18+
Content: post season two, third person pov (din focused)
Word count: 1643
Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader
Having completed his mission with uniting Grogu with the Jedi, Din returns to the life of bounty hunting in search of a familiarity. Only, he suspects he'll find something much grander as he comes in contact with a new face and a job that's a little more than he anticipated.
Read on AO3
Tatooine suns’ are unforgiving against Din’s back and he can feel the Beskar encasing his head heating up rather quickly. The folds of cloth around his neck are wet with sweat, chafing against his freshly shaven skin with each slight head turn. He’s dealt with discomfort worse and in hindsight this was far down on the ladder of difficulties, but that doesn’t stop him from shifting in his position in hopes he can find a cool patch of sand underneath his belly or at the least wipe some of the sweat from his body.
He zeroes in his scope and uses his visor to aid in his search, activating his thermals. The hustle and bustle of Tatooine glow in a mixture of orange and yellows, except one blur of dark blue between it all and it gains Din’s attention just for a moment—some sort of product a vendor is selling on a table—before his scope moves about five metres behind it to a building. Small and compact. Same architecture as most of the cantinas around here, but Din had an eye for these things; couldn’t be a particularly profitable establishment with how little traffic there was. There’s specks of orange to the far left corner of the building and another two at the very top. Din watches and waits, and waits, and waits. Twenty minutes pass, and then forty.
Tatooine’s suns have lowered significantly until their bottom halves are hidden past the horizon. It’d been three days and there were two things Din could prove he learnt from it all. These guys weren’t exceptionally skilled. Din had encountered Stormtroopers with more sense than these lot. Between having matches on who’d hit bottles on the rooftops with fewer blasterfire and falling asleep with no back-up in sight—at least Troopers tried . Secondly, Din needed to stick to higher paying missions if he was to continue.
His breath is hot and leaves his helmet feeling humid. It’s all so suffocating. The sand getting inside the folds of his flightsuit, a wetness everywhere a little bit of fabric touches skin, beskar armour cooking his muscles.
Actually, make it three things—Boba Fett was tougher than he makes up to be.
Din pushes these nuisance thoughts aside and tries not to think of the metal flooring of his ship or how it’d feel against his bare back. He levels his head, narrows his focus on the job.
Their patrolling routine is transparent, weak. They take short shifts with the same six people on rotation for outside duties. Two rifles sit at the rooftop and a blaster on the ground. He hadn’t seen much inside, just small glimpses when a door opened, but he couldn't imagine an entire army in there and even if there was—he always did like those odds.
Din’s a great fighter and a better marksman. He weighs his options; ambush or flush them out. He lets a sigh out from his nose, more from exhaustion than frustration, and reaches towards his boot. He thumbs a shell into his palm and slips it into the rifle, inching back into steady position. Din searches for his mark, iron sights whipping past the same vendor but he finds himself doing a double take . It’s a woman, her arms crossed tight against her midsection with a stance that resembles a bodyguard. Din finds her face most interesting; a thick scar on the left side of her cheek but, more curiously, her eyes are fixated right at Din. The skin on his arms raises in bumps.
Din’s position was perfect; out of the way of any nearby ship bays for overhead traffic, no paths in the surrounding, and he hadn’t seen any Tusken’s either—though he could handle them. Yet she stares right through the lens of his amban rifle and almost pierces his visor.
Unconsciously his finger moves from the trigger to rest beside it. She hardly looks like a threat. Besides from her posture, Din wouldn’t bat an eye at her. Though, it’s been proven that looks can be deceiving. She holds strong eye contact right up until the moment she twists her head to her left and he follows her direction. His scope discovers nothing out of the ordinary. There’s another building with crates and supplies on the roof, a door that looks rather untouched for such a compact town, and—there’s movement. It’s faint and he would have missed it if he didn’t have a sudden curiosity for the area, but there’s a shadow on the roof. Looks to be more patrollers, probably hiding behind all of the supplies. Din returns to the woman for confirmation but now she’s looking to the right, where another shelter lays await. He sweeps the area but doesn’t see anything of interest, or anyone. But he finds himself trusting his newfound informant all the same. They share a look through his lens, one that reads this job just got a whole lot harder before she abruptly cuts contact and returns to serving a customer at her stall.
Nighttime on Tatooine wasn’t much cooler than daytime and as Din stalks the streets he’s surprised there’s still some hustle and bustle. He can’t imagine this planet any good for night life, especially not after some of the previous he’s journeyed through. He brushes past a group of locals gathered outside a shady cantina and ignores their inquisitive murmurs, entering a rundown alley. The thermal vision still shows the trace of footprints and he follows, ducking his head on metal pipes and contorting his body to fit through gaps and wires. Nobody should traverse this alley, but certainly not somebody of his size and even with all of his beskar a jagged fence still nicks him in the arm. Din winces more out of principle than pain. He had just fixed this flightsuit.
He takes this time to feel a little sorry for himself. Three days and he hadn’t even uncovered all the stones, gaps missing, leads left unfollowed. He had been called a lot of things over the years; skilled, warrior, detective, terrifying, monster, but Din was always his worst enemy. That’s what happened when you grew up as an outsider in the covert, you never felt as though you belonged even if they said otherwise. Din was his own judge, jury, and executioner. He’ll be punishing himself for weeks for being so incompetent while on a mission.
Din squeezes through a final gap and finds himself in a small room within the alley, a makeshift one at least. There’s lights hanging from pipes overhead with a couch to the left and to the right is a workbench of some kind. It’s got supplies and crates strewn throughout as well. It’s no ship, but definitely somebody’s home. There had been a time in his life, many years ago, where he had a setup like this one though not quite as warm; in a literal sense and not. Had he had a soft place to sleep throughout his youth perhaps his back wouldn’t be so poor, and if he had as much as half the space here, well, he wouldn’t know what to do with it all.
Thick, blocky letters are painted on the side of a crate ‘PERISHABLE’. Din recognises this is more than likely a merchants base. Some place to stay in between gruelling hours beneath twin suns. As if to confirm his beliefs, that odd vendor from earlier steps around a corner that blended in a little too well for his comfort. She looks him up and down, unbothered and clearly unsurprised by his presence—he copies. She's all a blur of brown and beige, heavy cloaks and rags draped over her shoulders; bandoliers and belts peaking from beneath. It’s as though she stripped a Tusken bare and donned their clothes. Din’s hand rested on his belt but it now shifts to his holster. She’s allowing him to see the holsters strapped to her chest, but who knows what she’s got under her sleeves, her calves.
“You’re hurt,” she nods to his arm, voice like oil. Smooth and slightly thick like he could drown if she spoke enough.
“Just a scratch. This is where you live?”
“Didn’t your lot live in the sewers?”
Well, he supposes so, though how does she know of the covert? Din had met his fair share of strange Mandalorians but she certainly didn’t give off that energy. One can never be too sure. Boba Fett helped him realise that.
“I’m not Mandalorian.” She answers his unspoken question. “It’s no secret anymore, even less so who you are. The Mandalorian . Heard of some rather curious tales about you. I’m interested in seeing whether they’re true or not.”
Din’s forefinger taps against his blaster absentmindedly, it’s something he’d picked up not long after parting ways with Grogu—though he still didn’t understand it himself. If he wanted to warn his enemies of their impending danger, he was nailing it. Look down here, yeah, right here. Idiotic.
She sees it. How could she not? Yet, she stays unphased. Her arms rest across her chest but that’s about it.
“Go on,” she says and for a moment Din’s taken aback, until she continues, “ask your questions. You want to know the ins and outs of this town, right?”
This is starting to get unnerving, how she keeps reading his thoughts this way, and his interest is piqued. She’s fascinating and Din wants to know so much more.
“Who are you?”
“A vendor who wants this scum out of this town. Besides that? Nobody, really.” The corners of her lips pull up and out into a sly smirk.
He can’t make heads or tails of her—friend or foe, nobody or somebody —but her behaviour is intriguing. She’s intriguing.
our kids, our orange cats… I'm feel like a housewife when his husbands go to the war (? Maybe for another person this is sooo melodramatic but I don’t care, if she left me, I gonna die.
Hello, I wanted to say I miss your writing, and I hope you are well. You’re one of my favs and I’ve been thinking of you lately, so I thought I’d check in.
hello!! this is such a nice thing to sign on to. i am okay, just very demotivated to write fics---BUT i'm hoping to change that. i've got everything planned out for the GAM fic, just need to actually write it. i am so sorry, i feel like i've neglected you all! my life has been a little busy and just getting over some mental bumps but i should be okay.
i hope you're doing well!! i miss reading your little reviews of my work, they always made my week <3
i'm gonna try to get back into writing and hopefully i'll have an update for you real soon :)
18+
Content: post season two, third person pov (din focused), din being a grouch tbh, language
Word Count: 5652
Pairing: Haunted!Din Djarin/Mando!Reader
Din Djarin is subjected to malevolent whispers from a blade he doesn't wish to own; they speak to him - encourage him to pursue the deepest and darkest of his desires. It's impossible to control and when it comes too much, he's forced to finally let go—to become the Mand'alor he's written out to be by an ancient power.
Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist
CHAPTER FOUR: DAR'MANDA
Din is a blank canvas touched by an infant.
He’s brand-new; spotless, pristine until within reach of gummy hands and black hole eyes. They’re on a manhunt for someone capable of absorbing their brutish blows - someone with equal darkness as their words, their hands. The Ancients are the infants in the equation, naturally; disorganised and temperamental equivalent to hazardous chemical handled by a half-witted Gungan.
Quoting them as younglings is perhaps too offensive to those he’s met in life. While similar qualities are shared between the two, he could never compare such inhumaneness to those outsized eyes and pointed floppy ears. It’s beyond disrespectful to his image.
Purity is what that youngling was crafted of. The living embodiment of a plight definitely, but overflowing with an innocence that casts the sinless into a shadow. Proficient in wielding the Force yet never choosing to manipulate it for bad—Din isn’t confident the ancient’s would decide the same pathway if they possessed those same abilities; if he had them.
They’re significantly overemotional to the brink of manic.
They alternate between perspectives as if searching through a catalogue of the finest blasters; agreeing on one before the black of their eyes are drawn to another and the cycle repeats, never satisfied. They’ve desired to expose their so-called partner’s face this entire time - to chip away at the wall of her security until it breaches and unveils what lays on the other side. Now they look at her in contempt - with daggers made of serrated edges that tear apart flesh and bones, igniting a flame to boil blood until it jellifies.
They’re traditionalists—living by the code they designed to suit their people.
There are rules in place. Regulations that were overshadowed with carnality and she had been the root of it all. She’s got a pull...a force. Different to that of the Darksaber; thin and stretchy compared to the thick heaviness he’s becoming accustomed to. It’s unique, as though indifferent to his presence - dragging him inwards but never assertive.
It allows for him to decide whether or not he wishes to advance and, evidently, Din continues to find himself blindly complying with its request.
Din plays a mediator with distractions he knows best: piloting and remaining pre-occupied, but that proves challenging once the Gladiator reaches hyperspace. Unknowingly, he’s formulated his own routine - flicking through the navigational controls in search of a destination that supplies half-decent sustenance, inspecting the basic maintenance of her craft, and finally back to communing with violent echoes. It’s something he’s been doing a lot as of late. Rather than distancing himself and eavesdropping, he now debates them - negotiates and questions.
They possess traits he sees in himself. Brutality. A means to an end.
In his lap sits his partner’s spirit; the very Creed she devoted her entire way of living - not merely just protection and beliefs, but her identity, too. His fingertips throb with each press against the beskar. Its distinct blackness is bizarrely symbolic; empty, vacant, lifeless. The tint no longer burns into him—it’s nothing more than a closed-off window with a wall behind it; entirely pointless.
Din recalls the grouped Mandalorian helmets in the Ewok village. Thinks of how hers would be thrown amongst them. He peeks down the corridor where her quarters lie—where he laid her unconscious body atop her bunk all those hours ago.
She should have awoken by now.
He should remain seated—protect her from the birthing blizzard in his chest—yet there’s prodding at the nape of his neck urging him down the pathway. Din rubs a hand against the thick of his cowl in denial that it's not simply his conscience but that resilient pull again - directing him to her like a homing beacon.
The swoosh of her retracting door is uncomfortably loud in contrast to the silence inside. The room is lit with brief glimmers of starlight that spring against his polished armour; he stands out like a sore thumb amongst the shadows but he disregards it and shifts his eyes to the far corner. She’s melted into the blend of black lumps, forcing him to maneuver through unfamiliar territory to analyse her state.
But he’s not even halfway inside before a solid arm is wrapped around his throat from behind. Unimpressed with the impolite greeting, Din attempts to turn his helmet but she ensures he doesn’t get the opportunity - pressing the point of a vibro-knife against the exposed portion of his side.
She doesn’t dare say anything but Din understands completely.
“It wasn’t me.”
He goes into vivid detail about what occurred while she was unconscious - the massacre of Endor’s Mandalorian covert - all the death his actions resulted in - her determined fate of becoming the finest Mando-stew - the torture he inflicted on those remaining Ewoks.
It doesn’t seem to land on her; perhaps she merely doesn’t believe his words - his ability to slay an entire tribe - or maybe she just wants to take out her frustration on him. Din places a hand atop her vambrace as she constricts, silently threatening him—he realises she won’t speak without her modulator and it’s currently the only excuse why he hasn’t thrown her overhead from her audacity; a charitable act the Ancient’s aren’t fond of, but they comply.
Still, the circumstance is less than pleasant.
She’s strong beneath all of her armour and he wordlessly admits he wasn’t expecting such resistance. It shouldn’t surprise him after years of living as a Mandalorian and hauling all that load, and yet.
“This isn’t the gratitude I was expecting,” Din grunts. “I could have left you to become a meal for those parasites.”
She jabs him with her blade - a prick - barely a drops worth of blood, but she’s toed the line too long.
“Enough.” Din tears her forearm from his neck as he would to an intrusive necklace, effortlessly, and spins their bodies, the force of the momentum rendering her on her knees with her back towards him.
She’s cast in light from the corridor, tendril streams of yellow-white washing over the crest of her head, highlighting the shine of her hair, and hugging the folds of her flight suit. Shoulders hunched with fight. Head dipped to preserve her shrivelled honour. It irritates the ancients - irks them that she continues to act as if she contains a shred of it. They pull his hand to her shoulder and he tries to stop them - tries to resist the need for his fingers to pinch and drag her into the light but the motion is too fluid, too determined for a glimpse.
As luck would have it, she’s already suspicious of his attempts and wards off his hand before he’s knocked on his ass with a blow to his abdominals. Din grunts as he hits the floor but it’s not long before she’s the cause of his groans—a lean knee rooted into the weak of his hip.
Din’s helmet cranes to his Darksaber loose on his waistband positioned awkwardly beneath her weight, absentminded fingers creeping to its edge.
“Eyes on me.”
The sound of her voice is so distinct—a flavour, almost. It’s as rich as the desserts of Naboo, stretched thick with melted creams and custards. Ethereal in a way that’s unimaginable, like a Starbird; fabled and impossibly otherworldly. Best of all, it’s comforting - familiar. Compounded with recollections of returning to his covert with his mentor after a harsh mission in his earlier years; similar to the voice that’d greet him with a blunt slap on the back and a ready for round two, red?
They’re identical in many ways, especially their attitude; fearless and certain of themselves.
It’s like a piece of home has returned to him at long last.
Din’s helmet tinks against the alloy flooring as he settles into his position, granting her request. Colourless pools stare through him - eyes that one could easily find themselves lost in; not in dismay but as that of a hazy forest, easily misled until surrounded by nothing but shadows and gloom and terror. Nonetheless, it goes without saying, she’s breathtaking. What might appear as flaws to selective men, are details that simply punctuate her features to Din; the craters of exhaustion draws his attention to her eyes, the slice on her cheek to her velvety skin, chapped lips sparking his to subconsciously part. Perhaps it’s simply because she’s seated on his lap in a, well, suggestive position or the ancients have been overfed with her exposure, but the hammering in his chest inadvertently fosters a sigh to escape his lips—though one could argue it sounded more of a moan than anything.
She sneers, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it - to have me revealed before your very eyes? Well, take a good fucking look at the eyes that’ll be the cause of your demise.”
“Your anger is misdirected. I understand losing—”
“You don’t fucking understand though, do you? You’re the most honourable of all - The Mand’alor.” Din cringes at the way she hisses his title and he senses himself retreating from her fury, at least the smallest part of him, but then he’s yanked front and centre like he’s a youngling preparing for his initiation; hands of strong conviction with a grip firmer than a Wampa—he would know, he’s encountered plenty—pressuring him into a situation he’s unprepared for.
You cannot admit defeat.
His demeanour shifts quick, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of quick. They don’t even provide her with an opportunity to recognise he’s got a hand around her wrist before he slips from beneath her and exchanges positions, compressing her into the alloy unforgivingly.
She sits in self-pity, ashamed he gained the upper hand so effortlessly and tears her head to the side.
“Look at me,” Din requests. When she refuses, he does what he knows will encourage her to resort to words: push and push, “Do you feel the loss of your pride - humiliation beneath the eyes of your leader? Is that why you won’t look at me?”
“You still bear your helmet and soul. It’s a privilege that I was robbed of. You look at me with shame and - and dissatisfaction. When I look at you all I can see is myself. A shiny reflection of someone I don’t recognise. So, forgive me if I’m not appeasing your thirst for power by not looking at you - not quivering in your fucking shadow.”
The ferocity settles. The blizzard shifting to delicate snowfall.
It allows him to stop and think: to study her appearance.
On closer inspection he discovers her eyes aren’t colourless in the slightest, but so deficient of personality as though it evacuated on a spacecraft too harsh on her irises; scarring a crater in its place. It makes his lungs teeter and she hasn't even looked at him. Beneath his protection, beneath the polished ridges of reinforced alloy—his blanket of honour and virtue and identity—Din chokes on his words.
“I must admit, I hadn’t expected you to look so—”
Din doesn’t choke. Chokes others, sure, but himself—over a girl, no less? It’s laughable - and they do laugh; a roaring choir of howls that shudders his confidence and causes him to withdraw but she’s looking right at him now. No, not him, but herself. Soft blinks at his visor as she gradually attempts to come to terms with her new normal.
“Mesh’la.”
She flinches as if he’s burned her. “What?”
“Look at yourself, will you?” The helmet dips once more, right up close and personal so she can genuinely come to appreciate her beauty in his tint. “It’s a shame such splendour has been hidden away all this time.”
It’s not outright obvious how she perceives his comments, not without her words, but years living under a guise has compromised her ability to conceal her emotions through expressions; and Din has learnt to take the soft blush of a woman’s cheeks as indication enough. He consumes the flush, drinks in the colour and heat like required nourishment.
But he thirsts for more, he’ll always want more. “I must know your name. Please?”
Resorting to a please is a new low for the ancients and yet they’re silent. Just as eager to put a name to a face as Din.
She snaps back to reality and presses a palm to his visor to push him away. “This is all just about the power for you, isn’t it? You’ve gotten my face and now you want my name. What’s next? My life?”
“That’s not -”
“You’re my leader no longer, Sir,” she mocks.
That’s exactly not what to say to the ancients’ faces; but she’s none the wiser to the situation at hand, of course. They’re deep in the celestials where no craft can journey, while she’s rooted to the firm ground as the most blest flora. She’s got not even an inkling of the potential of destruction simmering above her and, yet, Din suspects her behaviour would only double if she was to know the truth. There’s a mute dictatorial request in his ears—one imploring him to demonstrate his power, his abilities, a warning to watch her tone—but it goes neglected, his polar opposite temperament kicking in to shield her. Instead, he cedes his position above her but he senses it was the wrong thing to do.
He’s once again cushioning her boot with his abdominals, a lithe dagger aimed at his amourless collarbones.
Must she always turn to violence?
She is Mandalorian.
Was.
“You don’t want to do this,” he warns with a hand on his belt.
It’s mere intimidation. A deterrent.
She reconsiders, her eyes bouncing to-and-fro from his visor to his Darksaber, and her shoulders slack when she comes to the realisation she can’t defeat what she’s witnessed firsthand.
“I’m taking you back.”
“Back?”
“Where I found you. Nevarro. You’re in touch with people; you’ll get your hands on another spacecraft out of there. I can’t - won’t take you further than that.”
Din’s fingers are encasing her wrist before he realises it, tugging her away from the sleeping quarter’s hatch, hell-bent on changing her mind though he doesn’t understand why. The ancients are to blame, he decides, they mustn’t be finished with her yet.
“I told you I would assist you in your mission.”
“Consider the alliance terminated then,” she says, snatching herself out of his leathers.
“Come now, that’s a bit—”
The air is almost hot with her anger; he swears he can hear the snap of her patience splintering in his ears.
“You don’t fucking get it, do you? I just lost everything I had—my life, my honour, my purpose—and it’s quite a coincidence this just so happened to occur the moment I met you. I’ve managed to go decades without ever being in such a close call. So, tell me how I let myself so open to attack; how preoccupied I was with your objective.”
Din bites his lip—actually bites his lip because if he doesn't, the ancient’s will voice words that will only cause her to lose her temper. Words like because you’re unskilled, clumsy, incompetent. Words that work against them in every sense.
It thrums against his thigh in pulses. Deep but disconnected—not quite reaching that unsettling murmur he’s witnessed before.
“Are you putting the blame on my shoulders?”
“Kind of implying it, yeah. Do I need to lay it on thick for you to understand?” She sighs and steps out into the hallway where the light hits her clearly though she doesn’t turn to him. “The minute we land, you’re out and I won’t stab you. Sounds like a good deal.”
It’s not up for debate, not in her eyes, and she leaves to go and realign the Gladiator’s navigation to Nevarro as promised. Din assesses her unit; it’s small in size with a bunk, window, and not much else. Even the cells on the New Republic transfer ships looked homier than this, though he presumes she doesn’t mind. It’s a sanctuary—all Mandalorians had one. A place where they can remove the helmet, breathe in some newly filtered air.
Something she no longer required.
Din turns to leave but as he does, his boot kicks against something solid and made of an alloy that scrapes across the ground. He retrieves the object and investigates; a beskad, and a sharpened one, at that. The blade glitters in the starlight, the hilt made of heavy wood in his palm - weathered. Signs of past being well-used. An insignia is carved into the base, a kell dragon. One with dozens of spiked teeth and jutting horns atop its head. It clicks something within him—a faint, distant memory of similar-looking symbols. There are little recollections tied to it, so it can’t have been too important, but he can’t think of any reasons as to why she would have this. It’s not prevalent in Mandalorian culture; something unknown to many. It’s aged, many years so. Perhaps the possession of a relative.
Everything in him tells him not to interrogate her on the matter, not yet. She won’t answer him anyhow—and Din agrees; steps down from his position of higher humility than ghostly whispers and bad influences until they’re level.
And he doesn’t question why he’s so blindly accepting the embrace of lethargic arms.
***
There’s been a lack of interaction between them since she woke. Since that whole debacle of bitter words and corrosive touches. She had metaphorically stained his beskar; the print of her fingers and boot rusting into his platings and spilling through onto his skin. His insides had long turned disease-ridden the moment he claimed ownership of the Darksaber and now his outsides were succumbing to another influence.
There’s no telling what could happen if he was to remove his gloves—touch her skin; the perfectly sculpted neck begging for the warmth of his palm, cottony cheeks waiting for the drunken touches of a fixated man, or the dunes of her lips the ideal size to hug his thumb.
Din is full of wonder.
Meeting a dar’manda is rare. Witnessing the downfall of one, even more so. Everything physical about her has been protected, preserved by virtue of leather and beskar. Uninfluenced by all the filth they endure day by day. With lips of newly bloomed petals and hands silkier than luxury garments for the highly, Din imagines them pressed against his body. Gifting their sweet touch to something so sour.
He shouldn’t have these thoughts. Not when her welfare should be prioritised, but he can’t stop them. They’re indecent and crude and he detests that they make his stomach roll and his chest rumble. Before long his head is participating in the fray for serenity. It’s a strain on his self-control and the ancient’s aren’t the happiest, to put it simply. In their own twisted ways, they’re livid they weren’t the ones to uncover her eyes—were not the first to lay their irises on a captivating spectacle. The thrill has slipped through their fingers and sliced itself a nasty gash on their blade. The chase to have something so pure and delicate in their hold is no more.
Therefore, rationally, they should be disinterested in her—disembark the Gladiator to Nevarro and allow her to go off on her own—but they have never been one for rationality. Din’s beginning to learn how to register their honest thoughts and they’re not as opposed to the idea of her as they claim—but he doesn’t mistake their curiosity for compassion; that’s an entire component they don’t possess in their system.
Volcanic rivers border the area they’ve landed, a little further out than his preference, and he loiters around the spacecraft in wait for her departure. As he considers returning inside, she finally makes her appearance standing in the middle of the hatch. Embraced with soft oranges, the nearby lava lends its beauty to her. Without the hindrance of alloy walls and poor lighting, Din’s able to assess her appearance better and he simply can’t turn his eyes away.
Even as the arch of her eyebrow flattens to a sharp line at the sight of him, he’s entranced.
Her eyes are like bare feet on oil, sliding down his chest with contemplation, before bouncing back to his visor and he secretly mimics her. It’s not until he’s actually peeling away from her face to the rest of her physique that he realises she no longer sports her armour. It’s a foreign concept to Din: removing oneself from their own skin, and he can’t help but question why.
“Your armour,” he pauses. “...You no longer wear it.”
“Observant. It’s forbidden, remember? I’m not Ma—” She can’t finish her sentence and at risk of looking pitiful, she shifts the matter, “I told you to leave. Don’t make me get my blade out.”
“Restrain yourself. I’m not on your craft, hence you’re capable of departing. So, why haven’t you?” She steps out of her ship and thumbs a button on her vambrace, the sole piece of herself she hasn’t removed merely for convenience. The hatch retracts behind her. “You’re prepared to go into town?”
“I don’t know what species you are under all of that but, surprise, humans need to eat and I’m all out,” she bites.
Din side steps ahead of her with a craned neck, brashly tilting his head. “I could return with nourishment. Save you the hassle of...well...”
“Who said I needed your charity? I’m more than capable of purchasing my own food.”
“What about your face?”
It’s pointless attempting to convince her to stay - to hide away like a cowering fool. It’s in her eyes; a luminescence greater than all the moons combined, a light, an ambition—an unsung wish to preserve her value. Like a tropical plant seeded in the outskirts of a desert, she’s out of her depth. Despite all that, she remains sure-footed. Prepped and primed. In the eyes of the code, she may no longer contain her honour but she certainly has courage. It’s no easy feat to allow oneself such vulnerability after years of habitual behaviour and privacy.
Unfortunately for his discipline, he finds the trait desirable and they know it; leveraging themselves on the fact to dip their fingers in his skin.
We can prove to be beneficial for you—help you gain precisely what you want. We’ve done it once before, haven’t we? She wouldn’t be speaking to you if there wasn’t a chance - a possibility.
Din wants to wrap his hands around their throats and squeeze, drain them of their authority and seek out a means to an end. Some silence he’s been deprived of. Though, laying hands on something that’s on the verge of non-existent is an unachievable goal, so he crosses his arms against his chest in hopes the interlocking will block off the attempts to reach out and touch her.
She must’ve responded to him in the middle of his battle of morale as she pushes him out of her path and proceeds onwards into town. The cloak she wears reminds him of Ahsoka and the Jedi he met on Gideon’s ship. It’s flowy around her waist when she walks and loose across her shoulders. How she manages to wear fewer layers than before yet blanket so much more is dumbfounding. There’s no shape, no build. Just one bundle of fabrics.
Selfishly, it’s unsatisfying to Din’s eyes.
If this is all he’s granted, he’d much prefer the armour; then he’s gifted the pleasure of curves and the excitement of anticipation. Though, he can’t deny those eyes - those lips. The bones of his fingers roll together with the force he wrings his fist, an attempt to draw out his restraint, and he tardily drags behind her some ways out. Allowing her a moderate amount of space, but not enough to where he’s blending in with the environment.
She knows he’s following her—knows he won’t let up—and all she does to combat his behaviour is withdraw into her cloak, a hood kissing the crown of her head until she’s truly built of a blur.
Din’s got tunnel vision throughout the town; his eyes like tar on her back. Multiple times she’s pulled him aside to order him to stop his unnerving staring—It’s bad enough you’re always looking at me and now you’re drawing in attention. Stop staring at me, otherwise, you’ll be losing your honour next—though he’s not one to obey. Each movement is monitored, analysed almost, everything down to the stiffened shoulders and bowed head when the crowd increases.
It’s a delicate situation she’s in; allowing herself such vulnerability. No one on this forsaken planet is in the slightest bit informed of her torn Mandalorian pride yet when a head turns her way, her muscles tense and her feet flounder.
“You’ve collected your provisions,” Din says as they turn down an alley. “What else brings you here?”
“Keep following me and you’ll find out, won’t you?”
“Somehow I knew you would reply spitefully. Do you not believe I deserve some level of respect?”
“No.” She takes a sharp turn and dodges his hand just before it clasps over her shoulder.
“Nexu—”
“Don’t call me that,” she grumbles and as Din goes to return her attitude, the route springs to his mind—the twists and turns of streets he’s stalked numerous times. On occasions when he doesn’t want to be spotted with a pricey compensation.
“I thought you said you weren’t a bounty hunter,” Din inquires.
“I’m not.”
He follows behind when she shoots herself through the reconstructed cantina. Only a few minutes ago she had been so timid walking through the town and now there’s not a forethought. She’s maddened and on a mission for blood, or answers as it appears, slamming her hands down on Greef Karga’s table and interrupting his conversation with a poor hunter.
“You owe me a favour.”
Karga motions a hand to a group of nearby hunters, instructing them to standby, and Din places his own hand on his belt in preparation.
He gives her a once-over. “Have we met before?”
“Perhaps this will remind you,” Din’s pulled up beside her like a display animal, her fingers deep in the material of his sleeve and it’s nice; pleasant to be touched by her even if it’s not as sweetly as he imagines.
“Mando! I was wondering what happened to you, it’s been weeks without contact. I might’ve thought you and Nexu clashed again.”
‘Nexu’ stands with a hand on her hip, peeved she’s been forgotten about so quickly. “She is quite hard-headed,” he teases, leaning his visor down a tad to observe her frustration grow.
Karga finally picks up on the context clues. “Wait. Nexu? That’s you?! What happened to your—”
“It was your idea to work with him. You owe me.”
“If I may,” Din interrupts. “I’m not some defective product that you can return.”
“I don’t care what the fuck you are. I want you gone.”
“Okay, okay.” Karga gestures to the restless hunter sitting across from him and requests for them to take his place, “Sit down. It’s unlike your kind to make such a scene.”
She needs some encouragement to comply, but with a nudge of his arm, she reluctantly settles into the booth with Din on the end. To his surprise, she doesn’t object to him sitting so close—their outer thighs barely make contact and his elbow occasionally brushing against hers—and he discreetly tests the limits until their hips are practically like velcro. Perhaps it’s an unmanly approach, seeking to get closer without going the full mile, but it’s somehow better; inching nearer and nearer, putting out feelers for her to respond.
Though, she doesn’t take notice of his attempts. “I’m not one of his kind.”
“About that,” Karga looks at her over the rim of his liquor, a dark amber colour that swirls in its glass as he flicks a hand up and down towards her character. “What exactly happened?”
“Your little disciple here walked us right into a trap. Conveniently he came out unscathed.”
“What does this mean for your religion? Have you been banished?”
Din’s eyebrows fall flat. “Karga.”
“Well—it’s just you’re not very talkative, Mando! I don’t have contact with many of you and, you have to admit, your kind are very intriguing people.”
“I want a chain code,” she neglects his interrogation and pulls out a tracking fob from her pockets, sliding it across the table. It looks familiar but then again all fobs are structured the same, though there’s something alerting him otherwise.
It clicks. “Is that from the covert? Is that what you stole back then?”
“Not like anybody was there to use it.” She shrugs, outwardly impartial. “Would you prefer I swiped yours instead?”
“Who’s code do you need exactly?” Karga fiddles with the device.
“Shand.”
“Fennec?”
“That’s the one.”
Karga and Din share a knowing look—one that suggests he’s been notified of Shand’s assistance back on Gideon’s ship. A look that silently asks why haven’t you told her? She’s no nitwit and their prolonged silence is only attracting more attention than repelling it.
“You heard her,” Din sighs. “She wants a chain code.”
“Right… Give me a moment.”
Greef allows the duo a moment alone to retrieve her code and she sighs before muttering, “Let me guess… You’re waiting for my thanks.”
“I’ve learnt not to expect much from you, certainly not gratitude.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know,” He shifts in his seat, perching an arm across the headrest. “You tend to hold others to blame for your own faults. I didn’t put a target on you for that needle—and you speak rather impolitely to a man who wasn’t even there at the time.”
“You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. He spoke highly of you merely to get me to agree to take you with me—he’s got just as much of a role in this as you. Speaking of you, how am I supposed to know what you say is true?”
Din laughs, genuinely amused at her courage. “You believe I removed your helmet.”
“It’s been something you’ve spoken of doing. Something that’ll get your blood pumping, heart racing. That’s all it is—all I am, isn’t it? An unimaginable mission never been done before - to destroy the will of another. Who’s to say you didn’t take a little peak when I was unconscious - blame it on the Ewoks and flee from the planet before I woke so you wouldn’t have to explain yourself.”
“Oh, little one,” He supports the weight of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifts until she meets with his visor. “Trust me when I say that’s not how I would have done it. It’s cowardice what those creatures did to you. Someone such as yourself deserves…”
A golden glow envelopes her eyes and he blames it on the lighting; accuses the crappy cantina lamps for making her look so scenic.
“...Better.”
Karga returns, slipping into the booth across from them and indirectly right in between the moment they were sharing. Hand feeling looted without her resting in it, Din grudgingly lays it to rest on his thigh and sends a wave of energy towards the Guild leader; he can’t see the flaming reds in Din’s eyes or the twitch in his fingers beneath the tabletop, but that damn visor does plenty. Djarin has mastered the art of outstare; the harassment without ever requiring to lay a finger on somebody. Some would say it’s simply the armour—that without it, he would fail to intimidate even a Neimoidian, but that’s not entirely true.
Not with the Darksaber in his possession, awaiting the instance he breaks free from his cage and allows them to truly take control; to rule and conquer and own.
So, yeah, Din is intimidating and Karga has witnessed his potential before. With his newly discovered solitude and lack of a mission, who knows how close he might be to tipping off the edge. Karga doesn’t wish to find out. He gets the message the visor is trying to portray and glides the tracking fob back, “It’s not much, I’m afraid.”
“This is all you can give me? She was a bounty, shouldn’t you have the code?”
“There were reports of her death so it’s been expired and we’ve gone through a lot of targets since.”
“What am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”
Karga chuckles and takes a swig of his liquor. “Does this bring you back, Mando?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Din shakes his head and muffles a sigh, irritated his Guild leader oftens overshares information that’s not his own. However, it could work in his favour—maybe. “I’ve dealt with a client’s lack of information before. You would benefit from my assistance.”
“No, thank you.” She’s not having any of it and springs to her feet, scrambling across Din without consideration for his poor thighs she so brutally steps on. “I’ll take my insignificant digits and take my leave. You stay here.”
And he does. With pupils as large as the moons, he watches her leave the cantina in a hurry.
Greef mutters something into his liquor and swallows the remainder down. “I have to say, she is quite gorgeous, no? How often do you meet another Mandalorian? The two of you could be happy together, Mando. She knows of your lifestyle. Surprised you’re not chasing after her, you know.”
A smile plays at his lips. “She won’t go anywhere.”
“How can you be so certain, I mean, she left in quite the rush and she’s awfully bold for someone who-”
That leering tint returns and chills his bones and pricks his blood—the unfamiliarity in the slit eerie enough for him to decide against continuing his sentence.
“Watch your tongue, Karga,” Din growls. “That’s my people you’re talking about.”
******
dar'manda - the state of not being mandalorian
A/N: I'm going to be a little more transparent than normal about my thoughts on this series if anybody wants to take a read: This chapter took me so fucking long because I hate it. Despise it. I rewrote it three or four times and I can't keep doing that so I'm just throwing it out there and hopefully I can focus better on the next one. I think a huge part of the issue of this is from the last chapter. I was too concerned about losing an audience by having a Din/Mando pairing since there's not many of them out there compared to the standard Fem!Reader and I let it consume me to the point where I became so insecure of my writing. I threw in the helmet removal way too soon. Preferably, it should be about chapter 5/6 for character development and other things I wanted to add so I sorta fucked myself there. I need to learn to not worry myself with all of that too much but what's done is done. I just wanted to share that because I know this chapter doesn't read very well and I'm sorry about that. I think I'm beginning to fall out of love with the show from the lack of content and it's bleeding into my writing. I'm going to try to do better next chapter so hopefully you guys decide to stick around and give me another shot :) ty for your patience and support <3
Can I say I’m worried for Din? It’s something he’s been doing a lot as of late. Rather than distancing himself and eavesdropping, he now debates them - negotiates and questions. Is he going down the rabbit hole that will one day fully consume him? You’ve fleshed out Dark!Din so well. I can’t think of another fic where the haunted turmoil becomes its own entity.
Nexu… I can only imagine losing such a core identity, and then having to quickly adapt to living with that new identity. She’s lost so much and no thanks to Din (or maybe more so the ancients). This poor girl has an uncertain future ahead.
Friend, I’m so, so sorry. I came back to read this chapter so I could get right into ch 5 and realized I never reblogged ch 4. I’m sorry to hear it was frustrating for you to write. You are a talented writer and I know you’ll find your way with this story. I appreciate you doing a Din x female Mandalorian story. This is so unique and different. I definitely appreciate you taking on the challenge. There is so much mystery around Nexu still to uncover (who was her mentor, why did Fennec kill the mentor, why does she seem familiar to Din, what’s her future role with Din?). The helmet removal is just one small circumstance in the story 😉.
Aww thank you, I always love reading what you have to say about my chapters 💖 I can't wait to explore where these two will journey with you!! You always reassure me when I'm feeling insecure about my chapters and I just appreciate you so much :))
18+
Content: post season two, third person pov (din focused), unprotected sex, smut
Word Count: 3795
Pairing: Haunted!Din/Mando!Reader
Din Djarin is subjected to malevolent whispers from a blade he doesn’t wish to own; they speak to him - encourage him to pursue the deepest and darkest of his desires. It’s impossible to control and when it comes too much, he’s forced to finally let go—to become the Mand'alor he’s written out to be by an ancient power.
Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist
CHAPTER FIVE: TRAINING
She claims she doesn’t want Din’s help -- doesn’t want a bar of him and demonstrated her intolerance towards him with honed blades and fingers made of acid, and he can sense that some of that holds true. She doesn’t want him near her—doesn’t want to allow the possibility of him edging closer into her personal space—but even so, the Gladiator’s hatch is extended. Tunnelled into molten lands and accessible for anything. Anyone.
It’s silent inside except for the soft mechanical purr of its engine. Automated lights direct him to where she’s located, sitting at the pilot’s chair that looks far too large without the bulk of her armour. She vacantly aims her blaster in his general direction without turning to face him, her mind elsewhere. Din doesn’t say a word as he approaches her and urges the barrel towards the ground with a limp hand, peering at her lap where her helmet is situated.
The emptiness of the visor slices into her and all she can do is stare; surrender to its incessant tantalizing.
“It’s not your fault,” Din speaks gently. “It can be challenging reverting to a lifestyle you haven’t been acquainted with in some time.”
He expects a what would you know about all that or get the hell off my ship but he’s given nothing in return and it’s somehow worse. Never in his wildest dreams would he think he would miss the rotten tone of her snark, but he does. It doesn’t seem right, almost as though she has been replaced with some artificial version of herself incapable of speaking or moving—solely proficient in the act of disoriented staring.
“Nex—”
There’s a slight hitch in her shoulders, a jerk of a tense before slumping once again. “She killed my mentor.”
“Shand? What are your plans for her?”
“Kill her.”
That’s less than ideal, having had cleared the air between him and Fennec—and with the rise of Fett, the situation will only diverge into something greater—but he can sympathise with her. The demand to seek vengeance. The knowledge that the ones you love no longer live because of the behaviour of another, but he would be lying if he said her plans are realistic.
“He was a peacekeeper,” she continues, “only killed when it was necessary. I’m certain he would be saddened by my endeavours but I feel as though I owe it to him. An eye for an eye sorta deal.”
He watches her fingers itch against the corner of her visor and sighs, “Why are you telling me this?”
“You seem like someone who’s been through a lot. I can’t see your eyes but I hear it in your voice—even with that low-grade modulator. It’s in the way you carry yourself; heavy and fatigued but alarmingly relentless.” She pauses for a breath and connects with his visor, her dour eyes reflecting a blur of steel and nothing more. “I figured someone of your stature could be capable of changing my mind. Tell me I’m in over my head or to give up while I’m still breathing. Be a leader and get me to stand down.”
Din is the first to shred that line between them, to slip away from her pleading and instead gaze out the viewport. He finds something to focus on out in the volcanic wastelands and settles on a Qartuum in the distance. It stares back at him and, as ominous as its eyes are, he finds it to be easier than looking at the woman beside him.
“We’re well acquainted with revenge and, if you agree, we can help you.”
“We?”
He nods. “There’s a lot the covert caretakers won’t teach you; things they don’t understand themselves. We can instruct you—become like a tutor or a leader, as you would say.”
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” she admits.
“The decision has already been made within you. You know you’re going to seek the death of Shand whether I advise against it or not, but you’re not ready. There’s strength and courage in you, we see that, but you’re at a disadvantage without your helmet. I’ve confronted her before. She’s not one to shy away from a challenge.”
“What do you propose?”
Slowly, like a baby learning its first steps, he turns to face her once more; bleary eyes focused on gently parted lips to not be forced into her pull. “We’ll train together. It will take some time but it’s best to be prepared for her. She’s a high ranking mercenary. It’ll be a difficult task.”
Her bottom lip quivers with hesitancy before it’s clamped between her teeth, her thoughts certainly rapid-firing through her—should she trust him, does she want to have him this close, could she even come close to comparing to Shand’s skills—but Din dissolves her concerns with a kind hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t be a fool. This isn’t something you’re required to accomplish alone, Mesh’la.”
She sighs and allows for her chair to swallow her whole. It’s surreal how much smaller she appears in it without her armour. “If we’re to do this,” she shoots a staggering glare at him, “you need to tone it down with the nicknames.”
“Perhaps if you were to provide me with a name,” he says playfully, a single finger shifting from her shoulder to run a line up her neck.
He’s knocked away. “—And all this blatant flirting.”
Din takes the rejection like a man and sinks into the paired seat, but can’t stop himself with a final quip: “Pretend all you wish. I know you’ve thought about it. Much more than what I’ve already given to you in the hold.”
“Something I’ll regret to the day I fall, I see.”
***
Dantooine. While named only a few letters off from Tatooine, it’s certainly the polar opposite of that miserable sandy hell. There are spirited forests and lush fields as far as the eye can see and a little more with the aid of Din’s magnifier. The Gladiator is stationed in the midst of it all; in a secluded area where she’ll be comfortable being so exposed, at least as much as one can be.
They stand apart from each other, sets of feet rooted into the ground as if they’d lived there their entire lives. Din’s stance is much more composed than hers, a fist perched on his hip with a tipped helmet blithely inviting her to make the first move. She’s got her knees bent, bracing for a moment of distraction, a pass of wind, before leaping across the battlefield towards him.
He doesn’t move. Instead, he allows for her to charge and knock him to the ground.
“You’re too assertive,” Din thinks aloud. “Charging into battle won’t award you with anything more than a bullet to your head.”
She groans and pushes herself off him using his chestplate as leverage. “You’re the one who requested I rush you.”
“Yes. I need to evaluate all angles and the lack of maneuvers in that one motion is proof enough; there’s a lot of work to be done.”
“Sheesh. Just call me a lost cause.”
Din brushes the dirt from his flight suit as he stands. “No need to be dramatic. Strength is going to be your main focus—it’s where you excel. It’s impressive how you struck me. Use that in conjunction with stealth tactics and Fennec won’t know what hit her.”
She goes to return to her position for a second attempt but he pulls her back by the wrist though he doesn’t catch her off guard as he was anticipating; a sturdy fist recedes into the protection of his abdominals where, just barely, he can feel the ridges of her knuckles.
“You’re underestimating me,” she says. “I was Mandalorian once, too. Give me a real challenge.”
“There will be time for that later.”
It’s not what she wants to hear and she makes her impatience evident with a scoff. She eyeballs his hand in her peripherals, twisting her wrist in its clasp in an attempt to overpower him. “Use that Darksaber of yours and fight me.”
“That’s not a clever idea.”
“Shand isn’t one for hand-to-hand combat. If you can’t bring yourself to be of some use to me, maybe this planet will be your last stop.”
Her threats are lacklustre, but the mere attempts of persuasion rouse that exhaustive pressure inside him; the disturbingly excited fingers itching for a neglected hilt. Din’s learnt that it’s best to entertain their demands - best to dip his toes in the waters but sustain the authority of it all.
“Your vambraces,” Din grunts as he releases and pushes himself out of her reach. A hand slips down his hip, unhooking the weapon from its fastener. “They’re made of beskar, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Use them.”
The Darksaber awakens, stretching a metre out of its portable canister and soulfully thrumming a deep tune. Din notices the hesitation—the sudden uncertainty standing before someone capable of so much—and he builds himself on it like a foundation; lunging for an attack slowly, as to not catch her too off-guard, but it’s an approach nonetheless.
His attack isn’t powerful in the slightest but she still stumbles backwards as the sabre clashes against her armour, mouth agape in bewilderment.
“This is what you wanted,” Din says, voice low and bassy and it’s all that’s needed with the lack of space between them. “Sur’ar, verd.”
She thrusts her arm skywards until the Darksaber reaches above his head but Din utilises the momentum for a downswing, anticipating a kick to his legs or a punch in the stomach but she doesn’t aim for either. His hands fall into hers and they battle for dominance, the muscles in her arms beginning to quiver beneath the strength of a dozen in his own.
There’s no winning in sight for her if she doesn’t switch up her strategy and she knows that—her hand slip upwards a little more until a pair of fingers wrap themselves around a portion of the Sabre. Din winces; a phantom ache creeping up his spine and eating away at his bone marrow. It’s in his heart, too, not quite as painful but a strain that tugs and compresses the organ until it feels like mush.
Gev. Gev!
He withdraws from her and retires the sabre back to his hip.
“What’s—”
“That’s enough for today. Preserve your energy for the next.”
She furrows her brows in confusion. “We’ve hardly started. Quit acting so stiff and let’s go again.”
“You won’t learn anything if you don’t have patience.”
Din attempts to leave—to escape the uncomfortable energy he’s produced—but she’s got other plans in mind; running her foot ahead of his and sweeping his legs out beneath him. He duplicates her own moves and she falls to the grass beside him, the inch of her hand to her vibro-knife is persuasion enough for Din to pin her hands under his own.
“Not right now, Mesh’la,” he recommends.
She’s brazen; golden hues of courage and temptation glittering in her eyes. It’s distracting - on the verge of bothersome.
“What makes you so special? What’d you do to claim the title of Mand’alor?”
“Are you doubting my status?”
She chuckles. “Consider it from my perspective; the leader of our people, a legend told to us the moment we’re brought into the galaxy, shows up out of the blue and he’s proven capable of nothing more than mere intimidation.”
It’s just an effort to rile him up—and fuck if it ain’t working. There’s little patience residing within him these days. Hoarding a collection of everlasting souls does that to a man. Before all of this, before he accepted the bounty that altered his perspective on circumstances, Din would treat her like any other unruly quarry: stuff her in a pod of carbonite set for extra-glacial. But things have changed, he’s changed, and the ancient’s have no desire to harm or silence her—Din doesn’t quite understand that last one.
“Watch your tone,” he warns, the flavour of his voice reducing when he catches a glimpse of her eyes. “I haven’t needed to show my potential, but that doesn’t mean I’m unable.”
Moments pass—two or three, four if he counts the one he skips over by virtue of her; just her—and he wants to pull back a little from her space but it’s also the last thing he wants. He’d remain here for eternity if it allowed for him to feel the pulse of her veins through his palms and to count the ceaseless constellations in her eyes.
“It seems we encounter this position quite a lot, you and I.”
Din’s eyebrow quirks. “It’s as though you adore it.” His words welcome the bleeding of pale pinks on her cheeks and he smiles beneath his helmet—a piece of a battered puzzle slotting into position at her reaction and he’s certainly going to exploit it. “I suspected as much, but to see the truth…”
“You’re so—” Din lewdly runs a hand down her torso and shelters the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of her tunic. “...what—”
“Interesting how you request me to stop my propositioning, yet you feel so strongly about me in that way. Am I tempting you too greatly, Mesh’la?”
She scoffs but it’s wasted effort. “I can’t stand you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s obvious you like this position as is,” Din teases, “though, it’s rather revealing. Shall we relocate inside?”
She simply stares at him.
“This isn’t going to tarnish your credibility if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Din pins her in his visor, each inch from the top of her head to the base of her stomach where his hand sits. “Go on, show me that Mandalorian restraint.”
Show me you don’t want me to touch you. Show them you won’t yield.
He’s yanked by the rim of his chestplate to where the hard edge of his helmet pokes against her chin and he breathes, sharp and short like a refined dagger, but it emerges from his vocoder nonetheless.
“Or’dinii,” she grins—lips stretched broad across her face with a cleverness he’s well underprepared for—and recoils when her hand slides lower and lower until perched amongst the grooves of a hilt that whines—screeches at the assertiveness in her touch. It hurts Din, too, not just the ancients; the ramming of a blunt scalpel among his muscles, attempting to produce incisions in the sketch of his spine to fillet him alive.
For a moment he’s lost, yanked from the palms of shadows and transported to a vacuum - not necessarily a location but a feeling. Something quiet and mellow washes over him, a sensation so foreign to him that he can only believe it to be deceitful; a diversion of a bigger picture, or perhaps that’s just his overly attention-obsessive bounty hunter side nudging a blaster in his side. A mere reminder of who he will always be at his core.
The instant she speaks it all fades away, the sweet taste of silence disrupted, and he fights to be held within it again but it’s no longer.
“For a ruler, you’re rather careless with your guard—or lack of.”
“Let go,” he demands, a hand over hers.
“No.”
Din musters up the strength and drowns out the pain, his fingers nesting in the meat of her hips for a second before propelling themselves upright in a fluid motion. His energy is palpable, radiating off him like a beacon, and he maneuvers her legs so they’re around his waist and he’s on his feet before she realises what’s occurring.
She stares into his visor; an almost blank expression but the colour in her eyes are shimmering. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Exactly what you want me to do.”
They’ve crossed the Gladiator’s entrance in a few seconds and entered her quarters in a few more. She experiments with his patience, her thumb tweaking the latch at the peak of the Darksaber. She’s so casual in nature about it; no hesitancy or recognition of who he is and what this stands for. It dislodges from its perch and Din’s quick to right her wrongs, clicking the fastener back to his hip and sinking low enough for his hamstrings to meet with her bunk. Seated in his lap and her hand stripped of the Darksaber, she drives a palm against his chest until he’s propped on his elbows.
Din waits, watches, outlines the wrinkle in her brow with a gloved thumb and allows his touch to lurk against the span of her neck. Treating her like that of a timid lothcat wary of human contact, Din is almost perplexed at her confidence...almost. He should know better than to assume her strength—her pride—by now. She doesn’t shy away from him; not when he nudges her tolerance levels and certainly not when trying to initiate something that’s been in the back of his mind all this time.
His title is not intimidation to her, nor is what he’s capable of.
A hand glides to his cowl and locates the partings between the fabrics, a dinky gap only one of his own could pinpoint, and he shrinks into himself when there’s contact—the faintest trace of icy fingertips against his warm throat. There’s sand in his lungs and a blockage in his mouth, something durable and unmoving like leather clogging up his pipes, but he stills; lend her what trust still resides inside and mirrors her advancements with his own.
The stroke of her chin between thumb and forefinger, the squeeze of her hip in the bulk of his coarse hide, the witty and knowing look in her eyes when she peers into his visor -- they’re in a battle; luring the other in and she’s hardly lifted a finger before Din’s at the brink of collapse. But, ultimately, it’s the rolling of his hips that brings him to victory.
She surrenders and instead turns her attention to his belt, loosening the strap with a single hand until her fingers are able to slip beneath the fabric. When their eyes meet, it’s as though they’re in hyperspace -- suspended and isolated but together. Somewhere where the only sound is the thumping in their ears or their clipped breathing. It’s unspoken and it’s going to stay that way.
No words, they quietly agree.
Din’s glove travels around the rim of her trousers like a ship sailing the seas, dipping in and over the waves and dragging the fabric down. The ice against his skin grows and roams to the side and upwards, her fingertips studying the bristly hairs swept beneath his jaw; an action that often doesn’t bode well to a Mandalorian but, considering the circumstances and his raw desire, Din lightly thrums and sends the pulse through to her.
They separate for a second or two, barely enough time for either of them to labour at their garments and finally seize a moment of pleasure. Din’s on her like glue, reversing their positions so he can provide whatever he sees fit at the moment but his actions dawdle to preserve the sight in memory; a bare leg on either side of his thighs where the slope of her knee nudges into his hipbone and he can’t imagine a better location for it to rest.
The Darksaber poses as an obstruction and he decides to part with it, at least briefly, and settles it out of the way — but within reach.
Din dips a hand between their bodies and follows the path of her skin leading to her centre. It’s there when he inches closer and elevates himself above her with an outstretched arm, giving her one more glance in search of approval before sinking himself into her warmth. It’s different than the last -- slower, more tender, though that’s a severe overstatement of what this is.
It’s nothing - this is nothing; exclusively an act made to relieve themselves.
So why is it that Din wants to touch her with golden fingers and memorise the taste of her sweat?
Actions like these come with a price, one that he can’t allow himself to be subjected to—not again.
She tugs on his chestplate, pressing their chests together and suppressing the spike in her breathing into his clothed shoulder. Din’s own moans are silenced with a bite of his tongue, though a stray grunt manages to escape the recesses of his throat when his hips drive a little too deep.
Din can smell the stain of armour oil on her skin long after no longer wearing it. Combine that with the scent of her shampoo and you get her. A fragrance uniquely hers, and perhaps there’s more to it—a spice he can’t quite place and that pepper and honey mix he recognised earlier—but the floral of her body wash is too irresistible when he’s so close. The face of his visor tucks into the side of her neck, one of his hands slipping through her hair and clutching until she’s arched and he can thrust stronger.
The foundations of her bunk are weak and it creaks each time he pushes his weight into her—something he’ll tend to in due time—but he quite likes it; it encourages him, sings a song of his talents and her boosted moans are all the applause he needs.
It’s not quite the same as last time, where it had been quick and laced with arrogancy, but rather subdued. Quiet. Not in terms of noise exactly, but the spite they hold for each other has been put on the back burner for the time being.
With the aid of his thumb serving her needs to her clit, she’s on the verge of finishing in a matter of seconds and she signals him of it when her hands return to his throat. Din grunts as her fingers sweep his flesh and she invites him to quicken his pace when her nails burrow into the base.
He reads her cues; the pad of his thumb firmly pressed and his hips crashing against hers with an audible slap. She tightens around him and it’s plenty to tend to his own needs. The trembles that travel through her body are sightly and he bemoans at her shirt interfering with his ability to properly watch her in such a state.
Din unloads on the inside of her thigh, the pearly white liquid streaming down at a sluggish pace but he doesn’t attempt to assist in cleaning up—doesn’t attempt to do anything besides gawk at the woman beneath him and how her sweat-slicked forehead causes stray hair to cling to herself.
Round two, perhaps?
He noiselessly sighs and refuses the temptation, collecting his Darksaber and trousers before abandoning her to clean up alone.
18+
Content: post season two, third person pov (din focused), unprotected sex, smut
Word Count: 3795
Pairing: Haunted!Din/Mando!Reader
Din Djarin is subjected to malevolent whispers from a blade he doesn’t wish to own; they speak to him - encourage him to pursue the deepest and darkest of his desires. It’s impossible to control and when it comes too much, he’s forced to finally let go—to become the Mand'alor he’s written out to be by an ancient power.
Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist
CHAPTER FIVE: TRAINING
She claims she doesn’t want Din’s help -- doesn’t want a bar of him and demonstrated her intolerance towards him with honed blades and fingers made of acid, and he can sense that some of that holds true. She doesn’t want him near her—doesn’t want to allow the possibility of him edging closer into her personal space—but even so, the Gladiator’s hatch is extended. Tunnelled into molten lands and accessible for anything. Anyone.
It’s silent inside except for the soft mechanical purr of its engine. Automated lights direct him to where she’s located, sitting at the pilot’s chair that looks far too large without the bulk of her armour. She vacantly aims her blaster in his general direction without turning to face him, her mind elsewhere. Din doesn’t say a word as he approaches her and urges the barrel towards the ground with a limp hand, peering at her lap where her helmet is situated.
The emptiness of the visor slices into her and all she can do is stare; surrender to its incessant tantalizing.
“It’s not your fault,” Din speaks gently. “It can be challenging reverting to a lifestyle you haven’t been acquainted with in some time.”
He expects a what would you know about all that or get the hell off my ship but he’s given nothing in return and it’s somehow worse. Never in his wildest dreams would he think he would miss the rotten tone of her snark, but he does. It doesn’t seem right, almost as though she has been replaced with some artificial version of herself incapable of speaking or moving—solely proficient in the act of disoriented staring.
“Nex—”
There’s a slight hitch in her shoulders, a jerk of a tense before slumping once again. “She killed my mentor.”
“Shand? What are your plans for her?”
“Kill her.”
That’s less than ideal, having had cleared the air between him and Fennec—and with the rise of Fett, the situation will only diverge into something greater—but he can sympathise with her. The demand to seek vengeance. The knowledge that the ones you love no longer live because of the behaviour of another, but he would be lying if he said her plans are realistic.
“He was a peacekeeper,” she continues, “only killed when it was necessary. I’m certain he would be saddened by my endeavours but I feel as though I owe it to him. An eye for an eye sorta deal.”
He watches her fingers itch against the corner of her visor and sighs, “Why are you telling me this?”
“You seem like someone who’s been through a lot. I can’t see your eyes but I hear it in your voice—even with that low-grade modulator. It’s in the way you carry yourself; heavy and fatigued but alarmingly relentless.” She pauses for a breath and connects with his visor, her dour eyes reflecting a blur of steel and nothing more. “I figured someone of your stature could be capable of changing my mind. Tell me I’m in over my head or to give up while I’m still breathing. Be a leader and get me to stand down.”
Din is the first to shred that line between them, to slip away from her pleading and instead gaze out the viewport. He finds something to focus on out in the volcanic wastelands and settles on a Qartuum in the distance. It stares back at him and, as ominous as its eyes are, he finds it to be easier than looking at the woman beside him.
“We’re well acquainted with revenge and, if you agree, we can help you.”
“We?”
He nods. “There’s a lot the covert caretakers won’t teach you; things they don’t understand themselves. We can instruct you—become like a tutor or a leader, as you would say.”
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” she admits.
“The decision has already been made within you. You know you’re going to seek the death of Shand whether I advise against it or not, but you’re not ready. There’s strength and courage in you, we see that, but you’re at a disadvantage without your helmet. I’ve confronted her before. She’s not one to shy away from a challenge.”
“What do you propose?”
Slowly, like a baby learning its first steps, he turns to face her once more; bleary eyes focused on gently parted lips to not be forced into her pull. “We’ll train together. It will take some time but it’s best to be prepared for her. She’s a high ranking mercenary. It’ll be a difficult task.”
Her bottom lip quivers with hesitancy before it’s clamped between her teeth, her thoughts certainly rapid-firing through her—should she trust him, does she want to have him this close, could she even come close to comparing to Shand’s skills—but Din dissolves her concerns with a kind hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t be a fool. This isn’t something you’re required to accomplish alone, Mesh’la.”
She sighs and allows for her chair to swallow her whole. It’s surreal how much smaller she appears in it without her armour. “If we’re to do this,” she shoots a staggering glare at him, “you need to tone it down with the nicknames.”
“Perhaps if you were to provide me with a name,” he says playfully, a single finger shifting from her shoulder to run a line up her neck.
He’s knocked away. “—And all this blatant flirting.”
Din takes the rejection like a man and sinks into the paired seat, but can’t stop himself with a final quip: “Pretend all you wish. I know you’ve thought about it. Much more than what I’ve already given to you in the hold.”
“Something I’ll regret to the day I fall, I see.”
***
Dantooine. While named only a few letters off from Tatooine, it’s certainly the polar opposite of that miserable sandy hell. There are spirited forests and lush fields as far as the eye can see and a little more with the aid of Din’s magnifier. The Gladiator is stationed in the midst of it all; in a secluded area where she’ll be comfortable being so exposed, at least as much as one can be.
They stand apart from each other, sets of feet rooted into the ground as if they’d lived there their entire lives. Din’s stance is much more composed than hers, a fist perched on his hip with a tipped helmet blithely inviting her to make the first move. She’s got her knees bent, bracing for a moment of distraction, a pass of wind, before leaping across the battlefield towards him.
He doesn’t move. Instead, he allows for her to charge and knock him to the ground.
“You’re too assertive,” Din thinks aloud. “Charging into battle won’t award you with anything more than a bullet to your head.”
She groans and pushes herself off him using his chestplate as leverage. “You’re the one who requested I rush you.”
“Yes. I need to evaluate all angles and the lack of maneuvers in that one motion is proof enough; there’s a lot of work to be done.”
“Sheesh. Just call me a lost cause.”
Din brushes the dirt from his flight suit as he stands. “No need to be dramatic. Strength is going to be your main focus—it’s where you excel. It’s impressive how you struck me. Use that in conjunction with stealth tactics and Fennec won’t know what hit her.”
She goes to return to her position for a second attempt but he pulls her back by the wrist though he doesn’t catch her off guard as he was anticipating; a sturdy fist recedes into the protection of his abdominals where, just barely, he can feel the ridges of her knuckles.
“You’re underestimating me,” she says. “I was Mandalorian once, too. Give me a real challenge.”
“There will be time for that later.”
It’s not what she wants to hear and she makes her impatience evident with a scoff. She eyeballs his hand in her peripherals, twisting her wrist in its clasp in an attempt to overpower him. “Use that Darksaber of yours and fight me.”
“That’s not a clever idea.”
“Shand isn’t one for hand-to-hand combat. If you can’t bring yourself to be of some use to me, maybe this planet will be your last stop.”
Her threats are lacklustre, but the mere attempts of persuasion rouse that exhaustive pressure inside him; the disturbingly excited fingers itching for a neglected hilt. Din’s learnt that it’s best to entertain their demands - best to dip his toes in the waters but sustain the authority of it all.
“Your vambraces,” Din grunts as he releases and pushes himself out of her reach. A hand slips down his hip, unhooking the weapon from its fastener. “They’re made of beskar, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Use them.”
The Darksaber awakens, stretching a metre out of its portable canister and soulfully thrumming a deep tune. Din notices the hesitation—the sudden uncertainty standing before someone capable of so much—and he builds himself on it like a foundation; lunging for an attack slowly, as to not catch her too off-guard, but it’s an approach nonetheless.
His attack isn’t powerful in the slightest but she still stumbles backwards as the sabre clashes against her armour, mouth agape in bewilderment.
“This is what you wanted,” Din says, voice low and bassy and it’s all that’s needed with the lack of space between them. “Sur’ar, verd.”
She thrusts her arm skywards until the Darksaber reaches above his head but Din utilises the momentum for a downswing, anticipating a kick to his legs or a punch in the stomach but she doesn’t aim for either. His hands fall into hers and they battle for dominance, the muscles in her arms beginning to quiver beneath the strength of a dozen in his own.
There’s no winning in sight for her if she doesn’t switch up her strategy and she knows that—her hand slip upwards a little more until a pair of fingers wrap themselves around a portion of the Sabre. Din winces; a phantom ache creeping up his spine and eating away at his bone marrow. It’s in his heart, too, not quite as painful but a strain that tugs and compresses the organ until it feels like mush.
Gev. Gev!
He withdraws from her and retires the sabre back to his hip.
“What’s—”
“That’s enough for today. Preserve your energy for the next.”
She furrows her brows in confusion. “We’ve hardly started. Quit acting so stiff and let’s go again.”
“You won’t learn anything if you don’t have patience.”
Din attempts to leave—to escape the uncomfortable energy he’s produced—but she’s got other plans in mind; running her foot ahead of his and sweeping his legs out beneath him. He duplicates her own moves and she falls to the grass beside him, the inch of her hand to her vibro-knife is persuasion enough for Din to pin her hands under his own.
“Not right now, Mesh’la,” he recommends.
She’s brazen; golden hues of courage and temptation glittering in her eyes. It’s distracting - on the verge of bothersome.
“What makes you so special? What’d you do to claim the title of Mand’alor?”
“Are you doubting my status?”
She chuckles. “Consider it from my perspective; the leader of our people, a legend told to us the moment we’re brought into the galaxy, shows up out of the blue and he’s proven capable of nothing more than mere intimidation.”
It’s just an effort to rile him up—and fuck if it ain’t working. There’s little patience residing within him these days. Hoarding a collection of everlasting souls does that to a man. Before all of this, before he accepted the bounty that altered his perspective on circumstances, Din would treat her like any other unruly quarry: stuff her in a pod of carbonite set for extra-glacial. But things have changed, he’s changed, and the ancient’s have no desire to harm or silence her—Din doesn’t quite understand that last one.
“Watch your tone,” he warns, the flavour of his voice reducing when he catches a glimpse of her eyes. “I haven’t needed to show my potential, but that doesn’t mean I’m unable.”
Moments pass—two or three, four if he counts the one he skips over by virtue of her; just her—and he wants to pull back a little from her space but it’s also the last thing he wants. He’d remain here for eternity if it allowed for him to feel the pulse of her veins through his palms and to count the ceaseless constellations in her eyes.
“It seems we encounter this position quite a lot, you and I.”
Din’s eyebrow quirks. “It’s as though you adore it.” His words welcome the bleeding of pale pinks on her cheeks and he smiles beneath his helmet—a piece of a battered puzzle slotting into position at her reaction and he’s certainly going to exploit it. “I suspected as much, but to see the truth…”
“You’re so—” Din lewdly runs a hand down her torso and shelters the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of her tunic. “...what—”
“Interesting how you request me to stop my propositioning, yet you feel so strongly about me in that way. Am I tempting you too greatly, Mesh’la?”
She scoffs but it’s wasted effort. “I can’t stand you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s obvious you like this position as is,” Din teases, “though, it’s rather revealing. Shall we relocate inside?”
She simply stares at him.
“This isn’t going to tarnish your credibility if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Din pins her in his visor, each inch from the top of her head to the base of her stomach where his hand sits. “Go on, show me that Mandalorian restraint.”
Show me you don’t want me to touch you. Show them you won’t yield.
He’s yanked by the rim of his chestplate to where the hard edge of his helmet pokes against her chin and he breathes, sharp and short like a refined dagger, but it emerges from his vocoder nonetheless.
“Or’dinii,” she grins—lips stretched broad across her face with a cleverness he’s well underprepared for—and recoils when her hand slides lower and lower until perched amongst the grooves of a hilt that whines—screeches at the assertiveness in her touch. It hurts Din, too, not just the ancients; the ramming of a blunt scalpel among his muscles, attempting to produce incisions in the sketch of his spine to fillet him alive.
For a moment he’s lost, yanked from the palms of shadows and transported to a vacuum - not necessarily a location but a feeling. Something quiet and mellow washes over him, a sensation so foreign to him that he can only believe it to be deceitful; a diversion of a bigger picture, or perhaps that’s just his overly attention-obsessive bounty hunter side nudging a blaster in his side. A mere reminder of who he will always be at his core.
The instant she speaks it all fades away, the sweet taste of silence disrupted, and he fights to be held within it again but it’s no longer.
“For a ruler, you’re rather careless with your guard—or lack of.”
“Let go,” he demands, a hand over hers.
“No.”
Din musters up the strength and drowns out the pain, his fingers nesting in the meat of her hips for a second before propelling themselves upright in a fluid motion. His energy is palpable, radiating off him like a beacon, and he maneuvers her legs so they’re around his waist and he’s on his feet before she realises what’s occurring.
She stares into his visor; an almost blank expression but the colour in her eyes are shimmering. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Exactly what you want me to do.”
They’ve crossed the Gladiator’s entrance in a few seconds and entered her quarters in a few more. She experiments with his patience, her thumb tweaking the latch at the peak of the Darksaber. She’s so casual in nature about it; no hesitancy or recognition of who he is and what this stands for. It dislodges from its perch and Din’s quick to right her wrongs, clicking the fastener back to his hip and sinking low enough for his hamstrings to meet with her bunk. Seated in his lap and her hand stripped of the Darksaber, she drives a palm against his chest until he’s propped on his elbows.
Din waits, watches, outlines the wrinkle in her brow with a gloved thumb and allows his touch to lurk against the span of her neck. Treating her like that of a timid lothcat wary of human contact, Din is almost perplexed at her confidence...almost. He should know better than to assume her strength—her pride—by now. She doesn’t shy away from him; not when he nudges her tolerance levels and certainly not when trying to initiate something that’s been in the back of his mind all this time.
His title is not intimidation to her, nor is what he’s capable of.
A hand glides to his cowl and locates the partings between the fabrics, a dinky gap only one of his own could pinpoint, and he shrinks into himself when there’s contact—the faintest trace of icy fingertips against his warm throat. There’s sand in his lungs and a blockage in his mouth, something durable and unmoving like leather clogging up his pipes, but he stills; lend her what trust still resides inside and mirrors her advancements with his own.
The stroke of her chin between thumb and forefinger, the squeeze of her hip in the bulk of his coarse hide, the witty and knowing look in her eyes when she peers into his visor -- they’re in a battle; luring the other in and she’s hardly lifted a finger before Din’s at the brink of collapse. But, ultimately, it’s the rolling of his hips that brings him to victory.
She surrenders and instead turns her attention to his belt, loosening the strap with a single hand until her fingers are able to slip beneath the fabric. When their eyes meet, it’s as though they’re in hyperspace -- suspended and isolated but together. Somewhere where the only sound is the thumping in their ears or their clipped breathing. It’s unspoken and it’s going to stay that way.
No words, they quietly agree.
Din’s glove travels around the rim of her trousers like a ship sailing the seas, dipping in and over the waves and dragging the fabric down. The ice against his skin grows and roams to the side and upwards, her fingertips studying the bristly hairs swept beneath his jaw; an action that often doesn’t bode well to a Mandalorian but, considering the circumstances and his raw desire, Din lightly thrums and sends the pulse through to her.
They separate for a second or two, barely enough time for either of them to labour at their garments and finally seize a moment of pleasure. Din’s on her like glue, reversing their positions so he can provide whatever he sees fit at the moment but his actions dawdle to preserve the sight in memory; a bare leg on either side of his thighs where the slope of her knee nudges into his hipbone and he can’t imagine a better location for it to rest.
The Darksaber poses as an obstruction and he decides to part with it, at least briefly, and settles it out of the way — but within reach.
Din dips a hand between their bodies and follows the path of her skin leading to her centre. It’s there when he inches closer and elevates himself above her with an outstretched arm, giving her one more glance in search of approval before sinking himself into her warmth. It’s different than the last -- slower, more tender, though that’s a severe overstatement of what this is.
It’s nothing - this is nothing; exclusively an act made to relieve themselves.
So why is it that Din wants to touch her with golden fingers and memorise the taste of her sweat?
Actions like these come with a price, one that he can’t allow himself to be subjected to—not again.
She tugs on his chestplate, pressing their chests together and suppressing the spike in her breathing into his clothed shoulder. Din’s own moans are silenced with a bite of his tongue, though a stray grunt manages to escape the recesses of his throat when his hips drive a little too deep.
Din can smell the stain of armour oil on her skin long after no longer wearing it. Combine that with the scent of her shampoo and you get her. A fragrance uniquely hers, and perhaps there’s more to it—a spice he can’t quite place and that pepper and honey mix he recognised earlier—but the floral of her body wash is too irresistible when he’s so close. The face of his visor tucks into the side of her neck, one of his hands slipping through her hair and clutching until she’s arched and he can thrust stronger.
The foundations of her bunk are weak and it creaks each time he pushes his weight into her—something he’ll tend to in due time—but he quite likes it; it encourages him, sings a song of his talents and her boosted moans are all the applause he needs.
It’s not quite the same as last time, where it had been quick and laced with arrogancy, but rather subdued. Quiet. Not in terms of noise exactly, but the spite they hold for each other has been put on the back burner for the time being.
With the aid of his thumb serving her needs to her clit, she’s on the verge of finishing in a matter of seconds and she signals him of it when her hands return to his throat. Din grunts as her fingers sweep his flesh and she invites him to quicken his pace when her nails burrow into the base.
He reads her cues; the pad of his thumb firmly pressed and his hips crashing against hers with an audible slap. She tightens around him and it’s plenty to tend to his own needs. The trembles that travel through her body are sightly and he bemoans at her shirt interfering with his ability to properly watch her in such a state.
Din unloads on the inside of her thigh, the pearly white liquid streaming down at a sluggish pace but he doesn’t attempt to assist in cleaning up—doesn’t attempt to do anything besides gawk at the woman beneath him and how her sweat-slicked forehead causes stray hair to cling to herself.
Round two, perhaps?
He noiselessly sighs and refuses the temptation, collecting his Darksaber and trousers before abandoning her to clean up alone.
