#mandomera fanfiction

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Life With You: A Series of Mandomera Prompt Ficlets pt 8

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! IT’S HERE FINALLY!!!!! 

Prompt was Omera falling asleep on Din’s shoulder and was sent in by @agentscamander-romanoff like two whole ass years ago. Sorry it took so long but it’s finally here.

Din wakes up slowly—later than he usually does. He rolls over and frowns when he realizes there's nobody beside him, reaching out and only feeling warm sheets. It's extremely rare for Omera to wake up before him.

He sighs and opens his eyes finally, sitting up with some effort. Despite sleeping for over twelve hours he's still exhausted. Long stretches in hyperspace always throw him off. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and drags a hand down his face. He needs to shave.

Now that he's more awake he realizes the sound he's hearing is someone singing. He makes his way out of the room to investigate.

Winta is sitting at the kitchen table, humming happily to herself, and next to her is a giant pile of flowers—the blue and white ones that grow around the ponds. The baby is sitting on the table, trying to copy what his big sister is doing, which, Din realizes, is making flower crowns. He watches, amused, as Grogu grumbles and gives up—shoving the flowers into his mouth instead.

Winta giggles and pulls the plants out of Grogu's mouth. “You can't eat them, silly!” she informs her brother. Then she spots Din and says, “Hi dad!”

He smiles and comes up behind her at the table. “What's all this?” he asks, dropping a kiss to the top of her head, and stroking one of the kid's big green ears.

“They're for the wedding!” Winta explains.

Din's over-tired brain processes that information. Oh right. The wedding. He vaguely recalls Winta chattering his ear off about the two villagers who are getting married tonight. The details of that conversation are a little fuzzy—Din had promptly passed out shortly after.

“Where's your mother?” he asks.

“In the common house. She said to come find her once you woke up.”

He drops another kiss to her and Grogu's heads before moving back to the bedroom to put his armor on.

He finds Omera in the common house, preparing a feast with the other women in the village. He comes up beside her and rests his hand on her lower back. Taking a break from kneading dough, she turns to him with a wide grin. “Welcome back!”

He nudges her temple with his helmet and she leans into the contact. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks—always needing to feel useful.

“Yes,” she says, with a kiss to the cheek of his helmet. “Get some rest.”

He starts to protest but she cuts him off. “I know you're exhausted. Get some more sleep. I'll wake you up for the wedding.”

Before he leaves she introduces him to the bride—a twi'lek woman named Corvi who arrived at the village shortly after he permanently settled there. He tips his head in greeting and congratulates her on her marriage.

When he gets back to their hut he ends up passing out for another six hours.

-------------------------

The wedding ceremony is beautiful and Din finds himself reflecting on his own wedding as he watches the festivities from the sidelines. It's late, and the children have long since gone to bed, but the adults have only gotten rowdier. He sees Corvi dancing with her new husband—a human man named Fenn that Din has met only in passing. He's not actually home all that often, after all.

He spies Omera dancing and twirling in the firelight and smiles. He could—and has—watch her for hours. She sees him staring and beams at him—making her way through the crowd to say hi.

He wraps his arms around her and she leans into him—resting her hands on his chestplate.

“Dance with me?” she asks playfully—knowing full well what his answer will be.

When he doesn't respond, she laughs and pulls away, tugging on his hand—beckoning him to follow her.

She leads him to the barn and then turns around to face him. She grabs his other hand and asks again, “Now dance with me?”

“I... don't know how,” he admits sheepishly. “It's not exactly a big part of Mandalorian culture.”

“I can teach you,” she offers.

He does try his best to copy her movements but he feels clumsy and awkward in all his armor. He eventually gives up but that doesn't stop Omera. She dances happily by herself as one song bleeds into another.

He at least feels confident enough to twirl her and when she's back in his arms he pulls her close so her back is to his front. He hears her gasp at the feel of the cool beskar against her back. Leaning down, he nuzzles his helmet in the crook of her neck.

Her breathing hitches and he knows that they're both suddenly aware that they haven't seen each other in over a week.

He's not sure who moves first but suddenly his helmet is being ripped off and dropped to the floor. Their lips crash together and he hoists her off her feet. Her legs wrap around his waist and he starts walking them towards the table in the corner. He deposits her on the table and fumbles to rip his gloves off so he can touch her bare skin. Her fingers rake through his hair as his lips trail down her throat. She moans softly as he nips at her pulse point.

Her hands claw at his belt and she gasps in his ear, “Fuck me, Din!”

He drags her to the edge of the table and soon the barn is filled with the sound of their moans—both too wound up to care who might be listening.

-----------------------------------------

Once their breathing is under control again, they just bask in the moonlight filtering in from the open window—content to just be back in each other's arms.

“I missed you,” Omera says, nuzzling her nose against his chestplate.

“Missed you too,” he mumbles, with a kiss to her hair.

Nothing else exists outside their little bubble—the party outside rages on but neither one of them is keen to rejoin it.

The music suddenly shifts to something slower and softer, and Omera pulls him closer as she hums along. His hand on her back stills as he gets an idea.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

She looks up at him and replies, teasingly, “I thought you 'don't dance'.”

He lets out a huff of amusement. “I think I can handle slow dancing. I do owe you a wedding dance, after all.”

He pulls back and holds out a hand to help her down from the table and leads her towards the patch of moonlight visible from the window. Her hands snake around his neck and he slides his around her waist—pulling her close.

They sway back and forth for several songs before the music picks back up again. Omera doesn't lift her head from his shoulder though. That's when he realizes that she's fallen asleep on him.

He smiles and presses a soft kiss to her temple. He hates to disturb her but he knows there's no way his beskar pauldron makes a good pillow. He nudges her awake gently. “C'mon, time for bed.”

“But I'm comfy,” she whines.

He snorts. “No you're not. Now come on, I'm sure you'd much rather be sleeping in our bed.”

“You make a good pillow,” she insists.

He chuckles and readjusts so he can, first, scoop his helmet up off the floor and put it back on, and then so he can get an arm underneath her knees—hoisting her up bridal style. She nuzzles her face in his cloak as he carries her back to their hut.

She's asleep again by the time they get there and this time he can't bring himself to wake her.

He lays her down gently on the bed and gets to work getting her undressed and into her sleep attire. His next step is taking off all his beskar without too much noise—easier said than done.

She reaches out to him sleepily when he crawls into bed and he pulls her into his arms and holds her close.

Before Omera, and the kids—before finding his little clan of four, his aliit, Din didn't ever believe he could be this happy, this at peace. He didn't think he would ever feel so at home anywhere.

The warm weight of his wife against him lulls Din to sleep within minutes—it feels good to be home.

[badadder1]

Hmm. I love all of my children equally but I'd have to say my Mandalorian, Mando/Omera story, A Good Thing. 61 chapters, 150k. It started out as the romance I wanted for the show and blossomed into a larger narrative roping in all my favorite characters, a few OC's, a whole ass war and hours of research into Star Wars lore for the details. I'm currently obsessed with Kakashi and Sakura, I literally see them everywhere, but this story feels like my best work honestly. When I occasionally go back and read it (I write stories I want to read) there isn't anything I wish I'd done differently. Love this baby.

Here's a thing for fic writers

Self rec a story your favorite story you've written. Who cares the fandom, the pairing, whatever.

you all have a favorite child, show it to the world.

[newpathwrites]

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

VIII. Futures (Epilogue) - Part 1

There was a time, lost and alone in the galaxy as a young Mandalorian, that Jai didn’t imagine they’d even live to see adulthood. And now they lived a life beyond even their wildest childhood dreams. How lucky they were that Din had answered the marshall’s call that fateful day.

Had he not, they would never have found this family, this home, this fulfilled life…

Speaking of the man to whom Jai owed everything, here he was now stepping swiftly toward them, armor impeccable as always despite his tentative retirement.

They met in the middle, more forcefully than intended, embracing fiercely.

Summary: How is our lovely clan doing a few years down the line? Spoiler alert… they’re doing very well!

Note: This chapter deals with a lot! We’re going to look at every member of our little family (though admittedly with a greater focus on Jai and Winta), what they’re doing in the future, and how it all fits into a greater plan.

This chapter will examine Jai’s experience of gender more explicitly through flashbacks of their interactions with Winta over the years. Hint: Winta was instrumental in securing Jai’s identity as they came of age on Sorgan. When Jai was uncomfortable in their body and afraid that nobody would understand, Winta was always there as a quiet ally. And it went both ways - Jai helped Winta through other struggles that weren’t depicted in prior chapters. I hope you all come away from this epilogue better understanding the strength and depth of this relationship and how important it has been to both parties.

Warnings: Discussion of infertility, sexual references, gender dysphoria (and euphoria), references to parental death.

Word count: 5.2k

Read on AO3

____________________

Din awoke to something warm and fuzzy pressed against his forehead, a pair of very familiar claws tapping his cheeks.

“Grogu,” he addressed his ward tiredly.  “I know you’re excited, but can I sleep just a few more minutes?”

The tapping only continued, and Din opened his eyes to look into the larger ones of his son.  “Grogu… use your words, ad’ika.  What do you want?”

The boy huffed in response, raising his little hands in the air as the sheets and blankets went flying off the bed.  “Up now, you will.”

“Hey,” Din admonished him, sitting up and pulling the sheets back up to cover his sleeping riduur.  “No need to wake your mother.”

He took a moment to stretch out his joints.  Age and several long decades of abusing his body were catching up to him.  He was ‘retired’, in a manner of speaking, these days, and that had certainly helped with the chronic tension in his back.  But some mornings, like today, he’d wake up with Grogu dozing on his chest, much of his pain miraculously resolved.

“Thank you, ad’ika,” he told him gratefully.  “But I really wish you’d reserve your powers for more important things.”

Grogu hopped off the bed defiantly and looked up at his father.  He had other priorities at the moment and no interest in discussing his (in his opinion) very reasonable use of the force.

“Come today?  Jai will?”

Din couldn’t help but smile.  “Yeah.  Jai should be here in…” he looked over at the chronometer.  “... just a few hours now.  Why don’t you go next door and see if Winta needs any help while we wait?  It’s getting harder for her now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he responded with a toothy and knowing grin.  “Help her, I will.  Get up, you will.”

Grogu hopped off, and Din laid his head back down on the pillow.  Perhaps he’d bought himself a few more minutes of sleep.  His son’s excitement was contagious, though.  Stars, he was looking forward to having Jai back home.  He’d really missed the kid.  Though, he supposed, they really weren’t a kid anymore, were they?  And anyway, they’d been an old soul practically since birth.

He knew he’d missed his chance at a few more minutes of relaxation when he heard the front door of the cabin open and close and Winta’s voice floating in from the kitchen.

She hesitated a moment at the bedroom door, whispering, “Is everyone decent?” before waltzing in with Grogu on her hip and a protective hand over her swollen belly.

Din got up quickly, placing a finger over his lips, and guided her out and back into the kitchen as he pulled a shirt over his head.  “Your mother’s sleeping in for once.  She was up all night getting ready… as if Jai will care about the silverware being polished…”

“Well, I couldn’t sleep… too excited,” Winta replied quietly as she started a kettle on the stove for the morning caf.  “I figured Grogu would be awake, so I decided to come over instead of waking up Tov with all of my tossing and turning.  Baby’s kicking up a storm, too.”

“Sit down.  Let me do that.”  Din pulled out a chair and gestured for her to take a seat, his fatherly instincts kicking back in full force in the months since learning of his adoptive daughter’s pregnancy.  

Grogu force jumped out of her arms, and Winta lumbered over but didn’t immediately sit down, reaching out to take Din’s hand and laying it flat over her belly.  “Can you feel that?”

“Yeah.”  His face broke out into a fond smile as he felt the baby’s movement under his hand.  

Winta sometimes couldn’t believe that this was the same man who’d wandered onto their planet over a decade ago, decked out in full armor with a hand perpetually at ready to pull a blaster, a tiny green child he claimed wasn’t his own in tow.  Now he was the picture of a doting grandparent.

“That’s your grandpa, little one,” she murmured, leaning forward to speak over her belly.  “He’s going to teach you all kinds of things… when you’re much much older…”

He chuckled as he helped her lower into her seat.  “You know Mandalorians start training with a blaster at age five…”

“Don’t you even think about it,” she replied firmly.  “Age fifteen… minimum…”

Din pulled the whistling kettle off the burner and poured two cups before setting himself down.  “I suppose I’ll have my hands full training Grogu.”  He turned toward his son.  “You should show Winta what you’ve learned one of these days - fly her to Mandalore.”  

“Yes,” Grogu told her from his perch on the table.  “Fly you, I will.”

Din looked back at Winta.  “He can do that now.”  

She smiled - Din’s pride in his foundling, technically her older brother, was very sweet.  “After the baby’s born, Grogu - I’ve been wanting to visit Mandalore and see it for myself.”

“Oh…” Din suddenly interjected. “Bo-Katan sent me a message last night.  Jai’s climate reconstitution system is working.  The test area is almost completely un-glassed.  If this works, well… So many planets destroyed by the Empire could be rebuilt.”

Winta nodded approvingly and let out a soft chuckle.  “Jai will be elated to hear that, though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Nope.  Not in the slightest,” Din agreed with a trademark shake of his head.

_______________________________________

Din let Omera sleep well into the late morning.  She’d been running herself ragged between helping prepare for the baby, which could come any day now, and Jai’s impending visit.  Though Winta had begun to take over some of her mother’s responsibilities within the village, she was physically limited at the moment by her very pregnant state, and Omera had been insistent on continuing to do it all, refusing Din’s every offer of assistance.

Stars, she was going to be livid…

“Din.  Djarin.  How could you let me sleep so late?”

He huffed and rolled his eyes toward Winta, who stifled a giggle, before turning around in his chair to face his wife.  “Omera.  You look well rested, Cyare.”

“Don’t you ‘cyare’ me…  There’s too much to do before Jai gets here!”

“Like what?” he asked, getting up from the table and standing before her.

“Well,” she started.  “I need to fill the water basins…”

“Done.”

“And we still need to put the crib together…”

“Tov and I did it yesterday.”

Omera was losing the argument, and she knew it.  She knew she should be grateful, but… she just needed everything to be perfect.

“The stew?” she asked with much less furor.

“It’s already simmering at my place,” Winta told her from the table.  “Relax, Mama.  Everything is under control.  You need rest, too.” 

Omera looked down at her feet for a moment.  Her voice broke slightly as she looked back up, tears filling her eyes.  “I just… need to be useful…”

What in the galaxy…?  This woman practically carried a small planet on her shoulders.

“Omera,” Din murmured, pulling her against him and wrapping his arms around her body as she cried.  “In what universe are you ever not useful?  What’s really going on, Cyare?”

Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Winta hoisting her body up and out of her chair, whispering to Grogu to follow her out the door to give them privacy.

Omera looked at him through the tears, responding with a despairing tone.  “I’m old, Din.”

“You’re not old…”

She inhaled sharply and averted her gaze before sharing the full truth, one that had been bothering her since seeing the medic in town a few weeks back.  “I’m going through the change.”

Din had to think for a moment about what that even meant.  Menopause - that was it, he was rather sure.  Admittedly, he didn’t know much about it… but it didn’t seem like any good reason to run oneself into the ground.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“I feel fine, Din,” she replied with annoyance.  “But soon I’ll be old and useless…. And gray… and ugly… and you won’t be attracted to me anymore…”

He gave her a quizzical expression, smirking as he asked her dryly, “I’m already gray, Omera.  Do you no longer find me beautiful?”

His monotone delivery did her in.  Ah, that dry humor she loved so much.  It was hard not to smile at that, and she felt her mouth turning up against her will.  And of course, she still found him exceedingly handsome.  “You know what I mean, Din.  It’s different for women…”

“Well,” he responded matter-of-factly.  “It’s not different for me.  How about…” he started, putting on a slightly suggestive expression that was almost comical on this perpetually serious man.  “I spend tonight showing you how beautiful and valuable you are to me?  Grogu can stay with Jai in the barn - they’ll want to catch up, anyway.”

“Oh?” she replied coyly.  “How will you show me, Din?”

Got him.  That wiped the smirk from his face as his cheeks went pink with embarrassment.  After all these years, he was still shy about speaking of their intimate activities out loud.  “Don’t make me say it, please.”  

“Will you ravage me?” she asked, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I don’t… ravage…”

“Or perhaps you’ll make love to me…”

He cleared his throat, one of his only nervous tells.  “I will… that… yes…”

_______________________________________

As Winta lumbered over to her own cabin and set Grogu to work watching over the stew, her thoughts turned to Jai - her slightly older sibling… and truly her best friend.

Jai was different from anyone Winta had ever met.  They were unbelievably smart - and yet never once made Winta feel unintelligent.  They were strong and fierce as any good Mandalorian should be - and yet soft-spoken and kind at the very same time.

When Winta first approached Jai about training, she’d almost expected them to laugh in her face.  Winta was meant to be a farmer, not a protector.  She hadn’t nearly the strength or determination of her mother and certainly not that of her adoptive father.

But Jai didn’t laugh.  They responded to her inquiry with complete seriousness, wanting to understand her goals and gauging how they could help.  Winta’s training began that very day, starting with skills so basic that it was nearly embarrassing in front of a fully trained Mandalorian - but Jai would have none of that nonsense.  

“Everyone has to start somewhere, Winta.  When you’ve got the basics down, we’ll go to Din.  He can train you better than anyone.”

“Do you really think I can do this?” she questioned.  “You’re not just humoring me?”

“Of course not,” they responded simply.  “Din was a foundling, and so was I.  We weren’t born into this - we were taught.  And you can be, too.”

Jai, in fact, had taught Winta many things over the years.  When she struggled with the relatively basic mathematics taught to the older children in the village lessons, mostly that relevant to managing the farming ponds and related finances, it was Jai who worked through it with her, never once making Winta feel stupid or inferior.

Winta had been so embarrassed when Jai found her crying over her worksheets, ones that even some of the younger children had finished with ease.  Jai read about things like quantum physics - basic math was nothing to them.  But they insisted on helping, telling her that she just needed a frame of reference.

“It just doesn’t make any logical sense to me, Jai.  Add this, subtract that, carry this… I can’t remember the order… and I don’t see how these random steps lead to an answer…”

“It’s not random,” Jai said calmly, turning the paper over and taking the pencil from Winta’s hand.  “I’ll show you.  Let’s draw it out.”

It had been a brief window into Jai’s way of thinking - and suddenly it did all make perfect sense.  Stars, how Winta had wished that her brain could work like that.

Winta laughed lightly to herself, recalling some of their more recent, long-distance escapades.

She had confided to Jai on a holocall one day when she was feeling particularly low, that despite her and Tov engaging in plenty of baby-making activity over many months, she had been unable to conceive.  All she had ever wanted was to be a mother, and she was starting to worry it would never happen.

Jai couldn’t relate, being averse to sex… and relationships… and babies… 

But they would do just about anything for Winta - the kindest soul in the galaxy and one who had provided unshakeable support through some very awkward teenage years.

Medical resources on Sorgan were severely limited, so in their spare time, Jai had been doing some research on Winta’s behalf.  They suggested natural remedies and timing methods, trying to keep their expression of disgust regarding the ‘frequency’ topic to a minimum.

“Oh, stars…” they started, flipping through a book on natural conception methods while chatting with Winta by holo.  “You owe me for this - I need to wash my eyes out.”

“What is it?” Winta chuckled.

Jai held the book up so that Winta could see.  “Have you tried this position?”

Winta couldn’t help but laugh.  “I haven’t, but we’ll give it a go.”

“Please… don’t tell me about it.”

Winta had not told Jai about her subsequent pregnancy and had asked the rest of the family to keep the secret - the timing of Jai’s visit to Sorgan was perfect for a surprise.

“Hey,” Tov interrupted her daydreaming with an affectionate knock of her shoulder.  “Ship just made landfall.  Ready for the big reveal?”

“Yeah,” Winta nodded, turning toward her husband with a joyful smile.  “Let’s do it.”

_______________________________________

Jai had to wade through nearly the entire village’s population before they managed to reach their waiting family, the small community eager to welcome them home after several years away to continue their studies in the core.

It was surreal to recall that they had once been a newcomer to this place, a terrified and lonely teenager cast out of their tribe, serendipitously falling into the lap of their trusted beroya.  And now they were living the same in-between life as that man - one outside the creed and yet ever devoted to their people.

While Jai’s ultimate path had led them to an academic career in environmental science, their true goal was to support small planets like Sorgan whose sustenance was being affected by climate changes, as well as those which had suffered severe atmospheric damage at the hands of the Empire.  As such, they’d become the official environmental consultant to both of their ‘home’ planets and even held a titled position on Mandalore, awarded by Bo-Katan herself, a valued mentor when it came to the political aspects of implementing their work throughout the Republic.

There was a time, lost and alone in the galaxy as a young Mandalorian, that Jai didn’t imagine they’d even live to see adulthood.  And now they lived a life beyond even their wildest childhood dreams.  How lucky they were that Din had answered the marshall’s call that fateful day.  

Had he not, they would never have found this family, this home, this fulfilled life…

Speaking of the man to whom Jai owed everything, here he was now stepping swiftly toward them, armor impeccable as always despite his tentative retirement.

They met in the middle, more forcefully than intended, embracing fiercely.

“Stars, Jai,” Din said, valiantly fighting back tears in this public setting.  “You’ve been gone way too long.  We’ve missed you, ad’ika.”

“I know, Din,” they replied, subtly sniffling.  “I’m so glad to be back.”

Jai was soon greeted by Grogu, quite literally launching himself into their arms and gripping each side of Jai’s face.

“Missed you, I have.”

“Same, Grogu,” they returned affectionately.  “You’ve grown several inches since the last time I was here.  We’ll spar later, huh?  You can show me what you can do these days.”

Grogu smirked.  “Beat you, I will…”

“I don’t doubt it for a second, vod.”

Omera’s voice took their attention then.

“Jai!”

She’d been wrapped up in a task when word came of Jai’s arrival and was now running toward them as fast as her feet could carry her.

Jai met her in a few long strides, and she immediately looked over their unarmored form, the mother she was, making sure they were well and nourished and fully intact after being away from home for so long.

“Oh, sweetheart.  We have missed you so much…”

Unlike Din, Omera allowed the tears to flow freely as she embraced them in an excessively long hug.

“Omera, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you all.  This trip is long overdue.”

She pulled back to look at them again, holding their shoulders as she puzzled over something.  “You look different…”. Her expression shifted as she suddenly registered what had changed, and she looked up directly into their eyes before adjusting her phrasing.  

“You look good, Jai… you look like you…”

Jai’s eyes threatened to spill with tears - they’d worried so much about this moment.

“Thank you… buir…”

Omera squeezed their shoulders lovingly before stepping aside.  There was one more person Jai needed to greet.

Scratch that - two, apparently.

“Welcome home, Jai,” Tov said with warmth, smiling that boyishly handsome grin of his.

Jai took his forearm in a strong handshake.

“It’s good to see you, Tov.  Where’s Winta?  No offense, but she’s top priority.”

“None taken - she’s waiting for you in the barn,” he laughed.  “And hey, I promised you I’d take good care of her, and I have.  I just want you to know that.”

Jai huffed.  “Unfortunately, I know a bit too much about just how well you’ve taken care of her…”

Tov turned an endearing shade of pink at that.

“Gods, Jai.  Still blunt as ever, huh?  Just go on, now - she’s got a surprise for you.”

Jai clapped him affectionately on the shoulder before heading toward the barn, adding quietly to themself, “Oh, I’ve got a surprise for her, too.”

_______________________________________

Jai couldn’t help but reflect as they walked toward the barn to finally see their beloved sister in person.  They were about to share something big - something that might not have ever happened without Winta’s support and tacit acceptance.

Gender had always felt like a complicated thing for Jai - not so much inwardly, but rather outwardly in their interactions with the world.  But Winta always managed to make it so simple.  She was the only person, perhaps along with Omera, that Jai never had to explain themselves to.  Their gender, or lack thereof, simply was… no questions, no doubt.

Jai remembered the first time it happened like yesterday.  A young child, who certainly didn’t know any better, had approached Jai not long after their arrival on the planet and asked why she always wore her helmet.

Without missing a beat, a then 13 year-old Winta had responded kindly, “This is Jai, Saul.  They wear a helmet because they’re a Mandalorian, just like Din.  Understand?”

“Yeah.  Their armor looks neat.  I like it.”

Winta had never even asked why - just followed Din’s lead in using gender neutral terms, accepting it without further question.

“I’m not a girl,” Jai said softly as the child skipped away.  “Well, technically I am… I guess, but… I’m not…”

“You’re not a girl,” Winta stated simply, shrugging.  There was nothing more to say.

In the following years, puberty had taken its toll, increasing Jai’s discomfort with their own body which had become outwardly much more feminine.

Winta had stumbled upon them crying over their wardrobe one day, and Jai had shared their turmoil.  Women’s clothes fit to their chest far too much, but men’s clothes didn’t look right with their proportions, either.  Even their chest plate didn’t fit properly anymore, but they certainly couldn’t tell Din about it…

That night, for the first and only time, Winta went behind Jai’s back to inform her mother of their struggles, and by the next morning, all of Jai’s shirts had been let out in the chest by Omera’s expert hands.

It seemed Omera had also let it slip to Din that Jai’s armor should be modified to give a bit more breathing room as they continued to grow but perhaps without the typical contours of the female chest plate.  On their next visit to Trask, it was done, no questions asked.

The covert had always been respectful, but this was the kind of quiet, genuine support for which Jai had always longed.

And it helped… at first…  But the truth was that Jai didn’t want this feminine body at all.  Every day they grew more uncomfortable until they finally snapped, unable to tolerate it any longer.

They’d read about chest binding and decided to give it a try one day with some spare fabric they’d found in the storage closet.

They made a fatal error, though, in neglecting to lock the door - nobody ever came out here this early, and on those rare occasions, the intruder would always knock before coming in.  

Well… except Winta…

“Jai…” Winta addressed them in surprise as they stood half-clothed with the fabric wrapped tightly around their chest.  “What are you doing?”  She sounded… appalled…

Jai’s face burned hot with shame, and tears stung their eyes.  What were they thinking?  Now Winta probably thought them perverse. 

But of course not…

“Jai… come on…”  Winta walked toward them and took the free edge of the fabric in her hands.  “You’re going to hurt yourself if you do it this way.  Unwrap this, and we’ll do it properly.”

Jai didn’t even know what to say.  They just watched Winta in wonder as she calmly loosened and laid flat the bindings without a single word of further commentary.

“There,” she said finally as she tucked in the corner.  “Does that feel comfortable?”

“Winta…”

They were still at a loss for words.

“I know, Jai.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to do everything alone.”

From then on, they didn’t.  It was oddly freeing to let go of that stubborn brand of stoicism, ingrained in them from childhood.  But Winta had proved herself a safe space - one where Jai never had to hide.

Jai and Winta shared everything with each other in the coming years as they approached adulthood - every fear, every hope, every conflict, every joy… no matter how strange or awkward.

Well, Jai supposed, they weren’t too old yet for just one more…

_______________________________________

They paused just outside the barn door, taking a single calming breath before unlatching and pushing it open, addressing their sibling in nervous anticipation.

“Winta?”

“Jai…”

Both stopped dead in their tracks as they took in the other’s unexpected appearance, gasping in mild shock.  Jai’s mouth hung open in surprise and delight, while Winta’s hand covered her own, the other resting on her swollen belly.

Their eyes finally met across the small space, happy tears brimming.

Jai moved first, crossing to where Winta was standing, hands hesitantly extending out to hold her stomach.  “Winta… you’re… why didn’t you tell me?” they stammered.

Winta smiled tearfully.  “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Mission accomplished,” they joked, letting out a wet laugh.  “Oh, my stars… Are you happy, vod’ika?”

“I’m so happy, Jai.  And I’m so glad you’ll be here to meet them.  You’re going to be a ba'vodu.”

“I like the sound of that,” they replied, smiling fondly.  “You’re going to be an amazing mother.  I just know it.  And Tov will be a great dad.  You both were meant for this I think.”

“Thank you… but enough about me,” Winta huffed, moving her hands to Jai’s shoulders and looking again over their form.  “You look so… right… Why didn’t you tell me you were getting the surgery?  I would have…”

“You would have dropped everything and come to Coruscant to take care of me…” Jai interrupted, smirking lightly.

“Well… yes…”

“I didn’t want you all to worry.  And Omera would have driven me to insanity with her hovering - you know that’s true.”

“Mama does have that way about her, doesn’t she?”  Winta chuckled.  “But you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.  You must have needed help while you healed.”

Jai blushed slightly before responding timidly, “I wasn’t alone…”

Winta’s eyes narrowed, sparkling with excitement.  “Oh…?”

“It’s not like that,” Jai huffed, shaking their head slightly.  “It’s platonic.  But… she’s a very… close friend.  We have an understanding.”

Winta nodded approvingly.  “I’m glad you have someone, Jai.  I’ve been so worried that you were isolated out there, but I guess you had company all along.  I hope I can meet her sometime.”

“Definitely.  I think you two will get along very well.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about her while you’re here,” Winta grinned.  “But first… has this made you happy?”

Winta was clearly referring to Jai’s surgery - one leaving them with a blessedly flat chest after years of simmering dysphoria.

Jai smiled broadly.  

“It feels so much better, Winta.  I wish I’d done this sooner.”

“Good.  I’m glad.”

Winta linked her arm through Jai’s, joking as they walked together toward the door.

“Mama’s been on a rampage preparing for your visit.  We’d better get back to the hut before she sends Grogu to levitate us out of here.”

_______________________________________

 Jai had never imagined that a lively family dinner could bring them so much joy, but here they were, and it was wonderful.  They had missed this so much.

They decided right then and there, as they looked around at their growing family eating and chatting around the small table, that this trip would be have to be extended by a few weeks more.

For once, Omera remained at the table, Din insisting that she sit and catch up with Jai while he handled the food and dishes.  After all, he would likely spend many evenings up late with his adult foundling, engrossed as was their custom in a kind of conversation only two kindred souls with a shared upbringing could share.  They would have plenty of time.

Meanwhile, Grogu sat perched on Jai’s shoulder, unwilling to separate from his sorely missed sibling for even a moment, contributing to the conversation here and there.  It was really unbelievable to see how much the small child had really grown up in the last few years.

Winta and Tov watched on with fond and genuine smiles, Winta gently stroking her swollen belly while her husband’s arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.  

Jai was glad to see that Tov had integrated as he had into the family.  Tov’s own parents had succumbed several years ago to illness, leaving him alone in a way, much like Jai themself at one time.  It was in his grief, as Din and Omera had taken responsibility for their young, then just barely adult neighbor’s welfare, that Tov’s relationship with Winta had finally blossomed.  And now he was just as much a member of this clan as any of them.

Din and Omera sure had a knack for collecting children, didn’t they?

“Hey,” Winta whispered across the table to Jai as her mother finally stood to join Din in the kitchen, wrapping her arms around his middle for a moment.  “I think those two need some alone time.  Why don’t we all go sit on the porch?  It’s nice out tonight.  We can stargaze… like old times.”

Well, that sounded lovely.  And Jai definitely didn’t miss the thinly veiled innuendo in regards to ‘alone time’.  “Oh Gods, yes.  Let’s get out of here as quickly as possible.”

Tov couldn’t help but chuckle as he made to help haul Winta out of her seat.  He didn’t really understand Jai’s complete and total aversion to all things carnal, but they were certainly consistent about it.  To be completely honest, it only made him grow to love Jai all the more for everything they’d done to help him and Winta successfully conceive this very much desired child.  To put your loved ones’ happiness above your own discomfort - that was true family, and he felt very fortunate to call himself a member of this one.

_______________________________________

“Alright, Jai,” Winta smirked, leaning back between Tov’s legs where he sat behind her on the porch, lightly massaging her shoulders.  “I believe there’s someone you need to tell us about, vod…”

“No way,” Tov perked up instantly, reaching over to give Jai a playful shove on the shoulder.  “You’ve got yourself a special someone in Coruscant?  Tell us everything.”

Jai was thankful for the darkness as their face burned with embarrassment.  This was an unusual feeling for them.

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on, huh?” Jai asked in mock annoyance trying to draw attention away from their self-consciousness and continuing to gently stroke Grogu’s ears where he dozed in their lap.  “You two ganging up on me?”

Tov raised his eyebrows.  “It sure is…”  But then he smiled fondly.  “I really do want to know.  Genuinely - promise.  I didn’t think you liked people… that way…”

“Well, I don’t.  It’s not like that.”  

“Tell us how it is, then,” Winta prodded.  “Are you simply friends?  Something more?”

Jai took a moment to think about how to explain this.  It wasn’t exactly conventional.  But if anyone would understand, it was their family.

“She is a very good friend,” Jai started.  “But it’s something different from friendship, too.  She feels like a partner in a way… or like family…”

“Do you live together?” Tov asked.

“No… but we have talked about it.  Convenience and all that…”

“Ok, so…” Winta ventured.  “If you were to live together, would you have separate rooms?  Or share a bed?”

Jai smirked.  They knew exactly where Winta was headed with this line of questioning.

“Separate rooms, Winta.  I think you could have guessed that.”

“My wife is beating around the bush here, so I’m just going to rip off the bandage.”  Tov paused for a second, suddenly realizing such a question of Jai might not be such a good idea.  But oh, well - he was committed.  “Are you intimate?  Hug?  Kiss?  Cuddle?  Anything like that?”

“Maker, Tov,” Jai huffed, looking up at the night sky in a small bit of mortification.  They were thankful, though, that he knew better than to ask about anything more.  “There is a level of physical affection… but nothing more than I might do with any of you.”

“That’s significant, Jai,” Winta was very serious now.  “I’ve never seen you comfortable touching anyone outside of this family.”

“Yeah…”  Jai responded, as if they’d not really thought about it before.  “I suppose it is significant…”

“Tell us how you met.”  Tov was serious now, too.  The entire village worried after Jai while they were so far from home, and it was a balm to his own heartache at Jai’s distance to know they weren’t really alone out there.

The three talked and reminisced well into the late hours of the night after putting Grogu to bed in the barn, allowing Din and Omera a full evening alone.  It almost made Jai want to stay here in Sorgan forever.

Almost.

Because their heart now rested in two very different places.  One half with their family here in the outer rim… and the other with both a very special friend and their life’s work in Coruscant.

Maybe a better balance could be attained, though…  Something to consider.

_______________________________________

To be continued…

[thefrogdalorian]

Only The Father You'll Be

Word count: 1,727 Rating: General Content Warnings: Mentioned grief and loss/mourning parents Summary: As he sits on the porch of his new cabin, looking on proudly as Grogu entertains himself with frogs outside their new home on Nevarro, it is a moment that awakens old memories in Din Djarin. Watching his son causes Din to reflect back to a moment when he watched The Child playing with other children in the idyllic village on Sorgan. Back then, Din wanted something very different for him and The Child… it was an occasion when their fates could so easily have diverged from their destiny. But now Din has the one thing that had always eluded him, that he never imagined for himself: a family. Link to read on AO3

Author's Note: I wrote some thoughts about this scene underneath this post yesterday and it just turned into this exploration of Din's contrasting emotions during two moments he spent watching Grogu play with frogs. Truly fulfilling my URL. I made myself emo with this one but I hope you enjoy!

The Mandalorian knew that he did not belong here. It was plain to see that in this idyllic fishing village, with its close-knit community of people, he would always be an outsider. How could a Mandalorian who followed the Creed as devoutly as he had from such a young age ever leave that behind? How could he ever get used to the sensation of feeling the sun on his face? Or feel comfortable in the expectation to meet the unrelenting gaze of others? 

It was true that the villager who had made it her duty to take care of The Mandalorian and the kid, a widow named Omera, had given him pause for thought as to whether he should go against his instincts and stay on this planet he had once dismissed as a backwater skughole. Omera was attentive and understanding of him and The Child, though they were so different from anyone that had ever stepped foot within the confines of their community before. There was no doubt, either, that there was something pulling The Mandalorian towards her. Every time they interacted, he felt a warmth; a tickling sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling that Din was unfamiliar with, but he might even describe it as pleasurable.

But The Mandalorian did not belong here. He knew that. And if he stayed, sooner or later, she would realise that, too. That would lead to resentment, distrust and they would end up right back where they had started, with him leaving this planet behind in a cloud of dust. Except he would have forsaken his Creed, everything he had ever known. Better to leave now and spare himself the anguish. The kid could stay, though. Leaving The Child behind here… it would be doing him a favour. 

Yet somehow, leaving without this kid, The Mandalorian felt it was wrong. If the cold, detached bounty hunter that had first encountered the bounty on Arvala-7, had been told that he would have felt sorrow at the prospect of leaving The Child behind, nor the lengths he would go to to ensure his safety, he would have struggled to believe that. The Mandalorian did not form attachments to others. He kept his head down, himself to himself, and carried business out with a ruthless efficiency that had garnered him a formidable reputation as the best bounty hunter in the parsec.

But, unbelievably, The Mandalorian did feel sorrow. The Child that he had risked everything for to rescue from the Empire on Nevarro, had quickly wormed his way into The Mandalorian’s heart. And now, as he stood there, watching The Child play with the village children, who were presently covering their faces in horror as he ate a frog, he knew the kid would be fine here... better yet, he would thrive. Seeing him there holding a frog in his mouth had reminded The Mandalorian of the time he had commanded him to spit it out when they were at the Ugnaught’s abode on the desert planet, where he had first encountered The Child as a bounty. Swallowing the frog had been the first sign of disobediance from The Child. A trend that had continued even when they had first arrived here on Sorgan, when the little womp rat had defied The Mandalorian's authority and followed him out of the ship even after he had made it clear that The Child was to stay put. How could he raise a kid that wouldn’t even listen to him?

The Mandalorian knew as sure as the two suns rose every morning over Tatooine, that he was not father material. He had enough scars from his past. The devastation of losing his parents at a young age had never truly left him. From that moment, The Mandalorian had vowed never to get close enough to be scarred by such loss again. That vow had been easier to stick to after he had, rather fortuitously, found himself adopted by a covert that rarely referred to each other by name and always hid their faces from view. It was impersonal, unfamiliar and yet… somehow intensely familial. The Children of The Watch were the only family The Mandalorian had ever known, certainly the only family he remembered. 

But this little child was not to be his family. He was too special, too different. He was hunted because there was something about him that people wanted, his destiny was something far more momentous than anything that could ever happen in a life with a bounty hunter. The Mandalorian wanted to go through life, blending into the background and doing everything he could to be perceived as infrequently as possible. With that child, that would be impossible... The Mandalorian was under no illusions about that.

The Child would stay here, The Mandalorian would leave. They would go their separate ways. Their song had been written.

As he sat there on the porch of his brand new cabin on Nevarro, Din Djarin thought back to the distinctive sound of The Armorer’s voice booming throughout the Living Waters:

“Let it be written in Song that Din Djarin is accepting this foundling as his son.”

It was the first time Din had a moment and pause to think about the momentous decision he had made on that day in the Mines. To watch his son play in the light and show his abilities with a Force that Din did not understand, but was always proud to witness. The older Mandalorian was reminded of the time on Sorgan when he had watched Grogu playing with frogs, much like he was doing now. It was a bizarre notion to Din, that he had almost left Grogu behind on that backwater skughole. Now, he could not imagine his life without the incredible little boy.

His son.

It was still a fact he was getting used to. Din still struggled to believe that Grogu was back with him, that Grogu had chosen to come back to him. The former Padawan had chosen a life as a Mandalorian foundling – now apprentice – over the path with the Jedi that he had been set on that far predated their encounter on Arvala-7.

Grogu had opened up parts of Din emotionally that he had long since thought closed off. He had shown him the depths of his capacity for love and the aching devastation of loss, when Grogu had firstly been abducted by Gideon and then taken with Skywalker to train. Din had discovered, then, that loss was still as raw as it had been when he had seen his parents murdered by battle droids on his homeworld of Aq Vetina all that time ago. Din barely recalled many details of his parents now, such was the time that separated him from those memories. But he remembered the pain of losing them, still as raw as the day it happened.

Din loved Grogu so much that he had broken his Creed for him, found himself cast out and brandished an apostate by the closest thing to a family he had ever known. All that, for the love of a child. 

And when it had been necessary to make his bond to the child official, so that Grogu could progress to the next stage of his life, Din had not hesitated in uttering those fateful words next to the waters where he had once redeemed himself: “Then I will adopt him as my own.”

Din now knew that he had been saved several times over in those waters, not only when he had sworn the Creed, or shortly thereafter when Bo-Katan Kryze had rescued him from the murky depths… but he had been saved once again from a lifetime of solitude when he had made Grogu his own. 

Even back then on Sorgan, he was kidding himself to ever think that it would be possible for him to let The Child go that easily. From the second Grogu had peeked at him from behind the blanket – his wide brown eyes searching curiously at this rude intrusion into his safe haven – Grogu had taken a piece of Din’s heart forever.

And as Din sat there, he thought again about his parents. They were never far from his mind, but since adopting Grogu, they had increasingly featured in his thoughts. Din wondered whether they had ever sat back and watched him play with the pride he now felt in his chest for Grogu. The boy was doing nothing more than playing with some frogs, but to Din, it was the most wonderful sight in the entire galaxy. There was no one there to laugh at him, for his difference. Din knew now that Grogu would never have fitted in on Sorgan, either. The children had been horrified by him eating frogs, but Din did nothing but love and nurture his talents.

To think that Din had once been so terrified of the protector role he had taken on so suddenly, that went against everything Din had spent his adult life following – a life of solitude. But, sitting there in the Razor Crest, holding that metallic orb and feeling the pang of guilt, it was a rush of blood to the head that sent him storming into the building to rescue Grogu. A momentous decision with such little thought that had terrified him in the early days that they had spent together.

Now, fatherhood felt like the most natural thing in the world. Raising Grogu to be Mandalorian, it was a privilege and an honour. Like his son, Din had not been born into the ancient warrior culture, but he was as devout as any who had Mandalorian blood running through their veins.

As he sat there watching Grogu, Din was reminded of an old Mando’a phrase, one of the few he knew:

Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la.

(Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you’ll be.)

Din now knew the type of father he would be to Grogu. Until his dying day, he would protect the boy with every ounce of strength he possessed. Now, they finally had a home together, here on Nevarro.

The Child that he had once been so determined to run from had – just as Kuiil once predicted – brought him a handsome reward. The greatest reward of them all… family.

[sytortuga]

Last and final chapter of "Silent Help" is up 🤙🏼

Silent help - Chapter 7 - sytortuga - The Mandalorian (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Sneak Peek Sunday

Little teaser for the next chapter of Echoes for you lovely folks 🩵

. . . . .

The little one (he needs a name, Din thought, detachedly) slept for most of the flight but it didn’t seem a comfortable sleep. He woke at the best possible moment; his shrill cries pulled Din back to consciousness just as they breached Sorgan’s airspace.

He let the ship’s systems do the flying but he took over the landing when it became clear the shuttle had locked onto the town rather than the village. He got them down, hoping and mostly trusting he hadn’t wrecked anything important on his way in. Weakly, he hit the button to open the hatch.

It was gruelling, getting up out the seat then getting down the ladder. He made it… somehow. He had no tangible memory of that last rung, just a blip between the points of climbing down and ending up on the floor, but the baby was alright, still held tight in his arms, still crying.

And she was there.

For a moment—mad with hope, heavy with exhaustion—he feared it was just a dream: just his ebbing mind scraping together the happiest ending it could conceive of to let him drift off with some semblance of peace.

She didn’t speak; he wouldn’t hear her if she did—her voice too soft… so soft…

Dream, reality; apparition, salvation—she was all of it.

He looked down to the baby and poured the last of his strength into a plea.

There wasn’t disappointment or hesitation; she took the baby into her hold with the ease of experience and rose.

This was good, this was what he had so desperately hoped for; the infant in good, capable hands—real hands.

He watched as more figures—two men, their faces familiar, their names lost in the haze—appeared. Omera passed the baby to one of them and pointed out the hatch, towards the village.

Din’s heart—already beating too fast; sick and strangely fluttery—cut into his throat as the man turned and left.

He tried to stand, tried to call after him, get him to bring the baby back, give him back to Omera or him.

Hands—brown, slender, stronger than they looked or felt—pressed his shoulders back, nullifying his feeble fight.

“It’s alright,” she told him, voice gentle, tone firm, not to be argued with, not to be doubted. She had crouched down again, her eyes level with his. “Caben’s got him. He’s good with children; he’ll be fine.”

He’ll be fine.

She had said it before and she was right then; everything he was, everything he had trusted her now.

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"Battle Scar"

Type: One-Shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary:

In the aftermath of a battle on Mandalore, Din is confronted by a distraught Omera as she is further acquainted with a reality where her own authority is as revered as the Manda’lor’s, as his spouse and co-ruler. Amidst the chaos of miscommunication, Omera has been forced to issue a command out of duty which nearly cost Din’s life, and Omera was not happy at all. Arguments loom, and so do regrets. (TW: One-sided marital spat)

[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, seventh prompt: “Forgiveness”]

Read here or on Archive of Our Own

"Battle Scar"

“Mand’alor, I was told that the Lady Omera was not at the debriefing,” Din Djarin’s aide-de-camp informed him as Din limped into the modest rooms he shared with his wife. 

The Sundari Royal Palace remained grey and bleak, unpolished from debris and dust in its slow recovery from the ruin brought about by the Great Purge. The Purge was but a dreadful scar in Mandalorian history, remedied by the grueling work of reunifying clans and creeds until all arrived at the same page, and unequivocally under Din’s rule.

The Palace had only partially been rebuilt, with its construction relentlessly interrupted by reports of impending enemy attacks. Din could count past his ten fingers the instances he needed to cut quality time with his family short. Omera would be the one left to govern the Palace while Din stormed into the battlefields with his fellow seasoned warriors.

Omera had continued to coordinate with Din and his officers while she remained at her post in the Palace’s headquarters. These incidents of prolonged joint command happened more often than they thought was ideal. There seemed no trouble at first when Omera willingly learned the various forms of leadership required of Din as well as her. She was taught the necessary protocols and directives in the event that her husband could not issue them himself, for any grave reason. 

For a long and arduous streak, Din was leading the charge most of the time; Omera assisted, sometimes becoming her husband’s aide as she fastened the armor on him. That ritual had transformed into stolen moments of spiritual intimacy between them. With every component of the beskar’gam she placed upon him, their gazes would lock, intense and sublime, and little words were exchanged. Tension would always follow—and suddenly Din was off with Bo-Katan Kryze or the Armorer or Paz Vizsla into war, his cape billowing behind him like a rallying banner, the Darksaber clipped to his side. 

Din couldn’t remember the last time he had properly shared the marriage bed with Omera since their wedding night. He was always away, awake, busy… and sometimes Omera would be awake with him, would join him in briefings if only to feel his warmth at her side. The only other way she found to compensate for these growing times apart was when she made dinner for him. Even then, it was hurried, and conversation was sparse.

This most recent battle could have been the last straw, and yet it was a victory which concluded a crucial campaign, thanks to Omera’s impartial and quick thinking. It was as if all her training culminated to this one victory, and she was ready to keep to the shadows, out of everyone’s way.

And as the aide reported—Omera had opted not to attend the debriefing. To date, this only happened once, and only because she needed to see Grogu and Winta off as they were transported to safety through their Jedi ally, Master Skywalker. Din, at the time, was in the middle of the most decisive battle yet—the one to capture Sundari, Mandalore’s new capital and epicenter of authority before the Purge struck.

A knot of worry formed within Din as pain bloomed like searing coals all over his body. This latest maddening fray to recapture Keldabe, Mandalore’s ancient and former capital, had sapped him of his strength. He sustained some debilitating injuries that were treated on the field and after, in the secure confines of the med-centre tent.

He had spent an entire week away from Omera, and months away from Grogu and Winta, capped by the wars that poured themselves unto his lap one after another… Yet, in spite of it, Din kept his resolve sharp and his spirit from falling into shreds. 

But tonight, he was more than bone-weary. He was utterly exhausted, and all he wanted to do was be in his wife’s arms, hear her soothing voice, feel her soft caresses as she inspected the medic’s work. The medics may have done their best… but Omera, she would always find ways to make it better, for the wounds to somehow close faster and his pains to fade away which bacta couldn’t mend. It was not sorcerer magic, but Omera was gifted in her on way. That was why Din had always been so drawn to her.

Tonight, he was met by an empty hallway as the aide left him to his privacy—no wife to greet him or to walk astride him from a debriefing as they entered the chambers together.

Din limped further in; he looked around—the lamps were lit, the heating was on (Mandalore had cold nights this time of year), and… to his relief, the dinner was set.

No wife, however, graced the table.

Din groaned in relief as he gingerly took a seat at one end of the table. His side burned; he kept his hand there, already shed of glove and vambrace, and waited for the brief rush of agony to subside. He grimaced, closing his eyes. He leaned upon the seat’s headrest awhile, letting the harrowing memories of Keldabe melt away. Paz had offered to clean up; Bo-Katan and Fenn Rau (whose revived Skull Squadron offered air support) remained at the debriefing. It was at Paz’s urging which led Din to return to Omera halfway through the meeting. If she hadn’t shown up from the beginning, she wouldn’t do so for the rest of it—and there was an acute reason for it.

Din’s eyes flew open when he heard footsteps approach. His half-drugged vision focused on the source, and Din sighed; a weight lifted off him when Omera appeared at the other end of the dinner table.

Din stopped short of his greeting. Omera’s eyes were bloodshot as if from a thorough cry. Her beautiful raven-dark hair and clothes were disheveled. She had already shed the armor she ceremoniously wore even as she remained in the Palace as the Mand’alor took to the battlefields.

It was Omera’s grating voice which hit Din like a shard of ice. “Please eat,” she prompted him tonelessly. “Don’t mind me—I have no appetite.”

“Omera—“ Din ventured. Omera sharply turned her head away, avoiding his pleading gaze.

“I’ll sit here,” she said at length, breathing out her statement in a shuddering sob, “I’ll sit here because you’re my husband, and I still respect you…”

“Omera…” Din called to her again. He winced at how his voice sounded so fragmented and weak. He realized how more acquainted he had become with Omera’s own suffering, even before she could completely relay her side of things. 

“… and because I love you, Din, after everything—everything we’ve gone through!” Omera unleashed the words. Her voice cracked. “Especially after this… this… call I had to make.” 

A call, in this context, was a tactical decision a commanding officer had to make amidst the odds, and in some cases—because of it. 

Din was silent as he let Omera pour her enraged heart out. She shook as she spoke, visibly fighting for vestiges of self-control. Din knew this, because she could be recovering from shock. Din felt guilt wash over him, because he also knew how proud he was of his wife’s mandokar, but sadly, at her expense. Omera had carried out a decision too difficult even for a battle-born Mandalorian to execute. The responsibility behind it was crushing should things fall awry. 

Weeks beforehand, the Keldabe campaign fell into a string of countless briefings, once they had gotten word that Imperial Remnant forces were amassing an offensive to retake the old capital. Omera was present in all those meetings when they reviewed the plans over and over again… she’d joked once, when spirits were relatively high: “I’ve heard these operatives so many times, I can recite them by rote in my sleep!” She had laughed then—uneasy laughter, but Maker, his wife still smiled, wide enough so her lovely dimples showed. The radiance still lingered in her eyes.

Now, those eyes were dull, avoidant, and awash with the shackling fear of a loss which could have been, had the call she made not ended up being the staggering success it had become, to their great unfathomable fortune.

“Danger close,” Omera spat, as if drilling into Din his own awareness of the weight Omera needed to bear, of the gamble she was doing before she even realized it. “In a fatal distance from your position! Had I caught the report earlier, I wouldn’t have made the call to set an entire fire mission meant for the Imps practically right above your heads!”

Din leaned further into the headrest, studying his distraught wife. He felt disembodied as he witnessed her grief, and yet with the bond they shared between them, they both knew that Omera was duty-bound to make the call herself. There was no way out of it save for dereliction, and with it the capacity to undermine her husband’s trust.

Omera had risked an entire company when an airstrike targeted coordinates dangerously proximate to friendly troops in order to eliminate enemy forces—hence the term, danger close. “The message got to me too late!” her tirade went on. “I’ve only been informed of your situation right after I green-lit the fire mission… all I heard before the comms went down was, ‘the enemy’s in position, we got them where we need them to be!’ Comms were completely dead for a full ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life, and I know—I know the engineers have worked hard to get the comms back up, but… you told me, the enemy was in position. It was now or never, or retaking Keldabe would drain more of our resources; it could be lost to us for a long time. What I’ve not known until the last minute, when I had to give the order because you can’t, and because the comms were down—was that your own position hadn’t changed! You were pinned in place, and hadn’t relocated to a safe distance where artillery wouldn’t blow you all to bits! Oh Maker—Maker, Din!” 

Omera growled and stuttered; she quivered as her voice grew louder with every portion of her tale, until she was as good as hysterical. 

That was enough for Din to ignore his wounded state as he got up from his end of the table to limp his way to her—but Omera flinched. Din’s heart fell. Omera had deliberately shifted her own seat away from his reach, and Din was only clutching air mere inches atop her trembling frame. He could almost feel the heat of her turmoil emanate from her body.

Din couldn’t speak. He couldn’t find the words, or express all of them at once—he was sorry, and yet pride overtook him, knowing his wife did what she had to do even as it went against the grain she had been raised in, among the peaceful krill ponds of Sorgan and only the annual harvest to preoccupy their minds until the Klatooinian raids happened. He knew that she knew that none of this was his fault, and he wasn’t faulting her either, but logic dissolved where emotions ran high and rampant. 

This could be a long night.

“What would happen if the fire mission failed despite danger close? You knew your position, you knew the enemy’s position, you knew mine—and that was to command Captain Fenn Rau and his squadron to fire on coordinates so close to you! And even Captain Rau had hesitated… but an order was an order. Tons of firepower a small distance from where you were crouched behind nonexistent cover, just so you could wipe the enemy out… I was going to kill my own husband—look at me, Din! (and yet her eyes remained averted)… Am I Omera, widowed again, but this time, by her own hand…?”

There, she said it; she told him what was tearing her asunder from the inside. 

Omera was a fragile leaf in a gale as she strung racing emotions into thoughts, and thoughts into words as best as she could. Fresh tears and mirthless laughter wove through Omera’s feat at coherence. Din sensed that she’d finally reach the peak of her dark despondency, and the white flames of her anger were whittling to embers. Soon, he could touch her again without resistance. 

Din understood, and it hurt him deeply, yet he found Omera blameless. It was he who had kept himself and his forces in harm’s way, but the willingness to sacrifice oneself for a greater good had always been the forefront of their arsenal. From the entirely challenging first year of his marriage to Omera, Din had learned how to decipher his wife—the outbursts, the occasional moments of silent treatment, the sobs of relief when he would return to her in one piece. She would then kiss and hold him as she had when he’d first offered his heart to her. 

He deciphered Omera’s grating, terrible confusion—how silly she must feel with these arguments, knowing well what she had gotten herself into when she married him, and when he made her his Queen and co-ruler over Mandalore and its neighboring worlds. She had made that pact with him, of bringing the Mando’ade together, of leading them together, and even leading them when they were physically apart. And the Mando’ade embraced the arrangement in turn, fully accepting her as their Queen, whom the Mand’alor had chosen to spend the rest of his life with whether on the throne or when that time had run its course.

Inching closer, he engulfed her in a tender, tenuous embrace. Omera was too vulnerable right now, after hitting a new level of reality. She knew as well as himself that Mandalore and its people came first, as long as Din remained their anointed leader, as long as he kept wielding the Darksaber and no one had challenged him—and his rule—for it.

If it meant losing the one she loved the most so that Mandalore continued to rise, so be it. It may sound cruel and counterproductive, as a leader usually fell with their kingdom, but not for Din Djarin. He had already planned two steps ahead for the loved ones he would leave behind, should his life end prematurely.

Omera was folded up on the chair, racked in quiet sobs. 

“Omera,” Din rasped out; it was taking his remaining strength to console her. He hadn’t slept and eaten well in days… but he needed to see to his wife’s welfare, after this awful trial by fire he had inadvertently put her through. “Y-you have to forgive me…”

His wife ceased her weeping; as if something snapped within her, she turned to him. Her eyes brimmed with fleeting concern. “Din, your voice—It’s scratched… Are you ill?”

Din smiled. With all his heart, he wanted to kiss Omera then and there. All her training, and yet the innocence borne out of her worry for him stood out to him like a flare in the dark. 

“I’ve been… screaming for all of ten minutes,” Din explained fondly, almost jokingly. “No comms, and I couldn’t get anything past a certain distance. I was yelling orders out manually. Thankfully, they all got passed down the ranks. We pulled through. Voice still got busted, though.” He had shed his helmet already beforehand; his gaze was full on her when Omera had tried to read his eyes, the shape of light in them, the shadows and this own unspoken words. 

“You’re hurt,” Omera remarked needlessly. Her expression had softened for a moment—then, to Din’s dismay, it grew distant once more.

There was a long silence again. This time, Din felt it sink well into his gut, into his system.

“Please eat,” Omera urged him one last time before she set herself to rights—dried her tears and smoothed her tunic down before she carefully rose from her seat. “See you in the morning, Din,” she whispered, resuming her cold treatment of him, but only after her beautiful almond eyes gently gave him a once-over—her lips parted. She thought twice and said nothing more.

She left him at the table alone; she had gone to their sleeping chambers as Din heard the door swish open and close in the wake of her fading footfalls.

***

Omera was startled awake by a chill in her bones.

She opened her eyes, and out of habit, she faced the side of the bed where Din should be—had he slept beside her that night.

Automatically, and in a sudden surge of loneliness, a palm reached out to smooth the empty space where her husband should be in his usual fitful, but much needed repose. 

The chill came from a half-empty bed. While there were times when Din would stay up so late in meetings or matters that needed his attention, long enough to leave his side of the bed bare before dawn, he would always return as often as he could. The bed would dent where Din’s weight pushed it down, and Omera would wake the exact moment her husband laid next to her. In a silent treaty, their foreheads met as they both returned to slumber. In a few hours, they would be up again, despite the limited hours Din had to recuperate to face another day as sole ruler.

In the past months since reclaiming Sundari, Din had been like water through a sieve—and she was the sieve. He was there yet not fully present. He was elusive even when he kissed her, but it had become dispassionate overtime. 

Omera sighed. The pillow was still wet whereupon she had cried herself to sleep that night. She didn’t need to check the chrono to reckon that it only past two in the morning. Mandalore had nineteen-hour days, lesser than most worlds and planets, but still falling in accordance to standard. Maybe, Omera thought, that was why she had felt that days flew by so quickly, and the nights were over in the blink of an eye.

She eyed the empty side of Din’s bed. Her lips quivered. 

She bit back the urge to loath herself. 

She had been horrible to Din at the dinner table. And Din, her sweet, noble, pure-hearted husband—he was simply there for her as he took all her scathing words in. She couldn’t even remember half of what she said, the burning statements she snarled out at him; she could only remember with embarrassment the blazing anger and confusion and helplessness she had meant to reel in, but ended in taking it all out on Din.

Now, in this moment of clarity hitting her like a slap, now that she knew that she may have hurt Din irrevocably and her heart had begun to hurt in turn—she recognized the rage which grew out of frustration over the situation rather than the people behind it. She had no way of channeling all the emotions that threatened to drown her in a misery she would have trouble delivering herself from. And there was Din: his kind eyes, his beautiful face, his serene disposition despite being almost taken from her by her need to momentarily command air support and artillery while comms were still running smoothly in the Palace. He was her shock absorber. And he was there for her every step of the way. And—gods, Omera felt nauseatingly dreadful. 

She was being petulant while her husband sat there, injured, patiently listening, waiting for a window to push forward and comfort her. 

Where did Din get all this self-mastery? How has being Mand’alor changed him in such an immense way, that Din the bounty hunter, Din the hunted—now held authority not only over the Mando’ade, but over his own once-turbulent soul?

Did he have any idea of the repercussions should the fire mission wipe them out with the targets? Omera knew Din had already been updating his will and testament. It was customary, Din had told her, of Mandalorian kings and queens. She shouldn’t worry about him departing this life too soon, and yet—he almost had. At least, she had thought bitterly, it would be a coveted warrior’s death.

Din’s hurt, was all her mind pondered afterwards as Omera rose from the bed, dressed herself in a robe and tied her hair up. Din was hurt, and he’s not in bed. She had to go to him, wherever he was. He should still be in the Palace. There was no way Din was still testing the limits of his mandokar after a week in a war zone.

Her steps moving out of their sleeping chambers felt like lead. Perhaps it was the guilt, the shame over last night’s hysterics which kept her from walking with her shoulders back and head up. 

The Palace seemed empty. Where were the other Mandalorians? After the Purge, there was so little of them left. Yet she had joined them, a new Mandalorian in their fold. She wasn’t Mandalorian-born, but wed to one, and through that custom, how quickly shall Mandalore rise again and be repopulated with new spouses and children?

Five steps, seven steps, nine…

She wove aimlessly down the empty halls where her footfalls echoed.

She didn’t know when her steps finally halted, but when she lifted her eyes to determine where her feet led her, she saw it was the door to one of the officers’ meeting rooms. She was surprised, however, when the door swished open—and out came Paz Vizsla, helmet perpetually on, but through his posture was visibly tired. She heard him sigh through the modulator, laced with heavy fatigue.

“Paz…” Omera called, and the heavy infantry warrior looked up to acknowledge her.

“Omera,” he answered back, his voice muted yet affable. He nodded his visored head. “It’s late. Should you not be in bed, my lady?”

Omera blushed. She could never get used to those titles, no matter how the likes of Bo-Katan herself, once so opposed to Din’s claim to the Darksaber, had convinced her that my lady was a noble title—and Omera was worthy of it. Bo-Katan had been very sincere, and very contrite.

Omera didn’t know what to reply. Her thoughts evaporated like steam.

Paz, to his credit, was no less understanding. He had been a stalwart friend to Din despite a history of scuffles and brief resentment over Din’s transgression of breaking the Creed. Paz had since forgiven him and took his place as a trusted comrade and brother-in-arms to Din in the battlefield. It was then no surprise to Omera when Paz offered, without her saying anything, “Din’s in there, my lady.” The large man motioned to the meeting room he’d just stepped out from. His deep baritone was gentle. “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Paz,” Omera greeted back as Paz nodded and disappeared down the long hall to his own quarters.

The sight which met Omera had set her heart alight and broken at the same time.

Din was on a chair by the heating vent, shed of armor and only in his flight suit—he had not even changed to clothes fit for longer downtimes. He sat up but his eyes were closed, and that was when Omera realized that Paz had probably caught his brother sleeping, and had decided to drape a huge blanket over the man. It looked almost comical—an oversized blanket over her husband, but it also made Din look so small. So… mortal.

Omera bit back a sob as she made her way to the slumbering warrior.

She couldn’t help but admire his features: both soft and sharp and wonderfully handsome. Din’s self-consciousness over showing his face was long gone. He now treated the helmet as Bo-Katan or Fenn Rau did, like a piece of armor to be worn only when necessity arose, and not as part of a fundamentalist religious pact.

Din’s face in his sleep made him look so serene, but it was the serenity of one confident in their own strength, and reliant on the strength of those around them. 

The Mand’alor felt secure in this room where battle plans were hatched, and yet—not secure in his marriage bed, with his wife.

Worry tore through Omera when she noted Din’s slightly labored breathing. There were bruises and minor gashes on his face, but not to an extent where he could be unrecognizable. The cut over his nose had already been bandaged. Omera smelled the faint scent of bacta underneath the huge blanket.

Unable to help herself, she willed her husband to wake with a loving kiss on his cheek, so close to his mouth. How she missed this sort of warmth she could bestow on him, when her heart was full and free of darkness.

Din slowly stirred awake. A breath escaped him, and he blinked. Immediately alerted to a familiar presence, Din turned to face her. Puzzlement filled the sea of brown in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected Omera to be at his side in this hour.

“Omera,” Din acknowledged his wife. The fatigue was palpable in his eyes and bled through the hoarseness of his voice. “I—I need to speak to you…”

“Right now, love?” Omera marveled at how Din could switch at once to a sort of business-like air, with both of them dressed down they were almost bare. Omera felt heat course through her body when Din had drawn his gaze over her entirety before meeting the warm depths of her eyes once more.

“Paz and I talked,” Din began, and he shifted his position so he sat up more fully. Din winced and Omera empathically winced with him as he registered the dull pain shooting through his body. “I… I know you’d want to find some peace again, after a long while.”

Omera’s brows knitted, not quite sure where Din was getting at. “Love—what are you saying?”

Din’s ever-so-gentle gaze kept her in place. His eyes were sad, so sad. Omera swallowed hard.

“He’s agreed to take you back all the way to Sorgan in two days’ time. I’ll have Skywalker and the kids know. I’ll accompany you as far as the blockade before the jump. I—I need to be on Mandalore, but you… Omera, you need to rest. I’m granting you this, and you should grant yourself that, too…”

“Din,” Omera shushed him, and she kissed him again, this time full on the lips but only for an instant. “Din—no, no. I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere…”

Omera felt her beloved’s gloveless fingers trace her cheek, then her jaw with a reverent affection she had missed so much that it ached. “You’re in need of a home now, Omera. Mandalore isn’t home. At least, not yet. Let yourself recover… I know I’ve put you through so much.”

She meant no disrespect at all, but she had chosen to deter her husband’s entreaty from sinking into her thoughts. Din loved her—oh, Omera knew that as much. But at this moment, he was being civil.

It shattered her heart even more, knowing Din was giving her a chance to reconsider their marriage, their eternal pact to each other, and he was bearing her no ill will over it. He would not judge her for it, and he would make sure that the rest of the Mando’ade would not begrudge their Queen her right to decide for herself, out of her own free will.

Omera felt those stubborn tears again. They hadn’t left her entirely since the night before. 

She felt great relief when Din accepted her embrace, and with it, a kov’nyn with foreheads pressed so close together, it could almost seem that they read each other’s thoughts. Omera wished that was so. She wanted Din to know.

“I’m staying, my love,” she whispered again, almost pleadingly. “Din—I’m so sorry about last night…”

Din was unrelenting, yet his scratched voice was compassionate. “You had every right to let me know how you felt.”

Omera nodded helplessly. She let her wet cheek grace over Din’s own, now covered in the stubble she had loved to brush her fingers over, when they still had their nights to themselves, when their marriage was raw and young. How everything leveled so quickly; how reality had set in so dizzyingly faster than a free-fall. “I could do better, my love,” she insisted. “I’m learning, still learning. You know that.”

Din had compelled her to meet his gaze without as much as a word. 

“Your welfare means so much to me,” Din added, superfluously. “Omera—you can never be happy on Mandalore, not while the war is still upon us.”

Omera had her mind set. She would hold herself accountable to it, once she’s relayed these words to Din. 

“I don’t want to be happy all the time,” she told him pointblank, her voice surprisingly calm and resolute. “Of course, happiness is a gift. I’d want to be happy—but not at the expense of us. I was scared out of my wits with that danger close call yesterday. Yes. I was so upset and hysterical. Yes. I wanted to escape that pain for a little while. Yes. But Din—I want to experience every growing pain with you. My love—Sorgan is an old life. I would love to return there, but only if you come with me. But that won’t be after a while but it doesn’t matter. Do what you need to do—and I will always be by your side.”

Din was looking at her incredulously, truly baffled that his queen would rebuff a chance at solace, when she could still afford to do so. With that bafflement came a genuine spark of joy when he smiled—small, but with a vibrancy Omera had not seen on her husband’s face for a long time.

“Now come to bed,” Omera concluded, suppressing a grin that a dimple cratered on her cheek. 

“Smooth,” Din joked with a furrowed brow, and Omera laughed—what a freeing thing to do. 

Their foreheads met once more, and before Omera knew it, Din was kissing her again with a rekindled passion that sent Omera immediately on fire. To her slight vexation, Din cut the kiss short, only for her to realize that the culprit was his pained grimace, as he pressed a hand to his side.

“Uh-oh,” Omera riposted with her own jesting air. “Looks like someone needs some TLC.”

It didn’t take much for Din’s own dimple to emerge from his stubbly cheek. “Then you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Omera feigned an aghast tone. “Do you forgive me?”

Din’s airy chuckle sent her heart dancing when he leaned forward to kiss her again. She ran her hands over his curls as he entangled his fingers over the lush length of her locks in familiar playfulness. 

“I forgive you,” he muttered in between impassioned kisses.

“Then,” Omera replied, sighing in this tender exchange, as if they were saying their wedding vows again, “I forgive you too, my love.”

Soon, the sun was high on Mandalore, and another day of unmistakable challenges was at hand.

******

Author's Notes:

Mando'a:

*Mand’alor - the sole ruler of the Mandalorian people *beskar’gam - Mandalorian suit of armor (lit. “iron skin”) *mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life. *Mando’ade - the people of Mandalore (lit. “children of Mandalore”) *kov’nyn - a head-butt; a Keldabe kiss

Wikipedia as a reference is usually frowned upon in the academe, but for fic purposes, here’s the military definition of danger close - “If the forward observer or any friendly troops are within 600 meters of the impact point, to keep themselves safe, the forward observer would declare "danger close" in this last element.” I was quite intrigued with how something like that could work in a scenario like the one in this fic. I’m not an expert but sometimes writing about Mandalorians, a people well-versed in war, has you doing a bunch of research you don’t normally do. I’m not even entirely sure if I got this right, but I was curious so I went for it. ^^ Thank you for reading!

[poetryinmotion-author]

MAY THE 4TH BE WITH YOU!!!

I may just have something for Clan Djarin today or tomorrow for Revenge of the 5th....... 😉😊

[steggyistruelovefanfiction]

Sweet Names

Author: steggyistruelove

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Fandoms: The Mandalorian (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types

Relationship: Din Djarin/Omera

Characters: Din Djarin, Omera (Star Wars), Winta (Star Wars), Grogu | Baby Yoda

Additional Tags: Family, Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts

Language: English

Published: 2023-03-29

Words: 653

Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

The first time Winta called him 'Daddy', Din was not prepared for it.

READ MORE ON AO3

[sytortuga]

What else a kid needs more than the warmth and love of a parent? And nobody better to know this than Din, perfect dad for a kid like Grogu. What a beautiful piece 😍

Mandomera Week: Memory

He would need to make sure Grogu wouldn’t grow up like him. He had to make sure that Grogu didn’t have to reach decades into the past to remember warmth. Yes, Din thought, we need to come here more often.

Din was still sitting on the edge of their bed, blinking to get his vision clear enough to get dressed. He always wanted to make the most out of his time on Sorgan, and nights were no exception from that rule, so sleep was often traded for.. better things. If he didn’t have to pay for his hubris the morning after without fail.

Omera was in the other room, wrapping Winta’s lunch into a cloth and tying it with a bit of rope.

“Take care today, and make sure to be back before sundown, okay?” she said and gently touched Winta’s face before sending her on her way.

Din felt his stomach tighten. A barely formed memory forced its way into his head, blurry around the edges and more of a feeling than anything else. He could barely recall his mother’s face, or what she had said, but he remembered feeling of contentment, of care, of worry. It was so long ago, he had forgotten what that was like.

He would need to make sure Grogu wouldn’t grow up like him. He had to make sure that Grogu didn’t have to reach decades into the past to remember warmth. Yes, Din thought, we need to come here more often.

[newpathwrites]

Din learns of a struggling, teenaged Mandalorian from his former tribe and steps in to help, showing them a different way.

Or… how Din Djarin built a clan by happy accident.

————————————————————————

Summary: This story takes place after TBOBF and is non-canon moving forward. It was first posted on AO3 in May 2022 under both “A New Creed” and the continuation “How to Build a Clan”.

Jai is a mandalorian OC who is ~15 years-old at the start of the story which will cover several years with large time jumps.

I love the idea of Din and Omera together - I imagine their relationship would be a more mature, cautious kind of romance, knowing that Din may eventually be unable to return at some point. So they just enjoy each others’ company when they can and leave things otherwise a bit undefined, even though they all feel and act like family (along with Grogu and Winta). We’ll see where that takes them.

Din is demisexual/demiromantic in this story, and other queer representation is present throughout which should be self-evident.

Warnings listed by chapter may include implied or threatened child harm, sexual references, and mild non-explicit sexual content.

————————————————————————

I. Lost and Found

II. Sorgan

III. Kindred Spirits (prequel)

IV. Catching Feelings (prequel)

V. Jai’s Decision

VI. Making it Official

VII. Questions

VIII. Epilogue - Part 1

IX. Epilogue - Part 2

[sytortuga]

What a beautiful thing HOPE 🤩 these two so belong together. Thank you for sharing this beautiful story @cutieodonoghue 🤗

return

summary: [mandomera week day 1: memory] Set immediately after BoBF, Din thinks of Omera.

word count: ~1700

rating: g

read it on ao3 or below :)

-

Din couldn’t help the smile that found his lips as he brought the N-1 starfighter off of Tatooine. 

He hadn’t realized how eager he was for Grogu to experience the ship until he got the kid into the seat behind his head and heard his curious coo as he took it all in.

Afficher davantage

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Get To Know Me

Thanks for the tag, @oh-great-authoress

Currently Reading:

Book? Technically the last Trials of Apollo book by Rick Riordan but I haven’t had the motivation or spoons to finish it since it came out really. I’m maybe one third of the way through. Fanfiction? Nothing but hellcheer (and the occasional Steve/Eddie/Chrissy fic because fuck the ship war. Just ship em all together! Eddie has two hands!)

Favorite Color:

Purple and red

Last Song:

Tiny Voices by Bad Religion. I’ve kinda just been listening to the whole Stranger Than Fiction album but that happens to be the last song on it I listened to

Last Movie:

The Batman!

Sweet/Savory/Spicy

Savory, definitely. I can’t handle too sweet and the whitest thing about me is the fact that I can’t handle spice

Currently Working On:

*sigh* I’m trying to finish a Mandomera ficlet I started back in like beginning of last year but the motivation/inspiration just hasn’t been there. I don’t even have the motivation to write any new quinnflag ficlets

Tagging:

Let’s go with @foxlace and @amariemelody

[sytortuga]

Silent help - Chapter 5 - sytortuga - The Mandalorian (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter 5 is up!

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Little update for this story

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"To The Letter"

Type: One-shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

“The community’s grateful,” Omera told the Mandalorian one afternoon by the ponds. Indeed, the little Sorgan village is thankful for their newfound peace. Beforehand, Omera thinks that sending a heartfelt thank-you note to the silver-clad warrior is an excellent idea. Or isn’t it?

(Written for Mandomera Week 2022, second prompt: “Secrets”)

read it here or on AO3 (with author's notes)

To The Letter

“Dear Mandalorian,” Omera started speaking into one of her old, pocket-sized datapads where she logged in her thoughts. 

Until recently, all her mini datapad logs contained holiday recipes, loom weaving techniques, and instructions of handy repairs around the humble hut which she and Winta shared.

Omera released a breathy, quivering laugh. She shook out the dream-fog that plagued her head.

“Delete salutation,” Omera instructed the log. Dear Mandalorian had disappeared into a clean slate.

“To the Mandalorian,” Omera recited into the data-log device, starting anew. “T-to…”

Omera sighed. Her mind had suddenly gone blank, right from when she had erased the entire “dear”-ness towards the letter’s recipient. A bubble of frustration began to brew within her.

She cleared her throat, composed herself, and took a deep breath. Her warm voice was the solitary reverberation in the hut. She had time for herself to do this, while Winta was at school, while the Mandalorian and Cara Dune did shifts at patrol rounds, and while a village matriarch took her turn in looking after the little green child.

It’s been two standard months since Cara, the Mandalorian, and his small son were greeted by the perimeter of their farm and welcomed with open arms. Bless them—he and Cara had been very sincere in their attempts to help and uplift the village, if not for their acute pragmatism which came as a shock sometimes. They had once suggested that the villagers relocate elsewhere, as their beloved krill farm was doomed should it suffer a Klatooinian attack aided by their AT-ST assault machine. 

Omera couldn’t believe it at first, when the Mandalorian had formed a viable solution. He’d suggested with a casual air that the village can be taught how to fight, if they were willing to take up arms and train for days on end. An attempt of such a scale hadn’t befallen their village in decades—they were peaceful folk who only wished to do good business through their exceptional spotchka, which was their main means of livelihood for generations. 

The Mandalorian kept true to his word with a gravity that reflected the honor in which he had been raised. Not only had he lent his undivided attention to make sure everyone was as capable a shot as they could compared to Omera’s surprising expertise, he had lent his own weapons—dozens of hands touching the sacred objects of his religion, leaving a dozen more fingerprints upon the shiny metals from a variety of his personal munitions. 

Omera watched the way he talked, the way he moved, even the way he stood in tranquil stillness. He was precise, reserved, unpatronizing… genuine. 

His desire to help was real. He had already taken the downpayment for Cara’s own payroll, leaving nothing for himself and his child, save for food and lodging. Omera’s heart had sunken then, realizing that he had only wished for a place to lie low and think, and care for his child without the perils of the hunt and being hunted in turn—no more, and no less.

In his confidence over being able to restore the village to its post-raids state, his only valued transaction was a momentary home in exchange for his time, his blood, his sweat, his skill in the fight.

Now, in this noon hour, Omera remained stuck with her message to the Mandalorian. Cara’s had been easy; the other woman took neither flattery nor hyperbole, which Omera appreciated. She had found a friend in Cara. However, when it came to the Mandalorian���

Omera wasn’t one to curse, but this time, an ungainly swear word escaped her lips as frustration reached its peak.

“Fine,” Omera whispered to herself, relenting. “Dear Mandalorian…”

“Dearest Mandalorian and baby…”

“To our dearest Mandalorian and baby…”

“Our dearest… my dearest…”

Omera groaned, almost defeated but not quite. When she first came across the idea of a thank-you note, she thought that it was a lovely idea. She’d brought it up to Winta, and her little girl agreed with it whole-heartedly. When Omera had permitted Winta to go ahead with her own thank-yous into the log, the child went about it with an innocent ease of one unsullied by the humiliation of inadvertently saying the wrong things. 

With a tinge of good-natured envy, Omera watched and heard her child utter her own sweet words of gratitude. A child’s sincerity flowed from their heart quickly downstream, unhampered.

Then came Omera’s turn. As days passed by, dictation into the log became increasingly difficult. 

She couldn’t find the words to sort her feelings; or perhaps, she couldn’t decide on her feelings to sort out the words.

Omera was… conflicted. 

“Dearest Mandalorian…”

She remembered the way he trudged around the perimeter, unbothered like the sturdiest tree in the forest. He emanated a quiet confidence which needed no heralding or ostentation. It was ever-present like the air Sorgan breathed or the waters upon the river that shimmered under the sun, since the beginning of time. It was a confidence which inspired trust.

It was a confidence which inspired…

“Dearest Mandalorian…” Omera begun once more, for the umpteenth time.

Love. 

The Mandalorian was inspiring love… 

Omera felt discomfort and a muted horror over the epiphany, which she herself had acted as a barrier against. However, actively fighting it was affecting her clarity of mind and the serenity in her soul. If she resisted any further, she’d perceive herself a false person, unworthy of truth as she herself could not extend it. 

The truth, Omera decided, didn’t need to be paraded out in the open. If she could only be true to herself, that would be enough. All she needed to do was let all her thoughts out, starting with “Dearest Mandalorian” and all the words she wished she could tell him but couldn’t—shouldn’t. At this moment in time, it was still a very complicated thing, like a stove top too burning to the touch. 

If Omera could just let all those words out for him and yet treat all this as if no one listened, she’d find equilibrium again. The Mandalorian didn’t have to know. “To my dearest Mandalorian…

You are a force of nature, a blessing, a gift, a sign from our gods to guard our home.

When you walk around the circle of ponds, it’s as if you weave a spell of protection around it.

You keep all of us safe. You make us feel safe. We know we are safe because you made it so. You are a jewel.

And I love you for it.

I love you.”

A long silence followed as Omera felt the tears fall, as soon as she had uttered the last three words. The data-log noted it down like a faithful, automatic scribe. 

She began to feel a tremendous burden slowly lift from deep within her, but she couldn’t face herself over this tenacious, hidden confession just yet. When her many inner storms had settled, maybe she can go out in the open again and pretend she had never said those words…

Her mouth tried to utter something more. She wanted to dictate to the log… “delete last message,” but a huge part of her refused to. It was like taking her words back, her sincerity back. It would once again be a lie.

Wiping the tears, forcing out a long exhale of trapped emotions, she let her shoulders droop. She calmed the beating of her heart. It was hammering powerfully enough to knock the oxygen out of her brain, and she held her ground.

“I’ll be okay,” Omera promised herself.

Letting the draft of her secret letter to marinate in the log for a day or two, Omera stepped out of the hut to enjoy the vestiges of daylight. She had been at the log for hours. She needed to stretch her legs and check on her dearest Mandalorian and his sweet child while she’s at it.

***

“Winta!” 

Omera flitted around the hut like a caged bird all morning, flipping mats and pillows and folded laundry, tossing small household items here and there in clear search of something. “Winta, my love—have… have you seen my data-log?”

Winta was chewing porridge at the kitchen table. Her mouth was full when she replied, adding to Omera’s vexation. “Nnho, Mhama.” The little girl swallowed her food. “Mama—was that the same log with my thank-you letter in it?”

Omera wrung her hands, entangled her fingers over her braids as the plaits slowly came undone. “Y-yes. Yes. I’ve sent the log with your note to the Mandalorian. I don’t think I’ve sent mine—“ the young widow stopped short, catching her breath. 

She wouldn’t be caught telling her own daughter a lie.

Omera hadn’t been in her best mood ever since the Mandalorian, the baby, and Cara had departed the village at the same time. She and Winta had adjusted their expectations over the whole messy affair of the Mandalorian needing to be on the run again for the safety of his son. Her heart had ached so preposterously, that when she had been packing gifts for the baby which the Mandalorian took with him, she also had not been paying close attention to her actions. 

She had wanted to get over the pain of seeing father and son off, not knowing that she may have done so a little too hurriedly.

“Oh… Oh no. Maker…” Omera felt crushed as she collapsed on a wooden chair in their modest living room. Her chest heaved visibly and she seemed faint, enough for Winta to squeak and fetch her mother a tankard of water.

“Mama,” volunteered Winta at last, as Omera drank her fill, her eyes bloodshot and tired. “Mama… maybe you’ve packed it along with the baby’s gifts! It’s the tiny rectangle thing with a flap, right? I think I saw it tucked in the baby’s blanket…

Omera sat up, very attentive. Her eyes were wide as she stuttered at her daughter. “Y-yes, that one. It’s… it’s a tiny rectangle with a flap.” 

Her body turned to jelly. Her bones turned to ice.

She buried her face in her hands.

Winta was prodding at her mother. “Was your letter in there, Mama?”

Omera nodded, keeping her face shrouded in her palms, unspeaking.

Winta scooted closer to her mother. “Then why d’ya look so worried, Mama? Did you say something in the log by mistake which you weren’t able to fix?”

Omera let out a small sob; she sat still for long moments before finding the courage to peek out of her shell. 

She thought for an answer, unwittingly holding Winta close. The child, confused, simply embraced her mother back, her dark head resting under Omera’s chin. 

The young widow was learning the hard way that secrets—in one way or another—were not meant to remain so forever. Omera kissed the top of Winta’s head, resigned to her fate.

“No, my darling,” said Omera softly. “There are no mistakes.”

If Winta suddenly sported an even more baffled expression, Omera took no heed, as she felt her heart burst and she kissed her daughter’s soft crown once more.

***

The child patted his little three-fingered hands over the pocket-sized datapad with a flap on it. He wondered what that uncomfortable shape was digging into his side from among the blankets, and out of natural, immediate curiosity, the baby fished it out.

He uttered a pleasant trill which sent the Mandalorian’s visor facing towards him in the passenger’s seat. The man had been focused on the ship’s controls before then, as the Razor Crest whistled like a bolt through hyperspace.

The Mandalorian paused, intent over the object which the baby had found interest in.

“Whatcha got there, kid?” the Mandalorian inquired of the baby with ever-growing fondness. “More presents?"

The baby giggled and trilled, the magnetic pull of his huge eyes keeping the Mandalorian’s attention glued to his son.

A tiny, airy chuckle seeped through the warrior’s vocoder. “They’ve been spoiling you rotten, kid. I’ve never seen a womp rat get spoiled like you my whole life…”

The baby seemed to have other plans as his little clawed fingers played with the flap, and as soon as he pried it open, Winta’s cheerful voice filled the cockpit.

“To the dearest sweetest baby there ever was and his dad…”

The child’s ears flapped inwards and his face scrunched in delight. Winta’s thank-you message played on as the Mandalorian continued to fail at holding in a fit of tremulous laughter. That ecstatic sound was brief but tangible. The child loved his father’s laugh. He made that face again, and the Mandalorian chuckled again.

“…many many many hugs and kisses, and all the yummy frogs in the galaxy for you and all the oatcakes for your dad because you helped our village pres.. prosp… um—prosper again. That’s a big word we learned in school yesterday!”

Winta’s log-note soon came to a close, also translated in glowing little aurebesh letters as the little girl spoke her exuberant words. The child clapped, patted the little data-log once, as if to send a gesture of affection to Winta from afar.

The Mandalorian exuded one of his rare, wistful sighs (they were usually sighs of resignation). 

“That was very nice of Winta, kid. I’m sure you’d love to keep that log to tide you over while we hop around the galaxy for a little while…”

“To my dearest Mandalorian…” began a new message.

The child looked so amused when the Mandalorian’s head whipped back to the direction of the data-log, quicker than a finger snap or a flash of lightning. The man sat there on the pilot’s chair, unmoving. 

The Mandalorian had become paralyzed for an instant, his helmet tipping subtly, small movements missed if one should blink.

Then, the Mandalorian decided that hearing Omera’s voice again was a luxury he was unwilling to indulge in at the moment. He was unprepared. He swallowed hard, his breaths grew shallow, and he had sprung from his seat to carefully kneel in front of the child.

“…you keep all of us safe…” continued the young widow’s log-note, but the cockpit had grown abruptly silent when the Mandalorian had gotten hold of the device and snapped it shut.

The child cooed at his father inquisitively. He made cajoling noises of affection when the Mandalorian remained still, so still. 

Then his shoulders heaved in the wake of a tremendously strained sigh.

“I’ll be okay, kid,” said the Mandalorian at last. As an afterthought, he patted the closed log firmly with a gloved hand. 

“I know you’ll think me weird, kid,” added the man, his voice scratched with emotion. “But… I’d rather keep this a secret for a while longer…”

There was no judgment in the baby’s babbled response. The child reached out, and with surprising tenderness, laid a tiny clawed hand on top of his father’s helm.

“We’ll be okay,” the Mandalorian repeated, and the baby agreed.

****