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dothedanceofdeath · 2 years

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Thank you so much!! You’ve just given me the oomf to get this first chapter out ASAP!

The President and I: Din Djarin X Original Black Reader AU

Summary: You are hired to write the biography of President Din Djarin of Mandalore - a job that turns out to be so much more than you could have imagined. A/N: AU, Age gap fic (19 years), Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Political shenanigans, Pro-monarch resurgence, war-hero Din, writer reader Pairing: Din Djarin x Black female reader

I’ve had a fic percolating for a while and I think I might be ready to unleash it on the world.

Din Djarin is the brooding President of the small coastal European country of Mandalore. Reader is the a Pulitzer Poetry Prize winning writer who visits Mandalore when a young girl writes to her, asking her to attend her school’s version of a show and tell - she’s in a slump in her career and she really needed this validation okay. Reader is accosted by the presidential guard on her way home and asked to write the biography of President Din Djarin, whose stoic nature has turned him into an enigma that alienates him from his people.

Reader is hired to shadow President Din Djarin for three months and lemme tell you the slow is gonna be burning my babies. Both these idiots have walls up so high it’ll give you a nosebleed but Din the war hero and reader the depressed wreck are going to find each other amongst the interference of the Djarin Administration and the failed monarchy that seeks to regain power (Did someone say Bo-Katan cameo?).

Also, all the SMUT is coming. I personally love to hate a good slow burn but I really wanted to do something heady and substantial because there is not a lot of Pedro fanfic written for us Black femmes so I wanted to do it right.

A little taste of the fic below. Let me know what you think!

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“How are things going? Smoothly, I hope.” His tone was earnest. You couldn’t help but notice how he always ended his question with his preferred answer. You smile, wanting to seem amiable. It doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Yes. Smoothly.” You sigh and sits back in the chair dropping your gaze to the intricate engravings on the edge of the large wooden desk. Din nods, watching you closely.

“Is there anything else you need for the book?”

Your eyes shot up to his half listening, before you register the question and shake you head.

“Oh, no no. I think I have everything I need. The book will be readable, hopefully enjoyable. Everyone will be happy and we can all move on with our lives.”

Din’s expression is unreadable but he sits back in his chair.

“What do you mean by that?”

“By what?”

“Everyone will be happy… what does that mean?” He asks you, eyes never leaving yours. You catch a twitch of inquisition on his forehead before his face resumes its neutral stoicism. But his eyes. His dark brown orbs shine with his true curiosity. It felt like eavesdropping to even catch this tell of his.

I really want to play poker with him.

“Oh, uh… that everyone will be happy, last time I checked.”

You didn’t intend to be cheeky but you were well past the limit of your bullshit barometer to the point where observing decorum with an entire president just felt trite and unproductive. Din doesn’t move, eyes never leaving your face even though yours try to find any other focal point in the room. It’s so quiet, even for this time of night. You open your mouth to excuse yourself when he robs you of the chance by speaking.

“You do this writer thing where you say something, and mean something else. Stop it. Say what you mean.” He delivers evenly.

Your mouth drops in silent shock at his frank observation. The shock amplifies to the point where you laugh. You actually laugh out loud, boisterous and almost joyous. He can’t hide his confusion, but underneath it, he manages to conceal the awe that accompanies the warm bloom in his chest at the sound.

“Oh God” you huff out, trying to control your breathing. “Uhm… I mean isn’t that what you do as a politician?”

“Im not a politician.”

“Oh no, you’re just a freedom fighter turned president.”

The words hang in the air and you wish he would offer a retort so you wouldn’t have to pass the seconds realising how big of an asshole you just were. Din finally drops his gaze and you feel shit about it.

“Im sorry. I’m so sorry. Jesus, why do you let me speak to you like this?”

“Because I’m not a politician.”

That shuts you up. He never chose this. He was barely out of high school when he lost his entire family. A mere baby fighting someone else’s war. Although he sit across you, dark hair expertly disheveled and salt and pepper patchy facial hair doing things to you, you did not have the time to entertain right now, it was clear that this 47-year-old man still carried the hurts of the boy he used to be.

“You don’t owe me anything.” You offer. He raises his eyes to yours.

“You were 19, fighting on the frontlines of an impossible war the year I was born. You and your administration do not owe me shit.”

“But?”

You take a deep breath, weighing how far down this rabbit hole could still go before you actually pissed him off.

Fuck it.

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