Summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it’s Frankie —Santi’s best friend, the one you can barely stand— who shows up in Dallas. He’s just doing your brother a favor, but the trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop puts you face to face with your ex — the guy who broke your heart three months ago and is now about to get married.
Out of pride, you blurt out a lie: Frankie is your boyfriend. Surprised but willing to play along, he agrees, with one condition — you must accompany him to his mother’s birthday. His plan? Dodge his family’s meddling and their endless matchmaking schemes.
Rating: EXPLICIT (+18) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
Paiting: Frankie Morales x F!reader
WC: 105k (oops)
✦ fic content ✦
PART ONE: "The one with the proposal"
PART TWO: "The one with the purring traitor"
PART THREE: "The one with the birthday party"
PART FOUR: "The one with bruises and blue excuses"
PART FIVE: "The one with the Red lights"
PART SIX: "The one with the late night talk"
PART SEVEN: "The one with the unexpected visit"
PART EIGHT: "The one with Dante and Beatrice"
PART NINE I: "The one with the wedding"
PART NINE II: "The one with the wedding"
PART TEN: "The one with the skydiving"
PART ELEVEN: "The one with the things we shouldn’t talk about"
Back To You (Din x Reader) - Masterlist | Complete
Din x Reader
Rating: T (currently, and probably won’t go much past that) Friends to Lovers
Synopsis: You’ve been friends with Mando for years, and he drops by your hole in the wall bar from time to time to catch up. This time, however, he’s carrying an extra little green passenger with him. They are on the run, which is unsettling because Mando doesn’t run from things. Things run from him. A tracking fob, a dead body, and a confession later, all three of you set out to help the child find it’s kind. (Aka: a really typical Din x Force Sensitive reader plot, but instead of the going from stiff scary Mando to friendly Mando it’s gonna kinda go the opposite way. Not in a bad way but she’s gonna finally get to see what exactly he was running from all those times he came back to see her.)
I had no access to my WIPs for a few days this week, so my brain started inventing scenarios… ‘imagines’, I guess? This (totally unedited) one came about when I happened to scroll past the first two pics of Din on Pinterest, and the memory of Joel telling Ellie he used to be a contractor sprang to mind…
Well, your [SWU-techno-thingy] is broken. Great. Trying to keep your irritation in check, you call the repair company, who politely assure you they’ll send over their best guy immediately. It’s late in the day, and dusk is approaching fast, so you guess you should be happy they’re willing to send anyone out at all.
After a lengthy wait, during which your irritation seems to grow exponentially, your repairman pootles up to your home on his banged-up speeder, parking outside. Unhurriedly, he grabs his tools and trudges into your home, nodding a greeting but remaining suspiciously quiet and not even giving his name.
Perhaps doing a late job has made him grouchy. Yeah, well, not having a working [SWU-techno-thingy] has made you grouchy, too. Get in line, pal.
You show him the problem, and he spends a while trying to get a better look at it, peering into the inner workings and sighing. He mumbles “hmm” an awful lot, sometimes tutting and shaking his helmet at what he sees, and he takes plenty of readings with various tools.
Eventually, he concludes his analysis and tells you it’ll cost double what you were quoted when you called earlier because your [SWU-techno-thingy] is entirely dead. Apparently, he needs to replace your [thingamajig] in order to realign your [whatchamacallit] and get it running again, which requires brand-new parts and a lot of labour.
When you baulk at this, he simply shrugs and says he doesn’t set the rates; they’re determined by the Guild. Then he stands there, looking annoyingly smug, waiting for you to authorise him to start work.
You reluctantly agree and leave him to it, stomping off in the hope that you can find something to occupy yourself while he works.
Frustratingly, you can’t, and when you return shortly thereafter to check how it’s going, you find he’s taking a break. What the hell? A break already???
As much as you try to keep your anger in check, you virtually yell that he’s supposed to be on the clock and he’d better not be charging you for the time he’s spending sitting around doing nothing!
He grumbles something about missing dinner (with a womp rat, of all things!) for this, puts down the bowl he was drinking from, and huffily grabs his tools to get to work.
Finally, he starts the job you hired him for, and you stick around to monitor him, slightly worried he might try and push his luck again. But it seems like he’s pulling his weight at last — tools a-turnin’, sparks a-flyin’. He seems to know what he’s doing.
After a while, you start to realise that what he’s doing is actually pretty impressive. You can’t deny he looks skilled and competent — almost badass — as he expertly fixes your [SWU-techno-thingy].
Satisfied he’s now earning his fee, you leave him to it for a while, once again trying to find something else to occupy you.
But it’s not long before you find yourself back again, keen to know how he’s doing. For a moment, you think he might’ve fallen asleep because he’s lying down, and the bitter taste of annoyance returns, but… oh nope, he’s just getting a better angle for the repairs.
He keeps working diligently, so you let him continue without disturbing him.
After what feels like a lifetime, he finally tells you he’s all finished.
As you inspect his work, you notice him standing off to the side like a kid waiting for the teacher to grade his class project. It’s sort of sweet, in a way.
It seems like he did a decent job, and you tell him so, handing him payment with a smile, which he accepts with a nod. He then collects his stuff (an impressive display of strength), bids you goodbye and turns to leave.
You escort him to the door, thanking him again and watching your taciturn repairman walk away from your home.
Now that you have a working [SWU-techno-thingy] once again and have recovered from being quoted an extortionate price for its repair, you revise your opinion of your contractor. He’s skilled, and aside from being a little huffy to start with (though you concede he was probably just hungry), he seems like a nice guy.
Plus, as he walks away from you, you can’t help but admire his perfect ass, remembering how good it looked earlier when he bent over to grab his toolkit.
Almost as if he can feel your gaze, when he gets to the edge of your property, he turns back to look at you, lingering for a moment, meeting your stare in that intense way of his.
Your pulse picks up, and for a second, you think he might come back — that he might push you inside and have his wicked way with you, give you a decent seeing to with those skilled hands of his.
The moment you share is electric, and you imagine a plethora of debauched scenarios as you stare into his T-visor with hope…
…but it passes as he tears his gaze away, hurriedly loads up his rusted speeder bike, and climbs on. He gives you a final nod as he pulls away, departing from your life as swiftly as he arrived.
Oh well, it was surely a ridiculous thought anyway.
You return inside and try to get on with your evening, but your thoughts keep drifting back to your contractor. Why can’t you stop thinking about him? He barely even spoke to you.
Eventually, you cave and admit it. You’re attracted to him. He has a magnetism you don’t understand, yet you can’t deny its pull on you. But there’s nothing you can do about that… is there? And he might not feel the same anyway.
You keep thinking about the look he gave you when he left. There was something there, you’re sure of it.
So… okay. Are you really going to break something else to get him to come back?
I did this specifically because of this image that I found on Instagram, I saw it so beautiful that it made me violently want to procreate with Din Djarin.
I really liked the cosplay and the general idea of the photo and I decided to make a bot about it, giving an open option for you to have children or not or just stay with Grogu and Din.
Personally, I did apply this but only with a girl jsjsjjs
Anyway, another canon thing for me is that Din Djarin would listen to Daft Punk. When I was younger I wasn't obsessed with the Duo but now I love it and I would dedicate the entire discography to my precious babygirl man.✨😭
Hometown Glory; a Frankie Morales Series Announcement!
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F! Lawyer Reader
Series Rating: E (18+, MDNI)
Series Summary: You're thriving in your career, having established yourself as a sought-after family lawyer in the bustling city. But there's a pull back to your hometown, a longing for roots and a sense of belonging that drives you to open your own firm there.
Just as you're settling into this new chapter, a blast from the past walks through your office doors. It's him—the man who unknowingly held your heart, the one you never quite got over. A face you swore you would never see again... and he's seeking your legal help for his divorce and custody battle from the girl you believed to be your best friend.
You two never officially dated, but the chemistry between you was undeniable. Yet a string of misunderstandings and missed chances kept you apart, leaving you with lingering feelings and unanswered questions.
Now, as you find yourself face-to-face with him again, old emotions resurface, along with memories of what could have been. But amidst the legal complexities of his divorce, you realize this might be the opportunity you've been waiting for—to finally address the lingering feelings between you and uncover the truth that has kept you apart for so long.
Series Warnings and Tags: Frankie and reader meet as kids, jealous best friends, reader has issues with trying to be perfect, complete misunderstandings, someone manipulates them out of being together, all of the cute flashbacks, lawyer goes from sweetheart to ice queen to back to the hometown glory, 'hes no good for you', its me and you against the world (or this town), this will be so sexy but SLOW BURN, that dreaded prom night, second chances, he's always loved her, shes always loved him, fix him fic, he shows her how to live.
Suum Ca’nara Series: Mando returns to the Razor Crest after a mission to find you waiting for him, exhausted and in need of sleep just like he is. So he decides to try something, which will end up feeding the growing relationship between the two of you.
◌ Suum Ca’nara | Up and Over | ◍ Tensions | Jate Vaar'tur | ◌ Yaim'ol
Shereshoy Series Masterlist: a sister fic written by a friend with the same prompt as one of my fics 👀
“Please come. Bring the Foundling and your companion. We expect your arrival posthaste.” Mando receives a holo message from the Armorer, and brings you with him to a new covert, putting a halt to your search for the Jedi. While there, what happens when you catch the attention of the other Mandalorians?
⌾ Ration Packs: Din, newest and youngest member of the bounty hunter’s guild, hires you as his live-in mechanic to keep up with the repairs of his Razor Crest. As you work together, a friendship starts to bloom as your unspoken understanding of each other works in your favor. But he’s got to figure out how to fix things when that unspoken understanding really should have been spoken.
⌾ Courting: You, Din, & the Child are staying with his covert. You’ve caught the eye of another Mando. You’re pretty, handy, and love the Child; I.e. perfect Mando Riduur material. This Mando is trying to court you, and you’re clueless…so when he gifts you a handcrafted knife, you think nothing of it. Din, however, loses his shit … Have fun.
◌ Namana Fruit: You are OVERWORKED, and Din is here to provide comfort.
⌾ Pregnant: “Din’s partner figures out they’re pregnant, and is terrified. They aren’t married, this is the worst time possible, Din already has so much responsibility on his shoulders. But they have to tell him. Because Din deserves to know. She’s terrified of what his reaction might be… How do you think that scene plays out?”
Shine and Polish: “Din catches you cleaning/polishing his armor for him (something usually only done between courting Mandos) and gets all shy explaining the implications to you send tweet”
◌ Bed Rest: “Reader takes care of a sick Din send tweet”
⌾ Carbonite Sickness: “the reader somehow gets frozen in Carbonite during a fight, then wakes up blind with the Carbonite sickness? I’m a sucker for that kind of hurt/comfort…”
⌾ Insecurities: How would a conversation between Din and Reader go—if Reader felt like there’s no way Din could be interested in them because of their perceived flaws… or that they just don’t feel good enough in general?
⌾ Holo Pad: Din’s crewmate works really hard. They’ll get so in the zone that they will forget to eat, forget to stay hydrated, or will stay awake way later than they should. And Din HATES it.
⌾ Confrontation: reader and Din have been good crewmates for while, and reader has developed feelings for Din. Mando knows and feels the same way, but the moment he asks her about how she feels she gets upset and leaves the conversation.
Jealousy: Ever wonder how Din would react to Cobb Vanth hitting on you over and over? I spy a jealous Mando…
Not the Prettiest:Din with a non-conventionally attractive reader? A lot of people tend to not get called pretty in real life and would want something they could relate to more? Maybe he comforts reader after someone made fun of their looks?
◌ Sleepless: some of Din’s favorite cuddles with you.
The Hunters:“… the reader could be a bounty hunter being trained by Din and they both are in a hunt and the reader fucks up, like lets the bounty escape and din has to solve the problem.”
Reacting to you being cat-called
◌ First kisses with Din
This filthy blurb (& this reply)
⌾ Reacting to your trauma response from past relationships
◌ Braiding your hair
Awkward compliments
◍ “No one I’ve been with has made me finish before”
Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.
Chapter 2 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 1 | Ch. 3
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." This is the second part of a sister fic for my fic Courting a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! In this chapter, we get to see some new faces – or helmets, I should say – and I am here for what they have in store for us! Thanks for reading, we hope you enjoy 💛
This series is also on AO3, so you can read this chapter there too…
Translations:
Baar’ure: medics
Gotabor(e): (approx) mechanic(s)
(Lit.) engineer(s)
Aruetii(se): outsider(s)
Me’bana?: What happened?
Copikla bal mirdala: cute and clever
Copikla: meant to refer to babies and animals - never women unless you want your head ripped off
Could be considered a backhanded compliment or an insult
Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod: (Approx) Don’t fuck with her, brother.
(Lit.) Don't mess with her, brother. (extremely strong warning, likely to be followed by violence)
N'eparavu takisit, vod: (Approx) Sorry, brother.
(Lit.) I eat my insult, brother
Me’dinui: share, give to one another
Aliit: family
Solus mhi oyacyi: (Approx) United, we remain
Buy’ce: helmet
Ik’aad: baby, child under 3
Jatne vod: “sir” or “ma’am”
Cabur(e): guard(s)
Kad: In reference to Kad Ha’rangir, destroyer god in the old Mandalorian pantheon
Utreekov: fool, idiot (lit: emptyhead)
Ni ceta: (Lit) I kneel, (approx.) I’m sorry
Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin: I will always kneel for you
You feel the chill of the cave air settle around you as you rise from your slumber.
Opening your eyes, a soft glow leaks into your space from the room adjacent— signaling that Din is also awake. Not that he sleeps for very long anyway. Rather than immediately leaving the comfort of your sleeping mat to join him, you opt to spend a few extra minutes holding the little one close, hand on his back, as he continues to sleep soundly on your chest. Mornings like these are commonplace— cuddling with the Child until you feel ready enough to begin the day; making fresh caf for you and Din to share, feeding yourself and the little one, while enjoying the quiet company of one another in the cockpit. Perhaps our routine can stay somewhat the same, even here.
Mustering the strength to pull yourself from your warm cocoon of blankets, you slowly rise, trying to not disturb the Child. Two feet on the cold stone ground, and a blanket wrapped over your shoulders, you wander towards the common room.
In the corner sits a short-legged table, the perfect height to tuck ones’ legs beneath while enjoying a meal, or in this case, the morning caf. Din sits beside it, his shoulders and head leaning against the wall, his legs outstretched and crossed in front of him, and his hands interlaced across his abdomen. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was sleeping; but for the first time in a long time, Din is simply relaxing.
His head turns slightly to look at you as you approach, his arms slowly extending upward for the morning trade-off of the Child. Din guides him to lie against his shoulder while you ease yourself down to the floor, sitting across from him. Getting to watch Din with the Child like this was rare— it wasn’t often Din was able to decompress, allowing his body a break from the constant weight of armor. With bounty hunters and Imperials searching for the three of you, danger lurked around every corner. Din had to be prepared to fight at any moment. Seeing him unarmored and at ease— getting to enjoy the simple action of cuddling with his Foundling— makes you feel more calm, despite how unsettled you had been the day before.
“Did you sleep well?” Din asks— his voice soft, to not stir the Child.
“Yeah…” you nod, your fatigue causing you to trail off, leaving your thoughts incomplete. When Din shut out the lights before falling asleep, the pitch black of the cave was not unlike the darkness in the Crest every night. Despite the sleeping mat not quite matching the feel of your bed on the ship, the familiarity of the darkness had been a comfort, allowing sleep to come easily.
However, it wasn’t entirely refreshing— with the usual lag of being on a new planet, as well as the ever present nip of the air throughout the night. Feeling the chill of the bedrock beneath you, you pull your blanket tighter around yourself. “...but it’s colder here than I expected.”
He readjusts, shifting the child to his other shoulder before replying. “The temperature underground remains constant,” he tells you, not unkindly, “It’s best to dress warmly— prevents the stone from absorbing your body heat.” He taps his fingers on the ground to emphasize his point. You nod, and the three of you ease into a comfortable silence, Din continuing to lie against the wall as you pull the blanket tight around you once more, hunching forward to rest your arms on the table, and your head atop your arms. It’s almost too easy to doze off again, your grogginess coupled with Din’s calming presence.
Before you’re able to drift back into a light sleep, he gently places his free hand on your arm, giving a light squeeze. His gruff voice just barely above a whisper, “I know you’re tired— but we won’t be out long… You’ll meet the baar’ure and the gotabore, and we’ll come back here.”
Gotabore— that’s a new one. The mechs?
Your eyes meet his visor again, and with a small sigh, you nod at him. “Let me get dressed… then I’ll make the caf.” Giving him a weak grin, he gently removes his hand from your arm, allowing you to stand back up and return to your sleeping area once again. While changing into a set of durable work-clothes, the time alone offers you the chance to reflect on the current arrangement— reiterating once more where you’ve come to, and why.
Recalling back to the discussion with the Alor the day prior— inquiring about some of your aptitudes and skill sets, tasking you with specific labor, and instructing Din the same. Being a guest in their home; shielding you from any dangers, being given a bed to sleep in and meals to eat— requesting that you earn your keep seems reasonable. But why did she ask— tell— Din to bring you here? When you first met, she did not deem you as a member of his clan, despite your… relationship with Din and your role as the other caretaker of the Child. Currently— the populace of this pseudokarst-hidden covert regard you as nothing but an outsider. An invader. A danger. A threat to their safety. An aruetii.
And yet, no matter their levels of distrust, you are here, by the Alor’s request.
This is not the first time you have had to deal with unpleasant people— those that make the day seem unending or unyielding in its discomfort, or work with ones who question your intelligence or ability at every turn. The only surefire way to ease the inquietude of your cohorts is to employ the same tactics that you always have— by simply doing your best. With Din, this came naturally. As a pragmatic man, he values and trusts both competency and integrity. Showcasing both traits allowed him to ease his habitual suspicion of strangers and eventually, after enough time, foster a fond friendship between you. Perhaps utilizing the same tactic can render a twin outcome.
It can’t hurt to try, at least for Din’s sake.
You understand, at least to some degree, what the concept of clan and community mean to him. After the tragedy of Nevarro, you watched him silently mourn his many losses, not just of the individuals, but the purpose he held in providing for his people, his sense of worth intrinsically tied to the survival and prosperity of his tribe. Whilst those who are gone will never return, this new collective of Mando’ade could present Din with an opportunity to release his residual guilt and shame, resuming his role as a primary generator of income, sponsoring many Foundlings and adults alike for many years to come. In essence, Din could finally come home.
Your place, for now it seems, is to make this arrangement with him, and them, work. To not instigate or incite any conflict, to not act out of turn or be discourteous. The way to the heart of your companion was through patience and compassion; and thus cooperation and communication is the way to solidarity with his comrades. Presenting yourself as an equal, as someone who has earned the respect and trust of one of their own can give them the freedom to do the same, without fear. And perhaps, one day, to care for you and about you just the same as Din does every day.
—
The workshop is lively— abuzz and boisterous.
The cavernous walls echo and amplify the clangs and thumps of the tools, muddling together with the chatter of the Mando’ade working together. In the mess of noise, you can distinctly make out their laughter, of all things— and with it, their camaraderie. At this moment, you can’t seem to recall a time in which you were that happy to be working on anything— undoubtedly, you’ve enjoyed some jobs and some people, but you can practically hear the smile in their voices hidden beneath their buy’ce.
For a group of ‘fearsome, ruthless warriors’, this isn’t what I expected.
The workshop appears to double as a port for the strange variety of ships they have stored, ones they must have collected over time, perhaps as more Mando’ade arrived at this covert. Anything from speeders to small transports. Most of them don’t appear to be in the best condition— and by the looks of others, not entirely operational either. At the far end of the shop is the hangar door, which presumably leads to the outside, where two Mandos are working on a small ship— a CS fighter. A small single-manned starfighter designed for combat, so customizable and versatile they’ve withstood the tests of time— most models still in existence are decades old.
Another pre-Empire ship, I’m sensing a trend.
The two Mandos underneath the ship pay no mind to you and Din as you approach, instead focusing on trying to remove a part from the underbelly of the starfighter. Upon closer inspection, you take note of their appearances. One Mando adorned in armor painted a faded mauve— old paint, chipped on the thighs and chest piece; and the other a light blue, with gray accents detailing the armor throughout. The two of you watch them work for a minute before Din speaks, getting their attention.
“Perhaps my friend could be of some aid.”
Their heads snap to you in unison, staring at you both for a moment. Mauve tilts her head, “Nice to see you too, Djarin.”
You give a slight chuckle at her response. Din can be the worst at introductions sometimes. You look back over to him, waiting for his own retort. Rather than greeting her, he nods his head once, and gestures towards the starfighter, “Me’bana? What’s wrong with it?”
Mauve pulls herself out from underneath the ship, wiping the oil on her gloves on the unarmored sections of her pants, and leaning herself against the wing.“Engine keeps overheating— we don’t have enough parts to replace every cooling unit, and I haven’t figured out which ones are failing or why,” she says casually, crossing her arms. She nods at you, “What do you think?”
You match her stance, crossing your arms, leaning your weight to one side, giving the question a moment of thought. “A ship as old as this? Check the ground conductors. The one’s on the Crest fry pretty often, especially with how manically he flies it.” In your peripherals you see Din turn his head to look at you, as if your jab at his pilotage genuinely offended him, but hearing a snicker from Mauve, he looks away.
Listening to your suggestion, Blue works to take apart the cooling unit they had already removed, working his way down towards the center. In less than a minute, he’s able to remove one of the culprits responsible for the malfunction— a very fried ground conductor. With a little, prideful smirk, you turn your head slightly to look back at Din, your eyes meeting his visor. He gives you a short nod, a silent approval of your correct assessment, his own unique way of telling you, Good work.
Blue rises from his back to a seated position, setting down the tool he has in hand. He refuses to look at you, to address you— to even acknowledge you, instead staring at Din. “Copikla bal mirdala— I see why the Alor let you keep her.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
If you’re dastard enough to undermine me, have the gall to do it in Basic, asshole. You want to conjure some sort of response to him, but ignoring his attempt at a crude remark may be the best course of action— to retaliate with your own insult will do nothing but escalate this dispute. As you have come to learn, anger is prone to rashness. And anger, whether it’s yours or Din’s— or both, is what he wants. And you won’t give him the satisfaction of having it.
“Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod.”
Din, however, gives in to the bait. His voice irate— a warning, a threat. For a brief moment, there’s a passing worry about the possibility of Din igniting the flames of his gauntlet, a favorite weapon of his when he’s provoked. If anything, a knife fight feels more likely. The silence between the four of you somehow drowns out every other noise in the shop. The two of them continue to glare, both waiting for the other to make the first move.
Your eyes watch back and forth between the two of them, waiting with baited breath. When Blue slowly raises both his hands in a mock surrender,“N'eparavu takisit, vod—“, and Din finally looks away from him, you know things have settled… for now.
An uncomfortable silence returns for a few moments, and Din is still not at ease. Mauve finally quips, “You saw it for yourself, go find another conductor.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Blue to leave. He rises, walking towards the other ships in the center of the shop— “You too, Djarin, find some.” She adds, casting Din away in the same manner she did with the other gotabor.
Din hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave your side— and looks to you, with a silent question. You nod at him, an unspoken It’s okay— with a sigh, he complies with her command. “Fine,” he swiftly turns around, leaving the two of you alone.
You watch them descend further into the shop, until they disappear from your sight. You’re left with the sounds of the distant chatter of the other Mando’ade, continuing to echo as it did when you first arrived.
Well, that could have gone worse.
Of the six Mando’ade you’ve met, three of them have not been hostile. It’s a start.
Continuing to stare off, Mauve speaks once more to get your attention. “Come help me check the rest of them.”
Her request brings you back to the present moment, turning around to see her lying underneath the ship again, hands deep in its underbelly, loosening some things and pulling others. You kneel down, until you’re able to lower yourself to the ground completely, lying next to her. She hands you the cooling units as she pulls them out, and the two of you work to take them apart, sitting beside one another.
“Jado doesn’t like you. But pay him no mind.” She states, matter-of-factly.
Yeah, he looks like a ‘Jado.’
This revelation of Jado’s discontempt is unsurprising— and not unexpected. “He doesn’t know me,” you say. Asking a question of why would be inane, you already know the answer.
“Well… none of us do. You’re an aruetii.” That moniker makes your stomach churn, but her lack of malice allows you to diminish the feeling of dejection quickly. “But that’s not inherently a bad thing. We’ll all get to know you soon enough.”
…What?
She continues, nonchalantly, “Djarin and the Alor trust you; so that’s all that matters. Aruetii or not.”
You continue to work, letting a short-lived silence settle between you, before she speaks again. “I’m Odona. Clan Drii. Unfortunately, Jado’s a part of it too. My little vod.”
You listen as her spiel drags on, leaning in to signal she has your attention, “We both usually work on the ships here, but he’s still pretty new at it— and I haven’t worked with many Pre-Imperial ships. When I heard that you were coming, after being on Djarin’s ancient me’sen?” She raises both her hands dramatically, “Briikase tuur. Happy day.”
Listening to this Mandalorian monologue feels like an oxymoron— given the usual disposition of your companion, and the general taciturn reputation that all Mandalorians seem to hold amongst the outsiders. Regardless, her comment and theatrical gestures make you grin.
“Don’t tell me you’re another ‘strong and silent’ type… Djarin’s sulking is enough for me.” That makes you laugh.
He does sulk a little, doesn’t he?
Smiling, you finally respond, “No. I think I’ve just grown accustomed to the sulking.”
Odona snorts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll get none of that from me. You’ll replace Jado for now, we’ll likely get more accomplished that way.” You’re not disappointed, the change of pace will be interesting— a new opportunity to learn a lot from. You feel a little prideful, knowing that she’s pleased with your knowledge and ability.
Before Odona can begin another monologue— and perhaps to disprove her claim of yours and Din’s shared hobby of sulking— you seize the chance to ask a question of your own. “I’m surprised by how many ships are here— but why are so many of them stripped out?”
Her hands stop, a pause in her tinkering as she ponders your enquiry. With a tilt of her head, she finally answers. “Whenever we get a new ship, it gets…” she hesitates for a moment, attempting to better articulate herself, searching for the precise word; “...triaged.”
Interesting connotation.
You suggest, “...As in, you decide whether to fix it, or scrap it for parts.”
“Exactly. We don’t have the resources to fix everything. It’s best to spend our time efficiently— focusing on the ones that will yield the greatest benefit in the long run.” The explanation is sound, yet Odona sees your underlying confusion still present. She asks you, “Why?”
Din would blow a fuse if someone tried to strip the Crest… again… Damn Jawas.
You point in the direction Din and Jado wandered towards, “I can see why he landed the Crest over a mile away from here.” Odona chuckles at the light joke, and you continue, “But— people are… okay with their ship getting scrapped?” On the surface, the concept almost sounds absurd. For Din, the Crest is another home. Everything meticulously ordered, from his weapons to his food stocks. Despite the frequent abuse his ship endures, he works to ensure its continued functionality, it’s almost a second layer of armor, one he cares about greatly.
“Well, no one has a personal ship— whenever any newcomers settle into the covert, any ships they once owned join the tribe’s fleet,” Odona explains.
Your brows furrow. They just give away their ship to the covert?
She elaborates more. “I guess it could be difficult for someone outside of…” she gestures to your surroundings, “...this… to understand. We share things— me’dinui— do what we can to contribute to each other, to our community.” She shrugs, watching you, gauging your reaction. “A ship doesn’t mean anything… But supporting your aliit? Your family?” She pauses again, her voice passionate, “...It’s everything. All we truly have is each other.”
In a galaxy so wrought with selfishness, greed, and ‘survival of the fittest’— the thought of anyone doing anything for a collective good is almost inconceivable. And yet, hearing the emotion of her voice, listening to her speak of the tenets you see Din adhere to so unfailingly, the concept of unity seems more tangible, more apodictic.
Setting down the tools you have in hand, you softly lament, “Sadly, I think I’ve become a little jaded to that idea...” you look at her, hoping to meet her eyes behind her visor, “...but I’m open to having my mind changed.”
You nod at her, and she does the same. In a familiar tone, Odona enounces, “Solus mhi oyacyi— this is the Way.”
—
Upon Din’s and Jado’s return with the necessary parts, Din extends a hand to you to help you rise from the ground.
As you stand, Odona quips “Making me do all the work with these?”
And with Din’s reply— “We have other matters to attend to;” you make your way towards the exit, giving Odona a wave, and she returns with a nod.
As you both close the heavy metal doors of the shop behind you, the hush of the cavern is jarring— the noise of the chaotic banter suddenly silenced. You’re only left with the sound of your blood whooshing in your head, and again, the persistent gelidity of the cave air forcing a chill up your spine. You exhale, removing your hands from the door, and slowly turn around to face Din. You stare at one another for a moment, before taking another breath.
“Odona said you sulk too much,” you say, your voice light and soft, to break the quiet tension without dissettling the quiescent chamber.
He huffs at your teasing remark and tilts his head, “...It seemed like the two of you were getting along?” He matches your volume, inquiring gingerly.
There’s worry in his voice, you recognize. Lingering feelings of contrition for the unnecessary antagonism Jado had given you. It must be strange for him, you contemplate, this role reversal of sorts. Outside these walls, he’s a living embodiment of minatory. In his day-to-day, he has to make an effort to appear benign to sociable strangers— whilst you, on the other hand, are as regular as any other citizen in the galaxy— posing passivity is the goal, a fine balance between being amicable but guarded. But now, in his enclave, you have to think and behave as he does when he interacts with everyone else in the galaxy— an intriguing juxtaposition.
You smile, “Yes, she’s interesting...she reminds me of Peli.” That’s not all he wants to know. It’s another tacit question, a chance to tell him how you feel without him having to ask. You take a step closer, letting your eyes meet his visor, “She also assured me that continuing to ignore her brother’s jibes is the best course of action.”
He sighs, and his shoulders drop. “I told him not to do it again.”
Din isn’t good with words. He’s curt, sometimes to the point of being tactless. On Sorgan, when faced with the obligation of informing the villagers of their predicament— Bad news, you can’t live here anymore— his delivery, at best, was uncouth. Nice bedside manner— Cara had told him, which earned a chuckle from you. He usually thrives more in one-on-one interactions; he can be amenable— kind, even. He ensures to give people thanks when necessary, listens to others without interruption; and attempts to be a calm presence, especially in times of turmoil.
Where he excels, however, are in his actions. Whether it’s the softer things— letting the Child grip his finger for comfort, a gentle hand to help you; or the more intense things— fighting his way through an army of Imperials to ensure the safety of his aliit, Din shows his care through his actions. He didn’t protect you from the enmity of his cohort because he thought you were incapable of vying against another Mando’ade. He wasn’t attempting to patronize you— but rather displaying his respect, to not stand idly by when someone is attempting to ostracize you.
His care is a reverent kind, one he conveys with both his body and his mind, a message given with nary a word spoken.
You stare into him once more, hoping to meet his eyes. You grin, and give a soft “Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond, he simply nods.
You gaze at one another for a few moments, before you nod your head to the side, gesturing to him to start walking; just as he did to you the day prior. Together, you walk beside each other through the various halls and passageways— working to build a mental map of the cave system— until you reach the medbay.
It’s a small room, one equipt to host only a few residents. Along the chamber walls are privacy shields— drawn to create different spaces for individual patients. Towards the back are tall shelves of med supplies— anything from syringes and needles, blood tubes, to disinfectants, gauze, and kits for intravenous fluids— supplies that would allow for basic blood tests, and treating minor to moderate wounds. Near the entrance sits another Mando, the baar’ur— their armor a deep green with teal sigils along the side of their buy’ce; holo pad in hand, seemingly deep in focus.
The sounds of your footsteps pull her attention. “Ah, su cuy'gar, Djarin, it’s been a while. How’s your ik’aad?”
He extends a hand for her to grasp, pulling her from the ground. “Fine. He’s with the other ade.”
She looks at you, “Jatne vod, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”
“I hope I can assist.” You give her your name, she replies with her own; Mavis.
She sighs, exasperated. She points to the first room, “One of the idiot cabure just showed up for the third time in two weeks, and…” She stops, and takes a deep breath, trying to ease her agitation, “... and I don’t want to deal with him again.” She holds the holopad out for you to take, “Can you handle this for me?”
Reading through her notes, you skim over some of the details.
G: He is in no apparent distress. He is alert and oriented
S: No open fracture or bony abnormality
E: Laceration to left shoulder, 15cm x 1 cm, simple, shallow
A simple laceration… “No sutures or staples?” You ask.
“No. Just use a tissue adhesive— I would have just made him do it himself; but he can’t reach it.” Her annoyance seeps through her voice again, “So, don’t waste any bacta on that,” she replies, pointedly. She mumbles under her breath, shaking her head, “Kad knows that utreekov will be back here next week.” She looks at Din, who gives her a sympathetic shrug.
She must be the only medic here.
You nod in understanding, “...I’ll take care of him, Mavis.” You turn around to walk towards the room, reading through the rest of her notes. Din and the baar’ur carry on in conversation as you approach the line of privacy shades.
Standing before the first room, you use the corner of the holo pad to tap upon the pole holding the curtain— a sound to alert the patient of your arrival, “Can I come in?” you ask.
A moment of silence greets you, before a deep voice answers “...Sure.”
Slowly drawing back the curtain just wide enough to allow you entry, you step in.
A familiar Mando sits before you. The idiot cabur.
The same idiot cabur you met yesterday— the very one that glowered into your karking soul like he craved nothing more than to break you in half. The sight of him makes your stomach sink— dread coursing through your bones, your nerves firing to prepare for his inevitable attack— skin electric, heart racing, blood cold.
You’re not safe.
You breathe, trying to will your voice to return once more. Taking a moment, your eyes scan up and down his form— assessing his position. He’s slouched, sitting atop the bed, one leg tucked underneath the other, a hand pressed against the injured shoulder. His pauldrons and chest piece sit beside him, his shirt half pulled over his form, revealing the nasty gash across his shoulder blade. Your eyes finally meet his visor— almost hoping to find his own beneath it, only to greet the same abyss that bore into you upon your first meeting.
Breathe. You nod at him, feigning nonchalance, “What happened?”
He observes you in return, tilting his head.
His gaze, though not predatory, reveals his intrigue. You’re enigmatic, oracular— he’s studying you, fixated on your features; searching for the apologues and adages that have sculpted your spirit— the flame of your psyche he yearns to succumb to. For a moment, he too is breathless, lost in the sea of your presence, desperate for a mast to secure himself to. He yields, finally looking away from you, to bring his attention to his injured shoulder.
He considers his response, and answers your question; almost timid, but with an obvious lightness to his voice. “I— uh… bravely protected the covert from an invader.”
You blink, and furrow your brows in confusion. You slowly shake your head at him. “No.” You reply, unconvinced. “Try again.”
He straightens his posture, looking at you once more. After another pause, he argues his second retelling of events. “Okay… again, I bravely rescued a Foundling lost in one of the Back Caves,” his voice less shy, but still chary.
His witticism begins to thaw the icy tension between you, reforming to liquescent diffidence— your pulse easing back to its restful tempo, the slight tremor of your hands gradually ceasing. You stride towards him, equanimous and assured, until you’re close enough to inspect his injury. A nasty gash, skin frayed along the edges, with smaller abrasions surrounding it— the beginnings of a bruise coloring the area. Dust and tiny shards of lava rock are settled on the skin throughout, peppering the wound. It looks painful.
Your eyes meet his hidden ones, desperate to conceal your amused grin he’s given you, “No,” you challenge, an insincere jest, “...last chance.”
He chortles, looking away again, almost bashful. “I fell,” he responds, resolute. “In the Back Caves… Lost my footing on an unsteady rock, and landed on a sharper one.” His coyish inflection shifting to one aflutter— in a moment of confidence, he returns his gaze to you, illuminated by your amused expression, having caught on to his jocular antics.
You nod, and try to hide your simper, “That sounds right.” You gesture to his shoulder, “May I?”
“Please.” He moves slowly, turning slightly, allowing you easier access to his shoulder.
With the wound in full view, you work to treat him.
It only takes but a few minutes to clean the area, the two of you spend that time in silence. He fidgets, not in a way that indicates he’s in pain— but rather that he’s unnerved, nervous, even mousy. This massive Mando’ad sits beside you with such tension in his form, as though he’s bracing for an impact; on the precipice of the inchoate attack— waiting for the aruetii to spit their vitriol, to exploit his vulnerable position and leave him more scathed than when he arrived.
With your hands gently pressing over his shoulder blade, sealing the adhesive in place; he releases a long held breath, the anticipated aggression absent. The tautness of his muscles gives way, highlighting their definition across his back as he decompresses. Stop looking. His heat radiating into your palms, a warmth you’ve been starved of since entering this frore catacomb, you’re reluctant to pull away— longing to linger in the intimacy of this untrodden amity that has just scarcely begun.
Slowly, you will yourself to retreat, discarding the soiled gauze and removing your disposable gloves. “Does the brave cabur have any other battle wounds?” You tease, disrupting the prolonged silence.
“No, ma’am,” his tone reveleaving the alacarious smirk hidden behind his buy’ce. As you turn away, he maneuvers his arm back into his shirt. He continues, “...thank you. Vor entye.”
You look back to him and nod, “Of course.”
Just as the silence settles again, and you attempt to leave, he recommences. “Before you go…” He waits for you to stop, “I was hoping to speak with you?” His inflection returns to one of timidness again; but he sits straighter, his legs wide and relaxed, his hands resting over his thighs. Even without his armor, his broad form fills the space around him. Don’t ogle. “We didn’t get to talk much yesterday.”
Difficult to chat when you think you’re about to die. “No, we didn’t.”
His voice turns gentle, almost placating, as if he heard your thought. “I’m Ikarus, a guardsman for the covert. The other cabur was Sabe.” He breathes, tilts his head, fidgets like he’s considering every word before he says it. “It’s our duty… to ensure the safety of everyone here. Including you.”
You’re frozen in place, refusing to cross the threshold to him again, despite his words wanting you to ease yourself closer.
“I—” the words are trapped in his throat, “I failed that duty yesterday. I failed you.”
He pauses, looking down to the floor, gathering his thoughts once more. “I’ve been here a long time. We’re very careful who we allow in here. Having a new Foundling and an outsider come in like this is unusual, to say the least.”
He looks to your face, meeting your eyes, “But this… inordinate circumstance… doesn’t give me the right to scare you. Being leered at by a giant, armed, faceless stranger should not have been your first impression of us… of me.”
His guilt bleeds into his speech, a sadness overcoming him. “I’m sorry.” For a moment, Ikarus envisions you, the terror in your eyes upon your first meeting, your protectiveness of the Child, of Djarin shielding you from his ravening presence, keeping you away from him. “Ni ceta, I’m sorry.”
You stare at him, speechless, in awe of his confession.
Ni ceta. I kneel.
A rare, groveling apology you had only heard once before— in an unfortunate situation with Din that left you both upset— he found the Basic phrase I’m sorry could not express his attrition wholly. He had explained the Mando’a words to you; their connotation, their significance. Kneeling, you learned, was one of the highest forms of respect to another Mando’ade— not only a display of humility, but reverence, obedience; and at certain times, even submission. Whilst his genuflect never came, his declaration was enough for you both to reconcile.
But the person before you is not Din Djarin.
Having a man like him brought to his knees would be a sight to behold.
In a moment of boldness, you slowly step towards him— soft on your feet— until you stand a mere meter apart, never looking away from where you presume his eyes to be. In a quiet, demulcent tone— barely above a whisper; before you can even think to reconsider your words, you ask him, “Are you going to kneel, Ikarus?”
Thence, he is in free fall. Your emollient voice and temerarious inquiry luring him into the vast unknown of you— succumbing to the pull of your orbit, the fire of your spirit. In an instant, his body relaxes— his eyes bore into yours, as he slowly rises from the medical bed to his full height, before bending the knee to kneel below you. After a moment, he extends his hand for you to grasp. Whence his hand grips yours, he answers your question in kind; “Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin.”
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Din Djarin x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), canon-typical violence, eventual smut/filth, angst & hurt/comfort, post season 3, Reader is a rich runaway, also a badass, has a back story, (hair type and length suitable for a braid mentioned twice), working on updating specifics for each chapter, smut to date: masturbation, fingering, unprotected piv (be safe), creampies, multiple orgasms, oral sex (m! receiving), oral sex (f!receiving).
Summary: The Mandalorian is off-kilter. This was an unusual job from the off, but it kept getting stranger.
He thought he would be picking up a spoiled little heiress. How she had ended up in the middle of an unsanctioned and bloody conflict, been taken prisoner, and held at an old empire sprawl, didn’t interest him enough to look into, frankly. But he was at least expecting a supplicant and willing thing that would fall to her knees and be grateful to be getting taken home.
Instead, it’s you.
Chapter 1: The Heiress
Chapter 2: The Mechanic
Chapter 3: The End
Chapter 4: The Estate
Chapter 5: The Family*
Chapter 6: The Boy
Chapter 7: The Doubt
Chapter 8: The Heist
Chapter 9: The Save
Chapter 10: The Confessional
Chapter 11: The Question*
Chapter 12: The Visit
Chapter 13: The Stranger*
Chapter 14: The Sight*
Chapter 15: Lovers Break
Chapter 16: The Bounty Hunter
Chapter 17: The Forged
Chapter 18: The Assassin
Chapter 19: The Bloodied
Chapter 20: The Confessional II
Chapter 21: The Answer
Epilogue
Rewatching season 1 and just marvelling at how smart they made Din… without making it showy or unbelievable.
Chapter 6 especially highlights this. When they’re all gathered around the hologram of the ship, laying out their plan, Mayfeld’s very careful to call it a “transport ship” but Din knows by just looking at it that it’s a New Republic prison ship.
When they encounter the patrol droids, Din pulls a clever trick by firing (but missing) first. I used to think he just panicked but I realize now he did that on purpose. He was behind the others, closest to the hall that loops around. By firing first, he pushed the droids to return fire, getting them to focus on the others going on the defensive in front of them and not behind them where he then caught them by surprise.
Both Din and Mayfeld recognized the tracking beacon for what it was at a glance.
I believe a whole dissertation could be written on his strategy in splitting up the crew and using their strengths against them. (Also: I feel we should acknowledge Din’s sleight of hand capabilities more—he slipped that tracker in Qin’s belt without him noticing a thing.)
I just love how they demonstrated that this guy is creative and clever, and they did it without an ounce of cockiness. And it wasn’t effortless: there are so many points, like when he’s trapped in the cell, that you genuinely can’t figure out how he’s gonna get out of this, but he does and it’s a bit messy but it’s still really clever.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), post season 3, ANGST, I'm sorry, yearning, there is the squeakiest blink-and-you-miss-it mention of Reader with someone else (so brief, so squeaky), brief blood/gore, canon characters present (Greef gets the briefest mention - rest in power, Carl), Reader uses her Force powers.
A/N: Here. We. Go. Moving into the endgame. Hang with me. All the love.
--
SIX MONTHS LATE
Smoke from more than two dozen water pipes wafts at every corner of the buzzy cantina. A sad jizz band drones away in a neglected corner, barely a stage to crowd in on. Every figure in the place sits with the assured air of the heavily armed and capable.
The doorway is darkened briefly by a lone figure entering the place, strolling down thrumming aisles of chatter and hustle. Mutual shoulder nudges and open stares follow the shadow passing over tables and booths. Whispers of ‘that who I think it is?’ and ‘yes, so shut up’ carry on the hazy air. Ignoring it all, the presence comes to a stop in front of the honch of the Guild. Three complete tracking fobs are tossed on the table.
Leaf Goghal looks up.
‘That was quick,’ he slurs, he peers at the stony visage by his booth. ‘Queenie here ready for more?’
Only your eyes can be seen under the shadow of the hood pulled far forward. Anger and impatience radiate out.
Leaf tuts, leans back.
‘You know, pace like this and folks here will start to resent your pretty little presence.’ He waves for a droid tender to come near. ‘Why not sit a bit, have a beverage? Take in the ambiance?’
A hand raised, a gesture at the fobs, and he drops the entreaty immediately.
‘Fine, here,’ he smirks, tossing a mess of credits to you. ‘And here.’ A puck is placed more gently at your hand, glowing with dim eminence. ‘A good one, I guarantee. Real piece of shit too. You enjoy those ones don’t you? Like to make it rough? Take it, and consider a drink with me next time, hm?’
You just scoop the lot into a hand and head for the bar. Putting your back to the sleazy honch, you motion for a drink. It’s slid to you without pause.
Staring into the foamy, spongy liquid of your cup, you focus on channelling your rage and boredom into the space where the crushing loneliness is trying to win ground. It’s been a battle for months. Once fear and guilt were coaxed down into a simmer, you’d noticed your heartbreak fresh and blistering. It was close to unbearable. It almost drowned you. But a primordial will to live still festered hot along with the pain, so you decided to do your best to hide from it.
How better to hide from all that than to seek out violence.
So here you were, in the Guild. The place you were sure was as far out of the way as it was possible to be. It had changed a lot since Greef Karga was in charge. Less principled, more brutal. And it suited your needs. That sludge Leaf knew your one condition on hire, fade quadrant jobs only. Fortunately, there was plenty of work out there.
But grief, and guilt, and heartbreak, have their ways of catching you.
You’ve not gotten through half your drink, but you slam it onto the bar, grab your fresh puck and stalk out of the cantina.
Leaf wasn’t kidding when he said this quarry was a piece of shit. A courier. Of what and who varied considerably, but always for the unsavoury and reprehensible. A long charge sheet of assault came along with the job – a lot of bartenders, some security personnel, and even an escort or two.
Your blood boils as you drop into the cockpit of your ride and dump a couple credits by your pilot’s knee, where they’re crouched low ratcheting an access panel closed.
‘Well fuck you very much,’ Gaius mutters, picking up the coin. ‘That it?’
‘That’s it,’ you say, leaning over the control panel and slotting the puck into place. ‘Next job’ll settle me up though.’
‘Right.’ You move past each other as you take the passenger seat and they drop into the pilot’s chair. Gaius plugs in the nav to the planet where your bounty was most likely enterprising himself with a labour trafficking ring. You sit back, grit teeth and flex knuckles.
The trip is silent, as it always is. The pilot speaks up only as you stand and ready to leave. They reach around and brush a hand against one of yours.
‘Hey, careful out there?’ Gaius says.
You step away from the touch and climb out into the suffocating urban air.
Gaius was an alright pilot who’d come along just when you needed them, still not confident in your own abilities to fly a craft without killing yourself. Quick and savvy, they’d helped you out of a tight spot. You weren’t planning on forming a partnership with anyone, but getting a hole blown in their old ship wasn’t planned either. It was gracious of them to continue to ferry you back and forth on jobs while you paid back on the damage.
You’d taken a tumble in bed with them exactly once, so consumed by loneliness and touch-starvation to the point that it physically hurt. You’d hoped it would help. Hoped, maybe, that it would take your mind off the cold, hollow ache in your chest for a little while. Let you stop thinking about it if for only a few moments. But it didn’t. The only feeling that leaked in afterwards was remorse.
You’d decided that once this job was done, you’d hand over whatever remained on the bill and break it off.
You don’t think they’ve realised that yet, though.
Cringing at the thought of that conversation, you push it aside and duck into the seedy dive frequented by your favoured informant.
‘God fucking dammit,’ you mutter, kicking the gory little stubs aside and tucking away your tracking fob. ‘Better hope a few missing fingers don’t dock the reward on your scummy ass.’
Your quarry is slumped against a bloodied bench, wrists finally restrained. He glares at his right hand as blood continues to seep from where three of his fingers used to be.
‘More’s the pity for you,’ he spits.
It had been a brutal fight. Maybe you’d made it that way, but he’d landed one too many fists into your ribs when you’d taken the upper hand by slamming his own onto the table and your knife down along with it. When you’d twisted the hand up behind his back and made a real show of preparing to take the remaining forefinger and thumb, he’d angrily yielded.
‘Yeah,’ you tap at the cuff on your wrist to let Gaius know you’re on your way and make an ‘up you get’ gesture at the bounty.
He gets a look like he’s calculating an out, so you just unsheathe your blade again. Hold it lazily at your side.
You look up to the ceiling of his dingy hideout, thoughtful. ‘On second thought,’ you say. ‘I could probably afford a whole hand.’ Stare back down at him. He pales at that and grunts in furious resignation, lurching to unsteady feet.
Marching him through the back alleys, he speaks up.
‘You know, I think I’ve heard of you,’ he says.
You roll your eyes. ‘Less chat, please.’
‘Mm, so polite,’ he sniggers. Why do they always do this when the fight is over? So ready to run you through, then all they wanna do is talk.
‘Heard you took in the Daly crew,’ he throws over his shoulder.
‘Shut up.’
‘Is it true? All six of them?’ He whistles low. ‘Where’d a girlie like you get bounty huntin’ skills like that?’
‘Shut up.' You give him a hard kick in the ass. He stumbles forward with a cry. As he flails to not fall on his face, something drops from his coat pocket. It’s a compact datapad that lights up on impact with the ground. You’re about to stomp on it maliciously when a fragment of data on the screen catches your eye.
You bend to pick it up as he rights himself with a pained hiss. He watches you study the screen, its illumination highlighting the colour draining from your face.
‘Hey, uh,’ he hedges. ‘You can take that you know? Big job, huge. One I’ll never finish… now, and,’ a chuckle, ‘I get it, work doesn’t pay like it used to. But that… that’ll make you rich.’
A long, heavy pause. Your eyes stay locked on the screen, a thumb moves to scroll through it.
‘I can get you started?’ he tries again. ‘If you hold off on turning me in? Skills like yours, contacts like mine… We--’
You don’t look at him as you pocket the device, take a small dart revolver from your holster and twirl it to the heaviest tranq you have. His ‘huh’ is brief as he thuds to the ground.
You sigh, annoyed and uneasy. Punching at your comms, you mutter, ‘Gaius, can you get out here and help me, got a dragger … What--? … Yes you can have a higher cut, hells.'
You get back to the Guild’s quarters and do the whole song and dance with Leaf again.
Settled up, you retake your usual place at the bar. A drink appears by your elbow, but you ignore it. Instead, you pull out the datapad and stare at the detailed ship manifests and inventory supply runs for an imp battle fleet.
This can’t be what I think it is.
You’d marked rumours. Knew something was rising. Felt despair and fear. Tried to send hidden comms but probably into nothing but ether – useless and untrustworthy that you were.
As if the universe had it in for you, the alert sensor on your cuff pings to life. You stare at it in shock, not wanting to believe what you’re seeing. But the hum in your wrist is echoed beside you and the barfly there is glaring at the same alert. The whole place is alight with the sound of alarms and buzzing as every bounty hunter in the establishment moves to their feet. You and your neighbours turn to a booming laugh.
Leaf Goghal, despite being what seemed to be mostly gone not long ago, is standing atop his booth table with the holo alert waving above his head.
‘We have been contracted!’ He bellows. ‘The job of our lives! Join the vaunted efforts of this war campaign and be crowned in glory and riches. The Guild will be made elite!’
A general confusion and nervous excitement vibrates within the crowd.
Leaf leaps from the table, seems to stalk expressly toward you.
‘We will follow the imperial militia into war. They will grant us everything – riches, power, resources – we would scourge this galaxy. Be unstoppable. Untameable.’
Your heart is pounding. Hands ice cold. Here it is.
‘We’re going to war against Mandalore!’
Every creature in the bar hollers and cheers.
Fierce and riled up warriors gather themselves into formation, oddly formal for their ragtag demeanour. But bloodlust was rising, and they all wanted the fastest route into a battle frenzy as was possible.
Sparks of panic shoot up and down your body as Leaf Goghal stands before you. He leans into your ear, treating it to his hot, stale breath.
‘Now, Queenie,’ he mutters. ‘No one here knows your little secret. No one but me. I was happy to take you in with such strong credentials. And I remind you now that you have made your choice.’
He clicks his teeth together in menace. You cringe.
‘You will not be leaving my side, do you understand? I want you in my sights until we’re on a frigate to the rendezvous. No mischief; no reneging on your pledge to me. Remember, they aren’t your people. To them you are apostate, outsider, enemy. Am I wrong?’
He isn’t.
You shake your head slightly, taking the chance to step back to glare at him.
‘No,’ you grit out.
He claps.
‘Excellent,’ and he gestures to his side, you fall in. He rounds on the crowd. ‘Guild! We go!’
Marching past bay after bay of spacecraft, a tempest rages inside you. There’s no point trying. You have to try something. Where would you even begin? Anywhere, anywhere but here. It’s hopeless. You have to try. You could die. So? There’s nothing you can do. You’ll probably die anyway.
But then you pass a hangar with a tiny, ancient T-Wing sitting across the way. It makes your stomach lurch. Its silhouette is so like that of the Razor Crest that all the months of trying to ignore your yearning and sadness slip away in a torrent.
It’s your heart that decides it, in the end.
Without breaking stride, you plant your right foot and raise the left to slam into the back of the knee Leaf has extended in his gait. He hollers and goes down, it’s an old injury he punishes anyone for even mentioning. At the same time, you’re punching the door controls to pull up the crisis module, so that it slams shut and engages a hard lock.
Every person, being and creature in the hallway freezes, unsure of what just happened. But Leaf pushes to his feet and shrieks, ‘get her!’, pointing to the door’s window where you’re on the other side, sprinting toward the ship.
‘Get this fucking thing open, and get that little shit back here!’
You hear his profanity-laced orders become fuzzy, blood rushing in your ears. You vault into the little craft with a speed that unsettles you and start jamming at the keypad, bringing the instruments out of standby. It roars to life.
‘C’mon, baby,’ you encourage the controls. To yourself, ‘C’mon, just like he showed you.’
The craft swings wildly and strafes toward the hangar opening. You hurl hard on stall just as it aligns with the exit and then throw the throttle with your whole weight. Forced back into your seat, you give a yelp of fear as the crystalline black rushes toward you.
The second the g-forces let you, you’re leaning over the nav screen and punching in the only code you’d come to know by heart – the system containing Navarro. Thinking the odds of surviving your first solo hyperspace jump are slim and frightening, you close your eyes and heave on the lever.
A few moments of uncertain wincing before you open your eyes and see dazzling light sailing past.
You push your head back into the pilot seat and contemplate your next move.
It had been a difficult and terrifying decision to head to Mandalore, where you knew the risk of being shot out of orbit without pause was great. But you’d survived hyperspace and you’d survived Greef Karga’s passive aggressive rejection of your plea for help. So you thought, why not dive further into the pit of the mess you’d made?
It takes a while. You have to make several stops for fuel and supplies, trekking the galaxy toward the distant and mysterious system, hoping on hope that your memory of the path there was sound. Your tiny little craft manages to stealth by a couple of terrifying imperial ships, so you’re pretty sure you’re going the right way. You just hope you’re not taking too long.
Despite everything, you actually feel good and in control for the first time in an age. Oddly enough, the journey keeps you calm.
Bo-Katan Kryze accepting your transmission and permitting you to land, on the other hand, begins a war within you between soaring hope and abject terror, twisting up your guts and setting your lungs on fire. Piloting your craft to a pad where it is dwarfed many times over by towering war ships, you let the current of your decisions and actions will you forward.
An escort eventually leads into a wide open room, with long tables and a hearth burning blue flame.
It’s a modest throne she occupies, a wide bench with little adornment. The truly staggering feature is the tall casting of an ancient looking megalith that rises behind her into the vaulted ceiling. You think Din had told you about something like it once, but in this moment there’s too much already crashing through you to recall.
You try to focus on the brittle and impatient look the woman in front of you channels into your very soul. But really all that’s going on in your head is an endless loop of Is he here? Is he nearby? Will I see him? Is he here?
You glance around the room at your company, flicking from one helmed figure to another. None are familiar. All stand with a watchful edge and some kind of weapon at the ready.
The escort that had marched with you comes to a stop and peels away, leaving you standing alone save but one Mandalorian that keeps a laser rifle at your back. Of course you’d left all weapons back at your little ship, but they seem aware you could still be a hand-to-hand threat anyway. Perhaps Din had warned them.
Bo-Katan leans forward and cocks her head.
‘He isn’t here,’ she says, voice ringing in the vast space. Gods, she just knew that would be the exact thing to say to make your insides crumble and your heart falter. Batting back tears, you run your tongue over teeth and lips, take a breath and look at her head on.
‘Will you tell me where he is?’
She smirks, ‘His Covert, the Covert of the Watch, continues to be among several groups covering our system’s perimeter. Why?’
‘I need to warn him. To warn you, all of you.’
The leader of a planet, a whole world, stands suddenly. The room rustles with many armoured individuals shifting to high alert. After a moment, she takes a step, then another.
She marches toward you with menace in every footfall. Halts just flush of you and leans into your ear.
‘That’s where your loyalty is?’ she says. ‘To him?’
You just steel yourself and nod.
‘You hurt him,’ she whispers, voice tight. ‘A lot.’
‘I know,’ you say, not moving another muscle. ‘I know that, I-- I just want to do right by him, by your people.’
She leans back and glares at you. ‘What if he does not want to see you at all, ever again?’
You stare at her.
‘I’ll accept that. I will. So long as he, as they, as you, hear what I have to say. And let me help.’ You lean in to whisper your entreaty, your message, your intentions. She listens, lets you trail off before stepping back and locking eyes with you.
She studies you, pierces you with her keen and discerning gaze. You feel as if you are being drilled apart, bit by bit.
‘I cannot tell you where he is,’ she intones to the rest of the room. ‘His Covert is in a system where Comms are difficult to maintain; they compose a forward party to incur the initial salvos, feeding us the intelligence we need to prepare.’
Her eyes settle back on you for a split second. You mouth a silent, tiny ‘thank you’ that she nods at slightly while turning away.
‘I am sorry I cannot help you,’ she says while marching back to her station.
It wasn’t much to go on, but there was an ionised cluster in the next sector over where frequencies were distorted and would corrode over distance. It also happened to be smack in the middle of the trajectory of the imps’ leading regiment. And it was also possible for a sufficiently small spacecraft to make discreet jumps back to Mandalore to share updates without detection.
It wasn’t much to go on. But Bo-Katan had given you what she could.
You pilot your battered T-Wing into the field.
Okay, now or never.
You push the autopilot into staying power and lean back in your chair. With an iron will, you let your mind clear, ferrying thoughts to the side and opening a way to that thing you fear to touch. It waits for you, doesn’t approach or call, just holds. You grit your teeth and reach for it.
The moment you accept the feeling into yourself, it unfurls and coils around your consciousness, hugging at the edges of your mind’s eye. As it does, you fill your thoughts with the image of two sweet glistening eyes blinking at you slowly, of big twitching ears flapping in the rush of a speeder, and of a happy, babbling maw munching on whatever tasty treat is within reach. You conjure the feeling of a small, clawed hand gripping your own, just grasping onto a single finger in comfort. And you listen hard for the sound of Grogu’s exclamations of delight and curiosity, summoning his essence toward you.
‘C’mon, baby. C’mere. I miss you so much.’
A hot sweat erupts across your brow and neck. Tears break free. All form a salty river down to dampen your collar, shuddering above your chest heaving with effort.
‘Please,’ you weep. ‘Please.’
You’re ready to give up. You were a fool. Not strong enough for this; who were you kidding. Then, a soft, featherlight, curious strand of tender embrace reaches back to you. You let it nuzzle the tip of your nose, leaning into the feeling.
It lasts a second, then drains away and the cold hard cockpit rushes back into focus. Without pause you punch in the string of coordinates foremost in your mind’s eye. You give yourself a moment to close your eyes again and breathe, then you throw the lever.
--
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No such thing in-universe as a 'T-Wing' as far as I'm aware. But I for one think it makes a cool as hell 'lil spacecraft. Name suggestions welcome. And I had no idea what to choose as the gif for this one, so imagine that tiny speck is Reader crossing the galaxy to get back to Din... 💔
Short Debts Make Long Friends - Chapter 19 snippet
“You did good, back there,” Mando says.
“Thanks,” you answer, numbly stepping into the elevator beside him. The doors slide shut, giving you a reprieve from the pounding music inside the dance club.
He sighs, knowing that you aren’t in a chatty mood.
He tries again anyway.
“I’m sorry you had to see all of that.”
“S’okay.”
You have no choice but for it to be okay. You’re the outlier here, not him. You can’t apply your milquetoast life experiences back on Earth to any of this. But no amount of rationalization is going to change the fact that Mando is carrying a head in a bag.
“You’re cold,” he realizes, noticing you’re standing with your arms tightly wrapped around yourself.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically, but he’s already tugging the cowl over his head.
You’re not fine. How do you explain to the bounty hunter carefully bundling you up in his cloak that you aren’t shivering because of the cold? How do you reconcile this person with the man who had stayed up with you two nights ago, patiently holding your hair back and not once saying ‘I told you so’ every time you threw up after ignoring his advice to not try arcana pepper soup? He is your friend and protector and teacher and would so much more if you both weren’t so goddamned sensible – but now he is carrying a head in a bag, and you don’t know if you will ever be able to look at him the same way again.
Short Debts Make Long Friends - An overeducated, underpaid millennial finally gets to go on her first adventure.
Summary: Din has been calling you riduur for months. You finally find out what it means, and get a little more than you bargained for.
Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!Reader
Word Count: ~5.1k
Warnings: pining, absolute FOOLS in love, bit of grumpy x sunshine, lil angsty, possibly incorrect lore, fluff, lots of Mando'a (translations for the Mando'a at the end)
A/N: Happy Mandalorian Eve!! This is based on a short drabble I wrote, which you can find here! It's not necessary to read it first, though of course I recommend it! The reader and Din have been traveling together for a long time, and after removing his armor in front of the reader for the first time began calling them riduur.
“Riduur.”
It may as well be your name, the way you turn at the sound of that word.
“Din,” you return, adjusting the child’s little sleeve which had fallen down past his hand.
“Are you ready?” He asks as he tilts his head to the side.
You smile and turn back to Grogu. “Dad’s impatient today, isn’t he?” The child coos up at you, lifting tiny arms, ready to be picked up. “Yeah, he is.”
“I’m not impatient,” Din grumbles lowly.
You raise a brow at that and lift Grogu into your arms. “You’re always impatient, Mando.” His head jerks to the side at your assessment.
You have to bite back a laugh. In truth, he is incredibly patient. Most of the time, and especially when it came to you and Grogu. The only time you’ve seen him truly lose his temper was with the Jawas, and really, that couldn’t be helped.
The child reaches for Din when you turn back to him, and the Mandalorian immediately holds out his arms to take him from you. You deposit the little green baby there before grabbing your shawl. “Yes, we’re ready,” you finally answer.
The baby gets tucked into the pouch at Din’s hip, before he descends the ship’s ramp out into the desert air that awaits you.
You roll your eyes gently.
Not impatient, but not entirely patient either.
You follow, wrapping the light material around your shoulders.
It’s subtle, but he does wait for you, his pace slower than if he were alone. His right elbow ticks out a fraction, and you smile before cupping your hand there. He would never ask you to take his arm, still the offer is usually there if he can accommodate it.
He relaxes a little when you fit your hand against his bicep. “Supplies only,” he reminds you, ever practical.
“Supplies only,” you agree. “Unless I see something for Grogu.”
“The child is becoming spoiled,” he complains lightly. “We won’t have enough room in the ship soon.”
You shrug and tighten your grip on his arm. You like the way he says we. So, you return with, “That’s just because our child deserves the best.”
Din’s spine straightens a fraction and his shoulders tilt back.
He’s somehow both stoic and incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. You can tell, just by the slope of his shoulders or the exact angle of the helmet or the precise way he stands or walks, exactly what and how he’s feeling.
Or, maybe you’ve just spent too much time around him.
Maybe, you just know him too well.
And right now, he’s swollen with pride. Though you don’t know if it's because you’ve complimented the way he takes care of the child or if it were something else. Something in the way you said our.
It’s not long before you reach the market, and Din sighs as soon as it comes into view. It’s much larger than the ones you normally frequent, a riot of color and sound that you both know you won’t be able to resist. The town seems to be in the midst of some kind of festival.
The smell of fried food greets you before you’ve even breached the perimeter of the town, and your mouth waters. Something better than rations awaited you there.
Din is single minded though, and you know he’ll immediately make for the most boring of the stalls and shops.
Supplies only, after all, is what you’d come for.
“Mando,” you remove your hand from his arm and he immediately halts at the loss of your touch and turns to you. “I’m going to go look around.”
He stares at you, helmet tilting down. He doesn’t like telling you no, and knows it wouldn’t matter if he did anyways. But, he worries and so it takes a moment for him to reply. “Don’t go far,” he advises. “Do you have a comlink?”
“Yes.”
“A weapon?”
You pretend to search your person, “Hm, what’s that again?”
“Riduur,” he reprimands your teasing.
That word makes the inside of your skin light up pleasantly. Riduur. If only you knew what it meant.
You’ve started to assume it means something similar to cyare or cyar'ika. But he’d had no problem telling you what those words meant. Darling and sweetheart and beloved. He’d had no problem telling you he was calling you beloved.
But he no longer calls you cyare or cyar'ika. Since the first time he’d called you riduur, the day he removed his armor in front of you for the first time, he’d solely begun calling you riduur.
Even your name is becoming a rarity from his lips.
“Udesii! Yes,” you cross your arms. “You know I took care of myself for a very long time without you and nothing ever happened. I’ll be okay.”
Din doesn’t answer, just sighs and gives a curt nod and marches off towards a shop selling medical supplies.
The dramatics of it all makes you giggle. You like teasing him, especially because he thinks he hides how flustered you make him well.
Although you enjoy traveling with the Mandalorian, alone time has become a complete rarity. You were always with Din, or watching your little green menace.
You eat your way through a couple of different stalls selling food, bundling up second and third servings to keep for Din and Grogu.
Din wouldn’t think to get anything beyond rations. Both you and the child like a little more variety, where Din treats the act of eating like a maintenance routine.
You drift past stalls hawking trinkets and jewelry, fending off the sellers as you crunch something sweet and sour you’d picked up at the last food stall, not entirely sure what it is.
Textiles are next, bolts of cloth you run your fingers over but mourn not being able to afford. Still, it's nice to browse, nice to feel normal. The Mandalorian isn’t hunting someone for once, and you aren’t trapped in the interior of the ship, stale recycled dry air burning your nostrils.
A little supply stop has become a little welcome relief. It’s giving you the chance to stretch your legs, to explore.
Still, your mind drifts back to Din, the way he calls you something he would not name to you.
You’ve searched before, in other markets, on other worlds, for the answer to your question. What does that word mean and why won’t Din tell you?
You’d tried to convince him once or twice, with gentle words whispered in his ear, when the helmet was off and your hands were pressed against his skin, the contours of his face still a mystery to you.
Once, you’d felt the skin of his cheeks go hot beneath your hands when you told him he used his tongue so prettily, couldn’t he use it to tell you what riduur meant?
He’d mumbled something else in Mando’a but had not explained himself.
You can understand most of that he says now, but because he’s the only other speaker, you have to rely on him to tell you what new words and phrases mean.
Because the Mandalorians are such an insular people, you never come across any other speakers you could ask. There are no dictionaries to Basic that you could download and peruse.
It’s frustrating, especially since the word seems to be laden with something heavy. Din says it with reverence, with a softness that doesn't cut through the rest of his words. His voice is softer when he speaks Mando’a anyways, but that word is held with a reverence on his tongue, like it’s precious.
The only other time you had heard him use that tone was when he once called Grogu ad’ika, which meant child.
You’ve almost given up on knowing, resigned to that fact that you may never know and he may never tell you.
Whatever it means, you’re sure it's important. You just don’t know why.
The market is loud, boisterous and colorful. Music floats through the air, shouts and laughter.
It’s nice, it makes you smile and you wish you’d taken the child with you because you’re sure he’d have much more fun with you than with Din picking out rolls of bandage and rations and pulse rifle cartridges if he can find someone that has some.
You stop suddenly in your tracks when you hear a conversation in a language you immediately recognize, the familiar syllables cutting through the afternoon chatter.
You spin and find two men in robes speaking gently to each other in Mando’a. Before you can stop yourself, your feet have already carried you to their table where they sit sipping cups of caf.
“Su cuy'gar,” you greet. They both look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at you. “Sorry to bother you. You speak Mando’a?”
One smiles, “Yes. Of the few outsiders that do, I think.”
“Were you foundlings?” It’s the only way, you think, that they could have learned it.
“Once,” the older of the two says. “This one learned it at a university.”
You can’t help the curiosity that burns through you, “At a university? Really?”
“Only the very barest basics. From a woman being courted by a Mandalorian,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was a long time ago. Really I learned from him.” He gestures between himself and the other man.
You shake yourself, “I’ve just never met another aruetii that does.” Let alone two of them, you think dizzily. Two outsiders who spoke Mando’a.
“And how did you learn?”
“My…” you trail off.
Your what? You aren’t sure what exactly Din is to you, or what you are to him. You never have been. He treats you like you’re more precious than beskar, yet everything between you remains undefined.
“My traveling companion. He’s a Mandalorian.” You swallow, “I wonder if you could tell me if you know what a certain word means? It’s one I’ve been curious about.” You don’t want to tell them that you’re seeking it out because it's something he calls you. That feels too private, too close to the chest. “He said it once and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“It would wound my pride. He’s already taught me so much. He overestimates my fluency.”
They laugh and the man who was once a foundling says, “Yes, ask us then.”
“Riduur,” you say, carefully pronouncing it so they don’t mistake it for another word. “Riduur,” you repeat with more confidence.
The men glance at each other, brows raised. “Well, it has several meanings,” the more grizzled of the two says, “But I suppose it's all the same in the end. Spouse would be the most overarching translation. Partner, wife, and husband all work too.”
For a moment, you can’t breathe, you’re sure your heart has come to a leaping halt in your chest. “Truly? Riduur?” You say it again, just to make sure. They laugh and nod and you decide to have your meltdown away from their table. “Well, thank you for clearing that up. Sorry again to bother you.”
You turn away from them, a roaring in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest. Riduur. He’s been calling you his partner, his spouse, for months? That word so softly spoken to you - to tease you, to call for you, whispered to you in the dark, said over and over, more than your own name. It meant partner, spouse, wife, husband?
Something inside you lights up with pride. The shape of it is warm, firm in the clasp of your lungs. Riduur. It’s a living, breathing kind of word, one that takes up space inside you. One you’re proud to bear the weight of, the title of.
Spouse, you think, doesn’t carry the same gravitas as riduur. There’s something heavier and deeper in the word that a translation couldn’t really carry over into Basic.
You start back down the road, smiling to yourself, but only make it several paces when Din steps up beside you silently from between two stalls. “Dank farrik,” you gasp, stumbling back. “Where did you come from? You scared me.”
He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t even tilt his head towards you. You may as well have not spoken at all.
“Mando?”
Still, he doesn’t answer you.
You raise a brow but don’t say anything else as he herds you gently out of the market, desert dust swirling around your calves. Eventually, when you reach the edge of the town, he asks, “Did you find everything you need?” His voice is flat, rough.
“Yes, I got some food for you and Grogu to try. A little feast for you tonight, since it won’t hold.”
He merely grunts and you frown. “Is something wrong?” You glance over your shoulder. “Did something happen? Are we being followed?”
You glance around his legs at the baby, still securely in the brown canvas bag, who’s peering up at both of you with anxious eyes, big ears drooping.
“No.” He answers curtly.
The walk back to the ship is silent, and tense, and you aren’t sure why.
It’s only when you’re in the safety of the mouth of the ship’s ramp, with the baby in your arms, that your irritation spills over. “Are you upset with me? I didn’t wander. I stayed close and had a weapon and -,”
Din’s hands go to his hips, helm tilting at an angle as he regards you. His voice is agitated when he finally speaks. You expect him to tell you that you wandered too far, that he commed you and you hadn’t picked it up, that you’d unknowingly wandered into danger. And you expect to have to tell him once again that it's all fine, that you are fine, that you’d traveled without him for years and things always turned out alright.
Instead, he says, “You should not call yourself an aruetii. That is not what you are.”
For a moment, it doesn’t register with you what he’s talking about, that he’d clearly overheard your conversation with the Mando’a speakers, likely eavesdropped on it.
All you are, for a few seconds, is confused. “But…I am an aruetii. I am not a Mandalorian.”
Din’s shoulders go stiff at your words. “That does not make you an outsider. You…you are far from an outsider,” he growls and suddenly spins away from you, his footfalls heavy and loud when he stomps across the hull.
He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and disappears, leaving both you and the baby alone, still standing on the ramp up to the ship. “He’s angry with me,” you say in disbelief, glancing down at the child in your arms, not really understanding why. “We’ll let him cool off,” you decide, bouncing the child against your waist. “Hungry?”
The baby coos and you smile, worry biting into you as you settle with him in the mouth of the ship. The sun is setting on the sand, the air warm, casting red shadows over the world. There’s nothing around you but sand in any direction you glance, aside from the town from which you’d come on the horizon.
In the distance, fireworks from the town explode in the sky. You point them out to Grogu, gently feeding him bites of food that you’d gotten at the market. He makes a sound that you suppose is a giggle, big eyes focused on the colors dissipating in the sky. He holds a tiny hand up, like he’d like it to fly to him.
You curl a hand over his. “None of that,” you say with a laugh. “Those are meant for the stars, not you.”
He goes back to eating, already distracted.
A weight settles over your chest.
If Din heard you call yourself aruetii then he knows that you now know what riduur means.
Maybe that was the true source of his irritation, that you’d gone behind his back to figure out what it meant when he clearly hadn’t wanted you to know.
You rub the tip of Grogu’s ear between your fingers and sigh.
Any warm feelings you’d had are gone.
Riduur.
He’s been calling you that for months. But he hadn’t wanted you to know that he was calling you his partner. For some reason it stings.
The Mandalorian is not cruel, not the type to play with another’s feelings. But, nonetheless, it feels like he might have been. Teasing you in a way you couldn’t begin to guess at. Or, like he could pretend without actually attaching himself to you, and you’d be none the wiser.
You shake those thoughts away, listening to the music echoing over the sands.
When Grogu falls asleep and the sun is just disappearing behind the horizon, you secure the ramp of the ship and carry the baby up into the cockpit.
Din sits silently in the pilot’s chair, and doesn’t look at you as you tuck the child into the floating pod.
You fidget with his blanket, not sure what to say.
“I’m sorry,” he breaks the silence first. “Ni ceta.”
“Din,” you perch next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone poking around where I don’t belong. I’m sorry.”
His head tilts toward you, the visor impenetrable. You swallow when he doesn’t answer, an inexplicable lump forming in the back of your throat. “Don’t belong?”
“I shouldn’t have asked them what riduur meant. You didn’t want me to know.”
Din stands and holds out a hand to you. You take it carefully and let him pull you to your feet. “That is not why I-,” he stops. “Do you really not know?”
“Know what?”
“I should have been…honest about the name I’ve given you.” He tilts his head and releases your hands. “I’m upset because-,” the Mandalorian pauses and seems to consider his next words for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and simply repeats, “You’re not an aruetii. By definition you can’t be.”
You stare at him for a long moment, before shaking your head. “I don’t understand.”
He huffs, helm ticking to the side again. “Would you call Grogu an outsider?”
“Of course not,” you answer, horrified. “No.”
“And why is that? He’s not a Mandalorian either.”
You don’t have to think about it, shaking your head before he’s even finished speaking. “He’s your child.”
Din steps forward, close to you, but doesn’t say anything. “Our child,” he corrects eventually. “I am upset because you don’t seem to know you are a part of our clan. Even after knowing what I’ve been calling you. Riduur, ner riduur, for months. You still don’t know.”
Oh. Oh.
“Osi'kyr,” you murmur softly. “How could I know that, Din?”
He stands silent and still before you, so still you aren’t sure he’s breathing. “I thought it was clear,” he says stiffly. “I thought it was clear I was courting you.”
Something pleasantly warm settles in among your heart and lungs. “Maybe you should explain your customs to me more thoroughly,” you joke lightly.
He doesn’t laugh, shoulders tense, hands curled in anxious fists.
“So why not tell me what the word means?” It seems a bit past courting to you, to call someone riduur. It seems to you he’s already chosen you.
He shifts from foot to foot, the movement somehow laden with vulnerability and worry. “If you did not…want the same - I’m not sure I could bear that.”
You stare at him, not entirely sure what to say to that. “So, what,” you start, “you expected me to one day just realize you considered me your-,”
“I would have told you,” he interrupts quickly. “One day.”
“Told me-,”
“What riduur means,” he corrects. “And asked if you’d like to be that.” Din takes your hands again, “Just know that you are part of this clan, whatever your answer is.” His voice is so sincere, it breaks your heart a little. “Whether you want to be attached to me or not, you have a place in this clan. You are not an aruetii.”
You tilt your head at the same time he does, the nonverbal cues you both habit in reflecting between you. “I’m just a bit confused. Was that your idea of a proposal?” You smile so he knows you’re teasing him.
Din gives a long suffering sigh. “Mandalorians do not propose.”
“Oh. So what do you do then?” You lift a brow, sliding your hands to his wrists so you can work on tugging one glove off at a time.
“We make an agreement,” he says, not trying to stop you. His voice is hoarse. “We make vows.”
You don’t look up, tucking the gloves in your belt before tracing your fingers along the veins in his wrists, the lines of his palms. “Oh. And did you make vows to me that I wasn’t aware of?”
You’re still joking, but Din takes your words to heart. He shakes one hand loose from yours and presses it beneath your jaw, tipping your head gently back. “I did. I make vows to you everyday.”
All the air seems to get sucked out of the ship. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out as you struggle to find words. He chuckles, low and breathy beneath the helmet. You imagine he must be smiling. “Now you see how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe.”
You finally manage to take a breath, lifting your chin away from his fingers, threads of embarrassment beating under your skin at his teasing. “You could have told me, you know.”
“It was too large a risk. I wouldn’t risk you.”
Maybe you should hesitate in your next words.
But you don’t.
You’ve never been surer in something.
“Din,” you step close to him. “I would take those vows.”
“They…they are heavy vows. Not meant to be taken lightly. They’re bonding vows.”
He thinks you don’t get it, that you still don’t understand. “I understand what kind of vows they are. What are the vows?” You step even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours.
He smells like sun, like spices from the market and oil on beskar. It makes you dizzy, the usual scent of him is much cooler. Evergreen and pine.
The cockpit is dark, the very last dregs of light on the horizon gone. The contours of the helm are shadowed, the flicker of lights from the control panels reflecting in blinking lights over the visor.
There is no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”
You mouth the words, doing your best to translate them.
But he’s spoken too quickly, and you only understand part of it. He waits for you to ask for him to translate, giving you a moment to attempt it instead of immediately telling you.
“I only understand part…We are one together and-,”
“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” he says easily. “We are - we are all of those things already. I have kept the promise I made.”
Your throat is dry, and you can’t think about how that’s true. “We’re raising warriors?” You attempt a joke.
“Would you not call the child a warrior?”
“I would,” you agree. “I would also still take those vows, now knowing their meaning.”
There’s a long pause in which you can feel the Mandalorian’s stare. His gaze is intense, assessing, hot against your skin. You patiently look back, waiting. “You don’t have to.”
“You think I don’t want to.”
He huffs, “I…don’t want you to believe you have to make vows to me. You are a part of our clan no matter what.”
“Would you still call me riduur?”
“If you allowed it,” he takes a breath. “Yes.”
The lip of the helm drifts up and you can sense he’s no longer looking at you, embarrassed. “Din.” His head snaps back down. “I know I am not an outsider.” You wait for him to digest those words. “I know this is my clan now. I still would like to make these vows to you.”
He reaches up and presses his palms to either side of your jaw, the crown of the helmet pressing softly against your forehead for just a moment when he dips his head. “If you’re sure, repeat after me. We’ll say them together.”
“Elek,” you agree.
“Mhi solus tome,” he starts, reverence and disbelief lodged in his voice.
In the distance, more fireworks explode in the sky. The colors reflect in the glass of the ship’s front window, sparking over the reflective helmet. “Mhi solus tome,” you say slowly, careful to pronounce each word exactly right.
You’d never imagined yourself as someone who would get married, and certainly not like this.
But that was before you knew Din. And all this feels to you is right. It’s both sudden and not.
This was meant to happen. All your years with the Mandalorian lead towards this.
You repeat the rest of the vows after him, slow and deliberate.
When the final syllable rolls off your tongue, a muted kind of joy overcomes you. You’ve been a part of it for a long time, but you feel it now, the belonging to a clan and people.
Din releases you and leans back. His chest rises and falls quickly.
You close your eyes and reach for the edge of his helmet.
You want to kiss him at the very least.
But when your fingers skim over the release, he captures your wrists in one hand. You let go and Din reaches up with his opposite hand to take it off himself.
You expect him to kiss you right away, but he doesn’t. You can only feel the lingering touch of his gaze.
“Open your eyes.”
“What? No-,” you begin to protest.
“Yes. You can now, riduur.” The word rumbles out of him proudly, heavy in his mouth.
You tilt your head and frown. “Are you-,”
“This is the Way.” His voice warbles, just a little.
“Are you sure?” You get the entire question out this time.
Now it’s his turn to tease you. “No,” he says dryly. “I’ll change my mind after you open your eyes.”
“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “You’re very funny.”
“Open them.”
You think you might be more nervous than him to see his face. You honestly never thought you would get to, and you had long ago made peace with that. It didn’t matter to you what he looked like, you knew his heart and that was more than enough.
You’ve tried to picture him before, from tracing your fingers over his face, but the image is only half formed and without detail. It felt wrong, somehow, too, to try to picture the face of someone who deliberately hid it.
Slowly, you peek your eyes open at him. Whatever you had pictured is nothing compared to the man you find yourself gazing at.
A sense of vertigo sweeps through you, because it's almost like looking at a stranger.
You have to resist the urge, for just a moment, to tear yourself away from him.
His hair is darker in color than you thought it would be, but just as feathery and lightly curled as you imagined. Din’s eyes are dark, a deep brown that you’d like to spend lifetimes memorizing, falling inside. You were right too, from your explorations of his face with your hands, about the shape of his nose, his mustache, the patchy beard. You’d pictured his eyes all wrong, the shape of jaw.
One thing you couldn’t have guessed at is the naked expressiveness in his eyes.
It makes sense though, he’s spent a lifetime without the need to school his features into anything other than exactly what he was feeling.
You wonder how many times he’s looked at you with such longing, and you never knew.
He says your name, a question mark tagged onto the end of it, his voice wrecked and strange without the modulator muffling his voice.
The sound of his voice rips the upside down feeling away. It’s his voice, it’s him. Not some handsome stranger.
Your eyes flit up from where your gaze had lingered on his lips, the pink shape of his mouth against golden skin. “I was right.”
He frowns, eyes soft and worried. It shocks you again, just how open his emotions read in his eyes. “About what?”
“I knew you were pretty. You are pretty,” you tease, pressing yourself against him, the hard contours of him biting into you. You fist your hands into the fabric at his sides. “Mesh’la.”
Din frowns at you. “I told you that means beautiful, didn’t I?” His voice is playful and doesn’t match his expression.
You nod and don’t answer, reaching up to cup your hand against his cheek. Din’s arm settles easily around your waist, dragging you closer, the weight of his helm in his hand heavy against your hip. Normally, you’d let him close the distance between you but you can’t quite manage to let him now, gazing instead at the planes of his face. “Mesh’la,” you tell him. “Ner riduur.”
“That’s my line.”
“Not anymore,” you tease. “Husband.”
You tip your chin into his and wait for him to meet you there.
He gives a slight smile before leaning into you. “Not husband. Riduur.”
“Right,” you agree, because really, it isn’t quite the same. It can’t be. “Ner riduur.”
The kiss lingers long on your lips. He’s savoring you, a warm passion that doesn’t quite extend into heat. Din’s tongue meets yours briefly, the groan it tugs from his mouth sending flashes of lightning all the way down to your toes.
The fireworks outside are no rival for the feelings clawing up the back of your throat.
You want to tell him you love him, but you think he already knows.
He breaks away to set his helmet down. When he turns back to you, his hands roam over you, free in their movement, tugging at the band of your trousers.
You can’t stop staring at him, suddenly overwhelmed, drinking in the sight of him, the naked expression of him, everything he’s thinking spread over his face like a well loved language.
All you’d wanted was to know the name he gifted you, instead - this.
You map your hand over his face, tracing the divot between his brows, the curve of one sharp cheekbone. “I never thought I would see your face,” you whisper.
Those soft, vulnerable eyes meet yours, arm wrapping around you again, as his bare forehead presses to yours, “And I always knew you would.”
Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!
If you want more of Din and his riduur, Significant-verse drabbles can be found here!
Summary: When a new owner buys the house next to Fire Station 133, Frankie is tasked to be the welcoming party. However, he didn’t quite expect the new owner to be a gorgeous woman like yourself.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n, no physical description)
Word Count: 2.1k+
Rating: PG (series is Mature & Explicit though, so minors do not interact)
Warnings: None, just Frankie with a big crush
A/N: I’m so excited to introduce you all to these two! Ugh I’ve been obsessed with writing this the past week. Please note that I don’t know all that much about firefighting, so expect some inaccuracies there.
In the decade Frankie had spent as a firefighter and wildfire helicopter pilot at Station 133, a kind and quiet elderly couple — Mr. and Mrs. Henry — had lived in the house next to the station. They had loved living next to it and loved the firefighters that worked there. As the only house in the vicinity, they had painted their front door red in solidarity long before Frankie joined the station. It had been a surprise for everyone when the news broke that they were selling the house and moving to Italy for their retirement. A few of the firefighters had helped the couple move their things into the moving vans before bidding them goodbye. Then, they watched for any signs of a new owner for the small house. Weeks went by until last Thursday when an unfamiliar black Jeep showed up and warm yellow light came from the windows of the house.
The Jeep came and went from the house but with the positioning of the house and the entryway, no one was able to get a good look at the new owner.
The firefighters debated for four days over when one of them should go over there to introduce themselves, as it was important for the station to establish a good relationship with the mystery owner as soon as possible. Finally, after a rather heated debate with the firefighters on duty today, Frankie won the role of greeting the newcomer by virtue of being the best baker out of them all. Granted, with his main rivals being Benny, Will, and Santi, it was inevitable.
“Twenty bucks says it’s another retired couple,” Benny bet the guys as Frankie took a pan of cookies out of the oven.
The one upside to working 24 hour shifts was that the station had to have a full kitchen. Half of the room made up the nice but cluttered kitchen while the other half was occupied by a large table. Huge windows lined the wall behind the table, the little house visible to the left of the station.
The guys had all packed into the kitchen the moment Frankie started the cookies. Benny leaned against the kitchen counter to Frankie’s right. Will sat in a seat at the table behind him as he nursed a cup of coffee a few feet away from where Santi sat on the corner of the table with his arms crossed.
While Frankie and Will simply shook their heads at Benny, Santi scoffed. He retorted, “No, man. I say it’s a hot single woman. The house is right next to the fire station, she gets to watch all the fine men and women in uniform from the porch. It’s a good deal.”
“Are you kidding?” Benny asked. He gestured in the direction of the little house. “Look at that place. It screams retirement.”
Santi waved a hand at him dismissively. “It’s not about how the house looks, it’s about the view.”
Benny went to argue, but Frankie cut him off.
“This,” Frankie sighed as he packed the warm cookies into a tub, “is exactly why I’m going and you two aren’t.”
“Oh, come on, Fish,” Benny appealed to him. “You know as well as I do that it’s gonna be some retired folks.”
Frankie really did agree with Benny on this one, but he refused to tell him that. The house was well past its prime and clearly a relic from the 80s, two-toned white and brown. Confusingly, it also had a faded red roof — that Frankie wondered if had once matched the door — and light wood accents for patios in the front and back of the house. In all honesty, it was a little ugly. It was like bad design had met bad taste and poor aging. He didn’t think anyone would really find it appealing, but it definitely didn’t look like a place a stunning bachelorette would want to buy.
Benny pointed at his brother and tried to appeal to him, too. “Will, who do you think is right?”
Will shook his head with disinterest before taking a sip of coffee from his mug. “Nope. I’m not humoring you two.”
Frankie chuckled as Benny complained and urged Will to side with his baby brother.
As Frankie packed up the tub of cookies and its accompanying Welcome to the neighborhood! card from the station, Santi gave him a sly, confident smile. “We’ll see who’s right.”
Frankie made his way out of the station, feeling oddly anxious about the newcomer. Would they be as nice as the last owners were? Would they allow the station to use part of their lawn as extra parking space for the charity cookout they hosted every summer? Would they put up with Santi blasting rock music with the bay doors open? Were the newcomers ready to put up with lights and sirens coming from the station at all hours of the day?
Finally, reaching the little house, Frankie ascended the old rickety stairs that led to the worn deck. When he reached the faded fire engine red front door, he knocked. Shifting the plastic container of freshly-baked cookies to one hand, he quickly adjusted his navy uniform.
He hadn’t been particularly anxious about the new owners until now. He hadn’t really realized how incredible the last owners had been as neighbors. They didn’t just put up with the station — and some of the firefighters’ antics — they adored the station. Mr. and Mrs. Henry always wanted to help out however they could. But now, with them gone, it dawned on Frankie that not everyone would like living next to a station or want to participate in what they did.
Shuffling from behind the door pulled Frankie from his thoughts. The door swung open and—
Oh. Oh, this was not a retiree.
Frankie had rejected Santi’s prediction so swiftly and thoughtlessly that he almost couldn’t believe his eyes. You were gorgeous. You were clad in shorts and a baggy black Queen tank top, peering at him questioningly.
“Hi,” you greeted cautiously. “Can I… help you?”
It was like Frankie’s world had been turned upside down.
He cleared his throat, trying desperately to shake himself from his stupor. “Um, I’m Frankie. Frankie Morales. From the fire station.”
You cracked a small smile as you looked down at his uniform. “I see that.”
“We, um, wanted to welcome the new owner to the neighborhood,” he explained, raising the tub to make his point. “That is, if you are the new owner.”
A full smile broke out across your face, brighter than any fire he had seen. “I am.”
He reciprocated your smile as you told him your name. When he offered the tub with the attached greeting card to you, you graciously accepted it.
Eyeing the card, you said, “This is so sweet! I have to admit, I didn’t know if I would actually get to meet any of you.”
“Are you kidding? We were all dying to meet our new neighbor. I was the lucky guy who won the job.”
It eased Frankie’s nerves when he saw you suppress a bashful smile at that — a crack in the easy confidence that seemed to roll off of you.
“I didn’t know you all would care so much,” you said, almost to yourself.
Oh, Frankie had been interested before. Now he cared. And he imagined some of the single guys and girls at the station might, too.
“Of course we do,” Frankie insisted. “We want you to feel good about the neighborhood. If you ever need anything — anything at all — you can always come to the station.”
“If my house ever catches fire, I expect an incredible response time from you all,” you teased.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a theatrical nod.
Laughing, you beckoned him with your free hand. “Come on in, Frankie. I’m afraid it’s kind of a mess in here right now.”
Still trying to ignore the fast thrum of his heartbeat, he crossed the threshold and followed you into the house. The door led straight into the living room — or what had once been a living room. The carpet had very obviously been ripped out, pieces of flooring missing at one edge of the room. Wallpaper had been torn off of all the walls, evidenced by the one wall that still had half of its gaudy wallpaper — yellow diamonds on a white background. Paint buckets sat in a huddle by the corner. Other painting and remodeling supplies littered the edges of the room, making the place look less like a house and more like a construction site.
As you took the tub of cookies to what seemed to be the kitchen, you called, “This place is in need of a serious overhaul. It’ll take a couple months to even get this place to where I can actually move in.”
Frankie eyed a nail gun which sat next to a table saw. “Are you… are you doing the renovations all by yourself?”
You appeared in the walkway again, opting to lean on the doorframe with your arms crossed and an easy smile on your face. “What? Don’t think a girl can do it?”
Frankie’s eyes went wide. “No, no! Just impressed, actually. This looks like a lot for just one person.”
“I grew up helping out on different house renovation projects,” you explained.
“Is that why you bought this house?” Frankie asked. But even as he asked, he already knew that it was. It wasn’t the reason that Santi predicted a pretty woman like you would buy the house. The answer was even simpler than that. “You wanted a fixer-upper?”
You nodded a little, a small smile pulling at your lips. “It’s more fun to work for it.”
Frankie thought that he may just die then and there. How the hell could he have gotten so lucky for the most perfect woman on earth to move in right next to the station?
Trying desperately to sound like a caring neighbor and not a guy with a quickly-forming crush, he made an offer he would forever be thankful he made. “Well, if you ever need any help, just let me know. I’m pretty handy myself. Just tell me what to do.”
You nodded, a sweet smile on your face. “I’ll keep that in mind, Frankie. You know, when Mr. Henry said you firefighters were a sweet bunch, I didn’t quite picture any as sweet as you.”
Your words were like gasoline on the burning flames of his quickly intensifying crush. He fought to find his words once again before settling on, “Mr. Henry told you about us?”
You nodded, pushing off the wall to move closer to him. Frankie fought to keep his eyes on your face and not your gorgeous form. You gestured in the direction of the station. “He told me all about you guys. He wanted to make sure that the new owner understood what living next to you guys would entail. Obviously, I was okay with that. Before he let me buy the house, though, he made me promise to continue helping you guys with your cookouts. Apparently, it’s a big deal and I need to provide parking and some kind of side dish.”
Frankie laughed, looking out of the living room window that faced the station for a moment. “The Henry’s were always good to us. It’s good to know they were looking out for us, too. And, uh, the side dish is optional. You’re always invited to the cookouts as a guest. The Henry’s just always wanted to be involved.”
You tilted your chin up at him. “Then maybe I want to be involved, too.”
Frankie tried to tamp down how badly he wanted that — to have you there at the cookouts. To talk you, get to know you more, ask you to dance with him. Instead, he said, “We would all really appreciate that.”
You chuckled. “Then count me in. I’ll be there. As long as all of the other firefighters are as nice as you are.”
“Most of them,” Frankie chuckled, a hint of nerves in his voice.
Then, it got quiet for a moment, awkwardness pressing in. In a desperate attempt to get rid of it, Frankie blurted, “Would you like to come see the station? I’m sure everyone there would love to meet you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Really, it wouldn’t be a bother.”
You thought for a moment before shrugging. “Oh, what the hell. Let’s do it.”
Frankie tried not to beam. He had a little more time to be with you, to get to know you. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could even convince you to stay for dinner at the station.
As you led him out of your house and out into the sunkissed day, he couldn’t help but hope that this was just the beginning of something incredible.
