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obiwanurmyonlyhoe · 5 days

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salted wound (din djarin x f!reader)

summary: the mandalorian places his trust in you, and you both reap the rewards.

notes: this is my first time writing for din/the mandalorian, and whilst i always welcome constructive criticism, please be kind. fic name comes from the sia track i listened to whilst writing this 🫶🏻

warnings: typical bounty hunter violence, canon divergence (sorry grogu ily), sensory deprivation (?), so much kissing, fluff, cursing, smutty thoughts & happenings, din is taller than reader & can lift her. 18+, mdni.

this is for the wonderful @hellishjoel who requested this & gave me the confidence to write for this man ✨ tysm to my beautiful beta and light of my life @frannyzooey, and my cheerleaders @macfrog @swiftispunk @joelscruff 🫶🏻

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want this.”

“Din.. You know I-”

“Tell. Me.”

“Maker,” you breathe. “Yes, Din - fuck. I want this.”

A beat of silence, broken by the slow, steady thrumming of the Razor Crest’s flight instruments. Din’s breathing, modulated and heavy, digesting your response. Calculated and careful, as he always is. Tone insistent, face concealed by beskar.

You can’t quite believe this is happening.

You’re no stranger to disbelief by now, though. The mysterious Mandalorian has shown you vast galaxies bursting with bright starlight, planets thick with lush greenery and barren sands. He’s broadened your horizons more than you’d ever dreamed of, taken you on adventures nobody back home would ever believe.

The Mandalorian never asked anything of you in return, and you basked in the glow of his quiet companionship. You’d grown accustomed to his deep, rasping voice, the way his head would tilt beneath the helmet when his interest was piqued by something you said. One night as the starship soared through hyperspace, silver light bouncing off the observation shield, he’d wrapped his name in a whisper and gifted it to you.

Din Djarin.

There was no denying the way you felt about him after that revelation. You’d tried to bury it somewhere deep at first, choke it to death with the knowledge that those feelings would - could - never be reciprocated.

But, something was brewing below the surface: the close proximity the two of you shared, the budding, nervous flowers of a friendship. The way you’ve caught his hidden gaze lingering when you leave the fresher each time, skin bare and dripping. Din’s huge, gloved hand on your lower back as he guided you through the markets, the chuckles you elicit from him with your childlike wonder at every new species you met.

You dare yourself to dream. What it would be like to be by his side forever? This cold, stoic man; this bloodthirsty bounty hunter. You’re slowly cracking Din’s emotional armour as the days begin to pass in a blur. You hear that slow laugh rumble through his chest when you coax stories of his life from him in the depths of hyperspace, feel his protective gaze tracking you when you’re just out of his reach.

He’s funny, sarcastic in nature, fiercely proud of his heritage. Maker, you want him: those broad shoulders beneath the pauldrons, thick thighs and strong chest encased in beskar. You think of Din every night as you sleep metres apart, wondering how long you can stand your torturous, permanent state of desire for him.

You’ve never felt closer to Din. And yet, you’ve never even seen his face.

You’re stood in the hull of the ship together, now, your hand laid flat on his vambrace, anchoring him to you. Something had gone wrong today: he’d returned to the Razor Crest with no bounty, no murderous or thieving criminal whimpering at his feet. Din was wound tightly, frustration radiating off of him in waves that crashed over you in a torrent as soon as he boarded the ship.

You don’t ask what’s happened; you don’t care to know the story. You just want to help him. You want to relieve the pressure, give yourself to him, know him in the way you’re so desperate to. You fear his cold rejection - perhaps he’d turf you out on a backwater planet with no way home. You think you know, though, in your heart: he won’t.

“Please, Din.”

“I don’t think-” he starts, but you shake your head. His thick, gloved fingers grip your wrist; his touch is so delicate in a way that surprises you, warm blood pooling in your belly. “Let me help you,” you tell him, voice laced with desire. You tilt your head in search of a sign - anything, any flicker of indication - from beneath his darkened visor.

“Yeah?” he rasps, finally. “You want that?”

You nod, eagerly. So eagerly.

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want this.”

“Din.. You know I-”

“Tell. Me.”

“Maker,” you breathe. “Yes, Din - fuck. I want this.”

“Okay.”

You feel your eyes widening, his acceptance triggering a fresh course of need through your body. There are no nerves to be found, which surprises and excites you in equal measure. You’ve wanted him for so long, and judging by the way his helmet dips as he sizes you up, he feels the same.

“One rule,” he tells you, and your breath hitches as Din towers over you. You look up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. His hands come to frame your face, thumbs skirting below your brow bone, and you understand. You close your eyes, instantly shrouded in darkness, and make your promise to him.

“I won’t look, Din. I swear,” you tremble, and you hear him exhale, long and heavy. His hands leave you, and you wonder, for a fleeting moment, if you’ve made a mistake. Suddenly, the clang of beskar on the ship floor makes you jolt, and you fight the intense impulse to open your eyes.

You don’t.

Din takes your hands in his, and you feel him for the first time. His bare skin: the rough callouses of his palms, soft fingertips. “Maker..” Din breathes, and your knees all but buckle. His voice. Fuck. Clearer than you’ve ever heard it, free from the modulator. It’s so rich, so deep. You bite into your bottom lip to stop yourself whimpering.

He brings your hands upwards, and you collide gently with his face. You’re trembling as he places one either side, a mirror image of what he’d done to you. You feel his jaw in your palms; coarse hair along the sharp edges. You try to steady your breathing, harness your excitement. You worry of doing too much.

The weight of the trust placed upon your shoulders is not wasted on you. You so desperately want to gaze upon this man, drink him in for real. Your thirst is unquenchable, insides set ablaze the moment he touched you.

You get bolder, tracing your thumb over his soft lips. Din groans a little; you feel hot breath fan over your skin. Your fingers seek out his nose, running your digits over the beautiful curve. You slide them into his hair, thick and dripping over onto his forehead. “You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, without even thinking, and he laughs quietly.

You feel Din step away from you and divest himself of more armour. Softer sounds, too, like his tunic falling to the floor. You picture it: pulling that dark shirt over his head, shoulders bare, skin warm to the touch. He grasps your hand again: you’re not expecting it, so you jolt a little. “It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and sure.

Din places it on his sternum: you feel his heartbeat beneath your touch. Rapid, just like yours. It gives you satisfaction to know you’re unravelling him, too; empowering you once again to explore. Hair decorates his pectoral muscles, strong as durasteel. You glide over the planes of collarbones and along to his upper arms, digging your nails into his biceps, delighting in his sharp intake of breath.

“Can I touch you, cyar’ika?” he asks, sounding almost pained. “Please,” you whisper, fumbling blindly for the belt around your own tunic. Din steadies you, halting your movements. “Hold still for me,” he murmurs, pleasure dripping down your spine at the request, and you relent.

You feel him, then, press a kiss to your forehead. He moves to the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks, tilting your head back to expose your throat to him. Din is everywhere: you feel the trail of him all over your skin, wet and messy as he leaves kisses on every part of you he can reach.

You’ve given up trying to control your reactions. You’re openly groaning at his ministrations, your remaining senses overloaded. You feel his teeth nipping at your earlobes; you gasp as he takes your fingertips into his mouth and sucks. “Stars,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

You wonder, for a moment, how you must appear to him. Needy, panting, wanton. You’ve buried your true emotions for so long, admiring him from afar. You think you’ll wake up soon. It has to be dream - your wildest thoughts woven into a tapestry of his soft touches. You know what those hands have done: he handles you just as expertly as a blaster, shooting to kill.

He guides you again, and you come into contact with his deliciously soft belly; your nails scraping his skin, Din hissing through his teeth in your ear. You smile, then, slipping a finger into the waistband of his trousers. The hair grows thicker against your knuckles, and you find yourself daring to go lower, lower, until -

He’s kissing you. Properly.

It’s a clash of tongues, bitten lips, wandering hands, desperate noises. Your own tunic discarded, lids still squeezed shut. You taste him, sweet and heady, as Din fights for dominance, claiming your mouth as his own. He lifts you into his arms and you squeal, unprepared, but wrap your legs round his waist and hold him close.

Din backs you into the wall beside the fresher, hungrier for you with each passing moment. He growls, a noise low in the depths of his chest, huge hands gripping your ass like they belong there. You seek the hair at the nape of his neck, aim for the curve of his jaw, mouthing at his skin.

“I‘ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, and you slow your movements, bumping your nose gently against his. “You have no idea,” you confess shyly, fumbling to press your lips to his once more. You feel him grinning back at you; like it’s a secret only the two of you will ever share.

“Mesh’la,” Din whispers, his voice soft yet so commanding. “Open your eyes.”

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obiwanurmyonlyhoe · 15 days

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cold, lips blue

din djarin x f!reader | masterlist

summary: din takes you to see the snow, and then uses his body heat to warm you up.

warnings: softest smut soft!din. p in v. no use of y/n. loosely season one/two. same reader as isn't it - but no requirement to read. wordcount: 3.1k

With him, you’re discovering wonderlands.

Eyes finding places your dreams couldn’t even manifest, dream or conjure—shades coming to life, appearing in mixed colours and strong hues.

Each sight makes your heart do a double take as you steal extra seconds from plans to take it all in.

Today’s wonder is all white.

It’s littered with occasional grey stones and slightly blued pebbles. The piles of them doing their best to intersperse, to be a break in the rolling snow-covered hills. Provide some form of depth, give something for your eyes to latch onto—to prove there’s vastness.

The first solid thought you’d had when the hull door opened was, it’s bright. Almost uncomfortably, so,

Eyes squinting instantly, forcing yourself to see through your lashes, forearm coming up to shield you further as the wind howled and flakes began their escape into the ship.

Eyes squinting instantly, yet you force yourself to see through your lashes, forearm coming up to shield you further as the wind howled. Its mournful wail echoes through the air and flakes dance in a frantic ballet, their delicate forms swirl like spirits wishing to escape into the ship.

Stepping outside, more snow finds refuge on your cheeks, forehead and nose, resting there momentarily, before vanishing as though they’d never existed. They leave behind only the sensation, a fleeting tickle, like the echo of a memory. Just like a kiss, its presence lingers, an imprint on the skin, brief yet unforgettable.

Just like him, you suppose. Just like all the kisses the two of you have shared.

The last one, in particular.

The softness of it. The way he so cautiously slanted his mouth over yours, cupped your head in his hand and spent seconds, minutes mapping out your lips before he even slid his tongue past your teeth.

You’d made notes of things too—the low grunt he tried to bury in his throat, the way his body slowly relaxed itself on top of yours. All welcome, a weight you’d forever wear.

Forever. An odd word. Seven letters, and yet it expands through space and time. It’s ever-lasting, yet could be gone in a moment.

Turning on the spot, your senses tune in to the sounds of it crunching under your boots. Bits of it find shelter within the worn seams, seeping into the crevices as if seeking solace in the fabric that has weathered so much, all over-worn and loved.

You’re glad, in a sense.

Even if your toes grow colder and liquid begins to slide under the arch of your foot—it just means you can feel more of it. Soak as much of it in, and let it solder itself to you, so a piece of it lives within when the three of you turn your back on this place.

You hear him follow, and all you think is that he's welded a part of himself in you too.

A fragment at first—and now you’re sure he’s carved himself something larger. It's less about ordering you to stay behind, grasping for you in dark spaces that turn into heady nights spent panting. Now, it’s more about crawling in beside you because you know to wait, trusting him to always return. It's more about the way you can map his face with your palms—bask in the sensation of his breath on your collarbone...

Cold stretches there now.

You’re sure if you slide open your layers, the skin would pebble before it would begin to ache—to become desperate for cover. You wonder if your bones would want to shake and shiver; whether your blood would slow, if your mind would become a little less heavy?

“This okay?”

He speaks—making the two words slice through the howl and the heavy breaths you’re consuming.

Asking it as though a smile hadn’t been stitched into your face since the moment he’d told you he had a surprise. A treat. As though he hadn’t watched a twinkle in your eye because you know he doesn’t make half-promises and he does not give without thought.

“More than okay,” you reply, voice gentle, it flowing from your lips as you let your gaze rest on him.

Let it sit there.

Allow your mind to begin to walk away with itself as you recall the way he jolted, the soft murmur he exclaimed when he danced between being awake and asleep.

You wonder if he regrets this. Whether the way you curled into him to soothe had been a step too far; whether your palm flat to his cheek, knuckles tracing the stubble that leaves welcomed burns along your thighs, had been too much for him.

He hadn’t said as much.

Not even once.

Sighing, letting it trickle past your mouth, you stare up—the sight of frost falling seemingly coming from nowhere and yet somewhere. Lost in it. Attempting to trace, to find the origination, only to find yourself struggling to see, to focus—too bright, you think again, chin dropping, eyes closing as you take another deep breath.

It’s why it slips out, is spoken before you realise it’s left your lips. It travels in wispy condensation, hand outstretched, palm upturned, as the words fill the silence: I’ve never felt falling snow.

You hear the sound of his boots crunching snow, the gap between the two of you closing as you flick your eyes to him—not halting him, but rather ensuring he knows you see him.

The dangerous side and the gentler side; the one who hunts and the one who caretakers. And all the rest in the middle.

You drop your gaze to him—the one more beloved than ship, principles or bounties. Snow resting atop his green head, ears twitching when certain flakes make contact.

Then, you stare at the helmet. Silently asking, all done in an exchange, a purposeful distraction—with a reply given in a tilt, a descent of his beskar-covered shoulders before the child was placed on the ground.

“I’ll be gentle.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

You snort. "You trust me, Mando?"

He says nothing, which says a lot.

And you allow a deep inhale to follow—one that flows ice through your nose, forcing it to crash into the sides of your lungs as you almost gasp.

It’s a different kind of cold here.

A lot of things are different now.

You don’t concede to the ache in your bones or the weariness in your jaw from the relentless clenching of your teeth. You hide it beneath a veneer of stoicism and resolve.

Because if you do, the three of you will leave.

Stubbornness, some would say; utreekov he would say.

All under his breath, later translated when your mouth wraps around his cock—when you hollow cheeks and trace the tip of your tongue along the slit as salt kisses the roof of your mouth.

He decides for you when you blow into your gloves. A firm declaration, bold: Grogu needs to sleep.

It is less a question, and more of a statement; not quite an order, but he leaves little room to argue. The child picked up, scooped practically from the ground, leaving you to face the back of them both.

If you were closer, you’d likely see your dismay reflected in the beskar. The ball in your hand melting, before you let it fall in a half-formed lump to the ground. Letting it reunite with others similar to it before your soles flatten it, crush it back into nothingness.

You shiver, with no attempt to hide it this time, his eyes no longer a threat—no necessity to fight it or bury it. Letting it rumble through you as your teeth move on their own accord. Knowing, without touching, that your lips are likely colder than the melting snow that had been in your hand.

It might not have been the case if you hadn’t taken six snowballs to the face in the last so many moments.

The balls had been cupped and formed in your palms before you'd thrown them, only to have them flung back at you. A test, an experiment. A training session for Grogu and another thing ticked off from the list of things you’d ever done.

Yet, still, there are many things left.

A never-ending listicle—but, there alongside the ones for him are even more questions you're not sure you'll get an answer on.

They won't be shared. You won't whisper them to him when you’re both bare and catching your breaths. They'll rot inside of you, leave them tucked behind sinew and held back by stronger muscles than you have anywhere else.

You know the protocol when you are back in the warmth.

Silently disrobing, entering the refresher—followed by dressing and the rest of your usual routine as the other two sit up top, one resting and the other doing his utmost to avoid.

A thing that rarely bothers you, except now, your skull throbs—pounds. A sudden desire to call out his name, to ask him to come, for no reason other than to be held. The back of your hand finds nothing but chill, cold and sweat when it brushes your forehead, an unsteadiness to your walk as you manoeuvre—so reminiscent of the first few days on the ship—his name being swallowed.

Bed, you think.

Moving slowly, each step is akin to a baby's crawl until you finally grasp the comfort of it before sliding up further into it, encasing yourself, wrapping until you’re closer to a ball than a person.

You’re not sure how long you lie, how much time passes, but when he calls your name it sounds distant—far off.

And, so he calls it again, and again. A chant, a melody, it carries around the walls and greets your ear each time. There's just no energy to reply, nothing else inside of you than being curled and willing warmth to stretch out across skin, muscle and ossein.

Maker.

He breathes it. Allows it to flow out. But, it isn’t until his hand knocks away the sheet, fingers brushing over your calf do you hear him hiss.

“Kriff, you’re freezing.”

You murmur something, mind willing for an I know but not entirely sure what hits the air. Barely able to do more than remain still, to stop yourself from shivering.

Worth it, you add. Repeating it, the bridge to the song of your name he'd begun earlier, until you open your eyes and find yourself in the dark.

It's all-encompassing in its cloak of midnight, the darkness enveloping you like a heavy shroud, pressing against your skin with an oppressive weight, suffocating any glimmer of light and casting you into a realm of shadows and ambiguity.

Then you hear him undress.

Able to tell now, able to spot when each item is placed down—like a strip tease you’ve never been privileged to actually see, but the routine is all but memorised.

You want to reply, tell him you'll be fine as a tremble rips through you—finding it’s easier to keep your teeth together. Easier to tremble and shiver and shake.

That is, until you feel him shift, the presence of him looming before his body begins to smother yours.

It's all broad, heavy—heartbeat hammering against your skin as it ripples a kind of tune through your bones. But it's the warmth you grasp for; bring closer. Your fingers digging into skin and muscle, needing him flush to you more than you need to breathe.

It’s not romantic, but in a way it also is.

Even if shrouded in a blanket of faux night, there’s something intimate about the way he feels around you. It's far softer, slower movements.

His fingers find your cheek. Thumb brushing over your lips, likely cold, lips blue, as you bite back the instinct to let it slide into your mouth. Fight hollowing cheeks around the appendage, remind him how good your mouth can feel.

Instead, you focus on him. How this time, neither of you said this wasn’t it. This wasn't the place—isn't it. No entertainment that snowy-topped hills and rolling mounds of ice could be a place he could ever leave you.

You’re thankful, more than grateful.

Wishing to say as much as you shift your body under his, his thigh slotting more gracefully between yours, so much so, that makes you whimper. A sound that makes his head move, shift quickly.

A shyness falling over you, a veil of it, weightless but still there.

You're sure he's reading you, scanning you, deciphering everything the noise could mean even in the dark.

But, it's obvious that you want him. A thing you almost shrug out, but he shifts again, purposefully rocking his thigh, intentionally pulling another whimper that proves that you're throbbing. That you need him. More than a requirement, more than survival—

Warm me. Keep me warm.

Fingers sliding to his waist, resting, thumb stroking as you nuzzle your nose against his cheek. A sign without words, a signal that flashes in its own way.

Your wants rolling, clumping. Not too dissimilar to the snowballs you had made earlier—them all compacting, hardening.

Please, Mando.

Even if he thinks you just want him, you want more than the solid length of him inside of you or his palms on the back of your thighs.

It's a thing which circulates, and you ponder over it. Turn it over when you wake before him and let sit on the back of your tongue when he's showing you what buttons and switches mean on the ship.

Because you want to know his smile, the shade of his eyes—see the faces he pulls when he tilts his head and know the unfiltered sound of his laugh. You want him to never let you go. To never let you slip under, to hold you, to always be—

“Mesh'la…”

You hadn’t known you’d been speaking out loud. Letting confessions fall, like the earlier snowflakes. Except they hadn't landed softly, or gently. But rather laboriously, thickly—making the small space feel much narrower.

Realisation slams your heart into your chest, halting thoughts, and silencing your apparent babbling.

Head turning, silence doubling—air tightening—before you think and speak, “Should be saying that t-to you.”

He hums, it vibrating through him, fluttering over where your chest meets his. “I’m not... not mesh'la.”

“Don’t need to see you to know that you are, Din.”

You’re cautious with it, his name.

Barely used, barely warranted. A thing given to you one night when your face was buried into his neck—a silent promise made when he’d handed it to you. An offering.

You feel his head rise, each of his muscles taut, and you close the gap, moaning your gratitude into his mouth, all messy.

Rustling sheets sounded, suddenly aware of him. Feeling him. Pressed against you, heavy and leaking, as the rest of him remains tense. Caged in his bicep, mouth unwilling to release yours, to be anywhere but reading the rest of your wants straight from your tongue.

"Got you," he moans, signing it against you as he moves, positions himself before you can feel him nudging at your entrance, "I've got you."

And he does.

Slick with need for him, in a slow thrust, he sinks into you. Deeper and deeper. Clutching onto him, hanging more imperatively to him as he pauses, lets you adjust—mouth sliding over yours as he waits for the sign to move, to go, permission to further set you aflame.

You think each time you’ll be used to how he stretches you, how delicious it feels. How you’re so full, so content, and how he feels all warm and soft against you. But this time it’s different. Not just in the way he moves, but in the way he kisses you, in the way he murmurs soft phrases to your neck and collarbone.

Some you make out and make heat rush to your cheeks. Some you begin to try to translate before a drag of his cock sends the words spiralling into a mess of letters that fade as quickly as they were spoken.

Toes curling, fingers digging further into his waist and shoulder—leaving something on him, even if he’ll bury it in armour.

It's a thing you’ll know. He’ll know. A thing which makes him bite down on your shoulder and ask for more.

A demand which makes your back arch, makes you drop a curse as your vision blurs and your toes curl as his pace picks up.

Because you’re trembling for an entirely different reason now. So close to fracturing, to coming apart—letting have it all, the good, the bad and the parts which have rotted before he lay beside you. Seeing stars in a galaxy of nothing all because of him—I’m close, so close.

"Let me feel you."

All gruff, grunted into your neck as you tighten, clench, tangling fingers into his curls for leverage.

It should feel like falling, but it doesn’t. Never does.

It feels like an explosion. A pause—like you’re floating, not rising or descending. Just there. Flames roaring through you, burning away any leftover chill, as you flutter and howl out his name.

You writhe, whine. Moan. Paint the small space with nothing but pleasure and thankfulness and Din, oh, Din, as he tells you how good you are, how well you take him.

And, he’s not far behind. Can tell from the babbling and then the choked back where he emits as you croak back inside. Internally pleading, wishing, crossing fingers and toes that he does so, when you feel him spill into you when your name sounds both sweet and sinful as he groans it.

As he buries a word that sounds similar to mine into your neck, hips stuttering and stammering as you wrap a leg around him in response.

Yours.

There’s a moment.

The air tightens when breaths are caught and heads are clearer. The space the two of you are in is on edge. Subconsciously tensing. While you, after the softness of the moment, are unsure whether you’ll be rewarded with more or something akin to the opposite.

He answers by pulling you closer, no space between the two of you. Just sweat and skin and nil else, as his mouth and hot breath rest against your cheek, your own fingers finding purpose in his curls.

That’s when you hear it, a whisper, barely discernible from his heaving breaths: They’re brown. My eyes are brown.

Smiling, you swallow.

Nodding, something you hope he can feel.

Because a shade is something, far more than you had this morning—and it’s plenty enough, for now.

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