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thefloorisbalaclava · 3 years

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My car started dying every so often and making a weird noise so I’m at the shop rn and the guy opened my door and sat on the ground next to me to explain how the part that’s broken works and what need to be done and then because it wasn’t something he could fix he changed my oil and filled my tires “secretly”.

So yeah mechanic!frankie is on my mind so hard right now

Okay so this is PERFECT for a new mechanic!frankie fic! I changed up a few things. I apologize for taking forever to respond! I hope this makes up for it!

Summary: You go to see Frankie again and learn a few things.

[mechanic!frankie masterlist]

---

Frankie checked his hair in the little mirror by the door once more before answering. The smile on his face grew exponentially as soon as he laid eyes on you then he pouted when he noticed the silver tray in your hands.

“I told you not to bring anything,” he scolded, taking the tray from you as you stepped inside.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” you said and he rolled his eyes.

“You do know we’re in the twenty-first century, right?” he teased as he walked to the kitchen. “Besides...my heart is yours with or without food.” He walked back over to you and pulled you into his arms. After a moment of hesitation, he kissed you and you both sighed into it.

“Hmm...you say you don’t know how to do this whole boyfriend thing, but I must say that you are very good at it,” you said, putting your hands on his chest.

“Just learning as I go.” He kissed you again then pulled away reluctantly. “So...” He looked down at your clothes and made a face.

“What?” You looked down.

“If we’re going into the shop, those clothes are gonna get messy,” he warned. “I might have something there you can wear. Come on, we’ll take my truck.”

“Into the shop? I thought you were gonna show me here,” you said nervously.

“All of my cooler tools are there.” He held the door open for you then followed you out. You reached for the truck door but he quickly stepped in front and pulled it open for you. “See? Learning as I go.”

“Thank you, Frankie.”

---

At the shop, he brought you to his office and told you to give him a minute. A few moments later, he walked back in wearing his coveralls with another one draped over his arm.

“What is that?” you asked.

“Coveralls.” He held them up and you noticed his name embroidered on it.

“Yours?” You took the stained coveralls from him happily.

“Used to be. I, uh, outgrew them.” He rubbed his soft stomach and you smiled, hoping that one day you would be able to rub it too. “You can put ‘em right over your clothes.”

“Got it.” You stepped out of your shoes before stepping into the coveralls. Even pulled up, they were long on you and the sleeves came down over your hands.

“Let me.” Frankie stood in front of you and you held your arms up so he could roll the sleeves up for you. “That’s better.” He stood back as you put your shoes back on. “Follow me.” He led you to the back of the shop where there were two cars. “Get in and try to start it.”

“Okay.” You climbed into the car he nodded at. When you tried to start it, you heard a grinding sound that made you wince. Frankie walked over to the open window and leaned in.

“Know what that sound means?” he asked.

“Bad starter,” you answered confidently and Frankie grinned.

“You got it. Think we can fix it or is it better off being replaced?”

“They’re probably better of replacing it.”

“Correct. Come on.” He opened the door for you and you followed him to the hood of the car. You stuck your head under the hood with him and he chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing, I’m just...I’m really enjoying this,” he admitted.

“Me too.” You both looked at each other and leaned in for a quick kiss, pulling away with shy laughs.

“How well do you know your tools?” he asked.

“Pretty well,” you said proudly.

He tested you by having you pass him the tools he asked for. You got every single one right. Then he pulled out a mechanic’s creeper and you smiled.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be right here.” He sat on the ground and rolled the creeper back and forth with a smile.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” You got on your knees and turned around. Frankie helped you onto your back and slowly rolled it.

“Ready?” he asked and you nodded. He rolled you under the car and began ask if you could see certain parts and describing them. When he rolled you back out, you had a big smile on your face. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you confessed. He stood then helped you to your feet.

“Well, ma’am, I think you’re a natural-born mechanic,” he teased. “Don’t think you’ll need me anymore.”

You frowned. “Huh?”

“I’m joking,” he chuckled. “You can always bring your car in and get your complimentary oil change and tire pressure check.” He moved closer to you.

“Do any of your other customers get these complimentary things?” you asked, wrapping your arms around him.

He shook his head. “It’s one of the perks of dating the owner.”

“Oh really? Well, I know another perk.”

“And what’s that?” he asked.

“I get to kiss you whenever I want.” You kissed his lips and he kissed back happily.

---

frankie taglist: @strangelittlenobody @ithinkimhardcore @damerondala @arellanofelixboys @skvatnavle @tobealostwanderer @surfsup666 @gingib @paperbag33 @anothersherlockian @grogusmum @lestradeslover @lazybeeches @shameless-h @over300books @pinkrosethorne @petty-as-usual-darling @icanbeyourjedi @findhimfives @djvrins @queridopascal @sweet-black-magic @tayloramato @ks04 @hnv-escape @linnie0119 @hb8301 @the-bird-suit @barnes-and-bitch @noromeojuliet @slugbuggie @astoryisaloveaffair @swol-bear @jeeperky @littlefairygirlx @appleheard @allthingsnarcos @darlingdin @hunnambabe @triggerhappyflygirl @stardust-galaxies @fuck-goes-on @dwarfplanet69 @the-page-mistress @mikahowl @dandywinchesterbras @xserenax-13

general taglist: @jedi-mando @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @mitchi-c @themarcusmoreno @punkpascal @saltywintersoldat @pedro-pascal-owns-my-entire-ass @f0rever15elf @loki-098 @feelmyroarrrr @thirstworldproblemss @sarahjkl82-blog @phoenixhalliwell @artsymaddie @freeshavocadoooo @silverwolf319 @beesting77 @mrsparknuts @anatanotegami @doin-stuff @lilkermit14 @softboiipascal @pedropascaldice @insomniamamma @heresathreebee @cyaredindjarin @thatgirlselectryc @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @darnitdraco @ladylothlorien @deeplyjohnnydepp @bunniwarrior @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @meghanjhegwood @waywardmando @ew-erin @mynameis3-14 @kingpascals @martellthemandalor @dazedrhapsody @kandomeresbitch @frankiemorales @girlwithanewplan @notabotiswear @liveloudwriteloud @feel-it-on-the-way-home13 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @roxypeanut @marvelousmermaid @empress-palpat1ne @hdghty @pedrospunk @its–fandom–darling @littlebopper96 @bison-writes @tumblogbykarapaloma @burrshottfirstt @amneris21 @pretty-brown-eyess @rosiefridayrogersunday @havenforafrazzledmind @miulola @disasterhann @liviiii98 @jaime1110 @cjillian97 @abicokiyaa @we-willcryinthemoonlight @heartbreak-of-a-marauder @salome-c @virtualxjournality @lv7867 @coaaster @borderlinedindjarin @anxiousandboujee @bitchylittleredhead @the-wishmonger @callsigncatfish @jitterbugs927 @chasingdreamer

#frankie baby #mechanic!frankie #headcanon

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spvce-cowboy · 3 years

Text

two suns

ch. 6 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x f!reader)

previous- ch. 5: “the hero’s shoulders”

next-ch. 7: “an old friend”

rating: explicit

6.1k words

warnings: smut, unprotected piv sex (seriously don’t do that), riding, oral f-receiving, communication?! we don’t know her, disturbing imagery, i think that’s it but pls lmk if i missed something

a/n: nothin’ for rn ! enjoy <33

It’s too much of a risk to allow himself to sink fully into the comfort of the moment, so he dozes while you sleep. Though it’s selfish, he’d rather have this restless night than allow you to return to your own bed.

He just doesn’t know what would be there if he allows his eyes to fully shut, what kind of images he’d be forced to face, and the last thing he wants to do is wake you.

There’s a small, foolish part of him that thinks if he concentrates too hard on the feeling of your body against his like this, something very bad would happen. As if all of this would literally disappear if he were too present, if he thought too hard about you.

He even has this strange image in his head of you evaporating, as if you were a mirage that would vanish as soon as he finally reached it. He has an image in his head of the way the sheets would billow around the emptiness of where your body once was, then quickly crumple in on itself in its fall back against the mattress. It would be a soundless departure, leaving nothing but the ghostly feeling of where your body used to lay by his side.

He thinks that anxiety started when you first said his name. You spoke so softly, Din.

At first it was just a repetition of what he had already said. It sounded like you were just rehearsing a word in a foreign language to yourself, like he’d seen you do while studying those little dictionaries you keep buying. It’s been so long since he’s thought of himself as anything but Mandalorian that he was hardly able to process the word himself.

Din. Cautious at first, testing out the sound. The weight of it heavy against your tongue. Then you gained confidence, as he’d seen you do so many times before. And it was his name you were saying. From your tongue, from those precious lips.

The feeling it gave him, hearing it like that, was a feeling he’d spent most of his life training against. He thought he got lucky, when he’d surpassed those turbulent years of his youth without having to fully engage with the tricky emotions most threatening to his oath.

There were always stories of fallen foundlings who sought the affections of another outside of the Creed. Whispered rumors about bunks found empty in the morning, wordlessly exiled friends never seen again. Hormonal imbalances confused for some mythical conception of companionship, their instructors told them. Natural, but easily fought against. That feeling would pass soon enough.

And he believed them. Of course he did. So when he reached those years, he quickly drowned himself in enough violence and meaningless sex to avoid the threat of succumbing to foolish desires. Bodies were bodies. A notch in your belt or your bedpost, didn’t matter either way.

He thought he was safe from the worst of it, he really did.

But you said his name as if it were a word for hearth. For home. And it made him want to unravel that shoddy piece of fabric from around your eyes and guide your hands to his face. It made him ache for some other world where it could just be this, you and him wrapped up in each other with the kid peacefully sleeping just a few paces away. That alone would be more than enough.

So Din doesn’t sleep. He dozes. And when he knows Karga’s men will be awake and able to unload the quarries from the carbonite chambers, he disentangles himself from you as gently as he can. You give a small whine but resettle regardless. He pulls the blanket up over your bare shoulders. Maybe he takes a moment to stroke your cheekbone, in dazed fascination, with the back of his knuckles. Maybe.

He dresses, body tired in a way he can’t exactly place. It didn’t come from physical exhaustion, he knows that. Something else. Something he doesn’t want to deal with in the moment.

The fresher’s cold blast of water is the only thing that begins to shake him from his mood. The unpleasant feeling is grounding—it reminds him of the skin he lives in, what it has endured, what it is still able to withstand in spite of everything else. All of it.

He downs a cup of caf before heading out to meet Karga. The cantina is sparsely populated, mostly leftovers from the night before, slumped in their respective booths.

The bartender is reading something on a datapad. She glances at Din before looking down at the screen in her hands and typing something. Din leans against the countertop, supporting himself on his forearms as he waits.

It only takes a few moments. He doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Karga approaching, the frustrated pace of his footsteps identifiable enough. The man seats himself on the barstool to the right of where Din stands.

“Mando,” there’s a smile to the man’s booming voice that doesn’t reflect in his eyes. “Quite the performance you made back there.”

Under the helm, Din runs his tongue over his teeth. He doesn’t respond, just waits.

“I have some… news. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad, but certainly interesting,” he motions to the bartender. Din’s eyes flick from her, back to Karga.

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?” It feels strange to speak through the vocoder again. He tries to push the feeling away.

Karga crinkles his nose, waving Din away and grabbing the cup of spotchka as soon as the woman places it in front of him.

“The Guild is… grateful for how quickly you managed to capture Tyreus Cavill, but there’s been ah—” he clears his throat. “A bit of a hiccup. Nothing you have to worry about. But it does mean that you’ll have plenty of time to find the kid’s people without having to worry about chasing more quarries.”

“What.” Din says it sharply enough that the eavesdropping bartender flinches, nearly dropping the glass she’s drying in her hand.

“Cavill senior is having a bit of a hard time understanding our position as a Guild. He’s of the ‘blood for blood’ variety and he… well,” Karga shakes his head. “We’re working on it. He hasn’t demanded specifics yet but it’s best if you lose his men’s trail, earlier the better. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t stay sedentary. It should be no different, really, than if you were tracing fobs. And you’ll get to find the kid’s people! It’s a good deal, if you think about it.”

Karga’s weak attempts to reassure prove infinitely more irritating. Din closes his eyes briefly to re-center himself. An attempt at a calming breath proves futile.

“There’s a contact, Gor Koresh,” Karga continues. “He might have information about where your people are. Already sent his last known locations to your datapad. I’d say going to Coruscant first will be your best bet, someone might be able to point you in a better direction from there.” Karga downs the last of the spotchka effortlessly. “He’s a bit of a slippery one so I’d suggest you get a move on.”

Din gives a curt nod, pushing off the bar and straightening as Karga speaks.

“My men will follow you back to the Crest to unload. Tell that girl of yours I send my best--and Mando,” he slides on his forearms, ducking his head to look straight into Din’s visor. “For the kid’s sake, don’t stop moving.”

Din rips away from Karga before he starts something he didn’t have the energy to finish.

The kid is waiting for him at the door of the Crest when he returns with Karga’s men. Din wordlessly scoops him up in one arm. Something within him quiets when he feels a small, three-fingered hand wrap around his thumb. The gentle pressure against his glove is calming.

There’s the distinct sound of the shower running when he accompanies Karga’s men to the carbonite chambers. They finish the job, he gets his credits.

Once they’re gone, Din checks his bunk to find it, expectedly, empty.

Nevarro is a familiar planet for you, and it’s not like you’ve ever informed him of your outings. Still, he wishes you would have left him a note or called out to him as you left, just to prevent the brief surge of panic in his gut. He knows you’ve probably just gone out to run errands.

He knows this. But still.

The kid chirps from where Din holds him in the crook of his arm, stretching his little hands towards the swaths of blankets.

“No naps yet, bud,” Din places the kid on the floor in order to gather your things. There’s the small patter of feet toddling behind him, as well as the occasional tug on his pant-leg, as he moves about the tight space.

If he were brave enough, he’d acknowledge the tumbling litany of fearful thoughts roaring at the back of his mind. If others know what brings you peace, that peace will be ripped away from you before you can even blink. Learn to find solace in this. Gentleness is not something to be worshipped, to succumb to. Soft heart. Soft heart. Soft heart.

He isn’t brave enough. So he doesn’t dare recognize any part of it.

Keeping in motion helps him not to think too much. He steps back into the hull, the blanket and pillows tucked under his arm. He leaves them on your empty bed. Quickly scaling the ladder into the cockpit, he checks the information Karga sent him. He keeps the kid occupied by bouncing him on his beskar-clad thigh as he does. It works surprisingly well.

Din confirms the coordinates and his landing location after scanning the airwaves for any sign of Cavill’s men. The three of you are in the clear for now, but that’s not likely to last much longer.

Heaving a sigh, Din puts the child in his pram and sets out to find you.

The morning sun is high enough that the city is sweltering by the time he reaches the market. There’s a faint breeze that only achieves to move the heat around, the streets remain sparsely populated because of it.

That fact makes it far easier to spot you, conversing with two Devaronian smugglers, taking shelter from the pounding sunlight under the red awning of a disinterested vendor. You’re carrying a bag heavy with supplies on one shoulder, which you occasionally adjust as you try to speak with the men.

You’re using your hands to talk in a way that tells him that the language barrier is more of an issue than you initially anticipated it to be. Din is already bristling with the way one of them looms over you. The sneering expression the smuggler gives his companion while you aren’t looking sends a wave of anger pulsing through him out of pure instinct alone.

Din is by your side right as the Devaronian begins to say something. The hulking smuggler closes his mouth immediately, but his expression remains incredulous, eyes narrowed at Din from where he stands behind you.

You turn your head as soon as the Devaronian shifts his gaze, a stiffness in your shoulders relaxing slightly when you see yourself reflected in that all too familiar T-visor. Your expression remains tight, pissed off even.

“I’ll take it now, please,” your break into Basic is jarring. You’ve shifted your gaze back to the smugglers. The one who was eyeing you previously turns to the vendor, speaking to the frail woman in his native tongue. Din can only make out a few phrases himself, but it seems like you were bartering over some kind of technology.

Din’s hand hovers over the blaster at his hip as the woman reaches under the table, arm dropping back at his side when she places a small piece of Republic tech into your open hand.

It looks like a new comlink. You quickly stuff it into your bag and hand your credits over to the vendor.

“Forgot mine at Febhana’s,” you mumble to yourself or Din, he isn’t exactly sure. He grunts as you turn heel, pointedly refusing eye contact as you scoop the child from the pram. You rest him against your hip as you walk away. Din follows suit, keeping a few paces behind you.

“G’morning stinky,” you rub your nose against the kid’s in greeting. He coos happily, reaching up to tug on your hair—a motion you expertly dodge.

If it weren’t for the Devaronians boring holes into his back, Din would warm at the sight. With the threat of their witness, the image of you and the kid in front of him only serves to wind his anxiety tighter. His words are harsh because of it.

“I thought I made it clear to you that we have to lay low,” he grits out once you’ve put enough distance between the three of you and the marketplace.

“Don’t.” Your voice goes sharp in a way that’s genuinely shocking. You keep your back to him, pace quick and even. “I had that under control.”

“I never thought you didn’t,” he clarifies after a second. Din swallows, his body tense. He doesn’t know how to express how worried he is in public like this. Cavill has infinite men and infinite supplies to hunt you down? Too alarmist, he already wasn’t on your good side. To deliver the news now would just rub salt in the wound. If I could, I’d bear the weight of the sky itself to keep you safe. The truth, but he’d already confused you—and himself—enough in trying to express how he feels for you. To try and elaborate any further would just be cruel.

So he settles for silence as the three of you continue the walk.

You give a sigh after a moment, stopping in the middle of the street and turning to face Din, dropping the bag of supplies at your feet as you do. The kid’s ears droop from where you hold him against your hip, sensing the unspoken tension coursing between his caretakers.

“I don’t want to be mad at you anymore,” your eyes are big, brave in their vulnerability. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek, thinking for a second before your next words leave you in a rush. “What you said last night really hurt me. I’m not gonna pretend I understand all of it, because I don’t. But I.... I know you’re only trying to do what’s best.” The breath you take is quick, sharp. Your shoulders pull back, setting your posture with courage that doesn’t exactly reach your eyes. “I hope you can understand why I lashed out before I took the time to think it through.”

“I do,” Din resists the urge to flex his hands into fists at his side. He wants to reach out to you, to touch your arm or shoulder or cheek in reassurance. But there are the Devaronians to his back. City streets filled with watchful eyes. Soft heart. It’s a risk neither of you can afford to take.

You nod, lips pressed together. “Friends?”

Din ducks his head in agreement, shouldering your bag for you. “Friends.”

The smile you give is still a bit tight, but genuine in the relief it communicates. “Cool.”

The two of you walk side by side the rest of the way back to the Crest. The silence is easier this time.

It takes another day in hyperspace to reach Coruscant. He spends most of it in the cockpit, tracing signals and rewiring faulty panels, but he keeps the doors open. He’d like the convince himself it was just so he could hear your radio, which you have playing all day, but that’s just an added bonus.

There’s something calming about the noise you and the kid make as you go about your daily tasks. He likes the frustrated huffs you give when you try and fail to get the kid to work through the drills you’ve made for him, or how you turn the radio up when there’s a song you’re particularly enjoying. The child’s constant chattering serves as a reassuring white-noise.

The warmth of it all is enough to transform the general air of the ship in a way you’ve managed to do for months at this point. He doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to acknowledge that. He allows himself to sink into the comfort it gives him, even if it takes several barriers of steel between him and you to do so.

It is late afternoon on Coruscant by the time he lands the ship in a remote hangar.

Din pushes away from the console and stands. He immediately has to catch himself on the headrest of the pilot’s seat, vision blackening at the edges for a moment before returning to normal.

Furrowing his brow in confusion, he quickly checks his vitals. The graphic flickers to life on his display screen. All normal, so--

Din heaves a sigh. He hasn’t slept for maybe… four days straight? That sounded about right. Since the Crest landed on Canto at least.

He rests his elbow against the pilot’s seat, briefly lifting his helm to his forehead in order to rub his face with his gloved hand in a weak attempt to rouse himself. It doesn’t work.

The informant most likely to know anything about Koresh’s whereabouts was at a law office of some sort, their schedule regimented enough that he could get away with finding them in a few hours’ time. It would be best to catch them right as they were coming into the office anyway, early morning hours usually means less people around. Waiting until morning would be ideal, really.

It’s a long-winded way of justifying a nap.

Din carefully climbs the ladder back down into the hull. You’re in the process of reading something to the child, who sits in your lap as he gnaws on a fruit leather. You glance up as Din passes, giving him a small smile in greeting. He nods in response, then makes his way to his bunk. A familiar, guarded, exchange. Back to basics.

Din allows himself the comfort of stripping down to his under-armor but keeps the helm on, settling onto the bunk with a grunt. The blue darkness is quick to agitate, the day’s frustrations and unsettled tensions quickly tumble into the memory of how this same faint light hit your bare body as you twisted around him. The press of your breasts against his chest. The hiccuping breaths you took when you were about to--

He sharply turns on his side, as if physical movement could push the thought away.

It takes a while for his brain to settle, so tired it’s nearly impossible to rest. He lays as still as possible, counting every inhale and holding before releasing the breath. It nearly works. He’s still so jittery he can’t keep his eyes shut for too long without it feeling as though he were being dropped from an unknown but impossible height.

Sighing, Din sits back up and slides the door of his quarters back open. He isn’t sure how long it has been since he first lay down, but all the lights in the hull have been turned off. The only source of light is the soft glow of a lantern just around the corner of the stacked crates that block off the alcove you’d fashioned.

You’re singing a lullaby. He can only guess by the small sounds of sleepy babbling that you still have the kid with you.

Din can tell it’s something in your native tongue by the foreign, lilting quality of it. Nothing like the siren’s song he knows you’re capable of—it’s far too soft for it to be anything like what he heard you sing to the mountains--but it has a similar circling quality about it that he’s only ever heard from your lips.

It takes the breath out of him. Din sinks to the floor, resting his back against the wall and drawing his knees up to rest his elbows on their caps. He allows his head to droop forward, just for a moment. Just to listen a little longer, to grab onto these moments and store them somewhere quiet and hidden within him.

When the kid finally lets out a snore, you cut yourself off. It’s quiet for a long time, but he doesn’t hear any rustling of fabric that would suggest you getting up to put him back in the pram.

“I love you a lot, lil guy,” it’s a soft whisper. He doesn’t know if he would be able to hear it if it weren’t for his helm. “Your dad does too. He’s weird with the way he shows it sometimes, but he does. I can tell. It’s important you know that.”

Din closes his eyes, leaning his head against the wall between the two of you. He stays like that for a long time, listening as you continue to hum despite the fact that the child is asleep. When the lantern light finally clicks off, he clambers to his feet and retreats back to his bunk.

“Din?” It’s your voice, just outside. Panic surges in his chest, the slight warble of your words reminiscent of the night you woke up screaming.

He’s upright and at the door immediately. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t sleep,” your voice is hoarse. “Can I…”

Din slides the door open without hesitation. You already have the blindfold around your eyes, your arms protectively crossed over your stomach in a weak attempt at self-soothing.

Your hand hesitantly stretches out, blindly trying to locate him. He circles your wrist with his large hand, gently pulling you forward to guide your palm against his chest. You follow suit, collapsing against his body, burying your face in his sternum.

It’s a motion filled with such warm familiarity that if he closes his eyes he could almost imagine that the previous night didn’t end in the way it did. Almost as if this were just some long awaited reunion. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly against him.

“Hi,” your voice is a small, shy sound against his chest. It’s a greeting, it’s a let’s forget about all of it, for now. Just for now. Din lets go of you for a second to pull off his helmet, burying his face in your hair as soon as the thing is off. He breathes you in. He thinks you might be doing the same.

You eventually pull back, press your lips against his. It’s a small, chaste motion. He takes your hand and leads you back to his bunk, hoisting you up onto the mattress by your hips. Now eye-level with one another, Din stands between your open legs to kiss you again.

He doesn’t allow himself to think it through. Not as he leaves to retrieve the same blanket and pillow as he had the previous night. Not as he returns to find you exactly where he’d left, the sweater you were wearing in a crumbled heap on the floor. Not as your hot mouth presses against his as you undress him. Not as he sucks a constellation of bruises over your chest. Not as he stretches you open with his fingers, winding you into a quivering mess of exposed nerves with his tongue and hands alone.

In the haze of your second orgasm, you reach for the ridged tent of his boxers with a moan, legs still shaking from the come-down. He pushes your hand away gently, kissing your temple and tucking you into his side. The two of you tumble into a deep sleep quickly after.

There are a few points throughout the night where you wake him. The first is a small gesture, just a hand against the side of his neck, but the feeling is so new that is rouses him from sleep instantly.

Your bare body occasionally shifts away from his as you sleep. Not purposefully, just in small readjustments that usually involve moving your hips away from his, or curling a little further into yourself so that the tops of his thighs loose contact with the warm undersides of yours. Every time you do he wakes up to readjust, promptly curling back around you because he’s too selfish to not hold onto you while he can.

There are a few instances where he wakes up because you’ve turned over and onto him, draping your body over his with a little snore or an incoherent sleep-mumble. He’s never seen someone sleep this deeply, and he’s entranced by every little motion of yours. How you nestle against whatever is closest before giving a content hum once readjusted. How your breathing feels against his skin. How your body radiates enough heat that he had to push some of the blankets off the bed and onto the floor. How fucking cold your feet are.

He likes the weight of you there—against his mattress, against him.

At around 4am, you rouse him again when you get up to use the bathroom. He pretends to still be asleep when you return, clumsily managing to clamber back onto the mattress while blindfolded. You settle back into his side, pressing the length of your nose against the warmth of his throat, hooking a leg over his hips and flinging your arm across his chest.

Smiling to himself, he closes his eyes and turns his face further away from you, feigning sleep out of curiosity of what you’d do. After a moment, your hand begins to trail across his chest, settling with your palm resting against his sternum as you tilt your head back, tracing a series of kisses along the underside of his jaw. He shifts his head and opens one eye slightly to look at you, the curve of your body illuminated in the bluish darkness of the bunk.

“Din,” your voice is rough with sleep, speaking with your lips barely hovering over his pulse.

You push yourself further upwards, using the hand on his chest as leverage. Then, your lips against his cheekbone. “Din.” It’s a whisper. Husky in his ear. Another kiss, at the corner of his mouth this time. This one lingers. “Din.”

There is no possible way he could keep playing coy. He seizes you in his arms, pulling you onto his chest to straddle his waist. You let out a surprised squeak before he seals his mouth over yours. You can’t contain a giggle, quickly stifling yourself by deepening the kiss.

Din gently cups either side of your neck with his hands, thumbs rubbing either side of your jaw. It’s the most sustained contact he’ll allow himself—only fair, considering what limited access you had to his. It’s… very important to him that you feel like the two of you were on equal footing.

Maybe he isn’t doing a very good job of it, placing all the emphasis in all the wrong places, but he is trying. In the only ways he knows how, he is trying.

He trails his hands down your legs in a languid praise. When his fingers reach the bandages wrapped around your injured knee, his hands immediately go to your hips to lift you off of him and back on the mattress.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry,” he mutters. “I forgot about the—here, lemme—"

“It’s fine,” you kiss him to make him stop talking. It works exceptionally well, he can’t help but chase your lips with his when you pull back to finish your sentence. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“But you shouldn’t—”

“Last time I checked I was the authority figure on the subject,” you tease, prodding him between the ribs with your knuckle in mock chastisement. Your voice goes low. “Lemme prove it to you.”

And he thinks there’s just no way he hasn’t died and been sent to a heaven he certainly doesn’t deserve because your hands are moving down the length of his torso as you kiss him and just the feeling of that alone is enough. It could have only ever been this feeling alone and it would still be more than enough.

Without breaking from you, he wraps an arm around your lower back to keep you flush against him as he uses his other hand to push himself up. Back now pressed against the wall, he lowers you to his lap.

Your hands resume their downward path, palms flat against the skin of his stomach. He tucks both of his own hands in the pits of your knees, holding you exactly where you are as your hands wrap around his cock.

Din moans into your mouth right before you pull away, his neck stretching to chase your lips until you lean too far back for him to reach you. You release him, bringing up your hand just below your chin. The saliva you’ve gathered at the tip of your tongue glistens in the low, blue light of the captain’s quarters as you let it drip onto your hand.

If you weren’t wearing the blindfold, he knows you’d be looking up at him through your eyelashes in that heated way he had seen you do while flirting with that rat-faced boy back at the Tagge mansion. The thought of that alone it enough to have him straining towards you again, desperate to erase the events of that night—for your sake or his, he isn’t exactly sure.

You stop him by placing your hand, now wet with spit, back on his cock. One hard stroke is enough to have his body straining towards you, covering your neck in hard kisses and sharp little bites. He moans into your collarbone as you continue the agonizingly slow pump, your thumb coming up to swipe the head of his dick with every upwards stroke.

Din can feel how hot your cunt is from where you hover over his lap, the plush skin of your thighs pressed against his quads—his muscles, taught with the restraint it takes not to pin you down and fuck you senseless, are ropes of steel compared to how your soft body sinks against his.

That restraint crumbles when you lean forward to try and kiss him as you continue jacking him off, pressing your tits against his chest, breathing against his cheek as you blindly try to find his lips again. He surges forward to meet you, mouths clashing together in a heated reunion.

Wordlessly, Din removes his hands from your knees, sliding them up your thighs and grabbing onto your hips. He begins to roll you back onto the bed beneath him, but you place your free hand on his bicep, halting him before he can.

You pull away, slightly shoving him to lean back against the wall as you drag your tongue over your lips, plush from sleep and the force of the kiss. Maddeningly, you finished the motion by biting the corner of your bottom lip, right as you lift yourself up from his lap to tease the head of his cock against your entrance.

He can tell you’re still sore from the small sounds you make as you sink onto him, but his ability to acknowledge that quickly flies out the window because Maker you’re so fucking tight it’s nearly painful. He’s about to urge you off him, to insist on foreplay so he doesn’t hurt you--

And he’s left in an absolute daze because he realizes that you want it like this. Because with the first few rolls of your hips you’re already soaking his cock, mumbling incoherent phrases between heady little moans as you arch your spine. You throw your head back as you do, exposing the delicate expanse of your neck that he’d spend the rest of his living days marking if he could.

Din presses up into you to meet each thrust of your hips, the arm he had braced around you shifting up to press against the curve of your spine, coaxing your chest closer to his face. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, the hand that was resting against your leg moving up to press against your lower stomach.

His hands are so big against your body that his thumb is able to reach your clit from where his palm rests. Your hips stutter slightly at the new sensation and it takes far too much self-restraint to resist pinning you to the bed when he feels how you clench around him. He’s able to thrust into you a few times before you continue to ride him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other braced against his bicep.

You slam your hand against the wall for leverage, grinding down on him with a series of sharp gasps, rapidly increasing in pitch as his thumb steadily rubs circles onto your clit.

It’s quick but heated. He lowers the hand on your back and returns it to your hip in encouragement for you to keep going, burying his face in the crook of your neck. With the pace you’ve set, he feels his orgasm drawing up in his stomach far faster than he’d anticipated.

“F-fuck,” he’s able to choke out. “I’m—where should I—”

“Inside,” you pant. You’re holding your breath in that way you do when you’re about to come. “’s safe. Please, oh M—Din, please.”

Your words are more than enough to have him tumbling over the edge. It’s white-hot, then nearly blinding as he feels you quickly follow him, your hips jerking under his thumb. When he resurfaces, cock still pulsing inside you, he realizes he’s bitten down on the patch of skin where your shoulder meets your neck.

Din lets go of you immediately, mumbling an apology and kissing the salty spot before he settles his forehead against where the indentations of his teeth dug scores into the delicate flesh. You’ve already assumed the same position on his opposite shoulder, breathing hard. He holds you against him with both arms wrapped around your lower back.

The two of you stay like that, catching your breath, for what feels a long time. You eventually shift back, messily kissing him. Din grunts, placing a hand against the side of your head as his lips slide against yours.

Muscles still shaky, he lifts you off his lap and guides you back down on the mattress. Grunting, he rolls onto his side to grab his discarded shirt, using it to wipe you off and then himself. You give a sleepy moan as he does, immediately rolling onto your side and draping yourself over him again when he settles back down on the mattress.

“Pel kar’ta—” he begins a sentence he doesn’t know the ending of. You shake your head against his chest.

“Go to bed, Din Djarin,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss against his shoulder. There’s an unabashed intimacy in how you say it, already half-sleep, all potential barriers forgotten in the haze and heaviness of your eyes.

In a dream, a formless shape stands in the far distance.

It is supposed to be the skinless figure. He knows this because he is still kneeling, still crouched in the midst of some kind of red fog that is at once a whipping wind and a still solace. It depends on how hard he focuses on it.

He can’t look up at it, not where it stands. There are two blazing lights to the distant shape’s back, so strong it forces him to keep his eyes to the ground. But he knows it is there. He knows it is supposed to be the skinless figure, but it isn’t. She never approaches.

He vomits anyway. It’s leeches, this time. A thick, black mass of them, writhing in the hands—his hands—that catch them. He watches as they fall.

When Din opens his eyes again, it is morning.

It is morning and you are gone. So are most of your things. Your bed is stripped, its contents folded in neat piles. You leave the medkit and a note. He doesn’t read it.

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