#mandalorian drabble | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ddejavvu · 8 months ago

Note

Mandalorian and Jedi!Reader, maybe where Mando tries to bring reader in for a bounty some ex imperial put on her head and he ends up having a MASSIVE crush on her instead

Soft Din has my heart 🫶🏻

"Can you stop that?" Din throws a scathing look over his shoulder where you're occupying Grogu in a rear seat of the unmarked freighter he's piloting. This job wasn't an easy one; Jedi aren't often willing to be tracked, but now that he's got you, he needs to deliver you without arousing any suspicion, which a shiny new ship is not useful for So, despite the smell of livestock that lingers in the walls of the ship, you're all piled into its boring, beige cockpit.

"What, making him laugh?" You scoff at Din, fingers still carefully poking and prodding at the baby's sides where he squeals with laughter, "It's called happiness, Mando. You should try it sometime."

"He's little," Din reaches out to scoop Grogu into his grip, tugging him away from you, "You're gonna hurt him. You're supposed to be a bounty, not the entertainment."

"Have you forgotten he and I were raised in the same temple?" You reach for Grogu who's staring pleadingly at you over Din's shoulder, one of his little hands outstretched, "I used to feed him mashed meilooruns."

"And now you occupy your time by liberating imperial cruisers of their fuel."

"Can't chase me if the tank is empty." You shrug, "Hey, Grogu, honey, watch this!"

You use the Force to snag Din's blaster out of its holster, and when he grabs for it, you use your other hand to lift Grogu over his shoulder and back into your lap.

"See? Stealing is easy and fun," You grin at the expressionless beskar mask staring your way, and Grogu giggles in delight where he's back in your lap.

"Stealing gets a bounty placed on your head. I'll be sure to buy some mashed meilooruns for the kid with the credits you'll get me."

"Right," You scoff, "You're gonna show up to meet this imperial goon squad, you're gonna hand me over, and they're just gonna let you waltz out of there fifty-thousand credits richer despite having a force-sensitive child in your possession?"

Din's leather glove creaks as he tightens his hold on the controls.

"Face it, buckethead, the only way you're getting those credits is if I help you. We'll fake 'em out, you keep my saber and toss it to me after they pay you. Then I'll chop 'em up and we can get outta there before they get their hands on Grogu."

Prolonged silence seems to be all that Din can offer in your presence aside from stinging quips, but he hears Grogu's babbling giggle break the tension where you've tapped a finger at his button nose. The sound eases some of the weary tension that's been on Din's shoulders since the second he'd made a deal with Imperials, and he's glad he has his helmet on to prevent you from seeing the way that the annoyance in his face softens.

"Fine. But there's no way you're coming with us afterwards. I'm dumping you on the first stable planet we come across, and you're not getting any of the credits."

"Poor Mando," You croon to Grogu, "Ahsoka didn't teach him about projecting his feelings, did she?"

Grogu rambles back to you in some unknown attempt at language, and before Din can ask what 'projecting' means, you're grinning up at him.

"You've got a deal, Mando; no money, no free rides around the galaxy. Just keep getting soft under that bucket of yours, and we'll figure out a better plan on the way out."

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djarinsphere · 28 days ago

Text

sex in the dark with din.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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bits-and-babs · 1 year ago

Note

could i be cheeky and ask for some more mandalorian 👀 preferably touch starved din

✦ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐍 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 2: TOUCH STARVED

din djarin x reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words

summary: the child has been getting in the way of you and mando spending time together. after weeks without your touch, he's finally reaching his limit.

cw: f!reader, needy din, slightly ooc din to fit the theme, begging, oral (m receiving), cumming early, reference to f oral.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 3: PHONE SEX ⇾

Even a kriffing Miraluka, blind as they are, could see how badly Mando desperately wanted you to touch him. The sheer yearning that rolled from The Mandalorian in waves was enough to shift the midichlorians themselves, the fibres of the galaxy trembling whenever you were near him.

Weeks trapped inside the Crest with Mando, far too preoccupied with the tiny green gremlin to pay attention to his needs had taken its toll on the warrior's mentality. Grogu had been pulling at wires, leaving the ship static in dead space and even managed to find a button that sucked the oxygen from the hangar, resulting in a frantic struggle to restore O-Levels to baseline before your lungs shrivelled. A menace to the galaxy, you’d spent more time with your eyes glued to the tiny, green hazard than you had sleeping.

In turn, Mando was practically trembling with need. He’d let out a shaky sigh every time you sat beside him in the passenger seat, voice-strain evident even with the crackle of the vocoder doing its best to conceal the distress that dripped from each singular-syllable response to your questions.

In deep space with the child finally down in his cot for a much needed sleep, Mando’s leather gloves creak with the grip he tightens around the controls of the Crest. You hear the grains scream under the pressure as you approach, glancing over the map and the coordinates Greef Karga had offered in Mando’s search for the bounty. It’s cruel, barbaric almost, but you swear you can’t see the digits, numbers far too small for you to see from this close… So you place your palm on Mando’s shoulder, leaning over him in an attempt to get a better view.

You'd never admit it, but the way you somehow managed to touch him between the Beskar plates of his armour was completely intentional. It was a guilty pleasure, seeing the stoic bounty hunter crumble simply from the pressure of your fingers. His chest heaves, each muscle in his body stiffening under the weight of your fingers.

Regardless of how heavy the Mandalorian’s stare was, his eyes burning into your skin from behind the tinted visor, you refuse to advance without his request. You pretend not to notice, mouthing the digits of the coordinates to yourself, squinting as though you were unable to see.

It had been weeks of this Loth Cat and Womp Rat game, and poor Mando seems to be reaching the end of his tether.

You finally feel his respove snap when you settle your hand on the nape of his neck, leaning further over his shoulder to ‘check the fuel levels of the Crest was enough to make the journey’. Your fingertips brush the bare skin between the neck of his flight-suit and the edge of his chrome helmet, and Mando nearly doubles over like he's in pain. He chokes out, and you can tell he's already hard, his cock straining against his flight suit.

"Please, please fucking touch me,” Mando’s voice sounds utterly pathetic, a far cry from the vicious warrior that blasted through whole packs of assassin droids.”I can't take it anymore, I ca-ahaaa-" he can't swallow the moan that bleeds through the vocoder when you palm his cock though his suit. You can feel the hard curve of his cock twitch against your palm, even though the thick fabric. A rough squeeze sends Mando’s head rocking back against the seat with a quiet, metallic thunk.

“It feels like you’ve missed me,” you murmur quietly, feeling his hips jerk against your touch when your voice reaches his ears. Prickling arousal bleeds across your skin at how reactive he is, the usually stoic figure shaking himself apart under your touch.

“M–Missed you so much,” he admits, and you’re almost certain you hear the strain of his teeth from grinding them together, “Hah– Need to feel you on me, nee-d to be in you.”

Offering a soft hum of acknowledgement to his suffering, you spin his seat around slowly. His head seems loose on his shoulders, unable to hold it upright when he sees you sink to your knees in front of him. You almost feel sorry for him, watching how he frantically scrambles to free his cock for you.

The first drag of your tongue against the arch of his shaft has Mando panic-stricken, his hands grasping the arms of the seat when his dick throbs heavily against your taste buds.

“Fuck–” He growls, practically choking on his own voice, “C–Can’t!”

“It’s okay,” you whisper against a pulsing vein beneath his velvety skin, “We can do it again…”

Pre-cum slips from the ruddy head of his cock at your gentle encouragement, a tortured whine rattling in Mando’s lungs. It’s so loud that you wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was bouncing inside the Beskar walls of his helmet.

Carefully, you trace the tip of your tongue against the salty head of his cock, letting out a sharp breath when Mando takes a tight fistful of your hair. His chest is heaving, barely able to keep from slurring his words when he begs you to take him into your mouth.

Slackening your jaw, you hum softly as you take just a few inches. Mando, in what seems like a half hearted attempt to escape the overwhelming pleasure, pushes his whole body back against the chair while choking out obscene curses. You’re so slow, trying your best not to overwhelm the poor, devastated man– but the flat of your tongue pressed against the underside of his cock and the tip nudging the back of your throat is all it takes to obliterate his self control.

Mando sounds almost winded by the force with which he cums. His balls pull up so tight, the fingers in your hair clenching to the point your follicles scream beneath the grip. Underneath the Beskar armour, every muscle in his body flexes before the cum hits the back of your throat. Spurts of thick, salty seed paint the inside of your mouth, violent jerks of his shaft causing Mando’s head to fall backwards again, whimpering as you swallow down– swallow around him.

“Hoh-Fuck–! Stars,” he babbles, wheezing out your name while the last of his cum drips from his cockhead. Pulling from him when his thighs finally start to seize from the overstimulation, you lean your head against Mando’s trembling knees and giggle. He looks utterly exhausted, slumped in his seat and chest heaving as he sucks oxygen into his lungs.

“Your mouth– hah–” he wheezes out a slight laugh, so unlike the reserved Mando you met in a bar on Corellia. You’d stopped the child from running off into the crowd, and somehow found yourself with the role of babysitting him while following the bounty hunter on his adventures. “It’s so good…”

“Mhmm,” you hum in agreement, smiling to yourself at the memory of meeting the apathetic, almost grumpy chrome-man as you brush your palm across his thigh and closing your eyes to sweeten the deal, “So is yours. Put it to use and taste me?” You hear the tnk of his helmet touching the ground soon after.

pedro pascal/kinktober taglist:

@xwing-baby , @mybugboy , @pansa-1-san , @pedrosprincess , @cosm1c-babe , @lil-stark , @heart-atttack @crybaby-blue-blog, @ssimelttilgniht @2pacacabra @pauldanosgf @leithatnight @kirsteng42 @dindjarinsmut @s0ftgabby @milly-louise @aynsleywalker @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @uncassettodiricordi @howellatme @mortallyuniquepeach @maviee @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @stvrlights-world @alloftheboysivelovedbefore @girlofchaos @s-u-t @pintsizedsunshine @djarin-dreams @solidly-indulgent @bii-aan-ckaa @casa-boiardi @maelstrom007 @nikisfwn @levi-llama @haunt3dh3art @lundenloves @rentaldarling @cyberpr1m3 @jedi-in-crocs @yunggoblin @spideyman-peter @iaur @cool-iguana @paleidiot

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh

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corazondebeskar-reads · 2 months ago

Text

something worse

din djarin x f!reader | my masterlist

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

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

words: 3.2k

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

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

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You are your father’s daughter.

How could you ever be anything else?

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

You are your father’s daughter and nothing more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not with Gideon. Never with Gideon.

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

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

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

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

You think about duty, not desire.

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leave.

Until you don’t.

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

You’re not your father.

Of course you’re not.

You never were.

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

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

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

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

Nothing, the darkness answers as it takes you.

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

You blink. It blinks. He doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The buzzing in your head.

Why Gideon wanted the child.

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

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

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

A Jedi.

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

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

You freeze. He sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By yourself.

Alone.

Have you ever been alone?

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

Wait, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So in the cell and his mind, you stay.

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

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

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

And free.

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

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

The buzzing.

The baby.

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

Until it doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Not that you care, or anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you leave?”

You both pause.

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

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

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

“Your money,” you say callously.

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

“Why didn’t you leave?” he repeats.

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

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

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

“That it is,” he says quietly.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #mando x f!reader #mando x you #mando fic #the mandalorian fic #fic: something worse #fic: din drabbles

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moonyflesh · 6 months ago

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-> Oscar Isaac as Poe Dameron in “Star Wars: The Last Jedi” - (2017).

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iron-strangers · 8 months ago

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That's my girl!

aka Din watches you fight with the biggest heart eyes in the galaxy as Wildest Dreams (Taylor's Version) plays in the background (a WIP of my 3+1 fic)

gif credit @1038276637

Pairing: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x Female Jedi!Reader

Length: 690+ words

Tags: Mand'alor Din Djarin, Swearing, Kid Fic

A/N: Written in Expanding Clan Mudhorn universe. Link to the series on ao3, tumblr

“I challenge you for the Mand’alor’s hand in marriage.”

The lively chatters around the market shifts into a quiet whispers when a challenger appears from the crowd. She has her full armor on, holding her blaster up for everyone to see. Shrugging, you took your squirming fourteen-months toddler from his birikad (baby harness) into his buir’s (father’s) arms before walking into the fight. Aranar laughs, clapping his chubby hands and pointing at you. “Bu-ee! Look, momma!”

“Yes, Ar’ika, momma’s gonna kick some s-h-e-b (ass), so we have to stand aside and let her do her thing, okay?” Din sighs, bouncing the boundless energy out of his toddler, getting a ‘Kay! and a grin from his son who’s currently munching happily on his small portion of uj cake, with that sweet tooth no one will ever doubt that he truly his momma’s son. Aranar is getting a lot of ‘copikla’ (cute) from every passer-by, enthralled by his mop of dark curly hair and his adorable toothy smile.

“I accept your challenge,” you smile, turning your saber on. The snap-hiss of lightsaber ignition rips through the air and Aranar whoops. “Bu-ee! Pu-pel!”

“Yes, good job Ar’ika! Momma’s laser sword is purple!”

“How many time should I tell you it’s called lightsaber.” Kryze sighs, holding her head in her hand. She insisted to come during their visit to the newly opened Sundari Market for this exact reason, security of the Ven’alor Mand’alor. “You married a jedi, osik (shit), you have two jet’ika.”

“Osik!” Aranar parrots, laughing without caring how his buir is going through all five stages of grief in three seconds. “Kryze! I swear to the Manda-”

Din is cut-off by the sound of lightsaber hitting beskar. You deflect blaster bolts with the force and hits the challenger on her pauldron. You swipe your saber low, aiming for her leg. She jumps and brings her other hand up, shooting grappling hooks out of her vambrace, straining you. You groan as you fight against the ropes until it budges a little, enough for you to slash it with your saber. You pull on the leftover rope, sending the challenger towards you and you punch her in the middle of the T-Visor of her helmet, sending her to the ground with a loud crack.

“That’s my girl!” Din cheers, earning snickers and adoration from the passer-by. Flustered behind his helmet, he nuzzles Aranar’s soft curls, pointing and narrating the fight to the baby. “That’s your momma, ad’ika. Isn’t she the best? Buir and momma will teach you just how to fight like that when you’re ready, ner ka��ra (my star). You’ll be unstoppable.” Din can't take his eyes off of his riduur (wife). You fight with grace, your steps calculated and you never miss your attack. Every hissing sound of lightsaber meeting beskar only adds to his love and adoration.

She shoots another round of blaster bolts and you deflect them all to the ground with the force, careful not to let stray bullets hit the crowd. You stalk over her, the tip of your saber dragging on the ground. You flick your hand and her blaster flies from her hand, crumpling in the air when you curl your hand into a fist and brings the tip of your saber up to her neck, so close to her pulse point.

“Yield,” you command. She stutters, forfeiting the fight and scurrying back to the crowd.

“Anyone else want to challenge our clan?” Your question is met by silence and you smile, turning the saber off. Addressing the crowd to go back to their activity as the purple light disappear into the hilt of your lightsaber.

Aranar lights up when he sees you, making a grabby hand and asking you for uppies. Smiling, you pepper the laughing boy’s cheeks with kisses and lift him up to your shoulder. Din leans his helmeted forehead to yours and leads his family away from the crowd.

“Hey, Kryze made Ar’ika swore back then.”

“By the force- Kryze!”

Yeah, that’s my girl, Din smiles adoringly behind his helmet, taking your hand and lacing your fingers together before you can go smack some sense into Kryze.

#expanding clan mudhorn #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfiction #drabble #din djarin is a simp for his wife #it's okay he's allowed #this is the way

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ichorai · 2 years ago

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would that i ; din djarin.

track twelve of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; din djarin x gn!reader

synopsis ; din didn’t consider himself a very jealous person. no, he wasn’t affected at all when the kid seemed to want to spend more time with you than him. not even a little bit.

words ; 1.5k

themes ; fluff, mild pining, kinda sunshine & grump trope

warnings / includes ; grogu eats a frog, mando gets v flustered, reader jokingly calls him daddy lol

main masterlist.

Bag hitched over your shoulder, you tugged on your hiking boots, bending over to double-knot the laces. “Hey, I’m going out to the market to grab some spare parts for the ship,” you called to the brooding Mandalorian in the cockpit. You were met with a quiet grunt in response. Finished with your shoes, you straightened yourself up and peeked your head into the front of the ship, watching Din work on some frayed wires by the control panel. “I’m taking the kid with me.”

This made him halt in his ministrations, and he turned to you. “Isn’t it easier if he just stays with me? Keep him here.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you nodded stoutly. “Alright, lemme ask him. Hey, bub,” you cooed, picking up the tiny creature from his floating carrier and setting him on the ground, equidistant between the two of you. Grogu peered at you with wide eyes, before rounding his head to look up at Din, then looked to you once more. He let out a garbled noise of confusion. “You wanna go to the market with me or stay with Mr. Grump over there?”

Silent, Din watched as Grogu began waddling towards you, seemingly excited at the prospect of going out to explore.

With a hum of satisfaction, you scooped the kid up into your arms, shooting the masked man a victorious smirk, before striding towards the exit.

“Be back before sunset!” he barked out, earning him a mock salute from you, then proceeded to incoherently grumble under his breath about how going to the market was really a one-person job, whilst fixing up the banged up ship definitely required more than a single pair of hands.

Clementine flames licked at the air greedily, crackling as Din tossed another wedge of wood into the fire. The setting sun cast long shadows over the secluded, wooded area your little group was hunkering down in, sparsely lit with the heated glow of the fire and the cold luminescence of the distant stars in the sky. You sat on the opposite end of the fire, blowing warm air into your palms to ebb away the numbing cold sewn into your skin.

The kid was snuggled up to your side, cooing as he tried to grab floating embers of the fire that drifted past him, carried away with the frigid night breeze.

Din studied the two of you, his mask betraying no expression whatsoever. Though Din was a man of few words, he was also a man of keen observations, always entirely aware of his surroundings. He noticed the way the orange of the fire tinted your skin with a near angelic glow, how the rustling of leaves behind him seemed to perfectly accompany your tinkering laugh as you smiled at the kid’s ministrations, how your eyes brightened with all the galaxy’s light within your irises.

His attention was reluctantly drawn away from you when the kid waddled off to the side, having spotted a bulbish frog—which, presumably, looked like a tasty snack to him.

With a gentle smile, you got up and circled around the fire to sit beside him, foliage crunching beneath your haunches as you settled down.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, just audible enough to hear over the pops of the flames. “You’re thinking so loudly.”

There was a moment of silence, the quiet weighing heavily over the both of you.

“It’s nothing,” he replied finally. “Nothing to worry about.”

Not wanting to pry, you hummed in thought, about to tell him that you’d be all ears if he had something to say, but promptly held your tongue when you caught sight of the kid swallowing the poor one-eyed frog whole.

“Spit that out!” both you and Din ordered at the same time. You glanced at each other, and your shoulders shook as you began to laugh, the corners of your eyes crinkling with such genuinity that was rare to find these days.

You couldn’t see it, but a trace of a smile slowly appeared behind Din’s helmet.

The kid had finally fallen asleep—it took hours of you setting him firmly on your lap and telling him to shut his eyes until he began to relent, curled against your stomach and stealing your body warmth. Sleep was tugging at your own sleeves, whispering gentle static into your ears and weighing down your eyelids.

Din had passed by the two of you multiple times as he tended to the many laborious upkeeps of the ship, silent as a ghost, but his mere presence was loud enough for you.

It was only when the ship’s door slid open did you startle out of your half-unconscious state, blearily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You glanced down at the small form on your lap, gently patting his little wrinkled head.

Carefully, you got to your feet and lowered Grogu into his floating carrier, tucking him into a mottled brown blanket with nimble fingers. The kid stirred mildly at the jostling movement, but settled down when you hushed him quietly.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t spring awake and scamper out of his carrier to swallow down more frogs, you left the ship, sliding the door shut behind you.

The night’s chill was stronger than it had been a couple hours ago, the cold steeping into your muscles and freezing your bones. The moon bathed the forest in a hazy, pearl-hued luminescence, reflecting softly against Mando’s armor. He was watching the vast, dark forest, broodingly quiet. You came to stand beside him, shivering slightly.

“Done with all your little errands?” you asked, trying your best to keep your teeth from chattering. You took his silence as an affirmative. “You really like keeping yourself occupied, huh?”

More silence. In the distance, a frog croaked.

“I would’ve been more than happy to help you if you’d asked, by the way. You didn’t have to do all that by yourself. I used to be a mechanic, you know?”

Din risked a glance to you, holding his breath for reasons unbeknownst to him. You looked awfully serene basking in the sweet cold of the night, which made his chest ache with a tender kind of longing he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A life he knew he couldn’t have, perhaps.

He tore his eyes away before he could dwell on that thought too much.

“What are you doing out here? It’s real cold out,” you murmured, angling your head to look at him. It sometimes frustrated you just how unreadable he was—not even considering the mask, he rarely ever gave anything away with his body language. You wondered what went on in his head. “Are you okay?”

For the first time since you came out, Din spoke. It was tentative and slow—fittingly cautious in nature. His voice sent a thrill up your spine—it wasn’t often that the two of you would genuinely converse about something other than the ship’s upkeep. “The kid likes you.”

A surprised look splintered through your expression. Of all things you expected him to say, that most certainly wasn’t one of them. “Well, yeah, I’d hope so. I love the little guy, even though he eats like a starved wampa.” You narrowed your eyes at him, the beginnings of a smile painting across the corner of your lips. “Oh, maker, you’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Before he could formulate a proper response, you stepped closer to him with a teasing glint to your eyes that he misliked. You patted his chest in mock-comfort.

This close, he could see the fine details of your features much more clearly—he noticed the small, faded scar across the bridge of your nose, slightly darker in color than the rest of your complexion, he noticed the soft curve of your cupid’s bow, and he noticed the slight arch to your eyebrows, as if expecting him to say something.

Oh, right. He should probably say something.

Din flushed hotly beneath his helmet, finding himself at a loss for words.

“I’m sure the kid loves you just as much, if not more than, he loves me,” you surmised, still with a teasing lilt to your words. “After all, we both know he considers you his guardian—if he could talk, he’d definitely be calling you father. Or, actually, that might be too formal for him—maybe daddy, or something. Pops, even.”

Din huffed, amused. “The kid wouldn’t call me daddy,” he deadpanned, finally finding his tongue.

You beamed devastatingly gleeful, and he could just about feel his heart disintegrating into sand and spilling through the crevices of his ribs.

“Why not? I think it suits you.” You shrugged, still grinning so wide it was a wonder your face hadn’t split into two. Oh, you were going to be the death of him one day. “I’m gonna head back in—I’m freezing my ass off out here. Good night, Din. Or should I say daddy?” You barked out a laugh, clearly pleased with your little joke, before trudging away from him, chortling to yourself along the way.

Din watched as you slipped back into the ship, your words ricocheting in his head over and over again. He exhaled heavily.

He was digging himself a deep hole here—and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop.

#the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fluff #din djarin x you #star wars fanfiction #din djarin imagines #din djarin drabbles #din djarin angst #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian x reader #sw fanfiction #sw fanfic #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic

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jade-bright · 3 months ago

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Star Wars!Sterek pt.3

Derek, after putting his armor and helmet back on, carried Stiles back to the Lycan and checked him for any visible injuries. Assuming the younger man was gonna be out for a while, he went about checking and fixing parts of the ship's vitals/mechanics he deemed necessary until he ultimately went to just watch over Stiles. Some hours later, sat across the cot Derek watched as he finally awoke...

Stiles: (stretching) Ughhh, (turns his head and jumps when he sees Derek) Ahh! Oh my Maker

Derek: (slightly amused but doesn't move or say anything) ...

Stiles: ... (waits a bit to see if he'll say anything) Are you okay? I didn't mess anything up did I?

Derek: ...

Derek: You're a jetii

Stiles: ...

Stiles: No. I'm force sensitive. (looks down at his hands and starts to fidget with them) My mom taught me, just like her dad taught her. He was the one who became a jedi, but he left to be with my grandmother

Derek: (a bit confused) ...How aren't you a jedi?

Stiles: (huffs a little laugh) For one? (gestures to his entire being) I don't have a lightsaber and I don't follow the traditional jedi mantra

Derek: What do you follow?

Stiles: (Shrugs) The same mantra my grandfather decided to follow after he married my grandmother, "Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force."

Derek: What does it mean?

Stiles: For me and my family? Freedom. We get to live and make choices same as any "ordinary" being, practice the ways of both the light and dark side... (squints and purses his lips) well... within reason, and you know (blushes), love and marry whoever we want...

Derek: (blushes under his helmet remembering that they are indeed married now) ...

Stiles: I know our getting together was veryyy... of convenience? Since, you know, you were dying and you've told me how important your Creed is and how much of a disgrace it is for a Mandalorian to break the Creed and I didn't mean to force your hand in this or in-

Derek: (abruptly takes off his helmet and puts it to the side)...

Stiles: -uhhhhh

Derek: (gulps what little saliva he has, takes a deep breath and stands) I willingly gave you my name, and have now willingly shown you my face, because you are clan, and if you'd be willing to continue the riduurok, I wish to at least give you the symbol of my family

Stiles: (a bit surprised and blinking, then smiles his mischief in his eyes) Okay, (stands) I'll follow through in our marriage, (takes a small step closer) on two conditions

Derek: Anything

Stiles: (smile widening) After this bounty, (takes another small step forward) we will return to Naboo and we'll have a small wedding that my dad will be able to attend

Derek: (smiles and laughs a little) Okay, and?

Stiles: (takes one last step towards Derek) I want several kisses from my husband, whenever I want

Derek: (eyes wrinkling from how much he's smiling and walks to finally close the distance between them, and wrap his hands around his waist to pull him flush against himself) Is that all cyar'ika?

Stiles: (pleased, raising his arms to place over his shoulders and rest his hands behind his neck) Mhmm~

*Stiles just taking his time and getting his fill on finally being able to stare into his partners eyes and take note of his other features like his thick brows and seemingly soft hair. Meanwhile, Derek's also enjoying being able to fully explore the depths of brown and gold in his riduur's eyes, but is mostly loving how he gets to finally hold him in such a loving manner.*

Stiles: Derek?

Derek: Hmm

Stiles: I want a kiss

Derek: As you wish cyar'ika

*The End*

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #eternal sterek #stiles x derek #derek x stiles #teen wolf #sterek au #teen wolf au #sterek drabble #sterek fandom #sterek fic #sterek star wars au #mandalorian derek hale #force sensitive stiles stilinski

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lincolndjarin · 1 year ago

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this is a request!! i would loveeee to see desperate din and him begging. he’s always in the suit and never really around people so it would make so much sense for him to be touch starved and needy. like he meets reader for the first time and all his needs and feelings he ignored for years come to the front and he’s just down bad 😩

a/n : sorry this took forever to get around!! i haven't written drabbles before so i hope this is okay <3 thank you for the request !! (i read online that some people get annoyed when drabbles are over 100 words if that is true feel free to tell me to knock it off LMAO cause some people say its just a short fic so idk i'm lost and know nothing.)

anyways, i changed a little bit of your request to keep it short, hope that's okay!!

pairing : din djarin x afab!reader

word count : 0.6k

warning : 18+ mdni, smut, no plot this is just porn, sorta sub!din, begging, din's lowkey a boob man in this, nipple stuff idk the proper tag here sorry, praise, premature ejaculation lowkey (din gets a little over excited), handjobs

It was surprisingly easy to convince him to take the armor off. Almost like he was waiting for you to ask, from there he was putty in your hands, crawling into the sleeping cubby, panting before you've even touched him.

It's too dark to see him but you can feel how different this is from the quickies in the cockpit or the stress induced sex against the side of the ship from a mission gone wrong. His kisses are hot and feverish against you skin as he latches onto your nipple with a whimper. You've never felt his mouth on your flesh and suddenly it's your greatest regret. Denying yourself such a thing. Attentive is an understatement, his tongue lapping at the meat of your chest, wanting feel the weight of it in his mouth.

"Maker, Mando, slow down..." You laugh breathlessly, nothing could have prepared you for the whimper against your breast. You feel the line of spit as he pulls away briefly.

"Please?" His voice has never sounded like this, an unfamiliar breathy whine is stifled as his lips wrap themselves back around your nipple, lewd wet sounds filling the tiny space. His cock rests fully erect between your thighs, the warmth coming off of him is suffocating as he groans against your breasts, burying his head between them.

You feel the vibration on his lips as he moans against you.

"M-More, more, please." He drags his mouth from your chest to your throat, settling there now, it's like he's trying to find your pulse with his tongue.

After that it's like the words are being pulled out of you, you aren't sure where they come from, you've never talked like this before.

"More what, sweet boy?"

His hips snap forward seeming involuntarily, you can feel him starting to grind against your thigh, desperate for whatever he can get.

"More you." He mumbles, high pitched and demanding.

You let your hands touch everything.

The parts of him no ones seen, let alone touched, in decades.

It's like every single inch of his skin is sensitive. You scrape your nails down his back and sound you draw from him is downright pornographic.

He gives up on any attempt to keep his mouth on you, he's too busy writhing and begging when your hands travel southing, running your fingers through the dark thatch of curls that starts on the bottom of his stomach.

"Touch me- please touch me. I'll be good, I promise to be good just touch me." He's positively breathless by the time you wrap your hand around his stiff and aching cock.

You watched him kill three people today, with zero hesitation. The most ruthless killer you've ever known. And right now he's humping your leg and biting your shoulder to muffle the obscene sounds he's making.

You let one hand travel back up, pinching his nipples, trying to draw more of those delicious noises from him.

With that he's trembling. There's no more words as you start to stroke his length, alternating between his nipples with pinches and soothing rubs of your thumb over the pebbled buds.

You don't even have to move your other hand, you simply hold it still as he fucks it, his head resting beside yours, the only sounds you can hear are his gasps for air and soft airy moans.

It takes a minute at most.

It's the fastest he's ever finished with you.

Normally he finishes with a low groan but now the only sound filling the cubby is a drawn out, shaky whine.

You feel his release against your palm. Hot and sticky as he rides it out, rutting against you until he's finally satisfied, murmuring a slurred "Thank you, thank you, thank you." against your skin.

You turn your head to press a kiss into his temple.

"Good boy."

#lincolndjarin #lincolndjarin drabbles #the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #mandalorian drabbles

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tentaclemilkprincess · 2 months ago

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Luke skywalker as an elderitch horror:

As an angel with golden hair and a laugh that echoed something ferocious, sometimes, when Han turned to see his best friend—his brother—he could have sworn he saw a hundred too many teeth, pulsing like a star.

As a nervous rambler, endlessly endearing in his social awkwardness, sometimes Lando would see Luke from afar and, in that distance, no longer recognize the blushing boy he'd come to love. Instead, there was a blank slate—eyes not black, but hollow, scooped out with the promise of both devastation and creation. And then, Luke would blink, bat those pretty lashes, and all that inhuman abundance would vanish.

As a passive monk, all soft smiles and gentle movements, the Mandalorians believed they had seen him at first glance. But then, they saw him truly—in battle. It wasn’t the blood, thick and vocal against his blonde hair or caught between his white teeth. No, it was how he moved—like their bodies were just blades of grass to be trampled or avoided, but ultimately beneath him. It was not a predator's stalk, for nothing on earth could exist as his prey. No, they were simply… just like those blades of grass. Like those bodies.

Still, when Luke walked the dusty streets, it was easy to pretend, to almost forget—to forgive the shadow that hung just a few paces behind him. To ignore the unsettling feeling that being near him was like waking from a very long dream. It was easier to pretend that he walked slow and steady because he was a jetti monk and not because his soul was older than time itself. Because, to Luke, all life was worthy—but perhaps not in human form. Perhaps their greatest worth was to feed the flowers and birds with their bones.

Who was Luke Skywalker to Din Djarin?

A god waging a divine war between himself, a devil chained by the needs of others, a man - a boy born to be missuunderstod and die both afraid and afraid of, a monk with an attitude more akin to an adventurer or a jetti, the last of his kind.

For all of Din's love he wasn’t special- he too didn't know who or what his cyar'ika was - not unless Luke allowed him to see that is. Because Luke Skywalker had spent nineteen years feeling jilted, out of place and time, like a line just a degree off.

For all the power that he weilded he was always told that love would elude him so when Luke met Din - a man so force blind he couldn't feel the unnatural ripple of Luke's skin or hear how he never breathed, a man so sworn to protect all he loved even if the object of his affections was the most powerful being in the known and unknown universe, a man who kissed Luke like he wasn’t terrying or scary but just a boy or as Din says "a very pretty and powerful boy"

Din worships Luke, but not because of the vastness and eternity of him or the knowledge of the sheer power that his beloved holds no, Din falls to his feet in adoration and prayer because he's the only being to get Grogu to eat something other than frogs and strange meat.

#luke skywalker the man that you are #luke skywalker #elderitch horror #dinluke #luke skywalker x din djarin #lukedin #han solo #the mandalorian #the last jedi #monster fucker #monster boyfriend #Din welcome to the monster fucker club #we've been expecting you #lando #drabble #artists on tumblr #fanfic

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ddejavvu · 10 months ago

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grumpy beefy mando falling for soft!reader in her “grandma era” - all she wants to do is crochet, bake and frolic around the galaxy with mando and grogu 🫶🏽

"He doesn't like hats."

You glance up at Din from where you're testing a length of crocheted stitches beneath Grogu's chin, ensuring that the hat inspired by the local flora of the forest planet you've found shelter on won't fall off if he gets too rigorous in his play.

Grogu coos beneath the flower hat, but whether it's in agreement or protest you can't tell.

"He likes this one," You decide, when the little green terror before you doesn't fight as you maneuver his ears through their designated slots, "And he doesn't have to wear it if he doesn't want to."

Your fingers slip the little white button through the slot you've left in the band, and the hat is secured around Grogu's chin; the cutest little flower you ever did see.

"Oh, honey," You gush, scooping the child up and tucking him into your arms, "You wanna see your hat? C'mere, let's look."

You crouch in front of the tree stump that Din has settled on, holding Grogu up to the man's beskar chest plate. It's freshly polished, but not completely reflective, so at the right angle, Grogu catches a blurry, slightly distorted version of himself in a very pink hat.

His legs are still too small to kick in excitement, but his arms pick up the slack, flapping about while copious amounts of baby babble streams from his mouth. Evidently he's pleased with your handiwork.

Din stays silent while he offers his armor up for Grogu's viewing pleasure, but the child's hands soon find the soft strap beneath his chin and tug.

"I told you he didn't like hats..." Din murmurs, not to be cruel, but to fill empty space in the air when your shoulders deflate slightly.

"I thought he'd like it if it was softer," You hum sadly, helping Grogu take the button out of its clasp so that he can tug the hat off of his head, "I just figured he didn't like the helmet you gave him because it was uncomfortable."

As soon as you've freed Grogu from the confines of his flowery prison his hands slap against the shiny metal of Din's armor. He takes the child out of your hands but Grogu keeps his hat tightly clutched in his fist, and, with valiant effort, pushes the hat into Din's helmet, insistently cooing something that sounds suspiciously like buir.

Your giddiness returns, and you circle Din like a hawk, "Oh, you want your buir to wear it? Let's see," Amidst Din's protests you balance the too-small cap on his helmet, and he stills if only to save the hat from slipping and dying a muddy death on the ground below.

"It doesn't fit me." He grumbles, body stiff as he keeps it balanced on his head. Grogu seems pleased with his buir's new headpiece, squealing and showing off his newly-emerged teeth in a grin.

"I'll make you a matching one!" You declare, snatching the hat off of his helmet to give him the freedom of movement again, "Grogu, baby, what color should Din's be?"

"Bah!" Grogu decides, and your steps still where you're racing back towards your shelter.

"Uh... how about purple?" You suggest, and another resounding 'Bah.' is all the encouragement you need.

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divinehedons · 2 years ago

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Drabbles??? Like Din eating you out all slow and savoring it, but still making you cum over and over till you're in tears begging for him to fuck you, but maker you just taste so God damn good

YESYESYESYESYES,, may i also add while i have your attention: unintentionally cocky!din djarin x frustrated reader? SO, i present to you:

a taste of paradise

nsfw under the cut, minors DO NOT interact or din will go pew pew!

he gets competitive sometimes, and you enjoy pointing it out at times. you've seen the way he encourages grogu, the way he chuckles, talking in a proud voice whenever the little child makes him proud. he has the same sound whenever you stood beside him, glorious and all his- entirely his.

such was the case of when he had brought you back to his small home, grogu fast asleep as he's pushing you into the nearest bed, helmet pushed off as he kisses you between your attempts to speak, to try and understand what's gotten into him. "din... din-" he shushes you, laying you down amongst the sheets as his gloved hands slowly pushed up your skirts. he looks at you, and you see that starving gaze in his eyes, the soft smirk on his face. he does not wait another moment, even despite your attempts to soothe him, as he sinks between your legs to take a long taste with his tongue.

"maker, riduur, what's gotten into you?" you whisper, and you feel him chuckle once more as his lips wrap around your aching clitoris and just sucking until you cry out in his arms.

when din djarin wants, he does not stop until he satisfies himself. so you allow him, thinking he just wants a quick rush of pleasure.

besides, you always surrender to him anyway.

"that's it, cya're, just give in to it," he whispers, using his gloved fingers to spread you wide open, where you're wet and baby pink, digging into you like you're the very sustenance from life itself. "always so good for me, isn't it?"

he keeps going until you feel your legs shake, whining for him as he only intensifies his minstrations, tongue slipping deep into your cunt, beginning to fuck you with it.

"din!"

"hold it for me, sweet girl, come on, you can do it. just a little more."

a little more, of course, meant hours of teasing you, fucking you with his tongue, his fingers, scratched up by his beard and nuzzled by his nose. no matter how much you beg, how much you try and whine and make all the sweet noises he enjoys.

and you just want to feel the sweet release of an orgasm your beloved dangles just out of your reach. he knows your body more than you could ever understand it, knows just enough to know what would and wouldn't make you tick, make you cum.

"din, maker, you're being so mean, please!" perhaps it was the frustration in your voice, but he stops, looks up at you, your slick coating his beard, his chin...

"oh, adi'ka-"

that is when he finally gives in to you, devouring you until you threw your head back, the riptide all-consuming and so intense, you would be lying if you didn't fade for a moment or so.

"that's it... such beauty, cyari'ka..." you slowly open your eyes to see him looking down at you, safe in his arms as he slowly moves you under the sheets with a chuckle. "you see why i sometimes enjoy pushing your buttons?" he murmurs, nuzzling your jaw with gentle kisses as you groan in his arms. "because when you let go like this... you are just so beautiful."

you smile up at him, cupping his face before you slowly lean up to kiss him lovingly. "do you have to be so mean about it, din?"

he hums, slowly helping you into his arms as you finally settle.

"you are my passion and weakness all in one," he whispers as you drift off to sleep, watching you with soft eyes and a thousand unsaid words. "and if it truly does bother you, i won't do it as much anymore."

#din djarin #din djarin smut #din djarin drabble #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian drabble #the mandalorian x reader

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bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

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Hi sweet Jas, can I please request some forced proximity smut? A tight space and a whole load of sexual tension 😮‍💨 the character is up to you! Thank you!

𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 — 𝐃𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍

» PAIRING : The Mandalorian x Reader

» CONTENTS : Dry humping, dirty talk, Greef Karga and his loveable bullshit. Not proof read, who has time for that?

» DIN MASTERLIST : here || MAIN MASTERLIST : here

“Mando- Mando!”

You cry out as the durasteel walls of the trash compactor suddenly brace against your palms in your feeble attempt to prevent the kriffing things from smushing you.

Lodged between you and one of the walls, The Mandalorian stands firm. He, too, had been shouldering the advancing walls. The silver sheen of his beskar armour reflects your terrified expression, eyes frenzied as you realise they’ve stopped.

“Are you alright?!” Greef Karga’s voice sounds from above, no doubt shouting down the rubbish chute. This was the last time you were offering yourself up for a bounty mission on an Empire fleet ship- not even for five thousand imperial credi—

“We’re fine,” Mando’s raised, modulated voice sounds tinny in close quarters, hurting your eardrums. “If we let go, it’ll crush us.”

“I’ll find a way to get you out!” Karga calls down the chute, “Wait there!”

You cringe slightly at the order, finding it hard enough to safely unwind your limbs from The Mandalorian that had tangled in your desperate attempts to survive the compactor, let alone leave the blasted thing.

“Can’t wait anywhere else.” The Mandalorian’s response, muttered sarcastically, makes you huff out a laugh. He turns his face back to you, the beskar steel helmet barely brushing your nose.

One of his palms rests beside your head with his arm locking you in place, while his left leg, situated between your own, pushes the toe of his boot into the wall. Your own hands are settled on the opposite side of the compactor, trapping his body between your forearms. It’s a tight squeeze.

Blackness stares back at you, his tinted visor obscuring the view of his eyes. Besides the shaky rise and fall of his chest plate, thanks to his exertions in trying to stop you both from becoming Jawa Juice, Mando offers no insight into how he’s feeling.

Swallowing thickly, you cast your eyes to the darkness above your heads. It’s ridiculous, but you can feel his body heat from the breaks in his armour, covered only by his undersuit. It makes your heart flutter, the biting scent of leather.

“… I apologise,” his voice cuts through the silence and causes you to jump, “This-… This is uncomfortable for you.”

“‘S okay,” you mumble weakly, attempting to smother the butterflies that launch in your stomach at the soft, soothing whisper of his voice.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Despite your attempts to loosen up, the searing gaze through The Mandalorian’s visor feels as though it’s settled on your face, burning a hole into your lips. Stars, there must be fumes in the rubbish beneath your feet, driving you crazy.

Swallowing, you avoid his line of sight by looking at literally everything else. The woven flight suit that conceals his neck, the contours of his shoulder plates. Was that a Mudhorn-?

The sharp inhale through your nose as his knee brushes against your heat practically ricochet off the walls, eyes finally snapping to his visor against your better judgement. Unmoving, he offers nothing to infer he even noticed how he effortlessly set your body alight as though he’d triggered the flamethrower on his vambrace. Surely not. Surely he’d just been adjusting his foot to hold the wall better!

“You’re fogging up my eyeshade.”

It’s mortifying. Condensation from your heavy breaths is steaming up the silver beskar of his mask. The Mandalorian’s voice is flat but rich, and you can’t read his tone through that fucking modulator!

“S-orry,” you stumble over your apology when his thigh drags between your thighs deliberately, the second syllable coming out in a pathetic little squeak.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Don’t hold your breath.” He catches you before you even manage to still your lungs in embarrassment. “I want to hear them.”

His admission has the air trapped in your throat expelling in a quiet whine, unable to stop the noise from slipping out when he slooowly grinds his thigh up and forwards, rolling your clit between the layers of fabric.

“Hoh- '' you heave another breath, the mist encroaching across the beskar of his mask and mattifying the shine of the pure metal. “Oh fuck-“

“Don’t move,” he orders calmly. It sounds less like an order and more like an observation. “You need to hold the wall.” Yes. Yes, he has to remind you that you’re in a life-threatening situation, because the simple friction is enough to numb your brain with the thrill.

You whimper softly, shaking your head. The tip of your nose drags against the cold metal of his mask, sweeping through the misty dew and exposing the shine beneath. Stars, you can see your expression through the track you leave behind. It’s obscene, jaw slack and eyelids heavy as you mindlessly grind your hips down on the cuisse beneath you.

“So desperate you’re willing to risk your life,” he murmurs, watching you use him to get off like you’re a fragment of kyber- the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “You like this? Using me to get off when your life hangs in the balance?”

“Y-ou starte-ahh-“ your pussy clenches as he drives his thigh up to match the roll of your hips. It grinds just right, and you arch against the throbbing hum between your legs.

“I started it,” he nods slightly, the low lighting flickering off the grooves and concaves of his mask, “I did. But you wanted it first. Burning for it.”

He’s right. Fuck, The Mandalorian is right, and you’re too far gone to be ashamed by his observation. If you weren’t on the brink of an obliterating orgasm, you’d be mortified that he’d found it so easy to read you.

You stifle a sob by biting the flesh of your lip as your clit drags against the smooth metal again. Trembling, your own thighs nearly give out entirely as you begin to crest the euphoric surge he’s pulling from you.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice haggard as he watches you, “That’s it. That’s it, ther-“

“There!” A loud call bounces off the walls of the compactor room. A loud beep splits your eardrums, and suddenly the walls fall away as they draw back. The sudden lack of support has you falling into the chest plate of The Mandalorian in front of you, your orgasm blurring away between your thighs with the sudden lack of attention.

“Knew I could find the button!” Karga chuckles, the compactor walls falling in place to reveal your boss standing with his hands on his hips, grinning with a complete obliviousness that has you wanting to punch him in the face. With an ion cannon.

You sag against The Mandalorian slightly, devastated by Karga’s interruption. The little sigh you let out is pathetic, almost childish in nature.

“A thank you would be nice!” Karga chastises you, “I’ve never seen someone look so ungrateful to have their life saved!”

You swear you hear The Mandalorian huff a chuckle behind that stupid fucking mask, and you decide he was deserving of a punch with an ion cannon too.

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corazondebeskar-reads · 20 days ago

Text

fine

din djarin x gn!reader

words: 896

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He busies himself instead with what can.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eat,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eat,” he insists.

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, Din,” you murmur.

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

#din djarin x you #din djarin x gn!reader #din djarin x reader #mando x gn!reader #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian x gn!reader #the mandalorian fanfic #mando fic #fic: fine #fic: din drabbles

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