warnings: smut, unprotected piv sex (again, don’t do that), riding, oral f-receiving
a/n: hi i am literally so sorry this took me so long. last chapter save for the epilogue. thank you all for being so patient, really, and thank you for everything <3
**
There’s an undiluted feeling of utter safety in waking up with the knowledge of another presence right beside you. You think that’s why you slept so deeply, why your whole chest is thrumming with sedated contentment as your eyes slide open.
Your body is wholly relaxed in a way you haven’t experienced in months, your nights usually interspersed with jolting awake at the slightest howl of wind or anxiety-fueled dreams that you can never remember once your eyes fly open. You shift slightly upon waking, the slight movement sending a gust of the cold air into the swath of furs wrapped around you that makes you wince and retreat even further beneath them, pressing yourself flush against the body beside you to sap their heat.
Your sweater rode up in your sleep, which is probably why the shock of cold air is enough to have you blinking awake despite the heavy haze that renders your eyes so heavy they can barely stay open. The exposed length of your spine is pressed against a threadbare shirt, the only barrier between your skin and the firm chest the fabric conceals. Your legs, also bare after kicking off your thermal leggings at some point during the night in a bout of overheated, sleepy frustration, are in a tangle with the form pressed against your back.
It takes you a second to remember who exactly that body belongs to.
A forearm is banded across your exposed stomach—Din’s forearm is banded across your exposed stomach, and your hand is loosely cupped over the curve of his wrist, his own hand tucked between your soft waist and the mattress beneath the two of you. You’re using his bicep as a pillow. You’re holding him here, is the thought that has your eyes flying open, not daring to move anything else.
And there’s soft, hot breath ghosting against the back of your neck.
You realize Din is asleep—like, really asleep, not those short naps you’d sometimes see him take, propped against any given surface, or that half-conscious dozing as the two of you lay in bed. He’s dead-to-the-world asleep. And cradling you with the whole of his body.
You swallow thickly, attempting to even the depth of your breathing, to hold yourself in place for fear of waking him. It takes less than a second for you to make the decision of allowing yourself the ability to savor the feeling of being so gently held by such a harsh frame.
Later, you will blame the preservation of this moment on the cold weather. Or your sleepy haze upon waking. Or how tired you know he is. That small, private part of you will know it has more to do with the bone-deep loneliness that you honestly believed you’d wrestled control of until now. Or, maybe you did have it all under control, and then you turned around and there he was--standing on that icy road, finally emerged from his silent vigil, his voice thick with anger and frustration and worry and something in your chest folded in on itself in utter relief. Because even after the months apart, the sight of him alone is enough to remind you of the raw comfort his presence brings. His ability to make you feel protected. Safe. Unconditionally so, in a way you don’t think you’ve ever felt since you were torn from your home as a child.
So damn the consequences and your stupid broken heart. You savor it while you can.
You’re drifting towards the edge of sleep right as your lower back begins to ache in protest. Hesitantly, you roll your hips in a small stretch away from Din, shifting onto your stomach. Holding your breath, you listen to the rhythm of his breathing for any signs of his waking.
There’s a beat, and then he’s automatically adjusting to accommodate your movement with an unconscious hum, his arm sliding out from underneath you in order to splay over your back, nuzzling his face into your unbound hair. The steady heat of his dry, calloused palm against your bare spine is enough to have your stomach rolling with butterflies. He settles with the arc of his nose pressed against your neck, the pace of his chest unfaltering as the warm ghost of his breath resumes its reassuring push against your skin.
It’s far too easy to doze in and out of sleep after that, to succumb to the combined furnace of your body heats and follow his breathing back into peaceful unconsciousness.
Din wakes with a jolt, the movement startled enough to have you wide awake beside him as well. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, feigning sleep—to save either him or yourself from embarrassment, you aren’t quite sure.
He lingers, if only for a split second, before he slides his hand off of your spin and pulls away. When he gets out of bed, he makes sure to readjust the blankets over your shoulders, trapping the heat in. You try to keep your breathing even as you listen to him cross the room.
You prop yourself up with the sound of the fresher door sliding shut. Rubbing the crust from your eyes with the heel of your hand, you take a moment to gather yourself before rummaging through the blankets to find your pants, wincing as the cold air hits your exposed skin.
You put the kettle on to boil some water and grab two shares of rations from your stockpile. Din spends longer than usual inside of the fresher, enough time for you to prepare breakfast and a cup of caf for yourself. You leave some in the pot in case more has changed over the course of the past year than you initially expected.
Din steps back into the living space with a hiss from the fresher door. You’re settled back on your bed, your mug cradled between your hands as you wait for its contents to cool. One of the books Niccha gave you to read is beside your crossed legs, bindings already cracked and frayed from years of use. You train your eyes on the worn cover as you nurse your caf, but there’s no misrecognizing the smell of his gun-oil being uncapped.
“Breakfast, if you’re hungry,” you offer it to him with an upwards glance and a nod towards where you situated his bowl among the mini-arsenal he established on the desk you directed him to the night before. He’s seated at the desk chair, intently looking down at something on his datapad with his rifle balanced in his lap.
“Thank you,” he says, glancing up for a second before looking back down to tracing something with a gloved finger. He’s back in his armor—both physically and, well… at least the familiarity of it eases the nervous awkwardness twisting its way through your gut. You try to swallow away the feeling it gives you to see him guarded once more, so far from that soft body you woke to this morning.
You take another beat or two to look at him while he’s occupied with cleaning the gun in his lap. You’d almost forgotten how much work it takes for him to keep everything up to par, the time and diligent care with which he treats his equipment. There were some evenings where he settled into so deep of a trance while doing so that you could probably scream without getting his attention.
That wasn’t true. Your lingering sense of resentment towards him and all, you intrinsically knew he’d come running no matter what. Din was a protector through and through. He’s consistently proven as much.
There’s something about the broad set of his frame that can make even the rickety chair he’s seated on look like a throne—especially with the small arsenal haphazardly stacked on the worktable’s worn surface.
Most of his things are familiar—his blaster, the rifle, vibroblade… there’s something new, though. You missed it when he had initially unloaded his equipment. It looks like the hilt of a saber. It’s partially concealed beneath one of the pauldrons he removed the night before. You’ll ask him about it later.
Finishing your caf, you pick up the novel Niccha gave you with the aims of improving your grasp on the local languages. Niccha tended to use his translator with texts like these, but, since you had time to kill you decided to try and power through and try to use the translation tech as little as possible.
That proves impossibly difficult. Head-strong as always, you refuse to pick up the datapad regardless.
“What are you reading?” Din asks you after you’ve barely managed to scrape through the first chapter, as if he could read the annoyed twitch of your lip from across the room. Well, knowing him, that’s probably exactly what he did.
“Oh,” you flip the book closed, flashing him a cover. A slight heat rises to your cheeks. “It’s a Cardimendum novel. A lot of the traders here speak it and I’ve been trying to learn.” He gives a hum, nodding to himself, and returns back to his work. You think that that will be it and then—
“Try reading it out loud.”
“Huh?”
“Cardimendi is a tonal language. There’s no point in practicing it silently.”
You knew that, and when you chose the book you were planning on doing as much until you took in an unexpected guest. “I’m not very good—”
“Neither am I. Try not to worry about the smaller stuff, practice is practice,” he pauses for a moment. “I can correct you on the things I catch if you’d like.”
You survey him for a second, taking in the slopes of his curved shoulders, then nod to yourself. “That would be nice, thank you.”
Somehow you aren’t shocked that Din makes a good teacher, despite his claims to a minimal understanding of the traders’ tongue. Persistent but not overbearing, like he knew just the right way to push you without it breaking your resolve.
Splaying the book open on your knee at the end of the chapter, you reach for your already cooled mug.
“How many languages do you know?” You ask with a tilt of your head after taking a small sip.
“Depends on how generous you’re willing to be,” he shrugs. “It’s something you pick up on the job, no formal training, just by necessity.”
“Which ones? Besides Basic I mean.”
“Huttese and Tusken mainly,” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Shaky at best with Jawaese—Ryl too--but enough to get by.”
Your brow furrows slightly. “What about Mando’a?”
He pauses. It only takes a beat for you to realize that you prodded a nerve, heat floods your face. You’re not sure if it would be worse to retract your statement and draw more attention to it or feign innocence. Din speaks before you can make a decision.
“Only small bits, here and there. It was something lost to us a long time ago.”
And yet he still knew the words for kindness. Soft-hearted. You didn’t let yourself think about that phrase often. It sends a shiver through you, even now. All the moments that lead up to this one felt like a wholly different world. How long had it been since he spoke his people’s tongue when he called you that? Who else had the privilege of hearing that lost language through his rough baritone, who else listened as the phrase washed over them as if it were physical touch—even now, in memory?
“Interesting.” Your response is so absurdly plain compared to the thoughts rolling through your head it’s almost laughable. “Did you pick up Cardimendi on the job too?”
“Kind of.” He finally returns to fiddling with his gear. “They have temples scattered across the galaxy that are safe havens for people looking to escape the Republic’s notice, protected by religious rights and all,” he pauses, “Well—first the Empire, now the Republic. I’ve laid low there a few times, retrieved a quarry or two as well.”
You raise an eyebrow, shooting him an incredulous look. “You captured a quarry in a universal safehouse?”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that,” he says it with a grimace, you can tell by the sound of his words alone. A smile creeps its way along the line of your lips. “It’s interesting that the traders use Cardimendi, I wouldn’t have expected that.”
“I think they mostly use it to distinguish themselves from the miners.” You ease back into your bed, propping your elbow up on a stack of pillows and shifting your weight onto your hip. You absentmindedly flip through the book just to have something to do with your hands. “I get it, you know. Places like this,” you vaguely gesture towards the windows, black with the blizzard raging outside. “It’s a survival tactic to keep the sacred parts of you close. Guarded, or whatever.”
A soft crackle emanates from the modulator that seems like a sound of agreement.
“Should I keep going?” You glance up over to him as you ask.
“Please.”
You read to him for the rest of the day. Right when you think he’s stopped listening he’ll correct you on a specific word or ask you to reread a sentence, even when it seems like his attention is wholly engrossed in his preparations. Being completely honest with yourself, it does feel like an excuse to not talk about the way you woke up that morning but, at this point, you’ll take any excuse you’ve got.
It’s nearly time for dinner by the time you find a natural stopping place in the novel. You yawn, stretching your legs before pushing yourself off the bed and padding over to your shelf.
“Does that thing say anything about when the winds will clear?” You ask, flexing your hands in an attempt to get some warmth into them. The temperatures are dropping even further, you didn’t realize how cold it had gotten from under the blankets you’d piled over yourself.
“Early tomorrow it looks like,” Din answers.
“That’s good.” You suppress a wince with how awkward you sound. “It’s passing quicker than they predicted.”
You think you hear Din mumble something about Republic incompetence. You try to suppress a smile with how on-brand of a response it is. At least some things never change.
“Do you want anything to eat?” You glance over your shoulder as you turn the kettle on. Din’s back is to you, hunched over his datapad. “I think I’m gonna make some tea too, I need something warm in my stomach.”
“Broth is fine.” He seems to be consumed by whatever is on the screen. After a moment he shifts to look over at you. “Thank you.” He turns back around.
Utilitarian as always. You nod, and prepare your meals before making a cup of tea for yourself.
He thanks you again, quietly, when you set his bowl in front of him. You retreat back to your side of the room. The two of you eat in silence. You suddenly wish you had the foresight to also pick up some liquor from Niccha’s stash, maybe it would have made this more bearable. Maker it was going to be an interesting few hours.
It makes you too sad to think beyond that. At least you’ll have him here while you can. One more night, and then he’ll go off and satiate that vendetta and then he’ll be done. Gone. Whatever.
Din gives a frustrated grunt, snapping you from your thoughts.
“What are you looking at?” You ask as you take a cautious sip of your tea. It scalds the roof of your mouth, you’re glad he’s too engrossed to see your flinch.
“Trying to trace any signs of Cavill’s men, the storm is blocking most of the data I’d usually use to catch a sign of them—”
“With any luck, that means they’re having the exact same problem too,” you suggest. “Once the temperature eases up and the wind clears we can go back into town and wait them out there. I doubt they’d try to start something in a Republic outpost.”
“They would,” Din’s voice gets icy, fast. “And they have the money to smooth things over no matter how badly it goes.”
You do a bad job of concealing your anger at his cold dismissal. Even if he were right, it didn’t mean he had to be an asshole about it. Your response matches his sharpness.
“Din, going back to the outpost and waiting this out just makes the most sense, at least on my end of things.” He doesn’t say anything. You press your lips together to try and stimmy your frustration. “The officers there are good people, and I’m sure if I just talked to one of the superiors they would let you in. I’ve done a lot for this place and never asked anything of them—Valeria is so remote they won’t even bother with reporting your presence, it’s more hassle than it’s worth, especially if I talk with them about it.”
“It’s not that.” He says it in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t want to elaborate. And he doesn’t. He just sets down the datapad and leans down to grab one of the blasters that you know he’d already cleaned every crevice of. Regardless, he uncaps the oil again. So it looks like he’s been trying to appear preoccupied only to keep his hands busy. Asshole.
“So then what is it?” You challenge, tired of the shifty communication, tired of the constant back-and-forth that seems to ebb and flow with every interaction. So be it. Might as well get some answers out of him while you have the chance, before he slinks off to who knows where. “Because I thought the whole reason you were here was to protect me.”
“That’s exactly the reason.” His voice is tight with the promise of an outburst you’ve never seen outside of the battlefield. “Because I fucked up with a shitty lapse in judgement that put you and your friends in danger and I am going to deal with the consequences and make sure no one else gets hurt.”
“Is this about Canto?” You don’t ask it like it’s a question.
Your biting frustration has enough force behind it that it surprises even you. Din seems to have the ability to pull emotions from you so vivid you didn’t realize it was possible to feel so deeply. It used to be what drew you to him, what made you savor your shared dinners and chaste touches, no more than the brush of a hand or tap of the shoulder while you bound his wounds. Right now it was anger. The poorly concealed fury and fear of an injured animal being herded into a corner.
Din takes a deep breath. Fuck.
“How could it not be about Canto.”
It’s your turn to heave a frustrated huff of air, you narrow your eyes, turning them to glare through that T-visor.
“Din—”
“I know how much your friends mean to you,” he looks back down at the gun in his lap as he speaks. He pushes the polish into the gun with an amount of force that you know isn’t necessary. “They’re your family. You need them and I almost jeopardized that. I never want to do it again.”
You keep your voice firm. Controlled.
“It’s not your fault. I’ve told you that too many times to count.”
Din’s entire body stills. It’s that deadly calm that would have rendered anyone else cowering. You have to bite down on your back teeth to resist the urge to do so yourself.
His head turns toward you in a smooth roll. You didn’t need to see beyond the layers of beskar and glass to feel the heat of his gaze on you.
“You were hurt. And don’t say that you were fine. I saw the look in your eyes when he forced you to…” Din’s voice falters. Catching himself, he rephrases,
“I was in the rafters when he attacked you. I’d been waiting for you to clear the room like we agreed upon but I should have realized that it was taking too long. I should have been there before he was able to throw that glass at you, before he could--” Din lets go of a frustrated breath, like he couldn’t control the words leaving him mouth and wasn’t voicing what he actually wanted to say. “I saw that look on your face, when Cavill had you… had you against the floor.” His voice get tight with fury. It has a different quality to the cool, deadly precision that you’re used to. This is something volatile, white-hot with the promise of bloodshed. “When he gave you that order you… Your entire body changed. Like when you woke up from that nightmare. I could see you receding in on yourself. I know that look. I know that look enough to never want to see it on your face again—”
“Stop it.” You close your eyes as you make the demand, working at the inside of your cheek as you gather your wits about you. When you open your eyes, Din is frozen exactly where he was, shoulders tense in preparation for whatever you’re about to say.
“Listen, I appreciate your protection. I really do—Maker knows I’d be absolutely screwed otherwise.” Your chest expands with a large breath as you try and keep the anger from your words. “But I’m not some shell of a woman who can’t hear an engine start up without hyperventilating.” That’s not to say you weren’t at one point. And that was okay. That was a part of the process. But not anymore. Not for a long time. “I’ll have moments like that because that’s what trauma does, Din. Sure, maybe not in circumstances that are that dramatic, but it’ll happen. And I will be okay because I put in the work to get better. I did. Me. So I think I am the first and last person you should listen to when I tell you that Canto was not your fault. It was a shitty situation but you made sure I was okay and we got out of there. It didn’t scare me off. I’m not fragile.”
He knows that, at least. You told him as much. You can touch me however you want. Calloused palms flat against your back, crushing your body against his. Hands sliding over the long lines of your torso. You grind your jaw to keep the memories of that night at bay, the sadness that comes with missing that version of yourself, that person who was so blindingly happy.
Don’t think about that. Not now.
“I told you why I left,” you let your chin wobble with the words but your eyes remain mercifully dry. “You made it clear what you weren’t able to give me. I might never fully understand the scope of your experiences that lead you to make that decision but I can respect it. I didn’t want to get hurt. Please believe me when I say that I was telling you the truth last night.”
“I do,” Din says, the broad lines of his shoulders sinking. “I—yes, of course I do.”
“Okay.” You try to match how collected his tone is, but the anger and heartache writhing in your gut does little to bend to your will. You’re furious and desperately lonely and Maker do you want nothing more than to stop talking and crawl into bed with him beside you. It’s that feeling that prompts those warring emotions in the first place. There’s no part of you that’s willing to tamp one of them down and let the other win. Too much would be lost if you did.
Sometimes you wish you could flip that switch like he could, go from livid to ice-cold in a matter of seconds. Though you know that that’s just compartmentalization at its finest—the very thing that got the two of you into this mess in the first place. But Stars it would be a relief to not feel so raw all the time, not to feel like the whole world could pry open the catalogue of your chest and browse what’s inside.
Maybe that’s why you want to keep pressing. To ask him what happens after the storm. What happens once Cavill’s men are dealt with. You know that conversation will only bring more hurt, will only add fuel to the fire already raging in your ribcage. You’ve had enough of that for today. For this week. Maybe even a lifetime.
After a minute of utter silence, you decide to say what you mean instead.
“I miss him,” you say. You let the words quietly hang between the two of you, shoulders deflating, your eyes downcast with a small shrug in an attempt to distract from the severity of your words. “The kid, I mean—or, uh, Grogu. Sorry.”
Din is quiet. Long enough to the point where you don’t think he has a response. You start eating your dinner, partially to keep you from opening your mouth again and spewing more unproductive nonsense.
You’ve moved on to prodding what’s left in your bowl with your spoon when Din speaks.
“I miss him too.” His voice is taut but absolute. There’s a hint of relief with the return to familiar territory. It’s stable ground for the both of you. You wait patiently as he takes a deep breath and continues,
“You know, when I was a foundling, I once overheard one of our mentors grieving the loss of one of my bunkmates,” Din rubs a hand over the forehead of his helm, as if that could soothe some kind of ache. “I don’t think he was killed I think he just… well, he abandoned the Creed. So he was more than just dead. Or, at least he was supposed to be. I… I didn’t understand it, at the time. I saw our mentor keeled over when they thought no one could see them and I just… I just stood there until the sergeant spotted me and ordered that I resume my drills. I remember—” his laugh holds no humor behind it, it’s nothing more than a burst of air, “I remember thinking that they were hurt, because the sergeant knelt down beside them and started comforting them in the way I’d only seen nurse droids comfort the dying. I had no idea how much we meant to them. I wish I did. I do now.”
Your throat constricts at the bone-deep emotion that radiates from every word.
“He knew.” You’re more sure of that than anything in the galaxy. “You were good to him, Din. The best anyone could ask for.”
Din goes silent. It stretches for eons and seconds all at once. The only other sound is that of the wind outside, rattling the windows in their sturdy frames. He flexes a hand as he speaks,
“Do you know that Mandalorian armor is coded by color?” It’s so off topic you can’t do anything but blink a few times, brow furrowed. You don’t respond, you have a feeling he doesn’t want you to, not yet. “Gold for revenge. Red, honor. Black, justice. Blue, loyalty.”
Only his shoulders move as he breathes. His head remains bowed, refusing to continue, as if he initially built up the courage to say something he could now not bear to muster.
“And silver?” You say it for him. You know he needs you to.
“Mourning.” He inhales deeply, voice even as he straightens. His hands clasped over his knees and the firm set to his shoulders communicates a sense of absolute resolve, something befitting of a throne. There are tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you watch him transform before you. You can’t help it, something in your chest aches to see him so accustomed to pain. To witness how he situates himself around and through it, head held high.
“When I say that I need to protect you and those you care about, know that it’s because all…” There’s strength behind his voice until there isn’t. “All I know is loss. My parents. My planet. My people. The last of my covert on Nevarro. Friends. Too many friends.”
You get up from where you were sitting as his voice breaks on those last words. Two strides and you’re in his lap, arms circling his neck in a tight embrace. Something in him unravels as he sinks into you, his forehead cradled against the dip of your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist to press you, impossibly, closer.
“Pel kar’ta.” Coming from his lips it sounds like a prayer. “I cannot be sorry enough for how things started. It was cruel for me to be so selfish. I know it’s an apology you can’t accept and you absolutely shouldn’t. It’s… I… I just need you to know that I care for you, deeply. And it’s terrifying.”
You give yourself a moment to bury your face in his neck as he strokes your back. Finally managing to get your bearings, you lift your head slightly to prop your chin against his shoulder, trying to sniff away the messier parts of your crying. When that’s unsuccessful, you lift an arm to wipe at your wet face with the skin of your wrist.
“My eyes are closed,” you murmur quietly. Din removes an arm from your torso and pulls off his helm in one fluid motion. It lands somewhere in the cabin with a haphazard clang. He returns his face to your neck, urgently breathing you in. Your heart begins to pound with the anxiety of having to say what you know you must. Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him against you. For his sake or yours, you aren’t quite sure.
“Din Djarin, I am here. Right here,” you take another halting breath, gathering the courage to pull back, eyes firmly closed. He loosens his grip on you to allow the movement. Your hands slide against the sharp curve of his jaw, angling his face up at yours to rest your foreheads together as you continue. “I’m just as scared. I promise I am. And of course—of course I can’t predict the future, I can’t give you complete reassurance about anything. That’s the life the both of us chose.” You chew on the inside of your cheek for a moment, gathering your thoughts, then resume. “Sometimes love is letting go. I know that. We both do. We’ve had to do that far too much and, Maker, that’s a type of grief I wouldn’t want to wish on anyone,” your voice gets tight in a way you can’t control, your throat flexing with the threat of more crying.
You’re in the process of trying to breathe through the threat of more tears when Din brushes a kiss against your mouth. The motion is so subtle that his lips barely touch yours. It’s fleeting, simple reassurance--a prompt for you to voice the oncoming words whose mere concept threatens weeping.
“But love can… it can…”
He presses another kiss to your jaw, at the dip where its corner meets your neck. You know he just means it as a display of continued reassurance, but it’s hard to keep your thoughts straight with how the feeling of it lingers. But the pause he created in doing so allows you to regather your thoughts, the pressure from your throat almost gone completely. You suppose the distraction was what you needed.
“Fuck, Din,” you mutter, shaking your head slightly against his. You keep your hands pressed against the soft planes of his face, your brow furrowed in sincerity, eyes diligently shut. “It can also be holding on as tightly as you can. It doesn’t have to be one or the other—it never is. It can’t be as neat as that, as much as we’d like it to be.” Your fingers are wet. You know that it isn’t your tears making them that way. “I’m not gonna pretend to have any answers, because I really don’t. And it pisses me off because I know I should be mad at you, and there’s a part of me that wants to, but I just can’t. All I know for certain is that I want you in a way I have never wanted anyone else. No one. Ever.” You’re breathless at this point. “It’s just you, Din. You. It’s always been you.”
He says your name so softly it could barely be a whisper. You kiss him deeply, your hands sliding up into his hair again. His lips move against yours with a similar desperation, arms tightening around you to hold you in place, his body resuming its gentle collapse into yours.
It feels like surrender.
Din’s mouth crushes against yours, your lips sliding against one another with a certain desperation. And just like that, the looming threat of the Cavill team’s arrival, the turmoil of wind and snow outside, the soft snuffling of the space heaters—all of it disappears with the press of his body against yours and the firm, resolute way his palms are pressed against either side of your face.
“I missed you so--” you pant, pulling away.
It’ll feel so silly looking back. Because, being completely honest with yourself, you do it without thinking. And who could blame you? Your entire head is nearly vibrating with giddy nervousness and it’s been so long since you’ve been this happy that you don’t even think as you pull back with your eyes already open.
And there he is.
The word leaves your mouth without you letting it.
“Oh.”
Din smiles. You’re shocked your brain can even register it. If you can think through the soundless static moving through your head, you would notice the bright way his eyes shine in the cabin’s warm light, the soft plane of his cheeks, the precious curve of his nose. It was all there. Both everything and nothing you thought it would be.
“Um,” you breathe, the grin on your face both utterly awe-struck and uncontainable. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he responds. Patient. Nothing could have prepared you for that smile, no matter how much warmth it had previously—and not to mention rarely—brought to his words.
You swallow, raising the hand you had planted against his chest.
“Can I?” You ask hesitantly, your relaxed fingers poised in the space between the two of you. He nods without breaking eye contact, smile falling slightly. Your breath hitches in your throat as you use your fore and middle fingers to lightly trace the line of his nose, up and around the curve of his eyebrow. The touch is hesitant at first, willing to be snatched away at even the slightest flinch from the man beneath you. But he doesn’t so much as blink as the tips of your fingers conduct their soft exploration, charting downwards from his temple to the line of his jaw. Your breathing, like his, transforms into some low, heady pulse in your chest.
You still with the pads of both fingers against the center of his lips. Slowly, you lean down and press a soft, nearly chaste kiss where they rest. It feels like you’re sealing something in place. You think it’s a promise. It is.
Your hand drops back down to Din’s chest, but your eyes keep searching his.
“You’re prettier than I expected,” you whisper, partially at a loss of what to say, your grin still big and goofy on your face. Din licks his bottom lip before biting it slightly, poorly concealing his amusement. Your eyes widen and, stuttering, you attempt to do some damage control. “I mean—ah, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that I—”
“C’mere,” is all he has to say. You fall back into him and he captures your mouth with his. All it takes is one teasing nip from you for it to turn hungry, desperate. He slides his hands under your sweater, bunching the fabric in a way that sends a shock of cold air through your body. It grounds you, bringing you back into your own body long enough to get your head on straight.
“Bed,” you gasp into his mouth. “Now.”
“We don’t…” he’s panting harder than you are. “We don’t have to if you—”
“Din,” you kiss him again for good measure. “It’s either the bed or I’m fucking you on this chair and I’d much prefer—” you squeak as he abruptly stands, his forearms bracing beneath both of your legs as he lifts you up. You laugh into his mouth as he does, instinctually wrapping your legs around him.
He crosses the room and sits down on the bed without breaking the kiss, allowing you to remain wrapped around him as you settle against his lap. His hands slide down your sides to your hips as he pulls you against him, the hard length of him now pressed against your core. A shiver travels down the column of your spine with the feeling of how he utterly surrounds you.
With a hand splayed over your spine, he rolls you onto your back. You manage to tug his shirt off before he can distract you further. You’re already so turned on by the time he peels away your clothes in turn that you whine something desperate and incoherent like justfuckmealready into his mouth. He hushes you with another kiss, discarding your leggings and underwear on the floor before he gently nudges your legs apart and begins tracing the length of your body with his mouth.
He lowers his head even further and you can’t think, you can’t breathe as he uses his forearm to pin your thighs against your chest, utterly exposed to his eyes as they take in your swollen center. He glances up at you then, through his lashes, eyes bright and hungry with desire.
“Had to fuckin’ freeze myself in the fresher this morning just to keep my hands off you,” he breathes across the junction of your core and your inner thigh, pressing a soft kiss devastatingly close to where you ache. His voice is low and warm and seductive, you can nearly feel the rumble of it as he shifts to place another kiss on the opposite leg. Your body unleashes a whimper you don’t think you can control, your cheeks warm, body flushed with the feeling of how his eyes scour every inch of you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about getting you like this.”
Before you have a chance to even process the vibrant spark of heat that shoots through you with those words, his presses his mouth against your cunt.
Coherent speech is reduced to hiccuping whimpers as he flicks his tongue against your clit while two broad fingers teasingly brush across your entrance. Din moans against you when the calloused pads of his fingers discover how wet his gaze alone made you. It sends tingling vibrations through you, beginning a sharp tug of tension at the base of your stomach, the knotted beginning of an orgasm you were almost positive he wasn’t going to let you have. Not yet at least. You remembered from the previous times how much he liked to utterly unravel you before giving you the release you begged for.
Fuckyou’d forgotten how good he was.
You tangle your hands into his hair, grinding your pussy against his lips in an attempt to inch closer to the fingers that teased you. He groans against your swollen flesh when you tightening your grip on his hair,
“Din—” His name ends in a cry as he thrusts into you. He stops, his body flush against yours. You open your eyes when he doesn’t continue, the look of blatant confusion on your face intensifying when you see the way he’s pulled back slightly, his eyes searching your face.
“Did I hurt you?” He murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek. You’re shaking your head desperately before he can even finish his question, your words leaving you in an incoherent babble as you attempt to grind against his cock. The weight of his body against yours makes it difficult for you to lift your hips enough to find the friction you’re so desperate for.
“No—stars, Din, youfeelsogoodplea—”
He starts fucking you slowly, peppering your face and neck with easy kisses while you go limp, head-thrown-back, gasping-for-air and all. All it takes is the nipping scrape of his teeth against your nipple and a few tight circles of your own hand against your clit for you to come undone.
You’re entire body is still pulsing with aftershocks when you feel Din’s body begin to seize beneath your hands. You can tell he’s close by the way he shutters to a stop for a quick second before his pace increases, his panting labored.
“I want you to come inside me,” you breathe, punctuating the demand by scrapping your teeth across his earlobe. “I—” your words hitch in your throat as he begins to slam into you, “I want to feel you leaking out of me all day, make you watch me as I fuck myself with it, Din—”
His reaction is nearly instantaneous. Din growls out your name into your ear as he releases, the force of his orgasm enough that you can feel the steely length of him pulse as he spills inside you. He only slows his thrusts when he releases a held breath, the warm air brushing against the curve of your neck while his temple remains flush against yours. He collapses against you, exhausted.
You hold him against you with both the arms braced against his back, savoring the feeling of your combined heavy breathing, the pulse of his heart against your breast. When he pulls back a fraction of an inch just to kiss you, it’s something achingly sweet. As if this were the first time your lips had ever met. As if he, too, was trying to memorize the shape and movement of your body against his. Unabashedly, you hope he was.
“I uh…” his concentration trails off for a split second when you peck his temple, allowing your fingernails to lightly scrape against his spine as you trace your hands over the expanse of his back. “Was—I was planning on taking that slow, didn’t mean to—”
You muffle your giggle against his lips. When he pulls away, both of your hands still planted on either side of his face, you can see the hints of a smile on his face.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” you whisper after a beat. “Thank you. For telling me all that. For everything. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been.”
When he kisses you again, it’s something slow. Soft. You know how much he struggles for the right words, but that kiss says everything you wanted to hear. It’s perfect.
Din retrieves one of your towels from the fresher and cleans you up. You’ve lost the flush to your skin, and the cold air of the room makes you shiver. He diligently pulls the blankets around the two of you, firmly tucking you against his side with a kiss placed at the crown of your head. You throw your leg over his hips with a happy hum, snuggling the side of your face into his pec.
No matter how physically close the two of you are, it never feels enough, you always want to press yourself closer. Crush yourself against him. By the way his arm tightens around you, you think he feels similarly.
You doze while he rubs his thumb in a soothing arc over the curve of your shoulder. Even the presence of his body bending the mattress beside yours is all you need to feel comfortable—relaxed and content and safe—in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.
An hour passes by the time you blink awake again, shocked at how quickly you succumbed to sleep without even realizing it. Din’s hand has shifted to your hip, you can see his eyes are closed when you crane your head back to look up at him. His breathing is the same as it was when you drifted off, nothing like the deep swells of his chest from the night previous.
“Are you awake?” You whisper so quietly your voice cracks. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. It’s like a shot of adrenalin straight to your system.
“Mmhmm.”
You hum and stretch, perhaps acting a little more sleepy than you actually feel. It’s already pretty late, and given how tired he was yesterday you aren’t sure if he still needs to catch up on rest.
By the way his hand slides from your hip to the curve of your ass once you settle beside him again, maybe you shouldn’t be worrying about that. You prop your chin on his chest, your hand reaching up to play with his hair. He leans into the touch with a low hum, closed eyes fluttering, content.
He uses the arm that isn’t wrapped around your body to take the hand you hand tangled in his hair, kissing your knuckles before placing your palm back against his head. You catch the pause he takes when he moves that shoulder, remembering his hidden flinch from the night before.
“What happened with that patrol you ran into?” You murmur, your concern revitalized.
“Got outnumbered for a second, nothing I couldn’t handle.” He opens his eyes, gaze half-lidded, slightly amused. “Just stunned them. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
You roll your eyes.
“Thanks for holding back on killing my friends I guess.” You say it playfully, but you catch the way his features tighten in response.
“I didn’t know they were your friends at the time,” he clarifies. “I was tracking two pairs and didn’t expect a third. The temperature was messing with my equipment. They snuck up on me, put me in cuffs. Think I tweaked something when I was getting out of them. But I swear I only knocked them out. I saw them back at the fort when I was trying to get past the walls.”
“I was kidding, Din. I swear,” you flick his nose in reprimand. It’s a natural instinct, how easily you succumb to the intimacy between the two of you. As if it had only ever always been like this, right here and now. You hope it will be, and you think he does to. Well, logically, you know he does too, but the fear of his indecision still taps at the back of your skull regardless. “I should look at it if it’s still hurting by tomorrow, you could’ve torn a ligament.”
He grows quiet but he’s smiling as he looks down at you—it’s small, nothing more than a slight curve to the left side of his mouth, but the motion is in such stark contrast to the usual firm, concentrated set to his features it fills your chest with a bubbling feeling because you are doing that. You are putting that expression there, it’s your presence that has made his body relax in a way you didn’t think was possible before.
“What?” You ask when you don’t get a response.
“I’ve missed your fussing.” He turns his face back towards the ceiling and closes his eyes. “Didn’t realize how much I would when I was back on my own again.”
You’re dreading this conversation, but it’s the only clear opportunity you’re going to get. You try to keep your breathing even as your body deflates slightly. You hope he doesn’t notice, but he’s turning to look at you again. Eyes sharp.
You inhale, preparing yourself for the rambling litany that’s about to exit your mouth, utterly unprepared for how you want to phrase this and hoping whatever you say is at least moderately coherent.
Din speaks before you have a chance to.
“I don’t ever want to be without you again, pel’karta.” He grinds his jaw as he pauses to search for his next words, his eye contact unbroken as he stares at you. It feels like the air has been pulled from your lungs. You think you actually have stopped breathing. “I don’t care what that means, if you want to stay here I’ll be here. If you want to leave it’s going to be me at your side. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
He’s made you cry happy tears twice in one night. You don’t know how to even begin to put words to what you’re feeling so you kiss him instead.
“I’ve never wanted something more than that. A life with you. Even after everything. I’ve missed you so much.” You don’t care how much your voice warbles with the words, you know verbal confirmation is important so you did your best. By the look on his face, it worked.
You sniff and laugh.
“Are you only saying that so you can make nice with the Republic guards once the storm is over?” you tease, “I mean, you are going to have to brainstorm on that front if you want access to any of their supplies. They’ve got some fragile-ass egos. You might’ve hurt their feelings by taking out a team of six in one go.”
“Eight. And I was still handcuffed when I took out the first five.”
“Showoff.” You roll your eyes and shift onto your back. He puts a protective hand against your stomach and kisses your temple. It pulls a chord, low and taught, through your belly and straight to your core. “Besides, I think all you’ll have to do is find a strategic time to remove that helmet and all will be forgiven. Everyone here has been fucking everyone else, if they see pretty-boy-fresh-meat I think all will be forgiven.”
“Pretty-boy?” You don’t have to look over at him to know he has an eyebrow cocked.
“Oh, like you don’t know.”
He says your name in a way that sounds more like maybe you should think that through. Your cheeks grow hot. You turn to face him again, trying to keep your face serious.
“Din Djarin, you are a veryhandsome man.” You seal the statement with another kiss. It’s hard to keep the smile off your face then. “To be honest, I’m shocked. I was totally expecting you to be a balding. Old. Crochety. No teeth or anything. Horns. A tail—wait, no twotails. Three, counting the other one. Real sexy.”
He laughs. It’s the first time he’s done so while you can see the way his lips part with the sound, a full, lopsided smile folding the scruff on his cheeks. Maybe the feeling of absolute awe it gives you is written across every feature on your face, because when he turns to look at you, that grin remains only as long as it takes for him to search your eyes before his mouth finds yours again.
This time the kiss is heavy with want. You melt against him as his tongue parts your lips, the heated brand of him pressing against your stomach as he rolls on top of you again. Slipping an arm under your waist, he flips you onto your belly.
You squeak, somehow still surprised by his agility. Your embarrassed laugh dies in your throat as he begins kissing his way down your back, pushing the blankets down with him as he went.
Din pulls your hips up after placing a kiss, followed by a sharp nip, as the base of your spine. You instinctually arch your spine as he pulls your thighs apart, the heated flush on your face quickly forgotten as he drags the flat of his tongue in a slow lick over your pussy. You press your face into the pillow to muffle your throaty moan.
He has you pinned like that for a small eternity, teasing your core with shallow strokes of his tongue, never lingering over your clit or entrance for too long for the aching tension coiled tight in your belly to snap in release.
It was decadent and slow, and you do nothing to stop the whispered cry of his name as he replaces his tongue with one of his fingers. You’re so swollen with need that you think you hear him curse under his breath when he pulls back to watch how easily his fingers slide in and out of you, the obscenely wet sounds the movement makes as you roll your hips against his hand.
You think he’s finally going to take you, from the back this time, but Din expertly maneuvers your body again without warning. It’s such a fluid movement that all you’re able to recognize is the feeling of his forearm banding around your stomach and then suddenly your back is pressed against his chest as he flips the both of you over, him sitting and you straddling his wide-spread legs. The narrow bed the two of you are seated on creaks with the movement.
Din settles you on his lap, your back against his chest and your ass against his lower abdomen. You’re straddling him, knees pressed firmly against the mattress as he uses his outer thighs to push your legs out, stretching your hips to their limit and completely exposing your core in a way that should have had you blushing hard enough for him to feel the heat radiating from your skin.
You skin heats for a wholly different reason, a spark of warm, pulsing electricity coursing through your stomach. Din settles with his back against the wall and feet pressed against the ground. The velvety heat of his cock presses against your belly, the length of him achingly hard from his time spent between your legs.
Biting your lip, you turn your head slightly over one shoulder to glance back at him. If he was going to play mean, you’d get your blows in too. You prop yourself up with one hand against the mattress, the other you use to lightly trace the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock.
Given the groan he muffles against the curve of your shoulder, your payback worked.
“Think I can take all of it, like this?” Your voice is rough with lust as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, pumping it once as if in demonstration before allowing it to press against your stomach again. Turning away from him to look back down, you brush the tips of your fingers against its head, gathering the beads of precome against them as you lower your voice to a sultry drawl. “I don’t know if you’ll fit.”
“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” Din growls against the sweaty nape of your neck. “Swear to the stars themselves, you’re gonna f—”
He cuts himself off when you lean forward, lifting your hips as you guide the head of his dick over your core, notching it against your entrance and experimentally relaxing your thigh muscles to lower yourself onto him.
Both of your breaths hitch in your throats as he pushes into you. You’re still out of practice, and the complete exposure of this position sends dual twinges of pleasure and pain cording through you. It’s just about the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever experienced.
You crane your head over your shoulder to kiss him as your sink, inch by inch, down his cock. The muscles in your thighs spasm when you stop half way. Holding yourself in place with the hand you still have pressed against the mattress, you take a second to adjust to the feeling of it. This position makes you feel so full that your original, teasing statement might be a reality.
But you needed more. With everything in you, you needed all of him.
Din’s hands tremble with restraint as he breaks the kiss, one arm banding around your stomach to help you support your own weight, the other hand brushing your hair away from your face so he can nuzzle into your neck. That same hand goes to your breast, his thumb resuming its slow pace, brushing coy arcs against your nipple.
That motion alone has you dropping the rest of your weight onto him with a moan so desperate you can hardly believe it left your mouth. You barely make it a fraction of an inch further before he holds you in place once again, stopping the intoxicating fall of your body with the arm he has sealed over your waist.
“Not yet,” his words are taught with restraint.
“Please,” you whine as your eyes flutter shut, unbothered by the indecent pitch of your voice.
“Not yet,” he repeats himself, his tone more of a purr now as he gets ahold of himself—something you find quite literally impossible, in the moment. Maybe later you’d be coherent enough to give him a pat on the back for it, but you are currently blinded by a haze of frustrated desire.
Din drags his teeth over your earlobe to get your attention. It sends a chill through you. “Open your eyes.” You obey, swallowing as he lifts the hand against your breast to gently tilt your chin, guiding your gaze.
You catch what he wants you to see almost immediately. The mirror on your desk faced the bed, you’d angled it that way when you were braiding your hair that morning. Now, the reflective pane of polished silver captured your reflection from the shoulders down, the effect is dizzyingly pornographic in a way you can’t wrap your head around but can certainly succumb to.
“Look at what I’m doing to you,” Din murmurs into your ear. He returns his hand to your chest, rolling the bud of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting the oversensitive flesh as you watch through the mirror.
Your breath hitches in your throat as you begin to grind slowly grind against him, held in place by his arm while your gaze remains locked on where your bodies join. It takes all of your strength to keep yourself propped above him, one hand fisted in the bedsheets to keep your balance, the other stretched over your shoulder to tangle in Din’s hair. He keeps the side of his face pressed against your neck as he watches you in the mirror.
Methodically—devastatingly so—Din’s hand releases your breast, leaving the nipple achingly peaked and swollen with frustrated desire. He unwraps his arm from your waist and grabs your right hand with his. Unable to catch yourself with your other arm in time, the unbalanced weight causes you to sink further onto his cock. You give a sharp cry at the feeling, resisting the urge to kick your head back, determined to keep your eyes glued to the mirror.
Din pauses at that, and you can hear his breath catch in his throat. You think it might be one of the only times you’ve seen his concentration break. You would’ve teased him about it later if it weren’t for the fact that you can barely get a thought out beyond your desperate need to feel his fingers against your clit again.
He buries his face into your hair to muffle his moan, his hand smoothing over yours as your give a tentative roll of your hips yet again. His pleasure was nearly as intoxicating as the slow movement of his fingers on the hand that remained attached to your left breast, kneading the soft skin there in a way that sends dizzying waves of raw arousal through you.
Din layers his right hand over yours, applying light pressure to encourage you to lay your palm flat against your belly. His hand controls the speed at which he allows you to drift both of your hands down past your navel, stopping you once your palm was pressed flush against your pubic mound.
You breath shutters in your chest as he nudges your fore and middle fingers apart before sliding both his hand and yours further down. You forget how to breathe all together when he positions your hand so that the V of your spread fingers frames where his cock stretches you open. Your interior muscles flutter with the way it feels, the way it makes your body look in the mirror, curved against his massive form, back arched, each lungful of air thrusting your tits into the air as you pant with want.
“Good girl,” he practically purrs. You experimentally shift your palm back and forth as much as he’ll allow, guiding the fingers he has layered over yours to do the same. You’re so wet it’s surprising that you haven’t bottomed out already—but maybe that’s why he holds you there. His voice is reduced to a low growl with the slick evidence of your want. “Feel that. Look at how well you take me.”
The apex of your spread fingers was a hair’s breadth away from brushing your clit like this. You’re almost certain you’d come on the spot if he let you shift your hand any lower. He doesn’t, the asshole.
You throw your head back against his shoulder with a whimper, attempting to push your hips forward to sink onto him further once again, desperate for any kind of friction, but both his hands leave your body in order to press against your waist, holding you exactly where you were.
“Not yet.” Din’s amused yet strained reprimand was followed by a tsk when you make another frustrated sound. “I want you to watch.” His lips press against your shoulder as you oblige, lifting your head to stare back into the mirror. “Look at how beautiful you are.”
As soon as your eyes lock onto your two entwined forms, Din begins to rock into you. His first full stroke is so overwhelming you have to struggle to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head. You think he can sense it by the way he pauses, holding you against the base of his cock as your combined ragged breathing fills the space.
You tighten your grip on his left thigh with the hand you’re using to prop yourself up, digging your nails into his quads as he slides the hand you have splayed around your cunt to trail back up. He guides your fingers to your clit, pressing them against the swollen bud in a signal of allowance. He pulls nearly all the way out as you begin to play with yourself, then slams his hips against you once again.
You cry out as he starts fucking you in earnest, his pace brutal as he uses both of his hands to pull you down against him each time he pushes his hips up. It’s hard and fast and enough to have you almost completely undone within seconds, barely able to keep your eyes open, any thought of trying to stifle your moaning out of habit long forgotten.
You pull your fingers away from your pussy, stretching that arm up and back to tangle in Din’s hair again. You cry out as his fingers replace where yours just were, rubbing tight, concentric circles against your clit. There’s something about watching yourself in the mirror—your shoulders pressed against his chest, breasts thrust out, legs widespread—that was enough to push you over the edge, almost instantly. Din’s masterful command of your body doesn’t help either.
Swallowing thickly, you have to turn your gaze away from the mirror and allow your head to loll back against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you try to fight against the pressure coiling painfully tight in the base of your belly. The feeling of his fingers against your clit as he stretches you open is so overwhelming that you can barely get out the words before it’s too late.
“I want to come with you,” you pant. “’s too much I’m gonna—Please, Din, let me—”
It must be a miracle, because for the second time that night, Din’s resolve shatters. You can only fall back against his chest, crying out his name as you unravel completely, unable to process his hoarse shout as his release tumbles after yours.
Your orgasm washes over you in waves of white-hot pleasure. You gasp for air as it raises you up only to slam you back under, head spinning with pure bliss. It’s something utterly devastating and luminous, twisting every muscle within you to its absolute limit before snapping back in place. Din pulls it out of you with one overly sensitive swipe against your clit after the other, even as his body seized and twitched beneath yours with the force of his own drawn out release.
It takes you a while to really come to your senses, content with the way your body is cradled by Din’s while the aftershocks of your release work their way through you. Your eyes are so heavy and he’s so warm and soft you’d be more than content to fall asleep right there.
He recovers before you do, you can tell by the way he holds you shifts to something delicate, rubbing his hands over your arms as he catches his breath between each small kiss he presses against your shoulder.
You fall back asleep. The storm has settled into nothing more than a low hum of wind by the time you wake up again. And he’s there, beside you, warm and real. After all this time.
warnings: smut, unprotected piv sex (again, don’t do that), riding, oral f-receiving
a/n: hi i am literally so sorry this took me so long. last chapter save for the epilogue. thank you all for being so patient, really, and thank you for everything <3
**
There’s an undiluted feeling of utter safety in waking up with the knowledge of another presence right beside you. You think that’s why you slept so deeply, why your whole chest is thrumming with sedated contentment as your eyes slide open.
Your body is wholly relaxed in a way you haven’t experienced in months, your nights usually interspersed with jolting awake at the slightest howl of wind or anxiety-fueled dreams that you can never remember once your eyes fly open. You shift slightly upon waking, the slight movement sending a gust of the cold air into the swath of furs wrapped around you that makes you wince and retreat even further beneath them, pressing yourself flush against the body beside you to sap their heat.
Your sweater rode up in your sleep, which is probably why the shock of cold air is enough to have you blinking awake despite the heavy haze that renders your eyes so heavy they can barely stay open. The exposed length of your spine is pressed against a threadbare shirt, the only barrier between your skin and the firm chest the fabric conceals. Your legs, also bare after kicking off your thermal leggings at some point during the night in a bout of overheated, sleepy frustration, are in a tangle with the form pressed against your back.
It takes you a second to remember who exactly that body belongs to.
A forearm is banded across your exposed stomach—Din’s forearm is banded across your exposed stomach, and your hand is loosely cupped over the curve of his wrist, his own hand tucked between your soft waist and the mattress beneath the two of you. You’re using his bicep as a pillow. You’re holding him here, is the thought that has your eyes flying open, not daring to move anything else.
And there’s soft, hot breath ghosting against the back of your neck.
You realize Din is asleep—like, really asleep, not those short naps you’d sometimes see him take, propped against any given surface, or that half-conscious dozing as the two of you lay in bed. He’s dead-to-the-world asleep. And cradling you with the whole of his body.
You swallow thickly, attempting to even the depth of your breathing, to hold yourself in place for fear of waking him. It takes less than a second for you to make the decision of allowing yourself the ability to savor the feeling of being so gently held by such a harsh frame.
Later, you will blame the preservation of this moment on the cold weather. Or your sleepy haze upon waking. Or how tired you know he is. That small, private part of you will know it has more to do with the bone-deep loneliness that you honestly believed you’d wrestled control of until now. Or, maybe you did have it all under control, and then you turned around and there he was--standing on that icy road, finally emerged from his silent vigil, his voice thick with anger and frustration and worry and something in your chest folded in on itself in utter relief. Because even after the months apart, the sight of him alone is enough to remind you of the raw comfort his presence brings. His ability to make you feel protected. Safe. Unconditionally so, in a way you don’t think you’ve ever felt since you were torn from your home as a child.
So damn the consequences and your stupid broken heart. You savor it while you can.
You’re drifting towards the edge of sleep right as your lower back begins to ache in protest. Hesitantly, you roll your hips in a small stretch away from Din, shifting onto your stomach. Holding your breath, you listen to the rhythm of his breathing for any signs of his waking.
There’s a beat, and then he’s automatically adjusting to accommodate your movement with an unconscious hum, his arm sliding out from underneath you in order to splay over your back, nuzzling his face into your unbound hair. The steady heat of his dry, calloused palm against your bare spine is enough to have your stomach rolling with butterflies. He settles with the arc of his nose pressed against your neck, the pace of his chest unfaltering as the warm ghost of his breath resumes its reassuring push against your skin.
It’s far too easy to doze in and out of sleep after that, to succumb to the combined furnace of your body heats and follow his breathing back into peaceful unconsciousness.
Din wakes with a jolt, the movement startled enough to have you wide awake beside him as well. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, feigning sleep—to save either him or yourself from embarrassment, you aren’t quite sure.
He lingers, if only for a split second, before he slides his hand off of your spin and pulls away. When he gets out of bed, he makes sure to readjust the blankets over your shoulders, trapping the heat in. You try to keep your breathing even as you listen to him cross the room.
You prop yourself up with the sound of the fresher door sliding shut. Rubbing the crust from your eyes with the heel of your hand, you take a moment to gather yourself before rummaging through the blankets to find your pants, wincing as the cold air hits your exposed skin.
You put the kettle on to boil some water and grab two shares of rations from your stockpile. Din spends longer than usual inside of the fresher, enough time for you to prepare breakfast and a cup of caf for yourself. You leave some in the pot in case more has changed over the course of the past year than you initially expected.
Din steps back into the living space with a hiss from the fresher door. You’re settled back on your bed, your mug cradled between your hands as you wait for its contents to cool. One of the books Niccha gave you to read is beside your crossed legs, bindings already cracked and frayed from years of use. You train your eyes on the worn cover as you nurse your caf, but there’s no misrecognizing the smell of his gun-oil being uncapped.
“Breakfast, if you’re hungry,” you offer it to him with an upwards glance and a nod towards where you situated his bowl among the mini-arsenal he established on the desk you directed him to the night before. He’s seated at the desk chair, intently looking down at something on his datapad with his rifle balanced in his lap.
“Thank you,” he says, glancing up for a second before looking back down to tracing something with a gloved finger. He’s back in his armor—both physically and, well… at least the familiarity of it eases the nervous awkwardness twisting its way through your gut. You try to swallow away the feeling it gives you to see him guarded once more, so far from that soft body you woke to this morning.
You take another beat or two to look at him while he’s occupied with cleaning the gun in his lap. You’d almost forgotten how much work it takes for him to keep everything up to par, the time and diligent care with which he treats his equipment. There were some evenings where he settled into so deep of a trance while doing so that you could probably scream without getting his attention.
That wasn’t true. Your lingering sense of resentment towards him and all, you intrinsically knew he’d come running no matter what. Din was a protector through and through. He’s consistently proven as much.
There’s something about the broad set of his frame that can make even the rickety chair he’s seated on look like a throne—especially with the small arsenal haphazardly stacked on the worktable’s worn surface.
Most of his things are familiar—his blaster, the rifle, vibroblade… there’s something new, though. You missed it when he had initially unloaded his equipment. It looks like the hilt of a saber. It’s partially concealed beneath one of the pauldrons he removed the night before. You’ll ask him about it later.
Finishing your caf, you pick up the novel Niccha gave you with the aims of improving your grasp on the local languages. Niccha tended to use his translator with texts like these, but, since you had time to kill you decided to try and power through and try to use the translation tech as little as possible.
That proves impossibly difficult. Head-strong as always, you refuse to pick up the datapad regardless.
“What are you reading?” Din asks you after you’ve barely managed to scrape through the first chapter, as if he could read the annoyed twitch of your lip from across the room. Well, knowing him, that’s probably exactly what he did.
“Oh,” you flip the book closed, flashing him a cover. A slight heat rises to your cheeks. “It’s a Cardimendum novel. A lot of the traders here speak it and I’ve been trying to learn.” He gives a hum, nodding to himself, and returns back to his work. You think that that will be it and then—
“Try reading it out loud.”
“Huh?”
“Cardimendi is a tonal language. There’s no point in practicing it silently.”
You knew that, and when you chose the book you were planning on doing as much until you took in an unexpected guest. “I’m not very good—”
“Neither am I. Try not to worry about the smaller stuff, practice is practice,” he pauses for a moment. “I can correct you on the things I catch if you’d like.”
You survey him for a second, taking in the slopes of his curved shoulders, then nod to yourself. “That would be nice, thank you.”
Somehow you aren’t shocked that Din makes a good teacher, despite his claims to a minimal understanding of the traders’ tongue. Persistent but not overbearing, like he knew just the right way to push you without it breaking your resolve.
Splaying the book open on your knee at the end of the chapter, you reach for your already cooled mug.
“How many languages do you know?” You ask with a tilt of your head after taking a small sip.
“Depends on how generous you’re willing to be,” he shrugs. “It’s something you pick up on the job, no formal training, just by necessity.”
“Which ones? Besides Basic I mean.”
“Huttese and Tusken mainly,” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Shaky at best with Jawaese—Ryl too--but enough to get by.”
Your brow furrows slightly. “What about Mando’a?”
He pauses. It only takes a beat for you to realize that you prodded a nerve, heat floods your face. You’re not sure if it would be worse to retract your statement and draw more attention to it or feign innocence. Din speaks before you can make a decision.
“Only small bits, here and there. It was something lost to us a long time ago.”
And yet he still knew the words for kindness. Soft-hearted. You didn’t let yourself think about that phrase often. It sends a shiver through you, even now. All the moments that lead up to this one felt like a wholly different world. How long had it been since he spoke his people’s tongue when he called you that? Who else had the privilege of hearing that lost language through his rough baritone, who else listened as the phrase washed over them as if it were physical touch—even now, in memory?
“Interesting.” Your response is so absurdly plain compared to the thoughts rolling through your head it’s almost laughable. “Did you pick up Cardimendi on the job too?”
“Kind of.” He finally returns to fiddling with his gear. “They have temples scattered across the galaxy that are safe havens for people looking to escape the Republic’s notice, protected by religious rights and all,” he pauses, “Well—first the Empire, now the Republic. I’ve laid low there a few times, retrieved a quarry or two as well.”
You raise an eyebrow, shooting him an incredulous look. “You captured a quarry in a universal safehouse?”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that,” he says it with a grimace, you can tell by the sound of his words alone. A smile creeps its way along the line of your lips. “It’s interesting that the traders use Cardimendi, I wouldn’t have expected that.”
“I think they mostly use it to distinguish themselves from the miners.” You ease back into your bed, propping your elbow up on a stack of pillows and shifting your weight onto your hip. You absentmindedly flip through the book just to have something to do with your hands. “I get it, you know. Places like this,” you vaguely gesture towards the windows, black with the blizzard raging outside. “It’s a survival tactic to keep the sacred parts of you close. Guarded, or whatever.”
A soft crackle emanates from the modulator that seems like a sound of agreement.
“Should I keep going?” You glance up over to him as you ask.
“Please.”
You read to him for the rest of the day. Right when you think he’s stopped listening he’ll correct you on a specific word or ask you to reread a sentence, even when it seems like his attention is wholly engrossed in his preparations. Being completely honest with yourself, it does feel like an excuse to not talk about the way you woke up that morning but, at this point, you’ll take any excuse you’ve got.
It’s nearly time for dinner by the time you find a natural stopping place in the novel. You yawn, stretching your legs before pushing yourself off the bed and padding over to your shelf.
“Does that thing say anything about when the winds will clear?” You ask, flexing your hands in an attempt to get some warmth into them. The temperatures are dropping even further, you didn’t realize how cold it had gotten from under the blankets you’d piled over yourself.
“Early tomorrow it looks like,” Din answers.
“That’s good.” You suppress a wince with how awkward you sound. “It’s passing quicker than they predicted.”
You think you hear Din mumble something about Republic incompetence. You try to suppress a smile with how on-brand of a response it is. At least some things never change.
“Do you want anything to eat?” You glance over your shoulder as you turn the kettle on. Din’s back is to you, hunched over his datapad. “I think I’m gonna make some tea too, I need something warm in my stomach.”
“Broth is fine.” He seems to be consumed by whatever is on the screen. After a moment he shifts to look over at you. “Thank you.” He turns back around.
Utilitarian as always. You nod, and prepare your meals before making a cup of tea for yourself.
He thanks you again, quietly, when you set his bowl in front of him. You retreat back to your side of the room. The two of you eat in silence. You suddenly wish you had the foresight to also pick up some liquor from Niccha’s stash, maybe it would have made this more bearable. Maker it was going to be an interesting few hours.
It makes you too sad to think beyond that. At least you’ll have him here while you can. One more night, and then he’ll go off and satiate that vendetta and then he’ll be done. Gone. Whatever.
Din gives a frustrated grunt, snapping you from your thoughts.
“What are you looking at?” You ask as you take a cautious sip of your tea. It scalds the roof of your mouth, you’re glad he’s too engrossed to see your flinch.
“Trying to trace any signs of Cavill’s men, the storm is blocking most of the data I’d usually use to catch a sign of them—”
“With any luck, that means they’re having the exact same problem too,” you suggest. “Once the temperature eases up and the wind clears we can go back into town and wait them out there. I doubt they’d try to start something in a Republic outpost.”
“They would,” Din’s voice gets icy, fast. “And they have the money to smooth things over no matter how badly it goes.”
You do a bad job of concealing your anger at his cold dismissal. Even if he were right, it didn’t mean he had to be an asshole about it. Your response matches his sharpness.
“Din, going back to the outpost and waiting this out just makes the most sense, at least on my end of things.” He doesn’t say anything. You press your lips together to try and stimmy your frustration. “The officers there are good people, and I’m sure if I just talked to one of the superiors they would let you in. I’ve done a lot for this place and never asked anything of them—Valeria is so remote they won’t even bother with reporting your presence, it’s more hassle than it’s worth, especially if I talk with them about it.”
“It’s not that.” He says it in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t want to elaborate. And he doesn’t. He just sets down the datapad and leans down to grab one of the blasters that you know he’d already cleaned every crevice of. Regardless, he uncaps the oil again. So it looks like he’s been trying to appear preoccupied only to keep his hands busy. Asshole.
“So then what is it?” You challenge, tired of the shifty communication, tired of the constant back-and-forth that seems to ebb and flow with every interaction. So be it. Might as well get some answers out of him while you have the chance, before he slinks off to who knows where. “Because I thought the whole reason you were here was to protect me.”
“That’s exactly the reason.” His voice is tight with the promise of an outburst you’ve never seen outside of the battlefield. “Because I fucked up with a shitty lapse in judgement that put you and your friends in danger and I am going to deal with the consequences and make sure no one else gets hurt.”
“Is this about Canto?” You don’t ask it like it’s a question.
Your biting frustration has enough force behind it that it surprises even you. Din seems to have the ability to pull emotions from you so vivid you didn’t realize it was possible to feel so deeply. It used to be what drew you to him, what made you savor your shared dinners and chaste touches, no more than the brush of a hand or tap of the shoulder while you bound his wounds. Right now it was anger. The poorly concealed fury and fear of an injured animal being herded into a corner.
Din takes a deep breath. Fuck.
“How could it not be about Canto.”
It’s your turn to heave a frustrated huff of air, you narrow your eyes, turning them to glare through that T-visor.
“Din—”
“I know how much your friends mean to you,” he looks back down at the gun in his lap as he speaks. He pushes the polish into the gun with an amount of force that you know isn’t necessary. “They’re your family. You need them and I almost jeopardized that. I never want to do it again.”
You keep your voice firm. Controlled.
“It’s not your fault. I’ve told you that too many times to count.”
Din’s entire body stills. It’s that deadly calm that would have rendered anyone else cowering. You have to bite down on your back teeth to resist the urge to do so yourself.
His head turns toward you in a smooth roll. You didn’t need to see beyond the layers of beskar and glass to feel the heat of his gaze on you.
“You were hurt. And don’t say that you were fine. I saw the look in your eyes when he forced you to…” Din’s voice falters. Catching himself, he rephrases,
“I was in the rafters when he attacked you. I’d been waiting for you to clear the room like we agreed upon but I should have realized that it was taking too long. I should have been there before he was able to throw that glass at you, before he could--” Din lets go of a frustrated breath, like he couldn’t control the words leaving him mouth and wasn’t voicing what he actually wanted to say. “I saw that look on your face, when Cavill had you… had you against the floor.” His voice get tight with fury. It has a different quality to the cool, deadly precision that you’re used to. This is something volatile, white-hot with the promise of bloodshed. “When he gave you that order you… Your entire body changed. Like when you woke up from that nightmare. I could see you receding in on yourself. I know that look. I know that look enough to never want to see it on your face again—”
“Stop it.” You close your eyes as you make the demand, working at the inside of your cheek as you gather your wits about you. When you open your eyes, Din is frozen exactly where he was, shoulders tense in preparation for whatever you’re about to say.
“Listen, I appreciate your protection. I really do—Maker knows I’d be absolutely screwed otherwise.” Your chest expands with a large breath as you try and keep the anger from your words. “But I’m not some shell of a woman who can’t hear an engine start up without hyperventilating.” That’s not to say you weren’t at one point. And that was okay. That was a part of the process. But not anymore. Not for a long time. “I’ll have moments like that because that’s what trauma does, Din. Sure, maybe not in circumstances that are that dramatic, but it’ll happen. And I will be okay because I put in the work to get better. I did. Me. So I think I am the first and last person you should listen to when I tell you that Canto was not your fault. It was a shitty situation but you made sure I was okay and we got out of there. It didn’t scare me off. I’m not fragile.”
He knows that, at least. You told him as much. You can touch me however you want. Calloused palms flat against your back, crushing your body against his. Hands sliding over the long lines of your torso. You grind your jaw to keep the memories of that night at bay, the sadness that comes with missing that version of yourself, that person who was so blindingly happy.
Don’t think about that. Not now.
“I told you why I left,” you let your chin wobble with the words but your eyes remain mercifully dry. “You made it clear what you weren’t able to give me. I might never fully understand the scope of your experiences that lead you to make that decision but I can respect it. I didn’t want to get hurt. Please believe me when I say that I was telling you the truth last night.”
“I do,” Din says, the broad lines of his shoulders sinking. “I—yes, of course I do.”
“Okay.” You try to match how collected his tone is, but the anger and heartache writhing in your gut does little to bend to your will. You’re furious and desperately lonely and Maker do you want nothing more than to stop talking and crawl into bed with him beside you. It’s that feeling that prompts those warring emotions in the first place. There’s no part of you that’s willing to tamp one of them down and let the other win. Too much would be lost if you did.
Sometimes you wish you could flip that switch like he could, go from livid to ice-cold in a matter of seconds. Though you know that that’s just compartmentalization at its finest—the very thing that got the two of you into this mess in the first place. But Stars it would be a relief to not feel so raw all the time, not to feel like the whole world could pry open the catalogue of your chest and browse what’s inside.
Maybe that’s why you want to keep pressing. To ask him what happens after the storm. What happens once Cavill’s men are dealt with. You know that conversation will only bring more hurt, will only add fuel to the fire already raging in your ribcage. You’ve had enough of that for today. For this week. Maybe even a lifetime.
After a minute of utter silence, you decide to say what you mean instead.
“I miss him,” you say. You let the words quietly hang between the two of you, shoulders deflating, your eyes downcast with a small shrug in an attempt to distract from the severity of your words. “The kid, I mean—or, uh, Grogu. Sorry.”
Din is quiet. Long enough to the point where you don’t think he has a response. You start eating your dinner, partially to keep you from opening your mouth again and spewing more unproductive nonsense.
You’ve moved on to prodding what’s left in your bowl with your spoon when Din speaks.
“I miss him too.” His voice is taut but absolute. There’s a hint of relief with the return to familiar territory. It’s stable ground for the both of you. You wait patiently as he takes a deep breath and continues,
“You know, when I was a foundling, I once overheard one of our mentors grieving the loss of one of my bunkmates,” Din rubs a hand over the forehead of his helm, as if that could soothe some kind of ache. “I don’t think he was killed I think he just… well, he abandoned the Creed. So he was more than just dead. Or, at least he was supposed to be. I… I didn’t understand it, at the time. I saw our mentor keeled over when they thought no one could see them and I just… I just stood there until the sergeant spotted me and ordered that I resume my drills. I remember—” his laugh holds no humor behind it, it’s nothing more than a burst of air, “I remember thinking that they were hurt, because the sergeant knelt down beside them and started comforting them in the way I’d only seen nurse droids comfort the dying. I had no idea how much we meant to them. I wish I did. I do now.”
Your throat constricts at the bone-deep emotion that radiates from every word.
“He knew.” You’re more sure of that than anything in the galaxy. “You were good to him, Din. The best anyone could ask for.”
Din goes silent. It stretches for eons and seconds all at once. The only other sound is that of the wind outside, rattling the windows in their sturdy frames. He flexes a hand as he speaks,
“Do you know that Mandalorian armor is coded by color?” It’s so off topic you can’t do anything but blink a few times, brow furrowed. You don’t respond, you have a feeling he doesn’t want you to, not yet. “Gold for revenge. Red, honor. Black, justice. Blue, loyalty.”
Only his shoulders move as he breathes. His head remains bowed, refusing to continue, as if he initially built up the courage to say something he could now not bear to muster.
“And silver?” You say it for him. You know he needs you to.
“Mourning.” He inhales deeply, voice even as he straightens. His hands clasped over his knees and the firm set to his shoulders communicates a sense of absolute resolve, something befitting of a throne. There are tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you watch him transform before you. You can’t help it, something in your chest aches to see him so accustomed to pain. To witness how he situates himself around and through it, head held high.
“When I say that I need to protect you and those you care about, know that it’s because all…” There’s strength behind his voice until there isn’t. “All I know is loss. My parents. My planet. My people. The last of my covert on Nevarro. Friends. Too many friends.”
You get up from where you were sitting as his voice breaks on those last words. Two strides and you’re in his lap, arms circling his neck in a tight embrace. Something in him unravels as he sinks into you, his forehead cradled against the dip of your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist to press you, impossibly, closer.
“Pel kar’ta.” Coming from his lips it sounds like a prayer. “I cannot be sorry enough for how things started. It was cruel for me to be so selfish. I know it’s an apology you can’t accept and you absolutely shouldn’t. It’s… I… I just need you to know that I care for you, deeply. And it’s terrifying.”
You give yourself a moment to bury your face in his neck as he strokes your back. Finally managing to get your bearings, you lift your head slightly to prop your chin against his shoulder, trying to sniff away the messier parts of your crying. When that’s unsuccessful, you lift an arm to wipe at your wet face with the skin of your wrist.
“My eyes are closed,” you murmur quietly. Din removes an arm from your torso and pulls off his helm in one fluid motion. It lands somewhere in the cabin with a haphazard clang. He returns his face to your neck, urgently breathing you in. Your heart begins to pound with the anxiety of having to say what you know you must. Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him against you. For his sake or yours, you aren’t quite sure.
“Din Djarin, I am here. Right here,” you take another halting breath, gathering the courage to pull back, eyes firmly closed. He loosens his grip on you to allow the movement. Your hands slide against the sharp curve of his jaw, angling his face up at yours to rest your foreheads together as you continue. “I’m just as scared. I promise I am. And of course—of course I can’t predict the future, I can’t give you complete reassurance about anything. That’s the life the both of us chose.” You chew on the inside of your cheek for a moment, gathering your thoughts, then resume. “Sometimes love is letting go. I know that. We both do. We’ve had to do that far too much and, Maker, that’s a type of grief I wouldn’t want to wish on anyone,” your voice gets tight in a way you can’t control, your throat flexing with the threat of more crying.
You’re in the process of trying to breathe through the threat of more tears when Din brushes a kiss against your mouth. The motion is so subtle that his lips barely touch yours. It’s fleeting, simple reassurance--a prompt for you to voice the oncoming words whose mere concept threatens weeping.
“But love can… it can…”
He presses another kiss to your jaw, at the dip where its corner meets your neck. You know he just means it as a display of continued reassurance, but it’s hard to keep your thoughts straight with how the feeling of it lingers. But the pause he created in doing so allows you to regather your thoughts, the pressure from your throat almost gone completely. You suppose the distraction was what you needed.
“Fuck, Din,” you mutter, shaking your head slightly against his. You keep your hands pressed against the soft planes of his face, your brow furrowed in sincerity, eyes diligently shut. “It can also be holding on as tightly as you can. It doesn’t have to be one or the other—it never is. It can’t be as neat as that, as much as we’d like it to be.” Your fingers are wet. You know that it isn’t your tears making them that way. “I’m not gonna pretend to have any answers, because I really don’t. And it pisses me off because I know I should be mad at you, and there’s a part of me that wants to, but I just can’t. All I know for certain is that I want you in a way I have never wanted anyone else. No one. Ever.” You’re breathless at this point. “It’s just you, Din. You. It’s always been you.”
He says your name so softly it could barely be a whisper. You kiss him deeply, your hands sliding up into his hair again. His lips move against yours with a similar desperation, arms tightening around you to hold you in place, his body resuming its gentle collapse into yours.
It feels like surrender.
Din’s mouth crushes against yours, your lips sliding against one another with a certain desperation. And just like that, the looming threat of the Cavill team’s arrival, the turmoil of wind and snow outside, the soft snuffling of the space heaters—all of it disappears with the press of his body against yours and the firm, resolute way his palms are pressed against either side of your face.
“I missed you so--” you pant, pulling away.
It’ll feel so silly looking back. Because, being completely honest with yourself, you do it without thinking. And who could blame you? Your entire head is nearly vibrating with giddy nervousness and it’s been so long since you’ve been this happy that you don’t even think as you pull back with your eyes already open.
And there he is.
The word leaves your mouth without you letting it.
“Oh.”
Din smiles. You’re shocked your brain can even register it. If you can think through the soundless static moving through your head, you would notice the bright way his eyes shine in the cabin’s warm light, the soft plane of his cheeks, the precious curve of his nose. It was all there. Both everything and nothing you thought it would be.
“Um,” you breathe, the grin on your face both utterly awe-struck and uncontainable. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he responds. Patient. Nothing could have prepared you for that smile, no matter how much warmth it had previously—and not to mention rarely—brought to his words.
You swallow, raising the hand you had planted against his chest.
“Can I?” You ask hesitantly, your relaxed fingers poised in the space between the two of you. He nods without breaking eye contact, smile falling slightly. Your breath hitches in your throat as you use your fore and middle fingers to lightly trace the line of his nose, up and around the curve of his eyebrow. The touch is hesitant at first, willing to be snatched away at even the slightest flinch from the man beneath you. But he doesn’t so much as blink as the tips of your fingers conduct their soft exploration, charting downwards from his temple to the line of his jaw. Your breathing, like his, transforms into some low, heady pulse in your chest.
You still with the pads of both fingers against the center of his lips. Slowly, you lean down and press a soft, nearly chaste kiss where they rest. It feels like you’re sealing something in place. You think it’s a promise. It is.
Your hand drops back down to Din’s chest, but your eyes keep searching his.
“You’re prettier than I expected,” you whisper, partially at a loss of what to say, your grin still big and goofy on your face. Din licks his bottom lip before biting it slightly, poorly concealing his amusement. Your eyes widen and, stuttering, you attempt to do some damage control. “I mean—ah, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that I—”
“C’mere,” is all he has to say. You fall back into him and he captures your mouth with his. All it takes is one teasing nip from you for it to turn hungry, desperate. He slides his hands under your sweater, bunching the fabric in a way that sends a shock of cold air through your body. It grounds you, bringing you back into your own body long enough to get your head on straight.
“Bed,” you gasp into his mouth. “Now.”
“We don’t…” he’s panting harder than you are. “We don’t have to if you—”
“Din,” you kiss him again for good measure. “It’s either the bed or I’m fucking you on this chair and I’d much prefer—” you squeak as he abruptly stands, his forearms bracing beneath both of your legs as he lifts you up. You laugh into his mouth as he does, instinctually wrapping your legs around him.
He crosses the room and sits down on the bed without breaking the kiss, allowing you to remain wrapped around him as you settle against his lap. His hands slide down your sides to your hips as he pulls you against him, the hard length of him now pressed against your core. A shiver travels down the column of your spine with the feeling of how he utterly surrounds you.
With a hand splayed over your spine, he rolls you onto your back. You manage to tug his shirt off before he can distract you further. You’re already so turned on by the time he peels away your clothes in turn that you whine something desperate and incoherent like justfuckmealready into his mouth. He hushes you with another kiss, discarding your leggings and underwear on the floor before he gently nudges your legs apart and begins tracing the length of your body with his mouth.
He lowers his head even further and you can’t think, you can’t breathe as he uses his forearm to pin your thighs against your chest, utterly exposed to his eyes as they take in your swollen center. He glances up at you then, through his lashes, eyes bright and hungry with desire.
“Had to fuckin’ freeze myself in the fresher this morning just to keep my hands off you,” he breathes across the junction of your core and your inner thigh, pressing a soft kiss devastatingly close to where you ache. His voice is low and warm and seductive, you can nearly feel the rumble of it as he shifts to place another kiss on the opposite leg. Your body unleashes a whimper you don’t think you can control, your cheeks warm, body flushed with the feeling of how his eyes scour every inch of you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about getting you like this.”
Before you have a chance to even process the vibrant spark of heat that shoots through you with those words, his presses his mouth against your cunt.
Coherent speech is reduced to hiccuping whimpers as he flicks his tongue against your clit while two broad fingers teasingly brush across your entrance. Din moans against you when the calloused pads of his fingers discover how wet his gaze alone made you. It sends tingling vibrations through you, beginning a sharp tug of tension at the base of your stomach, the knotted beginning of an orgasm you were almost positive he wasn’t going to let you have. Not yet at least. You remembered from the previous times how much he liked to utterly unravel you before giving you the release you begged for.
Fuckyou’d forgotten how good he was.
You tangle your hands into his hair, grinding your pussy against his lips in an attempt to inch closer to the fingers that teased you. He groans against your swollen flesh when you tightening your grip on his hair,
“Din—” His name ends in a cry as he thrusts into you. He stops, his body flush against yours. You open your eyes when he doesn’t continue, the look of blatant confusion on your face intensifying when you see the way he’s pulled back slightly, his eyes searching your face.
“Did I hurt you?” He murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek. You’re shaking your head desperately before he can even finish his question, your words leaving you in an incoherent babble as you attempt to grind against his cock. The weight of his body against yours makes it difficult for you to lift your hips enough to find the friction you’re so desperate for.
“No—stars, Din, youfeelsogoodplea—”
He starts fucking you slowly, peppering your face and neck with easy kisses while you go limp, head-thrown-back, gasping-for-air and all. All it takes is the nipping scrape of his teeth against your nipple and a few tight circles of your own hand against your clit for you to come undone.
You’re entire body is still pulsing with aftershocks when you feel Din’s body begin to seize beneath your hands. You can tell he’s close by the way he shutters to a stop for a quick second before his pace increases, his panting labored.
“I want you to come inside me,” you breathe, punctuating the demand by scrapping your teeth across his earlobe. “I—” your words hitch in your throat as he begins to slam into you, “I want to feel you leaking out of me all day, make you watch me as I fuck myself with it, Din—”
His reaction is nearly instantaneous. Din growls out your name into your ear as he releases, the force of his orgasm enough that you can feel the steely length of him pulse as he spills inside you. He only slows his thrusts when he releases a held breath, the warm air brushing against the curve of your neck while his temple remains flush against yours. He collapses against you, exhausted.
You hold him against you with both the arms braced against his back, savoring the feeling of your combined heavy breathing, the pulse of his heart against your breast. When he pulls back a fraction of an inch just to kiss you, it’s something achingly sweet. As if this were the first time your lips had ever met. As if he, too, was trying to memorize the shape and movement of your body against his. Unabashedly, you hope he was.
“I uh…” his concentration trails off for a split second when you peck his temple, allowing your fingernails to lightly scrape against his spine as you trace your hands over the expanse of his back. “Was—I was planning on taking that slow, didn’t mean to—”
You muffle your giggle against his lips. When he pulls away, both of your hands still planted on either side of his face, you can see the hints of a smile on his face.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” you whisper after a beat. “Thank you. For telling me all that. For everything. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been.”
When he kisses you again, it’s something slow. Soft. You know how much he struggles for the right words, but that kiss says everything you wanted to hear. It’s perfect.
Din retrieves one of your towels from the fresher and cleans you up. You’ve lost the flush to your skin, and the cold air of the room makes you shiver. He diligently pulls the blankets around the two of you, firmly tucking you against his side with a kiss placed at the crown of your head. You throw your leg over his hips with a happy hum, snuggling the side of your face into his pec.
No matter how physically close the two of you are, it never feels enough, you always want to press yourself closer. Crush yourself against him. By the way his arm tightens around you, you think he feels similarly.
You doze while he rubs his thumb in a soothing arc over the curve of your shoulder. Even the presence of his body bending the mattress beside yours is all you need to feel comfortable—relaxed and content and safe—in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.
An hour passes by the time you blink awake again, shocked at how quickly you succumbed to sleep without even realizing it. Din’s hand has shifted to your hip, you can see his eyes are closed when you crane your head back to look up at him. His breathing is the same as it was when you drifted off, nothing like the deep swells of his chest from the night previous.
“Are you awake?” You whisper so quietly your voice cracks. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. It’s like a shot of adrenalin straight to your system.
“Mmhmm.”
You hum and stretch, perhaps acting a little more sleepy than you actually feel. It’s already pretty late, and given how tired he was yesterday you aren’t sure if he still needs to catch up on rest.
By the way his hand slides from your hip to the curve of your ass once you settle beside him again, maybe you shouldn’t be worrying about that. You prop your chin on his chest, your hand reaching up to play with his hair. He leans into the touch with a low hum, closed eyes fluttering, content.
He uses the arm that isn’t wrapped around your body to take the hand you hand tangled in his hair, kissing your knuckles before placing your palm back against his head. You catch the pause he takes when he moves that shoulder, remembering his hidden flinch from the night before.
“What happened with that patrol you ran into?” You murmur, your concern revitalized.
“Got outnumbered for a second, nothing I couldn’t handle.” He opens his eyes, gaze half-lidded, slightly amused. “Just stunned them. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
You roll your eyes.
“Thanks for holding back on killing my friends I guess.” You say it playfully, but you catch the way his features tighten in response.
“I didn’t know they were your friends at the time,” he clarifies. “I was tracking two pairs and didn’t expect a third. The temperature was messing with my equipment. They snuck up on me, put me in cuffs. Think I tweaked something when I was getting out of them. But I swear I only knocked them out. I saw them back at the fort when I was trying to get past the walls.”
“I was kidding, Din. I swear,” you flick his nose in reprimand. It’s a natural instinct, how easily you succumb to the intimacy between the two of you. As if it had only ever always been like this, right here and now. You hope it will be, and you think he does to. Well, logically, you know he does too, but the fear of his indecision still taps at the back of your skull regardless. “I should look at it if it’s still hurting by tomorrow, you could’ve torn a ligament.”
He grows quiet but he’s smiling as he looks down at you—it’s small, nothing more than a slight curve to the left side of his mouth, but the motion is in such stark contrast to the usual firm, concentrated set to his features it fills your chest with a bubbling feeling because you are doing that. You are putting that expression there, it’s your presence that has made his body relax in a way you didn’t think was possible before.
“What?” You ask when you don’t get a response.
“I’ve missed your fussing.” He turns his face back towards the ceiling and closes his eyes. “Didn’t realize how much I would when I was back on my own again.”
You’re dreading this conversation, but it’s the only clear opportunity you’re going to get. You try to keep your breathing even as your body deflates slightly. You hope he doesn’t notice, but he’s turning to look at you again. Eyes sharp.
You inhale, preparing yourself for the rambling litany that’s about to exit your mouth, utterly unprepared for how you want to phrase this and hoping whatever you say is at least moderately coherent.
Din speaks before you have a chance to.
“I don’t ever want to be without you again, pel’karta.” He grinds his jaw as he pauses to search for his next words, his eye contact unbroken as he stares at you. It feels like the air has been pulled from your lungs. You think you actually have stopped breathing. “I don’t care what that means, if you want to stay here I’ll be here. If you want to leave it’s going to be me at your side. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
He’s made you cry happy tears twice in one night. You don’t know how to even begin to put words to what you’re feeling so you kiss him instead.
“I’ve never wanted something more than that. A life with you. Even after everything. I’ve missed you so much.” You don’t care how much your voice warbles with the words, you know verbal confirmation is important so you did your best. By the look on his face, it worked.
You sniff and laugh.
“Are you only saying that so you can make nice with the Republic guards once the storm is over?” you tease, “I mean, you are going to have to brainstorm on that front if you want access to any of their supplies. They’ve got some fragile-ass egos. You might’ve hurt their feelings by taking out a team of six in one go.”
“Eight. And I was still handcuffed when I took out the first five.”
“Showoff.” You roll your eyes and shift onto your back. He puts a protective hand against your stomach and kisses your temple. It pulls a chord, low and taught, through your belly and straight to your core. “Besides, I think all you’ll have to do is find a strategic time to remove that helmet and all will be forgiven. Everyone here has been fucking everyone else, if they see pretty-boy-fresh-meat I think all will be forgiven.”
“Pretty-boy?” You don’t have to look over at him to know he has an eyebrow cocked.
“Oh, like you don’t know.”
He says your name in a way that sounds more like maybe you should think that through. Your cheeks grow hot. You turn to face him again, trying to keep your face serious.
“Din Djarin, you are a veryhandsome man.” You seal the statement with another kiss. It’s hard to keep the smile off your face then. “To be honest, I’m shocked. I was totally expecting you to be a balding. Old. Crochety. No teeth or anything. Horns. A tail—wait, no twotails. Three, counting the other one. Real sexy.”
He laughs. It’s the first time he’s done so while you can see the way his lips part with the sound, a full, lopsided smile folding the scruff on his cheeks. Maybe the feeling of absolute awe it gives you is written across every feature on your face, because when he turns to look at you, that grin remains only as long as it takes for him to search your eyes before his mouth finds yours again.
This time the kiss is heavy with want. You melt against him as his tongue parts your lips, the heated brand of him pressing against your stomach as he rolls on top of you again. Slipping an arm under your waist, he flips you onto your belly.
You squeak, somehow still surprised by his agility. Your embarrassed laugh dies in your throat as he begins kissing his way down your back, pushing the blankets down with him as he went.
Din pulls your hips up after placing a kiss, followed by a sharp nip, as the base of your spine. You instinctually arch your spine as he pulls your thighs apart, the heated flush on your face quickly forgotten as he drags the flat of his tongue in a slow lick over your pussy. You press your face into the pillow to muffle your throaty moan.
He has you pinned like that for a small eternity, teasing your core with shallow strokes of his tongue, never lingering over your clit or entrance for too long for the aching tension coiled tight in your belly to snap in release.
It was decadent and slow, and you do nothing to stop the whispered cry of his name as he replaces his tongue with one of his fingers. You’re so swollen with need that you think you hear him curse under his breath when he pulls back to watch how easily his fingers slide in and out of you, the obscenely wet sounds the movement makes as you roll your hips against his hand.
You think he’s finally going to take you, from the back this time, but Din expertly maneuvers your body again without warning. It’s such a fluid movement that all you’re able to recognize is the feeling of his forearm banding around your stomach and then suddenly your back is pressed against his chest as he flips the both of you over, him sitting and you straddling his wide-spread legs. The narrow bed the two of you are seated on creaks with the movement.
Din settles you on his lap, your back against his chest and your ass against his lower abdomen. You’re straddling him, knees pressed firmly against the mattress as he uses his outer thighs to push your legs out, stretching your hips to their limit and completely exposing your core in a way that should have had you blushing hard enough for him to feel the heat radiating from your skin.
You skin heats for a wholly different reason, a spark of warm, pulsing electricity coursing through your stomach. Din settles with his back against the wall and feet pressed against the ground. The velvety heat of his cock presses against your belly, the length of him achingly hard from his time spent between your legs.
Biting your lip, you turn your head slightly over one shoulder to glance back at him. If he was going to play mean, you’d get your blows in too. You prop yourself up with one hand against the mattress, the other you use to lightly trace the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock.
Given the groan he muffles against the curve of your shoulder, your payback worked.
“Think I can take all of it, like this?” Your voice is rough with lust as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, pumping it once as if in demonstration before allowing it to press against your stomach again. Turning away from him to look back down, you brush the tips of your fingers against its head, gathering the beads of precome against them as you lower your voice to a sultry drawl. “I don’t know if you’ll fit.”
“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” Din growls against the sweaty nape of your neck. “Swear to the stars themselves, you’re gonna f—”
He cuts himself off when you lean forward, lifting your hips as you guide the head of his dick over your core, notching it against your entrance and experimentally relaxing your thigh muscles to lower yourself onto him.
Both of your breaths hitch in your throats as he pushes into you. You’re still out of practice, and the complete exposure of this position sends dual twinges of pleasure and pain cording through you. It’s just about the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever experienced.
You crane your head over your shoulder to kiss him as your sink, inch by inch, down his cock. The muscles in your thighs spasm when you stop half way. Holding yourself in place with the hand you still have pressed against the mattress, you take a second to adjust to the feeling of it. This position makes you feel so full that your original, teasing statement might be a reality.
But you needed more. With everything in you, you needed all of him.
Din’s hands tremble with restraint as he breaks the kiss, one arm banding around your stomach to help you support your own weight, the other hand brushing your hair away from your face so he can nuzzle into your neck. That same hand goes to your breast, his thumb resuming its slow pace, brushing coy arcs against your nipple.
That motion alone has you dropping the rest of your weight onto him with a moan so desperate you can hardly believe it left your mouth. You barely make it a fraction of an inch further before he holds you in place once again, stopping the intoxicating fall of your body with the arm he has sealed over your waist.
“Not yet,” his words are taught with restraint.
“Please,” you whine as your eyes flutter shut, unbothered by the indecent pitch of your voice.
“Not yet,” he repeats himself, his tone more of a purr now as he gets ahold of himself—something you find quite literally impossible, in the moment. Maybe later you’d be coherent enough to give him a pat on the back for it, but you are currently blinded by a haze of frustrated desire.
Din drags his teeth over your earlobe to get your attention. It sends a chill through you. “Open your eyes.” You obey, swallowing as he lifts the hand against your breast to gently tilt your chin, guiding your gaze.
You catch what he wants you to see almost immediately. The mirror on your desk faced the bed, you’d angled it that way when you were braiding your hair that morning. Now, the reflective pane of polished silver captured your reflection from the shoulders down, the effect is dizzyingly pornographic in a way you can’t wrap your head around but can certainly succumb to.
“Look at what I’m doing to you,” Din murmurs into your ear. He returns his hand to your chest, rolling the bud of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting the oversensitive flesh as you watch through the mirror.
Your breath hitches in your throat as you begin to grind slowly grind against him, held in place by his arm while your gaze remains locked on where your bodies join. It takes all of your strength to keep yourself propped above him, one hand fisted in the bedsheets to keep your balance, the other stretched over your shoulder to tangle in Din’s hair. He keeps the side of his face pressed against your neck as he watches you in the mirror.
Methodically—devastatingly so—Din’s hand releases your breast, leaving the nipple achingly peaked and swollen with frustrated desire. He unwraps his arm from your waist and grabs your right hand with his. Unable to catch yourself with your other arm in time, the unbalanced weight causes you to sink further onto his cock. You give a sharp cry at the feeling, resisting the urge to kick your head back, determined to keep your eyes glued to the mirror.
Din pauses at that, and you can hear his breath catch in his throat. You think it might be one of the only times you’ve seen his concentration break. You would’ve teased him about it later if it weren’t for the fact that you can barely get a thought out beyond your desperate need to feel his fingers against your clit again.
He buries his face into your hair to muffle his moan, his hand smoothing over yours as your give a tentative roll of your hips yet again. His pleasure was nearly as intoxicating as the slow movement of his fingers on the hand that remained attached to your left breast, kneading the soft skin there in a way that sends dizzying waves of raw arousal through you.
Din layers his right hand over yours, applying light pressure to encourage you to lay your palm flat against your belly. His hand controls the speed at which he allows you to drift both of your hands down past your navel, stopping you once your palm was pressed flush against your pubic mound.
You breath shutters in your chest as he nudges your fore and middle fingers apart before sliding both his hand and yours further down. You forget how to breathe all together when he positions your hand so that the V of your spread fingers frames where his cock stretches you open. Your interior muscles flutter with the way it feels, the way it makes your body look in the mirror, curved against his massive form, back arched, each lungful of air thrusting your tits into the air as you pant with want.
“Good girl,” he practically purrs. You experimentally shift your palm back and forth as much as he’ll allow, guiding the fingers he has layered over yours to do the same. You’re so wet it’s surprising that you haven’t bottomed out already—but maybe that’s why he holds you there. His voice is reduced to a low growl with the slick evidence of your want. “Feel that. Look at how well you take me.”
The apex of your spread fingers was a hair’s breadth away from brushing your clit like this. You’re almost certain you’d come on the spot if he let you shift your hand any lower. He doesn’t, the asshole.
You throw your head back against his shoulder with a whimper, attempting to push your hips forward to sink onto him further once again, desperate for any kind of friction, but both his hands leave your body in order to press against your waist, holding you exactly where you were.
“Not yet.” Din’s amused yet strained reprimand was followed by a tsk when you make another frustrated sound. “I want you to watch.” His lips press against your shoulder as you oblige, lifting your head to stare back into the mirror. “Look at how beautiful you are.”
As soon as your eyes lock onto your two entwined forms, Din begins to rock into you. His first full stroke is so overwhelming you have to struggle to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head. You think he can sense it by the way he pauses, holding you against the base of his cock as your combined ragged breathing fills the space.
You tighten your grip on his left thigh with the hand you’re using to prop yourself up, digging your nails into his quads as he slides the hand you have splayed around your cunt to trail back up. He guides your fingers to your clit, pressing them against the swollen bud in a signal of allowance. He pulls nearly all the way out as you begin to play with yourself, then slams his hips against you once again.
You cry out as he starts fucking you in earnest, his pace brutal as he uses both of his hands to pull you down against him each time he pushes his hips up. It’s hard and fast and enough to have you almost completely undone within seconds, barely able to keep your eyes open, any thought of trying to stifle your moaning out of habit long forgotten.
You pull your fingers away from your pussy, stretching that arm up and back to tangle in Din’s hair again. You cry out as his fingers replace where yours just were, rubbing tight, concentric circles against your clit. There’s something about watching yourself in the mirror—your shoulders pressed against his chest, breasts thrust out, legs widespread—that was enough to push you over the edge, almost instantly. Din’s masterful command of your body doesn’t help either.
Swallowing thickly, you have to turn your gaze away from the mirror and allow your head to loll back against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you try to fight against the pressure coiling painfully tight in the base of your belly. The feeling of his fingers against your clit as he stretches you open is so overwhelming that you can barely get out the words before it’s too late.
“I want to come with you,” you pant. “’s too much I’m gonna—Please, Din, let me—”
It must be a miracle, because for the second time that night, Din’s resolve shatters. You can only fall back against his chest, crying out his name as you unravel completely, unable to process his hoarse shout as his release tumbles after yours.
Your orgasm washes over you in waves of white-hot pleasure. You gasp for air as it raises you up only to slam you back under, head spinning with pure bliss. It’s something utterly devastating and luminous, twisting every muscle within you to its absolute limit before snapping back in place. Din pulls it out of you with one overly sensitive swipe against your clit after the other, even as his body seized and twitched beneath yours with the force of his own drawn out release.
It takes you a while to really come to your senses, content with the way your body is cradled by Din’s while the aftershocks of your release work their way through you. Your eyes are so heavy and he’s so warm and soft you’d be more than content to fall asleep right there.
He recovers before you do, you can tell by the way he holds you shifts to something delicate, rubbing his hands over your arms as he catches his breath between each small kiss he presses against your shoulder.
You fall back asleep. The storm has settled into nothing more than a low hum of wind by the time you wake up again. And he’s there, beside you, warm and real. After all this time.
hello haven't seen you post much in a while. how've you been?
hi love <3 thank you so much for checking in, being dealing with a host of health issues lately and have had little time to do much of anything. no need to worry ! not in any kind of mortal peril, just a continuation of some stuff that's been happening over the past few years. i also have an absolutely amazing support system which i am forever grateful for.
it warms my heart to know that you are thinkin of me and i appreciate it a lot <33 i'll be back once my condition is a bit more stable. please be kind to yourselves till and through then--mmmwah !
so uh jess and i have been IN TALKS about racer!din and while i am still bouncing some ideas around i can't STOP thinking abt it so here's what i've got so far hehe
**
Din Djarin is an adrenaline junkie, first and foremost. a foster kid born and raised in remote California, he started fixing up his uncle's old cars and motorcycles at the age of fourteen. it was encouraged, at first, because it gave din something to do with his hands. it didn't take long for him to find a gang of kids that was just as bored and angry as he was. that's when he started drag racing with the weathered Ducati that was collecting rust in the garage.
it was about speed. it was about the scream of the engine beneath him as they ripped through the pitch-black desert, nothing but sand and the interstate beneath them. most of all, it was about hurling himself into something dark and furious with no promises to return.
things got bad when that same group of kids started robbing places--well, it got bad because they were good at it. like, really good. it offered the same kind of release, in a way. they spent most of the money on pills and booze, the rest on getting more parts. better bikes. they made promises to each other. auditioning at the racetrack in Lodi. going professional. making it to the big leagues: texas--no, din insisted, europe. where the real money was.
they were gonna get good, and then they were gonna get the fuck out.
that lasted all of six months. Din got arrested for a robbery gone wrong. someone got hurt. bad. he and his friends faces were plastered on every wanted list in a fifty mile radius because of a missed CCTV camera. it was pretty much a given that his life was over until a distant friend of his adoptive family, a mysteriously wealthy man by the name of Mr. Karga, paid his bail.
that same man was waiting for Din the morning he stepped out of his holding cell, standing in front of a Ferrari that stops Din in his tracks.
i've seen your tapes, he tells him, flashing a video of Din making a particularly harrowing maneuver that went semi-viral a few weeks previous. i'm gonna make you into a fucking star, kid.
Din accepted, reluctantly, on two conditions:
no teams, i go solo. and no one sees my face.
seven years later, Din Djarin is a ghost-like figure on the motocross scene. he's known for his ruthlessness on the circuit, only to disappear as soon as the race is over. Karga has capitalized on his insistence of anonymity to a near aggravating extent, but at least Din can appreciate being able to slip off the helmet and the suit and evaporate into the crowd.
Din is in Perth, Australia for the Grand Prix. after one of his practice sessions, he takes his personal bike--a beloved Ducati scrambler, affectionately nicknamed The Crest--to a diner as far away from the masses of fans and paparazzi as possible.
there, he orders a cup of black coffee. he doesn't look up from his phone as he does. but when the waitress makes a polite attempt at small-talk, he looks up. the waitress has kind eyes and a near uncontainable laugh. she's so beautiful that he forgets what she just asked.
you throw him a lop-sided grin as you scribble down his order. and then you introduce yourself.
so uh jess and i have been IN TALKS about racer!din and while i am still bouncing some ideas around i can't STOP thinking abt it so here's what i've got so far hehe
**
Din Djarin is an adrenaline junkie, first and foremost. a foster kid born and raised in remote California, he started fixing up his uncle's old cars and motorcycles at the age of fourteen. it was encouraged, at first, because it gave din something to do with his hands. it didn't take long for him to find a gang of kids that was just as bored and angry as he was. that's when he started drag racing with the weathered Ducati that was collecting rust in the garage.
it was about speed. it was about the scream of the engine beneath him as they ripped through the pitch-black desert, nothing but sand and the interstate beneath them. most of all, it was about hurling himself into something dark and furious with no promises to return.
things got bad when that same group of kids started robbing places--well, it got bad because they were good at it. like, really good. it offered the same kind of release, in a way. they spent most of the money on pills and booze, the rest on getting more parts. better bikes. they made promises to each other. auditioning at the racetrack in Lodi. going professional. making it to the big leagues: texas--no, din insisted, europe. where the real money was.
they were gonna get good, and then they were gonna get the fuck out.
that lasted all of six months. Din got arrested for a robbery gone wrong. someone got hurt. bad. he and his friends faces were plastered on every wanted list in a fifty mile radius because of a missed CCTV camera. it was pretty much a given that his life was over until a distant friend of his adoptive family, a mysteriously wealthy man by the name of Mr. Karga, paid his bail.
that same man was waiting for Din the morning he stepped out of his holding cell, standing in front of a Ferrari that stops Din in his tracks.
i've seen your tapes, he tells him, flashing a video of Din making a particularly harrowing maneuver that went semi-viral a few weeks previous. i'm gonna make you into a fucking star, kid.
Din accepted, reluctantly, on two conditions:
no teams, i go solo. and no one sees my face.
seven years later, Din Djarin is a ghost-like figure on the motocross scene. he's known for his ruthlessness on the circuit, only to disappear as soon as the race is over. Karga has capitalized on his insistence of anonymity to a near aggravating extent, but at least Din can appreciate being able to slip off the helmet and the suit and evaporate into the crowd.
Din is in Perth, Australia for the Grand Prix. after one of his practice sessions, he takes his personal bike--a beloved Ducati scrambler, affectionately nicknamed The Crest--to a diner as far away from the masses of fans and paparazzi as possible.
there, he orders a cup of black coffee. he doesn't look up from his phone as he does. but when the waitress makes a polite attempt at small-talk, he looks up. the waitress has kind eyes and a near uncontainable laugh. she's so beautiful that he forgets what she just asked.
you throw him a lop-sided grin as you scribble down his order. and then you introduce yourself.
if you all have any ideas/prompts/questions please please please send them my way <33 need to jog my brain a little bit and what better way than with some modern mando au
It’s time for some spooky Din!!! I’m so excited to share this story with you guys!
Chapter 1 Part 1! Let’s gooooooooo!
And of course, the original concept for ‘Din’s Haunted’ is from the lovely @kyberpistol and @keldabekush I believe! If that’s not right or there’s more contributors, someone just let me know! Any way, not my idea. Just obsessed with it!
i am just BEGGING of you to give us a crumb of photographer!din please and thank you ?????? specifically his DOG !????????!!!!
should i, though? should i???? when i have nothing but vibes and a three sentence draft??? hmm........ oKaY i will! for YOU! hehe ❤️
photographer!din owns the other half of my heart that is not currently rented out by canon!din. he's a war vet who lives in a small town in colorado. he likes black coffee, and tea with honey, and hiking by himself. he has a leonberger named duchess who possesses an uncanny ability for finding frogs.
he's a loner, withdrawn but not unkind. he picks up photography by accident; it gives him something to do with his persistently trembling hands. he's not really in the market for a relationship, but then he meets you... and everything sort of falls into place.
STOP A LEONBERGER IS SUCH A PERFECT MATCH I'M GONNA FLIP OUT
we love a kind and sensitive that is heavily shielded by some thick layers of (self-protective) gruffness <////3333 and an ARTIST AT THAT !!! any particular photographers he'd take inspo from ? 👀 (now i'm just being self indulgent)
summary: three hundred and sixty eight days—one standard year—that’s all he agrees to. then you’re gone.
word count: ~4.5k+
warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, mean!mando for now hehe, hand around neck once (no choking), language, x fem!reader
a/n: this takes place post s2, meaning there’s no grogu (and we are ignoring the darksaber), but there will be plenty of ~other things~ to fill that void. the title comes from a painting of the same name by edward hopper. many thanks to @djarinsbeskar for being some extra eyeballs on this one! gif by @djarsdin.
let me know if you’d like to be tagged in the following chapters. xoxo!
DAY ZERO
A girl—you’re just a girl. Barely a woman.
You stand beside Karga, hair framing your face, and Din sees the haughty strength in your shoulders, the iron viciousness in your stare. He sees you—green and gung-ho and itching for a fight—and he bites his tongue to keep from groaning.
His hands clench to fists at his sides. Fuck, he doesn’t have time for this.
the ATTENTION to DETAIL?!? i can literally see everything perfectly in my head & that is so so rare to be done so fluidly and FLAWLESSLY i WOW i am so excited for this series
i feel like reader and post-s2 Din are already such a good pair--i totally agree that he still has a long journey ahead when it comes to opening up to his emotions & you've shown this perfectly
&¬ to mention.,.,..,
"When he speaks, his voice is naught above a rasp—deadly, slow, and smooth. 'I could snap you like a twig, girl.'"
so like um yeah so well so the thing is so well um the thing so yes and i um wow uh i .,......,,.
