#JESS my weekend is going pretty okay btw thank you! 💛💕💛💕 I hope yours is too!!

[ifimayhaveaword]

Hi Ali! 🌼 Absolutely no pressure, but I am thinking about either of these soft prompts with Din - I would love to hear what you think!

all the ‘good morning’s and ‘how are you today’s and ‘good night’s

“this reminded me of you”

(Hope you have a beautiful weekend! 💕)

Ahhhh @saradika you’re such a gem :’) ty for your patience with this— I kind of went off script (aka I started writing and realized it fit the prompt in my head and DIDNT actually fit the prompt in realité) but…. What are prompts if not things that make the thoughts flow, whichever way they go?

Anyway, please enjoy some Din x reader + lil bébé fluff, á la season one trope of “Mando picks up some kind rando to travel with them and help watch his kid while he bounty hunts & starts the Jedi search” (it’s a lot of Mando from the readers POV honestly, idk. It’s soft 🤷‍♀️)

You wake to a dry mouth and a comforting weight on your chest, a warm, steady-breathing bundle cuddled up to you in the cockpit. It’s been long enough now, traveling with Mando and his little green ward on the Razor Crest, that this isn’t a new way for you to come to. Whether he climbed up of his own volition or his father-figure deposited him there so the poor man could pilot, you were too groggy to figure out, but it’s far too still for Mando to be in the cockpit with you now. You cradle the sleeping child to your chest to keep from dislodging him as you stretch with a yawn; the twisting and bending yielding satisfying pops, the baby cooing and burrowing deeper into you at the disturbance.

“Sorry, little guy,” you whisper, dropping a gentle kiss to his fuzzy-soft head. “Let’s go find your dad, hmm?”

A light snore is your only response.

Humming and stroking the baby’s little back to keep him sleeping, your search starts and ends at the tiny galley where the food is stored— a broad, shiny figure rifling through the overhead storage, clearly trying to keep the noise down, and he pauses when he hears your approach.

“Did I wake you? I just… I needed something to eat.” The apologetic tone, though quiet, carries through the helmet’s modulator.

It took time to erase every preconceived notion you had of the Mandalorian and replace them with reality: the considerate, dry-humored, sometimes-awkward man in front of you. He cut an intimidating figure, to be sure— the weapons, the armor, his clipped responses and ever-alert demeanor in public. But you think that as much as you were learning how to live with Mando, he was learning facets of himself that he wasn’t even aware existed. He loved the child in his care, every action he took showed that, but those actions weren’t always natural. You saw every hesitation and second guess, heard every quiet ‘tink’ of his helmet tapping in resignation against the walls of the ship. You were sure that the man learning to be patient and open with his ward, the one with the capable, gentle hands and sincere actions, was always there under the armor, but he had clearly only recently been let out.

The man in front of you has reached out to skate a finger along the kid’s downy head, rubbing gently like you’d once pet a tooka, and the child in your arms coos and hums contentedly. The helmet is pointed down towards the child, and you let yourself smile softly at its visor. His hand moves from the child’s head to your shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze that months ago would have caused you to freeze and gape. Now? You simply beam at him a little brighter.

When you were first brought on board, you had initiated almost every interaction between the two of you. A sunny “Good morning” to both him and the little green bean when you saw each of them at the start of your day. A heartfelt “goodnight” or “sleep well” and a soft rub of the baby’s downy-soft ears, a nod to the man who employs you. The Child, you’d found, is almost as touch-starved as you are, taking every opportunity to climb into someone’s arms, butt his head against your leg, hold Mando’s finger is his little claws. Over time you noticed a pattern: the more the child touched Mando and you held the child, the more Mando would breach the distance between you with cautious, deliberate steps.

His repetition of your name reminds you of his question. You wonder bemusedly if you started dozing off standing up.

“Mm-mm,” you deny. “I—“ you yawn again, shifting the child’s warm weight further into one arm, “I woke up thirsty, but it can wait until you’re done eating. I’ll go put him in his hammock—“

You start heading towards the minuscule cot that Mando and the baby share when you hear, “No, no. I was. I was just finishing up. I can take him, you enjoy your tea. Thank you.”

So polite, this man. You give a small nod and a grateful smile, cradling the child to prepare to pass him to his father. You’re a little bereft without his warmth, but Mando’s proximity heats your face and chest in a way you don’t let yourself examine too closely. You’re standing so close together. Your arms brush his in the transfer, almost an embrace— the most you’ve been in contact yet— and you think you hear a relived sigh come from beneath the silver helmet, softer than the modulator could register.

Yes, you think. You’ve come a long, long way.

Zero-pressure tagging @corvueros @keeper0fthestars @ohheyitsokay @chews-erotically @highsviolets