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You wake to the rarest, most glorious sight in all the galaxy: the bare face of a still sleeping Mandalorian. Your riduur’s normally hardened features relaxed and unguarded as he snoozes peacefully, the sharp and worn lines of his handsome face restful and soft as his breathing purrs.
Unable to help yourself, you reach up to play with Din’s hair, carding your fingers through the floppy, soft strands and mindlessly twisting his locks around your fingers. Though it was not your intention to wake the man, it’s not long before his lashes start to flutter open.
“Good morning, mesh’la.”
“Good morning, my love,” you lean forward to press a soft, chaste kiss on Din’s lips, “your hair is getting long.”
“Mmmmhmmm,” he nuzzles forward, chasing your taste.
“I could cut it for you.”
Din chuckles while wrapping his strong arms around your waist, then, in one swift motion, rolls you on top of him as you squeal in surprise, “I’ve never heard of a Princess who knew how to cut hair.”
You grin down at him, fingers still dancing through his curls; oh, how you love the press of Din’s bare chest against yours, the feel of your entire body rising and falling on the power of his breathing alone, “I’ve been taking lessons from the Royal barber.”
The Mandalorian melts at your admission, forever touched by the efforts you make to accommodate his Creed, to tend to him, “I’ve always just cut my own hair.” An errant thought strikes him as he recalls the look of some of his legion at their last training session, “Wait… have you been practicing on the Guard?”
“I have!” Your eyes widen in surprise, “Oh no! How come?”
“No reason, cyare,” Din grins, amused by the image of Solana’s most fearsome warriors trying to sit still while their beloved Princess wields a pair of “practice” scissors at their heads.
You slap at Din’s shoulder, though your attempt to look offended fools no one – one of your life’s greatest joys is being teased by your husband, to be one of the few beings in the known worlds who can find themselves on the receiving end of the Mandalorian’s normally hidden good humour, “No one even sees your hair, save for Grogu and I.”
“Just because I’m under a helmet doesn’t mean I can’t be a little vain,” Din smiles so hard his dimples make a surprise morning appearance - the sight sets your heart aflutter. After running a gentle finger over the curve of the elusive dip on his right cheek, you tap it lovingly, “Well, I concede you have very good reason to be vain, General.”
You lean down to kiss him just as Din surges upwards to capture your mouth. He licks in tenderly as soon as you open for him, lips that seal against yours curving into a satisfied grin at your soft inviting whimpers. Your tongue slides along Din’s, slow and lazy, as he steals your air, over and over. You’ll never get over this – being able to kiss your riduur in your shared bed with no sense of urgency, getting lost in his affection with no looming fear of getting caught, of time running out. He’s here, he’s staying, he’s home.
“Okay, Princess, I would love it if you’d cut my hair,” Din murmurs against your lips.
“Really?” Though Din always says he could never refuse you anything, his indulgence still delights you every time.
“Yes, really. I welcome any opportunity to carry a reminder of you with me, always,” Din’s expression is gentle and earnest, his love for you ever apparent in the depths of his soulful brown eyes.
You think to your hair ribbon that’s now securely sewn to the inside lining of Din’s gloves and your heart kvells at your Mandalorian warrior’s penchant for sentimentality; to keep from tearing up you start to climb off your husband and out of bed, “I’ll call for some scissors.”
No match for Din’s lightning-fast reflexes nor his brute strength, your breath catches in your throat as he easily pulls you back to bed and pins you to the mattress with only the smolder of his gaze. Giggling, you flush with warmth as Din hovers over you, shaggy hair falling messily on his forehead; voice husky, he descends on your lips once more, “Later, cyar’ika.”