âWelcome back, Red One.â
Poeâs soothing voice permeates the suffocating confines of the cockpit. Promptly, it loosens the vice around your chest, gently pries the tight grip of your hands from the control stick.
âYou got me worried for a minute there, sweetheart,â he chuckles. âThey said you went offline.â
âY-Yeah,â you let out a quivering breath, careful not to tear at the seams. âBit of a uh â bit of a hiccup.â
There is a weighted pause, before Poe switches frequency.
âYou OK, baby?â His tone lowers, laced with trepidation.
âMm-hmm,â you press buttons to shut down the engine, and peel back the canopy. âUh â Black Leader?â
âYes, Red Leader?â His words reach you all jagged.
You look up, and see him already running across the hangar to you.
âDonât freak out, OK?â You barely manage.
âWhat do you mean?â You can see his heavy brows crease; even from afar, even through your tears.
You wrench your helmet off and close your eyes, taking another deep breath.
You look down at your lap â your orange flightsuit soaked through with deeper red at the crotch; a gleaming reminder of what you lost, smeared upon the leather seat.
When your gaze pulls up again, you note the panic stretching across Poeâs wide eyes.
You click your tongue, and throw a hard punch on his chest.
âDammit, Poe â I told you not to freak out!â Your voice comes out squeakier than you intended, smaller.
Itâs all a blur after that.
Poe hauls you against him all the way to the med bay, your face wedged into his stubbled neck. His throat bobs with his frantic yells, but you donât hear a single word.
When you feel the sick, wet sensation between your legs again, knowing itâs seeped into his linen shirt â you fall apart, sobbing uncontrollably.
âShh-shh-shhh ââ Poeâs lips press tender solace next to your ear. âItâs alright â weâll try again.â
Summary: Life on the razor crest has started to feel a little too much like home. When jealousy forces hidden feelings into the open, you and Din can no longer pretend there's nothing between you.
Warnings: None, just fluff!
Word Count: 1.6k
Notes: I was nervous to post this! This is my first time posting/writing about Din Djarin, and I just started to watch the show so bear with me, I hope this isn't too off character for him. I saw the new movie though, and jeez, best decision ever because it introduced me to him.
. Ęâ âč . Ę âĄ Ę . âč â Ę.
There was nothing Din Djarin wouldnât do for you, even if he never said it aloud. Heâd never known a feeling like this before. Maker, what he would do to read your mind, to know if you thought about him as much as he thought about you.Â
Youâd been travelling with him on the Razor Crest for a while now, and the two of you had a good routine going. You would take care of Grogu while Din was away from the ship or busy working on it. Regardless of what it was, you became a caretaker of sorts.Â
Din often found himself staring at you more than heâd like to admit, his gaze lingering longer on you every time. It was awfully domestic, but Din couldnât help the way he felt when he watched you hold the child against your hip while you did even the most mundane daily tasks. Your new-found life was not too bad if you were being honest. In exchange for taking care of the cutest little green creature, you got a new home and constant protection from a Mandalorian.Â
You tried to push the growing feelings inside of you down, but you couldnât deny that over time in a confined, small space with just you and Din, you started to find yourself getting attached. It felt familiar to you, like this was where your home was. This is where you were meant to be.
Although nothing was ever explicitly said, between stolen glances at each other and hands brushing against the otherâs for a moment too long, youâd both come to recognize the truth neither of you seemed willing to voice.
Tonight, you and Din were at the cantina after a particularly gruelling bounty heâd completed just a day before. The place was so loud that the glasses rattled on the tables, but Din didnât miss a word that you were saying to a pilot who had approached you, drink in hand.Â
âYour boyfriend always this quiet?â the pilot asked with a laugh, glancing toward the Mandalorian seated across from you. âOr did I interrupt something?â
You nearly choked on your drink. âHe isnât my boyfriend,â you replied, shifting awkwardly in your seat.Â
âNo?â The pilot raised a brow, an easy smile tugging at his lips. âThen maybe my timingâs better than I thought.â
Across the table, Dinâs hand stilled around his glass.
You didnât see it beneath the helmet, but the pilotâs words had caught his attention far more effectively than the music thundering through the cantina ever could.
In your ideal world, Din would have said something. Anything. A small part of you hoped he would, but he simply sat there silently, helmet tilted slightly in your direction, knocking you back into reality.Â
For a brief second, you foolishly wondered if all those moments between you and him in the ship meant nothing.Â
Quickly, you turned your attention back to the pilot. âMaybe,â you said with a breathy laugh.
Before the pilot had a chance to start talking again, Din stood abruptly.Â
âI should check on the kid.âÂ
You blinked and stared up at him in surprise.Â
âRight now?â
âYes.â
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stranded with the annoyingly charming pilot by your side. The pilot was cute, but that didnât stop the feeling of your heart sinking in silence.Â
The pilot leaned a little closer, undeterred. âSo,â he said lightly, âyou gonna let me buy you that drink, or am I competing with the mysterious armored guy all night?â
The pilot was still talking, but his words were starting to blur at the edges. You nodded when it felt appropriate, smiled when it seemed right, but your attention kept drifting back to the space Din had left behind. You werenât sure how much time had passed, but by the time you headed back to the Razor Crest, you couldnât ignore the way that your chest felt strangely heavy on the walk back.Â
When you stepped back into the ship, it immediately felt stuffy. Before you had another chance to overthink, you heard babbling at your feet and saw two little green hands reaching up for you. Happily, you took Grogu into your arms, momentarily distracting yourself from how you felt.
You smiled warmly at the child who cooed and snuggled against you as you got him ready for bed. Grogu looked at you with those big, round eyes as if he could tell your mind was elsewhere.
You sighed. âItâs nothing.â
He stared at you quietly, not convinced. His ears tilted slightly and he made a small noise, like he was trying to understand you. Your heart melted at the sight.
âDonât look at me like that,â you murmured, brushing your thumb gently over his ear. âIâm fine, really.â
Thatâs when you felt a shift in the atmosphere. The space behind you felt infinitely less empty than it did a minute ago, and you didnât need to turn around to know Din was there.Â
He was the first to break the silence. âYouâre back,â Din said, voice low and gravelly.
You turned around, facing him but avoiding his gaze through his visor. âYou left me at the cantina,â you replied as you attempted to hide the tremble in your voice.Â
âI stepped out,â Din corrected.
The tension only grew.
âRight,â you said. Grogu made a soft sound, as if he was unsettled by the newfound awkwardness between you and Din. âItâs fine,â you added. âYou donât need to explain it.â
There was another moment of silence, then he spoke again.
âI wasnât leaving you."Â
Silence stretched once more, and you could feel your breath getting caught in your throat. Without saying a word, you pushed past him to let the child sleep. Â
Din turned his head slightly as you passed, and you could feel his gaze on you through his helmet. You kept walking, trying to stop yourself from saying what was on the tip of your tongue. You could hear him follow behind you, and without thinking, you turned to face him.
Impulsively, you spoke up. âIt felt like you were leaving me. I don't understand what I did to upset you.â
The silence between you was unsettling as you darted your focus to the wall, the floor, to anything but his visor. You mentally cursed yourself for even saying that, worried that you sounded desperate.Â
âNo,â he finally said. âThatâsâŠnot what I was doing.âÂ
He sighed, shoulders falling slightly as he leaned against the metal walls of the ship.
âIâm notââ you sighed again in frustration, angry at yourself for letting it get to this point. You made a dismissive gesture with your hand before you started to ramble, âIâm not trying to make this a thing.âÂ
Din shifted slightly, like he might answer, but you didnât notice because you were already talking again.
âItâs not like you act like nothing's here,â you added quickly. âBecause you donât. You say my name in that way, and you stand too close, and you donât always stop looking at me when you should, and I donât know what that is but itâs not nothingââ You stopped mid-breath, realizing what you had just said.Â
âI donât know why I said thatâŠâ You admitted quietly.
This time, when Din moved, he moved closer to you. Your hands flexed at your sides awkwardly as the weight of what you had just said laid heavy upon you. Taking you by surprise, he gently pulled you in close. It was quiet enough for you to hear your own heart beating rapidly in your chest.Â
âThe pilot,â he finally said after what felt like forever. Your eyes met his visor, and you looked up at him with confusion. ââŠThatâs why I left.â
âOh,â you replied. âThe pilot?â
âI thoughtâŠâ He stopped, as if he hated what he was about to admit. âI thought maybe you wanted that.â
Your eyes widened in shock. âHim?â
âSomeone who could give you more than this.â You could hear vulnerability in his voice now. âSomeone who doesnât disappear for days. Someone who can give you more than a room on a gunship.âÂ
You shook your head immediately. âI donât want that,â you said as your voice cracked. You laughed softly through the tears threatening to spill. âMaker, I donât want some pilot. I donât want someone else, I...want you.â
The words hung between you and for the first time that night, Din had nothing to say. He stared at you for a moment through his helmet and his hands remained steady in yours, like he was afraid youâd disappear if he let go.Â
And then, to your complete confusion, he did let go.
You blinked. âDin?â
He took two steps back, then another. Â
âDin?â you repeated, unable to hide the growing anxiety in your voice.Â
âWait,â he replied. âJust trust me.â
Before you could ask what he was doing, the lights inside the Crest suddenly flickered off. You stared out into the darkness.
The familiar hiss of his helmet coming off filled the ship. You knew that sound, and before you could speak up again, his hands found your face in the darkness. Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed your cheeks.
âCyarâikaâŠâ he said softly, his voice no longer distorted by the modulator. He stepped forward, closing the space between you, his voice low and smooth. "You have me."
Then without another word, he kissed you. It was so tender, so gentle, as if through everything, he still couldnât quite believe you were real beneath his hands. For once, Din didnât wish to read your mind.
The answer he was looking for was written on your lips.
it was hard to face the reality that you will never get to see your husbandâs face. to touch his skin. feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. the agony of not being able to feel that connection with the man you love almost nearly killed you sometimes.
he would go on missions for days, weeks, months at a time and you would be stuck with just a nod for a goodbye. of course, behind his mask he felt the same way. yearning to feel your lips against his every time he would leave. kissing you like you would disappear if he let go.
you stood outside your home with a small sack of food you had made him for his next few days of travel. waiting patiently for him, you noticed two butterflies sitting on the fence. intertwining antennas as if showing affection for each other.
you sighed. inside you wished that your heart wasnât so selfish to want your husband to go against the creed just so you could get what you had been wanting since the day you met him. you secretly wanted to know if it was killing him as much as it was killing you.
âis this for me?â he asks, startling you out of your daydream.
you nodded, handing the bag to him not looking up. the sorrow you felt deep down began to show. he watched your movements as your chin began to quiver.
âhey, hey, hey. whatâs wrong?â he whispers, putting his hand on the back of your head and pulling you to his chest.
you sniffled, trying to catch your breath as you broke down. mad at yourself for reacting this way and mad for what was about to come out of your mouth.
âi wish you could just kiss meâ you say, voice cracking.
âi know we canât a-and i worry that when you walk away it might be the last i ever see you. i-i just want something more than nothing before you leave me each timeâ
those words nearly knocked the wind out of him. you looked up at him with glossy eyes. waiting for a response, waiting to see if he would give in. he took a moment to respond. he brushed loose strands of hair out of your face and placed the forehead of his helmet to yours.
this was gesture you had never seen by him. the cool metal of his helmet kissed your skin so gently. you closed your eyes, heart finally beating steadily. this wasnât what you had in mind, but it meant everything.
he lifted his head from yours slowly but kept you close.
âthatâs what Mandalorianâs call a keldabe kissâ he explains;
âi promise you that i love you, always. donât ever forget that, meâshlaâ
and with that, every time he ventured out, whether it be out to fetch something from town or on a trip out in the stars; he made sure to never leave without kissing you goodbye.
Summary: The three times that Din bends his own rules and engages in physical touch.Â
his primary love languages are acts of service and physical touch. i will die on this hill.
i started this one just to indulge in the thoughts of touching his lovely face. itâs been in the works for a while and although i know itâs far from perfect, iâm glad that it finally gets to see the light of day!
warnings: bad language, potential incoherence? idk iâm very tired but i hope you like it
tags: plenty of fluff, plenty of indulgent, sfw touching, and then a good handful of angst. rollercoaster central. this takes place over a period of time, so part of it comes after finding out groguâs name, which is why heâs referred to as many things!
word count: 4650
written by: archie
support me on ko-fi!
The travelling between planets wouldâve been excruciating if not for your life partner and your adoptive child. The three of you made rather an unorthodox family. A runaway from Corellia, a Mandalorian and a⊠a sweet ball of green. An unorthodox family, indeed, but loving.
The Child chirped and bubbled away on your lap, apparently having a conversation with you while you sat in the pilot seat. You listened attentively, made agreeing noises at all the right moments, the lights of hyperspace travel filling the cabin with slow flashes. He really was so cute. Youâd tell him it often, and youâd tell him that Din thought so too, even if heâd never say it. That much was obvious.
It was in the way he carried him, the way he protected him. The occasional pat to his head, or the quiet rub to his long ears as he slept. He wasnât the type to openly say it, but it was clear, and that was what counted.
The Child reached out to the knob atop the gearstick, fingers wiggling.
âBaby, no. We have to always ask Din about the ship, hm?â You bounced him gently on your knee in an effort to ease the sad coos- but there was no need. A gloved hand reached around you, exposed fingertips closing on the ball. It was unscrewed and placed into the waiting green hands, content whirs and chatters soon filling the air.
The warmth in your chest grew into a smile as you dropped your head back, peering up at the helmeted man that stood just out of sight. âThatâs a yes, then?â
Summary: You and your Mandalorian have an argument and you want to make him jealous.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut đ
A/N: I teased this as a WIP before and hereâs the full version. This is definitely staying as a one-shot and isnât part of Through The Wall. Enjoy! đ„°
The argument had started over something stupid. Thatâs the worst part - you canât even hold onto the shape of it anymore, only the heat.
Something about a job. Something about him going in alone, again, without telling you. Something about the way he'd said it's safer this way in that flat, modulated tone that always made you feel like a child being sent to bed early.
You told him to go fuck himself. He told you, very calmly, that you were being unreasonable. And then he walked off the ramp of the Crest and down into the dust of whatever nameless Outer Rim moon you've put down on - Karthos, Karthon, you canât remember - without looking back.
So here you are, in a cantina on your third drink. Itâs the kind of dim, smoky hole-in-the-wall where the patrons donât ask questions and the bartender keeps his blaster within easy reach of the till. Spice-burners murmur in a corner booth and a Twi'lek dances half-heartedly on a lit platform near the back.
The air has that sweet rotten tang of cheap Corellian whiskey and unwashed bodies, and you nurse your first glass long enough to feel the slow loosening behind your ribs, the kind of warmth that talks you into trouble.
Dinâs at the bar. You can feel the beskar before you see it - that particular density in the room, the way other patrons give him a careful half-metre of space without meaning to.
He hasnât sat with you. He didnât even look at you when he came in. He's taken a stool at the far end of the long curved bar, ordered something he wonât drink, and angled the dark visor of his helmet toward the door like heâs guarding it. Like you arenât even there.
Fine, you think. Fine, fine, fine.
You cross one leg over the other, the slit of your skirt rides up your thigh, and you donât smooth it down.
Thatâs when the man slips into the booth across from you.
Heâs human, mostly - thereâs something in the cheekbones that suggests a near-human grandmother somewhere in the family tree, a faint silvery cast under the warm brown of his skin - and heâs handsome in a way that isnât subtle.
He has dark hair thatâs pushed back from his forehead, a smuggler's coat, and a smile that arrives ahead of him by a half-second, like he's been practicing it on the way over.
You look like a woman who's been left to drink alone,â he says, settling in like he's been invited.
You raise your eyebrow over the rim of your glass. "Maybe I like drinking alone."
"Maybe." His teeth are very white. "Or maybe whoever left you alone is a fool to think youâll stay alone.
Across the room, you donât have to look. You can feel the slow, deliberate turn of the helmet, the shift of focus, the whole black mirror of that visor sliding toward your booth with the patience of a hunting cat.
Your pulse kicks once - hard - and you smile.
"That's a very tired line," you tell him, letting the smile do the work, letting it linger a beat too long, letting your tongue touch the edge of your bottom lip as you say it. "What's your name?"
"Kal," he says. "Kal Renn."
"Kal," you repeat, like youâre tasting it.
You arenât. Youâre tasting the way Din's posture has gone very, very still at the other end of the room. You can picture it without looking - that hand resting on the bar that has stopped tapping. The slow inhale you know so well that filters through the vocoder as a faint mechanical hiss.
"And yours?" Kal prompts
You tell him. You even lean forward when you do it, your elbow on the table, your chin in your palm, your hair falling in a slow curtain over one shoulder.
The neckline of your shirt shifts with you, and Kal's eyes do exactly what eyes do when a neckline shifts. You watch him watch you and you think - he's looking. He's looking and you're letting him and Din is watching and you let him and think, good, let him watch.
You know itâs petty, you know itâs childish and you donât care.
"Can I buy you another?" Kal asks, nodding at your nearly empty glass.
"Please."
He flags down a serving droid and orders something more expensive than what you've been drinking.
He asks you where youâre from, you lie prettily and he laughs at the lie like he knows it is one and doesnât mind. You laugh back, and the whole time thereâs a second conversation happening across the room in silence, in the angle of a helmet, in the way a gloved hand closes slowly into a fist on the bar and then, very deliberately, opens again.
Kal leans closer over the table. He has the kind of cologne that's trying too hard - leather and citrus and something musky underneath. He smells like a man whoâs used to being told he smells good, so you oblige and he grins.
"That Mandalorian over there," he says, low, conspiratorial. "He's been staring at you since I sat down."
Has he.â
"You know him?"
You tilt your head and consider the question. Consider the man who hasnât sat with you, the one who walked off the ramp without looking back. Who is, even now, doing the silent stone-still thing he does when heâs furious, the thing where he becomes more like a piece of armour than a person, because Maker forbid Din Djarin ever just says whatâs eating him.
"I know him," you say lightly. "He's nothing."
It isnât even close to true. Itâs the cruelest thing you've said all month and you say it because you know the vocoder will catch everything in this little cantina and his helmet's external mics are almost certainly tuned to your voice the way they always are when heâs worried about you, the bastard.
And you want him to hear it. You want him to hear you call him nothing.
Kal's grin widens and he reaches across the table, brushing two knuckles down the back of your hand. "Then dance with me."
You donât even hesitate.
You slide out of the booth, take his hand, and let him lead you out toward the little square of scuffed floor in front of the bandstand where two other couples are swaying to something slow and sad in a key meant for losing money.
The music is warm, the lights low. Kal puts a hand on your waist, and you realise immediately that itâs the wrong hand - too smooth, too soft, no glove - and you let him put it there anyway.
You dance, letting him spin you, letting him pull you a little closer than you should allow. His thumb traces a slow circle just above your hipbone through the fabric of your shirt and you laugh at something he murmurs against your temple.
Over his shoulder, between the haze of smoke and the dim flicker of the lamps, you see the helmet, the bar, the empty stool where he was sitting.
Now heâs on his feet. Not moving, just standing there at the bar, half-turned, watching you, and the room around him has gone quiet in the particular way rooms go quiet when people sense weather coming.
You should have stopped then.
You donât.
You slide your free hand up over Kal's shoulder, thread your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and tip your face up toward his.
Kal, whoâs been waiting for an invitation and has finally received one, lowers his head toward yours with the slow inevitability of a man about to kiss a stranger in a cantina on a planet whose name he probably canât pronounce.
You feel the air change before he reaches you.
You feel him - the displacement of beskar through a crowd. The polite, deliberate way Mandalorians move when theyâre choosing not to draw a weapon.
A hand closes around the back of Kal's collar and lifts him a full inch off the floor, setting him gently to one side as if heâs a piece of furniture being repositioned.
"That's mine," Din says.
Just that - two words through the modulator, low and even and so quiet that only the three of you hear them.
Kal - to his credit - takes one look at the visor and decides, audibly, that he likes his teeth where they are. He raises both palms, takes a slow step backward, then another, and then heâs gone into the crowd without a word.
The music keeps playing, and the Twi'lek on her platform never even breaks rhythm.
You open your mouth to say something cutting - something about ownership and about him not having any right.
Din's hand closes around your wrist.
It isnât rough, thatâs the worst of it. His grip is the same controlled, deliberate pressure he uses on the grip of his rifle - exact, unhurried, impossible to slip.
He doesnât drag you, he just turns and walks, and the distance between his fist and your wrist doesnât change, and so you walk too.
You make your way out of the cantina into the night. The double moons are up, throwing two overlapping shadows that lengthen and shorten as you cross the packed-dirt landing strip.
The air bites colder than it has any right to and you can hear his breath through the vocoder - measured, very measured, the way he breathes when heâs choosing not to do something violent.
You find your voice somewhere between the cantina door and the Crest's lowered ramp.
"Let go of me."
He ignores you.
"Din."
The ramp closes behind you with a hydraulic sigh and the hold lights come up in low amber. He lets go of your wrist exactly as the seal hisses shut, and you stumble a half-step at the sudden absence.
You turn to face him with every furious thing youâve been rehearsing in the back of your throat, but heâs already on you.
His hand catches the back of your neck. Not your hair, your neck, his palm wide and warm even through the leather, his fingers spread, his thumb just under the hinge of your jaw.
He walks you backward three steps until your shoulder blades met the bulkhead, and the cold of the durasteel through your shirt makes you gasp.
He stops there, caging you in. The other hand braces flat on the wall beside your head, the visor a hand's breadth from your face.
"Nothing," he says, the modulator making it sound like gravel. "I'm nothing."
âDinâŠâ
"You let him touch you."
"You walked off the ramp withoutâŠâ
"You let him put his hand on you."
"You wouldn't even sit with me!"
He goes so still you feel it through the hand at your throat. The grip doesnât tighten, but it doesnât have to. You feel every individual finger as a separate point of attention.
"Tell me," he says, very low, very even, "what you were going to do if I hadn't come over."
You didn't answer.
"Tell me, cyar'ika."
The endearment comes out of the vocoder like a brand. He hasnât said it once in three days, hasnât said it once since the argument. He's been vode'ika this and ad'ika that with everyone else on every comm line and youâve been you and hey and silence, and now, now, when he has you pinned to his own bulkhead with one hand on your throat, now he remembers the word.
"I was going to kiss him," you say. Itâs pure spite, a pure lie. Pure idiot bravado dressed up in your second-best voice.
The hand at your neck slides up, slowly. His thumb traces the line of your jaw to your chin, tipping your face up, and holding it there. The visor is so close you can see your own eyes reflected in it, wide, glittering, furious and scared in a way that isnât really scared at all.
"No," he says, âyou weren't."
How would youâŠ?â
"Because you looked at me first."
You stop breathing.
"Every time he leaned in," he says and the modulator does nothing to soften it, "you looked at me. You wanted me to see."
"IâŠâ
"You wanted me to come over there."
"I didn'tâŠâ
"Say it."
Your throat moves under his thumb. You canât get the word out, you canât look away and you canât, for the life of you, remember why you've been angry, why the thing about the job had mattered, why anything had mattered other than the fact that heâs here and heâs come and heâs furious and his hand is on your throat and the heat of him is bleeding through the beskar where his chestplate presses almost-but-not-quite against yours.
"Yes," you whisper.
"Yes what?â
"Yes, I wanted you to see."
He exhales, and somehow itâs the most human sound he's made all night.
"Good girl," he says.
Oh, fuck.
Your knees nearly go. You've never been a good girl in your life and you argued with him about that very phrase the first time he ever tried it on you, and heâs using it now with deliberate, weaponised accuracy. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and his helmet tilts a precise half-degree as he catches the motion.
"Mm," he says.
The hand on your throat slides down over your collarbone and down the line of your sternum with the same patient pressure he used on your wrist.
He hooks one finger in the neckline of your shirt and pulls, not hard, just enough to test the seam, and the fabric gives with a small dry sound. He keeps pulling, and the cheap stitching rips from collar to navel in a single clean tear that leaves the two halves of the shirt hanging open, your breast band on display and goosebumps rising along every inch of skin heâs just exposed.
"DinâŠâ
"Quiet."
He says it without heat, just an instruction.
You shut up.
His glove ghosts across your stomach. The leather is warm from his body and cool from the cabin air at once, and it raises a line of fine, fierce shivering everywhere it touches.
He traces the underwire of your band and the seam of your waistband. He finds the soft notch at your hip and presses his thumb there until you make a sound you havenât meant to make.
"He didnât get to hear that," he says.
No."
"He's never going to."
"No."
"Say it."
"He's never going to."
"Whose are you?â
The question lands so quietly you almost miss it. The vocoder flattens it into something that could have been a statement and could have been a prayer.
His helmet tips forward until the brow of it is almost touching yours, the visor filling your whole field of view. You can see, very faintly, the suggestion of his eyes behind it - not the eyes themselves, just the dark shape of where they are. The focus - the absolute and unblinking focus of a man who has walked a stranger off your body and then locked the two of you inside a metal box together to settle it.
"Yours," you say.
"Louder."
"Yours."
He makes a sound, a low, broken click. Without the modulator, it would have been a groan, the kind of low gutted groan he gives you when you say exactly the right thing, when your mouth is on him and you swallow and look up and his hips buck against your held-down hand.
You know that sound. You feel the shape of it through the helmet.
His gloved hand is on your thigh. He pushes your skirt up slowly, deliberately, gathering the fabric in his fist until itâs bunched at your hip. The cool air of the hold hits the wet patch already soaking through your underwear, and his glove slides up the inside of your thigh and stops just two knuckles away from where you want him.
"You're soaked," he says. âFor me, or for him?"
Your hips jerk helplessly. âFor you," you say. "For you, for you, for you, you stupid jealousâŠâ
His hand closes over you through the wet fabric and whatever you had been going to call him dissolves into a high noise you didnât recognise as your own.
He doesnât move his hand. He just holds it there, flat and warm, the leather pressing the soaked cotton against you so that you can feel every seam, every ridge of his glove, every line of his palm.
You grind forward against it shamelessly and he lets you, then takes the hand away.
You whine and know youâll be embarrassed about it later.
"Turn around."
"Din, pleaseâŠâ
"Turn. Around."
You turn and he helps you, his hands at your hips, guiding you so your palms come up flat against the cold bulkhead. Your forehead presses against it next, so your back arches out the way he wants, the way he's taught you, the way you know.
The torn shirt slides off your shoulders and pools at your elbows. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and drags them down to mid-thigh - not all the way off, just down, just far enough - and the deliberate half-measure of it makes you clench around nothing.
You hear him work the catch on his codpiece. You donât turn your head because you donât need to. You feel the heat of him a second before you feel the rest, the blunt familiar shape of him sliding through the slick at the apex of your thighs, not in, not yet, just dragging slow and warm along the length of you, coating himself. Your hands flex against the wall and your breath fogs the durasteel.
"Tell me again," he says, the vocoder right at your ear now, the cold edge of the helmet brushing your temple. "Whose?â
"Yours."
He pushes in.
Itâs not gentle or rough but thorough, the slow inevitable press of a man who knows exactly how youâre built, exactly how much you can take and exactly how to take it.
You feel every inch of him going in, every inch, until his hips meet the curve of your ass and his gloved hand comes around to splay flat across your stomach and hold you there against him.
"Fuck," you breathe.
Mhm."
He doesnât move. He holds and lets you feel it. He presses his other hand flat to the bulkhead beside yours, his chestplate cool against your bare back through the torn fabric, the edge of the cuirass biting just slightly into your shoulder blade in a way that should hurt and doesnât and that makes you arch back into it instead.
Then he starts to move.
He fucks you the way he fights - efficient, deliberate, devastating. Each stroke long, each one pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt, each one timed to a rhythm that you canât predict because he changes it every time you try to meet him.
He takes you apart on patience. He uses the wall and his hand on your stomach and his weight at your back to keep you exactly where he wants you, and he never goes faster than he means to, no matter how you whimper, or how you try to push back.
"He was going to put his mouth on yours," he says against your ear. "Wasn't he?â
"YesâŠâ
"He's not going to."
"No.
"Nobody is but me."
"No."
"Say it."
Nobody," you gasp. Nobody, nobody, just youâŠâ
"That's right."
His hand slides up from your stomach, between your breasts and closes loose around the front of your throat. He uses it to tilt your head back against his pauldron and the angle changes everything.
He sinks deeper and you sob.
"Look at you," he says, the vocoder breaking a little around the words. "Took some stranger's hand and walked out onto that floor. Let him touch your waist. Let him put his mouth that close to yours."
"I'm sâŠâ
"Don't apologise."
You couldn't have finished the word anyway. He shifts his hips, finds the angle that makes your knees try to buckle, and is using it now with the same patient deliberation heâs used on everything else this evening - like heâs testing a weapon's calibration or filing notes.
Every stroke drags across the place inside you that turns your spine to wet rope. You canât get a breath that isnât his.
"I'm not angry you wanted it," he says.
You whimper.
"I'm angry you thought you had to earn it."
That breaks something in you, some small petty knot at the base of your sternum thatâs been pulled tight for three days.
Your eyes sting and you squeeze them shut against the cold of the bulkhead, feeling the first hot tear cut down your cheek. You donât even care, donât even try to hide it, because heâs said the thing, the thing you havenât been able to find words for in the argument. He says it with his hand on your throat and his cock buried in you and the helmet pressed against the side of your head, and that is, Maker help you, exactly how Din Djarin apologises.
"I just wanted you to look at me," you whisper.
The hand at your throat tightens, just once, just for a heartbeat, the smallest possible squeeze. An acknowledgment.
"I'm looking, cyar'ika."
He pulls almost all the way out and holds there. You sob for it, push back against him, and his free hand comes down hard on your hip and pins you, making you whine high in your throat.
"PleaseâŠâ
"Please what?â
"Please, Din, please, pleaseâŠâ
"Tell me again."
"Yours. Yours, only yours, pleaseâŠâ
He drives all the way back in, the sound that comes out of you is not dignified and does it again and again just to hear it. The rhythm breaks for the first time since he's started - the careful patient tempo finally fraying - and now heâs fucking you, properly fucking you, the way he does when heâs stopped thinking. When his hips are ahead of his head, when the noises catching in the vocoder are ragged and unmodulated and almost, almost like his real voice.
His hand leaves your throat and slides down to find you exactly where you need it. He presses, and circles andâŠ
"DinâŠDin, I'mâŠâ
"I know."
"I can'tâŠâ
"Yes you can, come on."
The leather of his glove moves against you, slick now with your need. The deep relentless drag of him inside you, and his voice through the modulator at your ear saying come on, cyar'ika, come on, that's it, that's my girl, breaks you apart against the wall of his own ship with his armoured body bracketing yours and his hand between your thighs and his name in your mouth like a curse, like a prayer, like a deed of ownership signed in your own shaking voice.
He fucks you through it and doesnât stop. He holds you up against the bulkhead with the flat of his forearm across your collarbones and the splay of his glove on your hip and he chases you through the long shuddering aftershocks of it.
Only when youâre limp, when your forehead is pressed loose to the durasteel and youâre making small, wet broken noises that arenât words, only then does his rhythm finally falter. Only then do his hips stutter, only then does the vocoder catch on a noise thatâs almost a groan, and he buries himself to the hilt and holds.
You feel him pulse inside you in long warm waves, and the helmet presses hard between your shoulder blades and stays there.
For a long moment neither of you move.
You can hear the hold ticking around you as it cools. His glove is still flat on your hip. His other arm is still bracing your weight against him because your legs arenât holding you up anymore. They've given out somewhere between the second and third aftershock and heâs simply taken your weight without commenting on it, the way he takes everything.
He eases out of you slowly and you whimper at the loss. He makes a low soothing sound through the modulator that is, in any language, I know, I know.
He turns you in his arms and you go without resistance. Your forehead finds the cold brow of his helmet and rests there, his gloved hand coming up and cradling the back of your skull.
For a long moment thatâs all there is - his breath through the vocoder and yours unmodulated against the chestplate, and the slow steadying knock of his pulse where you've pressed your palm flat to the side of his neck without remembering doing it.
"I'm sorry," you say, finally, honestly. âFor what I said in there."
"I know."
"You're not nothing."
"I know, cyar'ika."
"I was angry."
"I know."
His thumb moves against the nape of your neck. âI should have sat with you," he says quietly.
You close your eyes.
"Yes."
"I will next time."
"Okay."
He lets out a long breath through the modulator and you feel the tension go out of his shoulders in stages, the way it does when he finally sets down a rifle after a long watch.
His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your spine, comes to rest in the dip of your lower back, and stays there.
"Lights," he says, low, to the ship.
The hold goes dark, all but the dim amber strip along the floor that guides you forward when he turns you, gently, toward the bunk.
You feel rather than see him reach up and break the seal on the helmet. Hear the soft hiss, the mechanical click, the faint rustle as he sets it aside on the crate by the bunk in the dark you canât see through.
And then, finally- finally - you feel his bare mouth on yours, warm and a little chapped at the corner, as familiar as your own name.
He kisses you slowly, deeply, and he tastes like the sour cheap whiskey he hasnât drunk and like him, just him, and you make a small wrecked sound into his mouth that he catches with his tongue and gives you back something softer.
"Mine," he murmurs against your lips, just his voice, rough and low and entirely his own. "Say it one more time, just for me."
"Yours," you whisper
"Good girl."
He picks you up and carries you the three steps to the bunk in the dark, lays you down and climbs up after you.
His now bare hand settles warm against your cheek, his thumb wipes the last drying salt from under your eye, and he kisses you again, softer this time. Then again, and again, until the argument is a thing thatâs happened to two other people on a planet whose name neither of you will remember in a week.
could you possibly do a din x fem!reader s31f h3rm comfort? Like he catches her in the act and helps? (And can the cvts be on the thigh?) sorry again tysm for reading!
DIN DJARIN X F!READER
WORD COUNT: 1.3K
RATING: PG-13 (For sensitive/dark topics, gore)
WARNINGS: Self harm (Detailed + Epidermis Deep), Cutting on the thigh with a utility knife, Blood, Wound care, Mentions of suicide/poor mental health, Crying, Din touches reader for comfort and to help take care of her, Reader is unable to speak/non-verbal for a portion of the fic, Reader has no physical description.
TAGS: Protective!Caring!Din, Din comforts and takes care of Reader, Mandoâa pet names used.
A/N: Hey hun! As some whose comfort character is Din and is currently in recovery for self harm (specifically on my thigh), I want to let you know that you arenât alone and others understand what youâre going through. Please be safe, take care of yourself, and know that Iâm genuinely proud of you for fighting through your struggle. Enjoy this fic! Much love đ
CREDS: pixopix (Tumblr, Dividers)
Goodnight, my cyare,â Mando whispered before tucking you into your shared bed. You him softly, your eyes already shut as the blanket covers your body in a warm hug. âSleep well. Iâll be working on a few things in the cockpit if you need me.â
You donât want to live, but maybe you would if you could fell as happy as you used to; before everything happened.
Your hands shake and the feeling of warm, hard rubber mixed with plastic is all you can sense. Everything but your brain feels numb. Thoughts swarm about several methods about suicide, about your deepest wound, about the times Din asked if you were taking care of yourself because something on your body smelt of rotting meat. You sat on the edge of the bunk, the lower half of your outfit wrangled around your ankles. The cold of the ship came through the soles of your socks and crawled itself all inside your unwilling body. You shiver before goosebumps form on the surface of your flesh. You tilted your head back, breathed in, exhaled, and dropped your head down to stare at your thighs. Your shaky hand worsened as you hovered it over one of your thighs.
You clamp your eyes shut, you feel the blade puncture your skin, your flesh rips open; the sound of it reaching you quickly. It burns. It always does. Your heart begins pounding in your ears when you open your eyes. A big, wide wound is staring back at you. The last little visible area of exposed epidermis is covered in red in a matter of seconds. You wipe at the tears that have involuntarily welled in both of your eyes with your wrist before gazing at your thighs again. The blood is slightly clotting while two small streams run down the curve of your thigh. You pick up the same utility knife, blade covered with your deep red blood, and slash. You slash, rip, and tear your skin over, and over, and over.
The blood is coming too fast. It seems like the end of everything. Youâve already screwed yourself this far. Might as well do more⊠If thereâs even any space. Both thighs look like the floor of a butcherâs abattoir. Youâve no choice but to slice into the wounds youâve already made. You pick one that seems shallow, aim the blade, and go for it. âFuck!â Your voice echoes through the ship. The pain was too much. You drop the blade and it clatters on the metal.
âCyarâika?â Din calls loudly from the cockpit. You were scared shitless. You failed to decide whether you should get your pants on as quickly as possible, or try to clean the blood up so it wouldnât stain anything. Dinâs footsteps cease the second you come into his vision. He shouldâve known, he thought to himself. He took a deep breath through his nose as he looked at you. He took his helmet off and placed it on the floor. His eyes are wide and wet, his brows furrowed, his whole expression pitiful and pleading for this to not be real.
With his hand unsteady he grabs the utility knife to keep it out of your reach, refusing to put it in his belt so as to not get your blood on himself. He hates to see you hurt and he doesnât need reminders of your pain. He grabs the closest fabric he can find and tears it in two. The man kneels in front of you, his hands work carefully but firmly to wrap the fabrics around either thigh tightly. âThat should help with the bleeding, okay,â he more so stated than asked. You nodded your head as you desperately wiped away your tears. He stands up and gently kisses your forehead. âIâll be right back. We need to get you a med pack,â he informed before running to grab one.
He returned in a flash and got to his knees once again. He quickly slipped off his gloves and replaced them with gloves in the signature blue. âI need to unwrap this, and it will hurt,â he told you. You bit the inside of your cheek before he reached a hand up towards you. You furrowed your brows, unable to think about anything logically. âYou can hold my hand if it hurts,â he explained. The corner of your lips perked up for a second before he began untying the scraps of fabric. His deep, brown eyes gazed up at you, asking if you were ready. You placed your hand in his, unsure of if this would hurt since someone else is cleaning your wound for once. He began to peel off the fabric from the rips in your flesh. Your fingers tightly grasp around Dinâs, his tightening around your own hand in return. âItâs okay. Youâll be okay,â he reassured. His lips placed a kiss against your knee, his nose bumping it slightly. âI promise,â he said, looking up at you. You trusted his word, keeping your grasp on his hand tight.
He talked you through each step; washing of the dried blood, disinfecting everything, patting the area dry, and putting on bandages. He gave both your thighs a firm pat before standing up. âI have to throw this away. Donât need the kid getting into it.â You two exchanged soft smiles before he left.
Your thighs were on fire, your wounds felt like they had their own pulse; everything shouldâve been aching. But it wasnât. Din held you close against him while spooning. You finally spoke for the first time since you whined out in pain. âI wish I could listen to your heartbeat,â you said, running a finger up and down each of his fingers. He chuckled softly, then sighed. âIf you face me your thighs are going to press against mine. Unless youâre a contortionist or can figure out how to listen to it without being pressed against me, no.â You whined softly, ensuing a, thankfully, short talk from him. âYouâre my cyare. You and that kid are my whole universe. I donât need you hurt physically nor mentally,â he said as his hand moved up and down to rub your hips, waist, and stomach. âI donât know if you remember or not, but I told you where Iâd be if you needed me,â he reminds you. You exhale deeply. âI didnât want to bother you,â you confessed shyly. He nuzzled and kissed the crook of your neck. âCyarâika,â he paused, âI love it when you come to see me when Iâm busy with something. I love it when you need me. For the longest time, I thought I didnât need anyone. Once I met you, I knew I needed nobody but you. I still feel odd saying that, but you make me feel better about saying it. You show me that you need me like I need you, my cyare,â he explained calmly. His arm wrapped around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. âYouâll never bother me, annoy me, or make me upset with you. I only feel the need to be protective towards you,â he told you. You quickly move to push him to lay on his back, you rest your head on his bare chest, and tangle your legs so your wounds arenât pressing against anything. Din sighs and lets it happen with a small smile on his face. He yawns, causing you to yawn back. You nuzzle against his chest with a big smile on your face. His heartbeat is one of your favorite sounds across the galaxies. He laughs softly before lifting your chin to look up at him. He ducks his head down to kiss your lips. Your face slightly warms. âI love you so much, my cyare,â he says warmly. âI love you too,â you tell him. Both of your breathing patterns come to a slow, calming rhythm before your eyes progressively fall shut as Din gently scratches the back of your neck and scalp.
Protective! Din is something that you need to cherish for the rest of your life. Every room gets scanned for exits before you enter the room and every stranger gets evaluated before you even step close to them. Every potential threat is immediately noticed. Din is constantly aware of where you are. Not because he doesnât trust you but because he wants to know youâre safe. During dangerous missions, he positions himself between you and any threat automatically. If youâre injured, even slightly, his entire focus shifts to you. He becomes surprisingly gentle when patching you up. His hands are rough from years of work, yet somehow incredibly careful. He hates seeing you hurt so any chance he has to help you, he will gladly take it.
Summary: There is nothing to be embarrassed about in front of your riduur.
Warnings: heavy discussions of blood, allusions to sex, PERIODS, and past trauma. Swearing, marriage, I had the reader use a sanitary pad, and Din has big hands. Softness and fluff :)
A/N: here it goes, my first request!! This prompt was requested by @passionkillerphil (Iâm so sorry it wonât let me tag you) and I just had to do it! I really really hope you enjoy.
original ask: And what he'd be like taking care of you when you're on your period or really sick đ„șâ€ïžâ€ïž
If youâd like to leave a like, comment, reblog, or ask, it would be greatly appreciated <3
Din/Javi Masterlist
(gif gotten from Pinterest)
What should have been a relaxing, refreshing morning, turned out to be anything but.
You woke up later than usual, for once allowing your aching body to enjoy the simple pleasure of sleeping in, and to make things even more blissful, you were pressed against the warm body of your Mandalorian. You snuggled deeper into his back, rubbing your face against the smooth cotton of his shirt.
Your blankets were wrapped around you like a heated cocoon, and the slowly rising sun had not yet started coming through the Crest windows. A black-ish grey still surrounded you, and the kid was not even due to wake for another few hours.
You practically purred at just how perfect it all was. The peace, the quiet, and the relief all rolled into one hazy heaven. The two of you neededâno, deservedâ a day to just sleep against the other, coated in each otherâs scents and kisses and skin.
A day to just be. Be in love, be together, and be free of any pain or suffering.
You pressed a faint kiss to your riduurâs clothed back, and tried to scoot yourself impossibly closer to him. You moved your hips over, rubbing your navel onto his lower back, and thatâs when you felt it.
A gush of lukewarm, sticky liquid hit your thighs, and your eyes shot open.
Fuck.
Your body froze, and you worked your hand down to your underwear. You felt the soaking fabric, and to make matters worse, the sheets were damp as well.
Fuck Fuck Fuck
Your eyes squeezed shut in anger, and your nose crinkled as well. A thin layer of sweat coated your legs and back, and your heart dropped down to your stomach.
Heat flooded your cheeks, and your mind started to race a mile a minute.
What the fuck do I do?
Din knew what a period was. Of course he knew what a period was. He was always incredibly patient with you and did everything he could to make you feel better when you felt extra bloated and cranky.
Heâd just neverâŠseen it this badly. And you definitely had never leaked that much in bed before.
You hated to admit it, but embarrassment and shame were the main emotions bouncing around your brain. You knew what your sweet, understanding, incomparable husband would whisper into your ear when he saw the bright red stain. You knew heâd not see it as a big deal, and his dark brown eyes wouldnât leave yours until you acknowledged that as well
It didnât make you feel any less self-conscious, though.
You knew youâd have to wash yourself up in the fresher, and you knew that Din would feel your body heat leave his as soon as you started moving. And you couldnât justâŠleave him there, practically lounging in your blood.
So you laid in bed. Heart pounding. As Din softly snored beside you.
Finally, after a beat of consideration, you hopped out of bed as discretely and quickly as possible, barely even moving the covers. You made sure to tip-toe across the cold floor to the fresher in practically a sprint, and you tore your clothes off. You cranked the water up to as hot as it could go, and tossed your shorts and underwear in the trash.
There was no point in even trying to save them. ïżŒ
You hopped in the shower, and scrubbed your body with soap and water. Your muscles were already beginning to ache from the cramps, and a small headache was growing in front of your eyes. You didnât know if it was from the period, or from all the anxiety you still had about facing Din, but the warm water worked wonders. Small breaths of relief left your nose as you rinsed your body clean.
You only stayed in there for a few minutes, before you dried yourself off and changed into different pants. You made sure your hair was dry as well, and added a sanitary pad to your underwear.
You stared at the door, feeling your beating heart underneath your chest.
What was wrong with you?
This is Din we are talking about. Your Din. The man who couldnât leave the kid behind. The man who never hesitated to look people in the eye and say âthank you.â The man who was never afraid of your demons, or your anxieties, or your past. He confronted them head on, without an ounce of hesitation.
The man who had given you his first kiss, his first time, and his first promise. The day you married, he vowed to stay true to you, in sickness and in health, in wealth or poverty, and most of all, he promised to always come home to you.
So far, he has kept all of those promises. And more.
Din, with all his little quirks. He blushes â blushes â when you peck the tip of his nose. He demands to pressed against you as he falls asleep, because he âcanât possibly relax when his riduur isnât next to him.â He loves sugar in his coffee. He loves long, steaming bubble baths.
And the scary, infamous Mandalorian, is a dog lover.
He cannot stay away from a mastiff, running and panting around Tattooine. He always gives the creature a belly rub, and he somehow has the ability to make them fall on their backs with happiness from his touch alone.
Your soft, beautiful Din, wouldnât judge you for this.
So why did you feel so insecure?
You looked at yourself in the mirror, wrapping your hands around the edge of the grey sink, and took a deep breath.
Relax Y/N, you heard the ghost of Dinâs breath whisper in your ear.
Relax for me.
You can do this.
You looked at yourself one more time, and walked out the fresher door.
The smell of fresh linen was what hit you first.
The entire space feltâŠcleaner. Cleansed. Airy. You could see the bed you shared with Din from the fresher doorway, and the wrinkled, charcoal sheets from that morning had been pulled away. Instead, an ivory, off-white set had been laid over the twin bed frame.
HeâŠcleaned it up?
You started to make your way over to the bed, but a set of heavy boots echoed from behind you, and you turned to see Din fully dressed in his beskar, minus the helmet he held in his hands.
âCyarâika?â
Your stomach plummeted.
He still had his messy, frizzy bed head, but the rest of his body was sleek and shiny from his sheathing. His cape flowed behind him, and his broad frame was accentuated even more from the chest-plate he always wore. His pulse blaster was attached to his back, and belt was fastened around his ïżŒcinched waist.
All that armor, money, power, was oozing and dripping off of himâŠ
âŠ.but yet, his brown eyes were still soft, his forehead was creased in worry, and he was picking at the skin around his fingers.
If you could describe Din in an image, it would be that one. Literally wrapped in skill and dominance, but oblivious to it all at the sight of you.
Maker
âDin,â you breathed.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asked, and set his helmet down near his feet.
You didnât even know what to say.
âIââ you began. âIsnât it obvious?â
His head tilted to the side, a move he would make constantly under the helmet.
âTell me,â he said huskily.
âWellâŠ.I bled. Everywhere.â
A tinge of worry faded away from Dinâs face.
âAnd Iâ I should have been the one to clean it up,â you said. âIt was my fault. My mess. And you shouldnâtâ you do too much around here anyways, let alone with me bleeding everywhere.â
He continued to listen to your proclamation, but he walked over to your shared bed, and sat, leaning on his elbows to listen to you.
âAnd I just feelâŠ.I feel embarrassed. I know I shouldnât, because I know you wouldnât judge me orâor think Iâm gross. I know you wouldnât. But I still feel bad. Really bad. Like I canât even take care of myself, or that myâperiodâis some sort of issue. I justâI should have been the one to clean it up.â
You brought your right hand to your chin, trying to calm your pulsing emotions.
âIâm so sorry Din. I hope that I didnâtâscare you, or make you think that I was hurt. Or maybe I did disgust you. Maybe Iâm a really shitty person to leave my sleeping husband laying in a puddle of my blood. There shouldnât have even been a puddle of blood in the first place.â
A single year dripped down to your lips, and you licked it away. Dinâs honey-toned eyes stayed connected to yours.
âI feelââ you whispered. âI just feel really shitty.â
The tears were flowing now, and embarrassment coated your irises even more.
Din kept his elbows on his knees, adamantly and patiently waiting for you to get it all off your chest, before he ïżŒgave you a delicate smile, and set his hands on the edge of the bed.
âCome here,â he said, tilting his chin towards his shoulder.
You stood there, unable to move.
âCome here,â he said, and patted his thigh. âPlease.â
You nodded, licking your lips once again, and shuffled your way over to him. He held out his arms for you, and you sat yourself on his lap. Never losing eye contact.
He connected his forehead to yours, breathing in your soap and freshly washed skin, before he started peeling his leather gloves off.
âMandaâner,â he mumbled. So softly you could hear your own breaths. âPlease donât apologize.â
He moved his hands under your shirt, and started pressing lightly on the muscles on your lower back.
âThereâs nothing to be embarrassed about,â he whispered breathily, and massaged his hands into your back, pressing kisses on the side of your mouth as he did it.
Your eyes rolled at just how intimate and lovely this moment was, and Din always had a way with his hands.
The deep jolts of pleasure made your brain short-circuit.
You whimpered a bit when he started pressing harder, and he followed those sounds as best he could, pressing and molding your skin against his large hands.
âThere?â he asked.
âMore to the front,â you replied, and he kissed your cheek again, letting his breath coat your face. His scruff hadnât been shaved in a few days, and the prickly tease of it erupted chills all over you. Another moan escaped you, and Din groaned with you.
He moved his warm hands to the front of your body, pressing right over where the cramps were beginning to burn, and you became putty in his hands.
He made every shred of guilt or shame melt off your body, and he allowed relief and peace to enter instead. Just from this small gesture.
You really loved him.
After a few minutes, he pressed one last firm stroke of his hand onto your lower stomach muscles, and he pecked your lips.
âBetter?â he asked.
âBetter,â you said, kissing him again.
âI wanted to clean it up,â he said to you. âI want to help you. I want to take some of the burden of this fucking painful experience off of you.â
You smiled, swallowing the lump of adoration in your throat.
âIâm not going to pretend I enjoy seeing your blood, because if I see your blood, it means that you are in pain.â
He brushed your cheek with his naked palm as he spoke.
âI donât like when my riduur in pain.â
Your eyes rolled again, and you pressed your face into his silky palm.
âSo I will help,â he said. âAnd I will never find you gross.â
Tears of joy started to mist across your eyes, and you kissed the crown of his hand.
âThank you,â you whispered, letting tears escape.
He wanted to say âyou donât have to thank me.â He wanted to tell youâshow youâ that he would crawl on hands and knees for you to look at him like this, and that a âthank youâ was never needed.
But he also knew you.
âYouâre welcome,â he responded, and kissed you again.
He was the first to pull away, and he smiled when you rubbed your nose against his.
âIâve gotta go,â he said.
You nodded, and pecked his nose. The faint blush you knew all too well flickered over his cheeks, and you both laughed. Giddy, care free, and in love.
âIâll be back soon,â he said, and helped sit you back down on the bed. He moved back towards his helmet, and fixed it on his head.
âGet some rest for me, ok?â he said, carving your jawline with his now covered hand. His voice sounded foreign under the modulator, but the sound of it still made your heart flutter after so long.
âI will,â you promised, and he nodded.
âI love you,â he said, and began to back away.
âI love you,â you responded, and he disappeared around the corner.
A gentle comfort coated you, and you let yourself crawl back under the covers, unable to wipe the smile off of your face. You pressed yourself against the back of the bed, and exhaled all of the anxiety you had been holding.
âOh,â you heard from behind the wall, âone more thing.â
The gurgle of the child echoed across the metal ship, and an even bigger smile came to your face.
Din came back around the corner, holding the still half-asleep Grogu in the crease of his elbow, and you wrinkled your nose in delight.
âI think he wants you,â Din said, and you laughed.
âHi baby, good morning,â you said to the child, and Din handed him over to you. He immediately embedded himself into your warm shirt, ïżŒand went limp in your arms only a second later.
You smiled up at Din, and if he could have that image of you holding a sleeping Grogu in your arms, comfortable and happy in his bed, burned into his mind, he would.
He exhaled, desperately wanting to stay with his home, before he connected his helmet visor with your forehead.
âI love you Y/N. Iâll see you soon,â he said, and you pecked where his lips would be.
âI love you, Din,â you said, and he forced himself away from you.
You curled up with the child, listening to the sounds of Din lower the walkway, and the beat of his boots as they hit against the metal, and you began to drift off as the metal closed in on itself. Proving that he had officially left the Crest.
You let yourself succumb to sleep, knowing he would return home to you.
He promised.
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Pairing:Â Din Djarin x F!Reader
Summary: In the dark of the night, Din always calls you by another womanâs name. And itâs starting to wear on you.
Wordcount:Â 1.9k
Warnings: References to sex.
A/N:Â First fic for our boy! Crossposted on AO3.
By the time you join the Mandalorian he has already been through so much.Â
The death of his parents, the loss of his people, the absence of his son.
It only makes sense that there was someone before you. Someone that knew him better than you, probably. Someone heâs shared his face with in the daylight, where you imagine the tone of his skin, the brown of his eyes, shines richer than it does in the dim of the hull.
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