#mandaddy

[toosicktoocare]

I was googling Din’s name to make sure I was spelling it right, AND

MANDADDY

[ladysartorial]

They may not speak the same language, but they understand one another perfectly...

Even though Din doesn't speak The Child's language, he gets down to his level, listens carefully and interprets what the little one is trying to say.

12/10 good dadding

[macrame-and-eucalyptus]

*gestures to a butterfly* Is this relatable content?

[theboyercannon]

[miss-oscurita]

@ Moff Gideon I honestly think it’s for the best if you just give the man his son. Immediately.

[state-of-franklin]

Baby Yoda is really just gonna be Yoda’a motherfuckin grandson or some shit ain’t he

[toosicktoocare]

not to totally ignore what you just asked for but is there any possibility we could have some mandalorian sickfic 👀 if not no worries of course! hope you're well :)

I’m a little late to this ask, buuuuuuut:

7,200 seconds. It’s been 7,200 seconds since Din passed the kid over to the...Jedi, and his nerves are frayed around the edges. His mind is a hot, chunky gear of stuttering ‘what ifs’ that he can’t shake. He’s reduced to pacing the small length of floor behind the controls, helmet familairly replaced over his head to hide the very unfamilair aching burn behind his eyes. 

“Settle yourself.” 

Din’s feet stumble to a stop, and he whips around, squinting at the back of Boba’s head. 

“I can’t.” He clears his throat, watching as Boba’s shoulders rise and fall with a low sigh. 

“This was what you’ve set out to do. Was it not? Deliver the child to a Jedi.”

Din’s face where Grogu touched, his bare skin, still tingles, warm, odd, and weirdly comforting. “It was.” He raises his hand up to his helmet, fingers ghosting above it. 

“Then settle yourself.” 

“I can’t.” 

Vulnerable admission feels like dry drowning. Din knows he’s not submerged in water, and yet, his lungs are struggling against a dense weight, and his heart is sinking. He grips the back of a seat to keep his hands from visibly shaking. 

“When have you last slept?”

Din rips his gaze from the floor to see Boba standing beside him, helmet abandoned on an empty seat, and face a portrait of passive emotions. 

“Why does that matter?” Din growls, fingers tightening around the back of the seat. “The kid’s gone, and...” Nothing else matters, he thinks. His drive’s been handed over to someone more suited, and he feels simultaneously too heavy yet alarmingly empty. 

“Your armor is cracking.”

Scoffing, Din brings a hand to his chest plate. “The dark troopers-”

“Not that armor.” 

Din’s breath catches in his throat, a small, tight, gasping inhale that trembles against his lungs, and he stumbles around the chair until he flops down onto it, bracing his elbows against his knees and thumbing the bottom edge of his helmet. 

“My purpose-”

“-Is ever evolving,” Boba finishes, taking the seat beside Din. “Is that not the way?” 

Din sighs, a low exhale that’s been building and swelling in his chest since he first laid eyes on the Jedi. The breath hurts, and he winces, hand moving to his chest place. 

“You are unwell.” 

Din leans back in the chair and drags a low, tired gaze toward Boba. “I just need some rest.” 

“We’ll fly on auto for a few hours. I’ll tell the others to leave you be up here.” 

Din’s silently thankful, feeling more at ease at the helm of a ship, and he slips his helmet off, aware that Boba’s quietly observing his every move but too drained to verbally adress it. 

He keeps his half-lidded eyes cast forward when Boba brushes cold fingers against his cheek, but he can’t supress the small shiver that shoots up his spine, stopping just shy of his too-warm neck. 

“Sleep. I’ll be back in a few hours to check that fever.” 

Din waits until Boba leaves to give into his body’s muted screams of illness and exhaustion. He coughs weakly into his fist, closing with a low groan that grates against his throat like glass. 

He’s not one to ignore his health and well-being, fully understanding the importance a steady, clear mind brings to a mission, but... His eyes fall to a control lever with a small, round ball screwed on the top. 

This time, he thinks, it was worth it. 

[toosicktoocare]

so I Loved that ficlet with grogu calling friends when mando is sic and passed out, and immediately I imagined the same thing but What If,,, Grogu just, freaking, force calls Luke, and Luke recuses them? Idk just fun to think about great prompt and great work!

I’m going to twist this prompt just a little, but hi, yes, I love it a lot! Just let me have Luke and Din interactions, okay? 

Alone. 

It’s familiar and was once quietly normal, but now it’s cold and hollow, and Din’s starting to wonder if there’s still a man underneath his armor, of if he’s broken down to an empty husk. 

He could have stayed with Cara and Greef; he could have travelled with Boba, but, in a desperate attempt to find any semblance of dated normalcy, he left on his own. His task, one he willingly gave to himself, was fulfilled. He delivered Grogu over to a Jedi, and now, he’s grasping frayed strings to get back to his life before the child. 

He throws himself into work, stalking off on his own to fetch bounties for coin that once would brought a smile coated in saisfaction to his lips, but he can’t find the same enegry now. However, he still does it because he feels that’s what he’s supposed to do, but he can’t recapture his rhythm. And, without the Crest, he’s taken to hitching rides and travelling by foot. 

Everything’s taking longer without consistent transportation, leaving him with more time in his head, guard down. He still keeps his helmet on, still abides by the way of the Mandalore, even though he knows he can no longer shoulder that responsibility as he’s gone against his faith. He doesn’t regret it; though, he tried to at first. 

The days following Grogu’s departure, Din cursed himself endlessly for displaying such uncontrolled vulnerability, but though his mind was always running in a tight, hot circle of shame, at the end of each day, it always died down to a warm glow. Seeing Grogu’s eyes for the first time with his own, not through the lens of his visor, is something he knows he’ll hold so tightly to his heart that it will continuously toe the line of painful. 

It’s almost funny, he thinks, how he once considered his heart as nothing more than a necessary organ, but now he knows just how capable it is of feeling, of directing his entire being. 

He shakes his head, far too gone in his mind, until his surroundings build back into his present vision. He blinks slowly, neck craning up the mountain only a mile’s walk in front of him. He knew his current bounty was close, but...

In front of him is the same mountain he climbed with Grogu. His bounty was east; he should have turned east an hour ago, yet, he’s here, staring down memories square in the face. He knows he should turn around because that would be the right thing to do, the normal thing to do, but he presses forward, walking, climbing, slipping, and more climbing until he’s dropping down beside the dome-shaped stone, winded and faintly light-headed despite his heavy helmet. 

He wraps an arm around his waist, wincing. Because of his fleeting focus, he let last week’s bounty get in a few good hits that his armor should have sustained. Maybe because he was tired, still is, but every kick to the side of his armor, right above his ribs, hurt, his bones practically vibrating under the force. He’s had so much worse, and yet, his entire body is aching. Every inhale feels like a dagger slipping past his rib cage to his lungs, leaving his exhales worn and shaky. 

He slips his helmet off, hoping it will help ease the pressure in his chest, and leaves it on the ground beside him, one hand planted atop it while the other smooths across his plated chest. The air he breathes in slowly is cold, chilling his lungs. He tilts his head back, faintly frowning at the dipping sun that casts the sky in a splash of water colors that’s nothing more to Din than a signal that he needs to move before the light pinks and oranges give way to a merciless black. He’s exposed; he should move, protect himself, secure his bounty. Still, the mere thought of moving enhances the dull throb against his temples. 

Instead of leaving, he sighs around a hollow cough and gives in to the fatigue that’s edging sleep across his mind. 

He wakes what feels like only seconds later to a cold palm brushing his bangs back and cupping his forehead, and in a motion that could rival the quick speed of a blink, he slips his blaster from his belt and digs it into a firm yet clearly unarmored gut. Worried, blue eyes crowd his vision, and he jams the blaster harder into the person before him, hand steady, prepared.

“Din Djarin.”

The voice is passively soft and familiar, and Din frowns, hesitantly pulling his blaster back. “Jedi?” he croaks out, the word breaking under illness when it leaves his lips. He turns to cough, and the same hand, still pressed to his forehead, drops to his shoulder. 

“Easy, Din. You’re running quite the fever.” 

He ignores this, instead bringing blurring eyes back to the Jedi’s, frowning sharply. “Grogu?” The small, cheerful giggle that follows has Din shoving around the Jedi to see Grogu waddling toward him, dark, endless eyes meeting his glassy, drooping ones. 

The relief comes in the form of a sharp gasp that hits the pressure in Din’s chest, leaving him coughing more. He ignores this as well, instead struggling to stand, but then pain bursts white hot against his side, and he staggers, blindly reaching out until he’s clinging to the Jedi’s shoulder, breathing harsh around barking coughs. 

“You’re injured as well.”

Din wants to focus on the fact that the Jedi’s words were nothing short of a statement; he wants to prod his intrusive abilities, but neither holds a candle to what he does instead. He gathers himself with the Jedi’s grounded stance as support, makes it until he’s just before Grogu, and then he drops to his knees. He doesn’t move; he just watches, breath held tight in his lungs, and then Grogu shuffles toward him until his small hands are reaching out into what Din can only assume is a hug.

“Hey, kid.” Din breaks, his eyes stinging behind closed lids, and he hugs Grogu back with such gentle force. He’s shaking with he knows chills he can only pin on his apparent fever, his side’s a raging fire, and his chest is tight enough to suffocate him, and yet, Din feels nothing but light, blissful relief. 

They stay like this for an endless moment, two broken halves slowly stitchng back into some sort of whole, and then the Jedi clears his throat behind him, and Din looks back, frowning. 

“Why are you here?” 

“Grogu’s been very anxious over the last day, and he led me here to you.” 

Din looks back to see Grogu looking up at him, cooing lightly. He nods, and then the Jedi’s helping him to his feet, an arm going around his waist the moment he staggers under the heavy pain. 

“My ship isn’t far. Do you think you can make the walk?” 

Din nods, but only three minutes into their trek down the mountain, he blacks out, going slack against the Jedi, and when he wakes, he’s indoors and lying in a cot. His armor’s gone, leaving him only in his dark pants and long-sleeve, grey shirt. There’s a damp cloth draped over his forehead. It’s warm to the touch, and he yanks it off with a frown. 

“You’re awake.” 

Din sits up sharply, his arm immediately going to wrap around his waist at the tightend pain. 

“Your ribs have been wrapped,” the Jedi starts. “There isn’t much I can do for the fever, I’m afraid. You’ll have to wait it out. Grogu insisted he help with your ribs. They’ll still be quite sore, but the worst of the damage has been mended.” 

Din’s hand softens above his ribs, and very faintly, he can recall waking once in a cold, fevered haze to feel a strong, pulsing warmth spreading over his side. He smiles, small, but then, his frown returns, and his eyes shift to see Grogu sleeping in a small crib of sorts beside the Jedi. He knows how much Grogu’s powers take out of him. 

“Grogu... Is he-” Din starts, words fading as Grogu sits up, blinking slowly around a small coo, his smile widening when his eyes find Din’s. 

“His training is beginning to show,” the Jedi says as he helps Grogu out of the crib and into Din’s lap, where he sighs smally and snuggles his face into Din’s shirt. 

“He’s stronger,” Din finishes, more for himself, but the Jedi nods anyway. 

“He’s progressing quickly.” 

Din’s hand finds Grogu’s back, and he smiles, warm and very real. He wants to stay stuck in this moment forever, he decides- this comfortable feeling of complete rightness. Yet, he can’t hinder Grogu’s training, not after all he’s done to get him here. 

“I should go,” Din mutters to the Jedi once he’s sure Grogu’s fallen back asleep. The words are heavy on his tongue. 

“You should.” 

Din whips a sharp, side gaze to the Jedi, who’s busying himself with a large cloak. 

“However, your wellbeing is an apparent factor in Grogu’s training,” the Jedi starts, draping the cloak around Din’s shaking shoulders. 

Din hadn’t realized he started shaking, but now, with the added fabric bringing warmth, he shivers, and with his free hand, he tugs the cloak tighter around himself, draping some over Grogu. 

“As long as you’re in this condition, I fear Grogu won’t be able to concentrate.”

Din’s brows furrow. “What are you saying?” He coughs lightly, wincing at the pain in his chest. 

“It’s in everyone’s best interest if you stay until you’re well. I’m afraid I don’t have much to treat what appears to be a nasty chest infection quickly, so I think you’ll be confined to bed rest for at least a week.”

“I’m staying here for a week?” Din questions, his hazy mind struggling. 

“I won’t force you, but I think that would be the best,” the Jedi says, “for all of us. Will that be alright for you?” 

Din brings his gaze back down to Grogu curled up in his lap, and he smiles, exhausted and worn but mutely happier than he’s been in weeks. “Yes,” he mutters. “Thank you.”