Din Djarin/Mando/The Mandalorian: One Shots, Imagines, etc.

Forgiven pt. 2

A/N: requested by Ghost_Guard_13 and also MakenaPotter - yall ik i missed some parts out of both of your ideas but this was so long i couldnt deal with it

Warnings: blasters, swearing i think, ONE spank, made up mandalorian lore, idk, not proof read as per usual,

Word count: 2092

Translations: cyar'ika = sweetheart, vod'ika = little brother

It was only until you stepped foot on the Mandalorian's ship, the Razor Crest, that you realised the gravity of what you had done. You'd defied your superiors: your officers, your commanders, the whole Empire. The thought had made you shrink into yourself beneath your cheap white armour, which ironically you had always imagined stripping off immediately when you fantasised about running - instead you tightened the straps of the breastplate, clutching at your helmet because it was the only solidarity you had left. Your old life is gone.

If it wasn't for this Mandalorian, you'd have had nowhere to go.

You can tell he still barely trusts you, even after a month of tagging along after him on his hunts and making yourself as helpful as you can, but he seems determined to keep you around, possibly because you like his kid, possibly because his kid likes you. Mando, as you've come to call him, has aquired a taste for your cooking. It was a steep learning curve at first, since you've only really had experience with rations, but he seems to like your improvisations. Currently, you dish out some noodles onto his plate and yours, setting aside a small portion for the child to munch on: you've noticed that he has a few teeth poking through, and you reckon he'll be able to handle it - you have seen him swallow a frog whole, after all.

Handing Mando his bowl with a furtive smile in his direction, you duck your head and scoop the child up, scurrying over to your corner of the hull in a vague attempt at privacy. Normally, he retreats to the sleeping quarters to gulp down his food in record time, but today he does no such thing, and you're not quite sure how to act as he hooks his fingers in the rim of his helmet, the seal releasing with a soft hiss. Subtly, you glance at him through the corner of your eye, hoping that you're not being obvious as you watch him lift the beskar up a few inches so he can slurp up some noodles.

Mando's lips are a rosey pink, and the gentle colour brings a smile to your face - it seems so ridiculous, the thought of a hardened bounty hunter like him having such sweet features. Chestnut stubble covers the rest of his face, and your fingers twitch. It takes all you have to suppress the urge to brush them along his strong jaw. You wonder what else he hides behind that helmet - you imagine rugged features, kind but somewhat weathered, a strong brow and beautiful, expressive eyes. He's shrouded himself in mystery, and even after your weeks as part of his little motley crew, you're unsure what he really feels about you. There's no way he spends as much time pondering you as you do him, but -

'You're being painfully obvious, cyar'ika,' he says out of the blue. 'If you want to stare inconspicuously, you should stop blushing first.'
'I - I - what? I wasn't - uh - ' You stumble over your words, flustered by his bluntness.
'It's alright, cyar'ika,' he chuckles, the sound like velvet. 'I'm sure you're curious.'
'What - what does that mean?'

He pauses a moment, lowering the plate of noodles from his mouth, and tilts his head, as if contemplating your question. After about thirty seconds, you realise he's not going to give you an answer, and you cringe, trying not to suffocate under the crushing awkwardness that clumsily tangles you in its grip. The kid coos in your lap, reaching for a noodle from your plate, and you gladly devote all your attention to him, ignoring the way your ears burn.