#original foundling characters | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

the-blind-assassin-12 · 7 months ago

Text

What Can Still Be Known

A/N: This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge... which I meant to have finished weeks ago, but since it's May the 4th, today seems like a good time to post it even if it is later than I originally planned. Thank you so much to Gin for putting this together! I love music prompts, so this was right up my alley. I can't wait to catch up on the other stories written for this event! Make sure you all go check them out, too! You can find them here.

Prompt: My song was Butchered Tongue from the album Unreal, Unearth, and my character was Din. I was delighted to get this prompt, because that song speaks to my soul. It's melancholic and beautiful, and I think it fits Din so damn well, so I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: angst, mentions of canon typical violence, mention of death of parents/family, you know, Mandalorian stuff.

Word Count: 3,545 (oops.)

Summary: Din doesn't remember much about his parents or his life with them... but that doesn't stop him from wishing it were different.

Nevarro’s sun burned bright and hot as Din crossed the scrubby stretch of flatlands that separated the town from the Mandalorian encampment. Shifting the crate he carried under one arm, he tilted his head down to where Grogu hopped along beside him, using the Force to propel himself every few steps to accommodate for his father’s much longer stride. The sight, along with the string of happy gurgles and babbles spilling from the kid’s mouth, made a smile sprout beneath the man’s helmet.

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it buddy?”

Grogu looked up at him and squealed happily, nodding and pointing one clawed finger at the semi-permanent settlement growing closer with every step they took.

Though the efforts to reclaim their homeworld had been successful, a small group of Mandalorians remained on Nevarro during the rebuilding process on Mandalore - mainly those responsible for teaching and raising the foundlings and other young children that were not yet ready to start their trials. There were two combat instructors, two teachers whose focus was on the tenants of the Resol’nare, one additional teacher who was responsible for teaching Mando’a, as well as a dozen or so students and their guardians. Eventually they’d all join the rest of their people on Mandalore, but until things were more solidly settled there, Nevarro was as safe an option for an outpost as could be found in the Outer Rim.

Din chuckled. “I’m sure your friends will be happy to see you again, too.”

That response sent the kid bouncing with excitement, hopping high enough so that he could fit in a flip before touching down again, the rondel and small pauldron he wore clinging together like chimes with his motion.

“Go ahead,” Din urged him, jutting his chin out in front of him. “You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll be right behind -” But the child was gone before the last word left his lips. He sighed and shook his head in amusement. “-You.” He watched through the tinted screen of his visor as Grogu darted towards the sparring grounds, no doubt in search of Ragnar.

It had been a few months since they’d been back on Nevarro, Din busy taking Grogu through his apprenticeship, teaching him skills that he would need in order to move on in his training. Tracking, hunting, navigation, survival, negotiation, just to name a few. Every lesson took them to a different planet, some of them coming with the added bonus of coinciding with a bounty or paid favor. The most recent one, a lesson in tracking on Rodia, had resulted in uncovering a stash of beskar ingots that had been defaced with an Imperial stamp.

Immediately after finishing up on Rodia - Din showing Grogu how to incapacitate an enemy without killing them - they’d taken the recovered beskar back to the Armorer on Mandalore, so that she could fashion it into new pieces for the foundlings. It was strange, but good, to see the glass encrusted planet so teeming with life. It was a relief to know that what his people had fought for for so long, what so many had given their lives for, was finally secure. Finally theirs.

But despite the fact that the Mandalorian people finally had a safe place to call home, Din had yet to feel that sort of connection with the planet. Unlike Bo-Katan, he hadn’t been born there, nor had he spent any time there as a child. He’d heard stories about what the Great Forge had been like in its glory, how lush the gardens of Sundari had been long ago. But to him, a foundling Child of the Watch who had never set foot on Mandalore until he was a grown man, they’d always felt like stories about some fictional, far off place. He wondered if that would change, if he would ever feel at home in a place that brought him no nostalgia or warmth.

A part of him hoped that it would. Because it wasn’t just Mandalore that he felt that absence of connection to. It was everywhere he went. A side-effect of losing every home he’d ever had, it turned out, was not knowing where your roots would grow if they could grow anywhere they chose.

He knew he had a home once. A true home, one where he could have collected a whole life’s worth of memories, enough of them so that when he returned there they’d all come rushing to fill his heart with warmth and welcome. He knew he had a family before the Tribe had become that for him, too. A mother and father who loved him so fiercely that they sacrificed their own lives to save his. When he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still find their faces. His father’s was easier to recall because he himself wore so many of the same features. Every time he saw his own reflection he was reminded of the man who carried him through the battlefield that their village had become.

His mother’s face was more difficult to recall in detail, but that didn’t mean he had forgotten her. He remembered her thick, dark hair and the way it curled at her shoulders. He remembered the texture of the red robes she wore, remembered tracing the intricate pattern of woven stitching on the cuffs of her sleeves with the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t be sure, but he had the thought that he must have remembered these things because she was the one who comforted him when he was hurt, sad or scared. That what he really recalled when he thought of his mother was the feeling of safety and warmth that her embrace provided.

He remembered the tone of her voice, soothing but strong. His father’s was full and confident and always sounded like a smile was about to appear. He remembered that the two of them sang often. Sometimes he’d be hit with a snippet of a melody, the lyrics lost, turned to dust and ash like the rest of his homeworld, but he’d find himself humming and realize that it was one of the songs his parents used to sing.

The forgotten lyrics were only a small part of a larger loss, though. They were written in a language that had died when the population of Aq Vetina had been snuffed out. So he could remember his parents’ voices. He could remember the melodies they sang. But the things they said, the words they used, the meaning behind them? All of that was gone. For all the languages and means of communication he did know, the first one he’d ever heard and learned escaped him. And in all of his travels since leaving his homeworld in the arms of an armored stranger that had become his Buir, Din had never met anyone who spoke his native tongue.

It made him wonder if anyone else had survived the attack on his home that day, or if he was the last living member of a completely slain culture.

Before he could ruminate on that thought for too long, though, Azil, one of the combat instructors, saw him walking towards the sparring grounds and waved him over. “Olarom, Djarin!” He pointed at the crate Din carried, tilting his helmeted-head in question. “Gifts from home?”

The contents of the box shifted as Din handed it over, newly cast cuiresses ringing together in answer to Azil’s inquiry. “New beskar,” Din responded with a nod. “Freshly forged on Mandalore,” he added in answer to Azil’s question about where it came from. “I was told to deliver them to you for distribution to your students.”

Azil set the crate down and clapped one gloved hand to Din’s shoulder. “Vor entye, vod.”

Returning the gesture, Din did the same. “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” Azil echoed, and then immediately set about unpacking the box of armor, sorting it by size, leaving Din to see where Grogu had gone.

It didn’t take long for him to find his son. The long, green ears were a giveaway, sure. But so was the small crowd of other children gathered around to watch him levitate a black chunk of volcanic rock while Ragnar Vizsla practiced blasting it with training darts. With each successful hit, the other kids would cheer, a collective sound of amazement coming from them each time Grogu managed to evade the blast by redirecting the rock.

Din stood watching for a few moments, silently appreciative that these children had this opportunity to laugh and learn and grow together somewhere open and safe and free. He could remember playing similar training games and showing off new skills with the few other children in his covert, though then it was all done underground, in hiding. But he couldn’t recall the kinds of games he might have played with friends in his village. If there were any nursery rhymes or tall tales he might have known once, they’d long since faded from his memory.

It made him wonder if he’d eventually forget what little he could remember about his native culture. Would he lose it piece by piece? Until not even a familiar tune or the color red or his own reflection sparked any feeling? He hoped not, but it seemed inevitable.

At least, it had.

Suddenly - from a different group of children than the one gathered around Grogu, much to Din’s relief - a small child went darting by his boots, arms outstretched in front of her, the distinct sound of sniffles and cries trailing after her. Turning away from the training grounds, he watched as the child was scooped up by a woman who had just stepped out of one of the tents. He assumed that whatever sent the girl running was just the result of one of the other kids being a little too rough. Or perhaps one of Nevarro’s reptilian species had frightened the child. Either way, it was clear that there was no real danger and that the woman had things under control, so he started to turn back towards Grogu and Ragnar’s shenanigans.

But then he overheard the woman begin to soothe the young girl in her arms.

“Ny mo yariin, necta.”

It stopped him in his tracks and sent his head swiveling back in the direction it came from. His heart pounded beneath the elongated diamond stamped into the center of his chestplate as he felt something unlock in his memory.

He’d heard those same words before. So long ago that he was stunned when he recognized the phrase. So long ago that the meaning behind them was lost. But he knew they were spoken to him as comfort. He knew that they were words steeped in love. He watched the way the woman cradled the child to her armored chest, his eyes catching on the piece of red fabric that was pinned to the cowl of her flight suit.

No matter how impossible it seemed that the words he’d just heard had survived what a whole settlement of people hadn’t, no matter how unlikely it was that it was there of all places that he’d heard it, no matter how slim the odds were that the tattered scarlet linen was the same fabric that he remembered from his home, Din found himself drawn to her.

To you.

— — —

You were rewiring the com device in your helmet when you heard Tira’s cry.

Though you knew that she was probably fine - there were dozens of other Mandalorian adults present in the settlement, and you knew that none of them would allow any real harm to come to the children - you immediately set your work down and stepped outside, senses heightened. But as soon as you saw her running towards you, you relaxed. She wasn’t hurt or being chased. She’d likely just been knocked over by one of the bigger kids while they played one of their games. Tira was small, but didn’t like to be told that. And since her older brother had begun his trials and wasn’t there as often to make sure she didn’t get pushed around by the others, she’d been having trouble adjusting.

It didn’t help that less than a year ago, she and Maj had lost both of their parents in the battle to retake Mandalore, which is how the children had come to be in your care.

As a former foundling yourself, you were more than willing to step in and raise them as your own, just as the Mandalorian who rescued you the day your village was attacked and your parents were killed would have done had he not been able to reunite you with your kin. You’d been brought to Corellia, where your mother’s sister lived with her family, and they’d taken you in and raised you instead. It wasn’t until you became an adult that you rejoined the Mandalorians and took the Creed, choosing to commit your life to the very people who had saved it.

But though you mainly spoke Galactic Basic and were muddling your way through learning Mando’a, it was still your first language that came to you when you scooped a sniffling Tira into your arms and cradled her to your armored chest. It was still the words your parents - and then your aunt - had spoken to you when you’d been hurt or scared that you used to comfort the girl.

“Ny mo yariin, necta.”

You’re safe with me, sweet one.

You knew Tira and Maj didn’t speak Aquitto. They only knew the meaning of that one phrase because you’d taught it to them. And since your aunt had passed away, you knew that you were possibly the only person left in the galaxy who would even recognize it let alone speak it. As far as you knew, there hadn’t been any other survivors from your village that day. It struck you that every time you spoke it could be the last time it was ever uttered.

Pushing that thought from your mind, you focused on Tira, kissing her cheek and letting her clutch at the sculpted pin that held a piece of red fabric - a remnant of the hooded robe you’d been wearing the day you were rescued on Aq Vetina - in place on your cowl. The pin had belonged to your mother, the woman pressing it into your hand before disappearing to go try to fight off the monstrous machines with the rest of the village. As a child you would trace the design on it with your fingertip whenever she held you, whenever she made the same promise you were making Tira.

“Ny mo yariin, necta.”

By the time you’d said it a second time, the girl had stopped crying. The words themselves weren’t magic, but the sentiment in them was. Even if they were the last scraps of the Aquitto language to live on, you hoped that one day Tira or Maj would pass them along to a child who needed to hear them, too.

Whatever had brought on the sudden storm of tears had passed, and Tira wriggled in your hold as she caught sight of some of the other children watching as the Jedi foundling levitated chunky rocks for Ragnar to blast with darts. You chuckled at her eagerness to get back out there with the big kids. “Okay, necta. But watch out for yourself, got it?” You set her back on the ground, stooping down to her level and ruffling her hair. “I know you’re a tough one, but you still have to be careful.”

She nodded enthusiastically, telling you that she would be, and then she was gone, scurrying back across the crusty flatland towards the other kids. When you stood back up, you were met with the dark visor of Din Djarin - a man you’d never personally met, but who you’d heard a great deal about from the others in the settlement on Nevarro. You knew he was the Jedi foundling’s adoptive father. You knew he had previously wielded the Darksaber and that he was instrumental in helping Bo-Katan Kryze and the others take back Mandalore. You knew that he was responsible for reclaiming the beskar that your armor had been forged from.

– – –

“Oh, hello,” you greeted him, a small laugh in your voice that he figured was a result of the way he’d caught you off guard. You lifted a hand and reflexively tucked the piece of red fabric at your collar into place. “It’s Din, right?”

“Yes. Din Djarin. I’m sorry I don’t know your name, I-”

You waved him off and introduced yourself. Smiling, you pointed in the direction that the little one you’d just set down had run off in. “That’s your son over there, isn’t it? Tira was excited to see him.”

Din turned his head to follow your finger, though he didn’t need to look to know that you were indicating Grogu. “It is,” he confirmed, facing you again with a small shrug. “He likes to show off.”

You laughed at that. “I would too, if I could do what he can.”

“He’s a special kid,” Din replied, and you smiled again.

“He is.” You nodded, and it was clear to him that you were still unsure of why he had approached you. “Is there-”

“Can I ask you something?” He tilted his head, hidden eyes fixed on the fabric at your neck - and on the sculpted pin that held it in place, the designs so familiar to him he could feel them on his fingers.

You furrowed your brow, expression turning serious. “Of course. Not sure if I’ll be able to help you with it, but-” You held your hands up, palms to the sky. “Ask away.”

“The words you just spoke to that little girl… Tira?” You nodded so he went on. “How do you know that language?”

He watched your eyes widen with your blink. “You… You’re familiar with Aquitto?”

Din sighed, giving a slight shake of his head. “I didn’t even remember what it was called, but… Yes. Or, that phrase, anyway. How do you know it?”

You let out a breath. “I… I was born on Aq Vetina. It was the language my parents spoke. It…” Again your fingers came up to the pin and the fabric that it secured. “It was my first language. I was lucky that my aunt knew it, too, or else I would have forgotten it completely after our village was destroyed and-” Something dawned on you and your eyes widened again. “You said you were familiar with it?” He nodded. “How?”

You asked the question in a way that made him think you already knew the answer, but you needed - or wanted - to hear him say it. So he did. “Same as you. I was born there. It was my parents’ language. But I haven’t heard it spoken since the day droids raided our home.” He blinked, somewhat stunned that only moments before he had been mourning the loss of his native language and culture only to find a source of it right in front of him. “I didn’t know there were other survivors.”

Your mouth fell open slightly as you stared up into the visor that hid his eyes from view. When you spoke again it was quiet, your words equally full of disbelief. “Neither did I.” Your lips twitched into a small smile despite the way your eyes had started to water. “I’m glad we were both wrong, Din.”

“I am, too.” He felt a tightening in his chest, but it was unlike anything he felt before. It wasn’t from sorrow or anxiety, it wasn’t to alert him to a threat or caused by regret. It felt more like a connection forming - like meeting you had brought him closer to his own heart somehow. Instantly, a thousand questions popped into his mind for you, and he imagined you might have had some for him as well. But there was one thing he needed to know first. “Can you tell me what it means? What you said to Tira? My… I think my parents used to say it to me, and…” He trailed off, waiting for your response.

“It means, ‘You’re safe with me, sweet one.’” You smiled again. “It literally translates to ‘You’re in my heart’ though. It’s… It’s what you say to the people you love most.”

Just then, Grogu and Tira came tearing over, Din bending down to pick up his son and you settling your hand on the little girl’s head as she clung to your side. “Hey, Buddy. Remember when I told you about my parents and what I remembered about where I came from?”

“Patu.” His head moved up and down, ears flapping with his nod.

“Well, this lady comes from the same place that I do, and she just taught me how to say something in my old language. You wanna hear it?”

“Patu!” He spread his clawed fingers over Din’s chestplate.

Din looked over at you - at the warm smile on your face as you smoothed the little girl’s play-ruffled hair and gave him an encouraging nod - and then back down at Grogu. “Ny mo yariin, necta.”

Thank you for reading! If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist for this or any of my stories, please feel free to let me know in an ask or message, or you can fill out the form on my masterlist! :)

tags: @something-tofightfor @pheedraws @beautifuldesastre @alraedesigns @valkblue

@dihra-vesa @marauderskeeper @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @stevie75

@nyctophiliiiiaaa @practicalghost @tanzthompson @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth

@thescarletfang @trickstersp8 @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80

@hp-hogwartsexpress @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns @competentpotato @pedro-pedrito-pascalito

@jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharinee @anoverwhelmingdin @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle

@severin-proud @vickie5446 @jessthebaker @ael_xander

#hozier drabble challenge #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fic #butchered tongue #the mandalorian #may the 4th #star wars fic #din djarin #grogu #what can still be known #Spotify

58 notes · View notes

writerlyhabits · 7 months ago

Text

Aliit ori’shya tal'din

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 3 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 2 | Ch. 4

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it.

AN: A word from the author – “I’m in grad school, I take forever to write things.Soon I will start grad school again, which means I’ll write this instead of my dissertation. I’m quite fond of the Mando Legends Lore, if you haven’t noticed. I literally got Kad Ha’rangir & Arasuum tattooed on me.”

This is the third part of a sister fic for my one-shot (Courting) a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! She is also sharing it on AO3, so be sure to send her your love and kudos there as well! We hope you enjoy 💛

Translations, in order of appearance:

Aliit ori’shya tal'din: Family is more than blood

Rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?: Are you gonna tell her to kiss your ouchies?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.: Be careful, sister.

Aliit: family

Ad(e): child/children

Kar’ta beskar: the central "diamond" of Mandalorian armor; lit. heart armor

Mirjahaal: peace of mind, "healing", general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Beroya: bounty hunter

Kurshi: tree

Sen’tra: jackpack

Buir(e): Parent/Parents

Akaanati'kar'oya: The War of Life and Death (Mandalorian myth), creation story

Verd'goten: a special trial for one to become warrior; lit. birth of warrior

So'haale: births

Urman'gedete: prayers

Eparave: feasts

Cyarir evaar'la: Courting

Alii'aliit: meeting of the clans, the closest thing mandalorians have to government or parliament; lit. "clan of clans"

Tsad: group (of people), alliance

Bes'ede: Mythosaur

Kandush : inevitable doom

Time moves differently underground.

With Odona, the hours passed quickly. As a team, you could disassemble and reconstruct nearly any ship in their small fleet, save for a few parts— which no one had yet found and delivered. The days were faster when the guardsman opted to join you in his free time, his first visit and subsequent dialogue with Odona still memorable.

To what do I owe the displeasure; Oh Mighty Protector of the Covert and Savior of Foundlings?

The pleasure of my company is for your friend, ‘Dona.

Why? Going to terrorize her again, Ik’? Ven’rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.

You had sensed there was a joke hidden within their jibes, one you were unable to decipher in their foreign tongue, but neither took the time to explain. Whilst Ikarus lacked use for the labor that required fine motor control, his presence disrupted the monotony of the many tedious and repetitive tasks you and Odona spent much of your time doing— their frequent banter kept you entertained throughout the day.

The time you had spent in the medbay was shorter— the most common injuries coming from the older adolescents early on in their training, whose resilience and constitution had yet to strengthen— as well as wrist and ankle sprains from poor fighting forms, the occasional laceration from knife safety training; and at worst, injuries from the teens and young adults earned from a vigorous sparring session.

But with Din, the mornings and evenings together never felt long enough. The hours were reminiscent of your time with him and the Child in the Crest, the warmth of your aliit protected by familiar cold walls; the stone of the cavern both analogous yet antithetic to the durasteel of your former home.

One forged of hands, and the other of time— one of the fires of a furnace, the other the fires of a planet’s mantle. Your time together before was that of contrivance, engineered— with agendas to follow and assignments to complete— your interactions affable yet somewhat artificial, a present barrier precluding your companionship from evolving into something more… More natural, more innate, more intimate. Here, your time together had been more candid, endearing— Din no longer shied away from any probing questions or physical closeness, which allowed that previous barrier to melt and slowly flow away like that of bedrock to magma, reshaping and remolding your times of leisure together to hours of unified repose.

The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turn to this moment, where seemingly no time passes at all— blanketed in the familiar darkness of your room. The unlit and chilled space, at first an unacquainted oddity, now a comfortable companion to spend the sleeping and waking hours in. The ritual remains the same— awaken with the Child, have the morning trade-off with Din, make the caf, and begin the tasks for the day— like clock work, a well-oiled droid.

This morning is almost no different, and yet, you hesitate to leave your bed, your conversation with Din the previous morning still fresh in your mind—

Din had sat aside the table, his body resting against the wall— unarmored, arms crossed, head tilted to the side, the same position as every morning. Once you handed him the Child and sat, caf in hand, he finally spoke.

“I’d like you to join me tomorrow,” he stated.

The lack of pleasantries from him was unsurprising, though a teasing ‘Good morning to you, Din’ was a tempting response. Instead, you greeted him with a grin and an unobjectionable reply—

“Alright, what are we doing?”

He hummed, pleased with your immediate acceptance.

“The adults alternate supervising the ade. Tomorrow, it’ll be our turn.”

You gestured toward the Child in his arms, in a playful retort. “Don’t we supervise this ad every day?”

The Child cooed in his arms, his ears perked tentatively at his mention. Din sighed, with a smile in voice.

“We do. It’s tradition for all of the adults to care for the ade… All have wisdom to share.”

Skeptical, you thought: ‘What would I possibly teach them?’

You observed the Child resting so comfortably on Din’s chest— his tiny hand gripped tightly into Din’s clothes, right where his armor’s kar’ta beskar normally sat. It was a stark contrast compared to the Child’s behavior upon your first meeting. With any loud noises and sudden movements, he would shrink inwards in his cradle— as if he could make himself any smaller. Medical scanners made him grimace, unfamiliar places and people made his ears droop— seeing others upset made him wary. And yet, he was endlessly curious. Despite his initial unease with the two new adults in his life, the Child was quick to trust you both— and with his trust, his personality came through… his affection, his laughter, his love.

From there, Din learned how to tend to someone outside of himself— what it meant to have someone that relied on him, and more colossally, someone that wanted Din, as he was. The Armorer branded him as the Child’s father, and the delighted squeal from the little one sealed the bond that Din had been trying to hide for so long. Just as the Child learned to trust Din with his welfare, so too did Din learn to trust the Child with his own mirjahaal.

Perhaps it wasn’t the lessons they taught, but rather the connection they made, and the wisdom they sought.

With this, the true question then inverted from the skeptic ‘what would I teach them’, to the sanguine ‘what will I learn?’...

“...When do we meet them?”

—

To the ade, the former beroya is nothing more than a tall kurshi fit to climb.

Somehow, Din appears endlessly patient and playful with all six of the young children. They utilize their limitless spurts of energy to continuously attack Din as a squad, bringing him to the ground— he’ll exclaim a faux wail, and collapse to his knees— and the collective giggles of the ade begin the cycle again.

Whenever a child grows tired of their battle, they come to you— wanting to be tossed into the air, or onto the nearest surface. Supposedly being gently thrown around aids in their brain development, and ‘it’s good practice for their first sen’tra flight’, Din tells you. The logic is questionable at best, but hearing their joyous squeals makes the ever-growing muscle fatigue worthwhile. Even the child of the Djarin clan is as equally amused, his own little spirit mightily lifted by the experience of being with other kids again.

During your time on Sorgan, the Child was happy to interact with the other children— but mostly, he watched them, rather than play. Perhaps he was still too shy or too wary to fully engage with so many people, but surrounded by these Foundlings now, he looks at home; like he belongs. Amidst this cohort, he’s made a new friend, Mara, the youngest of the lot. Her long and dark hair reminds you— and perhaps the Child— of Winta, Omera’s daughter. The two spent the most time together on Sorgan, and despite the little one’s inability to say, he misses her.

Mara and the Child sit away from the squad play-fighting Din, in front of the single wall of volcanic tuff— embellished with crimps and pockets, graven by many hands. You watch them, as they examine the wall, looking up and down, side to side. Your eyes travel upward to the small cavate, almost eight feet from the floor. You watch as Mara looks to the Child and nods, and begins her ascent up— using her fingers and toes to grip tightly onto the various crevices in the wall— and the Child begins to follow.

You step forward, almost instinctively, wanting to call out to them to stop, wanting to reach out to the children to prevent a fall—

Then, from nowhere, Din appears at your side, extending his hand to stop you. “Don’t,” he says softly, “Let them try.”

You look at him puzzled, and he continues. “If you distract them now, they might fall…” he pauses, and turns his head to watch them, “...but if you allow them to focus, they can succeed. Watch…”

The pair silently step closer, closing the distance between themselves and the wall, watching the two ade slowly make their way up to the cavate. Mara climbs inside first, and lays on her belly, reaching out to the Child to help him trek the final span of the wall. Once inside, the Child turns around, to face the entire room below him. He squeals a little clamor of excitement, proud of his triumph, before looking down to his buire.

“Good job, kid,” Din says. “Come on down, it’s time to go.”

The Child looks at you both doe-eyed, his ears drooping, as he peers over the ledge. He looks back to Mara, and back down over the ledge, contemplating his next move.

You lean slightly towards Din, speaking in a hushed tone. “I don’t think he knows how to get back down.”

“He can do it,” Din says confidently.

You challenge him, “He looks scared.”

Din insists, “Then he’ll do it scared.”

He steps forward once more, his body almost pressed against the wall, reaching one hand up. “Come on kid, climb down.”

The child’s ears droop even lower, letting out a quiet whimper, a little anxious look on his face. He looks back up to Mara, who gives him an encouraging “You can do it,” before he finally begins his descent towards you and Din.

Carefully, his little clawed feet grip into the same pockets he used to climb up, and his hands hold onto the ledge. He looks down at his buire with a slightly quivering lip, then back up to his hands. Slowly, he presses on, his movements deliberate and cautious, gravity tugging at his little limbs with relentless persuasion, clammy clawed-hands threatening to slip free from the cold stone. His disgruntled babbling fading with each tentative step, footfalls growing more steady with every downward stride.

His little foot finally reached something soft— the hand of his buir, waiting for his arrival. With an excited squeal, he looks to Din, holding out his clawed fingers for Din to grasp. Din takes the Child into his arms.

“Good job… I knew you could do it.” Din whispers to him.

With his ad in hand, Din looks back to the cavate, where Mara sits silently. “You too, Mara, come down,” he says.

Mara, unlike the little one, is less graceful, only climbing down two feet of wall before leaping off. You instinctively reach your arms out to catch her, but are a few seconds too late, as she lands confidently on her feet, smiling up at you. She giggles, asking the Child “Wasn’t that fun!” and the little one cooing affectionately with a bright smile.

“They need to rest.” Din says, before leading Mara and the Child back with the other ade. You follow him in toe, and aid him while he attempts to settle the children in preparation for them to sleep.

The chamber is bathed in the soft, warm light of the cressets along the walls. The ade sit and lay in a circle on the floor, looking up at the two adults expectedly, waiting for you both to join them. Din gently places the Child in Mara’s lap, seating himself amongst them.

The ade demanded a story before they would agree to their midday nap, and with only one long sigh, Din relented. As you sit beside him, the tale of Akaanati'kar'oya begins.

—

In ages past, when cosmic realms were naught,

Two gods emerged, each with a purpose sought.

Kad Ha'rangir, embodiment of change,

A dance of growth, His essence did arrange.

Arasuum, the god of slow decay,

In stillness thrived, where life would fade away.

Eternal foes, in battle they engaged,

Ideals clashed, the cosmic script was paged.

Kad Ha'rangir, with eyes of vibrant light,

Envisioned galaxies in endless flight.

His very step, a ripple through the void,

Transforming all, where life and change enjoyed.

Arasuum, with eyes as deep as night,

Desired a realm where stasis held its might.

Decay His touch, a silent, withering breath,

A universe in stillness, touched by death.

In ceaseless clash, their cosmic struggle roared,

A dance of gods, where destinies were stored.

Stoic truths emerged from this grand design,

A tale of action, life's breath so divine.

"For action is the breath that life bestows,

A vital force, as mighty river flows.

Inaction, slow demise, a creeping shade,

A silent death in stillness' dark cascade."

Through galaxies and time, the story spread,

Of Kad Ha'rangir, where change was bred.

Arasuum's touch, a cautionary tale,

A realm in stillness, where all things frail.

So heed the moral, in verses spun,

That action is life, beneath the sun.

For inaction's grasp, a silent breath,

A slow demise, an encroaching death.

—

The ade rest together in a haphazard heap of limbs on various bedcovers and furs draped across the floor. Exhausted from their Beroya Battles and abseil adventures, they finally sleep, leaving the two adults to quietly watch over them together. In the chamber’s silent embrace, the air hangs heavy and chilled— a symphony of stillness envelops the room, broken by the muted shuffle of shifting bodies, and the hushed breaths of the ade. The only audible rhythm is that of the pulsating cadence of your own heartbeat and the rush of blood moving inside your head.

Your eyes scan over the ade, finding a sense of calmness watching their steady breaths, in… out.

In… out.

Your gaze once again falls onto the Child, cuddled against Mara, also breathing steadily. In the gentle cradle of his friend’s arms, he looks peaceful. Had he ever slept this soundly on the Crest?... Who held him every night before us? Who will take care of him after us?

In the softest whisper, to not disturb the ade, you lean closer to Din, telling him the obvious— “He’s happy here.”

“...Yes,” Din replies, just as quietly.

“Was this your experience, too? After the Mandalorians saved you?”

“No.”

His visor is trained on the little one’s sleeping face—the same face of a child who was once trapped in the suffocating darkness of a sealed cradle—a cage, a cage whose opening only revealed another prison, in the form of two bounty hunters hovering over him like… a B2 Battle Droid, with a blaster pointed in a child’s face. A child rescued from death at the last possible moment by a shiny warden, offering an adiaphorous detainment.

“It was… a time of war. I was trained to fight in it. I hope… that they never have to.” Din says, his gaze scanning over the ade once more.

“I thought all Mandalorians were warriors.”

He, too, believed the same notion for many years. Training from the day he was rescued to the day he became an adult, after his verd'goten, life became a perpetual streak of jobs. Commission, retrieval, payment. Commission, retrieval, payment… Until a strange, golden, aureate armorsmith joined his tribe, bringing tales of the “Great Forge of Mandalore,” and the songs of the artificers that echoed through the speos as they worked. He remembers the first time he kneeled in front of her small, austere forge, in a dark room beneath a busy market above, listening as she spoke of the ethos, the rites, the latria, the true way of the Mandalore.

“No. Everyone is trained to survive. But… we used to live, too.”

“...Until Mandalore was taken.”

“Yes.”

So'haale, urman'gedete, eparave, cyarir evaar'la, alii'aliit… A cultus he could only dream of, but never truly have. Spoken knowledge fades into whispers, slipping through his fingers like sand as the voices of the ancestors grow ever fainter. Each decampment a dissolution of tsad res publica, each step forward a battle against oblivion.

“I’m sorry.” You lean over, resting your head on his pauldron. “...Maybe there’ll come a time when we’ll live in the light, on a planet that welcomes us.”

Din knows that within every Mandalorian is a patchwork of unfamiliar faces and ever-changing landscapes, their solace and safety as elusive as a bes'ede itself—and yet they endlessly repugn the kandush they have faced time and time again, guided by the conviction that within the uncertainty of the cosmos lay the promise of a sanctuary forged from the resilience of their spirit.

He tilts his head, resting it atop yours. “There will.”

Ali'nare vencuyanir yaim. This is the Way.

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

To show this author your direct support, go ahead and check this story out on A03 + leave some kudos and a nice comment 💜

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #mando'a #original mandalorian character #shereshoy #shereshoy series #not my writing #i have permission to post this

54 notes · View notes

dindjarindiaries · 1 year ago

Text

The Mandalorian Seasons 1 & 3: Direct Parallels

After rewatching The Mandalorian season 3 cohesively and thinking back to season 1, I came upon a realization that every episode of season 3 somehow directly parallels back to each respective episode of season 1. Below is a breakdown going episode-by-episode and diving deep into each parallel I noticed. Please keep in mind that these are my observations and theories, nothing more!

CHAPTER 1: THE MANDALORIAN & CHAPTER 17: THE APOSTATE

“Chapter 1: The Mandalorian” is all about setting up Din Djarin’s journey, mainly the job he’s tasked with that causes him to cross paths with a new ally, Grogu. “Chapter 17: The Apostate”—like many season openers—accomplishes the same thing: setting up Din’s journey and causing him to cross paths with a reluctant ally, Bo-Katan Kryze. IG-11 is an important part of each episode and helps to bring some comedic relief to the screen. In Chapter 1, Din utters the infamous “I like those odds” line when his odds are 4 to 1. Din also finds himself with 4 to 1 odds during the pirate showdown, where he takes down four of them and leaves Vane standing. Lastly, Chapter 1 reveals that the job Din’s taken is a very difficult one that other hunters either can’t complete or refuse to. Chapter 17 proves that Din’s journey to Mandalore is also seemingly impossible and many others refuse to do it.

CHAPTER 2: THE CHILD & CHAPTER 18: THE MINES OF MANDALORE

“Chapter 2: The Child” seals the bond between Din and Grogu as Din faces trials in his journey to bringing Grogu back to Nevarro. “Chapter 18: The Mines of Mandalore” seals the bond between Din and Bo-Katan as allies while Din faces trials in his journey to redemption on Mandalore. In both episodes, Grogu has to rescue Din when he’s in danger, and both times he tries to use the Force to do so. Each episode also features Din fighting off an ambush on his own, though that tends to be pretty common for him. Both episodes also featured a creature that hasn’t been seen in Star Wars live action before: the mudhorn and the Mythosaur, respectively. By the end of each of these episodes, Din’s gained at least one new ally and has accomplished his original goal (getting Grogu back to Nevarro and earning his redemption).

CHAPTER 3: THE SIN & CHAPTER 19: THE CONVERT

“Chapter 3: The Sin” and “Chapter 19: The Convert” both see their protagonists going against a set of rules they’re expected to follow in order to further what they view as the greater good. In Chapter 3, it’s Din breaking the Guild Code to rescue Grogu. In Chapter 19, it’s Penn Pershing breaking the rules of the Amnesty Program to restart his research. Both episodes feature a betrayal of sorts, Greef Karga and Elia Kane respectively. Additionally, the Children of the Watch in both episodes—most notably Paz Vizsla—start both episodes off by being hostile towards Din only to end up helping him in some way. In Chapter 3, it was saving him and Grogu from the hunters, and in Chapter 19, it was accepting his redemption as well as Bo-Katan’s. Each episode title also uses religious language.

CHAPTER 4: SANCTUARY & CHAPTER 20: THE FOUNDLING

“Chapter 4: Sanctuary” and “Chapter 20: The Foundling” each start off a 3-episode run of different adventures that fill in the storytelling space and offer the characters time to face trials and grow before the overall story starts to wrap up. In Chapter 4, Cara Dune mostly leads the effort to rescue the village. Bo-Katan fills this same role in Chapter 20 by leading the Mandalorians to rescuing the foundling. Interestingly enough, both these episodes also are some of the only to address how and when a Mandalorian should remove their helmets to eat. Chapter 4 offers some Din backstory that he gives to Omera while Chapter 20 offers some Grogu backstory. At the end of each episode, the rescues are complete, but another call to adventure haunts the protagonists.

CHAPTER 5: THE GUNSLINGER & CHAPTER 21: THE PIRATE

These two are probably the hardest to draw parallels on. “Chapter 5: The Gunslinger” starts with a dogfight, while “Chapter 21: The Pirate” features quite a long dogfight as well. Peli Motto was originally meant to appear in Chapter 21 and her introduction to the Star Wars galaxy was in Chapter 5. Fennec Shand tells Din of the Mandalorians’ fate on Nevarro in Chapter 5, but in Chapter 21, the Mandalorians are the ones taking down others on Nevarro. Each episode also leaves off on a cliffhanger that isn’t resolved by the next episode, with Chapter 5 featuring Boba Fett saving Fennec and Chapter 21 featuring the New Republic finding beskar within a destroyed shuttle.

CHAPTER 6: THE PRISONER & CHAPTER 22: GUNS FOR HIRE

This one has some of my favorite parallels, and for no good reason! In “Chapter 6: The Prisoner,” Din teams up with mercenaries he used to work for, while we see in “Chapter 22: Guns For Hire” that Axe Woves, Koska Reeves, and other Mandalorians have become their own band of mercenaries. Both episodes feature Din being very hostile towards droids, even more so than usual. They also both include notable cameos, Bill Burr and Matt Lanter for Chapter 6 and Lizzo, Jack Black, and Christopher Lloyd for Chapter 22. In Chapter 6, Din is against the side of the law, while in Chapter 22, Din is united with Bo-Katan on the side of the law. The end of Chapter 6 saw Ranzar Malk and Qin sharing some choice words about Din while the end of Chapter 22 saw Axe also sharing some choice words about Din. (It’s fun how similar these two episodes are to each other in my head!)

CHAPTER 7: THE RECKONING & CHAPTER 23: THE SPIES

“Chapter 7: The Reckoning” and “Chapter 23: The Spies” each act as a part one of the overall grand finale of their respective seasons, with each ending on a devastating cliffhanger of a main supporting character’s tragic death. Both episodes start with a somewhat reluctant team-up of Din’s collected allies to continue a journey. Each episode is also Moff Gideon’s first appearance in their respective seasons, with both featuring Moff Gideon’s holographic image on a call before his actual physical appearance. Both episodes see the groups venturing across a desolate landscape to get to where they need to go only to get led into an ambush. In Chapter 7, it’s Grogu who gets captured by Gideon, while in Chapter 23, it’s Din who gets captured by Gideon. Additionally, each episode has peril in which allies cannot be contacted by comms. Lastly, as referenced before, Chapter 7 ends with Kuiil’s tragic death, and Chapter 23 ends with Paz’s.

CHAPTER 8: REDEMPTION & CHAPTER 24: THE RETURN

“Chapter 8: Redemption” and “Chapter 24: The Return” both end on a hopeful and somewhat peaceful note for Din and Grogu with a brand-new call to action. In Chapter 8, Moff Gideon blows up Din, while in Chapter 24, Moff Gideon gets blown up. Grogu protects Din and his allies from fire in both Chapter 8 as well as Chapter 24. In Chapter 8, the Armorer tells Din he is as Grogu’s father, while in Chapter 24, Din officially adopts Grogu as his son. Din earns a mudhorn signet for Grogu in Chapter 8 and Grogu earns part of Din’s name in Chapter 24. IG-11 sacrifices himself in Chapter 8, but comes back to life to serve as the marshal of Nevarro in Chapter 24. Both episodes contain big battle scenes that eventually lead to an entire planet being liberated. Chapter 8 features the Darksaber’s first appearance in live action, while Chapter 24 features the destruction of that same weapon. Finally, Chapter 8 sees Din and Grogu leaving Nevarro, but Chapter 24 sees Din and Grogu staying there in a home of their own.

#and this is why i love the mandalorian #is most of this just me reaching and being delusional? perhaps. perhaps #but as a season 1 girlie and a season 3 lover i will gladly go down this route #the mandalorian #star wars #the mandalorian season 1 #the mandalorian season 3 #din djarin

268 notes · View notes

armageddon-generation · 5 months ago

Text

The One Who Waits Should’ve Been the God of Fiction, not Sutekh

Sutekh was wasted as Series 14’s Big Bad & had no thematic connection to the rest of the stories. He was only there for fan-service. I realize this is partly Big Cope on my part, trying to rationalize the bad writing decisions this series, but it would’ve made way, way more sense thematically for the One Who Waits to be the God of Fiction, from the Land of Fiction.

The Land of Fiction is a pocket dimension the Second Doctor visits in The Mind Robber. Created by the Gods of Ragnarok, in it all the fictional lands and characters ever created exist and evolve, powered by the belief of our universe. It’s perfect for the themes RTD is exploring with series 14.

The God of Fiction latches onto the TARDIS at the edge of the universe during Wild Blue Yonder. The TARDIS as the ultimate narrative machine, the centre of so many twists and stories and myths, all the central plot-developments of this universe. Meta-commentary on the Doctor having slowly become the ‘main character’ of the universe. Of course a parasite that feeds on fiction would attach to him!

Now all s14’s fantasy elements- Goblins, a Bogeyman powered by storytelling, the folklore Fairy Circle, Boom tapping into faith & the afterlife, Rogue’s Bridgerton-fanfic romance & cosplay, all tie into the series arc. Narrative purpose for the experimentalism and scattershot tones, as the God of Fiction forces the TARDIS to new narrative extremes to feed itself.

(Also, 73 Yards- where Ruby is trapped in a nightmare world fuelled by dream-logic that she applies the structure and rules of traditional narrative to, latching onto a villain she has to defeat in order to make sense of the inexplicable- now becomes a microcosm of the whole season.)

People were initially worried RTD might re-use his original plan for Rose with Ruby- i.e. the Doctor manipulating her life to create his perfect companion. It’s a bad idea, but what if it was an external force? Like what Missy did with Clara, turned up to eleven.

The God of Fiction chose Ruby, the foundling, as 15’s perfect companion. The God is the one who shrouded Ruby’s regular human Mum in a Dickensian cloak, and the reason Ruby’s attempts to find a perfectly normal woman failed. They’re dressing her simple story up as a mysterious fairytale. The ‘we create legends out of ordinary people’ idea is baked into the spine of the season.

(This also lampshades 15 & Ruby being BFFs from the start. Skipping over/fast-forwarding through vital Doctor-companion milestones is explicitly because the God of Fiction has seen it all before & wants to get to the good stuff.)

Mrs Flood, with her fourth-wall breaking winks to camera, would be the God of Fiction’s servant in this version.

All the mystery boxes without satisfying answers this season- Susan Twist, the snow, the changing memory- were overtly placed by the God to keep 15 & Ruby on the hook. This way we can talk about the show’s overreliance on the Mystery Box structure, and the nuances of subverting expectations. The God knows they’re in a TV show! They acknowledge baiting 15 & the audience with Susan as shallow key-jangling.

By defeating the God of Fiction at the end of the season, through the genuine, human connection they’ve forged travelling together irrespective of mystery boxes or plot-twists or destiny, Ruby is freed from the constraints of the Narrative, and finally allowed to reunite with her Mum.

15 leaving Ruby would also make way more sense here; Mr. ‘I bring disaster, Kate’, ‘Maybe I’m the bad luck’ just got told his best friend’s life had been manipulated by a God because of him, and the foundation of their relationship was itself orchestrated, choreographed, puppeteered from the outset. He leaves Ruby to finally let her live a real life.

#doctor who #doctor who series 14 #doctor who season 1 #rtd2 #15th doctor #ruby sunday #rtd #dw spoilers #sutekh #ncuti gatwa #millie gibson #dw meta #the mind robber #empire of death

29 notes · View notes

mythalism · 19 days ago

Text

still losing my mind over my rook. in a bad way as in i cannot for the life of me figure her out. i have been so deeply thrown off by the mercar foundling military family backstory that it has literally broken my brain. i can’t reconcile that and the character that’s been in my head since we learned about the faction origins. i think i might have to go veil jumper or crow or even grey warden and return to the Mercar of my dreams once i know the story and thus have a better handle on who i want my canon rook to be

#i also wish i had a better idea of who I want to romance first but i dont…. im leaning davrin and have been for a long time #but i might find myself wanting something else once im in the game #i have a crow rook in my head for lucanis #so for Davrin I will do warden or veil jumper #and my mercar that I return to will be for neve….#I can’t even begin thinking about the possibility of mourn watchers and lords of fortune #ITS TOO MUCH!!!!!#can you tell I have OCD LMFAO….#mine.txt

16 notes · View notes

ak-vintage · 7 months ago

Text

Quarry - Chapter 9 (Part 1)

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, Din Djarin POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, unresolved sexual tension, pining, light angst, implications of nudity

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

A/N: I see this chapter as the first half of a two-parter. I split it in half for ease of consumption and because when I originally wrote it, I hadn't been able to post in ages. Enjoy these two little vignettes! You will get two more in the next "half."

___

The Refresher

After your conversation in the cockpit on your way to Trandosha, life aboard the Razor Crest returned to normal almost startlingly quickly. Mando permitted the ship to travel on autopilot for once, allowing the flight computer to calculate your path, and spent hours researching the last known locations, backgrounds, and crimes of the newest batch of bounties he had received from Karga. You fell right back into your routine of splitting your time between ship maintenance and occupying Grogu; the boy seemed positively thrilled to be back in his leather carrier strapped to your back as you puttered around the cargo hold. He was full of chatter, cooing and babbling and squealing more than you had ever heard. Not for the first time, you wondered whether he might eventually speak Basic or if perhaps his species simply didn’t communicate that way, but you decided that regardless, you liked the extra noise. You could almost imagine what he might be saying, and you found yourself filling in his half of your conversations in your mind as you went about your work. It passed the time, and it made you smile.

Now that you felt confident that you would be spending the foreseeable future in this way, with the Razor Crest as your home, it took you less than a week to come up with a draft for your largest improvement project to date.

“Hey, Mando – do you have a minute?” you asked, poking your head into the cockpit where the Mandalorian sat, bent over one of the computer consoles in concentration.

“What is it?” he replied distractedly. He did not meet your gaze and instead remained focused on the screen before him, which appeared to be a topical map of a dense, verdant forest.

You tucked the datapad you were holding close to your chest, rubbing your thumbs over the edge nervously. Stepping fully into the cockpit, you said, “I have a proposition for you. I’d like your support to start on…kind of a big project in the cargo hold.”

That was enough to get his attention. Pausing his perusal of the map, he turned in his chair to face you, planting his hands on his widespread knees. “What kind of project?”

His voice sounded cautious, and you could understand why. Most of the work you had done on the Razor Crest up until this point you had done without his involvement. He had purchased supplies for you when you requested, and he was always happy to review the reports you generated to demonstrate any efficiency gains you had achieved, but otherwise, you each had kept to your own activities. This was the first time you were asking for his blessing on something before simply doing it.

You took a steadying breath and explained, “With both of us living here for the long term, I really think we should invest in installing a fully functioning refresher.” You paused for a moment then added, “And an additional bunk, if I can figure out how to make one fit in the space we have.”

Mando was silent at first, appearing to consider the idea. “Is that possible?” he asked, his helmet cocked to the side skeptically. “The water storage and recycling systems on ST-70s weren’t designed to support full ‘freshers.”

You nodded in agreement. You had thought of this. “Yes. With the size of the water tank we have right now, you’re right – we could maybe support a running water sink and a privy, but never a shower. But I’ve been taking a look at the schematics, and I feel like there’s a better way to organize the forward space in the cargo hold.” You tapped through a few controls on your datapad and pulled up your sketch of the design, which you had laid over a copy of the Razor Crest’s blueprints. You held it out to him to examine. “It would be tight,” you added, “but I think, if you’re comfortable with it, I should be able to rearrange the hardware that is currently there in such a way that would allow us just enough space for a water tank one size larger than our current one and a ‘fresher.”

You watched, your lower lip between your teeth, as Mando zoomed in on your sketch, silently making note of all of the proposed changes. “Sounds…cramped,” he said after a moment.

You shrugged reluctantly. “It would be, a bit. But it would have a fully functioning door, instead of a curtain,” you argued. “We’d have somewhere to actually brush our teeth instead of using those chalky cleaning tabs. We’d have somewhere to store our toiletries. And we could take showers.” You almost groaned aloud at the thought. How long had it been since you had experienced such a luxury? “Actual, real, hot showers.”

On the space station that orbited Chardaan where the workers’ barracks resided, rows of sonic showers in communal bathrooms had been the norm. Sonic showers were efficient and generally more practical for space living, as they required very few resources to power, and at the very least, they removed dirt and oil and kept everyone from smelling like they had been living in a metal sphere with recycled air for months at a time. However, to you, something about sonic showers never left you feeling fully clean, and after months without access to even that, you were starting to feel truly uncomfortable in your own body. You yearned for the sensation of hot, soapy water sluicing down your skin and foaming up your hair, and if that was your experience, you could hardly imagine how Mando felt, wearing that suit of armor all day every day.

The bounty hunter nodded slowly as he silently reviewed your plans. “And the bunk?” he asked.

You grimaced. “That one I haven’t quite figured out yet,” you replied hesitantly. “I’m still sketching some ideas. I feel much more confident about the ‘fresher.”

“Hm,” he hummed, passing the datapad back to you. “Well, I approve of the refresher idea. Your design looks sound. Make a list of the materials you’ll need. I’ll see what I can do about getting them during our next stop.”

“Ugh, thank you, Mando!” You sighed heavily with relief, excitement buzzing in your chest. “You won’t regret it!”

A week later, after a successful first hunt, the Mandalorian returned to the Razor Crest with a large, male Trandoshan in binder cuffs and a repulsorlift sled laden with bins of supplies dragging behind him. It was all you could do not to fly down the gangplank and fling your arms around him at the sight. Instead, you managed to funnel that energy into just bouncing in place on your tiptoes as you began unloading the sled, your fingers positively itching to wrap themselves around your new toys.

You could have sworn you heard a rasping chuckle filter through your companion’s helmet as he watched your unbridled enthusiasm, and although it made your cheeks burn, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

From the time you took your plasma torch to the first piece of durasteel bulkhead to the time the refresher was complete and ready for use ended up being about two weeks of constant labor. But Maker, if it wasn’t a labor of love.

Piece by piece, inch by painstaking inch, you systematically disassembled everything to the left of the bunk, starting with that heinous multi-species vacuum ship head (which you had despised since your first day on board) and going all the way to the forward end of the hull. Water filtration? Enhanced. Clean water tank? Replaced entirely with one of a larger size. Scanners, jamming devices, antennae, even the ship’s headlights – all of it got taken apart down to its components, condensed, rewired, and fit back together to make room for the new space. Aside from the work you had done with Peli on the carbonite unit, it was easily the most challenging work you had ever done on a ship of this age, and you relished every second of it. You had always enjoyed puzzles, ever since you were a small child, and fitting each one of these systems back into the reduced space while still ensuring that everything functioned as it was designed was an especially rewarding puzzle.

Once you felt confident with your modifications, you began installing the refresher itself. Mando had been correct in his assessment when he evaluated your plans – the space was cramped, and due to budget constraints, it was almost excessively utilitarian. You had selected plain durasteel for the walls, privy, and running water sink. A single pane of transparisteel separated the shower from the rest of the room, left open on the far end to allow for easy entry without needing the space to accommodate a swinging door. You had managed to convince Mando to spring for a box of tiles of industrial, anti-slip flooring that would keep you both from sliding around in there, particularly when you were in flight, but other than that minor upgrade, everything you requested was about as economical as you could find.

It was far from glamorous, but by the time you finished waterproofing all of your seals and stepped back to admire your handiwork, you felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight. The Razor Crest was Mando’s ship, Mando’s home, but for the first time, you thought that perhaps one day, she might feel like yours, too.

When you finally felt ready to give everything a true test, Mando was out on a hunt. He had landed the Razor Crest on a remote planet in the middle of a humid forest, well-hidden by a copse of trees hung heavily with vines and moss, and you had neither seen nor heard from him in several days. You and Grogu had just finished your dinner for the evening, and the boy’s wide, dark eyes were heavy with fatigue. Seizing the opportunity, you tucked your little green charge into his hammock above the bunk, gave him a couple of gentle rocks until he began to nod off, and then eagerly dove into the newly-finished ‘fresher.

It was even better than you had expected.

The water from the shower was hot on your skin, almost shockingly so, and steam collected quickly in the cramped space, the fan you had fabricated working overtime to draw the excess moisture out of the room and into the exhaust vents. You had come across a lone bar of soap and a singular bottle of shampoo at the bottom of a storage bin one afternoon, and you used them both liberally. With how long it had been since you had last done so, it took multiple washes of both your hair and your body before you felt fully clean, but you couldn’t say you minded the extra time. It was an unspeakable luxury, to be able to stand under running water like this in a pre-Empire gunship that spent most of her time in hyperspace, and you found you couldn’t begrudge yourself the opportunity to bask in it.

Besides, the soap was clearly Mando’s. It was rich with the warm, spicy, masculine fragrance that you had first smelled in his bunk, and surrounding yourself with it like this had your skin flushing and your nerve endings buzzing. Perhaps you ought to have been embarrassed by your body’s reaction to nothing but a scent, but something about being tucked away in this tiny, little room, with its close walls and its own door that locked, knowing that Grogu was fast asleep and Mando wasn’t on board, had you feeling a bit bold. A bit shameless.

So caught up were you in your own enjoyment that you completely missed the sound of your comm link going off in your jumpsuit pocket, left crumpled in a pile on the bunk. On the other side of the door.

It was several more minutes before you found the motivation to turn off the water and step out of the shower. The prolonged heat (and perhaps also the arousal burning between your legs) had left you feeling a bit light-headed, so you toweled yourself off only briefly before wrapping the soft black material around your body and sliding open the door to get some cooler air.

However, to your great surprise, rather than being greeted by an empty cargo hold, you instead immediately met the impassive gaze of the Mandalorian.

His beskar was caked with mud, though he appeared uninjured, and he was in the process of freezing what looked to be an unconscious female Zabrack in carbonite. The gases were just beginning to dissipate and reveal her serene face outlined in matte gray, and although his body was facing her, his visor was fixed intently on you.

“Mando!” you gasped, your hands flying to your chest to grip your towel.

Silence, dense and significant, hovered between you. The bounty hunter continued to stare in your direction, and you could feel your throat begin to dry out and your heart speed up as you suddenly became acutely aware of your state of undress. Your towel was a little thing, a maintenance rag hardly meant for this purpose, and although it managed to cover from your breasts to the very tops of your thighs, that was hardly comparable to your typical boilersuit. And you had barely taken the time to dry yourself off. Your exposed skin shone in the dim cargo hold lighting; your long, unbound hair dripped a puddle onto the deck near your bare feet.

You felt strangely caught out, almost ashamed, as though the Mandalorian had discovered you in some compromising position.

A familiar, ill-timed wave of arousal flashed through you, raising goosebumps across your body and tightening your nipples as you caught a whiff of the scent that now clung to your damp skin. His scent.

Perhaps he had caught you.

Just when you thought you couldn’t bear the weight of this silence anymore, Mando replied simply, “Apologies.” Even through his vocoder, his voice sounded dry and deep, as though he had pulled the word from the depths of his chest, as though it had been a struggle to do so.

You swallowed thickly and shifted on your feet. “The, uh…” You cleared your throat, awkward and positively burning up from the inside. “The ‘fresher’s done. And the shower’s perfect. You should, uh…you should really give it a try.”

He offered you a single nod. “I will.”

You nodded, too. Your head felt loose on your neck, your mind spinning. “Okay. Good.”

Another silence, and you chewed on your lower lip as you cast your eyes around the room, searching for something, anything to look at that wasn’t Mando’s piercing gaze. Eventually, you landed upon your work boots, stacked neatly at the foot of the bunk, and the rumpled mess of your clothes spilling out of recess in the wall.

“Um. If…if I could just – ” you began, gesturing toward the pile of clothing with a little jerk of your head.

That, it seemed, was finally enough to pull the bounty hunter out of whatever shocked trance your appearance had seemed to inspire. He physically startled, turning away from the bounty in the carbonite chamber and drawing himself up straighter, and he dropped his satchel to the floor with a thud.

“Of course. Yes,” he said curtly, already moving toward the ladder up to the cockpit. “I’ll…start the take-off sequence. Let me know when you’re – ”

You found yourself nodding again. “Yeah, for sure. I’ll meet you up there in a bit,” you replied. Your voice sounded overly bright and forced even to your own ears, desperately eager to move past the heart-racing, thigh-clenching self-consciousness of the last few minutes.

You watched then as Mando retreated up the ladder with a speed that you had never seen before. Tightening your hold on your towel, you slumped back against the ‘fresher doorframe, weak-kneed, and let the durasteel cool your flushed skin.

You weren’t ignorant to the tension that had been building between you and the Mandalorian over the last weeks, but it had never felt like…that. Like his gaze had been a physical touch on your skin, like your core had melted into liquid heat.

Like the delicious, warm slickness now coating the insides of your thighs.

Nothing had ever felt like that.

___

The Bazaar

Din supposed he ought to have known the question was coming sooner or later, but he still found himself somewhat taken aback the first time you asked to leave the Razor Crest during a hunt.

He had been guiding the ship in a steady descent through the atmosphere of Trevi IV, aiming for the spaceport port outside of Trevi City, when you broached the subject.

“I…really desperately need of some new clothes. And hygiene things. Now that we have the ‘fresher, you know,” you had explained haltingly, a charming flush burning high on your cheeks at the mention of your most recent project. “If you’d be willing to give me an advance on my pay, that is. I won’t need much – promise.”

The Mandalorian had found himself almost needing to bite back a groan at the mention of the ‘fresher. You had been correct, of course – the addition of that space had been a marked improvement to the quality of life on the Razor Crest since its completion, but no matter how many times either of you managed to use it without incident, he couldn’t help but recall the sight of you standing in the doorway – cloaked in steam, clothed in nothing but the mere suggestion of a towel, miles of soaking wet skin on display, and smelling unmistakably of him. The vision had nearly unmanned him in the moment, and still it continued to haunt him, even many days later.

It was entirely unprecedented, the way you had come to affect him. The lilt of your laughter at Grogu’s antics, the scent of your hair on the pillow in his bunk, the strong, capable grip of your hands on your hydrospanner, the dark, glossy shine of your eyes as you ran your gaze over his body when you thought he wasn’t looking. All of it had burrowed into the very depths of him, nestled itself near his heart, immoveable. He had never experienced anything like it in his life.

However, rather than confessing any of that, Din had instead simply nodded.

“Sure,” he had agreed. “I need to go to the bazaar district first on a lead anyway. You and the child can join me when we land, get what you need.”

The grateful smile you had sent his way had the Mandalorian feeling his face heat up even under his helmet.

It looked to be around midday local time when the Razor Crest finally landed, and by the time Din was ready to depart, he found you already waiting by the rear blast doors, Grogu strapped to your back in his favorite leather carrier and an eager expression on your face. You had dug an old satchel of his, threadbare and dusty, out of one of the storage compartments, and it hung limply across your body, empty and ready to be put to use. With a wordless nod and a hidden smile, he gestured in the direction of the doors. After you.

It occurred to him as he watched you descend the gangplank that this would be the first opportunity you had had to explore any of the planets he had taken you to thus far. Of course, your time with Peli had certainly been a change of pace from daily life aboard the Razor Crest, but that had been months ago now, and you hadn’t been permitted to leave the hangar at the time. And since then, he had all but insisted that you stay on the ship when he left to hunt. For your safety, and for the child’s, but regardless of how well-intentioned the reason, it wasn’t lost on him how little of the galaxy you had been allowed to see in your life.

Din resolved himself then that although today you would only be visiting a market, only purchasing some necessities, and although he was technically in Trevi City on a hunt, he would not allow you to return to the Crest until you had had your fill of the experience. He was on your timetable today. He would ensure you made the most of it.

It had been some time since the bounty hunter had made his way to Trevi City, but he found it mostly unchanged as he led you and Grogu out of the spaceport’s docking yards and into the city proper. Trevi IV was a desert world, featuring miles of dusty plains and dramatic plateaus, but Trevi City was an oasis. Nestled against the craggy shores of the largest body of water on the planet, cooling, salty breezes wound their way through flagstone streets and buffeted against sundried brick buildings. Shops, stalls, carts, and tents of all shapes and sizes stretched in every direction, around every corner, and the crush of people was truly remarkable. Merchants – both local and traveling, customers of every age and walk of life, street performers in bright costumes, children and small animals darting in and out of the throng. At first glance, it seemed incomprehensible – the epitome of chaos.

And although Din had never been particularly fond of crowds, he couldn’t help but feel a small surge of satisfaction at the look of pure joy that spread across your face as you took in the bazaar.

First on your list, he knew, was clothing, so with a gentle nudge to your lower back, the Mandalorian steered you in the direction of the textile district – a few blocks down and to the left. The stalls there were draped in sumptuous fabrics, decorated with gold tassels, and staffed by women with sun-worn skin and friendly, welcoming smiles. You looked back at him then, uncertain, but Din gave you a wordless nod and scooped Grogu up and out of his carrier without preamble.

“Go on. I’ll keep an eye on the child. Just explain to one of them what you need, and they will help you,” he said, inclining his helmet toward the line of vendors. He wanted you to feel free to browse, to mingle unencumbered.

After a few halting introductions and some hesitant questions on your part, you did just that. From several yards away, the bounty hunter listened to you describe your needs to one of the women. He watched you tug self-consciously on the collar of your well-worn boilersuit, the olive green fabric now heavily stained with blood and engine oil and Maker knew what else, and he watched as the merchant woman nodded along, kindness in her eyes. Before long, she was looping your arm through hers and leading you deeper into the line of covered stalls, pulling items from racks and tables as she went.

Din kept his distance as you shopped, tracking the top of your head as you wound through the merchandise but never following. Only when you ducked behind a heavily embroidered curtain with an armload of items to try on did he look away, instead finding his attention captured by a display of colorful scarves and handkerchiefs fluttering in the ocean breeze. Before he could consider it further, he found himself in front of the display, running his gloved fingers over assortments of linen, cotton, and silk.

Mere moments later, he left the booth, a cotton scarf decorated with a delicate floral pattern in his pocket and a few credits less in his purse.

By the time you were ready to move on to the next items on your list, your borrowed, threadbare satchel was nearly full to bursting. Your face glowed with pride as you showed him your selections – a brand-new boilersuit (this one in a fetching deep blue), a pair of brown cargo pants and a matching jacket, a stack of undershirts, and two sets of soft, black sleep clothes. Din also tried desperately not to notice the new sets of undergarments hidden at the bottom of your bag as he dutifully handed the total payment over to the vendor.

He, of course, was unsuccessful. The images of those scraps of fabric, revealed accidentally as you dug through your sack, were now burned onto the backs of his eyelids, ever-present whenever he closed his eyes.

“Hygiene next?” you asked eagerly, rocking back and forth on your feet like a small child. Grogu giggled from his perch in the bounty hunter’s arms, and the latter nodded, clearing his throat.

“Hygiene is this way,” he replied with a gesture to the east.

His voice sounded suspiciously strained even to his own ears.

Your time perusing the toiletry stalls was much briefer than your time with the textiles, but it left Din perhaps even more disquieted. Your first purchase was a pair of full-sized terry cloth towels, which in turn called to mind the image of the miniscule one you had clutched over your breasts in the doorway of the ‘fresher and caused his brain to short-circuit. You also picked up a wide-toothed, wooden comb for your hair, saying casually, “I don’t know if you have hair under that helmet, Mando, but if you do, you’re welcome to borrow it if you need to! You must get awful tangles,” which left him utterly speechless.

However, perhaps the most taxing of all was the booth boasting hand-made soaps and haircare products. The Mandalorian watched, his throat dry, as your capable, calloused fingers floated gently over the many colorful bars and bottles, occasionally picking one up and lifting it to your nose to give a delicate sniff. Without fail, you would always then extend the item to him, placing it directly below the edge of his helmet.

“What do you think of this one?” you asked. “Or how about this? Too fruity? That one’s too much for me, I think. Oh, this one smells like nightblossoms!”

And on and on.

It wasn’t really that he minded being asked for his opinion. On the contrary, he found your enthusiastic chatter pleasant, and something inside him warmed at the idea that you might actually care about his preferences when it came to your body products. However, there was a singular thought that refused to leave him alone every time you asked for his input, one he dared not voice.

On perhaps the tenth bottle of shampoo that provoked a noncommittal response, you sighed heavily.

“Come on, Mando, give me something here,” you whined, clearly exasperated. “You’re the one who has to be cooped up with me on the Crest every day, the one who has to share a ‘fresher with me. I’d think you might care about whether the shampoo I buy gives you a headache or not.”

Din cocked his head, considering. He thought of the dark, blown-pupil looks you sent his way when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the burning flush that extended down your chest coming out of the ‘fresher, the way you leaned into his touch the few times he had dared run the back of his fingers across your cheek.

Perhaps…perhaps you might welcome him being a bit more candid with you than he had been previously.

“Well?” you pressed. Irritation crept into the edge of your voice then, and the Mandalorian found himself nodding.

“Very well,” he murmured, soft and gruff through his vocoder. “Follow me.”

Without another word, he led you to another stall, this one carrying similar products as the previous but with an aesthetic that clearly intended to be marketed toward men. The stall was draped in tactical netting with wares hanging from the ropes, and the tables were dressed with simple black cloths. The various bars and bottles were fashioned in more neutral colors, earthy and cool, and the merchant manning the till was dressed in an austere black suit. He nodded in your direction once but said nothing.

It did not matter. Din knew precisely what he was looking for.

Barely a moment later, before you could give voice to the questions that were clearly in your eyes, the bounty hunter plucked a single bar of soap and single bottle of hair wash off the table and extended them both to you.

You glanced from the proffered toiletries to Din’s face and then back again, your eyebrows raised quizzically. “These? You think I should buy these?” you asked dubiously.

He inclined his helmet in the affirmative. “Yes.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What are they?”

He simply continued to stare at you, silent, willing you to reach out and take them. Eventually, you did. Your fingers brushed his as you took the bar and the bottle into your hands, and if Din did not know better, he would have been certain that he could feel the warmth of your skin through his gloves.

Skepticism still apparent in your expression, you raised the bar of soap to your nose and sniffed lightly. Instantly, your eyes widened, and Din watched with liquid heat in his gut as your pupils expanded.

“This – ” you started, then paused and cleared your throat loudly. “This is your soap.” Your cheeks darkened, your lower lip disappearing between your teeth.

“Yes,” the Mandalorian confirmed.

“You – you think I should buy the same thing? The same as you?” You were stammering, seemingly struggling to maintain eye contact.

“It suits you,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie. As much as he enjoyed the scent on himself, it somehow was only enhanced on your skin, your hair. It was comforting, warm and inviting.

It spoke to a primeval part of his psyche, something that purred at the thought of you being marked as belonging to him. Only him.

“Well, it’s all I’ve had ‘til now. You don’t think it makes me smell like a man?” you asked with a forced chuckle, a clear attempt to inject some levity into what had suddenly become a very weighted conversation.

At that, Din could not stop himself from taking a step closer, invading your space, forcing you to tilt your head back on your neck to keep looking in his eyes. His breath came short in his chest at the proximity, and his voice crackled through his helmet modulator as he replied, “Trust me. There is nothing about you that could be mistaken for a man.”

An almost bashful expression came over you then, and you dropped your gaze. “That a good thing?” you murmured.

The bounty hunter could only manage a nod in response.

You left the booth with three new bars of soap and three bottles of hair wash in his favorite scent, the haul quickly added to your satchel with a secret smile and a heavy blush.

At that point, Grogu began to fuss in Din’s arms, whining softly and smacking his lips in the way that you both had learned meant that he was getting hungry, so the three of you ended the afternoon hopping from vendor to vendor sampling a variety of Trevi street foods. Well, perhaps more accurately, the Mandalorian watched as you and Grogu enjoyed the local fare – he packaged up his own to take back to the Razor Crest.

First, you selected an almost comically large wrap from a stall run by a male Bith – a pillow-soft flatbread wrapped around some variety of savory meat, a relish of pickled vegetables, and a bright orange sauce with a heavily spiced aroma. The sauce left broad, messy streaks across your nose and cheeks as you ate, but you paid it no mind. Instead, you simply laughed and plucked a few choice bits of meat out of the flatbread and passed them over your shoulder to Grogu, who was once again strapped to your back in his carrier. The boy babbled and munched happily, and Din took it upon himself to go back to the stall and request a handful of napkins.

Next, you followed the unctuous scent of fry oil to a tiny cart staffed by a Truishii woman. This one was peddling small paper bags filled to the brim with an assortment of deep-fried vegetables, coated in a thin golden batter and soaking the bag with grease. You groaned under your breath at the first bite, and Din immediately purchased a second bag.

Finally, after a bit of leisurely meandering and browsing, you stumbled across an open-air cantina just as the sun was beginning to set. A hired band played a lively tune from one corner of the cantina’s patio, and barmaids wove gracefully between rickety tables carrying trays laden with tankards. The Mandalorian looked on as you watched the band, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips, your body swaying unconsciously to the beat.

Before he could think better of it, he placed a gentle hand at the base of your spine to get your attention. “Would you like to sit down? Have a drink?” he asked, bringing his helmet down close so you could hear him better over the music.

You startled slightly under his touch, but Din could not ignore the way you seemed to lean into it, or the deep breath you took at the sound of his vocoder in your ear. You nodded silently in response, and the Mandalorian took that as his cue to lead you a table, flagging down a barmaid on the way.

He ordered you a tankard and Grogu a cup of bone broth as you settled into your seat, and the wide-eyed look of overwhelm as you took in the tankard’s contents made Din laugh out loud.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice tinged with awe.

He smirked. “I’m not sure what it’s called. It’s a local brew, made with honey.”

You swallowed heavily, giving the cup one more once-over before taking it in both hands. “Well. Bottoms up!” You inclined the tankard in his direction then brought it to your lips, drinking deeply.

In mere minutes, it was empty, and you were ordering a second, eyes glossy and cheeks flushed.

It was well past sundown by the time Din helped you stand from your seat at the cantina and led you back through the winding flagstone streets to the spaceport. Grogu had long since fallen asleep in his carrier, his little head resting on the back of your shoulder as he snored gently, and you had polished off nearly three full tankards of that honeyed beverage, leaving you giggly and wobbling on your feet. You were singing softly to yourself, humming one of the songs the band had been playing and grinning from ear to ear, and the effect was so charming, it was all the Mandalorian could do to keep himself from joining in.

When you arrived back at the Razor Crest, however, you seemed to have finally burned out all of your energy. You stumbled and lurched up the gangplank the moment it touched the ground, pausing only briefly once inside the ship to drop the bag full of your purchases unceremoniously onto the deck floor. Din called out your name like a question, but rather than answering, you simply removed Grogu’s carrier from your back, still holding the sleeping child, and passed it into the Mandalorian’s waiting arms.

“I have to lay down,” you said softly, almost to yourself.

Din nodded and gently steered you in the direction of the bunk. “This way,” he replied, just as softly.

At the entrance to the bunk alcove, you toed off your boots and then, to Din’s great surprise, stripped off your boilersuit, leaving you clad in nothing but a black breast band, a worn pair of gray undershorts, and a pair of crew-length socks. Everything else was left haphazardly piled on the deck, sure to be a tripping hazard when you woke, but you clearly couldn’t be bothered. Muttering to yourself, eyes half closed, you clambered into the bunk.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked after a moment.

“‘M fine,” you murmured, your voice thick and muffled by the pillow. “Never drank that much before. Not allowed in the barracks. Couldn’t afford it when I ran away.”

Din nodded even though he knew you couldn’t really see it. “I understand. Alcohol was discouraged during my training in the Fighting Corps. It…takes some getting used to.”

You hummed in response, snuggling deeper into the bunk’s barren mattress. Something inside him warmed, and he smiled softly at the sight.

The bounty hunter took a moment then to carefully extract the sleeping Grogu from his carrier, settling him in the little hammock he had fashioned for the boy that stretched across the bunk alcove. It was only when he was preparing to walk away and settle himself in the cockpit for the night that he heard you speak again.

“Mando?” you called softly.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For today,” you whispered. You were nearly asleep, your words slurred and slow. “It was wonderful. You’re wonderful. Best day of my life.”

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfiction

38 notes · View notes