Soft!Din would definitely notice how you're walking funny after he railed you last night. He'd say nothing but offer to help you do your chores and insist on lifting anything even slightly heavy. Later that night he'd give you a relaxing massage that almost put you to sleep, until he can't help but start to let his hands wander and maybe you decide to not fall asleep just yet. When you find yourself being pulled gently onto his face a while later, you've definitely forgotten about your achy muscles from this morning. Mission accomplished 😏
um i absolutely love the balance of sexy and soft here
mando, pleaseeeee rail me into oblivion and then massage it better, and then immediately start the process over again
I wish you hands- a large, leathered hand warming the small of your back, fingers curling into your hip, pulling you closer into his unarmored softer spaces. His other free hand hovering by his blaster as he walks you carefully away from the ugliness until it was far behind you. After a glance around he brings his hand up to hold your head and press your cheek against his cowl below his helmet. Soothing caresses with the backs of his fingers down your temple and cheek. Nuzzling his neck, soaking him in, you watch your hand rise and fall with his deep breaths.
!!!!!
okay reading this is like experiencing a warm, sexy hug and EXACTLY what i needed... how i love soft, protective mando!!
i'm going to keep reading this until it's my real life
i can't thank you enough for dropping this literal perfection in my inbox, @feralhotmess!!
Hey its me! How are you? Hope your having a nice day/afternoon/night! I have yet another request if your doing them still at the moment? Basically it's another request for my favourite Space Dad, Mando, just some softness, and some kissing at sunset in a lake next to some rocks? Reader and him have had a tiring day of fighting and they just want some alone to make out? Would love it so much! Also yes, no helmet mando too! Thank you! Your awesome!❤
Hi Jess! This is long overdue… just a soft little drabble, but I hope you like it! 💕
breathe in (Din/f!reader)
Rating: T (suggestive content but it’s pretty tame)
Din loves the way you smell. Scent is something that’s been so long denied, so foreign because of the helmet restricting his senses, that every time he curls up beside you in the dark, he breathes deep. It’s a basic, animalistic response to a need he’s always had and suppressed until he could trust you. He needed to know you were real, that you weren’t going anywhere, and that you wouldn’t take more than he was willing to give you.
Now that he’s sure of all that — he’d give you anything without a moment’s hesitation. Anything you asked for.
Today’s bounty put up more of a fight than usual, and you feel bruised, limping slightly as you slam the button to freeze them in carbonite.
Din sees the energy drain out of you just as you go to take a step, and he catches you as you collapse into his arms.
“Cyar’ika,” he whispers, flicking the release on his helmet as soon as the two of you are alone. “Are you injured?”
He examines you carefully, bending limbs and feeling along your body for signs of damage. You feel like a rag doll in his arms, secure and relaxed.
“I’ll—I’ll be okay. That was brutal, though. I just need to rest for a little while.”
Din nods. You look up at him, taking in the sight of his sweet, unguarded face. He’s spent so many years under the helmet that his emotions are bare; exposed. Lines of concern between his eyebrows and a slight pout highlight his disbelief.
“Really, I’m okay,” you add, in what’s meant to be a convincing tone but is undercut slightly by a wince of pain as he touches your shoulder.
“Rest now,” Din says, helping you into the bunk. “I’ll put in the coordinates for our next stop.”
You gingerly climb under the blanket, drifting off in minutes as the rush of hyperspace lulls you to sleep.
When you wake, you realize the Crest has stopped.
A pair of dark, curious eyes are staring at you from a hammock above the bunk.
“Hey, little guy,” you say sleepily.
“Eh?” He coos in response. You hear Din coming down the ladder.
“We can’t be there yet,” you say. “Unless I slept much longer than I realized.”
“Made a stop,” Din says. He’s never been one to waste words unnecessarily. “Come on, you’re gonna like it.”
An unscheduled stop is unlike him, and it piques your curiosity. You shift out of the bunk, and Din reaches for the kid, resting him in the pouch slung low around his body. He’s got his helmet back on, and he presses the button to lower the ramp, the hatch dropping to the ground below.
As the door opens, you’re left breathless by the view. Green fields and trees stretch as far as you can see, and you can hear water rushing nearby. A river, calm and steady, flows south toward the sunset.
There’s not a soul around, and Din unlatches his helmet, brushing a hand through the short waves at the top of his head.
He takes your hand in his gloved one, and the kid clambers out of the pouch, spotting a frog to chase. Din leads you to a wide, smooth rock and sits down, patting the space next to him.
You take a seat and look around.
“Does anyone live here?” You ask, puzzled that such a beautiful place would be so desolate. Twin suns sit low in the sky.
Din puts an arm around you.
“There are a few small settlements, but none near this spot. Best kept secret in the Outer Rim,” he whispers.
You nod, closing your eyes.
“It even smells good here,” you whisper, resting against his shoulder.
“Smells like your hair,” he says, and you look up at him.
“Really?” You ask, cheeks heating up.
He chuckles, a warm, low rumble in his chest.
“When you get out of the fresher and into the bunk with me,” he says. “You smell so fresh and sweet. This is the only place that comes close,” he adds.
You turn then to kiss him, and he seems almost surprised, eyebrows arching as you lean on him, sinking your fingers into his hair. He returns the kiss, pulling you into his lap and wrapping his hands around your body, cradling you close.
He reaches up to cup your face, deepening the kiss and making you whimper softly as he licks along the seam of your lips, mimicking what he does to other parts of you when you’re alone.
Then again, you are alone now.
“Patu?”
Okay, almost alone.
You and Din laugh softly, pulling apart as the kid approaches, a frog clutched in his tiny green hand.
“Nice going, kid,” he says, and the little guy crams the frog into his mouth, swallowing it almost whole and burping loudly.
Din leans down and rubs his nose against yours.
“Too bad we can’t bottle this place and take it with us,” you say wistfully.
Din smiles.
“I beg to differ,” he says, rubbing your back. “I think we already have.”
Tags: Fluff, bedsharing, a little bit of self doubt, soft!din
Summary: You’re the child’s caretaker and have begun to develop feelings for your traveling companion, you suspect the feeling is mutual
AN: Originally posted on AO3 in November 2020.
Sitting up in your bunk, the metal of the wall no longer feeling cold against your skin from touching it for so long. Your eyes just beginning to feel tired and droopy while reading your book. You weren’t exactly waiting up for him... but you weren’t not waiting for him.
The last few months, your relationship with your Mandalorian traveling companion had shifted. He originally hired you to help care for his foundling son, but that was over a year ago. Living and working in such close proximity to someone, you get to talking. You felt close to him, trusted him, even loved him... though you hadn’t actually said those words out loud yet. Deep down you knew he felt the same, or at least close to the same. He looked out for you, tried his best to show his appreciation, and at times could be incredibly vulnerable with you.
Not too long ago, something had changed. He had been recruited to do a job for a pretty good price. But it involved using the ship, so together the two of you chose a relatively safe planet with a stable village for you and the child to stay while he finished the job. This wasn’t abnormal, but the village you normally stayed in while he worked was too far out of the way, so this was a new village you had never been to. But he swore up and down this was a safe place, you trusted his judgement and accepted the plan.
The village was lovely, the people were kind and welcoming, and the innkeeper you were staying with was just the sweetest woman you’d ever met. With all her children grown and moved away, she was thrilled to spend time with you and your little green foundling. You enjoyed the four days spent walking around the village, playing with the baby in the tall grasses, sleeping in, wearing your one nicer dress that was impractical for your everyday life, and helping your lovely host cook meals at night.
On the fourth night, the dinner plates had been cleared, bid goodnight to your host, and taken the baby upstairs to the room you were renting. It was a warm night, so you stood near the open window cradling the child against your chest, humming quietly and swaying gently. You knew this little vacation of sorts would be over soon, you relished in the little things. The fresh air, the sound of the bugs outside, the feeling of wood floors beneath your feet and the frilly edge of your day dress tickling your ankles.
Unexpectedly the door creaked opened behind you. You whipped around, clutching the baby closer and taking a step back instinctively.
He stood in the doorway, beskar gleaming in the moonlight. Your body relaxed, thankful he had returned. He approached slowly, careful not to make too much noise.
Then he did something you were not expecting. He came to stand directly in front of you, to the point where it was not wearing his helmet you were sure you’d be able to feel his breath across your cheeks. He reached out, placing his hands on your hips snaking around to your low back, pulling you in ever closer. Without a word his head dropped down, and touched your forehead.
You heart fluttered in your chest. This was very unlike him. In quiet moments he had merely accepted your gentle squeezes of the shoulder or hand for comfort, but he was never one to instigate. This was different, his grip was firm and grounding. You had never felt so close to him before. That was the first time he had done that. Shown such outward affection and appreciation.
You wanted to ask him where this was coming from. What happened on the job? What did it mean? But you didn’t. Not that night, and not anytime it happened afterward.
He started do it more often. Silently holding you, pressing his helmet to your forehead. Or from behind, resting his head on your shoulder and arms around your hips.
Surely you thought, he must feel the same way you do about him. These tender moments of closeness all at his initiation, were becoming more and more frequent. In just the last week he had been sitting up with you at night. He would remove most of his armor not his boots, gloves or helmet; and hold you close as you fell asleep. Sometimes talking to you quietly
but mostly he just listened to your breathing, and traced patterns on your skin. He never stayed after you fell asleep. He’d release you carefully onto the cot, pull the blanket up and leave you to rest.
But tonight, you sat up reading your book. The baby sleeping in his pram just outside your bunk, just in case he woke up. Mando, or rather Din as he recently asked you to call him, was due to return to the ship late tonight after meeting with some backwater gangster for information. You were just about to give in and turn out the light, when you heard the hull door opening and can see the stars in the sky as it opens.
Din comes inside, pressing the “close door” button on the control panel. He can see you in the bunk, but doesn’t say anything just yet. He removes his weapons, and stows them all accordingly. Then he begins removing his armor piece by piece. The sight of it is oddly calming. He takes such care with each piece, and places them in a small box on top of one of the secured cargo crates that functions as a counter in the hull. When he’s finished he comes over the the foot of the bunk, clearly gazing down at his sleeping son.
“You’re up late” he says. A benign statement, but begging for an explanation.
“Wanted to make sure you got back okay,” you replied, closing your book and tucking it away. His head turns to you. He seems agitated, or at least unhappy...
He crawls into the very cramped bunk space, and you move to allow him more room to get comfortable. When you’re settled his his arms you decide to ask him.
“Something’s wrong,” you say in a quiet voice. He sighs deeply, but doesn’t respond. You press him further “talk to me”
“It’s wrong” he finally says “It’s wrong of me to put you through all this,”
That is not what you were expecting him to say.
“I hired you to help take care of the kid. I shouldn’t even be doing this to him. Dragging you both around the galaxy. I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore,” he stops abruptly. And you’re suddenly aware how tightly he’s holding you. “You deserve so much more than this life. And so does he,”
Your hand slides up from its place on his chest, to rest on the side of his helmet.
“He’s alive because of you. He is free from those monsters, because of you. He’s getting to travel and see things most people never see. And he learning from you, and me all the people we meet every single day,” you tell him. “And I chose this. I chose him. I choose this life everyday. I choose you,”
The words are hanging on your lips, but you can’t muster up the courage to say them. So you wait, locked in his embrace.
He disengages one of his arms from you to reach over your head and turn out the light. The compartment door slides closed automatically. This is new, you’ve laid together this way in the bunk before but never with the door closed and never in the pitch darkness.
A hissing sound fills the small space, and you realize what’s happening. You’re about to protest, question his creed, something- when it happens.
His forehead, not his helmet, but his actual flesh brushes yours. You’re struck by how warm he is, and you let out a little gasp. His head tilts down, and you feel soft full lips pressed to yours.
You melt into his kiss, and feel yourself let go of every outside thought. He is gentle but persistent in his kisses, which he now begins to trail up your cheek towards the sensitive spot between your ear and your neck. He stops just there, leaving your breathless and truth be told a little overwhelmed.
“I have never felt this way about anything,” he says in a hushed tone. His voice is remarkably unchanged without the modulator, perhaps a bit smoother. His kisses continue coming back towards your lips. And you can’t think of a damn thing to say, so you kiss him back. When he finally breaks away to catch his breath, you pull away slightly.
“I love you” the words come out with an exhale and smile he can’t see “I don’t even want to imagine a life without you, or the kid”
Your words comforted Din, and he gave a low chuckle pulling you back closer for one more kiss. He pulls away once more, but kisses you again on the forehead.
“Sleep,” he whispers, beginning his process of tracing patterns on your back. As you drift off in his arms, you can’t help the sleepy smile plastered on your face.
A/N: A drabble request by @14mcmd1122 as part of the 200+Follower Mixer
This lives within the world of Losing My Religion with the pairing of Din x f!reader (aka Little Bird)
Character: Din (specifically LMR soft Din)
Word: Dance
__________________
“This shouldn’t be any different than sparring. Or when I showed you the Darksaber tricks. Just follow.” You hold Din close to you, willing his muscles to slacken a little, for his body to shadow yours as you try to sway him back and forth with you. It’s like the beskar has seeped into his body, reinforced his bones and left him without joints. “Din. You can’t possibly be this hopeless.”
His eyebrows twitch and his jaw ticks a little. He’s clearly uncomfortable. He does tries to move with you, unsuccessfully, his arms becoming more awkwardly rigid around you. “I just don’t...see the point.”
“There’s not really a point to dancing. There’s just--” you look into his eyes and press yourself tighter against him as you force him to sway, “moving together. Letting the music make you feel things. Letting your body tell you what to do.”
You’d pulled up a holochannel on the control panel, yanking him to his feet in the tiny open space between the cockpit seats, the stars streaking out above you as something sweet and sad from some pleasure planet crooned out from the speakers.
His sigh is less out of frustration and more out of disappointment in himself for not being something you needed. “I’m a fighter, little bird.”
“I know. But the way you fight, the control you have…. It’s almost like you need a weapon or an adversary t-- Oh.”
“What.”
You grab his hips and press yours flush to his. “Counter.” Pushing one of you hips forward into him, he counters by pushing it back with his. It’s perfunctory, but it’s a start. “Again.” You try the other side. “Good. Now slow it down. Counter as if...you’re underwater. Or like you’re trying to slow the counter down to get a good analysis of the formation.”
You’re able to get him to relax a little, one hip and then the other, over and over, slow, until it becomes almost trancelike, until his hands slide down your sides and he’s caught up in the space where your bodies meet.
“Keep that up. Now,” you up the ante pressing your chest against him, wrapping your arms around his back, “let me think I have the advantage, but don’t allow me to gain ground.” When you move one shoulder against him, he slowly takes your momentum and circles it back around.
Beautiful. It’s just about speaking his language, and letting him know you trust him to be what you need. It’s about moving your fingertips over his back to calm him with touch as you guide him through the stratagem. You’ve got him in a good, slow, grinding sway, he’s instinctually following the tempo of the music, everything seems to be ready for the final maneuver.
But when you look up to give the order, he’s got that look in his eyes, the one that tells you he’s finally getting the point.
“Hey there, Captain,” you whisper, watching his eyes flick between yours, yearning, standing by for your command, “you ready to take the field? Gentle advance.” Holy stars, his feet start moving perfectly, just enough to allow him to direct you with his body, a give and take of surge and counter, but letting him lead--or, rather, letting him win. Now that he’s got the basic maneuvers down, he concentrates on finding the curves in your defensive line, pushing back your fronting forces, gradually taking ground without loss to his own numbers. As a voice lilts over the channel, singing the battle cry of love and longing and never letting go, he continues gently invading. He knows the war so well now he can lay siege with his eyes closed and his lips on yours.
Pairing: Post Season 2 Din Djarin x force sensitive reader (fem, post-Order 66 Jedi). Soft, slow burn on both sides, internal struggles and feels. Alternating POV.
Warnings: Non-explicit sex (P&V, consensually non-protected). Disgusting levels of love and admiration, yearning, fluff. Very little plot, just a barfing of emotional sludge.
A/N: Usually the land of no apologies, I can’t in good conscience do that here. I am super sorry for this. I didn’t keep anyone else in mind but my own needs and wants and have found myself to be a very selfish writer. Every single scene is overly indulgent and I just got addicted to the serotonin-addled goo. Don’t look at me, I’m hideous in my hedonistic tendencies.
Summary: You and Din experience a synthesis, in more ways than one.
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MASTERLIST - LMR MASTERLIST
←-Previous Chapter 10: The Deception
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PART 1: DIN DJARIN
Your heartbeat will pound in Din’s ear as he lays his head against your breast, sticking to you as the sweat from your bodies seal your skin to each other in a warm afterglow. But otherwise his mind will be blissfully quiet. He will match his breathing to yours, fingers still entangled in yours, legs lost among your own. He will feel an ache in his chest that will grip him so exquisitely, an ache he has only felt a small number of times in his life--the loss of his parents, laying his benefactor in the traditional unmarked grave of his Tribe, the Night of a Thousand Tears, and most recently, giving up his foundling to another guardian. But this time, the ache that will take hold in him and sting his eyes in agony won’t be tinged with grief, can’t become grief unless loss is someday added to it.
You will shift under him, try to slide away, and he will unwind his fingers from yours and cage your body with his limbs against the bunk. He will press his head heavier on your chest, anchoring you to the bottom of his deep ocean with him. And he will murmur, “No.”
“I can’t go far,” you will grin and whisper. You will put your face in his hair and breathe your words against him, “I just want to go to the refresher and clean myself up a little. You can come too, if you want.”
“No,” he will breathe. “Stay.”
Softly, so softly, you will laugh and he will watch your tummy twitch with it. He will play back your voice in his mind from only moments ago--not so soft then--how you called his name, made it into hymn, used it to beg him to follow you into euphoria, and it will cause the ache to pulse brighter within him. You will graze your hand up and down his back and kiss his hair. You will hum a content sigh and he will hear it wash around your heartbeat, feel it resonate against his cheek. “You’re holding me prisoner? Gonna claim that bounty for your own? I’m pretty sure I just proved I’m worth more to you as a consort than as a reward.”
“I don’t need the credits. Just a few minutes.” He will feel himself stirring again, awakening against your scarred thigh as you trade taunts.
You will feel it too. “Don’t sell yourself short. I think it’s going to be longer than that.”
He will breathe long and he will smile against you. He will inhale you and know your scent as home.
“Yeah. Probably.”
________________
The Mandalorian paces around the outer rim of the cavern, looking for...something. What was it you said? Pinpoints of light? He switches through the helmet scopes, hoping one of them will reveal something that helps you. Maybe these crystals give off heat or magnetic signatures or something. He doesn’t know much about this Jedi stuff. Maybe it will be like Grogu setting off the magic seeing rock. Something in you will just switch on and the whole place will light up. He glances over to the center of the space where you sit straight-backed with your eyes closed, a glowing kyber hovering in the air before you, illuminating your calm face in a dim glow.
After you’d sat and meditated a long while in the dark with no result, he’d watched you disassemble your laser sword to get at the crystal inside, using your powers to light it up somehow. Something about it maybe amplifying your Force? Creating a resonance with any crystals that might be in the cave? That if there were any present, you might see some small white light. He doesn’t understand it, but trusts that you do.
How about the beamlight. If they’re crystals, they should reflect, right?
“Turn it off, please.” Your eyes remain closed and he’s a hundred feet away. And behind you. No way you see that.
He’s not sure exactly what unnerves him about your powers--yours and Grogu’s, Ahsoka’s and Luke’s. He only knows what he can see and hear. Even if it’s filtered or scoped, that’s more...real? Empirical. But what you can do, the things you feel and just...know… Maybe “unnerves” is too strong. “Bewilders?” “Mystifies?” It throws him off. But it usually mellows out to wonder and reverence. You’re talented and powerful and he’s unsure how to meet you in it. You...captivate him.
He sighs, punching the switch with half-irritation, plunging the cave into darkness outside the colored light hanging near you like a festival lantern.
“I know you’re trying to help. But maybe you could just wait outside?” Your voice echoes lyrically down through the deeps of the far cavern corners, feeding into the mystical atmosphere, doubling down on his odd captivation.
“No,” he grumbles, “I don’t know what’s living in here. I’m not leaving you alone in the dark.”
“You make it sound like I can’t take care of myself, Captain. You gonna make sure I don't get carried off by womp rats?”
“You’re still not steady on that leg. And you’ve taken your weapon apart.”
“Hm. I see how it is.” You call back over your shoulder. “Then at least come here and sit next to me. When you’re pacing around my senses keep getting distracted and seeking you out.”
He doesn’t have to be asked twice for any request to be closer to you and takes a seat on a cropping nearby, watching your chest smoothly rise and fall. “This where you want me?”
“Well, to be honest,” you smirk with eyes closed, “the bunk would be more comfortable. At least the first time.” The crystal flickers sporadically, ripping your concentration back through the stone. “There.”
There what? As you struggle to stand he instinctively moves to assist. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he supports you as you move toward the back of the damp cavern, as you push the glowing stone ahead of you, still slightly limping from your recent injury. You’re hyper focused on a patch of wall and upon reaching it, you probe at two tiny jagged outcroppings, laying a hand on each for a moment before they crumble free. Then your crystal dims dark, sinking the cave into complete blackness this time.
Through his thermal sensors you are the only thing he sees, a riot of colors, warmest at your head and heart and belly, your fingers cooler as they roll the two small stones around in your palm. When you turn your gaze up to him, your face is a topographical map of places he’d like his lips to visit, your own mouth burning bright with heat, soft and wet and inviting.
“Can you see them?”
Din barely hears you. “Hm?’
“The kybers. Can you see them shining?”
Oh. The rocks. “Not on the thermals. Wait...” With all scopes off there’s only a void. “No. I can’t see anything.”
“Blast.”
“Am I...supposed to?”
“They’re just really weak. I can barely see the glow in them, but that might just be my sensitivity. If you can’t see them at all, then…. Blast.”
You’re quiet long enough that he goes back to his thermal scopes to find you with your head hanging. A patient defeat, a warrior’s frustration.
“Hey.” He touches your shoulder. Winds his fingers under and around your jaw to cradle your cheek. “We’ll try another cave.”
“This is the third one already.”
“We’ll try another cave.”
You nod, pressing your cheek further into his palm. “It’s just… there should be more here. Zoph was the main source for generations. The only reason the Order switched to Ilum was because those crystals are a little more stable. It’s not like they mined the place down; there should still be plenty of deposits here.”
“One more try. If we don’t find any there, I’ll take you to Ilum.”
Your huff warms the palm of his glove. “I don’t think you want to go there. It’s on the exact opposite side of the galaxy.”
“That’s fine.”
“You’re sweet. But. Getting there would be the easy part. You ever hear of the Death Star?”
“Sure.”
“Where do you think they mined the crystals for the laser? Ilum is a ruin from what I hear. They tore down the temple, stripped it bare, gouged a trench around the belly of the planet, and gutted its heart. I can’t think of anywhere that’s more likely to have residual Imperial presence. Or make me more sick to my stomach.”
The thermal setting is sensitive enough to pick up a tear sliding down your cheek. Nope. No. Not acceptable. He brings you into his chest and, slipping the helmet off, buries his face in your hair. Is this comforting? Din never knows if he’s doing this right, accepted that he lives in continual insecurity with you about how to be what you need. He just knows that whenever you show tears--even from the first day he met you--he needs to do whatever he can to stop whatever is hurting you, and if he can’t do that, at least he can let you know he wants to try. “We’ll try another cave. And then another if we have to.”
There’s a faint glimmer in the darkness below him, a dim white radiance just beyond his sight. “What’s that.” He reluctantly pulls back a little, reaching out to find your hand, opening your palm to show two dim spots of white light. The crystals.
“So you can see them.”
“Yeah. Huh.”
“Maybe...it's the helmet?”
“I turned the scopes off. These are bright enough that I should have seen them through the visor in the dark.”
Your face is just barely visible in the soft glow of the tiny kybers, the light glinting in your hair and showing a growing hope in your sparkling eyes. “They’re tricky things. They’re responsive to truth and openness. Master Yoda used to say that sometimes you have to look with your own eyes unobstructed to see the light in the darkness. Looks like your helmet doesn’t have a setting for Force wisdom.”
“Okay. So that’s two. You need more?”
“Let’s see what these can do.”
________________
In the time that you’ve spent combing through the bag of parts you collected on Nevarro and assembling makeshift sabers, Din’s managed to get all of his weapons cleaned, repair a hole in one of his flight tops, and prep a meal. He has to physically lift a half-finished hilt out of your hands after he sits down behind you on the floor, framing you with his knees and providing his chest as a seatback for you. “You have to eat.”
“I will. I’m almost--” you reach out, trying to snatch back your work, “I just want to finish--”
But he stows it behind his back. “You’ve been at it for hours. Just take a few minutes. You can finish when you’ve eaten.”
You lean back into him petulantly, with a huff. “As your highness wishes.”
“Hey.” He reaches around you to put the plate in your hands, letting your mood roll off him, not taking it personally. “You’ll concentrate better if you eat.”
Your second huff is a mix of disdain and gratitude as you dig in, but your eyes are glassy as you chew. You’re not really here. Din’s never seen you go inward like you have in the past few days and he’s trying to bring you back out. The events on Kessel shook you--left a mark deeper than the one on your thigh--and he doesn’t know how to make you feel safe again. What he can give you is time and closeness. You soften when you’re touched and held. That’s easy enough for him to do. If he knew the right things to say, he’d have said them already, but he’s not as good with words as you are.
When you’ve had enough, you abandon your utensil on the plate, your head finding its home in his neck. A little food has done you good, calmed you. “I feel you...caring.”
He starts scraping a pile, finishing the plate for you. “I don’t really have a choice. I can tell you’re scared.”
“Not scared as much as... helpless. With a bounty on my head, I can’t go home. I can’t stay on Ajan Kloss and risk someone tracking me there and finding Luke and the kids--”
“You stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah? What am I supposed to do while you hunt? Stay on the ship? That didn’t work out so well last time.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He reaches back and brings out the in-process saber hilt. “Show me what’s going on here.”
There’s less of a frenzied obsession now that you’ve eaten, now that you’ve talked through your fear and you know he’s here for you. He observes over your shoulder as he eats, how the tiny crystal floats in the air to the resistor, how the pieces spin together under your will. He’s never going to get tired of watching you move things with your mind, trying to hash out how much longer it would take him to twist all those parts individually with his hands.
“Well, here goes nothing.” With a wishful inhale, you depress the switch and a short, white shaft appears from the hilt. At first it’s a triumph. Unfortunately, the triumph doesn’t last. It isn’t as substantial as your sword or the Darksaber; the blade constantly sputters and shifts in and out of existence, getting more unstable the longer it’s on.
“Well, kriff,” a bitter groan comes out of you as you switch it off. “I can’t do this without good kyber.”
“I’ve got one you can have.”
This gets a little sparkle out of you as you splutter out a stupefied laugh and gently jab an elbow back into him. “You can’t shirk your ascension that easily, Mand’alor.”
That’s better. You’re coming around. “I’m serious. You can have it. I don’t want it.”
“I’m not going to take the kyber out of the Darksaber and put it in a training saber for kids!”
“I don’t know. Grogu could handle it. He might take an ear off first, but he learns quick.”
It starts as a giggle. You try to suppress it, but the dry joke is too much and it’s busting out of you with a snort and a gasp of a guffaw before you’re in full-on, head-thrown-back, full-throated laughter, something that’s been curled up asleep inside you and needed to get out to stretch. It’s contagious and his cheeks take on an ache just from the pleasure of seeing you smile again.
“But why not?” he chuckles in concert with you as you calm down. “Why don’t we just take the thing apart? We both get what we need.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
It drifts you back into a moody quiet. You’re still for long enough that he’s about to make another crack about Grogu, but you begin to slowly place parts and pieces back into your bag one by one. Then he watches silently as you stand and lightly lift the empty plate from him, moving to clean up the remnants of meal prep.
When you answer, you do so with your back turned, in a voice so low it enters his heart before his ears. “Because it’s the Darksaber, Din. It has a legacy. If you don’t care about the Jedi half of it, you should at least respect the Mandalorian part of its history. How would you feel if I asked you to just melt your armor down?”
Brutal realization slams down hard upon him.
You know so much about his culture, and not just his faction of it. You understand subcultures and societal history, in some ways you know more than he does. Kriff, you can even speak some of the language. And all he’s done in return is sit back on his bewildered heels when it’s come to you and your ways. He’s balked at terminology and backed off when things got too mystical for him. Why? Because he has no chance at mastering it? Pathetic. Your Force is just as real as his weaponry, he’s seen you wield it. Damn. Damn damn damn. He’s...disrespected you. Hasn’t tried hard enough. You deserve better than that. Kriff.
He can start to fix this.
“Show me how to use it.”
Turning gradually, your eyes transforming from disbelief to expectation, you have to work against a dry throat. “What?”
“You said it has tricks. Show me.”
__________________
“The Jedi were snobs about their lightsabers. I mean, to be honest, they work seamlessly with Force sensitivity, so don’t judge too harshly. But really, anyone with basic sword skills can wield them. Would you, by any chance, happen to know anything about weapons at all or have any sword skills, Captain?”
Rather than guiding his hand, you’ve spun yourself around into him, his breastplate against your back, his grip around yours on the hilt of the humming weapon, following your swing with his body as yours. His other arm is around your middle, helping to support you on your still-healing leg. In response to your sass, he pokes your flank, getting a yip and a twitch out of you.
“I dabble.”
There’s no sunlight on Zoph, nothing but a dim star in the distance radiating a ghost light down on the white clay ground. It’s enough to throw long shadows, and the melancholy landscape pairs itself with the haunting void of the Darksaber. It doesn’t exactly throw off light as much as a glow, softly illuminating your nose and eyelashes, your eyebrows set in determination as you grip the hilt. Din’s trying to take this seriously. He does care. But with you so close to him and holding a weapon, he’s also unsurprisingly infatuated and doing his best to keep it in check.
“The two unique attack techniques are the pierce and the flat swing. Obviously, you can hack and slash all you want and do a lot of damage, but a pierce,” you hitch back slightly before executing a sharp jab and the blade spasms, giving it a split second of barbed blade, “will gouge more violently. It’s good for getting through armor and bulkheads quickly. Leaves a big mess though.” Your arm swings out wide to the side, holding the blade perpendicular to the plane of your body as he shadows his being to yours. “The flat swing is just that,” you turn your wrist and palm downward, blade parallel to the ground, then swing it across leading with force from your shoulder in a wave to your wrist, causing the blade to pancake out into a flat blur. “It flattens the girth, creates less resistance and a faster, cleaner cut.”
When you step away and leave the saber in his hand he’s able to execute both of these easily, experimenting with the force of the jab, the width of the swing. Just by superior force alone he can get more and sharper barbs out of the pierce than you, a wider, razor thin blade off the swing.
After a few minutes of perfecting the swings and getting muscle memory in, he turns to find you watching him, your lips parted, hand clutching the fabric at your heart.
Looks like he’s not the only one with an infatuation.
“Does yours do this?”
“No.” You rip your eyes away from him and unhook your saber from your belt. A brighter light illuminates your face as you extend your blade, putting your weight into your better leg and giving it a whip slice through the air. “They’ll flatten a little, but not like that one. And they certainly don’t barb. The Darksaber was made by a Mandalorian. And you folk are a touch more...brutal than some.”
“What are you saying.”
“Jedi consider themselves to be elegant. Anything less is barbaric.”
He lets the visor give you his thoughts on this.
You smile. “The Order meant that as an insult. I don’t.”
“I’m supposed to take it another way?”
“Use your imagination.”
The visor almost tilts by itself. “You like this.”
You tuck your smile into your shoulder for a second before coming back to thinly-veiled control. “Something else you should know. Block.” You take a limping step forward and swing your weapon down at him, controlling the landing on the raised Darksaber.
The two weapons sizzle and whine against each other. But right at the moment they come together, he notices a slight pull. “Wait.” He retracts and then slowly brings his blade to yours, feeling them jump toward each other. “They’re--”
“So that bad boy can cut through anything except beskar and other lightsabers,” you hold steady as he tests the magnetic-like pull a few times, testing its limits. “If anyone’s going to come after you, they’re going to have to use one of those two things to stand up to you. If it’s a lightsaber, this is how the Darksaber reacts.”
Because you’re unarmed and unsteady, he pulls a few sparring-form swings on you, allowing the maximum safety but testing the best way to use the added momentum.
At one point you wobble and he uses the Darksaber to push your blade away so he can reach out to catch you by the arm. “Okay. I think we’re done here.”
“One more thing,” sheathing your blade, you topple against him. “If you want to add power to the weapon, it will react to heightened emotional states.”
“I don’t fight like that.”
“I assumed. I’m just giving you the knowledge and if you use it, you use it. If you can’t, you can’t. Look at the blade. Think about something that made you angry. Or pushed at your code.”
“Like what.”
“I don’t know. Like Salo telling you he was going to take your beskar and kill you.”
He tries to remember the feeling of being backed into that corner. The blade flickers.
“That’s what you’re looking for!” you encourage. “Push that feeling into it.”
He doesn’t know exactly what you mean, but he tries anyway. It flickers again, but dims just as quickly. “I’m not a Jedi. I can’t push the Force around like you.”
“No, I know, but I think you’ve actually got something here. Just...how about when Gideon blew up your first ship...”
Another flicker.
“...when he took Grogu away from you--”
A flare. The blade sends a few electric crackles up its length, bright white. You gasp against him.
Din turns the hilt in his hand, not quite believing what just happened. “Was that you, or--”
“No, it’s all you! Grogu.” Another bright flare. “That’s… huh. It works differently for you. Interesting.”
“What does that--”
But before he can finish the question, your hands are on the helmet. “Let me try something?”
He nods in assent and you lift, placing a deep kiss onto his mouth before whispering against it, “Ni akarya'a at gar.”
I am yours. I belong to you.
The Darksaber kicks in his hand, blazing with an electric looking current up and down its length. You both watch it hum and spark, he can feel it almost vibrating in his hand as much as your words vibrate through his being.
“Din Djarin,” you breathe. “I think you love me.”
He watches the blade pulse and swirl, charged with power, almost writhing like a living thing in his grip. If he knew it could do this…. He only meant to cheer you up, didn’t realize that making the effort to know more could result in revealing the most dangerous melee weapon in his locker. Dank ferrik. Lesson learned. No wonder you find this thing so fascinating, he can barely bring himself to look away. When he finally sheathes the blade to reunite with your face shining up through the dim glow, he’s realized with some reverence how much you’ve taught him tonight.
He nods. “Yeah. Of course I do.”
________________
He has to help you up the ramp and to a seat on the bunk before closing up the ship and stowing the Darksaber back in the weapons locker.
You hum from your perch. “You should add it to your belt. Use it more often.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”
“I just mean, not only for practice. But if you really don’t want it, and you run around using it, maybe someone will defeat you and then it’s off your hands.”
“That would mean someone would have to beat me.” You roll your eyes at his hubris, overly dramatic, reeling you backward onto the bunk with a flop. It pulls a scoff out of him and the corners of his mouth curl. “Maybe I’m re-thinking. Maybe I should keep it. It’s mine now.”
Once it’s stowed, he works on peeling off a few layers. There’s no population density here, but there’s also no cover and the Crest is out in the open with you in potential danger. He’s been keeping most of the armor on when he sleeps here, just in case. Knows you’re not happy about it. But you haven’t complained.
“It’s not yours.”
“Hmm?” One of his gloves has a weak finger seam. Gonna have to fix that.
“The Darksaber isn’t yours, Din. It isn’t anybody’s.”
There’s a gravity in you that stops him, brings his focus to a meaningful gaze between you. It’s enough to make him abandon his task and come sit beside you as you lay on the bunk, taking his hand and speaking up at him. You’ve got more to teach him and he’s learned to listen now.
“The Darksaber is a piece of history. You’re really just its carrier through this part of its journey. It belongs to legacy, and you’re part of that legacy. To win it is to be strong. That is its Mandalorian legacy. To wield it is to practice the search for wisdom. That’s the Jedi history, and now you have a little bit of that in you too. I know you’re not exactly happy about it. But I, for one, think it fell into capable hands.”
He’s starting to feel the importance through you. Not just its legend, not the symbolic trophy Bo Katan made it out to be. Somehow, the weight isn’t so heavy when you help him like this, when he understands it better and he’s not just shouldering a society’s expectations blindly by himself. Especially when it makes you look at him with pride not just for who he is, but how he’s learning to honor you.
He’s ready to know more.
“You want to try another cave tomorrow?”
His heart falls as you close your eyes and groan in defeat. “I’m starting to give up hope. Maybe we should go to Ilum. Or see if we can go negotiate with the locals on Christophsis. Although we’d probably have as much luck hanging out at Black Spire waiting for a smuggler to show up with something for trade. I’d suggest just going to the source for kimber stones and call it good, but those Yevetha are mean. I’m sorry. I really thought it would be easiest to find them here.” Din reaches over to smooth your hair, stroke your cheek. “Mmm. I don’t suppose you know anyone with a krayt dragon pearl they’d want to part with.”
“A krayt dragon pearl.”
“Yeah. Krayts can form these deposits in their guts if they eat kyber--”
“Those can be used for lightsabers?”
“Well, they sound different, but they work. They’re extremely rare, though.” You open an eye to him when you notice his hand has stopped mid-caress. “Why?”
“You ever been to Tatooine?”
________________
PART 2: YOU
“I want you to shut the panel and stay put, little bird. This might...get ugly.”
Din slipped the helmet on and started the dethaw process on Yilga’s carbonite container.
Normally you’d protest, wouldn’t want to be shut out, but you were still exhausted from the fight and the bacta, from piloting the Crest and waiting anxiously for Din to return from selling the Starless--didn’t like being alone so soon. Din had been wrapped around you all night, but you’d still had trouble sleeping, still had dreams of his death, still felt the echo of that dark thing in your heart. With a little effort, you’re able to slide yourself back into his old bunk and press the panel button, locking you into a little durasteel world.
How in the galaxy did that broad man stand to sleep in that little hatch? And with all that armor on all the time? You were suddenly grateful for your shared bunk; especially the soft padding, because his cot was ridiculously uncomfortable.
The bulkhead dampened most of the sound, but he was right, it did get ugly. Yilga cursed and wailed and screamed like a wet lothcat and you were pretty sure at one point Din might have been using brute force or death threats to get her to talk. You barely heard his voice in all of this. He was most likely more threatening the quieter he got. You assumed. You’ve never been on the receiving end of his wrath.
When the panel opened to his soft and caring face, he scooped you up and carried you back to your own recovery bed, past a pile of black and burgundy beskar and a woman caught mid-scream in a carbonite frame.
“She confirmed Karga’s information,” he sighed, setting you down gently before going to slot Yilga into her storage space. “We’re going to have to fly low for a while, I need you to stay close. She didn’t have any names, which means the bounty was put out by someone who doesn’t want to be traced. That’s...not good. But I don’t want you to worry. Karga’s working on a counterfeit code for you. That’ll help some. As long as we stay out of ports and you don’t have to run your chain before that, we should be okay.”
You trusted him to handle it at the time. It was too much to process and you just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, to not care and not hurt for a while. You were just aware enough to feel a blanket being pulled up around you and a gloved finger dragging your hair behind your ear.
Otherwise, the next thing you remember was waking up on Zoph.
________________
“Must be a busy port. I thought we were staying out of ports.” If you’ve been here before, you sure don’t remember it, it looks just like every other moisture-lack planet that you have trouble understanding people choosing to live on. Tatooine is a big, beige, two-sun dustball heat-shimmering beneath the orbiting Crest. An orbit you’ve been in for over an hour now. “Can’t we just set down somewhere and wait?”
“This is a Jawa homeworld. If I set the Crest down outside of a port it’ll bring trouble.” Din flips a few switches on the cockpit panel, re-sending the hail. “It’s not busy. I’m just waiting for a particular bay to open. The mechanic there won’t run a code on you.”
As if on cue, the comm snaps to life. “This is Mos Eisley tower to Razor Crest. Requested bay three-five is open and awaiting your vessel.”
“Copy that. Locked in for three-five.”
Din’s landings are always impressively smooth for someone who doesn’t run a mech droid, and the mechanic here must feel confident enough in his skills to come out into the bay while he sets down. Apparently, they’re pretty friendly; she’s already calling out as the ramp opens.
“If you’re going to get another ship, why in the galaxy would you go after another skragging Crest? You should have come to me! I could have gotten you something automated. Got some hookups over at the Mos Espa scarpyards.”
Din is busy piling up some gear at the top of the ramp, pulling on a full pack bag and hauling out a couple of small cargo cases. “Well, you can use those hookups to see if they have a spare cannon pivot. Mine’s about to go.”
“I’m not a weapons expert, sunshine.”
“Then a once-over will do. I’m sure it could use some of your improvements.”
The human woman clicks her tongue, squinting up at the ship, taking what amounts as a fond greeting and compliment from Din. “Yeah, I bet it could.” As Din moves into the sunlight she looks him over as if she’s searching for something. “Where’s the womp rat?”
“He’s...at school.”
She looks genuinely disappointed. “Huh. Too bad. Saw your ship and got my hopes up. Was looking forward to spoiling the critter. So few joys in this life and you have to send him to school? You’re meaner than you look. Seems like you have enough company though,” she tips her chin at you as you come down the ramp. You extend a hand and introduce yourself, not prepared for her hearty grip as she shakes your arm like a ship in a windstorm before clapping you on the shoulder. Hard. “Peli. Hoo lady, do I feel for you. Traveling days on end with this one?” She jerks her head at Din. “Conversation must be scintillating. Where’d you pick him up?”
“Oh, around? Found him in the back booth of some outer-rim cantina.”
“Hm. Sounds about right.”
Din’s obviously eager to get going. “I’m going to need another speeder. You got a lead on anything?”
Peli turns to shout at two of the pit droids passing by. “For the love of sarlaccs, don’t drag that, you’re going to mess up the gear panel!! You! Help him! Pick up the other end. No. The other end, he’s got that one! Seriously.” She shakes her head as she turns back to Din. “Dtoli’s got one he’s trying to offload. It isn’t pretty, but it runs.”
“Great. Thanks. Any chance his shop does detailing?”
“For a price. I mean, the speeder’s not that ugly; if you want it painted, it’s going to cost you. Didn’t think you were into aesthetics, bright eyes.”
“We’re going to need extended docking. We’ll pay up front.” He tilts the visor to you. “I’ll let you handle that. Don’t leave the bay. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
After he stalks out the door, Peli jabs you with an elbow. “You think he’s ever cracked a smile under there?” She’s a funny one, fiery energy, not someone you see Din choosing to tolerate lightly, but you can sense she’s got a good heart. He must really trust her if he’s willing to put up with her snark.
“Under the helmet? Who knows what goes on in there.”
“Huh.” She eyes you up and down, sucking at her teeth. “You, ah, just traveling with him, or…”
The bay is disorganized, littered with parts and tools. The pit droids scurry around, obviously programmed more for personality than efficiency. There’s a makeshift table near the station window, looks like you landed in the middle of a meal. And there’s something else on the table. Something familiar.
“Is that a pack of sabacc cards?”
Her attitude immediately shifts into higher interest. “Sure is. You play?”
________________
You lay on the ramp of the Crest, arms behind your head, one leg crossed over a knee, staring up at the stars beginning to peek through the atmosphere. The engines and the top of the ship are still getting a glow from the setting of the suns. The difference in twilight from planet to planet never gets old. This one comes with a unique soundscape.
Peli’s making a lot of noise as she closes down for the night, grumbling loud enough that you can just hear her through the window in her station, “dumb luck...raising the fees...Dr. Mandible...win it back…” Her pit droids have all crept over near you one at a time, ducking under the ship and collapsing down as far as they can into little pucks.
If she weren’t such a cheater, you might be inclined to coddle her a little, maybe explain that if you play with high agitation it’s harder to beat a Jedi at cards, and oh yeah, maybe tell her you’re Force-sensitive…. But meh. With her not-so-slight-of-hand she’s probably had her own share of shady wins. It’s good to lose once in a while. Builds character.
Not that you would know.
Between the stars above you and the tantrum in the adjoining space, you sense Din a good half-minute before he walks through the passage. Interesting. Either your bond is getting stronger or he’s riding some high emotions. Or both.
When he does arrive, he’s brought the pack bag back with him, as well as a couple more bags and a heavy piece of equipment hung by a cross-pike over his shoulders. The pike bows with its haul, but he strides in as if the load on him had no weight at all.
There’s a crash of tools on metal as Peli slams something down in her comm room. “It’s about time! You’re late!”
As she speedwalks out into the port she nearly misses being taken down by the Mandalorian’s cargo as the bags on his crossbar swing toward her.
Then she brandishes a finger-- “You said a couple of hours.” --and pokes him. Straight in the breastplate.
He looks down at where she’d made contact, and then slowly, very slowly raises his gaze to her. She’s a good head and a half shorter than him, a little volcano of huffing and angry. You realize nobody her size has probably ever had the gumption to poke him before, but if anyone’s going to try and walk away unscathed, it looks like she’s going to claim that title.
“Hey.”
“Don’t you ‘hey’ me.” Poke. “Your lady there?” Point. “More trouble,” poke, “than that baby.” Hard poke. “Ow.” Cringe. Poke.
The Mandalorian’s visor tips back to his breastplate. Then up to you. Then back to Peli.
“Yep.”
This isn’t the response either of you expected. You press your lips together in suppressed laughter. Peli presses hers together in a huff of frustration. If she were another xeno, you’d expect fire shooting out from her flared nostrils. She turns on her bootheel, storming out of the port as you both watch in an apprehensive bemusement. “Now I’m late for an appointment. Dr. Mandible had better still be waiting. Don’t you dare expect breakfast. I won’t be in early because the Maker knows I have plenty of time to once-over that heap and I’m not going to bust my hump if you’re going to take up my entire port. You’ll have to ask the droids if you need something. Have fun with that, dumb as a crate of spanners..…” her voice trails behind her until she’s far enough away you can’t pick her up anymore.
Din swivels to face you, the bags swinging behind him.
You smile. “I like her.”
“What did you do?”
Screwing your mouth up to one side, you give him mock oops voice. “I may have played a few rounds of sabacc with her?”
“And you won.”
“Mmmmmaybeee.”
“How much.”
“Cost of fuel.”
“....And.”
“And water tank refill. And a week’s docking fees. And maybe a portion of repairs.”
He just stares. A bag swings slowly. You wish you could see his face right now.
“She’s never going to let me dock here again.”
“Sorry. Maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned me.” You shrug, pointing your chin at his cargo. “What’s in the bags, your majesty? Did you bring me a present?”
The pet name or the question causes a hot spike of emotion off of him. Something you like. Something you’ve felt at more intense moments when your skin meets his. “Maybe.” As he trudges past you up the ramp, he stops to offer a hand up, but doesn’t drop yours once you’re on your feet. Instead, he grips it tighter, pulling you into the Crest behind him, a soft chuckle slipping through the vocoder. “And I didn’t abandon you. You had your fun. Come on.”
The bags rattle to the floor and the hatch whines close. He lifts the helmet, his brown curls ruffling out from underneath it, and hands it to you, a dangerous intensity in his eye offset by the ghost of a smile. “Would you put that in my bunk?”
What’s going on here. “Okaaay…” You walk over and open the bunk hatch, laying the bucket on the cot. “You just want it on the cot or--”
When you turn back, he’s pulling off his gloves, very plainly watching you.
“You’re not limping anymore. Looks like that leg’s about healed up.”
A rush of heat pulses through you, causing an uptick in your breathing and a tightening warmth in your core.
Well. It’s about time.
You nod. “It is.”
“Good. Is it tender at all?”
You shake your head but keep your gaze locked to his. “It’s fine. You won’t hurt me. If you touch.”
His eyes search yours. You want--?
Yes, I want.
It takes him just two fast, long strides to get to you.
For someone who came to kissing late in life, he started off with strong instincts and only has gotten better at it in his time with you. He still loves your scent, loves running his lips along your jaw and burying his face in your neck as he inhales you, but he has become an expert at long, passionate kisses and soft, dragging nips. He likes to feel your tongue against his and taste your bottom lip before sealing his own around it, clawing his hands into your back as if there was some way he could defy physics and bring you into his occupied space, make you part of him forever.
And you reward him not only by kissing him back, but touching his face and raking your fingers through his hair; the contact makes him purr in the most beautiful way, causes him to grip your hips and yank you into him.
But tonight he reaches up while he nuzzles you, pulls your hands out of his hair and guides them to his belt buckle. The buckle you gave him, the buckle that saved his life, and now he wants you to start here and do the honors.
He wants you to dis-armor him. Completely.
You know how to do this, he’s shown you. So while you work your way through the straps and releases, running your fingers along the sides of the plates and tripping their buttons, disengaging weaponry and freeing him from cowls and capes, he makes a banquet of you, dragging his lips on you wherever he can reach, tasting what he can, letting his hands roam and squeeze and caress, seeing what it takes to distract you from the task he himself set you on. And if you give in, if you let your focus wander back to shared breath and the feel of his scruffy beard in your palms, he gently redirects your hands, moving them back to the next warm plate, teasing, willing you to be his savior and free him from the armor that separates him from you.
Once he’s down to his flight suit and lower armor, you have a respite from his lips to get his tops up and off. “What brought this on so suddenly?” You demand, breathless, revealing his tan torso, his obscenely wide shoulders.
“Suddenly? I was giving you time to heal.”
You bury your face in his broad bare chest, unable to resist. Oh stars, he smells so good. “I mean today. The second you come back from...whatever you were doing.”
He tips your chin up. “Shins and boots.” Once you kiss his collarbone and peel away to kneel and work on his bottom layers he explains, “We’ll be sleeping rough for a while. I’ll be keeping the armor on. And sand isn’t a good mix for this. It’s now or we wait longer. If you want to wait, we can, but with the dock to ourselves, I thought we might take advantage.”
“I’m done waiting.”
His mustache twitches into a smirk. “I figured.”
You strip him of his final layers and as a reward for accomplishing the task, he grants you the time you need to take him in. Waits patiently as your fingers reach out to trace scars, to skim the soft texture of his skin, to measure the breadth of a splayed hand against a pectoral. Even with the evidence of past violence, he’s perfect. He’s keeping control, his chest rising and falling steadily, but picking up as you run your fingers over the ripple of bicep to elbow, skipping over to follow the dip in the muscle leading from his hip inward and down. He is warm and ready under your hand, and when you wrap fingers around him, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t take his eyes off yours.
“Your turn,” you whisper, inviting him to take on a task of your own that involves fewer obstacles but harsher distraction.
Soft skin belies the hardness underneath, and you go easy on him, loose and gentle. He’s able to compartmentalize for a moment, focus strategically at the task at hand while your hand takes him to task. It’s absolutely lovely watching him try to control his breathing as he works, freeing you of your belt and top layers. In through the nose, out through the mouth, gritted teeth and set brow. But once he gets you half stripped, you’ve got him beat. He can’t stand it, gives a quick shake of the head and frees himself from your touch with a soft growl.
Din spins you around, crushing your bare back to his chest, lifting you slightly so he can kick your feet wider apart, then buries his face in your hair as he plunges his hand under your waistband. You violently take on air as his fingers learn how very much ready you already are, helping you further down that path.
“Please, can we just,” you groan after a few spirals and intrusions, “can we just take this to the bunk already? It’s not your hands I want.”
He says nothing but lets you go, his hand dragging lazily out of your leggings before pulling them hastily down and off, before wrapping both arms around you and lifting, dumping you softly on the bed, gripping your hip and dragging you near, urging you to turn over.
“Hands and knees, little bird.”
A pit opens up in your heart. Really? He wants to take you from behind the first time? That’s not...how you pictured this going.
“N-no.”
A scowl of confusion darkens his face, a mix of betrayal and concern and need. He mouths words more than whispers, “I thought you wanted this.”
“I do! But I want you...above me. I...want to see you.”
His brows soften a little, though they still bear the vertical crease between them. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
He allows you to settle on your back, his touch chasing you as he positions himself, kneels at your ingress, jaw set. He takes an anguished moment to appreciate what he’s got, running hands over you--your chest, your tummy--before gripping under your thighs and taking control, bringing you together. His strength allows both firmness and gentleness at once, slowly opening you, joining you, an easy, perfect fit, a key in a lock, a heart in a hand. Both the culmination of everything you’ve anticipated, but also the most familiar thing in the galaxy, as if he was always meant to be a part of you.
You both breathe into it as he gazes down at you, waiting, making sure you’re prepared to continue.
________________
PART 3: DIN
Din counts one breath at a time, looking at you splayed before him on the bunk, absolutely kriffing stunning, standing by for you to signal that you’re ready for him to begin. He expects a nod.
But he doesn’t get a nod.
He gets...your arms. Reaching for his shoulders. Pulling him forward and down until he is flush against you. On top of you.
The heat of your soft skin against his. Your breasts pushing up to his chest. Your thighs pressing against his own, your arms embracing him. And then your sweet mouth on his, all at the same time, a sensory pool he swims in as every new point of contact yanks a breath out of him, pulling him into the deep.
And It's still not a nod that tells him to proceed. It’s your hips moving up to him, coaxing him further into you, drowning him in you completely.
Oh.
Above you. On top.
This is not something he can do when he’s wrapped in beskar. Can’t crush someone under the armor, can’t move like this with a breastplate and thigh guards between bodies. Easier to pull down pants and take from behind. “On top” has only ever meant kneeling upright or standing at the edge of a bed, meant pulling at hips with roughness, meant just getting it done without fuss or intimacy if his partner wants nothing but the authority of an emotionless visor looking down on them. And sometimes, that’s truly all they wanted from him.
He was prepared to do that to you--take you rough and hard and wanton--if it was what you wanted, but he’d hoped to line up flush to your back and curl himself up as tight behind you, feel as much of you and be as close as he possibly could. Dreamed about it. Pictured it while folded up around you in this very bunk watching you sleep and recover.
But this. This is infinitely better.
You are a galaxy of firsts for him, each one shining bright and accompanied by a million more around it like stars. You are the first to share sleeping space with him. The first allowed to lift the helmet. You were his first kiss--taken in the swirling midst of a festival when you didn’t even yet know his face.
And now here you are, breathing against his neck, yearning against him as his body surges over you, clinging to him furiously as if he’d ever want to leave, wanting all of him, supple and melting and combined into him. His hands want to touch everything at once, his fingers finding soft places to dig in for greed or clamp onto for leverage, and every nerve in his body swells toward every perfect piece of you he can possibly touch.
Though, it doesn’t stop at the skin.
Stars, you can see him, you’re looking directly into his eyes. He’s completely vulnerable; no visor to hide behind, and it shoots through him, a touch beyond touch. This is a powerful first; a heartache he cannot explain, an enlightenment as he moves not just in you but with you.
When you begin to whisper his name though, something primal hooks into him and his body knows you are asking for more. So he gives you more. Your whispers become soft pleas. And he gives you more. Pleas evolve into their final life of song from your pretty lips, your chin lifting to expose your neck ripe for his mouth and teeth, his name coming from a place in you that is tightening around him and traveling up and out to ring in his ears in sweet building agony--
Din has never given his name freely to anyone before you and this is how you use it.
If this is what you do with the things he gives you?
Then he wants to give you everything.
Clutching desperately at your face, he tips your chin back down, asking for another first from you.
“Open your eyes, little bird. Open your eyes. Look at me. Let me see.”
And you do. He can see it’s hard, but you do so well. He gives you just a little more--just a small, hot push and grind over the edge--and then you break open for him, truly becoming his, shuddering and clenching and aching. This is the most beautiful you’ve ever been to him, something he thought impossible until this very moment.
Din curses. Too...good. Not quite overwhelming, but overpowering. The overall physical stimulation is one thing, but you...your kriffing heart...right there in your eyes… He wants to protect and ruin you all at once and the only way he can express it is to help you come apart beneath him, wants to tell you how much it’s destroying him, but it only comes out in anguished groans and growls.
It doesn’t take him long to finish with one final first, a permission given in words some days before, an assurance that all would be well, as he’s allowed to find his euphoria inside you, surrounded by your wetness and your warmth, encircled by your limbs, laid bare by your eyes, his voice rumbling through him--although stars knows what he’s saying or how loud--wave after wave of want pulsing from him to you before shattering on top of you with shuddered breath through gritted teeth, not sure he will ever breathe normally again, but sure that he doesn’t particularly care.
Stars.
He just wants this. From now on. You. Under him. Around him. As in love with him as he can possibly make you, although it will never be enough, can’t ever compare to how he aches for you in this moment as he gives your name back to you in your ear and presses his forehead breathlessly against your temple.
Against you.
You.
You.
________________
Some hours and a few rounds later, you emerge from the refresher, clean and glowing. Pretty. Ready for sleep if you can get it. If he’ll let you get it. If he can control himself. He watches as you step down from the cabinet, stumbling a little, your legs wobbly and weak, and you reach out for the ladder to steady yourself.
“You okay?” Din chuckles from the edge of the bunk where he’s been waiting, pack bag at his feet, his hair a mess of cowlicks and curls where you’ve been tugging and raking.
“I think you broke me. I just got steady again and you broke me. You’re not allowed between these legs for a while.”
“Too bad. You’re going to be riding behind me on a speeder, so you don’t get a choice. Come here.”
“What’s that?” You make your way to him as he holds up a handful of garments.
“Suit up.”
“I thought we were going to sleep. Is this some kind of game you--”
“It’s your present. Where we’re going tomorrow, you’re going to need this. Try it on.”
One by one, he starts pulling the pieces out of the bag while you’re distracted with the flight suit. Two pauldrons. Two bracers. Chest plate. Back plate. Helmet. When your head emerges from the magnetics vest and you catch sight of the armor laid on the bed, he watches your face freeze in shock, then your brow tighten in confusion. He waits for the slow, stunning shift into realization before he speaks, just above a whisper.
“I should have asked what your favorite colors were. I just decided to have them match your saber. I hope that’s okay.”
Oh, the look on your face. He’s watched you cry in shock over realizing that Grogu was safe. He’s seen you laugh and despair at the same time when you were scared and hurt. He knows what love looks like when it rides your features. But this level of reverence and awe, he’s only seen this look on your face once--the first time you held the Darksaber--standing exactly where you are now.
“I need you to understand something about this armor.” He begins to assemble you, starting with the backplate. “It doesn’t really belong to us. Yilga found it on the black market. I don’t know how it ended up there or if the owner is still alive.” He moves onto the pauldrons.”If by any chance we find out who that is, we’ll need to return it to them or their tribe. But judging by the last time this was style forged, chances are they and their clan are long gone.” Then the bracers. “I had your comm set into this one. I’ve already got it linked to the helmet.”
“Din.” The uncertainty in your voice stops him. “Is this really okay? I’m not...I don’t want to be disrespectful.”
His heart twists at your concern, at the dignity you hold for his people. He tilts your chin up and forces you to look into his eyes, does his best to smile and reassure you. “Hey. It’s beskar. It’s in the possession of a Mandalorian. You are under my protection and,” he has to steady his voice, “you said yourself you belong to me. That means you get clan allowance, okay?”
You nod, giving him the quietest “okay.”
Finally the breastplate. As he attaches it in place, feeling his eyebrows arch in hopes you’ll like it, he watches as you reach up and touch the upper corner. Your fingertips trace the insignia painted there, slowly moving over the sharp peaks and valleys of the mudhorn skull.
Tears well up fast in your eyes and you do your best to catch them as they tumble over your beautiful cheeks, wiping frantically and sucking back sobs, well aware that tears should never fall on Mandalorian armor. Din himself doesn’t hold to this sentimental rule, but he knows how you like all the traditions and lore, and he’s happy that it means enough to you to honor it. He cups your face with his hands, being of service as your faithful tear-catcher, allowing you to have your moment and gathering as much of it for his memory as he can.
The way you’re looking at him right now, your easy ability to cry and laugh all at once, your eyes are telling him everything he needs to know, everything he already knows, in a language that does not translate into words but gets written deep into his very being.
“I’d say let’s stop here for now, but I need to make sure the helmet fits. It’s actually the piece you’re going to need most. You ready?”
When he takes his hands from your cheeks, wet with your tears, there’s a moment where he’s not sure what to do with them. He’s not wearing anything, nothing to dry them on. The mention of the helmet has you near to welling up again. So he just looks you dead in the eye. Ruffles his tear-stained hands through his hair. It has the intended effect as your face breaks into a wide grin. And then you hiccup out a laugh and shake your head as he realizes he must have left his curls comically unruly. Good. As long as you’re happy.
“Okay. Helmet.”
Perfect fit.
Now it’s his turn to hold back what’s rising in him as he looks you over, pride welling in his chest at his little bird, his star, his consort, wearing so well the armor of his order. You look...so good like this. There might have been a time when he would have balked to see an outsider in the beskar, but you have shown in every way that you hold the honor and bravery and understanding to wear it with respect--even more so than some actual homeworlders he’s met. With his Tribe scattered across the galaxy, you and your warrior’s heart are the closest thing he knows to another of his kind. He’s damn happy he was led to you.
But you’re not quite complete--
Din picks up your belt from the floor, fastening it around your waist, your lightsaber hanging down your hip.
There.
Jedi legacy. Mandalorian legacy.
A respect. A fusion.
Both of you.
A matching pair.
________________
Chapter 12: The Camp -->
Update: Artwork for this chapter commissioned from @miranhas-art
“Din Djarin,” you breathe. “I think you love me.”
TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST
So my main fic is Losing My Religion and thank you to everyone who is reading and asked to be on the taglist. Just so you know, I’m keeping THAT taglist intact, so if that’s all you’re here for, you’re golden.
However. I have found recent joy in branching out and not only writing Mando stories outside of LMR, but for other PCU characters and have so many ideas that I wonder if I will ever come out of the fanfic hole.
So if you like m’stuff and wanna get notified on some either now or future, I’ve put together a sign-up for other tags. TAGLIST SIGNUP (You can also find it on my masterlist and I’ll link to it in most of my stuff so you don’t have to go digging if you wanna switch it up later.)
Future WIPs may include:
Losing My Religion
Din/Mandalorian
Ezra/Prospect
Tovar/Great Wall
Whiskey/KingsmanGS
Oberyn/GOT
Javi/Narcos
OC Pedro characters based on fanart but not the man himself.
Most of my stuff is 18+ !soft, f!reader-insert, no y/n. Some is soft!slice of life. I have come to like the writing of the spice, but sex is non-explicit in the bits and pieces sense, more explicit in the feelings and poetic sense. I’ve updated my MASTERLIST here if you wanna take a peek.
