#modern!din

[psychedelic-ink]

𝑭𝑳𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑴 𝑰𝑵 𝑾𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹

pairing: modern!din djarin x f!reader

genre: romance, holiday fic, flowershop au, fluff

word count: 5.4k

summary: A spiteful coworker ruins the flower arrangements you had hoped to compete with. Not knowing what can be done, you entertain a young boy named Grogu who comes in at the same time wanting to buy a bouquet for his father. The next day, Din returns and offers to help you out with your work until a competition. However, he is a bit awkward and clumsy when it comes to love.

warnings: single dad!din, grogu being adorable, so much fluff, me trying to figure out what's it like working at a flower shop

a/n: this is my secret santa gift for @writeforfandoms ! thank you to @pedrostories who hosted the event, I had a blast writing this and I hope you enjoy, happy holidays! ♡♡♡

my prompt was; something soft and sweet - a holiday meet cute, or a holiday date.

You approach the flower shop you work a with a pep in your step. You can see that the windows are decorated with festive wreaths and garlands. The cold winter air nips at your nose as you push open the door, and you're greeted by a warm, cozy atmosphere inside. The shop is filled with the fragrant scent of pine and holly, and there are all sorts of beautiful holiday arrangements on display. You see poinsettias in every shade of red and green, as well as colorful bouquets of winter flowers like amaryllis and paperwhites. you can't help but feel a sense of cheer and joy in the midst of the cold winter season. 

You walk to the back, especially excited to see the holiday arrangements you made for the holiday flower show. You’ve been working on them day and night the past week, honestly, you were kind of proud of them. They truly turned out beautiful, even Cassian himself had said so, and he was one of the best in the business.

With a shudder, you remove your coat and beanie, and you feel a sense of dread wash over you. With horror, you notice that the room is in complete disarray, with flowers and foliage scattered everywhere. You can hardly believe your eyes as you take in the destruction of your beloved arrangements.

The once beautiful display is now a colorful mess. You feel a wave of emotions wash over you - shock, sadness, and anger. The once vibrant and carefully arranged flowers are now a jumbled mess, with petals crushed underfoot and broken stems lying haphazardly on the ground. Your heart sinks as you survey the damage. Kneeling down, you touch the white and pink petals, they’re soft, feeling like silk against your fingertips.  

As you begin to pick up the scattered petals and broken stems, your heart feels heavy. You had put so much time and effort into creating these arrangements, and now they were ruined. As you work to clean up the mess, you try to focus on the task at hand, but your mind keeps drifting back to the destruction. 

You know who’d done it of course. Only three people worked here after all; you, your boss —Cassian, who was out during the time of the crime— and your coworker. Claire. She hated your guts from the start, and her grievances simmered like a fine winter stew each day you worked together. It was her doing. You are sure of it. 

You’ve been waiting to join the show for a good while now. The years before you were either too busy or something came up; last year, during New Year’s you had promised yourself that you would join but apparently, that wish of yours isn’t going to happen. 

You hear soft footsteps, knowing who it is, you don’t look up and scoop up the last remnants of the ripped petals. 

“What happened?” Cassian asks, looking down at the mess. “I was out only for an hour,” 

You scoff, hiding your disappointment by looking down at your hands, “What do you think happened?” 

“I’ll talk to her.” 

“Don’t bother— If you’re not going to fire her, there’s no point in talking.” 

The silence that follows is louder than words. You can’t really blame him for not firing her. Firing Claire meant that her father took away the money he poured into the shop thanks to her daughter working here.

You understand Cassian's predicament, but it doesn't make the situation any easier for you. You feel betrayed and hurt that she would go to such extremes, and it's hard to shake the feeling.

"I'm so sorry," Cassian says, kneeling down next to you. "I had no idea she would do something like this. I'll make it right, I promise."

You shake your head, feeling defeated. "I don't know how you can make this right. The show is in a few days, and all my arrangements are ruined. I won't have time to start over."

"I'll help you," Cassian offers. "We'll work together and create new arrangements. I know it won't be easy, but… We can manage to do this."

You look at Cassian, feeling touched by his words. You appreciate the offer, but you just can't bring yourself to accept it. Your mood has been ruined, and you don't feel up to working on anything new. You shake your head and try to smile, hoping that Cassian will understand.

As you continue to clean up the mess of your destroyed flower arrangements, you hear the sound of the shop's door opening. You look up to see a young boy walking in, a bright smile on his face as he looks around at the various flowers and plants. He must be about five or six years old.

You can't help but smile back at the curious little boy, noting the small patch of green hair peeking out from under his dark brown locks. He looks full of energy and enthusiasm, and you feel a sense of warmth toward him.

"Hello there," you say, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted despite the frustration you're feeling. "Welcome to the shop. Do you need any help? Are you here alone?”

The boy looks up at you, a sheepish expression on his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause any trouble," he says. "My dad is just next door at the coffee shop. He said I could come in and take a look around while he finishes ordering."

You’re relieved that the boy isn’t completely alone. "Oh, that's alright," you say with a smile.

The boy looks up at you, his big brown eyes shining with excitement. "I'm looking for a special flower for my dad," he says. “A lot of’em.”

You can't help but feel touched by the boy's thoughtfulness. “So, a bouquet then?” you look fondly at Cassian who nods and smiles. 

“What’s your name?” he asks slightly kneeling forward. 

“Grogu,” 

“Alright then Grogu, follow us. We’ll make sure you have something special for your dad,” 

You and Grogu browse the selection of flowers and plants, and you chat about what kind of bouquet would be perfect for his father. You ask about his family, and Grogu tells you that he doesn’t have a mom, your heart breaks at his tone. You can see the sadness in his eyes but don’t pry further. 

Just then, Cassian's phone rings and he excuses himself to take the call. You and Grogu are left alone to continue your flower shopping. Despite the unexpected turn of events, you’re grateful for the chance to spend some quality time with little Grogu. You both continue to chat and browse the selection of plants, getting to know each other better as you go.

As you talk, you’re drawn to the boy's infectious curiosity and enthusiasm. He's full of questions about the different flowers and plants, and you find yourself laughing at his adorable observations.

"Hey, do you think this flower looks like a ballerina?" Grogu asks, pointing to a delicate pink rose.

You can't help but chuckle at the comparison. "I can see it now," you say with a smile. "A little ballerina flower twirling amongst the other blooms."

Grogu giggles, his eyes sparkling with delight. "Yeah, and I bet she's a really good dancer too!" he says.

He's such a sweet and lovable little guy. He’s a little spark of joy after the morning you had. 

Your thoughts briefly drift back to the ruined arrangements that you had worked so hard on. It's hard to push the disappointment and frustration out of your mind, but you know that you need to focus on the task at hand - helping Grogu choose a special gift for his father.

Suddenly, the little boy turns to you with a determined look on his face. "Can I make the flower bouquet myself?" he asks.

You smile at Grogu's enthusiasm and desire to be involved in the process. "Of course, you can," you say with a smile. "I'd be happy to help you put it together."

Grogu beams at you, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Thank you!" he says.

Grogu starts to put together the flower arrangement for his dad, you can see that he's a little bit unsure of himself. He's not experienced with flowers, and he's a little bit nervous about getting it right. 

Together, you choose a selection of colorful flowers and greenery. You show Grogu how to trim the stems and arrange the flowers in a pleasing way. He listens carefully to your instructions and tries his best to follow along.

The final arrangement isn't the most expertly done, but it's cute and charming. Grogu looks at it with pride and a big smile on his face. "I think my dad will really like it," he says.

Just as you're about to ring up the purchase, Grogu realizes that he doesn't have any money on him. He looks at you with a mix of embarrassment and sadness, and you can see that he's worried that he won't be able to take the flowers home after all.

You hesitate for a moment, considering your options. You know that you’re not supposed to hand out flowers to every kid that wonders inside, but you also can't bear the thought of disappointing Grogu. In the end, you decide to let him take the flowers home with him. You know that you'll find a way to make it work. Honestly, you doubt Cassian will mind anyway.

"Don't worry about it, Grogu," you say, smiling at him. "I'm sure your dad will love the flowers, and that's all that matters. You can pay me back next time."

Grogu's face lights up with gratitude, and he thanks you. You can see that he's truly touched by your kindness, and you feel happy that you were able to spread a little bit of joy.

Just as Grogu is leaving the shop, you see Claire walk in. She looks smug and self-satisfied, and a surge of anger and resentment bubbles inside you. You struggle to keep your emotions in check.

"Hey, looks like someone had a good day," Claire says, eyeing the flowers in Grogu's hand as the boy leaves. "I guess some people just have all the luck."

You can feel your temper rising, and you struggle to keep your voice calm. "Luck had nothing to do with it," you say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. "Grogu was just a kind, thoughtful kid. Unlike some people, who seem to get their kicks from destroying other people's hard work."

Claire rolls her eyes, looking annoyed. "Whatever," she says. "I don't have time for this. I just came to see if there was anything I could help with."

You can feel your blood boiling, but just then, Cassian comes back into the shop. He looks from you to Claire, sensing the tension in the air. "What's going on here?" he asks, frowning.

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "Just a misunderstanding. I think it's best if Claire and I just stay out of each other's way for a while."

Cassian nods, looking relieved. "I think that's a good idea," he says, turning to Claire. "I think it's best if you take the rest of the day off. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Anger crosses Claire’s face, but she nods and leaves the shop without another word. You can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the resolution, you take a deep breath and turn to Cassian, grateful.

“Thanks, but you know you’re going to hear an earful from her dad right?” 

“I know,” he answers, exasperated. “I just didn’t have the patience to deal with her. Tomorrow’s Cassian will have to deal with it.” 

It’s a brand new day yet you don’t feel hopeful or renewed at all. Claire is inside working on her own arrangements while you look over the shop. Your mind keeps drifting back to the events of the previous day. You're still angry and you can't shake the feeling of frustration as you go about your work.

You move around the shop, carefully arranging flowers in vases and pots. You start with a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, adding in sprigs of baby's breath and a few fern fronds for texture. Next, you tackle a vase of deep red roses, interspersing the blooms with sprigs of greenery and a few spiky thistles for contrast.

You admire the vibrant colors and delicate shapes of the flowers. Despite your anger and frustration, you find a sense of calm in the repetitive, soothing motions of flower arranging.

Suddenly, the bell above the door jingles, and —what you assume— a customer enters the shop. You put on a smile and turn to greet them, trying to push your anger to the back of your mind as you prepare yourself to help them. 

“That’s her daddy. She’s the one that helped me!” 

Your eyes drop down at the voice, you see Grogu from yesterday, his smile is wide as he points at you, his other hand nestled within a much larger one that clearly doesn’t belong to him. 

Your gaze slowly lifts from the child, and you are met with the sight of a man whose features are both rugged and refined. Confidence and charm exude from his face, and his dark, expressive eyes seem to speak to your very soul. His smile, warm and genuine, lights up his entire being.

"Hello," he says, his voice deep and rich. "Grogu told me about yesterday. I'm sorry if he caused you any kind of trouble."

You shake your head violently, your cheeks are uncomfortably warm and at the same time cold. You compose yourself with a deep breath. “He wasn’t any trouble at all, really— In fact he improved my day a long shot,” 

“That’s good to hear,” he says. 

His lips are parted as if he’s about to say more but Grogu peels his tiny hand away from his father’s and runs towards you. You look down, shocked, and raise your hands, not really knowing what to do with them. Hesitantly, you meet the man’s gaze and he softly nods, only then do you softly touch the young boy’s back, giving him a hug. 

“He also told me that he couldn’t pay when we reached home,” he continues a hint of annoyance surfacing mid-sentence. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He takes a step forward. “It’s a bit late but I would like to pay for it. They were lovely,” 

“Oh,” you stare at him wide-eyed, Grogu looks up at you with a smile. “Well—Thank you for offering but there’s no need. I’m glad you enjoyed them, Grogu made it,” 

“With your help,” the child says, tiny brows furrowing. “We did it together!” 

“Yes, yes we did,” you chuckle, patting him on the back. He moves away from you and starts to observe the arrangements you made. 

“That’s very kind of you but I should pay,” he says stepping forward his hand mid-pulling out his wallet. “How much do we owe you— Grogu don’t mess up the flowers,” 

When you turn you see Grogu looking at his father like a dear in headlights, the tips of his fingers touching one of the daffodils. Looking embarrassed, he pulls back his hand and gives you an apologetic look. 

But that’s not what you’re thinking about at all. You’re thinking about the way the man’s voice changed, the strictness of it, a shudder rolls down your spine and heat settles at your tailbone. You swallow. 

“Like I said it’s okay,” 

Din's eyes linger on you, taking in your earnest expression and the way your hands remain raised, refusing payment. After a moment, he gives in, sighing and stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. 

"Let me at least buy you coffee," Din says, a smile stretching into a grin as he sees the shock on your face. "My name is Din by the way," he adds, extending his hand toward you. "Nice to meet you."

You introduce yourself and give his hand a firm squeeze, feeling the strength and warmth of his grasp. Din's smile is infectious, and you find your own lips curving upwards in response.

“I need to drop off Grogu now, but how about I meet you here in about an hour? Would you be free then?” 

Your eyes move towards the hallway that leads to the room Claire is making her arrangements in, you nod without a second thought. Cassian owes you a favor anyway. 

You and Din sit near the window of the cozy coffee shop. The winter air outside is crisp and cold, but inside, the shop is warm and inviting. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods fills the air, and you can't help but breathe in deeply, savoring the rich, comforting aroma.

The shop is bustling with activity, and the sound of laughter and conversation fills the air. The walls are adorned with warm, cozy blankets and colorful throw pillows, creating a sense of comfort and hominess. The light from the large windows filters in, casting a soft, golden glow on everything it touches.

You sit and sip your coffee, you listen enthusiastically to what Din has to say. It’s already been an hour since you came in and neither of you shows no signs of wanting to leave. As expected of him, Din talks a lot about Grogu, which makes you smile widely. You also learn that he’s quite the skilled man, he tells you how he enjoys model building and how he might have a bit of an addiction to legos. You say that you’re the same with plants, your home basically a greenhouse with how much flora you have. 

He briefly mentions the passing of Grogu’s mother but before you can say anything he takes a bite of his muffin and directs a question at you. 

“So, what’s your story? Did you always want to work at a flower shop?” 

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, wrapping your hands tightly around the mug of coffee as you consider Din's question. You relish the warmth of the mug, letting it seep into your bones. He crosses his legs and leans against the window, his demeanor much more relaxed now. 

“I mean, I know you like plants, but that’s a bit different from making floral arrangements isn’t it?” 

"I started working at the flower shop when I was desperately searching for a job," you answer, turning back to Din. "The flower shop was hiring. I wasn't sure if I would enjoy it at first, but I ended up loving it. There's something so satisfying about it that stuck with me. I’ve been working with Cassian ever since."

Suddenly, the sound of a ringing phone interrupts your conversation. You reach into your pocket and pull out your phone, glancing at the screen before answering. It’s Cassian, you already have an inkling of what’s going on.

"Hello?" you say, your voice a little bit louder than it was before. "Oh, hey. Yeah, I'm at the coffee shop. What's up?"

“I’m sorry but I need you to come back,” his modulated voice reaches you. “I—Well—Claire is occupied, she’s saying she can’t have her flow of inspiration be cut,” 

“I hear you loud and clear,” you sigh, once again reminded of your own ruined chances of joining the competition. “I’ll be right there,” 

After a few minutes, you end the call and turn back to Din with an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry about that," you say. "I have to go."

Din nods, "Of course," he says. "I hope everything is okay."

“Well…more or less,” 

“We can…” he takes a sharp breath and continues. “We can talk about it if you want to—I don’t want to pry, of course, but I just thought I should ask,” 

You hesitate for a moment, considering Din's offer. You usually don't open up to people about your dreams and struggles, but for some reason, you feel like you can trust him. There's something about Din that makes you feel safe and understood, and you find yourself wanting to confide in him.

"Well, I actually wanted to join the local holiday flower show," you say, your voice low and hesitant. "But my co-worker —her name is Claire— destroyed them but nothing can be done because of her dad’s influence on the shop and now she gets to work on her own arrangements and I’m being beckoned to look over the shop because she doesn’t want her—"you make quotation marks with your fingers. “—flow of inspiration be cut.”

Din nods, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Are you still going to compete?” 

"I don't know," you say, feeling a sense of frustration bubble up inside of you. "I'm just so agitated right now. And I don't think I'll be able to get everything together in time for the competition even if I tried."

Din's expression turns to one of concern. "You can't give up just because of a shitty co-worker—Sorry for swearing but—" he says adding the second part with haste, his voice laced with a hint of anger. "Your co-worker shouldn't have destroyed your arrangements like that. You have to keep going and not let her hold you back."

Before you can say anything he raises his hand, his brows furrowed. 

“I’ll help you,” he says. “We can make it together.” 

“W-Wait, what?” you blink in shock. “You would really do that?” 

"Of course. Besides It's no problem," he says. "I'm happy to help. And I have a feeling that we're going to make an amazing team." when you stare at him, unsure, he winks and takes another sip of his coffee. “Besides, I owe you for the bouquet.” 

You and Din are huddled over a table covered in flowers and supplies, focused on creating the perfect arrangements for the competition. You can feel the tension between you, but it's a good kind of tension. You're both nervous and excited, and you keep stealing glances at each other as you work.

"Okay, so I think we should start with this bouquet of roses," you say, holding up a bundle of deep red flowers. "We can add in some baby's breath for texture, and maybe some fern fronds for a pop of green."

As you reach for a pair of scissors, your hands brush against each other, and you feel a jolt of electricity run through your body. You pull back quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

Din seems to feel it too, and you see a hint of a smile on his lips. "Yeah, that sounds good," he says, his voice low. "I think we should also mix in some of these daisies for a bit of contrast."

You grin at him, trying to play it cool despite the flutter in your chest. "That's a great idea," you say, your voice a bit unsteady. "And we could add in some spiky thistles for a bit of edge."

Din chuckles, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "Thistles? Are you trying to kill me?" he asks, playfully swatting at your hand.

Your laughter fills the air, a melody of joy and surprise. You never expected to get along so well with Din, but the connection between you seems almost magical. As you work side by side, you can't help but wonder if there's something deeper, something that goes beyond. Could it be love blooming between you, like the flowers you tend with such care? The thought makes your heart flutter.

As you gently weave the flowers together, your hands accidentally meet, a spark igniting between you. You gaze into each other's eyes, and in that moment, you feel like the world falls away. You're drawn towards Din, an undeniable pull that makes your lips tingle with anticipation. But just as you lean in, he breaks away, licking his lips and looking uncertain. You withdraw as well, your heart racing, wondering if you were just imagining things.

Just then, Cassian enters the shop, and you introduce him to Din. You mention that Din is Grogu’s father and Cassian’s eyes lit up when he remembers the young boy from the days before.

"I'm so glad to see you two working together," Cassian says. "And I'm happy that you're going to compete in the flower show. I honestly believe you’re the best one to win, "

Cassian heads inside and you turn to Din, explaining to him that the shop has been struggling lately and that the money from the competition could help. You also mention how Claire's father has been causing problems for Cassian, and how you're hoping to find a way to deal with it. The money might help, you add.

Din listens attentively, "I'm here to help in any way I can," he says, squeezing your hand. "We'll figure it out together."

You and Din work on the arrangements. A sense of ease and comfort in each other's company. As you carefully place the flowers in a vase, Din speaks up.

"I haven't felt this way in a long time," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Ever since Grogu's mother passed away, I've been so focused on him that I haven't really allowed myself to think about anything else."

You look at Din, your heart filled with compassion. "I'm so glad that Grogu came into the shop that day," you say, surprised at how soft, and sincere you sound. "I'm glad that we got to meet."

Din smiles at you. "Me too," he says. "I feel like I'm finally starting to come back to life."

You both continue working on the arrangements, you're falling for Din, and you can tell that he feels the same way—At least, you hope that he does. 

When the two of you are finally done, you glance at one another. But just as you're lost in each other's gaze, Din trips and falls, his arms flailing as he tries to catch himself. You try to catch him too, but he ends up pulling you down with him, and the two of you tumble to the ground in a heap.

You both lay there, laughing and trying to catch your breath. 

“Whoops,” he says, his hands secured on your hips. “Are you okay?” 

“Vey much so,” you grin. “What did you even trip on?” 

“I honestly have no idea,”

-Din gathers his things and gets ready to leave, you walk him to the door. The air outside is cold and crisp, and the snow is falling gently from the sky. You breathe in the winter air, relishing in the crispness of it.

"The competition is tomorrow morning," you say, your voice filled with anticipation. "I just wanted to thank you again for all your help. I couldn't have done it without you."

Din smiles at you, his eyes shining with warmth. "It was my pleasure," he says. "I'm just glad I could be of help."

As he turns to leave, you feel like he’s slipping from your fingers, for some reason you’re convinced that if he leaves now you’ll never see him again. You're not ready for him to go—With a boldness that surprises even you, you lean forward and give him a quick peck on the cheek.

The touch of your lips on his skin sends shivers down your spine. Din's eyes widen in surprise, and he licks his lips nervously.

"I-I should go," he stammers, fingers brushing where you kissed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing at the door, your heart racing with excitement and anticipation for what the future might bring.

The morning air is crisp and invigorating as you and Cassian make your way to the competition. 

Your senses are overwhelmed by the sight and smell of all the beautiful flowers on display when you enter the room. You see rows of vibrant bouquets and intricate arrangements, each one more stunning than the last. 

Your eyes wander across the seats, feeling slightly disappointed when you don’t see Din there. You had hoped that he would be here with Grogu, but it seems like he got preoccupied with something else. 

Despite this, you refuse to let it get you down. You focus on your own arrangements, determined to give it your all. You can see Claire setting up her flowers on the other side of the room, a smug smile on her face. You can't wait to show her that you're not going to be held back by her petty actions.

The judges slowly make their way around the room, you feel your nerves start to build.  Claire looks at you with annoyance as the judges approach her table, and you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction as you watch her fidget nervously.

The judges finally reach your table, you hold your breath and watch as they carefully inspect your arrangements. You can't gather anything from their expressions, but you try to keep a positive attitude. You glance over at Cassian when one of them reaches out and touches one of the roses, he gives you a reassuring thumbs up. You feel your chest tighten with hope and anticipation as the judges move on to the next table.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the judges make their way back to the front of the room to announce the winners. You cross your fingers and hold your breath as the first-place prize is announced.

As the judges are about to speak, you see Din and Grogu slip into the room and take a seat next to Cassian. Din catches your eye and gives you a smile, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room disappears and it's just the two of you. Your heart races as Din's piercing gaze meets yours, and the air between you crackles with electricity.

You can feel your body responding to Din's presence, you can't help but be drawn to him. His rugged features and piercing eyes captivate you, and you can't help but wonder what it would be like to feel his lips pressed against yours, to be enveloped in his embrace. The judges' voices fade into the background as you are lost in a haze of possibility and hope, knowing that, with Din by your side, anything is possible.

But before you can fully process this moment, the judges announce the winner. When they announce your name, the crowd cheers and you feel every muscle in your body going limp with shock, your lips parting wide with a sharp gasp. But as you accept your prize and look back up, you see that Din has vanished, leaving Grogu holding Cassian's hand. Cassian, understand what you’re asking immediately, points towards the door.

You quickly make your way toward the exit, when you step outside, the cold winter air bites at your skin, but you hardly notice. You're too focused on the man in front of you, the one who has captured your heart and your soul.

Din stands before you, his eyes shining with pride and love. "I'm so happy for you," he says, his voice filled with emotion. "You deserve this victory."

“I couldn't have done it without you,” 

“Do you think I have a career in flower arrangements?” 

You chuckle, lips curved as you gaze at him, “Maybe, you want me to put in the word to Cassian?”

Much to your surprise, he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his body. Din teases you to look up by wiggling his eyebrows. Confused, you look up only to see that he's holding a sprig of mistletoe over your head, a hint of crimson on his cheeks.

"A bit lame, I know," he says, trying to play it cool. "But I couldn't think of anything else to do."

You grin at Din, every nerve in your body singing with delight. You can't resist the opportunity to show him just how much he means to you. You lean in and give him a soft, lingering kiss, feeling his strong arms wrap around you as he returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.

Din seems a bit surprised at first, but then he holds you tight and the two of you stand there in each other's embrace, the world around you melting away. You feel like you're floating on air, lost in the magic of the moment.

Eventually, you reluctantly pull back, your lips still tingling with the memory of the kiss. You can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, feeling giddy and lightheaded with happiness. You've always been a bit of a romantic, and Din seems to have caught on to that. You can't wait to see what the future holds for the two of you. With Din by your side, anything seems possible.

[sirowsky]

--Dreamt You Were Here--

Description: A dream literally comes true. Which is odd when there's another person involved. Din Djarin x Female Reader.

Rating: Teen Warnings: Rottweiler (friendly), meant to be/star crossed lovers-vibes, alternate universe. Word Count: 1485 Author’s Masterlist

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

   You don’t dream very often, at least not anything that you can remember. But whenever you do, your dreams are always very vivid and it usually takes you several minutes after waking up, before you even know that it didn’t really happen.    But tonight, it was extreme.    You’d dreamt about a tall dark stranger, knocking on your door and asking about a dog, and it had felt so real that when you wake up in your bed, you actually think that he should be there with you, and you’re kinda disappointed that he isn’t.

   Trying to shake the feeling that you’re somehow in between alternate realities, you step into the shower and let the hot water cleanse your thoughts while it scrubs off the remnants of sleep from your body.    It’s a day off from work for you, so you put on comfy clothes and have a leisurely slow breakfast, while reading a chapter on a new book you picked up.

   And then the doorbell rings.

   It’s barely even 9am, and you haven’t ordered anything. Still, you can’t think of anyone other than a delivery person that might be on your doorstep at this hour.    But while you’re debating with yourself about whether to answer it or just chalk it up to one of the neighbor’s kids playing ding-dong-ditch, there’s another ring.    You sigh and get up, heading for the front hall.

   The door has a glass section down the middle, and although it isn’t clear enough for anyone to see through it, you can see well enough to get a pretty accurate idea of who’s out there, especially in daylight, when they’re backlit.    And as you approach the door, a tall figure comes into view, so it’s at least an adult. And there’s something sort of familiar about this person.

   You unlock and open the door, intending to just hold a small gap open while you find out what they want. But instead, you find yourself opening it wide and then standing locked in place, because suddenly, the idea of alternate realities becomes much less unbelievable.    It’s him. Fucking him, from your dream.    Every detail, from his soft brown eyes and curly hair to his black Henley and dark jeans, and even the silver bracelet on his right wrist, it’s all exactly as you dreamed it.

   “Hi, uh… Sorry to bother you, but my dog ran into your backyard, and I can’t get it to come out,” he says, and his voice sends shivers down your spine.

   You’ve heard it before. You’re not imagining it, you can’t be, not with this much detail.

   “Your name is Din,” you suddenly blurt out, even though there’s no earthly way that you can know that. You’ve never met the man before.

   He just stares at you, clearly wondering the same thing that you are.

   “Din Djarin. Is that right?” you ask, probably looking every bit as confused as you feel.

   “Have we met?” he counters, and there’s suspicion in his eyes now.

   “I… I don’t know,” you say earnestly, because this is so fucking wild that you couldn’t have come up with a lie even if you tried.

   “I don’t live anywhere near here. This is the first time I’ve been here, and I don’t remember ever meeting you before, so how can you know my name?” he questions, and while you want to tell him the truth, you suspect that he’ll never believe it.

   “Um… Why don’t we see where the dog went,” you offer, and without waiting for a reply, you step out of the house and head around the side to where there’s a gate.

   Your entire backyard is fenced in, and while the gate is low enough for a bigger canine to be able to jump it, the rest of the fence isn’t.    Although, why any dog would jump in there is a mystery. There’s nothing of interest back there, you don’t even have a pool.    As it turns out, the animal in question is a very big Rottweiler, and when it spots the two of you, it comes running across the yard.

   Now, you’re not normally frightened of dogs in general, but when one this size comes right at you at full speed, you get a little intimated and take a step back. You don’t know how well trained it is, or what it might be trained for.    For all you know, this could be a ruse, and this Djarin guy is about to use the dog to force you to comply while he robs you, or something worse.

   But your worries are quickly proven unnecessary, when the man merely shifts his body language a fraction, and the Rottweiler immediately slows and then comes to a stop right by his leg, happily sticking its tongue out and panting to cool itself.

   “She’s normally very well behaved, I don’t know why she darted off like that, but I do apologize,” Din offers, even though there’s still a great deal of suspicion within his eyes.

   “No harm done. She seems to have had a good time,” you say with a smile, trying to ease the tension.

   He doesn’t respond to that, but his gaze lingers thoughtfully on your face, and you can almost see the multitude of questions that are rattling around behind his brown orbs.

   “You somehow look… familiar,” he says after a minute, but he still looks utterly befuddled. “I don’t know why, because I don’t really recognize you, but I could swear we’ve met before.”

   The thought seems to unsettle him every bit as much as hearing his name from your lips did, so you refrain from telling him that you’ve possible met in a dream, since that would likely just make him decide that you’re crazy.

   “Another life, maybe,” you suggest instead, and he merely hums in response.

   “Well, again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he finally says, before turning back to the gate to leave.

   But as he does, the dog suddenly steps over to you, gently sniffs your hand and then promptly sits down by your leg and looks up at you just like she did with her owner. As if she somehow knows you equally well.    You and Din both just stare at her for a moment, before lifting your heads to look at each other, and the confusion has now graduated into mild panic.

   “She never initiates contact with anyone that she doesn’t already know, and trusts.    Who the hell are you?” he challenges, not angrily, but certainly with a great deal of anxiousness.

   You struggle to know how to respond to that, because you’re still unwilling to admit, even to yourself, that the dream could’ve possibly been something more.    But at the same time, this man deserves answers.

   “Okay, I promise I’m not making this up…” you nervously start, hoping that he won’t dismiss what you’re about to say, “But I dreamt about you last night.    That’s how I know your name.”

   He looks skeptical, but not entirely disbelieving, which gives you hope.

   “You told me your name, over dinner. After I’d helped you find your dog…” you add, and his eyes pop wide at that, because it’s too similar to be a coincidence, if you’re telling the truth.

   He has no reason to assume that you are, but he almost looks like he wants it to be true. Like maybe he feels the same thing that you do, in the slight crawling under your skin, and the warm sense of recognition whenever your eyes meet.    You feel like you know him, and not just casually. The longer you’re around him, the more convinced you are that you might actually know all of him.

   “Does that mean I should come back at dinnertime?” he asks, and while there’s a tinge of humor to the words, he’s not joking.

   “Maybe. I mean… I don’t think I’d mind it if you did,” you admit.

   For a long moment, the two of you just stand there, meeting each other’s eyes, trying to peek through the fabric of the universe in the hopes of understanding how this can be possible. How you can feel so connected, even though you just met.    But then the dog gets impatient, and playfully bumps her nose against your hand.    You pet her without even thinking about it, knowing exactly where her favorite spots are.

   “And what about you, Mo? You wanna come to dinner too?” you say to her, not even reflecting over the fact that you somehow just knew her name too.

   But Din does, and while you’re busy petting and scratching the big goof, you don’t see him smile at the scene before him.    You don’t notice how his shoulders drop and he abruptly decides that maybe this was simply meant to be, and that he should just go with it.    After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

THE END

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

Thank you for reading and helping me celebrate! I wish you a wonderful day <3

Tagging a few people who I think might wanna read these stories: @startrekkingaroundasgard @deadhumourist @tintinn16 @suttonspuds @tanzthompson @shsoba05 @f0rever15elf @justnat15 @lowlights @dornish-queen @radiowallet @spishsstuff @harriedandharassed @i-love-movies @tiffanypooh @chaoticfestninja @insomniamamma @pedrostories

[dinbuckyenthusiasts]

Din Music HCs

If we're talking about modern Din I'm lowkey thinking he would secretly ADORE Taylor Swift but it would take a lot to get him to admit it. But at the same time...would he like more chill music?? Maybe RnB? Maybe The Weeknd...LIKE DIN LISTENING TO THE WEEKND WOULD BE SO HOT ARE YOU KIDDING???

He would also like hip hop I think. And 70's/80's. Specifically ABBA. I don't know why I can just see him absolutely loving Voulez-Vous.

See but this is the thing -- I honestly think he would thoroughly enjoy all genres and many different artists. Din wouldn't be opposed to anything tbh he probably just doesn't care

Like he would either be very specific in what he listens to and enjoys or he would just listen to whatever comes on the radio because he's THAT level of unbothered

He would also let you DJ if you were driving with him. Generally, he's pretty selective over who gets to choose what music to play. It would either be his music or, more often than not, just silence if he even let anyone he doesn't like in his car in the first place. But with you, I think he would actually want you to choose. He would LOVE learning and trying to figure out your music taste and he would probably end up getting one of the songs stuck in his head, but of course he doesn't mind since it reminds him of you...I'm on the floor

He would come to really enjoy the time you spend together where you're just sharing your favourite songs with each other. And he would be internally screaming when you say you like his taste in music because, while I think it's just normal to feel happy when someone likes your preferences, I think music can be something very personal to him. Of course he'd never admit it, but maybe it's a way he communicates, especially once you share music with each other more often.

[roguetonorth]

You think you understand au's until you start writing one

[ilovelosermen69]

Girls when he does the bare minimum in fanfiction

[temeyes]

quickie w/ gaz!! missed drawing my boyfieeeeeee

[bon-sides-sw]

Grogu's favorite teacher, he really wishes to see him more often!

[noramsblog]

Fathers are fathering ‼

[heyitsropi]

i just realized—

maybe i have a type:

[netherfeildren]

At the Restaurant

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It’s three days til Christmas, and you’ve never known want like this, and his eyes are glossy with emotion and everything he won’t ever let himself tell you or anyone else, and you so badly want to tell him that it’s only that it’s hard to be casual when your favorite bra lives in his dresser, and also that you’re in love with him.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Modern AU; Christmas fic; Angst; Fluff; Miscommunication; Emotionally unavailable idiots; But also idiots in love; Toxic relaationships; Situationship; There is nothing well adjusted about any of this pls don’t come into this house if that’s what you’re looking for; Trigger warning for man with an avoidant attachment style; Condolences to all my fellow victims of The Situationship; Size Difference; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Frankly some pretty pathetic behavior; Girl stand UP; Fuckboy Din; Plan B and Delusion as a form of birth control; Pull and pray baby pull and pray; Possessive Behavior; Jealousy; Insecurity; Trigger warning for Right Where You Left Me by Taylor Swift references

A/N: Hello and welcome to my contribution to the holiday fic pool! This is not at all what I was planning as my holiday piece, but I woke up a few mornings ago and was just completely taken hold by this. Much love and thanks and gratitude and all the kisses in the world to my friend @f0rlornmyths for all the help on the idea and brainstorming and for the gorgeous edits she made for this little story. Mai baby, this is all for you, and I know it's not the Christmas gift I promised you, but I swear, one day that too will get written.

I’m wishing you all the happiest and most relaxing of holiday seasons. I think of you all constantly and wish you all the best always, and I hope you’re taking care of yourselves during this time ❣️🎄✨

Word Count: 8.2K

Read on AO3

He gets this sparkle in his eyes when the bar’s extra busy, cheeks flushed and curls damp with sweat and this shine that speaks; that tells of all the things he does that make a woman belong to him whenever he’s giving her his singular attention. Eyes that laugh and crinkle at the edges with happiness. Eyes that tell you how much he does or does not want you at that specific moment. And he’ll laugh and blind the room into seduction under the Christmas lights, and then he’ll turn, suddenly remembering you’re here for him, and look at you all serious-like, while you sip on your tequila soda, with two limes always because he knows that’s how you like it, and it’ll be a serious, cool look for just a second before it blooms into the best smile anyone’s surely ever had in all history, and you love him. 

It’s three days til Christmas, and you’ve never known want like this. You’ve never practiced restraint of this kind either. A restraint that suffocates and kills and could probably be taken as a form of self harm were you in a righter, more clear mind, but it’s the only thing you have left against him. Din. A control over yourself that falsely feeds you the illusion of power. You never call him. Never. Any interaction, any late night fuck, any time he comes over and comes inside you, it’s always, always because he calls you, he looks for you. You never beg, not with words at least, and you never text first and you never ask him if you can see him, and it’s the only way you tell yourself you maintain even a semblance of control. And at night, when you’re alone and it’s dark and you’ve only got the cat for some sad company, or you’re crying in bed because he hasn’t called, and you know he’s not at work and he’s obviously not at home, so he’s somewhere you don’t want him to be, that false sense of control that says you’re never the one reaching out, it’s always him coming around so surely that must mean something… it’s all you have at the end of it. 

He’s not your boyfriend. He never has been. And there’s always been that excuse you use to soothe yourself with of, well, we’ve never really talked about it, and he’s not really my boyfriend, so it doesn’t really matter. Does it? Doesn’t it? You’re sure you don’t know anymore. And you tell yourself, lie to yourself, comfort yourself, whatever it is your tired heart needs in that moment, because it truly is so tired, the push and pull is the most exhausting game in the world, that if he’s coming to you it’s because Din’s choosing you. Even if just for a night, even if just for now, even if tomorrow he’ll be with someone else, he chose you for tonight, and so surely that must mean something. It’s the worst thing you do to yourself, but it feels so good in the moment. You just can’t help yourself. 

“Another one?” He calls over his shoulder with a smile.

 You’d had a little bit of a… well, you don’t really know what to call it. A falling out, perhaps, because the two of you never have fights. You never fight, you never discuss the things the two of you should discuss, like feelings or anger or resentment or boundaries and wants and needs. Nothing. Nothing that indicates anything that might define what it is the two of you’ve been doing for two years with each other now. Fights are something couples do, and you two are not a couple. But up until three days ago, you’d not heard from him for two weeks. Two weeks of nothing, of hearing from your friends that they’d seen him out with his friends and other girls who you know probably mean nothing, even less than you do, but still. It’d made you insane. A little bit irrational, and so when you and your friends had gone out over the weekend, picked up a group of guys at the new bar you’d chosen for the night, since Din’s bar was off limits at the moment, and brought them back to your apartment at your roommate, Bo’s, insistence, well, you’d thought you’d give him a taste of his own medicine. After a slightly tipsy, teary eyed rant, explaining to your new friend for the night, a one Toro Calican, who had a very nice smile and very pretty eyes and not at all bad arms, all about your terrible situation with this man who you were not really in a relationship with, but who you have sex with, and only with him, regularly, unprotected, enthusiastically, but who is still not your boyfriend and not even anything close, he’d arranged himself very nice and cozy-looking in your bed with your twinkly lights sparkling in the background and your pink pig stuffy which Din loved to make fun of you for, and you’d taken a very tasteful, in your opinion, picture of him for your Instagram story. Again, a taste of his own medicine. 

Din had been at your front door forty five minutes later, angry. Angrier than you’d ever seen him before, and not at all trying to hide it. Pushing past you and into your apartment all tall and broad and wearing your favorite dark blue hoodie he knows you love, curls mused as if he’d been pulling his fingers through them in agitation. There’d been a sneaky, smarmy little devil inside of you doing a happy dance at that moment, and his eyes when he’d turned to glare at you after giving poor, Toro – casual, entirely unbothered, Toro with his big smile stretched across his handsome face as he’d looped an arm over Bo’s shoulders where he’d been sitting beside her on the couch – a look that said Din had half a mind to take him outside and wipe the floor with him. But your new friend had laughed him off, taking Din’s terribly cocky onceover, the sort he liked to set people down with, in stride. All arrogance and the sort of self assuredness only a man who knew what he was made of and how to take care of himself could possess. He was too hot for his, or your, own good. 

And when he’d turned and pushed you into your bedroom, a little tipsy, a lot desperate and pleased and wet, because yes, finally you were getting exactly what you wanted, exactly as you’d asked for it, and he’d flipped your skirt up and ripped your panties down and buried his face in your cunt from behind, all: this pussy’s mine, what the fuck was another dude doing in your bedroom? You’d been nothing but pleased giggles and hiccupy little moans as you’d come on his tongue just as he’d demanded of you. 

It was wrong. The two of you were wrong and maybe even bad for each other, but also, and this was only your own personal, fanciful discernment, addicted. A mutual addiction. The way he fucked you, hard and deep and possessive, like you belonged to him. Tugging you up by the hips and pulling you back onto his hard cock, the wet slap of your pussy dripping for him so that it surely echoed through the thin door of your shitty little apartment for the man who’d threatened what Din saw as rightfully his could hear exactly what was happening in here. You should have cared more about this ridiculous display of a pissing contest. You should have been bothered by it. You absolutely were not. And when he’d gone harder than stone, shoved deeper than you could comfortably take him so that you were coming around his cock one last time from the stretch and sting of it, and he’d filled you to leaking without even asking, you’d not even blinked at it, had been nothing but contented sighs.

It was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Even worse, you’d never been on birth control. It made you sick, tired, moody, and the two of you worked around it… sometimes… kind of. Condoms when you remembered, usually ripped off mid fuck, pulling out… also sometimes. Never very responsible or dedicated to the practice of safe sex and level headedness, more focused on how fucking good it always felt when he was inside of you like this all bare and wet and hot and his. And if he fucked other girls, well, you tried not to think about that. Got tested, told yourself you were the only one he didn’t use protection with because you were special when they were not. And if there was, that last horribly misguided whisper that said, well, if he’s taking this risk with you, then obviously that means something too, right? Then so be it.

Again, like you’d said, bad for each other. 

But he always gave you so many reasons to be stupid, delusional, like the way he’d kissed you before he’d gone the morning after, while you were still sleepy and warm and a little sweaty from where you’d been pressed together so close through the night, wet and sticky between your legs from his come. He’d wrapped his arms around you and pressed you so, so close to his chest, nipples bare and tight against hard muscle and wispy hair. The musky sleep smell of him as he’d started at your shoulder, mouth slow and damp, kissed and nibbled his way up your collarbone, your throat, your jaw, settled at your ear to taste that soft place behind, pressed his tongue there to feel the echo of your pulse moving through your whole body, the flutter of his long lashes against your skin because he’s just that close. Your toes had curled and spasmed, little and cold, bracing against his hairy shins and big feet, hard cock nestled between the warmth of your thighs. And he always makes the best sounds, you know, deep and rumbly and all man. Familiar sounds that you’re able to replay again and again in your mind afterwards when he’s gone, sounds that make it easy for you to pretend he’s yours because you know them so well, and you want to keep him so bad it makes your stomach hurt. Gotta go get the kid, he’d said, by way of explanation for why he wasn’t pushing up into your come soaked cunt and having you one more time again, but he’d stayed and kissed you. And when he’d finally found his way to your mouth, sipping on you, tasting behind your teeth, along the wet of your tongue, that was all that really mattered anyway. 

Sometimes, he kisses you like he loves you, and it makes you hate him. 

He hadn’t called in the three days since then, but he’d been kind enough to DoorDash you a Plan B and a bag of your favorite Dove dark chocolate bites, and you want to hate him and maybe even run him over with you car, you really do, but then tonight, out of nowhere while you’d been at home telling yourself you weren’t going to cry, tired and sweaty from lying under your duvet for too long, fingers slippery between cunt and cotton, too many unsatisfying orgasms and a tear worthy film already chosen as your excuse for later, he’d sent a: come to the bar tonight, baby, I want to see you. And well, he’d come looking for you, right? He’d texted first. So really, this was all him wanting you and choosing you.

You need help, electroshock therapy, a lobotomy, anything. But you’d gotten your butt up and dressed, begged Bo to come out with you, and now here the two of you sit, good friend that she is, waiting for him to finally come over and say more than three stringed together words to you. Shaved, lotioned, perfumed, pathetic little ass sitting at the end of his bar in a too sticky, too uncomfortable stool waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

You shake your head no at him and his proffered next round. No you don’t want another fucking drink. What you want is his attention. 

And the worst part is, probably the worst, for there are so many bad parts to this, is that you don’t truly think he’s a terrible person, Din. He’s just so… he’s just– you don’t know. Sad, busy, exhausted, selfish, overwhelmed, so many things. But not bad, not actually a bad person. You’re sure of it. And it might look so differently from the outside, like you’re nothing, like he uses you, and sure, in ways, he does. You’re not so stupid or naive to not see this for what it is, because if there is one thing that is crystal clear here, it’s that you’ve always known what this is and what it is not. But you also see him. You also know him, as hard as he’s tried to keep you at arms length, to not let you see, to not let you in, you’ve weaseled your way inside anyways, or, better said, and something you don’t let yourself dwell on too much for the things it makes your stupid brain and heart feel, he has never been very good at not letting you see him. Because despite all the truths of how this thing between the two of you is, or is not, there is also something, as small as it may be, that is real here. 

So no, Din is not bad, or not all bad. And it’s easy to call them excuses, but you’re not so sure that’s the only thing they are, the ways in which you justify his behavior or yours. Because there is also context to him, and his life, and the things that drag his attention away from you when you so desperately need and want it, why you know he won’t commit to one single thing because he knows how easily lost a good thing can be. 

You take a pull from your straw, paper, and it’s already coming apart in wet flakes on your tongue because this dumb bar he works at pretends to be swanky, and paper straws are obviously a signifier that it’s not the cheap, shitty dump it actually is. Mean, but you’re in a bad mood tonight. Peli, the owner, had him string up multicolored lights and decorations everywhere for the holiday season, and it sort of looks like Santa threw up in here, but it’s also nice. Cozy or comfortable or welcoming, something happy and cheerful about the crowd surrounded by the sparkle of the holiday and loose from the heavily poured liquor. Or maybe it’s just that you know he put up the decorations. That he’d been good and patient and helpful as the older woman, eccentric and curly haired and a little stern and potty mouthed as she is, but always kind to him, had directed him as she pleased. Giving orders so that the bar could look as lovely and warm and cheerful as it does now. He always looks at her with such care and warmth, and you alway see it, as much as he tries to hide it. 

He’d added a splash of sweet grenadine and a maraschino cherry into your drink tonight, and called it your slutty Shirley Temple, said you looked like you needed something sweet followed by one of those cocky little winks he thinks make him look hot, they do, but you tell him only make him look like an asshole. All of which you know is only his way of telling you, without actually telling you, that he’s going to be shoving his cock down your throat later tonight. Something sweet… yeah, sure. There’s nothing sweet about him. 

He always tells you so many things neither of you want the other to know with his eyes. The stupid things, the silly things, the real things, it doesn’t really matter. He can’t ever help it. 

The first time he’d told you about his parents, you’d thought: this is it, this is something real. The come down had been a singular type of devastating you don't think you’d recovered from to this day. They’d died in a home invasion, a robbery gone terribly, terribly wrong, when he’d been two months shy of eighteen; left him with too much responsibility and too much grief for a boy of seventeen to bear, to ever be able to grow into without growing a little bit skewed in the process. When he’d introduced you to his little brother, the first time, you’d been better prepared, better in control of yourself and your expectations. But still, still you’d let a small, small part of you let it mean something. Grogu, Greg, but they used to watch this cartoon together about this man, a warrior, a space cowboy of sorts, who finds a little green baby, more frog looking than baby looking, called Grogu and takes him in as his own, bringing him along on all his adventures through the big, wide galaxy. They’d always joked that Greg looked like the frog baby, and so, Grogu. 

The first time he’d asked you to come over, you’d forced yourself to not throw up as you’d seen the text come in, had to force away thoughts of this has to mean something, please, please, let this mean something more. And the kid had been asleep already anyways when he’d smuggled you inside, quick and quiet, locking the door to his bedroom behind you, messy and lived in and Din, Din, Din everywhere, pressed you into his rumpled mattress, and fucked you til you’d cried and bit your tongue until you’d tasted blood to keep in all the things you had inside to tell him. And in the morning, when he’d made you a cup of coffee and oh, isn’t he nice for that? The kid had stumbled out of his bedroom, dinosaur pj’s and sleep rumpled curls the same warm mahogany shade as his older brother’s turned pseudo father, and he’d had his waffles while you’d sat there between the two of them as Din’d clucked around making lunches, sipping from your mug trying as best you could to be a good girl and not whip around and scream at the man that this has to mean something more, please. 

The kid had eyed you skeptically, as if you’d had two heads, little fuzzy brow cocked high up towards his curl covered hairline while he chomped loudly on his waffles. More syrup than bread, but who were you to judge? 

“Are you Din’s girlfriend?”

And rather than drop dead on the spot or bear the devastation of hearing the refusal come out of his older brother’s mouth, the second you’d seen Din’s own eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, mouth falling open to probably tell him no, absolutely not, she’s nothing even close to being my girlfriend, you’d said as easy as you could manage, “No, we’re just friends.” Even added in a fake, tepid smile as you’d said the words. And now, as time’s passed since then, when you think back on the memory, you tell yourself that you’d imagined the frown and scowl that’d pulled Din’s face down into something that looked a little like annoyance or anger or confusion. He’d never done anything to make you think you were anything otherwise, and so what good did it do to dwell on the maybe false memory of his look of disappointment at your words? None at all, surely. 

But you’re pretty sure you’re the only girl that’s ever been let into their space like that.

He’s at the other end of the bar now, engrossed in a conversation with someone who’s too sparkly and too pretty and too blonde to be anything but trouble for you. His tall, deceptively lanky form that you know beneath the dark baggy, long sleeved tee he’s wearing is strong and muscled and warm as a furnace, curved over the lip of the bar to lean further towards her. They’ve been talking for about five minutes now, yes, you’ve been counting, and your heart is doing that horrible thing it does where it hurts so bad it feels like it’s ripping in half all on its own. You want to look away, especially as you watch the long, gorgeous form of his hand, big, strong hands that you know exactly what they feel like wrapped around your throat, clutching your breasts, lift slowly towards the glowing Christmas lights necklace the girl’s got hanging around her neck, the cheery red and green lights nestled deep in her cleavage. He plucks at the necklace, giving it a little tug and says something to her that has her throwing her head back, and she sparkles, she really does, with those sort of laughs that tinkle like bells or something equally fucking ridiculous.

“We should just go, babe,” Bo says from beside you, glaring down at him so intensely you’re shocked he hasn’t keeled over dead at this point. 

“Just a little bit longer, Bo, please.” 

“God, I can’t watch this shit anymore.” She pushes up and out of her stool with a roll of her eyes, but passes a loving hand down the back of your hair as she goes. “I’m gonna go try and pick up that red head sitting in the back. She’s been eyeing me all night,” she smirks at you. 

“You cannot date another ginger. That is too much ginger for one household.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re in love with the devil, I can do whatever I want. And I can’t watch him anymore, I don’t have the stomach for it.”

You try and protest as she walks away from you, tell her that you’re not in love with him, that he’s not the devil, that you don’t have the stomach for it either, but she’s gone before you can muster your lies. When you turn back towards the bar he’s abandoned his Christmas lights blonde and is pouring drinks for a group of frat guys, checking I.D.s and making easy, charming conversation. He’s strange in that way, quiet and reserved by nature, which you know now because you know him, but he puts on a face in here, in Peli’s bar in front of the customers and the pretty girls and the people expecting him to perform for them, making nice and pleasant. It’s just one more thing that feeds your delusion, the fact that you see his smile for what it is, the too handsome, too shiny version you know isn’t the real one. 

You know that despite the fact that Bo loves you, she also thinks you’re a little sad, a lot weak, when it comes to him. Maybe even, and you know she’d never say this because she’s a good and loving friend, but maybe even a little pathetic or desperate. And maybe you are, or definitely, you don’t really care about the details of it at this point, but maybe there’s also something about him that’s slightly desperate too. Desperate for love or attention or companionship. Maybe that’s why he always feels the need to search for it in so many different places. Maybe he wants it so bad he’s scared of it. Or maybe he’s just easy. Maybe he’s just a whore. 

You don’t know if the why’s of it all really matter anymore. 

He serves the group their shots and beers, all of them clinking their glasses together loudly, hooting and wishing each other a Merry Christmas, and you want to snap that it’s not Christmas yet, it’s still the twenty third, it’s a special day that should be remembered, but you turn away. Try to swallow the heat in your face and throat, take deep breaths. Bo’s right, the two of you should go, but when you turn to search for her, she’s deep in conversation with the red head, gorgeous, strong and tall and just her type. Their two heads huddled closely together beneath the red lights that turn their hair both brighter shades of auburn. And you know you can’t interrupt. At least one of you should have a good night tonight. But when you turn back around, ready to join the frat bros in on their shots, he’s there. 

You swivel in your stool, catching yourself on the lip of the bar, digging your nails into the wood grain until it hurts, staring at him in silence. 

“What?” he asks with that slightly provoking smile he forces on you when he knows you’re bothered and refuse to open your stubborn mouth and just speak up. 

“Nothing.” Stubborn, sullen. Terrible.

He hums, laughter dancing in his eyes that pisses you off. He knows you’re bothered, knows you won’t say anything about it either. “Want another?”

“Sure.” You might as well get drunk if you’re going to have to watch him be a jackass all night long. 

He starts to move about, gathering the things for your cocktail. “You like the grenadine I added?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

He looks at you with a half smile and a cocked brow as he measures the shot. He never makes your drinks as heavy handed as the others, says you’re a bad drunk. Whatever. “Yeah? You like the Christmas decorations?”

“They’re nice.” He hums again at your sullen tone. And you want to be nicer, happier, peppier, whatever it is that would be enough to make this all right and better between the two of you, inside of you, but you just can’t. You can’t force yourself into a shape that’s okay with being without him, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend it’s something you’re capable of. 

He adds your two limes and tops the drink off with a Santa printed mini umbrella Peli had gotten an order of in bulk, pushing the glass into your hand. He braces his hands against the bar edge, watching you as you bring the drink up to taste, peering over the edge to keep your eyes on him. The lights twinkle over head, washing him in a glow of greens and reds and warmth, and his eyes do that terrible sparkle you hate in return. 

Sometimes you think he likes it when you’re pissy. Turns him on or something which sickly, stupidly, in turn, riles you up, knowing he’s turned on by your anger. 

You take a long pull of the fizzy, mildly sweet drink, licking your lips of the tang and bubbles when you pull it away, and watch as his eyes go a little hazy, glassed over as he watches the wet of your tongue peek out to lick up the drops of sweet liquor. You watch a swallow pass through the strong column of his throat, and his gaze is still on your mouth when he cocks his head at you. “C’mere,” he murmurs, eyes shifting to take in the crowd, the customers and the status of their drinks before he’s tugging at your hand over the bar, drawing you out of your seat and along the length of it from the other side. 

“To where?” You whisper at him, nerves of excitement, of want, fluttering in your belly and throat all fizzy and sweet. He tips his chin at the cracked open door of the stock room, the warm glow from within peering out, and then back again once over at the crowd before you’re at the end of the bar, and he’s tugging you inside after him. You tip your chin over your shoulder just before he kicks the door shut behind you, taking in Peli’s knowing look and the laughing shake of her head, and then it’s just the two of you. Hungry and hurried as he’s pulling you into himself, big hands immediately cupping your ass to tug you up into him with a cracked groan. “Want to fucking kiss you so bad,” he licks into your mouth, tasting like the coffee he drinks too much of and the cinnamon gum you know he’s always chewing. 

“Din–” and you’re about to protest, say that everyone’ll have seen the two of you come in here, Peli, the blonde Christmas light girl, that the whole bar is going to think he brought you in here for a quick fuck, but you and he both know you don’t really care if anyone thinks that. That probably, if you’re really honest, you’d be glad for everyone to think you’re his that way. So you kiss him back. Arms looping around his neck to hang off of him, fingers twining in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, the hair there so silky smooth, cool at the ends but warm and damp at the roots. And this is what you were talking about, when he kisses you like he loves you which makes you hate him. All tongue and teeth and desperation. His mouth sliding against yours, spit slick and heat heavy. Big hands kneading at your ass, clutching at the short skirt of your dress, pulling it up so he can shove his palm between the nylon of your tights and your warm skin and cup you over the wet mound of your cunt. 

“Fucking warm and soft for me, baby.” He kisses his way down your neck, licking at your cleavage, tugging at your ear. “You smell so good,” and he squeezes you against himself, dragging his palm back and forth over your pussy as best as the constricting tights let him. “I can’t wait to fuck you later.”

“Me either, Din,” you say because there’s nothing else to say besides, I love you. Please, love me back. He groans into your mouth, pressing you back into a little arc hooked over his arm, something frenzied and a little sloppy about the way he kisses you like he wants you so much he can’t control himself. And when the two of you stumble out a few minutes later, hair tousled and flushed with heat, the shine of your lipgloss transferred onto his own lips and those sparkly eyes of his cranked up to blinding so that the whole bar can see what it is the two of you have been up to in the stock room, there’s nothing but sweet, fizzy pleasure suffusing your belly. Even if it isn’t real, everyone else thinks it is, maybe for tonight that can be enough. 

-

“The tree’s really cute,” you say as he helps you out of your coat, unwrapping the scarf from around your neck, round and round until he lets it slither from his hand onto the messy floor of his bedroom. 

“Yeah, well, G wanted a real one so… my ass went out and got him a real one.” 

You reach up to card your fingers through the floppy curls falling over his forehead, pushing them back to twist in your fingers and pull his head down towards yours. “Good brother,” you murmur against his mouth. You want to ask him if he remembers what tonight is; wanted to ask him all night but kept your mouth shut for fear of that utterly vacant look in his eyes when he’d have no idea what you were talking about. 

He settles into your kiss, knees bent to come down to your level, sighing deep and long as he licks at you slowly, sucks on your bottom lips, a gentle nip. “Looked so pretty for me tonight,” he says, and he’s such a good kisser, and all you can say is a breathless thank you, trying to swallow the immediate lump in your throat back down because the only other thing to say would be you’re right, it’s all for you, or I hate it when you say these things to me, I hate it when you’re nice to me and then turn around and act like I’m a stranger, like I’ve never meant anything to you at all. You press up higher, insistent, on your tiptoes, trying to get closer, more of him. He runs his hands up the length of your spine, one arm banding around your waist, the other coming up to twist in your hair, tugging your head back sharply and pulling your mouth from his. 

“What do you want, sweet girl?”

And what a cruel, terrible question. You, is what you should say. Ruin the moment or the false magic, glass shattered on the white cloth. And so, “Fuck me,” is all you say instead because that’s all this is anyway. He peers down at you, fathomless look on his face, no more bright sparkle in his eyes, something more like an ember. You think you like this look better, it’s more for you, and there's something satisfying about that. 

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.”

He pulls your clothes from you slowly, and he can be so tender sometimes, slow and precise in the things he does, the way he moves. Sometimes he fucks you hard and fast and sloppy. But not always. Other times he does it in a way that is much, much worse. Slow and deep and intentional. He lays you out across his messy bed and spreads you open for himself. Starts at your feet, kissing the soles and the creases and marks over the arches and around your ankles from your tights and boots. Up the slope of your calf, teeth dragging sharply, a little too hard over the muscle. He kisses the backs of your knees, a place only he has ever thought to kiss, and you won’t cry, but you’d like to. His tongue along the soft of your thighs, stubble chafing and tickling, and when he finally gets to your cunt, soaking wet, glossy with your slick for him, his tongue drags up your slit slow and teasing one second, deep, fucking inside of you the next. He makes you come on his face twice before he even thinks of being nice and letting up. Sucking on your clit, taking each soft lip gentle, gentle between the edge of his teeth and tugging so soft you almost don’t feel it. He licks and licks and slurps up your wet, and you know he enjoys this because of his own sounds. When he rips his t-shirt over his head because he’s steaming with sweat and want, the zip of his jeans ringing so that he can get his fist around his cock and jack himself while he licks up the splash of your second orgasm. 

He kisses you everywhere when he’s had his fill, twists and turns you this way and that, groping and kneading and taking every inch of you in so that no spot of skin is left uninspected or untasted. Pulls you up and under his arm so he can peer down at you from behind, lemme look at that little asshole now, he says all nasty the way he gets sometimes, and spreads your cheeks apart. You brace yourself against the column of his throat and hold on to the bulge of his bicep and try and breathe through your mouth and pray for control and temperance and the will to not spill all your truths to him. Difficult, when he manhandles you like this, when he pets and licks and kisses you all over and tells you how pretty all your holes are for him. 

His cock is so hard when he finally settles on his knees between your spread thighs, on your back again so that you can see his pulse in the tiny, subtle beat of his erection as it stands up, curving towards his flat belly. No condom, and you want to say thank you for letting you feel him like this. 

He pushes your knees wide and grips his cock, twisting his fist around the sticky glossed head, flushed red almost purple. You love it when he’s this hard, when you know it’s all for you, when you know you’re the only one in this moment that can fix it for him. 

“Get it wet for me,” he nods his head at your slick cunt, parted and bared to him just like he likes. You dip your fingers into the well of wetness, play in it, watch the shiny string of slick stretch between your pussy and fingers, and no one makes you as wet or as desperate as he does, and like he can read your mind he tells you, no one makes me as hard as you do, and you do not tell him that that isn’t something you want to hear, that that isn’t something that makes you feel good. The reminder that there are others. 

You wrap your slippery fingers around his cock, coating him in yourself and when you pull him towards you, notching him at the mouth of your cunt, and finally – finally, I’ve been waiting for this all night, and you can’t even tell who says it – it’s so fucking good that all the rest of it is worth it for this singular feeling right here. 

He pushes in, in, in, heavy balls pressed against the wet curve of your bottom, and you’re so soaked it’s slid down between your ass, marked his sheets with you, swings his hips back all smooth and wet and shoves back inside. His mouth is at your tits, folded over you, caging you in, biting and sucking on bare, tight nipples he tells you belong to him, cunt he fucks hard and deep he tells you also belongs to him.

He pulls an ankle up over his shoulder, changes the angle and drills into you hard and fast, other knee hooked over his elbow so you’re pressed and folded and presented to him just how he likes and needs, and he makes you say his name over and over, tells you exactly how he wants you to come on his cock just for him. His pelvis bumps your clit on every push forward, too thick cock wedged inside your cunt so that you’re stretched around him and no matter how many times you do this, it always hurts just a little. Like everything else the two of you do together. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans. “You take it so fucking good. Don’t come yet– don’t come. With me– wait for me. I want it together.” And you do cry at that, when he changes the angle once more and shoves in hard against your g-spot, the fat tip of his cock punching against it over and over so that there’s heat pooling at the base of your spine, stars flashing behind your closed lids, your breasts going hot and heavy and tight, stomach clenching with the effort to stave off your orgasm and do as he asks. He breathes into your mouth, and it’s all hot and damp skin and your sweaty limbs sliding against each other, open mouth to open mouth. 

“Now,” he says, pulls you onto him deeper with a tight grip on your ass, long fingers wrapped over the curve so that he can feel the wet, stretched place where he takes you, makes you his. “Take the whole fucking thing,” he whispers against your lips, and as your cunt goes tight as a knot, painful in that way that only he can make it, that’s so good, that way that always keeps you coming back for more, you finally start to cry real tears. Not just from his cock but from the whole of him, from everything he does to you. Your heart beats fast, fast, fast, and you count the days in the month til your period, the little game you like to play with yourself when the two of you are bad like this, and then decide you don’t really give a fuck as he starts to fill you with the heat of his come.

He stays inside of you for too long after the last throb of his cock. Rubbing his lips all over your neck and shoulders and tits, tasting you and giving you too much time to memorize the pattern and cadence of his breathing. And when he pulls out and pulls back to look at the slick, puffy sight of your cunt full of his come, he bends to lick you clean like he always does. Gives you one more orgasm, the last nail in the coffin or your heart. 

Sated and spent, you glance at the clock, and it’s officially Christmas Eve. You know he goes all out for Grogu, milk and cookies for Santa, stockings and gifts, the works. He is an exceptionally good brother, all a child could need in a father figure, and there had never really been any chance of you doing anything else besides loving him. 

When you pull the gift from your bag, heart in your throat and halfway to regret but more resolve than you’ve ever had in his presence, you tell yourself that if this brings on the end of everything, that you’ll find a way to be okay with it. If you’ve gone too far, done too much, you’ll accept it, count your losses, and what great losses they’ll surely be, but you’ll move on as best you can. 

You’d picked some pretty, baby blue paper with little red robins on it, a soft gold ribbon tied around the package. The sight of it makes you want to cry. You’d tried so hard, you really had. 

He’s quiet when you put it into his hands, staring down at it like it’ll reach out and bite his head off if he blinks even once. Swallowing several times before he says, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know. It’s– it’s for the both of you, kind of.” Him and his little brother.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“No– that’s okay. I know. You didn’t have to.” Your voice comes out all breathless and full of nerves. You should’ve put your clothes on before you did this, made for a quicker, easier get away if necessary. 

He pulls the wrapping apart slowly, gently untying your ribbon, long fingers carefully picking at the little pieces of tape at each end so that he doesn’t tear the paper and disturb the robins. 

“Where did you get this?” He says when he’s finally unwrapped it, his voice telling you instantly that you’ve made a terrible mistake. 

“It– it was in your drawer. I–”

“You went through my stuff?” He says, eyes snapping up to yours, finally looking away from the photograph you’d copied and framed for him. A picture of him and Grogu and his parents. Grogu, a baby, Din, a boy of maybe eight, gap toothed, cheesy grin and messy curls between his smiling parents. They looked, very much, like a deliriously happy family, and you’d thought it such a shame it was stuffed in his sock drawer when you’d found it, left to be forgotten. You’d only wanted to do something nice for him. 

“N–no. I mean… not intentionally. I was looking for my extra clothes – the ones you told me to leave here – and I–” your lashes flutter, overwhelmed. He suddenly looks so angry. “I saw it in your drawer. I didn’t mean– I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, I–” You don’t know what to say. All of your falsely held control in tatters at your feet and tears in your eyes as you take in the horrible look on his face. Shocked, angry, hurt, but his gaze leaves the photograph again, shifts back to your face at the crack in your voice. 

He presses forward, as if to reach for you, realizing you’re about to cry. “It’s fine.” I’m sorry, Din, you murmur again. “It’s just–” He shakes his head, a frustrated noise in his throat, his voice all graveled and cracked like yours. He seems so much like a boy in this moment. A child confronted by a past he was too young to lose when he did, forced into the shape of a man too soon. “You know that this–we–” He motions between the two of you.

“Yes. I do,” you cut him off quickly. Assuming what he’s going to cut down here between the two of you before he gets the words out. He doesn’t need to say it, not out loud. He doesn’t need to be that cruel. The strength it takes the both of you to bite your tongues in that moment, as you take each other in, swells to a near painful pressure, and there is something so sick here between the two of you. His eyes are glossy with emotion and everything he won’t ever let himself tell you or anyone else, and you so badly want to tell him that it’s only that it’s hard to be casual when your favorite bra lives in his dresser, and also that you’re in love with him. 

“Thank you,” he finally says quietly, and you can’t answer, looking away out at the dark night through his murky paneled window. It looks like it’s about to snow, all the ingredients for a perfect Christmas at play. The room is so warm and his bed is so comfortable, and you feel so full of fragile and soft things inside. “You’re going to see your family tomorrow?” He still has the picture frame in his hands, fingers smoothing methodically over the edges, thumb swiping gently over the happy faces inside. 

You clear your throat, “Yeah, tonight. I’m going to my parents house, spending the night there.” And it’s on the tip of your tongue to invite the both of them to come too. You know your parents would love to have them, you would love to have them there, him, but the words stick in your throat with the fear of his rejection, and the two of you fizzle awkwardly into a heavy silence. 

You look out at the window again, too much of a coward to look into those bright eyes, but you can feel his gaze on you, singing the side of your face, and suddenly you feel him scoot over towards you. Deep sigh, dragging the duvet with him, wrapped around his bare shoulders all messy hair and flushed cheeks still steaming from your sex. No one should look like he does. No one. It’s the most unfair thing that’s ever happened to you in your whole life. He grips you around the bend of your bare knee, pulls you halfway into his lap, and your eyes are still fixated out on the night, the dark much safer than anything that lives inside this room.

“You remember when we met?” He says. The tears are back. “It was tonight.” Two years ago.

You tip your chin at the window. “At the restaurant…”

“...Down on eighty seventh street. Two years ago.”

“Yes.” You finally look at him. “I remember,” you whisper. Your mouth feels so dry, your heart so flinty.  

“The place had all those string lights put up, and we sat at that table outside in the back behind that group having their Christmas work party. You remember?” Of course you do. You only can't believe he remembers. He’d been wearing an olive green half zip sweater, and he’d smelled of laundry detergent and whiskey and cinnamon gum when he’d kissed you for the first time. 

“I had the best old fashioned I’ve ever had at that place. We should go back. And it was so cold, you remember? You never stopped shivering.”

“Yes, Din. I remember.”

“That was a good night.”

“Sure it was,” and it comes out with a bite you can’t help, for so many reasons you can and cannot explain. 

He gives one of those non committal hums he loves to provoke you with, that little glint back in his eyes. “Sure it was? What?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there something you wanna talk about?” The white elephant in the room, come to ruin everything, shatter all the glass, disturb the dust in your hair and break your heart. 

He tips your head back by your chin, two fingers holding you there, never letting you go. You shake your head at him caught up in his grasp like that. “No. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

And he gives you the strangest look, and for one second you wonder suddenly if that look you’ve always taken as provoking is not so much teasing, but more pleading, more knowing. “No…” he says, chews on his thoughts, strong, scruffy jaw with the heart shaped patch moving side to side. “I know you don’t,” and leans forward to press one single soft, chaste kiss to your open mouth. “You know what you are?” He says then, and the look is now entirely unknowable, confusing. 

Your eyes flick back to the window. “What?” Back to him again, breathless. 

“You’re my girl.” And out of the corner of your eye, you can see that there, finally, is the Christmas snow.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[604to647]

Safest with You - Series Masterlist

Posting break until May’24

Modern AU with Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: Din Djarin, retired mob enforcer, falls in love, but worries his past could put his future (you) in danger.

A/N: First time writer, please be gentle 🥹 This is a modern AU where Din is a former enforcer for the Fett family, and the world building and relationship development between Din and Reader takes place over many chapters. Some Star Wars names thrown in for fun, but there aren't meant to be any serious parallels to canon. Thank you for reading and hope you enjoy my brain rot for everyone’s favourite tin man 🥰

Series warnings: Chapters with smut denoted with 🚑, chapters with angst denoted with ❤️‍🩹, fluff throughout. Individual instalment warnings are included in each post.

Ch. 1 (The Coffeeshop)

Ch. 2 (The Bookstore)

Ch. 3 (The Drycleaner)

Ch. 4 (The First Date)

Ch. 5 (The Courtship)

Ch. 6 (The Courtship, Din's POV) ❤️‍🩹

Ch. 7 (The Third Date) ❤️‍🩹

Ch. 8 (The Cab) ❤️‍🩹

Ch. 9 (The Dam Breaks) 🚑

Ch. 10 (The Afterglow) 🚑

Ch. 11 (The Poker Game) (a summary)

Ch. 11 Addendum (After The Poker Game) 🚑

Ch. 12 (The Workout) 🚑

Ch. 13 (The Birthday)

Ch. 14 (The Subway) 🚑 new!

Ch. 15 (The BBQ)

Ch. 16 (The Match-up)

Ch. 17 (The Preparations)

Ch. 18 (The Threat)

Ch. 19 (The Betrayal)

Ch. 20 (The Way to Get Over Someone)

more to come

One-shots and Drabbles (same AU)

All the one shots and drabbles can be slotted in the above timeline; as the chapters get written, I’ll note where they fit in. For now, consider the below to all be set when Din and Reader are in an established relationship (hence the smut 😂).

Carnival Fright Night 🚑 (set between Ch. 12 & 14)

Lingerie 🚑 (set anytime after Ch. 10)

The Wedding, Part 2 🚑 (insert btwn Ch. 17 & 18) (Moodboard by @hellishjoel - thank you!)

2 More Days (A Textfic) 🚑 - Part 1, Part 2 (set anytime after Ch. 12)

Holiday Remix (A Textfic) (set anytime after Ch. 12)

Let Me Carry It For You (SBowl 🏈 Drabble) (set right after Ch. 11)

The Mando Roll (Valentine’s Day Special) (set anytime after Ch. 10)

Hat Trick (set anytime after Ch. 12)

Birthday Bunny 🚑 new! (HBD P! 🥳)

Thots

Alfredo’s the best dog

Favourite nook

Walking the dog

POV: On a date with Din

Naming of Mando’s Gym inspo

Working at Mando’s

Paz Vizsla face cast

Excellent boxing advice

Series vibes and this amazing graphic by @gasolinerainbowpuddles (thank you!)

[ediehhil]

modern dinluke au and very jealous dad Anakin :3

upd: I changed the dialogs bcs the original ones were so cringe :D I have big problems with written english, but my friend helped me hehe

part 2

[sirowsky]

A Little Menace

I recently had some trouble with the neighbors, and of course, my good friend @deadhumourist managed to turn it into an idea for a story. So, here's a lil thing based on her idea.

Rating: Mature Warnings: Includes ornithophobia (fear of birds), cursing, improper thoughts, modern!din, din djarin x female reader, Grogu is a human boy here. Word Count: 2080 Author’s Masterlist

Link to Part 2 Link to Part 3 Link to Part 4 Link to Part 5

–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–

   He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know any better…    That’s what you keep telling yourself as you throw some clothes on to run outside and stop your next-door neighbour’s kid from breaking your birdfeeder.

   The thing is, this isn’t the first time he’s been messing with it, nor will it be the first time you talk to him about it, and he’s always apologetic once you catch him, which makes you think that this is about getting attention.

   But you’re not his parent. It’s not your job to teach this kid how the world works and it’s not fair to him that he should have to endure getting repeatedly told off by a stranger, when you suspect that it's his dad’s attention he really wants.

   “You know your dad will have to pay for that if you break it, and it wasn’t cheap.”

   He flinches at the sound of your voice, spinning on his heels to look at you, and taking a few steps back, but he doesn’t run away.    Your apartment is on the ground floor, and your balcony door is just a few feet from the feeder, so by the time he’s registered the sound of it opening, you’re already close enough to grab him, should you need to.

   The thing is about the size of a large suitcase, cylindrical in shape and housing over fifty feeding-stations that varies in the types of seeds or other kinds of feeds that it can hold. Large nets for peanuts and Plexiglas containers for small grains, for example.    It’s mounted on a big metal pole that’s been driven six feet into the ground to anchor the whole thing, and at the base of it, a separate type of feeder accommodates the magpies and other larger birds, to keep them away from the little guys.

   “I’m trying to help the birds survive winter, why are you trying to hurt them?”

   It’s a pretty solid construction, so in truth, the kid would have to work really hard to actually break it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still damage it. Plus, it scares the birds when he throws sticks or sometimes even rocks on it.    Today though, he’d tried to sneak up on some blackbirds sitting on the ground and feasting on dried mealworms, doing his best to kick them as they scrambled to get away. Thankfully, he’d missed them all, but it had seriously pissed you off.

   As always, he doesn’t answer you, but he does meet your eyes and you can see that he’s close to tears. Real ones. His body-language shows you shame and regret as clear as day, and you just can’t figure out what he’s trying to accomplish with all this.    You sigh and cross your arms over your waist. He’s not your kid to teach, but this has to stop, and if his dad isn’t gonna take care of it, then you’re just gonna have to.

   “I told you last time that if this ever happened again, I’d be marching you home and having a serious conversation with your father, and I keep my word, kid.    So, you can either come with me calmly, or I can drag you there, what’s it gonna be?”

   He looks worried, but after a moment’s deliberation, he slowly comes to your side and walks with you through first your balcony and then your apartment, out your front door where you immediately ring the bell of the apartment directly to your left.

   Despite living next to them for over two years now, you’ve never seen his father. You’ve heard him bustle about in the kitchen, and their bathroom is wall to wall with yours, so you hear it every time the bathtub is filled or drained. But you don’t actively listen to your neighbours, you just register the sounds that are loud enough to cut through your music or sounds of the tv.    Since you’re not the nosy type, you haven’t been running to look through the peephole whenever you’ve heard the door open, but he comes and goes like any regular person so if you had, you would’ve seen him.

   The door opens, and you automatically begin to explain why you’re standing there with his son, in the hopes that he won’t get angry with you.

   “Hi, Mr. Djarin, I’m sorry but your son-…” you trail off when your gaze connects with a pair of deep brown and slightly sad-looking eyes that are studying you closely, in between glances at the boy.

   “What did he do?” he asks, his voice soft and low, and somehow making you feel like you wanna purr.

   “Uh…” you’ve almost forgotten your reason for bothering him. “He was being mean to the birds in my yard. I would’ve let it go if it was the first time, but he’s thrown things on my feeding station and nearly damaged it a few times too.”

   He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, before sinking to one knee and beckoning the kid closer.

   “Grogu, I’ve told you so many times now… the birds aren’t dangerous. If you leave them alone, they’ll just eat and leave.” he tries to remind his son, and you idly wonder if you’ve ever heard a name like that before.    But the kid doesn’t answer, so Mr. Djarin looks back up at you.

   “He’s afraid of birds. The smaller ones are more skittish, so he can ignore them because he knows that they mostly keep their distance. But the crows and magpies and the bigger ones are bolder, and they frighten him.” he explains calmly, with a very apologetic undertone.

   You’re struggling to pay attention, though, because he’s kneeling just two feet in front of you, looking up at you with puppy-dog eyes and you can’t help but wonder what he’d look like buried between your legs.    If you’d known that he was this fucking beautiful you would’ve been glued to that peephole every time you heard him at the door.

   “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” you try to sound diplomatic, but you’re not sure what to do about the situation.

   One the one hand, it makes sense that he would be so aggressive towards the larger birds if he was hoping to scare them away for good, and that he’d be inclined to destroy the feeder to try and keep them from coming back.    But on the other hand, his actions are still not acceptable and no matter what he feels, he isn’t entitled to destroy people’s property.

   “I’ll pay for any damage he’s caused, of course.” he offers, and a streak of compassion stings your chest.

   He’s a single father, doing his best, clearly exhausted and unsure of how to ‘dad’ correctly sometimes, and you simply can’t be upset with either of them anymore.

   “Well, actually the feeder is homemade, so it would be hard to put a value on it. But he hasn’t broken anything yet, and I think I might have an idea on how to keep it that way.”

   The idea came to you as you were speaking, so you take a beat to try and piece it together in your own head, before you try to explain it.

   “What if Grogu spends some time with me and the birds every day from now on?” you offer, kneeling on the kid’s other side so you can talk directly to him. “We can start by just watching them from the balcony with the windows closed, and I can tell you all about them so that maybe you can understand them a little better.”

   He’s just staring at the floor, refusing to look at either of you, but you genuinely want to help him, now that you know what this is about, so you try again.

   “Sometimes things are less scary when you understand them better. Like, how big dogs can seem scary but when you know how to make them happy, they’ll get all goofy and cuddly.    Or like how spiders can feel really creepy when they’re crawling on your skin, but when they’re just sitting in their web in a corner somewhere, they’re actually saving you from flies and mosquitos and other bugs.”

   That earns you a curious look as he lifts his head to meet your eyes, so you try your luck with one more attempt to win him over.

   “If you promise to work with me on this, I promise that you can help me build that huge LEGO Millennium Falcon, I saw you eyeing in my living room. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” you say, and he perks right up, shooting you a bright smile and nodding enthusiastically, so you turn back to his father.

   “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

   “Yeah, absolutely.” he grins at you, and something warm and pleasant pools in your stomach at the brightness of his eyes.

   “Great! I work from home, so just bring him over whenever it suits you.” you say, while pushing yourself up to standing again, and he mirrors the motion.

   “This is really so kind of you, thank you.” he offers, and you just shrug.

   “I’d rather help than hurt him. He seems like a good kid.”

   Grogu tugs on his father’s pantleg then, and points into the hallway of their apartment. His dad just nods, and the kid runs inside, disappearing around a corner.

   “Does he not speak?” you ask.

   “Not much around strangers, and a lot less than other kids overall. But he seems to know the language pretty much fluently and I’ve taken him to doctors and specialists and no one can find anything wrong with him.    It’s like he’s just more comfortable not speaking, for some reason.” he explains, and you find yourself listening closely and studying every feature of his voice and how his expressions shift only in the most subtle ways.

   “Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know him… both of you, better.” you say, before you start backing towards your own door.

   A small smile creeps into his eyes at that. Something tender and almost bashful, and you suddenly want nothing more than to rest your palm against his cheek, to see if he’d lean into your touch.    You braid your fingers together behind your own back to keep them in check. The last thing you wanna do is scare this gorgeous man away.

   “Um, I’m a carpenter and I work daytime, so I’ll bring him over tomorrow after dinner, if that’s okay?” he says, and his voice is low and unsure. You wonder if he’s unaccustomed to attention, or just finds it generally difficult to know how to respond to it.

   “That’s fine.” you say, as you reach your door and stop, still facing him. “And, just so you know, I’m happy to help if there’s anything else you need. Like I said, I work from home so I’m always around.”

   “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” his smile widens a little, before he turns to head back inside, but then stops on the threshold. “My name is Din.”

   You smile back and give him your name in return, and he nods and repeats it, memorizing it, making your skin prickle at the sound of it on his tongue, as you’re suddenly picturing him saying it under very different circumstances.    That thought alone makes you feel hot and uncomfortable, and you quickly dip your head forwards to keep him from noticing, before turning around to head back into your home.

   “See you tomorrow then, Din.” you croak with your back to him, your voice now hoarse with embarrassment.

   “I look forward to it.” he says, just before closing his own door behind him, and you stop dead on your threshold, turning back to stare at his door because his tone caught you completely off guard.

   He’d sounded… alluring. And now you’re wondering if perhaps he finds you just as attractive as you find him. If perhaps the prospect of his son not becoming a menace wasn’t the only reason that he looked forward to seeing you again.    You step back and close your door, turning to lean against the nearest wall while you try to stop your heart from bouncing around between your lungs.    How have you never known that such a gem of a guy has been living next door all this time?

   And suddenly you find yourself feeling quite happy that the kid messed with your birdfeeder.

–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–

Thank you for reading, and feel free to criticize, I'm always looking to learn and grow as a writer.

@deadhumourist @idreamofboobear @tanzthompson @winter-fox-queen @tiffanyleen @shsoba05 @toomanystoriessolittletime @nolanell @myfavpedrothings @harriedandharassed @bruxasolta @tintinn16 @pedrostories

[darlin-djarin]

“omg i love the teacher!luke and single dad!din au!!”

but like. isn’t that what they are. like in canon.

[mjpens]

Summer shade convos 💞

[keethus-arts]

Mandalorian Special Forces anyone?