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You’re not sure what first set Din off.
He’s always had a soft spot for kids - you know that - you’ve wormed the tales of Grogu out of the cracks in his heart, held them - and him - close while he murmured his grief to you in the dark. You see it in him when you visit a market and watch dirty-kneed children playing in the dust, laughing as the Beskar hulk watches them, wordless.
He longs for things you can’t imagine.
But this is new, this strange possessiveness, the way he grabs you by the wrist to tug you close when you go anywhere together, the squeeze of his fingers on your shoulder. The dark regard of his visor, a black slash across a horizon of bright silver that watches over you, always. It is made abundantly clear, to everyone, including you: You are his.
This occurs nowhere more so than in the cramped space of the ship, when you are alone together: When he can pin you up a wall, or bend you over his bunk, tear your clothes from you and thrust home, and you push your hips up to meet him.
There are quieter times, in the pitch black of his bunk, hatch closed and lights off - times where he tugs his helmet off, sets it aside with the utmost reverence, and worships you with the same. He’ll bury his face between your thighs for hours, licking and sucking at the source of you, until you have no choice but to come undone, crying out and shaking, left boneless in the void.
And then Din is on you, the weight of his cock hot against your belly, insistent as he drags it down, its heaviness spooling a thread of warmth through you as he drags it over your clit. He knows how to use every part of his body as a tool to accomplish any goal, and this is no different - Din has learned what makes you squirm, or cry, or call his name, and he uses it constantly to his advantage.
“So tight,” he mutters once, in the silence crowded by the heave of your combined breath, as he pushes into the velvety clench of your cunt. You’ll never get used to the feel of him, the heated stretch of your muscles around the thickness of his cock. “So full. Full of me.” He presses his wide hand down on the base of your stomach, just above the dark cluster of curls at your mound, and together you groan as he feels the weight and shift of his cock inside you beneath his palm as he moves.
“Want to fill you,” he grunts as he leans over you, the expanse of his shoulders looming in your periphery. You clutch at him, inside and out, and hold him close as he mutters filthy confessions in your ear. “Feel you overflow, mesh’la, you’re so - ugh - so soft, so perfect, so-”
“Yours,” you gasp, unable to articulate much else, the impossible eclipsing slide of him into you is too much; “I’m yours.”
Din makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a snarl, and you feel his teeth on your neck before he picks up the pace. He takes your knees in his hands and pushes them up, until they’re nearly at your shoulders, and you’re curved up for him to take him so deep you swear you feel the head of his cock nudge up against the dimple of your cervix -
“Would you?” he’s mumbling, and he sounds almost delirious above the slap of skin, sweat and slick. “Would you let me fill you full of my warriors, mesh’la?”
You’re not sure what turns you on more - the words - or the desperate, dangerous edge to his voice. You come undone, your pussy greedy as it clamps down on him in waves, and Din gasps and thrusts deep and holds there. You feel the shaft of his cock jump with the force of the come he pumps into you; thick, pearly-white ropes that overflow and drip down your ass as he pulls back.
Din gathers the mess on his fingers, pushes it back into you. “Keep me in there,” he growls, and you’re too fucked-out to do much else than grin, blissful and savage as you pull him close for a kiss.
He’s no less focused when he takes you elsewhere - your face shoved into the bulkhead - home from a hunt, his blood still singing, he strips you down and gets you wet with his fingers and barely any effort before he fucks into you like a man seeking his salvation in your pussy itself.
Din’s arms encircle you, and you feel him spread his hand over your belly, the other teasing and tugging at a breast. “So beautiful,” he breathes in your ear, and even through the modulator his voice sounds strained, heavy. It makes the pit of your stomach ache.
“Din,” you say, “I would.”
He doesn’t understand what you mean at first - not until you reach down and press your palm over his hand, more firmly over your stomach.
He releases his breath in something like a sob, and his hips stutter, but his rhythm doesn’t suffer further. In fact, he seems to increase his pace, snapping his hips into your ass with greater determination.
“You’d look so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Round with my child - ah, fuck-”
Din is close, you can tell, and you’re not far off. His hand ventures lower, and you let it, bracing yourself on the bulkhead instead as his relentless fingers find the throbbing point of your clit.
He works you over in tandem with his thrusts, until you’re wobbly on your feet and shaking with the need to come, and you spur him on with a gasped: “Fill me - please, Din -” and then you’re both lost. Him, to the release of tension that draws his balls up tight as he holds himself inside and lets go, and you to the toe-curling heat that snaps through you like a sandstorm, leaving your nerves raw and twitching in its wake.
“Did you mean it?” he asks a little later, while you’re in his cot, trying to sleep. Your head is pillowed on the thick muscle of his shoulder, and you turn your head to kiss his chest, smiling in the dark. You’re sticky between your legs, and intend to keep it that way.
“Of course.”
And you regret telling him, because he’s hard again.
But you’re okay with sacrificing at least an hour or so of sleep. At least.