I write fanfiction about giant alien robots (Transformers) and space cowboys (Mandalorian). It’s all on Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiCad. Enjoy!
if you're looking for a long plot heavy Mandalorian fic where Din is an immigrant who is given a young baby to keep safe, he's on the run and the original characters female and male are really well written, I can't recommend enough Yaim'la.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This was written before the series revealed Grogu's name. The worldbuilding is chef's kiss.
Love this man and his always a little clumsy jetpackery skills 🥰 It’s just nice seeing him use it effectively but not with the artistry of his melee or shooting skills, which makes sense since he didn’t have a jetpack for a long time - character development without saying a word.
Headcanon: the Living Waters, when superheated and used in a beskar forge, have a mildly hallucinogenic property. Inhaling the fumes unlocks repressed or hidden memories in sentients, allowing these memories to be examined and confronted in a controlled setting. Armorers are aware of this property and limit forge access to the Mando receiving the armor to encourage their meditations upon past traumas - and their ultimate survival of those traumas - as a way to tie them closer to their armor. You survived. You are here to receive new beskar to ensure your further survival. It will protect you from such traumas if you honor it as it deserves.
If a foundling is not available to meditate upon their armor, like Grogu in BoBF, their ward (Din) may forge that bond with the armor instead. Armorers install special filters into their helmets to be able to handle the fumes without being affected, but remove them when forging armor for themselves.
(I just thought they deserved a lil mysticism, as a treat)
Given Din's tendency to experience flashbacks in the forge and the Armorer's assumption that Bo-Katan had hallucinated the mythosaur in a "vision," implying that this kind of thing is common, this totally tracks.
I think it’s interesting how Grogu’s mode of transportation mirrors his growth.
First season he’s in a pram that’s set to automatically follow Mando. Mando closes him in in episode 2 when he keeps climbing out. He seems content to just follow for the most part throughout the season. Going from watching the movie into season 1 again is startling. Grogu is a lot more scared (understandably) but once he gets more comfortable with Mando he starts pushing boundaries and buttons (literally). But he is still very much a baby/toddler.
Second season he also starts in the pram but he closes it on his own, which gets him out of the way of a fight and saves him from the mamacore.
But once that is destroyed Mando carries him around either in his arms or in a bag. Mando usually stoops or kneels to pick him up.
Third season Grogu has complete control over his pram and is able to direct it wherever he wants it to go, which enables him to retrieve Bo when Din gets in trouble. Then he drives the IG unit which gives him a voice (which is interesting because he’s definitely shown trying to speak in a few scenes before this). He has a lot more agency, since he chooses Mando, it makes sense that he has more control over his own actions. He’s no longer just following, he’s learning, helping, protecting, and fighting. He’s found and chosen his place as Din’s son.
In the movie though, he clings to Mando’s back. Which gives him the same sightline as Din and also shows that Mando trusts him enough to know when and to have the ability to get out of the way. He can also jump off and on his back at will (thanks Luke!). I do wonder what prompted them to start traveling like this and whose idea it was.
It feels more equal.
(Not going to lie, I do really miss Din carrying him everywhere, if only for all the cute handholding they used to do.)
The concept of the Mandalorian never showing his face but still performing some softcore Edward Scissorhands landscaping to his facial hair with this pristine little mustache/soul patch combo
I wanted to make a post about the movie because I keep seeing comments about how "empty" of content it is or how simplistic it is, and I read a very good reflection:
I can't say It better! The post isn't mine and it's on Threads, but I needed to share it here! All credit goes to the original user.
It's a light and fun movie, yes, but that doesn't mean it's devoid of meaning. Especially when it deals with the literal remnants of fascism, criminal syndicates, human/creature trafficking... not to mention the references to gladiatorial combat, which were very interesting. We forget that what the film tells us, both about the "villains" and the shortcomings and virtues of the New Republic, are the seeds of what we see in the subsequent films. But no, Mando don't contribute anything to the "Star Wars lore".
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Mandalorian (TV), The Mandalorian and Grogu
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu | Baby Yoda
Additional Tags: Whump, Suffering, Body Horror, Paralysis
Summary:
Din is fully conscious while Grogu cares for him on Nal Hutta.
what floats on a breath (The Mandalorian and Grogu)
Din Djarin knows his last breath draws near, but he is at peace knowing that his son has escaped Nal Hutta. Fortunately for him, he’s wrong. Hurt/comfort, whump, movie spoilers, father-son feels, ~1500 words.
—
Blaster fire and swamp water, boots dragging through the mud, cold sweat slick on his face. Din staggers over a fallen bough, his stolen blaster falling through his nerveless fingers. It’s close now, the last breath he will ever take.
The certainty is somehow a comfort. Death stands tall and proud, a darkness looming in his vision, a shadow he’s long seen stalking through the battlefield. Din squints at the specter and tries to raise a welcoming hand, but it’s getting hard to see. Flares and sparks alight at the edges of his visor. At first he mistakes them for more blaster fire until he realizes his vision is edging into black spots and bright flashes.
He tries to examine the wound again, though it blurs when he attempts to focus. He makes out flesh blistered and bubbled, gray and purple through the rip in his flightsuit. Ah. It won’t be long now.
His head swims. The Twins have lied before. A small and foolish part of him had hoped the venom was merely another lie. Of course, why would they lie when the truth was so much more entertaining? He wishes not for the first time that he could have killed them.
But does that matter now? No, he knows what matters. A fragile, shivering pulse of memory, Grogu’s questioning look, the ship arcing over the treetops. He believed me. He’s gone. Safe.
Din is… at peace.
His mind calms. The battles and blood, the desecration of his helmet and his Creed fall away into distant memory. Is this the poison working? Or it merely the quiet relief of knowing his son will live another day? He thinks he knows.
Din loses his balance, falls into the loam with his breath rattling. It is not the worst place, nor time, to die. The sun is warm and yellow and springtime in the swamp is lush and green and growing. Fallen battle droids lie in a swath behind him. He has slain many enemies, he has saved many innocents, and his foundling walks free.
This is the Way.
The hallowed words comfort him as all darkens, as his breaths grow weak and irregular. His limbs are heavy like the earth, weighted down in beskar once wrested from the mines, and to the world below he and his armor will return.
But he is wrong.
—
Claws ting-tinging, ting-tinging on beskar. A warmth, a softness, a comfort. Something humming, then fading in his chest. A small hand in his.
These things he feels but does not feel, knows but does not know. The galaxy moves beyond him and he feels nothing, feels everything, exists endless and formless. The world floats on a breath and he has none to spare. His lungs strain and wheeze.
Din dreams, he thinks; he wonders.
—
A sound resonates within his ears, waves upon the shore but rougher, ragged, faltering. In, then out. His breath stutters in his chest; he slides beneath the waves weighed down, hands flung out for aid, grasping straining hoping rescued found.
The years stretch on. The days streak past. Suns wheel overhead, starlight dancing on transparisteel. The seasons change and grow and end. He has lost his name but not his vows.
He does what one must. His parents did so once that he might live. The Mandalorians do, song sacred in their throats for the sake of a thousand thousand tomorrows.
So our culture may flourish and our children can feel what it is to play in the sunlight.
The sun of Nal Hutta skips in dappled shadows on his armor, shade and gold-green light in patterns ever shifting through the verdancy of fern and moss and tree. He lies within the dark unknowing.
His helmet shifts, gently lifted. Cool water trickles down his throat. A hand so soft and small, clearly some forgotten dream, brushes against his cheek.
He tries to speak, but all that comes out is another labored breath.
—
Flying lessons. Hands clumsy on the board, the wrong buttons and switches, a steady voice filtered behind him through a helmet. Again. He thinks he gets it now. Feels the ship lurch around him, thrusters firing, liftoff —
Collision. His head knocks back into the seat, his skull vibrating. He’s cross. How did that happen? He thought he had it —
But he messes up again, again, until he sinks back into his seat in defeat, his head sore from where it had hit against the chair.
His ward lays a heavy armored hand on his shoulder. “You got this, kid.” But he’s the one towering over his small charge now, the voice from beneath the helmet his own, and he rests a hand on Grogu’s shoulder and shows him what to do. His son leans against him, and though he can’t quite see where they’re going — everything’s so dark and close, somehow — he’s proud, proud, proud.
—
Bitter ironroot, wild scapes, the sludge of berries that taste of earth.
He draws another breath, rasps for air through the taste in his mouth. Breathes again. Again.
It’s a little easier with every breath.
—
Din cracks open his eyes. It’s hard through the dry crust that’s formed on the lashes. He grimaces, face twisting as if moving it for the first time. Everything is stiff and sore.
Where —?
The voices of Nal Hutta’s swamps croak and chirrup and howl and buzz in the distance.
It comes back to him slowly, the capture, the Hutts, the creature. He closes his eyes again, breathes deep, stretches slightly where he lays. The top of his helmet brushes against hard clay as he stretches his neck, and he sinks back again. His arm feels heavy —
It’s Grogu, curled up against him, both small hands draped over Din’s right gauntlet. For a moment Din listens to his son snoring softly, feels him nestled safely against him, and a joy so fierce it wounds blooms within his chest. For a moment he basks in it, content to feel nothing else.
But how…
He forces his eyes open again. Carefully turns his helmet slightly, left, right, forces himself to lift his neck. He tries to make sense of what he sees. Brown earthen walls, daylight out beyond his feet.
A cave? They’re in a little chamber that fits Grogu beautifully. Din struggles, half-lifts himself up onto his left arm, and his head brushes the ceiling. He glances down, examines the bite on his chest. Or tries to. There’s just the seam of a long-healed scar puckering the skin. No blisters, no swelling, no seeping poison.
”Grogu,” he whispers. The first attempt doesn’t take. His mouth is so dry and his throat is thick with disuse. He tries again, voice as gentle as he can make it. “Grogu.”
But his son is fast asleep and Din rolls slightly forward, just enough to see the little pinched lines between Grogu’s brows that show he’s extra wiped out. He looks so much younger this way, like the little one years ago who used to collapse every time he used his powers.
Kid’s dead asleep with exhaustion, and Din is starting to suspect why.
The taste in his mouth.
The long-healed scar.
The little cave sized for a Grogu, not a human.
The joy flaring in his chest, bright and unbearable, shifts into a warm pride that cuts just as keenly.
“You saved me, kid. You… cared for me.” His eyes sting. “You came back for me. Which means… you didn’t listen to me.” He breaks into a hoarse chuckle. “Dank farrik, you’re stubborn.”
Grogu lets out another snore, and Din pulls him closer, carefully reaching over to brush his fingertips over Grogu’s head, the tip of his ear. He lingers, for a moment.
But they can’t be safe here. Not for long. The Hutts will be looking for them, and they’ll have to find a way off this planet themselves. His mind spins the possibilities of a dozen plans and backups, but through it all there’s a blazing determination and the certainty that they’ll get through it somehow. Both of them.
Grogu sleeps on, though. Whatever happened — however long he was out, however long Grogu had to care for him — it can’t have been easy. Din carefully inches his arm free so as not to wake him. The kid yawns and curls up in the clay, resting contentedly. The little lines between his brows smooth out like he’s finally relaxed.
Din’s mouth tucks into a soft smile. “You did good, kid,” he whispers. “Don’t worry. I’ll take it from here.”
A rack of secondhand baby onesies would be so horrendously screamy :(
Construction worker's clothes would be awful, and the safety vests of the people who wave those paddles around on airport runways would be even worse, and I'd have to have some way of getting the alarm clock out of my nightgowns so I could get to sleep.
Ik a lot of people think Rotta is goofy but introducing him is the best thing they could’ve done for Grogu. Before, Grogu’s relationship with Din Djarin as his adoptive father was always going to end in tragedy, because humans simply do not live long. But now Grogu has a friend that has a lifespan that also lasts hundreds of years. When Din Djarin is gone, Grogu will have an older brother figure to watch over him. Yes I have cried thinking about this
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
areudirty
blakekathryn
stormborns
