That’s His Dad!!

me too wade, me too

bonus:

He is Kenobi

pedro pascal looking for a new role

ID: a screenshot from a Uquiz where the instructions say to “Pick One: Cowboys, Dads, Sluts.” End ID.

Beautiful Boy | The Mandalorian

✧ Now husband and wife, Din finally takes off the helmet and you see his face for the first time.

word count: 914 | rating: general audiences | content warnings: just fluff!

originally posted on march 14, 2022 on starlightdjarin

© catcastle on ao3 and @dearest-readers on tumblr

You haven’t been married for long. In fact, no more than a beat has passed since you exchanged the Mandalorian vows in the cockpit of the Crest. 

"Mhi solus tome.”  We are one when together.

“Mhi solus dar'tome.” We are one when parted.

“Mhi me'dinui an.” We will share all. 

“Mhi ba'juri verde." We will raise warriors. 

This is the start of your new life with your husband. Din Djarin. There was once a time when you never thought you’d know his birth name. Now, he is about to reveal his face to you. Maker, he’s nervous. And he has every right to be. Even though you’ve told him time and time again that it doesn’t matter what he looks like. After all, it wasn’t his face you fell in love with. 

You fell in love with his gruff exterior and stoic disposition. With his tender heart and broken soul. You softened his edges and reminded him it was okay to smile. You fell in love with the way he slowly let Grogu take up space in his heart. You fell in love with the way he covered you with his cape when you were cold in the cockpit. So, no. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. 

You rest your palms on Din’s armored thighs and he squeezes your hands gently. You can hear him trying to take a large, controlled breath. You know he’s anxious. You know he’s worried you won’t like what you see. 

“I love you, Din. What you look like will never change that.” 

“I know, cyar’ika,” Din sighs. “I love you. It’s just been—” 

“I know. You don’t have to take it off now. You never have to take it off if you don’t want to.” 

Din shakes his head. “No, I want to. I want to look at you through my own eyes. I’ve gotten to admire the slope of your nose and the crinkles around your eyes when you laugh at something not even remotely funny. The least I can do is show you my ugly mug.” 

Great, now you’re nervous. What if he really is unattractive? With any kind of love, there has to be some level of attraction. Oh, dear Maker, please just let him be decently handsome. It doesn’t matter. You tell yourself again. 

Din lets go of your hands and places them on either side of his helmet. “Ready?” He’s not sure if he’s asking you or himself. 

You nod. “So ready.” 

The helmet hisses and Din slowly lifts it up. With every inch of skin you see, your heart quivers ferociously. 

Scruff. Dark brown, maybe black facial hair. There’s a sprinkling of grey in it, too. 

Lips. Pink, plump, perfectly kissable. 

Nose. Aquiline and beautifully angled. 

Eyes. Hooded and crinkled at the edges. Brown, you note. Nervous and tired, but kind. 

Forehead. Creased with uncertainty. 

Hair. Dark, just like his beard. Tousled and loosely curled. You want to run your fingers through it. 

You haven’t said a single thing to your husband. You’ve just been staring, drinking him in. But your silence is worrying. Are you speechless because you don’t like the way he looks? Does he look old? Is it his patchy beard? 

No, it’s none of the above. You’re not silent because you don’t like what you see. You’re silent because you’ve found yourself deeper in love than you were before. You didn’t think that was possible. You didn’t think looks would matter that much. But looking at Din’s face, getting the full picture of who he is, it makes you love drunk. It makes you woozy. It makes you crave him. This is your man. Your beautiful boy.

You tentatively bring your hand up to Din’s face. “Can I?” 

Din nods. As soon as your hand touches his cheek, he closes his eyes and leans into you. It’s like a thousand little sparks lit up beneath his skin and spread down to his toes. It’s fiery and intense, but also warm and comforting. It’s been so long since someone else has touched him. He wants to feel you everywhere. Anywhere. He wants your bare bodies pressed together, legs intertwined and nose nuzzled in your neck. 

You’re tracing a line down his nose to memorize the curved line. Maker, you love him so much. “Din, take a deep breath,” you whisper. 

He tries to, but he’s overwhelmed by all of the things he wants to do with you. Such as kissing you. You’re his riduur and he hasn’t even kissed you yet! He cups your cheeks just as you’re holding his and he brings his lips to yours. You jolt in surprise but easily melt into him. It’s everything and nothing at all what you expected it to be. You didn’t expect the scruff to tickle the skin around your lips. You didn’t expect how soft his lips would be. Or how juvenile the kiss seems. Unpracticed and a bit messy, but full of love and affection. “Din,” you mumble against him. 

“Hmm?” He hums. He has no intentions of ever removing his lips from yours. 

“You’re perfect, Din,” the praise goes right into his mouth. It stirs something in his tummy. Desire. “So kriffing handsome.” 

Kissing Din, you realize, is everything you’ve been missing from your relationship. You have become one. You will still be one when he is away. You will share everything you have. And you absolutely cannot wait to start making and raising little warriors.

thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed it, please like and reblog— it really helps writers and creators out.

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i don't know what canon is. just tumblr and ao3 ❤️

𝐑𝐢𝐭𝐞

pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

word count: 1k

warnings: Smuttt. Needy Din- maskless Din is a sub, fight with the wall. Body worship (face… worship?). P in V sex- emphasis more on the P on V sex). Not proof read.

summary: Traditions form after Din removes the mask.

It’s freezing cold to the touch, the sharp edges of his helmet practically slicing your fingers open as you tentatively lift the beskar from his face. You feel his aquiline nose catch on the foam padding on the inside. You utter a sorry.

Din’s palms splay over your hips where you straddle him in the minute cot, leather biting lightly against your bare skin where he digs his fingers in. His eyelashes flutter as the edge of his helmet is pulled up, and he’s exposed to the harsh, untempered lights inside the Razor Crest. Din turns his face to the side, unable to look you in the eye. Even now, after all this time, he’s still momentarily apprehensive about displaying his face to you.

“Hold still for me,” you whisper, so quiet that you’re sure that your own heartbeat muffles your order, drowning your words out with its pulse. It’s thrumming wildly against your sternum, still thrilled by the sight of Din’s eyes on you.

Mercenary, Bounty Hunter, Mandalorian- Mandalore. All of Din’s titles melt away like beskar in an armourer’s kiln when you’re alone. The alloy drips and runs and cools, melding the warrior a far simpler and benign title- yours.

Din’s breath stalls in his lungs as you begin your ritual, his eyes cast to the durasteel hangar ceiling as he feels you press your lips to his with a gentle urgency. One kiss, then another, and another. You barely give him a moment to register your affections, his own lips lagging behind in their response.

“Mhmm~” You hum, but it bleeds into a whine as you settle your bare cunt over the length of Din’s cock. His groan dies behind gritted teeth as you sweep your hips over the length of him, soaking the velvety skin with your slick.

His chestplate is freezing against your breasts as you lean over him, having given him no time to undress when you threw him back against the cot and took what you wanted. Your nipples are hard against the cold Beskar-steel, dragging back and forth slightly as your hips rock against the curve of his dick. It makes you ache for him even more.

Focusing a slow, steady rhythm with your hips, you allow your lips to wander. They trace his jawline, sharp as the spear he carries with him. Din tilts his head back for you, gasping out your name as you bite the skin stretched across the bone. You nip playfully, focusing your attention on the patchy parts of his jaw, where the hair is sparse.

“C-Cyar'ika,” Din groans, his voice pitchy over the wet sounds of his cock sweeping through your folds. The head bumps your clit, and you whine against the curve of his jaw, your chin pressed to his pulse point.

Din Djarin is the prettiest man you’d ever met. His expressions, however, were even more enticing. Hidden behind a mask for his entire adult life, Din never learnt to neutralise his face. It made him emotive, especially in bed.

As you kiss the tip of his nose, you watch as his eyebrows pinch together, then arch up slightly as you let the weeping tip of his cock nudge at your entrance. You settle on it lightly, let the head sink inside before pulling up again quickly, barely allowing him a moment to relish the tight heat. He lets out a groan of frustration, desperation, as you drag your lips over the arch of his aquiline nose.

God, you love his nose. You praise it, its beauty, worship the way it makes you feel when you grind down on it. Humming softly, you can’t help but grin into the kisses you offer as his jaw falls slack, moaning out your name.

“Stars,” he groans out louder, with a sudden urgency that startles you, “Please, I need- I need to feel you.”

Din’s voice without the modulator is impassioned, cracking slightly on a whine as he begs you for mercy. For relief. A vulnerable tone he barely affords you unless you take control. The leather of his gloves digs into the meat of your ass, palms shifting your hips forward to pull your weeping pussy across his length.

Refusing to give into his demands, you continue your affections. You press soft kisses above his eyebrows, then each of his closed eyelids. His eyes- they took your breath away, stealing your attention when he first removed his helmet for you. You’d heard the tales of ‘brown eyes’, but they did little to emphasise their beauty. Deep, rich, laced with Din’s heavily guarded emotions that he’d veiled with beskar.

“You’re impatient,” you finally point out in a breathy whisper, lungs working a little harder as you feel something delicious settle at the base of your spine. Din looks like he could cry, desperation kicking in as he jerks his hips up against yours.

“I am deprived,” he murmurs back, an edge to his tone. The Child had clung to him for days following his last bounty job- he hadn’t had time alone with you for at least a week despite doing everything he could- stolen kisses in the cockpit, even attempting to shut Grogu in his bassinet. Somehow, he always managed to stumble into the room at the most inopportune time, much to his father’s utter dismay.

Sitting up, one of your palms settles on Din’s breastplate, you push strands of his unkempt curls from his damp forehead. Din, as renowned and feared a bounty hunter he is, also keens for you, vulnerable and achy for your affections. He chases your hand, leaning his face into your touch as you care for him.

Rewarding his openness, you reach between your thighs to take his cock in your palm. Din lets out a slight hiss, sucking between his teeth as you work his cock slowly. The drag of your palm against his sensitive flesh has him bucking his hips again, pressing the crown of his head back into the pillow.

“Din,” you whisper his name, watching him squeeze his eyes shut and centre his focus on the swirling arousal that builds quickly.

“Please.”

Pressing a gentle kiss to Din’s lips, swollen from your previous affections, you sink down onto his aching cock.

“Fuuuuck, Cyar'ik-aah-“

END

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you guys are so annoying. why do i have to see discourse every year that's like "was tolkien really a woke king or was he your conservative uncle?" the guy was a devout catholic and a genteel misogynist who maintained lifelong friendships with queer people and women, and this isn't even paradoxical because that was part of the upper-class oxford culture he was immersed in. tolkien told the nazis to fuck off (and in doing so demonstrated a real understanding of what racism is and why it's harmful, beyond simply "these guys are bad news because they're who my country is at war with right now") but his inner life was marked by internalized racism that is deeply and inextricably woven into the art that he made. he foolishly described himself as an anarcho-monarchist, and it's kind of crazy to see people on this website passionately arguing that he likely never meaningfully engaged with anarchist theory, because...yeah, no shit, of course he didn't. tolkien didn't have to engage with most sociopolitical theory because as an upper-class englishman of his position, he was never affected by any of the issues that this theory is concerned with. what is plainly obvious from reading both his fiction and letters is that tolkien's ideal political system was that the divinely ordained god-king would rise up and rule in perfect justice and humility; he didn't want a government, he wanted a king arthur, even though (obviously) he was aware that outcome was impossible. why is it so hard for people to accept that he was just some guy! his letters aren't a code you have to crack. no amount of arguing or tumblr-level analysis is going to one day reveal a rhetorically airtight internally consistent worldview spanning jrrt's fiction, academic work, and personal writings, thereby "solving" the question of whether he was a woke king or your conservative uncle. his ideology was extremely inconsistent because, at the end of the day, he was just some guy.

Happy June 14th

The mockingbird, the jabberjay and the mockingjay 🕊️ inspired by this post by @fromevertonow