hello i would like to humbly request something with the making out on a cowch meme, pref mando please and thanks <333333
picture of cowch at the bottom for your reference... you have been warned
pairing: Din Djarin x Reader
word count: 1.3k+
warnings: crack fic, making out, fluff, furniture shopping, meme at the bottom of the post
a/n: i literally cant believe i wrote this... anyways yes its a crack fic and yes i wrote it seriously.. i really struggled to keep this short............. i advise that you read the fic before looking at the pic so you might enjoy actually enjoy it.
ao3 link
requests open! masterlist
It’s not the strangest piece of furniture either of you have seen, but it is definitely in the top ten. You shouldn’t have been so surprised, after all, Mos Eisley is known for its strange wares. It seems to be some sort of animal, one neither of you have laid eyes on before, though that’s not out of the ordinary. No amount of time is enough to visit every corner of the galaxy.
And yet no matter how strange the item in question is, both of you seem to have become enamored with it. Din has already gone to find the owner of the piece and ask for the price while you’re still studying the black and white monstrosity. The gears are already clicking in your head, mentally mapping the cargo hold of the Razor Crest around the piece. It should fit.
You see Din walk back to you out of the corner of your eye. “It should fit,” you tell him.
He nods in acknowledgement. You are of one mind on this decision it seems.
“How much is it?” you ask.
His shoulders droop. He lets out a long stream of air. It sounds metallic passing through the filters on his helmet but you know what it means.
“Fifteen hundred credits.”
You suddenly feel lightheaded and it’s not from the blistering heat of Tatooine.
You sit down on the sofa in question, training your gaze on the beskar clad man. The sun reflecting off his armor makes him nearly impossible to look at. The couch has been slowly roasting under the sun since the market opened and the heat it has absorbed seeps into your skin even through your clothes.
“Pragmatically speaking,” you say, “there is no need for us to buy this. It would fit in the cargo hold but it would be tight. It doesn’t even look nice.” You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than anything else.
Din sits beside you, spreading his legs wide and slinging one arm behind you. The tassets covering his thighs are uncharacteristically warm against your legs, you aren’t used to the feeling given the ever cool temperature of the Razor Crest.
“And fifteen hundred credits is a good chunk of our savings. Or at least a month or two of work,” he says. His voice is warm and low, so smooth that no filter in his armor can strip him of his ability to send a shiver down your spine.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you acknowledge the cost, but your consciousness is dedicated to staring at his legs. He takes up space, claims it for himself. He looks relaxed, an uncommon occurrence that has your mouth watering. Heat surrounds you on all sides, between the hulking man of metal, the ghastly piece of furniture you sit on, and the scorching desert air. It takes one glance towards the dark visor of his helmet for him to know exactly where your mind is. He’d be lying if his mind hadn’t also been there since the moment he saw the couch.
“So we shouldn’t buy it,” you say. Your voice comes out breathless. Even as you say it you’re regretting the words. It wasn’t so much about the couch itself, but what activities could potentially occur on said couch. Din’s meager cot was far too uncomfortable for the appetite the two of you shared. And though it was ugly, Maker was it ugly, something pulled you both towards it and you could not pull away.
“No we shouldn’t,” he says. You pick up on the slight strain to his voice and feel a little triumphant in the fact that you aren’t the only one picturing the possibilities.
You place a hand on his helmet and guide his head towards you. He lets you do as you please, leaning where you direct him, until you press your forehead against his. Din freezes. You focus your eyes on the visor, and though you can’t see his face, you know he’s staring right back. His helmet doesn’t pick up on it, but his breaths come out shallow and ragged.
It’s likely no one around you knows enough about Mandalorian customs to understand exactly what is happening. It feels private. But Din rarely even holds your hand outside the Razor Crest and you know this is all too much for him. You know that he’s heating up like a furnace inside his armor.
He breaks in ten seconds.
The couch is yours in thirty more.
It’s not as much of a hassle to get the sofa to the Razor Crest as you thought it would be. It helps that both of you are of a one track mind and Din brought his jetpack with him to Mos Eisley’s market.
It’s a little more difficult to drag the thing up the Razor Crest’s ramp. By the time it’s situated in the cargo hold, the both of you are more than a little out of breath.
He moves quickly. His hands shift over his vambrace and the ship is sealed. You dart to his cot and grab the blindfold. It’s secure over your eyes just as Din flicks off the lights in the cargo hold. You hold your breath when you hear the telltale whoosh of air that releases when his helmet is undone, until the clang of the metal hitting a surface resounds through the cabin.
Then it’s the slap of his leather gloves falling against a table. And then you feel his hands on yours, tugging you gently. There’s an echoing thunk and you know he is seated on the couch. Then your shins hit his.
He grabs at the back of your thighs, urging you forward until you lift one leg after the other onto the sofa, your thighs caging his. His hands find your waist, pushing down, settling you in his lap. The metal of his tassets is hard, insistent, even through your clothes.
You are surrounded by his armor beneath your hands, surging up to find the warmth of his skin, his scent, dark spice and earthy. He rucks up your shirt, splaying his fingers across your ribs while your palm finally, finally, finds his chin. His stubble is prickly on your fingertips, but it’s the last thing on your mind when you pull his lips to meet yours.
His lips are soft. You are surprised by this every time you kiss him. How a man made up entirely of hard lines and a literal steel gaze could be so soft is entirely a mystery to you. But then you feel his grip tightening, undoubtedly pressing bruises into your skin, and his armor digging into your thighs as you pull yourself impossibly closer to him.
He drags his tongue against you and you oblige, granting him entrance. He licks into your mouth. He is somehow wet heat and cold metal, all at once, overwhelming your senses entirely. His hand crawls up your spine, pushing you towards him. You jolt into his chest when the cool steel of his vambrace meets your skin.
Then he’s kissing at your jaw, marking a trail down your neck in little bites. One of your hands slides into his hair instinctively, finding purchase in his thick hair, urging him on, and the other blindly grasps at the back of the couch. In the dark of the Razor Crest, on the other side of your blindfold, your knuckles turn white as Din sucks a harsh mark at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.
“Din.”
His name falls from your lips in a whisper, but it’s loud to your sensitive ears, amplified by the loss of your sight.
He stops his assault on your neck to chuckle into your collarbone. You feel the sound vibrate in your bones.
“I’d say the couch has already been well worth the price, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs into your skin.
He follows his question by biting at your pulse point and you can do little else but nod at him, your breath leaving you in little ragged bursts.
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thank you for reading! here’s the cowch meme if you made it this far
