Work Text:
Starlight wreathed his head, creating a halo, like that of an archaic saint. Stars, he was more beautiful than the largest pillar of creation, a monument to the brilliant darkness of the radiant universe. Everything else blurred, sloughing away to showcase a diamond. Space was a harsh, cold mistress, yet the man retained that striking jaw as if hewn from rock. The wear and tear showed itself in crow’s feet and lines running across his forehead. But, his ticker was the real treasure. If his appearance was a golden wreath, his heart would be the gemstone centerpiece.
There was something timeless, something so obviously of a different era. Maybe it was his religion or his devotion to the creed, but the Mandalorian was a thing of beauty. Those hands, tuned since childhood to kill, came to your face. Thumbs on your cheekbones, he looked and looked and looked, drinking you in like he hadn’t seen a human face in millennia. Which, you guessed, was true. Your estimations put him in his late thirties, and from what you had gathered, even the foundlings of the Children of the Watch covered their faces. This was the first time in three decades anyone had seen the Mandalorian, no, Din Djarin, for who he truly was. Not a beskar shell, nor a hunter.
You raised your hands, tracing the harsh planes of his face. A finger outlined his nose, a giggle escaping from you. And those eyes, stars, dark like pools with the occasional granule of starlight. They twinkled now, his emotions showing plainly. His voice, soft and unmodulated, reached your ears, “Well?” That voice...it could melt the harshest of hearts. Your face broke open in a cheek-splitting grin, “Well?” A chuckle broke free from Din’s chest, bathing you in its radiance. A dimple popped out of his cheek, matching the revelry in his heart. His lips met yours and it was...electric. Tongue and teeth and lips came together beautifully, lighting a spark. You broke apart, not for lack of want, but for air. Just as he leaned in again, brushing lips, something clanged in the hull, then there was a curse, and after that boots struck the ladder. Groaning, you swiveled to face the worktable where Din’s rifle was taken apart. You wouldn’t find out until your youth was long past, but the Mandalorian’s religion was their weapon. Maintenance was their duty alone, and to allow another person access to it was...it was an admittance of not only your intimacy as friends or family but also signaled a relationship akin to that of husband and wife.
Grabbing the oiled cloth, you began polishing, before noticing the barrel’s copper streaks. “You’ve got some fouling here, nothing too bad.” He hummed from the pilot’s seat, voice coming out flat from his helmet. Boba popped his head in, then saw what you were doing, and scoffed before disappearing. Shaking your head, you turned and leaned on the workbench’s edge, “What was that about?” Din was glad you couldn't see his face beneath the helmet, as it was turning a lovely red, “No clue.”