Mandomera Week 2022 is coming to an end (only kinda though, read more below!) and we wanted to take this moment to thank each and every one of you for liking, reblogging, commenting, kudosing, and overall being so kind and positive as we shared our love for our favorite couple, Din and Omera.
A very special thanks to all the creators who shared their work with all of us and made this November/December a little more magic.
We can’t wait to see you all next year for Mandomera Week 2023 but in the meantime, let’s prolong the fun a little longer! You might still see more creations reblogged here or posted in our ao3 collection, so keep an eye out.
Wishing you all the best for the upcoming holidays! March 1st and The Mandalorian Season 3 can’t come soon enough. With maybe a return to Sorgan?
In the aftermath of a battle on Mandalore, Din is confronted by a distraught Omera as she is further acquainted with a reality where her own authority is as revered as the Manda’lor’s, as his spouse and co-ruler. Amidst the chaos of miscommunication, Omera has been forced to issue a command out of duty which nearly cost Din’s life, and Omera was not happy at all. Arguments loom, and so do regrets. (TW: One-sided marital spat)
[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, seventh prompt: “Forgiveness”]
Read here or on Archive of Our Own
"Battle Scar"
“Mand’alor, I was told that the Lady Omera was not at the debriefing,” Din Djarin’s aide-de-camp informed him as Din limped into the modest rooms he shared with his wife.
The Sundari Royal Palace remained grey and bleak, unpolished from debris and dust in its slow recovery from the ruin brought about by the Great Purge. The Purge was but a dreadful scar in Mandalorian history, remedied by the grueling work of reunifying clans and creeds until all arrived at the same page, and unequivocally under Din’s rule.
The Palace had only partially been rebuilt, with its construction relentlessly interrupted by reports of impending enemy attacks. Din could count past his ten fingers the instances he needed to cut quality time with his family short. Omera would be the one left to govern the Palace while Din stormed into the battlefields with his fellow seasoned warriors.
Omera had continued to coordinate with Din and his officers while she remained at her post in the Palace’s headquarters. These incidents of prolonged joint command happened more often than they thought was ideal. There seemed no trouble at first when Omera willingly learned the various forms of leadership required of Din as well as her. She was taught the necessary protocols and directives in the event that her husband could not issue them himself, for any grave reason.
For a long and arduous streak, Din was leading the charge most of the time; Omera assisted, sometimes becoming her husband’s aide as she fastened the armor on him. That ritual had transformed into stolen moments of spiritual intimacy between them. With every component of the beskar’gam she placed upon him, their gazes would lock, intense and sublime, and little words were exchanged. Tension would always follow—and suddenly Din was off with Bo-Katan Kryze or the Armorer or Paz Vizsla into war, his cape billowing behind him like a rallying banner, the Darksaber clipped to his side.
Din couldn’t remember the last time he had properly shared the marriage bed with Omera since their wedding night. He was always away, awake, busy… and sometimes Omera would be awake with him, would join him in briefings if only to feel his warmth at her side. The only other way she found to compensate for these growing times apart was when she made dinner for him. Even then, it was hurried, and conversation was sparse.
This most recent battle could have been the last straw, and yet it was a victory which concluded a crucial campaign, thanks to Omera’s impartial and quick thinking. It was as if all her training culminated to this one victory, and she was ready to keep to the shadows, out of everyone’s way.
And as the aide reported—Omera had opted not to attend the debriefing. To date, this only happened once, and only because she needed to see Grogu and Winta off as they were transported to safety through their Jedi ally, Master Skywalker. Din, at the time, was in the middle of the most decisive battle yet—the one to capture Sundari, Mandalore’s new capital and epicenter of authority before the Purge struck.
A knot of worry formed within Din as pain bloomed like searing coals all over his body. This latest maddening fray to recapture Keldabe, Mandalore’s ancient and former capital, had sapped him of his strength. He sustained some debilitating injuries that were treated on the field and after, in the secure confines of the med-centre tent.
He had spent an entire week away from Omera, and months away from Grogu and Winta, capped by the wars that poured themselves unto his lap one after another… Yet, in spite of it, Din kept his resolve sharp and his spirit from falling into shreds.
But tonight, he was more than bone-weary. He was utterly exhausted, and all he wanted to do was be in his wife’s arms, hear her soothing voice, feel her soft caresses as she inspected the medic’s work. The medics may have done their best… but Omera, she would always find ways to make it better, for the wounds to somehow close faster and his pains to fade away which bacta couldn’t mend. It was not sorcerer magic, but Omera was gifted in her on way. That was why Din had always been so drawn to her.
Tonight, he was met by an empty hallway as the aide left him to his privacy—no wife to greet him or to walk astride him from a debriefing as they entered the chambers together.
Din limped further in; he looked around—the lamps were lit, the heating was on (Mandalore had cold nights this time of year), and… to his relief, the dinner was set.
No wife, however, graced the table.
Din groaned in relief as he gingerly took a seat at one end of the table. His side burned; he kept his hand there, already shed of glove and vambrace, and waited for the brief rush of agony to subside. He grimaced, closing his eyes. He leaned upon the seat’s headrest awhile, letting the harrowing memories of Keldabe melt away. Paz had offered to clean up; Bo-Katan and Fenn Rau (whose revived Skull Squadron offered air support) remained at the debriefing. It was at Paz’s urging which led Din to return to Omera halfway through the meeting. If she hadn’t shown up from the beginning, she wouldn’t do so for the rest of it—and there was an acute reason for it.
Din’s eyes flew open when he heard footsteps approach. His half-drugged vision focused on the source, and Din sighed; a weight lifted off him when Omera appeared at the other end of the dinner table.
Din stopped short of his greeting. Omera’s eyes were bloodshot as if from a thorough cry. Her beautiful raven-dark hair and clothes were disheveled. She had already shed the armor she ceremoniously wore even as she remained in the Palace as the Mand’alor took to the battlefields.
It was Omera’s grating voice which hit Din like a shard of ice. “Please eat,” she prompted him tonelessly. “Don’t mind me—I have no appetite.”
“Omera—“ Din ventured. Omera sharply turned her head away, avoiding his pleading gaze.
“I’ll sit here,” she said at length, breathing out her statement in a shuddering sob, “I’ll sit here because you’re my husband, and I still respect you…”
“Omera…” Din called to her again. He winced at how his voice sounded so fragmented and weak. He realized how more acquainted he had become with Omera’s own suffering, even before she could completely relay her side of things.
“… and because I love you, Din, after everything—everything we’ve gone through!” Omera unleashed the words. Her voice cracked. “Especially after this… this… call I had to make.”
A call, in this context, was a tactical decision a commanding officer had to make amidst the odds, and in some cases—because of it.
Din was silent as he let Omera pour her enraged heart out. She shook as she spoke, visibly fighting for vestiges of self-control. Din knew this, because she could be recovering from shock. Din felt guilt wash over him, because he also knew how proud he was of his wife’s mandokar, but sadly, at her expense. Omera had carried out a decision too difficult even for a battle-born Mandalorian to execute. The responsibility behind it was crushing should things fall awry.
Weeks beforehand, the Keldabe campaign fell into a string of countless briefings, once they had gotten word that Imperial Remnant forces were amassing an offensive to retake the old capital. Omera was present in all those meetings when they reviewed the plans over and over again… she’d joked once, when spirits were relatively high: “I’ve heard these operatives so many times, I can recite them by rote in my sleep!” She had laughed then—uneasy laughter, but Maker, his wife still smiled, wide enough so her lovely dimples showed. The radiance still lingered in her eyes.
Now, those eyes were dull, avoidant, and awash with the shackling fear of a loss which could have been, had the call she made not ended up being the staggering success it had become, to their great unfathomable fortune.
“Danger close,” Omera spat, as if drilling into Din his own awareness of the weight Omera needed to bear, of the gamble she was doing before she even realized it. “In a fatal distance from your position! Had I caught the report earlier, I wouldn’t have made the call to set an entire fire mission meant for the Imps practically right above your heads!”
Din leaned further into the headrest, studying his distraught wife. He felt disembodied as he witnessed her grief, and yet with the bond they shared between them, they both knew that Omera was duty-bound to make the call herself. There was no way out of it save for dereliction, and with it the capacity to undermine her husband’s trust.
Omera had risked an entire company when an airstrike targeted coordinates dangerously proximate to friendly troops in order to eliminate enemy forces—hence the term, danger close. “The message got to me too late!” her tirade went on. “I’ve only been informed of your situation right after I green-lit the fire mission… all I heard before the comms went down was, ‘the enemy’s in position, we got them where we need them to be!’ Comms were completely dead for a full ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life, and I know—I know the engineers have worked hard to get the comms back up, but… you told me, the enemy was in position. It was now or never, or retaking Keldabe would drain more of our resources; it could be lost to us for a long time. What I’ve not known until the last minute, when I had to give the order because you can’t, and because the comms were down—was that your own position hadn’t changed! You were pinned in place, and hadn’t relocated to a safe distance where artillery wouldn’t blow you all to bits! Oh Maker—Maker, Din!”
Omera growled and stuttered; she quivered as her voice grew louder with every portion of her tale, until she was as good as hysterical.
That was enough for Din to ignore his wounded state as he got up from his end of the table to limp his way to her—but Omera flinched. Din’s heart fell. Omera had deliberately shifted her own seat away from his reach, and Din was only clutching air mere inches atop her trembling frame. He could almost feel the heat of her turmoil emanate from her body.
Din couldn’t speak. He couldn’t find the words, or express all of them at once—he was sorry, and yet pride overtook him, knowing his wife did what she had to do even as it went against the grain she had been raised in, among the peaceful krill ponds of Sorgan and only the annual harvest to preoccupy their minds until the Klatooinian raids happened. He knew that she knew that none of this was his fault, and he wasn’t faulting her either, but logic dissolved where emotions ran high and rampant.
This could be a long night.
“What would happen if the fire mission failed despite danger close? You knew your position, you knew the enemy’s position, you knew mine—and that was to command Captain Fenn Rau and his squadron to fire on coordinates so close to you! And even Captain Rau had hesitated… but an order was an order. Tons of firepower a small distance from where you were crouched behind nonexistent cover, just so you could wipe the enemy out… I was going to kill my own husband—look at me, Din! (and yet her eyes remained averted)… Am I Omera, widowed again, but this time, by her own hand…?”
There, she said it; she told him what was tearing her asunder from the inside.
Omera was a fragile leaf in a gale as she strung racing emotions into thoughts, and thoughts into words as best as she could. Fresh tears and mirthless laughter wove through Omera’s feat at coherence. Din sensed that she’d finally reach the peak of her dark despondency, and the white flames of her anger were whittling to embers. Soon, he could touch her again without resistance.
Din understood, and it hurt him deeply, yet he found Omera blameless. It was he who had kept himself and his forces in harm’s way, but the willingness to sacrifice oneself for a greater good had always been the forefront of their arsenal. From the entirely challenging first year of his marriage to Omera, Din had learned how to decipher his wife—the outbursts, the occasional moments of silent treatment, the sobs of relief when he would return to her in one piece. She would then kiss and hold him as she had when he’d first offered his heart to her.
He deciphered Omera’s grating, terrible confusion—how silly she must feel with these arguments, knowing well what she had gotten herself into when she married him, and when he made her his Queen and co-ruler over Mandalore and its neighboring worlds. She had made that pact with him, of bringing the Mando’ade together, of leading them together, and even leading them when they were physically apart. And the Mando’ade embraced the arrangement in turn, fully accepting her as their Queen, whom the Mand’alor had chosen to spend the rest of his life with whether on the throne or when that time had run its course.
Inching closer, he engulfed her in a tender, tenuous embrace. Omera was too vulnerable right now, after hitting a new level of reality. She knew as well as himself that Mandalore and its people came first, as long as Din remained their anointed leader, as long as he kept wielding the Darksaber and no one had challenged him—and his rule—for it.
If it meant losing the one she loved the most so that Mandalore continued to rise, so be it. It may sound cruel and counterproductive, as a leader usually fell with their kingdom, but not for Din Djarin. He had already planned two steps ahead for the loved ones he would leave behind, should his life end prematurely.
Omera was folded up on the chair, racked in quiet sobs.
“Omera,” Din rasped out; it was taking his remaining strength to console her. He hadn’t slept and eaten well in days… but he needed to see to his wife’s welfare, after this awful trial by fire he had inadvertently put her through. “Y-you have to forgive me…”
His wife ceased her weeping; as if something snapped within her, she turned to him. Her eyes brimmed with fleeting concern. “Din, your voice—It’s scratched… Are you ill?”
Din smiled. With all his heart, he wanted to kiss Omera then and there. All her training, and yet the innocence borne out of her worry for him stood out to him like a flare in the dark.
“I’ve been… screaming for all of ten minutes,” Din explained fondly, almost jokingly. “No comms, and I couldn’t get anything past a certain distance. I was yelling orders out manually. Thankfully, they all got passed down the ranks. We pulled through. Voice still got busted, though.” He had shed his helmet already beforehand; his gaze was full on her when Omera had tried to read his eyes, the shape of light in them, the shadows and this own unspoken words.
“You’re hurt,” Omera remarked needlessly. Her expression had softened for a moment—then, to Din’s dismay, it grew distant once more.
There was a long silence again. This time, Din felt it sink well into his gut, into his system.
“Please eat,” Omera urged him one last time before she set herself to rights—dried her tears and smoothed her tunic down before she carefully rose from her seat.
“See you in the morning, Din,” she whispered, resuming her cold treatment of him, but only after her beautiful almond eyes gently gave him a once-over—her lips parted. She thought twice and said nothing more.
She left him at the table alone; she had gone to their sleeping chambers as Din heard the door swish open and close in the wake of her fading footfalls.
***
Omera was startled awake by a chill in her bones.
She opened her eyes, and out of habit, she faced the side of the bed where Din should be—had he slept beside her that night.
Automatically, and in a sudden surge of loneliness, a palm reached out to smooth the empty space where her husband should be in his usual fitful, but much needed repose.
The chill came from a half-empty bed. While there were times when Din would stay up so late in meetings or matters that needed his attention, long enough to leave his side of the bed bare before dawn, he would always return as often as he could. The bed would dent where Din’s weight pushed it down, and Omera would wake the exact moment her husband laid next to her. In a silent treaty, their foreheads met as they both returned to slumber. In a few hours, they would be up again, despite the limited hours Din had to recuperate to face another day as sole ruler.
In the past months since reclaiming Sundari, Din had been like water through a sieve—and she was the sieve. He was there yet not fully present. He was elusive even when he kissed her, but it had become dispassionate overtime.
Omera sighed. The pillow was still wet whereupon she had cried herself to sleep that night. She didn’t need to check the chrono to reckon that it only past two in the morning. Mandalore had nineteen-hour days, lesser than most worlds and planets, but still falling in accordance to standard. Maybe, Omera thought, that was why she had felt that days flew by so quickly, and the nights were over in the blink of an eye.
She eyed the empty side of Din’s bed. Her lips quivered.
She bit back the urge to loath herself.
She had been horrible to Din at the dinner table. And Din, her sweet, noble, pure-hearted husband—he was simply there for her as he took all her scathing words in. She couldn’t even remember half of what she said, the burning statements she snarled out at him; she could only remember with embarrassment the blazing anger and confusion and helplessness she had meant to reel in, but ended in taking it all out on Din.
Now, in this moment of clarity hitting her like a slap, now that she knew that she may have hurt Din irrevocably and her heart had begun to hurt in turn—she recognized the rage which grew out of frustration over the situation rather than the people behind it. She had no way of channeling all the emotions that threatened to drown her in a misery she would have trouble delivering herself from. And there was Din: his kind eyes, his beautiful face, his serene disposition despite being almost taken from her by her need to momentarily command air support and artillery while comms were still running smoothly in the Palace. He was her shock absorber. And he was there for her every step of the way. And—gods, Omera felt nauseatingly dreadful.
She was being petulant while her husband sat there, injured, patiently listening, waiting for a window to push forward and comfort her.
Where did Din get all this self-mastery? How has being Mand’alor changed him in such an immense way, that Din the bounty hunter, Din the hunted—now held authority not only over the Mando’ade, but over his own once-turbulent soul?
Did he have any idea of the repercussions should the fire mission wipe them out with the targets? Omera knew Din had already been updating his will and testament. It was customary, Din had told her, of Mandalorian kings and queens. She shouldn’t worry about him departing this life too soon, and yet—he almost had. At least, she had thought bitterly, it would be a coveted warrior’s death.
Din’s hurt, was all her mind pondered afterwards as Omera rose from the bed, dressed herself in a robe and tied her hair up. Din was hurt, and he’s not in bed. She had to go to him, wherever he was. He should still be in the Palace. There was no way Din was still testing the limits of his mandokar after a week in a war zone.
Her steps moving out of their sleeping chambers felt like lead. Perhaps it was the guilt, the shame over last night’s hysterics which kept her from walking with her shoulders back and head up.
The Palace seemed empty. Where were the other Mandalorians? After the Purge, there was so little of them left. Yet she had joined them, a new Mandalorian in their fold. She wasn’t Mandalorian-born, but wed to one, and through that custom, how quickly shall Mandalore rise again and be repopulated with new spouses and children?
Five steps, seven steps, nine…
She wove aimlessly down the empty halls where her footfalls echoed.
She didn’t know when her steps finally halted, but when she lifted her eyes to determine where her feet led her, she saw it was the door to one of the officers’ meeting rooms.
She was surprised, however, when the door swished open—and out came Paz Vizsla, helmet perpetually on, but through his posture was visibly tired. She heard him sigh through the modulator, laced with heavy fatigue.
“Paz…” Omera called, and the heavy infantry warrior looked up to acknowledge her.
“Omera,” he answered back, his voice muted yet affable. He nodded his visored head. “It’s late. Should you not be in bed, my lady?”
Omera blushed. She could never get used to those titles, no matter how the likes of Bo-Katan herself, once so opposed to Din’s claim to the Darksaber, had convinced her that my lady was a noble title—and Omera was worthy of it. Bo-Katan had been very sincere, and very contrite.
Omera didn’t know what to reply. Her thoughts evaporated like steam.
Paz, to his credit, was no less understanding. He had been a stalwart friend to Din despite a history of scuffles and brief resentment over Din’s transgression of breaking the Creed. Paz had since forgiven him and took his place as a trusted comrade and brother-in-arms to Din in the battlefield. It was then no surprise to Omera when Paz offered, without her saying anything, “Din’s in there, my lady.” The large man motioned to the meeting room he’d just stepped out from. His deep baritone was gentle. “I bid you good night.”
“Good night, Paz,” Omera greeted back as Paz nodded and disappeared down the long hall to his own quarters.
The sight which met Omera had set her heart alight and broken at the same time.
Din was on a chair by the heating vent, shed of armor and only in his flight suit—he had not even changed to clothes fit for longer downtimes. He sat up but his eyes were closed, and that was when Omera realized that Paz had probably caught his brother sleeping, and had decided to drape a huge blanket over the man. It looked almost comical—an oversized blanket over her husband, but it also made Din look so small. So… mortal.
Omera bit back a sob as she made her way to the slumbering warrior.
She couldn’t help but admire his features: both soft and sharp and wonderfully handsome. Din’s self-consciousness over showing his face was long gone. He now treated the helmet as Bo-Katan or Fenn Rau did, like a piece of armor to be worn only when necessity arose, and not as part of a fundamentalist religious pact.
Din’s face in his sleep made him look so serene, but it was the serenity of one confident in their own strength, and reliant on the strength of those around them.
The Mand’alor felt secure in this room where battle plans were hatched, and yet—not secure in his marriage bed, with his wife.
Worry tore through Omera when she noted Din’s slightly labored breathing. There were bruises and minor gashes on his face, but not to an extent where he could be unrecognizable. The cut over his nose had already been bandaged. Omera smelled the faint scent of bacta underneath the huge blanket.
Unable to help herself, she willed her husband to wake with a loving kiss on his cheek, so close to his mouth. How she missed this sort of warmth she could bestow on him, when her heart was full and free of darkness.
Din slowly stirred awake. A breath escaped him, and he blinked. Immediately alerted to a familiar presence, Din turned to face her. Puzzlement filled the sea of brown in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected Omera to be at his side in this hour.
“Omera,” Din acknowledged his wife. The fatigue was palpable in his eyes and bled through the hoarseness of his voice. “I—I need to speak to you…”
“Right now, love?” Omera marveled at how Din could switch at once to a sort of business-like air, with both of them dressed down they were almost bare. Omera felt heat course through her body when Din had drawn his gaze over her entirety before meeting the warm depths of her eyes once more.
“Paz and I talked,” Din began, and he shifted his position so he sat up more fully. Din winced and Omera empathically winced with him as he registered the dull pain shooting through his body. “I… I know you’d want to find some peace again, after a long while.”
Omera’s brows knitted, not quite sure where Din was getting at. “Love—what are you saying?”
Din’s ever-so-gentle gaze kept her in place. His eyes were sad, so sad. Omera swallowed hard.
“He’s agreed to take you back all the way to Sorgan in two days’ time. I’ll have Skywalker and the kids know. I’ll accompany you as far as the blockade before the jump. I—I need to be on Mandalore, but you… Omera, you need to rest. I’m granting you this, and you should grant yourself that, too…”
“Din,” Omera shushed him, and she kissed him again, this time full on the lips but only for an instant. “Din—no, no. I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere…”
Omera felt her beloved’s gloveless fingers trace her cheek, then her jaw with a reverent affection she had missed so much that it ached. “You’re in need of a home now, Omera. Mandalore isn’t home. At least, not yet. Let yourself recover… I know I’ve put you through so much.”
She meant no disrespect at all, but she had chosen to deter her husband’s entreaty from sinking into her thoughts. Din loved her—oh, Omera knew that as much. But at this moment, he was being civil.
It shattered her heart even more, knowing Din was giving her a chance to reconsider their marriage, their eternal pact to each other, and he was bearing her no ill will over it. He would not judge her for it, and he would make sure that the rest of the Mando’ade would not begrudge their Queen her right to decide for herself, out of her own free will.
Omera felt those stubborn tears again. They hadn’t left her entirely since the night before.
She felt great relief when Din accepted her embrace, and with it, a kov’nyn with foreheads pressed so close together, it could almost seem that they read each other’s thoughts. Omera wished that was so. She wanted Din to know.
“I’m staying, my love,” she whispered again, almost pleadingly. “Din—I’m so sorry about last night…”
Din was unrelenting, yet his scratched voice was compassionate. “You had every right to let me know how you felt.”
Omera nodded helplessly. She let her wet cheek grace over Din’s own, now covered in the stubble she had loved to brush her fingers over, when they still had their nights to themselves, when their marriage was raw and young. How everything leveled so quickly; how reality had set in so dizzyingly faster than a free-fall. “I could do better, my love,” she insisted. “I’m learning, still learning. You know that.”
Din had compelled her to meet his gaze without as much as a word.
“Your welfare means so much to me,” Din added, superfluously. “Omera—you can never be happy on Mandalore, not while the war is still upon us.”
Omera had her mind set. She would hold herself accountable to it, once she’s relayed these words to Din.
“I don’t want to be happy all the time,” she told him pointblank, her voice surprisingly calm and resolute. “Of course, happiness is a gift. I’d want to be happy—but not at the expense of us. I was scared out of my wits with that danger close call yesterday. Yes. I was so upset and hysterical. Yes. I wanted to escape that pain for a little while. Yes. But Din—I want to experience every growing pain with you. My love—Sorgan is an old life. I would love to return there, but only if you come with me. But that won’t be after a while but it doesn’t matter. Do what you need to do—and I will always be by your side.”
Din was looking at her incredulously, truly baffled that his queen would rebuff a chance at solace, when she could still afford to do so. With that bafflement came a genuine spark of joy when he smiled—small, but with a vibrancy Omera had not seen on her husband’s face for a long time.
“Now come to bed,” Omera concluded, suppressing a grin that a dimple cratered on her cheek.
“Smooth,” Din joked with a furrowed brow, and Omera laughed—what a freeing thing to do.
Their foreheads met once more, and before Omera knew it, Din was kissing her again with a rekindled passion that sent Omera immediately on fire. To her slight vexation, Din cut the kiss short, only for her to realize that the culprit was his pained grimace, as he pressed a hand to his side.
“Uh-oh,” Omera riposted with her own jesting air. “Looks like someone needs some TLC.”
It didn’t take much for Din’s own dimple to emerge from his stubbly cheek. “Then you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” Omera feigned an aghast tone. “Do you forgive me?”
Din’s airy chuckle sent her heart dancing when he leaned forward to kiss her again. She ran her hands over his curls as he entangled his fingers over the lush length of her locks in familiar playfulness.
“I forgive you,” he muttered in between impassioned kisses.
“Then,” Omera replied, sighing in this tender exchange, as if they were saying their wedding vows again, “I forgive you too, my love.”
Soon, the sun was high on Mandalore, and another day of unmistakable challenges was at hand.
******
Author's Notes:
Mando'a:
*Mand’alor - the sole ruler of the Mandalorian people
*beskar’gam - Mandalorian suit of armor (lit. “iron skin”)
*mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life.
*Mando’ade - the people of Mandalore (lit. “children of Mandalore”)
*kov’nyn - a head-butt; a Keldabe kiss
Wikipedia as a reference is usually frowned upon in the academe, but for fic purposes, here’s the military definition of danger close - “If the forward observer or any friendly troops are within 600 meters of the impact point, to keep themselves safe, the forward observer would declare "danger close" in this last element.”
I was quite intrigued with how something like that could work in a scenario like the one in this fic. I’m not an expert but sometimes writing about Mandalorians, a people well-versed in war, has you doing a bunch of research you don’t normally do. I’m not even entirely sure if I got this right, but I was curious so I went for it. ^^
Thank you for reading!
Summary: Din narrowly survives a surprise challenge for the Darksaber. Not even Grogu can save him on his own.
Setting: Takes place sometime around S3.
Word Count: ~2.2 K
~~Inspired by the Mandomera Week 2022 prompts: Rescue & Vulnerable~~
[[Link to story on AO3]]
——————————–
It was surreal. Dream-like.
He feels cold.
Numb.
Eerily so.
He is gravely injured, but his opponents are far worse.
The kid - this is his only hazy thought as his vision fights against the shadows encroaching at its periphery. Thick, sanguineous fluid replaces air in his lungs. He feels as though he’s drifting despite being firmly level with the ground. He can’t fight the pull.
Faint pressure of something small against his cheek stills him, stopping him from sinking farther.
Yay, the final prompt, I made it, and only a couple of days late! :D
You can read below or on ao3.
************
Din had the strange feeling that everybody was looking at him a little oddly when he landed with Grogu on Sorgan. It wasn’t his face, because the novelty had worn off already. And it wasn’t the boy because there again, people were used to his quirks by now. No, they were staring at him, and Din wondered if they were angry with him for some reason. Sure, he hadn’t visited for a while, more than six months, but this was sadly nothing new.
It made him feel a little uncomfortable, as he was more used to a warm welcome. They weren’t mean to him, and most still nodded their head at him and Grogu or said hello - no, it was just that look in their eye. The one that made him want to apologize immediately, even if he didn’t know what he was apologizing for.
Yet, anyway.
Because when he reached Omera’s hut, he understood immediately what all the looks had been about and what they meant.
“Oh, good, you’re here!” Winta exclaimed. “Mom wants to talk to you,” she added needlessly, as Grogu jumped into her arms, sensing an escape was for the best. The children exited the house and Din felt very much tempted to follow them but knew it wouldn’t be welcomed.
Din takes Omera to one of his most memorable getaway spots, inspired by fond memories with his adoptive Mandalorian father. But once they’ve reached Niamos, Din starts to regret taking his soon-to-be-wife there…
[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, fifth prompt: “Vacation”]
read it here or on AO3 (with author's notes)
Priceless
“Call it a birthday present!” Greef Karga prodded, his face ruddy with elation over Din Djarin’s latest visit to Nevarro. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Din had brought a very lovely lady friend as well.
Din’s voice was flat. “You don’t know my exact birthday.”
Greef cleared his throat, unbothered. “Well, is it today? Is it tomorrow? Was it three weeks ago or will it be three months from now?” He heartily chuckled over his own wisecrack. His beefy hand cordially patted Din so hard on the back, Din sucked in air, tightening his core to keep himself from toppling over. “It doesn’t matter. Call it an advanced or belated birthday gift. I insist! You know I’ll always be your good friend, Mando. And… won’t a good friend be further graced with the honor of an introduction?”
Karga’s grin widened and his eyes softened as Din followed the older man’s gaze, which landed on a resplendent Omera by his side. Din’s heart always did ten riotous backflips whenever he’d land his own gaze on her. Under the Nevarro heat and sky, she was as radiant as ever. Her dark hair was knotted in plaits that cascaded down her back, and her skin the shade of nutmeg was bronzed so beautifully in the fading light of day.
Din sighed. Before he could even make a move to introduce Omera, Greef had excitedly taken him aside, with a polite nod to Omera, and began singing Din his praises, how he’s missed his best bounty hunter “but that was old times,” and how he’s missed “the little green baby with the magic hand thing,” et cetera and so on. Greef was extraordinarily chatty and in very high spirits. Half a standard year had passed since they’ve had their last crime committed on Nevarro, and it hadn’t even been a grave offense. It was a miracle streak unheard of in these parts before.
“Marshall Dune’s been busy,’ exulted the magistrate earlier. “She’s wanting to extend her reach to one of Nevarro’s moons to clean up so I’ve sent her there. Cara’s stationed herself there awhile, and she’ll probably ignore my message of your visit until she’s done. Laser focus and all that good stuff. It’ll take a few days. I’m sure you’d want to preoccupy yourselves in the meantime!”
Thus, Greef Karga had offered an all-expense paid trip to anywhere among the galaxy’s hotspots; there was a ceiling to the amount and distance, of course. Even then, Din had thought it seemed too bloated an offer. While already generous, Greef was making an offer for a trip for two. Magistrate Karga was very indulgent, especially when Din had chosen to visit wearing only light armor… and with a bare face. It was a giant leap of faith and act of trust, so Greef bounced off the walls, basking under the honor the Mandalorian had chosen to bestow on him.
…Which arrived to this moment when Omera—after noting Din’s tongue-tied dilemma, naked face beet-red, and giving Greef a bright, tender smile—stepped forth, extended a hand, and introduced herself. “Omera,” she said in companionable ease, her musical voice like rich, mulled wine, “from Sorgan, magistrate Karga.”
Greef was over the moon. Omera giggled when he’d planted a gentleman’s kiss on her knuckles, and gave her hand a warm, fatherly pat.
Din nearly choked on his own breath when Karga concluded their reunion, and sealed the deal regarding the trip with a: “All right then—I’ll call it an advanced wedding present!”
The magistrate roared out a belly-deep laugh, sending Din further into a silent and red-faced oblivion.
****
Niamos.
It’s been more than twenty years since he’d been to the planet, and that was when he was a young teenager by his adoptive Mandalorian father’s side.
Greef Karga had allowed him time to decide on a destination. Omera wasn’t very well-traveled, and that alone sent Din’s mind into paralysis at the presence of so many options. Din, in stark contrast, was very well-traveled, at least to the outskirts of the Mid Rim and to most of the Outer Rim.
Din was seventeen when his buir had taken him on an exposure trip to Niamos with the Tribe’s permission (not easy to get). It was what his father dubbed a “working vacation.” While Din’s buir scouted the planet for future client prospects who could use the services of skilled warriors for tasks that needed heavily armed manpower, Din only accompanied him when needed, but mostly, Din kept to his own devices. At the end of the trip, however, they had quality time as father and son, just the two of them—and it had been such a wonderful time, a fun interlude from Fighting Corps training, that it had lingered willingly in Din’s mind. To this day, it remained one of his fondest memories with his buir, and with Niamos by association.
Din recalled the tall palm trees that skirted the beaches for miles and miles. It was paradise where only a few wealthy personages made their sojourn. There had been nothing on Niamos then that spelled the lavishness of Canto Bight or the chaotic extravagance of the likes of Coruscant.
The air was fresh and the waves which kissed the shores were clear. There had only been two main hotels miles apart from each other, one of which Din and his father had stayed for a full week. Niamos was only beginning to flourish as a hotspot. The various fauna didn’t shy away from the vacationers; the flora sprung aplenty. Din had even felt so much grass on his toes on his way to the hotel once, when he’d taken off his boots to wade in the ocean water.
There were also mountains far away. A seeming lifetime ago, Din could see their solid outlines from where he’d stood on the beach.
Now, the outlines of those peaks only appeared at a certain time of day, when the smog abated from the worsening traffic.
He and Omera hadn’t set foot on Niamos for an hour, and Din was already miserable.
“It was nowhere like this the last time I’ve come here,” Din muttered, darkly disappointed.
Omera laid a compassionate hand on Din’s arm as they elbowed their way through the thick crowds of tourists milling across the cramped and noisy beaches. There was crass laughter, yelling and tomfoolery, and the blaring of loud, bludgeoning music everywhere.
Din was devastated, tempered to remain in his best behavior while in Omera’s presence. “There’d been no trash by the shoreline,” he grunted low, appalled. “Vendors weren’t even allowed this close to the coast. You can only take food as far as the amphitheater. Hardly any garbage to sweep at the end of the day because people actually knew what they were doing. Spoiled rich kids aside—they actually cared about Niamos…” then he finally sighed, defeated. “…once.”
Omera’s voice was soft and kind when she sought conversation with her beloved. “Wasn’t that during the time of the Empire?”
They had mustered the sacred closeness of being able to confide in matters once so sensitive to the other.
Din shook his head once, crestfallen. “That was before the Empire had fully sequestered it. The wealthy were still able to buy the Imps off, until one day, deals didn’t fall through. Good thing my father and brought me here before things went down. I just—“ He shook his head again, sullen and speechless.
He should have known. The brochure Din had acquired over the HoloNet was rife with false advertising, only showcasing images from when Niamos was still mostly pristine, from how Din had remembered it. He should have known before he sold the idea to Omera.
And dearest Omera… she had agreed whole-heartedly. She seemed so excited; this was a frontier experience for her. But the ugly contrast of the Niamos of his adolescence and the Niamos now, post-Empire, had crushed him. This is what happens, Din thought, when he gives in to sentiment. This was not the same place he and his father had gallivanted on, all those years ago.
He should have known.
“Did you want to go back to the hotel, love?” Omera suggested amiably. Din flinched at how his beloved was taking everything in stride, gathering special pains to cheer him up, when it was he who should be bringing her joy during these moments of supposed solace.
Not when he’d found the courage at last to propose to her.
Here, in Niamos? In this tourist trap that was once a crystal blue paradise?
He swallowed hard.
Din released a breath, letting tension melt away. Omera’s touch was very reassuring, comforting. He draped a hand over her own which was clutching at his arm like the felt-coated claws of a sapphire-blue Niamos seagull.
Din shook his head in response. He’d take this responsibility. Besides, it’d be disrespectful to Greef, who’d probably spent most of his own magistrate’s salary to make sure Din and Omera had a great time. They couldn’t just up and leave, cut the trip short and say that because things on their chosen destination have changed, they’d decided to give up on this gift.
“We’ll try to make the most of it,” Din whispered so close to Omera that their foreheads met, as they strolled past a group of rowdy Rodians in the middle of a toast. “If… if that’s what you want…”
Din could almost see Omera’s sweet dimple crest over her cheek as his beloved spoke. “Yes, my love,” she acquiesced. “I’d want that… as long as it’s with you.”
****
Din couldn’t find the appeal in the blaring casino chambers, or the fun in the light-up dance floor that could conjure up a seizure for the most unsuspecting and sensitive of individuals, or even the small cocktails Omera had picked for them with tiny, glimmering umbrellas, which barely had a kick. It was watered down, bland and cheerless, and it had cost twenty-five credits each.
Omera wanted to use the more well-maintained freshers; she had told Din, reluctantly, that getting into those cleaner facilities had cost her fifteen credits. Din insisted; he only ever wished to make her stay on Niamos comfortable and—by the gods—sanitary. They would have opted to return to the hotel, but the blinking fee sign at the freshers’ had caught Omera by surprise that she had been ambushed to pay by a Mon Calamari custodian before she could head back to Din.
The seventy credit’s worth of sandwiches lacked flavor. The fifty-credit dessert was too cloying; Din sadly left half of it uneaten. His palette had changed greatly over the years after long periods subsisting on ration bars.
When a waiting Toydarian doorkeeper had charged them both to pass through the back alleyway, which led to the less unruly areas of the city proper without having to go around the coast had they exited from where they’d initially come in, Din had had about enough.
“It won’t be long until they’ll start charging for the very air we breath,” he grumbled, frustrated and quite emotionally tired. Not only were they charged every step of the way, they were charged an obscenely expensive amount.
Omera shushed him, soothed him; she laid her plaited head on his arm.
“We’ll head back to Nevarro tomorrow, love,” she suggested, bearing no judgment in her tone. “I’ll tell the good magistrate everything. In fact—“ her smile widened, pearly teeth in full view, and Din was mesmerized. “Greef might even arrange a full refund of our trip, knowing we’ve been deceived by the advertising. He’d probably even issue a rain check for another trip; he seems a man of his word where it counts, love. You’ve also told me many times that he does have powers of persuasion!”
Din sighed again, a bone-deep one. He closed his eyes. He planted a soft kiss on Omera’s head, still leaning towards him in loving proximity borne out of trust.
He didn’t deserve all of Omera’s patience, kindness, fortitude… not while all he did was complain and wail over spilled milk.
Those amazing memories he’s had with his father—that was all they will ever be, not that his buir was long-gone. Niamos wouldn’t suddenly transform magically into the old paradise overnight just to accommodate his whims.
Only memories now… He and his buir racing the entire length of the shoreline in full Mandalorian regalia and with no one batting an eye as their booted feet added real challenge to the run… with him reaching the finish line out of breath and so revitalized, laughing until his sides ached as his father caught up, winded and jokingly growling out obscenities… And that memory of him and his father in the shooting gallery by the vibrantly lit carousel—now since dismantled—hitting each target and winning each prize, their helmets glinting under the bright crimson and spring-green lights; they’d donated the prizes to the waiting line of delighted children behind them.
There was he and his buir locked in their hotel room distracting themselves with a game of Cubikahd as they fleetingly shoved food in their mouths with their helmets left unshed, and they’d also slept with their helmets on. One can never be too sure even within the privacy of a public resort.
But there was one particular memory which Din had held the most dear to his heart.
It couldn’t have been too sullied like the Niamos coastline, which held most of the infrastructure and bulk of activity. The sun was setting and trash piled in the amphitheaters. Din shuddered. He didn’t want to stay along this tarnished shoreline another minute longer. He’d take the gamble. He was ballasted by the solid feel of the tiny felt box buried deep in one of his trouser pockets.
“Omera,” Din offered, voice firm. “I—I’d like to take you somewhere… and cross your fingers that it’s still somehow the way it was since I’ve last seen it.”
Omera giggled. She closed the gap as their foreheads met. “Okay. Lead the way, Din.”
****
The hover-shuttle trip cost a hundred kriffing credits, and to Din’s dismay, the stop was still a mile away from the foot of the mountains—where he had gained the last of his sacrosanct memories with his buir on their final day on Niamos, before Din headed back to Fighting Corps training with Paz Vizsla and the rest.
“Upsy-daisy,” Din urged Omera with a glint in his eye as he bent low enough for her to clamber on his back for a piggy-back ride. “It’s going to be a hell of a walk, Omera, and I wouldn’t want you too tired before we reached the top.”
“Oh, quit that,” Omera chided him, blushing hard. But Din was being too endearing; with some reluctance, Omera gave in. “But just for half a mile. I’d walk through the rest,” was the bargain. Din agreed.
There was no one else around. Tiny roadside lamps were the only source of illumination that snaked from the lone shuttle station to the mountains. It seemed deserted enough… perhaps no one else had the mind to give up the creature comforts of the capital for a grueling hike in the middle of nowhere. This was a part of Niamos Din hoped the damning hand of enterprising civilization hadn’t smitten yet.
The trek to the mountains was made in comfortable silence, with Omera resting her head on Din’s back as he diligently trudged forward. His breathing was unstrained, making Omera further realize how physically fit Din was. She herself was no dainty glass doll, and can withstand hard labor… but Din was indeed something else. He was a tank when it mattered.
Omera buried her face further into the folds of Din’s rough-spun tunic, taking in his woodsy scent. She held him closer; Din’s breathing hitched a little, and she smiled.
As promised, by the half-mile mark, Omera climbed off the piggy-back ride. She made a jest of having Din clamber on her back for a ride this time, and Din had chuckled so hard Omera wished the day wouldn’t end. The sun had already set, in fact. The brilliance of Niamos’ moons filled the expanse; the tall rock formations glowed like upturned icicles under pale moonlight.
“This mountain’s peak is called the Rainbow Shard,” Din began, breaking the silence as they plowed forward the rest of the mile, hand in hand. For Omera, this was more than she could ask for—a great improvement from a Din who would shy away from affection and touch, and now—sans helmet in the duration of the trip, welcoming of her touches and embraces—Omera only marveled at his tremendous transformation. Patiently, she listened on. How she loved her noble-hearted Mandalorian.
“My father had egged me on to race him to the top. It’s actually not a tricky hike, but it had its obstacles. He made sure I used a good amount of grappling cord before I barely beat him to the Rainbow Shard. I’ve won by six seconds.” The fondness in Din’s smooth baritone was like a calming song. Omera dared not break the spell. Din chuckled. “To this day, I still believe he let me win.”
“Why is it called the Rainbow Shard?” Omera inquired, genuinely curious and reverential to Din’s treasured memory.
There was a smile in Din’s voice. His head was bent low. “You’ll see.”
“Din,” Omera said at length, “you’re not making me piggy-back on you again while we get to the Shard…”
Din fought off a playful pinch on his side from Omera’s vengeful fingers when he’d responded with a, “…then we’d never get there.”
But they did reach the peak, with Omera holding Din close again in piggy-back as he tirelessly hiked up the mountain path which led to the Rainbow Shard.
He set her down, and she climbed off; there was no sound but the soft whistling winds. Even at the top, the climate was mild. There was a traceable chill in the air.
“Niamos has moons that reach their dark cycles every five years’ time,” Din explained. “And we’ve made it just in time before another dark cycle begins. When my father and I visited, the moons had just gone through their dark cycle, making way to full moonlight in turn, for a few years. It was a timely trip, and I’m pretty sure my dad scheduled it that way so I can have a glimpse of the Shard in its glory—“
As if on cue, the moons reached a majestic summit so that a huge rush of brilliance filled the place—and then, the glimmering sandstone in the rock beds began to reflect the light, and in the process, broke light apart into a thousand spectrums, and minuscule rainbows shimmered all around them.
“—just as how you see it now,” Din punctuated, and he held back a moment’s desire to preen. He did hit perfect timing, and Omera was agape in ceaseless wonder.
She walked a few paces away from him so that she could absorb everything; she held her hands aloft as if to cradle the thousand glittering rainbow lights. They reflected on her bronze skin, over the silkiness of her hair, and when she looked up at Din—and that took Din’s breath away—those tiny rainbows danced in her eyes, enough to move Din close to tears of joy.
The last time he was ever this emotional was when he’d given up Grogu to the Jedi in the meantime for his schooling, but his son had reunited with him since then. The child and Winta were safely tucked in Sorgan; Din and Omera had time in their hands for each other, even for a little while.
Din stilled his quivering breaths as he reached for the felt box in a trouser pocket as he carefully made his way to Omera. He wanted to commit her enchanting smile to memory as she giggled like a child again, letting the lights play on her open palms.
He had taken the box out of his pocket, and he was moving closer, closer.
Omera continued to be blissfully distracted by the wonders of the Rainbow Shard in full force, under encompassing light of the moons.
“Omera…” Din finally called her attention.
Omera lifted her crystalline-agate eyes so that they met his… and her brows furrowed for a split-second before she discovered that Din was much lower than her eye level—as the man was on the rock, bent on one knee, and was holding up a newly opened jewelry box…
Omera’s head spun. Her world was in a standstill. She held her breath, and her heartbeat pummeled her from within with a wondrous, euphoric force.
Din had posed the question so steadily; he had built his nerves and she had rewarded him with a yes—of course it was a yes!—and suddenly she was sobbing. She flung herself into Din’s arms just as when he had slid the many-faceted bejeweled ring of mixed beskar onto a finger. He had hinted to her months before that Mandalorian wedding rings were forged from pure beskar should they choose to wear them. Many Mandalorian marriages of old had held strong and fast, wedding rings or none. When a Mandalorian had made up their mind on matrimony, it was a lifelong vow, so much like the Resol’nare in deep respect for their chosen spouse.
Omera was still sobbing, chanting her yes’es like a mantra, eyes shut as her tears flowed freely.
Then they hungrily leaned into each other for a lingering kiss, one passionate enough to render them both breathless. It was a slow and relished dance of mouths, noses, and physical maneuvers, hands boldly venturing and exploring in a tangle of sighs and quiet laugher, until Omera was gleefully in tears again. She’d embraced Din once more.
Din held Omera back ever so tightly. He’d almost completely forgotten his horrible experiences earlier over at the Niamos’ capital, where everything had a price, and one thing would cost so much more than the other.
Here, upon the Rainbow Shard, no price can ever be placed on this hallowed moment. He’d pay a billion credits ten times over for it—but thankfully, all Din had to pay was the hover-shuttle back to the capital, so he and his beautiful fiancé can celebrate quietly in their hotel room, and if he can teach Omera some makeshift Cubikahd while savoring dinner in bed—why not?
****
Greef Karga had fallen into a flurry of misty-eyed babbling that for a moment, Cara thought he’d instantaneously burst out in huge tears as soon as Omera showed him the engagement ring.
True to Omera’s word, she and Din did return to Nevarro the next day, and sincerely relayed their not-so-grand experiences on Niamos to the good magistrate. Greef had been graciously dismissive over the affair; so once more, Omera had been right—he had been issued a partial refund, at least, but that was better than nothing. Greef made a swift holo-call, and was very terse yet pleasant over the proceedings. Cara admitted she wouldn’t have kept her cool once she’s realized she’d been ripped off by a trip which a brochure boasted was completely worth the time.
In hindsight, although their Niamos trip was cut short… Omera and Din couldn’t deny that in spite of the setbacks, the trip had indeed been worth their hard-earned time, breaking away from responsibilities of krill farming and child-rearing (among many others) for a precious instant.
“Congratulations!” Cara beamed, and she’d gathered both of them in a crushing hug (much to Din’s chagrin). “So… are we having the wedding now, while we have a weeping magistrate at our disposal, you two lovebirds you?”
Din aired out a rather uneasy chuckle. Omera seemed to have understood him completely, so she replied for him with a dimpled giggle.
“Maybe after we’ve saved up a bit more—we mean, not just for the wedding but… for married life in general.”
Cara’s own dimpled smile was aglow. “Of course. Not that I know anything about marriage and all that jazz… but really, what you and our dearest buckethead boy have with each other—it’s surreal. It’s damn priceless!”
I still have one more prompt to go after this (I know, it’s been more than a week!), but I’ve been wanting to try myself at the Teachers AU for a while, so this is my attempt. I hope it’s not too silly and that you enjoy it! :)
You can read below or on ao3.
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“Did you hear the news?” Ahsoka said, out of breath, as she burst into the teachers’ lounge. Omera hid a smile – she didn’t think the first grade teacher had ever managed to arrive to school on time.
“What news?” asked Bo-Katan calmly, as she sipped from a coffee thermos next to her. Despite her composure, Omera knew she’d probably asked for at least 5 shots that morning at her coffee place.
“Cara quit on Friday!”
“What?!” Bo replied, suddenly very alert and interested. “She was the second substitute already! What’s the school district going to do?”
“Are they sending another sub? Who’s going to handle it in the meantime?” Omera sighed, already thinking ahead – she was teaching kindergarten, so it shouldn’t have impacted her directly, but her daughter Winta attended that 5th grade class. Their elementary school was underfunded and the conditions weren’t easy, with many teachers sadly not lasting long, but this was getting ridiculous.
Bo-Katan crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath. Focused. Ready. It was no secret that she’d coveted the spot for a couple of years, as she’d implied many times she was tired of teaching 4th graders.
“I’ll tell you what they should do – ” she started, but was interrupted by Principal Karga entering the room closely followed by their custodian, Peli.
summary: [mandomera week day 7: (alt prompt) modern au]
Din and his nameless baby boy visit a 24-hour diner in Nevarro every night seeking comfort found only in Omera, a pregnant waitress with kindness in her eyes. (modern au with maybe some super ambiguous cyberpunk vibes)
word count: ~12.1k
rating: T (implied violence, injuries, and language)
read it on ao3 or down below :)
-
The 24-hour diner just off the highway in Nevarro smelled like coffee and grease. It was never busy, but especially not in the middle of the night. Mostly, vagrants and college students with nothing better to do would shuffle in and hunker down in one or two of the booths along the windows and order coffee that was always at best mediocre.
That goddamn tin can had a good sense of timing. Omera had grieved for a while, sulking when Winta couldn’t see her, yelling at unruly patrons who deserved it anyway, cursing the Mandalorian for making her fall in love again and then just leaving. She had wished often that she could settle into being mad at him for leaving, but he just had to go and do the noble thing and protect his son. She’d have done the same for Winta in a heartbeat.
So she sat with her sadness and eventually worked through it - she was a big girl after all, not her first rodeo and stars willing not her last. Things were starting to feel normal again.
Then that asshole just showed up unannounced, landing a sleek new ship ten paces out from the village, and he had the audacity to say “Hey”. Months of work on herself, down the drain in an instant.
He must have seen in her gait that there was some annoyance in her as she walked up to him. She could see him tense up and brace for impact, physical and mental. He wasn’t wrong, she thought, there were plans in her head to yell, to punch to give him the silent treatment and just go and pick up Grogu, but as much as she wanted to be angry, her fury was stuck somewhere halfway between the village and his ship.
Bonk.
She practically walked into him, wrapping him in an embrace tight enough to squeeze air from his lungs. For a moment, his arms hovered around her, still ready to deflect a slap to the face, that they both knew he deserved.
A day late with this one, but it’s extra long! Delving again in the NSFW prompts while not making it NSFW at all (sorry about that again). Hope you’re still having fun with this Mandomera week!
You can read below or on ao3.
************
“There’s someone new at the village,” Winta told him brightly just after they’d arrived with Grogu. She’d been the first to greet them, as was her custom, and his little boy immediately jumped into her arms with a happy coo.
“Everybody seems to like him, he’s Stoke’s cousin or something, but I think he’s a bit strange,” the girl carried on as they made their way to the village.
“Strange how?” Din asked, already on his guard. He hadn’t visited for a few months and he’d never liked surprises. It would be just his luck for a dangerous stranger to show up in the peaceful village, though he had to remind himself he’d been that person once, too.
But this was different.
“I don’t know, he’s always extra cheerful,” she said, and Din wondered how cheerful that person had to be for Winta of all people to take offense. That sounded pretty harmless. “And he’s always trying to talk to mom and I think she finds it a bit annoying.”
No, this wasn’t harmless at all, and Din resisted the urge to use the jetpack to get to the village faster.
“What’s his name?” he wondered through gritted teeth.
Note: This one-shot takes place in my A New Creed Universe and was written for Mandomera Week 2022. There are allusions to Din being demi/ace spectrum here which is my personal headcanon.
Warnings for suggestive dialogue and sexual references. This is a very non-explicit, fluffy version of “comm” sex.
Read my Din/Omera backstory here.
Word count: ~1.2k
AO3: NewPath3432
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“Din…” Omera’s voice came through the static of the comm, rousing Din from his stupor.
He was immediately at attention despite the lingering sleep inertia, fearing the worst, scrambling to respond as he fumbled with the communicator. Omera had never commed first.
