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hwkewhy · 4 years

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all helmet, no head | d.j.

Summary: No living person has seen his face since the creed. All helmet, no head as his lover likes to call him; her favorite Mandalorian insult thus far. With that being said, he’d think she’d be more surprised seeing what’s under the helmet.

Pairings: Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x Reader.

Word Count: 1.4k.

Warnings: Mentions of blood.

“Mando, if you don’t come here!”

He knew she only called him that when she was angry. Or annoyed. Or both.

It was hard to tell which one was driving her at the moment.

“I’m fine where I am.”

“You’re hurt.”

There’s a table standing between the two of him. His only line of defense against her.

“I’m fine.” He says.

He knows she would never remove his helmet. She respected his culture way too much to dare cross that line. But the other pieces of armor? That was another story.

“Let me look at it.” She demands.

Her fingers curl against the metal of the table, nails scratching against it. He’s sure if she had the strength, and with how angry she is, she could break the material between her hands if she so wanted.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Ori'buyce, kih'kovid!”

Hearing her speak Mando’a often made his chest tighten. It sounded all too pleasant coming from her lips; even if she was tossing an insult his way. If he didn’t know the meaning of it, he might have thought she was yelling sweet-nothings at him.

He knew better than that.

“You’re getting better with your Mando’a.”

She takes a few steps towards him, pointing an accusing finger his direction. “Stop trying to change the subject -- come here.”

In the dim light of the ship, the faint sheen of blood is apparent. It’s running from underneath his helm, drying to a crust against the curve of his neck. It cracks apart as he tilts his head to the side, visor gazing in her general direction.

“I’ll tend to it as soon as I get the chance.”

She takes a few more steps in his direction. He moves in the opposite. Perhaps she would tire herself out, or get bored of arguing with him. He could only hope.

“I know better than to believe you.” She grumbles.

“It’s not that bad.”

“You passed out the last time you said that.”

“That was last time.” A pitiful argument, but one nonetheless.

Her shoulders slump a bit, brows falling together. “At least let me clean the blood off you. I’m not asking you to take it off.”

He supposed he could let her do that.

She’s done it before; once or twice. The flesh not covered by his helm was a weak point; if one was even given the chance to get near it. There has perhaps been a time or two where it’s been struck, blood clotting in the curve.

He could settle for that. And so would she.

Din perhaps makes a show of slouching down into a chair, legs spread far apart, head lazily tilted to the side. It would be best to get it all over with, he supposed. At least it would make her feel better about his current situation.

She’s by his side within seconds, gently pushing a hand against his helm, a silent instruction for him to tilt his head even more. He does so without a word, allowing her more access to the blood crusted against his skin.

“You have got to be more careful.” She says, voice soft.

She did care for him. Even if she did have a funny way of showing it.

“You’re gonna lose whatever brain cells you have left if you don’t.”

Yeah, she truly did. He knew better than to listen to her pity jabs. He’s known her for far too long to take her words as anything more than that. He knew it all came from a caring spot in her heart.

Maybe even love; depending on how much of an annoyance he had been that day.

Her touch is gentle and soft, despite her harsh words. Holding the cloth to his skin for a moment, she carefully wipes away what crusted blood she can get to. It’s a slow process. It always is.

She’s always been respectable of his space, of his rules.

It takes a lot for someone to merely trust another without ever seeing their face. He imagines her mind has made up what he looks like inside her mind, but she’s never pestered him on whether or not her imagination is correct.

Even with blood running down from his face, dripping onto his breastplate, she has never gone farther than what he has allowed. It must take a lot of someone to care for, and put with, another who’s face you’ve never seen.

Her hand ghosts up a little higher under the rim of his helm, intent of getting all that she can. His head merely tilts her way in response, even though he knows she’ll go no farther; she never has.

“Don’t look at me like that, Din.”

“Vor entye, riduur.”

A small snort comes from her at that. She knew enough Mando’a to know that was a term of endearment. Even if she hadn’t, the way it leaves his lips is enough for her to connect the dots.

She doesn’t ask what it means.

She figured it was something like darling, sweetheart, love. His partner.

“Sweet talk won’t work on me.” She says, fingers gently working beneath his helmet.

She’s right. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But either way, he’s quite fond of the way he skin flushes when he does so. Even behind his visor, he has a full view of what it does to her.

Years of knowing one another -- truly knowing each other -- and he still finds a way to catch her off guard. Over and over again.

“I think I got it all.”

She’s right. She’s gotten all that she could. Well, what she could reach at least. Which wasn’t very far, mind you. But he had to commend her for trying. He could feel the dampness of the cloth not even halfway up his neck, as far as she could reach with the restrictions of his armor.

Beneath it, he knew his forehead was stained with blood, a side effect from taking a nasty hit.

He could clean it later, he supposed. He was very capable of cleaning and tending to a wound. But there was no telling when he would have time to do so. There were so many other things to worry about besides the gash dug into his skin.

So what was keeping him from allowing her to help?

Maybe it was more of a fear of her seeing his face for the first time than it was that he didn’t trust her. He had been going on and on about how much he trusts her for some time now, all while she cleaned what she could reach.

It was more of a fear that she would leave, no longer like him, if her imagination had been incorrect.

His hands go up to grip his helmet, pulling up.

“Din, you don’t have--”

She falls silent, words caught in her throat.

He knows she’s probably resisting the urge to toss a jab his way. Perhaps something along the lines of “you’re even uglier than I imagined”, but she remains silent. By the way her eyes go as wide as saucers, he imagines she’s taking it all in at this very moment.

It was perhaps a lot to put on her.

Eventually, her gaze softens up. Then, without giving a second thought, she brings the cloth back up to rub at the gash along his forehead.

“Okay, there. It’s clean.” She whispers, giving a few final pats of the cloth before she’s decided she’s done all that she can for him. It was clean. That’s all that mattered in this moment.

Finally, she takes a second to take in his appearance. She has to tell herself that staring is rude, shaking her head a bit. Helmet or not, it was still Din sitting in front of her. Just cause she now knew what he looked like didn’t mean her feelings for him, or about him, would change.

Though, she had always imagined his eyes to be blue.

Taking his helmet from his lap, she carefully examines it. She twists and turns it in her grasp, staring at the visor she was so accustomed to before looking back up to the Mandalorian in front of her. To see eyes gazing back at her instead of the reflective sheen of a helmet was a change of pace.

“Thank you.” There’s nothing blocking his words now; the sound of it breaking her train of thought.

“You said that earlier.”

“I know.”

Leaning forwards, she slides the helm back onto his head, fingers curling against it. Eventually, she lets her hands move around to hold onto the sides of his face.

“You’re welcome, riduur.” She leans a tiny bit closer, pressing her lips against the metal.

Underneath his helmet, he smiles.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din jarin #mandalorian x reader #star wars imagine #mandalorian imagine

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hwkewhy · 4 years

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Cold Shoulder | j.w.

Summary: A little bit of liquid courage never hurt. And maybe a convenient patch up job in his room doesn’t either.

Pairings: John Wick x Reader.

Word Count: 1.9k.

Warnings: Blood. Mentions of wounds and violence. Light swearing.

“Don’t you look like absolute shit.”

No response.

“Well... How have you been?”

Silence. Bone chilling silence.

“I see... Not gonna answer. Fair enough.” You hum, fingers tapping on the bar top. In truth, you had hoped he might speak to you, putting your current job off for a little longer. “Well, I got a mark. Just thought I’d come see how you were before...”

Still nothing.

“Ah, forget that I asked.”

Just as quickly as you had sat down, you’re gone. Leaving your payment on top of the bar with a soft clink.

He doesn’t watch you go, keeping his back turned to you. He counts the clicks of your heels against the ground till he can no longer hear them. Then there’s the silence. You’re gone. Who knows when you’ll be back.

He gives you about three hours till you’re back, sipping on your favorite drink under the light of the bar. And that just might underestimating you just a little. Three hours did make it seem like he didn’t think you could get it done quickly, without a hitch.

He knew better than that.

Tapping his finger on the brim of his glass, he mentally kicks himself for not saying something. But was it his fault? You had said he looked like -- God. What was wrong with him? Normally, your little jabs didn’t bother him in anyway.

And who’s to say they even bothered him any now?

His brows fall together in thought. How long has it been since he’s last seen you? A year or two? Perhaps even more than that. He supposes the last time he really saw you was before he got out of it. After all, he would run into you time and time again underneath the Continental roof. It seems like nothing has changed for that matter.

After he got out, he rarely ever saw your face. There might have been a time or two where he thought he caught a glimpse of you among the bustling masses. Your figure disappearing into the sea of people as if you were never really there in the first place. And there’s a good chance you weren’t there to begin with.

When he was still a player in the game, you had been a welcomed companion. Maybe even more than that if his memory was serving him correctly.

He remembers how ready you had been to offer him any form of assistance. At one point, he might have thought you felt bad for him. He was old, and getting weaker and weaker every day. Not that he was doing a good job of showing that.

When the Doc wasn’t around, he recalls a few times you had dug into his side to pull fragments of bullets out, fingers coated in blood and a way to gentle of a smile on your face. You had treated him with care, not saying a word as you put him back together again.

You had been a good friend.

But, if you had been such a good friend, why did he insist on giving you such a cold shoulder?

Maybe because he couldn’t stand to see you direct that gentle smile his way. Maybe because he didn’t think he deserved the random acts of kindness you threw his way.

John Wick thought himself to be nothing more than a killer. A killer who didn’t know how to use his hands for anything else other than murder He’s almost been conditioned to know nothing else but broken bones and blood. How could he even begin to go about approaching your in any other way other than a killer.

It’s as if he can’t get past that one thought. That he is a killer. Nothing more, nothing less.

But if he were to think a little longer and harder about it, he might realize the same could be said about you. After all, you did work with him from time to time. And when you weren’t tagging along, there was no telling what kinds of chaos you were up to.

If you wanted too, you could probably take down an entire room of men with just the point of your heel. And John would never dare to put that past you. He would never doubt you like that.

....

You couldn’t even begin to make it up to your room. How pathetic.

Charon had watched you stumble in through the lobby doors, flopping down into the closest chair you could find. You looked as if you had been put through the ringer. Maybe even to hell and back. Even from where he was standing, he could see the violent shaking of your hands as you latched onto the nearest object.

“Miss. Y/n.”

If you had the energy, you might have jumped at his sudden appearance by your side.

“Oh... Hey there, Charon. Is it okay if... If I sit here for just a moment? And... And Catch my breath?”

“Certainly.”

"Thanks.”

He lingers by your side. “Can I do anything else for you?”

“A drink... A drink would be nice. I don’t care what it is--surprise me.” You mutter, head lulling to the side, eyes looking off into some far off land. “Maybe... Maybe find the doctor for me?”

"Anything else?”

“Ah, no... No, I don’t think so.”

.....

“Hey.”

You groan.

“Hey. Hey.”

You know that voice.

“Y/n? Can you hear me?” A brief pause, fingertips carefully ghost across your cheek. “What happened to you.”

“I... I got the shit beat out of me, Jonathan.”

There’s another pause, this one longer. You can almost feel the unease vibrating off of him, debating whether or not he should act on his instincts to protect and preserve. But the longer he sits and waits, the closer and closer you get to the light.

“Where... Where’s the doctor?”

He gives you a simple answer. “Out.”

“Oh, you... You have got to be shitting me.”

“No... I’m not.”

A gentle hand latches onto your shoulder, his other hand moving to pull you up into a sitting position. If your body wasn’t weighed down with the feeling of impending doom, you might have reacted to his careful touch. But even with your mind clouded with the daze of blood loss, you know why he’s here.

He’s here to help.

“Did... Did Charon send you?” You whisper, letting your drained body slump against his stronger one.

“Perhaps.”

“Then... Where’s my drink?”

John can only snort at that. Instead of humoring you any longer, he locks one arm tightly behind your back before the other loops down and around the bend of your knees. He picks you up as if you weighed nothing to him. You might as well not have when compared to the infamous Baba Yaga.

.....

Strange to think hands that are so capable of murder and violence leave nothing but gentle caresses against your side.

John, ever the gentlemen, had called you up a bottle of liquor. At first, you assume it’s for disinfecting the wound. Instead he passes it over to you, mumbling a soft “drink” before ducking his head back dow, large fingers working needle and thread with ease.

Glancing around his room, you feel your body sink a little deeper into the mattress, eyes staring up at the ceiling. A bolt of pain shoots through your side, teeth gritting together at the feeling.

“Are you --”

“I’m fine, John. But could you move a little faster?”

John only snorts at you.

There’s a small beat of a pause between the two of you.

“who would have known.”

John looks up, absentmindedly reaching for the surgical scissors on his thigh. “What’s that?”

“I was just thinking, you know.” You take a quick swig of your drink. “It’s just funny that it took me getting shot and nearly beaten to death to make my way into your bed.”

John jerks at that. His sudden movements pulls at the thread looping through your skin, tearing instead of piecing you back together. You can only chuckle. The brief and sudden pain was worth it to see him flustered, even if just for a moment.

He doesn’t give you a response. In fact he isn’t sure how to, only shaking his head. Locks of black hide the gentle curving up of his lips and the subtle flush of pink ghosting over his face. He decides not to loo too far into it for now. After all, piecing you back together was far more pressing than looking into whatever that meant.

“So... You’re just going to ignore me some more?”

“I think that --” John roughly points a finger to the bottle in your hands “--has gotten to your head.”

“Maybe so. I do feel pretty good.” You chuckle, head falling backwards onto the pillow with a soft thump. “But I’m just saying what I’m thinking. If I wasn’t missing a piece of my side, I would--”

John jumps up from his seat. “Alright, alright. I think it’s bed time for you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. You’re not listening to me, John.”

He pauses, hands looming on your shoulders. His brows fall together, almost as if he’s trying to figure you out for the first time all over again. This close to you, he can smell the liquor on your breath. He can practically taste it.

But the look you give him is so determined that he can’t help but believe you are in sound enough mind to mean what you’re saying.

“I can’t.” Is all that he can say, finally allowing his grip to fall onto your shoulders. Large fingers hold onto you loosely but still with enough force to push you down onto the bed.”I can’t put you through--”

“Put me through what, John? You and I are exactly the same.” You smack his grip away with the back of your hand. “You’re a murderer. I’m a murderer. We’re both hitmen for hire. It happens.”

“But--”

“I swear if you interrupt me one more time, I’m going to kick your ass.”

He can’t help but laugh. “I don’t doubt it... But still.”

“What’s got you so scared?”

He blinks. He looks at you and then looks away. He looks at his hands for a second, twiddling his thumbs together. His gaze darts around, looking at anything other than the confused look you’re giving him.

“What if... I can’t...” He mutters. “...Being in me puts you in danger.”

“Danger happens to be my middle name.”

“Y/n.”

“John.”

“You could get killed.” He defends.

“I could get killed anyway.” You retort back.

Perhaps it was all but a losing battle with you. Perhaps he didn’t know when to back down. He certainly knew you weren’t going to back down. Not till you got the answer you were looking for or something to at least sedate your growing annoyance.

He lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping just a bit. It’s the first signs of weakness he has been willing to show you since bringing you up here.

“Maybe you’re right.” He whispers.

“Could you say that again?”

“No.”

You snort a bit at that, face twisting up in pain as your side jerks. “Fair enough. But what would you say to dinner?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“I didn’t think you’d get around to it.”

John shifts a bit, a soft smiling upturning his lips. He shifts the pillows around you for a moment, pulling the blankets up and over your form. And then, very quietly, he goes, “If I say yes, would you get some rest?”

You meekly nod. His rather evasive yes was a start. And that start had to amount to something over time.

#John Wick #john wick imagine #john wick fluff #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick reader insert

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