#mando drabble

[stardustrebels]

Days with Din- Day 2: Almost Enough

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!reader Rating: PG-13/ T WC: 425

Challenge Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A/N: Day 2 of my Din Djarin one shot solo fanfic challenge! Something very short and very sweet. Touch-starved, pining Din Djarin is my favourite kind of Din Djarin. 

Tags: Soft!Din, longing, pining, protective!Din, touch starved Din Djarin, Din Djarin needs a hug and maybe a nap, tenderness, fluff, gender neutral reader, no descriptions of reader other than they have hair, no use of y/n. 

Divider credit: @saradika-graphics

The stretch of wall in the Crest, and the coolness of the durasteel, was welcome after a long day baking under twin suns. A day that had begun with an air of hope and ended in the crackle of blaster fire. The fight had been short, brutal— close enough that Din had pulled you behind him more than once. 

Smoke had crept into your lungs throughout the fight and the burn lingered, more painful now that the adrenaline had ebbed away; out of your system until the familiar, hollow fatigue that came with survival took its place. 

Once you’d climbed aboard, you’d collapsed to the floor beside him with a huff and an announcement that every time you left the ship you nearly died, your head had tilted gently, slowly, on to his shoulder. 

And stayed there. 

And Din went very, very still. 

At first, he thought it might be accidental. A momentary lean. Maybe you’d murmur and shift away, embarrassed. Maybe you’d wake up, too stiff to really rest. He wasn’t exactly… built for comfort. 

But you didn’t move. Not even after minutes passed, then longer. Your cheek rested at the point where his pauldron met the chest plate, just above the soft fabric beneath the beskar’s edge. Your breaths came slow and even, misting the shine of his armour with every exhale. 

Din’s heart stuttered behind his ribs at the sight. 

He stayed as still as he could. For your sake. For his. Every breath shallow and quiet, afraid to jostle you too much and break the moment. His neck was sore. His back ached. But he wouldn’t move for anything. 

Your weight against him felt warm. His skin heated, just from the sight of you pressed against him. Your body heat was lost to him, of course, dulled by his layers, but his body reacted anyway. 

But Maker, he wanted to feel your skin, your warmth. Your hair brushing against his cheek, leaving a dusty trail through his patchy stubble. To rest his head on yours and breathe you in. But he couldn’t. Even if he did try, the beskar would hurt you. 

It had been so long since he’d been this close to anyone. Longer, still since anyone had even touched him. 

You sighed in your sleep and Din closed his eyes behind the helmet. 

He didn’t know what to call the sensation being close to you sparked within him, just that he wanted more of it. He wanted to stay just like this. Just a little longer. Maybe for hours. Maybe forever. 

[djarinsphere]

sex in the dark with din.

(do not interact if you are not at least 18 years old!!)

when he first opens up to you and both of you can’t deny the sexual tension, he’s willing to take off his helmet as long as you can’t see any of him in the dark.

you’re only feeling him everywhere. there’s the scrape of his beard against your neck, his strong chest hovering above you and his calloused hands making their way down your thighs. you kiss him and it’s sloppy at first, but he soon seems to memorise every small crevice of your body.

his fingers make their way through your wet folds, carefully entering you and he knows exactly what to do from here. your hands can feel his strong back as he’s lying on top of you, lips still absentmindedly planting kisses all over your neck.

when he’s finally buried inside you with his cock, you hear his groans right next to your ear. he’s trembling in your arms, starved of this kind of attention for so long. your legs wrap tightly around his waist as he starts to thrust slowly and steadily at first. his quiet moans sound like heaven to you and you eventually feel his fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands down next to your head.

his pace eventually grows sloppier, faster. din is growing more desperate and so are you. you need more of him, every thrust pushing you closer to orgasm and he’s hitting that sweet spot inside you at just the right angle.

when he reaches his high, his face is buried in your neck, hot breath against your skin and that familiar scratch of his beard again. your fingers are holding onto his warm back, your breasts pressed against his hard chest while you tremble underneath him. your orgasm washes over you in waves and the mandalorian wants to memorise every little sound you make.

or the way your pussy clenches around his cock. the way your nails dig into his skin.

it’s not a surprise to either of you when you engage in this a little more often.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

something worse

din djarin x f!reader | my masterlist

for @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge almost a month later 😅

note: my trope was "enemies to lovers," but I have to confess up front that there is no smut here. there's not even really a definitive conclusion. this turned into a character study because I was like, "okay let's do an imperial reader, but what about their motivation?" and then unforch I remembered this post and got struck with The Muse so here we are.

words: 3.2k

summary: you're an imperial officer loyal to moff gideon — until a run in with the mandalorian and his weird magic baby.

warnings: daddy issues, imperial reader, i don't know my mindset was v weird writing this, kind of enemies to lovers, really more enemies to allies with implied future lovin', people coming to a mutual understanding of one another, themes of parenthood and childhood and failing to live up to expectations, I'm sorry y'all I really do not know what this is but here it is anyway.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You are your father’s daughter. 

How could you ever be anything else? 

You are your father’s daughter, and, ergo, you are his legacy, his prophecy, his shadow. 

You are your father’s daughter and nothing more. 

What you do, what he does, what you stand for — it’s wrong. You know that. You do. 

But what are you to do? You are your father’s daughter. Nothing more. 

You were your mother’s daughter, once. Young and sweet and bright. Hair plaited by her hands, gowns cinched by her hands, heart cradled by her hands. 

She never liked the ISB. Before everyone knew the truth, before the Death Star, before the genocide. She bristled when your father signed up. 

“There is to be a draft,” he said, cupping her cheeks in hands that would grow less and less careful with each kill. “It’ll be better for us if I go voluntarily. More money, more choices.”

She still struggled to stay cross in those days, when you barely came up to her waist and stayed buried in her skirts every time the harshly dressed men visited your apartment, which became your home, which became your palace, for lack of a better term. 

You weren’t royalty, of course. But you felt like it, long before you knew the cost. Blood money, blood diamonds, blood-soaked hands. 

Of course, by then, your father rarely spilled blood. He had men to do that for him, he had command centers and lasers and booted troops to carry out his will. 

When your mother died, you learned what it was like to be a child of the Empire. What it was to be your father’s daughter. 

His blood held the door open for you, lit a path paved with sycophants and servants, led you by the light of the darkness that had consumed him, of greed and power and pride. 

Oh, and proud he was. Proud as you took rank after rank. Proud as you took life after life — from a distance, always. Calm, controlled, cold. 

When he died on the Death Star, you didn’t waver. You were your father’s daughter, dead or alive. your boss said as much when they presented you a medal in his stead, a postmortem prize for dying for the cause. 

“Your father’s daughter, through and through,” Gideon said, the hint of a smirk curling his lips. Three years in his service and you still couldn’t tell when his words were meant to be cruel. He was always that way, a step ahead, smooth with silk and sneers. 

This time, you knew he meant it, one way or another. After all, he had seen you grow. Seen you change and solidify, right from his first visit to your home when your mother’s hands shook as she poured the bourbon, which likely cost more than your salary even now. 

You are your father’s daughter in the daylight, keeping the cracks full of confidence. There was no room in this world for your mother’s daughter. There was no room in this world for doubt. 

Din Djarin is not his father’s son. Nor is he his mother’s, his buir’s, or anyone’s. 

Not anymore. 

Din Djarin is, as all Mandalorians are, one of many. He is but one ad’ika of his tribe and all of them wrapped together. He is Din, but he is also Mando, who is all and none. 

Together, as one. One part of a whole churning, swirling essence of what it is to be Mandalorian, to be a brother, to be a father, to be a soul. 

He is not his father’s son but he has his eyes. They aren’t for anyone to see, and there’s none left alive that would recognize them, anyway. 

He is not his mother’s son but he has her nose. It’s not for anyone to see, and there’s none left alive that would recognize it, anyway. 

But Grogu is his father’s son. His buir’s ad’ika. He shares none of his features but all of his heart. 

And Din isn’t about to let Gideon tear his heart from his chest.

Not when he’s going to have to give it away to the Jetii. Not when he’s going to have to learn to live with his heart outside his body, across the stars, lifetimes apart. 

Not with Gideon. Never with Gideon. 

You meet the Dark Troopers at the hangar to receive Gideon’s prize, though you neither know nor care about his little petty feud with some Mandalorian. In the wake of the Empire, he’s become obsessed. Obsessed with the Mandalorians, with their steel, with their nerve. He says this thing, whatever it is, will restore the glory of the Empire. 

You find it hard to care these days. What good is the Empire? It’s dead and gone, and it took your father with it. 

You are not your father’s daughter. Nor are you your mother’s. Their ghosts have left you vacant, a blank slate, and the only thing keeping you from disappearing into the vast and empty galaxy is Gideon. 

He’s not a particularly pleasant man, but he gives you purpose, even if you’re not entirely sure it’s worth the effort. But every day, you rise from bed, bathe, dress, and follow the whim of this vainglorious monster-made-man, and you do not think about life. You do not think about the trees or the seas or a reason to breathe. 

You think about duty, not desire. 

And so it goes. 

Which is all to say that when the “trooper,” a glorified droid, hands you a baby, you freeze.

On the outside, you’re impassive. Unmoving, unfeeling, unruffled. Inside, there’s a buzzing taking up residence in your brain. Something fuzzy and uncomfortable. 

You hold the child by the waist at a healthy distance. It looks afraid. You don’t blame it. The hangar of Gideon’s cruiser is a cold, desolate place. You are a cold, unwelcoming face. 

Gideon’s grin is no less unsettling than your blankness, but the child reacts viscerally, the tips of its tiny nails digging into your fingers it tries to escape your grasp. You hold him out with a grimace, nose wrinkled. 

As Gideon reaches to take it from you, it turns its fuzzy little head and looks at you with big, brown eyes. You have the strangest feeling that it's upset with you. 

What a silly thought. It’s a small creature, probably not even capable of such emotional complexity. 

The buzzing doesn’t stop. If anything, it’s a slow crescendo. You find yourself drawn to the sound, drawn to the way your whole body feels the prick of a thousand invisible pins until you wind up in its cell. 

It happens over and over and over. You lose focus. Your tasks neglected; your will stolen. Time and time again the numb, vacant feeling finds you in the cell holding the child. 

You come to your senses and set it back on the bench, it’s tiny cuffs clinking. 

You blink. It blinks. You blink. It blinks. 

You leave. 

Until you don’t. 

“I was wrong,” Gideon drawls lazily when he enters the cell to find you standing, face blank, the child in your arms. “You’re not your father. You’re weak, like your mother. Feeble-brained.”

You’re not your father. 

Of course you’re not. 

You never were. 

“It’s been clear, of course, since he died. What a waste of a man. You’ve never had half the potential, but at least you were useful. A shame.”

The hum of the darksaber igniting drowns the buzzing for the first time since the child arrived, and you snap out of the trance, suddenly aware of the little heartbeat racing under your fingertips. It makes a soft noise, with an inflection like a question, and stupidly, you answer. 

“No,” you assure the critter, by the Maker, what were you doing? But it responds just as the klaxons ring and Gideon abandons you in the cell. 

Your head spins, as does the room. What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you—

Nothing, the darkness answers as it takes you. 

The Mandalorian’s visor is as unreadable as the big brown eyes that peer into your cell alongside him, though much lower. 

You blink. It blinks. He doesn’t. 

He doesn’t move or speak, a tower in the night. Not a warning but a turret. Deadly and still, waiting for you to move and give him a reason. 

You look between them. The most unlikely duo. And when you look up at the Mandalorian, your mouth opens, but he beats you to it. 

“Don’t ask. I don’t know,” he grunts, and stands to his full height. “He made me bring you.”

It comes rushing like the tide, taking you out at the knees. You’re on the Mandalorian’s ship. There are a million questions in your veins, but you won’t bleed for him. You stay silent, sprawled there on the cold durasteel where you had awakened. 

He pushes a canteen of presumably water and a ration pack through the grate and closes it. Without another word, he lifts the baby and leaves you in the dark. 

He mostly leaves you alone—but he does consistently feed you. The little one, however, is a frequent visitor to your cell, much to the frustration of his guardian.

It takes you longer than it should to piece it together. 

The buzzing in your head.

Why Gideon wanted the child.

In the end, it’s your propensity for eavesdropping, the same skill that built your career, that solves multiple mysteries at once.

The Mandalorian’s voice is gentler, almost comforting, as it wafts through the open cockpit door.

“You can’t just keep refusing to go with them, kid. I can’t teach you how to be a Jedi.”

A Jedi. 

Your gasp is loud and sharp, a slip-up you’ll later blame on exhaustion and the baby’s brain manipulation or whatever mumbo-jumbo “Force” magic it’s apparently doing to you.

The muzzle of the Mandalorian’s pistol is long enough to meet your temple through the bars. 

You freeze. He sighs.

“Well, I was taking you to the New Republic,” he says. “But I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.”

Your stomach swoops, but your brain doesn’t falter. You snort, daring to lift your eyes to take him in your peripherals. “Wasn’t a very good option to begin with,” you say with carefully constructed casualness. “I’m not much good to you with the New Republic, or with my brain splattered on your ship’s wall.”

“You’re not much good to me at all,” he says, but he waits. 

Your heart picks up its pace. You don’t give him a chance to lose patience. “I know Gideon. I know everything.” 

“Most Imps would rather die than betray their masters,” he scoffs. “But you haven’t even tried.”

You know. The lullaby pill sits safely in your fake molar. If you were your father’s daughter, you’d be an empty husk by now. “Maybe I’m a coward,” you say.

He holsters the pistol. “Maybe,” he agrees. He turns, getting halfway across the hall, when he pauses, not even looking over his shoulder at you. “You’re still not getting out of there.”

It’s one of the days when nobody comes to see you, where the ship sits stationary on some skughole while the hunter hunts and the baby… well, you don’t really know what it does. Just that it’s not there, he’s not there, there’s nobody there but you.

By yourself.

Alone.

Have you ever been alone?

Have you ever been alone?

Of course you have. You are your mother’s daughter, after all. And she was always alone. Until the end. But, of course, she designed it that way.

Wait, though.

You haven’t ever been alone. You are your father’s daughter, raised in the barracks, living life on a ship that was never quiet. 

But he doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know you’re anyone’s daughter, let alone something worse. 

It leaves you reeling. For weeks. Your days become a mockery. No longer do you rise before the suns and accomplish your goals, fulfilling your minute purpose. No longer do you tick off the boxes of each cycle, each shift, each breath. 

Instead, you’re left to do the one thing you’ve spent your whole life trying not to do. You ruminate. Alone with your thoughts, you have to face them. The steady beat of duty is replaced with dread as you wake each morning — though, truthfully, you’re not even sure it’s morning — and grapple with that you don’t have a purpose. You never did. 

Not your father’s daughter. Not your mother’s daughter. Not anything at all, really. 

This he seems to know, since he can’t figure out a purpose for you either. Grogu throws him side eye when he so much as thinks about the most obvious solution. Your body in a gutter would clean up his problems without much effort.

But no. His son seems to think you’re worth keeping alive. Din is a little concerned that Grogu thinks you’re a pet of some kind, the way he slips between the bars to share a snack or pat you on the knee. It’s harmless, really, and you’ve proven too listless and lost to be a threat.

So in the cell and his mind, you stay.

You are no one’s daughter, and he is no one’s son. 

What this means is that no one comes to look for any of you when the ship falls from the sky. No one, of course, but the TIE pilots who shot you down. 

When you come to in the wreckage, you’re alone. There are no signs of the Mandalorian or his little green baby. The bars of your cage, which you braced yourself against during the fall, are mangled enough that you’re incredibly lucky twice over. Not only do you have room to escape, but you managed to somehow avoid being impaled by 2” thick durasteel rods. Not that you’re in mint condition, but you’re alive.

And free.

The two TIEs are sitting parked nearby. Just parked. No defenses, no lurking troopers. You could fly a TIE in your sleep. 

Your fingers twitch toward the panel, but you can’t seem to focus enough to punch in the override code. You can’t even think over the damn buzzing—

The buzzing.

The baby.

You’re following the sound, the sensation, before you realize you’ve turned away from the ship. It guides you, some invisible… force, through the outskirts of town into the bowels of a thrumming city. 

Until it doesn’t. 

When the buzzing stops, you don’t notice right away, haunted by its reverberations. When the silence sets over your shoulders like a shroud, it scares you. You can’t make it make sense, but nothing does anymore, anyway. 

You are nobody’s daughter, but he is someone’s son, and for some reason, this matters more than you could ever explain. 

When you find them, they look dead. Technically, you find the pilots first, and they are dead. You liberate them of their credits and blasters and weave your way into the alleys, following a trail of blood.

The trail turns to a river, at the mouth of which you find the Mandalorian. The streaky neon bounces off the beskar, and you can’t tell what’s a reflection and what’s actually blood on the armor. 

Worse is the baby’s little body, face down in the soil beside his father. His soft little coat is soaked in blood, and you can only hope it is the Mandalorian’s. 

Not that you care, or anything. 

Familiar cold detachment sets in, allowing you to quickly assess the situation. The baby is breathing steadily, unconscious but alive. He has no visible wounds, and the blood is only on the outside of his jacket. One down, one to go.

The Mandalorian is not so fortunate. His pulse is slow and stuttering. The wound on his abdomen seeps sluggishly, not because he’s healing, but because he’s running out of blood to bleed. 

In the end, you dig through the pouches around his belt until you emerge victorious with a single bacta patch, slapped sloppily on the split skin. 

It does occur to you, then. To walk away. 

This time, you can’t blame the baby when you tuck his sleeping body into the blood-soaked bag and heft him over your shoulder. You can’t blame his magic mumbo-jumbo when you heave the Mandalorian’s heavy boots up and under your arms, dragging the beskar-burdened behemoth behind you. 

The credits stolen from your former coworkers buy you a week in a hostel. It’s little more than a bunk, but at least it has a door. The small compartment’s ceiling is too low to sit up fully — meant only for sleeping, but here you are, performing a small surgery in the cramped space. There’s just enough room for your three bodies, and you have to rob the Mandalorian to get enough supplies to keep him alive.

When he wakes, though, he doesn’t return the favor. His blaster is at your temple before you even realize he’s conscious. 

“What did you do?” he growls, the pistol knocking at your already-aching head. 

“What did i do? I saved your scudbucket ass,” you snap. 

But he’s not even paying attention. The blaster is still debossing a little circle into your temple and he’s not even looking at you. He’s checking on the baby. 

“Explain,” he says, once he’s affirmed that the little green bogwing is just having a nap. You think. It seems a little more than a nap, but he had a pulse, so you had focused on the giant sack of bleeding beskar instead.

You recount your day from waking up among the wreckage until now. He pulls the blaster away and holsters it. 

“And,” you say, glaring, “you’re heavy as all hells. I think I threw my back out.”

He snorts. “Probably. Kriffing stupid to try to carry someone three times your size.” 

You’re not sure that’s accurate, but given the weight of the karking armor, it might be close. 

Silence fills the little bunk. He tries to shift to give you more room, but lets out a grunt as it aggravates his wounds. 

“I didn’t take it off,” you say quietly, unsure why you need to assure him. But he speaks in time with you.

“Why didn’t you leave?” 

You both pause. 

“I know,” he says after a moment. “There’s blood in here.”

You groan. “I better not have wasted all that time and money just for you to die from a head injury. I am not fit to be a parent to your baby sorcerer.”

“It’s superficial,” he says with a shrug. “Wait, what money?”

“Your money,” you say callously. 

He watches you, helmet tilting just enough to make you uncomfortably aware of your ragged appearance and every movement.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he repeats.

You close your mouth, teeth grinding as you chew on your answer. Finally, you just say it. The wretched thought that’s been seeping into the vestiges of your resolve.

“A father is a hell of a thing to lose,” you mumble, gesturing vaguely at the kid. 

The Mandalorian stays still and silent for too long, setting your nerves on edge. Finally, he looks away.

“That it is,” he says quietly.

[pentechnics]

OLAT Drabbles - Realization

Ch. 9 - Open

Series Masterlist

Summary: Din's POV after that magical extended check-in with you. Boba and Fennec are relentless in their teasing about it.

Notes: I've been thinking about this universe a lot lately. I always come back to them for comfort, and it brings me so much joy to know that some of you do as well. And it's about time we got more from Boba and Fennec! I hope you enjoy this little additional slice into Din's side of things! Much love!

Comments/Reblogs/Engagement is always welcome and highly encouraged! Support your fanfic authors!

~~~

Din closed the front door and let out a huff, eyes growing heavy as the exhaustion from the day finally caught up to him.

His head was pulsing, throat sore from overuse. But he wouldn’t have changed anything about his evening.

The way you two spoke was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before: fluid, fascinating, and fun. As much as he tried to avoid social interactions, you were a clear exception. Flashbacks of your conversation were still playing in his mind, drawing a smile from his lips.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Din sighed and turned to face a confused Boba.

“You didn’t mention going anywhere after your meeting.”

“I didn’t. We just sort of… lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time? For a whole evening?”

Din shrugged and pushed past him into the living room. Before he could make it up the stairs, he came face to face with an equally annoyed Fennec.

“What the hell, man? I just put the kid to bed.”

“I’m sorry, the day just got away from me.”

“How much can two people talk about a school day?” she asked, giving him a skeptical glare.

Din averted her gaze and tried to get past her, but she blocked him off.

“Come on, Mando, fess up,” Boba said from the bottom of the stairs. “Seems like you two have much more to discuss if you were with her for so long.”

“Wait- you really were just at the school this whole time?” Fennec asked.

“Yes,” Din said, tone singed with his aggravation. “We just… got to talking.”

Boba and Fennec gave each other mischievous grins before continuing to assault Din with questions about his meeting with you. He tried to deflect them, to make them stop until he’d at least changed out of his armor. They followed him to his bedroom, endless words spilling from their lips even after Din shut the door on them.

“What’d you talk about? Did you do anything else?”

Din ignored it all in favor of taking off each piece of armor at a slower pace than usual, should they decide to defy his right to privacy and barge in to continue their interrogation. When he was done, he took a seat on the edge of the bed and dropped his face into his hands with a sigh.

What the hell had happened in that classroom?

He was never one to lose track of time, especially the time he spent away from Grogu. The only other similar instance he could think of was the bus trip to the zoo. That ability you had, to immerse him in your own little universe, where the rest of reality didn’t matter and all that existed was you, him, and the conversation, was unreal. Not once did he get bored or wish he wasn’t there.

Quite the contrary; by the time it was over, he still wanted more.

It had started as a simple curiosity. You seemed to know so much about him – he wanted to put more effort into learning about you as well.

Something had changed when he’d opened up to you about his past. He was no stranger to his own narrative, or to sharing it when it was necessary. But this was more than just telling his story. This was a bridge being built, a branch extended towards your hand, beckoning you and inviting you closer to him.

He wanted to close the gap. You seemed so near, yet so far from his reach. It was almost desperate, his attempts to open the locks on your heart.

The reward of your trust, true awareness of what made you who you were, was overwhelming. Another piece of the puzzle that was coming together to create your stunning portrait. The way paved for even more for him to learn.   

Sure, he’d always been a romantic at heart, but he never imagined anyone would actually be able to enrapture his heart the way you have.

He smiled against his palm. Was this what love was turning him into? A talkative, poetic mess?

… Nah. It could only be you.

He repeated the word several times in his head, making sure it felt right paired with you.

Love.

You.

Love you.

I love you.

He heaved a slow, heavy breath and smiled.

How terrifying, yet relieving.

“Hello in there? We’re not done with you!”

Fennec’s impatient call pulled him from his contemplation. He groaned and made his way to the door.

While he still tried to ignore them as he made his way to the kitchen, they carried on. “C’mon, just tell us something about how it went!”

“You’re definitely smitten.”

He was. And he wasn’t afraid of that. What he was afraid of was giving either of these clowns any more fuel to tease him with. Especially now that they’ve met you and could match you to the stories with which he and Grogu had been filling their house since they moved there.

“She really is a sweet girl,” Fennec said, “It’s no wonder she’s stolen your heart.” “Do you really need to be so dramatic?” Din asked. She just nodded with a chuckle.

“I think such drama is warranted if it’s true,” Boba said.

They followed Din to the couch, where he settled down to eat his late dinner.

“Can’t say we didn’t see this day coming,” Boba continued, “The day little Djarin grows up and finds someone.”

Din just rolled his eyes mid-chew.

What a relentless bunch.

“You know what this means, Bo, we have a wedding to plan.”

Din tuned it all out. Instead, he played back those moments in the setting sun, watching the yellow glow dance off your features. The serenity of sitting across from you, hearing the tender tone of your voice like a kiss to his ear.

The irritation eased from his shoulders. Suddenly the cold leftovers in his mouth tasted much better.

“… It’s no fun if he ignores us.”

Boba sounded annoyed. Good. That’s how Din had felt since getting home.

“Then we’ll just have to be un-ignorable,” Fennec said with a sly grin.

Try your luck, Din mentally dared.

As they continued their attempts at poking him, he thought more about that phrase.

I love you.

… Did he truly? How else would he explain his unprompted desire to help you, to hear you, to be there with you despite what may be happening around you? Things he only felt when Grogu came into his life, when he truly began to understand what drove his parents to make the ultimate sacrifice just for him.

It could only be love.

“I love her,” he mumbled.

Fennec and Boba fell silent.

Din took a deep breath, a small grin pulling at his lips. It felt just as right to say as it did to think.

“… What?” Boba asked.

He looked up from his bowl, finally giving them his attention and looking them each in the eye as he repeated it.

“I love her.”

Their silence stretched on. Din smiled. Finally, some peace.

He stood to put away his dishes, but they stayed put. Din took his time washing each item and setting them down to dry, stealing a glance to see the two of them wide-eyed and staring.

“H-“ Fennec cleared her throat. “Have you told her?”

“No,” Din dried his hands with a cloth as he walked back towards them. “I only just found out myself.”

“Will you tell her?”

“… I don’t know.”

Din’s gaze dropped to the cloth in his hands, his fists clenching around it.

The idea of telling you hadn’t yet crossed his mind. Could he, even? The two of you hadn’t spent a lot of time together, in the grand scheme of things. Would he be coming on too strong? Not to mention that you were still Grogu’s teacher. Maybe that’d be too weird for you.

“Din,” Fennec started, “How are you feeling?”

Din glanced at her before setting the towel down and leaning against the countertop.

“Lot of things,” he breathed.

Too many things, all of a sudden. Questions, worries, intangibles that he could not control.

“Well, that’s to be expected. It’s still fresh.”

Boba grunted as he stood, making his way over until he stood beside Din.

“Give yourself some time to sit with it. Digest it. Worry about the rest later.”

He was right. This wasn’t something that could be sorted in one evening. As much as Din hated it, there were no quick-fixes for emotions this complex.

He let his head flop downward before looking up to give Boba a nod.

“Whatever you need, we’ve got you,” Boba added, patting Din’s shoulder.  

Fennec smiled and gave Din a nod.

The reminder of why Din put up with their bullshit: at the end of the day, they’d still always have his back.

“Thank you.”

The silence that followed was warm, calming. A chance to breathe in the love around him while he came to terms with this new love.

… And short-lived.

“So with that said, are we thinking a spring wedding, or autumn?”

Good grief.

~~~

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[the-scandalorian]

i feel like we don't talk about the twi'lek healing baths enough

It takes dozens of visits before he lets you get in the bath with him. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours just for a moment. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze of the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.

[f1-disaster-bi]

Prompt List #1 ♛ Imagines

“You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle?” that just screams nortrell 😂

Max had been dreaming. It had been a really nice dream. One of those ones that you didn't want to wake up from. The kind that left you smiling against you pillow as it drifted away from your memory when you did wake, leaving you feeling warm and a little sad that it was over. He had wanted to stay dreaming, but Max was pulled from his dreams by something jolting his body, making him gasp as he came back to conciousness all at once. It felt as if his body had just plummeted to earth as he startled awake. A curse left his lips, voice hoarse as his hands scrambled against the sheets of his bed before he realised someone was talking to him. "Stop freaking out, Max. It's just me, jesus", Lando's voice was low and Max could barely see him in the dark but it was his hands that were on him, that had jolted him awake. "Fuck you, jesus", Max hissed, making Lando snort with laughter while Max managed to sit up and reach for his bedside lamp, "What the fuck are you doing in my hotel room, Lando? It's like....fuck it's 4am" Lando did look a little guilty at the mention of the time. His hands moved and were shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie and he looked at the ground. Max could hear him scuffing his feet against the floor as he contemplated his embarassment. "I was just....I couldn't sleep and I...", Lando mumbled, shoulders hunched and Max had to sigh. He knew exactly what Lando needed but he wasn't going to not tease him about it. The teasing would be the only way to get Lando to relax, to see that it was okay to ask for things like this when Lando was still so damn sure that he didn't deserve it. Max was working on that bit but for now, he lifted the blankets. "You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle? Why am I not surprised?", Max sighed, shuffling over so there was space on the bed, "Get it, come on. Bed is getting cold" Lando only hesitated for a second before he was slipping into bed and curling up against Max's side. It was only when Max wrapped an arm around him that the tension bled from his body and Max saw him smiling before he switched the light back off. "Thanks, Max" "Go to sleep, Bob"

[sweetercalypso]

elaine! i am requesting a lil drabble 😘

🎬 - my favorite movie is pride and prejudice (the keira knightley version obvs) and I would love to see how our beloved DIN would fit into this universe 🌚

cw: mentions of drinking; the hand-flex moment is so Din-coded and I’m glad we’re finally talking about it!! (0.5k)

Spending your night in a dimly-lit cantina wasn’t something you’d planned, but the atmosphere of the Mos Eisley had been unexpectedly pleasant – much like the sight of the infamous steely-gazed bounty hunter sitting across the room.

His distinctive beskar had been the thing to catch your eye, his usual polished appearance now reflecting the tavern lights with an uncharacteristic ease. It was hard to tell if he was enjoying himself as much as the other patrons, but you thought you’d spotted his foot tapping along to the music once or twice in a moment of repose.  

It was nearing midnight when the band finally abandoned the stage and the crowd began to grow restless, signaling to you that it was time to leave.

You’re halfway through the room when the Mandalorian in the corner rises from his seat to follow you outside.

Most would’ve dreaded his company, some might’ve even ran before he’d had the chance to slide out of his booth. But something about him put you at ease, even if others couldn’t see past his armor.

The night air was colder than expected, causing you to wrap your arms around yourself with a shudder. Just as you reach the top of the stairs, the clink of beskar echoes from behind you.

“Please, let me.”

His voice is deep, grainy from the modulator inside his helmet. When he speaks, his head dips in a slight bow, like he’s addressing a person of distinction. He holds his hand out to you, palm open for you to place your hand in his.

The small staircase leading down to the street seems much more treacherous with an evening’s worth of fruity drinks dulling your senses, and you silently thank your maker that someone had been there to steady your descent.

Din doesn’t say much as he leads you down the stairs. He takes slow, calculated steps that match your pace just right, standing by your side as you pause at the bottom, slipping your hand from his grasp.

His fingers curl in on themselves, chasing the fleeting spark of your embrace. Even separated by layers of beskar and thick leather gloves, he feels the need to touch you, to be as close as he can without breaking his creed.

The flex of his hand goes unnoticed, much to his relief. He tries to find something to say, something to keep you there with him, but you’re gone before he can string together anything worth your time.

You murmur a small “thank you” before turning in the direction of your hostel with a last glance over your shoulder at the odd bounty hunter at the bottom of the stairs, still standing in the same spot you’d left him in.  

Din breaths a heavy sigh once you’re out of sight. He stretches his hands reflexively in his gloves and thinks about you at the cantina bar, wondering if he can delay his departure from Tatooine long enough to find you again.

[azertyrobaz]

Day 1 of Mini Comfortember (the list of prompts is here if you want to have a look!), so I'm taking things easy with a fluffy clan of two scene. I miss Din & Grogu like crazy.

************

“It’s time to wake up.”

Grogu didn’t want to. His tiny bed was too comfortable. Too warm. And surely it was still much too early.

“Come on, you know Carson’s waiting for us. We were supposed to leave at dawn, it’s almost mid-day.”

Impossible. His dad was having him on. No way he had slept for that long.

“You can sleep some more in the Crest, but I thought you wanted a flying lesson. Today would have been a good opportunity.”

Unfair, utterly unfair. Grogu rolled over and groaned. The blinds were open and he groaned some more – the sun was definitely high in the sky already, that hadn’t been a lie.

“We can stop at Space-n-Out on the way there for a late breakfast. Apparently they have a new type of nuggets. They’re shaped like dewbacks.”

Why did he have to be so mean? And why did he sound so awake?  Grogu scrunched up his nose and sniffed – the smell of caf reached him all the way from the small kitchen. He bet he already had at least 4 cups of that dark mixture he loved so much.

“Though I hope it tastes better than dewback meat…” he heard him mumble to himself. Grogu smiled. Sounded like there was a story there. Maybe if he behaved he’d get to hear it later.

“’m up,” he announced with a sigh, and sat up on his bed, his eyes still closed. That was okay, he didn’t need them open for that part. He knew where everything was.

“You have ten minutes, sleepyhead. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen. Pack a bag for at least a week and dress warmly.”

In the kitchen drinking more caf.

“Mmh,” he said instead, and he heard his dad leave the room. Only then did he slowly open his eyes.

Grogu sighed again, but he wasn’t so sleepy anymore, and felt well rested. They had a big day ahead of them. A big week! Carson had mentioned a new mission and was waiting for them on a planet called ‘Hoth’. He looked around his small bedroom and let his eyes rest on his few treasures, collected during his travels. During his apprenticeship, he should say. There wasn’t a lot, but it was all his, and he always felt better seeing them there. This place was safe. This place was home. And sure, it still felt a little sad coming back to Nevarro now that Greef was gone, but his dad had had said it best once: you always had to leave a little part of yourself behind. Otherwise there would be nothing to come home to.

“Are you still in bed?” he heard from behind the wall.

“I’m up!” he repeated, loudly this time, and jumped down.

[a-coffee-addict-613]

Din Djarin x Reader - Drabble

a.n : this is my first ever fic post on here, hope you like it. maybe i'll write the rest of this story, maybe not. who knows ? not me.

content warnings : SMUT, sub!din, handjob

"Kriff !", he breathed out as they both laid back on the sheets, their skin glistening with sweat, heaving breaths mixing as they kissed.

"Tell me how it feels Din, to have your hand wrapped around your own cock as I watch ? You love it, don't you, I know you do, I can see it on your face, don't even try to deny it, meshla."

It was hypnotizing, the way his hand glided along the tanned skin of his cock, the contrast it was with his red tip, already leaking all over him. The poor thing was just so desperate to cum, but he needed more, he needed her. Now that he knew what it felt like, the feeling of her silken walls wrapped around him, squeezing him, the way her moans made shivers travel along his spine each time he hit that one spot, deep inside her, his own hand was not enough, not when she was laying next to him, her naked body glued to his side. He could feel her sleek on his thigh, a reminder of what he desired but couldn't have. He tried closing his eyes, to imagine it in his mind, hoping, praying that it would be enough for him to reach the ecstasy he was craving. He began to go faster, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten, his lips fell open, whimpers falling from them like a river. And she leaned over, bringing her own lips to his, drinking from them as if they were her salvation. His pleasure only continued to rise, now that she was touching in some way, his hips rose up to meet his fist, he was so close, simply so close.

"Stop", she whispered against his lips as she pulled back from their heated kiss, a devilish smile apparent on her lips.

"No.. please, cyare..", he begged, he no longer cared, this was no longer the tough mandalorian or the strong bounty hunter, he was reduced to a desperate man, whose only care in the world at this very moment was only the orgasm he had at the tip of his fingers, only slightly out of reach.

"I said stop." She repeat firmly this time, her voice echoing around the metal walls of the small room he called their bedroom. She wrapped her hand around his wrist, the firm grip reminding him of what he promised, a promise to fully surrender to her. And so he stopped, his whole body shaking with frustration, his chest falling and rising rapidly, heaving with need.

She waited, patiently for his breathing to slow, and then she guided his fist to start moving again slowly around his length. She leaned down his body, brought her lips close to the weeping tip, so close he could feel the ghost of her lips, and she let her spit coat him and his hand, making it easier for it to glide along. And so he began his ascend again, the rise of pleasure building up in his body, that familiar knot in his stomach tightening.

[willowser]

falling in love with someone despite not knowing what they look like, my beloved

[cilil]

❅ Prompt: New year & candle light (rare pair bingo) | Námo x Vairë ❅ Synopsis: Vairë wants to celebrate the new year. Námo is skeptical. ❅ Warnings: / ❅ Drabble ❅ AO3

» Disclaimer: While this is a canon pairing, the Valar couples don't get much spotlight, so I still feel like they count as rare pairs.

"Candles? In your workshop?" 

Námo quizzically eyed the wide selection of candles his wife had placed on every available surface. 

"Only for tonight and because I prefer them over fireworks," Vairë explained and put down her tools, her many arms resting for once. 

She took Námo's hand. "I know your mind is already on the future you dread, but let us take a moment to reminisce."

"Of what? Another year of death and destruction?" 

"Of the good times we had, our smiles, our laughs," Vairë hissed his forehead, and his stern mien softened. "And then, we allow ourselves to hope."

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @wandererindreams

[cclumsyart]

Shrine to Mandos

For Scribbles & Drabbles 2023 - @fall-for-tolkien

[corazondebeskar-reads]

fine

din djarin x gn!reader

words: 896

summary: din takes care of you when you get sick.

warnings: um description of illness I guess? this is straight up just Din fussing over you. fairly tame fluff, no smut, established relationship. brought to you by me being sick. no description of reader, no y/n, and absolutely no proofreading.

“Cyar’ika,” the Mandalorian called out, rapping his knuckles on the door to your bunk. “Are you alright?”

The clanging durasteel drew a hoarse groan from your limp body, the sound bouncing around your already-pounding head.

He paused. “Cyar’ika?” he tried again, quieter now.

You groan again, burying your face in your pillow before immediately pulling back. You already couldn’t breathe, you didn’t need to suffocate yourself.

“I’m opening the door,” he warns. When a beat goes by without protest, he presses the button on the side panel and the barrier between you disappears in a whoosh.

You squint at him and give a limp wave, if it can be called that. “Hi,” you croak.

He winces. “Oh, cyare,” he sighs. He tugs a glove off and it’s a testament to how sick you are that you don’t hone in on the bare, tan skin, or the thickness of his fingers.

He gently sets the back of his hand against your forehead and lets out a low hiss. “You’re burning up,” he mutters, and vanishes in a swirl of his cape.

You fall instantly back asleep. He could have been gone for hours and you wouldn’t have known the difference. That said, he’s back in under three minutes, a medpac in hand.

He doesn’t wake you until he’s done with the diagnostic scan. “Cyar’ika,” he says with a strange gentleness when he prompts you back to the waking world. “You’re very ill. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Was fine last night,” you mumble, cheek squished against your arm where you rest your head, eyes still shut.

“Dank ferrick,” he mutters. “Rapid onset. Okay. We’re going to have to stop at a port; I don’t have the right meds. It’ll be a few hours.”

His glove creaks as his fist clenches and unclenches at his side.

You know that move. You crack an eye open. “Not your fault.”

“There’s fluid in your lungs,” he says behind a clenched jaw. “I should have noticed. I should have—“

“Shh,” is all you can muster, reaching for his ungloved hand. “Stop.”

He softens, shoulders drooping. You’re right, of course. He knows that. Blaming himself does nothing to make you feel better.

He busies himself instead with what can.

After he’s dosed out enough meds to tranquilize a bantha—a joke he does not laugh at when you make it—he disappears again. You take the capsules with small sips from your canteen, spread out between coughing fits. They’re all just symptom maskers, of course. Fever reducer. Cough suppressant.

But he’s determined to make you as comfortable as possible until you reach port. That becomes abundantly clear when he returns with an armful of blankets and pillows that you didn’t even know he had.

Once he’s padded and insulated you enough to survive a winter on Fest, he disappears again. You’d complain, but you’re asleep again.

This time when he comes back, he makes you sit up, which is just downright cruel. You groan and whine but he’s unrelenting.

He presses a drink into your hand, and you see that he’s swapped your canteen for a clear duraplastic bottle. “Are you measuring my fluid intake?” you say. It doesn’t come out as chastising as you’d like, since you’ve got a frog-dog in your throat.

“Yes,” he says bluntly. Once he’s pushed a pile of pillows behind you, and on your sides, and in your lap, like he’s afraid you’ll topple over and crack your head open, he hands you a steaming bowl.

“Eat,” he says.

You attempt a glare, but again, your puffy eyes and swollen sinuses make it more comical than caustic. Not that he finds it funny in the least.

“Eat,” he repeats. “Or do I need to spoon feed you?”

“May as well, with how bad you’re coddling me,” you try to mutter, but it devolves into a coughing fit.

You can’t even deny that his concern is unwarranted after the wheezing, hacking rattle leaves you drained and trembling.

You take a spoonful of the soup, not knowing what to expect. You can’t smell a damn thing and he’s never made anything before.

The first gulp has you sputtering, eyes watering. “What the kriff—“

“The burn means it’s working,” he says, deadpan.

“You’re trying to kill me,” you protest.

“Eat,” he insists.

He wasn’t joking about the burn. You take tiny, cautious sips, and the potent spices set about your mouth and throat like they’re on a mission to set fire to the virus.

You sneeze something violent as your nostrils go up in flames and… somehow… you do feel a little better. It doesn’t clear the fluid from your lungs or drive out the fever. But you can almost breathe again, and the way your chest tingles is more like living than the congested coma you’ve been in.

He doesn’t stand down from his post until you reach port. You eat the soup and drink the water, you hold still for the cold compresses he lays across your head and chest, you let him fuss with the blankets and watch over you while you sleep.

He sits perched on the edge of the bed, like you’ll get worse if he looks away. Your hand finds his again, weaving your fingers together.

“I’m fine, Din,” you murmur.

“You’re not,” he says solemnly. “But you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Where does the number 3,699 fall? Too long to be a "drabble"? Is that more a "ficlet"?

[cowboygenesis]

end of hiatus and updates

hi friends, i'm back to writing! to those of you interested in my star wars series "brown eyes", chapter 3 just went live! to add a little extra flair to your reading experience, here's a (work in progress) playlist for you:

as for my bg3 and the witcher folk, i'm currently working on the second part of "fatum" as well as slowly reworking the published chapters of "wild woman". i didn't really like the style i was going for with that fic, so it's being redone, whoooosh!

if you have requests, suggestions, or just want to say hello, my askbox and dm's are always open!

lots of love for the new year ♥

[weixuldo]

Other Characters Masterlist

~~Star Wars~~

Will You Stay? (Bi!Padme x Reader)

The Bounty// Din Djarin x Reader

~~Misc Hayden Characters~~

Who‘s your Daddy// James Kelly x Reader ~~Haikyuu~~

A Champion‘s Game// Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader