HUSH | Chapter 4: Built To Uncover Our Guilt
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter summary: Din is feeling very exposed, and a visitor threatens the secrecy of his presence at the cabin.
Chapter word count: 6,840
Chapter tags/warnings: Din’s POV; use of a nickname for OFC!Reader; ruminations; nakedness and awkwardness; descriptions of pain; hurt/comfort; non-graphic medical care; illegal drug use; Din Djarin gets high.
Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, reblogged, liked, or otherwise interacted with this fic in any way 💖. Here’s some more hurt/comfort and one extremely naked Din Djarin for you. I think it’s high time we get him better so they can start their lockdown liaison in earnest…
In the aftermath of their encounter, Din’s brain reboots long before his body does. Slumped and sated, he smiles to himself, relieved that his second reckless act tonight went much better than his first.
But as his guest gathers her discarded shirt against her exposed chest, his peace of mind splinters. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers in a level tone, then climbs to her feet and disappears into his bedroom.
He shifts on the pillows, acutely aware of the cool air drying her saliva on his cock and his inability to cover himself. His underwear lies shredded beneath him. The remnants of his pants litter the floor nearby. He warily surveys the tattered reminders of his lack of forward-thinking, sluggishly reviewing his actions.
Was this a mistake? Such brazen behaviour flies in the face of every code of restraint he lives by, and he’s acted on impulse twice tonight. His hot-headed days of youthful indiscretions are distant memories; he should know better at his age.
Chikra returns within moments, wearing a long nightshirt over her pants and carrying one of the blankets he left stacked at the end of his bed for her. She flashes him an easy smile and unfurls it over him with a gentle snap of fabric. The softness settling across his lap grounds him, and the way she attentively tucks it to avoid his burns pulls a long exhale through his vocoder.
“Need anything else?” she asks warmly.
Her casual thoughtfulness mostly dispels his worries, leaving only one lingering discomfort: his sleeveless, limewater-soaked flight suit shirt and undershirt. Both layers cling to his torso like a second skin of misery, cotton and coarseweave stiffening with chalky gypsum residue as they dry.
He shouldn’t ask. It’s comfort, not need. But what’s one more rash decision tonight?
“May as well cut the rest of my shirt off now… the blanket’s better than wet clothes.” His nonchalance sounds forced to his own ear, but she retrieves his vibroblade without hesitation.
It only takes two cuts at the shoulders, then she works the zipper down his chest and glances up for permission to tackle his damp undershirt. He grants it with a nod.
As she peels away the ruined garments, she makes no attempt to hide her hungry gaze, devouring the breadth of his shoulders and the defined planes of his chest with her eyes. He’s felt appraising looks before, but never in such an unclothed state. The forbidden thrill of being seen – admired – battles against years of discipline, pride mixing with vulnerability, confidence with guilt.
The moment breaks when she tugs the blanket to his shoulders, her fingertips brushing his neck as she tucks it in place. She stands and deposits his blade with his armour, then gathers the mangled flight suit remains, dumps them on the limewater-soaked towels, and kicks the whole bundle underneath the table. A problem for tomorrow.
“Goodnight, Mando,” she murmurs, her voice a soft melody underscored by the beat of the snow on transparisteel.
He is tuneless by comparison – not even a curtain call in him. All he can manage is a silent nod as she offers him a final smile before retreating to his bedroom.
Din should sleep, too. His muscles are slack with satisfaction, and post-orgasmic endorphins saturate his brain, tugging him toward the velvet darkness of slumber. His eyes fall closed. Yet rest remains just beyond reach. Beneath the pleasant haze, his mind refuses to quiet, spinning in restless circles as question after question clamours for his attention.
Did she enjoy what they just did? The wet heat of her mouth haunts him, the way she’d licked her lips, her quiet, eager hums. He shifts under the blanket. His body stirs at the memory of her breath against his skin, the vibration of her throat as she’d swallowed him to the hilt…
He opens his eyes, staring at that crack in the wall again. The wind gusts and moans outside, pelting the windows with sleet – an ominous soundtrack to his racing thoughts.
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