#the mandalorian
themandaloriandaily · a day ago
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FATHER & SON The Mandalorian, Chapter 11 | The Heiress
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skirtzzz · 2 days ago
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h0wdyydee · 2 days ago
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Happy thanksgiving! Din and grogu went over to tattooine for the holidays
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agentplant · a day ago
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@lgbtqcreators bingo — glitch
Din Djarin: the duality of man
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shirehobbit · 2 days ago
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@paletmblr event xiv: found family ~ din djarin and grogu
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doodle-list · 10 hours ago
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 Did I come back to this like a year later? Yes.
Anyways I will be adding more because I’ve for some reason decided to finally complete this but for now I give you teacher!Luke and boba shop!Boba (I also gave Din and Cobb glow ups because I lowkey hated the old ones lol) 
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zappadoodlecat · a day ago
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for @liobits ! Din Djarin getting courted.
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mjpens · 2 days ago
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Cobb washing Din's hair.
Am I going to do a domestic au series? Yeah, probably.
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disabledameron · 2 days ago
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#Grogu snuggling up to Din (▰˘◡˘▰)
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star-wars-forever · 2 days ago
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correctmandos · 2 days ago
din: you bought a taco?
fennec: yea
din: from the same truck that hit boba?
fennec: well me starving ain’t gonna help him!
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dindjarindiaries · a day ago
Something that I think a lot of people have forgotten is just how groundbreaking The Mandalorian has been in many different respects.
It was the first live-action Star Wars series ever. It had a huge responsibility to set a good precedent. Not everyone remembers or was around for when it first premiered, and that’s okay, but fans had no idea what to expect. When that first episode premiered, the world was captivated—by Grogu, Din Djarin the nuanced bounty hunter with his helmet rule and distaste of droids, all of it. It caused a cultural shift.
That’s how people who’ve never seen The Mandalorian recognize Grogu wherever they go. How they can tell you Din Djarin can’t remove his helmet. How they understand that “This is the Way” is associated with Mandalorians. Its impact spreads far beyond Star Wars and its fandom. That project has touched the hearts of many, many people, even people who’ve never seen the movies before.
That, so far, is something I’ve yet to see with any other live-action Star Wars series. That’s why, to me, The Mandalorian is incomparable to any other series.
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lil-ace-of-spades · a day ago
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We had a Thanksgiving-themed QOTD and someone answered that Grogu would be eating the turkey with his bare hands while his dads have a long discussion about carving turkeys (´。• ◡ •。`) ♡
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danwhobrowses · 2 days ago
Just to make a point
It is very possible to like both Mandalorian and Andor by the way. I see a lot of people shitting on one to praise the other, they are both Star Wars but in different ways, and they're both great for it.
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h0wdyydee · 23 hours ago
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Stares at you
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amywritesthings · a day ago
point a to point b / a mandalorian story
                     CHAPTER 15: NER GAI (MY NAME)
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Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader
Summary: After almost losing you, Mando finally lets down his guard and crosses the point of no return.
Warnings: SMUT! (18+ ONLY) / Helmetless!Din, First Kiss, First Time, Oral (f!receiving), Nipple play, Blindfolds, Unprotected Sex, Missionary, Praise Kink (f/m receiving + giving), Have some feels with your spice
Word Count: 3.5K
A/N: The long-awaited moment is here! I am beyond grateful for how much love this story has been shown. Thank you for your patience to my slowed schedule. This is for you; enjoy feelsy, long overdue smut.
Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.
“You have always chosen to fight.” Within a pause he rises, breath shivering along your chin. “For the kid. For me. And I would...”
His words trail off, voice crackling. It repairs, returning with conviction.
“I would scorch the galaxy for you.”
Your lips part wordlessly, voice lost in his confession, but eventually sigh as the pad of his left thumb grazes your cheekbone with timid admiration. “Mando—”
“Din.” The word is so small you almost don’t hear it. He murmurs the next four words like an oath to a creed: “My name is Din.”
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One syllable.
He interrupts your protests with one syllable and you find that the whole universe stops turning.
The durasteel walls surrounding you engulf the bedroom in silence, stillness. The short puffs of hot air cease against your lips, as if the bounty hunter is holding his breath for what may come next. Yet he doesn't leave — doesn't dare, not when the warmth radiating between you remains.
So you both wait, anticipating one another’s next move.
All this time — all this time of hearing of him, seeing him, knowing him, no one has ever called him anything beyond what he is: a Mandalorian.
The most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy.
Some dared to ask, because they were foolish.
You never asked, because you understood.
My name is Din. Gravity hits you like a tumultuous ocean wave, crashing on the shores of a moon left behind. My name is Din. Under the blindfold your eyes grow wider, staring into the vast darkness obscuring your view of his naked face.
“Your name is…”
The sentence falters short of the last word.
Precious, like it shouldn’t be you that says it out loud. You didn’t earn it, but he deems you worthy enough to hear it. You didn’t ask, but he’s told you all the same.
He trusts you.
Your tongue glides along the roof of your mouth as if the motion will keep you from speaking, but you need to hear it.
You have to hear it one more time.
So you try, voice barely above a whisper:
“Your name is Din.”
(No longer nameless.)
A rush of air leaves his mouth, low and relieved, before a pair of lips crash against yours. 
He’s kissing you.
Mando is kissing you.
Urgently you meet him in the middle, kissing back with a primal desperation. His large hands cup either side of your face, keeping you in place in the newness of this. 
While everything about the Mandalorian is impenetrable, his lips are impossibly soft. Needy yet timid, as though he wants this but isn’t sure how else to proceed. Like he’s busy trying to mirror what he’s seen others do in the flesh through a chrome visor.
(Is this his first kiss?)
The thought washes an indescribable want through your system, lighting your nerves on fire. Your hands glide along his tunic up, up, until they find his bare neck. A whimper dances along the Mandalorian's lips when your thumb brushes against something scratchy.
Facial hair.
Din pulls away abruptly with a small gasp, both palms remaining to warm your cheeks. His naked voice rings out in wonderment, tickled with soft awe. The fragile weight of his forehead presses to yours. “I have,” he lingers, swallowing thickly to coat his drying voice, “wanted to do that—”
“I know,” you finish for the both of you, nodding against him. “So have I.”
The high of this mutual confession only brings a giddy smile to your face — one that, while you may not be able to see, you know is on full display for him. Your lips playfully dance along his as you speak.
“Is it just Din?”
He chases the feel of your lips with a kiss, short and chaste. “No.” He presses another, causing you to hum a chuckle against it. “Not just Din.”
Your wandering hand drags up, combing through the hair at the nape of his neck to feel thick locks of hair between your fingers. He groans under his breath as he chases the scratch of your nails, head tilting back. 
“Tell me,” you urge.
“Djarin,” he obeys to the ceiling. He almost whimpers when your hand closes into a loose fist. “Ner gai cuyir Din Djarin.”
“Your name is Din Djarin,” you translate the Mando’a without help.
Awe is swept clear from you when his hands drag your face back to him in an instant, pressing a searing kiss to your lips. You feel instantaneously dizzy, but not from your injuries. No, this otherworldly feeling isn’t painful, but it’s as though you’ve been poisoned, drunk with the knowledge of how his lips move, how his lips feel—
How they feel like something you possess.
Something that’s yours and yours alone.
Ignorant to the harrowing past that’s left you in his bed in the first place, your body acts before your brain can think the actions through: you surge onto your knees to lean in closer, wrapping your free arm around his neck while a fist stays resting in his hair. The sleeves of your tunic ride up, gliding skin against skin.
You ignore the pain.
He does not.
Mando’s hands drop to steady your torso, so very careful (so very fearful) of the abrupt movement. 
“I’ll be okay,” you interrupt, blindly pawing a hand around to find his face again. Your palm runs along the sharpness of his cheek, fingertips sloping along what you can imagine is the bridge of his nose. 
Hawkish, just as you recall from the time you removed his helmet on the floor of the Crest.
“I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“Dank ferrik, you’re always so stubborn.”
His stern tone is only that much more attractive without the vocoder in the way. 
You immediately begin to sink back down to your seat on the mattress, but a soft squeeze at your side has you pausing in your descent.
Then he speaks again.
“Let me help you lie back.”
(That isn’t a no.)
You tilt your chin to follow his voice. “Why?”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
Stilling, you wait impatiently as Mando — Din — makes his point with the power of movement. The Mandalorian slips the hand from your waist, dragging it along bunched fabric with care. His other hand climbs higher in a skim along your ribs — until it confidently cups your breast through the tunic.
When your body’s instinct is to arch he dips you both with it, cradling you until the back of your head meets the softness of the pillow.
“Don’t move too much,” he instructs, and you're not sure how, but you can feel his eyes surveying your face, “but answer me when I ask a question. Okay?”
You huff with a hasty “okay,” drunk with anticipation when the hand at your breast tugs the tunic to the side once, twice, until the cold air of the Razor Crest meets your bare skin, abolishing modesty.
You do not move, but you feel your body trembling with need.
Everything about this isn’t a dream or a delusion, but real.
“Can I remove this?” he requests huskily, grip tightening on the shirt’s fabric. Suddenly everything is much too tight and much too hot.
“Please,” you find yourself begging, and he obliges.
Hurriedly untying the tunic’s already loosened strings, Din dives to gingerly kiss along your throat. You whine outright, turning your hand to clutch desperately at the forearm caging you in place.
You’re met with a light nip along your skin, causing you to jump.
“You said you wouldn’t move,” he mumbles into your skin while his hand toys with the weight of one breast.
(You’re still not used to hearing him so close.)
“It—” You have to swallow to coat your throat. “—took me by surprise, sorry.”
And he grins.
The bastard grins like he’s won a credits jackpot, his lips moving against your skin.
“Now you know how it felt when you surprised me on Trask.”
The audacity of it earns a breathy laugh despite yourself. “In what way?”
Wrong question.
You hear the sheets rustle beneath you, then your mind goes blank at the abrupt sensation of wet heat closing around your nipple.
“Oh — Din, Mother of Moons.”
Searching blindly for his hair to tug, he laps eagerly in a swirl along your raised bud, curious and assertive all the same. The weight of his body keeps yours from arching. He hums with appreciation as his free hand tweaks the neglected bud to his left to stand at attention, sending you into a bout of sensory overload. Heat pools between your thighs, dissolving any lingering pain you might have felt earlier.
Yet you keep your promise — instead of reaching behind your head to grab a fistful of pillow, you white-knuckle the sheet beneath your hands, holding on for dear life.
Din releases your nipple with one last kitten lick, only to blow cold air against the bud. The drastic shift in temperature makes you gasp. 
“With your mouth,” he finally specifies, venturing his lips to the underside of your breast.
Your gasps curl into giggles, delusional from the lack of spatial awareness in the darkness surrounding you. Din is surrounding you. 
“Did it make that much of an impact?”
“It did.”
As though he’s never been so serious in his life. He speaks again.
“Do you trust me?”
That causes your chin to tilt down, searching for his face as he kisses purposefully to one of your ribs.
“Do you really have to ask?” you reply.
“Answer the question,” he argues softly, though his fingers tell a different story — he’s reaching between your bodies to fuss over the strings keeping your trousers in place. 
You wiggle your hips to push the item of clothing down further before he can.
(Patience has never been your virtue.)
“Do you?” he asks again, all too strained.
You reply with conviction. “With my life.”
“And beyond that?”
“Way beyond that,” you confess. “More than anyone.”
Even if, at the end of this journey, there isn’t anyone left. The people in those nightmares. The memories you have yet to uncover.
You, still nameless in this vast world where strangers seem to know you better than you know yourself.
It doesn’t matter. None of it matters when you have him, this ship, in this galaxy. What you tell him is true: you trust Din Djarin more than anyone you have ever known, in this life and perhaps your last.
His unspoken intentions only hit when he’s meticulously kissing down your stomach, bunching either side of your trousers in his hands — then he tugs, strong and sure and desperate to see. The tips of his fingers catch on the hem of your underwear, bunching them together with a hesitation only waiting for a verbal confirmation.
You wonder what he sees in this out-of-body moment: tunic messily spread wide open across his very sheets, trouser untied and most of the way past your knees, legs spread for him. 
“Please,” you start under your breath.
“I didn’t do anything yet,” the bounty hunter toys.
“That’s the problem,” you argue weakly. “I need you to do—”
Then a gentle, shaken breath of a laugh tickles your lower belly and you freeze.
His hands leave you, disappearing into the vast abyss until they grab and hook under your thighs — one, then another, spreading your legs further. The weight of his body shifts, fingers smoothing over soft skin before interlocking both sets of digits right under your belly button.
You’re painfully aware of his plan now, and desire floods your body.
You can no longer feel the fingers in your right hand from squeezing the sheet so hard.
“Show me how to,” he murmurs earnestly and, before you can say anything more, his tongue flattens and drags along your folds until it reaches your clit.
You gasp as if it’s the first breath of your life.
Hips surge from the shockwaves left from his tongue. His clasped hands press you down, demanding and merciless.
Din wastes not a second more to spread you open for him, testing the waters and taste and sensation of you. From a distance you can hear the blatant moan of gratitude, satisfaction, and he presses his nose harder into your clit.
You surely would help, teach, guide, but your head remains blank. The moans echoing along the walls are yours, that much you can hear, but you’re delirious by just how enthusiastic he is to put his mouth on you. His tongue explores which speed, spot, and direction elicits the loudest moans and runs with it, acting like a starving man in the middle of a scorching Tatooine desert.
Then he finds your clit, and all bets are off.
One whine, high-pitched and needy, is all he has to understand that this is where he needs to be. His tongue targets the sensitive bud with no mercy, swirling in a determined figure eight to keep the noises coming.
You give up on trying to listen to his arbitrary rule.
Your hand shoots down, grabbing the crown of his messy hair.
He moans against your clit, causing your toes to curl from the impact of vibration.
“Don’t — don’t stop,” you urge, bucking into his mouth. “You’re doing so good.” He holds your waist down harder, asserting his strength and authority in the moment. You toy with the locks of hair, scraping your nails along his scalp.
He doesn’t stop, determined to stay the course of the same speed and pressure. He slips a hand along your hip bone, caressing the skin along your outer thigh until it disappears, allowing you a momentary buck into his mouth.
The bounty hunter barely slides a finger inside of you when you come.
At the mere sense of pressure at your entrance, the fact that Din thought to combine both without being prompted, sends you clear over the edge. Stars burst like fireworks in an otherwise darkened world, leaving hazy holographic colors in your vision as you yell out your orgasm. 
Din doesn’t stop working you with his tongue, focused, until you begin to push manically at his head when the sensitivity almost hurts. He takes the hint, backing off but keeping a hand curled around your thigh so you can track him.
You wish you could see him.
Mother of Moons, you wish he could really see you.
“....are you alright?”
The timidness of his question paired with the confidence mere moments ago has you laughing softly to the sky.
“Again, do you really have to ask?” you breathlessly defend, spreading your legs wider to accommodate him. “I need you.”
“You have me,” he responds in a murmur, “but that’s good enough for now.”
“Din, please.” He hesitates, squeezing your outer thighs like it gives him any purchase to be here in the moment instead of chickening out. “Don’t make me beg you to fuck—”
“Do you want me to?”
Just like that, he loses his resolve.
No longer soft, but stern; exactly the tone the bounty hunter takes when he’s ready to fight — where the odds, no matter how small, will be in his favor.
You stop talking to catch your breath, chin tilting down to find his voice at the apex of your thighs. “What?” 
“Answer the question.” 
“But you didn’t let me finish asking—”
“Then let me ask,” he decides for the both of you, taking a pause to dwell on what’s at stake before asking in full: “Do you want me to fuck you?”
This is it. 
This is how you die. 
Under Din Djarin on the Razor Crest, blindfolded and naked.
Blindfolded and naked and hearing him ask if you want him to fuck you.
You nod, miraculously avoiding too much momentum so as to not knock yourself back out. 
“I can take it.”
You hear a sharp inhale from between your legs, as if you’ve delivered the final blow.
Din places one last kiss on the hood of your clit before climbing back up your torso, lips trailing along sweat-sheened skin. You make space, blindly searching for his trousers. His hands are already there, pushing the remaining fabric separating you both down and away.
“I’ll be gentle,” he reassures. You both groan when your hand ventures around his side, nails dragging purposefully along the curve of his ass.
“I don’t want you to be gentle.” 
He laughs over you, finally arriving to meet you face to face.
“Cyar’ika, let me savor this.”
There’s that nickname again.
The one in Mando’a, a term of endearment.
Din gently rests the palm of his left hand along your skin, thumb adoringly swiping along your cheekbone.
“Let me savor having you.”
As if you are the most precious thing in this universe.
(I would scorch the galaxy for you.) 
The heat of his pelvis presses against your core and you cant your hips, trying to find him in this darkness. The hand upon your cheek trembles as he shifts on the mattress, only to carefully press the tip of his cock onto your clit.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat.
He’s there. He’s really right there.
He experimentally drags the tip against you, up then down, repeating when he’s rewarded with another moan. You shudder at the sensation, picturing what he may look like above you. What you wouldn’t give to see him taking himself in his hand, flexed and strong and trembling as he kneels between your hips. The motion of his bare hand gliding up and down the length of himself. Eyes on eyes, never once looking away.
Does he bite his lip? Does he look as flushed as you feel?
“And you’re sure?” he all but whispers, as if enamored with the nakedness of you beneath him. “You’re sure you really want this?”
He says this, but deep down your heart swells knowing the real question:
Are you sure you really want me?
“Yes,” you respond in a voice so eager that you would feel foolish if you weren’t so desperate to have him. “I want you.”
And just as promised, he listens.
Finally — finally — you give way to the tip of his cock as he pushes forward, oh so gentle with each passing inch that fills you. You both gasp simultaneously at the delicious stretch, the burn spreading throughout your body.
Din’s forehead drops against yours once he bottoms out, completely filling you.
Above you, the Mandalorian trembles as he waits for your command. You’re not confident you aren’t shaking, too, from the sheer weight of it all — of what it means in the moment to be here like this, with him, under him.
And it’s taking every ounce of his control, his resolve, his trust, in you.
Lifting your head from the pillow to catch him in a kiss, the passion spurs him to slowly pull out, pushing back in once more and repeating until he’s in a steady rhythm. 
He speaks, curses, moaning under his breath and into your mouth like he doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it.
Fully at your mercy, even though you’re supposed to be at his.
Every day. Here and now, you decide you want to hear this every single day until you’re on the soil of Coruscant, and even then.
Trask was a close call, but you would endure a million of the same if it means you end up here, in the most feared bounty hunter’s bed, feeling alive for what feels like the very first time.
After a full moment, you moan with encouragement, rocking your hips into his. “Harder.”
Tenderly, he takes a side of your face with his hand. 
“Are you sure?” he murmurs, struggling to keep his initial composure.
You push your hips up, meeting his thrust in the middle and causing him to outright groan.
“Does that answer the question, Din Djarin?” you playfully murmur back.
The use of his full name causes the rhythm to sputter, but he regains the upper hand and starts fucking into you with intent. He reaches his free hand to lace your fingers together, skin to skin, and squeezes. You squeeze back, reassuring it’s good.
It’s better than good. The second storm is already swirling, brewing in waves in your lower belly. Your toes curl as your legs lift, circling his waist as he pistons into you with his head in the crook of your neck.
“Not — gonna last,” he admits in a grunt, angling his hips and causing you to press your lips together to avoid a shriek.
“That — mmpfh — that’s okay,” you promise, meeting his thrusts with your own desperate hips. “Just touch me.”
He swears, fumbling the hand once holding yours to dip between your abdomens, sloping over your mound to search for the bundle of nerves. You cry out when he slides past it, pushing along your folds, until two fingers glide back up to press against your clit.
“I got you,” he tells you, rolling his hips while his fingers follow in fast, pressured circles. “So good. So, so good for me.”
By the tightness of his voice, you know he’s close — his thrusts become less timed, more erratic as though he chases his orgasm. You can already feel it approaching, swift and relentless, the longer he mumbles nonsense against your skin.
“For you,” you whisper in his ear, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Only you.”
That’s it.
Four words is all it takes for his muscle to freeze, moan dissolved as Din presses impossibly close and spills into you. He continues to move his hand, furiously chasing the pitch of your whimpers until you’re back in the nebula underneath the blindfold.
Your second orgasm flutters deep within, walls clutching onto Din as you take everything he can give.
All you can see are stars.
And all you can feel is him.
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