Warnings/tags: casual drug use, drinking, modern au, established relationship, reader is a blank slate (I tried really hard not to give any specific physical descriptions), fingering, teasing (Din is a cocky menace and no one can tell me otherwise), unconventional use of beverages (sorry, no spoilers), heavy making out, she's naked/he's fully clothed, tiniest sprinkles of praise kink and exhibitionism...I think that's everything, but PLEASE feel free to let me know if I missed anything.
Author's note: I have never written anything before, and I may never write anything, again. This was bubbling in my brain, though, and my motto for this year is "Fuck it. Why not?". I am insanely nervous about posting this, but @the-little-ewok and @writingsoftheloser were amazing and not only beta'd this for me but got me to psych myself up enough to post it. Enjoy this little view into my unhinged brain, folks. 💜
You track each movement as his fingers work the buttons on the game controller. Watching him play is generally one of your favorite pastimes. It’s always impressive how well he works through every puzzle, every scene, every level effortlessly, even managing to keep up his sly flirtations with you. Right now, though, the joint you had shared was making you loose, sparking each of your nerves gently in turn. You watch the sweat dripping down his neck in slow motion as your mind starts drifting to thoughts of how he might put that dexterity to better use.
With a jolt, you realize it’s the Din sitting beside you calling your name and not the one you’d just been imagining saying it in a much deeper tone. His avatar on the tv is idling, and he’s looking at you expectantly, as if it wasn’t the first time he’d tried getting your attention.
“Seems like I’m boring you. Why don’t we throw something on until everyone else gets here?” The look in his eyes makes you feel like he knows exactly what you were just thinking about.
“Oh, sure. Sorry.” You grin sheepishly, worried you’ve been caught. “You pick something out, and I’ll grab some drinks.”
Popping into the kitchen to grab some beers gives the perfect excuse to step away and try to cool the heat in your cheeks. You take a deep breath. The surge of oxygen shoots straight to your head, and your buzz ripples back down your body leaving you relaxed and feeling floaty.
As you walk back to the couch, he puts his hand out, wordlessly taking both bottles. He catches each cap with the wide band on his finger popping them open without you having to ask and hands yours back. You settle in next to him, and he puts his arm around your shoulders to pull you close. The movie starts with a shot of space and a scrolling wall of text you know by heart.
Lifting your drink to your lips, you don’t even register your small involuntary moan at the icy cold of the glass. But he does. No detail about you ever misses his notice, and this one means it’s his turn to get some creative ideas.
He starts slow. His fingertips gently brushing along your bare arm. Up your shoulder. Every so often, they ghost over the spot where your shoulder and neck meet - the one he knows turns you to jello. Your focus on the movie has long since gone the way of your favorite smuggling ship blasting its way out of a seedy port and is lightyears away.
For the first time that day, you’re happy about the summer heat, since you dressed appropriately. Din slips your thin tank top straps down and turns into you as his hand lands on your bare knee. He distracts you from the way he slowly guides your leg open by leaning in and pressing a trail of kisses up your shoulder. When you feel his lips hit that same spot he was just teasing, you can’t contain a low whimper from slipping out. The sound encourages him further, and his fingers ghost up the inside of your thigh. He wastes no time, running his fingers right up and down your slit through your quickly soaking panties.
“I knew you'd be nice and wet for me, already,” he says in that same low voice you’d been imagining earlier, and it's enough to snap your barely held control.
Your head tips back to rest on the back of the couch and your eyes slip closed as you start to give in to the heightened sensations brought on by your high and his avid attention. It's the exact moment he's been counting on.
As his mouth works its way to the top of your breast, he shifts to unwrap his arm from your shoulders. He slides your skirt up and your panties down in one smooth movement, his lips never breaking contact with your skin. You realize distantly that you're effectively bare for him now, while he hasn't so much as popped open a button.
Your hand slides over to his leg and up to the generous bulge straining against his jeans, but suddenly you're stilled by his hand on yours. Your eyes open in confusion, and he meets them, directly.
“No. I want you to focus entirely on how I make you feel. I want to watch you come for me. Can you do that?”
You barely manage a breathy “Yes.”
“Good girl,” he rumbles, and the look in his eyes is positively feral. “Now, relax. Let me take care of you.”
Your head falls back, again, and your eyes drift closed. He spreads your legs wide open, turning you slightly towards him, so he can see and reach every inch of your exposed skin. He dips his fingers inside your entrance and shallowly works them in and out, causing you to moan loudly. After a few thrusts, he pulls them out and spreads your wetness all over your pussy lips and up onto your swollen clit. He repeats this torture over and over while kissing and licking every inch of your breasts, until you're panting and squirming beneath him.
You're too far gone to notice him reach over and grab his drink from the table. You do feel him spread your lips wide, exposing you fully, though.
Suddenly, your head snaps up and your eyes snap open, as you feel something smooth and icy cold press against your clit. As you look down in shock, you see him holding his cold beer bottle right against your heat. A second later, the sensation of the contrast hits you, and your mouth drops open with a low moan.
Din leans in and catches your mouth, pressing hard on top of you, chasing the kiss. Your tongues tangle as you meet his intensity, and you only stop when you both pull back to gasp for air.
He pierces you with those deep brown eyes and asks, “Do you trust me?”
You don't even hesitate. “Absolutely.”
A smile slowly spreads across his face as he replies, “Yeah? Good.”
He leans back and reaches down to spread you open, again. He positions the bottom of his bottle right against your clit, but you're prepared for it this time.
Slowly, he starts to rotate the bottle, and you realize you were wrong. You are entirely unprepared. You feel every single bump along the bottom of the glass stroke against you. The cold temperature of the glass enhancing the sensations to almost unbearable pleasure after the time he spent teasing you, already. It's like lightning coursing through you. He sets a rhythm turning the bottle back and forth, and just when you think you can't take any more, you feel his fingers slide straight into your pussy and start stroking against that perfect spot.
You explode. Your whole body is on fire, every nerve ending singing for him. For him. And your voice calling his name over and over. “Fuck! Oh, gods, Din! Din!”
“That's it. Yes, baby, come for me. Fuck, that's my good girl, keep squeezing me,” he talks you through it and keeps working his thick fingers in and out of you slowly, until you finally start to come back into yourself.
His hand stops, and he pulls it away before leaning in to gently kiss you and rest his forehead against yours for a quiet moment.
You’re laying there, basking in the afterglow as he sits back with a sly smile on his lips, when you hear the back door open and multiple voices chatting. You bolt upright, realizing that your clothes have effectively been turned into a pair of layered belts with nothing to hold up. You scramble to pull your tank top straps back up and skirt back down, looking around desperately for your panties.
One of your friends enters the room just as you get yourself back together and gasps.
“You guys started Empire without us?! Not cool. We're starting over. Machete order.” They continue grumbling as they go back to the kitchen to reveal your betrayal to the rest of the group.
You take a deep breath and stand up to follow as you catch Din tucking a suspiciously familiar piece of cloth into his pocket. He looks you dead in the eye as he takes a sip of his beer.
He winks at you and turns to walk into the kitchen without another word, leaving you to start daydreaming all over again.
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Please have a moment of silence for the people who were killed instead of freed when news of emancipation finally reached the furthest corners of the american south.
have another moment for the ledgers, catalogs, and records that were burned and the homes that were destroyed to hide the presence of very much alive and still enslaved people on dozens of plantations and homesteads across the south for decades after emancipation.
and have a third moment for those who were hunted and killed while fleeing the south to find safety across the border, overseas, in the north and to the west.
black people. light a candle, write a note to those who have passed telling them what you have achieved in spite of the racist and intolerant conditions of this world, feel the warmth of the flame under your hand, say a prayer of rememberance if you are religious, place the note under the candle, and then blow it out.
if you have children, sit them down and tell them anything you know about the life of oldest black person you've ever met. it doesn't have to be your own family. tell them what you know about what life was like for us in the days, years, decades after emancipation. if you don't know much, look it up and learn about it together.
This is Juneteenth.
white people CAN interact with this post. share it, spread it.
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favorite book: speculative gothic horror non-binary hivemind infects people in post apocalyptic france (?) in order to turn them into doctors and one of its “bodies” is killed. it has to solve its own murder all while taking care of a bizarre, hostile family and contending with a looming threat to the hivemind’s existence (the book is “leech” by hiron ennes and idk if it has an audiobook version but the text version is amazing. be wary of its included trigger warnings though!)
Stubborn preteen/teenager/adult sets out to be the first openly female page/squire/lady knight in a quartet of books featuring 8-foot spider monsters, a crusade against bullying, bandit attacks, perils of the patriarchy, human-smart animals, a first romance (and first break-up), necromancy, found family, and the perils of accidentally adopting a baby griffin.
warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, language, x fem!reader
a/n: this is it - the last chapter installment of nighthawks (a day earlier than promised). an epilogue will be posted this weekend, as well as a final author's note for this series.
DAY NULL—LOCATION: HOTH
Din stopped counting. The moment he felt your eyes drink in his face, he stopped counting the days until the end of your contract. Now, he counts your even, sleep-soaked breaths as your head rests against his naked chest. He counts the errant strands of hair caught in your lashes. He counts the beauty marks that dot your skin like constellations. He counts it all—every piece of you that has enmeshed so tightly in his DNA.
You shift in your sleep, and a sharp pain cuts through his ribcage. He winces, but avoids further movement or sound. As long as he can, he will stay like this, wrapped in the cocoon of Hoth’s impenetrable winter. No more Breeth, no more Crik; just him and you and complete, utter anonymity. The thought tickles the back of his mind as he blinks at the ceiling.
Anonymity—what a luxurious, puzzling word. He considers it, rolling it over in his mind. He never really thought about it until now: a life forged willingly without the mantle of the Mandalorian creed on his shoulders. What would it mean to enter a room and slip into a seat at a table with nary a head turning to stare at him? What would it feel like to till a patch of his own earth, shrouded in the safety of a dense forest? No longer the Mandalorian, but Din. Din Djarin, fully man, fully human.
Even when he was solely responsible for Grogu, Din rarely considered the future. He knew he would protect the Child until his last, but he never thought about after—after his body grew too old to continue taking and fighting and slicing through the galaxy with a double-edged sword. But After now stares at him in the face. Rather, After lays draped against his chest, lulled to sleep by the sound of winter battering the ramparts.
He is tired. Tired of the relentless push and pull of the galaxy. Tired of coming within a hair’s breadth of losing you to some idiot with a faster trigger pull. Tired of existing somewhere between human and machine.
The echo of his thoughts must wake you. You sit up, warm and drowsy, half-lidded eyes searching for his in the dimly lit room. When you find him already looking at you, the ghost of a smile pulls at your mouth. You lift a hand, and he stiffens. A moment passes, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, before you settle your palm against his cheek. Your thumb rubs slow circles over his cheekbone.
“Mando…” It is not a question nor a statement, simply a whisper of affection in the pre-dawn hours.
He swallows past the lump in his throat, past the urge to pick up his helmet from the ground and return to the swaddle of safety found there. “Did you sleep?”
“Yeah.” You remove your hand from his face to run your fingers through your sleep-matted hair. “Great, actually. Did you?”
He just shrugs.
“Sleep has never been your strong suit.”
“No, not really.”
You slide from bed to stretch your arms over your head. Your shirt rides up, revealing the narrow cotton of your underwear—and the bruises forming over your hips and thighs. Blood stains the hem of your shirt, and a long frayed rip exposes your left shoulder. His jaw clenches, his fist flexing and unflexing beneath the coverlet.
If Crik weren’t already dead he would pound the motherfucker to dust.
“You look pretty beat up.” He means it merely as a statement, but the words fall out of his mouth like an accusation. Thankfully, you turn on a laugh.
“I guess I am. Not totally sure about the fresher situation here. Plus I was busy trying to save your sorry ass. Sorry I didn’t have time to wash up.”
Din sighs. He plants his palms on the mattress, hissing through his teeth as he goes to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His ribs hurt, his muscles aching and sore as they work to repair themselves. Favoring his uninjured side, he puts a fist on his opposite thigh then motions with two fingers.
“Come here.”
You roll your eyes, but appease him, moving to stand between his legs. His hands fall to the gentle curve of your waist. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
“Shut up.” You shove his shoulder, eyes skittering to the side as a busk laugh fills your throat.
“What?” He can’t help some of the humor tinging his voice now either.
“Touchy-feely isn’t you.”
He tilts his head. “But you are. Even more so when you’re dirty like this.”
“Yeah, dirty ‘cause I was busy killing people to keep you from dying!”
“Exactly.”
Din’s hands slide from your waist to your ass, his fingertips kneading the soft flesh there. He gives you a gentle swat then angles his mouth upward to kiss your neck. You relax into his hold, palms skimming the taut skin of his shoulders, his arms. You sigh when his tongue darts out to wet your pulsepoint.
He is working himself to hard at this rate. Between the feel of your ass beneath his hands and the soft skin he slides beneath his tongue, he can practically feel his heartbeat in his cock.
Nudging his head upward, you press your mouth to his. But instead of the demanding, all-consuming kiss he expected, your lips remain firm and unyielding. You push away with a measure of reluctance.
“As much as I want to fuck you again in Crik’s bed…”
He finishes the sentence: “We should go.”
“Yeah…”
You’re right, he knows. You usually are. Hoth is truly unlivable, even for short periods of time. He isn’t sure what remains in this hell hole after yesterday’s fight, and his injured ribs means he isn’t much help for rooting through boxes of worthless junk. Still, this feeling of openness, of absolute freedom settles in his chest like a root.
He could see himself getting used to this slow, syrupy feeling. No more speeding through hyperspace, no more clock ticking down to his ultimate ruin. He could do it—with you by his side.
“Help me up.” He extends his elbow, shifting his weight nearer the edge of the bed.
“Okay, old man.”
Huffing, he rises to his feet, his joints all but creaking with the movement. “I can still put you over my knee, girl.”
“Where have I heard that before?” you quip. You grin up at him, and the light dancing in your eyes is enough to make his old man legs wobble. Gods, he loves you.
Where indeed.
He thumbs the underside of your chin then jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
/
DAY NULL—LOCATION: THE SUNDER
At the table in the galley you withdraw your datapad and place it on the slab of metal in front of you. A blast of cool air from the overhead vent lifts a chill on your arms, and you hunch inward, wishing you’d brought your jacket from the other room. No reason to get it now, not until you’ve finished the task at hand.
The last few days have eddied the memory of this ship, this place. What was once your first home onboard is now a simple galley kitchen, ill-used and void of human clutter. Ghosts of the past hang in the air, though. You can sense it—her, the memory of you before love changed your makeup.
You lift a hand to touch the faded scar on your cheek. Gods, that feels like eons ago, your body pressed against the bulkhead, Din’s blaster notched at your lower back. She will always be a part of you, that wretched girl. She has been there since your girlhood: in the sibling squabbles with Jeelia; in the teenage arguments with your mother; in the first time you broke a boy’s heart simply because you could. Try as you might, she will never truly disappear—and for that you are glad.
You swipe open your datapad and make quick work of finding the communication panel. Though remote, Inora still possesses the capabilities for interstellar communications. Well, your parents don’t have that ability exactly, but the local magistrate does, and he is quick to take a few credits in exchange for personal communications via the government’s radio. You position your cracked datapad against a water jug and press record.
“Hey,” you begin, and the words fall from your lips like flower petals on a gentle breeze.
It is a short message, but not without heart. Your parents deserve to know the outcome of your hunt for justice. You spare them the gory details. You are fine, Din is fine, and the job is done.
“I’m sending you this,” you say as you close out the message, holding up the twine necklace you pilfered from around Crik’s neck. “I’m not sure what it meant to him. For all I know it’s just a piece of junk. But I took it, and it shows that I did it—for her and for our family.” Looking down at the moon rock in your palm, you run your finger over the jagged and dull stone. “I want you to have it.”
You make eye contact with the camera once more. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I don’t know what else there is for me out here. Mando—Din—we’re together until the very end. I just wanted you to know that Jeelia can rest now. We can all rest now.”
You close out the message with a promise to visit in the future, and you press send without reviewing the holoprojection for mistakes. It’s better that way. What you said you meant: it is now time to rest. For everyone.
You aren’t sure what your next step will be. Now that Rendell Crik is dead, the possibilities seem both endless and slim at the same time. You could continue on with the Guild. Technically, your year with Mando hasn’t yet expired. The idea of fulfilling your contract to Karga seems less and less appealing since the rage in your gut has simmered. There was a time you enjoyed working your father’s wheatfields. Maybe there is something there to explore…
Or maybe Mand’alore will take precedence now. All that shit Mando told you about being the Mand’alor’s mate… Now seems as good a time as any to hunt down the truth about that little nugget.
A voice crackles over the intercom system. “Scout, meet me in the hull. You left your shit down here, and I’m not cleaning up after you.”
A wry smile twists your lips as you push away from the table.
Despite the constant twisting of the universe outside the ship, some things you hope will never change.
/
DAY NULL—LOCATION: THE SUNDER
Din finds you in the cockpit.
You sit in the pilot’s chair, legs pulled up beneath you, chin in your hand. Space whirls overhead, spinning past at breakneck speed, but the whizzing of the stars don’t seem to register on your face. Not today, anyway.
Over the last two days, since departing Hoth’s bitter climate, the ship has floated through a thick atmosphere. Thoughts cloud the air in the Sunder, both his and yours. Nothing has been said between you, but he can see it written on your face in bright, nearly fluorescent ink. He’s sure when he removes his helmet at night you see the same written on his own skin. It is a question of the future, of what next, that plagues the ship.
He came to his conclusion not ten minutes ago, and it took him seven of those minutes to muster up the courage to tell you. So much of the last one-hundred-and-some days did not go as planned, and his final decision is one that jeopardizes your entire future. He knows deep in his gut what you will say, but he can’t help the niggling feeling that this will be his final sin against you. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he is glad he resumed his helmet after his time in meditative thought. He may never outgrow the comfort of anonymity beneath this tin can.
He sucks in a deep breath.
“I’m done,” he announces. “With bounty hunting.”
The chair spins as you turn to face him. “Oh?”
“For now.”
“When did you decide this?” Your question is not accusatory, as you may have once been. You are simply asking, your head tilted to the side as you process his announcement in conjunction with whatever thoughts swirl in your own head.
“Just now, but I’ve been thinking it over since Hoth.”
He steps further into the cockpit, lowering himself to sit on one of the two stairs descending from the small lounge near the door. He removes his helmet as he sits and places it by his side. He bites his tongue to keep his gaze trained on your face though every system in his body screams to look away, to hide his face. Time—this unfurling will take time, he is sure. But it is time and privilege he is willing to give you.
“I need a break,” he continues. “More than I did after Grogu.
“Where will you go?”
“I was thinking Hegora. There’s a few colonies there. Quiet, unbothered. I’d like some time to rest, to figure out what the next move is.”
You nod, and for the first time, make no effort to argue with him or stake your claim on the future. “Okay,” you say.
He arches a brow. “Okay? Just okay? Nothing you want to add?”
You shake your head. “No—just okay. It sounds fine to me. I think we both could use some time. We haven’t had a moment’s rest since I got here.”
“So you’re coming with me? You’re staying?”
You release a put upon sigh as you stand from the pilot’s chair. Your bare feet make hardly a whisper on the carpet as you approach him. Knees hitting the carpet, you twine your fingers between his ungloved hands. Your thumb follows the pattern of his family name inked on his knuckles.
Finally, you raise your eyes from his hands. Moisture sparkles over your irises, and he thinks you are the most beautiful thing in all of the Maker’s creation. “I am with you until the bitter end, Din Djarin.”
When you lift his hands to kiss his knuckles, he clears his throat, suddenly tense with emotion. “Until the end then,” he whispers, and you nod once—final, established.
It is done.
Standing, Din moves to the pilot’s chair and pulls you to his lap with a gentle arm around your waist. You nestle into his hold, and he inhales the scent of your rose-pressed soap. He likes feeling you this way, with his face free to savor your soft breath, your eyelashes against his brow.
A beeping on the dashboard cracks the comfortable silence.
Din peers around your shoulder at the incoming message. He huffs as he presses a button.
The message is from Karga, sent spiraling across galaxies to fill the cockpit with his anxious, tinny voice. “Mando, I just got your message. What’s this about you retiring? I know I encouraged it when the girl came on, but there’s too much happening now. We really can’t spare you. You or the girl.”
A rueful smirk pulls at your lips. Your eyes slide to Din’s, humor winking at the corners of your mouth. “Poor Karga,” you murmur. The transmission continues, more of Karga’s bargaining blasting through the cockpit speakers.
“Never mind him.”
As Din moves to seal his lips over yours, he fumbles with the transmission controls, half-bind as he sinks into the warmth of your mouth; a feeling, he’s sure, he will never quite get used to. You beak away, grinning wide, long enough to end the message: a quick slap of your hand to the flight deck. However haphazard the slap, the blinking red light disappears, and you turn your gaze to his. Your hand, pressed to his chest, sears his flesh.
“What has been joined together, let no man put asunder,” you whisper.
Din does not know where the words come from, but the syllables blanket his heart. He glances at your reflection in the windshield: him, unburdened by the darkness of his helm, his arms wrapped around your limbs, holding you close; your forehead against his temple, hair a curtain over your face as your breath fans his ear. Entwined like muscle and bone, like vine and the branch; separate you are nothing and together you are whole.
He places his palm over your hand, slotting his fingers between yours. “Let no man put asunder.”
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