duck hunting hick @pedrostylez - Tumblr Blog

Yours to Tame

7.6K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Summary: Worried, Din goes after you amidst a rainstorm.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls). Newish/secret established relationship, Mando'a nicknames, first time (theirs, but I know how important it is to some of you that Din's a virgin so read it however you want 😘), f!oral, fingering, unprotected PiV (they… make love?),✨ONE BED✨ (I've always wanted to write this! 🤭)

A/N: I actually started this WIP for jolapeno's April Showers 2.0 and never finished (I'm sorry Jo!) - but it's here now! Let's take a much needed break from the angst of the last instalment! In the timeline of series events, we're actually going back in time/it's the first (though it's posted as the 4th story), so can be read standalone 😊 Reminder: this is a post season 3 compliant series where Din has been dispatched to a New Republic stronghold planet (Solana) to train their armies as a General; Medieval vibes are intentional. (Typos and errors are unintentional and I'll try to correct them over the weekend 😅)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist / Title by Elley Duhe; inspo lyrics at the end.

Din leans forward, bending low, to prevent the onslaught of rain whipping against his visor from obscuring his vision completely; Beskar helmet nearly fully buried in his horse’s flying mane, he urges his trusty steed faster.

Only moments earlier, Din had come upon a scene that nearly stopped his heart: your Royal carriage careened off the main road, one wheel broken clean off its axel, the coach body stuck lopsided, wedged in the thick mud. Horses, unhooked, gone. You, the carriage’s only occupant, gone. Two of his top Lieutenants, whom you had convinced to take you out in this weather despite his explicit orders not to, also gone.

The General’s mind races with worry after worry: Are you hurt? Where did you go? Was the accident due to dangerous road conditions or have you become the victim of something more sinister? Sabotage? Where were you now? Are you safe? Have you been separated from your escort? Taken?

Dank Farrik! He had told you to stay put!

Trampling down his rising panic, Din pushes his stallion harder through the downpour covering Solana’s country side; the rainfall is so heavy, his helmet visor can barely make sense of its readings, not that it matters - any clues or data that could be used to track your movements having long since washed away.

Racing his faithful mount over endless rolling hills and across the expanse of pastoral plains, Din rides for what feels like forever until he finally sees the valley and signs of a village in the far-off distance. From his current position, the building roofs are mere pinpricks, smoke from their chimneys but whisps, but Din is sure he’s found your intended destination: the epicentre of one of Solana’s most vital farming communities. Did you make it? Were you forced to seek shelter elsewhere? Din slows his pace to a trot, scanning his surroundings carefully while repeated wiping off his visor so that the continued downpour won’t compromised his internal display readings.

What had you been thinking? Actually, he huffs, he knows exactly what his Princess had been thinking.

Yesterday, after receiving an alarming report regarding large scale damage sustained by this region’s farm drainage system, you had spent the remainder of the afternoon reviewing and consulting agricultural plans, weather impact studies, and concluded that capital assistance was indeed much needed for repairs ahead of rainy season. The only way to secure and expedite the emergency capital funding required was onsite royal approval, and since you had just spent the past day acquainting yourself with the plight of these farmers, you insisted on going yourself as soon as possible. The storm that Din now trudges through was already rolling in when he heard of your intentions to set out - citing the dangerous weather, he had immediately advised against it. You argued staunchly that with heavy rain expected, it was even more imperative that you went immediately; if the current system were to fail and the land to flood, your decree and very presence on location, would assure that capital assistance would be dispatched as swiftly as possible and hopefully minimize the harm done to people’s livelihoods. Your reasoning was sound, and privately to himself, Din felt a swell of pride and admiration not only for your strategic mind, but for the compassion and love you hold for your fellow Solanians – the only problem was it put you right in the middle of that same risk.

Din sighed. The Princess he could not command, nor would he wish to – but your father’s soldiers? They were under his purview; he gave the order that under no circumstances were they to leave their posts during the storm without his explicit instructions, hoping that this would delay your excursion until after the storm had passed.

Never mind you, what had his Lieutenants been thinking? Din’s agitation only grows as he continues his search; the sky above him remains an open slate of dark grey with rain coming down in sheets and winds picking up in speed and intensity. With no end to the tempest in sight, even Din’s stallion’s steps begins to slow as the muddy path becomes thicker, stickier.

The General’s eagle eyes spot the crest of your house before his helmet HUD registers it properly. The soaked through equestrian regalia on which your royal coat of arms is emblazoned is hanging over the half door of a small stable house just under a klick away; adjusting his sensors to zoom in, Din makes out the outlines of two horses grazing on some hay just beyond the opening. Two out of five accounted for. Surveying the area, he takes notice of a quaint looking cottage no more than 50 meters from the barn – even from this distance, he can tell by the brightly lit windows and smoking chimney that a fire is roaring within. Ni codayn gar (I found you).

Assuring his exhausted steed that respite would soon be his, Din redirects the weary animal, once again picking up speed. In record time, he’s settled his companion into a stall, hung up his own tack to dry, and is charging towards the humble cottage, unsure of what he’ll find upon arrival; at this point, he cannot promise that even the relief of finding you safe will be enough to improve his mood.

As he steps onto the front stoop, he hears your melodic laugh ring out from behind the door and for some reason, sour mood from his orders being directly disobeyed, his current physical state resembling more drowned rat than man, or perhaps nerves frayed and strung out from hours of worry, the normally pleasing harmony grates on the very last shred of his patience; he bangs on the door. His aggressive pounding silences the voices on the other side immediately; unapologetic, Din practically bellows,

“It’s me. I’m coming in.”

With no further ceremony, the General pushes open the door and stomps in. It’s unclear which party is more shocked by the sight that greets them.

You and his two Lieutenants are casually lounging around a well-lit hearth, the warmth and glow of which feels so welcoming and homey, the juxtaposition to the chaotic gale that’s still beating at his back hits Din like a punch to the gut. All three of you are donned in dry clothes Din doesn’t recognize, modest garments that are positively plain when compared to the ornate and luxurious dress of the capital; speaking of which, he spots the various splendid layers of your royal gown and the official uniforms of your guard strewn around the room, drying.

There’s a few grazed upon plates of food sitting between you, still being shared amongst your little party; Din does not miss the flagon of wine that looks to be nearly empty. Far from being in mortal peril, it seems that all three of you have settled in comfortably, enjoying yourselves even.

By contrast, Din is the very picture of misery; a waterlogged mess looming in the entrance way like some ghoulish killjoy here to interrupt your reverie, to ruin the serenity of this humble abode by dripping a river’s worth of rainwater onto the floor. His drenched and aching figure remains silent and unmoving as he stares back at your group.

Drip, drip, drip.

Even more than annoyed, Din is starting to feel very stupid.

“General!” His men spring to their feet, snapping to attention at the sudden appearance of their commanding officer.

Doing his best to ignore your adorable wide-eyed expression of surprise, Din slams the door behind him so forcefully the walls shake; feeling a smidge of satisfaction when the soldiers jolt a little. You on the other hand, merely tilt your head quizzically at his moodiness.

“I expressly forbade anyone from leaving their posts during the storm,” the General growls, “and not only were my orders flagrantly disobeyed, I find you here in the middle of nowhere with a complete disregard for any and all security considerations. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Sorry, General, sir!”

“Entrance way to the premises, unlocked. Door unguarded. No transmissions regarding your location. No discretion with the Royal crest on full display outside the stable. Do you wish to signal to every being nearby, or, Maker forbid, any villain wishing harm upon the Princess, exactly where she can be found?!”

“No, General, sir!”

“Now that I’m inside, it’s clear that in addition to a failure to post guard, you haven’t established a surveillance position either? How could you possibly assess or even be aware of any potential incoming threats? You’re sitting ducks here!”

“Sorry, General, sir!”

“Din…” you try to interrupt, getting up and crossing the room with the intention to calm your Mandalorian.

He doesn’t hear you, deaf to everything but the spiral of his incredulity and anger, “You cannot tell me that you had any idea of my approach! What if it hadn’t been me who came upon you? Anything could have happened! I trained you better than this!”

“Yes sir, General!”

“How could you show such complete disregard for the Princess’ safety!?” spits the General, his disappointment venomous.

“Din!!” you exclaim, unable to listen to his raised voice any longer. The behemoth of a man finally swivels to acknowledge you - even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s snarling, the ferocity of his countenance vibrating the very Beskar that conceals it. “Do not blame them, please, General! When the intensity of the storm overcame us, both Lieutenants thought of nothing but finding safety and shelter - no one could have been more concerned for my health and well being. When we found this cottage, the Lieutenants cleared it thoroughly and determined it to belong to the farm a mere 10 minutes gallop from here.” You put your hand on Din’s arm to reassure him, heart dropping at how soaked through and freezing cold his sleeve feels, “The Lieutenants made immediate contact with the perfectly wonderful family who own and work this land, arranging for them to supply us with dry clothing, food and drink. They offered these lodgings for the night and have assured us of their discretion and the security of their property.”

Victorious when you sense a slight relaxing in Din’s frame, you throw a sympathetic smile to his soldiers, “General, I assure you, I’ve been very well taken care of - there is no need to admonish your men so severely.”

Though no longer in the throws of his earlier rampage, Din’s tone nevertheless remains deadly, cold, “They should have never accompanied you on this journey, period. It was ill conceived and thoughtless.”

You’re starting to lose your patience now, “You would prefer I came out here on my own, General?”

The shiny Beskar dome tilts, fully staring you down, “I would have preferred you didn’t come out here at all during this storm. To do so was also ill conceived and thoughtless. Which if you recall, I made abundantly clear to you, Princess.”

Hands on your hips, you narrow your eyes, “And if you recall, I noted your objections and explained that the storm itself was hardly a deterrent but the very thing that precipitated my coming here. As the storm surely wasn’t going anywhere, you with your infinite wisdom, General, must have reasonably predicted that I would be. Since you’re so concerned with my safety, I would have thought you’d be relieved I asked some of the guard to accompany me.”

Din full out grins beneath his helmet, his feisty cyar’ika - but outwardly, he remains stubborn, “They were expressly ordered not to leave their posts during the storm, never mind leave the capital itself.”

“Are you saying the royal guard can refuse a direct request from their Sovereign? Should we ask these Lieutenants to whom they owe their allegiance, their General or their Princess?” you wave generally in the direction of the two men; without looking over, you can imagine them standing awkwardly, unsure of how to comport themselves, not unlike children witnessing their parents bicker for the first time – the blaze of your eyes, however, never leave the black abyss of the Din’s T-visor.

After what feels like an eternity, Din grits, “May I speak to you in private, Princess?”

You sweep your arm dramatically towards a small door on the offside of the room, “After you, General,” continuing to huff, agitated, as you follow his wet footprints into the cottage’s one bedroom.

Once inside, you close the door behind you and spin around, retort on the tip of your tongue, ready to be unleashed - a perfectly reasonable argument that your father’s men would have been in even more trouble if they had refused to accompany you - when the breath upon which your remarks lay in wait is knocked clear out of you.

Oof!

The force with which Din’s helmet barrels into your midsection is rivalled only by the gripping strength of his arms wrapping around your legs – your Mandalorian is on his knees, holding you like he’s never going to let go,

“You scared me, Mesh’la.”

Oh. Oh.

You fold your body over the great man, enveloping the broadness of his back within your embrace, all the fight in you gone upon seeing the strongest man you’ve ever met surrender so completely. If anything, you regret the stress your actions caused him, now that his ill temper has been revealed to be a poor mask for his fear.

Cupping the back of his helmet, you stroke down its back seam with your thumb, whispering, “I’m sorry, Din, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, cyare,” Din murmurs, still buried in your soft body, hold on you unyielding. You stay unmoving for as long as he needs, letting him breathe in enough of you to convince himself that you’re truly unharmed, safe.

Slowly the great General rises to his feet, dragging his hands up the length of your body, still afraid to be parted from you for even one second; you melt beneath his loving touch and reach for him with your own – you and Din are hardly ever afforded the luxury of just holding one another like this, fully and unrestrained, with no care for the passage of time. Your love has grown steady and strong in the shadow of its own secrecy, surviving on stolen glances and barely there touches in the openness of court, secret kisses in dark stairwells and heartfelt declarations whispered hushed and hurried. Every rendezvous a wonder, every moment spent together precious, but always taking place on borrowed time – you’ve only ever touched while on a countdown, loved under the threat of being caught; never allowed to just be with one another.

“Kriff, mesh’la, I’m so sorry - I’m getting you all wet,” Din drops his hands from your body, and though the imprint his soaked-through gloves have left on the simple borrowed frock is wet, you miss his warmth immediately.

“Don’t let go, Din”, you plead, fisting the rough fabric of his cape and pulling yourself closer; Din complies, as he always will, gathering you in his arms once more, but not before unlocking his helmet.

Eagerly, you close your eyes and nudge up the brim of Din’s helmet with your nose, the motion well practiced, your lips finding his swiftly. Tongues meeting in sweet reunion, your bodies melt in shared relief, your sighs synchronized, breathy and needy. Din kisses you fervent and deep, pouring all of today’s anxieties - not getting to you in time, failing in protecting you, losing you - into your willing vessel; you meet each and every one of his fears head on, dissolving them with just one touch of your magic.

I’m here with you.

You’re here with me.

Only breaking for air, you drag your kiss swollen lips along the chisel of Din’s jaw and down the column of his throat, loving on every inch of the skin he bares for you and only you. The General tips his helmet back down and pulls you flush against his chest plate, letting you bury your face into the soft folds of his neck cowl; he chuckles to himself at your deep inhale and the contented sigh that follows as you take in your fill of his familiar scent.

“I really am sorry, Din. I know you worry.”

“I don’t know what I would do if something were to happen to you, cyar’ika,” Din husks, even saying the words out loud constricts his airway.

Your fingers find the gaps between his armour and wiggle in, tickling your Mandalorian’s soft spots in an effort to soothe him; your own mood having already been placated, you tease, “Then next time you should come with me.”

“Princess.” The gravel of Din’s warning causes your pulse to quicken.

Tilting your chin up, you rest its point on the smooth Beskar plate, the very picture of innocence peering up through your lashes as your General cocks his head in faux exasperation, “If you promise not to blame the Lieutenants for merely obeying their Princess, then I promise there won’t be a next time without proper consultation with you.”

There’s a beat of silence before the metal helmet dips to assent, the movement near imperceptible to someone with less intimate knowledge of Din’s tells. Beaming, you close your eyes and nudge the rim of the impressive silver dome upwards once more, needing no guide to find the lips already waiting for yours.

---

The remainder of the evening passes uneventfully despite the maelstrom that continues to pound the Solana countryside, shaking the earth and slicing its skies. Your little cottage, however, proves to be an impenetrable haven, somehow immune to the outside destruction; its warmth and simplicity, and the generosity of your hosts, underestimated defenses. One of the older sons from the main farmhouse braves the storm to bring a hot meal from his mother, along with some additional blankets, various sundries, and a fresh supply of dry firewood; your party wants for nothing.

Food and drink is shared over relaxed conversation that gets progressively more lively as the day’s anxieties wear off and the familiarity of the present company, coupled with overall fatigue, remove any remaining vestiges of formality due to rank. The Lieutenants chortle over how their Princess teases the General, and marvel at the appearance of a gentler and frankly more personable side of their fearless leader previously thought non-existent.

Din regales your group with outlandish and thrilling tales of old bounties, exotic Outer Rim planets, and narrow escapes that have all three Solanians in the room on the edge of your seats. You counter with your own stories from various diplomatic missions to the Inner and Mid Rim, imparting fascinating and colourful tidbits on the traditions and cultures of nations that even Din has never heard of. Though the Lieutenants’ favourite anecdotes are the ones you share about the stuffy old court officials that you’ve known since birth - the wheezing laughter of two of the General’s most formidable fighters at times overtaking the howl of the outside winds.

Unable to stop his smiling, Din watches as you cast the spell of your charm over his men, forever in awe of your unique ability to make those around you feel comfortable, valued, seen – it’s no wonder that the people of Solana love their Princess. He thinks back to how the two of you met in the national library those many moons ago, how easily he had mistaken you for a mere noble lady – having met all types of leaders, politicians, heads of state over the years, he never would have imagined that such humility, empathy, sincerity could reside in one of royal blood. You had long since apologized for having inadvertently misled him regarding your identity, but there had been no real need – the truth only made him admire you more. And you’ve only continued to amaze and captivate him since then; way past denying to himself just how utterly in love he is, Din is sure he could not conceal his feelings were it not for the cover of his Beskar. His Lieutenants have likely already seen through his armour tonight.

It’s only when you can no longer swallow your yawns and your eyelids start to droop that Din insists everyone retire for the night. Though he had agreed to refrain from reprimanding his men any further for their role in your adventure today, your security and safety is still his utmost priority. He ushers you to the small bedroom to ready yourself for bed, then lays out the rotating security protocol for the night with his men. When everyone is comfortable with their assignments, Din bids his Lieutenants goodnight before knocking on your door.

“Come in.”

He enters to find you rearranging the bedding of the one bed to your liking, adorably fluffing the pillows and tucking back the covers, “Well, General? Have you satisfied yourself with the security arrangements?”

Din checks the room’s one window, drawing the curtains after deeming its construction to be adequate, then takes a closer look around; the room itself is quaint, nowhere near grand enough for someone of your station, but perfectly suitable for a night’s shelter from the still raging storm. Far from complaining, you seem to have no problem making yourself at home – Din wonders if there’s any place in the galaxy that you couldn’t make your own, anywhere you wouldn’t look like you belonged perfectly. Corusant? Mandalore? Nevarro? He shakes his head to relieve himself of thoughts he has no right to, drawing a chair next to the room’s small but well lit fireplace and sits before answering, “The Lieutenants will sleep out in the main room, one at a time, switching off 4-hour guard shifts…”

“But Din…”

The Mandalorian shakes his head, “No buts, cyare. I cannot compromise on this. Regardless of the assurance and hospitality of our hosts, I will not leave the premises unguarded overnight.”

You relent, knowing he will be immovable on this matter, “And you?”

“The Lieutenants will guard the cottage, and I will guard you.”

“From that chair?”

The General nods as he settles in, unsure what to make of the cute little noise you chirp at his assertion, pretending not to noticed the look of amusement gracing your pretty face as you go about your nightly routine. There’s something magnetic about the way you complete even the most mundane of tasks: washing your face, brushing your hair – the domesticity of it all tugs at something primal in Din’s heart. Though he’s never been in your castle bedchambers, Din will admit he has thought about what it might be like in there, the place where you lower your guard, where you can be your most restful self, vulnerable – he would want to protect you even there, he thinks. Unaware of your own allure and the effect you’re having on the stoic, steady man watching, you go around the room extinguishing the lamps so that the only remaining light source is the still gently lapping fire next to him. As the golden dance of its flames illuminate your graceful steps towards the bed, the tranquility of the scene before Din whispers an image of him slipping under those covers with you but for a moment - his impeachable sense of duty snaps him back to reality before the fantasy can take hold.

You’re still wearing a bemused grin as you climb into bed, as if you can read his mind the way you can the rigidity of his posture; after laying your head on the pillow and rolling away from him, you sing back over the roar of the storm, “Goodnight, General.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

---

Din can tell that you aren’t asleep, but he’s still surprised nearly an hour later when you suddenly sit upright, “Din, do you really mean not to get any rest?”

When he offers nothing but silence, you violently throw back the covers and hop out of bed. Walking towards him, bathed in the warm glow of the fire’s dying embers, you’re an angel unaware of her own sin, “Please, come to bed, General. It’s big enough for the both of us.”

You don’t know that for the last hour it’s taken every ounce of Din’s honour, every last fibre of his strength to keep from doing just that. That the mere idea of it being his place to touch you in a shared bed, fall asleep and wake up next to your elegance is worth more to Din than all the credits in the galaxy. That his imagination cannot conceive of anything more comforting than the curved feel of your lovely spine pressed up against his chest and his breath syncing to yours as you both succumb to peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. Yes, that bed is big of enough for the two of you, but is it big enough to contain the spill of Din’s overflowing feelings? His desires and forbidden fantasies? Is the bed strong enough to cradle the sanctity of your connection, the magnitude of what you’ve come to mean to one another, the promises of a tomorrow? Never mind tomorrow, can the bed hold everything Din wishes to say to your heart and do to your heavenly body tonight?

“You cannot say that to me, Princess. Especially not when dressed the way you are.”

Your eyes crinkle adorably, your chest warming from the huskiness in Din’s voice, “I didn’t realize this simple frock made me such a temptress.”

“More forbidden than any temptation, cyare,” breathes Din. How can he possibly explain that seeing you out of your usual silks, in plainclothes that would not look out of place on any maiden of the kingdom, is a danger to his mind? In these clothes, you would not look so out of place on Nevarro, in his small home near the lava flats - he can almost imagine you welcoming him and Grogu home wearing something similar. He can’t tell you that the very look of you as you are now fuels the impossible dream that he might have a life with you; that without your regalia, your satin armour, he can almost picture himself your equal, a man worthy of carving a place by your side.

Din doesn’t have the words to articulate any of this; all he can do is to unlock his helmet before simply stating, “You look like home.”

You move as if in flight, arms locked around your General’s neck before you’re even seated in his lap. Eagerly pushing up his helmet, you crash your lips to Din’s at his romantic declaration, the significance of his words not lost on you. You kiss his fears and uncertainty into submission, every press of your mouths deeper and more passionate than the last.

After Din tips his helmet back down, he confesses, wistful, “Cyare, right now in this room, dressed as you are, looking as beautiful as you do - you look like someone that could actually be mine.”

“I am yours, Din,” you declare, heart bursting, “I’ve been yours from the moment we met, and every day since. I’ll never be anyone’s but yours.” You stand and extend your hand towards the only man to whom your heart, your body, your soul, will ever belong, “Come to bed, Din.”

There’s not enough fight in him to refuse again - the armour around his heart already cracked and crumbling from your sweet and heartfelt confession, his own abundance of emotions, and the mesmerizing vision of you in that damn dress.

The two of you move as one towards the bed, Din’s large gloved hands cover yours, guiding you over the breadth of his body. You remain unsure of his intentions until he helps your fingers find the magnetic latch beneath one of his pauldrons – at the click of its release, you gasp, shocked; pulling your hand back so fast it’s as if you’ve been burnt, sure you’ve just committed an unforgivable sin.

Din chuckles and holds fast onto your hand, bringing it back to his shoulder and closing your fingers over the precious metal. He tugs so that the Beskar detaches from its clip, letting you separate the armour from the man. You look between the component in your hand and the visor of Din’s helmet in awe – disbelieving of this honour he’s bestowing on you. That a Mandalorian remove any of his sacred armour in front of another is extraordinary enough, to let her be the one to relieve him of it is practically sacrilegious. Your eyes well with tears at this remarkable display of trust, of this invitation Din is extending, and you vow here and now that you will do everything in your power to be deserving of such privilege.

Thank you.

Din nods in understanding as he helps you set down his pauldron, then resumes showing you how to disarm him. The ceremony of his armour removal is sacrosanct, a carefully coordinated dance steeped in tradition: pauldron, bandolier, chest plate, cape, frame, vambraces, thigh plates, boots – all handled with the greatest of care and reverence. You memorize every wordless instruction and commit this sacred ritual to heart, the most attentive student to her adoring teacher.

It’s only when Din stands before you in just his flight suit that he hesitates, shy, exposed. You reach to offer him reassurance but he stops you by holding up both gloved hands; the shakiness of his breath indicative of the gravity of what he’s about to do, reveal more of himself to you than he has another living soul for what may be his entire adult life.

“Din, you don’t-” you start, wanting him know he doesn’t have to do anything he’s not ready for and certainly not this; you don’t expect it and you don’t need such any such grand gestures to understand his feelings. In truth, you can’t stomach the idea of him having any regrets and being unable to take back or undo his actions.

He shakes his head, happy, “I want to, mesh’la. I’ve never wanted to more. For anyone, more.” Blinking away your tears, your eyes glue to Din’s gloves as he slowly removes and adds them to his neat pile of armour; shellshocked, you stare at enormous size of his hands, instruments of immeasurable power, tanned and rough looking with thick veins that crisscross over a myriad of healed-over scars. Din flexes his thick fingers, as if getting used to the freedom of being ungloved, before turning them over in invitation. You slide your palms over his, soaking in the sensation of this first touch – his skin is exquisite in its feel, warm and grounding, priceless.

You’re overwhelmed, emotional – these very hands have held you, comforted you, cared for you with infinite tenderness and patience, and yet you know them to also be skilled in destruction, unyielding in their might. Your heartbeat quickens; would it be so wrong if you wanted these hands to show you some of that brutal strength? To handle you with a little less care? To ruin you?

Registering your physical reaction to his hands, Din chest puffs a little in pride for his effect on you; he takes one of his hands and cups your face, reveling in how you close your eyes and lean into his palm. Slowly, he trails the fingers of that same hand along your jaw line, then down the side of your neck, feeling you shiver beneath his touch; brushing his fingertips across your collar, he pauses momentarily at the neckline of this temptress dress, before gently dragging the fabric aside until it starts to slip over your shoulder. “May I?” he asks quietly.

You nod, not trusting your own voice. With the same care you used to strip him of his armour, Din undresses you: slow, reverent. It’s tortuous how much time he takes unlacing every lace, unbuttoning every button, untying every tie; Din’s sense of wonder is palpable as each of your layers is shed, you can tell by the way his flight suit tightens across the expanse of his chest that he’s holding his breath until the very last panel of fabric lands at your feet and leaves you bare to his gaze.

Only then does he exhale.

For the first time in a while, you feel self-conscious around Din – usually so confident in your ability to read your Mandalorian, you’re finding his body language too impassive to interpret; his continued silence exaggerates how exposed you are, and so you turn your face away, hiding from his gaze – are you not what he expected? Does he not like what he sees?

As if having read your mind, two thick fingers gently pinch your chin and tilt your face upwards; the man beyond the dark abyss of the T-visor zeros in on the spiral of your thoughts, calming them with one simple word, “Beautiful.”

You cannot help but beam as the sincerity and lust underlying Din’s baritone wash over you, filling you to the brim with renewed confidence and want.

Din’s hands itch to explore your body, but he reminds himself that you deserve restraint, that you’re too precious for clumsy hands; he runs the back of his knuckles over your collar bones, then down your sternum, closely watching your reactions to his touch. Your skin prickles from the electricity of his caress, breasts aching for more and perking towards Din’s hands; when his fingertips catch over one of your hardened nipples, you whimper and your body bows. His laugh sends shivers down your spine, “And so sensitive.”

Biting down on your lower lip, you pout, too impatient for seduction, and throw your arms Din’s thick neck, whining as you press your naked body against his immovable frame. He touches his helmet to your forehead, and the cool feel of his Keldabe kiss against your warm skin forces you to still and calm; even through the modulator, Din’s tone is indulgent and placating, “Cyare, I have to blindfold you now, is that okay?”

“Of course, Din,” the significance of this next step not lost on you, you purr, “I trust you.”

Reaching behind you, Din picks up a sash tie that came loose from your dress when he disrobed you. You gaze affectionately into Din’s visor, straight into his soul, your love and trust the last thing he sees before he covers your eyes with the soft fabric and robs you of your sight.

“Can you see?” the General breathes right above your ear as he secures the blindfold’s knot, “Not too tight?”

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, barely heard over the loudness of the storm, but no matter, Din reads the way your body reacts to the hiss of his helmet being removed, the sound of his flight suit unzipping.

Something about Din removing this final layer of clothing, the last remaining barrier between his skin and yours, feels like a point of no return, like you’re about to step off the edge of a cliff, hand in hand with the only person in this galaxy with whom you want to share this intimacy.

“Din,” you call for him, you need him.

He lays you gently on the bed and climbs on top, powerful body covering yours, covetous and protective; he flutters soft kisses to your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose before coming home to your mouth. Your lips part in an invitation and Din licks in, his tongue eager to explore, deify, to claim – you match him stroke for stroke, brush for brush, letting yourself be conquered. This man is everything to you, his strength, his compassion, his heart, all without an equal in this galaxy - your passion for him claws at his back, trying to pull your bodies closer together, the heat between your legs making a mess of you.

“Cyar’ika,” Din rasps, the honey of his tenor, so clear without the modulator, music to your ears, “I will do anything you ask, give you anything you need, but please, Your Highness, if you allow, I would very much like to take my time with you tonight.”

Your rank sounds like delicious sin on his tongue, the polite manner of his address barely concealing the filthiness of his request. Of course you will acquiesce; Din has said on more than one occasion that whether you command him as his sovereign or his love, he will always obey without question – but the truth of the matter is that you could never deny him anything either.

“Okay, General,” your fingers trace the sharpness of his jaw and thumb at his plush bottom lip, “take all the time you need.”

He does.

Din worships every inch of your body with his hands, his mouth – mapping the valleys and hills of your figure with the skill and focus of a master navigator getting the lay of a new land. The tip of his strong nose carves new pathways over the soft plains of your body, and his tongue and fingers follow, traversing those routes over and over so that he’ll forever be able to find his way to heaven, even with his eyes closed. He reads the noises you make like a map: your little sighs and gasps have him running his tongue over the same pleasure points repeatedly, begging you to recreate that sweet melody for him again; when you writhe and whine, his fingers dig a little deeper, pinch a little harder, forcing your body to mold to his reverent touch; moans and pleas for more, more, more leave him proud and tortured, torn between drawing out this holiest of prayers and paying homage to the siren call from between your legs.

No sweet spot is left undiscovered as Din explores and marks you wholly and completely as his. He knows you now in a way that his wildest dreams hardly allowed, and yet it changes nothing of his feelings for you; naked and needy beneath him, you still command him - he remains at your mercy, forever devoted to your happiness, the fiercest protector of your heart.

Your cries for him under the cover of the winds howling against the window do not go unheard; he could never leave you so unsatisfied - kissing down your raised leg, laving at the ticklish spot behind your knee, Din surrenders, bringing his mouth to where you need him most.

The whinny and shudder of relief you exhale when he touches down on your clit rivals the shrieks and shakes of the still raging storm outside. Din grins against your cunt as you fist his hair, tugging, patience having run thin, your offer to let him take his time officially rescinded. Orders received, the General laps at your folds with renewed vigour, making out messily with your slit and drinking down the drip of your nectar like a man parched. Your moans of ecstasy spur him to add the efforts of his fingers, pushing in one, then two thick digits to your mindless chanting of his name. Curling and scissoring you open at the pace that has you yanking at the curls at the base of his neck the hardest, Din circles and sucks on your clit like a men possessed, obsessed, slowing only when he feels you seize and quake with your first orgasm of the night.

Proud of a job well done, Din makes the return journey up your body, smiling against your skin, kissing and caressing the all the curvature landmarks he discovered earlier. Resting his weight on top of you, the Mandalorian sighs, contented and hard, as you welcome him back into your arms. His mouth returns to yours, and when you taste your own honey the sound you make is so guttural and animalistic, Din cannot fathom what he ever did to deserve such heaven. The kissing remains tender, the scratches down his back gentle, your moans soft and melodious – for a man who’s spent his entire life fighting and steeped in violence, Din knows this is the peace that would allow him to die happy.

But it’s not enough for you.

“Din, please,” you murmur against his lips, voice awakening and dripping with lust, “I need you.”

Once again, the General has no choice but to obey. Kissing you deep, he notches his aching cock against your entrance, smiling at the expression of anticipation evident on the exposed half of your face; he enters you slow, careful.

Your body reacts to finally getting what its wanted for so long by arching, welcoming every inch of Din’s length, pussy fluttering and begging for more. You want all of him tonight. Forever.

When he finally bottoms out, Din buries his face into your neck, nearly overwhelmed by the sweet hug of your warm walls, and growls low, throaty, “So tight, mesh’la.”

“So full, General,” you sing back, floating on bliss. Though you cannot see his expression, you’re sure this moment is affecting you both the same; the feel of this great man, cradling you so dear while trusting you to touch him while bare, armourless, makes your heart explode – you want to give everything you have to him, repay him for the trust and belief he’s place in you, for making you feel alive, free, invincible, for just being him, “Din… I love you.”

You can feel him smile as he presses kisses up the column of your throat, his facial hair tickling as he drags his lips back to yours, “Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, Princess.”

Unable to contain your joy, your mouth curves in delight, “Is that Mando’a?”

“Yes. For I love you.”

“Teach me?”

Din begins to move, slow thrusting into your tight cunt, every drag a release, an offering, “Nee kar-TIE-lee gar dah-RAH-soom. Nee kar-”

“Nee kar-” you try out the pronunciation hushed, heart pounding, as if it was a secret being revealed to you and only you.

“TIE-lee gar.”

The words of Din’s native tongue sound so beautiful spoken this way, sure and slow to the rhythm of Din rocking into you; you try your best to do it justice with your own repetition, “TIE-lee gar.”

“Very good, cyare,” Din’s praise hits you right in the throb of your clit, you clench so hard he chokes, “Dah-RAH-soom.”

Mandalore’s language might as well be a forbidden hymn when sung in your breathy register, “Dah-RAH-soon.”

“Perfect. Again.”

Again and again you practice, recitation of this one glorious phrase punctuated by the increasing tempo of Din’s thrusts. He praises your every successful completion of the phrase, even those that take longer when you become distracted by how deep he sinks into your cunt or the wet squelch of your bodies joining together over and over.

“Well done, Princess.”

“Doing so good for me.”

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”

The General’s patience and encouragement make you want to try even harder to please him; you roll your hips, meeting his powerful drive with your own bounce, voice growing louder and more confident, “Ni kar'tayl-”

Your cadence stumbles as Din picks up the pace something feral; he jolts you up the bed, punching the air from your lungs and with it, the simple phonetics of his people’s language. You wail your Mando’a like a war cry as Din’s cock reaches new depths, grateful that the rainstorm that continues to beat down over Solana drowns out your unrestrained vocals.

“Dank Farrik, you’re perfect, cyare.”

And still, you persist, sobbing out the lyrical combination of vowels and consonants between every gasping breath Din allows; he’s holding you close now, his lips growling words of devotion and reassurance as you continue to refine the pitch and intonation of the truest phrase you will ever utter. His hips never stutter, he chases after your high like his life depends on it; not in all his days has Din heard the words of the Mandalorian people sound so melodious, so regal, so damn ethereal than on the wings of your angelic voice. He’s so proud of you; he could listen to you speak Mando’a forever. He could love you forever.

“Again,” Din croaks, his animal now fully unleashed, he pounds into you unrestrained, single minded.

You’re so close. So, so close to perfecting your Mando’a, unwilling to settle for anything less than a proper declaration of how adamantly you adore and admire your Mandalorian. I love you, Din. I love you, Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, I love you.

(Thrust) Ni kar'tayli (thrust, thrust) gar (thump, thump) darasuum!

“Again.”

(Slap) Ni kar'tayli (slap, slap, slap) gar (thrust, thrust) darasuum!

“Din!” You come, the chime of your General’s name ringing out and echoing off the walls of your room, thankfully swallowed by the roar of the outside gale.

The hug of your perfect cunt and the poetry of his native tongue on yours proves too much for Din’s cock; he spills into you as you continue to murmur in perfect Mando’a “Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum…”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he hums against your mouth, his descent lazy and sleepy. You smile against his lips, blissed out, body limp and wrung out, but heart full and blooming.

“I love you too, Din,” you coo, letting your Mandalorian curl around you, the two of you settle under the covers, soaking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. As Din’s strong arms wind protectively around your body and the heat from the press of his naked body against yours urges you towards sleep, you remember your concern from earlier, “Din, I know you won’t spend the night like this, but please promise me you’ll get some rest before getting up and resuming guard.”

The General squeezes you tighter in response, the velvet of his promise rumbles against your cheek, “I promise, Princess. I’m yours to command. I’m yours.”

And I’m yours. So tired, you’re unsure if you’re able to say the words aloud before your eyes close. It’s not necessary; the steady beating of your heart and the enormity of your feelings pulsing against the feel of Din’s bare skin next to yours, say it for you.

🎶In the Middle of the Night by Elley Duhé🎶:

I summoned you, please come to me Don't bury thoughts that you really want I fill you up, drink from my cup Within me lies what you really want

Come, lay me down 'Cause you know this 'Cause you know this sound

In the middle of the night In the middle of the night Just call my name I'm yours to tame In the middle of the night In the middle of the night I'm wide awake I crave your taste all night long 'Til morning comes I'm getting what is mine You gon' get yours, oh no, ooh In the middle of the night In the middle of the night, oh

These burning flames, these crashing waves Wash over me like a hurricane I captivate, you're hypnotized Feel powerful, but it's me again

Come, lay me down 'Cause I know this 'Cause I know this sound

In the middle of the night In the middle of the night Just call my name I'm yours to tame In the middle of the night In the middle of the night I'm wide awake I crave your taste all night long 'Til morning comes I'm getting what is mine You gon' get yours, oh no, ooh In the middle of the night In the middle of the night, oh

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