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prolix-yuy · 1 year

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Rising Phoenix

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: The Mandalorian offers a gift greater than he imagined.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: M, allusions to sexual acts, some heavy petting, flirty banter up the wazoo, minor injury treatment, hand kink, hand worship, plot? Plot. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Is this an excuse for me to put all of my favorite things about Mando into one story? Yes, yes it is. Including making fun of that tin can man's ridiculous fashion choices.

Takes place after If the Moon Walks Out.

Cross-posted on AO3

I Think of You Series Masterlist

Mando is hiding something from you.

If anyone on the outside was looking in, they’d think the opposite. They might even say he’s being more open than in months. After the bite and subsequent breakdown (which you’re still a little embarrassed about), Mando started showing you how he runs the Crest. Walking you through a takeoff sequence, demonstrating what the other buttons along the cargo hold walls do.

(you didn’t know there was a button to close Mando’s cramped cubby)

(might come in handy when you want a little privacy)

You were appreciative at first, until Mando started disappearing in the evenings with no warning or explanation. One minute he’d be feeding the child, the warm thrum of your cavewoman brain revving up -

(he wiped the child’s mouth with the edge of his cape and you had to go take a breather in the kitchenette)

- the next moment he was gone, up in the cockpit or down in the hold, wherever you’re not. A whiff of solder sometimes wafted by, or the clunk of metal on metal reached your ears. You’re curious, endlessly so, but if there’s one thing you would not betray, it’s the trust Mando has finally given you.

(he’ll come to you when he’s ready)

Instead you prepare food and tidy the hold and read on your holopad until he returns, either to bid you goodnight with the child tucked into his arm, or to put him down before sneaking back to you, large hands on your hips a precursor to his hushed question:

“Can I have you tonight, Mesh’la?”

(more often than not your nights end with him inside you)

But as the days continue, another bounty on the horizon, your treacherous mind begins toying with your insecurities. The next planet wasn’t far but Mando’s taking his time, making short hops instead of fast travel. When you questioned it, the threat of Imps and blaster residue in your nostrils, he said it was to show you how to hop in and out of hyperspace.

(the holopad full of calculations makes your head spin)

(you hold it like a lifeline)

“Mando, I appreciate you taking my feelings to heart, but moving this slow…aren’t we tempting our luck?” you finally asked, legs crossed in the jump seat when Mando pulled out of hyperspace yet again.

“I’m willing to press it,” he replied, “but not much longer. Tomorrow we land.”

“Could have landed three days ago,” you said, goading Mando to turn to you. He cocked the helmet, which still managed to thrill you, and leaned back.

“I thought you enjoyed my company,” he said, the tease making you smile. “You certainly did last night.” Your face turned molten as you played up a salacious gasp.

“That was a low blow, Mandalorian, you won’t get many more nights like that if you use them against me,” you scolded, biting back a bigger smile when Mando stood up to tower over you, cocking his hip.

(what you wouldn’t give to leave a mark on the flesh there)

(make him wear it under the armor)

(your own symbol of devotion)

“That’s an empty threat,” he said coolly, making you roll your eyes before he tucked his knuckle under your chin, swiping his thumb over your lower lip.

(a Keldabe kiss is one thing)

(this kiss is only for you)

“Only a little longer, Mesh’la. I promise it’s worth it.” he said, quieter, and you nodded, wrapping your hand around his wrist. One squeeze before he moved to the cargo hold.

“I was going to show you how to dump the waste reserves today,” he called up the ladder as he descended.

“Oh thank the Maker, the suspense was killing me!”

You chased his huffed laugh.

An arid planet comes into focus, the child perched in your lap as Mando begins descending into the atmosphere.

“We’re a day early, bounty’s not expected to be on world until tomorrow,” Mando says as the Crest leans into entry, hull shaking against the heat as it skims over the bubble-like surface of the atmosphere.

“What should we do until then?” you ask, lifting the child a little higher so he can watch the descent. “Looks like a dry planet, Bean, no frogs for you.” His trill of disappointment makes you wonder, yet again, if he understands you more than the energies you assume he’s reading. The thought is dashed from your mind as you focus on Mando’s technique, riding the curve of the planet until gravity begins to tug you down in your seat. The Crest dives like a much more graceful bird than her silhouette, weaving through clouds and pockets of rougher air as a stretch of open land surges up to meet you. With a gentle lurch (good job landing Mando), you’re back on solid ground and the child is chirping at his father.

“Yeah kid, we can go outside. We’re far out, should be safe,” Mando says, directing the last part of the sentence to you. As you make your way to the ramp Mando calls down.

“Wear something warm.”

Your head cocks at the request.

“It’s a desert, I’ll cook alive.”

“Trust me.”

You exchange a look with the child, who lifts and drops his ears in as close of an approximation to, “Beats me.” You shrug on a long-sleeve shirt (one of Mando’s old ones, you still covet a few) and comfortable boots. Giving the button a slap, you wait for Mando by the cargo ramp as hot air blows into the hold.

“I don’t agree with your opinion on the climate,” you call back, turning when his footsteps near. “I think the armor’s skewed your perception of heat.”

“You’ll need it for this.”

In Mando’s hands is a harness, leather straps reinforced with thick thread along the seams. A hefty buckle centers in the loops, which attach to the baffling item in question.

(a jetpack?)

Mando has his on too, clasped into the backplate of his armor. This secondary one is more beat-up, yellow and green paint flaking off in places. It hangs heavy, the straps gathered in one hand as he lifts it to you.

“It’s old, but it works fine. Used to belong to Cobb Vanth,” Mando says, shifting a little as you watch him with parted lips. Your eyebrows raise briefly at the name of the Mos Pelgo Mandalorian you ventured to meet when (your) Mando was still among the stars. The jetpack, however, and all its potential holds your attention.

When you don’t say anything, Mando continues. “The Rising Phoenix is calibrated to my vambrace, but this one could be programmed to a…” He trails off as you step closer, shifting the child in your arms to reach out and finger the leather strapping. “Is this okay?” he finally asks, low and quiet as you feel the T-visor burn along your cheeks.

“You made this?” you finally say, barely registering Mando taking the child from you so you can inspect the rig. “This is why we were taking so long?” you breathe out, realization warming you.The stitching is tight and neat, the soldering clean. It even looks like he tried to remove some of the flaking paint but gave up. He shrugs briefly.

“Makes sense for you to use it. It’s likely to draw attention. But if there’s trouble, it’s fast,” Mando says, his body language cautious right now. He must have been nervous at the proposition, anticipating your apprehension, but you feel anything but. This hunk of junk repurposed to protect you is a greater gift than he understands. It makes you break out into a dazzling smile.

“This is karking amazing!” you shout, the child joining in as you turn over the rig and inspect it from all angles. Mando’s chuckle sends tingles down your spine, and when you meet the visor again you can imagine a bashful smile gracing his face.

(a face you’ll never see, but dream of all the same)

“How do you…” you start, holding the jetpack to your chest like a child on Life Day.

“A desert planet with nothing to do seemed like a good place to teach you,” Mando says, sauntering down the ramp, the child’s ears bouncing. Your heart hammers into high speed while sweat beads along your hairline.

(you’re going to fly today)

Mando takes an especially long time to walk you through the components of the jetpack, how it works and what each part does. You’re barely containing your excitement, hovering over his quick-moving hands and nodding endlessly.

“What’s this for?” you ask, pointing at a cylinder in the center that looks empty. Mando shakes his head.

“That’s for another day, Mesh’la, today we’re flying,” he deflects, and you don’t push. The possibility of being weightless, suspended in air the way you’d only experienced in dreams, was a much greater distraction.

“Do you have the controller?” Mando asks. You flash the metal gauntlet on your wrist. It’s just as cleanly built, a small series of buttons that do the basics. You’ve ridden speeders with more complicated controls. Though speeders barely leave the ground.

“Ready?” he asks, holding the straps open for you to slip into. You flash him a bright smile before turning around, shouldering the bulky machinery like a school bag. It settles on the center of your back, Mando fussing with the chest clip and adjusting the tension of the straps.

“This needs a real harness, but for now it’ll work.” Mando slides his fingers under the restraints to test their tautness. “It won’t distribute your weight, so no long trips. You’ll bruise up.”

“I can handle a few bruises,” you challenge, a coy smile melting onto your face as Mando slows his pacing. He tips the helmet in, tugging on the central buckle once more.

“Cheeky,” he purrs before stepping away, typing something into his vambrace. You twist and test the harness. It’s a comforting level of snug, the kind that makes you feel made of durasteel. The child, left to his devices during the suit up, pats at your calf.

“Am I looking cool, Bean?” you ask, doing a quick spin for giggles. “I need a cape like your dad to go…with…” You trail off, a wicked little smile replacing your coy one. “Hey Mando,” you call out innocently, drawing his gaze. “Did you always have the Rising Phoenix?”

He tilts his head with some hesitancy.

“No.”

“So when we first met, you didn’t have it.”

“No.”

“And I remember you having quite the impressive cape back then.”

“I’ve always had…”

“And now it’s a little, you know. Worn. A little tattered. Maybe a little…burned.”

Mando stares you down and it takes all of your effort not to lose it.

“Do you…wear the cape when you’re flying, Mando?”

He shifts from one foot to the other.

“It takes a lot of work…”

“Oh my Stars, you do!”

Mando shifts into what you’ve come to call the Exasperated Stance, hands on his hips, shoulders squared, helmet tipped back.

“It’s easier to…”

“Mando, you are going to set yourself on fire, you kriffing idiot. I can see the scorch marks!”

Mando advances on you, and you skip backwards. Your hands fly to the controller on your wrist. It’s easy to psych yourself out thinking about flying, but with Mando stalking your way, your pounding heart could be attributed to that.

“Mesh’la…” he growls, but with little fire behind it.

(unlike the amount of fire he’s definitely set to that useless piece of fabric)

“Mando…” you mimic, hand dancing over the gauntlet like a gunslinger about to draw his weapon.

“Stop it.”

(perfect)

“Catch me and make me,” you taunt, taking off into a real run. Mando’s footsteps falter, then pick up speed behind you.

(now or never)

You press the short series of buttons to ignite the jetpack, your speed masking the initial jolt of thrust when it catches.

“Wait!” Mando shouts behind you. For a moment you do feel bad for the plaintive plea threading his shout, but adrenaline kicks in and if you do this right, you’ll be flying.

(if you do it wrong, well, you’ll just have a bruised ego…along with a few other places)

Three more long strides and the thrust lifts you off the ground, a disbelieving laugh following. Your feet dangle uselessly as you lift off, the wind in your ears drowning out further shouts. Faintly you hear another roar of ignition, Mando likely to yank you back out of the sky, but euphoria is all you can absorb. The drop in your stomach evens out as you slow your climb, easing the throttle until you’re hovering about fifty feet off the ground. You kick your legs, heat kissing the back of your thighs reminding you to be careful. Below, the sable sand and rock stretches like a rolling canvas, the undulations of hills and sharp creases of mountains in the distance shifting perspective as you absorb beauty at a height you’ve never known.

“Are you crazy?” Mando shouts, zipping into view right in front of you, broad beskar body blocking out the horizon you were just admiring. The startle makes your finger slip, and you drop ten feet fast, Mando’s hands chasing you. Regaining control, you zip away from him.

“I’m getting the hang of it!” you laugh back. His posture is rigid as he flies close behind, more disciplined with technique. You’re just happy that you haven’t crashed face-first into the hard packed dirt yet. Below the child watches you weave around, little hands raised when you zoom overhead. Narrowly avoiding Mando when he reaches out, no doubt to slow you down or scold you further, you speed up with the barest recognition that this is probably a bad idea.

“Look at this Bean!” you shout down, wobbling your shoulders back and forth until you discover how much sway banks you left or right. It doesn’t feel real, like you’re flying in a dream, even though the wind whips past your face and the straps pull painfully against your ribs.

(it feels like freedom)

A flash of silver glints in the corner of your eye and Mando is pulling up beside you, one hand clamping down on your bicep.

“Enough. Land,” he shouts, but for the first time in ages you feel light, like every care on your shoulders was left in the dirt. You don’t want to touch down and let it crawl back up yet.

Plus, it’s been too long since you sparred with Mando.

The controls are surprisingly intuitive, though considering he made them for you might that speaks to his intelligence. Or insight. But now he must be cursing his thoughtfulness because you speed up and up, the weight of his armor lagging him behind. His grip loosens and you spin away again, testing how quickly you can change direction. The dance continues, Mando’s hands coming close, his voice lost to the roar of the packs and the wind whipping against your cheeks. You push him back, kicking him in the chest once and feeling a little bad about it.

He finally yanks you down by your ankle, flipping you so the propulsion shoots you towards the ground. Righting yourself more nimbly than expected, he barrels into you and digs his fingers into your waistband.

“Stop. Teasing.” The growl is heavy, but even he can’t hide the winded excitement of the chase under the vocoder. You’re sure if you palmed him now he’d be hard.

(jetpack sex)

(no way, that’s how idiots go about dying)

“Make. Me. Mando,” you pant, hitting a random button on his vambrace. Thankfully it just stutters his jetpack, grip slipping enough for you to wriggle out. You want to see if you can do a loop, entertain the child below, fly along the horizon the way you’d always dreamed of when two desert suns set on your planet.

The jetpack lurches hard against you. The ever-present heat skirting down your thighs lessens. Something smells like chemicals and smoke.

(out of fuel)

(DANK FARRIK)

All the elation building in your chest freezes to terror when gravity pulls you, but before you can shout Mando’s hands jam under the harness, wrenching you to his chest as all your gravity-defying stunts fizzle out. You thud your forehead against his paudron as he lowers you back to solid earth, talking yourself down from the brief heart attack. Once your feet touch down you back away, Mando’s grip easing as you sweep sweat and dust from your forehead.

“Thanks for the rescue,” you mutter, cheeks hot with embarrassment before you turn your attention to the little green child hurrying his way over. “How’d you like the show Bean?” Kneeling down, he practically tumbles into your open arms, clawing his way up to your face to pat at your cheeks. “I’m okay buddy, had the time of my life up there thanks to…” Looking over at Mando you can almost see the frustration wafting off him in waves.

(kriff, you really pissed him off this time)

“Okay, how about we pop you in here and send you back to the Crest while I get a lecture,” you murmur as you tuck the child into the silver pram and send it scooting. The child looks back once, concerned ears perking, but turns back around when you wave him off. Mando’s footsteps approach heavily, scuffing in the dirt. You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face.

“I’m sorry…” you start to say, ready for the harsh reprimand you’re sure is coming.

(how can you explain the wonderful gift he just gave to you?)

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” he says, dangerously low. His shoulders are tight, forehead almost pressed to yours. You can see how intimidating being on the Mandalorian’s bad side could be.

“I was…” you try to say, the emotionless visor following your gaze. The horizon, sparkling with midday sun, is where your gaze finally lands. “I’ve always dreamed of flying. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

Seconds tick by as you wait for a scold, but it doesn’t come. Instead Mando sighs, and two heavy hands drop on your shoulders.

“You’re lucky I caught you,” he murmurs, squeezing briefly. You bring your eyes back to the smoky T-visor and quirk a wan smile.

“Seems like I’m always falling for you.”

(would that be such a bad thing?)

Mando stills, then cradles your cheek in his hand. The cool kiss of beskar on your forehead raises goosebumps despite the desert heat.

“Mesh’la,” he groans, “don’t tease.”

“Not teasing now, Mando.”

A rumble in his chest burns straight to your sex.

“Yeah? You’ll be good for me?”

(oh kark)

Mando twists you in his arms, back to front. The jetpack puts too much bulk between you, making you have to bend at the waist, but it’s immediately evident this is exactly what Mando wants. He palms your hips, dragging his hand up to stroke your stomach before sliding down to cup you over your pants.

“You want this?” he asks, but he’s already kneading at your mound, the heavy swipe of his fingers through your clothes sparking heat in your cunt.

“Mando…” you choke out, hands coming back to grab at his narrow hips. You’re unbalanced and clumsy against his unyielding stance. “The child.” His little silver pod is ascending the ramp into the Crest. Mando chuckles.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”

Your cunt clenches, ripples of pleasure as you scratch your nails into the rough weave of his pants. The jetpack tugs against your chest and you realize he’s using it as leverage to pull you back into him.

(jetpack sex jetpack sex jetpack sex)

“Feel what you do to me, Mesh’la. All the kriffing time.”

Your hands scrabble behind you, fumbling between your bodies.

(give it to me)

(all of it)

(all of you)

Mando shifts, jostling your body a fraction to the side. There’s a sudden white hotness against your arm and you cry out, jerking against his hold.

(the exhaust pipe)

The jetpack is still cooling down, hot rings of metal that just touched you at the worst possible time. Mando’s grip disappears immediately, the press of his body against you suddenly gone.

“What happened?” he says, and the vocoder can’t hide his concern. You twist your arms back up by your face, straightening back to standing. There’s a small welt, hot to the touch. You’ve barely inspected it yourself when Mando’s familiar orange-tipped gloves take your hand into his.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, careful not to touch the mark but still holding your arm so gently.

(oh Mando)

(never)

“Just touched the exhaust, nothing a little bacta can’t fix,” you say breezily, but you know the moment’s passed. Mando’s already leading you back to the Crest, and you follow begrudgingly.

(trust you to ruin some of the hottest foreplay with an injury)

The child burbles at your entrance, hovering the pram over to where you sit at the table, injury outstretched on the durasteel. You turn your arm to touch the burn against it, offering a tiny sliver of relief from the dull throb. Mando bustles into a cargo cubby, pulling out the medkit you’d put to good use barely a week before. A packet of bacta gel, and the Mandalorian, settle across from you.

“I promise, I’m okay,” you say with a lopsided smile, reaching for the bacta. He snags it up first, motioning for you to reveal the burn. It’s halfway up your forearm, the flesh rising.

“I know,” Mando says before tugging at the tips of his gloves.

(Maker)

The last time you got to watch this ritual closely (not clouded by lust or in a frantic scramble) was when he stood at the foot of the bed in Joeken’s inn. You’d admired his wide palms, his thick fingers, how capable they looked. There’s much there you remember, but age and circumstance changes all. There are more scars along his knuckles, callused and rough. He almost glows in the artificial lighting, a deep golden tone forever under his skin. Being able to savor it screams of transgression.

“Let me,” he says, breaking you from your reverie. You extend your arm into his reach, the scratch of his well-worked fingertips tracing the injury. He squeezes a small amount of bacta onto the burn and works it in with two fingers, the touch featherlight and gliding. Mesmerized by the methodical strokes, your other hand drifts to the back of his hand, your fingertips sliding over the smoother skin. His fingers falter as you both watch the slow advance of skin on skin.

“Mesh’la,” Mando breathes. You start to retract, afraid of an overstep. “No, it’s…” he stutters out, “It’s okay. Just not…used to it.”

(touch him until he forgets what it was like to go without)

Bacta application forgotten (or completed), Mando cups your injured hand, tracing the lines in your palm that supposedly speak of your future. You let your own wandering touch linger along the mountains of his knuckles, slip along the veins and raised injuries, before resting on his wrist. His chest hitches like he’s in pain, or something much sweeter.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks, now holding your hand between both of his.

“No, much better,” you answer, leaning when a flash of black catches your eye. Your mouth and one eyebrow quirks up. “Who gave you that?”

Mando turns his wrist, a black tattoo - two rings around a dot - appearing on the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger.

(target)

“Paz. A brother in arms.”

You stroke over it, no discernible texture.

“Did he give you more?” you ask cheekily. The child hovers closer to inspect his guardian’s ink, tilting his head and softly cooing.

“You’ll have to find those yourself,” he says, the edge of sass in his voice making you giggle. You move to pull away but his hands wrap around yours, warm and gentle for implements of such bloodshed.

“I never want to hurt you,” he says, much quieter. The vocoder almost loses his consonants. “If I ever do…”

“Hush,” you scold, leaning over the table to meet the visor. “It was an accident. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of them.” The stillness in his posture twists your stomach.

(he’d be devastated if he harmed you)

“You could never hurt me,” you say. Mando tilts his head, the sentiment too simplistic. But all of its meanings fill the silence.

(you would never do it purposefully)

(I’ll always forgive you)

(I would rather be hurt than without you)

With molten slowness Mando leans over your arm, raising it between you. You think it’s to inspect the burn, see that the bacta is working, but he just stares at it for a long moment. His hand drifts to the edge of his helmet, aimless and lost. When you touch him again he snaps back, standing up quickly.

“I have to make some preparations for tomorrow,” he squeezes out, taking a half step back. His movements are sluggish, quickening only when he strides away.

“Thank you, Mando,” you call as he mounts the ladder. He gives a nod, tugging his gloves on before climbing the ladder into the cockpit. The child hovers by your side, looking up at his retreating father figure before reaching up to you.

“Been a bit of a day, hasn’t it Bean?” you say, lifting the child out of the pram. The warmth of his touch lingers, the images of his hands holding yours only a blink away.

The baby yawn is all the answer you need.

In the cockpit, Din leans down and braces his hands on the console, trying to slow his pounding heart. He’s been inside you, why was letting you touch his bare hands more intimate? He’d had to cover them up to stop reliving every caress, the way your eyes roamed along the only bit of skin he’d allowed you to observe. His face burns with self-consciousness but also the thrill of your exploration.

But as much as that all excited him, it was that final moment that drove his heart into his throat and made him feel lightheaded. Because he held your hand and looked at the burn - an injury he caused, however inadvertently - and let a fleeting thought grow wild in his mind.

Kiss it better.

Something his mother would do with a scraped knee or a bruised finger.

Kiss it better.

Those three words grew from a whisper to an ocean roar as he considered how your skin would feel under his lips. If he could lift the helmet just enough to touch but not for you to see.

That wouldn’t risk his Creed.

Yes it would.

He crushed the desire down, left you behind a little more confused than before, but safe and cared for in his ship. Safe with the child and with him.

You could never hurt me.

You’re right. Din would never, could never bring harm to you. But some days, like today, he can see how much harm you could do to him. With your bright smile and open heart and patience, you could destroy the Mandalorian.

But from those ashes, Din Djarin could grow.

A flashing light grounds him as he flips on a holo-message. A halo of messy curls and a sassy expression glows to life, the dull scrapes and whines of a working hanger in the background. Din cocks his head as the message plays.

“Mando! Long time no see! Not that I miss that hunk of junk ship of yours. Well, I do miss the credits it brings in. Anyway, I’ve got a lead for you. You wanted those, right? About the Mandalorians? Got a client who may know where some are. The info’s not for free, I’ll fill you in when you get here. Bit of a time crunch, though, so you better shift that rust bucket into hyperspeed. You’re her last hope.”

Peli Motto’s image fizzles into static, and a blanket of duty settles back on Mando’s shoulders. A mission long paused. An outcome he comes to dread more with each passing day. A galaxy that spun on without the three of you for a long while.

But there is much work still to be done.

END

Episode 11 of the I Think of You Series

#mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x fem!reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x f!reader #prolix fics #i think of you series

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prolix-yuy · 2 years

Text

Soft Fires

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve learned much about the Mandalorian, but his tiny green companion is still a mystery.

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, descriptions of male and female bodies, fingering (f receiving), fingers in mouths, semi-unprotected PiV sex (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool, even if you have space birth control), the Creed gets in the way, Mando hops on the struggle bus for a second, FEELINGS.

Notes: FINALLY. Finally. That’s all I’m going to say about this. I was planning to post this as a two shot but screw it, I’ve been sitting on it long enough. It’s time.

I cannot take credit for the idea of teaching Grogu Tusken Sign Language. The inspiration came from this post and I just love it so much it’s becoming canon in this universe.

Takes place over about three weeks, after the events of Both Sides of the Door.

Cross-posted on AO3

I Think of You Series Masterlist

So the kid is great - cute, energetic, curious, kind (when he’s not too cranky), sassy (which brings much joy to your day, especially when it’s directed at Mando), and all-around better company than most children you’ve met.

He’s got some quirks too, many of which you learn on the fly. First of all being his age.

“He’s fifty?” you say when Mando brings it up, the child sitting on the floor of the Crest and looking up at you with unconcerned eyes. Mando chuckles at the incredulity in your voice as you crouch down to look your favorite gremlin in the face. “I guess I can kinda see it, what with the white hair and all. You do look like a little old man.” The child coos curiously as you stick your tongue out at him. That always gets a giggle.

“His kind ages differently. At least I assume they do,” Mando says.

“Well now there’s no question as to who had seniority on the ship,” you say in a sing-song voice, sitting down on the floor with a thump. Mando’s head whips around as you wink at him.

“How do you know I’m not older than fifty?” he says back, an edge of teasing eked out through the vocoder.

(he’s surprisingly funny when he gets the chance)

“Oh Maker, you’re right, better compare birthdays,” you huff out, this playful ribbing growing since you’d found a place in each other’s lives. It makes the child brighten, watching you enjoy each other’s company.

Then there’s the wizard magic that scared the shit out of you one day. You were prepping some fish stew in the ration-storage-now-kitchen, stirring the pot on the nanowave stove mindlessly. A clang echoed in your ears, followed by a baby wail that made you abandon the soup and rush to the hold.

Upon inspection, you found the child looking into an open electrical panel on the wall, ears drooping in a forlorn manner. You peered over his head, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“What’s wrong Bean?” you asked, putting a hand on his back. He chirped a couple times and pointed into the space crammed with wires, his face contorting. “Sorry buddy, I’m not sure what’s going on here. Care to suddenly learn Basic? Or Huttese? I know a couple of hand signals in Tusken.” You paused mid-thought at this. Teaching the child Tusken sign language to communicate could be useful. You don’t know a ton, but maybe Mando could get you a book or holovid next time you land.

(then you could learn his name, his past, what he wants and thinks)

(you could talk to him and know he understands)

Wrapped up in your train of thought, you didn’t notice the kid’s face scrunch up, eyes closing as he practically vibrated. When you did see it, worry cracked through your chest.

“Hey Bean, what’s going on?” You tried to snap him out of it but whatever was happening had his full focus. Suddenly something flew out of the panel’s guts and thwapped into his hands, knocking him over and onto your feet.

“Dank farrik!” you swore, grabbing the child and inspecting him all over for damage. On the periphery of earshot the thunks of footsteps approached.

(no no no no no what did the kid do?)

“What happened?” Mando's voice boomed in the space, whipping you around. Hands dropping to the child, he inspected him just as you did.

“I have no idea, he was making a face and shaking and then something…” Your words fell off as you both find a dirty metal nut in his hands, him turning it over with delight, if not a little sleepily. You looked at the child, then at Mando trying to piece together what just happened.

“Kid, that’s…that’s not a toy,” Mando sighed, but didn't attempt to pull it away. He patted the child a couple times before the visor landed on your confused face. “There’s…something you should know about him.”

Almost an hour later with several backtracks, questions and exasperated moments on either side, Mando finished recounting the tale of his history with the child, and the mission that brought him to Tatooine, to the Lively Bantha, and to you. You absorbed everything as best as you can, not familiar with the Jedi beyond how their influence shaped the world around you. Seeing the Force used by a child still felt like magic, and when you asked if he had any control over it Mando shrugged.

“I’m supposed to find a teacher for him, another Jedi to help him train.”

You hummed at this, looking at the oblivious child that was more the center of your world than you imagined. A holy mission fraught with dead ends and, from the hint of resentment you catch, one Din might like to fail.

(he’s taken well to being a father)

(and when you stop lying to yourself, you do kind of enjoy being his other caretaker)

Big surprises aside, you’ve adapted to having a child ever-present during your days. It’s not a life you thought you'd be living, but neither is being on a bounty hunter’s ship hurtling through the galaxy. You’re getting better at taking things in stride. And the child’s decently predictable now that you have him on a schedule. Mando had tilted his helmet at you when you asked about meal times and sleep.

“He eats when he eats and sleeps when he sleeps,” was his answer, to which you rolled your eyes.

“Maker, no wonder why he’s wired half the night. You gotta keep him on a schedule, he’s not a bounty hunter.”

“Could be if I taught him how to use a blaster.”

The silence stretched before you burst into laughter, bent in half at the idea of the kid holding an IB-94 as big as him, Mando leaning against the wall as his shoulders shook and static crackled out. The child looked nonplussed at the exchange, maybe happy as his eyes passed between the two of you.

The only thing that annoys you, that makes you want to whack your forehead against the wall and scream out the airlock, is that you have little to no privacy with the little bogwing. He sleeps with you or Mando, is up with him when he wakes early. He’s present for all meals, awake until late in the evening, and when Mando has to leave it's just the two of you constantly. It’s not that you dislike the little guy’s company.

The real problem stems from how badly you want to bang his dad.

(like SO KARKING BADLY)

You still feel the heft of his cock pressing between your thighs, how close you came to having him inside you again. Mando’s become more tactile with you since Nevarro, and you fear that you’re going to melt through your clothing with how aroused you are all the time. A hand against your lower back when you’re cooking and he needs something. Fingers rubbing grease or dirt or nothing at all from your skin. His new act of placing a hand on your knee as he passes you in the jump seat, hot thick fingers pushing gently into the flesh.

(and a few times when he put his hands on you just to see you react, a smug hum following.)

The child is your last (small) obstacle, one you maybe use as an excuse more than you should. You still have some light trepidation about that final step, mostly overwhelmed by the need growing between you. If you could just get the child to rest for an hour or so in the afternoon you could climb into the cockpit, straddle Mando with his hands on your hips, and ride him until you’re both spent and sated. You could finally take that step to land you back where you started all those years ago. But whenever you think of the child’s big black orbs catching you in the act it makes you want to gag.

(please don’t make me scar the kid for life)

So you wait for some of your gentle (sexually frustrated) coaching to sink in so that the (kriffing cock-blocking) child can start building up the habit. Until then your moments alone are filled with frantic fingers in the ‘fresher shower or grids against the heel of your hand so you can think straight for the next few hours.

(it will all be worth it to take your time with Mando)

You hold your breath, trying to remain calm and bored as you watch the child’s eyes blink heavily.

(holy shit this might actually be it)

You’d worked and suffered through tantrums and fussing and stubbornness over three days while Mando brought back his latest bounty. Practically crying twice when he called over the comms to check in, his voice soothed you when you felt your last nerve tear.

(I will never tease him for his patience ever again)

But the hard work is paying off. No more late night wakeups that demanded stimulation, no more unpredictable meals, you think you might have cracked it. Sometimes it's a fake-out, which dangles you over the edge of sanity, but this would be the second instance of the child napping without argument and staying down. The last time it was for a blissful hour, which you spent monitoring him as you made a resupply list resplendent with his favorite things. He could have an army of amphibians to torture if it meant you succeeded at your task.

The telltale signs are there: the drooping eyes, the ears relaxing, the settling into the curve of the hammock. You wait a long few minutes for his breathing to even out before closing the cot door.

Heart hammering, you stand up and wipe your sweaty palms on your pants. Kriff, you hadn’t thought ahead to what you would do next. Mando’s been back from his last hunt for a full day, rested and clean. This is the best chance you’re going to get to be alone with him.

(fuck, are you wet already?)

You ascend the ladder into the cockpit, nerves making your hands shake as Mando’s frame glimmers the cockpit.

(Maker, he’s still so beautiful)

Your cunt throbs at the possibilities as you move to stand beside him.

“Everything okay?” he asks. You hum, the energy in your body threatening to make your voice shake. Mando turns his head to you, tipping it slightly.

“The kid?” he asks, and you let out a louder breath than you intend.

“Sleeping.”

Mando’s visor traces your face, and you meet the darkness of it.

“You got him to sleep? During the day?”

A lopsided smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“Finally.”

Mando turns in the chair, knees knocking against yours as he frames you with them. He reaches for your hands, thumbs firm in your palms.

“How long will he sleep?” Mando’s voice drops lower, a thrum of build-up coming to a high point.

“Last time it was an hour.”

His hands are on your waist, pushing you back as he crowds you up against the console. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip to keep from crying out at his touch.

(Maker, I might shatter if he breathes on me)

Mando lifts you to sit on the edge of the console, pulling himself up flush between your legs. His hands go to your face, cradling you with a tenderness that contrasts the neediness he just displayed.

“I want to fuck you at least twice if we have the time,” he says, and your eyes roll back into your head.

“Stars Mando, I could cum just hearing you talk about it,” you moan, keeping your voice low. You were not going to ruin this moment for anything.

“Me too, Mesh’la,” he murmurs in your ear, hands at your waist and unbuttoning your pants. You run your fingers over every part of him you can touch, favoring the spaces between the beskar where blood pumps and muscles flex.

He shucks your pants and underwear down your legs, tugging off your shoes and socks all in one messy bundle. The helmet locks on the vision of you he has on his knees, hands stroking your thighs in slow patterns.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” Mando says, the words falling from his mouth like he couldn’t bear to keep them in. You whine, fingers digging into the fabric of his cowl, pleading for his touch. “I’ve got you Mesh’la,” he says, standing up to his full height. He strips his gloves, glorious tan thick-fingered hands taking hold of your body. One goes to your mouth, dipping two fingers in and stroking them gently against your tongue. You close your lips around him, pressing hot and wet as he lets out a broken moan. Withdrawing them, he strokes your clit in slick circles before sliding down achingly slow and burying two fingers inside you. The process is so smooth, aided by your heavy arousal, that he’s halfway inside before you can moan around him.

“That’s it, perfect girl. Fuck, you feel so good. I’m sorry Mesh’la, I’m going to have to fuck you hard and fast and cum once before I can give you what you deserve.” His diatribe is tearing whimpers and gasps from your throat as he opens you up, thumb swiping across your clit to keep your arousal high. It shudders to a stop when Mando pulls his fingers out of you, both hands curling around your waist.

“Fuck, can’t wait Mesh’la, can I fuck you now? Please,” he begs, and you wrap your legs around him to urge him on. He’s tearing his pants open, his cock painfully hard and deeply flushed. You sigh at the sight, still as thick and heavy and gorgeous as you remember. Maybe even more so, now that you can have it. He slicks his cock with your arousal, lining himself up with a shaking hand.

(Maker, the number of times I made myself cum thinking of that cock)

“Yes, Mando, please, please,” you whisper as he pushes into your tight heat. The moan he holds as he enters you starts low and quiet and builds to a desperate groan as he seats himself fully. He’s a heady stretch, forcing you to widen your thighs around him, but you’re already settling into his thickness as you tilt to pull him deeper.

“Kriff, Maker, I’m not going to…” Mando stutters as he pulls out just enough to swiftly push back into you. He hits the perfect spot at this angle, deep inside you, and the friction of the curls at the base of his cock teases your sensitive clit. You’re already trembling on the edge of your orgasm as Mando slides halfway out just to slam home again, gasping behind the helmet.

It only takes two more precise and powerful strokes for you to cum around his cock, the build up of so many weeks making you bury your face in Mando’s shoulder, shouting as your cunt grips him impossibly tight. He grunts in surprise as he falls over the edge with you, ripping his cock out and splattering his cum on the floor as you hold each other and gasp.

“Fuck, Mesh’la, I’m sorry, I should have put a seal on, I’m…” Mando is panting heavily so you cup the back of his neck, barely back from your own trip to the end of the galaxy.

“Implant,” is all you can manage, but it eases the tension in his shoulders. He strokes your hair, his softening cock slick with you against the inside of your leg. You huff out a little laugh.

“Guess we both were a little pent up.”

Mando hums with a chuckle at the end, bare hands wandering up the back of your shirt and across the outside of your thighs. You move to unwrap yourself but Mando stops you with two firm hands under your knees.

“That wasn’t good enough for you. I’m going to fuck you one more time,” he says, and there is no room for doubt in his voice. You nod, tongue swiping over your lower lip. “Don’t have the same stamina as I used to, but I can definitely get it up twice.” You’re sure he’s smirking behind the helmet. His fingers return to your cunt and drag slowly through the remains of your slick, exploring your folds with soft even touches. You run your fingers down his arms, resting on the cool metal vambraces wrapped around his forearms.

(hard and cold and practical)

“Could you take these off?” you ask, and his hand stills, helmet turning to look down at the gauntlets. “Want to feel you,” you add playfully, a finger teasing along the edge where the metal meets the fabric and flesh of the man underneath. When he doesn’t respond you look up to find Mando frozen like you asked him to remove his arm.

“I can’t,” he says, and there’s a pain in his voice that knocks the wind out of you. Alarm bells blare in your mind.

(mistake mistake mistake)

“I thought it was only the helmet…”

“I can’t,” Mando says again, and there’s more grit this time, teeth clenched as the words drag through. He’s starting to step away and your hands shoot out to grab his shoulders.

“Hey, hey, shhhh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” you coo, his muscles tense and ready to flee beneath your hands. “I’m sorry, I didn't realize…I don’t know much about this,” you nod at him, all that he is and encompasses, “your Creed. We can stop, I’m sorry, we can stop.”

Mando stands his ground, your hands fisting his cowl and eyes imploring the black T that hides so much from you.

(please don’t shut me out again)

He takes a deep breath and plants his bare hands on either side of your thighs, head coming down to rest on your shoulder. Stroking your palms down his back, you treat flesh and metal as the same beneath your fingers.

(You care for everything that makes him your Mandalorian)

You both sit there in silence, your hands slowing as you let Mando take his time. He finally lifts his head and steps back into the V of your legs, hand coming up to wrap around the back of your neck. You cover his with your own, his fingers twitching below yours, as you put every ounce of empathy into your eyes, the curve of your mouth, the bend of your brows.

“When I took my vow as a Mandalorian, I swore to never remove my helmet in front of another, or to let it be removed.” He speaks like praying, his voice reverent and low. You let it wash over you, trying to convert your desires to his rules.

“A Mandalorian is supposed to be faceless, nameless. A symbol more than a man. Our Creed proves our devotion.” You nod up at the shining helmet.

(How can anyone see it and not think of glory?)

“I have allowed myself some concessions - my hands, my cock - to keep me sharp so I can provide. I’ve never removed the armor for another person.” This is almost whispered, a confession to your altar. You stroke your thumb across his knuckles and the way he responds to that small touch makes you confident.

(This is all you need)

“We don’t have to do anything Mando, nothing beyond what you're comfortable doing. I don’t want your body.” You interject when he tilts his head, a saucy smile tugging at your lips, “Well, not only your body. I want you, Mando, however I can have you. And if that means the armor stays on, then the armor stays on. I just want you.”

Mando’s forehead drops to yours, and he presses it to your skin. You smile at the secret kiss, hoping it’s enough for him to feel at ease again.

“But that’s the problem, Mesh’la,” Mando says, and now it’s sin in his voice, a dirty secret he needs to atone for, a true confession. “I want to take it off.”

Your mouth dries out.

(wants you wants you wants to break rules with you)

“I want to know what it feels like,” he says, and he wraps his arms around your back. “Even though I shouldn’t.” You hear a series of clicks, then a metallic thud. More clicks, followed by another. Then silence.

You hold your breath, waiting for Mando’s next step. You don’t want to rush him, don’t want him to regret making this choice in this moment, moments after being buried in each other’s bodies on the cockpit console. It’s not the most romantic setting, but to be vulnerable under the dome of stars feels more like an offering to the galaxy.

(let his trust in you be rewarded)

Mando’s bare hands come to lay on the tops of your thighs as he takes a half step back. You hold your eyes on his visor, feeling the calluses of his fingers scrape along your skin.

“What would you like me to do?” you ask. Mando’s helmet wanders over your body before it settles on your lap. Looking down you find large golden hands splayed wide, the sharp cut of his sleeves at the wrist, then darkness creeping up thick forearms to the dip at his elbow. His arms aren’t as bulky without the vambraces, but the bulge of muscle is still clear beneath the fabric. Strong hands, capable hands.

(he’s placing himself in your hands)

“Touch me,” he whispers, “please.”

You circle his wrist with your hand, feeling the heat and smoothness of the more delicate skin there. Mando’s breathing picks up as you let him acclimate to the sensation, the visor glued to the path you’re taking.

Carefully, you hook both thumbs under his sleeve, letting your fingers lay lightly on his forearms. Looking up at him, the visor snapping to your face, you ask silent permission. He nods, and you begin inching the edge of his sleeve up his arms.

Mouthwatering skin and a smattering of dark hair is revealed as you slowly push the fabric up to his elbow. The vista is textured with the indentations of the vambraces, few scars but an abundance of sensitivity. You begin dragging your palms back down his arm, the thick cords of muscle jumping at your touch. He's so much softer here than his hands, and you want to put your mouth on him, kiss him in a place where no one has before.

(no one has kissed his mouth either)

Mando’s breath is stuttery as you lift his hand to press against your cheek, fingers stroking along the inside of his arm.

“Thank you for trusting me,” you say, and you place a light kiss on the inside of his wrist. A rough noise comes from behind the vocoder and Mando grips the side of your head. He brings his forehead against yours and you smile, stroking the newly-revealed skin as his fingers burrow into your hair, around your neck, holding you.

“I trust you,” he breathes out, and brings his other hand to your mouth to press his thumb against your lips (every way he can show he cares).

He takes his hands off you and rolls the other sleeve up quickly, folding and scrunching the fabric so it sits comfortably at his elbows. He’s still so thick and filled out even without the armor gracing his arms, the swath of skin contrasting sharply against the darkness and shine. Your hands go to the hem of your shirt and with a moment of debate you pull it over your head, naked but for your breast band. Mando’s attention returns to you and you see his half-hard cock thicken at the sight.

“Mesh’la,” he says, and words bubble unbidden from your lips.

(It’s a time for revelations, what’s one more?)

“What does it mean?” you ask, hands gripping the edge of the console as the cool air pebbles your skin and raises your nipples. Mando settles back between your legs, and you watch how the muscles in his arm move under his skin, the twist of the finer bones in his wrist as he jerks his cock to full hardness. Lining himself up to enter you again, he slides warm palms around your back and embraces you.

This is more skin than you’ve ever had of Mando’s against your own. The glide of his arms as he feels you underneath him is strong and euphoric. It’s the softest caress you’ve ever experienced, wrapped in half of a myth and all of a man.

“Beautiful,” Mando murmurs, the helmet pressed against your temple. You can almost feel the warmth of his breath, impossible as it may be, as you put meaning to a word you held in your heart for so long. “You are beautiful…” Mando says more forcefully as he slides you onto his cock, your fingers scrabbling along his back at the sensual entrance. You can’t move, have to just take the achingly slow pace Mando is setting as his skin presses yours. “...in every sense of the word, even more.” He bottoms out, one arm pressed up your spine with a hand on the back of your head, the other wrapped around your lower back. Your legs hook behind his thighs, trying to get leverage to roll against him as he sighs into your shoulder.

"Mesh'la,” Mando moans with a strong roll of his hips. You bury your cry in his neck, bringing your hips down to meet his thrust. “You didn’t know I was saying it? All this time?” You shake your head in the cowl (too afraid to feel that desire and that pain) as he begins to snap his hips into you at a slow and powerful pace.

“I thought you knew, must have known,” Mando grunts, every plow of his cock into you long and smooth and strong. It’s more intimate, more passionate than you can bear.

“Mando…” you whine, and you feel your throat clench and your eyes water. It’s so much in such a small space, accepting his body and his words and the weight of it all. Mando pulls his head back to press against your forehead again, his hand spanning the back of your skull.

“Mesh’la, beautiful,” he says, the words punctuated with heavy breaths as he angles his hips up and into you. His pubic bone hits your clit with every thrust, the head of his cock dragging over a spot inside you that makes your body shake. Every moment is laced with pleasure, unable to pause to recover.

“Kotyc, strong,” he says, and your bleary mind grasps another Mando’a word and translation.

“Mirdala, clever.”

“Cyar'ika-”

“Mando, please, don’t…” you moan, but he won’t stop giving you everything he can.

“Fuck, Mesh’la,” Mando punches out of his lungs as he pulls you down against him, “Take it, take it all, you can do it.” He drags a hand up to your breast and thumbs your nipple, hard circles sending the final sparks to ignite. You cum suddenly at his words, limbs locking around Mando as he chants, “Yes, Mesh’la, fuck, yes, keep cumming, keep cumming, fuck, fuck.” Your head tips back and when you open your eyes they are full of stars as Mando drags himself out of you, fisting his cock to spill on the floor a second time. You clutch at one another, breath catching on the height of your gasps.

“Fuck, I need…hold…” Mando mumbles and you feel him sway in your arms. You hold him closer, slipping an arm around his side to put a grounding hand against his back. He hums into your shoulder, the curve of the helmet warming as he presses it into your skin. His hands and forearms are smoothing over you again, savoring the feeling of skin on skin.

(what a sin)

You wait until your breathing has slowed and Mando seems to be steadier on his feet, though he’s still savoring you with his fingertips.

“Thank you,” you choke out, and Mando reluctantly peels himself off your front. He brings a hand to your face and you press your lips into it over and over. His other hand drifts to yours and laces your fingers together, tightening when you sigh into his palm.

“I meant it,” Mando finally says, cupping your chin and tilting your face to him. You meet the visor’s darkness and for a moment imagine eyes staring back at you, hardened by time but still soft around the edges. “I still do. I call you Mesh’la because you are beautiful in more ways than Basic can convey.”

You smile and take a watery breath, fanning it against his pulse.

“Careful, Mando, or I might fall in love with you.”

(fuck)

You’re so blissed out and loose with your orgasm that you let those words tumble from your lips. You hold your breath, skin hot with embarrassment.

(no no no you just got everything you wanted and you’re going to fuck it up with your dumbass mouth)

Mando’s fingers stroke against your jaw, the helmet tilting at the hard switch in your demeanor. He reaches over and grabs your shirt, bunching it in his fists so he can guide it over your head. You break eye contact with him, slipping your arms through the loops before you hear his voice, so quiet through the helmet as if he hopes the whisper will hide his desires from his Creed.

“Would that be…a bad thing?”

Like home on a cold day, or a smile from the child, a full-body warmth travels from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You take the helmet in both hands, Mando flinching instinctively for a moment before relaxing.

“No, it would not.”

There may have been more words to say, but at that moment you hear a thump and a cry from the hold and you and Mando switch back to the roles you have on the Crest. Mando helps you hop off the console, careful of the mess he’s made on the floor (he’s on cleanup later) and handing you the rest of your clothes. You both redress, him reattaching the vambraces. You wonder if he’ll remove them more now, but you also know that his Creed is a comfort and a habit that doesn’t change in the course of an hour (no matter how good of an hour it was).

With a press of his forehead against yours again, he descends the ladder to tend to the child. You follow to tend to some tasks and plan your evening. You’ll teach the kid a new game, maybe see if he’ll show off his weird powers again. Then when you tuck him in to sleep (on a good schedule now thank the Maker), you’ll join Mando in the cockpit.

Maybe he will tell you more of his Creed, the importance it has in his life and how it’s shaped him.

Or maybe you’ll speak about the mission to find a Jedi for the child. It seems to pull at Mando, and you suspect there is something waiting at its completion that will test his faith. You hope you’ll be there for that, whenever it may be.

But even if you both sit in silence, letting the emotion and events of the day settle into your bones, you know it will be enough.

END

“in the afterglow of an evening rain

I lay down in the grass and think of you

my body aches like an after-kiss

breaking in soft fires and wildflowers

my dear, I will always be this tender for you.”

- Sanober Khan

Episode 9 of the I Think of You Series

The story continues in Episode 10: If the Moon Walks Out

#din x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #mando/reader #mando fanfiction #mando x reader #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian/reader #the mandalorian fan fic #mando x female reader #mando x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #i think of you series #prolix fics

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