Peeling the spandex off of Din Djarin’s sweaty body... maybe to share a post ride shower...
Okay bye!
We’re thirsting for the spandex Jay, we are t h i r s t i n g.
I feel so attacked by this ask that I genuinely had to lay down and stare at the ceiling for a good long while to try not to get overwhelmed at just... Din Djarin showering.
AU Masterlist
Spoiler: it didn’t help.
Hence this miss I’m about to post below that I wrote frantically on my phone and is probably riddled with errors BUT I SIMPLY--- COULD NOT LOOK AT IT I WAS BLUSHING SO MUCH. Cyclist Din really is a whole mood now huh.
So I may have misread this because of the images I was bombarded with and wrote Solo Din RIP but I will be sure to add a longer ficlet where he possibly gets some help
***
Din grabbed the small microfibre towel from where it was hanging behind the door when he let himself back into the house. His lungs were still burning and greedily pulling in large swallows of air as warm skin – overheated from that last sprint – made his body straddle a subtle, delirious high as it cooled down.
The towel was only useful for swiping over his face where sweat had trickled down his hairline along the sculpted ridges and dips in his features, droplets clinging to messy strands of hair that fell into his eyes as he made his way to the bathroom.
Many cyclists would argue that the exhilaration in the twenty minutes after a ride couldn’t be surpassed, but for Din, nothing quite matched the feeling of peeling off the straining spandex that supported his muscles while exercising. Fabric that now clung to his skin, damp with his prior exertion.
Time was always taken before turning on the shower to drag the jersey over his head and let the cool air of the bathroom – yet unaffected by the steam a hot shower filled it with – kiss his skin. The veins along his forearm more pronounced from sweating and a need to rehydrate, a glisten of it shining across the soft muscles of his exposed abdomen and chest. The change in temperature immediately had his tired muscles tensing momentarily, but it only took a roll of his shoulders, a careful circling of his head to release them once more.
This was the only time Din didn’t sigh in frustration or annoyance or stress; the sigh that left him as he removed his shorts and bibknick one of relief, of pleasure even. It didn’t escape his notice that maybe it had been a little too long since he had last gotten laid if the simple act of removing his clothes could make his skin hum.
The reflection he caught in the mirror was a mess of contradictions; tired eyes and a dusting of age now sprinkled along the sparse facial hair along his jaw and softened his middle a touch. The solid strength of his thighs and arms honed from years of activity and a physically demanding job that echoed in the wide breadth of his shoulders and trimness of his waist. The boyish mop of messy curls that softened his features but highlighted the crows’ feet that kissed the corners of his eyes.
Sometimes, Din noticed his age. Other times, he noticed the parts of himself he still recognised as the virile youth he was in his twenties. The addictive quality of cycling meant he always felt the latter; an injection of vigour and passion he sorely needed, and he took a hit of it daily.
The man in the mirror became less and less visible the more steam fogged his small bathroom until he could see nothing at all. The single instance of contemplation and peace Din allowed himself to have in these quiet moments when the house was empty and the world still waking up, was over.
The spray had his eyes closing immediately as the water – hot in temperature but cool on his overheated skin – coursed down his body, plastering his hair to his forehead and neck where it had grown much too long.
With practiced ease, Din lathered the soap in his hands and started along his shoulders, a pained groan leaving him at the tightness he found there. He worked the soap efficiently down his arms, over the firm, sinewed muscles of his biceps and forearms while the heat in the water melted away any residual tension in his back and shoulders. The lather of the soap already worked over his arms and chest cascaded down over the rest of his skin. His hands missed or rather, didn’t notice, the softness of his tanned skin, darker slightly where his shorts and jersey left him exposed to the sun. Nor did they bother with the attractive dip along his hips down towards his navel, a dusting of sparse, dark hair trailing down towards somewhere only his hand had been able to touch in months.
Perhaps if he had a partner, showers would last longer than ten minutes. Where the militant and concise movements of his hands over his body would slow to lazy caresses and where the touch of hands might be followed with lips and tongue. Where time would escape his notice until the hot water turned icy, and laughter muffled against skin would fill his silent home and he would consider, maybe for a moment to make use of one of those sick days he never bothered taking.
For now though, he simply turned off the still hot water and apart from the water dripping from his naked body to the tiled floor of his shower, silence filled his life once more.
Wily, your mando art just destroyed me. Like, in the best way, and I’m in tears, and holy shit you are so talented?!!? Any chance you’ve got any fluff to follow that up or am I just going to have to live with this pain??
You have no leg to stand on and no right to be here. There is no justification for your behavior. Get the fuck off of her tumblr and accept the fact that your own choices are to blame.
Will. Hands down. Santi is sexy as hell and I think there would be many laughs and late nights with him in a fling. However, I just don’t get security and longevity with him. He seems like the kind of guy always looking for “that new thing”, and I like a man (or woman) to make me feel secure.
Will to me, is quiet but observant, careful but assured, strong but understanding. And FINNNNNNEEEEE. Love me some Will.
I just wanted to drop in here and tell you that a) you are the sweetest and b) I am so in awe of your talent. Love you, sis! ❤️❤️
jay!!! my wonderful, wonderful friend. (the fact that i can call you that is still so insane to me because i’ve just been admiring from afar since the beginning of january and yes i checked) i love YOU! you talented, smart, amazing wonderful person.
Bri!! Sweet friend, do you mind doing a fmk for me?? I think you know me pretty well by now, but here are the basics: INTJ with a thirst for adventure, kind of slow to warm up but loves hard, sarcastic af and down to try anything. 🥰
you would have a slow burn with: frankie. adventure buddies that realize there’s more there.
you would be enemies to lovers with: javi. if you’re slow to warm up and he’s slow to warm up, then who’s driving the car?? kjhgfhgvcf. no really, you would just exist in the proximity of each other, not quite enemies, but not friends, and then suddenly all the walls are down.
but your soul mate would be: din. it’s just perfect.
Just yes, yes, yes, yes to all this. Can we just imagine this?
👑 - a Fancy Dinner HC with Cyclist!Din
Okay, Din isn’t the most formal person in the world. He hates ties, can’t stand stuffy shopping malls with even stuffier people in them, and would rather be knee deep in mud, carrying his bicycle overhead with you laughing on his back across a river for a date.
But he’s not stupid, he understands the charms-- the perks of a nice meal out.
The first, most important being how much your eyes light up when he asks you - I heard that new restaurant that opened is pretty good, we should try it out. The excited nod and press of your lips to his when you told him you couldn’t wait.
Second, the dress you chose to wear. If Din hadn’t reserved a table, he’d have made you both late with meticulously stripping you of the fine black lace to have his way with you before leaving, but... alas, 8pm in an expensive, upmarket restaurant on a Friday meant 8pm on the dot.
Third, Din loves good food. And nothing made the food more appetizing than seeing the bliss on your face when you take the first bite of whatever you chose from the menu, your eyes fluttering shut and a noise that most definitely belonged in the bedroom, spilled out of you.
He’d be the perfect gentleman the entire evening, and honestly you have a hard time not swooning every time he pours you your wine, or leans over the table to brush a stray crumb or drop of ice-cream on your lip with his thumb, or looks so damn handsome in the warm romantic lighting of the restaurant-- hitting his tawny skin and accentuates the charcoal grey of his dress shirt across his broad chest, caressing his biceps-- the top two buttons left temptingly open to reveal the corded muscle of his neck to your eyes.
The conversation is always good. Talking about everything and nothing as the hours pass easily, topics veering from family and friends, work and plans to sultry, more suggestive tones as the alcohol on your lips make you both a bit more daring.
He might let his hand run up along the back of your thigh when you remove yourself to go to the bathroom, trailing dangerously close to the line that crossed into indecent as he tells you not to be long.
You’d compensate him with a languid kiss, bending down to where he sat so you could taste the remenants of the whiskey he drank on his lips, the sweetness of his dessert on his tongue before extracting yourself altogether.
It wouldn’t be too long after that when he suggests you make your way home, the dark promise in his gaze making you agree a lot more rapidly than was proper. The food was fantastic, the atmosphere romantic. But it all faded away in the view of this man who wanted you, loved you. And never hesitated to show it whenever he could.
I may have alluded to this in Aches and Pains, but you don’t quite make it home in time for either of your impatient needs... a hurried clash of teeth and tongue, of wandering hands and desperate moans muffled against the alley wall right outside that fancy restaurant he’d have to take you back to again. He’s rather fond of the location now.
