#and nor does Din | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

noisynaia · 1 year

Note

Hey! I really love your Mando fics. Can I request something where the reader is traveling with Din and Grogu on the crest (could be Grogu's babysitter or something) and Din has a huge crush on her and seeing how much she loves grogu makes him want to confess his feelings. Just some nice Mando fluff, can be sfw or nsfw, whatever you feel like. 💕

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐲

Thank you for the request! I had so much fun writing this ♡

word count: 5.7k

pairing: Din Djarin x afab!reader

note: Explicit (18+). Smut and fluff. Thigh riding, unprotected P in V (with use of contraception), creampie. Love confessions. The helmet comes off. The Razor Crest lives. No use of (y/n). This has not been beta nor proof read and English is not my native language.

Din’s heart skips a beat at the sight of you. He has tried to fight the feelings he has developed for you, convinced himself that his feelings aren’t truly as deep cutting as they feel. Tried to be content with the time you would spend with him and Grogu before you eventually would move on and he’d be left with the memories and the fantasies of how it would have been if you had really been his. The sight of you and Grogu is almost too much for him, and it makes it very hard for him to not just give up everything and tell you how you make him feel. Your features are highlighted by the silvery moon light that is shining down from the night sky.

You are beautiful.

Din had thought so from the moment he first saw you. But now, after you have travelled with him and Grogu for almost a year and he has gotten to know you, really know you, ‘beautiful’ simply doesn’t cut it anymore. The word in basic is feeling too banal, too trivial, to describe the true beauty of your being. You are the most beautiful person Din has ever known and he is confirmed in this by you every day.

The way you smile up at him when you walk side by side in a crowded market when you’re on supply runs, always insisting on finding a treat or a new toy for Grogu. The way you always greet Din so happily when he comes back from a hunt, like you truly are happy to see him again, like you have actually missed him… How you will always make sure he is okay and hasn’t been hurt, and how you will insist on helping patch him up on the occasions he is. The feeling of your soft hands delicately placing a bacta patch on his bare shoulder a few weeks ago is still burnt into his skin… The way you take such good care of his son, you look at Grogu like he is the one who hung every moon and every star in the galaxy. The kindness and beauty of your soul is truly bewitching. Maybe that is why he started calling you mesh’la.

The first time it had just slipped out. It was a couple of months ago. He had come back from a hunt late at night, tired and muddy. For a short moment, Din had felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs by the sight he had found. There you were, so lovely, so beautiful, fast asleep on his bunk with a sleeping Grogu curled up beside you, his little green fist closed around one of your fingers.

Din’s heart had yearned by the sight. The feelings you and Grogu are bringing to him are new territory for Din. He has never wanted anything like this before, or at least never let himself admit that he does. But you and Grogu make it impossible for Din to keep lying to himself. The kid is under his care, under his protection, and from the moment he chose the armour instead of the sabre and came back to Din, his ad'ika. Din and Grogu are a clan. A clan of two. A clan that Din wishes was a clan of three.

He had been quiet when he started to walk off to the cockpit, something he usually was good at, but you had stirred awake anyway, like your sleeping subconscious had felt his presence. You lifted your head from the pillow, sleepily blinked until your eyes had found him.

“You’re back.” You had said, your voice had been a little hoarse from sleep, but still as sweet as usual, a tired smile had painted your face as your eyes had found the dark T of his visor.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He had said, but you had just shaked your head and hugged Grogu close against you. Oh, how Din had wished he could have crawled into the bunk and joined the two of you.

“Are you okay?” You had asked, just like you always do after he comes back from a hunt.

“Yes, I’m okay.” He had reassured you before continuing. “Go back to sleep, mesh’la.”

He has never told you what it means and a part of him feels guilty about that. Maybe you wouldn’t like to be called that by him. You are technically his employee, even though the lines between you feel pretty blurry by now. An undefinable bond has been built between you, Grogu and Din. Maybe it is the small proximity there is forced upon the three of you, due to the size of the Razor Crest. Or maybe it is due to the undeniable connection there has been between you and Grogu from the beginning, but your presence on the Crest feels too domestic, too loving, for you to simply be Grogu’s nanny.

Din has felt feelings this past year that he has not been acquainted with before. Desire, jealousy, a desperate yearning, all fairly foreign to him until you had entered his life. It is an emotional disruption he hasn’t felt since Grogu had come into his life.

When Grogu had come crashing into his life it had been an upheaval beyond anything Din could ever have imagined. He was so used to not having anyone around, let alone a small child that was so dependent on him. It had been confusing and foreign, but Grogu had climbed into his heart and carved out a space there. A space that Din never wants to become empty again.

Din had never been aware of how lonely he actually had been before Grogu. It had been a hard realisation, but he couldn’t deny it any longer, especially when he thought that he had lost him. Forget hunting bounties and fighting ferocious creatures, handing his foundling over to the Jedi was the hardest thing Din has ever had to do. Din had ended up caring more for Grogu than he had ever thought possible, he had removed his helmet for his foundling, the little green child had given din a whole new purpose in life.

And now Din is a changed man. Grogu has changed him, down to the very atoms of his DNA. Din had never thought he would have what he now has. He had been settled with the way his life had been- lonesome and brutal, in order to support his covert and give back to the Mandalorians that had taken him in, or he had at least used to think so…

But seeing you now, there is really no way of running from his feelings any longer. You are gently bouncing Grogu on your hip as you point out a constellation for him, but the youngling seems to be more interested in playing with the hem of your tunic than looking at the stars over your heads. The silver light from the planet’s moons illuminates you and bathes you in the shine.

Din had landed the Crest on the little planet not even twenty minutes ago and even though it was past Grogu’s bedtime you had insisted on letting him have a couple of minutes in the fresh air before putting him down for the night. Din had not objected, the three of you had been in space for almost a week straight so a little moonlit night stroll before bed had sounded tempting.

A light breeze sweeps over you and Grogu lets go of your tunic to instead nuzzle himself close against your chest as he lets out a cute little yawn. You let out a low chuckle before looking up at Din and his heart skips a beat for the second time this night. The stars are reflecting in your eyes and you have a sleepy smile on your lips.

“I think it is time to get our little one here back to his bed.” You chuckle while you hitch Grogu up a little higher on your hip.

‘Our little one…’

Our!

Dear Maker how Din wished that you had meant it in the way he secretly yearns for.

“Yeah, let’s head back to the ship, mesh’la.”

—

Grogu is sleepily blinking his big eyes up at you as he slowly snoozes off in your arms. You let out a content sigh as you plant a kiss on top of his little green head before carefully placing him down into his little hammock. The sound of his small soft snores echoes through the little sleeping chamber. You are never gonna get tired of this. You smile down at the little sleeping figure as you back away, turning the switch for the door to give the youngling peace to sleep.

You look around the hull for Din, but you don’t find him so you climb up the ladder to the cockpit where you find him sitting in the pilot chair. He looks like he is lost deep in his thoughts, looking out through the window at the night dark meadow where he had docked the ship.

“Hey.” You say as you approach him, sitting yourself down in the passenger seat next to him.

“Hi.” He says without looking at you.

A silence falls over the cockpit, not necessarily an uncomfortable one, but it does feel loaded with something you can’t really put your finger on. Din had been silent for the entire walk back to the Crest and you wonder if something is bothering him. Maybe he is just tired. You had told him to take the bunk tonight when you made it back to the ship, but he had refused. You were supposed to be taking turns sleeping in the bunk under Grogu’s hammock, but it has been weeks since Din has slept in it and wasn't like he did it often before that. You feel bad about it, his back must be killing him after all these nights on the hard mat on the floor.

“Din is-” You lean forward in the passenger chair, leaning slightly towards him to try and catch his attention. “Is something wrong?”

He finally looks away from the window and turns his helmet towards you, and despite only being met by the dark visor of his helmet you just know that his eyes under it are locking with yours. The thought of that always sends a little shiver through you. You know that you shouldn't think about it. Maybe it is wrong, an insult to his creed, but you can’t help but fantasise about the man he must be underneath all the beskar. He is handsome, that is for sure. It doesn’t even matter in what way, it is deeper than that. He is a handsome person no matter what he actually looks like under the helmet and armour. You have seen some of him in glimpse. A bare hand as he removes a glove to get a better grip on as he fixes a clasp on a crate, or the time he had gotten hit in the spot between two pieces of armour and you had helped him getting it bandaged. His face is still a mystery to you. It is a little weird not to know what he looks like, especially considering that you have fallen in love with him.

You had not meant to fall in love with the Mandalorian. You had tried to fight it, but it was a fight you had no chance of winning. You know that you are being silly, but you sometimes get the idea that he might feel something for you too. It also doesn’t help that you have ended up loving Grogu as much as you do. You don’t think you could love him more if he had been your own. It is kind of scary, the thought of the day din decides he doesn’t need you anymore. That your feelings for Din never will be reciprocated hurts, but you will be able to get over it with time, but the day you will have to get separated from Grogu… Oh, that day is going to kill you.

“No, mesh’la nothings wrong.” Din shakes his head, he isn’t looking at you anymore, back to looking out at the night. “I was just lost in my own thoughts.”

“Oh, okay...”

You sit in silence for a little while, you don’t know if you should go and let him be alone with his thoughts or if you should break the silence. You are just about to open your mouth to say something, what you don’t even know, but the silence feels too much. Din beats you to it though.

“The kid, he uhm…” His voice is much softer than usual, almost close to a whisper. “He really likes you.”

“Well, I really like him too.” You say, you can’t help the soft smile spreading on your lips.

“I’m glad you do, mesh’la…”

“You know… You keep calling me that, but you have never told me what it means.”

“I guess I haven’t…” His voice is low and a little shaky through the modulator.

You don’t know what it is with him tonight, but something feels different.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your fluttering heart. “Are you gonna tell me?”

He freezes in the chair, sitting more still than usual, if that is even possible. He is almost reminiscent of a statue. The silence builds, and you begin to regret that you asked. The air between you feels charged, but you can’t figure out with what. It feels like whatever his answer is gonna be it is gonna fundamentally change something between you. You are starting to think that he is going to ignore your question when he finally breaks the silence.

“Beautiful.” His voice sounds a little weak, almost like he regrets telling you, but he continues in a more confident tone. “It means beautiful.”

Beautiful… He’s been calling you beautiful all this time? The word always falling so naturally from his lips, soft and earnestly.

The rapid beats of your heart against the restraints of your ribcage thumbs loudly in your ears. You can’t believe what he just said. He is finally looking back at you again, but any signs of what he is feeling are hidden behind the dark reflection of the visor.

“You call me beautiful?”

“Yeah, I do… Trust me, if anything or anyone has ever deserved to be called that, it is you.”

You can not believe that this is really happening, is there really a chance that he might feel the same as you?

“I don’t know what to say.” You say, the hope that has bloomed in your chest is scaring you.

“You don’t have to say anything. I actually would prefer it if you don’t… I’m sorry if I have made you uncomfortable.” He stands up from the chair, turning his back to you.

“Din please don’t go…” You grab his wrist before he can get to the ladder and disappear down the hull. “Din, I need you to tell me how you feel, please… I need to know.”

“Dank farrik.” He curses under his breath and turns around to face you again. “I don’t know how to do this…” He shuffles anxiously from one foot to another.

It is always so surprising to see Din like this, the usual confident and stoic bounty hunter all anxious and nervous, but you have seen it a few times before. He might be a tough and hardy bounty hunter, but put the man in a social setting and he can get nervous. But this is a whole new level.

“Grogu he…” He pauses, the sound of his breath sounds shaky through the modulator of his helmet. “He means the world to me. I love him, he… he is mine. I never thought that I would have that, my life was never set on that path, I didn’t think I was ever meant to be anyone’s buir, but… now I can’t imagine my life without him in it. It was hard for me to accept that I wanted someone around, but I couldn’t deny it any longer.”

His words come out with so much emotion, you have never heard him like this before. You know that he loves his son, he shows that every day, but hearing him say it like this… The rawness, the emotions. Your vision starts to turn blurry as the tears start to build in the corner of your eyes. You want to be a part of that love so bad.

“What I’m trying to say is…” He takes a shaky breath through the modulator, his shoulders are tense under the shoulder plates of his armour and his gloved hands are curled into tight anxious fists. “Now I can’t imagine my life without you in it either.”

“Oh…” Your lips part, you are founding yourself dumbfounded. Is this really happening?

“I want you to be a part of my life, both our lives…” He is actually shaking as he tells you this. “I don’t want to just be a clan of two anymore… I want you mesh’la.”

You suddenly understand. The way you will sometimes worry that he is avoiding you, or how you sometimes feel like your presence is making him uncomfortable. It makes sense now, you rise from the chair and close the distance between the two of you. You search for the eyes under the helmet, even though you can’t see them you want him to know that you are looking at him - the man and not the Mandalorian. You realise how hard this must be for him, he has been hidden away for all of his adult life, physically, but emotionally too. You reach out for him, placing your palms on the sides of his helmet.

“Din…” You start out, it is probably just something you imagine, but it is like you can feel the heat of his skin through the beskar on your hands. “You already got me. I’m already yours.”

“Really?” It is Din’s turn to sound like he doesn’t believe what he is hearing.

“Yes, Din.” You can feel the tears sliding down your cheeks now, and you can’t keep the grin off your face as you nod up at him. “I’m yours, okay. Yours and Grogu’s.”

“And we are yours... Kriff, mesh’la I’m all yours.” He gasps through the modulator. He rests his forehead against yours, the coolness of the beskar is feeling nice against your warm skin. You stand like this for a moment, simply enjoying the intimacy of the closeness, your hands cradling his helmet and his resting on your hips. The silence stretches until Din finally breaks it.

“I want to kiss you so badly.” He confesses.

“I know.” You say, but you know that he can’t and that is okay. You have accepted that things with him are going to be different than it would have been with others, so the shock you’re feeling when a loud hiss is echoing off the durasteel walls is big. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut without even thinking about it. Your hands land over your closed eyes, like an extra protection to make sure you don’t see him.

“What are you doing?!” You shriek as you hear the loud thud of beskar landing on the metal floor. Din has removed his helmet! He didn’t even give you a warning so you could close your eyes before, you had been quick so you haven't really seen him just gotten a quick blurry peek.

“Open your eyes, mesh’la.” His voice is so low and soft, it is so close to a whisper, you almost miss it. His fingers brush against your hands to make you remove them from your eyes. His bare hands, you notice, and the skin on skin contact makes a hot shiver run down your spine. “Please.” He adds.

You can’t believe this. First you learn that he has been calling you beautiful for months, then he tells you that he wants you to stay with him and Grogu and now… Now Din is helmetless in front of you and he wants you to see him?

“Are you sure?” You stutter.

“Yes, mesh’la.” This time he speaks with his whole chest, like he has never been more sure about anything in his life. The sound of his voice without the modulator of his helmet hits your ears and you feel like you might cry. It’s deep and rich, reminding you of the sonorous melodies played on a f'nonc horn.

You inhale a shaky breath before removing your hands from your eyes and slowly blinking them open. And there he is. Din Djarin, your Din Djarin, staring back at you. You let out a little gasp as you take in the sight of him. You can’t believe that this is what he has been hiding all this time. You knew you would like the way he looked, because it would be him, but the reality is still exceeding all expectations you had. Din Djarin is gorgeous. The brown hair, that curls up at the ends, matches the colour of the irises of the prettiest most soulful eyes you have ever seen. His strong jaw is covered with a short, slightly patchy, beard that frames his face nicely. A moustache is framing his mouth. A mouth with the most kissable lips you have ever seen.

Another long silence breaks out between you, both of you are shocked by the situation.

“Hi…” He finally says and it is all that you need to break out of your haze.

“Hi.” You smile at him, maybe the brightest smile of your life.

You reach out for him, you need him closer.

“Do I disappoint?” He asks, but he is smiling too now.

“Hell no.” You shake your head with a laugh, the thought of this face disappointing anyone is an absurd idea.

“You’re beautiful.” You whisper, your hands find his hair, wrapping your fingers in his soft locks. He leans his forehead down to rest against yours again. It had felt good before, but this - his skin against yours, oh that is heaven. The two of you stay like this for a while, enjoying the affinity between you.

“What about that kiss?” You finally say and it is all he needs to hear. His lips crash onto yours. It is like a switch has been turned, the softness from before replaced with an intense hunger. The kiss is heated and needy, like he is desperate to taste you, wanting to map out every corner of your mouth. His hands are on your hips, a tight grip as he pushes you closer against him.

You gasp into his mouth as you feel the solid curve of his bulge press against your pelvis. It is sending a warm shiver through you that settles in your lower stomach. You press yourself into him, slightly grinding your hips against his clothed cock which pulls a low groan out of him. His broad hands squeezes your hips, guiding your rhythm as you rock against him.

“Do you really want this?” You ask him

“More than anything.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “Do you?”

“Yes!” You nod wildly. “I’ve never wanted anything or anyone as badly as I want you.”

Your confession makes him let out a deep groan from deep within his throat, it makes a new shiver run through you. His fingers find the hem of your pants which he starts to slide down your legs. You take over, kicking the garment of your legs as you push him towards the pilot’s chair.

“Sit.” You command. You don’t know what it is, you are usually not the commanding type, but you are feeling wild tonight, drunk off of Din’s lips.

Something flickers in Din’s eyes at your sudden bossy tone. “Yes, ma’am.” He mutters as he sits back in the seat, his strong thighs spread out and a cocky smile on his lips. Fuck, he is going to be the death of you aren’t he?

You take a second to enjoy the view, before walking over to him, stepping between his thighs. Your hand lands in his hair as you look down at him through hooded eyes.

“Come here, mesh’la.” He whispers as he reach out for you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer. You lift your leg over him, straddling his broad lap.

He groans at the pressure, as you start to rock your clothed cunt against his muscular thigh. You suspect that he can feel the warmth of your dampness through the fabric. Din adjusts his hold on your waist, helping you set a rhythm as he begins to move your hips. He is moving you slowly at first, but the eager sounds you’re letting out is quickly making him pick up the pace. You purr out his name as you feel his thigh flex under you.

“Kriff… Doing so good for me, mesh’la.” Din curses under his breath. “Looking so pretty.”

“Mmm..” You hum out, burying your face into the crook of his neck as you keep grinding against him until you can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck, Din, I...” You whine, feeling the fabric of your panties getting gradually more and more damp against him.

“I need you, Din” You remove your head from his neck so you can look deeply into his eyes. His brown eyes are burning you, his hands coming to a still.

“Okay, yeah…” He nods at you, his pupils are blown wide and a flush is covering his cheeks. “Ne-need you too, mesh’la.”

His eyes are still locked with yours as he moves you, making you lift yourself up from him so he can start on removing some of his armour plates. You use the time to get rid of your tunic, leaving you in only your bra and panties. He ends up removing most of his armour, leaving him warm and soft for you.

He pulls you down on him again, connecting your lips once more as his hand dives down to your panties, sliding his fingers under the hem and finding your clit which he begins to stroke with slow, firm circles after coating his digits with your wetness, making you moan into the kiss.

“Fuck, mesh’la, you’re so wet. All soaked, just for me. My sweet, sweet girl.” He whisper against your mouth.

He keeps circling your clit with one hand, setting a faster pace as his other hand finds your breast, squeezing it gently through your bra, making you let out another desperate moan. Your hands find the clasp at your back, fingers fumbling slightly from eagerness as you open the latch before zealously removing the item from your body. Din lets out a pleased groan as your exposed breasts appear. His free hand, that isn’t occupying your clit, eagerly kneads the soft plumpness of one of your tits before taking its nipple between his fingers and gently twisting it.

“Oh, fuck… Fuck, Din, I…” You whine out, feeling your orgasm approach. You don’t think you have ever felt it come this early before, but he has you so riled up.

“I know baby, I know.” He encourages. “You can mesh’la, you can come for me.”

It is all you need to hear, the last string that holds you together gets cut and the warm euphoric waves of pleasure wash over you. His name is falling from your lips over and over again as you ride out your orgasm.

“Did that feel good?” He asks you with a kiss to the top of your head when you’ve finally come back down from your high and now has relaxed into him.

“So good.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He says and you can hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him.

“Wanna make you feel good too.” You say letting your fingers find his cheek and gently stroke his cheekbone. “Want you inside me.” You feel how his cock twitches underneath you from your confession.

“You sure mesh’la?” He asks, placing his hand under your chin to gently holding your head up as he look deeply you in the eyes for your answer.

“Very.”

“Okay.” He hums, pressing a gentle kiss onto your lips, but it very quickly turns heated.

Your hands reach down between you, finding the buttons of his pants which you quickly begin to unbutton. The angle is slightly awkward, but you manage to get the last button undone without breaking the kiss.

Din taps your thigh to make you step back for a second so he can pull down his pants and free his cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. You had gotten the idea that he was big from what you had felt when you grinded against his bulge, but nothing could prepare you for the view that met you. He is big. His cock is throbbing and thick, laying heavy against his stomach, the tip is already dripping with precum and you feel your mouth water by the sight.

You slide your panties to the side as you readjust yourself, and start to slowly sink down on him. You’re really taking your time, both so you can adjust to the imposing size of him, and so you can enjoy the sounds he’s making for you as you slowly take more and more of him, until you finally are taken the entirety of him.

“You are so perfect…” He sights. “Cyar'ika you have no idea…” He adds before he starts on leaving hot kisses up and down your neck.

‘Cyar'ika.’ Another word you don’t know the meaning of, but you are too far gone in your shared pleasure to stop up and ask him the meaning.

The two of you sit like this for a little while, letting you adjust to him, but you soon can’t take it anymore, you need some movement.

You lift yourself a little from the chair before sinking back down on him, making Din choke on a throaty moan. His hands stay on your hips, as you begin to bounce on him in a slow, but steady rhythm, but he occasionally slips them down to your ass, squeezing the soft plum skin with his broad hands. It makes you go wild. You pick up your pace.

“Dear, Maker…” You gasp “Din, you’re feeling so good.”

“You too, mesh’la. So fucking tight.” Din praises, lifting you up with his strong arms and pulls all the way out of you before slamming back into you, filling you up again. “So warm, so perfect.”

His hips now meet yours with every bounce as he thrust up into you, burying himself so deep inside you it has you bite down hard on your lower lip to not scream loudly and wake up Grogu. The sound of Din’s heavy balls slapping up against your wet cunt, as well as the loud creaks of the chair, is echoing from the walls and it is honestly the hottest thing you have ever heard. Your arms have begun to shake as your grip on the armrest of the chair is getting tighter and tighter. You keep bouncing up and down on him as you feel your second climax getting nearer and nearer.

“Oh, kriff… Mesh’la you’re so tight.” He groans through gritted teeth.

“I… I won’t last much longer.” He warns. His thrust falters a little as he gets closer and closer to his release.

“It’s okay, you can come, baby…” You pant out. “Please come for me, Din”

He let out a throaty groan at your encouragement.

“I have an implant.” You add. “Please, I want to feel you inside of me.”

You pull his face up to you, kissing him hard. Your lips connected passionately as you both get pushed over the edge. His fingers dig into your hips as he comes, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer.

You moan out his name, as your walls clench down around his cock. You feel how his dick twitches inside you as he comes undone. The warmth of his release coats your inside, and you dote on the feeling of being filled by him, milking every drop of his release as he keeps pumping into you, fucking his cum deep into you. You feel like the two of you have melted together as you both ride out your climaxes. Tears of pleasure are wetting your eyes. You have wanted him for so long, never thought that you would have him, never thought that he would feel the same as you.

You find his lips again, kissing him as you both ride out your climaxes. He hums content into your mouth and you can feel the smile on his lips. His hands are leaving your waist and he is instead cupping your cheeks, gently holding your face and the rough and heated atmosphere is soon turning soft.

“Are you okay?” He asks while caressing your cheek with light strokes of his finger pads.

“Yes.” You assure him with a small smile. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. He has the prettiest smile in the galaxy you decide. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, mesh’la.”

You don’t know the meaning of his words, but they fall from his lips with such warmth and care that you it has your heart flutter with warmth in your chest.

“What does that mean?” Your voice is nothing but a whisper.

“I will know you forever.”

“That is beautiful.”

“It’s…” He looks into your eyes, the deep mahogany of his irises make your heart clench. You can’t believe that these are the eyes that has been looking at you from under the helmet all this time. “It’s how we tell people we love them.”

“It is…?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I love you, mesh’la.”

He loves you… Din Djarin loves you.

“I love you too, Din.” You say before connecting your lips again in a long passionate kiss. “You and Grogu.” You add when you eventually have to pull away for air.

He smiles at you as his eyes are filling with grateful tears. You, Din and Grogu – a little clan of three.

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hier--soir · 5 months

Text

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her.

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks.

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored.

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans.

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm.

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground.

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.”

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

#i know the fire brigade probably gets called when you hit the emergency stop in an elevator #but this is a fantasy land where i get to make the rules #my writing #fic: raising cain #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin au fanfic #din djarin x ofc #din djarin smut #din djarin fic

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dindjarindiaries · 9 months

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When It Rains, It Pours

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompts: “Just breathe, it’ll be over soon.” and “I’m sorry—.” “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

"Cyar'ika?"

Din's voice draws you out of your slumber. Once you gather your bearings, you smile at the sight of Din's face and raise a hand to hold his cheek. "Hey."

Your thumb brushes just under his eye, and in doing so, you notice the lack of a sparkle in his dark gaze. The shaking of his hand that's still on your shoulder tells a frightening story. The concern drips into your tone as you give him a quick once-over.

"Hey." You hold his face with both hands, one of your thumbs lowering to run over his trembling lips. "What is it?"

Din's gaze averts yours. Instead, he turns his attention to the viewport on the opposite side of your room. His voice is quiet when he answers. "There's a storm."

You take a moment to listen for it. Sure enough, the rain is pounding onto the roof above your heads, and a distant roll of thunder makes Din's grip on your shoulder tighten for a moment. This is a rare occurrence for Nevarro, and for Din, it's a frightening one. You try to win back his gaze with another brush of your thumb over his lips. "Are you okay?"

Din hesitates, the breath he holds visible in the stalling of his scarred chest. When his gaze meets yours, his honesty wins out, and he gives his head a small shake. Your chest aches with the way your heart's shattered.

You don't need an explanation from him, nor would you ever ask for one. Thunder can sound like explosions, and explosions can bring Din back to many traumatic moments—but mostly the one that terrifies his inner child.

"Here, let's get some lights on." You sit up in the bed and lean over to the table on your side, pressing the button that activates the warm lamps throughout the room. Din's since taken a hold of one of your hands between his and you let him keep it there. "How about some tea?"

Din nods and watches as his thumb brushes over the back of your hand. "Yeah."

You smile at him. "Great." You take your hand from him only to make your way out of the bed. Din's tunic on your figure has already made you decent as you walk around the bed to his side. You take him by the hand to lead him out into the living area of your cabin. "I just picked up a new blend from the bazaar."

"That sounds—," Din starts, cutting himself short when a particularly loud roll of thunder interrupts him. He squeezes your hand and forces himself to take a deep breath. "Great. That sounds great."

You smile at his bravery as you begin to heat the water and set out two cups for each of you. "And you know what?" Once everything's set out, you turn back to Din and wrap your arms around his neck. He steadies himself with his hands on your waist. "I think you're doing great."

You urge him to lower his head to your shoulder, getting a quick kiss in on his cheek before he does so. When there's another crash of thunder, one that makes the cabin shake, Din pulls you tight enough against himself to make you lose your breath for a moment. He loosens the grasp, but still keeps it tighter than before.

"Just breathe," you say, your voice a soft and sweet breath. Your cheek presses against the side of his head as you run your hand over his back. "It'll be over soon."

After a long moment of silence, Din speaks up, his voice muffled by the tunic on your shoulder. "I was a child," he reflects. "You would think I could deal with this, now."

You lift his face from your shoulder to hold it between his hands, making him face you and the comfort of your gaze. "If only it were that easy." You smile and run your knuckles along his cheek, tracing the fading outline of a scar from many years ago on this same planet. "You're already a hero, Din. You don't have to keep proving that."

Din's face starts to flush as he looks down in shyness. "Thank you." His brow wrinkles when he gains the faith to search your gaze again. "I know I woke you up. I'm sorry—."

"No, don't be sorry." Your hand runs through the hair at the side of his head. "It's not your fault." You shake your head at him. "You can't help it."

Din looks as if he's preparing to argue, but the sound of the water boiling from behind you stops him. You step away from Din to remove it from heat and fill your cups with the prepped tea spices. Once you've handed Din yours, you hop up onto the counter and hold yours between your hands.

"Now, we have a few options," you present to him. Din makes room for himself between your knees, his hips resting against the edge of the counter as he raises an eyebrow at you. "We can sit here and drink our tea in silence if that's what'll help you, or I can talk you through it." You brush a piece of hair out of Din's face. "Or... once we're done with our tea..." your thumb finds his lips once again, "I can kiss you back to sleep."

Din chuckles and dares to lift the steaming cup of tea towards his lips. "The latter two options sound very enticing."

You smile as he sips from his cup and lets his brow loosen in relaxation. "Yeah?"

Din reaches up to make your forehead meet his own. "Yeah." He takes a deep breath and manages a genuine smile for you. "Thank you, cyar'ika."

You brush your fingers along his untrimmed chin. "You never have to thank me, Din." You draw him closer until you taste the new tea blend from him, an exchange of trust, love, and comfort that goes beyond words.

#and i just think that din being honest with his fears and wanting comfort through a thunderstorm is going to make me fall apart!!!!!!!!!!!!#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #prompts #dindjarindiaries

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vivvangel · 2 months

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a million little times | yang jungwon.

viv's note 💌: not proof read. love u all.

synopsis: he doesn't love you, what's so hard about understanding that? he doesn't love you. but for him, you'd break yourself a million little times, did he want that? no. did he want you? also, no?. › pairings & contents: situationship!jungwon x afab!reader, angst ✧ warnings: love bombing, situatioship breakup, blurred lines in a relationship, trauma, one sided love, commitment issues. ━━━━━━ tw.

wc:

what started in beautiful rooms, ends with meetings in parking lots and that's the thing about illicit affairs, and clandestine meetings and longing stares; It's born from just one single glance but it dies, and it dies, and it dies — a million little times.

"jungwon, let's not do this—"

"it's over, i'm sorry"

it's over & he's sorry. if only he cared to explain what we were in the first place.

let's rewind?

yang jungwon was the most perfect "boyfriend". only if he was your boyfriend. he got you flowers, he took care of you, but he wasn't your boyfriend — if you could turn back time, you would never agree to be in a "no-label" relationship, because oh boy, does it hurt.

the relationship existed in a perpetual state of limbo, neither fully committed nor entirely detached. you two clung to each other out of loneliness and desperation, your hearts yearning for something more, yet unable to break free from the suffocating grip of their situation.

you loved him. your desire for jungwon's love and affection was strong, like an endless thirst in the desert of your soul. you ached for his presence, touch, and reassuring whispers. you sought the stability and security that had always evaded you in him, believing that he would fill the emptiness in your heart. but he didn't, he made that empty gap bigger.

however, jungwon was just a man plagued by his own demons, haunted by the ghosts of his past. his heart was a fortress, walled by walls of dread and uncertainty, unable to truly embrace your love. he wanted, needed intimacy but resisted it, scared of the vulnerability & commitment it required.

a girl who loves hard and a guy who doesn't understand what to do with that love — a recipe for disaster. commitment was a daunting prospect, for jungwon atleast, it was like a leap into the unknown that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of his very own existence, something he didn't understand himself. he struggled to let go of the past, to trust in the promise of a future with you, even as you stood before him, offering your heart on a silver plate for him.

"why can't you just be honest with me?" you pleaded, your voice trembling with emotion.

jungwon's eyes narrowed, a coldness creeping into his voice. "honesty won't change anything," he retorted, his words laced with bitterness. "you're too naive to understand the truth."

tears welled up in your eyes as you reached out to him, your hand trembling. "I don't care, wonie," you pleaded, your voice choked with emotion. "I just want to be with you, no matter what."

jungwon pulled away from you, his heart heavy with guilt. "I wish it were that simple," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "but I can't promise you anything, not when I can barely hold myself together."

each word felt like a blow to your already bruised heart, your chest tightening with the weight of his indifference. "I thought you loved me," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of your crumbling relationship.

your heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces, realizing that the man you once loved had become nothing more than a cruel stranger. you couldn't help but wonder if you had ever truly known jungwon at all.

"jungwon, let's not do this—"

"it's over, i'm sorry"

it's over & he's sorry.

where's the rewind button?

@vivvangel, 2024.

#ㅤᵕ̈ vivster #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen angst #enhypen jugnwon #yang jungwon #yang jungwon x reader #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon angst #jungwon angst #enhypen jungwon #enha #jungwon #yang jungwon fanfic #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #jungwon icons #🩶 heartbreak weather

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thefrogdalorian · 5 months

Text

Dincember Day 5: Cold

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1109 Rating: General Summary: After your favourite Mandalorian's latest assignment with the New Republic means that his return to your cabin is delayed, you head to bed, thoroughly miserable. But when Din finally arrives home the reunion does not go entirely smoothly, as you find yourself needing to warm him up, with adorable consequences. Content Warnings: None! Author's note: I love it when big scary bounty hunters are secretly little spoons.

Link to read on AO3 | My Dincember Masterlist

You were accustomed to Din arriving back to your cabin on Nevarro from his various assignments with the New Republic at all times of day and night. You had come to learn, after several disappointments, not to wait up for him on the days that he said he would be back. Before, you would feel the unmistakable despondency creeping in as his arrival times grew later and later, usually caught up in some bureaucratic nonsense.

Tonight appeared to be no exception, as the time on your chronometer when Din had promised to be back came and went, with still no sign of him, nor any word from him as to how long he would be. You had tried your best to stop letting it get to you, but you could not deny the sinking feeling that you felt in your chest each and every time he wasn’t back with you at the time he had promised. The cabin felt so dark and lonely without him. You were miserable without him, you felt somehow incomplete without his presence.

With nothing else to do and no point in waiting up for him, you decided to make yourself your favourite hot tea and climb into the cot you shared with Din in order to try and get some sleep. The thought of climbing between the blankets without him was thoroughly unappealing, but the lack of contact proved that whatever he was caught up in was out of his control. He was probably somewhere out there, just as frustrated as you were. You missed him terribly, but perhaps when you woke up, Din would be where he belonged: back with you.

Sometimes, the sounds of the N-1 engines descending through the atmosphere to park outside the cabin would wake you up. But despite your unhappiness and concern for him, you had been so tired that you were in a deep sleep by the time Din finally arrived home. The N-1 parking up did not raise you from your slumber, nor did Din and Grogu as they arrived back at the cabin. The first sign that Din had returned home was the sound of the door to the room you shared together opening.

“Din?” You said sleepily, into the darkness.

“I’m home, cyare.” Din’s familiar, deep, soothing voice sounded into the Nevarrian night. You heard him beginning to carefully remove his beskar’gam, a comforting sound that told you he was closeby. “Don’t get up.”

“Glad you’re home,” You sighed happily, halfway between wakefulness and slumber. You soon fell back to sleep.

Your eyelids fluttered open as you felt the mattress sink with Din's weight as he made himself comfortable on the cot next to you. You smiled as you felt the cotton of his soft clothes as he wrapped his strong arms around your waist. But something was wrong. Rather than the warm, steadying embrace you had grown accustomed to, your ordinarily calm, unwavering Mandalorian trembled from head to toe.

“Din, what’s the matter?” You said concernedly, now fully awake. “You’re shaking all over. Did something happen?”

“I’m ju-just so...” Din struggled to speak against the chattering of his teeth, “C-c-cold.”

“Oh, come here, love.” You said as you pushed him carefully onto his side so his back was facing you, pulling the blanket around the two of you as you did so. You wrapped your arms around his abdomen and pushed them under his shirt so your hands came to rest, palms splayed, against his firm stomach that was beginning to soften slightly with age. “Let me warm you up.”

“Th-th-thank you,” Din said, still shivering.

“Was the job somewhere cold?” You asked sympathetically.

“Ha-had to report to ice pl-planet… Hoth.” Din explained. So that was what the delay had been, then, you surmised.

“Is Grogu alright?” You asked, concerned about what the cold would have done to a being as tiny as Din's son.

“Ye-yes…” Din nodded, “Left hi-him in the ship while… talked to Teva.”

“Okay, just rest now. Focus on getting warm.” You soothed, stroking his dark curls gently between your fingers.

You lay there for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of Din in your arms, despite how much he was still trembling. It was a welcome change, despite the less-than-ideal conditions that had brought about a shift in your dynamic. Din always liked to gather you up in his arms protectively and hold you close and of course you enjoyed his enormous, warm presence that engulfed you whenever he held you in his arms. You had never felt a greater sense of safety or belonging in all your days than when you were in Din's arms. But every once in a while, it was nice to have a role reversal, to hold him and make him feel how much you loved him and wanted to protect him, too. The absolute love and devotion in your relationship flowed both ways and it was an honour to remind Din of that.

As you laid there and held him tightly, continuing to stroke his bare skin underneath his clothes with your palms, you felt how the tremours that had wracked his body decreased in both their frequency and ferocity. You were grateful that what you were doing had worked, that Din seemed to be warming up from the frigid air on Hoth that had frozen him to the bone.

“You feeling any better now?” You asked as you dropped a gentle kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Much better.” Din sighed happily, though you could tell from the fatigue in his voice how exhausted he was.

“That’s what I like to hear,” You said in relief, “Why don’t you get some sleep, Din? You sound exhausted.”

“I am,” Din huffed.

“Awwww, honey.” You soothed. “You can tell me all about yours and Grogu’s latest adventures in the morning.” You said, rubbing Din’s stomach softly again. "But first, rest."

“Will do,” Din’s voice was barely above a whisper now, heavy with sleep. “Goodnight, cyare.”

“Goodnight, Din.” You whispered. “I love you.”

“Love you…” Din mumbled, voice trailing off as sleep finally embraced him. You could tell, with a smirk, from his even, shallow breaths that he had dozed off.

You were grateful for how easily sleep seemed to have come to him. After a long, arduous job like the one he had returned from, he needed his rest. You were desperate to hear the tales from his adventures but you knew that could wait because sometimes your big, formidable bounty hunter just needed to lie there and be the little spoon, as you helped to warm him up from the cold.

#dincember #dincember 2023 #my fics #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #pedro pascal characters #din djarin #the mandalorian #grogu #baby yoda #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #din djarin fluff #din djarin fic #gn reader #being the big spoon for din would fix all of my problems rn

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gone-to-fight-the-fairies · 1 year

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Noetic

Summary: Din relies on the teachings of his Jedi companion to wield the Darksaber.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Jedi!reader

Word Count: 700

Noetic: Adj. Meaning of or associated with or requiring the use of the mind.

“You’re fighting the Darksaber,”

“It’s fighting me,” Din grunts, the blade tipping down, slicing a crescent shape into the grass below. As much as Din attempts to overrule it, the saber triumphs over him. And his anger only makes the gravitation heavier.

“It didn’t survive over a thousand years to be outmatched by one Mandalorian. Even by one as muscular as you.”

Din swears, laden with his own emotions. Typically any flirtatious comment throws him, but he’s too frazzled to acknowledge it. He retracts the blade and throws his arms up. You half expect him to chuck the saber into the nearby lake. Instead, he tosses it at the ground.

“The creator of the Darksaber was both Mandalorian and Jedi,” you bend down to retrieve the handle, brushing off the stray pieces of grass. “what does that tell you?”

“That I’m grateful you’re only a Jedi.” Din tries to joke, but his tone is coarse, and his anger slips through the modulator. You travel to him, taking a gloved hand in yours. Your fingers delicately wrap his own around the handle.

“You’ve mastered the ways of Mandalore. Now, you have to think like a Jedi.”

“What does that intel?”

You let his hand drop, planting yourself on the plush grass and crossing your legs. “Sit.”

Din squats and stares at you expectantly through the sharp line of his visor. He gestures with his hands, waiting.

“Ass on the ground.”

A sigh escapes the modulator as he obeys your request.

“What do you feel?”

“Grass.”

This was going to be a long day.

“Look within.”

Another sigh. “Frustrated.”

You roll your hand, urging him to continue.

“Frustrated that I can’t get this blasted thing to work.”

“Close your eyes.”

Din simply stares at you. He hasn’t survived this long by shutting his eyes to the world around him.

“Do it.”

Din wonders what the force entails for you to see past his mask. But he recalls it’s not through the physical objects themselves but through himself that you sense his reluctance. You possess an inward gaze into the world around you, a clarity towards the people and, in this case, objects. Maybe, just maybe, Din needed some of that lucidity too.

“Hold the handle,” you start. Din rubs a thumb over it. “Think of the blade’s intentions. After a thousand years, what is it seeking?”

“It’s just a blade.” Din deadpans. He peeks and is met with your enraged glare. Even for a Jedi, you’re losing patience with him. And it scares him. “It wants the possessor to fight in the name of Mandalore.”

“Go on.”

“It’s traded hands,” Din thinks of Bo-Katan and Moff Gideon. “many times. It wants to be in the right hands. Maybe I’m not those hands.”

“Maybe it needs to feel your intentions like I can feel you peeking.”

Din squeezes his eyes shut. He wouldn’t let anyone else cripple him in such a way. But here, with you, Din complies. “I want to serve my creed, to build Mandalore up again,” he thinks of you and Grogu. “But mostly, I need to protect my clan.”

Din can’t see your smile, so you let it blossom on your lips.

“Now, instead of focusing on your emotions,” he hears you shuffle but dares not to open his eyes, afraid to lose his train of thought. “think of your intentions and raise the blade.”

Din gazes up at you with partial-focused eyes. He feels… calm. Introspect isn’t something Mandalorians are taught, nor is peace. Even at his age, he still has a lot to learn. He imagines that this is how you always feel whenever you meditate. Tranquil and grounded. Perhaps it’s because he’s thinking of you.

You wait as Din shuffles to his feet. He grips the handle in his hand and extracts the blade in a swift motion. You match his movement, and your light-colored saber contrasts the Darksaber.

“Imagine that you’re defending Mandalore. Defending Grogu. Defending me. Manifest it.” And when Din pictures it, you strike.

#Din Djarin x reader #Din Djarin Fanfiction #Din Djarin Fic #Din Djarin Fanfic #Aira Writes #Din Djarin x you #Din Djarin x Jedi!reader #Din Djarin #Star Wars Fanfiction #The Mandalorian Fanfiction

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gffa · 1 year

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As I continue my rewatch my frustration with the timeline of The Mandalorian is not eased by having two seasons under our belts or more information on the Children of the Watch because there’s a very central question that haunts me: Why does everyone act like Mandalorians not removing their helmets is the default and never mention any other way? To establish a timeline, centering the first season of The Mandalorian as year zero: - 28-31 years ago, the Clone Wars take place, which is likely when Din’s parents were killed and he was adopted by Death Watch - 11 years ago, the events Rebels takes place, in which Sabine gives the dark saber to Bo-Katan, who unites the Houses to rebel against the Empire - 9 years ago, the events of A New Hope take place - ?? years ago the Great Purge, the Night of a Thousand Tears happens, where the Empire wipes out the Mandalorians (this is likely somewhere around 10 years ago, but could be anywhere in this timeline) - 5 years ago, the Empire fell in the events of Return of the Jedi In the first episode, Mythrol asks if it’s true you guys never take off your helmets. In episode 2, Kuill says he’s never met a Mandalorian, he’s only heard stories about them (and their battle skill is implied). In episode 3, Paz Vizsla says that the beskar was from the Great Purge, the reason they live like sand rats now. In episode 4, Cara asks what happens if Din takes off his helmet, despite that he never told her that about himself, but she has no mention of any other type of Mandalorian. The thing is: The Mandalorians we know from The Clone Wars and Rebels were running around the galaxy eleven ago at minimum (likely less even!). And the Empire has been gone for five of those years. Which means, even if the Empire would have suppressed knowledge of the Mandalorians (and there’s no suggestion that they did, nor an obvious reason to), it wasn’t just within living memory, it was only a five or six year period where they would have had time to do so. So, within those eleven years, did the galaxy forget that any other kind of Mandalorian exists? The Children of the Watch were wiped out in the same Great Purge, so it’s not like they sprung up in place of other types of Mandalorians, and they’ve lived in hiding ever since. But are apparently common enough that people know they don’t take their helmets off, ever? I can believe that, despite that Din is fairly aware of the state of the galaxy (he knows the New Republic is a joke when Greef suggests reporting the Imperial remnants to them), he’s extremely unaware in other ways. I can believe that even when the Mandalorians were running around the galaxy eleven years ago and he would have been in his 20s at earliest, more likely in his 30s, that the Watch was all he knew, he’s not a chatty guy, and somehow he avoided running into any other Mandalorians during the years of the Empire before Bo-Katan united the Houses. What I’m forever ??? about is how do people around Din seem to accept his religious rules as the default on Mandalorians? Are we just supposed to think that everyone else knows most Mandalorians weren’t like that but don’t say anything because they know Din does follow those rules? Are we supposed to think that they were killed off and eleven years is long enough that nobody remembers anything but the Children of the Watch version of Mandalorians, despite that all of them would have been plenty old enough to remember? My frustration is that people seem extremely aware that Mandalorians exist and understand that they don’t take their helmets off, they’ve “heard the stories” or they know tidbits about them. I get that the Empire suppressed and changed knowledge of the Jedi, they had ~20 years of propaganda and Palpatine made a hardcore point of it because he didn’t want anyone else to have access to the Force. And if all knowledge about Mandalorians had been wiped, okay, sure, maybe there was a reason. But people are aware Mandalorians exist! They’ve heard the stories! They know details about Din’s version of Mandalorians! How do they know that, but nobody seems to be aware that Din’s not the default? Or are they just extremely aware of the difference between the Houses of Mandalore and the Children of the Watch and so they know Din’s different, but they’re not interested in asking about other Mandalorians, only Children of the Watch? I just don’t really see how the galaxy goes from what we knew during the Clone Wars and Rebels to the state of the galaxy re: Mandalorians in The Mandalorian. If nobody mentioned it and Din was unaware, sure, but multiple people around him seem like Din’s version is default and, like, JON, DAVE, I WATCHED REBELS, I KNOW THE STATE OF THE GALAXY, COME ON.

#din djarin #mandalorians #the mandalorian #meta

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whiskeynwriting · 1 year

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Hi, I would really like to request Din comforting wife reader near their daughters first birthday when reader still hasn’t lost the baby weight. I get really self conscious about not fitting in my bras and could just imagine Din being so sweet and loving about it and maybe taking her on a shopping spree at their next stop to get some new lingerie that make reader feel pretty and smutty times ensue with some amazing smutty praise 😍

This is just darling. It's PRECIOUS

Reader-Specific Writing: Body After Baby

Din Djarin x Female Reader

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Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) please read these warnings thoroughly, as there may be triggering aspects written here.

Body insecurity, parenting, mentions of pregnancy, breeding kink, lactation kink, body worship, helmetless Din, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, established relationship/marriage, reader is a mama, I thiiiiiink that’s it

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A/N: I really, truly adore this. And what's even better is I made it for my best friend. I hope you love it bb <3

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Reader-Specific Writing Masterlist

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The house wasn’t everything you’d hoped for, but this life was. It was everything and more. And you never expected him to accept this, to understand this way of domesticity. But he did understand it; in fact, he wanted it. Din has yearned for this his entire life.

It wasn’t a conventional marriage, not by your culture’s standards nor his. It was a blend - a perfect mix. Just like your life now. You’re not a warrior like your husband, you preferred a simpler, safer life. And for the time being, that’s exactly what you’ve been given. While you raise your child, hopefully children, your family will live in tranquility. But once they are of age, they’ll begin their training. Commencing Din’s preferred way of living. Until then, you’re to stay here, living on the planet that is Ralltiir.

During your ceremony, Din promised to keep you safe, and settling here helped him fulfill that. The planet was known for its privacy, successfully maintaining its independence from general political battles - just what Din had envisioned for a home. He not only wanted to protect you, but it’s almost as if he wanted to keep you hidden. You were too precious for the outside world. You, and Vercopa. Your little ray of hope.

“Bid kih…” He hums, smoothing a hand gently over her head. She has barely any hair, but the hair she does have is dark like her father’s. (So small)

It was a ritual of his, something that was special to him. The very first night Vercopa was brought home, he laid her tiny body on his chest, wrapping her in a blanket while her little hands felt her father’s warm touch. He just adores doing skin-to-skin with her. And that’s exactly what they’re doing now.

Stepping out of the kitchen, you’re sure to be quiet as you take in the sight. Din shirtless and rocking gently in the chair near your living room, strong arms holding the precious soul you brought into the world. She’s everything to him; Din fell in love the moment he became aware of her small existence in your tummy. And when she came into the world, it was difficult to pry him away from her. But why would you ever want to? You know she’s going to be such a daddy’s girl.

Internally, he sighs, not wanting to wake his daughter. How have you already been here for an entire year? Smiling to himself, he releases a happy hum. He can’t believe her first birthday is almost here.

“You’re going to be bid kotyc.” He whispers, leaning in to softly kiss her head. “Just like I’ll teach you to be.” Doing his best to remain still and quiet, he grins, his heart soaring with true joy and thankfulness. He knows she’ll be an amazing Mandalorian. (So strong)

The sight of Din holding and speaking to your child so sweetly fills your chest with such an incredible feeling. You’ve never known love like this.

While your husband and daughter bond, you wander into the bathroom, getting yourself ready for the night. Once life had calmed, Din easily fell back into his routines. Which meant treating you to a night out once a week. Even when you were busy, he made time for it. He’ll dedicate the rest of his life to making time for you.

What an incredible milestone. For us all, really. Pondering your daughter’s first birthday, you find yourself feeling… unsure. Happy, of course, entirely elated to watch her grow. But selfishly, you cringe at the timeline. You thought this worry would be gone by now.

Sighing, you rummage through your drawers, trying to find a bra that will fit. But it seems like you’ve run out of luck with that.

“It’s been a year.” You grumble to yourself, closing your eyes in an attempt to calm down. “It’s been an entire year and everything still looks the fucking same.”

Your hips have gotten so wide since becoming pregnant and then giving birth to her. And your thighs… they make you frown. They’ve just gotten so big - everything has. And maker, not to mention your chest. When Vercopa was born, breastfeeding her wasn’t as difficult as you’d imagined, but once you stopped, your chest didn’t return to its normal size. It’s not like they sagged, they were just so big. Why?!

Overall, your body just feels… different. You don’t feel like you.

And what definitely doesn’t help is the constant reminder of it all. Every single day, your clothes bring the realization back into your mind, the remembrance of your new body. Your pants barely even fit, so you’ve resorted to dresses lately. And even then, it was difficult for their outline to contain your breasts. Why was this so difficult?

“This is so useless.” The breath you release is high, signaling your oncoming cries. And Din hears. It’s a small noise, but one he picks up on, nonetheless.

Concerned, he glances up, those dark brows furrowing. Your home isn’t big, only a few rooms huddled beneath the roof, so it’s difficult to hide. It’s easy to tell where the noise came from, he knows you’re in the bathroom. So, he stands, carefully moving into the baby’s room. With her still swaddled and snoozing quietly, he places her in the crib, taking one last glance before making his way over to you.

“Cyare?” His voice is soft, approaching the situation cautiously while keeping himself quiet for the baby. (Beloved)

All he hears in response are your small sniffles, a certain weight pressing into his chest. He hates to see you upset, it genuinely disturbs him.

Walking into the bathroom, he moves behind you, leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he sighs, urging you to do the same. His presence is so calming. The air feels smoother, sturdier.

“What’s wrong?” His voice brings you back to reality, soothing your growing storm of emotions.

Looking up, you can see those dark brown eyes staring at you in the reflection. Your nose stings from your tears as they spill down your cheeks, a lump growing heavy in your throat. And even though you’re only in a pair of panties, Din doesn’t take his eyes off of yours. He’s worried about you, those broad hands finding your naked hips to rub you gently.

As your eyes travel down, his follow, landing on the bra in your hands. “I can’t fit into it.” You explain quietly, sounding so small. You feel defeated. But Din smirks a little, his warm hands sliding up over your belly.

“Ni guuror bic.” He mumbles, the scruffy hair above his lip tickling your ear. You give him a half annoyed chuckle that makes him smile sweetly. (I like it)

Leaning forward, Din reaches for the bra, taking it from your hands and tossing it lightly to the floor.

“Your body isn’t made to fit into clothes.” He says plainly, turning you in his arms. Facing him, you glance up, staring at your tall, brooding warrior. “Clothes are made to fit your body.”

And then, he’s bringing you in, lips kissing the crown of your head. “I don’t want you to be upset about this.”

“But I am!” You exclaim, and Din shushes you.

“She’s sleeping.” Your husband coos, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I’m so much bigger, Din. And…” Eyeing your discarded bra, you sigh. “Nothing fits.”

He shrugs, eyes dipping down to your naked chest. “Maybe go braless.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Cyar’ika,” Din sighs, his loving eyes flickering between your own. “Don’t you know how amazing your body is?” (Sweetheart)

This makes you feel bashful, a shy smirk curling on your lips.

“You made a person, a mini human being!” Din declares quietly, making you laugh. “Not everyone can do that. You know that, don’t you?”

His words make you nod, gaze dropping to your still-rounded belly. And he sees this, moving his hands to cover it, stroking you kindly.

“It only makes sense that your body changes. This is a brand new part of life. Like a brand new you.”

“That’s just the thing.” You can barely even meet his gaze. “I don’t feel like… me.”

It takes not even a second for him to respond. “You’re a better you.”

Head snapping up, you question, “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course, I do.” Leaning down, he presses his forehead to your own. A meaningful Mando’a touch. “To say your body is beautiful doesn’t even come close to genuinely describing you.”

“Din,” You reply quietly, voice filling with emotion. For a man so quiet, he really did have a way with words.

“How about this,” Your beloved then offers, “Why don’t we go shopping tonight instead?”

“Instead of dinner?”

“Yeah,” He nods, holding your hands in his. “I’ll buy you whatever you like,” Lifting your hands, he kisses the backs of them. “Whatever you feel comfortable in.”

“Really?!” You perk up quite a bit at this, eager to buy some new things. And seeing this makes his heart leap.

“You’re excited about this, huh?” He asks, leaning in to kiss your cheek. But you turn your head, capturing his lips instead.

Din’s hands find your hips again, settling on the place he just loves to squeeze. “Well…” He sighs against you, “Maybe we can get some new underwear for you, too.”

“I so need that.” You groan, feeling both excited and relieved. But you’re not exactly picking up on his hint.

“Maybe something a little fancier…” Din mumbles, peppering his lips along your jaw.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” That low voice responds, kissing your earlobe. “Like some new lingerie.” Tracing his fingers around the space beneath your chest, he hums. “Something that makes you feel pretty.”

Your husband is not a trusting man. Outside of you, he could count on one hand how many people fell into that loop. And there were even fewer he trusted with your baby. So, Vera tags along, floating in a small pram beside you and your husband. It’s closed, securing her in for the night. It was a miracle, but you were able to transfer her from the crib to the pram without her waking. The craft itself is something Din is proud of. Made entirely of Beskar, he’d been able to create it after receiving payment from his most recent jobs, missions he took before she was born. And when she grows too old for the floating stroller, it will be molded into her armor.

“How many credits do we have to spend?” You ask, knowing that the fortune Din saved during your pregnancy won’t hold up forever.

“Don’t worry about that.” His voice is metallic now, and deep, that heavy helmet shielding him from the rest of the world.

And Din holds true to his word, he really does get you everything you want. He figures if you need a new wardrobe, you might as well go all out. Din was never one for material possessions, but clearly, this is important to you.

“I have an idea.” You offer, Din’s gaze directly on you. “Why don’t you go pick out some sets you like? And I’ll try them on, and pick my favorite.”

And Din loves the idea of that, but he’s hesitant. He glances over at the pram.

“She’ll be with me while you’re gone.” Comes your tender reassurance, hand gentle as you pull his gaze back to you.

After that, he’s quick to grab a handful of sets off the rack. It’s almost like he’d been eyeing them since you walked in. He makes sure to grab a few different sizes, too. He’s not sure what fits you and doesn’t want you to feel pressured to squeeze yourself into one if it's too tight. But honestly, the image of you in a too-tight lingerie set has him internally groaning. He’d love to see your tits spill out of the sides, the delicate fabric clinging to the meat of your hips and thighs and wrapping around your belly. Truthfully though, this isn’t about him. He’ll be happy with whatever you pick.

“You're not gonna show me?” He asks, slightly bewildered when you come out of the stall fully-dressed.

“Do you wanna see here?” Whispering your proposal, you approach him, leaning down to ask, “Or at home?”

“Home.” Instantly, he’s standing, those gloved hips reaching out to hold and squeeze your waist. “Definitely at home.”

And while Din is excited to see you dress up in this, you’re excited to see him dress down. Watching him remove his armor was always a sacred experience, you never tired of it. You’ve been together for years and you’ve never tired of it.

“You’re so handsome,” Looking up, he almost forgets that you’re watching him. “You know that?”

He still has his flight suit on, but he’s taken every piece of armor off. And, as per his ritual, his helmet was always last. Truthfully though, you enjoyed every minute of this routine. From the moment he started on his boots, your attention was his. Even if the situation wasn’t sexual, your body warmed with affection and arousal; watching him undress, watching him place the sacred pieces in their chosen spots, his body slowly being revealed.

“You think so?” He grins, and he never smiled so much before finding you.

As soon as he’s free of his dressings, he’s moving toward you, cupping your beautiful face in his hands before pressing his lips to your own. And then, he’s turning, picking your daughter up from her pram. Without fail, those are the very first things he does when he takes off of his armor.

“Think she’ll go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Din nods, swaying her lightly in his arms. “I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you go get dressed?” Grinning, he leans in to kiss your cheek.

“Okay,” Your fingertips pet across his scruffy beard, lips curling into a smile against him.

It’s easy to convince him that you've left to get dressed, but secretly, you wait. There’s a song Din likes to sing to his daughter, one he made himself.

Ner orikih dala (My tiny girl)

Tion’ad cuyir bid kotyc (Who is so very strong)

Ni cuy ijaat at kar'taylir (I am blessed to know)

Gar ganar ratiin cuyir pal'vut (You’ve been mine all along)

Oh, kotyc dala be pal'vut (Oh, fierce girl of mine)

A verd gar kelir cuyir (A warrior you will become)

Bal ni cuy' cyau'kuyc par te tuur (And I’m excited for the day)

Ibac ni liser haa'taylir gar viinir (That I can see you run)

In your heart, you truly feel safe with him. Like you’re meant to be here and so is he. And in Din’s head, he couldn’t be happier; he’s so proud of you and the small child you’ve made, and he’s beyond proud to continue his lineage.

Like clockwork, your daughter falls asleep, always lulled into peacefulness by her father’s voice. And by the time she has, you’re already dressed. The set Din picked out for you is a dark teal shade, and two-pieced. The entire thing is made of see-through lace, with high-waisted bottoms and a top that dips into your cleavage quite nicely.

And when he steps into the room, he instantly pauses, eyes going wide when he sees you. Those deep, warm, puppy-dog eyes scan your body, his hands now softly closing the door.

“Cyare…” He’s moving toward you with out-stretched arms, his hands finding your waist that’s no longer well defined. (Beloved)

“You like it?” You feel bashful. Truthfully, it’s the first time you’ve dressed like this since giving birth.

“It’s perfect.” Wide eyes continue to roam your figure, eyeing the skin he can see beneath the thin layer of lace. “So perfect…”

Abruptly, he falls to his knees, releasing a deep groan as he kisses your belly. His hands are falling to your hips, sliding around to cup your backside. The small gasp that slips out of your throat makes him smile, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.

“Din, baby…” Running your fingers through his hair, you hear him sigh before he’s hauling you into his arms. “Oh,”

“Come here,” He grunts, laying you back on your shared bed.

Immediately, his fingers are finding the hem of your lingerie, pulling the front open and watching your tits spill out from the fabric. He then shoves his face into your chest, rubbing himself into the softness of your breasts. Wiggling his pelvis between your legs, he groans, teeth nipping at the delicate fabric. His body towers above your own, covering you entirely while his hips grind into you with gentle, sensual motions. Those broad hands quickly find your hips, squeezing you so tightly that it stings. And his mouth hasn’t stopped moving over your chest, lips dragging across your skin before sucking his mark onto your chest.

Din’s body is pinning you down, forcing you into the mattress while you wiggle beneath him, your hands sliding through his hair while your hips meet his every motion. Lifting your legs, you plant your soles on the mattress so you can encase him, surround him. With Din, sex felt primal, like he had a dire need and duty to take you, to make love to you in the most carnal way. And seeing you dressed so prettily only made him hotter for you.

“Din!” Gasping, your hands fly to either side of his face as he wraps his lips around your nipple.

“Mm…” Comes that deep, desperate moan, languidly licking over your hardened peak while massaging each breast in his large hands.

“I love your fucking tits.” He mumbles, his soft mouth moving over your flesh. “I love that they’re big, I fucking love it.” His fingers dig into you, cupping you firmly in his palms.

The stubble above his lip and along his cheeks tickles your skin, brushing over you as he moves his lips over the hills and valleys of your chest. He mouths at them, sucking on the sides and biting wherever he can. Before leaning back, he sticks his tongue out, flattening it on your solar plexus and slowly licking one, long stripe up between your breasts.

“Oh…” You sigh out, never tiring of his tongue on your skin.

“Look at your beautiful body…” Your husband sighs, that deep and gruff voice driving you mad. “Look at these hips…”

His hands fall to your thighs, wrapping around the expanse of them and shoving them harshly to the sides. He then lifts them slightly, his mouth diving in to suck on your tender skin.

Seeing him so aroused from the mere image of you is baffling, his mouth and hands already making you writhe and whine.

“I can’t believe you’d ever think I wasn’t attracted to you.” He murmurs, licking the sweet flesh of your thighs. “Do you see yourself?”

“Din, baby…”

“I want as many children as I can have with you,” He groans, licking over the softness of your inner leg. “I always want you to look like this.”

Before you can say anything more, he continues to speak, continues to work himself up. “Do you remember how full they were after she was born? Your gorgeous tits?”

“Mhm,” Nodding, you reach down for him, watching his eyes flutter shut when your fingers rake through his hair.

“They were so swollen… I wish I could still taste them. Oh, cyar’ika,” Lifting himself, he covers you with his body once again, diving down to your neck so he can lick and nuzzle into you. “I loved it, I loved sucking on them…” With his free hand, he palms your breast, tweaking your nipple harsh enough to make you cry out for him. “Tasting them. Your sweet milk,” Glancing down, he murmurs, “I want that again.” (Sweetheart)

The memory of Din sucking on your tender breasts makes you wet for him all over again, not that you weren’t already. It was such an intimate and erotic moment, and it happened quite often. Holding him in your lap while he snuggled into your soft breasts, his hands kneading them as he watched milk spill from the tips. He’d suck on you for however long he wanted, however long you’d let him. And more often than not, you’d wrap your hand around him while he did it, another familiar, white liquid splattering your skin.

“Don’t you want more?”

“Hm?”

“More of my babies, cyar’ika.” He answers instantly, his voice hurried and rough. “Don’t you want to be full of it? Full of my seed? Feeling it take root and grow inside you?” He’s truly working himself up, snarling against your neck while he groans. (Sweetheart)

“Baby, of course I do.” Lifting him to your face, you can practically feel the change in him. His dominance pushing to the surface, his primal desire to have and keep you. “Please, please take this off of me.” He’s only pushed parts of the set to the side, but it still hasn’t left your body. “I need you.”

“Stay quiet.” He suddenly orders, his voice stern as he speaks to you. And the next thing you hear is the tear of the fabric he’d bought you less than an hour ago. “Be quiet while I breed you.”

“Din.” But that’s all you get out before he’s slapping his palm over your mouth.

“Such a beautiful thing, such a beautiful body for me to take…” He murmurs to himself, leaning back onto his knees so he can tower above your body, your heaving chest and spread legs.

Staring up at the man you love, the warrior that protects and provides for you, you reach out to him. Your hand slides over his firm stomach, his toned chest, all while maintaining his eye contact.

“Din,” You whisper, wanting to appease him. And your quiet voice does. “Give me more babies.”

For the most part, the lingerie barely covering your body is brushed away, exposing your stunning curves to him. His chest presses to your own when he returns to you, one hand lifting to hold your jaw open so he can lick your tongue, the other falling to his throbbing shaft. Shuffling forward, he glides the tip of himself between your legs, between your very center. With a small whine of impatience, you lift your hips up to him. And instead of making you wait, he surprises you, staring into your soul while he slides entirely inside.

“How does that feel?” He groans, leaning in to kiss your cheek while your mouth hangs open with a gasp. “How does it feel when I’m inside?”

“It’s,” Sucking in a harsh gulp of air, you swallow, eyes closing in bliss. “It’s perfect, baby. Reminds me that you’re mine.”

Smiling, you look up to see him transfixed on you, mesmerized by your beauty and devotion. “I am,” He nods, in awe of your love. “I am yours.”

Retracting his hips, he pulls out half way before rolling his pelvis back into you, the hand he used to grip himself sliding along the bedsheets so he can paw at your cheeks.

“And you,” Dipping down, he shoves himself into the crook of your neck, mouth sliding down your throat, over your collarbones, landing on your breasts. “You are mine.”

Already, you feel like you can’t breathe. Your head is tipped back, lips open while you pant. His strokes are deep and turning harsh. Every thrust is accompanied by a forced and breathy grunt, his cock heavy as it drags along your sensitive walls.

With his head on your chest, he sucks on you again, lips latching to your already puffy nipples. His words are muffled, praise dripping out with his saliva, his kisses becoming sloppy and wet and before you know it, you’re drenched in it.

“Beautiful thing,” He grumbles over you with a heated moan, “Sexy fucking woman.”

“Baby, holy fuck…”

“Do you want it?” He asked, shoving himself into you. “Do you want me to breed you? Do you want it all over again?”

“Yes, yes please. Ner verd, ner cyare.” (My warrior, my beloved)

It’s then that he pulls out and is instantly flipping you over. He loves how easy you are to maneuver, those strong hands hauling your hips into the air so he can mount you. And he does, pressing his chest to your back while bucking his hips into you. He’s stretching your sensitive lips, the coarse hair at his base rubbing over your soft skin. The soft slap of his hips against your ass is louder than he wants it to be. But he can’t stop himself, not right now.

“I want it inside.” He’s babbling into your ear, growling before he bites it. “I want it in your womb.”

“Please.” It’s all you can manage out, feeling him forcefully rut into you, pressing your face down into the sheets while he massages the fat of your ass, the thickness of your thighs.

“Your gorgeous body… always ready for me.” Din groans, leaning down to speak into your ear. Reaching around, he cups your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. “Ready to bless me, to give me more offspring.”

And then, his lips are on you, smashing to your own and feeling the vibration of your moan. He revels in it, in the pleasure he brings you. And he does mean it, every child you give him is a blessing.

You know he’s close by his grip on your jaw, fingers pinching into your cheek while his brows begin to furrow. Pushing yourself back against him, you whine beneath his weight, feeling his muscles flex against your legs and back. And you really wouldn't have it any other way. Sex has never felt better than when you’re being dominated by Din.

His high is long, drawn out completely. Hips jutting sharply against you, spilling the thickness of his seed into your center, your very core. And you can’t help but grind yourself back against him, feeling the hand on your jaw lower to grab your right breast. Lowering his head, he kisses your neck, your naked bodies rocking together.

“Just… beautiful.” He praises, “You laid beautifully for me.”

“Baby,” You whine, one hand curling around to slide your fingers through his thick, unruly hair. “I love you, I feel so connected to you.”

“We are,” He emphasizes with a roll of his hips. “We are, ner mesh’la dala. Bonded as one, you to me…” Leaning in, he gives your lips a gentle peck. “And myself to you.” (my beautiful girl)

Without fail, everytime Din came inside you, his fingers would find themselves sliding against your walls. He’d roll you onto your back, his warm body pressing against your own. His hands would spread your legs wide, his eyes watching intently as two fingers slipping into your center, rubbing against your walls. And of course, that’s what he does now.

“Perfect,” He whispers, kissing your forehead. “Every part of you.”

Din just adores the feeling of you scratching his back, so while he keeps you full, that’s just what you do. It makes the fierce warrior above you melt, relaxing against you. He lays over your body, muscles flexing as he calms down, his breaths beginning to steady. His weight is comforting, not enough to crush you but just enough for you to feel him.

“Your body is a sacred thing… you are creating warriors, cyar’ika.” Pushing his fingers a bit further into you, he sighs, nuzzling his nose against your neck, rubbing himself into the space just beneath your jaw. “I have a feeling we made one tonight.”

#reader-specific writing #Din Djarin #The Mandalorian #Din Djarin x you #Din Djarin x reader #Din Djarin x female reader #Din Djarin fluff #Din Djarin smut

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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This is the Way

pairing: din djarin x fem!reader

genre: smut, romance, minors dni

word count: 1.7k

summary: It can be hard to understand Din and his creed, but the two of you try to make it work anyway.

warnings: oral (receiving), piv, creampie, use of a blindfold (helmet is off but the rest is covered), mild choking, slightly possessive!din, mild breeding kink, multiple orgasms, soft!din

a/n: I originally posted this about wanting to write reader moaning 'this is the way' as din comes inside and after seeing the excitement it generated I decided to actually go on and write it. I want to thank @pedropascalsx @redahlia-writes and @batdarkladyvampir for convincing me that this is what the world needed lmaodfvdf

You’re not a Mandalorian, not even in the slightest. So when circumstances force you to partner up with one, you’re not really sure how to behave. You don’t quite understand their beliefs, but as Din explains more and more about it —seeing that he’s passionate— you try your best to understand. It is hard. Especially when your feelings for each other end up being more than just comradery. You’ve never seen his face, nor felt his skin. You’ve only felt the stretch of his cock.

Still, you don’t mind. This is his belief, his creed. He’s a good man and does his best to understand you, it’s only common sense that you do the same.

The first time you heard it, you had to suppress your giggle behind your hand. This is the way, he had said to another Mandalorian. the Armorer, Din had told you. Both of them looked at you —what you assumed— judgementally but it was hard to tell with only a visor glaring at you.

You weren’t sure what made it so humorous to you. Truly, you didn’t. But soon it became a habit of teasing Din about it. Whenever he did anything that put you in inconvenience you would utter the words: This is not the way. Or there were moments he put himself in front of you to shield you from harm —in some terrifying moments he even begged you to leave him behind— then the sentence would come out angrily as a reminder: This is not the way, I won’t leave you.

Din never remarked on it. He didn’t seem bothered, sometimes he would stiffen but was quick to loosen up when he saw your teasing smile.

“Di—in”, you whimper, voice breaking. “Don’t stop,”

You see nothing but darkness. The itchy fabric of Din’s scarf makes the skin around your eyes itch uncontrollably. But it’s hard to care when his tongue is between your folds, licking at your clit enthusiastically. Reaching out, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug him closer. He obliges with a grunt. You feel him drawing your aching clit between his lips and sucking around it. Your thighs tighten around his head. With your hips slightly lifting off of the cot, you attempt to grind against him but stop at the last second. Your mouth is full of unwanted saliva, pleasure, and lust buzzing in your veins like a drug.

“Do it,” you hear him groan into your sex, his voice thick with lust and a hint of amusement. “Use me. Do whatever you want, I’ll take whatever you give me,”

“Maker…Din,” A breath mixed with a chuckle falls from your lips. “I don’t even know how to speak anymore,”

Din hums and kissed your folds as if he would your actual lips. His tongue sneaks between them, his lips moving along them slowly—tenderly. The scruff of his cheeks provides a pleasant tingle as it chafes against the delicate skin of your thighs. You whisper his name like a prayer and start to grind against him. Your eyes roll back, the reverberations of his groans sending another jolt of pleasure throughout your body.

With the newly found ache, your fingers twitch and you let go of his hair. Your chest stutters as you desperately search for a place to hold on. The tips of your fingers feel numb.

Then you feel something warm and leathery curl between your fingers, stabilizing your frantic movements. You sigh with the feeling of Din’s fingers interlacing with yours, he pulls you down closer, his tongue drawing quick circles around your clit. Your back arches as you surrender yourself completely to him. Your lower body quivers uncontrollably, your jaw locked with bliss.

Din draws your orgasm out of you steady and slow, his fingers never part from you— He even helps you when he feels your need to roll your hips against him. When that happens he simply pulls and pushes, forcing the sway of your hips as he moves his mouth up and down your folds. Stars burst beneath your eyelids. Your body jolts and quakes, he never once falters as you soak him, your insides clench.

His tongue and mouth feel amazing but you ached to be filled. Din slowly peels his fingers away from you, kissing the inside of your thighs one by one as he parts away. Your hips jerk without prompt, feeling slightly alert when his heat disappears, you raise your head.

“Din?”

“Don’t worry I’m here,” you hear his low, breathy, chuckle. “Just admiring you,”

“How about you fuck me instead?” You grin.

A loud gasp tears from your throat when he notches the fat head of his cock at your entrance and keeps himself still. You can feel his eyes on you, eating you up to the bone. You reach out for his face, you can’t find it first but he leans down, allowing you to caress his cheek. You still wonder what he might look like.

“Please don’t tease me, Din.”

You feel him smiling. He nuzzles the inside of your palm, his lips kissing the heel of your hand.

“Yeah, okay,”

Din sets a brutal pace right from the get-go. His hands squeeze your hips, he groans as he rams into you again and again. Your mind blacks out. He feels so good inside, your body reaching a new panel of euphoria. Your hand drops away from his cheek, in a blissful state of frenzy, you grab your tits and squeeze them, the pads of your thumbs brushing against your nipples. His cock throbs, his breathing uneven and heavy. He pushes your hands out of the way, his lips and mouth replacing your thumb. The tip of his tongue drags sloppily across your breasts, lavishing them with wet kisses and loud groans.

“Gonna come,” he grunts with clenched teeth. “Where– Where?”

“Inside,”

You don’t know what prompted you to say it; it could’ve been the pleasure fogging your mind, or it could’ve been something entirely else. You don’t know.

Din comes with your name blossoming on his lips, your chest heaves as he spills into you. You feel nice, warm, and safe. His hips slow into a grinding motion and his teeth sink into the swell of your breast.

“This is the way.”

It’s a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. You don’t realize what you’ve moaned aloud until he stills completely, a question blurting from his lips.

“What?”

Your heart nearly leaps from your chest, your eyes bugging out underneath the blindfold. You would’ve covered your mouth if your body hadn’t been simmering in pleasure at that very moment.

“Din, I’m so sorry—” you speak quickly, panic and fear closing up your throat. “I–I swear I didn’t mean it that way. It just…It kinda came out. I wasn’t trying to mock—”

“You…You, did you just say this is the way?” he’s still breathless from his orgasm. The way his voice drops makes you clench around him, he hisses and pushes deeper. “Fuck—You actually said that while I was coming inside,”

It’s phrased as a question but it’s not. Another meek sorry falls from your damp lips. You think he’s angry but he’s not, quite the contrary, Din feels a sense of accomplishment. However, he’s confused as to why he feels that way. His cock twitches with interest and he looks down. He takes a sharp inhale when he sees how wet everything is; your pretty pussy glistening and his cock shining, the sheets underneath dark with you and him.

This is the way, you had said, just as he was fucking you full of himself. This is the way.

He knows you have trouble understanding, he appreciates you trying anyway. But you saying that when the two of were conjoined both emotionally and physically— It proves to him that you understand it more than he had thought, more than you had thought.

“Din?” you call out, when his gaze drops he feels a sense of guilt for leaving you hanging. He can see the pinch of your brows peeking above the makeshift blindfold, the corners of your lips quivering with worry.

Instead of saying anything, Din pulls out and tugs you with him until you’re both outside of the narrow cot. His fingers curl around your throat and his lips touch your ear.

“I’m not mad,” he says in one breath, the length of his cock movies between your soaked folds. “You have no idea what you just did to me, mesh’la. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stand anymore,”

You moan at his words and your head falls to his shoulder, exposing more of your neck. The trust you put in him —combined with the use of his creed’s saying— makes something inside of him snap. His hand remains on your throat as his arm snakes around your waist, his cock slides into you with ease.

“You’re full of me,” he states. His fingers twitch above your stomach. “I’m going to fill you up even more,”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Your world spins as he ruts into you, slick and cum threading down your thighs. He’s a man unhinged, hips moving at an incredible speed and velocity while at the same time holding you up. Your lower back bends at the way he forces you to arch for him. Your fingers brush against the knuckles of the hand that’s around your throat.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say it, mesh’la.”

“This is the way,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut. You feel his whole body shaking, wet noises fill the ship. “This is the way, this is the way, this is the way—!”

Your back nearly snaps into two as your second orgasm rushes up and down your body. With a whimper, your hands reach back to his head and tug at his hair. Din, in contrast with himself before, kisses your shoulder, tongue gently moving around the skin and tasting you. A second later you realize that he’s pulsing deep inside you, spilling into you for the second time today.

You sigh heavenly, and his lips move along the slope of your shoulder.

“This is the way,” he murmurs, voice swelling with emotion.

“This is the way,” you repeat, still not sure what it was that got him so enamored. It isn’t the first time you’ve said it.

Din turns you around, your chest flushed against his chest plate, you feel his lips on your right eye first, then your left. Then he moves to your lips, his kiss soft and tender. You smile.

It isn’t your first time using the saying, and you don’t understand, but you will.

Eventually.

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #mando x reader #mando x you

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lux-ishii · 1 year

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"I only know of this weapon what you taught me. To be honest, it means nothing to me or my people. Nor does station or bloodline. What means more to me is honor. And loyalty. And character. These are the reasons I serve you, Lady Kryze. Your song is not yet written. I will serve you until it is." ~ Din Djarin, casually admitting he will follow Bo-Katan Kryze until she dies. IF THAT'S NOT DIN'S WAY OF "You fight good" FLIRTING THAN I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS. THEY BETTER SERVE THE MAIN COURSE IN THE FINALLY.

#the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian #the mandalorian season 3 #bo katan kryze #bo katan x din #dinbo #bodin #din djarin #din djarin x bo katan kryze #din x bo katan #bokadin

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brujitaadinbo · 5 months

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This image does not belong to me… it is from Sopita Pog and you can follow it on Instagram.

If there is something that as humans identifies us as such; It is the fact that thanks to our emotions and feelings we can recognize our own humanity. A person in constant growth must know that this is elementary. This and the fact that being sociable beings and living in a community (it's not my thing, look for related information and you'll have to agree with me) we have that tendency and need to live in groups, live with others, relate technically.

All this forms that inevitable process; growing up And although this is palpable, it has been part of many stories, part of the narrative from reading, cinema, series, etc… I explain this so that you understand my point. If we live it, it is nothing out of the ordinary, it is not wrong, nor is it bad, that growth is experienced by the characters that we like so much. A growth that allows them to improve or worsen. In the case of Din, Grogu and Bo, it's a blessing that this growth goes straight to something positive.

It irritates me that they want to deny that possibility to these characters and continue pigeonholing them into "I'm the tough one, the tough one, the one who's never going to get better and that's fine."

It is definitely throwing away the entire process experienced in the seasons or the content. It is not understanding that "being someone powerful" does not only consist of an important position, having a lot of money, causing fear in others, etc etc… the true intention of having power, of being powerful, of feeling fulfilled is to be happy, to live a change, having friends or a partner or family, not always ending up alone, having others who contribute to you, and that you know that empowers you, enriches you, not only materially.

Well, it is appreciated that Din and Grogu are together because that was always the purpose, denying Grogu or wanting to throw him away is ruining the series, it is wanting to spoil Din and his new path. Now to say that Bo Katan, they only want to pigeonhole her into being Din's girlfriend or just being Grogu's mom… it seems ridiculous to me and a pathetic and meaningless argument.

If you know Bo's story, everything she has experienced and that she has always been surrounded by war, you will understand her point when she said it in "Clone Wars" "I would like to be good at something else, not just fighting."

I said it before, I say it now and I will continue to say it; If by her own decision she wanted to continue as Mandalore, retire, be alone, or be with Din, her right is and she has it and has earned it. Taking care of Grogu, being his friend and betting on the role of mother does not make her weaker or less important; on the contrary, the desired motherhood is a blessing, a right that many people like to minimize. A very important act of love and responsibility, a high position that not everyone fulfills and the fact that she decides and applies it does not make her any less and it is very wrong that people take it that way, interpret it that way and want to impose it. as such. Mothers have an important role in our lives, in our environment, obviously in this content, if you don't believe me, just go check out this great character from Hera Syndulla. I applaud the fact that this line of growth is visible.

I applaud you for bringing Din and Bo closer and making the possibility of them being together, walking and continuing to grow together visible and palpable. Because growing is an internal process but there is always the option of not experiencing this process alone. And with Grogu by the hand, what better

#the mandalorian #this is the way #dinbo #bo katan x din #bokadin #din djarin #bo katan kryze #grogu djarin #clandetres

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kanskje-kaffe · 1 year

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The New Republic subplot in ep3 was explicitly anti-statist. That was the point. As @gffa pointed out, we didn’t see a single friendly or trustworthy face representing the New Republic, and that was the point, because this subplot is saying: the state is not your friend, nor is it trustworthy.

The only person who seemed to be a sympathetic ally turned out to be the O’Brien to Pershing’s Winston Smith. But more than that, the New Republic officers who place so much trust in her were unable to tell the difference between a fascist and one of their own.

At every turn, the idea that “the New Republic isn’t the Empire” is subverted. Pershing is encouraged to touch the mountaintop because “this isn’t the Empire, live a little” - but in fact, touching the mountaintop IS prohibited. At surface level it’s presented as a harmless prank to make Pershing jump, but in fact, his tentative faith that they live in a free world is misplaced. Pershing does not touch the mountaintop.

Pershing acts to continue his research illegally because he has made the error of actually believing in the principles the New Republic promotes for itself. His chatbot therapist social worker says: yes, we should do everything we can to help the New Republic. Pershing is punished for engaging directly with the ethics. Will his research do good? Will the citizens of the New Republic benefit? Will people live better lives as a result? It’s irrelevant for these purposes what the actual answers are; only that asking the question at all is prohibited.

Pershing fails to realize that the New Republic is not its own propaganda, something that the more socially sophisticated people around him all understand. The wealthy man in the opera house says: that’s why I should just keep my mouth shut, like it’s a joke. But it’s not a joke. These people clearly did not recently come into their status. They went to the opera house under the Old Senate, and under the Emperor, and they’ll continue to do so under the New Senate. Pershing attempts to engage with morality on first principles. The New Republic does not, but uses the impression that it does to legitimize itself anyway.

The mind flayer scene is saying this: the state machine is always the same, the only difference is the intensity at which it’s applied. This was so on-the-nose explicit that they depicted a LITERAL machine with a LITERAL Intensity Knob. The mind flayer is a metaphor for the exercise of state power itself. Pershing experiences horror at the sight of the machine. Don’t you know what this is? Don’t you know what it’s done? What it always does? The New Republic officer says: don’t worry, we know how to use it. It’s beneficial in small doses. We’ll exercise restraint. And of course, once the machine is in use and you’re strapped in, there’s nothing you can do if someone stops exercising restraint. The function of the machine is the same.

“Beneficial in small doses” is the mantra of the complacent statist. In a show called THE MANDALORIAN are you that surprised that it’s taking the side of the Mandalorians? We’re on to our third season of Din refusing to cooperate with the police, refusing to do police enforcer’s work, refusing to trust institutions of power to save him, and people still expect the New Republic to come out of this as the good guys? The Jewish subtext of the Mandalorians (hunted to extermination by a state power, breaking all rules to save a life multiple times, orthoprax, lost homeland) is now literally just text (Din bathed in a mikveh and was witnessed by another Jew Mandalorian) and you STILL expect the state to come out of this as the good guys?? Do you think the Nazis were the only government to ever mistreat Jews?

What I loved about Andor - and what I love about the direction mando s3 is moving - is the exploration of regime change. The brutal reality of it, the sense of plus ça change plus c’est la même chose, beyond the propaganda and the things people long for: relief, security, peace. Yeah the delivery is janky as fuck but I’m not delusional enough to expect Quiet Flows The Don here. Regardless of artistic technique, the story being told is about as antifascist as it gets.

So like sorry but if you perceive this subplot to be “Nazi apologism” because it validates the armed and insular pogrom survivors while criticizing the concept of state machinery beyond its branding, you may want to examine your priors. The cure for Nazism is not FDA-approved.

#mandalorian s3 #mandalorian meta #the Mandalorian #mando s3 spoilers #spoilers #the Mandalorian is Not Art but #it’s not exactly vague about what it’s trying to say #metastippus

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thefrogdalorian · 4 months

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The Best of Both Worlds - Chapter One

Din Djarin x Female Reader Modern!AU

❁ Series Masterlist ❁ My Masterlist ❁ Read on AO3 ❁

Word Count: 4690 Rating: General Summary: After a dreadful day which saw you drenched by a rainstorm after leaving a hectic day at work, you reflect on your love for Mando and upcoming excitement for the sci-fi convention you will soon be attending with your internet best friend. Content Warnings: None! Author's Note: Hope you liked the start! My love of mass transit systems bleeds through, I think. But I hope I captured how wonderful being part of a fandom and forming online friendships can feel! Thanks to @suresnips for being my beta!

1. Why Does It Always Rain On Me? [Reader's POV]

Spending your mid-twenties obsessing over a fictional character with fellow fans online was not exactly how you envisioned your life unfolding, but it seemed that the universe had other plans in store for you. You couldn’t be too disappointed with this outcome though, as the comforting familiarity of your favourite show and the community surrounding it was like a tight, warm embrace that had seen you through your toughest days. Just like today, when you would lean on The Mandalorian as a crutch yet again, as settling in to watch an episode would be the comfort you needed at the end of yet another miserable day.

It had been a draining day that seemed like it would never end. You seemed to be having an awful lot of them recently, where any little thing that could possibly have gone wrong had gone wrong. Work was busier than usual, with plenty of colleagues pestering you with questions and asking for assistance on tasks, when you had quite enough of your own work to occupy yourself with. Perhaps worst of all, you had forgotten to charge your headphones. Your heart sank as you went to turn them on just before you left work, only to find that there was no charge left. It was a major inconvenience as it meant that the soundtrack of your favourite show was not there to transport you to a different galaxy as you began your journey home. Instead, all you could hear was the relentless noise of the city. The cars and the people that never seemed to shut up for even one single second.

Your feet thundered against the pavement, the rhythmic thuds helping to ground you despite the loss of comfort that your precious headphones provided. Things were finally starting to look up. Well, they were, until you felt a spot of water against your left cheek. You sighed and looked up towards the sky, noticing the grey clouds that had suddenly rolled in from nowhere, and the eerily cold breeze that was suddenly swirling all around you. Rain was imminent.

To add insult to injury and make your already torrid day even worse, the heavens promptly opened. And you had not worn a coat, nor brought an umbrella in the trusty backpack you carried everywhere. Even though the sky was a little grey, it had been a perfectly pleasant, warm morning when you stepped out of your building that morning.

You muttered curses under your breath as the rain began ferociously pelting you, furious at your unpreparedness. You quickened your place, hurrying to the closest station to the museum you worked at as you continued to curse the weather with a variety of colourful language, but it had predictably done nothing to halt the relentless downpour. Even though summer should be approaching, the weather was awful. For what felt like weeks now, the weather had nothing but cloudy, cold and grey. It was beginning to grind you down. You just wanted to finally see some sun so you could enjoy the warmer months. Winter felt like it had never really ended.

Mercifully, you eventually made it into the station, after ducking and weaving through the dithering tourists that lingered outside the prestigious institution in which you worked. You shook your head, hoping some of the water that had drenched your face and hair would at least fly off and prevent you from sitting on a crowded tube while soaked to the bone. You brought your arms around you, suddenly aware of how unpleasantly cold you felt after getting so wet in the rain.

But fortunately, as you descended deep beneath the city to the platform, the temperature rose. The tunnels, far below the city, had been built long ago; with their poor ventilation, they retained all the heat generated by the crowds. Sometimes it could be stuffy and feel as though there was no air, but today you were weirdly appreciative of the quirks of the tube.

Your momentary appreciation for the mass transportation system soon disappeared though, when you finally emerged onto the platform. There was a seemingly endless sea of bodies, crowding into every available space. You took a deep breath and squeezed between them, taking advantage of several confused tourists to position yourself just behind the yellow line in a spot that you knew would be in a prime location for the doors when the tube finally pulled up.

You tapped your foot impatiently as you stood on a crowded platform waiting for the tube to finally arrive, surrounded by the terrible din of an unappealing combination of annoyingly loud tourists and stressed-out commuters. To top off your miserable day, the line you needed to take to get home was suffering from delays, a fact the irritating trill voice of the announcer kept reminding you. They were sorry if it caused you inconvenience – of course it did! The empty apologies did nothing to quell the pounding in your head.

You were sick of crowds and noise, you had endured more than enough of it for one day. Work had been so busy that at one point, you felt as though your head was going to explode from all the tedium. The gradual buzzing in your head that you felt when you were annoyed had quietly begun in the early morning and had just gotten louder and louder throughout the day. You were exhausted.

The rumble of the train finally hurtling through the tunnel towards you was for a moment, you were convinced, the greatest noise you had ever heard. You took a few deep breaths in preparation before it finally pulled up, now was time to fight your way through the sea of limbs and bodies to cram yourself inside the sweatbox on tracks that would take you to the comfort of your own home. To Mando. The man who helped pick you up whenever you were feeling down, without ever being able to know the impact he was having on your life.

It was the thought of how your heart would leap when you started the next episode in your rewatch and first saw his shiny form sauntering across your screen that seemed to carry you through the crowds you usually detested without draining too much of your dwindling energy reserves. You still winced, though, as you clambered aboard the sweltering carriage that was already likely too full to accommodate any more passengers. You knew there was no getting around it. This was just the reality of living in a major city like London. It was you who had been so determined to move here, after all. Eventually, after a lot of shuffling, you found yourself face-to-face with the dark brown musty jacket that belonged to a man who seemingly had not been acquainted with the wonders of deodorant.

You fixed your gaze on the ceiling above you and tried to imagine yourself anywhere but here. You pictured Mando scything through a group of bad guys and imagined you were as strong as him. You reminded yourself over and over that this would not last long; there were only a couple of stops to a major train station, meaning the crowd would thin and you would hopefully get some more peace far away from the man’s musty jacket. You just about held it together for the next few stops, wishing you were already at home. You visualised the euphoria of finally walking through the door to your apartment, ready to change into comfortable clothes and settle down to watch your favourite show. Unfortunately, your illusion was constantly shattered by the crowds in the carriage with you.

Finally, though, you arrived at the stop where most crowds would depart and with the worst of the crowds having departed the tube, you were able to find a seat facing the window. Although there wasn’t much to see in the tunnels, you knew with every rattle that you were closer to home. You briefly considered the possibility that if your fellow travellers knew that sometimes, the only thing that got you through the day was knowing that you could come home and watch an episode of The Mandalorian, they would dismiss you as a pathetic loser. But you supposed that people coped in other ways, with harmful and destructive habits that caused pain to other people. You were not harming anyone with your passion and love for The Mandalorian, even if you knew it was not the most socially acceptable hobby for a grown woman.

Despite how sad your routine would probably sound to most people, the bond between you and The Mandalorian was stronger than any disparaging remarks that could come your way. Indeed, there were very few people in your life who truly understood the love you had for that show. Oh sure, there were casuals you had encountered, like your friend and colleague Tom, who was also a viewer of The Mandalorian – at least you had someone to occasionally discuss the latest episodes with.

But your chats with your workmate were nothing deeper than how many people Mando had taken out in the latest episode and whether one day he could be seen on the same level as Vader in terms of iconic Star Wars characters. It was all very surface level and you felt reasonably sure, despite your closeness, that Tom would be at best bemused by your online activity and contemplate involving some kind of local authority at worst. Better that some things were kept secret.

Fortunately, you had a community of people online who unquestionably got it. You had them to talk to about the show that had become such a big part of your life. The Mandalorian had come to you at a difficult time in your life, a time when you most needed it. Recent years had not been kind to you, as they hadn’t been for most people. With global pandemics and both man-made and natural catastrophes, there were plenty of horrors awaiting you at life’s every turn. But you were so grateful that you had the show you loved so much and the people you had found because of it to help see you through.

It had seemed that you were destined to find it at the exact moment when you did. At one of your lowest points, Mando had been there, with his deep voice and confident swagger to soothe you on your darkest days. To lose yourself for a few precious moments at the end of each difficult day and just watch the character that you loved so much flying around space, fighting bad guys and leaving each place better than he found it was deeply engrossing and comforting to you.

It didn’t matter to you that you did not have the faintest idea about what the man behind the helmet looked like. To you, The Mandalorian was the perfect sci-fi character. You had grown up loving the galaxy far far away and all things Star Wars, always keeping up with the latest releases and discussing them with your family and friends, but you would never have considered yourself a superfan who knew everything about it. It was not until you had started watching the show about the lone bounty hunter that a switch in your brain was flipped and you became completely, hopelessly obsessed with it. The musical score captured the mood perfectly and complimented the stunning visuals, the wide shots of landscapes as your favourite character travelled across whatever planet he found himself on that week, flying through the galaxy in his beloved Razor Crest. Every time you listened to music from the show – you were rarely seen without headphones, they were seemingly glued to your head – it was as though you could imagine yourself pacing through the galaxy alongside Mando. It was a way to get inside his head, imagine his emotions and how he carried himself.

You had been a little late to the party, only watching the first season after it had already aired in its entirety. But you had more than made up for lost time, completely immersing yourself in the world. You were pretty sure you had read absolutely everything about him and memorised the scant details that you knew about his life. Part of the allure of the show was how mysterious the character was himself. No one had ever seen his face nor did anyone know his real name, he was simply known as Mando. His need for secrecy was necessitated by the ancient Creed he belonged to, that followed a strict way of rules. Mando would never bend or break them for anyone, no matter how much fans fantasised about being the one to finally pull the lone gunslinger out of his shell and break through the harsh emotional walls he had put up for himself.

After you had finished watching the first season, you joined the online fandom and quickly met a group of like-minded fans who were just as obsessed with all things Mandalorian as you were. You had found your tribe; you found solace in your online friends. They all shared the same passion for the show in a way that none of your friends in real life understood. The first person you had ever really spoken to had grown to be your closest friend Ria. You still remembered how nervous you were about speaking to her. She was a popular author who wrote many of the most well-received fanfics about Mando that appeared online after the first season had aired. But after you had nervously left your username on social media in her comment section, you found that she was just as lovely and welcoming as you had hoped when you began talking to her. After all, you were both, by definition, nerds who most people would see as losers for being so obsessed with one character. There was no need for hierarchy or competition here.

After meeting Ria, she introduced you to some of her friends and you had all joined a group chat where you seemed to message each other constantly. On the train on the way to work, at lunch, last thing at night… there was always someone there to chat with about Mando. It helped that you were spread out across so many different times, all the way from Australia to Argentina and many places in between. The anticipation you had all felt for season two had reached a fever pitch before it was aired and, thankfully, it had lived up to all expectations. Speculating about what was to come in each episode with your online friends had been incredibly exciting. Not knowing what was coming next, who Mando would have to find or where he had to travel had been thrilling. After you had seen the first season, there had not been long to wait for the second season, which was released within a year. But now, there had been no new episodes for a few months as they worked on the next season. The wait was agonising, but your friends were helping you through.

Every single one of you in this group chat had undergone, at various stages, an identical process where you became completely enamoured by this same character, finding yourselves thoroughly charmed by his swagger and mystery. Each one of you, despite the distance that separated you, had found yourselves falling down the rabbit hole and becoming completely obsessed with the lone bounty hunter from a secretive warrior society, bound to never reveal his name or face to a single soul.

The casting had been perfect… because just like the character on the show: in real life, you had absolutely no idea who the actor behind The Mandalorian was. Not a single one of you had any idea who portrayed Mando. His identity had been kept a complete secret – with the most watertight NDAs in history, you suspected – which was a highly unusual move in Hollywood. You were sure whoever he was must have a good reason for it. After the popularity of the first season and the viral phenomenon it had become, you couldn’t help but suspect that the man who played Mando, whoever he was, was probably extremely thankful for his decision to stay out of the limelight. You were sure that he would have been subjected to insane levels of scrutiny from the media and fans of the show. Indeed, even without his name and face being public knowledge, there was still plenty of that.

Sometimes you felt a little sad that you would never get to hear about Mando from the actor’s perspective. Other cast members gave interviews and attended cons, but there was no way to ever get that interaction with your favourite character, the one you cared about the most. Although you remained in the dark both about his identity and the reasoning behind all the secrecy, you respected whatever reason he had for hiding it. After all, you knew for certain that there was no one else on the planet who could have played Mando as well as the actor who was portraying him. With his confident walk and deep, gravelly voice, he was already an icon without even knowing it.

Despite your respect for the actor behind Mando – you never really joined in with the speculation unless it was a joke. The trend #beyonceismando had been your favourite example of that. But sadly, most fans of the show did not share your restraint. Some of your friends could even be guilty of taking it a little too far sometimes, but you let it go. Life was too short to go around policing what other people did on the internet. Besides, you knew your friends well enough to feel confident that they could never be truly malicious.

Due to the actor’s anonymity, speculation reached dizzying levels that you sometimes worried could be too much for anyone to live up to – you had seen every possible theory online. To you, online speculation should be fun without turning into something creepy and invasive. It was a fine line. A line that you did your best to tread, remembering there was ultimately a human being at the centre of the speculation. Your friends could let themselves go a bit more, but you tried your best to reign it in.

The secret identity of Mando’s actor led to all kinds of wild theories. Some swore that he was actually a she, there was a woman underneath the suit and that was why Disney had to keep it secret. Others insisted that Mando was really an alien, with super strength and abilities straight out of Star Wars. There was also a sizable majority who believed the reason for his secretive identity was because the actor was straight out of the army and had killed thousands in real life. Speculation ran particularly wild on social media: everyone hoped that their favourite actor was somehow the man behind the helmet, even if their schedules did not line up and their voices did not match, which led to more theories that his voice was being altered somehow to conceal his identity. That particular theory meant everyone could now imagine their particular favourite actor was behind the character that had become such an iconic figure in pop culture.

Indeed, most of The Mandalorian’s appeal to the general public was the mystery and the speculation as to his true identity. Some people only watched every episode, thinking that would finally be the week he removed his helmet and their theory would prove to have been the correct one all along. Some people scrutinised every single shot, wondering if the mask had slipped for even a second. People had even tried to hack into the CCTV cameras of the studios where the seasons were being filmed.

You couldn’t lie and say that you didn’t enjoy indulging with your online friends. You had spent countless hours talking to them, laughing at their attempts to piece together his identity from the scantest of information. They scrutinised the internet for images to compare his build and height compared with other known actors who were in the right age range. They were convinced that perhaps the way he held himself – the gait of his walk, the stance he took with his hands on his hips, the way he often shifted his weight on one leg – could give them clues as to his identity that they were so desperate to crack. You left them to it, laughing at how they could turn the smallest things into some kind of full-blown theory and proof. But to you, Mando was just as amazing without you ever knowing anything about who he was beneath the helmet. You loved the show and the character much more than you loved the online theories.

Ultimately, watching the speculation unfold was all good fun (at least for you) and proved to be a welcome distraction that helped you to get through the horrors of being in your mid-twenties. Like the situation you found yourself in now – having to exit the tube and make food after a long day of work.

Daydreaming about Mando and the friends you had made had passed the time perfectly, your stop was next and you couldn’t wait to finally be off the tube with all of its furious rattling. Thankfully, by the time you made it to street level, the rain had ceased. The humidity had increased in its place, though and any remaining dampness on your clothes from your earlier drenching magically evaporated in the hot air.

Only the stairs up to your apartment separated you from Mando now, and you felt the final energy reserves draining as you ascended them. You sighed as you turned the key and pushed the door open, both in relief at finally being home after such a difficult day and pure exhaustion.

There was nothing you wanted more than to sloth out in front of the TV and watch your favourite space cowboy do his thing on your screen. But unfortunately, you were an adult. No one would magically appear with a plate of food, much as you would have appreciated it. You headed into the kitchen to begin preparing your food. You wondered what Mando would be like in the kitchen (everything came back to him eventually) – did he even eat? You had never seen it on screen, at least. You wondered if he even could eat under the helmet. Perhaps you’d text Ria about that later, and see her thoughts. Maybe she’d even write a oneshot based on it and gift it to you.

As you stood there in your small kitchen, stirring the ingredients in the pan that would constitute your dinner – you realised just how this show had invaded every crevice of your brain. The Mandalorian had undeniably entered your brain in a way that made you think of it almost constantly. Sometimes, when you were walking around on your lunch break, you would imagine whether anyone you passed in the street could be the man that you were so enamoured by. You felt certain that you’d recognise Mando’s broad shoulders anywhere, even if you were right next to him. But it was a fruitless task, one that you knew deep down you would never get answers to. It wasn’t like he was just going to magically appear next to you one day or anything.

With your dinner plated up, you made your way to the front room to eat in your preferred position – on the sofa, in front of the TV. Sure, being an adult was hard sometimes but it meant that you got to indulge in little luxuries like this. Your family would probably freak out if they saw how you ate – hunched over on the couch, squealing with a mouth full of food over scenes you had watched dozens of times before – but you didn’t care.

As you flopped down on the couch, ready to watch another episode of The Mandalorian while eating your dinner, your phone buzzed with a message from one of your best online friends. You had met Ria shortly after you had felt compelled to make an account after finishing the first season of The Mandalorian, but you had yet to meet in person. That was all going to change very soon, though: she was flying in to attend a convention with you next week. The promise of not only finally meeting your best friend, but also getting to spend time surrounded by others who loved The Mandalorian just as much as both of you did at the convention, had honestly kept you going recently. It was the subject of the con that was the reason for Ria’s messages:

[thisistheslay] 17:57: OMG! OMG! There’s gonna be a Mando panel at the con next week. WE HAVE TO GO!!

You tapped out a reply:

[ilovemando] 17:57: what panel? and when?

[thisistheslay] 17:58: Literally the first day at 2pm. It’s called ‘The Man behind the Mandalorian: Exploring the Identity of the Galaxy’s Best Bounty Hunter.’ We NEED to be there, like you don’t understand!!

[thisistheslay] 17:59: HELLO bestie, what if HE’S THERE! What if they finally unveil who he is!!

You put your phone down on your lap and let out a small laugh as you rolled your eyes. Ria was constantly convinced that Mando was finally going to reveal his identity. It was based on pure speculation at worst and half-baked rumours at best. It had been an ongoing debate between the two of you throughout your friendship, you doubted that Mando would ever reveal himself. He had left it this long, why would he choose to reveal his identity now? But it was all in good fun, after all. You knew how much Ria truly loved the show and Mando. Just like you, for Ria, this speculation was all a bit of fun. She wasn’t one of the toxic people who said they would never watch another episode if the actor who played Mando turned out to be ugly. Yes, unbelievably, that was something that you had actually seen people write publicly online, for others to see. Maybe even the man who played Mando himself. It made you feel sick, they didn’t deserve him or the show.

You texted back:

[ilovemando] 18:03: oh i do, but not like you. yeah we’ll go… don’t be disappointed when mando doesn’t show tho

[thisistheslay] 18:04: No he’s going to be there! I can just FEEL it!!

[ilovemando] 18:05: ok sure, whatever u say. gotta eat but i’ll message you later

You really did have to go. No distractions would come between you and an episode of The Mandalorian, especially not while eating your dinner. As you sat back and watched the episode you had seen dozens of times before – in this one, Mando was tasked with hunting down a group of rogue mercenaries on a prison ship – your mind wandered back to Ria’s messages. You knew she was just being her usual ridiculous self, losing it over crumbs in an exaggerated, ironic way… but you couldn’t help but wonder about what you would do if her words came true. What if you did, one day, come face to face with Mando? What would you say? Would you even realise when he was in the same room as you, would it be an obvious, earth-shattering feeling? Or something far more subtle?

It was a ridiculous topic. But despite yourself, it was one you spent the rest of the evening ruminating over. The prospect of attending the con was nerve-wracking already – it was going to be a large, crowded event with many people in an unfamiliar environment. That was already setting your nerves on edge, even without the prospect of Mando being there. But thinking that there was perhaps the smallest chance that you could be about to lay eyes upon the man who brought your favourite character to life…

Well, that was a whole other level of nerves.

Next Chapter

#my fics #tbobw #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #pedro pascal characters #the mandalorian fanfiction #IT'S OUT THERE NOWWWWWW lets GO!!!!

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