from sevryx on archive of our own
He was quiet when you first met him.
"Am I mad? Mad doesn't begin cover it!"
His voice was still husky, smooth and handsome even through the modulator. But this time, he was yelling at you. The sounds of gunfire faded into the distance, or maybe that was just your ears failing you.
"Broken a few windows, maybe fatally wounded a few patrons – that's mad! You set fire to establishment and almost blew up our asset! And ourselves! What the hell were you thinking?"
You couldn't help the laugh that wheezed out of your lungs, cut into fragments between your pained gasps and being jostled in his arms as you were carried back to the ship.
"And now you're laughing about it!?"
You couldn't see very well, but the familiar hissing sound of the door of the Razor Crest alerted you that you were now aboard the ship.
"I know y-you're upset, Mando... I can see it from – ah!" You grimaced as another stream of hot blood leaked from your side, the taste of copper and burnt debris on your lips bitter in your mouth. "From the – the look on your f-face!" You laughed, deciding your joke was good enough to be worth breaking into another coughing fit.
He threw you onto a bed, a little rougher than warranted. He apparently did not find it humorous.
"You're lucky we still got the full bounty! And I have half the mind to keep your share for the trouble you caused!"
Gloved hands began to tear away at your charred armor, exposing the gnarled flesh on your torso to find a dark gash full of ashes and shrapnel. For once, you couldn't find the words to speak in the midst of the searing pain.
"This is going to hurt. A lot."
He sounded almost apologetic, anger giving way to something softer, yet equally urgent. Something fearful.
The last thing you heard before losing consciousness was the sound of the cauterizer turning on.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
You woke up to a throbbing headache and the sound of anxious pacing. You took an experimental breath in, feeling a sharp aching in your torso and a heavy creaking in your limbs. Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, collecting your observations with eyes still shut. You weren't wearing any of your armor – you were not wearing familiar clothing at all, but clothing that seemed much too large to fit you. You were not covered in a thick layer of blood and dirt and grime. And you were not in your regular sleeping quarters on the ship, but in someone else's bed covered by someone else's blankets. This equaled three discrepancies to your typical disposition and brought a wrinkle of concern to your brow.
"You're awake."
You grunted in a blunt agreement.
"... Are you okay?"
You opened your eyes. "I'm not dead, so I'm fine."
"I appreciate that your standard is 'not dead'." Heavy footsteps approached your bedside. "That's good. Let's keep it that way. 'Not dead' makes for a great bare minimum."
There was a beat of silence before you spoke again. You were used to his sarcasm, but not like this. Not with such a bite. With such unfiltered grief.
"I'm sorry." You offered.
Another beat of silence.
Then the Mandalorian laughed at you. Even through the muffle of the helmet, it was a deep, rich kind of laugh despite the pang of pain behind it, the kind that made people smile involuntarily and bite their lower lip in response. Or maybe that was just you. You smiled softly.
"And here I thought your 'way' didn't allow you to have fun?"
You stared at the reflective helmet that was angled directly towards your own face. Though his expression wasn't visible, it was clear that there were countless thoughts running through the man's head. He seemed relieved.
"I could have lost you."
It was uncharacteristic. The pain in his tone plucked effortlessly at your own heartstrings and you felt guilt wash over you. The Mandalorian sat on the bed beside you, careful not to cause you any more discomfort that the previous night had.
"I appreciate your concerns, Mando, but -"
"Din." He interrupted you. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he turned away for a moment before staring back at you. "Din Djarin."
You stared with your mouth ajar for a second too long before pursing your lips. "I appreciate your concerns, Din," you repeated, "But I wouldn't doubt that you can find another crew member even if you had."
He was silent for a moment, and you swear you could almost hear his brow furrow in what was either guilt, anger, or something more.
"Let me ask you something." He said, more as a statement than a request. "Who am I to you?"
You mulled over the bold inquiry with a heavy sigh. An acquaintance? No, your sentiment was much more deeply rooted than what would be appropriate for such a title. You'd been traveling together for ages it seemed, coming up on what was going to be about a year now. Partners? Of the sort, yes. Two bounty hunters who partnered up on jobs, who traveled together, killed together, escaped dramatically together, lodged together – your face began to flush.
"A business partner." You said, as if it were obvious. "And a trusted companion."
The Mandalorian simply stared back at you. You cleared your throat. He turned away.
It was a seemingly endless stretch of time before he responded.
"Is that all?"
Traveling with this man was something that required you to develop a very sharp sense of intuition, which included reading not his unavailable facial expressions, but his voice and occasional body language. Most times, his voice was flat and even, all business and no emotion. Sometimes he would yell, urgent or snappy, typically in combat. Or sometimes he would whisper, either when sneaking about or when the child which he claimed as his foundling would have just been put to sleep.
But now, his voice was positively dripping with disappointment.
Taking a risk, you moved your hand towards his gloved one lying on the blanket draped over you. You were in his quarters, underneath his sheets, clad in his clothing. You draped your hand over his, the leather feeling warm under your hands as if he had been wringing them. He didn't move his hand, but turned to stare at it. Who was he to you? That was a loaded question.
"Where is this coming from, Din?"
Static emitting from the helmet reflected a heavy sigh.
"You are... a valuable companion and warrior. I am grateful to have you fighting alongside me."
You pursed your lips. "... Thank you?"
It was quiet for a moment, and a breath that sounded like it would precede a thought erupted from his helmet before a crashing in the other room resounded.
"I wonder who's awake now?" You asked, amused despite the heaviness of the tension that hung around the two of you like smoke. Curious cooing in the next room confirmed your suspicions.
He stood quickly, and your hand felt cold again.
"I should let you rest."
He was gone before you could get another word out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was only a day later when you found yourself able to walk again, albeit slowly, carefully, and very painfully. The wounded flesh of your stomach strained with every movement, and tempted you to sleep longer simply to forget about the pain. But you needed water, and Mando – or Din, you corrected yourself with a small smile – hadn't come in to see you since leaving food for you that morning as you slept.
Tossing the sheets from your body, you shuddered slightly. You felt heavy and immobile, numb in protest but moveable all the same. Clad only in an old long sleeve shirt that was clearly fitted to Din and not to you, you felt exposed and cold, your skin prickling with sensitivity that was visible through your top. You noted absently that you were wearing your own underwear, but not the same kind on the night of the accident, and chuckled wondering what Din must have looked like rooting through your belongings in the search for undergarments.
Your reflection in a mirror-like panel on the wall confirmed that while you felt rather horrible, you were healing quite nicely. The scars across your torso were dark and obvious, but clean and improving quickly, likely to leave a lasting mark, but already ignorable from underneath a shirt. Bruises littered your legs and arms, cuts of different lengths cleaned and bandaged up by someone who clearly had experience doing such things. Your face was left with a shallow scrape up your cheek and a bruised lip, something that would likely be nothing but a memory within the month.
"You look good."
Any other voice would have had your reaching for your blaster. But you knew his now, and it registered faster than what you would like to admit. You didn't turn to face him when you responded.
"Oh, this old thing?" You asked, coyly.
He snickered softly, but failed to hide the hint of sheepishness that seeped into his wandering stare and twitching fingertips.
"Your wounds. They are healing well, I mean."
You laughed without contempt. "Don't you know how to make a girl feel special."
There was silence, but it was comfortable.
"We've landed. Food and better lodging for the night. Maybe a medic, if you want."
"The first two, yes." You answered, turning towards him. "I think you'll do just fine for the third." You felt self-conscious as his stare locked onto you, helmet clearly tilting up and down just enough for you to gauge that his eyes were raking over you. You crossed your arms over your chest, which was likely a leading cause for his stare with the coldness of the room.
"Can you walk?"
You nodded.
Approaching him, you braced your arm on the wall for support.
"Where are my things? As much as I appreciate the clothing, I might want to be more sufficiently covered if we are entering a city."
He cleared his throat. "Right."
Leaving the room for only a moment, he came back with a leather bag that held everything you owned. The latch was undone, and it was clear he'd gone through it, just as you'd thought. Your stare did not go unnoticed.
"I had to find some... things for you. I did not take anything."
"I believe you." You smirked. You wondered if he was the type to blush. Waiting a moment, you looked over him from the corner of your eye as you grabbed a pair of trousers and an undershirt from your bag, soaking in the seemingly rare yet currently repetitive shy and almost clumsy behavior the Mandalorian was exhibiting.
"... May I get dressed now?"
Silence. An audible swallow from beneath the helmet.
"Do you need any help?"
"Getting... Getting dressed?"
He shifted back and forth on his feet, as if in uneasy. You would smirk again, but you were too shocked by the cheeky remark that your mouth simply hung slightly open.
"You're, ah – You are injured." He simply said. "I don't mind helping you if you require assistance."
Who am I to you? The question rang in your head from the previous night.
"Yes." The agreement was out of your mouth before you could think. The beat of silence that followed told you that he wasn't expecting it either.
"Sit." He directed. For once, you listened wordlessly.
Kneeling before you on the bed, he pulled the trousers over your legs carefully. You felt the blood rush involuntarily to your face. His gloved fingers worked the clasp shut with deft hands, and you wondered if his heart was racing just as yours was.
"Lift your arms."
You grasped the bottom of your borrowed shirt loosely before hesitating. "You won't look, will you?"
His breathing was audible in the quiet room, but you weren't sure he could tell that you could hear him, too.
"No."
You lifted the shirt over your head and set it aside, crossing one arm across your chest in an automatic defense and watching as he fumbled for your undergarments. Whether he was acting to convince you that he wasn't looking or simply keeping his word, you weren't certain. Sliding your arms through the straps of your bra, you stared directly at his helmet, searching for any signs of him paying attention. He seemed to be angled directly above your head – a good sign. That was until he reached forward to get around you and clasp the article shut, missing slightly and instead grasping at your left breast.
You had wished you hadn't made a sound, but you did. An embarrassing mix between a gasp and a moan at that one. It had been a long while since you had been touched like that, on accident or not. That was when his helmet jerked ever so slightly down, and you could quite easily tell that even if his eyes had been shut, they weren't any longer.
His hand didn't move, and you found yours resting atop his wrist. You looked down, and then back up at him to meet his gaze. His head snapped dramatically further up and away.
"... I apologize for –"
"Don't." You said, not in a reprimanding fashion, but soft and forgiving. Hopeful, even.
He let out a breath before awkwardly clasping the device shut and reaching towards your shirt. Pulling it gently over your head, he helped guide your arms through the sleeves before sliding your socks and boots on over your feet.
He was lacing up your shoes when you laughed softly.
"You looked, didn't you?"
His fingers fumbled with the strings.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The food was decent, but the drinks weren't much better. The lodging, however, existed as the most pressing issue. You leaned against the bar, your bruises throbbing in protest but better than before, regardless.
"What do you mean there's only one room?" You asked, incredulous.
"One room. One bed." The innkeeper looked less than amused, his English broken, but stern. "Take or leave."
Placing your credits on the bar, you swallowed hard and returned to the booth which the Mandalorian occupied. He hadn't eaten or drank anything he'd bought, but you knew it would be taken to your room and gone before the night was over. Din was currently crooning silently over the child, green fingers grabbing excitedly at gloved fingers above his head.
"Small problem," you said, finishing the remainder of your drink before setting the glass down on the table casually. He turned to face you. "One room left, and one bed. I don't mind sleeping back on the ship if –"
"Okay."
You paused, shutting your mouth quickly and knitting your brow.
"Mando – Ah, Din. There is one bed."
"Yes." His hands were clasped shut, posture astute as if he were talking business.
"There are two of us."
"Yes."
You tapped your fingers against the table.
"There are two of us and one bed."
"Yes." He sounded insistent. He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, helmet lurching ever so slightly with the force of his affirmation.
You waited for an explanation you weren't sure he was going to give to you. After a while, he retracted his hands and stood.
"The Razor Crest is under repair until tomorrow morning." He said bluntly. "Where are we staying?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The room was small, the bed and a small dresser and table occupying the majority of the space. The bathroom was clean enough, and when you emerged in the same shirt which had been lent to you the night before, nothing was said by the Mandalorian sitting on the edge of the bed in full armor other than a quiet cough. An empty plate and cup sat on the table, your bags taking residence on the floor. Your damp hair was slicked out of your face, clean of the deep-seated filth that you never exactly enjoyed but always tolerated in your line of work.
"How long are we staying here?"
"No more than a few days." He answered, standing nonchalantly and making his way towards the other room. "I'll find work. You and the kid can stay here."
You would argue, but for once, tiredness and the ache throughout your body subdued your urge to resist. You sat on the edge of the bed.
"He's asleep." You remarked, admiring the soft snoring emitting from the carriage before shutting the top. Kicking your legs slowly over the top of the bed, you were grateful that it was a decently large piece of furniture.
He didn't respond, but stood silently for a moment before disappearing into the restroom.
You had been traveling with Din Djarin for months now, almost ten to your count. You had met when you both received tracking fobs from the same client, and found working together came almost as naturally as breathing. Not that either of you would admit that to the other. Neither of you were exceedingly loquacious, to say that least. That is to say that the entire first month aboard the Razor Crest was filled with silence, occasionally uncomfortably long stares, and the sound of the Child fighting for the attention of at least one of you at any moment it was awake. The latter you didn't mind at all, but the lingering stares left a kind of weightlessness pooling in the bottom of your stomach that the literal lack of atmosphere in space couldn't take credit for.
During your second month together, he had walked in on you coaxing the Child back to sleep in the middle of the night, humming a soft tune from a life that had been taken from you as a child. It held no trace of regret, but a gentle sort of nostalgia that any onlooker would notice, one that Din, in particular, appreciated. He stood and watched from the shadows of the entrance of the Razor Crest until you has laid the baby's sleeping form into his little nook, only stalking away once you stood, back still to him, and asked quietly with a sly grin: "Trouble sleeping, Mando?"
The third and following months were layered with idle chatter, hard-won battles, and long sessions of deep conversation as you helped with each other's wounds. He knew your name, your past. What you've left behind and what you've sought until reaching this point. He knew your favorite drinks and the way your stare lingered on trinkets and such in the bazaar before you were later shocked, finding them laying on the small cot you took as your sleeping quarters on the ship. But you knew him as well – you knew his name, what he's lost. You understood his Way, his love for the Child and his dedication to the creeds he lived by. You knew how he was feeling by the tilt of his helmet, the volume of his breath and the way his fingers twitched in his gloves.
He wasn't your lover. That explicit thought shattered your daydream, and you tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. You looked at the Child's carrier longingly, wondering what exactly this Mandalorian meant to you.
Who am I to you?
The question still rang in your head. You turned the lights out and laid silently in the complete darkness, the single window sealed shut and preventing even an ounce of moonlight from entering the room. Chewing your bottom lip, you rubbed at the back of your neck in thought.
"What's wrong?"
You flinched, wanting to turn around but resisting, simply because the voice you heard was incredibly familiar, with the exception of the static filter that you knew so well. It was pitch dark in the room, and you wondered if he would turn the lights on. Without the helmet, no. You closed your eyes, but didn't move.
"Thinking."
The weight on the bed shifted behind you and you felt him settle beside you. You swallowed hard as the scent of soap and him invaded your thoughts, the slight brush of what was unmistakably the warmth of his hand brushing your back.
"About...?"
His voice was tinged in curiosity and fatigue. You sighed.
"You."
You expected a response, that was true. You didn't expect it in the form of his hand, much larger than yours and warm on your cool skin, to run up your exposed arm and rest on your shoulder.
"What about me?"
His breath was hot on your ear, and you shuddered faintly. You answered after a moment.
"You asked me who you are to me." You explained, slowly so as to not trip over your own words. Only his hand was on you, but you could feel the heat radiating from his body. "And I'm afraid I might have withheld the entire truth from you."
The hand on your shoulder squeezed, and you felt Din shift behind you.
"Is that so?"
There was a kind of certainty in his tone that made your body go alight. His voice was deep, rugged and tinged with a predatory sort of rumble that did nothing short of make your mind go blank and your lower stomach twist with excitement. He knew was he was doing, but he wasn't going to let you go without an answer.
"Yes." You choked out, sounding more strained than what you intended. His hand traveled lower, finding purchase underneath your shirt and at the curve of your waist. His thumb stroked along the smooth skin that contrasted so heavily with the scars there that were still tender, but you sighed at the contact all the same.
"Then by all means," he leaned impossibly closer, lips brushing your ear, "Please explain."
"You are a very trustworthy business partner, and an inarguably skilled bounty hunter." You shifted slightly, feeling your hair fall over your ear and exposing your neck to the man behind you. You heard his breath hitch. "But I will admit that our... relationship. It has exceeded what I – ah." Your breath faltered as he thumbed at the waistband of your underwear as if asking for permission. "I-It is... I am..." You fought for the words as impossibly gentle hands grasped at your rear, his deep sigh sending heat across your neck and resetting your thoughts. "I am afraid that I feel things for you that exceed the realm of our professional relationship. Things that could easily compromise your opinion of me."
A sharp huff of breath left Din's nose, and although he couldn't see you, you raised a brow in confusion. Your expression melted into one of sheer arousal when his grip on your waist brought his body flat against yours, what hardness of what was unmistakably his erection pressing insistently against your rear.
"Does this compromise your opinion of me?"
It was teasing, both his tone and his words. A soft moan escaped your lips.
"I see the way you look at me. I hear you at night, sometimes." Grinding his hips into you, you bite your lip to hush the whimper that bubbles in your throat. "Oh, those nights are my favorite. For someone as stealthy as yourself, it's like you want me to catch you. Those fucking sinful noises, I can hear you writhe. And when you say my name, like a god damn prayer..." He trails off, his hand traveling carefully up the skin of your torso to trace the sensitive skin of your breast. His lips are on the rim of your ear. "It's enough to make a man go positively mad with lust."
You never want him to stop talking. But when he shifts you the center of the bed, suddenly looming over you with your legs around his waist, you feel what little resolve you have left to preserve your dignity crumble away, and you are content with whatever he chooses to do in the moment. You can't see his face at all in the pure darkness – you can barely make out his silhouette in the room. But you feel the hardened pads of his fingers trace your thighs around him, feel him lean down to press kisses to your neck that make your skin vibrate with need.
"I know that you want me. And I want you. I want to hear you moan my name when I'm inside you." His hands skate up your chest, pushing your shirt up as his lips travel lower still.
"Then have me." You hear yourself say, before you even realize the weight of your words. It doesn't matter, though, because you would have said them months ago. You would have said them yesterday. So of course, you had no hesitation to say them now.
He groans, heady and dark with need, and his lips clumsily come up to capture yours. You swear you've never felt this intoxicated from anything the galaxy could offer, that the desperation and the lust brings your heartbeat to your skin and you're sure Din can feel it, too.
Your shirt is over your head and somewhere on the floor, and the rest of the minimal clothing between the two of you follows. Your hands are tangled in his hair, softer and longer than you imagined, leaving only to follow the sharpness of his jawline, grasping at his broad shoulders before his body sinks lower. You whine with the loss of contact, your breath only hitching in your throat when you realize –
His fingers trace over your sex gently before you feel his tongue push into you, and you can't hide the whine that leaves your throat. Your hands find purchase in his hair once again, pulling carefully as your body arches into his mouth desperately. His tongue is nimble, and threatens to push you to the edge far sooner than you would prefer. As you fought to voice this, however, two thick fingers sink into you, pumping in and out with the intent to have you teeter right over that ledge.
Only minutes have passed when you feel dangerously close, grasping at his locks and moaning his name between muttered curses.
"Fuck, Din – I'm, ah!" You can't make the words out, and he seems to understand, but instead of stopping, you find another finger threatening your hold onto reality, and he doesn't slow down at all, instead increasing his pace with a force you can only handle for a moment before you arch dangerously into the bed with an embarrassingly loud call of his name.
He comes up to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his lips. It doesn't bother you.
"I was right. It sounds so much better up close."
You were already flushed, but you were glad he couldn't see your face nonetheless. There was a moment of silence as you felt him reach towards the ground, the rustling of objects on the floor and his clumsy grip nearly shaking your from your suffocating bliss. You released a shaky sigh, as you felt his fingers at your cunt yet again, replaced momentarily by the thickness of his length sliding against your wetness, a nearly undetectable layer of what you believe is a contraceptive. You wonder where he got it, but you resolve to mention it when you can moan anything other than his name from your lips.
"Please." You whine, and although you can't see him, you swear he's smiling.
It doesn't take long for him to hike your legs up carefully around his waist once more, lining himself up to your center and pushing into you with one languid thrust. He moans in appreciation, whispers your name and how good and tight you feel around his cock. It's only a few more breaths before he pulls out, thrusting in slowly but with enough force that you feel like you were never whole until he was entirely sheathed inside of you. He speeds up, lifting your leg over his shoulder and fucking into you at an angle that absolutely shatters your grip on reality. You can't feel the injuries on your stomach, and you realize that even in his rut of passion, he leaves that side of your body to the gentle and sparing caress of his other hand before he trails down and grabs at the flesh of your ass with reckless abandon.
You could stay like this for hours, either of you. But the tension and desperation in the room was far too much and you found yourself at that same edge you faced earlier, Din himself falling just as fast.
"Wish I could – ah, could see you." He says it aloud, but you're just as guilty for thinking it. You know it can never be so on your part, but you are satisfied knowing that he lets you see him through touch. You see him every other way, in truth. Through his words, his emotions. His actions. Deprivation of sight doesn't deter you from loving him—
And you realize that's what he is to you.
Your fingers cup his jaw, shaking from both your own instability and the pace of his hips snapping up into you at an unforgiving pace. Your lips meet again, fueled with discoveries that you've both made, but neither has voiced.
Din crescendos in pace as you do in volume, the sound of skin on skin and joined moans of pleasure enveloping all of your senses, turning every thought you have into static. When you both climax, it's like heaven on solid ground. Like you found peace in a shabby little inn on Tatooine and it's better than anything you've ever experienced in your life.
After a bout of shuffling, Din retreats to the restroom and returns with a wet cloth, gently wiping the residue of your passion and leaving a trail of kisses across your skin. You wonder how he navigates so well in the darkness, but leave it to another day to question. When he returns to bed, you feel your breaths slow and you find yourself lying against Din's chest, who it seems is also piecing together his thoughts.
"I think I love you." You say it before you realize it's left your lips.
Din laughs, a hand brushing your hair behind your ear gingerly.
"You think too much." He says, a smile in his voice. "But I believe I love you, too."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
You wake to an empty bed, light flooding into the room through the window that has now been slightly opened and faint noises echoing from the restroom. You stretch your hands above your head, turning towards the window and the floating carriage which the Child –
The Child.
You shot up in bed, scrambling out from underneath the covers.
"If you're wondering if we woke him up, then the answer is no." Din's voice piped up from behind you, filtered by the modulator in his helmet. "He's slept through much louder, much more dangerous things." Even in full armor, he seemed more relaxed than usual, and you couldn't help but take pride in the realization that it was likely because of the events of the previous night. "Although, you were very, very loud last night." He tagged on, a smirk in his voice.
Though the blood rushed to your face, you ran a hand through your hair and stood, pretending not to notice the way Din's eyes raked over your body. A new collection of hickies stood out among your previous scars, a collection of purples and reds that you were proud of. Heading for the restroom, you heard the softest of whines coming from the enclosed contraption, signaling that the baby was awake.
"Looks like someone's up." You yawned and slipped past the Mandalorian, brushing against his side for a moment too long. Instead of letting you past, a strong arm looped around your waist, the cold beskar of the underside of his helmet resting against the top of your head as he trapped you.
"We have a few days here. I know someone trustworthy who can watch the little one."
You raised a brow. "Don't you need to find work?"
"We have a few days." He repeated.
You smirked, and you swear you could feel those handsome lips curling into a sly grin underneath that helmet.
"A few days, huh?" The beskar of his chest plate was cold under your touch. "Works for me, Din."
"Good."
You didn't know, of course, but he had been smiling at you when you had first met him, a silent grin playing at his lips underneath his helmet.
He was smiling now, too.