Armor of My Own - Dyn Jarren (The Mandalorian)
Anonymous said:
hello! i dont know if you’re taking requests at the moment or if you have rules about what you feel comfortable writing about but in the case that this is alright for you, could you possibly write something on the mandalorian x trans male reader? maybe the emergence of feelings and the nerves that come with that from both parties??
Anonymous said:
HELLO! I seriously am in love with your work 💗 If possible and when you are not busy with other requests, could you write a Mando x Trans Male reader where dysphoria is still something prominent in the reader but the Mandalorian knows this and subtly tries his best to help out? Also trying to be subtle that he has feelings for reader?? If it’s not much to ask 😭
AN: I combined these two requests which I hope is okay. Also, I’m sorry it’s so short. I had an idea that I felt was pretty solid and I didn’t want to ruin it by stretching it out! I hope you like it!
Mandalorian culture has nothing against intimacy. In fact, before the Mandalore system fell to Maul, intimacy was encouraged. A years-long civil war had left most of Mandalore in ruin and less than half of the population they had started battle with. Some clans and tribes had been wiped out entirely, leaving scattered families to reinstate the planet’s glory.
However, the tribe that had taken in Dyn Jarren, taught nothing of intimacy. For that sect of refugee Mandalorians, their only concern was protecting the numbers they already had. So, when Dyn met you, intimacy was, for lack of a better word, difficult in navigating. It was a fumbling sort of thing that was solely based on easy touches and longing gazes. Granted, Dyn wasn’t all to blame for the stumbling dilemma.
Your own worries and self-doubt shone through at times. Whenever you got too close to Dyn, you’d freeze up. Your feelings for him would collapse under the weight of fear. What if it went too far? What if it was too soon? What if Dyn saw you, really saw you and turned away?
Such questions were hardly founded. Dyn had told you that the same questions had littered his mind when he debated taking off his helmet in front of you. You could still remember that moment, the preciousness of it. When you closed your eyes, you could see every detail of his face. From his dark eyes and hair to his soft lips and sharp jaw, you saw it all vividly.
What you remembered most of all, was what he said. He had smiled at you before taking a step dangerously close to you. You had shared the same air that day. Dyn’s breath had tickled the sensitive skin of your neck as he spoke. The words he said in that echoed in your head constantly; they rang in your mind as a reminder of your feelings for the Mandalorian.
“I don’t need armor...I feel safe around you.”
You felt safe around Dyn too, so much so that you yearned to show him the same intimacy, the same trust, he had shown to you. After a close-call, you longed to recline and share with Dyn your gratefulness of life; but something always stopped you. You had lived with that ‘something’ for years. It was a truth you strove to ignore; a part of yourself that felt as alien as the beings around you and the planets you visited.
Especially on planets like Tatooine, that foreign feeling followed you everywhere. You were soaked in sweat so much that wiping your face against your sleeve did little to nothing to dry your skin. Every inch of your body was hot and steaming under the sun. You knew it was the extra and tight layers clinging to your chest; you didn’t know how Dyn survived the heat.
“Are you alright?”
“Y-Yeah,” you panted, “I’m kriffing great.”
You heard Dyn chuckle, the sound slightly obscured by the voice modulator in his helmet. On any other planet, you would have smiled. On Tatooine, even with Mos Eisley fading in the stretches of sand behind you, you frowned. The twin suns were crippling oppressive in the heat; no wonder inhabitants only lived at the poles.
“Why did you have land so far from the port?” You knew the answer. The same question had slipped from your lips the last two times Dyn docked on Tatooine. Every time, without fail, you asked. Silence was your answer, along with a knowing look from Dyn. “Yeah, I get it.”
You and Dyn trekked through the dunes, painfully slow. With each step, you foot sank into the sand and the binder around your chest seemed to tighten. Between little gasps for breath, you swallowed the mounting dysphoria in your mind. As incognito as you thought you were, Dyn quickly picked up on your discomfort.
After years of working by your side, the Mandalorian could read your heart as easily as he could mow down a platoon of battle droids.
“I’ll land closer next time,” he said, his calm voice catching you off guard. You glanced over and studied Dyn’s helmet as if the beskar would melt for a moment, allowing you a glimpse at his expression. The intention of his words were as masked as himself. Did he know? Could he see the layered pain you worked so hard to hide?
Instead of asking anything, all you said was: “Thanks.”
You would have swallowed hard, in the hopes of suppressing the dread rising in your throat, but your mouth was much too dry. Even as the Razor Crest grew closer, that twisting feeling remained in your stomach. Escape. You needed to escape, free yourself from the confines you found yourself trapped in. That was all you wanted anyway; to be free.
“Can you?”
You pulled the towel, now damp from your sweat, away from your face to glance at Dyn. He had already peeled the heavy beskar from his arms and legs. The chest piece was still fastened around his torso. You, yourself, had chosen to keep yours on despite the continued perspiration. In more ways than one, your chest was heavy with the unseen weight of dysphoria. “Yeah,” you replied as you wiped your hands. You stepped close to where Dyn sat and the Mandalorian man lifted his gaze to meet yours.
This was an intimate as the two of you had ever gotten. The act of stripping armor was like a well-kept secret. Quietly, you untied the fastening strips and Dyn caught his chest piece as it fell into his lap. Every movement was slow, deliberate, unique in its purpose. You imagined that, when the Jedi hired sculptures for their temples, the same pace was used with chisels.
“Thank you,” Dyn said softly.
You stood up and rolled your shoulder. The sound of the joints and bones stretching was welcomed to your ears. Your body needed a break, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to undress. Instead, you watched as Dyn pushed up from under his helmet and revealed his tired face. When he looked up at you, you felt your breath catch in your throat. “Do you need-”
“No,” you turned away and busied yourself with the nearest mess. “I’m fine.”
You felt a gentle hand grasp your arm, pull you in such a way that made you face Dyn once more. In his dark eyes, you saw concern.
“You’re not,” he said flatly, “let me help you.” There was nothing subtle or hidden about his words. He knew and you now knew there could be no more secrets. You too had to shed the layers of protection, of security you had built for yourself.
“It’s time that I take off my own armor, huh?”
Dyn responded with a small, but nonetheless supportive, smile.
“Alright,” you breathed the word out slowly. On your tongue, it carried its own weight. It was time. You felt it in your bones. Trust could not survive one-sided and you trusted Dyn; if not more than he trusted you. You loved him too and that meant something to you.
All you had to do was show it.
With slightly trembling fingers, you unfastened your chest plate. The protective layer slipped from your body and into Dyn’s waiting hands. As he set your armor aside, you began to untie the top of your outer shirt. Once the top was loose, you pulled at the long sleeves covering your arms. Second, thickest layer down and you could already feel your body beginning to cool off.
“We don’t have to continue,” Dyn said, softly. You wanted to kiss him then (and Dyn wanted to kiss you) and let everything lay bare. All you could do, was shake your head.
“No, I want to.”
Your jitters fled from your fingers as you delicately pulled on the end of your undershirt. It was a thinner material than the top before and much easier to lift, even with your slowed movements. Before you could even catch up with your racing heart, you felt a draft. Night settling on Tatooine brought with it a cool breeze; one that wafted into the hull of the Razor Crest where you and Dyn stood. There you were, in your binder, in front of Dyn.
Instinct told you to hunch your shoulders to better hide your chest. But then there were your hips to worry about. There was too much you wanted to hide from Dyn but couldn’t. You wouldn’t, you thought, you wouldn’t hide from him anymore. So, you stood there trying to be as proud of yourself as you could.
It was quiet, eerily so, as Dyn took in the sight of you.
You had spent so long feeling at odds with your body, avoiding it, so now that it was exposed, you didn’t know what to think. All you knew was Dyn and his eyes, watchful and kind, as he took the sight of you in. You weren’t shy or scared, at least not anymore. You understood his quiet. When he had taken off his helmet, that first show of trust, you had been quiet too.
After a while, as the silence stretched on, nervous tension grew between you. It was that same, trembling energy you had felt since you met him. Now, the feeling had mounted a peak and there was no holding back anymore.
“I feel safe around you.”
You echoed Dyn’s words, hoping that the meaning he had bestowed in them still rang true. His dark eyes met your gaze and his unreadable expression shifted. That small smile returned and he lifted a bare hand to the side of your face.
“Mesh’la,” Dyn whispered in reply. The flow of the Mando’a language was unmistakable. Whenever Dyn used the traditional Mandalorian speech, which was rarely, you made sure that you remembered it. One day, you hoped he would teach you.
For now, you would have to wait for him to translate. You cocked your head to the side slightly, silently asking for Dyn to explain. The gesture had the added bonus of leaning your cheek into his palm. The warmth from his skin almost had you reeling.
“Beautiful,” Dyn translated, “handsome.”
While the Mandalorian did not teach intimacy and you found yourself struggling to love yourself at times, once your and Dyn’s guards were down, closeness came naturally. It was almost like you were made for one another. Every yearning glance you had sent his way and every guiding hand he had placed on your lower back all culminated into one, perfect moment. Well, almost perfect; no, it was perfect, just not flawless.
When you went in for the kiss, the kiss you had been waiting for months to have, your noses knocked together. You didn’t know where to put your hands and, in fear of setting off any dysphoria, Dyn lobbied to cup your jaw rather than risk placing them elsewhere. But all thoughts and worries about your binder faded the moment Dyn’s lips met yours. He was your perfect escape; when it came to helping you out of your armor or your shell, Dyn was there with a helping hand.
“Sorry,” Dyn murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke.
“No, no,” you shook your head and met his eyes, “don’t be. We don’t have time to be sorry. We already have to make up for the time we lost behind our masks.”
Dyn didn’t respond, at least not verbally. Instead, he pressed his lips against yours and, together, you melted away into the dwindling heat of Tatooine's twin, setting suns.