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mellowswriting · 12 hours

Text

new perspective

pairing || Din Djarin x f!Reader

word count || 2.8k

summary || teaching the infamous Mandalorian to slow down and enjoy life isn't easy. it takes planning, patience - and silken sheets apparently.

content || SMUT, domesticity, simple pleasures, shower sex, sensual massages (i'm incorrigible), p in v sex, cowgirl position 🤠, slow sweet sex, post-orgasm planning for the future (this is din, after all)

a/n || i know, i know. i can hear it all now. "mel, where the fuck have you been???" celebrating my graduation and then immediately devolving into an existential crisis. but that's okay! not only have i figured out my direction in life, but i've returned with everyone's favorite topic: simping for Din Djarin.

Din Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Library Blog

Din Djarin is not a man who knows how to take his time. He’s a workhorse, constantly on the go from one job to the next. He simply never learned the skill of savoring the little things in life. A good meal, a hot shower, a full night’s rest, leisure time. All of those things are simply a stranger to him. Any pleasure he takes, usually at his own hand, is perfunctory at best, a release of tension for its own sake.

Until you.

It starts simple - a set of silken sheets that you bring onto the Crest. Din returns to find you sprawled out on the small bed you share with a sleepy smile that makes his chest feel funny. Your fingers fan out against the soft material.

“Come feel.” You murmur. He doesn’t hesitate to tug off the thick leather gloves and brush the fabric with the back of his fingers. You watch as his shoulders soften, his head tilting as he takes in the foreign feeling. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” He says contemplatively. “It’s soft.”

Your smile widens and you shift over, making room for your lover. “Join me?”

“In a bit,” Din promises. The chill of his beskar soaks into your skin as he presses his forehead to yours. His warm palm cups your cheek and he holds you there for a breath before pulling away. “I have some more work to do.”

It isn’t hard to convince him to strip down when he joins you later that night. He’s exhausted, body aching from a long day’s work. He lets you strip away his armor and flight suit until he’s left in his briefs. You’re used to him falling asleep the moment he collapses into bed - but tonight is different. His eyebrows raise in surprise when he relaxes back into the pillows, his fingers rubbing circles against new sheets. Din is a man of few words but it’s obvious how much he likes the new addition to the bedroom.

“Come here,” He whispers, beckoning you to join him. The tension melts from his body as you curl up against his side. He tilts your chin up and kisses you softly, a wordless offer of his thanks that you eagerly accept. Surrounded by the cool sheets and the woman he loves, he falls asleep within minutes. That morning, Din lingers in bed for those first drowsy moments after waking. He wakes you with a few gentle caresses of his hands over your shoulder and arm and a murmur of your name. He looks more rested than usual.

You make sure to buy matching pillowcases the next time you’re out.

With every passing day, Din learns how to slow down and savor the morning. It doesn’t take much to keep him in bed with you a little longer each morning - a few soft touches and sweet kisses, and Din sinks right back into your arms. He rubs his face into the crook of your neck and drifts in and out of sleep, practically purring with every brush of your fingers through his hair. His voice, so deep and rough first thing in the morning, rumbles low in his chest as he murmurs his love into your skin. It’s simple, this early morning peace the two of you share. So simple, but so important.

You slip into the shower with him one random evening. You can’t help it. He’s been gone for two days straight on a bounty hunt and you’ve missed him. His eyes light up with interest as they trail over your naked body, his hands finding your waist and tugging you against him. A shiver of desire arcs up your spine - but you didn’t come here to get fucked silly in the shower. Well, not yet at least. You loop your arms around his shoulders and press up on your toes to kiss him properly. Din groans against your lips, already moving to press you against the shower wall. A gentle tug on his hair is enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Can I wash your hair?” You ask, looking up at him like the picture of innocence.

Din blinks at you, confused. “You want to… wash my hair?”

“Yeah,” You say softly.

There’s no need to over-explain. The two of you have mastered this silent communication over the months you have spent together. He searches your face for a moment before his expression softens, implicit permission given in the way his eyes shine for you. You gently lather shampoo into his thick curls and let your nails drag along his scalp in the way he loves. His eyelashes flutter under your touch but his eyes don’t close. He’s too intent on watching you. The grip he has on your hips tightens as you work, little groans falling from his lips at the simple pleasure of your hands on his body.

He lets you maneuver him and tilt his head back into the water without a hint of resistance. For a man so used to keeping everyone at arm's length, the trust he holds for you is plain as day. His cock twitches against your belly as your fingers meticulously work the suds from his hair. The barest hint of your skin against his is enough to get him riled up, but this…? The press of your slick, bare body pressed against his? His body language begs for more. He leans into the press of your fingers and cants his hips forward, slowly grinding against you with stuttered breaths.

The moment the water runs clear, Din lifts you by your thighs and presses you against the cold shower wall. You can’t help but admire the bulge of his biceps as he leverages you up and nudges your entrance with the head of his cock, searching your face for permission. The hungry kiss you drag him into is all the permission he needs. A new rush of adrenaline seizes his body as he sinks into you. He fucks you hard and fast, pace faltering at the pure heaven of your body. He wedges his hand between your bodies and rubs insistent circles against your clit. He just knows your body too well - within minutes, those frantic bursts of pleasure built into a powerful orgasm that leaves you trembling and weak in his arms.

Din buries his face in the crook of your neck as he spills inside of you just seconds later. Every moan and panted breath echoes through the small shower. You shiver at the feeling of his lips pressed against your neck. He always knows just where to kiss and touch to leave you like putty in his hands. He goes willingly when you guide him in for a real kiss, lazy and slow as the water streams against you. Careful not to let you slip, he lowers you onto your feet and maneuvers you until the water pounds against your back.

You should have expected him to return the favor. Din doesn’t take no for an answer.

“It’s your turn.” He murmurs, too adamant and stubborn to be swayed. You’ve always loved that about him, even when it gives you grief.

You melt into his chest as he works product into your hair, his fingers massaging at your scalp in a way you didn’t even know you needed. Little sounds of satisfaction fall from your lips with every touch. Sometimes you forget just how big his hands are. He palms the back of your head and draws you close enough that your noses brush, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just watches you for a moment as he thoroughly washes your hair. He takes in the way you look up at him with an expression so full of love that he aches.

“I love you,” His voice is so low that it almost gets lost in the thrum of water, but you hear it. He can tell by the way your eyes light up, by the soft smile that curls your lips.

“I love you, too.” You whisper back. Din kisses you softly before tilting your head back and rinsing the suds from your hair.

Slowly but surely, you introduce Din to a life he never realized was possible. He learns how to revel in the attention and care you give him. He learns how to give it in return. His thoughts always return to you when he’s on a bounty, knowing he has to return to his little love waiting for him at his ship. Every now and then, he finds something to bring back to you - a little trinket, some sweets, a new book. You always look at him as if he’s placed the entire universe in the palm of your hands. Fuck, he would do it, too. Anything to see you so happy.

Din returns from a week-long bounty exhausted, sore, and with a little gift in hand. It’s just a new robe, something soft and airy for you to wear on those long nights in hyperspace. You gasp softly when he hands it to you, your fingers exploring the silky fabric as if it’s precious - and to you, it is. Not because it’s some rare or expensive treasure. Just because it comes from him.

Allowing you to remove his armor is as easy as breathing. He eagerly accepts every touch and kiss you give him, more than happy to let you do as you please. You set every piece of armor aside with care and neatly fold his flight suit. It doesn’t take any convincing to get him into the shower with you. The burning heat of the water soothes some of the aches that linger in his muscles. A dull throb still follows his every move but he powers through, not wanting to spoil such a pleasant evening with his lover.

He never really learned that he can’t hide anything from you.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as he eases himself onto the edge of the bed.

“Just sore,” He concedes, slowly rolling his shoulders in a vain effort to ease the tension. Your eyebrows furrow as you look him over with a keen eye. All you wear is that scrutinizing expression and the pretty robe he got you, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful. He sighs and reaches for your hand. “Come on, let’s just get some sleep.”

“You can’t sleep if you’re this uncomfortable.” You squeeze his shoulder, frowning when you feel how tight his muscles are. “Let me help.”

Din meets your gaze, your eyes so earnest that he doesn’t even think to deny you. He lets you maneuver him as you please until he’s laid out on his belly with you straddling his hips. A low groan rumbles through his chest when your hands bear down on his shoulders. Every pass of your fingers brings a strange combination of pleasure and pain that leaves him melting into the bed.

Even after all these months, he just isn’t used to the feeling of your skin against his. A simple passing touch is enough to have him shivering, but this? It’s overwhelming, all-consuming in the best possible way. It doesn’t take long for that pain to melt away into pure pleasure. Breathless, needy sounds follow every pass of your fingers. He can't help but rock his hips, grinding his cock into the silken sheets.

By the time you've finished working your thumbs into his lower back, you've reduced the Mandalorian beneath you into a desperate, hungry mess. He goes without hesitation when you urge him onto his back. His hands immediately find your hips and he grinds up into the heat of your cunt. The only thing that stops him from flipping you over and fucking you into the sheets is the gentle hand you place on his chest.

“Let me.” You whisper. Your voice carries a soft thrum of need that leaves him aching. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers tighten at your hips at the mere brush of your fingers against his cock. That grip becomes bruising as you slowly sink onto him. Pleasure curls through his belly at the feeling of your cunt fluttering around him, so hot and slick and perfect - it would be so easy to lose his mind in the rapture of your body. It isn’t easy to keep his eyes open under the onslaught of pleasure, but it’s well worth it. He’s rewarded with the sight of your jaw falling slack and a shiver wracking your body. The stretch, the angle - it’s all new to you. You aren’t used to taking him this way. He isn’t used to letting you.

You sigh a breathy, pleased little sound that makes his heart skip a beat or two. Fuck, you might just be the death of him one of these days. It’s a demise he welcomes if it means meeting his end at your hands. That first roll of your hips has his head tipping back into the pile of fluffy pillows, yet another addition of comfort you’ve brought to this bed. You can’t take your eyes off him - the flex of his biceps, the clench of his jaw, the sheen of sweat that glistens on his tan skin. A delicious vision of the man you’ve come to love so dearly. You lean down and press a kiss to his chest, his collarbone, to that sweet spot where his pulse thrums in his neck.

Your fingers comb through his curls, bringing his pleasure-clouded gaze back to your own. His lips part as you set a slow, steady pace. Every rise and fall of your hips makes his eyelashes flutter but he doesn’t look away. He’s too entranced by this, by the pure newness of it all. Heat pulses and courses through your belly with every grind of your clit against him, grows stronger with every needy sound you pull from him. His chin tips up, an obvious plea, and you kiss him. Soft and slow, full of tongue and teeth.

Din doesn’t think he’s ever experienced anything quite as overwhelming as this. He isn’t a stranger to the feeling of your body or the love you somehow hold for him, but this is all new. Every slow rock of your hips sends honeyed pleasure slinking down his spine. There’s no need to rush. He can take his time and truly feel you, revel in the plushness of your thighs and the wet heat of your cunt. For the first time, he lets himself explore your body unhurried. His hands drift up and palm your breasts, his fingers rolling your nipple with a gentle touch. Your head tips back as you hum a pleased little sound.

Din can’t help but press his hips up, rising every time yours fall. He doesn’t take control, doesn’t try to set a faster pace. He just moves with you as fluid as rushing water. His hands shift to cup your ass, his fingers digging in and spreading you out for him. Desire clouds your gaze as he grinds his hips at that perfect angle that makes you see stars. You’re so close - he can feel it in the telltale rhythmic pulse of your cunt, in the way your thighs tremble. Slick drips in little rivulets down his thighs.

“Perfect, so perfect,” He rambles between rushed breaths. “My sweet girl, all mine.”

“Yours,” You promise. “I’m yours.”

All it takes is one perfect rock of his hips to have you falling apart for him. That tension finally bursts through your belly, your cunt tightening around him with every aching wave of pleasure. You lose all sense, all ability to keep your pace, but Din is quick to take over. His grip on your waist tightens as he pulls you down, spilling himself as deep as your body can take him. You let yourself melt into his chest, a wave of pleasure shuddering through you with every twitch of his spent cock.

Din locks his arms around your back, all too content to keep your body against his. No complaint comes from you. You just tuck your face into his neck with a spent sigh. The two of you float together in that sweet, exhausted haze. He doesn’t know for how long, but he never wants it to end. He never wants any of this to end. He wants this forever, for every possible moment of his life to be soaked in this contentment. Surrounded by soft sheets and the smell of your perfume. Unhurried and easy, with you.

Months ago, such a realization would have thrown him into an existential crisis. But he didn’t have you all those months ago - this sweet, bright-eyed, spitfire of a woman currently taking a cat nap on his chest. He didn’t have the sweet scent of your shampoo infused in his sheets. He didn’t have your soft exhales ghosting along his throat. He just didn’t know that life could be like this. The moment you shift as if you’re making to get off of him, his arms tighten around you.

“Just a little longer,” He murmurs, his voice sleepy and pleasure drunk.

You're more than happy to indulge him.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader smut #din djarin x you smut

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littlemisspascal · 2 days

Text

Share My Moon

Part of The Fox, The Mage, and The Cupboard

Pairing: Din x Female Reader // also referenced Pero Tovar x Female Reader

Word Count: 3200+

Summary: If you’d known then of the upcoming hell, you would’ve savored the brief taste of heaven significantly more.

Warnings: Magic AU with mages and familiars, Reader has a backstory but no name or description except having hair, Reader's mother makes an appearance, worldbuilding, Ginger Ale being the supportive friend I wish I had, language, angst, grief, mentions of death, passage of time is kind of wibbly wobbly here

Author Note: I've missed this little universe and felt like pouring out some angsty feels. Expands a bit more upon events referenced in Young Love. Hope someone out there likes it 💜💜💜

Pics in moodboard found on Canva + Pinterest. The Omera + Din pic is merely used for aesthetic purposes and does not depict Reader's physical appearance.

Share My Moon - Candle Cocoon

The times that we exist together. Words not needed. Words not said. Memory past. Baking frenzy, harvest night. Pause, look up, the window is bright. Share my Moon. Feel It’s light. Always know that wherever you go. You just need to know that we share the same moon.

~~~

For as many people called Eldergrove home, there were twice as many who no longer did. They moved on and never looked back. The village and its inhabitants nothing more than tiny specks in the rearview mirrors of their lives. You wondered sometimes, if despite the miles of separation, they ever could feel it when their name was spoken by reminiscing villagers. A pinch of nostalgia in the center of their chest for a chapter of their lives they’d closed.

Maybe that was what led a handful of souls back to their old stomping grounds, even after some swore they’d never step foot on Eldergrove soil again.

The Miller brothers upped and left after the deaths of their parents. Ben was barely fifteen at the time, too stubborn and too emotionally damaged to be abandoned by his older sibling. Years later they returned out of the blue, bringing with them Santiago and Frankie, and moved back into the Miller household alongside their cousin like they’d never left. You were reminded of a pack of feral dogs, dangerously codependent and easy to spook, distrustful of the friendly hands offering to help them.

Pero Tovar and William Garin stuck around long enough to graduate school before they packed their things and disappeared. Nobody in the village could figure out for sure where they went or what they did the eight years they were gone. But once William’s ability to kill any prey with a bow and arrow in one shot and Pero’s complete lack of reaction to bloodshed were noticed, the rumor mill blazed with conspiracy theories each more outrageous than the last.

And it hurt to think about how each of these boys who left came back different. They came back as men. Damaged, bloodstained, and exhausted men chewed up and spit out by the big bad world.

It hurt even worse to think about Din this way. Din with his unwavering faith. Din with his impenetrable armor. Beaten and scorned. Unvalued. He deserved a softer life than the one fate had handed him. Nothing could ever convince you otherwise.

On paper, Din had no reason to return. He’d never called Eldergrove home. He’d never called anywhere home. Mandalorians weren’t meant to form attachments outside of their family bonds. Weren’t built for the apple pie and white picket fence domestic lifestyle.

Still, like the ocean drawn to the shoreline, he came back to you over and over.

You thought that was a constant you could depend upon in your ever-changing life.

And maybe it would have remained one, if not for your brazen act of selfishness. If you hadn't been drowning in grief over the deaths of your loved ones and overwhelmed by Din’s kindness, his fidelity, his everything and stopped yourself from lifting his helmet high enough to slam a kiss against his lips.

If you’d known then of the upcoming hell, you would’ve savored the brief taste of heaven significantly more.

If, if, if…They seemed to multiply like rabbits, invading every corner of your brain.

You’d known it was a mistake in the fragile seconds before he pushed you back, so it wasn’t surprising to find him gone by the time you’d summoned up the nerve to walk out of Ivers Forest. His constant absence the several following months without a single word of contact was another puncture driven through your tormented heart. The kind that kept you up at night, white hot and unbearably tender, but deserved all the same for fucking everything up.

It had made sense back then, in its own twisted way, that the anguish would stick with you forever, infiltrating every last atom you possessed. But life had the annoying tendency of moving on and on and on, uncaring of who it pissed off in doing so, and even the most gruesome of wounds stopped bleeding eventually, leaving behind a couple of jagged scars as reminders of lessons learned.

And boy did you learn yours the hard way.

You and Din? The shortest of love stories summed up in four words.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

You were a mere shadow of your former self in the aftermath of the funerals and Din’s departure. Shattered without a plan of how to glue yourself back together again. People noticed, of course they did, looking at you with pity in their eyes and offering paper-thin smiles. Turned you into a bit of a recluse to avoid facing them, feeling too much like an object or statue to gawk at rather than a real human being. Though there were some days you didn’t even feel like one of those either.

Your relationship with The Cupboard was a love/hate one, switching back and forth depending on the week or day or hour. It was funny in a pathetic, tragic sort of way how a building you’d known since birth became almost unrecognizable once it stopped being your grandmother’s shop and now belonged to you. You spent days refamiliarizing yourself with every tool and ingredient, the contents of each drawer, the ‘hidden’ nook beneath one of the floorboards you once stuffed shiny pebbles and bird feathers in like your own personal treasure trove. Nothing in there now except a couple of dust bunnies.

Inheriting the shop also meant inheriting your grandmother’s loyal mass of clientele. They sent in their orders by mail from afar, knocked on the shop door if you had the light on, or asked through your mother when you made yourself purposefully scarce. No one commented on the unpredictable hours. Grief could be used to excuse all types of strange behavior.

Wearing the same clothes for several days in a row? Grief.

Locking yourself away in a tiny room with nothing but molds and candlewax for hours on end? Grief was the explanation.

In your defense, you did spend time outside of the shop and your bedroom. Quite a bit, actually. Not your fault there weren’t any witnesses in Ivers Forest to see you collecting herbs or tending to the graves there. Sometimes you’d personally deliver orders to customers who lived beyond Eldergrove’s boundaries rather than send them by post–Rosedale, Bogcaster, once even Sassashire Falls for a woman with a particularly nasty reaction to a bee sting.

A good night’s sleep was hard to come by, no matter the candles which burned on your bedside table. You’d dream of what you’d lost. Who you had lost. And if you weren’t dreaming, you were having a staring contest with the moon outside the window, full and white, a guardian against the worst of the hungry shadows. Stared until your eyes burned and the questions beating against your skull fell mute. The clock numbers ticked by from midnight ‘till dawn. Life went on and on and on.

Mornings were easier. You’d make tea while Ginger cobbled together a little breakfast meal from whatever could be found in the fridge. She knew better than to comment on your tired eyes or frumpy appearance, instead just nudged her elbow against yours in a silent I’m here if you need me.

You stuffed your mouth with food and stacked the dishes and silverware in the sink to deal with later. Wished Ginger luck on finishing her newest invention designs.

Then back to The Cupboard you went. Same old, same old.

Your mother worried about you–well, that was always a fact. But she worried even more so that year, had a concerned crease between her eyebrows every time you stopped by, hugged you an extra bit tighter as if she could somehow absorb the negative emotions and take them on herself.

“You know, darling,” she told you one evening, a couple glasses of wine too many loosening her tongue, “that boy could never hate you.”

Your mother was your closest confidant–boy troubles, irritating customers, crippling insecurities, she knew just what to say to make every problem shrink down into manageable ones. Easy to fix.

But not this.

“Mom–”

“It was obvious from the minute you brought him home you were tied to each other. He may not be your familiar, but your grandmother and I both knew you would always be in each other’s lives.”

“Not anymore.” You shook your head, a wet sob stuck in your throat. “He’s not coming back. Not again.”

“I know it feels like an ending, darling. Like all hope is lost,” she said, hands squeezing your shoulders. Her eyes were bright and expressive, impossible to look away from. “But sometimes things fall apart because there’s no other way for them to go. And it’s natural to feel hurt and confused and angry. Those challenging moments are meant to teach us new things though, open our stubborn eyes and change us into us. Din will come back when the timing’s right. When you’ve both grown up a bit, walked your own separate paths for a few seasons. Trust me.”

So that’s what you did.

You grew up, settled into your own skin. You made a name for yourself as a skilled mage and chandler. You started smiling a bit more.

Missing Din became easier–felt less like the throbbing absence of a limb, more like the yearning ache of homesickness. Curious, since you were the one who had a roof over your head and a mailing address.

There were still some nights you’d find yourself watching the moon, its waning and waxing. And it became a comfort, imagining Din somewhere out there in the wilds on his own path, sharing the same view.

Take your time, you would think in the lulling seconds before drifting off. I'm not going anywhere.

If not for the stone markers, the graves in Ivers Forest wouldn’t look much like burial sites. The dislodged piles of dirt had been reclaimed by the earth, smoothed out and replenished with green tufts of grass dotted with dandelions doing what they did best. Thriving where least wanted.

Sunlight trickled in through the overarching tree branches, shimmering beams igniting the dust and pollen floating in the air. The only movement in an otherwise frozen patch of wilderness. Not even the birds or crickets sung their songs there. Used to make you feel nauseous–the silence so still your heartbeat hurt to hear.

You craved quietness these days. Wished you could preserve it in the wax of your candles somehow, then burn its essence and inhale its effects until your racing thoughts permanently settled down. But every kind of magic had its limitations. Capturing the hush of a soul’s final resting place, raising the dead back to the realm of the living…it was all too much for you.

The lit candle cupped between your hands flickered, reacting to the negative dip of your mood. An infusion of lavender, bergamot, and a hint of lemon meant to invoke calmness–one of your grandmother’s favorite recipes. Except it didn’t smell like hers, missing the unique, spicy aftereffect of her own magic that you would never in your lifetime be able to mimic. It was a plain and simple fact: you could run her store, you could copy her recipes, but you couldn’t ever actually be her.

Didn’t stop you from trying to fill your grandmother’s shoes though, to be everything she was remembered and loved for.

A talented mage, a successful businesswoman, a respected member of the community. Accomplishments which matched those of a happy life. Accomplishments you’d earned for yourself, checked off each box through hard work and stubborn persistence.

You should have been happy.

But the feeling remained elusive to you. Hovered just beyond your reach, enshrouded in a mist of uncertainty, not so different from a certain bounty hunter you were dearly fond of.

It was foolish, thinking of him at the same spot everything shattered to pieces. You rubbed at your nose, grimacing against the phantom sensation of blood leaking from your nostrils. If only you’d mourned the loss of your grandmother and Aunt Bunny the way most people did, instead of nearly getting yourself killed trying to bend the rules of the universe to your whim, maybe then things would have been different. Happier.

Your candle’s flame flickered again, angrier this time, nearly snuffing out.

“Sorry, sorry. Brighter days are on the horizon, I believe you,” you muttered to yourself, staring down at your grandmother’s marker with a rueful half-smile. Some days it felt cathartic to speak out loud, other times a little ridiculous. Regardless, nobody ever replied back.

“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” a familiar voice agreed from behind.

Until then, apparently.

Ginger was a great roommate. She was tidy, thoughtful, far more brilliant than everyone else in the village combined. She also knew how to find you when you didn’t want to be found and when it was time to bring you home again. Even when you weren’t ready to admit so.

You greeted her with an arm nudge as she stepped up beside you, shoulder pressing back against yours. She adjusted her glasses, then neatly held her hands in front of her. The stance of someone who intended to stick around for a while.

“Caught up in the past again, hmm?”

“Guilty,” you answered with a sigh. “Can’t seem to shake the habit.”

“You ever think about, maybe, finding someone to anchor you in the present?” she asked, like the question had an easy answer.

“Someone like who?”

“A boyfriend.”

You hummed a dismissive note. “No. Not even once. Why the hell would I want that?”

“It’s called dating, hon. Lots of single fish out there in the sea, including some of Merlin’s friends.” Ginger tilted her head to meet your gaze, an encouraging look in her dark eyes. “Could be good for you. Why not give it a shot?”

Why not? Because you were still grappling with the consequences of the last (and first) time you kissed someone. Why not? Because dating meant opening yourself up to someone, allowing them to see you. Every crack, every shadow, every shortcoming. Why not? Because someone already had seen you like that…and you’d lost him.

You bit into your lower lip, stared down at the pooling melted wax filling the jar as if the words you lacked were stuck there, waiting to be pulled free. But nothing could be found.

“Change can be scary,” Ginger said after a moment. There was a note of sympathy in her voice, and you didn’t want to hear it. Not there, where out of the corner of your eye you swore you glimpsed the glint of beskar, where the dividing line between past and present had never been blurrier. “But…you’re not happy with the way things are right now, are you?” The expression on Ginger’s face told you she knew the truth. She just wanted to hear you say it.

It wasn’t an easy thing to do. Something about actually giving voice to the problem that had been weighing down on you so long felt akin to tearing your heart out of your chest. Exposed for one of your closest friends in the whole world to gawk at.

“No,” you answered, shoulders curving with defeat. A sour taste in your mouth, you choked out, “I’m not happy.”

“The first step’s admitting it.” Your roommate slung her arm around your back, squeezing your upper arm. Then: “The next step’s taking a leap of faith and doing something about it.”

Later, you convinced a stubborn Pero Tovar to make you a cottage out of The Cupboard. (That’s a whole other story on its own).

Later, Pero kissed you beneath a sky full of shooting stars. It was unexpectedly sweet. Romantic. (Another story for another time.)

Later, you broke Pero’s heart because (beware of spoilers) for all the potential reasons you might’ve been happy together, there was one glaring detail you couldn’t overlook no matter how hard you tried.

He wasn’t Din.

And life went on and on and on.

On one shelf in The Cupboard, towards the back where you kept your wax molds, there was a row of candles—different colors, different infusions, each created with a different person in mind. There was a pink one for your mother, a grey one for your stepfather, light blue for Ginger and green for Benny and yellow for Frankie. Din’s was gold, Will’s a dark shade of purple and Santiago’s a vibrant orange. Pero had a black one, though with the unpleasant awkwardness still lingering after the breakup his had become the least burned in your collection—well, actually that was not entirely true. There was one you’d never lit at all. An earthy brown shade and still as pristine as the day you made it for a familiar you’d yet to meet.

None of these people asked for a candle. They didn’t pay for them or choose their colors or infusions. You made the candles in your own free time of your own volition. Because there was something about the process of melting wax and adding scents, about infusing strength and peace and creativity and protection that gave you a sense of purpose, of being a positive force.

You burned them sporadically, sometimes for hours while you finalized orders, sometimes for under ten minutes as you drank a cup of tea. You burned them when your magic sensed something was needed, a void only it could help fill. You burned them because nothing hurt you worse than when the ones you loved most were suffering, the hopeful vibrance in their eyes dimming and waning.

There were some tragedies which could not be avoided. Some hardships that must be endured and overcome by one’s own strength. Life was never a smooth path for anybody. For every sunny day there were also moonless nights.

But light would always come again.

Afterall, even the biggest of shadows were powerless against the smallest of candle flames.

Monday: breakfast at your mother’s house, yummy biscuits and troubled lines along your stepfather’s brow, news of a sick relative, a grey candle burned to bring him peace of mind.

Tuesday: lunch with Frankie, tired smudges beneath downcast eyes, discussions of nightmares, the dancing flame of a yellow candle promised sweeter dreams.

Wednesday: stacks of orders, piles of laundry, Ginger lent a helping hand, a blue candle lit over dinner in gratitude.

Thursday: Santiago and his restless spirit, the notes of an acoustic guitar played by scarred hands, new song lyrics in black ink, an orange candle ignited to summon enlightenment of life’s priorities.

Friday: woke up before the sunrise, magic tugged at your chest, a gold candle grabbed and lit before you even registered its meaning, heartbeat dangerously frantic.

It’s happening, you thought with a laugh verging on hysterical. It’s really happening.

Din was coming back.

Night had descended upon Eldergrove by the time Din approached The Cupboard. It was reassuring to learn his preference for the cloak of darkness concealing his presence hadn’t changed. Helped appease something ruffled deep inside you, eased the tension in your spine.

He knocked on the door–and that hadn’t changed either, the achingly familiar thud of leather-gloved knuckles against the wood. Even without the gold candle still burning away on your kitchen table, you would have known it was him by the mere sound alone.

Electricity seemed to thrum along your nerves, pulse spasming and fingers trembling as you gripped the doorknob. Your mom had told you Din would return when the timing was right, and you’d believed her. Except absolutely nothing felt right about then and there. It was an impossible clash of too soon and too long without any middle ground to stand on.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and stepped outside. A leap of faith.

And for the first time in over a year, you and Din shared the same moon.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #pedrostories #din djarin fanfiction #my fic #my writing

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