din djarin x reader imagines

red steam

You place your hand on your left knee, because it's only a knee and nothing bad has ever happened from touching one's knee. You draw circles around it with a finger, then your entire palm. You try to stretch your leg and support it on the table in the middle of the deserted room, but it's too far back for your foot to reach, so you bend your leg towards you and rest your heel on the bench. By the time your hand slides lower to your calf, gathers the moisture there, and rubs it on your ankle, the raucous sounds outside are almost completely muffled by the ringing of your ears. The red steam grows denser, and you have to open your mouth to breathe in as much oxygen as you can, which is why your exhale sounds like a moan. That's what you tell yourself.

Hands sliding against your sides and drawing lazy patterns around your ribs, you wonder how he'd touch you. He could be gentle and take his time exploring you, trying to enjoy the rare instance of feeling someone else's bare skin come to life under his touch. Your hands scoop your breasts and test their weight. Or, perhaps, he'd be in a hurry, drunk on the sensation and unable to control himself at the first caress of your soft curves. It's difficult to know which one you want more.

Both of your hands sail down aimlessly to your belly and press there. How big is he? You'd like to be able to feel him between your legs afterwards, after he'd go back to being the Mandalorian, as a reminder that he let himself be something else with you. Ten digits land on your thigh and massage there, slowly gliding together up, up, up, until they're almost where you most want them most. They stop. You're panting and you swallow hard.

"Maker," you mumble to yourself. You're obviously more worked up than before, so you can either stop right there and keep your moral high ground, or...or—

The answer comes from somewhere outside the cave, when you hear the thump of something substantial hitting the door, followed by a low, unequivocal groan. The modulated baritone sends a flood between your legs.

And, just like that, you give up.

You spread your legs and lean your hips forward, pressing your open cunt against the gelid surface; it's so cold it burns into you. A ragged whimper pushes past your mouth, but your ears don't register it, since you've started rocking back and forth against the black ore, finally throwing wood into the fire that started burning months before. You picture cold beskar instead, thrusting back and forth between your folds to bring you to your release, strong thighs moving lively beneath you.

You're suffocating. The first time your clit brushes the edge of the bench, you throw your head back, bring your right hand to your breast, and hold on to it for dear life. Your small fingers knead the fat there, but it feels better if you imagine coarse leather doing it instead. Fuck, would he be as quiet and stoic as he always is? Or would he let you hear every moan and grunt? Would he whisper every dirty thing he wants to do to you or would he let you guess? The pace of your back and forth rutting quickens and your guts knot tighter.

"M-mando..." You try to be quiet; if you can hear him outside he can probably hear you too. You limit yourself to a few tortured sobs, but the blood-red vapor is making it harder to breathe, sweat covers every inch of your skin, and all openings of your body feel horribly empty.

Your scoot back on your seat, open your legs wider, and sink your right index and middle fingers inside your pulsing hole. Two fingers of your left hand go inside your mouth. A loud, long moan of relief pushes through your fingers and lips. You're too far gone to care.

The digits inside your pussy stretch you open, swirl in circles, move in any way that will cure the awful ache you've been fighting for fucking months. What about the helmet, would he leave it on? Blindfold you? Maybe he'd take it off, but get you down on all fours and grab your hair to prevent you from looking back.

Your eyelids drop. A fat droplet drags down your spine and into the crack of your ass. Your tongue licks your own skin eagerly, tasting their salty sweat and fantasizing about your Mandalorian's fluids. It's not enough; it can't be when you can still hear him outside the door, when all you want is to have him inside you, anywhere inside you.

Your fingers will have to make do, so you curl them and hit something that makes your legs cramp. The five-letter nickname everyone calls him bubbles past your throat in an exhausted gasp. You drag your digits out and smear the thick cum they gathered around your inner lips and walls. Your mind races with endless possibilities: Would he demand you cum or forbid it? How many times would he take you? Where would he touch you? Where would he cum? What does he taste like? Is he patient or demanding? You shut your eyes tightly. Something that feels like a tide is steadily climbing to your chest, making your every muscle rigid.

The fog recedes a little. You're dizzy with pleasure and every fiber of your body is pulling tighter by the second. Your tongue is still sucking at your fingers—picturing pulsing veins and velvety skin—when you start drawing quick circles around your clit. The stone under your ass grows a little warmer. Drool spills out of your mouth.

You're close. You're so fucking close. Your panting turns erratic, your hips buck forward, one of your leg stretches, and your toes brush the cold material of the table.

"S-stars, Mando...!"

You're right there, right there, and—

Wait.

Your toes are brushing the chamber's table. The same table you couldn't reach earlier. You stop grinding and remove your fingers. New vapor spouts out of the gratings.

The table moves.

Sweat stings your eyes when you try to open them, hesitantly, not really wanting to see what's in front of you.

You blink a few times and see an opaque silver mirror where your disheveled appearance stares back. One of your hands reaches forward unprompted and brushes the cloudy layer of condensed water on the mirror's surface. It's beskar. It's Mando's beskar cuisse.

You lift your face and see a T-visor floating in crimson fog, staring down at you. Panic and adrenaline pump in your veins, but you both stay like that for half a second, almost drinking each other in. Waiting.

Until his hand starts moving, so slowly, towards your body.

It's hard to tell where it's heading.