#my dad got me a grogu plush and i love him

[hairringtonsteve]

1. HI 💚🧡💜💛 it feels like it's been forever since I last messaged you

2. I may or may not have screamed when I read that requests are open

3. I had an idea of giving baby yoda a bath and dressing him up in a new little outfit after, and it's so cute that Mando has to take a walk to calm down bc his heart's about to burst out of his armor- and while that might be fun to write... you're right here... asking for requests... soooo, this baby's yours now congrats

4. So fucking happy that you are writing again ❤️💖💖💙💛💚💛🧡💛 we've all missed you

HELLO FRIEND! you know, you screamed when you saw i had requests open, i screamed when you made me that grogu/mando meme about my fics. so we’re even now. and here you go because that is absolutely adorable i love this idea so much. this ended up being more introspective than i intended, but i like it. i also took some liberty with it and accidentally went longer, yikes.

ALSO HEADS UP SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED? but it’s been like, a month so... what r u doing.

(also we’re ignoring mando’s ship layout because a) it’s dumb where’s the ‘fresher and b) it doesn’t exist anymore.)

taking short fic requests ‘til midnight EST! :) 

***

At some point, he’d realized that the kid – Grogu – was older than him. So how was it that he was the one that stuck with bathing duty? Fifty-plus years should mean that the kid could wash himself, right? Mando tilted his head, the helmet shifting just a little with the shift in gravity as he regarded the little green being that was sitting on the gangplank of his ship.

Covered in some sort of sticky, greenish-brown mud. Mando sighed.

He hoped it was mud.

He took a few steps forward and bent down, ignoring the slight pain in his left knee that had been persisting after their little meet-up with Ahsoka. Or had it started earlier? He couldn’t really remember. He picked up Grogu and cradled him close to his chest, ignoring the little voice in his head that told him just how much cleaning he’d have to do after getting the kid all set. Beskar was forgiving, at least.

The kid babbled excitedly as he headed into the Razorcrest, and not for the first time Mando wished that he could just understand what he was saying. Hell, he’d take even just vaguely understanding what the kid was getting at.

Making his way into the ship, he poked around until he found what he was looking for, an empty metal basin that came from… somewhere. One quick trip into the ‘fresher to fill it up with some water and grab a clean strip of fabric for a washcloth, and he was set. He took the kid’s usual clothes off him and set them to the side, making a mental note to figure out how to wash those later.

Despite himself, a chuckle left his lips at the sudden and very loud protests that came from Grogu at being set into the cold water. “Sorry, sorry. Should’ve checked the temperature.” He peeled off his gloves and dipped his hand in the water. It was a little cold, but it’d be fine. He reached behind him for the strip of fabric, watching as the kid started to splash in the water.

“Grogu.”

The kid’s head whipped towards him, ears perking up at the use of his name. Something in Mando’s chest warmed. He wouldn’t get used to that, that little excitement in the kid’s face that he swore was there.

Going decades without someone using your name was something that Mando could relate to.

He began to wipe the kid down and his thoughts began to drift. The relief he’d selfishly felt when Ahsoka had said that she wouldn’t train Grogu ate at him. The kid wasn’t really his son. He’d gone how long in his life without forming attachments, and one little green asshole shows up and just makes everything more difficult?

He took care to keep his movements gentle, focusing on that rather than the quieter thoughts that wondered how quiet it would be without him in the ship. To further silence those, he began to murmur to the kid, telling him just how proud of him he was for showing his powers to Ahsoka, how brave he was for making it this far, how smart he was for staying safe all those years. And Grogu stared up at him, head swiveling every so often as Mando’s tone or cadence shifted with what he was saying.

Eventually, he was done – covered in more mud than he’d like – and the kid was clean. Getting him changed didn’t take long as the poor guy was practically asleep by the end of it. But Mando got him changed into clean clothes and made a makeshift bed in the co-pilot’s chair, something that seemed a little more comfortable than his usual sleeping spot.

His heart swelled more and more as he finally got the kid to sleep. Standing in the cockpit was suddenly too stifling, so he headed outside.

Stopping once he stepped off the gangplank, he looked to the sky and sighed.

He was going to miss the little guy.

[ickleronniekinsemotionalrange]

The stars in your eyes

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader

word count: 1.1k

summary: Din notices you have been distant and different, so he pushes his nervousness away and comforts you in the best way. 

warnings: angst, PTSD, fluff, sad!reader.

Requested? Yes! by the lovely @just-trying-to-survive-marvel  🥺💗. Thank you for trusting me with this angel, hope you like it! sorry it’s kinda short :(

(gif by the lovely @josepedropascal 🥰)

💗💗💗💗💗

The suns were setting on Tatooine as Din walked back to the crest with the little green bundle of joy secured in his arms. His mind kept on focusing on the same thing over and over again, making the anxiety rise in his chest as he exhaled. The Mandalorian figured Grogu must have felt the same way because he kept quiet during the whole trip, which was unusual for him. His ears flopped down in concern as his dad entered the crest, trying not to make too much noise; his big eyes looked at him in concern, quietly asking him what was going on. Din’s heart broke as he saw his son’s eyes so sad and concerned - and he knew his eyes must’ve looked like that too. 

Both Din and Grogu were oh so worried, for you. You hadn’t been your usual cheerful self, your energy was missing in the ship, although you were right there. Din noticed almost immediately, throwing you worried glances through his helmet (which he knew you couldn’t see) every now and then. You didn’t seem to notice, but when he asked if something was wrong, you shook your head and gave him a fake smile trying to convince him you were just fine. Din didn’t want to push or pressure you in any sort of way, so even though he didn’t believe you, he nodded and gave you some space. 

But that was almost half a week ago, and now he was growing sadder and sadder every day. He immediately started searching for you hoping to find your beautiful eyes staring up at him with that dashing smile he knew you gave only to him. But as none of that happened, patting, he started running around, calling out your name, worried sick, thinking you left the ship and wandered in Tatooine all by yourself. 

The anxiety left momentarily his body as he saw you sitting in the cockpit, your feet dangling not far from the ground, absolutely quiet and lost in thought, looking at the magnificent view before you. You didn’t even hear them come back in. 

As soon as he saw your tear-stained face, the anxiety came right back, his heart shattering. Din knew it wasn’t a good idea to leave you all by yourself and he and Grogu wondered in the planet, but he didn’t have the heart to wake you up as he saw you sleeping so peacefully in your shared cot before they left. You had been sleeping a lot more than you usually did, which did nothing but aggravate Din’s worries, caging his anxiety in his chest.

He and Grogu kept quiet as they approached you to avoid startling you. Din knelt beside you and seeing as you were still lost in thought, he reached out a hand to caress your face. You flinched away from his touch, closing your eyes. You couldn’t see his eyes, but as Din saw you react to his touch he felt his heart fall to the ground and jerked his hand away, shocked at the fear he’d caused you. He felt tears swell in his eyes, because he may have been a cold hearted, intimidating Mandalorian to others, he never expected you to be the one frightened by his hand. He blinked the tears away and got up, leaving to put the kid in his sleeping place. 

He slowly approached the cockpit again, careful and keeping his distance, Din looked up at you the sad look on your face as you lifted your arms up for him to hold you. Din let out a breath he didn’t knew he was holding in and immediately secured you in his arms. You stood like that for a while, both holding on to each other as you cried silently and kept on repeating “I’m sorry” over and over again. He hushed you gently, rocking you back and forth and then lifting you up to sit in the pilot’s seat with you on his lap and your head resting on his chest. He held you tight, afraid of letting you go, afraid you’d shatter in a million little pieces. 

After a while, you looked up at him, eyes shining with tears, the black line of Din’s helmet staring back at you. He waited for you to talk, pressing his cold helmet to your forehead. You let out a sigh and closed your eyes, feeling your chest get heavy over again. 

“Hey cyar’ika, look at me, it’s fine. Everything will be just fine. I don’t want to pressure you, you don’t have to tell me anything. Just know I will always be here to hold you close to my heart, know that I will do anything to put back those beautiful stars in your eyes, my runi” Din whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His words put a smile on your face because you knew he was not a man of words, but rather actions. And as he was talking to you softly, holding you lovingly in his arms, you whispered something to him. 

“I love you Din”

You felt his heart skip a beat and then it started beating so loudly in his chest, you couldn’t help but laugh quietly. You slightly pulled away to look at him and placed a hand on his helmet, you couldn’t see his eyes but you knew the look he was giving you, so full of love and yet he was speechless. You smiled softly and placed a kiss on his neck, where you could feel his soft skin. 

“It was on a day like this” you said, lips still close to his neck. You began explaining what had happened to you, all those moons ago, tears running down Din’s cuirass. Every word, every image, came rushing back to you. The mandalorian began stroking your hair softly, in a loving manner to try to calm you down, but listening closely and focusing on what you had to say. 

The night had fallen in Tatooine when you finished explaining to your mandalorian the reason for your sadness and why you had been shutting him out for the past few days. Why you couldn’t hold it in anymore, why you were so afraid. Din had patiently waited and listened to all you had to say and when you were done he pulled you away from him, still holding you in one arm while he placed the other one on his helmet. He lifted it just enough for you to see his mouth, soft and plush. Your breath got caught in your throat as you looked at his mouth for the very first time. 

“I love you, ner kar’ta” Din said as he put his lips softly onto yours. You kissed him gently, holding the helmet in place as your lips moved together. The angle was a little weird but you wouldn’t have traded it for anything or anyone else. Din felt and looked like an angel, making you feel oh so loved. 

You were so in love with your mandalorian and your mandalorian was so in love with you. 

💗💗💗💗💗

taglist:

@seasonschange-butpeopledont

[honeylikewords]

gifts (din djarin)

(a hanukkah fic about my Very Definitely Jewish Darling, Din Djarin. i left a few things ambiguous-- for example, Grogu is very definitely the baby/child/son being mentioned, but his name isn’t used so that he can be interpreted as either a human or alien child-- but it should still all make sense. also, Din and his beloved being a married couple. that’s about all you need to know! enjoy!)

“You have to actually at least try to wrap them.”

Din casts a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder at his wife, who is standing behind him in her pajamas, arms crossed over her chest with a playful smirk on her lips. She leans against the doorway to his work room and points at the small pile of presents laying in crumpled, crinkled, crushed lumps of misshapen paper, her eyes twinkling in the glow of his bench lamp.

“It’s hard,” he grumbles, turning back to the task at hand upon his workbench with a pout. “Besides, it’s not like he can even open packaging.”

“You can’t just give him unwrapped gifts, sweetness. The wrapping paper’s half the fun!”

“When I was a kid, I didn’t even get presents,” Din grouses, fumbling with a piece of tape stuck to his fingers. “It was just lighting the candles, prayers, and maybe dinner. None of this gifting stuff.”

“I know, hon.” 

Walking up behind him, Din’s wife places an affectionate kiss on his temple and rubs at his tight shoulders, giggling to herself at his dour disposition. The corner of his lips twitch but he seems to suppress whatever emotion had intended to cross his face, instead allowing for the frown lines to form deeply on his forehead as he scrunches his brows and futzes with the obstinate tape again.

“But,” she continues, “We both agreed that the little guy was gonna get presents for each night. And if we’re going to be giving gifts, we ought to be wrapping them. Right?”

“Yeah, I know,” he replies, voice softly distant but accepting. 

There’s a pause as she reassuringly massages her thumb along the neckline of his shirt and he makes that low, clearing sound, deep in his throat-- the ever-familiar noise of Din trying to gear himself up to say something he’s shy about-- then casts his eyes down at his hands, picking aimlessly at the affixed tape.

“Could you, uh… help me, please?”

His wife chuckles and rolls her eyes, bending down to kiss him solidly on the cheek, nodding as she pulls up a stool and sits next to him at the workbench. She lifts up one of the malformed paper-piles trying to pass itself off as a wrapped present and reaches over Din’s fidgeting hands to pick up his box-cutter, slicing through the masses of poorly-placed tape and crumpled paper to excise the gift within.

A Hot Wheels car in a plastic box sits before her, safely removed from its cocoon of wrapping paper, and, satisfied with her work, she turns to Din, flashing him a warm smile.

“What paper did you wanna use for this one?”

Din scuttles off his stool and procures a laundry basket packed with long tubes of rolled wrapping paper. He picks up one printed with chubby penguins wearing knit vests and pom-pom hats, and presents it to his bride proudly.

“I thought he’d like them,” he explains, pointing at one of the vested birds. “He loves animals.”

His brown eyes glimmer beneath the lamplight, and his eagerness to please gives him a puppyish sweetness, almost as if he’s waiting for her to praise his selection in paper. She can’t help it; leaning over, Din’s wife gives him yet another kiss, this time a light, brief peck on the lips, and feels him melt slightly into her touch, his tension from his earlier frustration ebbing away. 

When she pulls back, Din’s face is clearly warmed-- a certain glow about his cheeks and ears, and a pleased expression overtaking him-- and he flashes her a sheepish smile.

He watches as she carefully unspools a length of the paper and measures it against the matchbox car, flipping the container this way and that until she has the correct proportions. Once she is content, she takes up a pair of scissors Din had long-since abandoned on the workbench and glides through the paper easily, slicing off a neat section of it before aligning the present just so and making her folds.

Entranced by the efficiency of her motions, Din stares as she makes neat fold after neat fold, enveloping the small box in a smooth, crisp layer of the penguin paper. She holds down the nexus of the folds with one finger and turns to Din, pointing to something further down the worktop surface.

“Could you hand me a piece of tape, honey?,” she asks, twirling her finger as if that will summon the tape dispenser closer. “I can’t reach it from here.”

Din gives a wordless nod and cuts her a small segment of the tape, taking great care not to get it tangled around his fingers again as he gingerly affixes it to the end of hers. Once she has it, she places it on the central fold of the paper amalgam, then extends her hand again; a silent request for another piece.

Once more, Din cuts off a length of tape and gently places it in her hands, and watches her with wonderment as she seals the gift into its paper, flipping it over so that the seams are concealed at the bottom. She looks up and down the table, brows knit, and sighs through her nose.

“Did you… not bring any bows or ribbon out, Din?”

“...We have ribbon?”

She lets out a huff of affectionate exasperation and gets up from the workbench to scour through the basket of paper and finds what she’s looking for wedged in at the bottom; out of the depths of the wrapping paper basket she procures a rather beaten-looking baggie of stick-on bows and spools of ribbon, shaking it as if to say “behold, Exhibit A” to her husband.

Din gives her a beleaguered shrug of the shoulders followed by what he clearly hopes to be a winning smile, and she acquiesces, returning to the bench and tugging out a blue bow and unpeeling the backing of it.

“I think he’s going to love this one,” she murmurs as she affixes the bow, placing it jauntily on one corner of the box’s flat surface. “I think he’s going to love all the presents you picked for him.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Din sit up straighter, his chest pushed out a bit more prominently, pleased and prideful. She chuckles to herself and pulls out a marker from a “WORLD’S NO. 1 DAD” mug on the desk, uncapping it and handing it to Din.

“Write who it’s from on it so he knows, okay?”

Din grins and nods, almost childlike. Just below the bow he writes the words “FROM DADDY TO KID” in his heavy handwriting, letters slightly clunky but nevertheless legible. He recaps the pen and places it back in the cup, pleased with his successful signage.

“That’s one done,” she beams. 

“Seven more to go,” he responds.

They talk quietly as they continue to wrap his gifts-- a picture book, a set of chunky, toddler-fist sized building blocks, a plush frog, a box of bathtub soaps, a few tubs of play dough, a thick-pieced jigsaw puzzle depicting a rocket ship, and his “big present”, a push-along bicycle-- and Din helps as best he can, holding down junctures of folded paper for her or cutting off strips of tape or signing this and that as he’s asked to. 

The bike poses a particular problem to the couple and they sit on the floor and take turns shearing off thin, manageable pieces to try and coat the vehicle in a sort of woven cask of paper, and as they work their conversation continues, voices soft to match the hour of the night.

“I think I got some candy, one year,” Din says absentmindedly, hands busy wrapping the infant-sized handlebars in a layer of puppies-in-yarmulkes-print paper. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Every so often there were the chocolate coins or those, uh, you know--”

He frowns for a moment, trying to conjure the words to mind, pausing midway through the mummification of the bike. When he catches the memory, he snaps his fingers, smiling with satisfaction.

“Like, the gummy fruit slices? You know? Where they were, I think, supposed to look like oranges most of the time, but some of them would be green or blue or--”

“With the little white strip kinda towards the outside edge?”

“That’s the one!,” Din grins, resuming his wrapping. “We’d have those from time to time. They were always at least a little stale, but I remember them being there when we’d have the bigger gatherings; if there was going to be a group of people over for the meal, usually someone would bring along a box of those fruit slices for us kids.”

“I don’t think I ever ate those,” she remarks, wrapping a thread of the paper around the seat of the bike with careful delicacy, “But I’d see them in stores all the time and wonder about them. They looked good in that sort of ‘imaginary foods’ kind of way.”

“We’ll get some next time we’re out,” Din says. “Gotta at least try ‘em.”

“And we’ll have to get him some applesauce,” she notes, adding to their mental list. 

“Yeah, he seems to like the latkes better when we have applesauce with them. Takes after me like that, I guess.”

She looks up to see Din smiling to himself, and she knows that smile well-- it’s the expression he wears when he thinks proudly of his son, when he’s picturing that tiny little face and those big, dark eyes and sweet smile. 

Overcome by affection, she reaches her hand out and lays it atop his, stilling him in his work. He turns his head up to face her, at first surprised, and then comforted. He cocks his head to the side and gives her another smile she knows: a smile of love, his eyes tender with attention, hazy with memories. 

She interlaces their fingers and leans across the bike, coming face to face with him, and rubs the ball of her nose against his, feeling the tickle of his wispy mustache hairs and the smoothness of his skin. His breath is warm against her face and she sighs, contented.

“You’re a good dad, Din Djarin,” she whispers, feeling him tremble slightly at the words, at the ghost of her voice trailing over his skin. 

She feels him nod and push slightly closer, hovering his lips over hers with an intended pause, a permitted distance.

“Thank you,” he rasps back, cowed by modesty. 

He hesitates for half a second, a fraction of a moment, until he feels her putting her hand on the side of his face and becomes emboldened-- he presses forward and pushes their lips together, slow and deep and soft, unhurried in his indulgence. 

Din allows one hand to tuck under the back of her head, cupping her close as he closes his eyes and savors the moment. He doesn’t care that they’re hunched over their child’s half-wrapped bicycle, nor that it’s well past midnight, nor that his legs and back hurt from sitting at an awkward angle at his workbench all those hours. No, all he can think of is this: her, warm and yielding and loving, her lips against his, a piece of his family, his clan.

They linger with one another for a long moment, then part, lazy and hesitant, hovering mere millimeters away. Din’s fingers trace softly along the base of her skull, brushing the hair at the nape of her neck to great effect. She brushes their noses together again and blinks up at him, gazing into the warm depths of his richly brown eyes as he scans her face with them, flitting from feature to feature to gauge her emotions.

He traces a hand down her shoulders and strokes faintly at the ridges of her spine that he can feel through her pajamas, his touch surprisingly dainty for a man so often entrenched in roughness and power and strength. Charmed, she lays her head on his shoulder, stretching slightly across the width of the bike still situated between them so as to wrap her arms around his neck and press her ear to his chest, both of them still and silent but comfortably so.

Din’s fingers continue to glissade up and down the column of her neck and back, every so often tantalizingly tickling at her sensitive hair and making her shiver, pleased. She squeezes him tight and nuzzles into his chest.

He makes that noise again-- muted but buried, but a rising clearing-- and he shifts, slightly discomposed as he tries to gather his courage. Looking up from his chest, she watches his face as he moves the corners of his mouth, readying himself.

“I, uh,” he starts, cheeks beginning to color slightly, “You know… I love, um, love you very much.”

She pauses, then grins.

“Of course I do, Din.”

“Thank you for helping me,” he mumbles. “And for kissing me. And thinking I’m a good dad.”

At that, she laughs, and Din is taken aback, an abrupt embarrassment overtaking his expression. She sits up and shushes him, putting her hands on either side of his face and pressing pecks all across his cheeks and lips, giggling between kisses.

“No, no, honey, it’s not that,” she titters, amused by his indignant countenance, “It’s just so cute!”

He furrows his brow and frowns.

“You know I’ll always help you,” purrs his wife, brushing one of his downy cocoa-colored curls behind his ear. That seems to melt his icy stiffness, if only a little. “And that I love you so very much. Right?”

At that, he lumberingly nods. She smiles, and joyfully kisses the downturned corners of his pouty lips.

“It’s just so cute that you’d thank me for kissing you,” she says, a glittering edge of adoration tinting her voice. “We’re married!”

Din’s face flushes and he looks down at his hands, wringing his palms slightly. His boyish bashfulness has her heart aflame with affection, and she can’t help but push closer, tipping the bike over slightly as she kisses his face anew, endeared to him beyond words. She kisses the ticklish spot just under his ear and Din lets out a little half-yelp, half-laugh, and she beams up at him, watching his sullen sulk fade away.

“I know we’re married,” he mutters, trying to suppress his mirth. “But it’s still… it still surprises me, sometimes.”

“Oh, honey,” she breathes.

Looking away, Din fumbles a bit and tries to stand up, making it to his feet with some effort as his knees make a slight popping noise. His wife giggles and he casts a sharp look down, preemptively scolding her away from making a joke about his age. Extending a hand to her, Din lifts her to her feet as well, somehow managing to gracefully guide her up and around the bike and directly into his arms, holding her to his chest with no barrier between the two of them.

His fingers worry at the hem of her pajama blouse as he takes pause, his eyes flickering between her face and anywhere else in quick succession. He seems to be trying to take stock of what to say or do, judging his options internally and allowing a silence to grow externally as he assesses his next move. Making a judgement of her own, his beloved puts a hand on his cheek and strokes along the patchy line of stubble starting to form the barebones beginnings of a beard.

“I love you,” she says, clear and confident and unabashed. “Always have, always will.”

A light comes into Din’s eyes, and he ducks his head, pushing his face into the tender crook of her neck and burying himself into her warmth, demuring into her skin with mumbled words and kisses. She feels his hands squeeze at her waist and lift her to his chest, then--

“Oh!”

Din is lifting her and spinning her, a surprisingly excited move from a man usually so reserved and reticent, and she can’t help but let out a bright, cheery peal of laughter, which, she is even more surprised by, is met with equal laughter from her usually severe husband.

His laughter is soft but deep; arid, with a light rumbling chasing each building layer as he lets himself become more and more open with his joy. She can’t help but feel like a shy girl again, in his hands, listening to the sound of his beautiful, unmatched voice as he laughs, only for her, only in her arms; she floats with butterflies as he sets her down and gives her a kiss, his face heated with his characteristic sweet diffidence.

“Sorry,” he murmurs against her lips, not bothering to pull back from her as he speaks. “I just got a little excited.”

“Don’t apologize,” she stammers with a grin. 

“And you look so pretty when I pick you up and--”

Pushing forward, she silences his ecstatic stutters with a genial kiss, and listens to him sigh contentedly out through his nose, the sound not dissimilar to that of an old dog being petted in just the right spot.

Just as they begin to mould their lips to one another more deeply, a noise from behind makes Din whip his head around. The monitor he has sitting on his workbench is chirping, relaying sounds from the baby’s room: he’s fussing, stirring in his sleep and making small, plaintive cries. Instantly, Din’s eyes become filled with worry and his countenance shifts from intimate husband to concerned father, and he turns back to his wife, brows knit.

She strokes his jaw and kisses his chin softly.

“It’s alright. He’s just waking a little. But,” she says, putting her hands on her hips and surveying the wrapped gifts, “I suppose we ought to hide these away before the little one can peek at ‘em.”

When the monitor registers another whimper from the baby and Din’s expression becomes even more distressed, she takes his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, not letting him slip through her fingers into a mire of his own worries.

“And then, right after, we’ll go check on him. Okay?”

Din nods, a modicum of confidence restored to him when the monitor falls silent and stays so for many moments in a row. He gives her a quick, fleeting phantasm of a smile-- warm and sweet, shy and docile-- and she falls just a little bit more in love with him, the same as she does every time he lets her see that perfect smile of his.

He moves to part from her to start picking up the presents, but she tugs at his hand slightly and holds him back. Casting an inquisitive look over his shoulder, he meets her eyes and has time to blink once before she puts her free hand on his chest and presses up on her toes to lock lips with him. 

“Happy holidays, honey,” she hums as their lips part with a delicate sound.

Din blinks, then grins back.

And goes in for another kiss.