Summary: One nasty fever and too much medicine are all it takes for Din Djarin to finally admit what months of stolen glances and terrible flirting couldn't. The good news: you remember every word. The even better news: you've been waiting for him to say it.
Warnings: Fluff, medicine-induced honesty, Din being down bad, Grogu acting as emotional support, yearning, first kiss, established feelings, mild fever delirium, one (1) stubborn Mando.
Word count: 2.8k
Notes: My second fic for Din ever! Yay. Also, to everyone who sent me requests, I promise I am working hard on them! Once again, so sorry if some of the information is off canon or something. I have barely scratched the first season of the show.
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Miserable.
If Din Djarin could use one word to sum up the illness that was running its course through his exhausted body right now, it would be miserable.
He couldn’t remember the last time he was actually sick. He would sustain some grueling injuries more often than not, but this was something else.
His voice was hoarse, his muscles ached profoundly, and he swore he could feel this fever down to bones.
The Razor Crest felt remarkably humid, and Maker, all the beskar that covered Din’s body didn't help.
You’d done your best to take care of him, doting on him every chance you got, but that didn’t change how uncomfortable it was to be in a full suit of armour while he felt his absolute worst.
You knew Din was especially stubborn, but that didn’t deter you from trying to convince him to take off the beskar.
You’d managed to keep the ship cool, turning the temperature down to the point where you were past freezing, but your comfort was the last thing on your mind.
Taking care of a certain sick Mandalorian was first.
Trying to balance taking care of the child and doting on Din at the same time was a lot of work, but you were managing. Grogu seemed to understand that the usually menacing bounty hunter was a little under the weather right now.
Anytime you would bring Din medicine, water, soup, anything – little footsteps would follow tightly behind you.
The child babbled at your side when you placed a bowl of warm soup by the cot, worried about his dad.
“I know, honey,” you said softly while the child was looking up at you with his big, round eyes. His green ears tilted down slightly. “He’s not himself today, is he?”
In response, Grogu cooed and reached up to signal that he wanted you to hold him. You obliged of course.
You couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth in your chest. It was almost cute seeing Din like this. A man usually so intimidating and reserved was now reaching out for you and the child, acting like he’d just been shot as he reached for the bowl of soup.
If you were completely honest, you liked being his medic. Especially when you had such a cute helper by your side.
You sighed, looking at the sick Mandalorian.
“That bad, huh?”
He groaned in response.
Even though you couldn’t see his face, you knew that behind his helmet, he couldn't have been smiling.
“Let’s let dad eat and rest, okay little one?” you said to the child in your arms. He made a small noise in agreement, and you grabbed a thin blanket before the two of you made your way outside.
Din had set the Razor Crest down in a quiet, forgotten stretch of space on a planet with no name that mattered since the two of you were in between traveling when he’d gotten sick.
It was beautiful here. Wide, open fields of grass and meadows. The wind was crisp and there was a river that quietly rippled nearby. A beautiful planet that was so peaceful and full of life.
As you wrapped the blanket around yourself, you watched the child play in the grass and wobble around. You smiled to yourself at the sight, your heart feeling warm again. You’d imagined a life like this before:
Just you, Din, and the child living a peaceful, quiet life off the grid.
You had a feeling it may have crossed Din's mind, too.
Grogu made a happy noise snapping you out of your thoughts as you watched him pick up little things such as flowers and pebbles with the force. A small laugh escaped your lips.
“Good job, little guy!”
The child made more noises of excitement and happiness, and you felt complete. The only thing missing was Din beside you.
You’d been too preoccupied to notice, but Din had been watching you and Grogu from the ship. He’d gotten up to get some water, too stubborn to bother you for something so simple, and noticed that you were outside.
Din felt his heart beat faster in his chest as he watched.
Why’d you have to be so cute?
He wondered if you knew that he thought about you in this way, but he was leaning towards no.
The wind tugged at the edges of your blanket as your hair blew softly in the wind, and Grogu was still mindlessly wandering outside with your company.
It was astonishing how something so simple made him feel so many things.
Quietly, he made his way back to bed to rest, silently wishing you’d come and dote on him so he could catch a glimpse of your face again.
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“Hey, you.”
Your soft voice woke Din out of his sleep, and the gentle touch of your hands on his shoulder made his heart flip.
“You’re here…” he grumbled as his gloveless hand came to touch yours. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly and you let out a hum of acknowledgment.
He’d never done that before. Especially not with his gloves off.
It took all your strength to pull your hand away from his. You held up a small glass bottle.
“Medicine,” you announced softly. “It’ll help you feel better.”
“Don’t need it.”
You sighed and shook your head with a smile.
The stubbornness of this grown man, you thought.
“I’m going to leave this here in case you need it, then. Rest up, Mando.”
Mando.
The nickname made him perk up for a moment; he loved hearing your voice. He watched you quietly leave again, but he wished that you’d stay.
Your touch was so warm. Again, he found himself wondering if you knew what you were doing to him.
Din had been…testing the waters recently, so to say.
He was trying to see if you noticed the subtle things he did or said. Then, he would study you carefully to gauge your reaction. It was never anything super forward or out there, but he’d been trying in his own way.
At first, he started standing a little closer to you when there was space for him to be further. Just to see. He wouldn’t move away if you stepped into his space.
One time, he even placed his hands gently against your waist while trying to move past you. He noticed that when he did that, your cheeks went rosy.
Did you like when he did that? He desperately wanted to know.
Then his tone when speaking changed too.
He was reserved when you first came into his life. Very stoic and independent. He’d mostly nod to acknowledge what you said, but slowly and surely, he started to break.
Din reflected on that one time he slipped up and called you mesh’la, but luckily, you didn’t notice.
The growing ache in his body pulled Din away from his thoughts. Reality was so much worse than his fantasies with you in it.
Hesitantly, he reached over for the bottle of medicine you left. He was admitting defeat; this fever was awful.
Skimming over the instructions printed on the back of the glass, he lifted his helmet ever so slightly and downed the bottle.
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After preparing dinner for both you and Grogu, as well as another bowl of soup for Din, you heard babbling and squeals coming from where the Din was resting.
Glancing back at the table where you last placed the little green child to sit, you noticed he was missing.
“Sweetheart?" you asked softly, calling out to the child.
You walked into where Din was sleeping earlier, but he was up now. He was sitting upright and playing with Grogu. You sat on the edge of the cot with a warm smile, catching the attention of both Din and the kid.
“You’re up,” you said with surprise. “Feeling better?”
“There you are.” Din’s voice sounded slightly slurred through the modulator, the medicine clearly working its magic. He tilted his head and looked directly at you. “I like when you’re here.”
Your eyes widened. Was this just the cold medicine talking for him, or were your suspicions right?
“Din," you asked. “Did you take the entire bottle?”
“Yes.”
“You’re only supposed to take, like, half of that…”
“Oh.”
“Are you feeling alr–“
“You’re really pretty.”
You froze as his words interrupted yours.
Surprise was written on your face as you blinked. He let out a small laugh, clearly delirious from the medicine.
“I like when you stay, cyar’ika.”
Your heart was thumping against your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder again if he was truly out of it from the medication or if he was just loose around the edges right now.
Perhaps the medicine was simply blurring his inhibitions, making it easier for the truth to slip out.
After a few more moments of silence, you found your voice.
“You took a lot of medicine, Din.”
“I did, didn’t I?” he replied.
His helmet was tilted slightly, but you could tell he was looking right at you. You averted your gaze to the child who was babbling quietly in Din’s arms.
“So, by that logic, what you’re saying isn’t true. It’s just the medicine talking.“
“No, it’s true. I liiiike you.”
You had to hold back a laugh at the way he was talking, but you could feel your cheeks heating up more than ever.
“Okay, you need to lie back down. Come here, Grogu.”
You motioned the child towards you, unable to hide your smile. Grogu came waddling towards you on the bed. Gently, you scooped him into your arms and stood up, watching Din lie back down as he mumbled something to himself.
You looked at Grogu with a smile.
“What do you think, little one? Do you think he’s telling the truth?” The child babbled in agreement to your question, and you let out a breathy laugh. “Maker, you’re so cute.”
“Thanks. You’re cuter.”
You turned your attention back to Din.
“I was talking Grogu, but…you’re not so bad yourself, Mando. I’d like to see how much of this you’ll remember tomorrow morning, though.”
“Okaaaaay.”
And true to your word, you held him to it.
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Morning eventually rolled around.
You were up early making breakfast with the child by your side. He squealed suddenly, causing you to turn around, only to be met with a familiar tall, broad figure covered in shiny metal.
He sits down and his tone is normal again.
“Morning.”
“Good morning," you replied normally.
He didn’t say anything else, but...you didn’t like the silence. You wanted to ask him about last night.
However, in order to save whatever dignity he had left after that, you decided to hold off on any serious questions for now.
“How are you feeling?” you asked.
“Like I got hit by a speeder," he huffed.
Din looked over at you and suddenly, bits of pieces of last night came back to him.
“You’re really pretty.”
“I like when you stay.”
“I liiike you.”
He shifted in his seat.
“Did I…say something to you yesterday?” he asked.
You stayed silent for a moment before answering.
“You were extra affectionate last night,” you replied. It almost sounded like you were teasing him.
Din froze and he pretended not to remember. “…Was I?”
“Mm, very.” You gave him your full attention as you set breakfast down. “Nothing bad, though.”
He cleared his throat. “What exactly do you mean by affectionate?”
You bit back a smile as you replied, “Oh, you know. Wanted me to stay close, kept reaching for my hand.”
“...Right. I was sick.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
That was a lie, and a terrible one at that. Even with the helmet on, you could practically see him replaying the memories in real time.
“Did I say anything strange?” he asked carefully.
There it was – your chance to dig deeper.
“Depends on your definition of strange,” you replied with a shrug. “Honestly, most of it was sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“Well,” you began. “You told me that I'm pretty.”
He groaned, but you continued.
“You also said that I'm cute. Then you said that you...liked me.”
Another groan.
“And–”
“That’s enough.”
“It isn’t, actually.”
Din didn’t argue back.
“You were very honest,” you continued with a small smile.
“How honest?” His voice was low.
“Relax. You didn’t reveal any Republic secrets or anything.”
“You know that’s not what I’m worried about.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, and silence settled between you. Din froze. You froze.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“No,” you said, breaking the silence. “I suppose it isn’t.”
Gone was the attempt to play dumb. Gone was the denial. The truth settled between you and him in the stillness.
“So,” you added, unable to resist. “The good news is that you were very polite about it.”
Din let out a deep sigh as he braced himself for your rejection. “And the bad news?”
You stared at him. For a moment, you couldn't believe he was serious. The way his shoulders had gone rigid. The way he'd already begun preparing himself for disappointment before you'd even answered him.
As if there was any world where you wouldn't want him back.
As if you hadn't spent months hopelessly, painfully in love with him.
Din thought he was about to lose you. Your teasing smile faded.
“The bad news is that you apparently only confess your feelings when you're running a fever. You couldn't have done this six months ago?"
He sat there silently, clearly not following.
You shook your head, letting out a breathless laugh. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to figure it out?"
You watched the exact moment your words registered. He shifted ever so slightly. You folded your arms across your chest.
"I was beginning to think I'd imagined all of it,” you said.
"All of what?" he asked.
"The staring."
"I don't stare."
"The hovering,” you continued. “And don’t forget the finding excuses to sit next to me."
"I—"
"The fact that every time someone flirts with me, you suddenly become the most unpleasant man anyone's ever met. I spent months trying to convince myself you weren't interested."
"Months?" His voice was full of genuine shock.
"Yes, months."
The word seemed to genuinely disturb him, as if the idea that you'd been wondering all this time was somehow unacceptable. You should have been his all this time.
"You knew?" he asked hesitantly.
You stared at him. "Knew what?”
“That I…you know.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Din.”
“Yes?”
"You wear a helmet."
"Oh."
"You barely talk."
"Oh."
"And your version of flirting is handing me things without making eye contact."
"Oh."
You pointed at him again. "Exactly."
He visibly relaxed. You took this opportunity to take a seat beside him. No distance this time.
“So you didn’t know?” he asked, turning to face you as you sat down.
You blinked.
“Do you have any idea how good I've gotten at reading you? You have one visible facial expression and it’s just…helmet. Of course I knew.”
“You did?” His head tilted.
"Din Djarin, you once spent three days fixing a door that wasn't broken because you didn't know how to ask me to stay in the cockpit with you."
The silence that followed was incriminating.
You sighed as you leaned against him, laying your head against his beskar-clad shoulder. He didn’t stop you.
"I was fixing the door," he told you.
"You were absolutely not fixing the door."
"I was.”
"It worked perfectly."
"It was making a noise."
"It wasn't."
"It was."
You looked up at him lovingly, and he looked down at you through his visor.
For a moment, all was still. All was quiet.
"...I guess this means I don't have to wait until I'm sick again,” he said, a faint hint of confidence returning to his voice. “Close your eyes.”
Your heart immediately began hammering. You searched his visor, as if somehow you'd be able to see the expression hidden beneath it.
Whatever you were looking for, you found enough of it.
Slowly, you closed your eyes.
Then there was the faint sound of movement as you felt him shift beside you, and a soft hiss of beskar.
Your breath caught.
And then...you felt it.
His lips pressed against yours.
Everything in the galaxy seemed to stop. He was yours. Warm and real and finally, finally yours.
The kiss lasted only a moment. It was just long enough to leave your head spinning, and you wrapped your arms around him to treasure the feeling.
When he pulled away, you were still sitting there with your eyes closed.
But when you opened them again, Din was already lowering his helmet back into place. However, this time, neither of you needed to say anything.
Summary: You and your Mandalorian have an argument and you want to make him jealous.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut 😛
A/N: I teased this as a WIP before and here’s the full version. This is definitely staying as a one-shot and isn’t part of Through The Wall. Enjoy! 🥰
Din Masterlist
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The argument had started over something stupid. That’s the worst part - you can’t even hold onto the shape of it anymore, only the heat.
Something about a job. Something about him going in alone, again, without telling you. Something about the way he'd said it's safer this way in that flat, modulated tone that always made you feel like a child being sent to bed early.
You told him to go fuck himself. He told you, very calmly, that you were being unreasonable. And then he walked off the ramp of the Crest and down into the dust of whatever nameless Outer Rim moon you've put down on - Karthos, Karthon, you can’t remember - without looking back.
So here you are, in a cantina on your third drink. It’s the kind of dim, smoky hole-in-the-wall where the patrons don’t ask questions and the bartender keeps his blaster within easy reach of the till. Spice-burners murmur in a corner booth and a Twi'lek dances half-heartedly on a lit platform near the back.
The air has that sweet rotten tang of cheap Corellian whiskey and unwashed bodies, and you nurse your first glass long enough to feel the slow loosening behind your ribs, the kind of warmth that talks you into trouble.
Din’s at the bar. You can feel the beskar before you see it - that particular density in the room, the way other patrons give him a careful half-metre of space without meaning to.
He hasn’t sat with you. He didn’t even look at you when he came in. He's taken a stool at the far end of the long curved bar, ordered something he won’t drink, and angled the dark visor of his helmet toward the door like he’s guarding it. Like you aren’t even there.
Fine, you think. Fine, fine, fine.
You cross one leg over the other, the slit of your skirt rides up your thigh, and you don’t smooth it down.
That’s when the man slips into the booth across from you.
He’s human, mostly - there’s something in the cheekbones that suggests a near-human grandmother somewhere in the family tree, a faint silvery cast under the warm brown of his skin - and he’s handsome in a way that isn’t subtle.
He has dark hair that’s pushed back from his forehead, a smuggler's coat, and a smile that arrives ahead of him by a half-second, like he's been practicing it on the way over.
You look like a woman who's been left to drink alone,” he says, settling in like he's been invited.
You raise your eyebrow over the rim of your glass. "Maybe I like drinking alone."
"Maybe." His teeth are very white. "Or maybe whoever left you alone is a fool to think you’ll stay alone.
Across the room, you don’t have to look. You can feel the slow, deliberate turn of the helmet, the shift of focus, the whole black mirror of that visor sliding toward your booth with the patience of a hunting cat.
Your pulse kicks once - hard - and you smile.
"That's a very tired line," you tell him, letting the smile do the work, letting it linger a beat too long, letting your tongue touch the edge of your bottom lip as you say it. "What's your name?"
"Kal," he says. "Kal Renn."
"Kal," you repeat, like you’re tasting it.
You aren’t. You’re tasting the way Din's posture has gone very, very still at the other end of the room. You can picture it without looking - that hand resting on the bar that has stopped tapping. The slow inhale you know so well that filters through the vocoder as a faint mechanical hiss.
"And yours?" Kal prompts
You tell him. You even lean forward when you do it, your elbow on the table, your chin in your palm, your hair falling in a slow curtain over one shoulder.
The neckline of your shirt shifts with you, and Kal's eyes do exactly what eyes do when a neckline shifts. You watch him watch you and you think - he's looking. He's looking and you're letting him and Din is watching and you let him and think, good, let him watch.
You know it’s petty, you know it’s childish and you don’t care.
"Can I buy you another?" Kal asks, nodding at your nearly empty glass.
"Please."
He flags down a serving droid and orders something more expensive than what you've been drinking.
He asks you where you’re from, you lie prettily and he laughs at the lie like he knows it is one and doesn’t mind. You laugh back, and the whole time there’s a second conversation happening across the room in silence, in the angle of a helmet, in the way a gloved hand closes slowly into a fist on the bar and then, very deliberately, opens again.
Kal leans closer over the table. He has the kind of cologne that's trying too hard - leather and citrus and something musky underneath. He smells like a man who’s used to being told he smells good, so you oblige and he grins.
"That Mandalorian over there," he says, low, conspiratorial. "He's been staring at you since I sat down."
“Has he.”
"You know him?"
You tilt your head and consider the question. Consider the man who hasn’t sat with you, the one who walked off the ramp without looking back. Who is, even now, doing the silent stone-still thing he does when he’s furious, the thing where he becomes more like a piece of armour than a person, because Maker forbid Din Djarin ever just says what’s eating him.
"I know him," you say lightly. "He's nothing."
It isn’t even close to true. It’s the cruelest thing you've said all month and you say it because you know the vocoder will catch everything in this little cantina and his helmet's external mics are almost certainly tuned to your voice the way they always are when he’s worried about you, the bastard.
And you want him to hear it. You want him to hear you call him nothing.
Kal's grin widens and he reaches across the table, brushing two knuckles down the back of your hand. "Then dance with me."
You don’t even hesitate.
You slide out of the booth, take his hand, and let him lead you out toward the little square of scuffed floor in front of the bandstand where two other couples are swaying to something slow and sad in a key meant for losing money.
The music is warm, the lights low. Kal puts a hand on your waist, and you realise immediately that it’s the wrong hand - too smooth, too soft, no glove - and you let him put it there anyway.
You dance, letting him spin you, letting him pull you a little closer than you should allow. His thumb traces a slow circle just above your hipbone through the fabric of your shirt and you laugh at something he murmurs against your temple.
Over his shoulder, between the haze of smoke and the dim flicker of the lamps, you see the helmet, the bar, the empty stool where he was sitting.
Now he’s on his feet. Not moving, just standing there at the bar, half-turned, watching you, and the room around him has gone quiet in the particular way rooms go quiet when people sense weather coming.
You should have stopped then.
You don’t.
You slide your free hand up over Kal's shoulder, thread your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and tip your face up toward his.
Kal, who’s been waiting for an invitation and has finally received one, lowers his head toward yours with the slow inevitability of a man about to kiss a stranger in a cantina on a planet whose name he probably can’t pronounce.
You feel the air change before he reaches you.
You feel him - the displacement of beskar through a crowd. The polite, deliberate way Mandalorians move when they’re choosing not to draw a weapon.
A hand closes around the back of Kal's collar and lifts him a full inch off the floor, setting him gently to one side as if he’s a piece of furniture being repositioned.
"That's mine," Din says.
Just that - two words through the modulator, low and even and so quiet that only the three of you hear them.
Kal - to his credit - takes one look at the visor and decides, audibly, that he likes his teeth where they are. He raises both palms, takes a slow step backward, then another, and then he’s gone into the crowd without a word.
The music keeps playing, and the Twi'lek on her platform never even breaks rhythm.
You open your mouth to say something cutting - something about ownership and about him not having any right.
Din's hand closes around your wrist.
It isn’t rough, that’s the worst of it. His grip is the same controlled, deliberate pressure he uses on the grip of his rifle - exact, unhurried, impossible to slip.
He doesn’t drag you, he just turns and walks, and the distance between his fist and your wrist doesn’t change, and so you walk too.
You make your way out of the cantina into the night. The double moons are up, throwing two overlapping shadows that lengthen and shorten as you cross the packed-dirt landing strip.
The air bites colder than it has any right to and you can hear his breath through the vocoder - measured, very measured, the way he breathes when he’s choosing not to do something violent.
You find your voice somewhere between the cantina door and the Crest's lowered ramp.
"Let go of me."
He ignores you.
"Din."
The ramp closes behind you with a hydraulic sigh and the hold lights come up in low amber. He lets go of your wrist exactly as the seal hisses shut, and you stumble a half-step at the sudden absence.
You turn to face him with every furious thing you’ve been rehearsing in the back of your throat, but he’s already on you.
His hand catches the back of your neck. Not your hair, your neck, his palm wide and warm even through the leather, his fingers spread, his thumb just under the hinge of your jaw.
He walks you backward three steps until your shoulder blades met the bulkhead, and the cold of the durasteel through your shirt makes you gasp.
He stops there, caging you in. The other hand braces flat on the wall beside your head, the visor a hand's breadth from your face.
"Nothing," he says, the modulator making it sound like gravel. "I'm nothing."
“Din…”
"You let him touch you."
"You walked off the ramp without…”
"You let him put his hand on you."
"You wouldn't even sit with me!"
He goes so still you feel it through the hand at your throat. The grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t have to. You feel every individual finger as a separate point of attention.
"Tell me," he says, very low, very even, "what you were going to do if I hadn't come over."
You didn't answer.
"Tell me, cyar'ika."
The endearment comes out of the vocoder like a brand. He hasn’t said it once in three days, hasn’t said it once since the argument. He's been vode'ika this and ad'ika that with everyone else on every comm line and you’ve been you and hey and silence, and now, now, when he has you pinned to his own bulkhead with one hand on your throat, now he remembers the word.
"I was going to kiss him," you say. It’s pure spite, a pure lie. Pure idiot bravado dressed up in your second-best voice.
The hand at your neck slides up, slowly. His thumb traces the line of your jaw to your chin, tipping your face up, and holding it there. The visor is so close you can see your own eyes reflected in it, wide, glittering, furious and scared in a way that isn’t really scared at all.
"No," he says, “you weren't."
“How would you…?”
"Because you looked at me first."
You stop breathing.
"Every time he leaned in," he says and the modulator does nothing to soften it, "you looked at me. You wanted me to see."
"I…”
"You wanted me to come over there."
"I didn't…”
"Say it."
Your throat moves under his thumb. You can’t get the word out, you can’t look away and you can’t, for the life of you, remember why you've been angry, why the thing about the job had mattered, why anything had mattered other than the fact that he’s here and he’s come and he’s furious and his hand is on your throat and the heat of him is bleeding through the beskar where his chestplate presses almost-but-not-quite against yours.
"Yes," you whisper.
"Yes what?”
"Yes, I wanted you to see."
He exhales, and somehow it’s the most human sound he's made all night.
"Good girl," he says.
Oh, fuck.
Your knees nearly go. You've never been a good girl in your life and you argued with him about that very phrase the first time he ever tried it on you, and he’s using it now with deliberate, weaponised accuracy. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and his helmet tilts a precise half-degree as he catches the motion.
"Mm," he says.
The hand on your throat slides down over your collarbone and down the line of your sternum with the same patient pressure he used on your wrist.
He hooks one finger in the neckline of your shirt and pulls, not hard, just enough to test the seam, and the fabric gives with a small dry sound. He keeps pulling, and the cheap stitching rips from collar to navel in a single clean tear that leaves the two halves of the shirt hanging open, your breast band on display and goosebumps rising along every inch of skin he’s just exposed.
"Din…”
"Quiet."
He says it without heat, just an instruction.
You shut up.
His glove ghosts across your stomach. The leather is warm from his body and cool from the cabin air at once, and it raises a line of fine, fierce shivering everywhere it touches.
He traces the underwire of your band and the seam of your waistband. He finds the soft notch at your hip and presses his thumb there until you make a sound you haven’t meant to make.
"He didn’t get to hear that," he says.
“No."
"He's never going to."
"No."
"Say it."
"He's never going to."
"Whose are you?”
The question lands so quietly you almost miss it. The vocoder flattens it into something that could have been a statement and could have been a prayer.
His helmet tips forward until the brow of it is almost touching yours, the visor filling your whole field of view. You can see, very faintly, the suggestion of his eyes behind it - not the eyes themselves, just the dark shape of where they are. The focus - the absolute and unblinking focus of a man who has walked a stranger off your body and then locked the two of you inside a metal box together to settle it.
"Yours," you say.
"Louder."
"Yours."
He makes a sound, a low, broken click. Without the modulator, it would have been a groan, the kind of low gutted groan he gives you when you say exactly the right thing, when your mouth is on him and you swallow and look up and his hips buck against your held-down hand.
You know that sound. You feel the shape of it through the helmet.
His gloved hand is on your thigh. He pushes your skirt up slowly, deliberately, gathering the fabric in his fist until it’s bunched at your hip. The cool air of the hold hits the wet patch already soaking through your underwear, and his glove slides up the inside of your thigh and stops just two knuckles away from where you want him.
"You're soaked," he says. “For me, or for him?"
Your hips jerk helplessly. “For you," you say. "For you, for you, for you, you stupid jealous…”
His hand closes over you through the wet fabric and whatever you had been going to call him dissolves into a high noise you didn’t recognise as your own.
He doesn’t move his hand. He just holds it there, flat and warm, the leather pressing the soaked cotton against you so that you can feel every seam, every ridge of his glove, every line of his palm.
You grind forward against it shamelessly and he lets you, then takes the hand away.
You whine and know you’ll be embarrassed about it later.
"Turn around."
"Din, please…”
"Turn. Around."
You turn and he helps you, his hands at your hips, guiding you so your palms come up flat against the cold bulkhead. Your forehead presses against it next, so your back arches out the way he wants, the way he's taught you, the way you know.
The torn shirt slides off your shoulders and pools at your elbows. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and drags them down to mid-thigh - not all the way off, just down, just far enough - and the deliberate half-measure of it makes you clench around nothing.
You hear him work the catch on his codpiece. You don’t turn your head because you don’t need to. You feel the heat of him a second before you feel the rest, the blunt familiar shape of him sliding through the slick at the apex of your thighs, not in, not yet, just dragging slow and warm along the length of you, coating himself. Your hands flex against the wall and your breath fogs the durasteel.
"Tell me again," he says, the vocoder right at your ear now, the cold edge of the helmet brushing your temple. "Whose?”
"Yours."
He pushes in.
It’s not gentle or rough but thorough, the slow inevitable press of a man who knows exactly how you’re built, exactly how much you can take and exactly how to take it.
You feel every inch of him going in, every inch, until his hips meet the curve of your ass and his gloved hand comes around to splay flat across your stomach and hold you there against him.
"Fuck," you breathe.
“Mhm."
He doesn’t move. He holds and lets you feel it. He presses his other hand flat to the bulkhead beside yours, his chestplate cool against your bare back through the torn fabric, the edge of the cuirass biting just slightly into your shoulder blade in a way that should hurt and doesn’t and that makes you arch back into it instead.
Then he starts to move.
He fucks you the way he fights - efficient, deliberate, devastating. Each stroke long, each one pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt, each one timed to a rhythm that you can’t predict because he changes it every time you try to meet him.
He takes you apart on patience. He uses the wall and his hand on your stomach and his weight at your back to keep you exactly where he wants you, and he never goes faster than he means to, no matter how you whimper, or how you try to push back.
"He was going to put his mouth on yours," he says against your ear. "Wasn't he?”
"Yes…”
"He's not going to."
"No.
"Nobody is but me."
"No."
"Say it."
“Nobody," you gasp. Nobody, nobody, just you…”
"That's right."
His hand slides up from your stomach, between your breasts and closes loose around the front of your throat. He uses it to tilt your head back against his pauldron and the angle changes everything.
He sinks deeper and you sob.
"Look at you," he says, the vocoder breaking a little around the words. "Took some stranger's hand and walked out onto that floor. Let him touch your waist. Let him put his mouth that close to yours."
"I'm s…”
"Don't apologise."
You couldn't have finished the word anyway. He shifts his hips, finds the angle that makes your knees try to buckle, and is using it now with the same patient deliberation he’s used on everything else this evening - like he’s testing a weapon's calibration or filing notes.
Every stroke drags across the place inside you that turns your spine to wet rope. You can’t get a breath that isn’t his.
"I'm not angry you wanted it," he says.
You whimper.
"I'm angry you thought you had to earn it."
That breaks something in you, some small petty knot at the base of your sternum that’s been pulled tight for three days.
Your eyes sting and you squeeze them shut against the cold of the bulkhead, feeling the first hot tear cut down your cheek. You don’t even care, don’t even try to hide it, because he’s said the thing, the thing you haven’t been able to find words for in the argument. He says it with his hand on your throat and his cock buried in you and the helmet pressed against the side of your head, and that is, Maker help you, exactly how Din Djarin apologises.
"I just wanted you to look at me," you whisper.
The hand at your throat tightens, just once, just for a heartbeat, the smallest possible squeeze. An acknowledgment.
"I'm looking, cyar'ika."
He pulls almost all the way out and holds there. You sob for it, push back against him, and his free hand comes down hard on your hip and pins you, making you whine high in your throat.
"Please…”
"Please what?”
"Please, Din, please, please…”
"Tell me again."
"Yours. Yours, only yours, please…”
He drives all the way back in, the sound that comes out of you is not dignified and does it again and again just to hear it. The rhythm breaks for the first time since he's started - the careful patient tempo finally fraying - and now he’s fucking you, properly fucking you, the way he does when he’s stopped thinking. When his hips are ahead of his head, when the noises catching in the vocoder are ragged and unmodulated and almost, almost like his real voice.
His hand leaves your throat and slides down to find you exactly where you need it. He presses, and circles and…
"Din…Din, I'm…”
"I know."
"I can't…”
"Yes you can, come on."
The leather of his glove moves against you, slick now with your need. The deep relentless drag of him inside you, and his voice through the modulator at your ear saying come on, cyar'ika, come on, that's it, that's my girl, breaks you apart against the wall of his own ship with his armoured body bracketing yours and his hand between your thighs and his name in your mouth like a curse, like a prayer, like a deed of ownership signed in your own shaking voice.
He fucks you through it and doesn’t stop. He holds you up against the bulkhead with the flat of his forearm across your collarbones and the splay of his glove on your hip and he chases you through the long shuddering aftershocks of it.
Only when you’re limp, when your forehead is pressed loose to the durasteel and you’re making small, wet broken noises that aren’t words, only then does his rhythm finally falter. Only then do his hips stutter, only then does the vocoder catch on a noise that’s almost a groan, and he buries himself to the hilt and holds.
You feel him pulse inside you in long warm waves, and the helmet presses hard between your shoulder blades and stays there.
For a long moment neither of you move.
You can hear the hold ticking around you as it cools. His glove is still flat on your hip. His other arm is still bracing your weight against him because your legs aren’t holding you up anymore. They've given out somewhere between the second and third aftershock and he’s simply taken your weight without commenting on it, the way he takes everything.
He eases out of you slowly and you whimper at the loss. He makes a low soothing sound through the modulator that is, in any language, I know, I know.
He turns you in his arms and you go without resistance. Your forehead finds the cold brow of his helmet and rests there, his gloved hand coming up and cradling the back of your skull.
For a long moment that’s all there is - his breath through the vocoder and yours unmodulated against the chestplate, and the slow steadying knock of his pulse where you've pressed your palm flat to the side of his neck without remembering doing it.
"I'm sorry," you say, finally, honestly. “For what I said in there."
"I know."
"You're not nothing."
"I know, cyar'ika."
"I was angry."
"I know."
His thumb moves against the nape of your neck. “I should have sat with you," he says quietly.
You close your eyes.
"Yes."
"I will next time."
"Okay."
He lets out a long breath through the modulator and you feel the tension go out of his shoulders in stages, the way it does when he finally sets down a rifle after a long watch.
His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your spine, comes to rest in the dip of your lower back, and stays there.
"Lights," he says, low, to the ship.
The hold goes dark, all but the dim amber strip along the floor that guides you forward when he turns you, gently, toward the bunk.
You feel rather than see him reach up and break the seal on the helmet. Hear the soft hiss, the mechanical click, the faint rustle as he sets it aside on the crate by the bunk in the dark you can’t see through.
And then, finally- finally - you feel his bare mouth on yours, warm and a little chapped at the corner, as familiar as your own name.
He kisses you slowly, deeply, and he tastes like the sour cheap whiskey he hasn’t drunk and like him, just him, and you make a small wrecked sound into his mouth that he catches with his tongue and gives you back something softer.
"Mine," he murmurs against your lips, just his voice, rough and low and entirely his own. "Say it one more time, just for me."
"Yours," you whisper
"Good girl."
He picks you up and carries you the three steps to the bunk in the dark, lays you down and climbs up after you.
His now bare hand settles warm against your cheek, his thumb wipes the last drying salt from under your eye, and he kisses you again, softer this time. Then again, and again, until the argument is a thing that’s happened to two other people on a planet whose name neither of you will remember in a week.
Summary: Din saves you after your home is destroyed, giving you both a chance to finally come clean about your feelings.
Warnings: language, descriptions of death/violence, longing/pining, hurt/comfort, angst, smut (18+ MDNI), fingering, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, reader wants his baby real bad
WC: 5.9K
---
He knew something was wrong before he even landed.
Naxore was never what one considers a paradise, but the dusty planet never looked as ashen as it did from this distance.
It was small, but it managed to house about one thousand citizens. From his experience, they're good people. They mind their own business and require very little from the galaxy. Most of what they eat and use gets produced right on the planet itself. It's small, ugly, and hardly a blip on the radar. This never stopped the people who live there from loving it with their whole hearts.
When he first arrived all those years ago, ship in desperate need of repair and Din in desperate need of hiding, the citizens welcomed him. They fed him and cleansed his wounds without a second thought. They put their lives and their little planet in danger to keep him safe. And when he left, the doctor who tended to him and gave him a bed said, Keep Naxore a secret.
And he did. But whenever Din had the chance, he would stop by and pay them a visit. He brought goods and wares from other planets, trinkets and toys for the children, and anything else he could think of they might find useful.
He always stayed with the doctor, whose wife passed on before Din had ever arrived, but still had a daughter.
You.
He told himself he was being kind, that the reason for his visits were virtuous, but deep down he knew it was you that kept him coming back. After every visit, he became more and more infatuated. Less and less time would pass before his next trip, just so he could get a glimpse of you, and when he was away, his thoughts were consumed with your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes sparkled when he unveiled to you whatever little gift he brought. He thought of you constantly. He longed for the conversations you would have, all alone, late at night around the fire. He grew hooked on your every word, eager to learn as much about you as possible. You would tell him stories of your mother, of the children at the school where you taught, how worried you were for your father as he aged.
You never once spoke of a partner, and he never asked. It would be considered too forward. Besides, what sort of life could he offer you if he tried to make you his? A bounty hunter, living a life of danger with no real home?
No, you were safer with your father.
Still, he enjoyed his visits. It temporarily satiated his thirst to be near you, to listen to you speak, to watch the way your nimble fingers worked to mend clothes or knead bread.
Din didn't have many pleasures in life, but that was certainly one of them.
So as he began his descent and saw your little planet was barren, his heart sunk. He discovered once he stepped off the Razor Crest that what little trees and foliage you had are burnt to a crisp. Everything is grey, death looms everywhere. Corpses, nearly skeletons now, litter the streets. Buildings collapsed, rubble crunch under his boots, and the entire town is silent, yet he still follows the familiar path to your father's house. He knows what he's going to find, but he can't stop himself.
Sure enough, when your house comes into view, his suspicions are confirmed. The entire building is leveled to the ground. He stumbles a moment, fighting the pain swelling in his chest. Not much is recognizable, but there is a chair that used to be in the sitting room. The same chair you used to sit in while he regaled you with his stories.
He falls to his knees then, and dips his head, fighting the urge to cry. He isn't even sure why he bothers. No one is alive and he still has his helmet on, yet he still blinks back tears.
You were so young and beautiful. You had your whole life ahead of you. You were kind and thoughtful and patient with the children in your class and with your father.
His gloved hand digs angrily into the dirt, fingers curling like he could find some answer for his pain. If he just visited more — if he took you with him, like he always wanted — maybe you would still be alive.
He feels sick. Enraged. His heart splits in his chest and his body folds over, slowly, as if the weight of his agony was trying to bury him.
Just then, there's a noise. It sounds as though someone's walking over the rubble, albeit much softer than he just did. His breath stalls and he scans the area, freezing with his hand on his blaster when he spots the source.
He can hardly believe his eyes. Yet, there you stand. Dirty, ashen, hair a mess and clothes torn. But still, you're there.
He blinks and a tear slips past his defenses. He's convinced at first he must be hallucinating, but then you move again, looking at him like you must be thinking the same. Like he's a mirage.
When you get closer, his hand falls from his waist and he slowly brings himself to his feet. He refuses to tear his eyes away, afraid if he does, you'll disappear.
Finally, you slowly raise your hands to cup your mouth. Your eyes crinkle and streaks of wet trail down your filthy cheeks and you call out his name with a broken sob.
"Din."
He closes the distance in a heartbeat. His arms wrap around you and he feels your body heave, bawling and shaking in his arms. He murmurs your name, tells you you're okay, and promises to take care of you.
You nod and continue to cry. Your fingers grab at him, searching for comfort. They slide over his steel armor, feeble fingers clawing at unwavering metal, and he never before felt so angry. Angry at whoever did this to your planet. Angry at himself, for not doing more. Angry at the promise he kept to remain hidden behind a helmet.
He doesn't ask. He leads you to his ship, slowly. Your shoes aren't as good as his and your body seems weak and malnourished. But when it starts to grow dark and you stumble next to him, he scoops you up in his arms. A squeal of surprise slips past your lips but your arms wrap round his neck, anyway.
"You need rest," he says by way of explaination. "I can carry you the rest of the way. I have food and a warm bed. You'll be strong once again, and you will be safe."
You simply nod and lean your head against his shoulder. He feels your warm breath on his neck through his cowl and he has to resist the urge to strip himself of his armor and press his body to yours the second he gets you safely on the Crest.
He feeds you and gives you fresh clothes. He shows you to the fresher, where you can wash up, and promises to wait just outside the door in case you fall or need help. You don't, but he never once leaves his post. When you emerge, your eyes look sunken and puffy. You're exhausted and he knows there was no use in asking you for details that night. He ushers you to his bunk and you crawl inside, collapsing into his cot with a deep sigh of relief.
"I'm going to get us out of here," he says. You just nod with your eyes closed. "Call out if you need me," he adds before flicking off the light. He gives you one more glance before he ascends to the cockpit. You look comfortable. You look at peace. And you look fucking incredible in his clothes.
He stifles a growl and heads up the ladder.
His priority is to get you to safety. Everything else can wait.
---
"If you never take it off, how can you eat?"
Din's eyes flickered up to you through his visor. It's been two days. You nearly slept for one of them. You look healthier and more like yourself now. The sight made him happy, more relaxed.
"I eat alone," he explains. You're sitting across from him at the small metal table that folds out from the wall. You are halfway through your meal, which is nothing fancy, just some freeze dried rations, but based on the noises you made since the first bite touched your lips, you'd think you're eating fresh tiingilar.
Your eyes drop to the plate in front of him, untouched.
"Oh," you say, recalling from his prior visits when he would retire to his room to eat. You always thought it was due to exhaustion or perhaps he didn't want to hear you prattle on about nonsense like you had a tendency of doing whenever he lingered in your father's sitting room. It was always so hard to read him when his face and body was covered in armor.
"What if I turned my back?" you offer. His head tilts and his fingers thrum against the tabletop.
"I can wait," he assures you, then asks, "Will you tell me what happened?"
Your face falls and you look down sadly at your plate. You push around the food and drag in a shaky breath.
"We were attacked," you say. "It happened at night. They ransacked the town while everyone slept. I remember—"
You choke on your words and he stiffens.
"I remember going to the window when I first heard the shouting. I... they were dragging people from their homes. They took the women and killed the men."
Din stops breathing. His jaw tenses behind his helmet. You sniffle, then continue.
"My father built a small bunker underneath our home when I was a child," you say, wiping a tear from your eye. "He hid me down there and I begged him to join me, but he wouldn't — I begged him, Din."
Tears trickle down your face now. He reaches out a gloved hand to stop you, rests it on top of yours.
He knows it's a long shot, but still he asks, "Do you know who these people were?"
You shake your head somberly, eyes drifting now to his hand. You think it over for a moment before lifting your other hand to place on top of his. Your thumb idly rubs the tough fabric.
"I never found another living soul," you whisper. Din's gaze is still locked on your hands. "I searched for days. I suppose it's fortunate my father was a paranoid man."
"Your father was a careful man," he corrects. You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. He feels horrible because it's clear your heart is torn in two and filled with guilt, yet he sits across from you, brimming with joy and relief that you managed to survive.
"What will happen now?" you ask, "what will I do?"
He swallows and you must hear it because you tilt your head slightly.
"I can take you anywhere you want to go," he eventually says.
You laugh, but it sounds flat. You keep his hand sandwiched between yours when you say, "I have nowhere to go. I've never even left my planet before. I have no one. Well... except for you."
Your cheeks burn. You give his hand a little squeeze before letting it go and even through his gloves, he instantly misses the heat from your touch.
"Navarro is nice," he says, "I have people there that I trust. People who can help you get back on your feet."
"Oh," you breathe. Then you blink and drop your gaze to your lap, food long forgotten. "Yes, okay. That... okay."
He studies you through his visor. He can tell the idea makes you nervous. You're shifting awkwardly in your seat and anxiously chewing your bottom lip.
Then, he says something foolish. Something reckless and selfish.
"Or, you could stay with me. On the Crest. It's not much of a life, but—"
"Really?" you ask, cutting him off. You peer at him hopefully through your lashes and warmth spreads in his chest at being the object you chose to grace with that look.
"Of course. You're welcome here for as long as you wish. I just ask you listen to me," he tells you sternly. He wants to make sure you understand the seriousness of what he's trying to say, but you're practically bouncing in your seat from excitement. "It can get dangerous, at times. If I tell you to stay on the ship, you need to stay on the ship, no matter how bored you might be, or—"
"I will, I promise," you say before jumping up and rounding the table. He barely has a chance to blink before you throw your arms around him for a hug. It's clunky and awkward with his armor, but you don't seem to mind. You're grinning from ear to ear, the happiest he's seen you look in days. He inhales deeply, breathing in your scent through the filter in his helmet. It makes him dizzy. With his soap and clothes, you smell so good that it leaves him breathless.
"Thank you," you say softly. You pull back slightly to gaze up at him and for one second, he thinks you can actually see him. Your eyes lock on his and you hold it, and it all feels so real that it has his breath catching in his throat. Without thinking, one of his hands lifts to cradle your face. You immediately lean into his touch but your gaze never falters. Nobody has ever looked at him the way you did. It cuts him to the core in a way he never imagined.
The air between you grows too heavy and he can't resist quickly scanning your body. Through his visor, he picks up your heat signature is slightly elevated in your face and chest. And he tries to fight the urge, he really does, but he can't help scanning lower. He clocks the temperature between your legs and his cock stirs when his suspicions are confirmed.
"You said you've never left your planet."
His voice breaks the tension. You blink and nod with a smile before stepping back, creating some breathing room between you.
"You shouldn't hide down here, then. You're missing the entire galaxy. Let me show you the cockpit."
Your eyes flicker nervously to the ladder before slowly nodding.
"O-okay," you reply shakily.
Din frowns and reaches for your hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I think you'll like it."
Your shoulders square up. Your chin lifts confidently and he smiles when you say, "I trust you."
He climbs the ladder first, then reaches down to help you up. When you clamber to your feet and look around, your eyes grow wide and your lips part with wonder.
"Oh, my..." you breathe, gaze raking over all the lights and controls before settling on the huge windows. He can see the reflection of the stars in your eyes and he can't tear himself away. As he suspected, all traces of your earlier apprehension vanished. You're hypnotized by the way the bright stars stretch and swirl through hyperspace, completely enraptured.
"This view. It's... beautiful," you whisper, unblinking.
With his attention still fixed on you, he replies, "Yes, it is."
Your eyes dart to him and you try to bite back a shy smile when you realize he wasn't looking at the stars.
"I've never flown before," you tell him, "it's so incredible. I can't believe you can do this all on your own."
"Really? Never?" he asks, and you shake your head. "Then we should celebrate," he adds. Your eyes light up when he spins around to a small cabinet bolted to the wall and pulls out a half filled bottle of liquor. As he pours the dark red liquid into two glasses, he realizes he hasn't stopped smiling since you stepped foot in the cockpit.
"What is this?" you ask when you take the cup he offers you. You sniff it and your nose scrunches up.
"It's Mandalorian wine," he says, "try it, it's good."
You take a tentative sip then look up at him with surprise. "It's sweet."
"I don't have it often, it's hard to come by," he admits. Then his free hand unlatches his helmet and your eyes snap to the place his fingers hook under the edge. He swears he notices excitement flicker across your face for a brief moment before you turn around.
"I won't look," you promise.
He opens his mouth to tell you it was fine, that he was only lifting it a few short inches to take a drink, but he doesn't. He sips from his glass and allows himself to take you in fully without your heated gaze pinning him to the wall. He can just make out your reflection in the windows and you faithfully have your eyes squeezed shut, just in case you catch an accidental glimpse. He sips again and his eyes darken. He can feel his body responding to how obedient you are and it's growing uncomfortable.
He slips his helmet back down and when you hear the telltale hiss of the latch, your eyes open.
"Can I turn around now?"
A muscle flickers in his jaw. Fuck, you're such a good girl.
"Yes," he says, voice rough.
You pick up on his tone. Your face warms as you slowly turn around to face him and its imperceptible, but your thighs squeeze together in his fucking pants. It's a good thing you can't see him because underneath the helmet, he is fighting every urge to pull you into his arms. He's sure it's written all over his face. Maker, he wonders what it would be like to be touched by you, to be held by you, to be kissed by you. It's been so long.
You're nervous again, he notes, but not due to fear this time. Your gaze shifts around the cabin and you swallow thickly before pointing towards the controls.
"W-what do all these do?"
He follows your finger. You're pointing to the control wheel and dials right in front of his chair.
He sets down his mostly empty glass and sits. He begins to half heartedly tell you what certain switches and knobs do, and you nod along, sipping from your glass and leaning into the side of his chair.
You lean forward, across his lap, and squint at one particularly important looking lever.
"What about this?"
His eyes slide closed and he breathes deep. You're so close to him he can feel the warmth from your skin through the slivers of exposed fabric that lies underneath his armor.
"It— it's one of the controls that sends us into hyperspace," he mumbles. You hum curiously and take another sip, draining your glass. Your body still stretches over his lap as you study the control panel and he hopes you don't notice the twitching in his pants.
"One of?" you echo. Then your beautiful eyes find his visor. He swallows harshly, leather creaking over his knuckles.
"Yes," he rasps, "there's — well, there's levels I need to check first and a course needs to —"
He stops speaking when you straighten up and sidestep so that you're wedged between him and the control panel. He watches in a haze when your small hands wrap around the control column, right where his hands normally go to steer the ship.
His gloved fingers dig into the arms of his chair.
His legs straddle yours where you stand. If you sat, you'd be right in his lap. His hands twitch and his heart stutters in his chest. You're so fucking close, he could simply wrap one arm around you—
The ship hits an unexpected rough pocket and it jolts. It's small, nothing he would even wake up for, but you're not used to flying. Your knees give out and you fall back, right into his chest.
His arms circle your waist and you let out a squeak of surprise. Then your hands cover his. Instead of pulling them off your body, you tug them tighter and squirm a little in his lap, as if you're trying to get your bearings and stand, but it's taking just a little too long.
Din murmurs your name and you still.
"Cyar'ika, I'm a patient man. But you're testing me, and I think you enjoy it."
He can't see your face, only your back and shoulders, which tense at his words. There's a long pause as if you're trying to decide your next move and he holds his breath, hoping he didn't read things wrong.
Then, your shoulders drop.
Your fingers loosen around his hands but still remain in place, holding them to your stomach. When you tilt your face to the side and look at him over your shoulder, you give him a sly grin.
"Am I that transparent?"
He doesn't respond right away, but his cock does. It swells underneath you and a soft noise that has him forgetting how to breathe slips past your lips.
"Din—"
He shakes your hands off his so he can pull frantically at his gloves, one at a time. They drop to the floor, then his hands are back on you again. Your eyes flutter shut and you tip your chin up when you feel him — really feel him — for the first time as he explores the skin under your borrowed tunic. It has been so long since he's felt the warmth of another that it makes him weak. Under his helmet, his jaw drops open in wonder. You're breathing heavy, he can feel it, and it's making his vision blur.
He cups your left breast and you whimper before leaning into his hold. Stars, you're so soft and warm and perfect that he never wants to stop touching you.
Your body sags against his chest when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your back presses against his beskar and your head falls backward onto his shoulder with a loud thud. You wince and try to hide it, but he sees it.
"Sit up," he orders. He releases your breast and you whine but you do as you're told and lean forward so he can remove the metal that covers his upper body.
He eases you down so your back rests on his chest once again. Now, the only metal you have to contend with is his helmet and the plates on his thighs. When the back of your head comes to rest on his shoulder, you instantly twist so you can bury your face into the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply, like you're committing his scent to memory, before fumbling for his hand and guiding it down, past your waistline. His fingers dip underneath your pants and he bites back a groan. The fabric is oversized and loose, making it easy for him to find exactly what he's looking for.
"D-Din," you stammer when the pads of his fingers slide through your slit. Your head rolls and your lips part when you lift your hips off his lap, chasing his gentle touch.
You must hear how fast he's breathing. Even though the modulator muffles it, it's so loud it's impossible you don't notice.
"Maker, you're soft. So soft and wet," he murmurs. You preen a little in his lap, hips rolling so his two thick fingers slip through your cunt, spreading your folds and slick with each pass.
When he sinks both fingers past your entrance, your hand flies back, slapping loudly against the side of his helmet.
"Oh!" you cry out, fingers clutching uselessly at the metal. Your back arches off his chest with a wet gasp when he pushes in all the way to the knuckle, then he's shushing you. His distorted voice is trying to quiet you down but, as it turns out, you both want each other so badly that it's an impossible task, even for a Mandalorian.
"Do you know how long I've thought about this?" he asks, watching the way your eyes pinch shut and your jaw trembles each time his fingers drag in and out of you. Your backside writhes in his lap and he has to use his other hand to keep you still, wrapping it around your waist from behind and pressing his palm flat against your stomach.
"No," you shudder. You're coming apart so easily for him, heat blooming in your chest and cheeks the faster his hand moves down your pants — his pants. He's so hard, his stomach hurts.
"Years," he grits. "Each time I left, I dreamt of taking you with me. Dreamt of your perfect mouth, your beautiful eyes, your smile, your laugh—" He curses under his breath when you clench tightly around his fingers. He can't wait to feel you wrapped around his cock, squeezing him so tight and milking him for every last drop of his release.
"You came b-back for m-me," you stammer breathlessly. "Y-you — oh, f-fuck, Din—"
A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead. You're grinding down on his hand, back bowed and nails digging ruthlessly into his covered arm. You look so sweet, coming apart on his hand, moaning his name, that he wants nothing more than to kiss you, to taste you.
But, he can't.
So, he settles for driving you wild, for curling his fingers deep inside you, grunting in your ear, rubbing his palm against your clit until your lungs are empty and your entire body is pulled tight.
"Pl-please," you beg, "oh, please. Pleaseplea— I'm g-gonna come," you whine. You gasp hotly against his helmet, holding him so close with a hand still clutching at the back of his head that his visor fogs up.
"Come for me," he tells you shakily, even through the modulator. "Come for me and then I'll fuck this sweet little pussy, just the way I've always wanted."
That tips you over the edge. You moan his name so loudly that it echoes in the small room. You thrash your head around on his shoulder, body convulsing in his lap as he pulls every ounce of pleasure he can, and then your teeth find a small patch of exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt, below his ear. He swears when your teeth pinch him and his grip on you tightens, holding you steady until your orgasm slows and you relax in his arms.
He doesn't give you much time to recover. He can't. He's so pent up, it's making him dizzy. Sliding you off his lap, Din reaches down and pulls on his pants, lifting his hips and tugging the fabric down just enough to free his cock. You're still in a daze, slumped against his shoulder, chest heaving. When he tugs you back in place, leaning against his chest and sitting in his lap, he loosens your slacks, letting them pool to the floor.
In his crazed, lust-filled stupor, he manages to realize something through the fog. The position you're in — with your back pressed against his front — maybe...
His hand fumbles around until he finds the button he's looking for and he smacks it, probably louder than is necessary. You jump in his arms when the cabin goes black, the only lights filling the space are from some switches on the console, too dim to create a reflection. But, if you turn your head—
"Keep your eyes closed."
You open your mouth to ask the question, then clamp it shut and quickly obey. He regards you for a moment, just a moment. He trusts you. You wouldn't look.
A hand comes up to unclasp his helmet and it falls to the floor with a loud thud. You jump again but keep your eyes closed.
He says your name, voice clear to your ears for the very first time. You shudder in his arms and your brows pull together, like a blanket of warmth just passed over you. He smiles to himself, then his hand drops to grip his leaking cock. He presses the thick tip between your thighs and you twitch before spreading your legs as far as you can manage.
He can't wait any longer — his hips flex and you moan in unison as he slides inside your warm, perfect cunt. The way you clench around him, the noises you murmur in his ear — it all adds to the heat building at the base of his spine since you stepped foot in the cockpit.
"M-Maker—" he groans, "you feel so good."
Then you start to roll your hips, tight pussy gripping and fluttering around his length as you try to fuck yourself in his lap. Your legs drape over his thighs, feet dangling near his ankles, unable to graze the hard metal floor for support, yet you still try to work faster, just so desperate for him.
His hands grip your hips, helping you move. Your eyes are still squeezed shut but your mouth is open, gasping for air every time he pushes back inside to grind against a spot that makes you whine through your teeth.
"I've wanted you so badly, it hurts," you confess shamelessly. Something about not being able to see him makes you feel bold. "I would follow you anywhere, Din Djarin."
He groans and nips at your earlobe. You feel his chest rumble against your back and you smile. Your hand falls to where you're connected and your fingers spread, gasping when you touch him. He's thick and hard and soaked with your arousal.
"I always knew you must have had a nice cock," you whisper, still feeling emboldened with your eyes closed. "No one carries themselves the way you do without having the goods to back it up."
You cry out when his hips snap roughly against your ass, and your entire body is practically bouncing in his lap. If it weren't for his ironclad grip around your middle, you're sure you'd have fallen out of the chair.
"Keep — talking," he grunts. His wet tongue slides slowly up your neck before his lips pucker and he begins to suck a mark that will take days to disappear.
"I— I —" you stammer. He's fucking you so fast now, it's hard to think, let alone form a sentence. "I used to — to think about you — oh, f-fuck, right there—"
"Think about me?" he repeats, ignoring everything else.
"Yes," you hiss, then your hand reaches back to slide through his hair — it's thick and a little curly and you commit the feeling to memory before it's taken from you.
"I would think about you — wh-when I... when I would touch myself."
Your stomach muscles begin to bear down and your thighs go rigid. You're so fucking close, you can taste it.
"Yeah? You thought about me when you made yourself come? Thought about my cock in this tight pussy, just like this?"
His deep voice in your ear makes you shudder.
You nod with your mouth hanging wide open.
"Oh fuck," you whimper when the tip of his cock finds a sensitive spot deep inside. You writhe and roll your hips, eager to find the angle again, but Din knows. He knows what you need and he wants to be the one to give it to you, so his hands still your movements and he rocks upward. You're both breathless and sweaty, but it doesn't matter because he's there — he's right fucking there, right at the spot where you need him the most.
Your mouth creates a combination of noises and melted words. There's no sense to be made when he's fucking you like this. You push back, deepening the angle. You both moan so loudly, it echos, but you barely register it.
His fingers fall to your clit and he starts to swirl messy circles over the throbbing bud. Three, maybe four passes. That's all it takes.
You throw your head back violently, his name ripping from your throat as you cunt clenches around him, pulsing and squeezing. Your stomach flutters, the released tension rippling across your muscles.
He doesn't stop. His fingers move frantically and he fucks you through it until your body sags and you whimper when swatting weakly at his hand.
"That's it, that's my g-girl," he groans, abandoning your clit. He wraps his arm around you instead, keeping you upright so he can thrust into you as hard as he can. You moan and bite at his neck, his ear, his cheek... any part of him that's normally hidden by his helmet. You feel the stubble under your lips and you lick his skin, reveling in the sharp prickle across your tongue.
"Come inside me," you whisper. He makes a choked sound and shakes his head.
"Can't."
"Please?"
His movements grow erratic. He's losing rhythm.
"No, it's — too risky."
"Would that be so bad? Don't y— don't you wonder what it would — be like?"
You're babbling. You sound insane. You don't care.
"Please stop," he begs, then his teeth sink into your shoulder and he pulls out of you roughly, just in time to shoot hot cum all over your inner thighs. He's groaning your name into your skin and he's panting so heavily, you fear he may pass out.
"I'm not —"
Din swallows and then he drags in a deep breath. With your eyes still closed, you start blindly peppering kisses across his cheek.
"I know," you mumble, "I'm sorry."
Suddenly, his fingers pinch your chin and he tilts your head so his lips press firmly against your own. Your heart stops when you first feel what it's like to kiss him — never in your wildest fantasies did you think you would know what his lips felt like. The trust he must have for you makes you weak and you melt, getting lost in the taste of him when his tongue slides into your mouth.
"I wasn't going to give you my child without kissing you first," he murmurs when he pulls back, but he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours and he sighs when your hand lifts to get lost in his messy hair.
"Really?" you whisper in disbelief, but you're smiling like a fool.
"Is that something you really want? With me?" he asks. You don't need to see his face, you can hear the doubt — the shock — that you would pick him out of anyone in the galaxy.
You nod and peck a kiss to his lips. "I'm tired of waiting," you tell him. "We almost lost our chance... I don't want to waste another second with you."
He laughs and you grin when his soft exhale fans across your face.
"I will gladly devote my life to you, if you'll have me," he says.
And yes, it feels fast. But what's the point in waiting when everything you want is right in front of you? You very easily could have died, but you were given a second chance.
tags: mdni!! smut, husband!din x wife!reader, reader and mando are trying for a baby, rough ish sex, age gap (late twenties/ early fourties), helmeted sex, mask kink, unprotected p in v sex, breeding kink, mutual orgasms, creampie and aftercare.
summary: you ask mando to keep the helmet on tonight.
grogu’s soft cooing filled your home as you cooked the meat over the stove. he sat perched in his hover pram, his curious face eyeing you thoughtfully as you cooked the nerf meat in the pan, din’s favourite.
nevarro was quieter than your life before it and although din’s work still had risks, you both had a permanent home here. a place to settle down together with grogu and, as you’d both had planned, a baby of your own.
you both weren’t necessarily determined, it was more of a case of if it happened, it happened. if it didn’t, you still had a son in grogu.
and it was fun too — having sex without any precautions, it made you feel like a love sick teenager again.
you finished off dinner and dished out food between the three of you, leaving din’s up for him for whenever he decided to arrive home.
dinner was peaceful as usual, filling the silences with conversation with the child although he couldn’t necessarily answer you. you liked evenings like these and they made you wonder how grogu would be if you and mando’s plans go well. you weren’t too sure how he would act around a human baby, you hoped it would be positive.
shortly after, you took grogu to his bedroom, bonding with him a little before putting him down for the night and today, he didn’t give you much hassle while doing so. he rarely did anyway.
and just as you made it back out to the living room, you were met with the sound of the front door clicking shut and then, the heavy steps that were revealed to be your husband as you turned around to see him in the hallway.
“hello, cyar'ika,” mando greeted, meeting you in the kitchen and removing his helmet with a heavy grunt, one that told you that it had been a long day.
you slid your hands up his armoured chest, relieved to his handsome face after the hours of not seeing it. it was moments like these that made your life as beautiful as it was, just the simple things. you leaned in for a kiss, pressing your lips to his in a loving kiss before pulling back to whisper. “i’ve missed you.”
din’s eyes softened on you — they always did in gentle moments like these. he dropped his large, gloved hands down to cup your waist, smiling softly when you melted into his touch. “i’m sorry i was so long, darling,” he sighed, allowing his forehead to fall against yours. “it was only meant to be a short job, things just got busy.”
you hummed, tracing the metal over his chest, a playful smile forming on your lips. “i’m sure i can think of a way you can make it up to me.” you said suggestively, wiggling your brows and eliciting a laugh from din.
he licked his lips, his grip on you getting slightly tighter. although mando was a man of few words, you could tell when something you’d said settled deep in his core. “yeah?”
“uh huh,” you bit your lip. “grogu is asleep. out like a light,” you brought your hand up to run through din’s curls — the dark hair feeling soft between your fingers, curtesy of that shampoo you insisted him on using. “maybe you could eat your dinner.. and then we could head to the bedroommmm?” you drawled out, giggling.
“hm,” mando grunted, the corners of his lips twitching as if he were fighting off a smile. “or we could just go straight t’the bedroom.” his hands squeezed your waist tightly, making your squirm a little beneath his hold. you giggled and reached up to wrap your arms around his neck, shifting a little in a hint for him to lift you up.
“you’re not hungry?” you asked, leaning in to graze your lips off his jaw, his stumble tickling your mouth charmingly.
din’s hands slipped down your body before lifting you up against his own, wrapping your legs around his waist and keeping a firm hold underneath your buttocks. he started to walk towards the bedroom and you squealed as you bounced slightly in his arms with each heavy step. “i am. just a different kind.”
your back hit the bed before you could even register that you were in you and your husbands shared bedroom. din worked frantically across from you, standing at the end of the bed while you sat up and watched him remove his armour, stepping out of his pants and working on taking his top half off.
you chewed your lip, twirling a piece of fabric from your night dress around your finger. he looked so good in his armour and part of you wished that he didn’t have to take it off. you wanted his cock, of course you did after a long day of not seeing him, but you wished he could just fuck you while wearing it. the metal accentuated his muscles so beautifully, making him look like a sculpted, chiselled piece of art just for you.
but then, an idea popped into your head.
it wasn’t necessarily his entire uniform but it was something at least.
“baby?” you asked softly, a little sheepishly even.
“mhm?” he paused, pulling his top half over his head, leaving him in just his underwear.
“uhm..” you sat up, getting to your feet nervously and watching how din peered back at you in confusion. “just.. wait here.”
din sat on the bed, looking up as you started to walk toward the door. “wh-”
“just wait!” you called back, breaking into a quick walk down the hallway and into the joint kitchen and living room. you scanned the space before your eyes stopped on the item you wanted.
his helmet.
you grabbed it and held it behind your back, making your way back towards the bedroom and standing in the doorway, a nervous grin tugging at your lips.
din was now stretched out on the bed, laying comfortably against the cushions, his underwear tenting for obvious reasons. the sight made you tingle. “what’s that you’ve got?” he asked, brows furrowed.
you rubbed your lips together, taking the helmet in front of your body and holding it up. you chuckled a little awkwardly. “i just.. kinda thought it would be fun for you to wear your helmet..”
a smile broke out on mando’s face and he sat up, patting the bed as you started to walk toward him. you placed the helmet on the mattress, climbing up along with it.
“you’d be into that, ka'rta?” he asked, rolling over on top of your body, covering yours with his as he helped you settle comfortably against the pillows. “you want me to fuck you with my helmet on?”
“mmm..” you hummed, still giggling as he grabbed the helmet, planting some sloppy kisses over your neck, almost as if he were savouring the taste of your skin before he wouldn’t be able to kiss it anymore. “just a little though.”
“just a little?” he asked, voice turning into that grumbled drawl as he placed the helmet over his head, covering every last piece of his face. you let your hand travel down to his soft underwear, your hand squeezing the outline of him gently through the fabric. you could hear the way his breath hitched, even through his helmet.
“well.. maybe a little more than a little.” you answered, smirking as you felt him push his hips forward, almost as if he were silently encouraging you to take him out of the confines of him draws.
you took the hint and accommodated him on pushing the clothing down his thighs, watching as he kicked them the rest of the way off. the sight of him was so erotic and you were sure — even as good as you and din’s sex life already was — that you’d never done anything hotter than this.
“god, din,” you moaned, your head falling back as you rocked your hips upward, your clit throbbing uncomfortably beneath the silk bed-wear. you weren’t wearing any underwear — you never did underneath pyjamas — and you were sure your thighs were coated now. you could feel it, your skin uncomfortably sticky. “you’re making me crazy,”
“okay, it’s okay love. i’ve got you.” he could tell how worked up you were getting. as your husband, he was very in-tuned to these sorts of things. the past two years of making love to you, fucking you ever so gently to take you to that place of bliss he knew you needed after a long day. or sometimes, he was a little rougher. bending you over the panel of the razor crest, pounding his cock into you with little care for how overstimulated you were getting. you act up like this? you take it cyar'ika. from all of that, it was pretty easy to tell what you wanted and needed. and he wasn’t about to deprive you of it.
he reached down and flipped the skirt of your night dress up, the soft, familiar silk feeling comforting on his hand. as he revealed your lower half, you hissed. the room temperature air on your glistening cunt hitting you like a truck. you whimpered, dropping your head back, completely surrendering yourself to mando for him to do with you as he pleased. he always did know how to please you after all.
silently, he reached for your cunt, running his thumb through your slit to feel just how wet you really were. and god, you didn’t disappoint. his fucking girl, his wife. always so ready for his cock.
he brought his thumb back up to the top of your slit, pressing down on your clit gently to gauge a reaction from you. immediately, you whimpered again, reaching forward to clutch his arm. “so ready, love. yooba solus mesh'la, goddamn.”
you smiled hazily, nodding and lifting your hips up into his hands. “ngh - yeah,” you gasped. “please — fuck, din. stop teasing.” you whined, desperation evident in your voice.
“c’mon, let’s get this pussy nice and full.” he groaned, reaching down to grip his cock in one hand while using his other to spread you open to his liking. mando was always relatively quiet during sex, he wasn’t a talker at the best of times, anyway. it didn’t bother you much, certainly not now anyway, when he was prodding his drooling cock at your entrance, his own breaths breaking into an uneven moan when he felt your wet entrance on his sensitive glands.
the first push in made you gasp. it always did, what with mando’s size. he always filled you so good, his tip kissing your cervix as he settled inside of you fully. your walls hugged him comfortably, a warm embrace that made him drop his helmeted head into your neck. “fuck, honey. so warm.” he mumbled.
you nodded, eyes falling shut as he rocked his hips just once in an experimental way, testing your readiness. for a split second, you wished you could feel his lips on your neck, nipping and sucking in the way he knew you loved. it was like a secret language between the two of you, one only the two of you were aware of and it felt a little disappointing not to feel it right now.
but.. you could really deny that view. not with the way he looked in this fucking helmet, face buried in your neck while he rocked into you gently, his hand fumbling down between your legs to your clit. his rolled it between two fingers and you clenched down on him, the two of you groaning in perfect unison.
and although you were enjoying his ministrations, you are growing somewhat frustrated at his slow pace. you whined in a mix of impatience and neediness. “please din, need it harder.” you moaned, your hands travelling up his back, nails digging in slightly when he drew gentle, pressured patterns on your bundle of flesh.
you could practically see the smirk through his armoured face. something he didn’t do often, mostly only in moments like these. “harder? is that what you need? ya need me to put my baby in you tonight?”
you hiccuped, chest tightening at his lewd words as he pulled his face back from your neck, letting it hover over your own. “y-yes. god — just.. want a baby with you so bad,” tears sprung to your eyes and you weren’t sure if they were from pleasure, frustration or the genuine wish to have another addition to the family you and din already had. “a baby brother or s-sister for grogu.”
you clung to his back tighter now as if it were your only lifeline. like if you dug your nails hard enough or squeezed his muscles tight enough, he’d grant you this. one hand stayed on your clit while the other cupped your soft belly. “I’m going to give that to you, love,” din told you, voice firm with determination but you could hear the way it cracked slightly with that underlying emotion. something deeper than he’d ever fully expressed to you while you’d both talked about a baby. “going to give it to you just right and give you that baby.”
you nodded but before you could form an answer, din drew back far enough that just his cock head was sheathed inside you before slamming back in, just how you’d asked. it made you cry out — sharp and sudden, the air being forced from your lungs. it rattled your insides in the most satisfying way and nudged that sensitive spot nestled deep in your walls.
“tell me how bad you need this, ka'rta. tell me how bad you need my cum.” and his voice sounded pleading. like if he didn’t hear you describe this thing for him, if he didn’t hear your struggling, pleased voice, that he would never be whole. it was the kind of desperation that he reserved only for your ears and the trust in that made you even more aroused and even more emotional, your moans and gasps turning into sobs fairly quickly.
he set a steady, yet brutal pace all the same while you frantically searched for the words that suited exactly how you felt right now. it was so perfect, his fingers on your sweet spot, his cock on that even sweeter one inside of you, dragging through your walls and your ears drowning in the sound of steady slapping of skin.
“need — oh that’s it, right there, i.. god i need it so bad, baby. just need to be full of you. wanted it all — all day.” you stuttered, voice high pitched as he stimulated you.
you opened your mouth to continue babbling about whatever you thought of quick enough but nothing came out. you lost your vocalisation skills pretty quickly when the only thing your ears could hear and your brain could concentrate on were din’s moans and groans and grunts as he fucked his cock in and out of you.
you were both a sweating mess, both bodies rocking and bouncing slightly with ever thrust and right now? it was just you two. just the two of you in this whole planet. in this whole galaxy. nothing and nobody mattered outside of this life you’d both built for yourselves.
and you were right there.
right where mando needed you to be.
“s’right there, din,” you sobbed quietly, clutching his body loosely as your control started to slip. and din knew what was coming. you always got like this right around now when he fucked you dumb on his cock. whiny, messy, a little teary eyed. he knew you like the back of his hand, you know? the way your body reacted in moments like these — when he hit that special spot.
it was so beautiful, watching you cry and whinge from the impact of his cock on your g-spot. “i know, baby. i know how to take care of your special spot, you just lay back and relax. you about to cum?”
“i.. y-yeah.. m’gonna cum. gonna.. m’gonna — fuck, din!” you gasp when his hips pick up the pace, your hips rolling almost as if they had a mind of their own — your only focus now, being your climax.
mando smiled. you looked so damn adorable like this, all desperate and glowing. “come on, mesh'la. i know your holding back, you’re clenching. just let go for me, my love. let me feel you.” his voice sounded muffled through the helmet yet his words landed right in your core, encouraging you to stop being stubborn and just allow yourself to feel that sweet release.
your stomach clenched, your walls twitching and with one deep exhale paired with a sharp cry, you shattered. your walls rippled around his length, sending a charming tingle up din’s sensitive cock, your convulsing only contributing to the ache building in his balls. his stomach simmered with a warm, dangerous heat, his cock starting to twitch as he let you cry it out.
you sobbed loudly and all thoughts of grogu next door completely left your head. mando wrapped both arms around your waist and sat back on his heels, pulling you up into his lap while he did. he gently pulled your face into the crook of his neck, pacifying your cries. he grunted while he fucked up into you and your gasps turned broken, shaky.
“din — din, baby.. I can’t..” you sniffled into his bare shoulder, your teeth sinking into the sweat damp flesh to control yourself.
din grunted and moaned, hissing as he felt his balls draw up. “it’s coming, you can take it, baby.” he gritted, his cock spurting thick ropes of cream inside of your walls, hopefully swimming towards your womb if you were lucky. mando’s face dropped into your neck, the metal feeling odd on your hot skin.
the next two minutes consisted of the two of you mushed together, the fluids of one another dripping onto skin and the sounds of ragged breaths. you leaned back looking at the way dins head flopped down, bowing as it moved from your neck.
it made you giggle — how exhausted he seemed and you reached forward, pulling the helmet off of his head and revealing his red, flushed face, his hair tousled from the armour.
you cupped his cheeks and he looked up at you with those loving, brown orbs of his. “hey,” you whispered, voice slightly giddy from that post coital comedown.
both his arms lazily tightened around your waist and his lips twitched as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your lips. “hey.”
hope you guys enjoyed my first mando fic! I had a blast writing this. please consider reblogging, liking or even dropping a follow if you enjoyed :)
I'm actually exhausted by all this smut, I know it's Kinktober too but damn, I want devious hand holding, cuddles, forehead kisses, adopting a pet and the chaos behind it, family AUs, confessions that end in awkward but amazing first dates, comfort, rainy day blanket forts, getting jealous over a plushie, dumb fake arguments, putting their tooth brushes in the same cup and acting like it's some big milestone, accidental touches, lazy morning coffee, candid photos found and all
"She was wet as he slid his member in"
I'M TIRED
And my beef comes mostly from the lack of build up when it is smut, it's always either straight into it or like 4 sentences and dirty talking we're in
A novel-length secret relationship story set after season 3, with an original plot, worldbuilding, and fully developed characterisation.
Summary: A risky decision traps an injured Din Djarin with Greef Karga’s adoptive niece for a fifteen-day lockdown, during which something steamy yet short-term evolves in secret. But ending it when the lockdown lifts isn’t as easy as either party thought, and there are many obstacles to navigate when everyday life starts up again.
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Pairing: Din Djarin x OFC!Reader (she’s physically a blank slate but has a canon-compliant background, so she’s you if you were born in the Star Wars Universe)
Word Count: TBC (>100k words in 16 chapters)
Author’s Note: This fic started as a oneshot for @burntheedges’s Roll-A-Trope Writing Challenge in August 2024, but it accidentally turned into a novel – oops! It took me so long to write and edit (21 months!) because I’ve genuinely slaved over it. After I finished the first draft, I took some writing classes, then went back and edited every single word to get it perfect. It’s turned into something I’m really proud of, so I hope you enjoy! As always, concepts and lore are accurately researched to satisfy Star Wars nerds but also referenced/explained to ensure those less familiar with the franchise can enjoy and understand everything, too.
*** FULLY WRITTEN, CHAPTERS RELEASED EVERY THIRD SATURDAY ***
Please feel free to JOIN MY TAG LIST or lmk in the comments if you’d like a tag for this fic only.
Chapter 1: In The Mood For Solitude [AO3]
Chapter 2: Armless, But Never Harmless [AO3]
Chapter 3: Confidential Potential [AO3]
Chapter 4: Built To Uncover Our Guilt [AO3]
Chapter 5: It’s My Purview To Serve You [AO3]
Chapter 6: Secret Sex Isn’t Complex [coming 5 September 2026]
Chapter 7 (part 1): My Undercover Lover
Chapter 7 (part 2): Exceptions and Deceptions
Chapter 8: Keep Going, It’s Mindblowing
Chapter 9: Guess What I Heard, Little Bird
Chapter 10: Encore! So Much More In Store
Chapter 11 (part 1): Don’t Smirk, I Work Here, You Jerk
