#the mandalorian x original female character

[hunnythebee]

Stow Away

Chapter 3: Hiding in Plain Sight

A tense day on Nevarro followed by an evening with a different kind of tension. Is she crossing a line or is he?

Warnings: NSFW, NSFT, mentions of trauma, PTSD, crying, cursing, voyeurism, masturbation

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Masterlist

A/N: So I changed up a few things in this chapter. First, it explores third person omniscient territory, giving us a glimpse into our Mando's thoughts as well as the MC. From here on out I intend to include more glimpses into his mind and emotions as well.

Second, finally diving into some smut. I'm excited for that, but I am also a complete plot-whore so it's definitely going to be plot with porn.

And last but not least, I have officially given the MC a name. I hadn't intended on naming her, but I couldn't help it, it just kind of happened.

Hope you enjoy and I look for to seeing you all next week for chapter 4!

It had been awhile since he left. He took the kid with him so she has the whole ship to herself. She searched around for a good hiding spot, which there really weren’t any. Then she had a brilliant idea. She rooted around in her sack and pulled out her hooded cowl and engineer goggles.

Perfect.

She removed a panel on the outside of the Crest and began to do idle busy work. She tucked her hair completely into the hood and pulled the mask up, with the goggles covering the remaining exposed portion of her face no distinguishable features were left visible. She was deep in the panel when two bounty hunters approached the ship.

“What’re you doing here?” The taller one asked, resting a hand on his blaster.

“Workin',” she kept her words short. “You?”

He laughed gruffly, “Workin’”

The two men boarded the Crest. Her hand was violently shaking, but she hid it by throwing them back into work. The two reappeared a minute later, with the carbonite slabs floating gracefully between them. 

“Enjoy your 'work' little lady,” the other said, his voice making her skin crawl.

She swallowed hard and nodded to them. The nod made a small strand of hair peek out from the hood. Her hair was truly her most recognizable feature, it was colored to look like a nabooian sunset, a gradient from purple to orange. The small strand was a blaring siren, begging to be noticed, but lucky for her they’re backs were already turned to her. She quickly tucked the strand back in and shoved her head into the ship compartment. Once their gravelly footsteps receded, she hustled back onto the ship and closed the ramp behind her. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she crumpled to the cold floor, allowing her emotions to pour out. A sob echoed through the quiet hull. She let her tears flow. Mando didn’t remind her of him. But those men, those hunters did. After the tears slowed she took a few deep breaths. Just in time too, because the gangplank lowered, and the Mandalorian boarded the ship. She wiped away at her eyes, hoping her breakdown wasn’t too apparent on her face.

It was.

Mando noticed immediately. Her nose was pink, her eyes were swollen and red. Her cheeks still had faint tear stains on them. He felt a protectiveness come over him. He wanted to ask who had done this to her. He wanted to make them pay. More than anything he wanted to pull her in and make her feel okay. All of this ran through his head as he simply stood there, staring at her.

She can never know. He warned himself.

“H–How’d it go?” She asked, wanting to break the silence.

“The usual.” His voice sounded so distant. Realistically, he was just lost in thought.

“The…usual?” she questioned.

“Got my payment. Got more bounties.”

“Ah. The usual. Got it.” She began to walk towards her cot, but he stopped her in her tracks with his next words.

“I brought food.”

“You… brought food?” She echoed.

He silently held up a satchel, burstin with assorted produce and meats.

“You brought food.” She said once more, feeling a sense of safety nudge at her heart.

He handed her the satchel, and she examined it closely.

“Hmm… I know exactly what to make from this,” and she left for the galley. He remained cemented to the spot. Silently swearing to himself to learn why she had been crying and to never let it happen again.

A few hours later, they were in orbit of Nevarro and she was putting the finishing touches on a roast. They hadn’t spoken since he had given her the food, she had plunged herself into cooking. It was mostly an attempt to recover from the flashbacks of earlier, and it mostly worked. 

She shouted out of the galley up at the cockpit, “Food’s ready! Come get it while it’s hot!” 

She fixed the three of them plates, and set one plate down at the spot he usually sat in. She and Grogu took the seat that they had been in before, their backs to the seat he would take. Grogu was already finished by the time she heard Mando’s boots hit the floor. She had, unwittingly, waited for him to start eating. She heard his helmet depressurize and she started to eat her meal with him. She nearly choked when she heard a sound from where the Mandalorian sat. He had taken a bite and moaned. He kriffing moaned, and it made her freeze completely. She couldn’t see it, but he had frozen too. Shocked by his own involuntary noise. He knew she had heard it, because he heard her gag on her food. Heat crossed his face and he was never more thankful for the Creed than in that moment.

They ate the remainder of the food in complete silence. He collected the plates when they were finished, and she put the now sleeping child to bed. She was closing the crib when he reappeared. His visor was fixed on her and it sent a shiver through her body.

“I liked it.” He spoke abruptly.

“Hmm?” She asked as she slumped back down into her seat.

“The food. I liked it.”

“I bet.” The tease slipped out before she could process what she was saying. Her whole body tensed.

“What was that?” He asked, taking a step toward her.

She stood and moved backward, “N–nothing. I’m glad you liked it.” The nerves caused her voice to quiver slightly.

He stalked closer. “That’s not what you said.”

She tried to turn, wanting to hide in the 'fresher, but his hand snatched her wrist and pulled her to the wall. Pinning her between him and the cool durasteel. Her heart was thundering in her ears. She should have felt scared but this was different. Less threatening. Probably because he wasn’t holding a blaster to her this time.

“What. Did. You. Say.” He was impossibly close now. He smelled like her blanket.

No… she thought, the blanket smells like him.

She steadied herself for a moment and committed to the teasing.

“I said, ‘I bet.’ As in I bet you liked my cooking. At least it sure sounded like you were enjoying it.”

He hovered for a moment. He was contemplating something. She assumed he was debating whether to smack her for taunting him or not. In reality he was contemplating her. Her body. Her face. How good she would feel when he– 

Stop!

His internal voice screamed. And he finally released her, quickly leaving for his bunk. The door hissed shut behind him before she even had a chance to move. She slid to the floor. She was dazed and confused by the bizarre interaction that had just occured between her and the Mandalorian. He didn't seem angry. In fact he had seemed... Excited. A heat settled low in her body, which she elected to ignore.

That's absurd. No way was that what had been happening.

She shook the thoughts out of her head and finally stood up from the floor. She still wanted to shower before bed. The scent of ash and smoke was clinging to her hair and she craved the scent of the soap. She didn't take long, focusing mainly on her hair. She stepped out into the hull and the quiet was deafening. All she could hear was the soft breathing of the child on the other side and... She froze.

She heard a moan. Before tonight she wouldn't have been able to place it but now she knew exactly what she was hearing. She was planted to the spot. Not moving. Not breathing.

Another moan ripped through the quiet.

Her eyes found his door, lit dimly by the light of the refresher. The warmth she had felt earlier returned, this time it was less bearable. Her body moved without her willing it to, and she found herself in front of his door. She wasn't sure what she was doing there. This was a private moment. An intimate moment she wasn't supposed to bear witness to, yet she couldn't keep herself from listening. She chewed her lip for a moment and wrestled with herself internally.

After a moment of contemplation, she pressed her ear to the door. She wanted to hear more. His moans were hot and it had been so long since she had been a part of anyone's pleasure, so she indulged.

The moaning was expected, as were the whispered curses. What she hadn't expected was what he groaned out as his orgasm slammed into him.

"Jomira..."

She stumbled back. That was her name. He was moaning her name. Her heart raced as she rushed back to her cot and quickly climbed under the covers. His voice echoed in her mind.

Impossible. I just imagined it. That's all. Still...

She pressed her thighs together. Her arousal had reached a fever pitch and it was becoming a problem. She reached over and shut the child's crib. Then she slipped her hand below her waist band. She was soaked. Her pussy. Her thighs. Imagined or not, he had an effect on her that she could not deny.

She pressed her middle finger to her swollen bundle, working it in slow, precise circles. She whimpered quietly and covered her mouth quickly with her free hand. She continued working herself closer to release. She could feel it, she was on the precipice. Just as it poured over her the door to the Mandalorian's bunk slid open. She jumped, throwing the hand that had been covering her mouth over her eyes, burying her face in her elbow. The hand that had been working so desperately for her release was trapped between her legs. Her orgasm made her throb against her fingers, the ruined release causing her cunt to clench and spasm.

Neither she nor Mando moved. She took a deep, slow breath, feigning sleep. She prayed to the Maker that he hadn't seen her, that he would just assume she was asleep and leave. After another beat, she heard his boots move. They ascended the ladder, followed by the cockpit door hissing open and then shut.

She let out a sigh and removed her arm from her eyes and her hand from her pants. Her heart rate slowed finally, and her eyes began to feel heavy. Sleep fell heavy onto her body and she knocked out quickly. She dreamt of him that night.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Masterlist

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x ofc #the mandalorian x original female character #the mandalorian smut #din djarin #din dijarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x original character #din djarin smut #mando smut #mando fanfiction #mando fanfic #mando x oc #mando x ofc #mando x original female character #mando x original character #stow away #hunnythebee

[auntie-venom]

Will of Fate

Chapter Ten

Fandom: Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Mature

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

or

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Chapter Summary: Din and Grogu have an oddly domestic day while exploring Helix and having a playdate.

Word Count - 4,115

Chapter Warnings: None

Will of Fate Masterlist

Read on Ao3

A/N: Hey y’all. I have struggled to shift back into the Mandalorian fandom to be inspired to write while having a hyper-fixation elsewhere, but I am trying to at least edit and get the already-written chapters out. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, any feedback is welcome!

Chapter Ten

It was an unusual day. Well, unusual for Din Djarin and his little green ward.

After a breakfast spread that was left by Eziriel, made by the yet-to-be-met Chef Malka, Din and the child spent the early afternoon scouting the local area of Helix on foot. Slowly circling out from The Pinnacle they stumbled upon businesses, shops, markets, and parks with child-friendly obstacles to play with. The latter of which caused the child to pout and point at it when Din insisted on just walking through it.

He took this opportunity to get some supplies from the market they came across. Some snacks he knows the child prefers; oil and polish for his weapons and armor since his stash is on the Crest; and a weird-looking fruit that both he and the kid were intrigued by. He made sure to use his own supply of credits after making a point of leaving the credit chip Eziriel gave him untouched on the table. He might be under her wing of protection due to her oath, but he will not exploit her generosity. He is a Mandalorian, not some gluttonous Coruscanti spouse of royalty.

There were two incidents in their time downtown that Din made note of people acting in the ways that Eziriel warned about. There was a younger man tailing him through the parks doing minor tricks on a skimboard just out of range of what a normal person would be suspicious of. The young skim surfer faded away once Din entered the marketplace that was crowded with beings doing their shopping under the sweeping colorful canopy of decorative fabric. After shopping for a bit an older woman with arms laden with her own purchases asked Din a few prying questions. He became suspicious when she only smiled and spoke to the child once and didn’t overly dote on him like other women similar in age.

He didn’t like that he had to answer these questions. He doesn’t like small talk or strangers nosing into his own business, but between Eziriel’s warning and his remembering that some Arkadian people can supposedly read minds kept him compliant. It didn’t stop him from giving the simplest of truths for answers and not elaborating beyond what was asked.

Eziriel messaged him on his loaned comm randomly throughout the day, even giving him more recommendations that she forgot to give him the previous night. She claims she was just checking in, but after observing her far-off looks of deep contemplation last night he wonders if she is trying to avoid something.

Din and the child stopped at one of Eziriel’s recommended lunch spots. It had a menu that used lots of peppers and spices and it reminded him of his childhood meals on Aq Vetina. The food looked so good that he even made sure to grab a meal to go so he could eat it safely inside the apartment.

While the kid ate his food Din scrolled through the datapad of Jedi information that Eziriel and he combed through last night. He scans through it again hoping to see something he missed last night. While the information had been helpful to an extent, it seemed with the censorship of the Empire most of the leads were dead ends. That means he had two options left in finding the Jedi.

The first option is to go to the space station Sanctuary that Amarian had mentioned. He said there was another being like the child there at one point. Maybe someone remembers something and he can find a trail there.

The second is to find Mandalorians. The Armorer did say to find other Mandalorians since some have had dealings with the Jedi, but his ego wanted to find the Jedi on his own. And look where that got him.

A safe planet and warm meals, says a voice overpowering the usual cynical observation brewing.

After lunch, they walk back to the apartments where the kid takes a nap and Din eats the deliciously seasoned meal. He doesn’t know if he wants to praise Eziriel for the restaurant recommendation or stubbornly curse her for being right in her observation that he would enjoy it. Either way, she will probably find happiness over his enjoyment of it.

Overall, it was a relaxing domestic day filled with simple normal errands and it was something Din had never had in his life as a Mandalorian. So, it was unusual.

It is late afternoon and Din is relaxing, definitely not dozing, on the sofa after his late lunch when he is startled awake by the bodiless droid that is Eziriel’s AI.

“Good afternoon Mandalorian, Queen Nora would like to inquire about your schedule for the rest of the day, in hopes of arranging a playdate for the younglings,” CHI’s proper voice quietly projects only around the sunken conversation pit of the living space. It makes him uneasy with how the thing knows where he is at.

It takes him a second with his groggy brain to make the connections on who Nora is. This is Amarian’s wife, the Queen of Arkadia. Din is not too sure what those responsibilities entail with how casual Amarian is, but he will err on the side of caution and treat her with as much respect as he gave Amarian.

They were supposed to have a playdate yesterday between the child and Eziriel’s niece, but by the time they got home it was already time for dinner and everyone was too tired from their respective journeys. He did not expect to be invited personally without Eziriel to accompany him and he is not sure what to do. He doesn’t really want to interact with another member of royalty without Eziriel there to be some sort of buffer, but he also doesn’t want to snub someone important to his stay here.

“The child is napping, but when he wakes we can arrange something,” Din says, feeling weird about talking to an empty space.

“Very good. I’ll let her know. I’ll let you get back to your rest,” the AI states before silence falls over the apartment.

Din stretches from his spot on the couch and takes a moment to check the chronometer to calculate how much time he needs to buy before Eziriel gets home so he doesn’t have to attend the playdate alone. He would rather deal in gunfights than have to partake in polite small talk with political figureheads. Eziriel said she would be home in the late afternoon before dinner, which isn’t too far away but—

The pneumatic sound of the guest bedroom door opening interrupts Din’s thoughts as the child stands there looking up at him with a bright expression and a curious head tilt. Din sighs and quietly curses at his luck before begrudgingly trying to command the attention of the AI.

“Uhhh… CHI-CHI?” Din asks.

“How may I help you, Mandalorian?” it responds.

“The child is awake now,” Din states dryly as the child makes his way over to him through the field of scattered toys that Eziriel left him.

There is a moment of silence where the child picks up a random humanoid toy and brings it over to Din with an inquisitive noise. Din takes the toy and bounces it side to side to the child’s delight. After a few more minutes Din thinks maybe the Queen made other plans and he won’t have to endure the awkwardness of first-time meetings.

“Queen Nora invites you to join her, Lady Vanya, and Lord Taron in the gardens around the royal suite. I shall guide you,” the voice of the AI cut through whatever hope Din had at avoiding a social obligation. He hears the door to the foyer open and he turns to see a slight pulse of green light surrounding the door frame.

Din makes an unseen pinched face at the ability of the AI to monitor his whereabouts in the building enough to shepherd him through the apartments. It’s a weird type of over-surveillance that truly unnerves him.

He follows the pulsing lights all the way to the turbolift where the AI raises them to the next floor. The door opens and he is greeted by two royal guards wearing the half-robe half-armor uniform of a blushing gold and plum that Din is becoming familiar with seeing in The Pinnacle. One guard invites him to wait in the entrance hall while the other leaves the room with a heavy look at Din’s blaster.

Dub takes a moment to look at the portraits in the hall that he had not taken the time to last time he was here. Most of the painted portraits are older and formal with little plaques indicating what ruler the viewer was looking at. He glances towards the end of the hall which seemed to be a featured space with lights but was empty. After noticing the portraits were in chronological order he assumes that they must be waiting for a newer portrait to fill that featured space. He casually makes his way among ordered portraits, not totally absorbing what he is looking at, he is stopped by a portrait at the end of the hall featuring a familiar mane of copper curls.

It was a family portrait featuring a young Eziriel, the adolescent lankiness of her body and rounded cheeks clueing Din in an approximation of her age. She wears a powder blue dress and a delicate golden diadem that drapes across her forehead and weaves into her hair. The painter gave her a more regal look than he had ever seen on her, but he notices there is a tiny lift in the corner of her mouth. The mischievous still peeks through the nobility.

She sits on a footstool lounging towards a seated man with her pale arms resting upon his lap with her skirts draped to the side. The man is older, with a salt and pepper beard leading up to matching hair that brushed his shoulders. His slightly wrinkled skin is a dusky brown and his kohl-lined eyes are a warm brown. He smiles regally in a deep purple set of robes, a golden circlet of his own, and a lovingly placed hand upon one of Eziriel’s hands.

A deep reddish-brown hand is placed on the man’s right shoulder and a regal-looking woman in a draping lavender dress stands slightly behind him. Her smiling wrinkled face had thick brows and wavy brown hair with streaks of gray well on its way of taking over the original color. Sparkling hazel eyes look up from underneath a similar, but more intricate diadem than Eziriel.

Finally, behind the man in the space between him and Eziriel is Amarian as a young adult. His entire head is styled in neat short dreadlocks and it doesn’t have any of the gold beads Din has seen him wear. His dark skin contrasts nicely against the deep navy robes he wears and a similar matching circlet to the seated man adorns his head. Amarian’s hand rests on the seated man’s left shoulder showing off a hand filled with gold rings, a fashion the present Amarian seems to have grown away from.

The small plaque in the center of the frame reads:

Queen Yasmin Kaita, King Nikau Kaita, Prince Amarian Kaita, and Princess Eziriel Kaita Elected Monarchy of Arkadia 7929 - 7975

This is Eziriel’s family, Din thinks to himself. And while doesn’t know the first thing in genetics, the lack of shared features among the family leads him to believe that Amarian and Eziriel are both foundlings.

Like him.

A warmth of familiarity spreads across his chest against his will at the thought. The value Mandalorians put in raising a family regardless of blood is a pillar in his culture and Din can’t help but feel a bond with those who have similar values. Eziriel obviously had a much different childhood than he did, but knowing how strong her familial bonds are even though there is no shared blood itches something primal in Din from being raised a Mandalorian foundling.

He isn’t my blood.

Doesn’t make him any less yours.

Their conversation about the child on the first day of their journey echoes in his head as he tempers the sudden spark of emotion he has toward Eziriel. His internal conflict is interrupted when the child makes an inquisitive noise from where Din is holding him in his arms. He looks down and Din sees the child point towards the portrait and smile up at him.

“Yeah, that’s Eziriel,” he confirms to the child, and before the child can answer the guard who left comes back to escort him to the Queen.

They are led past the dining room where they had dinner two nights ago and into a living space that seems more lived in than Eziriel’s apartment. It had worn pillows, knick-knacks on shelves, and toys strewn across the floor. The guard gestures to the open door at one end of the living room and gives Din a firm nod.

Stepping out into the outdoor space Din sees descending stairs that lead to a high-rise garden similar to Eziriel’s apartment below, but far larger and more extravagant. He sees within the colorful foliage a variety of toys and obstacles that any child would be thrilled about.

A figure at the top of the stairs turns and he is greeted by a short stout woman with angular hooded black eyes and a kind smile. Her light brown skin was smooth except for some aging lines around her eyes. Her straight black hair was loosely pushed back with a thick woven headband showing off her unadorned Arkadian ears. She wore a yellow patterned wrap dress over soft green leggings and the only jewelry she wore was an intricate gold cuff around her left wrist that housed an unpolished amber gem. She balanced a baby on her hip that had a tuft of black fluffy hair. The baby had the woman’s black eyes, but the darker skin of Amarian.

“Welcome Mandalorian,” she says.

“Thank you for the invite, Your Majesty,” he responds with a slow nod of his head. She arches her brow with a smirk.

“Now, I know my husband has told you we don’t use those titles outside of official business. Please call me Nora,” she clarifies. “I also heard Eziriel pulled one over on you by getting you to bow to Amar. I would say not to take it personally, but she usually only goes after people she likes.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” he states blandly, causing her to chuckle. She adjusts the baby on her hip and gestures over to a sitting area that is placed to the side of the descending stairs that overviews the entire garden from under a colorful canopy. An ideal lookout for parents to watch their children playing in the late afternoon sun.

A little girl sat kneeling at the low table in the area coloring on some paper in front of her while munching on something from the platter of snacks that sat in the middle. She looks up at their arrival and Din is met with a cherubic face with Amarian’s honey brown eyes. Her hair was pulled into two curly puffs on either side of her head and her dark skin was covered by a lightweight lilac tunic that had crumbs all over it. As soon as her eyes glance at the child her eyes light up and she jumps up to run straight to Din.

“Hello! My name is Vanya Osyri-Kaita. What’s yours?” she asks the child. The child tilts his head and burbles in response and she giggles. “It’s okay, we can still play even if you don’t talk. Do you want to share my snacks?”

The child screeches with delight and starts wiggling in Din’s arms until he is placed down on the ground and they both run to the table to continue their afternoon feast. Nora sighs and clears her throat to catch Vanya’s attention.

“We greet everyone, Vanya,” she reminds the young child.

“Su cuy'gar, mister!” she exclaims with a wave of her hand, pronouncing the Mando’a with childlike crudity. Din is taken aback at the greeting. Arkadia must care very much about educating royalty if she, Amarian, and Eziriel learned something as obscure as Mando’a.

He waits while Nora and the baby take a seat on a cushioned corner settee before setting himself down on the smaller loveseat opposite of her. There is a beat of awkward silence that reminds Din why he was so desperate for Eziriel to make it home before he had to do this. The silence is quickly chased away by Vanya telling the child about what she was coloring and if he’d like to join her. She then puts a hand up to float the tray of crayons closer to them and it causes the child to clap on happiness.

“I can feel your anxiety from here, Mandalorian. Don’t fret, Eziriel will be on her way here shortly and I promise I am not too unpleasant,” Nora says while she levitates a scone from the snack platter to herself. He catches himself before he mentally spirals about how Arkadians can feel the emotions of others.

“To be honest, I’m not used to playdates,” Din admits after he reminds himself to be honest since these people can read intentions.

“Bounty hunter life doesn’t lead you to many, I imagine,” she says as she gives a teething toy to the fussy baby in her lap.

“Hard to find welcoming beings when you’re searching the scummiest places in the galaxy for a target,” he replies.

“Understandable. I’m sure you're not exactly looking at child get-togethers when you land on a planet for a job,” she says and Din feels a guilty tightening in his chest at the idea that he might not be fulfilling a need the child has. “No, wait. I didn’t mean to come across as judgmental or make you feel bad.”

“It’s fine.”

“No it’s not,” she argues. “Maker knows how difficult it is to just keep a child alive, and you have a child who is alive, healthy, and happy. You are doing a great job, Papa.”

Din feels his neck heat up at the compliment and thanks her quietly. They sit and listen to Vanya have a one-sided conversation with the child about something she saw visiting her grandparents. The child seemed enamored by her and would make noises and pass her snacks and crayons which she would accept with gracious thanks.

“We haven’t had many opportunities for him to play with other children since I found him,” Din admits to Nora when Vanya has taken the child’s hand and was leading him to the playground down the steps. “It’s… nice to see him just be a kid.”

“When you have a well-behaved child, you almost forget that they are a child at all,” Nora comments, almost lost in thought. “You place these adult expectations on them that they shouldn’t have to meet. Vanya is so smart and so kind that we constantly have to catch ourselves from getting frustrated when she does something that every other four-year-old does every day.”

Din nods in understanding at the struggles she faces as an excited squeal releases as the child comes down a small slide followed by a giggling Vanya. He often catches himself frustrated that the child cannot adhere to certain unrealistic expectations Din places on him. The life Din leads is not necessarily the most child-friendly. While the toddler is intuitive and does the best he can in dire situations, there are moments of fussiness or meltdowns that Din has to breathe in as much patience as he can muster.

“She doesn’t have a lot of friends her own age,” Nora admits while watching the children repeat the same course of running, climbing, and then sliding. “It has nothing to do with her heritage, but her Will is so strong that her intuition is unnerving to other younglings. We think she might be unintentionally dipping into other’s minds without realizing it.”

“A child having that power is so unimaginable to me,” Din says and Nora hums in acknowledgment.

“I am sure you’ll get used to it very soon,” she says with a knowing look. Before he has a chance to respond that familiar melodic voice rings out.

“Are those Malka’s scones?” Eziriel excitedly asks and Din turns around just in time to see the large body of Amarian lunge in front of Eziriel with a shove, reaching out to intercept the last scone that was zipping through the air originally to Eziriel, and turning to lick the entire scone while making eye contact with her. A pouting look of disgust comes across her face. “You are a raging ass, Amar.”

“Should’ve been quicker, Ziri,” Amarain comments while eating the scone with exaggerated moans of enjoyment. Din notices Nora roll her eyes at the siblings, but sees the small smirk.

“You know you are the one who ends up hurt when you wind her up,” Nora chastises Amarian.

“Only because I overestimate her ability to act like an adult and she lashes out like a wild beast,” Amarian teases while Eziriel plops onto the other end of the loveseat Din occupied.

“Says the bloke who just licked a scone out of spite,” Eziriel grumbles.

Amarian crawls across the settee in a very unkingly fashion, flips over, and slumps into it in a relaxed sprawl with his head in Nora’s lap. Having moved the baby from her lap to make room for the incoming Amarian, she then places the baby onto Amarian’s stomach where he takes the boy and holds him steady while he sits atop of him. Amarian lets out a sigh of relief as he comes to a complete rest and Nora starts massaging his scalp when something catches Din’s eye.

When Nora’s hand came close enough to Amarian’s face the gem on the bracelet on her wrist started to glow a soft orange and the teardrop gem hanging from Amarian’s ear began to glow a deep blue. The minerals were reacting to the nearness of each other. Din didn’t know the meaning of it, but he watched the glow fade in and out with each movement of Nora’s hand massaging away.

There is a moment of domestic peace. The spouses just enjoy each other's company as their baby chews on a toy while the late summer breeze begins to cool in the setting sun. Eziriel kicks off her shoes and tilts her head back to catch the last rays of the day on her face. The older kids giggling and playing on the garden toys. It was a moment of intimate familial tranquility that Din did not feel he should be privy to.

“How good of a bounty hunter are you?” Amarian asks, breaking the peaceful silence.

“The best in the guild,” Din admits honestly.

“You think you could track down the missing Imp from the TIE fighter crash?” Amarian turns his head to look at him and he sees Eziriel whip her head towards him.

“Amar, no,” Eziriel states firmly.

“I do like hunting Imps,” Din comments nonchalantly to Amarian.

“Amar, I’m sworn to their protection. You cannot just ask him to go into a potentially dangerous situation!” she stresses.

“You think I’m bad at my job?” Din turns his head to direct the question to her. She seems oddly wound up today and he doesn’t know why. She isn’t teasing or flirting or any of the normal banter he has grown accustomed to,

“That is not what I mean,” she says with a frustrated tone.

“The TIE fighter has been brought in and is going through a thorough inspection to see if they can find any leads. I can get you a small skyship able to land in the Forest of Ga’ladora and pinpoint where the trail went cold for the Enforcers,” Amarian informs him, completely ignoring Eziriel’s protests. “It was a single pilot, so there should only be one.”

“I can take the boy to Vanya’s preschool tomorrow if you’d like. It is very secure and I’m sure Vanya would love that,” Nora offers kindly. Din almost declines but after a moment he decides to accept the offer.

“Great, I’ll send you the contract later. Let me know if you need anything else,” Amarian says with a nod of finality.

“I’ll leave in the morning, just tell me where I need to go,” Din says.

“Maker’s tits,” Eziriel moans before burying her face into her hands as Amarain smirks.

A/N: I’m using the Coruscant reckoning calendar since it’s technically the in universe calendar. 7929 - 7975 is 48bby-2bby for those who are timeline nerds as well.

Translations: 

Su cuy'gar = Hello/You're still alive

<<  Chapter Nine

Chapter Eleven >>

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x original character #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x original female character #third person pov #third person perspective

[wild-karrde]

Hi! I saw your fandom rec post and wanted to submit a thing. This is a self rec, by the way! So it's on Ao3, under the pseud Star Princess, and it's a 7 part fanfic series for The Mandalorian. It does feature my own oc as a main character and inserts her into the main plot of the show (plus includes my own plotline in the seventh part). The link isn't working, so the series is called The Mandalorian and the Alkavarian (I'll DM the link to you).

I wrote this series into existence for over a year, and it made me really happy. It also inspired me to watch other Star Wars shows (Clone Wars, Rebels, The Bad Batch) and now I'm planning fics for those shows too! The Mandalorian and this fic series essentially made me into a big old Star Wars nerd, and I really want to share the story with other people. If it's easier, I have a masterpost pinned on my blog page!

It's not NSFW but does include mentions of more mature themes (a glance at the tags will probably give you an idea?)

Anyway, I think this is a really cool thing you're doing, and I'm excited to see the other recs you get.

Heck yeah! I love everything about this! We don't always get a lot of Mando fics on FF, so I am HYPED that you've sent your series in! Vasara's past seems so heartbreaking, but I love the thought of seeing how she fits in with Din and Grogu. And I'm so glad that you got inspired to watch other shows (I say this as someone that writes for a LOT of TCW/TBB characters). Thanks so much for sending this in!

Link

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

#FANDOM FRIDAY #creator appreciation #fic rec #fanfiction #fan fic #star wars #the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x ofc #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x ofc #the mandalorian x original female character #OC Vasara #hurt/comfort #angst #idiots in love

[backtothefanfiction]

METANOIA CHAPTER ONE: RUN

Metanoia - The journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, way of life, spiritual connection.

Summary: He’s a bounty hunter with a kid and a very particular way of life. She’s a new young senator raised on war and politics. They’re about to be thrust together on a journey that’s going to change both of their lives.

Word Count: 3.5K

Warnings: Violence, Injuries, Kidnapping. Slow burn. Original Character. Use of she pronouns. (Currently rated 15+, Mature 18+ content will be labelled as such)

A/N: I really hope you enjoy this chapter. This is my first piece on this particular blog that features an original character. I have gone back over this probably about 5 times now to correct any mistakes (particularly when it comes to tense) but if any mistakes have slipped through the cracks I do apologise. This will be quite the slow burn but I promise you all the angst and the feels will make up for it. Please let me know what you think.

ONE:          RUN

Her lungs were burning; the soles of her feet sending shockwaves through her calves and up into her thighs, as they continuously pounded into the floor. She had a trickle of blood that was matting into her right eyebrow. Sweat and dirt pooled in the creases at the corners of her eyes, stinging as she squinted in the midday sun. She could barely hear their voices now over the sound of her own panting breaths and her thudding heartbeat in her ears, but she could still feel them close on her heels. She had to keep running.

The shriek of compressed plasma being fired from a blaster pierced the air, followed quickly by the sizzle of concrete. It hit the ground just next to her foot.

Her head whipped around, checking to see how far behind her assailants actually were, just as another shot was fired her way. It missed, leaving scorch marks on the wall to her right. She snapped her focus forward once again, her resolve doubled, she had to find cover.

Her eyes started to focus in on a market a couple blocks up and her arms began to pump faster, legs pounding harder into the ground, propelling herself towards it as fast as she could. She doubts they’re shooting to kill, they want her alive after all, but she’s betting that they won’t want to shoot at her and draw attention to themselves in a crowd. Especially with the risk of potentially hitting a civilian, which in turn could grab the attention of any new republic officers, who may be in the area.

There’s the sound of another blaster fire and she sneers as it burns across the top of her right arm. Her left hand instinctively reached to cover the sizzling wound, the heat radiating off her skin, pushing back with force against her fingers. She grunts as she continues to push on, running through the pain and onto the crowded market street.

She made a sharp turn, cutting between the colourful market stools, her hip colliding with the corner of a table. 

“Hey, careful!”  the merchant shouted at her as the motion dislodged a few fruits and they rolled into the street behind her; but she didn't stop. She couldn’t stop. 

The scattered fruit now obstructing the path, buys her a few precious seconds as it slows down her pursuers. She glanced back over her shoulder as they came to a halt, clumsily trying to navigate their way around the vendor who was now trying to pick up the fruit she had knocked off. She turned her head around, her eyes searching for a place to hide, whilst her ears remained alert to the commotion behind her.

“Move out the way, old man!” she heard one of the thugs say. There’s a multitude of thuds as the man shouldered the vendor out the way and the fruit dropped to the floor again.

“Hey, what’s all the rush about?!” the vendor shouted his response indignantly, his arms outstretched in distress.

She had to find cover and find it fast. She began to slow her pace at the sight of a large congregation of people standing in front of a booth, marvelling as a cook put on a show; flames and vegetables being thrown into the air. She attempted to blend into the crowd, pulling a scarf from a woman's bag that had been lazily wrapped around the satchel’s strap. She seamlessly glided it over her head, covering her distinctive bubble braided dark brown hair, streaked with pink.

She winced as she brushed past a larger gentleman, her burning skin brushing up against the coarse material of his jacket. He grunted at her and she muttered an apology before forcing her head down, continuing to move through the crowd. She listened carefully, tuning out the noise of the crowd, the sizzling of woks cooking food and vendors shouting about their best deals - listening for the shouts and rallying commands of her pursuers. 

She took a quick look to her left through one of the stalls, as a flash of short green hair and a gruff commanding voice caught her attention. “Where did she go? Has anybody got eyes on her?”

“Hey, have you seen a girl run through here?” another voice started asking members of the crowd not far behind her. “She’s got pink streaks in her hair, bright pink eyes?” 

She turned towards a booth selling accessories, swiping a pair of tinted glasses off the table. She carefully placed them over her eyes, before continuing to walk through the crowd. Her breathing was mostly under control now and as the oxygen finally settled into her body, her adrenaline dissipating, she was beginning to feel all of her body’s aches and pains. She was bruised. Her eyebrow and lip split. Her wrists were chafed raw, ribs uncomfortable, she was sure they too were bruised. She couldn’t even be sure how many days it had been since she had been taken.

It had been her first official trip to Coruscant as a senator. Despite proceedings being a little boring, everything had been going swimmingly, up until their return trip home. They had been pushed out of hyperspace, their ship quickly ambushed by pirates.

Most of her crew died in the initial blast to the side of the ship. Where the rest of them were now, she had no idea. She had tried to fight off the attackers the best she could, but it was to no use. They knew what they were after and she had quickly taken a harsh, knockout blow to the head.

When she came to, she found herself alone in a dark basement, her wrists bound, head pounding. She had no idea where she was or how long she had been out for; all she knew was that she had to get away.

She used the cover of the crowd to survey her options. She needed to find some sort of port, work out where she was and hitch a ride home. Home. Her parents were probably so worried. They had already lost one of their children. It had devastated her Mother to the point she had retired from politics. She hated to think of what she would be like, or what action she would take, if she did in fact lose both of her children.

Her arm throbbed and she decided now was probably the better time than never to stop and check it over. She quietly slipped between two of the stools; the canopies between them providing just enough cover for her to hide and buy herself a little more time.

She lifted the glasses onto the top of her head before raising her arm up to get a good look at it. She was grateful the wound was not too deep. Nothing a little bacta gel wouldn’t soothe and heal up in no time, but first she had to get to safety and away from these damn pirates.

She glanced around from her vantage point, dropping the tinted glasses back over her eyes as she looked up to the rooftops for a viable route. If she had learnt anything from growing up in a rebellion it was to find a weapon and find higher ground. Her eyes spotted an alleyway between the buildings just up ahead that she could dip down and from which, try to make an escape. ‘With any luck there’d also be a fire escape for her to climb up to the roof for a better vantage point; and hopefully work out the direction of the closest port.’ she thought to herself.

She dared to poke her head out from her cover, scanning the area for any of her assailants. She turned her head to the right, searching the faces in the crowd. Catching a flash of green hair again, she quickly pulled herself back into the safety of her cover, hoping she wasn’t spotted.

She closed her eyes, her chest swelling as she took in a deep breath, steeling herself ready for her quick get away. All she had to do was calmly walk across the way and continue to blend in.

Sharp pains shot up her legs from her heels as she began to step forward. Her lip pulled into a tight line as she attempted to brave the pain. Her body just wanted to rest but she had to keep going. ‘Just keep putting one foot in front of the other’ she encouraged herself. She kept her head low, channeling her thoughts; fighting to keep her breathing even and calm, her ears on high alert.

“There she is!” A voice bellowed out from the crowd. 

“Karabast.” She muttered to herself coming to a holt, looking up to see how far away the man was. Her fingers began to curl into fists at her sides, her heart pounding, as adrenaline began to course through her body again. 

Bolting, she ran straight for the gap between the two buildings. She could once again now hear the green haired man muttering and cursing to himself as he followed quickly on her heels, darting around the market stools to get to her.

Her legs push her into the shaded space between the two buildings, her eyes scanning for a ladder for her to climb to the roof. Nothing, just a couple of large bins and side exit doors to the buildings either side. The alleyway continued on though. She raced forward towards the end, her feet skidding as she took the path left. The green haired man closely followed, still hot on her tails, now flanked by a couple of the other goons he worked with. She whipped the scarf from her head, throwing it back in their direction as she prepared to round another corner, hoping the billowing fabric would block their vision for a few seconds and buy her just that little more time.

Her head turned back with it to check as she rounded the corner. Smack! She quickly came to a grinding halt running straight into a large wall of metal. Or was it a man? She froze, her heart pounding, a lump moving up into her throat as her eyes began to trail up the length of the man’s armoured torso; across his shiny paldron covered shoulders and then up to his helmet. Her eyes recognise the armour immediately, her feet beginning to take small shaking, tentative steps backwards. 

The growing proximity of grunting and scuffling noises behind her however; quickly had her freezing again. She decided to risk a quick glance over her shoulder to her approaching assailants, before turning her intimidated gaze back towards the looming figure blocking her path forward. She was trapped. 

Her eyes began to dart back and forth, searching for any sort of way she’d be able to get out of this; but there was none.

Her eyes fell back onto the Mandalorian, easily the greater threat of the group. She knew all about Mandalorians and their ways. Her family had long been allies to a clan of Mandalorians back in the days before Mandalore fell. She knew they deemed weapons as their religion; always had their bodies covered in near impenetrable armour. But they were honourable, maybe she could get him to go easy on her if she made herself look innocent, non threatening.

She planted herself solidly before him, looking straight up to where she assumed his eyes would be behind the visor. With her glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose, she stared up at him from behind the frames with the biggest most innocent eyes she could muster. Damn he was tall; and so still, almost like a statue. She was almost a hundred percent sure she hadn’t seen him move, even the smallest amount, since she had brought them both to a grinding halt when she ran into him.

“What you gonna do now sweetheart?” came a geering voice from behind her. “You’ve got nowhere left to run.”

She hadn’t even been sure that the giant wall of armour had in fact been looking down towards her, until she saw his helmet tilt upwards slightly. It was the smallest of movements, but it changed everything. The way he seemed to now look over her, observing the pirates behind her closely, had her thinking, ‘maybe he wasn’t with them after all’.

 “Come on baby, let’s get you back.” the green haired man spoke up again, his voice both patronising and sleazy. She didn’t look back, her focus remained solidly on the Madalorian, her eyes begging, pleading, for his help. 

He continued to remain stoic. Maybe she was wrong, maybe he was hired muscle working for them after all. She could feel the pirates behind her stepping forward, closing her in. She began to panic, her breaths starting to come quickly, her head suddenly darting between all of the men now.

 She closed her eyes and attempted to focus her breathing, all the while sending up a silent prayer to help her get out of this.

When she opened them again, she turned her focus towards the pirate with the green buzzed hair. He had a scar cutting across his right eye, his left red and swollen and starting to bruise where she had headbutted him previously in her need to escape. “I’m not going back.” she challenged him, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. She would sooner die kicking and screaming than go with them.

Seeing she was bridling for a fight, the green haired man reached for his blaster, sat neatly in the dark leather holster at his side. “The Boss paid me to take extra special care of you sweetheart,” the man bolstered, choosing his words carefully, “and I’m not gonna lie, I’d sooner face your wrath than his.” He pulled the blaster out of its casing, letting it hang lazily in his hands in front of him. “So what’s it gonna be?”

“I told you,” she bridled, puffing out her chest in defiance, “I’m not going with you.”

“That’s a real shame.” The green haired thug replied with a confident tilt of his head, as he began to raise the blaster up towards her. 

She barely had a moment to process what was even happening, before a strong arm suddenly swept her behind his large form. She braced herself behind his back, as blaster fire began to ring out into the small alleyway. The shots bounced off the Mandalorian’s armour with a tinny pinging sound. When he began to charge forward towards the pirates, she began to shrink back towards the wall for cover.

She watched carefully, listening to the sounds of grunts and wails as one by one, each of the pirates were taken down. There was a loud thud as one of them was flipped over the Mandalorian’s shoulder and landed flat on his back on the ground. She watched as another tried to run, but before he even got close to the end of the alleyway, the Mandalorian shot a grappling hook from his arm. It wrapped itself around the thug's ankle and the guy wailed as the Mandalorian tugged on the line, taking the man’s legs out from underneath him, his face smashing into the ground.

Faced with certain defeat, the green haired thug began to raise his hands in a form of surrender, deciding to turn to his last line of defence, negotiation. 

“Come on man. You hand her over to us, we can make it a very lucrative deal for you.” The Mandalorian remained silent as he marched forward, coming to a stop in front of the man. She began to step back out from her cover, stepping closer to the two of them. 

From her position behind him, she couldn’t determine whether the Madalorian was considering the offer, or just trying to intimidate, his silhouette looming over the green-haired man. 

“Come on Rowan, baby.” He leaned around the Mandalorian, changing tack again, trying to talk her into going back with him one last time.

The Mandalorian’s head turned back to look at her, then back down at the man when she remained silent. The green haired man began to back away slowly, realising he was about to meet a similar fate to his friends; but the Mandalorian quickly closed the gap between them once more, matching him step for step. 

One punch. That’s all it took to knock the green haired pirate to the floor. He slumped to the ground with a thud, the Mandalorian looking down at him, making sure he wouldn’t get back up again.

 His energy turned stoic once more, as she tried to force a breathless “Thank you.” from her mouth, her chest still heaving from panic and adrenaline. She swallowed hard as he turned back to face her, trying to dismiss the lump in her throat, but it didn't move.

His form was intimidating as he began to stalk towards her, fear taking over her body once again as he marched back down the alleyway toward her. Her thoughts raced rapidly around her head. ‘She had no idea who he actually was. He may have saved her but she still had no idea why she had been snatched in the first place by the pirates. What if there was a bounty on her head? What if he was only staking his own claim on her life.’

She hurriedly turned, her legs starting to propel her forward quickly, hoping to out run him; a sudden need to get away taking over her. She managed to get half way down the small alleyway when a stinging sensation at her neck made her stop.

 Her hand raised to the spot pulling a small dart out of her neck, her muscles suddenly feeling tingly as a warmth began to ripple from the spot on her neck out to the rest of her body. Her head turned back towards him, a question in her eyes. ‘Had he just tranquilised her?’

The numb sensation in her fingertips, that had her dropping the dart and her arms going heavy as they fell to her sides, answered that for her. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her lips fuzzy as she tried to get the words “Did you just-” out, but they came out mumbled as her eyes grew heavy, her whole body collapsing towards the floor.

He caught her in his arms, just before her body could hit the floor. Hooking his other arm underneath her knee, he hoisted her up into his arms, before beginning to walk back the original way he came. Din hadn’t thought it would have taken him too long to find Rowan Nita after her parent’s had hired him for the job; but he certainly wouldn’t have put credits on her literally running straight into his arms.

He chanced a glance down at her as he continued to walk back in the direction of the port and his ship. She was pretty beneath the scuffs and bruises that covered her face. He was almost sorry that he had had to tranquilise her, as he thought back to her eyes looking up at him when she had first run into him. They were unlike any eyes he had seen before in the whole galaxy; and he had been to a lot of places. They were bright magenta, matching the streaks in her hair, save for this one streak. Hidden deep in the mess of her braids, a single streak of white blonde.

She jostled slightly in his arms as his fingers reached for the buttons on his vembrance as the Razor Crest came back into view. Her head lulled to the side and he spotted just behind her left ear, a small white crescent moon. The edges of it were too natural to be a tattoo. No it was definitely a birthmark.

His boots stomped onto the ship. There was a small curious coo as he turned towards the small compartment that held his cot and the kids hammock. The shutter was open and a pair of big dark eyes and even bigger green ears followed his movements closely as he made his way through the hull. The baby garbled as he placed the sleeping girl down on the cot beneath him.

He shifted her carefully onto the mattress so that she wasn’t leaning on the arm he had noted had clearly taken a hit from a blaster. His fingers reached for a cushion, long been pushed to the side. He gently lifted the back of her head, slotting the small pillow beneath it. He found himself pausing to look at her once again, now that she was settled and out of his arms. He observed closer the features of her form. The sharpness of her Father’s nose. Softness of her Mother’s cheeks and lips.

Another curious coo from the kid, broke him from his observations. ‘Don’t get attached.’ Din berated himself.

“Come along kid.” He sighed as he reached his hands up to lift the baby from his hammock, before walking them both away from the sleeping girl.

-------------------

As always, I apologise if your link doesn’t work properly and if you want to be added to the tag list for the next chapter just pop it in writing for me 😁

@fangirl-316 @doommommy @gadsgikklesen @thestillhalcyon @fadingspyhandswagon @managerie76 @lexisgraceh @my-life-as-a-bird @asunshinestateofmind @rav3n-pascal22 @worshipcircle01 @mandofury @reinedragon @166869 @writer-not-writing-help @gbunny-03 @butatbesticansayimnotsad

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x ofc #Metanoia #the mandalorian x original female character #Star Wars #fanfiction #Pedro pascal #grogu #baby yoda #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #Star Wars fanfiction #sabine wren #star wars rebels

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Masterlist

Pairing: Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x F!Reader

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else. 

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored. 

Enter: The creation of myth.

-OR-

the dark sider/mandalorian au no one knew they needed

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Graphic depictions of violence; Canon divergence; Themes of redemption; And forgiveness; THE RAZOR CREST LIVES BITCH!!!!; Soft!Dom Din Djarin; Protective behavior; Possessive behavior; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Breeding kink; Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Spanking; Overstimulation; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin; Angst with a happy ending; Hurt/comfort; Fluff and smut; Inappropriate Use Of the Force; Discussions of infertility; References to Greek Mythology; Past abuse; Not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy; Violence as a metaphor for desire and intimacy; Other additional tags to be added 

Read on AO3

PART I :

Chapter I: Apollo

Chapter II: Prometheus

Chapter III: Psyche

Chapter IV: Aite

Chapter V: Morpheus

Chapter VI : Sisyphus

Chapter VII : Hysminai

Chapter VIII : Melpomene

Interlude : Tartarus

PART II :

Chapter IX : Persephone

Chapter X: Geryon

Chapter XI: Lethe

Chapter XII: Venus

Chapter XIII: Eros

Chapter XIV: Dionysus

Chapter XV:

⚡️Din and Sithy art by the wonderfully talented @dirtysouvenir

⚡️Updates Blog : Follow and turn on notifications for new writing!

#TCC fic #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x original character #din djarin fic #din djarin smut #din djarin angst #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian angst #the mandalorian imagine #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #vic fic

[izelascendant]

Creaking bed, injured head.

Din Djarin x Original Female Character

words: 1,385

summary: She earns her first sex injury.

tags: Smut, Sex in the Razor Crest | Din Djarin's ST-70 Assault Ship, Size difference, Helmetless Din Djarin, Lights off during sex, Cowgirl position, Awkward sexual situations

author’s note: I’m rarely on tumblr so I’m not sure how this will be received. Most of my work is on AO3, if this performs well enough here, I’ll link it.

There was a reason why their sexual relations exclusively took place in her ship. While the Razor Crest didn't pose any problems, it wasn't particularly suitable for such activities.

She couldn’t help but laugh the first time she saw where Din slept on the Crest. His bunk, given his size, appeared comically small. She playfully teased him, suggesting it was better suited for an Ewok, but he seemed unfazed by her jokes.

Consequently, they opted for the considerably roomier bunk on her ship to engage in their private endeavors. Little was exchanged in conversation before or after, and in fact, their intercourses were marked by a scarcity of words. The lights would be extinguished, armor shed, allowing them to exist in complete darkness and connect through touch. Afterwards, in the darkness, they would frequently fumble for their discarded clothes around the bunk. As she would slip into the refresher, giving him space to equip his armor again, she would sometimes discover remnants of his release in her hair or other unexpected places, marked by white streaks.

The situation shifted when her beloved freighter ship experienced a breakdown beyond her ability to diagnose, compelling her to entrust it to a technician's care for the time being.

That afternoon, when she sensed his hand gently resting on her waist, his demeanor subtly sheepish, she understood his unspoken request. Having completely disrobed, Din maneuvered into the snug space, lying on his back. He gently rested his large hand on her hip, while the other tenderly held her wrist, guiding her atop him within the confines of the cramped bunk. Despite the slightly stuffy and confined space, it didn't deter her from savoring the moment and finding enjoyment in it. She positioned herself over him, hands pressed against his bare chest for leverage, initiating a rhythmic movement of her hips, beginning with a deliberate and slow pace.

Amidst the darkness of their surroundings, they relied on their senses — the warmth of each other's touch and the soft sounds escaping from their lips. However, another sound intruded — the creaking of the bunk with every movement she made. Initially, she experimented with altering their rhythm to reduce the noise, but it proved unsuccessful.

Squeak, squeak, crack.

Her soft moans gradually shifted into subtle groans, yet she endeavored to keep any trace of frustration from infiltrating her tone. "Has your bunk always been this creaky?" she chuckled breathily, not ceasing her movements.

“No, it doesn't seem to have had this problem before, a new development by the sounds of it.” he breathed out in response, relishing the sensation of her soft, warm body against his and the sound of her voice. Shifting slightly, he brought their bodies closer together, his free hand gently caressing the small of her back.

"Right," she murmured softly, relishing the new position he had orchestrated. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to fully immerse in the sensation, refocusing on the task at hand.

He aided her efforts, his large fingers grasping the flesh beneath her hips, near her bottom, guiding her movements. Their rhythm synchronized into a more compatible pace, eliciting deliciously low groans from him.

She released a satisfied breath of her own, momentarily losing awareness of her spatial surroundings. Arching her back straight, she accidentally collided her head against the metal bar on the wall, emitting a small grunt of pain as she instinctively held onto the back of her head. Neither of them could discern what had occurred in the absence of light. Just when she thought things couldn't get worse, she lost her balance, sliding out of the front of the bunk and landing onto the rough, cold floor with a tiny squeal.

Instinctively, he tried to prevent her inevitable fall from the tightly packed space, but couldn't reach her in time. A brief grunt of dissatisfaction accompanied her collision with the hard ground, though he swiftly regained his composure. "You okay?" he asked, a hint of genuine concern in his words. From his supine position, he reached an arm out to her, attempting to feel around in the dark.

"Ouch," she groaned after a moment of silence, still on the ground and holding the back of her head. Despite his current state of undress, Din sat up in the confines of the relatively small space in order to help his passenger. Gently lifting her up by her armpits he brought her back into the bunk with him, so effortlessly, as if she were a feather. Although the creaky bunk had been a source of irritation moments earlier, it was at least a sort of comfort to have him wrap his big arms around her.

“The bunk seems to be a bit more unforgiving than I would have anticipated. Are you hurt?” He inquired as he helped her sit back down somewhat comfortably. She emitted another gentle groan, releasing a deep breath. Everything had transpired so swiftly that she hadn't even had the time to feel the embarrassment of the situation creeping up on her. They had never encountered such a disastrous interruption during intercourse. "I'm fine," she reassured him with a slightly unconvincing murmur.

Not entirely convinced by her claim, he thought it wise to take a moment and check for any potential injuries. Placing one hand gently on the back of her head, he ensured that no significant trauma had occurred. A second hand was placed upon her ankle, checking her feet and knees for any evidence of injury.

“Are you still hard?” she inquired quietly, her focus remained on a singular thought. The fall was no longer a concern, despite the momentary irritation it caused. Her hand moved up to explore his body in the darkness, sensing the persistent warmth radiating from his skin, coupled with the thin layer of sweat. She hoped the minor mishap hadn't diverted his attention from continuing.

The momentary pause caused by her fall did nothing to diminish his desire to continue, a fact evident in his response to her query. "I still am, yes," he told her quietly, his voice low and calm. Upon hearing his words, she felt a sense of relief, and her heartbeat quickened. "I just want to come," she confessed with a sweet sigh, "I was so close."

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice a barely audible rasp as his body shifted slightly underneath her, guiding her back into position. Moving his hands to guide her on top of him, his eyes closed as he focused entirely on making her feel good in the cramped space. Once satisfied with their position, he started to guide her with a slow and rhythmic motion, his hands keeping her steady and grounded. He allowed her no time for further contemplation, not wanting the mood to be interrupted any further.

She let out a moan of satisfaction, relishing the control he was assuming, enabling her to relax a bit more. He held her in place, taking charge of the rhythmic movements, thrusting his hips up into her. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes squeezed shut. Fortunately, she managed to blur her mind away, focusing solely on the sensations she was experiencing. Her moans escalated into higher-pitched whimpers as she approached her peak.

It didn’t take much longer for Din to reach his, panting heavily before blindly covering them both with his warm release. To her, it seemed like a reward for enduring both Din’s absurdly cramped and noisy bunk and, naturally, the head injury as well. His movements were slow and gentle as he withdrew slightly. He stayed in the bunk, his arms tightly wrapped around her. After a moment, he rested his head against her torso, breathing out slowly. Another contented hum escaped him as he rested his chin against her chest. “Now that that’s resolved, how is your head?”

Exhaling deeply into the crook of his neck, she spoke softly, "I'm genuinely fine." Shuffling slightly with a deep breath, she added, "But can we both agree to not do it again here, not in this cursed bunk?" He chuckled in response to her concerns, his voice now slightly lower and calmer after their moment of passion. “That would be wise.” Having encountered her first sex injury, she harbored only one desire — to reclaim her beloved ship from the technician and relish the spaciousness of her own bunk.

#the mandalorian #mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x original character #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #din djarin smut #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

[lokischocolatefountain]

Guess

Fandom: Star Wars, The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: PG13, fluff

Word count:

Summary: A game of guessing goes right in every way for you and Din, your kind of friend, sort of boss.

A/N: Day 1 of my fic advent calendar and my first Din Djarin fic on here! Credits to my friend @lokislittlevalkyrie for co-creating the reader character and for our long conversations about her and Din. Keep checking the advent calendar Masterlist for more fics dropping this month. And leave me a little comment to encourage me to keep the fics going 💜💜💜

“Stop scowling.”

“I’m not scowling,” he lied, trying his best to keep his tone neutral even though he was surprised that she knew he was scowling. Lucky guess, he told himself. But how many lucky guesses could one person have about his facial expressions?

“You so were!” She insisted, sinking further back into the novelty ‘chair’ she bought on their last stop. It was a sphere half filled with tiny soft particles that molded itself to the user’s shape. She slouched on it as she continued watching one of her holodramas, something with a murder or speeders (or both) at the heart of the story.

“I was not.”

“If you say so, Din Can,” she said, using her nickname for him. He chuckled reflexively, unable to control his responses to her. Thankfully, his helmet filtered the sound out, saving him the embarrassment of finding humor in the humiliating nickname. He smiled, glad she didn’t know just how many times she’d made him laugh whether by mocking him or making clever remarks in general.

“I do say so.”

She was beautiful. Taking up the creed meant hiding one’s own face from others. To hide what would serve as the basis of others’ first impression of you so that your valor and your character would serve as your defining features. Vanity was not something he was raised with. Yet he knew beauty when it stared him in the eye and called him Din Can everyday. Or Tin Djarin. Buckethead when he really pissed her off.

Dinny Bear when she was intoxicated.

Blood rushed to his cheek when he thought of the last time she did that. She’d gotten very comfortable around him in the months they’d been crew mates. All her initial jitters and jumpiness around him had gone and been replaced with her stubbornness, strange sense of humour, and a level of confidence she didn’t have with him before.

He had to chase her down to even get her to accept the job he was offering her as a travelling mechanic. He’d never heard of one before. And she was quite frightened of him after the kind of interaction they had at Peli’s shop. But he needed a mechanic on board. With the kid in his hands now, it became hard to juggle a failing ship with hunting bounties and caring for a mischievous kid who waited for the moment he took his eyes off him to cause chaos.

It helped to have a mechanic on board at all times. She was wonderful and came approved by Peli. Over time, she became more than his mechanic. A friend, he would be brave enough to say. If he were braver with women, he would say that he’s caught her sneaking glances at him. That he felt her twinkling eyes rove over his armor every now and then. Sometimes he was confident of it. At others, he convinced himself that his mind was clouded by his desire for her. By his desire for her to desire him too.

The matter of his expressions came up once again later after dinner.

“Stop looking so grumpy.”

“You cannot see my face.”

“Yeah but you look grumpy.”

He grunted, turning away from her to focus on the controls. They were on hyperspeed. There was nothing he needed to do with the controls. But to come face to face with her when she told him exactly what he did underneath his helmet was…too much.

“Heyy! Let’s play a game?” She asked, her voice bubbling with excitement.

“Play with Grogu.”

“He’s asleep. And this is not a game for little potatoes.”

He chuckled softly at the nickname and looked up at her again, awaiting her proposal. “What would that be?” He asked.

“A drinking game.”

“Drinking is a game now?”

“Dank farrik! I missed when you used to be quiet. Just listen to me. I’ll guess what your face looks like under your helmet and if I get it right, you should take a sip of your drink. And if I get it wrong, I take a sip. Let’s do it with the Silver Elixir,” she said, getting up from her seat to fetch the bottle from their liquor cabinet they kept locked to keep away from wandering little womp rats.

She returned with the bottle, two glasses and straws. They’d recently taken to drinking together. She bought him a straw a begged him to join her, using her sweet eyes and her adorable pout to convince him. She said she only had drinks with friends and that drinking alone on the razor crest made her feel lonely.

He gave in to her, just like he gave in to their little green crewmate.

She didn’t need to use a straw, of course. Yet she did. When he asked, she said it was so that he didn’t feel lonely drinking through a straw like a kid. Even in her insults, she managed to be sweet.

“Start guessing,” he said impatiently as she sat next to him and looked intently at their glasses to see if they were filled equally.

“Sure, sure… You have dark hair,” she said, passing his drink to him. “Dark brown.”

“A little too obvious, isn’t it?” He asked, knowing she had definitely seen his hair in the trash after he gave himself haircuts and shaved his facial hair.

“Drink up, old man!” She said, lips wide in a grin as she knew already that she was right.

He snorted, but followed through, taking a sip of the strong liquor. “Alright. Next.”

“You have….big green ears.”

“Wrong,” he huffed, smiling nevertheless at her sense of humour.

“Damn it! I should’ve known they wouldn’t fit inside the helmet,” she said, taking a sip. She was smiling too, and unlike his, it was out in the open and as bright as the stars around them.

“Those were two descriptors. Big and green. Take one more sip,” he argued. He didn’t particularly want to get her drunk, but he liked how adorable she was when intoxicated. One of their drinking sessions ended with her snuggling up to him because she couldn’t find the kid to snuggle like a children’s stuffed animal.

“What? No! It was one guess, so it’s one sip.”

“Again, you guessed the size and color of my ears and they were both wrong. Take a sip.”

She rolled her eyes, but complained, taking another sip. She leaned close and narrowed her eyes at him, as though focusing on his helmet would reveal what was underneath. He smiled unconsciously, taking in the beauty of her from up close. The light in her eyes, the way her eyebrows knit together when she was in deep thought, lips that impressed him with the wittiest remarks… Lips he wanted desperately to pull to his, to devour and make moan his name.

“No moustache.”

“Hmmm….” He hummed, thinking of how he could sort the point for this. He *did* have a moustache, but that was only now. There were times when he shaved it off completely. “It’s complicated. I have a moustache now, but I change it quite frequently. So, half a sip.”

“If I have to take half a sip, so should you.”

“No, I don’t,” he scoffed at her warped logic. Here he was, being nice and giving her some credit even though she was wrong. But she was trying to take advantage of it.

“Yeah you should. If I’m taking half a sip because I was half right and half wrong, you should also take a sip because you’re half right and half wrong.”

“No. That’s not how it works. I have facial hair now, which means you are wrong. I should’ve made you take a full sip, but I decided to make a concession because I am sometimes fully shaven.”

“Dank Farrik! You’re such a lightweight. Just say you can’t handle your liquor and I’ll let you go,” she taunted, a smirk plying at her lips.

“Oh please, I can handle my liquor much better than you can. Here,” he said, drinking the strong undiluted alcohol like it was water in a few big sips. He slammed the glass against the control panel surface and shrugged. “See, I’m good. You are the one who gets drunk after one portion of the Silver Elixir and terrorizes the kid.”

She gasped, as though he made a much bigger accusation. “I don’t terrorize the kid! I just give him extra cuddles and kisses. He enjoys them very much. It’s called affection, Tin Can. Ever heard of it?”

He tilted his head at her in the way that sometimes made her swallow audibly. “So you think that because of my way of life, I have never experienced affection?”

She opened and closed her mouth quickly, as though her mind and lips were in disagreement about whether or not what they were about to say was appropriate. He smiled under his helmet, proud of himself for stumping her. She talked a lot. Since he was a quiet man, everyone else was talkative in comparison. But she was the voice he heard the most as they lived together on the Razor Crest and their other occupant communicated mostly in coos and squeals.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Say what. Since the drinking thing was already disproportionate anyway because I’m not guessing your features and I can handle my liquor much better than you do….lets change the rules.” He took a deep breath, afraid of the consequences of his words but unable to miss this opportunity. “For each correct guess you make, I’ll give you a kiss.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, scoffing.

“I’m not known for my humor.”

She took a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes, making his heart skip a beat. Kriff, the things she did without even knowing! He thought he could die from the anticipation of hearing her next guess. Would she guess something ridiculous like big green ears to make sure she doesn’t have to kiss him? Or would she make a very obviously correct guess?

“You have…” she trailed in a softer voice, looking at him almost coyly. “…pink lips.”

Not the most obvious guess. Not all humans had pink lips. And he could easily not be human. He didn’t remember telling her he was… But if she was going for something for a higher likelihood of being correct… Kriff he hoped she was. “Do you want me to turn the lights off or blindfold you?” He asked, conveying indirectly that she was right.

“Wh-whaaat? Why?” She sputtered, looking at him with those pretty eyes, vulnerability brimming in her expressions.

Did he get the wrong idea? Maybe her obvious guesses weren’t because she wanted to be right so she could kiss him… Maybe it was just the product of her usual playful nature.

“Because I will have to take my helmet off when I kiss you,” he proceeded to say, even as his heart beat faster with the anxiety of how this could go. They were adults. It it was a misunderstanding, he would simply get over it and do his best to not make it awkward between them. “And you cannot see me.”

“I…” she trailed off before letting out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Again. Not known for my humor,” he said, letting a smile seep into his words. She was so kriffing adorable, looking all nervous like a blurrg stuck in a doorway. “You don’t have to, of course. I can give you something else. Ten credits, perhaps?”

“What, no. A deal is a deal.”

“Then tell me, my dear mechanic. Lights out or blindfold?”

“Lights out.”

Pity. He was hoping to see her pretty face when he kissed her. Not moving from where he was, he pressed the buttons on the control panel, turning all the lights out. In the pitch black of outer space, he could see nothing. Perfect.

“What can you see?” He asked, just to be sure.

“Nothing,” she said, in her voice so low and soft that it was swallowed up by the darkness. What entity wouldn’t want to swallow up something his pretty mechanic put out? Every word she said, every touch of her fingers against the trees and rocks and flowers. If he were air, he would luxuriate in her scent. If he were water, he would caress her skin and play with her hair as he cleansed her. If he were fire, he would creep into her skin, warm her up when she needed. But he was nothing but man. So, he would have to satisfy himself with a kiss from her lips.

“Are you sure?” She asked as he stepped forward to her.

“I am. Are *you* sure?”

There was silent for a moment before she said, “Yes. Kiss me.”

Needing nothing else, he took his helmet off and placed it carefully on his seat. His heart thudded against his ribs, and his breaths grew labored. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

In all his years, he had never kissed anyone. It was not part of the culture of his people what with the metal barriers that kept them from it. He remembered the sweet kisses on his forehead and cheeks from before he took the creed. But that was not what his heart desired. He wanted the kind of thing she watched on her holopad, all the holodramas with characters who showed their desire through an intense kiss that left their partner speechless.

He reached forward and found her hand. She gasped softly, the quietness of the ship letting him in on her soft sounds. He caressed up her arm, enjoying the slight tremble of her skin beneath the tips of his fingers. He stopped at her neck and allowed himself to cradle it in his hand. He felt her lean closer and he reciprocated, taking the final step. He tilted his head to his right feeling that she tilted to her right.

As he closed the gap between them, he felt her warm breath on his skin. He swallowed, his lips parting from how nervous he was. What if he was no good? What if he didn’t have good breath? What if he’s such a bad kisser that she— he gasped softly as she pressed her lips against his. In an instant, she quietened the sounds his head. The fast beating of his heart, he realized was now from the effect of proximity to her more than his insecurities.

She placed one hand on his shoulder and wrapped her other arm around his waist. He let out a shaky breath at the intimacy of their contact and let his other hand trail down her back. She pressed herself closer against his beskar clad chest, making him wish he had the forethought to toss that bit of his armor too. He wanted to feel her. Every bit of her that she was offering up to him like she truly believed he was deserving.

Her lips were soft, just as he’d dreamt them to be. He’d never kissed before. It was an act saved for married couples in the covert, as only your spouse could see you with your helmet off. He had married friends who waxed poetry about the magic of kissing. How they felt like nothing and nobody mattered other than your partner. How it turned you into putty in their hands. He thought it was exaggerated… Until now.

He cupped her cheek, her face fitting in his hand and making him feel a new sense of protectiveness towards her. He’d protected her before, sure, but this felt different. This was something to do with a need to be gentle with her. To cherish her and treasure her. She licked his lips and he parted them instinctively, letting her tongue between his lips. He shuddered as her fingers threaded through his hair. He whimpered and pulled her closer to himself in the moment of vulnerability, using her as a crutch to support him. He’d never been touched like that before…

Her fingers explored his hair and he allowed himself to relax in his arms, even letting himself give her comforting caresses of her back. He felt her melt into his arms as their kiss deepened. She tasted of the silver elixir first, but when they were both a little along the way, he began to taste something that was distinctly her. Something sweet, mixing with the fragrance of her citrusy perfume to further dull his senses.

It was soft, but electrifying. He poured his passions into the kiss, exploring her with his tongue and luxuriating in the sweet little whimpers she let out. The technicalities stopped mattering. He was here, holding the girl he’d been pining for, lips connected as the unlikely result of a stupid game. That moment was all that mattered and her sounds of satisfaction told him that he wasn’t doing so bad after all.

She pulled back in a while and they let out the breaths they’d be holding. She let out a laugh and he smiled, comforted by her job. He didn’t even know he’d been holding his breath. He’d forgetting the necessity for breathing as he found her lips.

“You have…a big nose,” she said, confusing him.

“Huh?” He asked, his mind still clouded from her kiss.

“I get another kiss if I’m right, Dim Djarin,” she teased, pointing to his obliviousness when it came to things of this nature.

“Right,” he said, grinning as he kissed her again. He needed to play games with her more often.

#din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fluff #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x original female character #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fluff #inexperienced!din #din x reader #din x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mando fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #am i a star wars fic writer now? #din dijarin x reader #din djaren #din dijarin fanfiction #all that i've inflicted on the world

[oliviajdjarin]

Din Djarin: You, Me, and the Stars

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Excerpt: “You leaned up onto your elbows to look down at him, the both of you knowing what came next. Dribbles of rain became more and more frequent upon your head, beginning to soak into your scalp, but you couldn’t feel anything else besides the excitement in your chest and the metal of your husband against your warm body. Drops of rain began to hit his helmet as well, sliding down the sides and collecting within his visor.

How long had it been since he felt a drop of rain on his skin?

He had to have noticed the desire in your eyes to complete what you had started as he covered your hands with his and pulled them up to the sharp edge of his helmet. ‘Go on, riduur,’ he whispered, ‘I’m not afraid anymore.’”

Warnings: This isn’t all SMUT, but there is a little. Reader and Din get married. Kissing, lovemaking, references to past sex, insecurities, swearing, crying, so much yearning, definitely incorrect Mandalorian marriage customs, Din gets shy when you compliment him.

A/N: This is one of my favorite fic genres for Din, I have wanted to write it for years, and many authors have done their own versions of it. I am not attempting to plagiarize or copy any of their amazing work. This is purely me wanting to do my own version on an already incredible idea.

A/N 2: Episode 1: The Apostate are we fucking kidding.

Word Count: 3k

Pedro Masterlist

If you’d like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

(gif from pinterest)

His gloved hand had made its way to rest against your bare hip bone, twitching every few seconds in his sleep, effectively sending chills down your spine every time. This kept you from having any sleep of your own. 

You didn’t mind, not with the expanse of your Mandalorian in bed next to you, who was nothing short of breathtaking.

The lamplight washed over the metal, soaking him in a wave of sun and fire. His body facing yours gave the lighting all the more canvas to paint, stretching over the deep black of his visor, the brown of his cape, and the orange of his gloves. His body was glowing--basking-- in that cheap lamp you bartered for on Nevarro. He had rolled his eyes underneath all that glistening glory, you could tell by the way his head tilted back ever so slightly, and muttered to himself about its uselessness, thinking you didn’t notice. 

But you did. 

You noticed everything about him--how he moves intentionally, watches carefully, talks authoritatively...

...and groans uncontrollably when he sinks his gloved fingers inside of you.

Besides, you didn’t get the shitty lamp to see the Crest’s controls better, or find Grogu better in the dark, or even find a snack in the middle of the night. You got it for this--this post-sex euphoric haze that came over you every time he made you finish, the need to drink him up with your eyes, to observe him in is most untaught state, to witness as much of him as you possibly could, while truly seeing nothing at all.

It was right then, only for a few sinful, pathetic moments, that for the first time, the desire to see him--truly look at him--overpowered any and all of your rational thoughts. The left side of your brain was crying out at you to stop, remember his Creed, remember how much you respect it, while the right side of your brain took the opportunity to pummel your brain with everything you had been depriving yourself of for months.

How would it feel to wake up to his face every morning, see his eyes crinkle from a smile, his teeth peek out of his lips, his scruff beginning to grow in. How would he look, exactly--brown eyes or blue, or green, or hazel? Darkened skin or light, full lips or thin, thick hair or thin. 

It scared you how little it mattered, but how badly you wanted to know.

How would his eyebrows squeeze together when he focused, his tongue pop out from his lips as he was thinking, or his laugh--one of his true laughs--sound without that fucking modulator. Would it be as dry as it always sounded, or would the extra oxygen in his lungs breathe life into it. Would he have dimples? Wrinkles? Endless freckles, or only a few. You hoped he had enough for you to memorize. 

Would his skin be soft or rough? How calloused would his diligent hands be, or would your theory that he had a soft spot for hand lotion finally be proven true. How much did his muscles flex underneath all that armor? How sculped would he be, after carrying all that weight for all that time? 

Would he let you be the first to find out?

Your free hand began moving on its own accord, slowly bringing itself up to trace a line down the front of its vizor, trying to convince itself that yes, that was skin you were feeling. That was body heat, and pores, and scruff, and lips, and a pulse underneath all that muscle. You traced his helmet so gently and so quickly that it was mere seconds before you were pulling away, feeling the exhaustion from the night’s previous activities beginning to hit you all at once. Your eyes were fluttering shut, and with one last kiss to his metallic, bitter-tasting shoulder, you were out. Out quickly enough and deep enough for you to miss Din’s whisper in reply, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead.

“One day, mesh’la. One day.”

                                                            ~*~

That day had finally come.

Din’s gloved hand in yours was the only thing keeping your mind tied down to the forests of Sorgan. You were finally--finally--going to swear to the man you loved that you would love him forever, and he would to you, for all his days. 

Luckily for you, Peli was kind enough to keep the kid safe on Tattooine while you and Din headed off. Din was adamant that the ceremony be special, not some random day on the Razor Crest, but on a star-filled night on Sorgan. 

“That’s how I want it,” he had told you after days of pestering him, “just you, me, and the stars.”

Frankly, you just wanted him. 

He led you up a small hill that led to a cleared-out field, stretching farther than you could see, and your pulse beat louder and louder as you took each step. You could only imagine how he was feeling underneath all that armor, what shade his eyes turned when he was nervous, and how you would react when you finally knew the answer.

The night air cooled you as you made your way to the top of the hill, Din guiding you to the flattest and clearest spot. He was a quiet man--always listening, always watching--but he was being abnormally quiet as you made your way to the designated spot. The creatures in the trees chirping and buzzing filled the anxious air for you. 

Finally, Din stopped and faced you, taking both of your hands into his own. He gazed at you intensely, and you met it straight on. “You’re sure about this?”

You smiled softly, letting the love shine through in your eyes, and nodded. “Yes.” 

He exhaled a sigh with undertones of emotions that you couldn’t quite place, and immediately started peeling the weapons off his body, one by one, placing them gently in the grass. He started with his spear, pulling it from its carrier with a familiar shling. He traced it with his palm before setting it down, and moving to his weapons belt, removing every artillery he had. Dispensing his whistling birds into the dirt, delicately. He stripped himself of any and every bit of his arsenal. 

“This is the first step,” he said as he worked, “to prove that you can trust me, and to deny any ill-intent on my part.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought that he had already done this step in your shared bedroom. Every night. Without fail. 

Once he finished, he took his hands in yours again, pulling you near. His hands had a slight shake to them, so you squeezed them tighter. 

“Are you afraid, Din?” you whispered over the buzzing insects. 

He said nothing as he squeezed your hands back, only breathed slowly as he looked into your eyes. You brought his hands up to your mouth and pecked his leathered knuckles, looking into his star-glazed helmet. “It’s just me and you.”

He exhaled again, but this time, you knew it was out of relief, and maybe even...excitement.

“Okay,” he whispered, his forehead inches from your own now. “Then let’s do this.”

You smiled so wide your cheeks ached. “Okay.”

Din chuckled slightly before looking down and widening his feet to match up with the length of his shoulders. He straightened up to his fullest height, allowing the stars to shimmer on his beskar that much more, causing the pounding of your heart to echo louder and louder in your skull. 

You were really fucking doing this.

“Now we say the vows,” Din said, sounding out of breath. “I know you know them, but for a Mandalorian and a...non-Mandalorian...it’s tradition for the latter to repeat them back to the Mandalorian. It symbolizes your full understanding of the Creed, as well as your full acceptance of it.”

You nodded, gulping, and mimicked his stanse--strong, confident, ready. The trees around you swayed in the wind as Din gathered his breath. 

“Repeat after me,” he began, taking a second to rub his thumb over your knuckles. “Ready?”

“Ready.” 

Din’s voice steadied as he said, “Mhi solus tome.”

“Mhi solus tome.”

“Mhi solus dar’tome.”

“Mhi solus dar’tome.”

“Mhu me’dinui an.”

“Mhi me'dinui an.”

“Mhi ba’juri verde.”

“Mhi bar’juri verde.”

With a newfound shakiness in his voice, Din continued, stating them in your familiar tongue, “We are one when together, we are one when parted.” 

“We are one when together, we are one when parted.”

“We will share all, we will raise warriors.” 

“We will share all, we will raise warriors.”

The birds chirped, the insects buzzed, and one drop of rain landed on the top of Din’s helmet as he said, “We’re married.”

You didn’t hesitate to immediately jump into his arms, effectively bringing the most feared bounty hunter to the ground with you. 

Tears lined your eyes as you laughed in pure ecstasy, your brain unable to process that the man in your arms was finally your riduur. Not your partner, not your boyfriend, not just your husband, your riduur. He was yours now, infinitely, endlessly, above space and time, and you were his. Din laughed loudly in your arms, just as filled with joy as you were, and you could have sworn that noise filled the hole in your heart that had been sore and empty all your life. 

You leaned up onto your elbows to look down at him, the both of you knowing what came next. Dribbles of rain became more and more frequent upon your head, beginning to soak into your scalp, but you couldn’t feel anything else besides the excitement in your chest and the metal of your husband against your warm body. Drops of rain began to hit his helmet as well, sliding down the sides and collecting within his visor. 

How long had it been since he felt a drop of rain on his skin?

He had to have noticed the desire in your eyes to complete what you had started as he covered your hands with his and pulled them up to the sharp edge of his helmet. “Go on, riduur,” he whispered, “I’m not afraid anymore.” 

And with that, you lifted the visor from his face, carefully, using all your willpower to not shut your eyes at even a peak at his skin. Your hands shook as you lifted and your heart clogged your throat as the man you had sworn to protect, kissed until you were dizzy, and shared the darkest, most shameful parts of your being with finally hit your eyes.

Your first thought when your eyes ultimately discovered their deepest desire was that you had married the most beautiful man alive.

A blanket of thick, dark brown curls covered the top of his head, framing his face. His skin was a golden tan, highlighting his cheekbones and pink, plump lips that you had kissed so many times. His face was further framed by dark eyebrows and sculpted facial hair, as well as a prominent, strong nose. It was counteracted by a soft jawline and big, brown eyes. They were darker than you expected, an almost black, but slightly glazed by surrealness of this moment. Raindrops began to soak the curls atop his head and drip into his slightly opened mouth, drawing your attention to the one thing you were most excited about.

A small freckle, right below his chin. One of your favorite spots to kiss in the darkness of your bunk. It was just sitting there, waiting for you to memorize.

 You realized soon after that the raindrops dribbling onto his cheeks weren’t rain at all, but a mixture of both his tears and yours. You let out a chuckle of disbelief. He was right here, right in front of you. Just how you had always wanted him to be. 

You brushed his tears away as you whispered, “Ner riduur cuyir mesh’la.”

It turns out his eyes do crinkle when he smiles.

“That’s what you were practicing the other night?” he asked, his voice dripping with honey free from the modulator. You nodded. 

He smiled wider, brushing your soaked hair from your forehead, “Ner riduur cuyir mesh’la bat brilliant.”

You couldn’t help the giggle you released at his words, nor could you prevent your lips colliding with his own. It was better than any kiss you had ever shared before. 

He sighed into it as he kissed you back, the most relaxed and full of life as you had ever felt him kiss you, yet he exuded passion. His tongue caressed yours within seconds, bringing you as close to him as he possibly could. You ran your hands everywhere you possibly could--through his hair, down his neck, under his chest piece, over his cheeks. He groaned when you discovered how easy it was to scratch your nails into his hair and his scruff without the fear of opening your eyes, and you had to pull away to smile. 

“I can’t stop looking at you,” you whispered, moving your kisses to the column down his neck. You felt it heat up with a blush.

“Neither can I,” he whispered, and maker his voice. His throat vibrated against your lips as he spoke. “I knew you’d be beautiful without my sensors, but I wasn’t ready for how beautiful.”

He pushed you closer to his neck as you hit his favorite spot, nibbling down just how he liked. His large hands were suddenly off of you, and a rustle of leather later, they were back on your body, gloveless. You whined into his ear when you finally felt that yes, he was obsessed with hand lotion, and his soft hands massaged into your scalp. 

The rain poured harder and harder in the darkness as you and Din kissed and stroked and loved on each other. You eventually reached down to his pants, sliding your fingers down underneath. In previous years, he would fuck you, but the armor stayed on. The most skin you got to feel was his dick and his face, but both were a rarity. His goal was always to make you scream and come all over him, but now you wanted more. You wanted to drown him in your mouth and body.

“I’m on a drink,” you whispered into his mouth, feeling his happy trail against the pads of your fingers, “if you want.”

His skin and hair were soaked, but his eyes and muscles were suddenly awake, widening in excitement. “Yes,” he nodded, almost profusely, “yes.”

You pulled back and traced a line down his face, just like you did that fateful night in your bunk, only this time, you didn’t have to imagine the heat of his skin, or the look in his eyes as you pulled his pants down and yours to the side. 

“Look at me,” he whispered suddenly as you lined yourself up, and you obliged. “I love you, Y/N. More than anything. More than my Creed, more than my life.”

You smiled, and kissed him. “I know.”

And you slid him inside of you. 

You and Din had done this before, but never enough times for you to remember what it felt like. It was a surprise to you every time, without fail, how perfectly his curve fit into you, like you were molded and crafted for one another. His girth filled you fully, threatening to flutter your eyes shut, but you kept them open. You wanted to see his face as he entered you, see his eyebrows etch together, his mouth pop open, and his Adam’s apple bob.

He really was beautiful. 

The rain soaked through your clothes as you moved, keeping your mouth either on his or on his face the entire time, listening to his groans and whines for more. 

“Just like that riduur fuck yeah,” he got louder and louder as he spoke, “that’s it. You’re perfect at this. At everything.” 

You grinned, whispering, “you look so fucking good right now,” and proceeded to suck a hickey onto his neck.

“Stop,” he said with a chuckle, and you laughed back, marking him as yours. He sucked a few onto your collarbone soon after. 

You rocked and rocked and squeezed onto him just the way he liked, getting lost in the feeling of the cool rain, his warm dick, his glorious face, and the stars in the sky, that you nearly missed his squeezes on your arm. 

“I’m close,” he whispered, suddenly creeping his hand up your thigh, “I’m so close.”

“Fill me up, riduur,” you whispered, “I want to feel you for days dripping out of--”

Your breath caught as his soft finger rubbed on your clit just right, causing you to squeeze on him so deliciously. He went, and you went seconds after at the feeling of his warmth inside of you. He had never gone this far. Not once.

You practically collapsed on top of him, letting him massage your hair and rub your back as you both came down, down, down. You pressed your nose into his neck, smelling his skin. The rain made his usual lemon scented three-in-one that much more pungent.

The both of you sat in silence for a few moments, letting the last of the rain dribble down on you, your heartrates steady, and your brain process the fact that everything about that moment was pure and real and just an inkling of the rest of your lives. The rain slowly came to a stop, and Din chuckled, making you chuckle. 

“So now it stops,” he laughed, and you sat up to meet his eyes. 

“I liked it. You look hot in the rain.” 

He looked down with a blush on his face, “Good, because you look freezing.”

You hadn’t noticed your teeth beginning to chatter. “I’m fine.” 

He shook his head and lifted you off of him, your mewl at his exit from your body borderline pathetic, and kept you lifted with one arm while he pulled up his pants with the other. He helped you pull up yours before positioning you bridal style in his arms as he began the walk back to the Crest. 

“Din, your helmet, and your things--”

“Don’t need them,” he whispered as he walked, holding you close to his chest. “Not around you. Not anymore.”

Mando’a Translations: 

“Ner riduur cuyir mesh’la.” -- My riduur is beautiful.

“Ner riduur cuyir mesh’la bat brilliant.” -- My riduur is beautiful and brilliant.

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[wrathkitty]

Short Debts Make Long Friends - Chapter 19 (part 1)

Chapter 19: I Don't Need to See Your Face; I Just Need You to Help Me Pretend

This is the big leagues? you were wondering as you followed Mando down the stairs to meet the man himself. This wasn’t even your worst Black Friday, when some asshole decoupaged all the dressing rooms with Christmas-themed hentai and you had to explain to your very, very sheltered manager why the tentacles were wearing Santa hats. 

But then Kaba happened, and everything surpassed all the Black Fridays, and your worst nightmares, too.

One minute, the porcine-faced Klatoonian was casually seated at his desk and weighing his options; the next, Mando had shoved you behind him and yelled, “Go!” over his shoulder.

This was your first chance to see the Darksaber in action, but you didn’t need to be told twice. As Kaba’s goons descended, you and D-5 had run for the exit, with full intention of booking it to the usual rendezvous point at the transit station.

You were halfway to the door when you heard it. You knew the sounds Mando made during a fight. Every grunt, every hiss and yelp, even the occasional curse that meant he’d been hurt. 

You had never heard that sound from him before. 

Autopilot clicked into gear, knocking self-doubt right out of the driver’s seat. 

You bolted back the way you came, instantly zeroing in the source of Mando’s agonized cry as soon as you ducked through the transparent strips of curtain – the patch of scorched, glowing flesh on his leg that should have been really well-done CGI, except you knew better.

Short Debts Make Long Friends - An overeducated, underpaid millennial finally gets to go on her first adventure.

Anyone who reblogs gets a DM with a future snippet of their choice! (Humor, angst, sexyfuntimes.) You know you wanna...

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#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din x reader #mando x original female character #short debts make long friends #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin #baby yoda

[djarins-cyare]

Not me posing my Din Djarin doll into scenes from my fic… holding out his hand for you to take 🥹🥹

For more heart stopping moments, check out Be-All And Endor.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin x original female character #mandalorian fanfic #mando x reader #din djarin fanfic #star wars #pedro pascal #mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #mando #the mandolarian #din djarin smut #star wars fanfiction #the mandolorian x reader #pedro pascal characters #be all and endor

[chiriwritesstuff]

... in Every Universe - A Roswell-inspired Modern! Din Djarin x F! Reader Soulmates AU (Prologue)

Chapter Rating: M

Chapter Summary: At five years old, you're found wandering alone in a weird town called Roswell and have no recollection of how you got there. 20 years later, you're working at your adoptive family's diner and you can't help the connection you feel with the town's bounty hunter, who just can't stop staring at you... what happens when you're on the brink of death and the man in question saves you in a way you can't explain?

Chapter Tags and Warnings: Canon divergent, minor descriptions of violence towards the reader (she gets shot), flashes between different universes and POVs, eventual smut, explicit language, loosely based on 'Roswell' (the 1999 WB series), Grogu exists in all universes, no beta we die like men!

Word Count: 1.7k

Nova

"Here we go! One meteor shake and one Alien Blood for the lady!"

You place the drinks down on the table, a forced smile gracing your lips as you eye the eccentric couple across from you. Arching a curious eyebrow, you take in their vibrant Crash Festival shirts, suppressing the urge to snort. "So, are you two here for the Crash Festival this weekend?"

"We sure are!" the man excitedly says, placing an arm around his girlfriend. "It's our first time here in Roswell. Are you from here?"

"Proud to say my family's been in Roswell for at least the last four generations," you declare, a hint of pride coloring your words as you wipe your hands on your apron.  Sure, you think to yourself.  I was actually found wandering around town by myself not knowing who I was at five years old before being found by your adoptive father one night, but how would they know?

The couple's faces light up with excitement, drawing closer to you. "So your family must know about what happened all those years ago then?" the woman asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "...with the crash, that is?"

"Well, I guess since you both seem like nice folks, it wouldn't hurt to share this with you," you say conspiratorially, reaching into your apron and withdrawing a folded paper. "I assume you can keep a secret?"

The couple's eyes widen as they slowly take the photo out of your hands, their mouths agape in astonishment. Your coworker Omera rolls her eyes as she passes by, coffee pot in hand, chuckling quietly to herself. "You are so bad," she whispers in your ear. "You're lucky your dad isn't around, I'm sure Greef would sprout another head if he had to deal with your antics once again," she adds, offering refills to the two men at the table next to you.  

"Refill, gentlemen?" Omera asks the men, frowning as she notices their aggravated state.

"Does it look like we need any refills?" one of the men asks harshly, waving her off. "Just go away!" he shouts, glaring at her. She gives you a frown as she turns around.  

You wave her off quickly, turning your attention back to the couple.  

"My grandfather actually was working near the crash site when he was younger and managed to take a picture before the feds arrived to clean up the scene," you whisper, glancing to your side to make sure no one else can hear your conversation. The photo shows a grotesque alien amongst the wreckage of a crash site, obviously fake.  

"Does anyone else know about this photograph?" the woman presses, taking note of your hesitance.  

"Well, I know about it, and now you guys know, too." You say seriously, trying not to laugh at their obliviousness.  

"Woah, this is fucking insane!" the man exclaims quietly, looking at the photograph once more.  

"I'll be right back, alright?" you suddenly say, a serious look on your face. "Don't show that to anyone, okay?"

"Yeah!" they both sputter, the man folding the photograph and placing it in his pocket. "Your secret's safe with us!" the woman whispers, nodding.

You nod back at her, straightening yourself up. You catch up to Omera as she laughs at the mischievous expression on your face.  

"You are such a menace!" Omera playfully smacks you as the two of you make your way back to the kitchen, a satisfied smirk on your face. "Oh, and Din Djarin is staring at you again," she adds, discreetly nodding in his direction.

"No way!" you exclaim, pushing her into the kitchen. "Omera, that is so in your imagination!"

You turn to look in the direction of the man in question, your eyes meeting his as he clears his throat, quickly breaking eye contact and glancing at his young son seated next to him. Your breath suddenly catches in your throat as you nervously glance back at your friend, the collar of your scratchy uniform suddenly too tight and constricting. "Din Djarin? This?" you point to yourself, shaking your head at your best friend. "No, uh-uh."

"Oh, but with those cheeks and that smile of yours? How can that handsome brooding man resist the princess of Roswell, huh?"

"Omera, come on, cut it out!" you exclaim, waving your hands in protest. "...and even if he was staring at me, it doesn't matter. I'm with Cobb! He's steady, sexy, and totally into me!" you declare, nodding to yourself as if trying to convince yourself as well.

"It sounds like you're describing a golden retriever or something," Omera deadpans, walking back towards the dining hall. "Sounds awfully exciting, shacking up with the Sheriff and all that," she mutters to you, shaking her head. "Why have dependable vanilla sex when you can have exciting mysterious sex with Roswell's resident bounty hunter? I bet he could fuck you five ways to-"

"I gave you a week!" the man from the neighboring table shouts, jumping up and pulling out a gun from his pocket. "You're about to see what happens when you mess around!"

"Nova!" Omera's voice rings out suddenly. "Call your dad, things are getting crazy!"

Before you can react, the other man lunges at the one with the gun, struggling to disarm him. In the chaos, the gun goes off, and you feel a sharp pain as you're hit.

"Oh my god!" Omera exclaims, turning to the other patrons. "Is everyone okay?" She looks towards your direction, her eyes widening in shock as she sees you curled up on the floor. "Nova!" she screams as the dining room descends into chaos, the two men running out of the restaurant in a hurry before someone calls 911. "Someone, help!" she screams into the crowd frantically.

Din 

Din jumps as he sees the bullet go in your direction, glancing at his young son still seated in the chair next to him. "Grogu, are you okay?"

"Yes, dada," he shakily responds, his eyes glancing at your crumpled form. "Nova's hurt!" he exclaims, pointing in your direction. "Grogu help her!" he cries, attempting to get out of his seat.

"No!" Din shouts, "You stay right there, I'll help her, okay? Stay with Uncle Boba!"

"Din, no," Boba warns through gritted teeth. "We can't risk getting exposed-"

"I can't just fucking leave her to bleed out!" Din cries helplessly, looking in your direction. "I need to help her!"

As he rushes toward you, Omera follows closely behind. "Call 911!" he commands, using it as a diversion to keep her away, not wanting her near the two of you as he grapples internally with what he's about to do.

"Nova," he whispers, ripping your uniform away from your body, his eyes trained on the blood pooling on your torso. "I need you to look at me, can you do that for me?" he pleads, placing a hand behind your head. "Nova," he begs, "Please baby, I need you to look at me."

Your eyes flutter open slightly as he gazes intently back at you, his hand applying pressure to your wound with gentle urgency. Vivid images flood your mind as Din focuses on healing you.

In an instant, you're in a desert, brandishing a laser sword against a lizard-like adversary. A voice calls out, and you're struck from behind by a blaster shot. Then, as Din presses harder on your wound, you're transported to a spaceship, writhing in pain as you clutch your abdomen. A figure stands beside you, armored and mysterious, their helmet removed. But before you can identify the man in armor, you snap back to reality, meeting the deep brown eyes of Din once more.

Din breathes a sigh of relief as the wound on your torso closes, his eyes fluttering closed as he recalls the visions he shared with you moments before. She can't be, he thinks to himself, his hands cradling your face gently as he draws you closer to him, pulling you into the safety of his chest. "You're okay, Nova," he whispers against your ear. "You're with me, alright? Stay with me."

"Dada," Grogu's sudden cry breaks the moment, his face etched with concern. "Did you heal mama?"

"What did you say?" Din's voice is filled with disbelief as he looks at his son. "What did you call her?"

"Mama," Grogu repeats, attempting to reach you. "I felt her pain just now, I knew I saw her in my dreams-"

"Djarin!" Boba's sudden shout startles you, and Grogu protests as he's lifted up, reaching out toward both of you. "We've got to go, NOW!"

Din swiftly assesses the situation, gently setting you back down on the ground before grabbing a nearby bottle of ketchup. Squeezing it over your chest and uniform, he meets your gaze with urgency. "You took a fall and broke the bottle accidentally," he whispers to you, swiftly rising to his feet. "Please, if Cobb asks, just say it was a nasty fall, okay?" With that, he dashes towards the door, joining Boba and Grogu already waiting in the idling car outside.

You nod as Omera rushes to your side, helping you up as you watch Din jump into the car and speed away.

"Nova," Omera says, her voice filled with concern as she takes in your disheveled appearance. "What in the hell just happened?"

"I don't know," you stammer, trying to make sense of it all. You close your eyes once more, and it feels as though you're still in that spaceship, with Din's hands clasping yours as he gazes back at you, tears streaming down his face. Your heart races as you glance down at your wounded form, only to find yourself suddenly pregnant, your eyes widening in disbelief at your swollen abdomen.

"Stay with me, Nova," Din pleads in your memory, tearing away your tunic as blood gushes from your abdomen. "Please, stay with me," he cries, tears cascading down his face as he tenderly caresses your pregnant belly. "Please Cyar'ika, please don't leave me!"

"Nova!" Omera's desperate screams are the last thing you hear as you slip into unconsciousness, the world around you plunging into darkness.

#Din Djarin #modern din djarin #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin/reader #mando #grogu #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x original female character #din djarin fic #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction

[auntie-venom]

Will of Fate

Chapter nine

Fandom: Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Mature

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

or

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Chapter Summary: Discussing what was found in researching Jedi and Eziriel gets back to work knowing someone is out to get her.

Word Count - 3,499

Chapter Warnings: None

Will of Fate Masterlist

Read on Ao3

A/N: Been a hot minute. Lots of travel in the last four months, things are finally able to settle down. I’m still chipping away at writing this when I can, but I have fallen into an obsession with the clones recently and have been working on some drabbles for them more than I should with my spare time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, any feedback is welcome.

Chapter Nine

Eziriel finishes the last drops of whiskey in her glass before falling back into the sofa’s cushion and letting out a dissatisfied sigh while tossing her datapad back onto the low table. The Mandalorian glances down at her as he makes his nth pass around the sunken seating area as he studies his own datapad. She notices his whiskey glass that sat on the table had emptied without her notice and she can’t decide if she should be impressed with his stealthy ability to drink without her notice or if she was just that distracted in focusing on the files in front of her.

They’ve spent the evening combing through the files that CHI pulled on the Jedi after they got home too late for a playdate between Eziriel’s niece and the child. It only took a half an hour before Eziriel pulled out the whiskey as a way to alleviate the frustration and despair the files were invoking in the two of them.

It had not helped.

The Empirical public files on the Jedi are short and meticulously groomed to the point of suspicion. According to their narrative, the Jedi were magic wielding religious zealots that infiltrated the Republic in order to subvert democracy and gain control of the Galactic Republic under the guise of peacekeepers. The Jedi Order supposedly fueled the tensions between the Republic and the Separatists to orchestrate a galaxy-wide war so that the Jedi Order could gain control of the senate. Apparently, only the Emperor was able to see through the deceptions of the Jedi and was able to wipe them out after they failed to assassinate him.

That was it for the public records, except for a slew of anti-Jedi propaganda which encouraged citizens to turn in anyone resembling a Jedi; but the classified files of the Empire that were dug up on old servers by CHI housed more sinister secrets. Like how there was an order created to hunt down remaining Jedi and those who were sympathizers and eliminate them, but that is not all they did. They were also tasked with kidnapping any Force-sensitive children to turn into powerful Imperial agents, but the files showed many of the children were terminated at the facility on Arkanis for being disobedient or weak. Eziriel’s stomach turns at seeing where CHI took correlating missing posters of taken children from across the galaxy and matched it with facial recognition to the profile images on the Imperial files, many of which tragically had attached death certificates.

There were thousands of kidnapped and murdered children that went unchecked and unpunished for two decades.

She tries to push down the guilt that Arkadia chose to protect its people rather than join the fight against tyranny, but it’s an impossible feeling to wipe out completely and she lets it simmer in the back of her conscience. She knows the difficult choice to remain protected wasn't decided lightly, but it still aches her heart to know that so many suffered while everyone on Arkadia remained safe and prosperous.

She had shifted her focus to the public files that the New Republic released about the Jedi to help focus her spiraling thoughts, and she discovered they were nearly as useless as the Empire’s. They paint an idealistic picture of brave warriors of an ancient religion who fought for democracy and peace of the Republic, the details of their missions lost to the Jedi Purge.

What Eziriel thought was interesting was discovering that the New Republic assigned a committee filled with historians in order to try and rediscover all the lost history the Empire tried to wipe out, and a selection of them were focusing on the Jedi Order. It seems the subcommittee want to get first-hand accounts of the Jedi, which was admirable in Eziriel’s opinion. Sadly, most of those interviews were of older beings that had interactions with those in the order before the purge, mostly tales of heroic rescues during the Clone Wars, and were not relevant in giving the Mandalorian a lead to finding any current Jedi.

The only recent information was the New Republic are a few reports of Jedi survivors helping in the Rebel Alliance, but only code names were used to protect the Jedi except in one instance. There was a highly classified account of a lone Jedi trained by a survivor of the purge who had a big role within the Rebel Alliance in defeating the Empire. Luke Skywalker was said to have defeated Emperor Palpatine with the help of an unbelievable turncoat, Darth Vader. The full account of what happened would give the most dramatic of holodrama a run for its credit. While there were plenty of unclassified files boasting the skills of Skywalker’s piloting, the files on Skywalker as a Jedi seemed to be classified. Not that that stopped CHI in any way, but the files were intentionally left vague. Someone high in the New Republic was protecting Skywalker and keeping his whereabouts undocumented.

The only lead they have was one of the documents from five standard years ago that confirms Skywalker had the intention to rebuild the Jedi order. That was the latest direct document about Skywalker outside of reports of him showing up unannounced to help with New Republic missions over the years.

“I can’t believe all we have is a name,” she grouses before rubbing her eyes in weary frustration. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” he asks, halting his trek around the seating area and looking towards her.

“That I couldn’t get you more,” she admits.

“A name is more than I had,” he says with a shrug.

“There has never been information I could not find before. That’s what I do. I have questions that most people give up on and I slice my way into getting the answers. But I can’t find answers if they’re not documented,” she explains with emphasizing hand motions.

“It’s not your fault, there seems to be a powerful influence keeping his information along with any current Jedi dealings off the net,” he says and she is once again taken aback by his insightfulness.

“That was my thought as well,” she agrees with a hum. “Here, look at this.” She grabs her abandoned datapad to find what she was looking for as he makes his way to lean over the back of the sofa to watch. “You see these links here? They are dead links from the Old Republic era. Possibly a network owned by the Jedi. There are many reasons the links could be dead. Could be a destroyed terminal or merely offlined, but if the terminal was intact I could slice into it manually.”

“I don’t know if older files are going to help if all the Jedi were wiped out or hiding,” he says.

“Right, but what I’m getting at is if you have an inkling of who is hiding Skywalker and the current Jedi information, then there is a chance they have an offlined terminal they use to store that information on. I can get into those, it would just take some work.” She gives the side of his helmet a small reassuring smile. “When you leave, I could give you a device that would allow me to remotely slice into it from here. If you want.”

He takes a moment where he just stares at the datapad in her hands before slowly turning his head to look at her face. “I’m not sure if I’ll end up with that chance,” he admits. “But it would be nice to have that option open.”

Eziriel acknowledges his acceptance with a nod of her head and switches tabs on her datapad. With his personal quest progressing as far as she is able to help, she now has to focus on her list of tasks she must do at the lab tomorrow. She bids him a restful sleep and goes to her bedroom to get ready while CHI reads off her next day itinerary.

She had broken down the situation to the Mandalorian while the child and her ate dinner earlier. She explained her lab was only for those who had a specific clearance so they were on their own tomorrow. She gave him a key to the landspeeder they used today and a fob with access codes to get in and out of the personal quarters spire of The Pinnacle. She ordered very firmly to carry his temporary visa with him if he chose to go out and to throw her name around if he needed to, which he scoffed at.

“If anyone—and I seriously mean anyone, asks you questions regarding why you are here you must answer them as honestly as possible. I can surmise you aren’t the type to do casual market conversations with nosy old ladies; but because of your visa status, plainclothes Infiltrators will be assigned to do random interrogations disguised as citizens. They are good at their jobs and it won’t be obvious, so keep your emotions in line with your answers and try not to pull your usual stoic silent routine too much,” she had pressed at the end of dinner. He seemed to take her tone seriously and didn’t grumble about having to unwillingly socialize if he went out.

She told him that he could reach her on the comm device she gave him earlier and that her lab was in the developmental spire of The Pinnacle so she wouldn’t be far if something drastic came up. She gave him recommendations on food, entertainment, and shopping, to which he didn’t react to. He told her to stop fussing when she handed him a credit chip and he refused. The credit chip was still laying upon the dining room table from mutual stubbornness.

She knows what she’s doing. She knows that she is using the Mandalorian as a distraction from giving her full attention to the treason she has evidence of. Planted evidence that points to her. She feels the panic tighten in her chest at the intrusive thought while she tries to get comfortable enough to fall asleep.

She closes her eyes to reel in her panic and starts convincing herself that the perpetrator will be caught. She assures herself Amarian will assign Xanda Bale, his most trusted Infiltrator and friend since childhood, to the investigation. She assures herself that she will be able to find the digital fingerprints of who built the device somewhere in her lab. She assures herself the Senate is wise enough to not jump to the simplest, but wrong, conclusion of her being the traitor. She assures herself she will not be sentenced to Ashgate Penitentiary; or even worse, destitutional banishment.

════════════════════════════════════

“Listen to me carefully, Little Prodigy. I don’t care how special you think you are, you have to report your findings in full.” A datapad is slammed on the conference table in front of her. The older, dusky skin face of Bastian Suvan was reddened with anger and leaning close to Eziriel. His tidy robes have remained pristine through his dressing down of Eziriel, but his silver hair was falling from the once slicked back pompadour and getting caught in the silver cuffs that adorned his pointed ears.

She knew she was going to have to navigate the surly CEO of the Arkadia Technical Operations when reporting the issues with the Cloak of Arkadia, but she didn’t consider the ire the redactions Amarian made would cause.

Bastian never warmed to Eziriel. When she was younger she finished the required studies for adolescents four years early. Too young to begin her once desired path of Arkadian Infiltrator, her mother pulled strings to allow Eziriel to intern in the TechOps while she took electrical engineering courses to fill her free time since she had such an affinity for technology. At the time, Bastian was only a department head and she was, unfortunately, placed under his supervision. The moment she arrived on her first day he sneered at her ideas and only referred to her as “Little Prodigy”. The name never bothered her, she was a child prodigy, but the acidic tone he said it with ate at her patience with him. She spent the four years under him trying to impress and appease him, but it only made him more bitter. She couldn’t decide if it was jealousy or just a general dislike of her existence that fueled his disdain, until the moment she produced the holographic projection technology that could interface with the Cloak of Arkadia and saw him truly angry at her success.

Jealousy is always ugly.

“I followed protocol of reporting my suspicions of treason to the highest level of authority possible. It’s not my fault that I have access to the highest authority,” she says with a shrug that made him clench his jaw tighter. She doesn’t care how nepotistic she came across, it was her life on the line and she will do everything in her power to prove her innocence. “I understand the frustration of not knowing what caused the error readings, but until King Amarian finishes the investigation you are going to just have to accept that the technical problem is solved and to carry on business as usual.”

Eziriel watches as his neck goes an interesting shade of purple at her calm and collective tone. She sits quietly with him as he calms his heavy breaths and glares at her. The whirring of the repulsorlift of Bastian’s analysis droid hummed from where it hovered next to the conference table. She waits and sees his rage melt into his normal frustrated expression before speaking again.

“I’m not intentionally being difficult.”

“A first,” he snaps back before slicking back his hair into its intended style. “JN-4P, inform my next meeting I will be with them shortly.” His droid zips out of the conference room with a binary salutation before Bastian stands and leans onto the table towards Eziriel. “Little Prodigy, let me be clear. If this turns out to be some ploy for you to uproot me so you can slide into my position, I will destroy everything you love.”

She can’t stop how her face scrunches in disgust at the idea of getting a job that requires more political schmoozing than she already has to do as he storms out of the conference room. Eziriel never had political ambitions, but she has presented in the Arkadian Senate a few times when she is trying to get controversial technology approved. She is eloquent enough that her efforts are usually rewarded, but that is mostly due to her having Nikau Kaita as a father who pressed the importance of public speaking, regardless of station.

Eziriel collects her belongings and makes her way to her lab. The Defence Technology Division isn’t an overly large department, but the three lead engineers and their small team of assistants helped make DefTech feel very impactful. She hand-picked her leads, trusted their skills and talents, and the thought that one of them could be the culprit in framing her for treason makes her breakfast curdle in her stomach.

“She lives,” a sultry voice announces when she enters the lab. She turns to see the tall, plus-size, feminine figure of Thalissa Everbright leaning on her office door frame. The expensive magenta dress Thalissa wears contrasts nicely against her Keshiri purple skin and black hair. She wore a pair of comfy white lace up shoes that didn’t match the outfit, but Eziriel knew that she had already stored her expensive heels in her office in exchange for comfort while working. “Three weeks of not having you around to approve things has been very frustrating. You have quite the backlog.”

Thalissa was once an academy rival when Eziriel started her tertiary education and TechOps internship. She started the same year as Eziriel at Helix Technical Academy and did not like that someone four years younger than her was getting grades as good as her. Thalissa was always top of her class and then some teenager came in and started challenging that position frustrated her.

Thalissa was very cold to Eziriel the first year, often trying to embarrass her in class, or undermining her projects by bringing attention to Eziriel’s political position as Princess. Eziriel did not understand why someone would be so cruel over not getting the top marks and would mock Thalissa ruthlessly for it since she knew that is what would hurt her most. It took a professor-assigned partner project that started off disastrously between the two of them before they sat down and had an uncomfortable heart to heart.

After that night of frustrated tears, bad take-away food, and the shared woes of familial pressure the two built a unique friendship that held a foundation of competitiveness. They both enjoy the way they push each other to try harder in their work and it keeps them on their toes. Looking back, Eziriel couldn’t believe Thalissa ended up one of her closest friends, but she is thankful this tall gorgeous woman tried to ruin her academic life.

When Eziriel became the head of DefTech it didn't take much begging for Thalissa to leave her assistant position in The Transportation Technology Division and take a lead engineer position under her. While Eziriel was happy to have a good friend join her, she was beyond thrilled to have someone on her team that wasn’t afraid to challenge her decisions. She trusts Thalissa more than anyone else in this building, but could she have the capacity to betray her planet?

She absolutely does.

Thalissa isn’t particularly patriotic and is cutthroat when it comes to funding and getting supplies for her research. Eziriel has had to cover for her outright ruthless tactics when it’s come to dealing with suppliers. She could easily—

No.

Eziriel ends her line of speculative thinking and gives Thalissa a weary smile. She would not spiral into creating probable cause for every person in this office. She will wait until Amarian updates her on the investigation and present herself business as usual.

“You look like shit,” Thalissa says with a rather serious face, but her red eyes sparkled with fondness. Eziriel could see Thalissa’s team of three working behind her and through the window of her office, some looking up to give a wave in greeting.

“A two hour debrief with Suvan will do that to you,” Eziriel responds with a wave to Thalissa’s assistants.

“I don’t envy you. Especially since it now has classified elements to it. Everyone already knows that we had a TIE fighter and a civilian ship crash here and that there is now a new shiny Mandalorian applying for a visa,” Thalissa says, and an intentional wave of curiosity pushing towards Eziriel for information.

“You know, I’ve never sponsored someone before. It’s a bloody nightmare,” Eziriel comments.

“Don’t avoid my question,” Thalissa says with an eye roll.

“You didn’t ask a question,” Eziriel snarks while she heads to her own office with Thalissa hot on her heels after a dramatic sigh.

“Who’s the new guy?”

“Just some man with odd luck,” she clarifies before setting her stuff down onto her desk. “I’ll tell you the story at lunch.”

“I’d love to hear the story as well,” a quieter voice says from the direction of her doorway. Looking up she sees the slim pale frame of Garyth Mohandai, the second of three head engineers. His wispy blonde hair was pulled back into a cascading ponytail and his spectacles were pushed onto his head. He was younger, recently hired straight up from apprenticeship after his predecessor retired, but very capable and impressed Eziriel with his focus and tenacity.

“Hey Garyth. Yeah, I guess I get to tell a story to a whole audience today,” Eziriel says with a smirk and sees the figure of the third head engineer behind Garyth pop around the doorway and give her a warm smile. “You going to join us Margos?”

Margos Varon’s copper skinned face came around Garyth as she leaned into the opposite side of the frame, the halo of springy gray coils of her hair bouncing with her movement. She was older than all of them, an engineer who refused the promotion when the head of the division opened up. She liked building and did not want to have to spend her time managing a whole team. So she helped hire and then welcomed Eziriel to lead with warm smiles and gentle guidance, something that Eziriel would forever be grateful for.

“A new man in Eziriel’s life?” Margos makes a cheeky face with pursed lips. “How could I not want to hear everything?”

Eziriel shakes her head in faux exasperation while keeping the walls of her emotions solid to prevent any bleeding. She didn’t want to let it slip that she suddenly lost faith in the team she held so dear for the last ten years. If they pushed those boundaries hard enough all they would find would be suspicious fear.

<<  Chapter Eight

Chapter Ten >>

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #din djarin x original female character #pedro pascal #star wars au #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original character #din djarin fic #din djarin #the mandolarian #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #the Mandalorian x Original Female Character #the Mandalorian x Original Character #third person pov #third person perspective

[wild-karrde]

#Fandom Friday 💖

I want to mention my dear Kathi @june-girl-86

For more than two years now she puts time and effort into her series "The Burden of Responsibility" (Din Djarin x fem! OC)

In (up to now) 53 chapters she describes Din Djarin's way to being the ruler of Mandalore. And no matter if it's a canonical character like Ashoka, Bo-Katan or well yes Din, or the many many OC she invented... Kathi brings them to life in a magical way.

BTW for those who are interested... I am sure she's willing to share the story in German too. Am I right? 😏

OOOOOOOOH I LOVE FICS THAT EXPLORE THIS PART OF DIN'S LIFE. (Which is admittedly why I wrote one haha). But I've always thought that after giving up Grogu, there were so many different directions his character can go. And this seems like such a wonderful direction to take it. LET THE MAN FALL IN LOVE. LET HIM GO ON ADVENTURES WITH HIS LOVE INTEREST. I'm all about it hehe. Thanks for the rec!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

#FANDOM FRIDAY #creator appreciation #fic rec #fanfiction #fan fic #star wars #the mandalorian #nsft #lemon #lemony lemon #din djarin #OC Liara #Din Djarin x ofc #Din Djarin x oc #Din Djarin x original female character #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x ofc #the mandalorian x original female character #slow burn #fluff

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter VI : Sisyphus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Blood and Gore; Explicit description of injury; Use of misogynistic language; Threat of SA but none occurs; Ass play; Anal sex

A/N: It's all downhill from here, baby!!!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VI : SISYPHUS

DEATH: Why the bow, if you’re breaking no laws?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

You’re in the dark again, warm and sated, together. He’s propped up on one elbow, practically half on top of you while you lay on your belly, pressed into the soft blankets and the blistering heat of his body; your cheek, smooshed into the ball of his shoulder while you let him explore your skin at will. He’s been biting and licking and kissing all over for what seems like hours after having fucked you halfway to delirium, and you can do nothing more than hum and whimper when his teeth get too hungry, his bite too sharp, listening to the sounds he makes. Low rumbles of appreciation deep in his chest that you feel vibrate into the bones of your back, breathy huffs where he takes in your scent, mingled with the flavor of his own sweat and come. You’re damp and sweaty and a little sticky in the soft crevices between your limbs, and maybe it should be disgusting, but he tastes you everywhere anyways.The tip of his nose dragging down the line of your spine, a soft nip to your waist, a sharper one to the inside of your bicep, that vulnerable and ticklish swell. He rolls you slightly further towards him to expose your breasts to his explorations, and you feel the tickle of his armpit hair on your cheek where your face is tucked into his side. He sniffs below the damp line of your hair at the nape of your neck, mouths wetly at the satiny skin, and you drag your fingertips up his arm, barely there, pulling a shiver from him and a soft moan. “What’s your favorite place in the galaxy?” Your voice barely a break in the silence, the soft song of your breathing.

A wet suck to your nipple, “Balls deep inside of you,” entirely serious in that monotone way of his.

“Disgusting.”

“Nuh uh, delicious,” a long swipe to the other nipple, pad of his thumb brushing over the dip of your navel. A whine of his name, and he gives you a laugh, the sort of laugh that changes the trajectory of a person’s life, the sort of laugh that is so real it could almost be confused as imaginary. He moves up, lets you savor the sound of it, and there is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth. You twist your fingers in his curls, run your tongue behind his teeth, belly pressed to belly. “I’m being serious,” you remind him.

He buries his face in your neck, a soft hum, “Here, on the ship.” With me? You want to ask. “What about yours?”

“I like water.” You always had, had always been a swimmer when the moment allowed.

“Then we shall have to find some water for you, won’t we?” His fingers have snuck down to your bottom, and he kneads your soft flesh, the line of his once again swollen erection trapped between your bodies. Yes, you’d like that, you think, to be in water with him. You dig your fingers into the rock hard muscles of his shoulders as his mouth resumes its explorations.

“I want a loth cat,” you tell him next.

Mhmm.

“Din?” His mouth is once again latched at your breast, and his cock has begun to thrust and grind against your belly, sticky tip drooling against your skin.

“Please, be quiet,” he says with your breast still in his mouth. “I’m very busy.”

You ignore him, twist your fingers tighter in his curls, arching your chest further into his mouth. “Will you get me a loth cat?” Voice all soft and breathy and breaking as you lift your thigh around his naked hip.

Distracted: “A what?”

The man really, really does not listen. “A loth cat. Will you get me one?”

Finally, he pulls his head back. “No. What is that?”

“You’re saying no, and you don’t even know what they are!”

“You’re not bringing any animals on my ship,” and even though he can’t see it, you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s a pet. Not an animal.”

“Explain the difference to me.” He bends his head to your breast again, all teeth now.

“A pet is fluffy, and I will love it.” But he brings his cock back into the mix then, and there are no more allowances for ridiculous requests for quite some time after that.

-

“Now you’re going to be good and stay here like I’m asking you to this time, right? Where you’re safe.” He’d landed the Razor Crest a conservative distance away from Niima Outpost; didn’t want you too far isolated in the sand dunes while he left you to go out and fetch his bounty, but not so close you’d be easily noticed.

“Oh, you are soooo stern,” you pout up at him from where you’re curled up in your bed.

His only response: a long suffering sigh, hands on his hips. You roll your eyes at him, nuzzling into the pillow that smells just like his hair. “Yes. I promise I’ll stay on the ship this time. Where it’s safe.” He comes to one knee beside your shared bed, he’d never crawled back into that tomb of a bunk again after that last time together, this was your shared place now. He brushes a gentle thumb over the pout of your bottom lip, tipping your chin up to the dark tee of his visor, “What a good girl you can be… when you set your mind to it, little one.” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him again, but feel your cheeks heat and your lower belly go tight and fluttery. Your pussy clenches with a slight twinge, and you feel the slow thick drool of his come seep out of you. He’d taken you hard earlier, savage and rough and without restraint – like he was angry at having to leave you and taking it out on your cunt.

“Only when I try very, very hard,” you tell him. He dips his chin once, and then unfolds to his great height above you, another nod, another paused moment to take one last, long look at you, and you want to beg, so badly, for him not to go. It feels like the first time he’d left, all those weeks ago. Your first experience staying on the Crest without him while he went out to hunt his bounty, and at the same time, all the worse. You know him so much better now, you need him, you… You what? No, you can’t think of it now. It’s a non possibility, something you aren’t capable of. But a pesky, perilous corner of your mind whispers, like the Force healing? A non possibility of that sort? You want to ask him to take his helmet off and kiss you before he goes, you want to beg him to stay, you want to ask him why he’s not called you that sweet name again since that last time, the only time, in the heat and damp darkness of the fresher when he’d whispered it into your skin, cyar’ika, and you want to cry, just a little bit, if you think on it too much. On the fact that he’d not repeated it, at the possibility of it having been a mistake or a slip in the heat of the moment. But you say none of those things, and ask for no kiss, and look after him with regret and an inkling of unsettled trepidation as the broad expanse of his back lumbers down the lowered plank and then disappears with the closing of the hatch into the scorched badlands and marching dunes of Jakku.

The hull is left dark and serene with his departure, quiet, and yet it sends a small shiver up your naked spine, bare and wet beneath the warm covers like he’d left you. He keeps the space meticulously clean, but now it’s littered with small signs of your presence in his life, of your life together. Your tunic thrown over the lone stool where he forces you to sit when you take your meals with him crouched at your feet, obsessively watching to make sure you have your fill, strange and lovely man that he is. He has a complex about the food you consume, as if it’s imperative to him that you eat as much as you can, that you’re always satisfied in the ways he cannot, or will not allow himself to be. He doesn’t eat enough, never as much as you know he’d probably secretly like to, and for a man of his size and brawn, surely not enough as he needs to, and it’s slowly fostered an angry kernel of resentment within you. He should always have all the things that he needs and wants, as much food as he desires, always, and anything that would keep those things from him you’re bitterly coming to detest. It even, in a strangely convoluted way, makes you angry at yourself, that your presence here with him prevents him from freely and comfortably discarding his helmet to take his meals. If you weren’t here with him he could eat as much as he wants whenever he wants without worry of being seen, and sometimes, try as you might, you can’t let go of the thought.

He’d left the pair of his thick socks you’d appropriated for yourself draped over one of the steam pipes that are warm to the touch, so that when you’d put them on they’re nice and toasty for you. The sight of them makes your heart kick and flip and burn in your chest, and you turn over to face the other way, towards the wall so that you’ll not be forced to look upon the empty hull and the warm socks and the Din-less space and remind yourself how much you hate when he goes away. He’d said he’d be back quickly, only a few hours he estimated, and you comfort yourself with this as you tuck your hands beneath your cheek and slowly drift off into a restless sleep.

-

“Hello, beastie.”

You’re thrashed into wakefulness by an agonizing grip twisting in your hair trying to rip the very strands from your scalp. You screech, disoriented trying to kick out, get your bearings, but the hull is still darkened from the way Din had left you. You feel another pair of hands trying to grasp at your ankles, and you kick out savagely, bracing yourself against the cold floor, and then the sickening crunch of the bones in your hand as a heavy boot slams down on your fingers, agony, agony, what is happening? An alien dialect in a language you can’t discern, rough and grating is spit back and forth between several voices, and then the first voice comes again and an old, hunched female steps into the dim light from the shadows. You recognize her reptilian Thalassian aspect immediately, and your heart drops into your stomach. Slavers. You double your efforts, kicking and screaming and trying to claw at the hands in your hair, to rip yourself away while your crushed hand screams in agony. The old female comes closer, beastie, beastie, we’ve caught ourselves a beastie, she sing-songs in a hollow voice. Another boot to your belly, kicking the air out of your lungs, sending fire through your ribs and bile up your throat, but when you turn your head, you make eye contact with one of the old crones henchmen, another Thalassian, and with a single thought you send him slumping to the ground, brains oozing out of his ears in a melted, bloody mess.

“Murderous little beast!” the female screeches, and she’s unraveling a whip from around her forearm, and before you can even brace yourself, snapping it at you so that it’s splitting open the meat of your cheek. Searing agony spreads across your face, your vision goes in and out, and you try and shake it away, but then more of that guttural unknown language and an order from the crone, and your arms are being jerked forward so harshly it feels as though your bones will be wrenched from their sockets, and they’re clamping something around your wrists. Something cold and sucking and terrible. You slump forward, tangled in the soft blankets of yours and Din’s shared bed, still naked beneath, and you try to reach for the Force, for your strength, for Din’s mind out there in the desert, but there’s nothing. Acute silence, unbearable nothingness. All your strength zapped and stolen away in the blink of an unguarded moment, like an amputated limb.

The female is hunched over the body of the one you’d killed, leaning heavily on a thick walking stick, spitting hissing sobs, and when she turns back to look at you, you can see there are tears marring her ugly, wrinkled face. “You killed him! Creature! Dark creature!” She spits. “Pull her back, let me look at the little whore’s face.” Unforgiving claws in your hair again, and your head is ripped back and angled towards the weak light of the fresher, the blanket covering your modesty slipping to reveal your nakedness beneath. Fear and shame and fury curdle and burn within you like acid. If he comes back and finds you gone, or worse dead, he’ll be devastated, so hurt, so angry, he’ll blame himself. They can’t – they cannot put him through that. You have to think, calm yourself, get out of these binders they’ve put you in, some sort of Force suppression technology at work. The things glow a sickly purple color, nothing like the lovely warm violet of your saber. But before you can even get a firm grasp on your thoughts, collect yourself, the woman slides the walking stick in her grip, and pulling it back behind her shoulder, swings it forward with all her might to hit you in the face with the heavy, bulbous end of it, right over the split from the whip. You feel the very mass of your brain jostle within your skull, a sickening crunch, the vision in that eye going completely dark. Maker, they’re going to kill you if they’re not careful. A terrible sound rips from your throat, something worse than a mere cry, going slack jawed, whacked further into the pit of unconsciousness. One of the others says something to the old Thalassian and turning away from you, she hisses something back. She goes still for a few moments, leaning on her stick heavily once again, the sound of her wet panting breath, and when she seems to have finally collected herself she turns back to you again. In basic she says, “I know what you are. I’ve heard what they’ve been trying to do to your ilk. How they mine you for that sweet little nectar that runs through your veins, through all of us – the Force. There are rumors of you circulating the Outer Rim, did you know? We heard of you and came searching. Received word from our Huttese friends, whispers of a Mandalorian mercenary and his dark pet roaming about the dunes of Jakku, an old gunship spotted lurking where it should not be. We’ve been searching for you, beastie,” she whispers, coming closer to inspect you, voice maniacal with cruel glee. The pain in your face, your head is a numb throb sharpening to acute fire, vision fading and then glowing bright white and burning. Your head, Maker, they’ve knocked it clean off your neck. “There are many clamoring to get their hands on you. Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? The Force,” voice contemplative and disgusted, all the same. “To be worth nothing more but that unseen ether flowing through your veins. How does it feel to be nothing? Look at you – playing the whore to some Mandalorian brute. Pretty thing…” She pushes back at your shoulder with the butt end of her stick, “Before you went and made me angry. Hmm… perhaps, I shall sell you with that same offering, as well? Would you like that? I wonder what will fetch a higher price, your blood or your cunt.” She laughs and her thugs join around her. You can feel the wide split in your face drooling blood, throbbing in agony, the sound of their raucous and cruel laughter creating a painful symphony above the pounding of your blood in your ears. “A magical whore!” She cackles, flashing her rotting grimace. “Yes, I quite like that idea. Stealing you away from that murderer – mercenaries, the lot of them, those Mandalorians. They hide behind the conflated righteousness of their Creed and their failed history, but they are nothing but another murderous cog in the wheel that would subjugate those of us they deem lesser.” The laughter leaves her suddenly, going serious, and you feel such fear in that single pause of silence. He’s going to

be so angry when he finds you gone, and you– you cannot be enslaved again, you can’t, you won’t. You’ll kill yourself before you allow it. “Monster,” she hisses, “This is nothing worse than what a thing like you deserves after the sort of evil your ilk spread. Imperial slut,” she spits at you, and her saliva lands like a glob of acid on your bare chest, burning. “Grab her. We’re going before her Mandalorian brute returns and kills us for taking his pet.” Her underlings say something in that unknown language, gathering to grip you under the arms and around your ankles, and a frenzy ignites in your heart. Through your broken and torn face you begin to howl, writhing and kicking your legs with as much strength as you can muster despite the broken ribs. “No, no! I will not go!” You screech, getting one in the face. He jerks away and lets your bottom half hit the hard floor with a harsh thud. “Let me go! I will not– I will not go!” You won’t be taken from him, you won’t, you won’t. The one holding your upper half shoves you painfully to the ground, your poor, battered head slamming once again, and another brutal kick lands to your ribs. Maker, you’d not missed beatings like this. The crone begins to scream at them, garbled sounds you can’t make out, and you lay your head on the cold floor. You just need a second to breathe, that’s it. You can endure much, much more than this, it’s only the binders stealing your strength, you just need a moment, and then you’ll fight again or break out of these terrible things and kill them all, but your head, Maker, your head feels as if it’s been split open down the middle. Their yelling reaches a crescendo, an added shrillness to it that was not there before, and then one of the henchmen is toppling painfully over your prone form, a heavy knee to your spine as he lands diagonally over your body, but his weight is instantly ripped away from you. More screaming and oh, the sound of blaster fire, the piercing screams of the old Thalassian, you turn your head slowly, slowly to the side and there, through the bloody and matted strands of your loose hair, that bright and familiar gleam, a flash of burnt red. You bring your manacled wrists slowly up to your chest, hunching into as small a ball as you can make yourself, cradling your broken hand to yourself. 

He’s here. 

He’s here, it’ll all be okay now. 

You let your eyes flutter shut and listen to the Thalassian’s screaming reach a crescendo, and it sounds a little like that long ago familiar sound of flesh tearing from flesh. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see him commit atrocities in your name. It’s a funny thing, you think, the nature of his violence. He is a Mandalorian, and like the Thalassian had said, yes, perhaps, mercenary, and so it would stand that he is a man who commits violence, but you’d found – Maker, you hurt – you’ve found… that a thing that commits violence is not always also, or at once, a violent thing by nature. The moment makes of us what it needs us to be, but that does not always indicate our true selves. Violence committed in an instant of necessity, the peril of threat, does not always mean that we are bad or violent in our hearts, and Din… your Mandalorian does not have a violent heart. Beneath all of that uncompromising beskar is a soft heart, a good heart. It’s why you–

The scream stops.

-

No, no, no, no, no– “Look at me, look at me, cyar’ika. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here now. They’re gone, it’s okay.” You’re a crumpled, bloody, broken heap on the ground. He’d left you. He had left you here alone for this to be done to you. There is something hot and terrifying crawling its way up the inside of Din’s chest, searing his throat, turning it to char. He turns you over with all the gentleness he can muster, his shaking hands slippery with blood, the broken, dead bodies littered around the two of you as he pushes your bloody hair from your face and takes in the way they’d savaged you. 

And Din– Din feels a fury the likes of which he’s never felt before in his entire life. And in the wake of a sort of fear he’d never experienced previously either, not even at the sight of his child self watching his mother and father murdered, the image of their crumpled and broken bodies becoming smaller and smaller as he was taken away into the unknown by the Mandalorians who’d saved him, it leaves him unbalanced and of tremulous control as he pulls you into his arms. You’re cupping one of your hands strangely in the other, and when he takes your manacled wrists you let out a painful, garbled sound. Your hand is mangled, fingers darkening already and bent sickeningly in incongruous angles, and he wants, very badly, to look away from the sight of your pain. It causes a physical ache inside of him, nausea and fire and thunder, like a blaster bolt to the belly, a knife to the lung. “Look at me, cyare,” and your eye blinks open, the darker of the two, the one that whispers silently at him when he looks at it too long, the other, the bright one like a scream, is too swollen to open, but you, miracle of miracles, for you are a miracle wrapped in the shape of a girl, give him the tiniest of attempted smirks; something like the creation of myth unfolding before him. The side of your face not broken and bleeding, lifting into a crooked little half moon, and bloody smile full of sharp, menacing teeth you croak, “I knew you’d come.” 

Din knows in this instant that he is going to love you for the rest of his life. It is not a question, or an uncertainty. It is simply fact. Truth like his Creed, like The Way. 

 “I’m here. I’ll always come for you,” he tells you in lieu of saying that which sits heavy on his tongue now, which is that he’d let you eat his very heart out of his chest if you so desired it, that he belongs to you intrinsically. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now.” The hand not mangled grips the fabric around his throat and Din feels a sob in the shape of your name build in his chest. The Mandalorian, on the verge of tears. He gently presses you closer, tries to breathe, tries to swallow his howls. They were slavers, he’d marked them from the moment he’d spotted them through the open hatch of the Crest, dropping the long dead bounty he’d found half buried in the sand to sprint towards you. He’d worried about the possibility of this for some time now, the threat of someone coming for you, recognizing what you were, thought he’d prepared for it. Rumors were difficult to avoid or quell and despite his attempts to keep anyone from getting too close to sniff you out, you attracted attention. It was inevitable. Too beautiful, too alive, too alluring. He’d been afraid of something like this happening, and he’d thought the best way to keep you safe was to keep you here, hidden away on his ship, security system set and impenetrable. He’d been a damned fool.

He takes in the sight of your bare limbs, the beginnings of nasty bruising over your naked abdomen. The idea of someone taking you from him, severing his claim, keeping you away from him… and like this, when you were supposed to be safe here in this place the two of you’d made a home of together, while you were bare and waiting for him as he’d left you, when you were still full of his semen, potentially full of his– 

He swallows the thought. There are certain things you believe about yourself that Din is doubtful to agree with just yet…

“Take them off,” you whisper up at him, “I’ll–” a pained swallow, “I’ll heal. It’s okay, Din. Don’t be afraid,” you say with such earnestness, a tiny life of an eyebrow, but he is anyway. You shouldn’t be the one telling him not to be afraid right now, split open as you are, but you do anyway, and Din is deathly afraid – of this, of you, of everything, of not being fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you, to keep you. Din feels more afraid now than he has ever felt in his entire life.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay. It’s not that bad,” and at the same time, your words make him so angry. At what life had made you believe, at what the galaxy had made you believe was okay. This is not fucking okay. Seeing you hurt like this is not okay. He moves to gently, as gently as he can possibly be, disengage the binders from around your wrists, careful to not jostle your broken hand too much. 

“It’s not okay.” He looks at your mangled face, the blood running into your hairline, your swollen eye, that lovely and luminous eye that makes his heart feel split into a million different pieces, all engraved with the etching of your name, “This is not okay.” And then his gaze lands on the blood splattered gem of your earring. This sight he must close his eyes to, he cannot bear it. That tiny sparkle, the significance of your relationship made material, covered in your own blood and his failure to protect you. 

He opens his eyes again to take in your wet gaze, unseeingly staring up at him, dark and fathomless. It shutters closed, long lashes clumped together in the sticky mess of your blood and tears. “It will be. I’ll heal soon. This is not the worst that’s been done to me,” voice thin and reedy, as if you’re embarrassed, ashamed to say the words out loud. As if you recognize them for the travesty they pose. He has to look away, swallow another sob. Din can’t remember the last time he cried, the last time he felt like crying, but he feels it now. Eyes hot and pinched and uncomfortable. 

He should have never left you. He will never leave you again. 

Wrapping you in the blanket, he makes sure your modesty is covered, and with as much care as he can, takes you in the cradle of his arms and moves you back into your bed. 

“Where’s your bounty?” You croak.

“That doesn’t matter now. Rest. I’m going to–”

“Of course, it matters. It’s–” a pained swallow.

“Don’t talk, cyare. It’s okay. We can–”

But you press on, cut him off. “That's the whole reason we came here. We’re not going to let this be a waste.” This being your savaging, split open, almost stolen. Din feels his heart drop down into his stomach. He nods once, swallows, tries to cough up the knot of agony lodged in his throat. 

“I dropped it when I saw them. They did something – fucked with the system and deviated the signal so I wasn’t alerted when they broke in. The bounty was already dead. Beacon signal still going. I found him and came straight back – saw the open hatch and knew something was wrong–” You give a soft, pained moan, brow folding into an agonized frown. Maker, he’s not going to survive this. He feels like a fucking coward. Terrified, sick to his stomach, angrier, weaker than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

“Slavers. Thalassians,” you whisper, resting your head against his chest plate, broken hand clutched against your chest. “I need you to reset my fingers before they heal wrong.” Fuck, he’s never had a panic attack before, but he worries he might be having one now. He tries to swallow the scream for you, thinks he whispers something like, alright. Shifting you in his lap, he pulls his blood soaked gloves from his hands, and when he reaches for your hand he takes in the tremor of his own fingers, feels a humiliating wash of shame curdle inside of him. He’s a Mandalorian for Maker’s sake, a warrior, and yet the sight of your pain, your hurt, leaves him unraveled, as frightened and green as a child. He has never experienced the dilemma of having someone he– someone that matters, hurt. Carefully propping your back up against his bent knee he pulls you in close so that your hip is tucked up against him, he grasps your wrist tenderly between his fingers, soothes the pad of his thumb against the soft inner slope of your wrist, the webbing of blue beneath the thin skin is comforting somehow, you’re alive. He made it in time, he’s going to fix this, take care of you. “It’s okay, Din,” you whisper again. 

A sharp jerk of his chin, “I know. I’m going to make this right.”

He smooths his thumb up the base of your palm, trying to settle, comfort you, the both of you, he rubs a gentle circle into the center, feels you tremble and jerk against him, and he hums low in his throat, a deep sound to remind you that he’s here, he’s got you. “It’s alright, little one. It’s alright, it’s alright,” keeps murmuring low reassurances in your ear, unsure whether they’re more for you or for himself, as his fingers slide up slow and light and grip your ring finger first, grasping it at the base to hold it securely and pulling on the tip to straighten it out, quick and efficient movements, a muted snap. There’s one. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”. Moves to your pinky next, so tiny gripped between his own large, rough fingers. He has to grind his molars together, bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He holds the base of that vulnerable little finger, the fine bone almost nothing beneath his touch and straightens that one too, listens to the hollow pop of the joint righting itself back into place. That one pulls a swallowed screech from your throat, you turn your face sharply away, and he sees your legs shuffle and kick in his periphery, your breathing fast and shallow. 

“Hurt– That one hurt,” you choke, and he watches a single tear squeeze out of your swollen eye and make a slow, devastating track down the slope of your mangled cheek, losing itself to the shredded gash. 

“What did that to your cheek?” He grits at the same time that he rights your index finger into place, tenses his knee to keep you steady and upright as you jerk. Panting wet breath hiccupping, trying to swallow back your cries for a moment, he cradles your bruised hand in his, wishes he wasn’t wearing this fucking helmet so that he could kiss the back of it, lick your wounds. He feels like screaming. 

“A w– a whip.” You don’t turn back to look at him, and Din feels his blood turn to frost. Something so painful moving through his chest he struggles for breath.

“They whipped you in the face?” He looks at the pieces of Thalassian surrounding the two of you and curses himself for killing them so quickly. He should’ve been smarter, more patient, drawn it out. Made them suffer. 

“It’s okay–” voice short, tense. “I’ll heal.” Face still turned towards the open hatch and the hot Jakkuian night, he watches another tear fall. 

“It doesn’t matter–”

“I’ll heal. I’ll–”

“That doesn't matter–they hurt you. You can be hurt. Just because you can heal, just because you don’t care about what happens to you doesn’t mean that I don’t.” He cups the back of your head, begs you to turn back towards him with his touch. “You being hurt hurts me, do you understand me?” Voice soft as he can make it go, trying to make you see what he’s saying in the only way he thinks will penetrate the fog of your painful history. 

And you do turn back at that, finally, thank you, thank you, he can see the edges of the wound start to knit themselves back together. A girl and a miracle and a myth all woven into one. “Do you understand me?” He asks again, cupping your chin, gathering the wet of your freely falling tears now, pressing the pad of his thumb to the corner of your eye.

“No, no, I don’t understand,” face crumpling, you press your forehead beneath the edge of his helmet. They hurt me, they hurt me, you cry over and over, and Din knows that you don’t only mean the Thalassians. He wishes he possessed the hand of the Maker. That he could reach across to the far corners of the galaxy, the most shadowed depths, the blackest pits, and wipe away any speck of darkness that’s ever touched you, anything or anyone that had ever done you harm. He wishes he could give you his very heart as an offering, anything that would settle the sound of your anguish. But then he thinks that an impossible sort of thing, for his very heart is held right here, sobbing in his arms, living on the outside of his chest. 

-

After he insists on you allowing him to spread bacta along your cheek and hand, despite your protestations that it’ll close on its own, that you’re fine, you remind him that his bounty is still lying dead and forgotten out in the sand sea beyond the ship. He goes out to retrieve the pitiful thing, felled by the wrath of Jakku, most likely, and you make an agonized attempt to stand and dress yourself. Your ribs and back ache, the line of your spine feels on the verge of fracture from the last blow you’d taken, and you shuffle about slowly, trying to force yourself to hurry and get yourself covered before he returns, not wanting him to see the extent of the damage done to your ribs and back. You manage to get on a pair of underwear and one of his shirts before he’s stomping back up the gangway, dead bounty slung over his shoulder. He bends to shuck the thing off, the limp body hitting the durasteel with a harsh thud that snaps your mind into focus for a millisecond so that you’re taking in the carnage surrounding you. The release of gas from the carbon freezer sounds around you as you find the old Thalassian – her head seems to have been ripped clean from her neck somehow, you cock your head slowly, taking the sight in. He’s moving about, dragging the pieces of the bodies and chucking them out the hatch, and your mind feels like a piece of elastic snapping far out and away from you, and then shooting back in a painful reverberation, vision going hyper focused, too bright to bear, and then murky, as if viewed through a broken pane of glass. You hear the whirring, metallic shifting of the closing gangway, and your head swoops, belly twisting with nausea. There are pools of blood coagulating thick and disgustingly viscous on the floor, and you reach out for the wall to steady yourself as your blood rushes in your ears, but he’s immediately there, gentle hand to the curve of your waist and the bend of your elbow to pull you to himself. “It’s okay,” he says again. And he keeps saying so, but seeing this, what he’s done for you, something feels distinctly not okay. 

You think of the Corellians who’d attacked you all those weeks ago, the Corellians you'd slaughtered for him. And the memory somehow makes the sight in front of you worse, some sort of horror. You’d turned him into you. You’d forced him into repeating your own horrible actions. In a moment of startling, sickening clarity, you’re confronted with the reality that he is only encased in beskar, he is not made of it. And one day they will go through him to get to you. Because there will surely be more, there will surely be another day, another time, another planet; more slavers or dark siders or someone of equally low measure will come for you again, and he can’t protect you forever, nor you him. 

This time, please, let it end differently. 

It’s all you ever do, you think, beg and plead for a different sort of fate. The duel of the fates, over and over again, but it is only ever you, alone, at odds with destiny itself. Fighting against what must be, what already is, what always has been. Your own sick ouroboros; eternally destroying and recreating yourself and the things around you. 

He leads you back to bed, grabs his socks from where they’d lain draped over the warm steam pipe, and you return his own past words to him while he kneels before you, pulls them over your cold feet, looking over his shoulder the world seems inverted, mirrorlike, the black puddles of blood filled with dark mercury. They would have taken you from him. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.” Your voice sounds hollow and cold, unlike yourself.

He pauses his care of you, helmet tipped down, and you wish you could see his eyes right now, you feel, strangely, like you need them, like it would make everything better, more clear and stable. Taking one small foot in hand, he wraps his fingers around the entire thing. “You’re right,” he tells you, and your stomach flips with bile and fear again. “I shouldn’t have had to do it because I never should have let it happen. This is on me. I shouldn’t have left you alone for this to happen.”

You reach for his wrist, wrapping your fingers around the thick of it to feel his pulse beat against your fingertips. Something furious in the fluttering thrum of it; something of a monolith about him, steadfast, unmovable, the strongest thing in the entire galaxy. There’s a tinge of crimson rage swallowing him, and you can tell he’s doing everything in his considerable strength to keep it under reign for your sake; the proof is in the strew of bodies he’d littered the floor of the ship with. “They’ll always come for me, Din. As long as I’m alive, as long as the dark exists, as long as The Force exists they’ll come for me. They’ll never stop.”

The helmet snaps up, the yawning tee of dark transparisteel whispers its rage at you. “Then I’ll make them,” he grits. “I’ll find a way. I’ll protect you. We’re going to fix this. I’m going to fix this.” And you feel so–so strange. So sad. Devastated. The wave of fate swallows you whole, and that dark red thread crumbles to dust. You feel so unbearably sad for the both of you that your tears are renewed. Sad and old and at the end of your line. 

And again: A person without a soul cannot cry. And so this must only be proof of the fact that you still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must. 

It’s his now. Undoubtedly. Whatever of your soul has bloomed back into life belongs to him now. You bring your trembling fingers up to the face of his shining beskar helmet, warring wishes wrapped into a strange tangle for what you know will not be the last time: that it wasn’t there, that you could have all of him, and, at the same time, that you too had something of such strength and conviction to protect you as his Creed protects him. What a comfort it must be. “I know you will.” Lie. 

He goes to initiate takeoff and get the ship into hyperspace after that, and you can hear the uncharacteristic frenzy of his movement echoing in his rushed steps as he flits about the cockpit. Settling into your nest of blankets, you face the wall so you’re not made to look at the mess that’s been left, and when he returns, you listen to the sound of him divesting himself of his armor, the rustle of falling clothes, you can feel his panic now up closer, pressing against the confines of your skin like some living thing, trying to sneak its way into whatever break in you it might find. He was frightened, he is frightened. For you. If you weren’t struck stone cold you’d perhaps laugh at the idea of it, but strange memories flash in your mind, highlighted by painful bursts of bright light behind your closed lids, memories of darkness and pain and being so alone another person, a real person, existing in the entire galaxy seemed too far fetched a thing to be true. The sort of loneliness that forces you to forget that other living things exist. You curl in on yourself, still tucking your now halfway mended hand close to your chest, cupping your other palm over your eyes to hide yourself away. Shocked into a subdued, humming terror. A peripheral thing, the reality that you should be afraid or shaken, and you are, kind of, but interrupted by that memory of similar or much worse things that make this small mishap seem inconsequential in the shadow of all the rest, all the past. 

You listen to him move towards the fresher to throw the two of you into darkness, and you panic, “Don’t turn the light off, please,” you murmur, still hidden behind your palm. If you cannot see the world, perhaps the world cannot see you either. “I’m sorry to ask – I won’t look, I promise.”

He pauses, silent for a moment. “Don’t apologize. Don’t. It’s okay. Anything you want.” What you really wish he’d say is that he doesn’t care if you look or not, a selfish and rotten and horrible feeling rolling in after the thought.

He crawls in behind you, sliding up against you bare and burning hot; an entire sun held inside the heart of a single man. He keeps his hands to himself at first, and you enjoy the brush of his chest up against your back on every one of his inhalations, the symphony of his breathing, but eventually he braves the salted earth and passes a gentle hand down the line of your spine. 

“What do you need?” His voice is the deepest thing in the entire galaxy, you think. Space has nothing on it. 

You press your hand tighter over your eyes. “Nothing.”

“You are strong and capable,” he says after a moment, and you worry you might vomit. “But you don’t always have to be. I don’t want you to have to fight when you’re with me. I only want you to be comfortable and cared for and well. Let me help you.”

“Okay,” barely a sound breathed through the part of your lips. And it takes several hours, but eventually that thing they’d come for, the very thing they’d attacked and tried to take you for, heals you. The Force. What is it to hate the very thing that makes you up, the very marrow of you, the sustenance of your life? Agony, madness, bitter, bitter resentment. Loneliness. To be alone within yourself. Terrible pain. Every bad thing that’s ever come to you throughout your entire life has been done in its name. And you’re angry at the fact, you think. For years and years things were done to you to honor that invisible giant, and it built an anger within you that is incoherent, unidentifiable, inconsolable.

You ache like you’re recently made. 

But he holds you so gently while you knit yourself back together, seam by seam, so that the possibility of pain is removed entirely from the equation. He holds you like he loves you, and you want to ask him if he does, if he thinks he could ever love a thing like you, even if you do not deserve it. Even if he does not deserve it.

You fold it away instead.

Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? To be worth nothing?

Like spitting salt through an open wound, the agonized phantasma of an amputated limb. 

You’re nothing. 

And Din? He’s everything.

From behind your hiding spot you tell the quiet: “Sometimes it feels like I haven’t been happy my whole life. But I know I feel it with you. I want you to know that.”

“Do you?” His hand slides up the line of your vertebrae to cup the back of your neck, and you tremble beneath his heat, as if he were anointing you with the power of a sun. 

“Yes.” You wish you had the courage to say more, to say everything. A real confession, the cutting sort: I was made to be nothing more than a weapon, but now I am a human, now I am alive. Now I am only myself. And I hurt, and I wish I were a girl again: only half savage, unmarred and free. But despite all of this, I am still only yours. 

“I know already.”

Cyar’ika. Cyar’ika.

And so what does it matter if you hurt when he calls to you so sweetly? And yet, a quiet and unused part of you whispers back that it should not be so, that the thought is not quite right. Focus, focus, call them growing pains if you must. Focus only on him. And you realize that there is something about him that makes you fragile in the face of his strength, for some reason and most importantly, in a way that you like, in a way that is appealing to you like nothing else you’ve ever experienced before. Something that tells you that you need him to be strong in ways you’ve never had or needed to be strong before, a strength that is soft, something that is unyielding for the vulnerability you allow yourself with him. You can’t understand it.

“And I will let you take care of me.”

“I’m going to. This means something,” he says very quietly, the words bouncing off the back of your neck, and you know it is true. “This means something.”

It does. Everything. The two of you mean something together.

You finally turn to face him again, eyes closed, seams more securely knitted together and press your forehead to the notch of his throat, cracking your eyes open to look down at the expanse of his abdomen. You run a flat palm down his belly, feel the strength of him. If there is nothing else, perhaps, there can be Din. 

“Close your eyes,” he threads his fingers through the back of your hair, “Let me kiss you,” and you feel your heart break and melt into desperation all at once. You press your eyes shut tightly and tip your face up towards him, parted mouth and bated breath, ready to receive the taste of him. He licks into you, pulling a moan from your belly and onto his waiting tongue, and you wish there was something more you could give him, something deeper, more significant that could translate all you feel for him. “I need you to forgive me,” he licks the words into your skin. “I need you to tell me you forgive me for letting this happen.”

“Don’t say that. There’s nothing to forgive. There’s nothing–”

“I should’ve been more careful. Smarter, more prepared. We shouldn’t have wasted time in that fucking desert for so long.” But you’d distracted him, kept him from going out, seeing to his responsibilities. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you say again, tipping your head back to bear your throat for him. 

He licks a line up the slope, tasting your pulse, the proof you’re still alive. Plants a kiss at the hinge of your jaw and then presses his forehead there. “I’ve failed you,” he whispers. 

“Din, listen to me, listen to me. You could never do that. Never. Do you understand me?” If he only knew all you’ve not told him, all the ways in which you’ve failed him. You’re sure he’d see you in a very different light. 

“It’s not going to happen again,” he promises, and you’ve not the heart to tell him again that they’ll never stop. That the life of a hunted creature is the only sort of existence you could ever live. You pull his mouth back to yours, kiss him with a renewed fervency. If you cannot give him anything more you’ll put everything you have into this. 

“Just kiss me, please,” you beg, twining your arms around his neck and opening to him. He drags his mouth along the inner slope of your bicep, ending at the dip of your elbow and laving his tongue at the sensitive dip. Gripping the bend of your knee he hitches it against his hip and rolls the two of you over. Settling between the cradle of your thighs, he levers himself up off you, careful not to demand you bear his full weight, and finally, you feel ready for the dark again. With a single thought you submerge the two of you into the almost dark again, a weak stream of light coming from the fresher, rattle of the Crest moving through hyperspace sounding around you. He prepares you to take him softly, slowly, with intention. The gentle pad of his thumb to the slick seam of your cunt, parting your folds to get to the wellspring of your desire for him. A single finger and then another hooked against that place inside of you that seems now branded with his ownership over you. Nothing like this has ever existed, and you press the thought into his mind as he tastes your tongue, brings you to orgasm for him with slow and exploring fingers, the slick slide of his thumb over your swollen clit, and the whisper of your name to the shell of your ear. When he feeds his cock into you, slowly, so that you’re made to feel every curve and ridge and then meeting the end of you, so deep you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, it brings tears to your eyes and all sorts of confessions to your tongue that your more rational mind knows should be kept in the shadows. But very like the sun, he shines a light on all the dark and derelict parts of you better left unseen. 

When you come for a second time, thick cock splitting you in half, there’s a screaming desperation for more urging you on. “Remind me–” you beg him.

“Of what? What do you need?”

“That I’m yours. That I belong to you. That I’m alive.”

“Do you need reminding of that?” He squeezes your bottom, presses you tighter to himself, his wet mouth sliding against the slope of your shoulder. “Don’t you know always? No matter what?”

“Yes.” Soft, soft, soft, but you don’t need it like this – you need it more– “Remind me anyways.”

You’re as close as can be, but he tells you anyway: “Come here, come here. I’m going to take care of you.” He pulls out, a wet and sucking sound, and turns you in his arms so you’re back to belly, and pulls you open again, thigh thrown over his hip. He runs his hands over the hills and contours of you, cups and squeezes your breasts, rough fingertips softly at your nipples, and you feel your cunt clench and gape, hungry for filling. He cups you over that soaked, ravenous place, slides his hand back and forth over the wet, swollen mess, and then further back, his fingers pressing and prodding gently at your ass. “I’ll have you here now, little one. Yes?”  All you can do is nod back against his shoulder where your head is propped, a tightening so intense it’s almost painful strangling your throat, your heart, your cunt. Nothing more than a knot of abandoned want. A thing that doesn’t know how to take without devouring, and you do, you want to devour him. You think he might even let you. He presses a slow finger into the knuckle, and you go tight, bearing down around the invasion, spitting his name out in the shape of a wail into the quiet hull. 

“It’s alright,” he gently thrusts that probing finger, hooking and wriggling it. Making space within to fuck you open on his cock. “You’re so tiny here, little thing. But you’re going to take me so well. I know you are.” He pulls his finger out entirely, and then there are two pressing back in as slow as possible, petting first, stretching second. “How’s that? How does that feel, my sweet girl?”

“I don’t– I don’t know,” moaning and shifting, trying to plead for more with little hitched arcs of your hips. “More, please.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes–”

“How badly do you want it? Tell me–” He twists his wrist, stretching, claiming, all while the hill of his palm rubs against your cunt, so wet you can hear the slick sound of its desperation echo in the quiet. 

“So badly,” you moan and sob, “More than anything.” He pulls his fingers from you and grips the root of his cock, fat head at your ass and starts to press in slowly, slowly, stretching you open around the incredible girth of him. Your breath comes in puffs and gasps, an unbearable heat flushing through your body, pulsing in your face and swirling in your belly, tightening the tips of your breasts into painful knots. You moan out his name, please for more, for harder, for faster until he’s buried to the root and you’re strangled into a hiccuping silence. Overwhelmed and overwrought by the feel of him buried in your ass so deeply. There’s no space for anything else inside of you, stretched to the brim and so full you can barely breathe. He’s everywhere. Gripping your hip you feel his breath against your cheek, the sweating, curling hair around your ear ruffled as he pants and groans, gritting his teeth and rumbling deep in his chest as he starts to thrust slowly into you. 

“How’s that?” Voice strangled. His other hand comes around to thrum gently at your clit, the swollen mass of bundles pulsing with each punch of his hips. Your cunt leaks down to where the two of you are joined, and he picks up his pace, fucking up into you harder, faster, that strumming thumb flicking more quickly. He flattens his fingers against you, rubs at the length of your leaking sex, and you’re beyond words. Impaled and cock drunk. All you can give in return is an approximation of his moaned name, and he gives a quick, sharp slap to the top of your mound. “I want you to tell me how it feels,” voice ragged, almost broken. You tighten almost impossibly at his roughness, clenching down around him so he’s gasping, shocked ah, ah, ah’s, ending on a ragged groan. He brings his forehead to your shoulder, and you listen to his overwhelmed sounds. The first time you think you’ve heard him so close to the precipice of losing control. “Most perfect fucking ass in the entire galaxy,” he grits. All mine, mine, fucking mine.

“Feels–” His fingers resume their exploration of your cunt, “Feels so– so good,” your voice is nothing but agony made pleasure. 

“Yeah? Feels good?” The sound of his hips slamming against your ass, wet and lewd, the press of his heavy balls to the round of your bottom. “What about this?” He begins to slowly press two fingers into your gaping, grasping cunt, and oh, it’s too much, your orgasm hits like an exploding star, singing all coherent thought along the way. You feel your pussy gush, go tight as a knot, and he snarls at the curve of your ear, bites down on the line of your shoulder, not halting the thrusting of his fingers inside of you. “Fuck, yes–fucking come for me. Come for me while I fuck your ass–”

“No–no, I can’t anymore, please, I can’t,” you cry.

“You can–you can. I know you can. My fierce little cyar’ika, soft only for me. Aren’t you?”

And how can you deny a man such as this anything. One that holds you so, one that fucks you like he loves you. You’ll lie to yourself, like so many other lies you tell, and pretend that this is the touch of love, that it’s something you deserve. His fingers, his cock are ruthless within you and they force another soaked orgasm out of you, shaky and weak, before he’s following suit, fucking the searing heat of his spend deep inside of you. He rolls you over onto your belly, levers himself up over you and slows his thrusts until you feel the last spurt of his cock kick inside of you, the low reverberations of his pleasure sounding from his chest. When he pulls out he spreads you apart, thumbs at your swollen skin. “It gapes so pretty for me,” he murmurs as he plays with the milky white drool, smears it into your slick, stretched skin. “This is how you should always be, covered in my come, beautiful thing.” All you can do is bury your burning hot face in the blankets. 

When the two of you have finally settled later, cleaned yourselves up, and he’s made sure you’ve had enough water and a snack, when your panic has gone dormant, you remember your earlier request. A sniffle, and then voice broken and wet, just for added insurance: “You’ll get me my loth cat now, won’t you?”

A long suffering sigh, but he squeezes you tighter to his chest, presses a kiss to the crown of your head you feel sizzle all the way down to the tips of your toes. “I’ll get you anything you want, anything.” You smile into his skin, a miracle all of its own, that after everything he still provides you the ability to smile. 

But later, right before he falls off the precipice of consciousness into the ebony deep and serene lake of sleep, you whisper into the thrum of his life force right at his neck: “We will take care of each other, won��t we?” Again – the both of you, together. 

“Always,” he says, and it rings with such promise, in a way you know only someone such as he could swear, and you’ve always been a liar, but you do not want this to be a lie. 

This time, please, let it end differently.

Chapter VII

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[beskarandblasters]

Stonecatcher

Chapter One: Working for the Knife

Din Djarin x OFC!Athalia (Second Person POV)

Artwork: The Lovers by René Magritte Gif: @cherubispunk Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Series summary: An up-and-coming bounty hunter and a promising arms dealer cross paths on Dantooine. What starts as a business relationship quickly becomes more. How long can you bury your emotions and be a stonecatcher for someone else before you finally snap?

Series warnings: pre season one of The Mandalorian, instant smut but slow burn romantically, Athalia is able-bodied but other than that has no physical description, angst

Chapter summary: An introduction into our main character, Athalia, the people around her, and the world she lives in. And the fateful night she crosses paths with a certain Mandalorian.

Word count: 3.5k

Chapter warnings: sonic = shower, descriptions of nausea, taking medication, drinking, dub con/consent under the influence, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of birth control (implant)

Gas hangs heavy in the air, permeating the small room and suffocating your senses. Your hands are slick with the thick substance as you fill-up the cartridges, getting ready to load them into the blasters. Every so often you stop and look away, blinking and holding back tears from the fumes. It’s painstaking work, often messy and tedious but you suppose it’s better than working in a brothel or even a cantina like your friend Sheva. 

But eventually, you need a break, pulling yourself out of your chair and stepping out back for some fresh air. Your house is located on the edge of Casia, a small village on Dantooine. There’s not much here yet but the influx of travelers leads you to believe Casia will be much more than a primitive village one day. 

Your house overlooks the rolling hills and grassy knolls. The rainy season just ended which made the brown grass tinged with a shade of lavender. In the distance, there are a few blba trees, branches shaking in the gentle wind along with the blades of grass. The afternoon sun is shining and the air is invigorating, a harsh contrast to the stuffy gas-filled interior of your home. Moments like this where you’re appreciating the little things are few and far between lately. Your business has consumed everything– your thoughts, your time, your social life.  

You take one final deep breath, closing your eyes as you do as if the stress will just melt away. If it only were that easy.

“Are you stopping by tonight?”

You startle with a jolt, turning around to find Sheva, standing with a smile and a hand on her hip. She’s wearing her work uniform, stopping by your place on the way to her shift tonight. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she chuckles. 

“You’re fine,” you sigh, “But to answer your question, I think so.”

“You think so??”

“What?” you shrug.

“You should get out more often.”

“There’s not much to do in this town to begin with.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Still, there’s plenty more to do here besides sitting in your house all day, huffing blaster fumes.”

“I’m building my business!” you protest.

“Mhm, sure.”

“Hey, once I gain a more steady customer base I can afford to get those gas cartridges pre-filled.”

“I am just waiting for the day,” she says sarcastically.

“I’ll be there tonight, I promise.”

“Holding you to it,” she says, turning and saying goodbye over her shoulder. 

Once you head back inside to get ready for the evening you’re immediately sent into a coughing fit. A pounding headache follows soon after. Maybe Sheva was right…

Fresh air spills in through the windows of your front room as you open them one by one, but it’s not enough. The sonic might help. You turn on the water, shedding your clothes as you wait for it to heat up. The steam fills the small room, alleviating your headache just a tad. But as you wash the gas off your hands, you realize there’s one thing that’ll actually do you some good; a trip to the Apothecary. Medication will quell your headache but a conversation with Sulee, the owner, is perhaps the most healing thing on Dantooine. You’ve known her since you were a child and she’s watched you grow up. She’s been there for you through everything– every test you took in school, every breakup, every fight with Sheva. She’s watched you through every stage of your life and somehow she always knows just what to say when you’re feeling lost and in need of guidance. 

Once you’re out of the sonic you dry off and look over your outfit choices for tonight, thumbing through your closet for the perfect thing to wear. Nights out are scarce lately now that you’re so dedicated to the business and it feels like you have endless options to choose from, all outfits from your younger, wilder days. But then you finally settle on one of your old favorites– a simple black dress with matching boots before locking up and heading to the apothecary.

It’s golden hour now and the village is cast in a hazy red glow. Now’s the time when people start pouring into the cantina because there’s nothing else to do. It’ll be a miracle if you get a seat at the bar or even talk to Sheva throughout her shift. She’ll just push you to try and meet someone and you fight back, telling her there’s no one to meet here, that this town is too small for dating. And then you’ll drink too much, filling up on revnog before going back to your fume-filled house, that’ll only contribute to the killer hangover you’ll have the next day. Sounds like a blast.

The Apothecary is located in the center of the village, a modest-looking building decked out in the same earth tones that match Dantooine. Spring is coming to an end but the flowers planted out front are thriving, blooming in a lavender color similar to the blades of grass. Sulee takes pride in keeping the outside of her building presentable, making sure the weeds are pulled and the flowers are cared for. But in her old age, it’s hard for her to get down on the ground by herself, finding herself stuck until someone walks by to help her up. You try to help her when you can but it’s been getting more and more difficult for you to help when the business has occupied all of your time. It makes you feel guilty, flaking out on someone who’s been there for you your whole life. You try not to think about it that much, only letting the guilt eat away at you at night when you’re alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling and telling yourself you can do better, you can be better. 

Now’s not the time for guilt.

The Apothecary smells heavenly when you step inside but it’s also impossibly warm. Spring is transitioning into summer and there’s no need for the wood-burning stove to be on. But she’s old so she gets a pass, even though you can feel the sweat already building up on your back. 

“You look sick, Athalia,” she says, not even looking up from the pot she’s stirring on the stove.

“I am not!” you say defensively, just as your headache pangs again.

“You don’t go outside anymore,” she sighs, looking up at you from her stool, “You know the sun is good for you, right?”

“You sound like Sheva. You two conspiring against me or something?”

“Just looking out for your best interest,” she shrugs, “Do you need anything?”

“I just have a headache.”

“Knew you looked sick,” she tuts, “Let me get you a pill.”

She goes to rise from her stool but you stop her, helping her sit back down.

“I’ll get it. Just tell me where.”

“Top shelf to the right,” she says, pointing to the shelf behind the counter. 

You head behind the counter, glancing at the notepad open on a page with a to-do list on it. A quick glance at Sulee lets you know that her back is towards you still, giving you a moment to snoop. You look over the page, focusing less on the contents of the list and more on the state of her handwriting. It’s shaky and barely legible. You’re reminded again of her declining health and how absent you’ve been lately. 

“Did you find it?” she asks, still facing the stove. 

“Yup!” you lie, spinning around and scanning the top shelf.

You find the bottle she was talking about, downing a couple of pills before setting it back on the shelf. 

“Have fun tonight,” she says, looking up at you as you walk to the door.

“I didn’t even tell you where I was going.”

“The cantina. Where else would you be going?”

“You’re right.”

“There’s nothing else to do in this town,” you both say simultaneously. You share a laugh and start to feel a bit better for once. 

“See you later!” you call over your shoulder before leaving the Apothecary. 

The cantina is on the other side of Casia, on the side of the village where the river sits. It’s sort of an unfortunate place for the cantina to be considering that many travelers will drunkenly stumble and fall into the river. Luckily for Casia, charging travelers rescue fees is one of the village’s largest sources of profit. 

The cantina is just about as busy as you thought it would be. Many of the townspeople are packed into booths lining the outer edge of the room. But there are also a few people you don’t recognize, mainly humans but also a few other species such as a Trandoshan, three Twi’leks, and a Sullustan. The free-standing tables are full but luckily there are two seats left at the bar.

Perfect. You can stay close to Sheva like you had hoped to, enjoy a few rounds of revnog, and turn in early. 

You shuffle past the sweaty bodies, the smell of smoke hanging in the air. Being here isn’t too far off from being home, given the smell. The only different thing is the noise. There’s an uncomfortable stillness in your house that’s present all the time.

Sheva spots you at the opposite end of the bar from where she’s at. She makes eye contact with you and stops talking to the customer she’s standing in front of, much to his dismay.

“What?!” she says, raising her hands in a faux defensiveness, “I’ll be here all night. Don’t get all clingy on me.”

She turns and grabs a glass, pouring your first drink for the night. She slides it down the countertop to you, mouthing the words “help me” and gesturing to her overbearing customer.

You take the glass and shrug, shooting her a smirk before taking a sip. Looks like you’re on your own until this schmuck decides to leave. 

-

It takes another three rounds for this guy to leave. And thank the Maker he did because he was occupying all of Sheva’s time. She finally makes her way to you, sighing and slumping against the bar. 

“New boyfriend?” you tease.

“Don’t start.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Tatooine. Don’t know what he’s doing here but to each their own.”

“Wow. Left one shit-hole and came to another one.”

“What a sad life.”

“Hey now. He traveled all this way to see you! Don’t be rude.”

She groans again while you erupt into a fit of laughter. 

“Hey, sweetheart! I need another round of Spotchka,” a man three seats down from you calls out.

“Duty calls,” she says, standing up straight and putting on her best customer service smile.

“Sweetheart? Is that the best you can do?” she pretend-jokes, grabbing a glass for him.

You nurse the rest of your drink, getting ready to wind down for the evening. It’s a shame you didn’t get to see much of her tonight but it’s the weekend. At least you got to spend time with Sulee, even if it was brief. 

Just when you’re setting your credits down on the bar, you sense a presence beside you. You turn your head and startle a bit. It’s a Mandalorian. You’ve only seen less than a handful of them in your lifetime. His helmet is silver but the rest of his armor doesn’t match. Instead, every piece of armor is a different earth tone, peppered with scratches from cycles of wear and tear. His gloved hands rest on his belt and his cape is black, also showing signs of wear. 

“...Can I help you?” you ask, starting to feel the revnog. Your face feels hot as you talk to him. There’s something attractive about him even though you can’t see his face. 

“I’m just passing through town and I’m wondering where’s the best place to purchase a part for my rifle.”

You don’t care if you’re slightly drunk. You’re not going to miss an opportunity to make a sale.

“What are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

You half expect him to chastise you, a woman offering to help a big scary man with his rifle. But he doesn’t.

“I’m looking for a scope for my Amban Rifle.”

“I’ve got plenty of those,” you say, standing up from your stool, “Follow me.”

You lead him out of the cantina, stumbling a bit as you walk. His hand rests on the small of your back and butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

“You alright?” he asks behind you.

“Mhm,” you call out, taking a deep breath of the cool nighttime air as you step out onto the street. 

Silently, you walk side by side to your house. But deep down you’re excited at the prospect of a sale and potentially a new recurring customer. Until you remember he’s not from around here. 

He follows you inside and your nose is still met with the smell of gas. You hope that he doesn’t smell it. Maybe he can’t with his helmet. 

“How much are you charging for it?” he asks. 

There’s that hurdle. The price. 

You hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. It’s your first scope sale. 

“Twenty credits?”

“...That’s it?”

Kriff, that was probably too low. But you can’t go back on your price now. 

“...Yup,” you say, closing the door.

“I’ll take it.”

“Great. Can I see the rifle?”

He pulls it off of his back and hands it to you. You take it in your hands and look at the scope he has attached to it currently, checking for the size he needs. The glass of the lens is cracked.

“How’d you manage this?”

“Broke it during a scuffle.”

You look up from the rifle and raise your eyebrow, silently wanting more information. He gives it to you.

“Bounty gave me a hard time.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?”

“Mhm.”

You return your gaze to the rifle, running your fingers down the barrel. It’s… filthy. 

“When’s the last time you cleaned this?”

“Uhh.”

“Don’t worry. I got it.”

You turn towards your cabinet behind you and open the door, searching for oil and a pad. Meticulously, you clean his rifle, starting at the barrel and working your way down. There’s an uncomfortable silence looming over you two as he just watches you clean his rifle. You notice he’s shifting between both feet, almost like he’s nervous. His hands clench and unclench at his sides and that’s when you spot what’s making him fidget so much; the bulge in his flight suit. 

This man is getting hard watching you clean his rifle. Maker, you’re going to have fun with this. 

Once you’re done you set it on your table, getting ready to search for the right size scope. Turning and bending over a box in the corner of your front room, you rifle through the jumbled mess. Bending over while wearing a dress was intentional but not being able to find the scope was not. And now you fear that you look like an idiot, an idiot who’s barely cut out to run her own business. 

“Do you need help?” he deadpans.

“Uhh…”

You hear him walk closer towards you just as you’re trying to lift the box from the floor. And before you know it his crotch collides with your ass. You stifle a giggle and he sighs. Kriff, that was inappropriate and you normally wouldn’t laugh. But in your drunken stupor, you thought it was funny. 

“Do you have it or not?”

“What if I don’t?”

He lets out another exasperated sigh. 

“Are you just gonna let this little trip go fruitless?” you press, wondering if he’ll catch your drift. 

“No,” he practically growls, his hand cupping your ass, “I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not taking anything if I’m willingly giving it to you,” you chuckle, backing into him further. 

He grabs you by your hips, dragging you over to the table where you do your work. He shoves the rifle aside and you hop up on the table, lying back and hiking up your skirt, spreading your legs for him. 

“So eager,” he teases but in a way that actually feels mean. It doesn’t hurt, though. 

Instead, you shoot back, “Says the one who got hard watching me clean his rifle.” He huffs as his hand palms your inner thigh and you press further, “What’s the matter, Mando? Got all hot and bothered watching a woman handle your blaster?” 

He leans forward, bringing his helmet above your face. You stare into the visor, lips curled into a smirk. 

“Shut up,” he says, most likely through gritted teeth. 

“Or else what?” you counter. 

“Or I’ll make you.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

He jerks his groin into you, bulge pressing against your underwear-clad cunt. You sit up and sigh, doing the work for him and tugging off your underwear. You toss it on the floor and lie back down, telling him, “If you’re going to have your way with me then just do it already.” 

You spit in your hand and reach between your legs, getting yourself nice and slick for him. He pulls his cock out of his flight suit and you can’t help but want a look. You prop yourself up on your elbows, inching upright to sneak a peek. It’s as big as you thought but that was a given considering the saunter in his step. But it’s also thick and uncut. Seeing the head of his cock makes you wonder if the shade matches his lips. It doesn’t matter, though. Something about not seeing his face makes this even hotter. 

He takes his cock in his hand and strokes it a few times, spreading the pre-cum that’s built up at the tip down his shaft. He hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you into him, thrusting his cock inside you. 

Your breath hitches at the sudden girth inside you, his cock buried down to the hilt. 

“You can take it,” he says.

“I-I know,” you breathe out, still getting adjusted to his size. You’re not about to let him get a rise out of you, even now when he’s balls deep in you. 

His hands move to your waist, holding you steady as he draws his hips back and thrusts into you again. With each one you get more accustomed to him, your pleasure builds and core muscles grow tense. But he’s determined to make a mess of you. He brings his hand by your cunt, thumb rubbing your clit as he pounds into you. 

Your moans grow higher in pitch and your front room is filled with the lewd, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. With the noise you remember that you opened all the windows before you left for the cantina tonight, meaning that anyone walking by can hear Mando railing you. 

Your back arches and your orgasm spills over the edge. Stars dance in your vision as he fucks you through your release, thumb still rubbing your clit. 

“That’s it. Cum on my cock,” he says, keeping the same pace. 

You’re too blissed out to come up with a witty response. Your walls clench his cock and the sensation triggers his own orgasm. His cum spills inside you and you panic for a second at the accidental creampie until you remember you have an implant. It’s just finally useful for once. 

He pulls out of you when he’s done coming and you sit upright on the table, avoiding eye contact with each other.

He puts his cock back in his flight suit and after a beat of silence you say, “You still want the scope, right?”

“I do.”

You slide off the table and smooth down your skirt, walking over to the box of parts and crouching down. You find the scope and stand up, holding it out in front of you. 

“Told you I had it.”

He sighs again as you attach it to his rifle. He reaches into his pocket, grabbing a handful of credits, and placing them in your hand. 

“Here’s twenty-five credits. Keep the change.”

“Thanks, Mando,” you say, handing off the rifle. 

He nods with a tip of his helmet and gets ready to leave, walking to the door and giving you a final look before disappearing into the night. 

That was… hot. And certainly not how your business transactions normally go. It’s a shame he’s not from around here, though. 

You close your windows, deciding that you gave your neighbors enough of a show tonight, and head to bed. You’re not one for one-night stands, but for an experience like that… you’d make an exception any day of the week. 

End note: Today’s the one year anniversary of my first fic! Thank you to @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @clawdee for letting me talk out this series this y’all + being my beta readers 🤍🤍

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Tag list: @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @freelancearsonist @djarins-cyare @survivingandenduring @littlegrungegirlaf @pamasaur @chiyo13 @pedrostories @schnarfer @burntheedges

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[kenobiwanx]

here i am drawing din and my oc to let you know that my commissions are open! 🫢

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