Din Djarin x Reader One-Shots

Burn Like Fire

Warnings: Depression I think, Sorta suicidal thoughts not a lot i dont think, Death, Trauma, Violence, Blood, Alcohol, Swearing, Just sad honestly, needs to be edited but ain't gonna happen

Mandalorian x GN! Reader

Word Count: 2331 (There's fluff at the end I swear. Still sick 🥴 )

H/t = Hair Texture (straight, wavy, curly, etc.)

₪ ₪ ₪

You sat alone, empty eyes staring into the full glass in your hand, deaf to the unceasing chatter and roaring laughter from throughout the bar. You hadn't taken a single drink.

People often drank to drown their sorrows. To numb their pain. To forget, even if it was just for a little while.

But that was your problem.

You had drank yourself away long ago, leaving you practically immune to the effects of the sharp sting in those drinks. Now it was useless.

You were numb. Your mind, your emotions, your memories, all calloused and detached. It left you empty and tired, uncaring, reckless. 

Most just called it sociopathic.

No tragedy would make you cry. No celebration would make you smile. No bad deed would make you feel guilty. No kind gesture would make you thankful. And no death would make you remorseful. 

But there was always the dull throb in your chest, the ache at the back of your mind, the irritation behind your eyes. There was always the anxiety in your shoulders, and the shake of your hands.

And most of all the sting of bone to flesh.

That, you felt the most. You relished it -- every punch, every shot, every scream. It was all you could feel anymore, so its all you did.

You didn't beg for death, didn't hurt yourself, necessarily. You just didn't care.

Didn't care when a smuggler pulled you into an alley. Didn't care when a knife pulled the skin of your throat. Didn't care when the trigger was pulled and burned your every nerve.

You simply didn't give a kriffing shit. 

But when the adrenaline coursed your veins, when your skin tore and bled, when your head would pound so loud you couldn't see, that's when you cared.

And that's all you lived for anymore.

It's a shame they always died by the end. Weak fuckers.

And so here you sat, alone in a booth, body prickling from fresh hits and stinging bruises. The buzz of adrenaline had worn off a while ago, leaving you as you were before, staring into the oblivion.

Until his final words rang in your ears from that fateful night. The night this all started. The night you always remembered no matter how many rotations passed.

Tight and pained, shuddering with what little energy he had left.

"I wove you zaza."

You used to cry, deep into the night until your throat was raw and the shine of the morning sun blinded your bloodshot eyes. You used to visit his grave every day with fresh flowers and a new prayer. You used to care.

As you wandered through your muddled thoughts, lost in the dull gaze of your reflection, a hush swept over the room, very unusual for the often ear-numbing cantina.

Glancing up, you saw the man that caused this silence. He strode through the crowd and towards the bar as if ignorant to the fact that every eye was on him. Or more specifically, his armor.