the way he's shown you. He lets you slip past him by maybe six inches before his hand closes around your upper arm and turns you neatly back into his orbit.
"Better," he says.
"Did I…?"
"You did good. Again."
You do it again and again and again. And somewhere around the eighth or ninth pass you've worked up a sweat, your shirt sticking between your shoulder blades, your hair clinging to your temple, and his hand has been on you – wrist, arm, collarbone, hip, ribs – so many times that the contact has begun to register as something else entirely.
The next time he comes in, you don’t try to slip him.
You let him close, and you grab two fistfuls of his flight suit at the chest and yank. His weight is suddenly committed in a way he hasn't intended, and you twist and use his own forward momentum to bring him down with you, the both of you crashing to the grating in a tangle of limbs and hot breath and the dull clank of beskar vambrace on metal.
You end up half-under him, half-pinned, one of his thighs heavy across yours, his weight braced on a forearm beside your head, both very still.
The T-visor is a hand's breadth from your face.
You can hear his breath through the modulator now – uneven, the smallest catch in it. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. His other hand is somewhere at your hip, and you can’t quite remember how it’s gotten there.
"That wasn't the lesson," he says low.
"Wasn't it?"
"No."
"I improvised."
"You cheated."
"You said put you on the floor."
"I said put me down, there's a difference." His head tilts, that slow, considering tilt, and you watch yourself in the curve of the visor – flushed cheeks, parted lips, hair stuck to your forehead. "You used your weight against mine."
"You taught me that two passes ago."
"I taught you to use it on someone your own size."
"You're not that much bigger than me."
"I'm exactly that much bigger than you," he replies dryly.
His thigh shifts, moving an inch higher between yours and you make a sound you haven't meant to make, small, barely anything, and you watch the visor go very, very still above you.
You lie there under him in the warm hum, and you don’t say anything, and he doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches out and gets heavier and heavier until it’s its own thing in the air between you.
Then, slowly. he lowers his forearm closer, until the bare skin of it is alongside your cheek. His other hand leaves your hip, comes up and brushes your hair back from your temple with warm fingers that then trail down the side of your neck and stop at the dip of your collarbone where your shirt’s damp with sweat.
"Tired?" he asks quietly.
"No."
"Mm."
"Are you?"
"No,” he replies with the smallest sound of amusement.
"Lesson's not over, then."
He looks at you for a long second through the visor, then his hand on your collarbone slides lower – up over the cotton of your shirt, over the curve of your breast, his thumb dragging slow across the peak of it through the fabric – and he watches your face the entire time. The watching is almost worse than the touch. The unreadable beskar dark of him, that helmet that hides every micro-expression, the only feedback the steady weight of him on you and the slow, deliberate motion of his hand.
"No," he agrees. "Lesson's not over."
You arch up into his palm before you can stop yourself, the sound that leaves you something between a gasp and his name.
The hand at your chest tightens. His thigh presses up between your legs, the seam of his flight suit drags across the seam of yours and you grind down on him without meaning to, your hips lifting off the grating, chasing the friction.
The modulator buzzes with what might have been a curse in Mando'a.
"Up," he says.
"What?"
"Up. The floor's cold and I'm not fucking you on a grate."
The casual filthiness of it, said in that calm, modulated voice, like he’s telling you to refuel the thrusters, makes heat punch low through your belly. You let him pull you to your feet, but he doesn’t go far, backing you the three steps to the wall of the hold, between two crates of foodstuffs. His hand moves to your jaw, thumb tracing your lower lip, the visor tipped down close enough that you can see your own eyes reflected in it.
"I shouldn't have let you bait me," he says.
"You didn't let me."
"Mm. Tell yourself that."
His hand leaves your jaw, goes to the hem of your shirt, and pushes it up in a single steady motion, baring your stomach, your ribs and the underside of your breasts. You lift your arms and he pulls the shirt off over your head and drops it somewhere on the floor. Then his bare hands are on you, both of them, palms hot, and he’s looking at you, just looking, the visor moving slow down the length of you and back up.
"I want…" you start.
"I know."
"I want you to…"
"I know."
His hands cup your breasts, thumbs dragging over the tight peaks, and his head tips down so that the cold smooth curve of the helmet's cheek presses against your cheek, the modulator vent so close to your ear that you can hear the small mechanical click of the rebreather as he inhales.
"Tell me," he says right against your ear. "Use words."
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"Lower Din, please…"
He makes a low sound through the modulator, something almost like a laugh and almost like a growl, and his hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, over the waistband of your trousers, his palm pressing flat against you through the fabric.
You buck into it and he lets you. He holds his hand there, steady pressure, and watches you grind yourself against the heel of his palm with your head tipped back against the bulkhead and your mouth fallen open.
"Look at you," he says with a quiet reverence laced with a roughness that isn’t reverent at all. "Wanted me to teach you how to fight, huh?"
"I…"
"Is this what you really wanted?"
"Yes."
His fingers work the closure of your trousers open, slide inside, and his bare fingertips find you slick and burning and ready for him. "Yeah, I figured."
His fingers move in the way he’s learned over the last year. He’s good at this in the same way he’s good at everything. Two fingers slide into you, and his thumb works you in slow, tight circles. Your hand grabs at his shoulder, at the bare skin of his neck where the flight suit dips, anywhere you can reach, and you make noises into the helmet's cheek that you'd be embarrassed about in any other situation but this one.
"Din…Din, I'm…"
"Not yet," he says.
"What?"
"Not yet." His hand withdraws and you whine, openly, shamelessly. "Easy. Easy, mesh'la."
He strips your trousers down your legs and you step out of them, kick them aside, and stand there against the bulkhead in nothing at all while he’s still mostly dressed, the disparity making you shiver, making you press your thighs together because the air of the hold is cool against the wet of you.
He sees it the same way he sees everything.
"Look at me," he says and you look up at the T-visor, steady on your face.
"Stay there."
He steps back and unfastens the closures of his flight suit at the throat, the chest, the waist – not all of it, just enough – and his bare hand pushes the dark fabric aside. You watch as he frees himself, watch him take his own cock in his bare hand and stroke once, slow, the visor tipped down toward you the whole time.
You make a small sound.
"Come here," he says and you go without question.
He turns you gently until your palms are flat against the bulkhead, your back to him. His bare hand smooths down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and his other hand comes up to brace beside your hand on the wall.
"This okay?"
"Yes."
"Tell me if it's not."
"It's okay, Din, please."
You feel him line himself up, feel the blunt heat of him press against you, drag through the slick, and then sink in – slow, slow, slow, the patient relentless press of him filling you up inch by careful inch until his hips are flush against yours and you’re panting open-mouthed against the cool durasteel. His hand comes up to wrap around the front of your throat, not squeezing, just there, holding you in place against him.
"Breathe," he says as he starts to move.
You let out a gasp at his long, deep, deliberate strokes, the kind of fucking that isn’t fast or frantic but is somehow worse than fast and frantic, because it gives you no relief, no chance to climb the edge and tumble over. It’s just the steady relentless drag of him in and out of you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the low constant noise of him through the modulator that’s somewhere between a breath and a growl.
His hand at your throat tightens, fractionally, the bare pads of his fingertips against your pulse. His other hand leaves the bulkhead and slides around your hip, down between your legs, his fingers finding you again where you’re stretched open around him, working you in time with his thrusts.
You come apart on him almost immediately.
It hits you with no warning – one second, you’re panting and the next your knees are going, your whole body clenching, and the only thing keeping you upright is his hand at your throat and the press of him inside you. You sob his name mixed with something less coherent. The modulator buzzes at your ear with a sound that might be approval and might be a curse, and you can’t tell and you don’t care.
He fucks you through it, not slowing down or speeding up, just keeping the steady devastating rhythm of him while you flutter around him and shake and try to remember how breathing works.
"That's one," he says and you can’t answer. "Going to give me another one, mesh'la?"
"I…can't…"
"You can."
His hand leaves your throat. He turns you again, your legs jelly, and you whimper at the loss of him for the two seconds it takes to get you on your back on a stack of crates that he's dragged together with the side of his boot. Then he’s inside you again, your legs hooked over his arms, the cool of the vambrace on the back of your thigh, the helmet tipping down to watch where your bodies meet.
"Look at that," he says, quietly again. "Look at you taking me."
"Din…"
His thumb comes up to your mouth, and you open for it without thinking. He presses the pad of it onto your tongue, and you suck, eyes locked on the visor. He watches you suck like it’s the most important thing happening in the galaxy, like he’s filing it away, every detail, the way your tongue moves against the pad of it, the hollow of your cheeks.
"Good girl," he says.
You moan around his thumb as he presses it down on your tongue and you feel yourself clench around him hard enough that he makes a sound – a real one this time, low and bitten-off, the kind of sound that comes from deep in his chest and barely makes it through the vent of the helmet at all.
"Fuck," he breathes.
His hips snap up. The slow methodical fucking falters, just for a beat, into something rougher, and your back arches off the crates, your hands flying up to grab at the edge of the helmet where it meets his collar.
The visor tips down and watches your hand hover at the edge of his throat, and then his hand leaves your hip, catches your wrist and guides it back down to his chest, over the open flap of the flight suit, to the bare hot skin of his sternum.
"Here," he says, rough. "You can touch me here."
Your palm flattens against him, his heart hammering beneath. Your Mandalorian is an immovable mountain of a man, and yet his heart is going like a hunted thing under your palm, and you understand with a hot dizzy lurch that you do this to him. That for all his patient methodical control he’s as wrecked by this as you are, just better at hiding it under all that beskar.
"Din…come in me…” you beg, even though he does every time.
His hand tightens on your thigh. The vambrace is cool against your skin and his bare fingers are burning, and the difference makes you shiver.
"Get yourself there first."
His hand slides down between your bodies, finds you again, and his thumb works you in those tight little circles while he fucks into you harder now, less measured, the crates creaking under your back. You can see him losing it, the way his breath comes faster through the vent, the way his free hand has fisted in the strap of his own harness like he’s holding himself together by main force.
"Look at me," he says, “and don't look away."
You don’t look away. You come on him for the second time staring straight into the dark of that helmet, into your own reflection, and see your own face break apart in the curve of the beskar. You feel him follow you a half-dozen ragged strokes later, the modulator choking, his hips stuttering hard against yours, the hand on your thigh going white-knuckled as he spills into you.
He holds there and doesn’t move, the brow of the helmet lowering until it rests against your forehead, cool beskar to hot skin, and you both breathe. His thumb drags along your jaw, slow and gentle.
"Lesson over?" you whisper.
The modulator gives back the smallest huff of breath.
"Lesson over."
He doesn’t move for a long time. He stays inside you, over you, his hand stroking idle warm circles into your hip while your breathing evens out and your heart climbs back down out of your throat. When he finally slides out and steps back, he does it carefully – one hand at the small of your back to help you sit up, the other already reaching for the rag he keeps clipped to his belt for blaster maintenance. He cleans you up with the same patient methodical care he used on the pulse rifle an hour earlier and the thought makes you laugh, breathless, the visor tipping at you with mild inquiry.
"Nothing," you say. "Just…you really do treat me like one of your weapons."
"Mm." He fastens his flight suit closed with one hand while the other smooths your hair back from your damp temple. "Best thing on the ship."
"Flatterer."
"It’s the truth."
He bends and retrieves your shirt from where it fell by the bulkhead and pulls it gently back over your head, threading your arms through the sleeves with the same quiet attentiveness he gives everything. He helps you off the crates and your legs wobble, so he catches you with an arm around your waist and holds you there against his side until you've remembered how to be a person again.
"Same time tomorrow?" you ask into the leather of his harness.
"Footwork tomorrow," he says. "Real footwork. You're still dropping your left guard."
"Din, I just came twice on your cock. Let me have this."
He pauses. "Footwork. Tomorrow."
You laugh into his chest and feel, more than hear, the small answering rumble of him laughing back.
****
Later, you sit curled into the copilot's chair in the cockpit with your bare feet tucked beneath you and a thermal blanket over your shoulders in the long blue silence of the hyperspace run and watch the stars not move.
His hands are still bare, and you’re holding one now across the space, running your fingers over his knuckles and the small white scars there as if you’re reading a book in a language he’s taught you only the alphabet of.
You don't know, even now, why you asked it then.
Maybe it was the afterglow. Maybe it was the year that has piled up behind you like snow against a door. Maybe it’s the way he says cyar'ika, the way he holds you afterward, every time, with a tenderness that feels like a promise he hasn’t yet decided he’s allowed to make.
"Have you ever thought about family?"
The hand under yours doesn’t flinch. He has a long-trained body that doesn’t give away surprise easily. But you feel the very small adjustment of him, the half-degree settling, the way a man sets his weight before he answers a question that matters.
The vocoder catches the slow exhale.
“My parents died when I was young. The Mandalorians are…were…my family.”
“No, I know, I…I wasn’t meaning that. I meant more…a partner and…and children.”
He moves slightly again.
"Why do you ask?”
"I don't know." You stroke his knuckle. "I was thinking about what kind of life this is. About whether…" you break off, because you can’t quite ask it the way you want to.
Whether we could. Whether you want to.
He’s quiet a long moment, the blue light moving across the visor.
"I have thought about it," he says, finally. "I'm not sure what kind of life I could give a child, cyar'ika. This…" his free hand makes a small gesture that takes in the cockpit, the stars, the bounty puck still glowing on the dash "…this is not a life for children."
"There are Mandalorians with children, aren’t there?"
"Yes, in covert, in community. With…a place. The covert I came from is gone. I have no home to bring a child to but this one."
"This is a home."
He turns the helmet, slowly, to look at you and you feel the weight of the visor's attention. The thumb of the hand you’re holding strokes, very lightly, over the inside of your wrist.
"It’s a ship," he says gently, “and it’s a life of running, and hunting, and being hunted in return. I would not…" he breaks off, the vocoder catching a small rough sound. "I would not ask that of a child. Or of the woman who might bear me one."
Or of the woman who might bear me one.
You feel the sentence land somewhere under your ribs and stay there.
You don’t let your face change because you’ve learned not to let your face change when he gives you a piece of himself you’ve not earned by asking. You only stroke his knuckle once more, slowly. "I see."
"Cyar'ika…"
"It's alright," you smile at him and mean it, but also don’t mean it. Both things are true at the same time, the way many things have been true at the same time since the day you first climbed aboard the ship. "It was just a question."
You know he doesn’t believe you because his bare hand turns, under yours, catches your fingers, and holds them.
"It’s not a no," he says, quietly. "It’s…" he searches for the word. "It’s a thing I haven’t let myself want because wanting it without being able to have it is…" the vocoder cuts on the next word, very briefly, the way it does when his breath goes uneven "…a wound I've already carried once."
You squeeze his hand. "Alright," you say softly.
He holds your fingers a long moment more, the bare warm pads of his thumb tracing the small bones of your hand as if he’s committing them to memory in case he has to give them up. Then he lifts your knuckles to the chin of the helmet, very briefly – the small substitute kiss that has become his, and yours – and lets you go.
"Get some sleep," he says. "We drop out at oh-four-hundred."
You nod, stand and touch the curve of his pauldron in passing because you can’t quite bring yourself to leave the cockpit without touching him. Then you climb down the ladder into the hold with your blanket trailing from one hand and a sentence echoing somewhere behind your sternum that you can’t yet make peace with.
Or of the woman who might bear me one.
You crawl into the bunk and lie on your back in the dark with your hands folded across your stomach and the hum of the Crest under you like a long patient animal breathing.
You turn the conversation over in your head.
I'm not sure what kind of life I could give a child.
That, you understand. You’ve seen in a year, what this life costs him – the wounds you’ve patched and had patched, the credits that come and go, the bounty pucks that sometimes glow with the faces of people who deserve what’s coming and sometimes with the faces of people who don’t.
He wakes from nightmares sometimes, but you’ve learned not to ask about them. He carries the weight of a creed and a covert and a long list of names he doesn’t speak aloud, and you’ve never once in your year together heard him use the word future about himself except in the most narrow sense –the next jump, the next bounty, when the Crest will next need its compressor flushed.
Or of the woman who might bear me one.
That’s the sentence that won’t lie down.
Because he said it out loud, with you in the chair beside him, your thumb on his bare knuckle and the blue light of hyperspace running over the visor between you. He didn’t say some woman or a woman. He said it with a particular pause before the article, the small hitch you know from a year of cataloguing his hesitations, the place where he thought about the word and chose it anyway.
You lie in the dark and let yourself, for the first time in a year, name the thing properly.
He was thinking of you.
Not promising or asking or perhaps, even hoping, in any active sense. He’s a man who knows how to hope, you’ve begun to suspect, in the way some people know how to swim or to bake bread. But he was thinking of you. He let himself, however briefly, however privately, set the word child and the word you on the same workbench and look at them together. And then he put them away because the workbench is a ship and the ship is a hunting ground and the hunting ground is not a place to raise a small life.
You close your eyes and think about your mother, who didn’t raise you well, but who raised you. You think about the way she once looked at you over the edge of a cup of caf and said, Sweetheart, a person can change a life. A life cannot change a person. Remember that.
You hadn’t understood it at the time, but you think you might be beginning to.
He isn’t going to change. You know that with a clarity that doesn’t hurt the way you might expect it to. He’s not going to wake up one morning and decide that the Crest is a nursery, that the helmet can come off, or that the creed can be set down. He’s told you what he can’t give, and why, and he’s done it not because he doesn’t love you – because he does, you know he does, you’ve heard it in every cyar'ika and feel it in every careful hand at the small of your back – but precisely because he does. Because he’s a man who’s been trained, since he first fit under a Mandalorian's cape, to think first about what he can ask of other people and last about what he can ask for himself.
He hasn’t said no to the question. He said, I have not let myself want it.
The two are very different.
It’s a door he hasn’t locked. A door he’s only set his shoulder against, on the inside, because he’s not yet been given any reason to believe it can be safely opened.
You don’t know if you can give him that reason. You don’t know if any of the things you know how to do around him amount to a reason. You don’t know if you can be a covert for a man who’s lost one. You don’t know if a ship can be a home for a child, even one raised by two people who will, between them, kill the galaxy to keep that child fed.
But you know you’re not going anywhere.
You’ve been waiting, perhaps, for some part of yourself to use the conversation as a door of its own – to look at the or of the woman who might bear me one and decide it’s a polite warning, an exit cue, a closing of accounts. You wait for the part of yourself that has spent a long life slipping out of cantinas at four in the morning to lift its head and say time to go.
It doesn’t lift its head. It’s sleeping somewhere deep, curled around the place where his hand held yours, and it doesn’t stir.
You’re not going anywhere.
You’ll stay by his side. You’ll patch him when he comes home bleeding and let him patch you when required. You’ll feed him caf strong enough to dissolve a spoon and let him have you in the cockpit with the helmet on and his gloves on your hips and you’ll ask him about children again.
Not yet.
You’ll let him sit with the question because you can be patient and because you’re used to waiting for him.
Opening your eyes, you hear, through the deck plating, the small sounds of him moving above – the creak of the pilot's chair, the soft clink of a buckle, the tiny exhale of the modulator as he adjusts something on his vambrace.
He’s not asleep and, you suspect, he’s not going to sleep for a while.
You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he’s sitting up there in the blue light with his hand on the throttle and the helmet tilted slightly to the left and a sentence of his own echoing somewhere under his cuirass that he doesn’t yet know how to put down.
You hope he is. You hope he’s thinking about a covert that can be rebuilt instead of mourned. You hoped he’s thinking about a somewhere – a small dirt-floored house on some forgettable moon, a garden that won’t grow much but will grow something, a cradle that he can come home to between bounties and lay his beskar down beside.
You hope that he’s beginning to let himself want it.
You don’t know if he will. You don’t know if you’ll still be on the Crest a year from now, or five, or twenty, or for the long quiet rest of your life. You don’t know if the door he’s set his shoulder against will ever open.
But you know you love him and you know that loving him is the work of a long time, not a short one, and you know that you’re willing to do that work.
So, you close your eyes and sleep.
Above you, in the cockpit, the helmet tilts very slightly to the left. The hand on the throttle flexes once and goes still. The vocoder catches a slow even exhale, and another, and another, and the man inside the armour sits with words on his own workbench in the blue light and looks at them, for the first time in a long time, without putting them away.
He doesn’t know yet what he’s going to do with them.
Chapter summary: Din needs something from you and you’re more than happy to oblige.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings.
A/N: I saw the film today and it was so good! Not enough un-helmeted Pedro but you can’t have everything! It inspired me to post this today 🥰
Part One/Part Two/Part Three
Din Masterlist
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The first thing you notice is that he won’t sit down.
That, by itself, is not unusual. He’s a man who paces, a man who stands at the edge of rooms, a man who has been trained never to take a chair that doesn’t have its back to a wall. In the time you’ve spent together, you’ve learned the geography of his stillness and his motion, and ordinarily you can read him through the soles of his boots.
Tonight you can’t read him.
It’s a slow night – the bounty puck spent, the credits locked away, the next job not yet pulled. You’ve eaten the simple meal you made together, wiped down the small fold-out table in the hold, sat with him on the bench by the carbonite chamber while he field-strips his rifle, and you’ve read aloud, in the small companionable way you’ve begun to develop, from a book of poetry you picked up from a stall on Bestine for two credits.
It was the closest you’re going to get to a bookstore.
He’s been listening with the slightly tilted helmet that means he’s paying attention. And then, somewhere between the second and third poem, he sets the rifle aside half-cleaned, stands up, and begins, with no apparent destination, to pace.
He paces the length of the hold once, pausing at the carbon-freezing controls, then paces back. He stops at the foot of the ladder, sets one gloved hand on the rung and stands there a long moment as if considering whether to climb it. Then he turns and paces again, ending up at the small fold-out table, and he stands there with his hands resting on the edge of it and the visor angled at some middle distance of the deck plating.
You watch him through all of this with the patience of a person who’s learned that the surest way to make him close up is to ask him directly what’s wrong. So, you don’t ask. You set the book down, tuck your feet up under you on the bench and wait.
He paces again and comes back to the table, stopping at it again as if it’s a thing he hasn’t noticed the first time, and exhales unevenly.
"Din,” you say gently, the helmet still turned away. “Come sit.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. His bare fingers on the edge of the table flex once and go still. Then, slowly, as if it costs him something he doesn’t want to spend, he comes back across the hold and sits down beside you on the bench.
He sits forward, elbows braced on his knees, his bare forearms catching the warm sodium light of the hold. He laces his fingers together loosely and stares at them, or at the deck, or at nothing in particular through the T-visor and says nothing.
After a long time, the vocoder catches a breath.
"Cyar'ika."
"Yes?"
He goes quiet again, so you lay your hand on his forearm. The skin’s warm, the small dark hairs there soft under your palm, and you stroke it very slowly with the pad of your thumb.
"It's nothing," he says, finally. "I'm…being foolish."
"You're not foolish."
"You don’t know."
"Tell me."
He remains quiet so long this time, that you begin to think he’s going to stand up again and pace, but he stays by your side.
"I want something," he says, the vocoder very low. "I want something, and I can’t have it, and I’ve been…I’ve been turning it over in my head all evening like a man turning over a stone he can’t put down. And I’m being foolish, because the wanting changes nothing. So, I will put it down. And we will…" he gestures, small and helpless, at the book on the bench beside you, “we will read another poem, cyar'ika, and I’ll be alright."
You don’t pick up the book. You continue slowly stroking the inside of his bare forearm with the pad of your thumb and feel the small involuntary tightening of muscle there under your hand.
"Tell me what you want," you say.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Tell me."
He draws a long breath through the modulator and turns his hand over under yours so that his palm is up. He lays his bare fingers across your wrist, and traces – with a small careful absent motion, as if he’s not aware he’s doing it – the small bones there.
"I’ve been thinking," he says very quietly, "about a thing I can’t do."
"What thing?"
The visor turns and he looks at you. You feel the weight of it, the long careful look, the way you always feel it when he’s deciding how much of himself he’s allowed to give you.
"I want to put my mouth on you."
You don’t move, don’t even breathe for a moment, because if you move or breathe you might break the small fragile shape of what he’s just set down between you.
"I want…" he says slowly, “I want to taste you, cyar'ika. Your mouth, your body, your…your heat. I’ve been wanting it for…for a long time. Tonight it won’t leave me, I don’t know why. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes the wanting climbs out of where I keep it and walks around the room with me, and tonight it’s been walking with me for hours, and I am…"
The modulator cuts on a small almost-laugh that’s not, you think, a laugh
"I’m tired. I’m tired of pacing around it. I need you to know what’s in my head. I don’t need you to do anything with it. I only…" his bare thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, “I need you to know."
You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s just said is a thing that matters, and you don’t want to answer it before you’ve understood the shape of it.
But you do understand. To put his mouth on you – his true mouth, not the substitute chin of the helmet, not the small kiss of the visor against your skin – is a thing he can’t do without breaking the Creed he’s sworn to uphold.
You know that he’s not asking you to ask him to break it – even though you have before. He’s asking you to know that he wants to.
You lay your hand against the cool curve of his helmet at the cheek and tip your forehead to the brow of the visor, closing your eyes to help yourself think.
"Din,” you say, slowly and carefully, “what if I close my eyes."
The helmet doesn’t move.
"What if I close my eyes the whole time, and I don’t open them. Not once, not for any reason, not even at the end. You could…you could come and go without me ever seeing you. The light could be on or off, whatever you want, but I wouldn’t see you. I swear to you I wouldn’t see you."
The vocoder catches a long uneven breath.
"I'm serious."
"I know you are."
"It wouldn’t be breaking the Creed."
"Cyar'ika…"
"It wouldn’t, Din, think about it. The Creed says, no living being may see your face. If my eyes are closed, no living being sees your face. The helmet is off, but no one sees. The thing the Creed protects is protected."
He sits in silence for a long time and the bare hand on your wrist tightens, very slightly, and loosens, and tightens again.
"I don’t know," he says, finally, “I…."
"I know you don't."
"It’s…" he searches, “it’s the kind of argument a man makes when he wants the answer to be yes."
"Maybe." You stroke the curve of the helmet at his cheek. "But it might still be the right argument, Din. The Creed is about the spirit of the thing, isn’t it. You told me that the covert who raised you cared about the spirit."
"They did."
"And the spirit is that no one sees."
"Yes."
"Then no one would see."
"I don’t know if I can trust myself," he says. " I don’t know if I can trust myself to…to put my mouth on you and not, in some moment of not thinking, demand that you open your eyes and look at me.”
"You can, Din. You’ve spent your life not doing the thing the Creed forbids. You have a discipline. You won’t ask me to do it."
"And if I do?"
"You won't."
"Cyar'ika, if I do…?"
You stroke his cheek through the beskar. "Then I won’t see you, because I won’t open my eyes. You can trust me, Din. I know I asked you to take off the helmet before because I wanted to see but…if we do this, knowing how you feel…I promise I won’t open my eyes."
“I do trust you,” he says softly. “That’s not…that’s not the question I’m holding."
"Then what is?"
He exhales heavily. "Whether I can trust myself to be the kind of man who tests it."
You understand, then, in one long flat clarity, what he’s holding. He’s not afraid that you’ll open your eyes because he has no doubt that you won’t. He’s afraid – he, who has carried the Creed for so long and who has built every other thing in his life on the foundation of its discipline – of what it says about him that he wants it badly enough to negotiate around the edge of it.
You lay both your hands against the cheeks of the helmet and tip his forehead to yours.
"Listen to me. You have spent your whole life not asking. Not for yourself. You have spent your whole life giving the Creed everything it asks of you. You’ve given it well, and you’ve given it without complaint, and the Creed has, in return, taken almost everything from you. And you’ve carried that, Din, without flinching, for longer than most men could."
He goes very still.
"And now, after all of it, you want one thing. One small thing. You want to put your mouth on the woman who loves you. And you’ve built – we have built, between us, you and I – a way that you can have that thing without setting down the spirit of what the Creed protects. And you’re sitting here on this bench asking yourself if wanting it makes you a worse Mandalorian."
You stroke his cheek.
"It doesn't, Din. It makes you a man, that’s all. Just a man. A man who has loved a woman for a year now and who would like, for one night, to put his mouth on her. The Creed is large enough to hold that. The covert that raised you – the one that cared about the spirit – I think they would have held it. I think they would have wanted you to have it."
He doesn’t answer for a long time and the bare hand on your wrist stops its small stroking. It’s simply holding, now, the fingers laced loose through yours.
"Cyar'ika," he says, eventually.
"Yes?"
"I don’t have a blindfold."
You don’t laugh, but you very slowly, smile against the brow of the visor. “I have a scarf.”
****
The scarf is dark blue, almost black in the sodium light of the hold, a long soft length of woven Tatooinian cotton you bought in a market on a planet you can’t now remember the name of. You’ve used it as a head covering on dusty worlds and as a pillow on cold nights and as a small comforting weight around your shoulders when the bunk is too quiet and he hasn’t yet come down from the cockpit. It’s a thing that smells of you and him and the Crest.
You carry it back to the bench, sit down and set it across your lap.
He sits the way you left him, elbows on his knees, his bare fingers laced loose between them, the visor angled at the deck. But when you sit down beside him, he turns, slowly, and lays one bare hand against the side of your face.
"If you change your mind at any moment…"
"I won't, but if I do, I’ll tell you. I’ll say stop, and you’ll stop, and that’ll be the end of it, and we’ll not talk about it again until you want to. I know how this works."
"I know you do,” he says softly.
"Then trust me."
The bare hand at your cheek strokes, slow, the pad of the thumb tracing the small line beneath your eye where you have a habit of pressing your fingers when you’re tired,
"I trust you," he says.
You hand him the scarf, and he kills the lights at the small wall panel by the bench, the sodium glow going down to nothing in one slow fade. The hold drops into the low blue half-dark of the night cycle, where the only light comes from the small standby diodes on the bulkheads and the faint backwash of the cockpit instruments down the ladder shaft. You sit on the bench in the half-dark and watch the silhouette of him come back across the hold to you, the helmet a darker shape against the dark, the cape moving slightly with the air-recycler's breath.
He stands in front of you, holding the scarf in his bare hands. "Close your eyes."
You close them and feel him kneel in front of you, feel the soft brush of the scarf across your forehead, his bare fingers gathering your hair carefully out of the way, the fabric settling over your closed eyelids with a weight that’s somehow both very light and absolute. You feel him tie it at the back of your head and then test it with one fingertip along the upper edge, where it presses gently to your brow.
"Can you see anything?"
"No."
You feel him kneel a moment longer and the visor presses, very softly, to your scarfed forehead – the last kiss of the helmet before it comes off. You lay your hand against the cool beskar of his cheek and smile.
"Take your time," you say.
He draws a long breath through the modulator, then rises to his feet. You hear the small, soft hiss of pressure release and the faint click of a seal disengaging. It’s an intimate sound, one he’s probably not let another living being hear in years.
You don’t move or even consider opening your eyes. The thing he’s setting down, in the small space of the hold, is a thing he’s built every other thing in his life on top of, and you understand that the only way to receive it is with stillness.
You hear the soft thump of the helmet being set down carefully and the next breath you hear is his.
It’s unfiltered, a man's breath, low and a little uneven, no modulator, no metal. It’s the most naked sound you’ve ever heard him make.
You stay very still as he kneels again, feeling his weight come down in front of you, his hands settling on your knees.
"Cyar'ika."
It’s the first time that you’ve ever heard the word without the vocoder.
His voice underneath is lower than you thought. Softer, a little hoarse, perhaps from the suddenness of the unfiltered air, perhaps from emotion, perhaps from both. It has a small warmth in it that the modulator has stripped from you for a year without you ever quite knowing it was there.
You don’t move, but you smile.
"Hello, Din."
You hear him laugh for the first time ever. Really laugh, not the small vocoder-clipped almost-amusement you’ve become an expert in, but the actual sound, low and a little surprised, as if it’s escaped from somewhere he hasn’t been guarding. It breaks against the inside of your chest the way the first cold water of a stream breaks against your bare feet.
"Hello, cyar'ika."
"You sound…like a person."
"I am a person."
"I know you are. I just haven’t heard…" you break off, because you don’t have the word, He laughs again, very softly, and you feel his bare hand come up to your face and lay against your cheek.
Then you feel his mouth.
His mouth.
Not the chin of the helmet, or the brow of the visor, but his actual mouth, warm and slightly chapped, pressing to the corner of yours.
You don’t open your eyes. You only turn your face blindly the small distance it needs to turn, and let your lips find his, and the small soft sound that comes out of you when they do is not a sound you knew you know how to make.
He kisses you slowly, the way a man kisses for the first time something he’s been wanting to kiss for a very long time. The soft press of his lips against yours, the small careful catch of his upper lip against your lower, the warm uneven breath of him through his nose against your cheek. You feel the brush of stubble and, very faintly, the tip of his tongue, tentatively brushing the seam of your lips, asking.
You open your mouth to him.
The sound he makes is small and broken and not for anyone but you. His tongue slides against yours, warm and slow, and you taste him for the first time – a clean simple human taste, the faint trace of the caf you shared earlier, the warmth of a mouth that’s been hidden from you for a year and that is, now, very deliberately, no longer hidden.
He kisses you the way he does everything else – with a careful patient attention, as if you’re a thing he’s been given permission to study and intends to study well. The hand at your cheek slides into your hair behind the knot of the scarf whilst the other finds your waist. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, and you sit there blindfolded on the bench with your hands fisted lightly in the fabric of his undershirt, kissing him back. Dimly, somewhere behind the warm flood of it, you realise that you’re going to remember this for as long as you live.
He pulls back, finally, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven against your mouth.
"I’ve wanted that for so long."
"I know, Din."
You stroke the back of his neck, where the hair is curled and soft and feel the small involuntary lean of him into your hand.
"Take your time," you say, again. "Take all of it. I'm not going anywhere."
He kisses you once more – a slow soft press, his lower lip catching at yours – and then he begins to move down.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, the line of your jaw and the soft place beneath your ear that, for a year, has only ever been touched by the cool curve of a visor. The sound you make when his actual mouth finds it is small and shocked and entirely involuntary. He laughs against your throat, low and pleased, and the warm breath of him there makes you shiver.
"That," he says, against your skin, "is a sound I’ve wanted to be the cause of for a long time."
"You have been the cause of it."
"Not like this."
He kisses the hollow of your throat and the small notch above your sternum, his bare hands sliding down to the hem of your shirt, fingers finding the small fastening at the side and working it with the quiet competence of a man who has undressed you a hundred times in the dark. He draws the shirt up over your head, careful of the scarf and your closed eyes beneath it. You lift your arms and let him. Then you feel the cool air of the hold on your skin, and a moment later, the warm slow trail of his mouth down your sternum, between your breasts, to the small soft place at the base of your ribs where you once told him, in the dark, that you’re ticklish.
He pauses there, smiles against your skin, and then, very gently and deliberately, he kisses you there.
You laugh and he laughs against your stomach, unfiltered and warm.
"Din…you’re enjoying yourself."
"I am."
His hands slide up your sides, find your breasts, cups them with a warm careful weight that he’s given you many times before, but which feels now like something entirely new. His thumbs stroke across your nipples, slow, and you arch into his hands. He makes a low pleased sound that the modulator has never been allowed to give you, and you feel his mouth close warm and wet around one nipple, making you gasp.
He takes his time, kissing, licking and drawing gently with his teeth whilst his hand kneads the other breast in slow rhythm. You sit blindfolded on the bench with your hand fisted in the back of his hair and let him learn you, finally, with the part of him he’s never been allowed to use.
He moves to the other breast and gives it the same patient attention. His mouth is hot, and a little wet, and the small hoarse appreciative sounds he makes against your skin are the most undisciplined things you’ve ever heard from him.
When he finally lifts his head, you’re breathing hard, the scarf warm against your closed eyes.
"I want…"
"Yes."
"You don't know yet what I’m going to say."
"I do, Din. Yes."
You feel him laugh again, very softly. His hands slide down your sides to the waist of your trousers and work the fastening, drawing them down, carefully, over your hips, down your thighs and then off, over your feet. He sets them aside and you sit naked on the bench in the blue half-dark of the hold with a blindfold tied across your eyes and a man whose face you’ve never seen kneeling between your thighs.
You had never, in your entire life, felt safer.
"Lie back," he murmurs.
The bench is narrow, but he guides you, his hands warm at your hips, until you’re settled along its length with your head pillowed on your bunched-up shirt, your knees bent and your feet planted on the metal. You feel the cool air of the hold on every inch of you then feel his hands stroke up the inside of your thighs, parting them, and your knees fall open for him.
You do not, for one single second, consider opening your eyes.
Then he kneels at the foot of the bench, and you feel his hands slide up under your thighs, lift them gently, hook them over his shoulders and his face come down between your legs, the warm uneven breath of his open mouth against the inside of your thigh.
You feel the small drag of stubble against the soft skin of your inner thigh and the warm wet press of his tongue. The small low sound he makes in the back of his throat is, you know, simply pleasure and he kisses his way up, taking his time. He kisses the crease where your thigh meets your hip, then the other one. He kisses the small soft place just above where you’re already wet for him, and the warm exhale of his breath against you there makes you shake.
"Din…please…"
"I’ve waited a year for this," he says, against your skin, his voice low and unfiltered and warm. “Let me have this."
You lay your hand on the back of his head. "Have it."
His mouth closes over you and the sound that comes out of you is not quiet and not in any language you know. He’s…he’s good at this, in a way you haven’t been prepared for, the way a man can be good at a thing he’s never done because he’s thought about doing it for a very long time and has spent that time paying close attention to the woman he’s going to do it to.
He knows where you’re sensitive. He knows the small place just to the left of centre that makes your hips lift. He knows the rhythm you like, the slow building one, the kind that gathers and gathers and doesn’t break and doesn’t break – and finally breaks.
He makes small sounds against you, low, hungry ones. Sounds that the modulator has never given you, that come from somewhere deep in his chest and vibrate against you in ways that make you fist your hand in his hair and gasp his name aloud in the half-dark. You hear your own voice come back to you off the bulkheads, but you don’t care.
He licks into you, drawing you into his mouth and sucking, slowly and carefully, the small steady rhythm of it building a low heat in your belly that climbs by inches and then by feet. He slides one hand up your stomach to find your breast, and his thumb strokes your nipple in time with his mouth, the small precise coordination of it almost more than the heat itself.
The other hand slides down and you feel two fingers slide into you.
"Din…"
He hums against you, the vibration running up your spine.
"Din, I'm…"
He hums again and doesn’t stop or slow. He draws you steady into his mouth, curls his fingers inside you and the climb gathers and gathers and the warm wet patient rhythm of him doesn’t let up. You feel your hand tighten in his hair, your hips lift against his mouth, and your breath catch on a sound that’s almost a sob.
And you break.
It washes over you in long white waves. You come against his mouth with your back arched off the bench and your hand fisted hard in hair and his name – Din, Din, Din – falling out of you in a wrecked rhythm that matches the pulse of it. He doesn’t stop. He stays with you, his mouth gentling but not lifting, his tongue easing into a slow patient stroke that draws it out, the small careful hum of him still vibrating against you, until the waves ebb to a long warm ache and your hand in his hair loosens and your hips settle, trembling, back to the bench.
He kisses you, easing his fingers out of you. Then he lays his cheek – warm and rough with stubble – against the inside of your thigh, and stays there a long moment, breathing.
"Cyar'ika..."
"I'm here,” you say, your voice wrecked. "I'm here, Din."
You stroke the back of his head and feel the wave of his hair under your fingers.
"You…" you try, “are very good at that."
He laughs again, low and a little surprised. "Thank you."
"I'm just saying."
"I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
"It shows."
He laughs again and you love him so much, in that moment, that you have to press your free hand to your mouth.
Minutes later, he kisses his way slowly back up your body – your hip, your stomach, the soft place at your ribs that makes you laugh, your sternum, the curve of your breast, the line of your throat, the soft place beneath your ear – and he settles, eventually, half over you on the bench, his weight braced on one forearm beside your head, his other hand stroking slow lazy circles on your stomach. He kisses your mouth slowly and you taste yourself on him.
You stroke his face with your fingertips, eyes closed, learning it the way he’s learned you in the dark of the bunk. You feel the line of his jaw, the rough patch of stubble there, the long bridge of his nose which is a little crooked, the curve of his cheekbone, and the small warm corner of his eye where there are the faint lines of a man who, despite everything, has laughed often enough to mark them.
He holds very still and lets you map him.
"I'm just…looking," you murmur.
"I know."
"Without looking."
"I know."
You stroke the line of his mouth and feel him smile under your fingertips. You feel the small, dry, warm press of his lower lip and the slight chap at the corner and the small, unguarded, pleased curve of him under your touch, and you lay your palm flat against his cheek and hold it there.
And you let yourself say a sentence you’ve never said before.
"I love you, Din."
"I know," he says. “I know."
"I needed you to hear me say it."
He kisses your palm.
"I love you," he says. “I love you, cyar’ika. I’ve loved you for a long time. I’m…" he searches. “I’m still learning how to let myself say it. But I do."
You lie there for a long moment, the cool air of the hold raising small bumps along your bare skin, your mind absorbing the words he’s just spoken. The warm weight of his forearm beside your head, the warm slow circles of his hand on your stomach, the small steady unfiltered breath of him near your ear – you catalogue all of it, eyes closed, the way you’ve catalogued him through the visor.
"Din?"
"Mm."
"Don't put the helmet back on yet."
The hand on your stomach pauses.
"I want…" you turn your face blindly toward where his is and feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. "I want you, Din. Like this. While you're still…still like this."
He doesn’t answer and you stroke his cheek again, feeling the small tense stillness of him, the careful held breath, the place where he’s sitting with the size of what you’ve just asked for.
"I won't open my eyes," you say firmly. "I haven’t even thought about opening them. The scarf can stay. I just…I want to feel you. I want all of you. Once, just once, with nothing in the way."
He’s silent so long you think, briefly, you’ve asked too much. Then his forehead lowers to yours and, for the first time, you feel the skin of him against the skin of you there.
"You don't have to. If it's too much…"
"It's not too much. I’m only…I’m only trying to remember how to breathe. Give me a moment."
You lie there blindfolded with his bare forehead against yours, his warm breath against your mouth and his hand splayed motionless across your stomach and let him have whatever moment he needs. You have time. For the rest of your life with him, you have time.
Eventually, his breath evens and his thumb on your stomach resumes its small, slow circle.
"Yes," he says quietly and starts to undress.
You don’t see it of course, you hear it. The soft rustle of him sitting up, the quiet drag of the undershirt being pulled over his head, the small clink of his belt unfastening, the rough whisper of fabric over skin as he strips the trousers off. You hear him set everything aside, carefully, the way he sets the armour aside at night, not because it matters where the clothes go, but because the small ritual of placing them gives his hands something to do while the rest of him catches up.
The bench is too narrow, and you feel his hands slide under your shoulders and your knees as he lifts you against his bare chest and carries you the short distance to the bunk.
You feel the familiar give of the mattress as he lays you down on it and kisses you again, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head where the knot of the scarf still holds, warm now from your skin. It doesn’t slip and you don’t open your eyes.
He settles between your thighs, hard against the soft, warm wet of you, the blunt heat of him pressing where his mouth was not long ago. He presses his bare forehead to yours.
"Cyar'ika…tell me if…"
"Yes, Din. Yes."
He slides into you in a way neither of you have had before – his actual skin against your actual skin from head to toe. He presses his forehead harder to yours and holds there a long shaking moment, just breathing against your mouth, and you understand – blindly, behind the scarf, the warmth of him everywhere on you – that he’s as undone as you are.
"Cyar'ika..."
"Oh Maker, Din…please move."
He moves slowly. He has to because you realise that anything faster will break him. He draws back, almost out, then slides back in, and the warm long stroke of it without anything between you is a thing that makes your breath catch on a small, wrecked sound. He kisses you while he does it, his mouth on yours, swallowing the sound, his tongue moving in slow time with his hips, the unfiltered uneven breath of him pouring into you between kisses. His hands are on you everywhere – your face, your throat, your breast, your hip, your thigh, the small place at the back of your knee where he once told you he likes to touch you in the dark because the skin there is the softest – because he can’t decide where to put them.
You wrap your arms around his back, feeling the long, warm muscle of him and slide your fingers up into his hair, the shape of him under your palms entirely revealed, entirely yours, for this one moment in this one bunk, in the warm blue half-dark of the Crest.
He kisses you over and over whilst he moves in you with that long, warm, slow rhythm, his hips finding yours, the small soft sounds of him unfiltered against your mouth, the warm, wet, patient slide of him building a heat in you that’s slower and deeper than anything you’ve felt with him before. You feel it climb the way the sea climbs a beach, by inches, no hurry, no urgency, only the inevitable.
His hand slides down between you, his thumb finding where his mouth has been and circles it in time with his hips. You break the kiss on a small, wrecked sound and he presses his forehead to yours and breathes against your mouth and watches you as the tide climbs and climbs.
"I'm…"
"I know."
"Din…"
"I know. Come for me, cyar'ika. I want to feel you. I need to…I have you."
You come hard, his body pressed flush to yours, his mouth on yours, his thumb steady and patient through every shaking pulse of it. You sob his name and he drinks it, kissing you through it. He doesn’t stop moving, the long, slow stroke of him in you carrying you all the way through and out the other side, until you’re limp and shaking and gasping against his lips.
Then he lets go and the broken sound he makes when he does is the most undone thing you’ve ever heard from him. His body locks against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand fisted in the bedding beside your head, and you feel him spill into you in long, warm pulses with his mouth pressed open and shaking against yours. You hold him through it, your hands flat against his back, your knees high around his hips, and you understand that you’ll never, for as long as you live, have anything more than this.
He stays inside you, on top of you, his forehead against yours, his breath slowing against your mouth. You stroke his back and the hair at the base of his skull and don’t say anything for a long time, because there’s nothing that needs saying.
Eventually, he kisses you, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss you’ve not known a person could give until tonight, his mouth lingering on yours with the small soft drag of his lower lip.
"Thank you," he whispers.
You stroke his cheek. "Thank you, Din."
****
He holds you for a long time before eventually carefully easing out of you and settling his weight beside you in the bunk, pulling you against his chest with your scarfed face pressed to the warm hollow of his throat. You feel his pulse there, feel the small, unfiltered rhythm of his breath against the top of your head, feel his hand splayed warm and possessive across the small of your back, the thumb stroking slow absent circles.
You lie there with your eyes still closed under the scarf and listen to him breathe then feel his lips press, eventually, to the top of your head, the warm, soft kiss of his actual mouth in your hair.
"I'm going to need to put it back on,” he says finally.
"I know," you say, feeling a pull in your throat.
"Not yet."
"No?"
"A few more minutes."
"Take all the minutes you want."
He holds you and somewhere in the small warm dark of the bunk, in the long patient afterglow, the man whose face you haven’t seen, and will not see, presses his bare mouth to the top of your head once more and you understand that he’s committing the unguarded moment to memory the way you are – building it into a thing he’ll carry with him in the long, modulated dark of every day after.
Eventually, he stirs.
"Cyar'ika…keep them closed."
"They’re closed."
You feel him ease out from under you and the cool air of the bunk rushes in to where his warmth has been. You hear the quiet click of the helmet's seal engaging and the small mechanical breath of the vocoder coming back online.
The next sound out of him is filtered again, modulated, but the voice underneath is yours now. Privately and permanently. A thing you’ll carry like the shape of his face under your fingertips. Something that nobody else in the galaxy will ever be given.
He comes back to the bunk, his hand moving to rest on the back of your head. Then he unties the scarf and draws it from your eyes.
You keep them closed a moment longer and then, when you open them, the visor’s waiting and you smile up at him in the blue half-dark.
"Hi, Din."
The vocoder catches a low pleased sound as he bends and presses the brow of the visor to your forehead in the substitute kiss, the one that hasn’t become any smaller for the existence of the other. If anything, it’s grown larger, because you know now exactly what it stands in for, and how willingly he set it down for you, and how carefully he’s picked it back up.
You lay your hand against the side of the helmet and hold him there.
"Come to bed."
He climbs in behind you and pulls you back against his chest, the helmet pressing to the top of your head, his hand splayed warm and possessive across your stomach.
The scarf is somewhere on the floor of the bunk and, tomorrow, you’ll find it, fold it and put it back where it belongs, with the rest of the small private inventory of things that smell of you and him and of the ship that has become, against every odd and every doctrine, the home you didn’t know you were going to find.
You close your eyes and, behind you, in the dark, his thumb strokes once across your stomach and the vocoder catches a long even contented breath.
And the man who lives inside the armour, the man whose face you haven’t seen, holds you against his chest and doesn’t, for the first time in a very long time, find anything in himself that needs pacing around.
