#the mandolorian x reader

[ilovelosermen69]

Girls when he does the bare minimum in fanfiction

[crumbledcastle28]

Din Djarin: Come and Get Me

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: After a job leaves you trapped, you realize how much you have come to trust the legendary Mandalorian.

Excerpt: “Please don’t cry,” you heard him whisper, “please don’t cry, Y/N.”

“Come and get me,” you begged, “Din, please come and get me.”

“The house is likely on total lockdown,” he said. “There’s no way for me to get in.”

This only made you sob harder.

“Please, Din,” you said through gasps of air, “please don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t leave you alone,” he said. It sounded like he was running now. “Not ever, you understand me?”

Warnings: claustrophobia, panicking, panic attack, crying, so much banter, dinny boy gets *stern, * but only because he is in love hehe.

A/N: happy dincember my people :)

Pedro Masterlist

All my writing

(gif credit to pinterest)

“Why are droids always so angry?”

A deep sigh arose through your comlink.

“Because everyone is always pushing their buttons.”

Silence.

“You’re holding back your laughter.”

“That is absolutely not what is happening,” Din responded, voiced husked with his ever-present exhaustion.

“I can feel it,” you countered. “You are actively killing braincells trying to hold it back.”

“That is not what is killing my braincells,” Din responded, and you gave a dry chuckle back.

“Just get the credits and get out,” Din said, “we have other jobs to do.”

“Yes sir,” you responded sarcastically, pulling down your mask. It was a soft obsidian fabric that covered everything but your eyes.

“Need I remind you it is your fault we are here in the first place?” Din asked, knowing it would push your own button.

Greef had known you since you were a kid, your parents always calling him a “close family friend.” In actuality, your parents were his most profitable bounty hunters, and they had worked with him until they physically couldn’t anymore.

Without hesitation, choosing you take their place.

They had trained you from birth, ingraining into you the strength, cleverness, patience, persistence, and of course the wit needed to be an adequate replacement.

In Greef’s own words, you were “more than adequate.”

You worked for him for over a decade before finally meeting the infamous Mandalorian. His name had been circling for a while before you met him, allowing him to climb the ladder of Greef’s good graces (a particularly slippery ladder, in your opinion), as well as the ladder of wealth. You didn’t mind at first, sticking to the lot of bounties Greef would assign you every month, and minding your business.

That was until this Mandalorian started getting your pick of the lot.

“He’s just as good as you are,” Greef had said to you. “Your skill sets are incredibly complimentary. It is best for me financially to have you both going at once.”

You scoffed into your drink. “Give me a break, smartass. Next thing I know it will ‘best for you financially’ to have us working together.”

“It was a joke, asshole,” you responded to Din. “I’ll admit, not one of my best.”

Din sighed and remained silent. After two dozen jobs together, he had learned how old that jab was becoming.

“Going in now,” you said quietly, pulling out your gun and – as quietly as you could – shooting through the lock on the front door of what had to have been the biggest house you had ever seen. The outside was made with some rare limestone that glimmered in the moonlight which, in your opinion, literally shouted “rob me.” The owners of this house had tricked Greef, running off with the sum of money he had owed you and Din for a previous job (quite convenient, if you said so yourself). Greef agreed to pay you and Din triple your original salary if you got it back for him.

And here you were.

The door squeaked on its hinges as you opened it, revealing a pitch-black living area. You took one step inside, and as you did, a generator must have kicked on, because the room was instantly lit up. You gasped, stepping back in fear of a possible alarm, but as you waited a few seconds, there was no such thing.

“You okay?” Din asked quietly. If you weren’t shitting your pants, you might have teased him for seeming like he actually cared.

“Yeah,” you responded, winded. “Yeah. Fine.”

You looked around the room, jaw falling open slowly as you did. It might as well have been a museum. Paintings, vases, chandeliers, stones, and jewels. You could tell one thing and one thing only.

Whoever these people were, they were fucking loaded.

“Hey, Din,” you asked.

“Yeah?”

“Did Greef say anything about being allowed to steal anything else?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Got it,” you said, and moved further into the house.

“Greef paid some gungan to have dinner with them, so there shouldn’t be anyone in the house.”

“I was at the meeting for this job, Din.”

“I know,” he said, “Just checking.”

His voice was laced with an undertone of…hurt. You didn’t have time to think about that.

“I’m headed to the master bedroom,” you said, weaving your way through objects worth more than you would ever see in ten lifetimes. “I’ll let you know when I find the box.”

“Alright,” Din responded, and you carried on.

You circled the first floor of the house, hemming and hawing at what seemed to be an endless supply of riches.

“Are we focused, Y/N?”

“Lazer,” you responded after almost touching the shiniest blue stone you had ever seen. “Nothing on the first floor.”

“Okay,” Din responded. “How-how you holding up?”

Your eyebrows wrinkled together. “Fine. How about you?”

“I’m good,” he said softly. “Just now realizing we have never done a job like this before. Me only hearing you through the comlink. I’m used to being next to you.”

“Oh, the poor Mandalorian, all alone in the desert, cursed with the job of keeping watch. You missing me big guy?”

“Just missing being faster than you,” he jabbed. “It’s good for my ego.”

“Har har,” you responded, opening the first door you found at the top of the stairs. “You can’t deny I give you a run for your money though.”

“You sure do,” he said, once again laced with emotion. What the fuck was with him?

And why did you keep noticing?

You opened the door and were welcomed by what had to have been the biggest bed you had ever seen in your life. It took up half the room, with the rest of it being looted with more treasures, including plants, shelves of books, and…

…a music box.

“Bingo,” you said.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a game you play for fun,” you responded. “You wouldn’t be familiar with the concept.”

“Very original.”

“I’ll be here all night,” you said with a smirk, and walked to the box. You pulled it off the shelf delicately, feeling the weight of credits in the bottom. You laughed happily, unable to hold it in.

Din laughed too. He understood immediately.

You felt for the seal on the front and began to pull it open carefully. You got it about halfway open before it immediately shut, snapping your fingers into it.

“Mother –” you said, pulling your fingers out and holding them to your chest.

“You okay?” Din asked quickly, almost as soon as the word left your mouth.

“Yeah,” you said, flexing your fingers. You laughed lightly. “I think this house may be out to get me.”

As if you spoke it into existence, all the lights in the house suddenly shut down, soaking you in darkness. Strobe lights of red began to pulse on the ceiling, the door to the bedroom shut automatically, and an ear-piercing alarm permeated the room.

You were suddenly unmoving.

“Y/N?” Din asked, his voice a whisper above the alarms. “Y/N, what is that?”

The box fell from your grip.

“Din…” you said, chest constricting, muscles locking, brain failing. “Din…”

“What’s going on?”

You started shaking your head, making your way to the door slowly. You jiggled the doorknob, then pulled on it, then yanked on it, then threw your body into it.

It was no use. You were locked in from the outside.

“Din, I –” your voice cracked with a sob. “Din, I’m stuck.”

“What do you mean?” He sounded like he was walking.

“I’m-I’m trapped,” you said, sobs now fully escaping from your mouth. “Din I’m trapped. They know I’m here. They’re gonna…”

You couldn’t finish your sentence, hand cupping your mouth as you began to hyperventilate, because suddenly, you were a child again. Put up against one of your parents’ countless tests. Locked in a basement, or a ship, or your own room, forced to find a way out, told that in the real world, if you couldn’t find a way out, you would likely be killed.

You could never pasts their tests. Never.

“Din, they’re gonna kill me.”

“Shut up,” he said firmly. It sounded like he was moving faster. “You’re not gonna die.”

His tone was unconvincing.

“Din,” you cried, tears staining the fabric covering your face, snot soaking through it. Panic was seeping itself into your bones. “Din, what do I do? What do I do?”

“You’ve gotta find a way out.”

“I can’t,” you wheezed, body sliding down the door and onto the floor, the alarms and the red overstimulating your every nerve. “I can’t Din. It’s so loud,”

“Please don’t cry,” you heard him whisper, “please don’t cry, Y/N.”

“Come and get me,” you begged, “Din, please come and get me.”

“The house is likely on total lockdown,” he said. “There’s no way for me to get in.”

This only made you sob harder.

“Please, Din,” you said through gasps of air, “please don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t leave you alone,” he said. It sounded like he was running now. “Not ever, you understand me?”

You nodded, now plugging your ears, and closing your eyes, rocking yourself back and forth subconsciously.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” he said, his voice suddenly nasally. “I swear to the maker I’m going to get you out of there. I just need your help, okay?”

You tried your best to gather breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“Okay,” he said. “I need you to see if there are any windows in the room. Can you do that for me?”

You swallowed, standing on shaking legs, ears still plugged. You squinted as you walked slowly, finally reaching a wall. You then felt the wall with one hand and walked forward until you felt something that resembled glass.

“I-I found one.”

“Good,” he said, sounding peculiarly winded. “Now, I’m going to need you to break it.”

You sobbed once more. “How?”

“Anything. Shoot at it, throw things at it, the fucking music box for all I care. Anything.”

You swallowed again, breathing in as deep of a breath as you could, before pulling out your gun. You felt the glass once again, and slowly backed away from it. You continued to release faint cries as you did, holding up your gun with quivering fingers, before letting blasts fly.

You heard some cracks as they landed against the glass. Once you halted your firing, you made your way back over to it, and realized they weren’t nearly enough.

“I’m going to have to kick it,” you said, some semblance of power returning into your voice.

Din didn’t respond.

You backed away again, breaths still rapid and voice still raw. But you gave that piece of fucking glass your all.

Your foot went right through it, cutting shards into your calf and ankle.

You grunted, falling back into the room.

“You get it?” Din asked, panting.

“Yeah,” you said, clutching your leg. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Good. Now stand up.”

You did.

“Walk to the window.”

You did.

“And jump.”

“What?”

“Jump now.”

It was in that moment that you realized that you truly, unequivocally, deeply trusted the Mandalorian. Because you jumped into the dark, cold night, and he caught you, mid-air.

You gasped as you landed in his arms, watching as the ground beneath you whizzed by, eyelids pealed back in awe.

A smooth, gloved hand framed your cheek and pulled your vision upwards, locking it into his visor.

You stared at him, the remnants of tears against the cold wind freezing your face, and yet his hand was the true culprit of your goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. The flames from his jet pack illuminating his armor in golds and reds.

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

He nodded, diverting his gaze to stare forward into the night, but keeping his hand pressed against your face.

You would say it was the shock, or the trauma, or the adrenaline pumping through your veins. In reality, all you wanted was comfort – his comfort. You couldn’t stop yourself.

You rested your forehead against the side of his visor and closed your eyes, scooting your body as close to his as possible as the two of you shot through the sky.

“Thank you, Din,” you said, tears escaping you once more. “Thank you.”

Din audibly swallowed, then removed his hand from your cheek and used it to remove your mask, before sliding his hand into the hair at the back of your neck.

“I swore to you I’d get you out of there,” he said, his voice crackly and weak. “I don’t break promises.”

You nodded against his visor, clutching desperately onto the fabric around his neck. He smelled of sweat, metal, and home.

“I’ve got you now,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

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[psyzook]

Everyone is so thirsty over Din Djarin, and because of it there is so. much. smut fanfiction. And I’m absolutely astounded by it.

You’re telling me this guy is feral and horny? I don’t believe it. He is a anxious, touch-starved, gentleman who has no idea how to express emotion. He’s the nervousness of Jenna Marbles’s dog, Kermit, personified and in a tin can.

[entitled-fangirl]

I know you made her your riduur.

Din Djarin x reader

Summary: Din finds his little clan held captive by Moff Gideon with the Darksaber. He intends to do anything to get them back.

Warnings: kidnapping, mention of blood, fighting, threatening

Author's note: I'm a huge sucker for protective Din, so any requests of that is more than fine by me...

Masterlist

..........................................................

The door slid open to a sight Din never wanted to see.

Moff Gideon held the dark saber above the Mandalorian's clan.

Y/N and Grogu.

The two were in cuffs, the child in the woman's lap.

When she saw the familiar beskar, she let out a breath of relief, "…Mando…"

He stepped through the doorway slowly with his blaster pointed at the man. But he knew it did no good.

"Drop the blaster." Moff Gideon commanded.

When Din hesitated, Gideon lowered the blade closer to the woman's head. 

The soft white glow from the saber illuminated the woman and child's faces, only spotlighting their concern gazes on the Mandalorian.

But Din could barely see it through the red anger that was clouding his vision.

"…Slowly."

Din obeyed, setting the blaster on the hard metal floor.

Y/N shifted in her chair, "Don't… please."

But Din didn't care. 

As much as her frail voice made his stomach drop, he would do anything to guarantee that he could keep hearing her voice forever.

Even if that means surrendering.

"Now kick it over to me."

And Din did so. He pointed to his family, "Give me the kid and the girl."

"They are just fine where they are."

Just to tease the beskar-wearing warrior, Moff Gideon menacingly brushed the blade back and forth, mere inches from the girl's head.

She grimaced slightly, looking down at the child.

Moff Gideon didn't care to even look at them, "Mesmerizing, isn't it? Used to belong to Bo-Katan. Oh, yes. I know you've been traveling with Bo-Katan. A friendly piece of advice, assume that I know everything."

Din shifted his weight to his other leg, as he contemplated what to do.

"Like the fact that your wrist launcher has fired its one and only salvo. And that only two weeks ago did you make this pretty girl your riduur."

Din's voice hardened through the modulator, not only tired of the situation, but angered by the mention his weaknesses. "Where is this going?"

"This is where this is going: I'm guessing that Bo-Katan and her boarding party have arrived at the bridge, seeking me or, more accurately, this." He held the saber up. "See, but I'm not there. And I imagine that they've killed everyone on the bridge, the murderous savages they are. And now, they're beginning to panic.

"You see, she wants this. Do you know why? Because it brings power. Whoever wields this sword… has the right to lay claim to the Mandalorian throne."

Y/N's eyes shift up to Din at this information. She takes note of the light glow that reflects from his armor.

"You keep it." Din says immediately, "I just want the girl and the kid."

Moff Gideon tilts his head in consideration, "Very well. I've already got what I want from the kid. His blood. All I wanted was to study his blood. This child is extremely gifted and has been blessed with rare properties that have the potential to bring order back to the galaxy."

Din finally lets his gaze move to the woman and child. He takes notes of the small cut on Y/N's cheek, the unshed tears that sit in her eyes. The child seems unscathed enough, but his eyes are just as saddened as the girls.

"I see your bond with the child," Gideon continues. "Take them."

Din steps forward.

Moff Gideon's voice becomes low, "But you will leave my ship immediately and we will go our separate ways."

Din nodded, moving to his little clan.

Gideon stepped forward to let the Mandalorian do so.

When his gloved hands connected with Y/N's, Gideon ignited the saber, swinging it right into Din's back.

Y/N had never been more thankful that Din wore beskar. 

He grunted at the impact, immediately blocking the next swing with his armored arms.

He managed to get the battle away from the two hostages as he lured Moff Gideon into the hallway. 

As much as Y/N wanted to help, she knew she was in no state to do so. And she could help Din the most by protecting the child.

She stood up with him in her arms, moving towards the sound of the saber hitting beskar.

She stayed in the doorway, watching the two fight.

Finally, Din got the upper hand and kept his spear pointed at the defeated Moff Gideon who slouched on the ground.

The dark saber had been thrown from his hands, and now resided on the floor near Y/N. She hesitantly picked it up and pocketed it.

"You're sparing my life? Well," Moff Gideon smiled, "This should be interesting."

Din took a moment to remember the girl and child. He turned to see them standing in the hall a few feet back. He motioned them towards him.

Y/N immediately walked to him.

Din managed to get the cuffs off both of them, and only then did he relax.

His hand wandered to Y/N's cheek, lightly grazing over the cut there.

She leaned into his touch, "You came for us…"

"Of course I did. I made vows to you, and I intend to keep them." He lets his eyes wander down her frame, "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, hugging the child to her, "We're just fine. Are you… are you alright?"

His helmet moved just barely in a nod, "I'm alright now."

She smiled, reaching into her pocket with the arm that didn't hold the child to retrieve the saber. "Here…"

If only she could've seen his own matching smile under his helmet, "Thank you, cyare."

He turned back to Moff Gideon, letting his voice harden once more to the warrior he was, "Let's go."

And just like that, Y/N felt safe next to the man who would kill anything that stood in his way.

.........................................................................

[flowersforjude]

𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | A night in a beautiful meadow and an innocent question leads to a startling confession.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1,422

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Literally none. Just an oblivious reader and nervous Din. Fluff rised to the max.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Guy’s, this made me weep with how cute it is. So, just fair warning I guess?

masterlist

Like most things, it started with a simple question.

“Cyar’ika, can you hand me that wrench?”

You were helping Din with some repairs on the Crest when you heard that word for the hundredth time.

As you picked up the tool, your mind wrestled with the wandering thoughts of what that word meant. Din called you that all the time. He’d throw some others in the mix every once in a while.

Mesh’la.

Cyar.

Cyar’ika was the most common, though. You didn’t speak a bit of Mando’a, so you had no clue what he was calling you. He could be calling you the worst thing ever, and you wouldn’t even know. But even with his rough exterior, you highly doubted that he was referring to you as anything too horrible.

With every cyar, mesh’la, or cyar’ika your curiosity grew. But you didn’t voice your questions out of fear that you’d overstep some invisible boundary. You and Din were close—well, as close as the Mandalorian would let himself get to you. He’d told you his true name, so you counted that as progress. He still had so many secrets, though. So you didn’t want to push him to reveal stuff he wasn’t ready for. You would take whatever he’d give you. You would have him, however you could.

But sometimes your interest was almost too much.

Like at daybreak when he would touch your shoulder oh so gently and say, “Good morning, cyar.” In that deep, velvety cadence his voice had in the mornings.

Or when you’d just had a close call on a mission and he would rush to you, frantic, and place his hands on your cheeks. “Are you alright, cyar’ika? Are you hurt?” The words would leave his lips in a hurry and sometimes jumble together. You knew what he was saying nonetheless.

It was those moments when he showed you gentleness, concern, and care that you found it hard not to blurt out everything on your mind.

“What does cyar’ika mean?”

“What does cyar and mesh’la mean?”

“Do you know what it does to me when you touch me?”

“Do you love me as much as I love you?”

But you kept quiet and let the thoughts mingle in your mind. You were just going to leave well enough alone. Hoping that possibly ignoring your curiosity would make it, and your developing feelings fade away. That proved to require arduous effort, which you found yourself lacking day by day. And eventually, your efforts proved to be in vain.

The night it happened, the Crest had landed on some forest planet. Din had just wrapped up a difficult hunt, so he perched the ship on the first globe he could. You and the kid had been cooped up inside for days now, so as soon as the hatch opened, you were both bounding down from the cockpit.

The kid ran into the tall grass of the field, chasing frogs and crickets with the moonlight guiding his expedition. You stood close to the ship, just watching him with a loving smile. Din came to stand beside you, quite as ever, but his presence was a comfort you relished in far too much.

The first blink of light had you curious. The second and third and fourth flashes had you in awe.

The serene meadow was set ablaze with glittering brightness. Fireflies floated high and low, strung about the tall grass like hundreds of flawless silvery stars. They blanketed the grassland far and wide, down to the glimmering lake in the distance.

“Oh wow,” you breathed. You ventured farther out into the plain, turning in a slow circle, absolutely awestruck.

You could hear the child’s gurgling laughter from nearby. You couldn’t help the giggle that erupted from your throat. The dazzling excitement from the whole experience makes you somewhat astounded. You've never seen anything like this before. Something so beautiful.

You face Din, still standing guard at the front of the ship. “Isn’t this spectacular?” You questioned.

You could hear the airy chuckle get past his vocoder. “It’s certainly something.”

You rolled your eyes in a very childish manner and tilted your head in confusion. “How could you think this is anything but…what’s the word for beautiful in Mando’a?”

You’ve caught his full attention now, seemingly catching him off guard. He appears stunned beyond words. Beyond thoughts as well perhaps. You don’t understand why. It was just a simple question, but it seemed to have knocked any rational notion from him.

What you don’t know is that while you look at him with such sincerity in your eyes and you wait slightly nervous for his response, his brain is nothing short of a mess.

“Din,” you begin. “If I’ve crossed a line somehow-”

“The word is mesh’la.”

That stops you short. Your heart thudded to a halt for several seconds as you took in the sudden confession.

“Mesh’la,” you repeat softly.

You have no idea that his knees almost buckle at the sound of your voice speaking in his mother tongue.

Your face heats at the implication. Mesh’la means beautiful. Din calls you Mesh’la. Din calls you beautiful. He thinks you're beautiful? Or was it meant as something like a courtesy? Was he just being a flirt? No, Din wasn’t the type. So he must think it if he calls you it.

“Y/N.”

You speak up before he can get another word out. “You think I’m beautiful?”

He nods. “Yes.”

A grin tugs your lips up ever so slightly. Realization dawns on you as your mind recalls all the affectionate exchanges that you fooled yourself into thinking were merely friendly.

A coo from below takes your attention for a moment. The kid is at your feet with his arms stretched up for you. You hold him in the crook of your elbow as you close the distance between you and Din. When you stop in front of him, a radiant smile is permanently placed upon your lips.

“And uh, cyar’ika,” you whisper. “What does that mean…?” You’re a little hesitant to let all your questions come to light. A small part of you still worried you’re reading too much into it.

He takes a deep breath, and you try to ignore the anxiety coursing through you. “Cyar’ika…” He’s never sounded this breathless before. “It means sweetheart.”

The blood rushes to your cheeks with a new fury, painting your skin scarlet. It terrifies you a little that you can’t see his face, that you can’t read the expressions he is wearing right now. You think you know where this is going, but not being able to sense the situation from the other person makes it hard to be sure. You can see that he’s tense, possibly waiting for you to tell him that you were uncomfortable. But you weren't; you were a nervous wreck, but you were not uncomfortable with this knew information in the slightest. You were trying to figure out how to move forward with this without seeming like a lovesick fool.

After waiting an eternity trying to get a hold of yourself, you make a decision. You slowly bring your hands up to him, gently gliding along his arms until they reach the broad expanse of his shoulders, and then the cool surface of his helmet.

You can feel his panic, but you softly sush him. Eventually, your hands still on the side of his helmet, where you imagine his cheeks would be. You picture them flushed like yours. Even through the impenetrable beskar, you feel like the heat of his skin is melting into yours. You imagine how it would actually feel to be skin to skin with him. If you ever had the privilege to experience that, you were sure you could die happy.

What happens next is a surprise. Din clutches your hands in his and brings them down between you both. He then slowly touches his forehead to yours. The shock of cold metal draws a gasp from your lips.

“Ni ganar hid ner kar'taylir darasuum teh gar par chaaj'yc too munit, cyar’ika.” A whispered admission comes from him.

You can’t help but laugh as you have no clue what he said. “What?”

He chuckles along with you. “I said that I have hidden my love from you for far too long, sweetheart.”

Your heart cracks open with so many emotions that it’s overwhelming. It aches inside you, but the pain is welcome because you’d rather have this, him, than the uncertainty you lived in for so long.

I poured over this for days, and I still feel like something isn't right. But oh well, maybe it'll come to me later. 🤷‍♀️

[henrycangelbaby]

In which: “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?”

Or

An interview gives unique insight into Pedro Pascal and his vast amount of love for his wife

I make my way through meeting the cast of HBO's unexpected hit “The Last Of Us” rather easily.

Bella Ramsey lives in a far nicer apartment in London than anything I would have been able to afford at the same age. Despite their fame and talent, they remain settled and down to earth, dressed in an outfit a little too cool for me to understand and eager to show me around their lovely apartment that is decorated in a way that I quite liked but I'm sure my baby boomer father would find offensive. I even end up meeting Ramsey's girlfriend, a fellow actor (who I admittedly had never heard of) who is equally as young and pretty as Ramsey is. They are both lovely and down to earth, a sentiment I don't often find relatable working with celebrities.

Kaitlin Denver is in her late 20s and still looks like she could be in high school. She lives in a shared house with her sister, whom she also shares a music career with. Despite the controversy surrounding her character in the show, she seems to remain completely unfazed by the backlash and threats that surround Abby Anderson. Denver merley shrugs when I ask her how she deals with it, leaving me to assume her vices when it comes to dealing with unprecedented hate.

I meet other stars of the show too. Gabriel Luna has all the southern charm of Tommy Miller and more, making me question whether he really does any acting when playing the sweeter, younger Texan brother. Isabela Merced is very beautiful in person and is also far shorter than I had imagined. What she lacks in height she makes up for in personality and charm.

Of course, when you think of the stars of The Last Of Us, there is probably someone else that comes to mind. Securing an interview with Pedro Pascal is probably one of the harder things I have had to do in recent years. It's not that Pacal is hard to come by; in fact, in recent years we haven't been able to escape him. I originally doubted that I would even be able to secure an interview with the internet's "daddy." Pascal has had a busy few years, and this one is no different. With multiple projects coming out this year, including the new season of The Last Of Us and his highly anticipated entry into the MCU as the iconic Richard Reed, it seems that everyone wants a piece of him. While all the other actors on this list do have notable careers outside of the show, the point of this interview series was to be able to interview the main cast members of the show in anticipation for the new season; however, I found that same sentiment hard to carry across when interviewing Pascal. I don't want to spoil the show for anyone, but I will just say that he won't be back next season. Whether that's due to internal conflicts or simply being too booked, we’ll never know.

I was rather ecstatic to receive a phone call from someone on his team letting me know the time and date for our interview. Like normal, I'm given an NDA to sign before receiving any personal information, such as his address (which I did require for the purpose of the interview). But everything else seems to go off without a hitch. 

I was admittedly nervous to meet him. In the best way possible, his reputation definitely proceeds him. Pascal is only ever described as kind, loving, funny, and any other positive synonyms for a massive sweetheart that you can think of. I personally have been a big fan of his work since he played forever thirsted over narcos agent Javier Paner. I know they say you shouldn't meet your idols (and trust me, I've had my fair share of heartbreaking realizations that someone I once admired is actually a piece of shit), but I had high hopes for meeting Pedro. And I am happy to report that it did not disappoint. 

I arrived at his home in Los Angeles ten minutes earlier than I should have. Not that I'm kept waiting, as before I can get a second knock in on the door, a young woman flings it open, smiling at me tightly. She quickly lets me in, introducing herself as Pascal's assistant, offering me tea or coffee, and ushering me to sit down on the comfy-looking couch while I wait for her boss to arrive (which she insists should not be too long). I take a moment to look around the room while I'm waiting. The room is sweet and welcoming, much like the rest of the home, which feels very well... homely (like stepping into your best friend's house and chatting with their parents at the dinner table). It's a hard feeling to describe, such a sense of nostalgia from a place that I had never been in before. It feels fitting though that a man so beloved as Pedro Pascal should have a home that feels so nice. I snoop to get a closer look at the photos that hang up on the walls and sit on cabinets. Most of them seem normal. There are a few faces I recognize within the photos; Oscar Iscac can be spotted alongside a younger-looking Pascal in one of the photos on the wall. I spot John Favro amongst a few people in a photo that looks to have been taken on the set of The Mandelorian, but apart from that, the photos seem normal. They depict family and friends in various places over various years; it appears that Pascal cherishes his relationships with loved ones above all else. 

I'm stopped in my snooping by another face in one of the photos, a face I recognize instantly, a face that has been all over the internet and tabloids for some time now. Pedro's wife. The photo is the first one in which she features prominently, sitting alongside what I can only assume to be one of her husband's sisters. It's a sweet photo, one that I can imagine Pedro was on the other side of, grinning wildly while taking. Y/N Pascal is an elusive figure that the media and her husband's fans have been trying to know better for a few years now. She is what is best described as a "normie," that is to say that she is just like you and me; that is perhaps what makes her so interesting to fans. She doesn't appear to have any ties to the industry; she isn't some big-wig producer's daughter; in fact, despite their insistence, fans have been unable to find anything on her. She has no public social media accounts, no company profiles online, and no one she went to high school with has come forward with a tik tok horror story (yet!). The couple are shrouded in mystery; no one seems to know how they met, where Y/N is from, or even the highly shrouded question of her age. She certainly appears younger than Pascal by a good few years, and I'm sure that I could find thousands of posts online speculating (or being downright nasty) about how young she is. But out of respect for the happy couple, I leave it a mystery. 

The sharp heels of the sensible shoes that Pascal's assistant is wearing suddenly come back into earshot. She warns me to be ready with my stuff as “they” will be home soon. I don't think twice about her words before hauling ass back to the couch and trying to pull myself together. It's not long before I hear the front door open. Amy (Pascal's assistant that I had only just remembered the name of) runs to the door. I walk slower behind awkwardly, not wanting to intrude (despite the fact that I had spent the last ten minutes snooping around what was essentially a stranger's house). I peek round the corner to be greeted with Pascal's broad back. He is facing away from me, talking to his assistant lowly. His assistant finishes speaking and moves past me, wishing me luck in passing. Pascal doesn't turn around to greet me yet; in fact, he drops down onto one knee to reveal to my utmost shock his wife. Neither of them pay me any mind as he begins untying her shoes for her, ever the gentleman everyone believes he is. 

It's not a second later that the man of the hour turns around to greet me. He smiles widely at me, and I find myself blushing slightly at his unwavering eye contact as he introduces himself. He only introduces himself by his first name, not something I find often when meeting famous people; they are often eager to give me the name that everyone knows and loves them by. It seems a bit of a strange phenomenon in Hollywood that has missed Pascal. His wife then steps forward to introduce herself. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to the millions of jealous fans, but Y/N Pascal is strikingly beautiful; even as I meet her in her own home with no makeup, she glows ethereally with a striking smile that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. In that moment meeting her I quickly see why Pascal holds her in such admiration.

Much to my disappointment, that is the first and last time I see her during the interview. Pedro ushers her away somewhere out of sight with a protective arm around her shoulder. I can hear him mutter to her lowly, promising to be quick. Before kissing her goodbye with an "I love you." It makes my heart ache with a longing. Much like the rest of the internet, I wish I had a man like Pedro Pascal. We chat for a while, while exploring his house, he speaks passionately about his career, which he clearly loves. He has a flame behind his eyes as he speaks about his long-winded love for the cinema. He tells me stories of his famous friends that are featured on his walls. We laugh together, and he very much reminds me of an old friend. Even though I should be interviewing him, I let him talk, rambling on about things that I didn't find important enough to put in this interview, but they certainly put a smile on my face. 

The house is beautiful; it's decorated nicely and feels authentic and homely. It's not massive, not overly obnoxious in the way many celebrity houses are; it's still big, the kind of size that screams loving family. I don't mean to make assumptions, but it almost feels like it's been brought with the idea of a growing family in mind. I complement the house easily. Pedro smiles at me. For the first time in the interview, he refers to his wife. He tells me that he hadn't cared where they lived; “anywhere is home when you are with someone that you love,” but insists that she had loved the house the moment they first saw it. "She has better taste than me,” he tells me with a loving glint in his eye. "She did a good job.” I compliment, he nods and smiles, "always thought I was biased 'cause I’m married to her, but glad to know it's not just me." I feel awfully privileged to get an insight into Pedro's fondness of his wife. It's not often that he speaks about her publicly; she gets mentioned in passing during interviews and is often spotted at events with him, safely away from the cameras, but it's clear to the general public that his marriage is a part of his life that he wishes to keep away from public scrutiny. 

Its towards the end of the interview that I do ask him about his marriage. We walk past a wedding photo that depicts him and his lovely bride squashed together on one seat, smiling widely at the camera. He doesn't say anything when he notices me peering at the photo. I ask him carefully if he thinks being a married man has changed him. He ponders for a second. "Probably,” he answers me carefully. It's not the response I had expected from him, so I quickly encourage him to go on. "I suppose it has in a way,” he continues. “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?” I smile and nod at his explanation. I understand what he is saying—such a sweet sentiment that it makes my heart warm. 

We don't speak for much longer after that; he briefly mentions a few upcoming projects, which he seems excited for. I ask him what he has planned next, after his next few big projects are done. He hesitates for a second. “Truthfully,” he says, “I plan on taking a step away for a bit.” I ask if he wants to settle down more. “Yeah, that's part of it; I mean, I’m not getting any younger.” He tells me, “Things are changing soon, and I just want to be settled with my family.” He finishes. I wonder for a moment what he is referring to when he mentions these soon changes; I don't ponder on it too long; much like a crazed fan, I have a few theories floating around in my head. 

We wrap up the interview from there; he is as polite and gracious as he has been the entire time, shaking my hand and thanking me for my time. I try to thank him for the interview and for letting me into his house, but he simply shakes his head at me, insisting it was his pleasure. He disappears soon after that, saying he has something to attend to (and speed walking in the direction that his wife disappeared to). I'm left to see myself out; I don’t snoop too much after I’m left alone. I make my way back to the front of the house, peering around as I go. I peek inside one room that appears to be in the middle of some kind of renovation or do-over. There are multiple pieces of yet-to-be put together furniture on the ground as the walls look to be in the middle of being painted a pastel purple color. 

I’m about to leave when something catches my eye—on the table by the front door, which has various bits and bobs scattered over it, but none of these catch my eye. I step closer to get a clearer view of what appears to be a small black and white photo. I quickly realize what it is: tucked beneath the wallet I had seen Pedro place down before our interview began is an ultrasound. I smile knowingly as my theory is proven correct; the Pascal family is about to be adding another member. 

Congratulations to Pedro as his wife on the upcoming addition to their family.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

Not sure if you’d be into this butttt with the little cabin that Din just received - could we get like a glimpse of domestic life with din, reader, grogu, annndd maybe another kid or a kid on the way? Smut is welcome! But also it doesn’t have to have it

Ok hope you like the idea love you bye 😂

The Cabin

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

rating: F (one mildly steamy line of dialogue but besides that just some domestic fluff)

wc: <1k

din masterlist

The days of sneaking glimpses of The Mandalorian when he’d come to the school you taught at to drop off and pick his son up were long gone by now, but standing on the porch of Din’s cabin that he insisted was now your cabin, you couldn’t help but stare.

Din was in the yard, sparring with Grogu to keep his apprentice’s skills sharp.

There wasn’t even a sliver of skin exposed, and yet he still looked like the sexiest man you’d ever seen. It was in the way he moved, the way he taught, the way he spoke to his child like every child wanted to be spoken to. He was just so…competent. A competent fighter, though he preferred to keep that side of himself far from you. A competent father, his devotion to Grogu running as deeply as his devotion to his Creed, perhaps even deeper. And Maker knows you can’t forget his competency as a lover—his skillful hands, his neediness, his attentiveness, his desire to make you feel good, it all made you feel drunk with adoration and lust.

“That’s enough for the day,” he announced through labored breathing, the child’s use of the force making the fight nearly fair. “You did good, kid.”

“You both did well,” you added from the porch, watching as Grogu leapt across the lawn towards you until you were bending down to pick him up. “Especially you.”

“He’s getting good,” Din said, meeting the two of you on the porch. “He’s a better fighter than most adults.”

“Well, he’s your son, after all,” you replied, looking into the black of Din’s visor. Din tilted his helmet at you, something you’d slowly learned to read as a smile, and reached to pinch your chin with his gloved hand. “Lunch is ready. You must be starving, little guy.” Grogu chirped and cooed in confirmation, his wide eyed look of excitement never failing to bring a smile to your face. Looking to Din, you lifted your hand to scratch his chin from beneath his helmet. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” he replied, low and husky.

“I’m talking about food,” you laughed and turned around to walk into the house with Grogu on your hip. Din let out the slightest of chuckles and followed you inside, the door closing behind him.

“Food sounds nice too, cyar’ika.”

Later on in the evening, you found yourself sitting beside Din on the bench in front of the cabin, the lid of his helmet lifted as he sipped on a drink. Your head rested on his shoulder, his armor off, and watched Grogu chase a frog around the yard.

“How’s the little one treating you today?” Din asked, his voice unmodulated and clearer than normal. You smiled down at your just-now swelling stomach and ran a hand over it.

“Treating me okay,” you answered. “Likes to kick when you talk.”

“Really?” he huffed a chuckle. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“I think it is,” you looked at him with a smile. “They’re just excited to meet their dad.”

“I’m excited to meet them, too,” he replied, soft and sincere, as though he were on the verge of tears. Turning back to face his child as he used the force to freeze the frog he’d been playing with and hover it back into his waiting hands, Din let out another chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, smiling.

“I just never…” He paused, looking back to you before closing the lid of his helmet, his voice becoming modulated again. “Just never thought I’d have all this.”

•

•

•

•

•

•

[spidermans-l-o-v-e-r]

Masterlist

Do I even have ENOUGH written to make one of these who knows but personally I keep losing all my work like an idiot so you know at this point this is for me. Also I'm making this on my computer and cant make these words pink yet and I'm so hurt anyway.... hmmm it's been four minutes I figured it out. Uhhhh guys I don't know my own works

MCU:

Of Fire and Snakes: Loki x Reader

Tiger Stripes: Loki x Reader

Party Rock Anthem: Bucky x Reader

Rainy Days: Steve x Bucky x Reader

Bridgerton (But Not Really) Bucky x Reader

Lucky Rabbit: Steve Rogers x Reader

Edge Of Sanity: Loki x Reader

9-1-1:

Growing Pains: Eddie Diaz x Reader

Now You See Me: Buck x Reader

Gamer Girl: Buck x Reader

Twice Bitten: Eddie x Buck x Reader

10 Things I Hate About You: Eddie x Reader

Two of a kind Buck x Reader (Request)

A Rose by any Other Name Eddie Diaz x Buck x Reader (Request)

Fairest of them All Buck x Reader (Request)

Yeti Point Eddie Diaz x Reader (Request)

Finish Line: Eddie Diaz x Buck x Reader (Request)

Better than Revenge Eddie x Reader

Red Rose: Eddie x Reader

Complete 9-1-1 Masterlist:

I genuinely had too many to put on my main list

Series:

Strawberries and Cream: Eddie Diaz x Reader

Orange Blossoms: Buck x Reader

Stranger Things:

Last Friday Night: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summer, 1997 Jim Hopper x Reader

Star Wars:

Bantha Blues: Mando x Reader

Jennifer’s Body, 2009 Anakin x Reader

Random:

Engagement For Two: Timothee Chalamet x Reader

DC:

Farm boy: Clark Kent x Reader

The Last Of Us:

Bud Light: Joel Miller x Reader

Twilight:

Ketchup Bottle: Charlie Swan x Reader

[misserabella]

comin in hot with a twt link! (Dont know if i did wrong or not im new to these ^^) Idk if you write for din djarin or not but i can just imagine him doing this as he takes out his frustrations on your pussy cause the bounty went sideways. but this could also be seen as joel if a smuggling deal went wrong. Your pick! <3 much love!!

https://twitter.com/OrgasmGifs/status/1619378756648574978?t=XxqL71XHdg891aZOifJB5g&s=19

oh lord, this is pure filth. 😭😮‍💨

din djarin x fem reader!

minors don’t interact, +18 content!

cw; rough sex, choking, manhandling, dirty talking, degradation, praising, piv sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, cockwarming, dom! din x sub! reader, nipple playing, name calling (whore, slut…), …

“fuck.” your eyes shot open when you heard something crashing on the salon, along with the voice of who you recognized was din, your boyfriend.

your eyes still felt heavy with sleep, but your mind was slowly coming alive as you got up from bed.

“din?” you called out for him, he was giving you his back, armor still on except for his helmet—which he had thrown across the room—. he looked exhausted, but mostly of all exasperated, furious.

he didn’t seem to have heard you, and you stepped closer. “din, what’s-“ but before you knew it, there was a hand pinning your wrists to the wall behind your back and another surrounding your neck. from your lips fell a gasp that got caught in between his as he furiously kissed you. he groaned, pushing you harder against the wall, all air leaving your lungs. he was kissing you as if you were the last thing he could hold onto.

“din, what’s going-” you moaned when his clothed thigh pushed in between your naked ones, roughly pressing against your panties and your cunt. your hands messed with his hair and tugged when he freed your wrists and pulled your shirt upwards ‘till your bare chest was exposed for him to lick and suck onto.

“shut the fuck up.” he ordered, quieting you, letting you know what you needed to do, and that was to close your mouth and take what he gave you. and if what he needed to gave you was his anger, his frustration, and stress. you will take it.

you whimpered when his lips sucked on your nipple, the hand that now stood free grabbing at your hip to grind you on his thigh, making you sigh and whine, your panties growing wetter and wetter at his roughness.

“din…” you begged, and he groaned on your chest, sucking bruises that now beautifully decorated your perfect tits.

in a swift motion he was manhandling you with his strong arms, pulling you back into your room and pinned you onto the bed under his weight. it was rough, the way he kissed you, the way he pulled off your shirt, the way his hands were digging on your skin. but it hurt so good…

“fuck.” he muttered against your nipples when a high pitched and pornographic moan left your lips as his fingers sneaked inside your panties and met your wet core, his fingertips dripping on you.

your hips jolted against his touch when he teased you, his fingers dipping on your slick and merely brushing your clit, making your whole body shake in need. need for him.

“din please…” you begged, and he smirked.

“what a good girl…” he muttered against your neck as his fingertips pressed against your clit, making sparks fill your vision. “such good manners…” you whimpered, the praise only making you eager for him, needier. “being so good to me.” you screamed when he suddenly plunged two of his thick fingers inside of you, immediately finding your g spot. you couldn’t help but arch your bag, your eyes shutting close as he started to fuck them in and out of you. “listen to her…” he smirked, his dick painful hard in between his thighs at the sounds your cunt was making for him, sticky and perfectly ready for him to fuck into. “so ready for me…” you moaned, your cheeks burning due to the sounds that your arousal surrounding his fingers made.

“din…” you sighed his name, your hips rocking onto his fingers, needing him deeper. needing him to go harder, treat you badly, love you in that harsh way that made your mind reel… you were whimpering as he split you open with his fingers, brushing your g spot with every curl of his digits. it was needy, and harsh, it almost hurt, but you couldn’t possibly need him anymore than this. your whole body was like a magnet begging for his touch, needing him to touch you.

his patience seemed to be running out as he saw you fall apart, his cock pressed against your thigh as he grasped at your tits, tugging at the nipples just like he knew you liked.

the air in your lungs disappeared when in a quick flip he had down on your stomach, his rough hand landing a harsh spank to your ass, making you jolt and hiss.

in between the dizziness and hunger that enveloped you, you heard him push down his pants and underwear, too far gone to even care about the fact that you were beautifully naked under him and he was still on his goddamn armor, completely dressed.

you whined as one of his hands pulled you upwards so your ass would be sticking out for him, your glistening pussy begging for attention, your slick coating your mound and your thighs. you were soaking wet, drowning in desire.

he didn’t even tease you, didn’t even wait for you to get adjusted to his size before he was fucking you open with his huge cock. his tip brushed your cervix with every harsh thrust and you were withering and dissolving under his touch.

“fuck.” he groaned, his whole body shaking at the feeling of your cunt tightening around him and sucking him in every time he’d try and pull out just to thrust back in. it was as if your body was begging for him to stay inside, to fuck you full of him, for him to not go. “so good…” his pace spiked up, and your hands were holding onto your sheets for dear life, your body shaking with every snap of his hips against your ass. his balls met your cunt with every one of them, getting soaked on you. they felt so heavy… so full and ready to empty themselves in you… “you’re always so fucking good to me, pussy so ready to be filled up, huh?” he teased, and you whimpered as your walls tightened around him, making him groan. “such a fucking slut for dick. look at you…, already so close to cumming all over my cock…”

“din!” you cried out when his dick reached that deep spot inside of you that no one had ever been able to reach before, making your sight go blank.

“you gonna cum, honey? gonna cum for me?” his breathing was ragged, his pace needy. the sight in front of him was like heaven; you drooling all over your sheets, moans getting cut off by his thrusts and your cunt dripping only for him. you nodded, begging for him to let you cum, he almost bursted at your cries. “go ahead baby, soak my cock.” and you did, with moans and whimpers falling off your lips, your mind going black at the strength of your orgasm, which made your whole body shake and your walls to get impossibly tighter around him.

“shit.” he groaned, fucking you though it, feeling your cum coat the curls on the base of his cock, the wetness and warmth of it.

“din!!” you whimpered when his pace only sped up, the overstimulation becoming too much. you tried and get away from him, crawl your way on the bed, but he only tugged you closer, pinning you down onto the duvet ‘till only your hips were detached from it, spreading you open for him to fuck into. his right hand harshly gripped your neck from the back of your head, making sure you wouldn’t move, that you wouldn’t get away from him. you were sure there would be bruises on his fingertips decorating your waist tomorrow morning, but you wouldn’t care. “din, please…”

you screamed as he started to piston inside of you, unable to quiet your sobbing and whimpers. “don’t fucking move.” he groaned, feeling his own release start to build. “take it. be the good whore you are and fucking take it.” he gritted in between his teeth.

your eyes were rolling to the back of your head, your jaw slack and spit dribbling to the sheets. your mind felt hazy, your body heavy as he fucked you towards your second orgasm, which was building faster and harder than the first.

“that’s it. good girl.” he smirked when your own body started to thrust backwards, begging for more. “good. fucking. girl.” his thrust cut every one of his words.

“din, gonna cum, gonna-, fuck!” your eyes were rimmed by tears, your legs shaking and about to let you fall onto the mattress. thank god he was holding you up, manhandling you just like he would a goddamn toy for him to fuck.

“that’s it baby. cum for me. good girl.” you were falling apart as he hit your sweet spot one, two, three more time before your orgasm came crashing down like a tidal wave, drowning you under water. “fuck, so fucking tight.” he groaned, his cock twitching at how your walls were tightening. “gonna cum baby. gonna fill this pretty and wet cunt of yours.” you moaned. “yeah? you want it, baby? want my cum?” you whimpered, nodding, babbling however you could multiples ‘yes’ that slurred their way out of your lips. “fuck. take it baby, fucking take it.” he groaned, and his cock twitched as he emptied himself inside of you, painting your pussy on cum and filling you up so good you could only wither and moan at the feeling.

you fell with him to the mattress, your bodies sticky and spent. he had for sure fucked his frustrations in you.

he quickly undressed, holding you with your back against his wide chest, his strong arms surrounding your waist. you whimpered when his soft cock pushed his cum all inside once again when he seated himself in your cunt. “i know baby, i know…” he cooed, leaving soft pecks and kisses in the expanse of your neck and shoulders. “gotta keep it all warm and inside for you baby.” he muttered against your skin, and soon enough your eyes were closing once again, now completely spent due to his rough fucking.

-

a/n; oh lord, hope y’all liked it, love you! 😭😮‍💨

[spctrsgf]

a confession

summary: dreaming about losing the one person you couldn’t was bad enough, but now you can’t look at him without seeing that very image. and your counterpart isn’t gonna take that lightly.

word count: 3.5k

warnings: language, descriptions of blood and death, nightmares, PTSD of a sort?, angsty and then fluffy, friends to lovers cus im a sucker for it hehehe

a/n: i sincerely apologize for all the old (as in i initially wrote them a while ago) fics i've been posting, i've been working on this one oscar fic but i'm so demotivated to write it since i haven't seen scenes of a marriage and i need to a bit to write it :/

but enjoy din in honor of season three!

The kid tugged on your shirt, reaching for the piece of meat you were dangling over his head, garbling angrily. You laughed at his antics, lowering the treat and letting him eat it ferociously. Your gaze drifted to the hull door again, worry gnawing in your stomach in the wake of Din’s absence. 

As if thinking of the man summoned him, the hatch creaked to life, lowering to reveal your companion. Your shoulders slumped and a smile caressed your lips at the sight of him in all his glory. You rushed over, taking the quarry in a hurry to have him to yourself. The quarry grumbled as you yanked her by the arm, shoving her in the carbonite chamber with no hesitation. 

You slammed a hand on the button to your left, sealing her in. You turned around then, bouncing on your toes in excitement to spend time with your favorite person in the universe. You expected to see him standing near his armory, disposing himself of a few of his weapons. But instead you found him crumpled and on the floor, frantically fidgeting with his chest plate. “Din?!” You scrambled over, helping him pull off the offending piece of armor.

You worked diligently to get off the rest of his armor, growing increasingly worried at his labored breathing and shaky hands. You pulled off his shirt, bracing yourself for the damage-

No.

No amount of preparation could brace you for this.

A bullet wound punctured through his paling skin, gnarly and red. “Din, oh my god-“ you shot up to grab the bacta, huffing at the mere seconds you lost from getting up and grabbing it. You fell to your knees, tears falling freely from your eyes as you willed yourself to move as quickly as possible. “You’ll be okay.” You murmured.

“I-“ Din tried to gasp out words, but was cut off by a sharp inhale of pain.

“Don’t speak, please.” Your voice was hitched with alarm as sprayed him with bacta.

“Y/n.” He was barely breathing now.

“No,” you shook your head and sprayed more bacta. “You are going to be okay. I won’t let you die out on me-“

“Cy- cyare.”

“No, Din, do not give up on me!” Your hands cradled the beskar helmet. “I can't do this without you-“

“I’m s-“ his chest barely lifted and his grip on your hand was loosening. “Sorry.”

“Din Djarin, don’t you dare-“ your eyes fell to his chest, watching it inflate one last, shaky time before settling down to a stop. His hand dropped from yours, lifeless. 

“No,” you gathered his hand in yours again. “No no no no-“ you dug through the med kit, looking for anything that could bring him back to life. Your fingers shook and your vision blurred and your heart pounded in your ears, but you still came up empty handed. You cradled his body in your arms, sobbing hysterically at the loss of the man you loved.

“Din, you stupid oblivious idiot, I loved you. I still do, and I always will.”

You shot up abruptly from your makeshift bed, nearly screaming at the sudden change of scenery. Your face was soaked with tears and your body with sweat as you regained your bearings. Your previously tense shoulders fell in relief when you couldn’t find your beskar covered companion covered in blood on the floor. 

You stood up from the floor, running a hand through your tousled hair. The fresher was a few steps away, and you walked in to come face to face with yourself in the mirror. You could see the bags hugging the bottoms of your eyes, as well as the small sheen of sweat and your red eyes from crying. Your hands shook slightly as you attempted to tame your appearance.

Your hands. 

You whipped them down and into your line of sight, flipping them this way and that to check if there was any blood. When you found none, you deemed yourself presentable enough to leave the room. 

You ventured back into the hull and through your daily chores, falling into mindless motions. You hummed a tune, hoping it would erase your previous nightmares.

It was so real. You could feel the brush of his gloved fingers, smooth and worn, smell the mix of the woods and metallic blood, see every flash of the hull lights on his beskar. You could hear his labored breathing loud and clear, even though you weren’t dreaming anymore. You could hear the nickname he’d never called you in real life but the one you’d found out was a word in Mando’a.

You shouldn’t be dreaming about this, it was crazy. You and Din weren’t- he didn’t feel the same. Din was quiet, but he was assertive. If he felt something, he would tell you. Right? Had the years of solitude caught up to him? He was never nervous, he caught people for a living. There was no way he would be worried about this. You were delusional, you decided. This was crazy and he didn’t feel the same.

You realized at that moment that you hadn’t seen Din all morning. Your breath caught again as you shoved down your fear, telling yourself it was for the better. You didn’t know what would spur from you after seeing his helmet, whether it would be waves of relief or crushing pain. 

The sound of a garble echoed from your right side, following the sound of the hull door opening. You could hear the heavy footsteps of the very man that had been occupying your thoughts all morning.

Speak of the devil. 

Your hands tightened around the sheet you’d been folding, holding your breath for the words he’d never say. You held still in the exact same position, the only part of your body moving being the rise and fall of your chest. Din’s movements slowed to a stop, and you could feel his gaze on you. “Sorry we’ve been gone,” he started, causing you to jump in surprise. “I went to take the kid for a walk.” 

Your jaw tightened, but you managed out an “it’s alright.”

He paused again. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, forcing your hands to work again at folding the sheet. 

You expected him to let it go. He always did: never pushed and prodded, just let you mellow out until your feelings subsided. But instead he came up beside you, grabbing one edge of the sheet and folding it in towards yourself. You swallowed sharply and drilled your eyes into the sheets, only nodding in thanks.

He huffed. “Y/n.”

“Din.” You responded in the same even tone.

“You're gonna tell me what’s going on? Or am I gonna have to pry?”

You grabbed his end of the sheet, finishing the fold. “Leave it be.”

“You’re not looking at me.”

You turned to place the sheet down at the edge of the bed. “Astute observation.”

He scoffed. “That’s not normal. You always look me in the eye.”

“Din,” you paused facing away from him, hands starting to shake. ”please.”

The next moments were a blur. One second he was behind you, the next he was in front of you, merely two inches away. You didn’t react quick enough, weren’t able to tear your gaze away from him. Your eyes met the thin strip of his visor, and oh boy-

The blood, running along the rim.

The way his head fell backwards in pain.

The shallow breaths, accentuated by the modulator.

“I’m- I’m sorry.”

You tore your eyes away with a startled gasp, turning and sprinting down the open hatch door. You had to get out, you had to get away from it. Everything about him was too much like a nightmare, it was too real. The image had to be imprinted onto the back of your eyes, it was so vivid. 

You willed your breath to slow and calm as you walked, but even the thought of that was hard. You ventured a little ways away from the Razor Crest, finding a nice rock expertly placed between two trees. You settled against it with a rattled sigh, gazing out into the forest. If you squinted, you could see the ocean from here: it’s shimmery sheen and the deep cobalt blue that filled it. 

The thought was calming. Seeing the wilderness in a way you hadn’t before, learning to appreciate the little things you’d been lucky enough to see and experience on this never ending ride with Din.

Din.

Shit. The calm left you as soon as it came, swept away by gnawing guilt and unsaid feelings. All those things he would have been able to experience, all of the things you needed to tell him but never quite could. It was too late.

You shot up abruptly, sending a sharp pain to your head and tunneling your vision. You shook your head with a groan, deciding to venture away from the spot that now reminded you of him. Of what you could have shown him-

No. You scolded yourself for going down that track, focusing on putting on foot in front of the other. You met the silver metal of the Razor Crest some five minutes after, leaning against it in hopes to take some of its cold for yourself. The feeling also calmed you, but you were sure it’d be gone as soon as it came. This was Din’s-

The crunching of boots cuts your thoughts short. 

You considered running. It would be fruitless, though, even if he couldn’t see your legs right now; he was undoubtedly faster than you. You considered yelling at him to stay away as well, but did you really want him to? You compromised, turning and giving him your back. You curled into yourself, hunched over slightly as he rounded the corner. 

To say Din was confused was an understatement. You’d been acting weird all morning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done something to upset you. Even now, when he passed the last of the ship obscuring his view, you hid from his gaze. What did he do? What should he do? He didn’t like this, the cold shoulder, not one bit. He had to fix this. 

You could feel it on your back, his inquisitive gaze. You knew what the silent look meant. You sighed quietly as you waited for his evaluation, knowing he’d nail it on the dot. You waited for the quick sentence, the sounds of his footsteps squelching receding into the distance.

But he didn’t do that this time.

This time was different. He knew it, you knew it. You both knew that this wasn’t just a dream about losing your family or having to run away from your home or the kid, it was deeper, the pain was deeper. You knew from the sharp intake of his breath that he wasn’t going anywhere unless he got a real answer from you, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to give it yet. 

His hand landed on your shoulder in the midst of your thoughts, causing you to jump. “Maker, Din-“ you started your sentence, but were abruptly cut off by him spinning you around. You kept your eyes firmly at his feet, not wanting to spark another burst of panic. “Y/n.” His voice was surprisingly soft compared to his normal brisk tone.

You nodded.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s really nothing you need to concern yourself with, Din, I’ll be fine.”

He paused, and you wondered if he was going to take your sentence and leave you be. “Bullshit.”

Your eyes widened, and you nearly threw your head up to meet his visor. Din had sworn before, but never at you. “What?” 

“You heard me.” His voice was hard.

“I’m telling the truth.” You were not.

He chuckled, actually chuckled. “You’re a really bad liar, you know.”

“I know. I used to be really good.” You deflated. 

Din squeezed your shoulder. “You gotta talk about it, y/n, trust me. Solitude and nightmares are not a good combo.”

“You’re not gonna like it, Din.”

“Try me.”

Your hands clasped together so you could fidget with the ring on your finger. “It was- the kid and I were waiting for you after a mission. You were taking a while, I remember, and we were starting to get antsy. And then you came back and I was so excited to see you and I grabbed the quarry-“

“I wouldn’t let you do that.”

You huffed.

He sighed. “Sorry, go on.”

“I grabbed the quarry and put him in the carbonite chamber that you think I don’t know how to use but I do, and then I turned around,” your breaths became shaky. “You were on- on the floor. You were bleeding and you were barely breathing and you were struggling and you kept trying to talk and I was telling you to shut the fuck up because I was trying to save you and I tried and tried but I- I couldn’t. You were dead. You were gone and I couldn’t do anything and I tried everything in that stupid first aid kit, I tried the bacta and the gauze but you were- you weren’t with me and I swear my heart was ripped right out of my chest.” 

Your shoulders slumped in shame but also in relief, in letting go of that burden you’d been carrying for less than four hours but had ripped through every fiber of your being. Your declaration hung heavily in the misty air, Din not moving a single muscle. You assumed he was processing your words, but right now those very words were gnawing at your brain.

You waited patiently as he contemplated, or at least you thought he was. The slight incline of his helmet was leading you to think that, but he was slightly hard to read at the moment. You began to kick the ground as you stood rather awkwardly, not making full eye contact and rather looking over his shoulder. 

The shake of his helmet in your peripheral told you he was in fact alive and awake, easing some pressure you hadn’t even noticed was on your chest. His hand still rested on your shoulder, which twitched as if he wanted to move it but decided otherwise. “Wow.” He said finally. 

Your eyes went wide in fear. “You don’t have to say anything, we can go inside and pretend this never happened. I can do that.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” his helmet tilted up and away from your face. “That was just a lot.”

You smiled sadly, your eyes meeting the leafy ground. “Yeah.”

You two simmered in the silence for a while longer, him surely going back to thinking in his head. You didn’t know what to expect at this point: Din had surprised you so many times in the past ten minutes that you weren’t sure any of your old rules applied anymore. And frankly, that was making you very nervous. 

You were trying to train yourself for the unexpected when Din made his next move. His hand left your shoulder to cup your jaw, tilting it upwards to meet his visor. Your eyes automatically went left to trace the reflective surface of the Razor Crest, eliciting a huff. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“Because if I do, all I can see is your lifeless body and the smear of blood from where I grabbed your face.”

“Um, okay,” He frowned in defeat and then in confusion. “Wait, why are you so scared of losing me?”

You huffed. “Are you serious? Because I care about you, Din. More than I should, probably. You gave me a home, and you treated me as somebody. How could I not care, how could I not worry about losing you?”

Silence, and then-

“So you’re in love with me?” His voice was aloof, but you could hear the nervousness seeping in. 

Your head rotated to meet his visor, calculating the tilt and his stance. Your brain reeled and tried to shove your nightmares into your head, but you pushed them away from the foreground. “I am, got a problem with that?” You willed to match his tone with your own.

He drew back slightly, and you fretted, but you held your ground and waited. You weren’t going to run away from your feelings this time. He held your stare, stepping towards you. “Not at all.”

You swallowed. “Alright, I guess that’s settled.”

“Mhm.”

“So..”

“Yes?” 

Oh, so he was gonna make you say it? “Din. C’mon, don’t be this way.”

“Be what way?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, care to enlighten me?” You could hear the smile.

You gritted your teeth. “Fine, never mind. I’m going to check on the kid.” If he didn’t want to say it, then it wasn’t coming out.

You shook his hand from your jaw and pushed past him, making sure to bump his shoulder on the way out. Your breaths were heavy after the confessions and the lack of his own, fueling into anger as you stormed into the ship. The Child sat in his hammock, staring right at you. His pearly black eyes felt like they stared through you and relayed everything that had happened out in front of him.

You sighed, venturing over to him and sitting on the edge of Din’s cot. “What did I just do, Kid?”

He garbled eagerly.

“Yeah yeah,” you leaned against the frame. “I know.”

He garbled again. 

“Jeez, you don’t have to be rude about it! I know I fucked up.” Your eyes were shut in frustration.

The kid was silent.

“Kid?” 

The sound of the hatch door closing was the only response, and you opened your eyes to see the Mandalorian staring right at you.

Blood dripping down his-

No. Stop.

You shook your head to clear the nightmares, but it wasn’t working as well as you were hoping it would. You opted to tilting your head back again, closing your eyes. The silence ensued, and you could feel the heat of his gaze. “You gonna say something?” You asked, not moving.

“Yeah, I was.”

“Was?” You tilted your head.

“You look tired. Maybe later.”

You opened your eyes. “I’m listening.”

He sighed, and you could see him fidget with his gloves out of the corner of your eyes. “Do you know what you just declared to me?”

“That I loved you, yes.” It was out in the open now, no reason avoiding it.

“And if I say I love you too, you know what that means?”

“That we’ve got a romantic bond?” The Kid peeked over the edge of the hammock to stare at Din.

“No,” you scoffed and he glared at you. “Well, yes, obviously, but what I meant is that you’re committing to me, and vice versa. We’re bonded. For life.”

You nodded, looking at his visor, which was turned upwards. “Okay, yeah. What about it?”

“That means seeing-“ he met your gaze. “Seeing my face.”

Your eyes widened. “Your face?”

He nodded.

“No way,” You stood up and walked over to him, the shock tinting your vision. “Are you joking? Cus it’s not funny.”

“No, I’m not.” His voice sounded confused by your actions.

You pondered the hesitance in his voice with a fine toothed comb. “Do you not want to?”

“No, I want to, it’s just-“

You nodded. “No one has seen you without it.”

“No one in a very long time.” He confirmed.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you grabbed his hand. “You can tell me you love me if you do, you can take off your mask and show me that beautiful face of yours. Whenever you want, okay? I’ll be here, I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You smiled up at him, going to turn around, but then his hand was gripping your hip and halting you.

“I love you.”

Your head tilted in confusion. “But what about what you said-“

“Yeah. That’s right now.”

You full on grinned. “Really? Um, okay.”

“Are you ready?” His hands rested on the edge of his helmet.

“Never been more ready.”

And then you heard a whooshing sound, hardly audible over your pounding heart. Your hands twisted together as you waited in anticipation, excited and nervous. The prospect of putting a face to his voice and his name was thrilling, and the fact that you were the first to see his face in years? That left you with a fuzzy warmth in your stomach. 

You couldn’t pull your eyes away as the beskar was pulled upwards, revealing his face. Your gaze followed the path of the helmet as you saw his sharp jawline, the little speckles of his two day aftershave, the mustache that he seemed to be keeping in well order, the contour of his nose, his deep brown eyes, the mop of hair that was unruly but had been matted down by his helmet.

You met his eyes again, finding them on you wearily, his lip caught between his teeth as he gauged your reaction. Your breath caught at the real eye contact and the way he couldn’t conceal his feelings. You could see the nervousness in his face, even in his stance. Everything about him seemed so clear now, and you broke into a wide smile. 

“You’re beautiful.”

[crumbledcastle28]

Din Djarin: Oxytocin

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Request: via @feministfanboi  “ Shut up shut up shut up this is SO HOT I need moreeeee I need the hunt riling him up so that she asks him to use her to let off team (steam) and then once they wind down a bit he takes his time making her come undone more the way he wants to treasure her (bonus points if the armor stays on the first round but he walks her through taking it off him afterwards). I'm so happy I found your writing and can't wait to read everything you've written for the hottest tin can.”

Excerpt: “The granite was cold against your legs, causing you to release a small gasp. Din sat you down quickly and held you by your waist, pressing his chest against your own. The metal was lukewarm through your shirt.

“Tell me you don’t want me to stop,” he whispered, using one hand to keep you steady and the other to pry open his weapons belt.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you replied, and his belt dropped to the floor. He began removing his pants next.“

Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.”

“Good,” he responded, a husk already in his voice. “Because I fucking need this.”

Warnings: smuuuuuut, dom din but actually dom reader, rough sex, unprotected sex, kind of a size kink, descriptions of scarring and concussions, swearing, very off canon, zero foreplay, probably unsanitary fingering, a soft ending.

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: Thank you for your patience on this request @feministfanboi I hope you like it.

Pedro Masterlist 

If you would like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

You had known the Mandalorian for a decade, but Din Djarin for only a month.

And it had been the best month of your life. 

After years of fighting for jobs, clients, pucks, a seat at the table - any table - Carga had finally had what he called his “stroke of genius.”

“The two of you,” he said, the two of you seated uncomfortably close in a cantina booth. “Together.”

“Together?” you questioned.

“Together,” he repeated.

You and Din just sat and stared. Not saying a word.

“I’ll pay you triple,” he said finally.

Turns out, it was a stroke of fucking genius.

After ten years of constant competition between the two of you, you understood each other’s minds better than anyone else in the galaxy. Your weak spots. The way you fought. The way you planned. The way you hunted. The way you reacted when an enemy caught you by surprise, and the way you recovered. Because of this constant unconscious education between the two of you, you were perfectly complimentary. Working off each other without even needing to speak the words - catching on when one was winded and needed to be covered, understanding when one could forge ahead and the other could guard from behind, and most importantly, when the other was injured.

Injured enough that their body literally could not go on, in Din’s case.

You had slowly begun to learn all his small quirks as well - how he would kill for a homecooked meal after a long mission, how his lower back region always tended to bother him after a lot of running, and how, no matter what, the weapons closet always remained pristine. 

Pristine. 

You wished you could recreate the noise he let out when he found your weaponry beginning to spill over into his half of the cupboard.

After a month of slowly cooling your personal vendetta against the bounty hunter who always seemed to be one step ahead of you, it had become...comfortable. Weirdly, exquisitely comfortable. The type of comfortable that didn’t require a constant dialogue between the two of you. It was enough to just sit, watch the stars, ask each other a few questions you had always wanted to know, and then allow the silence to permeate once more. It was more than enough.

You wish Carga had this stroke of genius years ago. It felt good to be known, admired, then chipped at with questions in order to be known some more.

You had a feeling Din felt the same way.

With a new round of pucks in your pockets with targets in the general area of Coruscant, you were grateful to be known, even just a little bit. You needed it for that dung-hole of a planet.

The first puck was a knock-out - some big-wig’s daughter ran off with a guard of hers, proclaiming that their love was stronger than any alliance an arranged marriage would bring, demanding the daughter be set free from the “chains of bureaucracy,” etc.

Your eyes got a fierce rubbing after skimming that report.

Din asked to do this job alone - claiming it would be easy enough for one person, and that he was in desperate need of some fresh air. You appreciated his honesty, smiling at him politely while your brain deciphered the sentence using your growing encyclopedia of Din-Djarin-code.

I need some alone time.

You tended to agree. Some time alone would do you good, clear your head, revitalize you. Your temporary lodging was nice enough - a full kitchen, bath, and two bedrooms. You were almost looking forward to it.

You helped him clean his weaponry as well as you could, learned his plan for the capture inside and out, and sent him on his way with a blaster in one hand and a dozen credits in the other.

You placed an internal bet that it would take him no longer than a day at the most, a few hours at the least. You began to prepare a meal for him when he returned, full of peppers and seasoned, well-marinated chicken. 

Maker, if past you could see you now.

The meal was coming along well - the smell of cayenne, garlic, and sweet peppers filling the hut, carrying you away to a time before you knew the taste and texture of blood - when an object hit the side of the shelter. You could tell it was a blaster by its unique clang. You had no time to even flinch before the circular front door opened up like a spider web set aflame.

Din stood straight and tall, looking straight at you, before stomping into the bathroom and closing the door.

“Mando?” you questioned, walking slowly to the door. You pressed your ear against the wood, listening for a response.

Nothing.

You realized that, despite all that you had learned of him in the past month, you hadn’t learned how he raged. You could feel it on your skin, a cool, chilling, silent seething that imbued even through a solid door. You couldn’t label what endorphins the feeling was sending through your brain, nor the stirring in your lower stomach.

Maybe you just didn’t want to. 

“I’m going to open the door,” you stated, and waited for a rebuttal.

Nothing.

You sighed and pulled the door open slowly until it was only ajar, and found Mando seated against the bathtub, head in his hands. His shoulders were so tense and high they touched the area of his helmet that covered his ears. His breathing was heavy and quick, making it apparent that he was slowly simmering.

This position was eerily similar to the one he was in when he told you his name.

He had gotten hit in the head hard - very hard - and sat himself on the edge of a bathtub in the exact same way - head in his hands, shoulders tight, breathing rapid. He was so dizzy he couldn’t keep his head up, mumbling something about a rogue trandoshan that got him right under the chin. You prepared an ice pack for him, as well as pain meds and a warm water bottle, when he muttered something incomprehensible.

“What?” you asked, turning around to look at him.

He muttered the same thing again.

“Mando, I can’t understand you.”

“The trandoshan got away,” he said, and just as he began to slowly tip forward, he mumbled something else. “And my name is Din.”

Neither of you ever brought it up. You wondered if he even remembered it. 

Maybe today would be that day.

“What happened?” you asked him quietly, and he responded quickly.

“I had her,” he said, “I fucking had her.”

You walked into the bathroom and kneeled in front of him, looking up into his visor. A silent invitation. 

“He was with her. Her guard,” he continued. “And I saw the way he...the way he looked at her. He was ready to fight me. He was ready to kill himself if it meant she had even a few seconds head start. He didn’t even hesitate.”

A beat of silence passed between you.

“And I just...I couldn’t do it.”

Your eyes widened. “Are you saying you let them go?”

Another beat of silence passed before he nodded.

“Why?” you questioned.

“Because...” he started, and then looked up at you. You could feel his eyes burning into your own. “...because I couldn’t stop seeing you in her.”

He was still full of rage, sending chills down and across your spine, but a softness came over him in that moment. A softness that almost scared you, because you knew what he meant. You knew what he was trying to say.

I would do the same for you. 

Suddenly, the feeling in your lower stomach made sense. The endorphins flooding your brain made sense. The want to give him comfort made sense. The depth of your need to see him for what he was and understand the exact plans of his jobs and the inability to relax when he was gone made so much fucking sense. 

Despite the fear of how this mutual understanding would change your relationship, the anxiety of not knowing what to do next, and the shock of being wanted, you smiled. Despite it all, you smiled, and you stood.

His rage was still permeating, his body was still clenched, like he needed something to funnel his anger into. A vessel to work it onto, to bleed it out of himself.

You slid your thumb across his cheekbone, drunk on your ability to always know exactly what he needed, and whispered, “Din.”

A visible chill went down his own body when that word passed through your lips.

You leaned forward slightly, and said, “Use me.”

He looked at you then - really looked at you - before standing up completely. You didn’t know if you had ever stood this close to him, his broadness and masculinity washing over you as the size difference between the two of you was highlighted more than usual.

You liked it a lot more than you thought you would. 

At the same time, however, a bead of anxiety dripped into your brain. Questions on whether or not you overstepped, or read him wrong, or crossed a line joined the wonderous high in your overwhelmed brain.

Instead, Din replied, “I knew you heard me,” before lifting you by your waist, carrying you across the lodge, and setting you on the kitchen counter.

The granite was cold against your legs, causing you to release a small gasp. Din sat you down quickly and held you by your waist, pressing his chest against your own. The metal was lukewarm through your shirt.

“Tell me you don’t want me to stop,” he whispered, using one hand to keep you steady and the other to pry open his weapons belt. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you replied, and his belt dropped to the floor. He began removing his pants next.

“Tell me you want this.” 

“I want this.”

“Good,” he responded, a husk already in his voice. “Because I fucking need this.”

He pulled his pants down completely, one piece of cloth now separating you from him. Sweat dripped down your back and heat pooled in between your thighs at the thought. You itched to touch his skin already, thinking back to the uncountable amount of times you had dreamed of his body. What it looked like, smelled like, felt like.

Maker, if past you could see you now.

Din seemed to be in a haze, not even hesitating to remove his underwear and let himself free, and not even noticing how your eyes widened at the sight of him.

Maker. 

He didn’t give you any time to process before tearing off your own shorts and underwear in one go, and immediately lining himself up. He held you close to him, his gloved hands working their way into your hair to keep you pressed against his chest. His hands on you were demanding, yet dancing across your body with a gentleness you had come to know only recently. It set your insides aflame. You reached your arms around his waist and tucked your face into his neck, desperation to be as close to him as physically possible crawling across your skin.

“Take a breath,” he whispered, before he entered you without a drop of mercy. 

He slid home so quickly you couldn’t even release a noise before he started pumping in and out ruthlessly. Practically splitting you in half, impailing you with heat, rapture, and a wholeness that had every speck of oxygen leaving your lungs. You could feel yourself dripping onto the hardwood floor, spit beginning to paint his armor with sinful beads, and your head spinning so fiercely you could only describe your feelings to him with whines.

Din, on the other hand, had seemingly unlocked a flapping tongue.

“Maker,” he grunted, zero qualms against noise or depth. “Y/N, I’m inside you, fucking shit.” 

His pace grew more relentless, the heat of pleasure beginning to drip down your legs and feet, toes curling at the sensation. He kept you pressed against his chest, sweat and metal filling your nose, giving you whiplash at how fast your life had flipped in the manner of minutes.

His fingers crept down to your clit, pressing and rubbing against it slowly, then pulling away, and repeating the process. You whined right where you imagined his ear might me, gripping his cape until your knuckles were milk white.

“Fucking wanted you in my ear like this since I first saw you,” he whispered to you, like he wanted no other soul to hear, only you. “Made me feel so fucking dirty, so fucking gross, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop. You were in that fuck grey jumpsuit you always wear…shit…and your boots. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

You were near tears at this point, your body trembling and your mind warping at the thought of him wanting you like that - like this - for so long.

“Always a pain in my ass,” he groaned, his pace deepening as he found new crevices and waves inside you that had you scratching down his back. Your nails dug in so fiercely your ears rang with the sound, effectively leaving likely permanent markings on his back. 

You dug your nails in harder.

You arched your back, beginning to meet his pace with the roles of your hips.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned. “You like me talking about you, don’t you? How your legs look in those damn tight cargo pants, how your hips fill them perfectly, how your shirts hug you so fucking right I can’t help but picture it the moment my eyes close.”

Tears are leaking from your eyes now, his fingers torturing your clit and his cock hitting a place inside you you didn’t even know existed until him. You wished to kiss him as you came, kiss all around his face and neck, breathe in his panting breaths, exchange tastes.

Instead, you pressed small kisses across the armor atop his collarbone, panting and whining louder and louder.

“You’re...you’re so tight around me. Look so beautiful with me in you.”

Your head fell back, any blood to your brain was miniscule, and the edge of the cliff was inches within reach.

“Din,” you groaned, almost pathetically. “Din please.”

“I’ve got you, come on mesh’la,” he whispered, “Let go for me. Come undone for me.”

And you did. With one last snap of your hips against his, you came. You could not make any noise, only capable of dropping your head forward onto his chest, squeezing his cape so tightly you could have sworn you heard a tear, and basking in the wave of warmth that flooded your body from your brain to your feet. Your mind was muddled - coated in pleasure, only pleasure, and only him. Your muscles ached with it, twitching and clenching in such ecstasy that you wondered if you would ever speak again.

It was proven that you could when Din pulled out of you faster than you could blink. The emptiness of it made you whimper like a child.

“Din, what -”

“I’m not done,” he said huskily, the cool rage and high intensity obviously not worked out of him. He pulled your limp body into his arms and tossed you onto the couch, pinning you on your stomach with his hips. Your body felt ruined, exhausted and devoid of all energy and vigor. Din didn’t seem to mind.

He held onto your hips, angling them so that his still pulsing member was lined up just right, before pulling you close enough to him to whisper into your ear.

“That woman who taunted me for a decade, outsmarted me constantly, stole my fucking jobs,” he whispered, breathing so heavily through his modulator you could barely understand him. “She’s mine now, isn’t she?”

Your aching, mindbogglingly sensitive cunt pulsed for him - was helpless for him. You whined, pressing yourself back against him for some sort of friction. Din stopped you, halting your hips with the strength of his fingers alone. 

“Isn’t she?” he questioned once more.

You nodded profusely. “She is.”

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbled under his breath, and pierced you with his cock once again.

You could tell he was chasing his own high, practically clamoring for it as he railed himself into you like a man fucking for his own life, and with your heat already beginning to sore, you felt the rise of your own once again.

You wanted him to come - all over you, inside of you, every inch of skin you possessed. You wanted it now. 

So, you resorted to the only way you could connect with him up to this point - your words.

“You didn’t have this armor yet,” you whispered, reaching back to push his helmet into your neck as you began to meet his thrusts with your hips. Shirt so full of sweat it was translucent. “You had this helmet though.”

His pants became whimpers.

“Fucking loved looking at your thighs, every time our paths crossed,” you continued, a wicked smile etching itself onto your face as you spoke. “And when you got this shiny shit - maker - fucking lost my quarry to you that day. I remember that. You wanna know why?”

You could hear his gulp.

“Because I wanted you like this - behind me, ruining me, making me sweat, panting in my ear, coming inside of me, all with that fucking armor on.”

He was slowing down, but getting deeper and harder. Like his cock was even begging you to go on.

“Din,” you whispered, meeting his thrusts head on, “come inside me.”

And he did. He filled every inch you wanted him too, and held you close as he did. Rubbing designs across the skin of your stomach underneath your shirt. Massaging your scalp. Whispering verses of mando’a you couldn’t recognize. All while fucking you through his orgasm.

You smiled, eyes closed, letting the stars behind your eyes overtake your vision, and the feeling of him inside you overtake your every sense.

He slowed down as the last of his cum painted itself across your cunt and thighs, but he remained inside you as he collected his breath, and you collected your own. He squeezed your hips.

“You okay?” he questioned, sex dripping across his tone.

You nodded, swallowing thickly. “More than okay.”

He coughed out a chuckle - one that was full of disbelief, joy, and maybe a little fear - before he slowly pulled out of you. You dug your nails into his helmet at the feeling, unconsciously chasing him with your hips, but he delicately set you down on the couch completely. You braced yourself on the arm rest, your body nearly giving out on you from the transition of full to empty, whole to half, complete to ripped apart.

You wiped the sweat that had culminated on your lip before turning to look behind you, expecting Din to still be sitting, flexing those delicious thighs, getting used to the feeling of emptiness himself.

Instead, you found him already standing, heading into the kitchen, and beginning to slide his underwear back on.

“What are you doing?” you asked, sex present in your voice as well.

Din didn’t respond, only looked up at you as he began to button up his pants.

“The sun’s setting,” you stated, “you never wear your armor when you sleep.”

“I do when...when it’s necessary,” he refuted.

“When it’s necessary?” you questioned, turning your aching body around to face him completely, wincing. “What are you talking about?”

He remained looking at you, his breath slowing slowly from the rapid pace it was before. “I didn’t...I didn’t know if you would be...comfortable...seeing me like that. After...all that.”

You looked him up and down, a small smile coming to your face.

“I just didn’t know,” he repeated, “I wanted to respect that.” Your smile grew big enough to reach your eyes.

“Come here,” you whispered, gesturing to the empty space on the couch next to you he occupied only seconds ago, and he obeyed. He sat down gently, inhaling deeply when you unbuttoned everything he had rebuttoned. 

“You’re very sweet,” you said, smiling up at him, your lips tingling with the urge to kiss every inch of his visor, “but I always want to see you without all this.” You knocked twice on the beskar covering his chest, the echo it caused over the metal loud in your ears. “You act more like you.”

He said nothing, just kept breathing. 

You removed his pants before bringing your hands back up to his metallic covered chest, gaze connecting with his, and asking, “May I?” 

It felt stupid. Frivolous. Downright ridiculous that you were asking to take off his armor after he spent the better part of an hour cracking you open. Still, he had proven he respected you, he deserved the respect back.

After a beat, he nodded, and you began taking off each and every piece of his armor, and setting each piece down delicately on the floor. Halfway through, he began to chuckle, and you chuckled with him. 

“What?” you asked, a wide smile returning to your face.

“Nothing,” he defended, “I just thought I’d have to teach you how to do this.”

You connected your gaze with his once again. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, I know you pretty well.”

He hummed, contentedly. Your gazes, however, did not disconnect.

You couldn’t help yourself in that moment. Maybe it was the oxytocin still flooding your brain, or the high that comes with physical exercise, or the pleasure of just sitting there, talking with him, but the question that had always been on the tip of your tongue finally wiggled free.

“What color are they?” you asked. “Your eyes?”

You wished you could see a centimeter of his face, a millimeter, even a shadow, because you could not read him. He was frozen, yet positioned confidently, more vulnerable than you had ever had him, yet the most expressive part of his body remained covered in the strongest metal in the galaxy.

He played it safe with his reply. “Guess.”

You smiled, relieved as the rope of tension slithered off of you, “purple.”

“Close.”

“Green?”

“Closer.”

“Blue?”

“Not quite.”

“Perfect,” you said before you could stop yourself, “I’ll bet their perfect, whatever color they are.”

You looked away, removing the rest of his armor until he was only down to just his helmet, when he finally said, “Brown. They’re brown.”

You looked into where you hoped his eyes were and said, “That suits you.”

He hummed again.

He was down to his undershirt and underwear, practically naked in your eyes. You knew he slept without a shirt on. You had no proof of it - no quick glance into his room in the dead of night, a comment he made that you stored away for use later, nothing. You just knew he did. 

Your final thought before slipping your fingertips underneath the cloth material was I have everything to lose.

His skin was smoother than expected, sprinkled with a thick layer of hair just under his belly button, as well as a small scar deep enough for the skin to protrude just so. It was warm, homey, right.

You looked up at him as your fingers crawled higher and higher, slowly slipping the entirety of his shirt over his head. He never made a sound. Only raised his arms for you, silently egging you on. Like his body was saying you wouldn’t. 

I would, your fingers replied as you slipped his shirt completely off. 

He was tanner than you expected, sprayed with moles, tinted with scars, and muscles so defined and so him you swore he was airbrushed. Molded by a material of softness and perfection. 

Your fingers looked perfect splayed across his chest.

You realized, as your fingers explored his chest hair, that his body was slowly sinking in on itself. He was closing himself off without words. Not in a way that showed he was not enjoying himself, but in a way that showed he had enough defenselessness for one night.

You tended to agree.

You smiled, and pulled him into your arms, laying yourself flat on your back, and allowing him to completely shield your body with his own. Lay his full weight on top of you. 

“Y/N -”

“Sleep here,” you pleaded, “let’s sleep here.”

He allowed his body to slink and settle itself upon you, sliding his hands underneath your back, sweeping your legs from under you so he could wrap them up in his own.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he stated, and you laughed.

As the sun fully set, his skin became littered with stars instead of streaks of sun, and the weight of what had happened between the two of you finally settled upon both your body and your mind.

You had him in your arms. In your body. In your soul.

Finally.

With tears in your eyes, you asked yourself one final time.

Maker, if past you could see you now. 

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[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Beneath the Beskar [01] — Din Djarin

a/n: this came to me in a dream... any kind of feedback would be appreciated.

pairing: din djarin x reader

wordcount: 3K

part 01 | part 02 | part 03

—

It starts on Nevarro.

Your eyes meet his visor as he strides into the cantina. Even among the throng of roughnecks and bounty hunters that call this hole-in-the-wall dive their haunt, the Mandalorian cuts an imposing figure—a bastion of lethal grace cloaked in that ancient alloy. But you’ve gotten used to his presence, his silent intensity. 

As he approaches the bar, the beskar-wearing warrior gives the slightest nod in your direction and you bite your lip, fighting a smile. Even after mending so many of his frayed fabrics, after cataloguing each trinket he's brought from his hunts, he still regards you with that impenetrable reserve, as though you were part of a particularly complex mission briefing.

The cantina is rowdy tonight, the air thick and reeking of stale spice beer. You sip your own drink, watching from your corner as Din leans against the bar, those broad beskar-clad shoulders tense under his battered armour. 

A trio of Devaronian bruisers shoulder past, close enough that one clips Din’s pauldron with a meaty shoulder. You can see him stiffen, your own fingers tightening around the glass as one of the three sneers something crude Din's way. The words are lost amidst the cantina's din, but the meaning is durasteel clear when his alien buddies guffaw raucously.

You open your mouth, ready to intervene—silly as you know that impulse is—when Din straightens, the dim lights casting harsh planes across his battered helm. Even without seeing his face, his body language speaks volumes in that way only you've learned to read.

Leave it, he seems to say without words, the set of his shoulders and the minute shift of his hips saying more than any vocoder-laced phrase could.

With the faintest nod, you lean back into the threadbare chair, watching as the Devaronians snicker again. But they know better than to test this particular bounty hunter’s patience further. One mutters something else, guttural and mocking, but they soon slink off towards the sabacc tables. 

Only when they’re gone does Din relax, resuming his casual lean against the bar as he waits for his quarry. You catch yourself letting out a slow breath, quickly realising that worrying about Din is a foolish errand—Din Djarin can handle himself better than anyone in this dump. 

Finally, after what feels like aeons, his helmet tilts towards you again, and you feel warmth spread all over you despite yourself. So, you give a little wave, trying not to show that only moments ago you’d been busy sizing up every patron between you, strategizing how to get to him if things go south.

From anyone else, such scrutiny would be strange, even frightening. But this is just how you've come to operate around Din. Assessing threats, picking out exits, searching for improvised weapons—just in case. It's second nature by now. 

And you know that he doesn’t need your help. Wouldn’t want your help, but…well, you can’t really help it. You care about the walking tin-can more than you care to admit.

His vocoder crackles once, an acknowledging rumble. He won't come over, not with the mood in the cantina so combustible tonight. But you'll wait, as you always do, draining your cup while keeping watch over that beskar-clad back.

That's just how it is between you two.

—

You remember the first time he'd sought you out, back when you'd managed that quaint little fabric shop down the street from here. His armour had been dull and scuffed, the cape tattered from Nevarro's biting winds. You’d been struck by the weary line of his shoulders as he gingerly laid the frayed fabric on your counter.

"Can you fix this?" His vocoder had rasped, little more than a request yet edged with an underlying hope—or was it desperation? You hadn’t been able to put a finger on the emotion underpinning that gravelly tone.

You had run calloused fingers over the worn wool, assessing the damage with a critical eye. "It'll need some work, but I can patch it up. I've mended far worse."

That impassive helmet had dipped once in a shallow nod as he retrieved a jingling pouch of credits. "How many?"

Shaking your head, you’d offered him a small smile. "Pay me when you come back for it."

For a long moment, the bounty hunter had stood utterly still, his vizor aimed squarely at you. And then, with deliberate movements, he’d reached into a tattered satchel and withdrew something, holding it forth.

"For your trouble." The vocoder had crackled as you accepted the carved wooden figurine. You'd taken it gingerly, marvelling at the delicate whorls and grooves, the unmistakable craftsmanship.

"It's beautiful," you’d murmured, looking up to find that impassive helmet tilted your way once more, almost...expectant, as if awaiting for your reaction. "Where did you get this?"

The words tumbled out before you could censure them. But instead of retreating into stony silence, his vocoder rumbled again in that way that made your pulse skip. "On a hunt. You like it?"

You nodded, turning the small treasure over to admire it from every angle. "It's beautiful. I'll take good care of it...and your cape."  

He’d held your gaze a moment more through that inscrutable visor before giving one of those shallow dips of his helm. With a whisper of beskar plates, he turned and strode from your shop, the tattered cape bundled in your hands and the carved figurine's warmth radiating through your palm.

And just like that, it became...not quite routine, but a pattern of sorts. A dance of give and take between you. You'd take whatever frayed fabrics and singed cloaks he passed along, repairing them with deft stitches and the attentive care they deserved.

In return, he brought you trinkets from his hunts—scraps of lace with intricate details, tarnished jewellery, curios that caught his discerning eye; tiny treasures from the jobs that took him criss-crossing the Outer Rim's seediest worlds. You've lost count of how many now sit on your nightstand, their craftsmanship a stark contrast to your humble living space.

Maybe once, you'd wondered if these tokens meant something, if Din was trying to convey....something beyond the typical client-artisan norms. But you know better now. The Mandalorian keeps his affairs strictly professional, leaving scant room for indulgent fancies.

Still, you can't ignore the thrill that races through you whenever he appears, cape torn and weather-beaten as he passes it into your keeping once more.

It's become almost a ritual between you two—the repair, the token, the scant words exchanged through that impassive helmet. 

A ritual that promises his return.

—

Hours later, the cantina lies empty and still, the silence descending like a heavy shroud. You sit in your chair, chin propped on your hand as you watch Din clean his blaster with that same methodical precision he devotes to all his gear.  

There's a strange sort of serenity to the practised movements, the muted clink of beskar as he twists to adjust the vambraces' straps. When he settles the disassembled components on the pitted tabletop between you, you can't resist reaching out to trace the etched symbols with one fingertip.

His vocoder rumbles a wordless tone, not quite reprimand but enough to still your hand. You bite your lip, fighting a smile—he's never outright forbidden you from touching, yet you know he prefers to keep things strictly business.

Only...that line has blurred of late, hasn't it? At least on the part of your foolish heart.

Because, you've lost track of how many times you've waited in this dingy cantina for him to return from a hunt, or how many sunrises you've watched him stride away into the dunes beyond Nevarro's outskirts with your gut twisting in nervousness.

You clear your throat, pulling your hand back across the battered table's surface.

"Planning to stick around for a while this time?"

Din goes still, the servos of his helmet whining faintly as he tips it in that curious, birdlike way. He doesn't answer right away, leaving you to fill the hanging silence as your gut twists with anxiety.

"Not that I'm complaining," you rush to add with an awkward laugh, scooping up the tarnished figurine he brought you this time—some exotic, spined creature of the Outer Rim rendered in sinuous curves. "I know this life keeps you moving."  

Your thumb traces the intricate whorls as you study the small treasure, trying not to seem as emotionally invested in his answer as you are. It's not like you and Din are...well, whatever it is you've become over these past cycles, it's unconventional at best.

The beskar plates of his helm almost seem to glint in the cantina's low light. You can picture the slight furrow of his brow under there, the silent weighing of words before he rumbles, "Perhaps."

There's an edge to that mechanised rasp, the faintest tinge of fatigue...or perhaps bitterness and it makes you look up sharply. This is the most unflappable man you know—if anyone could bear the cruelties of this life without flinching, it should be him. Yet...

"There's been a development," he continues, cutting across your wandering musings. "With my Covert."

You set the figurine down carefully, holding his visor with your gaze. The cantina seems to grow even quieter, the only sound is your thrumming pulse echoing in your ears.

"They..." His vocoder crackles with distant static, the words catching.

But you don't ask him to explain. Din has mentioned his clan of Mandalorian survivors only in the vaguest terms over the years you've known him. You know how sacred those bonds are to his culture; his entire existence.

"Din..." You reach across the table without thinking, your fingers alighting on the back of his glove before you can second-guess the impulse.

He goes utterly still under your tentative touch. For a sobering beat, you consider pulling back—until, with infinite care, he turns his hand over, leather clad fingers curling around yours with astounding gentleness.

Then, he huffs out a harsh, ragged exhalation through the vocoder's grill.

"They found out," he grates at last, "that I had...removed my buy'ce. In the aftermath—"

He cuts himself off again, the plates of his cuirass rising and falling with the force of his ragged breaths. You tighten your grip, searching for words that could possibly convey the depth of your sympathy; your anger on his behalf.   

But what comfort can you offer someone whose entire life, whose whole existence has been so violently shaken? So instead, you sit in silence, holding his hand, a single point of contact, willing it to anchor him against whatever storm rages inside.

Long moments pass before Din straightens, giving your fingers one final lingering squeeze before withdrawing his hand. The spell is broken, but the air between you seems to hum with a new tension, ripe with unspoken things.  

Din shifts, and you catch the black scuff across his chest plate. You resist the urge to reach out, to trace the mark and inquire after its story. He would share it if he intended to—another lesson you've learned.

"You've got a place to stay?" Your voice is too loud in the tomblike hush.

He inclines his head slowly. "The Crest."  

Meaning that hollow metal shell of a ship out on the scrublands, a place you've never set foot despite how your paths have entwined over the years. You chew your lip, debating whether to make your customary offer for him to stay the night. But the silence hangs too heavy between you, and the moment is lost.

Your eyes stray back to the scattered components on the table, and his visor tilts to meet your gaze. You open your mouth, not quite sure what you mean to say, when his vocoder rumbles.

"Cape needs some work, if you have time."

He nods towards the tattered edge of his cloak where it brushes the cantina's gritty floor. Your fingers flex instinctively, eager to take up needle and thread once more.

"Of course. I can have it ready for you before you leave."

"...Good." The cantina's ancient air cyclers wheeze to life, ruffling the tattered fabric. He tips his helmet a fraction—a nod, almost imperceptible. "I'll bring something...for your trouble."

Your heart kicks against your ribs as you nod in turn, suddenly, viscerally aware of how close you sit, how easily you could reach out to rest your hand on those shiny vambraces—

He shifts again, resettling that beskar-clad bulk against the rickety chair like he's sensed the turn your thoughts have taken. You swallow hard and force a smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

"I'll be here."

You wait for a moment before rising to your feet, brushing off your scuffed flightsuit as Din watches, still and unreadable as ever behind his beskar'gam.

"Well...goodnight, then." You pause, waiting for him to respond in kind, but he remains silent.

With a small shake of your head, you turn towards the cantina's dingy back exit, the one that lets out near your ramshackle homestead. As much as you've grown...accustomed to the Mandalorian, his silence still has a way of making you feel off-kilter, unbalanced.

Because this strange bond that's formed between you two—you can no longer lie to yourself about how it makes you feel. And as makeshift and fragile as it is, built on repair work and trinkets, and fueled by unspoken words and lingering glances they always seem to hint at a promise of...something more.

And you know that it should be enough—it has been enough for so long.

Yet you can't ignore the hollow ache blooming in your chest every time he slips away and out of your grasp without a backwards glance, that beskar helm betraying nothing of the thoughts behind it.  

You're halfway to the exit when the cantina's heavy silence is shattered by the thud of Din's bootsteps across the grit-strewn floor. He moves with that same brutal efficiency and economy of motion as ever.

Spinning, you find him closer than expected, near enough that you can glimpse your own reflection in the chestplate's dull sheen. You suck in a sharp breath that has nothing to do with the cantina's stale, smoke-clogged air.

"Or you can come with me," he rasps, and the low timbre of that vocoder seems to reverberate in your very bones.

For one endless beat, you can only stare up at him, at that silent enigma of the beskar faceplate. There's a weight to his words you can't put name to, a strange gravity that belies the simplicity of the statement.

You search the shadows of his visor fruitlessly, wishing not for the first time that you could see the man's eyes, not out of morbid curiosity but because you've come to genuinely care for this battle-worn hunter. And something in you longs for even the smallest sliver of connection.  

You swallow hard, lifting your chin. Foolish, to hope for more than he's willing—or able—to give. But you've never been one to back down from a challenge.

So you hold his visor, steadying your voice. "Okay. I'll come with you."

After a moment, Din dips his helmet. Not quite a nod, but an acknowledgment all the same.

And for now—perhaps for always—that will have to be enough.

[whxtedreams]

When they’re ill / injured 

Summary: Small drabbles about how they let you help them when they're ill or injured.

Word Count: 1.3k

Tags: Injury, knife wounds, blood, fear, drug use, fluff.

Characters: Joel Miller, Din Djarin, Prince Oberyn, Javier Peña, Agent Whiskey, Frankie Morales

a.n. yeah, so I'm a health worker (admin) and literally thought of this at work while going over forms, wrote dot points on sticky notes and smashed this out in my lunch break. Enjoy!

Joel Miller

Main cause for concern: Injury: lower back  

Joel hides his pain from you for all of three hours. When you finally realise, he doesn't actually know you’re in the room. He gets up from a chair and grunts in pain, his hand shooting to his back as he supports himself on the dining table with his other hand. He jolts when he hears your voice when you ask if he’s okay, only making him hiss in pain when he moves. He tells you he’s fine, of course he does. You know he’s not. After multiple attempts to convince him to go to the clinic in the Q.Z., he finally gives in with a grunt. He huffs, mutters and grumbles the whole time he’s there, making sure he lets everyone know he’s fine. He’s not though: his back is fucked. 

Summary: the poor guy just lifted something.  

Din Djarin 

Main cause for concern: Injury: Knife wound; left arm 

Din shut himself in the refresher the moment he got back to the ship. Normally you would let him do whatever he needed to do after hunting a bounty, but the small blood trail he left in his wake worried you. You knock on the door but hear nothing but the clatter of Beskar falling to the floor. You knock again and ask if he needs any help but he just tells you to leave him. You don’t, though; you can’t. You sit with your back to the refresher door and wait. Wait, just in case he needs you. 

When the door finally does open, you look up from where you sit on the floor and he kneels in only his flight suit and helmet. He softly grabs your chin to look at his shielded face. He assures you he’s okay, but you can’t be sure. You lift the sleeve of his shirt to see the wound for yourself, your eyes softening with worry. A painfully long, jagged cut from his wrist to elbow scars his skin, and you hear the hiss from under his modulator as you reach up to touch it. You suggest that maybe this time he goes to a medical clinic. His fingers rest on your cheek as he sighs, telling you that you know why he can’t. He lets you patch him up after that after he wipes a tear from your cheek. 

Summary: just another scar for you to trace later.

Prince Oberyn

Main cause for concern: Illness: flu

He’s been in isolation in his chambers for four days now. You’ve stopped by his door each morning and night to check on him, only to be turned away by his guards. You were worried. But finally, on the fourth night when you arrive at his door, he calls for you. The guards let you in and your heart aches as you see him struggling to breathe and blankets sprawled over his body. He missed you, he tells you before he coughs. He motions for you to stop as you walk towards his bed but you do not care if he gets you sick, you just want him to feel better. You gather washcloths and wet them with cold water and lay them on his face, a soft sigh of relief settling in his chest. My sweet little dove, he calls you as his wrist weakly curves around yours as you sit beside his naked, shivering, sweating body. You end up in bed with him, running nails up and down his back as he grips onto your body heat, slowly lulling him to sleep. You pray to the gods that he’ll be better soon. You miss your Prince. 

Summary: it’s literally just a basic ass flu, he’s fine. But everyone deserves to be cared for. 

Javier Peña

Main cause for concern: Injury: gunshot wound, shoulder. 

He desperately tried to hide it from you, even as he began to dial your number multiple times throughout the night, only to throw the phone across the room. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want to see you panic. He spends the night in hospital before Steve eventually tells you the next morning assuming you already knew. You didn’t. You rush to the hospital, thinking the worst. You find his room and when you arrive your chest is heaving as your eyes frantically search him for injury. I’m okay baby, really, he whispers as you fall into a hug. And he does feel okay as he takes in the smell of your hair, the comfort you bring him as you hug him. You’re angry at him, furious at him for keeping you in the dark. But that feeling is only temporary, because he’s okay. He’s breathing. He’s alive. 

Summary: Hugs are healing.

Agent Whiskey 

Main cause of concern: Injury: Lasso burn 

He’s a fucking idiot and you make sure you tell him that after he tried to show off a new move. He was trying to impress you, and god, it would have if he didn’t whip himself and burn a massive line down his leg. He had shouted out in pain but tried to down play it as he came limping back over to you like a wounded puppy. Of course he was still flirting with you as you tried to assess the wound, asking you to kiss it better. You roll your eyes and kiss his leg beside his wound and the idiot tells you he’s healed, that your mouth is all he needs. It is in fact not any better when you drag him to the Kingsman med bay. As he lays on his stomach with your hand in his and the nurses have patched him up, he asks you to kiss him better again. You do. 

Summary: He’s an idiot. But he’s your idiot.  

Frankie Morales

Main cause for concern: OD poisoning

You get the call at eleven at night while you’re soaking in a bath. When you answer Fankie is freaking out, blabbering about brownies. You tell him to slow down, and he takes it literally. His words are dragged as he mentions the brownies again, how he feels poisoned. You sigh as you pull yourself from the bath, you let him know you’ll be over as soon as you can. 

When you do arrive at his house, he's laying on the living room floor. You stand above him, arms crossed over your chest as you raise an eyebrow. His hands are in the air as his eyes are fascinated by his fingers moving. He tells you he ate half a tray of “special” brownies and he honestly thought they were weak because they didn't do anything but then it just hit him like a truck and he can now both feel every bone in his body and also nothing. He laughs then, and then doesn’t stop. Somethin’ wrong with those brownies, he laughs and you smile, trying not to laugh. You look over at the tray as he goes to take another and you quickly rush to pick up the tray and he actually pouts at you as his fingers wiggle for the tray. Ah-no way, you scoff as you toss them in the bin. You end up pulling him off the floor and he pukes on the floor beside you, just missing you. Taking you to the ER, you sigh as you take hold of his hand and tug for him to follow you. 

When you do get to the ER, he sits beside you in the waiting room and his head rests on your shoulder and his arm wrapped around yours as you wait. A soft content smile is plastered on his face and you carefully run your fingers through his hair, pulling soft sighs from him. Feel funny, he sighs and you hum. Love you so much, he says as he nestles himself even further against your body. When he’s finally taken in to be put on a drip, he tugs you along with him, muttering he needs you.   

Summary: Eating half a tray of pot brownies was probably not a good idea. Actually –eating half a tray of normal brownies probably isn’t a good idea either tbh.  

[happy-beeeps]

No Really I Can

Summary: You're a schoolteacher, and you've developed a little bit of a crush on the new dad in class.

Pairing: Din x reader

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: alcohol use!

It’s quiet when he enters, only the mild hum of chatter between your students recapping their recent days off. It’s a sound you’ve learned to work through, scrolling through your data pad to look at their recent homework—drawings of their family.

You almost don’t notice him enter, until that mild hum stops all together. One of your students, Twyla, a quiet Deverronian girl, speaks first. “It’s him.”

The Mandalorian moves through the desk with the practiced ease of a mercenary. The baby behind him, not so much. You vaguely remember seeing him with a small bundle strapped to his chest in the few times you’ve seen him in the market, but you hadn’t made out the shape of the child until now.

“Students! We’re going to get started soon, please open up your data pads and take a look at today’s system.” They oblige, you have a good group, and the Mandalorian stops at your desk. “How can I help you?”

He’s quiet at first, then hoists the child up in his arms so he’s level with your desk. “This is Grogu, I think I’m supposed to sign him up for school.”

“It’s nice to meet you Grogu,” you murmur, voice quiet. He smiles and coos in response, and you can feel the heavy gaze of the Mandalorian on you. “Where is he at, schooling wise.”

“He had a… specialized education.”

“Okay, what languages does he speak? He may have to be transferred to the droid-led class.”

“He doesn’t, not really.”

“Do you speak Mando’a at home?”

There’s a heavy pause before he continues, “no, no we don’t. He doesn’t speak at all. But he listens.”

You smile at Grogu, and reach out to pat his hand. “I work with students of all ability, his speaking is not necessary to his learning, or to his being a good student.” You motion to reach for him, and the Mandalorian obliges. He’s heavy in your arms, but warms up to you instantly, and you know in your heart it’s going to be hard to keep yourself from loving this little guy. “Pickup is in five hours. Magistrate Karga has donated datapads to all the students, so he’ll get to take one home today. It’s time to say goodbye for now.”

He’s deliberate with his movements, holding the child’s hands before pressing his forehead to Grogu’s. He’s out the door before you can speak, and you realize you never got his name.

* * *

Grogu is a funny kid, he’s emotive and quick to respond. He loves to draw, and you can tell he listens intently to his classmates, like he’s wise beyond his years. You teach a wide age of students, and he feels quickly in line with his younger classmates, but your older kids are easily including him, picking him up and carrying him to recess. You determine there’s a few things about his special education that his father neglected to mention, especially when you notice the ball your students are playing with seemingly levitate to Grogu.

And his father. Your mind lingers on him now, nursing a martini in the cantina. He’s been respectful, kind, patient every day at drop off and pick up. He’s quiet, but not shy. Closed off, you’d guess. He asks after you every morning, and on the last day before the week break he’d brought you caf. It was black, lacking the creams and sugars of your usual order, but the thought was there. The silver vessel is still in your bag, admittedly sending a flutter through your chest when you hear it rattle against your things.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your friend asks, eyes rolling as she watches the dizzy look in your eyes. 

“Sorry, just thinking about work.”

“Sure…” she says slyly, knowing all too well what that dazed expression means. “Oh, don’t look now, but the Mandalorian just walked in.”

You whip around at near lightspeed, ignoring your friend’s smooth that she murmurs under her breath. He’s here, he really is. You’ve seen him here maybe once before, and in fact he had Grogu with him, huddled against his chest while he and Karga were tucked away at a booth in the back of the room, chatting easily. 

“He’s walking over here, maker, what did you do.”

“Nothing!” You shout as quietly as possible, doing your very best to nonchalantly fix your hair, your face, literally anything you can get your hands on.

She’s quick to read you, “Ah, I should’ve asked who you did.”

He’s at the table before you can respond, words dropping off your tongue as you look at him.

You’ve never been this close to him, his thighs nearly pressing against the edge of the table you’re at. He’s so large, commanding, and it sends a blush to you to think about. 

“Grogu’s teacher, right?”

“It’s me, do I look that different out of the classroom?”

He’s quiet, then responds, “You look relaxed. Happy.”

You move to answer, but your friend beats you to it, “Well, I was just leaving,” she pats your arm as she stands up, “get home safe now, okay.”

You don’t miss her wink as she leaves the bar.

“I’m sorry about her-“

“Can I buy you a drink?”

You speak at the same time, and you blink in response to his question. “Absolutely.”

He’s back at your table quickly with a new martini, and you’re kicking yourself for ordering such a heavy drink. He slides into the seat and sets it down in front of you.

“Where’s yours?”

Reclining back in his chair, the answer comes to you as soon as he speaks it. “I don’t. Not here, anyway.”

Right. The helmet. “So, what brings you to a bar?”

“You.” 

It’s spoken so simply it catches you off guard, and you cough on your drink.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” if you knew him better you’d say he’s embarrassed, “I just wanted to get to know you.”

You smile, and take another sip. “I’d like that.”

He moves the napkin around in front of him awkwardly, and you realize how out of place he looks in a place like this. “What’s your name? Your first name.”

You tell him, and he repeats it back, as if he’s tasting it on his mouth. The intimate way he whispers it has your blush creeping back. “Can I ask yours?”

“I’m not used to telling people,”

“Oh, I’m sorry you don’t have to.”

“It’s Din. Din Djarin.” He replies quickly, as if you gave him no hesitation.

“Din.” It’s your turn now, to turn his name over in your mouth. “Grogu is a great kid.”

“He is. He’s with Karga now actually, he loves him.”

“Doesn’t surprise me, he’s hard not to love.” You’re quiet, taking another sip, “can I ask why you just now decided to enroll him in school.”

“We’ve been… touch and go lately. Wasn’t sure where we’d end up. I’ve never really been in one place for long.”

“Mandalorian thing?”

He chuckles, “Me thing.”

“I get it. Everyone here came here for a reason. People are only just starting to move here for fun.”

“Can I ask what brought you here?”

You shrug, “The empire, same as everyone else. Actually, I got here right after you left, if I gather all the stories about you correctly.”

“Oh, theres stories about me?” He’s teasing, his voice dipping into a joke.

“Hundreds,” you smirk at him over your glass, “that you’re secretly a Wookiee, that you’re a cold blooded killer, that you have more guns than friends.”

He’s silent, and moves to trace a finger around the bottom of your glass. “Only one of those things isn’t true.”

A chill runs up your spine, but not out of fear, though you know it should be. “Can I ask which?”

“Nope,” he nearly pops the ‘p’, and leans back in his chair, “where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

You’re tanked when you leave. You’ve never been more grateful, or more embarrassed when Din helps you home. “S’sorry. Not normally like this.” You slid against him, and he merely places his other hand on yours, grasping onto his bicep like it’s your last hope. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who bought you them, if anything it’s on me.”

You should be terrified, but Din is nothing but a gentleman while you talk his ear off on the walk back. He laughs when something is funny, and nudges your shoulder when you tease him. Still. You should be terrified. You remember the day the pirates came to Nevarro, remember the way he had defeated them all by himself. 

You’re at your door quicker than you’d like, and you’re leaning on him while you fumble for your door code.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he replies, hand tracing down your arm. 

“Was this a date?”

He doesn’t answer at first, then asks you, “Do you want it to be?”

“Yes please.”

He chuckles, “Then call it our first.”

“I don’t do this, just so you know.”

“Do what?”

“Date all the hot dads at school.”

“I don’t either.”

“Date all the hot dads?”

“No,” but he pauses to laugh, a true uninhibited laugh. “Date. At all.”

The door clicks open, and you pat the cheek of his helmet. “S’okay. I can teach you.”

You enter your apartment before he can respond, and the door slides shut with a hiss. You’re struck like a university student again, leaning against the door. Your brain is telling you to run, to date some boring, normal. But you can’t, you won't. 

Your last thought before slumping into bed, makeup and all is simple. 

I can fix him.

[flowersforjude]

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | A day at the market with you and the kid has Din going over all the reasons he’s falling in love with you.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1,253

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | None, just some soft Din. There’s some pining and whatnot.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I’ve jumped on the Pedro Pascal train with the premiere of The Last Of Us and I binged both seasons of The Mandalorian in two days, so expect much more Din Djarin, Joel Miller, and Pedro Pascal content. For those of you who follow me for my Elvis stuff, don’t worry. E is still top on my list and he won’t be going anywhere.

masterlist

He has to keep stopping himself from reaching for your hand. His glove-clad fingers itch to wrap themselves around yours. He wants to feel the warmth from your skin seeping into his through his gloves. He wants to pull your body closer to his so that your shoulders touch as you walk around the market.

You’re talking about something funny the kid did the night before, and he finds himself struggling to pay attention. Not because you're boring him but because the very sound of your voice makes him lose concentration. Your soft lilt is so captivating and hypnotic. It’s like the whole world stills, and the only thing that matters is the ethereal sound of you speaking.

“And then he–oh Din, look at this!” You gasp as you halt in front of a booth selling textiles.

A blue blanket embroidered with green designs along the edges hung in your arms. It looked to be made of some kind of thick material. Sure to keep you warm in the coldness of space.

“It’s perfect for him, don’t you think?” You smile brightly as you lift it up to inspect it properly. Din has to force himself to keep breathing.

Your gaze goes down to the child held in Din’s arms. The creature in question locks eyes on the blanket and immediately reaches for it. He coos up at you as if asking for permission to touch it. You giggle softly and nod to let him know it was alright.

“I think he likes it,” you laugh. “We should get it. He needs a new one anyway.”

He knows this isn’t true. He knows back on the Crest there is a pile of blankets stacked in one of the cubbies under his bunk. He knows that they got there because of situations like this. “He has many blankets already, cyar’ika.”

Din knows you know this as well, but you’re so enamored by the kid that you just can’t help yourself. Din is too, though; that’s why there’s a growing collection of children's things on the Crest. At some point, you guys are going to have to stop spending so many credits on things like this. But the happiness he can see from you and the kid overrides all else.

You huff playfully and fix him with a look he knows will ruin him. “Yeah, but do you know what that means?” You ask. “It means we’re the best parents in the galaxy.”

He can’t help the grin tugging at his lips under his helmet. His parents.

You two were not a couple, but you’d been with him almost as long as the child. You had first met on Tatooine. He was there on business and had gone to the cantina in hopes of buying some information he was in need of. Instead, he found you pressed against the back wall by some lifeform you clearly didn’t want the attention of. He came to your aid despite hardly ever doing so before. He blamed the kid for making him go soft. You had thanked him profusely, and he was just going to leave it at that, needing to get back on track. But the surprised gasp leaving your lips at the sight of the child poking his head from the bag made it clear that wasn’t happening.

One thing led to another, and you were watching over him while Din went about his business on the desert planet. When the time came to leave, he shocked you and even himself by asking you to join him. His excuse being he was in need of a full-time babysitter for the kid. In the back of his mind, Din knew this was going to be the start of something troublesome.

That’s how he found himself where he stood now. Sighing as he took the heavy blanket from you. “I’ll buy it. Go look around a bit more; we’re leaving soon.”

You beam up at him and skip off to a nearby booth, the items laid out have your full attention. He’s extremely thankful his helmet hid the love-struck look that possessed his face at the moment.

He glimpsed a pair of brown leather gloves lying on the booth. They looked to be your size. His mind traveled back to a few days ago, when you’d mentioned you could use a new pair. Something about how there was a hole in one of the fingers.

Should he?

He glances down at his son to find him already looking up at him. The baby can read the situation far too well. His gaze on Din is practically dripping with expectations. His little green head turns from his father to the woman he sees as his mother and back again. “Stop it,” Din mutters. He paid the vendor for both items and looked around for where you had bounded off to.

That was something Din had come to love about you. Your endless energy. It was a strong contrast to the tiredness he often felt, but in the time you’d been with him, he felt your spirit rubbing off on him. He also noticed that he smiled more. Before, he didn’t have anything to warrant smiling frequently, but with you by his side, he found he did. You had brightened the light in his life that had already reappeared with the kid.

He found you at a booth that seemed to sell children's toys. You began to enthusiastically wave him over once you found him in the crowd. He shook his head and chuckled as he walked in your direction.

“Find anything else?”

You take a quick glance over the items before turning to him. “No, let’s go home before I spend all my credits on kids toys,” you laugh.

Home. Your home.

He tries and fails to keep the fuzzy warmth from spreading through him. As a Mandalorian, the most important thing to him was family. You and the kid were his family, and his main mission in life now was to protect you both. He’d been so sure that you only saw him as a place to lay your head. Employment, and maybe after all this time, a friend. But here lately, with his feelings growing and you doing things like calling the Crest home, hope started to sprout in him that possibly you felt more.

“What do you have there, little one?”

The sudden question had Din jerking his head downward to the child. Sure enough, your gloves were being waved around in his tiny green hands. You take the gloves from him and look closely at them. Your brows come together as you tilt your head to the side.

“These aren't mine,” you state. “They're way too new looking, and they’re too small for you..”

He remained silent while you spoke, and only once you trailed off did he clear his throat.”Very keen observations, cyar’ika.”

Your face became even more confused at his bad joke.

“Did you get me new gloves, Din?”

“Yeah.” He has to clear his throat once again. “I remember you mentioned you needed new ones.”

He tries to pretend he doesn’t notice his pulse quicken when you look at him like he hung the stars. It’s when you look at him with that that he has to stop the urge to rip his helmet off and kiss you breathless.

“You are the kindest man in the galaxy.” You say softly.

He’s not, but he hopes he’ll be enough for you one day.

I hope you guys enjoy this! I thought something short and sweet would be a good way for me to begin writing for Pedro and his characters. More to come soon!