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

Rambling Confessions

A/N: requested by Random_Chaotic_Bitch - yall i know these are defo not the symptoms of blood loss but hey

Warnings: violence, swearing, blood, reader goes loopy from blood loss,

Word count: 1.6k ish

From the silent panic emnating from your Mandalorian's shiny helmet, something's wrong. Yes, something is definitely wrong. Maybe it has to do with those strange people behind you, dressed in rather comedic, rather cheap, white armour, or that weird prickling feel in the tips of you fingers and the side of your ribs, the sensation tracking up your back and down your legs, swirling your thoughts into a confusing mire of befuddled, muddled, half formed sentences not ready to be spoken. Ideas are born into existance in some odd cavity in your head, but are eaten by the sluggish mush rattling through your blood stream seconds later. Nothing makes sense, but you find it hard to care.

Suddenly, Din jolts, and you gasp as pain spears through your numb senses, sharper than a viroblade and just as deadly. You dig your trembling fingers into the beskar pauldrons he wears, your skin sweaty enough that they slip right off the frigid metal, your arm dropping limply and dangling there. The red hot ache from somewhere in your ribs subsides but still remains throbbing, another reminder that something is wrong, but you can't quite comprehend it yet.

'Why - why the hurry?' You mumble.
'Troopers,' comes the clipped reply.

If you didn't know him better, you'd think he was exasperated with you. In reality, you know he's worried: deeply worried, so much so that he's pulled his shield around him, leaving an impenetrable defense around his heart - why is he doing that? No one's going to hurt him emotionally, no one's going to die. And these troopers? Is he speaking about the people running behind you?

'Din,' you gasp, suddenly light headed. 'What - what's going on? What's wrong?'
'We're almost there,' he answers. 'Just hold on. We're almost safe.'
'Where?'
'The ship.'
'Oh,' you hum. 'Where are we going? I - I wanna go to Mandalore.'
'We can't, sweetheart. It was bombed years ago.'
'What did you just call me?' You exclaim. 'Also, what happened to Mandalore?'
'It was decimated,' he says. 'You'll remember, you've just lost a lot of blood.'
'You didn't answer my first question,' you grumble. 'What blood?'

Huffing indignantly, you open your mouth, either to ask some indecipherable question about Mandalore and why he sounds so sad, or to say that you have not lost any blood, but then you glance down at your hand, the one that is tucked by your torso, not the one dangling like dead weight, hitting his thigh with every step. Your fingers are coated with crimson liquid.

Oh. Shit.

Frowning, you glance back up at Din, your head spinning. 'Wha - '

Your vision dissolves into black.

┕━━━━✹━━━━┙

You wake up when the ship's ramp bangs shut behind you. Din's chest heaves with exertion, and you raise your head, half noticing the jerky way it moves on your neck as you survey the swaying hull, wondering vaguely where you are. Something roars, just outside the ship, and you wince, shrinking back from a few shadows in the corner until you realise it's just the engines. Dramatically, you flop back against the crate, yelping when the corner of it hits the base of your head. Your surroundings spin until the ship becomes nothing but a grey blur, and you claw at the floor beneath you: a useless attempt to ground yourself in the midst of your chaos - eventually, it all comes to a stop, but disorientation still sinks its talons into your mind, and you fumble around, lost in a landscape that should be familiar to you.