SUMMARY: While living on the Razor Crest with Din, he finds even your most simple acts to be the complete perfect declarations of his love for you.
Din was always pretty quiet. Before you and Grogu came along, there was never any need for him to voice his thoughts or actions. He would simply just do. Do whatever he thought he needed to, letting the silence seep into every crevice of the Razor Crest, until the inside of the ship itself became naturally soundless. The only sounds echoing off Dinâs helmet came from outside the ship. The engine and the hum of hyperspace.
That was until you came along. If Din gathered anything, it was that you were much more willing to talk and fill his noiseless space with sounds of your own. The idea once annoyed him. But now, rather, he finds himself searching out for the small sounds you made. Whether from your own voice, the blabbers of the child, or the signals of either of your simple, daily actions. The sounds became a comfort. Where he once craved being alone, in his silence, he now craved the reminder that he wasnât. He craved the everyday knowledge that the sounds that came from you or Grogu gave him. They were the sounds that reminded him that you were near. Although, he would never admit this to himself⌠and especially never to you. He told himself he sought out these sounds simply to ensure neither you nor the child were getting into trouble. But every great once in a while, he found his mind trailing down a path he often labored so hard to keep it from.
...............................................
He wasnât sure precisely when it started. But he became familiar with the tug he felt when his heart pulled his ears and his mind towards the sound of your existence. The very first time he noticed it, was a night that Din sat, resting in his pilotâs chair of the Crest, staring out at the quickly fading streams of light that were tied to hyperspace. The lights had blown on the Crest, earlier that day, leaving the ship pretty dark and hallow. Din had mumbled out, alerting you that he would find the right repairs on Nevarro when you landed. For now, you and Grogu had spent most of the day searching the ship for any source of light. You kept Grogu latched to your hip, so not to lose the small green baby. He had a streak of curiosity, and you knew the moment you let him out of your sight, it would be a riot finding him once more. So there he sat, attached to your hip, as you distracted him, turning your search into a small scavenger hunt for the doe-eyed baby. Din had heard the muffled sounds of you opening doors and cabinets from the cockpit all day. He had sworn to himself that your mission was going to be fruitless, considering he had never found any reason for flashlights or candles since his helmet provided all of the visibility he needed. That was until he heard the shuffling stop and the creak of the ladder to the cockpit start.
He didnât turn to look at you when your footsteps stopped next to his chair. Instead, he knew that if you had something you needed from him, you would undoubtedly voice your concerns aloud. But you stepped in front of the line of view, next to his chair, the child on your hip, and a small lantern with a tiny flame in it, held in your other hand. This did catch his attention. He was surprised that your search had been successful, but he was even more surprised that he did not recognize the small lantern or the candle within it at all. He figured he mustâve plucked it off of a random bounty years ago, when disarming them before flushing them through the cryofreezer. He watched as you gently placed the lantern next to him on the dashboard, ensuring the lid was on safely, once more. He bit back a small smile under his helmet, recognizing your anxious tendencies as you ensured the flame would stay within the small lantern under any circumstances. Once it was settled in front of him, you took the child and moved to your passengerâs chair, placing Grogu happily on your lap, as your arms wrapped around him. Once you were seated, you simply turned your chair towards Dinâs as you routinely did, with a soft smile gracing your face as you studied his T-shaped visor. He watched the flame dancing being the tiny glass shields with curiosity, his attention breaking from it when you started.
âI know you have your helmet, but I thought we could share it anywayâŚâ
He turned to look at you, taking in the sight of you and the baby bouncing on your lap. Your gaze held his, the soft smile lingering. Once you felt his eyes on you, you felt all confidence drain from your body, your eyes faltering to the side, studying the carved, plated glass that held the small flame. He tilted his head slightly. You hadnât always done that. In fact, you had been so bold, so outgoing when he met you. It wasnât until recently that your gaze would falter after meeting his. And it was more often than not. He began to wonder if he made you uncomfortable. He knew you werenât scared of him, although he thought you likely should be. Or perhaps you truly just were so entranced by the beauty of the small trinket, that your gaze had been true and purposeful, though, deep down, he knew you better than that. So his eyes lingered as he contemplated where your possible sudden timidness had originated from. After a second, his eyes shifted back to the candle. And as you three sat in the warm glow, he too let his eyes study the small trinket. Not the glass, nor the candle. But rather, the flame itself.
He let his thoughts take over once more, as the sounds of the crackling whisp filled the air. With you so close to him, under the warm, romantic glow of a single, small fire, he couldnât help but feel his brain take him away to that place that he so desperately kept himself from. He couldnât help but find beauty in the small fire⌠but what truly tore him apart, was that the small fire made him think of you. You were much the same. A small flame, contained like this, lights up his ship, warms the pit just enough to keep them happy. But if he truly let go, let it in, and rid himself of the glass. He was sure he would burn. Consumed in the flames of you, setting him alight, burning his every being. But once he let it burn, should the flame ever go out, he was sure he would never be able to live without it again. Cold, dark, alone once more, the remnants of everything he once had, lost to the fire, obliterated⌠So, he would have to keep it small, confined in its beautiful cage. He would have to ensure he had just enough of the light and the warmth to not be alone, but not so much that he risks it all.
But then his thoughts shifted. Did you look at the flame and think of him too? He thought heâd prefer it if he were the flame instead. You would light him, give him your attention, as you did every day you were with him. And then one day, you would leave him, put him out, when you were done. He figured it would save him the pain. It would protect his glass walls so that he would never burn. You would give him a glimpse of a life with you, just enough to enjoy it, and allow him to return to his confinement and solitude. He figured that would be the best case for both of you. He let his mind trail to all of the times that he felt your eyes falter under his in the past weeks. He wondered if you thought this might be the best too. If one day, he might get his wish, and his candle would return the hollow of whatever cupboard you found it in, never to be plucked out again.
He pulled himself out of his trance and stole a glance at you from the corner of his visor. You were in a trance of your own, studying the flame in your own way. Your eyes concentrated, and a small, gentle, beautiful smile silked to your face. Tiny snores sounded out from where Grogu slept on your now steady lap. He turned back around, trying to push away his own smile he felt creeping up his face, like an unwanted visitor.
...............................................
The next time he recalled his thoughts taking a path towards the heart of you, he had been on a bounty for a few weeks, and he had wanted nothing more than to find his way back to the Crest and Grogu⌠and begrudgingly, most of all, you. But he reminded himself he just longed for the sounds echoing through the ship instead of your actual presence. The thought itself made his betrayed heart push against his chest plate with a vengeance.
He walked up the ramp of the ship, quickly tucking the bounty away in cryofreeze as he always did, away from where you would be, ensuring the safety of you and the child. His heavy, tired footsteps trudged up the small, indoor ramp to the tiny living space where his pace stalled. His breathing hitched once he heard it. It was a sweet song, echoing off the walls of the ship, a pure, melodic voice, tracing over every inch of the room. Heâd know that voice anywhere. And for a moment, he thought he might head straight to the cockpit, avoiding you and your siren song all together. He wasnât sure his walls could withstand the sweetness of your singing. But as if a hypnotized sailor, his footsteps carried him through the doorway, his mind racing with what visual he might find.
And the reality was nothing short of his fantasy. There you were, standing in a beautiful sundress, Grogu on your hip. You were swaying your body as your hair nestled around Groguâs face, that held a toothy smile. The song came soft and sweetly from your honeyed lips, as you nestled the side of your face into the top Groguâs head lovingly. The sight nearly brought Din to his knees. He stood there and let the syrupy sound taint his ears and fog his brain, his mind going to the place he dared not go. That sweet song. How he longed to be the words and the notes flowing from your lips. He felt a pang of envy. They were awarded the taste of you⌠the feel of your lips upon them, and that was something he would never have. If given the chance, he would gladly trade his life for the life of your song. He would trade his long, lonely, broken life, for the short life upon your lips, ending whenever youâd choose, at your mercy of quieting down. It was the sudden silence that pulled him from his mind, clearing his throat slightly, pulling himself back down to reality.
You stood in front of him with wide eyes, Grogu still on your hip, your movements frozen, as you breathed for a beat and that familiar gentle smile lifted those same lips he had longed to inhabit. He could hear the sound of your small exhale, your face flushing pink at having been caught.
âYouâre back,â you murmured through your smile.
He just nodded his head, swallowing thickly, trying to remind himself that he cannot afford to let his mind linger on you the way it so terribly wants to.
âYeah,â was all he was able to mutter out.
He couldnât stop the warmth he felt when he saw your smile grow bigger.
...............................................
Din was scheduled to abandon the hearth of his home for a bounty on the cold, torturous climate of Carlac. He worried about leaving you and The Child, frightened that his absence would leave you vulnerable and weak to the frigid air around you. He knew, sensibly, the ship was heated, and you would be safe, but he could not stop his wandering mind from fearing all of the fatal possibilities. What if the shipâs heat broke while he was gone? What would he come back to? His two great loves frozen in peril, his own heart freezing once again with their deprivation. No. He wouldnât let that happen. When you next saw him, he was digging frantically through his collection of unwanted things for anything that could keep you warm, should any impending dangerous circumstances occur in his leave. He plucked a large sweater that looked like it once belonged to a creature the size of a Bantha, and a woolen blanket, just as big. You stood, giggling at him. And thatâs when his ears were hit with your sweet melodic sound.
âWeâll be fine, Din.â
He practically grunted. You were too naive. How could you be so sure? No. He wouldnât take any chance. He couldnât afford any chances.
âYou donât know that. Carlac is a dangerous place⌠Here, take these. I want you to wear it. No questions asked. The blanket is for the baby.â
He handed you the large sweater and blanket, your warm fingers brushing his gloved ones, the contrast making him shiver. Your sweet gentle hands that tended to The Child, daily. They ensured life and prosperity. His gloved hands prepped to deliver death and violence, ready to end the same things you nurtured. He watched as you took the objects, knowing better than to argue with him, sensing it would be futile. You lifted the sweater over your head, without even placing The Child down. Simply shifting Grogu in your arms, Din watched the sweater linger over your fingertips, falling tranquilly over your knees. The whole sight was much too domestic for his heart, watching as you wrapped the baby in his own blanket. Din scanned the sweater with a hum of approval. It would be suitable enough to sustain your warmth. To protect his heartâs very owner. And once again, he found himself longing to take the place of the sweater. Wishing to stay on the ship with you, to hold you, to be the one to provide you warmth and shelter, protection. He wanted to swaddle you in love and fortification forever. And although he knew, in reality, he must abandon the ship and leave you to the confines of your knitted pattern, he found himself internally promising to be your sweater, the moment your little clan left Carlac. He would surround you, guard you, always.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by a pink tinge on your cheeks. Why were you blushing? Had he been staring? He was thanking his Maker that his helmet was forever glued to his face so you would have no way to guarantee. Perhaps the sweater was uncomfortable.
âAre you alright?â he worried.
You took a breath, murmuring, âYeah, sorry. Itâs perfect, thank you.â
He just nodded, hesitating. He turned to trudge, leaving awkwardly, bluntly, his thoughts filled with images of you.
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Summary: Valentineâs Day is a holiday you love, for itâs celebration of tenderness and appreciation. It matters very little that you never have a partner to share it with. This Valentineâs Day the Sheriff offers an opportunity, a potential, something you never thought heâd do.Â
Notes: This took me way too long to finish thanks to work, but I hope it was worth the nearly 2 month wait!Â
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Mandoâa Translations:
Baâvodu - Aunt/uncle
Cyarâika - darling/sweetheart (with Paz, iâm using this informally in a way youâd call your friends babe or love as a term of endearment but non-romantic)
Ne shabârudâni - donât fuck with me
Cyare - beloved, loved
Meshâla - beautiful
Caburâika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Dinâs term of endearment for reader after âNever Mess With a School Teacherâ because she is a true guardian of her kids.
Mandokarla - having the âright stuffâ basically being truly mandalorian in spirit.
                            -------------
Valentineâs day was a holiday you actually quite enjoyed. It was a day to celebrate love, whether Eros, romantic love, Agape, unconditional love, Philia, affectionate love, or even Philautia, self-love. For you it had always been a day to celebrate the people in your life and while certainly youâd never had a suitor or a courtship during Valentineâs day, that hadnât mattered so much. You filled your life with love for your family, even if they were now gone, love for your friends, and love for your students. It mattered very little in the end, Valentineâs day was a day for love in all its forms and for you, it was a joy. A joy to teach your students about the day, about the significance, to watch them create cards for their families, and see the red faces and giggling laughter when one of your students braved the walk across the classroom to hand a gift to another. Rather than dwell on what was missing, you chose to focus on all the joy that the day brought.Â
Today was no different, you had gone into your school house the day before. Spent your Sunday afternoon hanging red and pink bunting, crafty paper hearts and cupids. You wanted every holiday for your children to be worthwhile, to feel like a special day and part of that was decoration. The school house looked like a Valentineâs dream and the lessons for the day were to centre around the same theme. You would cover the history of Valentineâs day and St Valentine, work on mathematical problems in a Valentineâs context, create Valentineâs cards and write stories about great romances and read some of the best love poems that great poets had produced.Â
You had even gone with a colour scheme of red and pink for your outfit that day, despite your mother often saying you shouldnât mix the two. Your dress was neatly ironed, almost gaudy in its Valentineâs nature, but fun. Your mother would have no doubt said that the lace and frills, the large puff sleeves, were all a bit much. Much too gaudy for you, a simple school teacher to wear. You wore it anyway because that was how you wanted it. Gaudy, happy, joyful, and overly extravagant for a day teaching. It was flattering, following your silhouette and grazing the ground gently. You had placed little delicate pink flower pins in your hair, surrounding your high updo. You had even rouged your cheeks, something which you rarely did anymore, usually much too busy.Â
Youâre at the schoolhouse door smoothing down your skirts when you see the first of your childrens making their way down the main street. Lunch pails are flying behind them, skirts and ribbons whistling in the wind as they run. You greet each of your children with a bright smile and a âHappy Valentineâs day!â, like clockwork, as part of their routine they hang their coats, scarves and hats on the coat hooks by the door and settle into their seats, pulling out slates, books, pencils and chalk. They begin to chat amongst themselves as they wait for you and the lesson to begin. You had them well trained and so allowed them the time to chat knowing theyâd listen up the moment you called for it.Â
Little Grogu is the last to arrive, running on little legs beside Din who always walks him to school in the morning before beginning his day as Sheriff. The little boy wraps his arms around your legs in greeting before wandering in with a wave to his father. While he can speak and youâve witnessed it more and more, he is generally mute, preferring to use other forms of communication. Youâve noticed this little quirk of his, but donât mind. If he would rather not speak thatâs fine, so long as heâs progressing in his school work then you have little to worry about.Â
âHappy Valentineâs day, Din.â You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ears, a little nervous to wish him a happy Valentineâs Day, oddly enough. All these months of knowing him and he still makes you nervous, not in a bad way. It had gotten worse since that kiss in the school house, the nerves of wanting him but not being sure if that kiss had truly meant more to him causing you to become shy when near him. You feel completely and utterly safe with Din, yet at the same time feel that bubble of excitement and nerves in your stomach, that roiling sensation youâve not felt since you were a child with a crush. You wanted him to see you as more than just Groguâs teacher but as a woman, an unmarried woman, a woman he could potentially see himself with. A future wife. While heâd expressed interest in courting you that day, nothing had happened since whether heâd changed his mind or the busyness of life had taken over, you weren't sure. You had never thought much on the prospect of marriage, despite your motherâs many warnings, you had simply not cared all that much. You had decided to live your life on your terms, as much as possible, but Din...Din was a man you could see yourself marrying.Â
It had grown over the months of knowing him from an objective enjoyment of his features, an acceptance that he was an incredibly handsome man and kind as well, into what you could only describe as longing. The beginnings of something greater, something akin to love. Din was everything you could ever want in a prospective husband, prospective father of your future children. He was handsome, so much so that you were ashamed of the thoughts that on occasion, usually in the quiet of the night, ran through your mind. He was kind and caring, a surprisingly gentle man despite his broad shoulders, large hands, and more violent profession. Ex-bounty hunters werenât known for their softness and yet that was the only way to describe how he treated you and the children. He was gentle in voice, never raising it around you, never shouting or yelling, he chose his words carefully. He was soft in the way that he allowed the children to sit in his lap as he told stories or helped them down from trees when they got stuck. He was kind in that he was always caring for you, whether making sure you were given adult company during the school day or ensuring you ate after a long day without stopping. He was protective, but not overbearing. Kind and soft, but not weak. He would make a wonderful husband, that is something you were utterly sure of and you knew that you were not the only unmarried woman in town whoâd turned their gaze to him.Â
So it made you nervous to wish him a happy Valentineâs day because on a day of love, he was someone you wanted to celebrate and yet found yourself too nervous to do so. It wasnât becoming, it wasnât ladylike to take that first step, that first plunge into the unknown world that was love. Despite that spontaneous and daring kiss you found yourself thinking of your mother and shying away from making another attempt. Your mother, God rest her soul, had always made it a notable detail, a finer point in the plan of your life. You would be approached by a man, not the other way around, and you would ultimately make the decision as to whether you wished to be courted by him with the intent to marry or whether you did not. Despite breaking tradition in the way you taught your children, this was something you didnât have the courage for. Not again. While Din had expressed interest in you all those months back, the time between had seen nothing but his usual friendly behaviour. It made you conscious of your behaviour and the risk of getting hurt. If Din had an interest in you as a potential spouse, a riddur as he told you once, then he would have to make the next move.Â
Now standing before you with one hand behind his back and the other holding his hat by his stomach he looked infinitely more nervous than you expected for simply dropping off Grogu to school. There was a hint of red to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, his deep brown eyes darted around, from the floor to your own, before looking over your shoulder. You hadnât truly seen him like this, this nervousness was unusual for him and you could have sworn heâd combed his hair with some pomade, an attempt to neaten the unruly dark curls that you thought were quite dashing on him.Â
âHappy Valentineâs Day, Miss Y/N,â You frown at the formality, confused as to why he isnât calling you caburâika like he usually does. The formality of calling you miss had dissolved almost the moment you met him and it was strange coming from his lips after so much familiarity between you. He has only ever called you miss when talking to the children about you.
For Din, he has never felt quite as nervous as in this moment. Perhaps itâs the time thatâs elapsed that does it. When he kissed you he meant it, he meant his intent to court you, but his job had become busier over the months after...and in truth, he had doubts about his worth. He was unsure if he was truly enough for you. He felt ungentlemanly, improper, too rough. For months heâd been struggling with whether or not he was good enough for you, he knew you wanted to be courted by him, but was it the right thing for you? After months of soul searching, a healthy dose of want and longing every time he saw you with the children or whenever you smiled at him, heâd decided that it was your choice to make. He wanted to be with you and maybe he wasnât damn good enough, maybe he wasnât the man that should get to be with you, but if you wanted him then he wasnât strong enough or selfless enough to or cold enough to do anything but love you.Â
âI...I have something for you, it ainât much but IâŚwellâŚâ The flush to his cheeks grows deeper, a bright beaming red that screams against his bronzed skin. From behind his back he pulls his arm, hand outstretched towards you. He knows thereâs a subtle shake to his arm, nerves at bearing his heart open, however, subtly, racing through his blood. More adrenaline than heâs felt anywhere but in a gunfight.
There, clutched tight between the fingers of his left hand is a beautifully bound book, green leather cover and gilded words, tucked between the pages you can see an envelope just peeking out at the top. You gently take it from his hands with your left, the meaning of that burned into your memory from lessons with your mother. To give and receive a gift with the left hand is to recognise and accept an active interest in oneself. The weight of it has your heart pounding in your chest, almost violently so against your ribs. You read the cover, âThe Complete Poetical Works of Walt Whitmanâ, the tears gather in your eyes before you have any time or thought to stop them. Thereâs a blind panic that fills Dinâs chest, like the blaring of a shipâs foghorn in his mind, at the sight of tears collecting in your eyes. Thereâs a moment of genuine fear, that heâs somehow messed up, that heâs caused you to become upset.Â
Walt Whitman was the poet you used to read with your father every evening after he finished a long day of work, his works are some of your favourite, some of the most important to you, but youâve never been one to spend money on yourself. You often spend your wage, what little of it you have, on items for the school, books for the children, a globe, an anatomical skeleton. You have a small copy of his works, old and worn, some pages missing. This book means more to you than you think Din knows. Afterall, Walt Whiteman is a well known poet and books are one of the few perfectly acceptable gifts to give to a woman that you are not married or engaged to. It was presumptuous to assume that the gift had any added meaning behind it. Foolish your late mother might have even said in her damning indictment of romance.Â
âHow did you know?â You clutch the book tight to your chest, heart aching with happiness and longing, that this man had given this to you, on Valentineâs of all days. It brings burning heat to your cheeks, a stutter to your heart, a dryness to your mouth. This is a step that you had dreamed, hoped of, that move towards something more. This was confirmation that he meant it all those months back, that he intended to court you and hadnât had a change of heart.Â
âYou...heâs the poet you mention the most when youâre teaching the little ones, caburâikaâ You realise what this is, what this all means. He isnât just a kind sheriff or your friend, heâs an unmarried eligible man showing you that heâs paid attention to you, that heâs interested. Thereâs a shift, a shift from the easy friendship to a new undercurrent of tension at the unspoken understanding between the two of you, at the prospect of courtship that heâs extending towards you. Itâs not a marriage proposal, itâs not marriage, but itâs an offer to begin on the road towards that. It is confirmation that the kiss youâd shared hadnât been a mistake, a whim, something fleeting and insubstantial.
It makes your heart flutter in your chest at the prospect that Din Djarin is putting his foot forward, extending a possibility, an opportunity, a potential future. That out of all the unmarried women in town Din was actively showing interest in you. He could have picked any number of beautiful, intelligent, eligible women to show interest in, to potentially court, but heâd chosen you. The weight is added at the prospect that heâs not just offering you a marriage, but a family, because little Grogu is part of his world, part of his life and you would never want anything less.Â
âThank you, Din...I...Thank you.â You feel a little lost for words, theyâre stuck in your throat, knowing that there are so many things you wish to say but so many things you canât say.
âI should leave you to your teaching, Miss Y/N. IâŚâ Thereâs a pause as he thinks over the words in his mind, and stops himself. Din is a fool for you, that he is certain, but the last thing he wants at that moment is to make a larger fool out of himself. So he places his hat back atop his head and says, âHappy Valentineâs Day.âÂ
You watch as he says a sweet goodbye to Grogu, kneeling briefly on the ground to touch his forehead to the boyâs before reminding him to âbe goodâ for you.
The envelope is a temptation, sticking out from the top of the book, it calls for you to open it in that instant. But, you donât, smiling at Din as he walks down the street towards the sheriffâs office, you turn back to head inside, Grogu walking with you to his seat, ready for you to teach the class. Despite the nagging desire to see what letter, what words lie in that envelope, you place the book atop of your desk and begin your day of teaching. You attempt to put the letter to the back of your mind, to keep the thoughts of being courted by Din at bay so that you can effectively teach, but you know you are distracted.Â
The children are just as unfocused as you, the day goes both fast and slow with dramatics abound. Jonah receives at least 5 love letters, Grogu catches a frog for little Mary-Beth and your entire class takes time to gift you with a drawing by themselves of you and the entire class.Â
Despite a whole class to distract you, you find it hard to teach, your eyes drifting back to your desk. That unassuming little envelope poking out from beneath the pages of a little poetry book that means more to your soul than you can possibly put into any sort of words. You find yourself thinking ahead, of the future, of Din. If he did indeed wish to court you, to go down that path of potential and intended marriage, then he was truly to be part of your future, he and Grogu.Â
There was no doubt in your mind that youâd accept such a proposition, that you wanted him in your future. Din was your friend, something that had taken very little time in truth. From the moment youâd met him and his son, heâd managed easily to worm his way into your affections without even a thought to do so. He was kind, competent, caring. He was good with children. Respected you, your intelligence and your authority in your classroom. While he happily joined you to tell stories to the children he would always defer to you and respect your right to dictate what happened inside your school house. He helped when you needed it, but never jumped so eagerly to help that he took over when you did not need it. While he was certainly quiet, had a temper hidden beneath it all and a danger to him that youâd seen on the few occasions he felt the town or itâs occupants were in danger, he had never made you feel anything but safe and secure. He had proven himself competent the moment he stepped into town, arranging your school house to be built and demanding the respect of every inhabitant. He had done more for you in the months youâd known him than anyone else had done in years.Â
He, in truth, captured your attention unlike any other person youâd ever met. You had always had an abstract desire for love, marriage, a family. But, no one had ever caught your attention, no man had ever been thought of as a potential father to your children or life companion. Din from the start had you take notice, you couldnât quite comprehend the idea that he wanted to potentially marry you of all people.Â
He had his fair share of admirers, in a small town like your own, he was the man that stood out the most and one of the most handsome. He had a lot of eyes on him at all times and you assumed that he knew it, some were less subtle and ladylike than others. You knew heâd received a few propositions, something your mother would have been horrified at, but heâd yet to accept a single offer. To receive one from him, meant that out of all the people lined up outside the sheriffâs office begging for his attention, heâd chosen you. Something which excited you.Â
Itâs on your lunch break, the children running around outside, that you finally have time to pull the envelope from its resting place between pages of inked words and sit with it. When you retrieved it from between pages of poetry, you had found yourself faced with little dried and pressed flowers between the pages of Walt Whitmanâs works. A little additional that made a smile crawl across your lips. Youâre sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, one eye on them, the other on the unassuming letter in your hands. Grogu has come to join you, toddling up the steps on little legs before plonking himself down next to you, leaning his chubby cheek into your arm.Â
âShall we see what your buir has written, mm?â You ask the little boy, he grins up at you at the mention of his father, heâs missing a couple of his baby teeth right at the front and the gap adds to the sheer adorable nature of the boy. You donât know how much he knows, but Grogu has always seemed to know more than he let on, to understand the world around him better than most. There was always an intelligence behind those big eyes that made you think he knew more than either you or Din.Â
The envelope is unassuming, just a cream coloured piece of paper, neat cursive writing along the front spelling out your name. Youâve never seen Dinâs handwriting before and it speaks of someone who received a decent education, hours of being drilled on the correct way to hold a dip pen, how to form each letter. Thereâs a hesitation to the writing that speaks of someone who hasnât had reason to write in a while, a little judder to the letters. You trace a fingertip over your name, how it looks in his hand, black ink stark against cream paper. It looks pretty when heâs writing it, you think.Â
You turn over the envelope and slide a finger underneath the lip of it, careful to open it and not tear the paper in your haste. You glance up briefly at the sound of a yell, seeing that Jerome is fine and just laughing with the others, red in the face from receiving a kiss to the cheek, you turn your gaze to the folded letter that you pull from itâs confines.Â
It takes everything within you to keep your composure as you read the letter. There is a girlish part of you that wishes to giddily squeal, throw the page into the air and run around in circles to express the sudden burst of energy that fills you. Instead, you sit there calmly, fingers and hands shaking as your eyes dart across the page following each line, hungry for the next.Â
Dearest caburâika, Y/N,Â
In truth I do not know how to write this letter to you, but it felt less forward and presumptuous to put my thoughts onto paper than to speak them to you clearly and in the open where the town gossip would get involved. I do not want you to feel forced to return my affections or embarrassed by them. While weâve shared a kiss and iâve expressed my intent towards you in the past, it has always been private, quiet and anything but bold. It has always left room for doubt, uncertainty and movement. You deserve surety.Â
I have never been nor will I ever be a poet or a writer. I am a former bounty hunter, a sheriff, a mandalorian. I was raised to fight, to defend, not to write poetry or put down my thoughts and feelings into prose. I apologise if this letter is less than you dreamed of. If it fails to live up to lofty expectations or childhood dreams.Â
I wish to make it plain and clear to you that I find you to be beautiful. Not just in form, or face, but in soul. You are a protector, a guardian, a caregiver and teacher. From the moment I met you you treated myself and my son with a kindness that I doubt I will ever forget. You have enchanted me in body, soul and mind. When I kissed you in the schoolhouse it was not on a whim, nor was it a false promise. I had and have every intent to court you, to one day marry you. I apologise that I have been distant or allowed room for doubt to grow.
I am eager to see but a glimpse of you in the day, to make you smile or offer you some respite. I am eager to hear your voice even as you talk about topics I have no interest in. I am eager to be in your presence, to see the kindness with which you treat each of your children and the sweetness of your smile, the fierceness of your nature when called upon to protect your class. In the words of Walt Whitman, âyou do not know how longingly I look upon youâ.You are mandokarla, built with the soul of a warrior, the kindness of a mother, and the mind of a teacher. Perhaps my words are too strong or forward, perhaps you do not share my feelings, but I wish to lay my intentions at your feet. I do not wish to presume you return these feelings, perhaps that kiss was a moment of weakness, perhaps your feelings have changed. But I cannot in good conscience go on as we have.Â
I wish to step out with you, I wish to court you for the town to see, to one day marry you. If you ever allowed me such an opportunity I think I might be the luckiest of men, to have you join me in equal partnership as my riddur. To wake each morning to your smile, to raise our children and Grogu with you. To help you at your weakest and stand and watch you at your strongest. I long to build a life with you.Â
I ask, will you allow me the great honour of courting you?
If you do not feel the same then I shall end my pursuit, I shall respect your feelings or lack thereof and we shall be friends, as we have been. But, please, consider my words. I would be blessed if you ever saw me worthy of you, you would not just be an excellent riddur, but a loving buir to Grogu. If I did not feel seriously about you I would not make this offer. But, the choice is yours and I shall respect it no matter what your decisions may be.Â
Yours with love and affection,Â
Din Djarin
The shake to your breath comes from a good dose of shock and giddiness that collide together inside of your chest like two wagons that havenât been watching where they were going. Itâs not a proposal, but it is a proposal at the same time. There is a giddiness that fills you knowing that Din wishes to step out with you, that he wishes to show the town his intention to one day marry you, that he has affection past that of friendship for you. Itâs the giddiness that comes from returned affections, shared interest, you no longer feel as if you are the only one gazing at the other, that your feelings are unrequited. It feels as if all that worry, all that doubt had been for naught, simply a foolish girlish thing to do. How had you ever doubted his intentions towards you?Â
âMiss, itâs time for historyâŚâ Itâs Annie standing in front of you, hands on her hips to remind you that you need to call the children in, that has you hastily folding the letter and pocketing it, picking Grogu up and resting him on your hip as you rise. You, as most teachers, do not have the time to be giddy or dwell on love confessions during the school day.Â
The day drags on in its last moments. Your desire to return home, to write a carefully crafted response, to find some sort of gift in addition, has you counting the seconds, minutes, and hours as they slowly tick by. Your children can tell you are unfocused and they become incredibly distracted as a result, but despite this you canât find it in yourself to be frustrated or irritated, not today of all days when your patience with them has been extended by your supernaturally good mood.Â
When Din collects Grogu at the end of the day you give him your sweetest smile and thank him earnestly for the letter. He isnât sure what it means. Itâs not an outright rejection or acceptance and despite the burning desire in his chest to receive an answer, he knows how to be patient, tipping his hat at you and offering to walk you home as a gentleman does.Â
It isnât unusual for Din to walk you home after the school day ends, even on nights where you stay late at school he often comes back with Grogu to walk you as the dark sets in. He has never been anything but a gentleman when it comes to making sure you get home safe even in a small town where very little happens and you know everyone. Still, youâve always appreciated the gesture and you do now, even if wrapping your arm through his and walking side by side takes on a new tension, a new feeling. Â
Thereâs a little thought in the back of your mind, niggling, that you canât quite get rid of. The thought that this is what your little family could look like if all goes well. That you, with your arm wrapped through Dinâs, hands in the crook of his elbow, and him, with Grogu on his hip, little arms wrapped around his neck, could easily be a future image of a family. Not just the Sheriff, a single father, walking the school teacher home because heâs polite and gentlemanly.Â
âThank you again, for the letter and the poetry book. I...you donât understand how much it all means to me, Din. I...I want to respond properly, take my timeâŚ.I.â The air is cold, as it always is in early February, but your entire body feels warm as you try to explain that youâre not rejecting his offer. You donât want him to doubt for a second that you intend to say yes, but it doesnât feel right to say it. Thereâs a desire to take your time, to write a heartfelt reply, to ensure that the time he took for you, you take in return.Â
âYou ainât gotta tell me right away. Itâs okay to take your time, meshâla.â The reassurance has your shoulders dropping, a sense of relief, the removal of pressure. Any fear you had that Din would grow impatient dissipates and you're reminded once more of how safe you feel with him. Both physically and emotionally. He is a calming, solid presence. There is nothing fickle or finicky about Din and that is a relief when so much of your social world is confusing to navigate.Â
âThank you.â You tell him earnestly, drawing closer to him as you walk. Your side pressed fully into his, hip to hip, arm to arm. You cannot truly comprehend Din Djarin, the many elements that make him a better man than most, but you donât think you have to fully comprehend him to enjoy being around him, to find comfort in him. Perhaps it will take years for you to fully understand who he is, but you like to believe youâll get the time to do so. To learn him just as well as he seems to have learnt you.Â
Your home isnât particularly large. When you first came to town the Mayor had informed you that the post of teacher came with a small lodging. It was small; a separate bedroom off of the main living area, a water closet out in the back garden, enough room in the kitchen and living area for your tub to be placed in front of the fire when you need to wash. It was, however, homey, something Din had admired from the first.Â
You ensured that blankets and pillows, knick knacks and trinkets covered the space. That it felt like a lived space, a place filled with love and warmth.Â
Heâs reluctant to leave you when he reaches the top step to your door. Thereâs a part of him that rarely wants to part from you, that enjoys your company even if itâs silent. You are comforting and familiar, he feels like he can be himself around you. Thereâs an implicit trust between the two of you. He trusts you with his son, he trusts you with his safety and protection, he trusts you with himself and even his heart, something he has protected ever since the death of his parents at the hands of bandits and thieves. He would be happy so long as he is in your presence and it is that fact that makes him certain about his decision to propose courtship, there is no one he would rather spend the rest of his days with. Terrifying, overwhelming, massive, but he can sense how entirely worth it it will be.Â
âGoo-â
âHav-â
The two of you go to say goodnight at the same time, stopping short and laughing under your breath. You tug at the fabric of your skirt and shift, feeling a wave of embarrassment at talking over each other, an odd feeling when neither have done anything to be embarrassed of.Â
Grogu shifts on his fatherâs hip, leaning forward a hand reaching out to wave at you. You begin to smile, waving back at the little boy, your smile only grows wider when the usually mute boy giggles out âGoodnighâ!â at you with a large smile on his face.Â
The boy manages to break the tension with a simple word and smile, once again you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. That this six year old is, perhaps, wise beyond his years.
âGoodnight, Grogu. Goodnight, Din.â
âGoodnight, caburâikaâ There is a pause from Din as if he wishes to say something, before stopping himself, turning and walking down your stairs. You wait there at your door, watching him leave until your eyes can no longer follow his figure as he disappears around a corner and out of sight.Â
Your home feels empty, unusually so, with their presence gone, but you decide to put your energy and longing into a response. The first part is your famous spiced cookies. You know that Mandalorians prize spiced foods highly, a cultural aspect that your teacher Atinâa Caivass had shared with you as a child.Â
The recipe was hers, one thing she gifted you, shared with you, and entrusted to you. So you get to work, mixing together flour, butter, sugar, egg. Adding spices that are one of the little luxuries you deign to spend a little extra on. Theyâre the sort of cookies that have a lovely mixture of sweetness and kick, they hit you in the back of the throat just enough to make your mouth tingle. The coco powder in them balances out the heat nicely,
Once the cookies are on the side cooling you hunt out your letter writing items. You havenât had reason to write a letter since the passing of your parents many years ago. But, you know, in your organised way, where your things are. You collect your writing paper, envelopes, dip pen, ink. You find out your sealing wax, the stamps you havenât used in years. You lay out each item on your kitchen table with care, feel a thrill go through you that you havenât felt in years. You always enjoyed writing letters, taking your time to put thoughts and feelings into words onto paper.Â
You take up your pen, dip the metal nib into black ink and bring the tip to cream, clean, fresh paper and begin to write.Â
Dearest Sheriff Djarin, Din.Â
There are few words in the expanse of the dictionary that could truly describe how I felt upon reading your letter. Ever since the kiss we shared I had worried, doubted. I was scared that perhaps you had changed your mind, decided that I was not worth your time, that I was not of interest anymore. When to me you had only become further ingrained in my dreams and wants. I was scared that I had made a terrible fool of myself.
To know that those feelings are returned, that you can see a life and a future with me means the world, it means everything. Grogu and you have become an inextricable part of my life, a part I would never wish to do without. You and that sweet boy make my soul sing and as Walt Whitman once aptly put âI am to see to it that I do not lose youâ.Â
You enchant me and thrill me to no end and perhaps that is not ladylike to say, perhaps I should write a quick acceptance of your offer and leave it at that, but I feel that such honest and open words should be returned in kind. I adore you.Â
I adore the crinkle in your brow, the blinding smile when you drop your guard. I adore the kind, gentle nature you have around children, the ease with which you cause them to smile and laugh. I adore the respect you have for me, the respect you have for my authority in the classroom. I adore the curls of your hair, the hook of your nose, the patchy beard that grows on your jaw. I find there is very little I do not adore about you, Din Djarin and that is both a terrifying concept and one that I too adore.Â
There was a time I thought little on marriage. I was told I should marry, but what of it? Why would I? You have, for the first time, made me truly desire marriage, a husband, children, a life of pure domesticity and family.Â
To put it plainly, and I hope my feelings are not off putting or too forward, I would be glad, happy, ecstatic to one day call myself your wife and to call you my husband, my riddur.Â
You asked if I would allow you to court me and my answer is yes, a hundred, a thousand times yes. I would love nothing more than to step out with you, to hang on your arm and begin to take steps towards a life together.Â
I wish to make it equally as clear that Grogu matters to me. That I understand that he is part of this, part of you, and that I would never wish for you to part from each other. If you one day saw me as worthy of becoming his mother then I would take that responsibility on with pride and with love. He is a little angel, he captured my heart from the very first day I met him, even with his mischief and I would never wish to part with the two of you or come between your aliit, only to join it. I understand that he is as much your son, your child, as any child born of your own blood.Â
I accept your offer of courtship and I knowingly enter into it, and all that it entails.Â
All my love and affection,
Y/N Y/L/N
You wait for the ink to dry, in the meantime you take some muslin and begin to wrap the cookies carefully in the fabric. The twine you wrap around you knot into a bow. Redoing it multiple times until you're happy with its shape. Thereâs no real need for a knot of twine to be perfect, but you want it to look perfect, to be perfect, for him.Â
The ink of your letter is dry and youâre careful as you go through the motions of folding the pages, slipping them into a crisp envelope and weighing down the lip. Youâre selective in your choice of wax and seal, careful as you melt the wax, pour it and stamp it. Thereâs a quiet calm about it all, sealing your words behind wax and paper. Knowing that the next time theyâre revealed the one person theyâre meant for will be reading them.
You place the times together on the side with care, ready to be collected in the morning as you leave for the school house. You take a few moments to think about when it would be best to deliver them, deciding that as much as it pains you to wait, the evening, after school, is better than the morning. It would simply distract you more, you have little time to do it, and the evening gives you that time to talk, to enjoy the change in your relationship.Â
You go to sleep that night with thoughts of Dinâs smile, the one he gives whenever he tells a story to your class, soft, gentle, filled with contentment. Thoughts of the way his hair curls over his ears and his neck moves as he swallows. Thoughts of how he had come into your little mining town of Navarro and shaken everything up in the best sort of way, put to right all the wrongs, solved problems and brought forth solutions.
When you wake the next morning youâre extra particular about what you choose to wear, how your pins look in your hair and how much rouge is on your cheeks. You know, deep down, that Din could care less about the way your hair is pinned or how much rouge is on your cheeks, but itâs something to occupy your hands and mind in the morning before you get to the school house. Once youâre teaching you know youâll have little time to worry or think about the response you intend to pass on to Din at the Sheriffâs office that evening, but in the meantime you busy yourself with your daily routine.Â
The day seems to drag, your smile and good morning to Din as he drops Grogu off for school is filled with tension and unspoken words. Your lessons seem to take forever to teach and where youâd normally be enthused you find yourself more eager for the day to end than anything else.Â
Paz is the one to come by and collect Grogu at the end of the day. The large man had settled into town as the deputy not a month into Dinâs stint as sheriff. You knew that Paz and Din were close, practically brothers, having grown up together in the covert and that had been the main reason for you warming to him so quickly. Without Dinâs presence you would have likely shied away from Paz. He was large, if youâd thought Din was broad shouldered, then he had nothing on Paz, who was a veritable giant. His size and his resting scowl made him intimidating, but his interactions with the children and women of town showed his character instantly. Like another Mandalorian you knew heâd been gentle and sweet, respectful, despite his size and intimidating demeanor. You liked Paz, even if he seemed to enjoy embarrassing you around his brother.Â
âHey there, Little One!â You watch Paz crouch down, arms open as the little boy barrels towards him as fast as his little legs can go. Grogu absolutely adored Paz, he was his uncle, his baâvodu, and the little boy loved being swung about, hefted to and fro by the giant man. It was the tenderness with which Paz always encompassed Grogu in his arms, lifting him gently to his shoulders, that reminded you of the soul inside Paz. The cover of his book was intimidating, scary, tough, the face of a mercenary and bounty hunter, but his inner pages, his soul was just as soft as Din, just as caring. You were happy to call Paz a friend.Â
âHello, Pazâ, You smile up at the man, Grogu now sat about his shoulders, arms wrapped around the top of his head with a little smile. The man in question smiles down at you, âGood eveninâ, cyarâikaâ, You smile wider at the familiar endearment, happy to see your friend even if the nerves from your impending visit to Din buzz in your stomach and chest.Â
âIs Din working late?âÂ
âYeah, the kidâll be at mine for the night, Dinâs working the graveyard shift so to speak.â Youâre, in truth, glad that Paz is watching Grogu for the night, that Din is working late. It gives you the privacy to give your response, without either the watchful eyes of a child or any other sort of audience.Â
âWell, have a good night, PazâÂ
âNot as good as yours iâm sureâ Itâs said with that teasing glint that Paz often gets in his eye and a smirk that twists the shape of his beard. It causes a sort of panic to fill you, at the thought that Paz knows, that he knows whatâs going on even if itâs completely believable and acceptable that Din would tell his brother about his intentions towards you. Your body feels warm all of a sudden and you're sure thereâs a look of panic in your eyes because Pazâs glint softens down to something kind and gentle as he nods a goodnight to you and walks away.Â
You force yourself to go about your normal routine, spending a few hours at the school house marking books, organising the next dayâs lessons, tidying up and generally making sure you were ready for all your children the following morning. You may spend a little too much time rearranging the items on your desk and sharpening pencils that donât really need to be sharpened.Â
Itâs as the sun begins to dip low in the February sky, and people begin to light lamps in their houses or, for those with enough money, turn on their electric lights that you finally decide enough is enough and grab the parcel and letter from your desk. You march with a strange sort of determination, that hides the mess of emotions you are inside, across the street and to the Sheriffâs Office. It doesnât matter that Din had already shared his feelings with you, you were still nervous of his reaction, had you responded well enough? Was it romantic enough? Would something in your letter be off putting for him? Was it too forward? Not clear enough?
He is leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on top of his desk, heels of his boots digging into the wood of the table. The warm light from various gas lamps bounces across Dinâs features, accentuates the sharpness of his cheek bones, the curve of his hawkish nose, the shadow from the brim of his hat.Â
His chair makes a sharp screech across the floorboards as he rushes to stand at the sight of you, feet falling to the floor as he bounces to them. The hat is swept off his head, politely removed to show the curls of his hair as he, dare you say nervously, tugs at his waistcoat and checks his attire. Itâs somewhat relaxing, the endearing nerves with which he greets you, the quick attempt to perfect himself, to show you the best of him, even if you would have happily been greeted by him even if he were covered head to toe in mud.Â
âCaburâikaâŚâ Heâs a little breathless and it causes a flush to reach his cheeks. Heâs embarrassed that he sounds like a school aged kid, that he isnât standing before you behaving like a man, an adult. But, you take the breath out of him. Youâre frazzled looking after a long day teaching, the hair of your up-do frizzy and falling out in places, chalk across your cheeks and skirt, wrinkles in your clothes that he was sure werenât there that morning, but you still looking breathtaking, you still make his heart jump a beat.Â
âDinâŚâ Youâre breathless yourself, it feels like your nerves have a hand around your throat, a tight grip keeping the breath from leaving your lungs. You fumble a little as you step towards him, tripping on a loose floorboard but catching yourself. Your hands nearly drop the precious cargo theyâre carrying and you clutch tighter in response.Â
âI...uh...Here.â You had the parcel and letter to him, as he reaches for the envelope first you panickedly say, âThe parcel! Open...open the parcel first?â He can see the nerves in you, the way you twist your fingers and bite at your bottom lip, in an effort to ease them he nods with a smile and puts the envelope on his desk, focusing on the package of muslin and string.Â
Heâs careful as he opens it on his desk, pulling apart the perfect bow youâd tied and unravelling the package with careful hands. His fingers are too delicate in that moment for such large hands, for hands that have choked men unconscious and lassoed bounties, that have held guns. Itâs odd for him, how easily he has fitted into the domesticity of town, odd, but not unwelcome.Â
The wrappings fall away and heâs greeted by the sight of warm brown cookies, irregularly shaped, although somewhat circular. Theyâre delicious looking, but what gets him the most is the smell, it reminds him of winter nights in the covert, of his adopted parents and warm cookies and milk, spices that heâs almost forgotten about. He should really ask before grabbing one and tucking in, but he canât resist the urge to find out if the spices are the ones he remembers from his childhood.Â
The cookie is moist and soft as it crumbles away easily onto his tongue, he canât resist closing his eyes at the taste. He recognises the spices, the taste taking him back to fond memories and warmth, a familial bond between him and those who had taken him in, protected him, given him a purpose, a life. He finishes the whole thing without really realising it.Â
You watch on, anxious to see if he likes them. It had been a risk, spicing the cookies, you hoped the significance to his culture was a good thing and not bad. You found yourself second guessing your decision as his brow furrowed, eyes closing, but then he took the next bite, and the next, until the cookie was no more and Dinâs chocolate coloured eyes opened and blinked over at you with the lightest sheen of tears.Â
âHow did you know?â
âI...I had a mandalorian teacher, remember? She...she always liked spiced cookies, IâŚare they okay? Was...should I not have?â You feel the worry bounce through you, at the thought that youâd crossed some invisible line, some sort of boundary not meant to be crossed.Â
âNo, no! Theyâre lovely, thank you. They...they remind me of home, Meshâla.â Heâs quick to reassure you, a warm hand reaching out to give one of your own a quick squeeze, just long enough to comfort you, but no longer than appropriate.
You watch him turn back to the envelope, picking it up with care before glancing between the seal and you, eyes darting back and forth as if he is unsure if he is allowed to open it, to read it. âOpen it.â You force the words from your throat, nervous for him to read your words, your thoughts and feelings put to paper, but knowing that the relief once he has done so will outweigh your current anxiety.Â
You stand and watch, a lump in your throat, your hands twisting into your skirt as he opens the envelope. A careful finger pulling the seal free and gently easing the pages of your letter from itâs confines. You wait and you watch, eyes intent on his features as his own carefully trace across the curvature of your words.Â
He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tears well in his eyes as he reads further throughout your letter. It is not just your open acceptance of his offer that has his emotions rising within his chest, but the clear admiration of him and the openness with which you accept his son. Grogu was his child, you were right, as much as any child of his own blood would be, and he had, in truth, stupidly worried that you might not accept the boy as your own. Your excitement at the prospect of one day being a mother to him causes his heart to ache in the best sort of way.Â
Din was purposeful as he placed the letter down and strode up to you, the toes of his boots touching the hem of your skirt. He invades your personal space in a way that sets your skin aflame, yet it is not uncomfortable. You welcome his presence as much as it causes your heart to beat rapidly and your throat to swallow.Â
âMay I kiss you?â He asks, his voice soft and gentle, the southern twang just under the surface. Heâs so close you can feel the warmth from his skin. You nod, letting out a shaky breath as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. So large they enclose you so well, make you feel secure even as your heart tries to stutter out of your chest. It matters little that youâve kissed before, that was quick, this was slow, your attention undivided, your thoughts completely encapsulated by him and his entire being. His hands are warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth in gentle strokes as he gages your reaction, eyes focused on your own. Heâs slow as he moves forward, as if giving you time to back out, to pull away, but you donât.Â
He tastes like spices and sugar, the cookie lingering on his tongue long after it had melted away. He is soft, but not so gentle, the gentle, delicate nature of your last kiss is replaced by depth of emotion, passion and fire. His lips firm against yours, a large hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer, while the other falls to your waist. His beard scratches against your skin pleasantly and you think you could happily grow used to this. You think little of propriety, of politeness, when you open your lips to his and meld yourselves closer together, think little of it as you clutch at his shoulders and breathe him in, as your fingers come up to tangle in those chocolate curls and tug incessantly, as his tongue tangles with your own. There is no fear of it going too far, of Din pushing you for more, of demanding more because you both know the lines that must not be crossed, because you trust him implicitly and because you know he respects you enough to not risk your reputation or livelihood for something carnal or baser, even if he desires it. Even if you desire it.
The lack of fear is what allows you to get swept up in the kiss, in the feeling of his hands and lips on you, the warmth of his skin, the smell of his soap. It allows you to forget that the world outside exists, that you are not in your own private world, but in the easily accessible space that is the Sheriffâs Office.Â
The spell is broken by the sound of the door slamming open and heavy, booted footfalls on the floorboards. You pull apart with a gasp and Din is quick to stand in front of you, as if to protect you from view, scowling at his deputy in the doorway. Not even the little boy on Pazâs shoulder can take the frustration from Din, he is frustrated at the interruption, embarrassed for you, that you were caught in a compromising position, and irritated by the smirk thatâs heavy on Vizslaâs lips.Â
Paz hadnât meant to interrupt, in truth he hadnât expected to find you there, lips locked to his brother, but Grogu was being fussy. Refusing to eat his dinner and then outright refusing to be put to bed. Paz had decided the kid just needed to see his buir, he hadnât expected Din to be...in the middle of something.Â
âAm I interrupting something, Djarin?â Heâs teasing and he feels a little sorry when he sees how embarrassed you look, but itâs worth it for the glare he gets from Din. His smirk widens as Din practically growls at him, teeth clenched tight.Â
âVizsla, donât make me shove my boot where the sun donât shine. Ne shabârudâni.â He softens a little at Grogu grinning at the two of you, but he still wishes the interruption had never come. He knows it was inevitable, he has a young son, the chances of romance going uninterrupted are slim, stillâŚÂ
âWeâll be outside, Vod. Donât take too longâ Paz says it, still with that smirk attached to his face. Heâs gracious enough to give Din a little more time with you, before demanding the man take his son home and tuck him in bed.Â
The door closes softly behind him, the moment heâs out of sight Din turns back to you, sighing out an apology, âIâm sorry, cyareâŚâ
He presses his forehead to your own, hands smoothing across your waist and back in gentle motions. As if trying to soothe the embarrassment from you, bring you back to a sense of peace that had since been disrupted.Â
You push your forehead back into his and nudge his nose with your own, âDonât be. Heâs your son.â You mean it. As embarrassing as being interrupted is, as frustrating as it may be, you understand. His son is massively important, and heâs young, there are bound to be interruptions. Itâs okay.Â
âSo, weâre really doinâ this, huh? Havenât changed your mind yet, Meshâla?â
âNot at allâŚâ You press forward, a soft, sweet little kiss to lips before pulling back, âYou should go...Grogu needs you. Wish him a goodnight for me?â You pull away slowly, untangling yourself from his arms despite your own reluctance. You want to stay there, warm and safe forever, but Grogu needs his father and you do not have the heart to deprive him.Â
âAlways.âÂ
Din doesnât want to leave you, but you make the decision for him, grabbing his hat and carefully plopping in atop his head before ushering him out the door. You watch as he takes Grogu from Paz, putting the boy onto his shoulders and walking with the man down the street.Â
He canât help but look back.
                       ------------------------------
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Warnings: Violence, oh my god, the violence. Also swearing, derogatory language. Threat of violence towards kids, but no actual violence, all violence is actually centred on the adults.Â
Summary: He curses himself for getting so complacent, soft, it shouldnât be this hard to chase down a thief. The thief should never even have made it to the steps of the schoolhouse, let alone inside. Luckily for your kids, an angry school teacher is worse than a pissed off sheriff.Â
Notes: Someone said they wanted angst...well, I have delivered angst and fluff, hurt and comfort in one piece.Â
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Generally speaking Dinâs job as sheriff had been pretty quiet and tame. An easy job. Navarro did not get a lot of crime and generally speaking the only people in his cells were the few regulars at the saloon who always got a little bit too indulgent with their alcohol and then started fighting over whichever girl theyâd both decided they wanted that night. He hadnât dealt with a murder, rape or assault his whole time here. He hadnât dealt with major crime, not even horse theft. His life had become relatively...domestic and safe, compared to his previous. Heâd gone from hunting down some of the most dangerous criminals around to simply wrangling a couple of drunks on a night and the occasional robber who tried his hand at a petty crime.Â
He liked to think he was a competent sheriff, that part of the reason for the quiet was that he was just that good, the truth was in a small mining town nothing much happened. So heâd never had to worry, not about Grogu or about you or about the little ones you taught or any member of town. You were as safe as you could be. Navarro was probably one of the safest places around, it made his job as sheriff a damn sight easier thatâs for sure.Â
âOsik! Kolar! Get over here!â Which is why heâs feeling a little more winded than he used to when he runs through the centre of town after a lousy thief waving a gun in one hand and a bag of stolen credits from the mayorâs office in the other. He can feel a stitch pulling in his side and his knees donât feel like they used to.Â
He hasnât had to run like this in a couple months, not since moving into town and perhaps he should have been going on daily runs because heâs feeling his age all of sudden. It shouldnât be this hard to catch up to the guy, heâs not even that fast and he runs like a donkeyâs shebs, all arms flailing about and no sense of his own centre of gravity. If he could just reach him then heâd be easy to tackle to the ground. Din was at least twice his size and even with that damn cattleman revolver being waved about heâd be easy to take on. But, of course Dinâs getting old and of course heâs been complacent, not been working himself as hard as he should have been. Of course he feels like heâs about to bust a lung just from running for 5 minutes. He feels older than his years all of a sudden and canât understand how he used to chance criminals down all the time with success.
He pushes his legs even harder when he realises the direction the thief is going in, âHaarâchak!â He hasnât sworn this much in months, but he recognises the path towards the school and itâs the middle of the day. School is in session and he wants to just grab the guy before he causes more trouble. He has images of you standing at the front of class, radiant and warm, turning to fear as the man storms in. The thought makes him try harder.
âGet youâre fucking no good ass back here! Boy, donât make me shoot you!â Heâs reaching for his gun at about the same time as the schoolhouse comes into view and Din can feel all the blood draining from his face, fear gripping his heart tighter than any lasso at the thought that youâre in there, the little ones are in there and this diâkut is about to go storming in with a goddamn gun.
âI said donât make me shoot you!â Heâs got the gun out now, his trusty pistol, not his preferred rifle, but heâd left that in the sheriffâs office in a rush after hearing yelling and a commotion he wasnât used to. Heâs never leaving it behind again he decides, this has been a wake-up call, heâs gotten lazy, complacent, too soft. This town has damn near domesticated him. He needs to keep himself in shape and his wits about him if he wants to be a decent sheriff. Maybe heâll telegram Cara, get her to come back him up as deputy or Paz, whichever wants the quiet town life more.Â
He hesitates because of his recent domestication, his increased softness of heart...because if he shoots heâll put a bullet in your schoolhouse and he knows it could go straight through, could hit one of you inside. But, mostly because he knows how much you care about that damn schoolhouse and he canât bring it in him to damage it knowing youâd be devastated. Paz would laugh at him if he saw him now, tell him he needed to pull his trousers up and get on with the job. Heâs never been very good at that. He curses kicking a rock nearby as the thief runs straight through the schoolhouse door with you inside.Â
Heâs panicking, he can feel it well in his chest, clutching at his throat and heâs not sure what to do. If he storms in itâll be a mess, little kids and you, all at risk, but if he stays outside he canât do a damned thing. He canât begin to imagine how youâre feeling in there, probably panicking, the kids are probably scared, thatâs soon confirmed by the terrified little screams he can hear. Thereâs a panic inside and it just swells his own until he feels like heâs choking.Â
âCome out! Leave them the hell alone, boy! Do not test me!â Theyâre empty words because he canât do a damned thing, but if that thief lays a hand on any of you he isnât going to bring him in warm, heâll be in a jail cell, cold, waiting for the coroner to come and collect him. That heâs certain of, a single hair out of place, a single bruise or mark and that man wonât be breathing for much longer.Â
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âItâs a well known fact that weâre all acted upon by a force we call gravity! Now gravity-â The door to the school slams open with a supreme force that shocks you so hard that you jump from your place at the front of the class, chalk falling from your hand in a perfect demonstration of the force youâd been discussing. The children react in an instant, jumping from their feet then all clamour towards you like a stampede of panicked animals and it is all you can do in that moment to grab the yardstick you use in mathematics and occasionally in science and hide it behind you.Â
Heâs wild looking, the man who storms into your school. Bulging big eyes roaming over the lot of you with a snarl, almost foaming at the mouth with aggressive energy, gun clenched tightly in one hand. Heâs red in the face, huffing and puffing from running from god knows where. You can hear Din outside, heâs cursing and blinding, you can hear the panic, you can taste your own on the back of your tongue like a sour candy, like cough candy, the ones your father used to love and you used to hate so desperately.Â
âNow, sir, I-â
âShut up!â Itâs in this moment you realise that you cannot deescalate this situation, this man is like a wild dog, he is ready to bite at the slightest sound or provocation and the children are your main concern.
Panic gives way to anger, that bitter resolve, that feeling of indignation at this manâs brazen act. That he felt he could come into your domain, your space, that he could threaten you and your children. That he could point a gun in their direction. Itâs the gun that angers you the most, itâs not pointed at you, like any sane person would do, itâs not pointed at the one adult in the room, but at Jerome who is shaking so hard you can hear his teeth clattering together. Heâs barely a boy of fourteen, not a threat in the slightest.Â
You wait, wait as he takes steps closer and closer, drown out the sound of Dinâs panic outside, drown out the sounds of your own children, the adrenaline making you feel like your skin is buzzing, like youâve touched an electric circuit, but thereâs no electricity in the schoolhouse at all. Youâre shaking, thatâs just how much energy is buzzing within you, youâre shaking like a leaf on a windy November day and you canât physically contain it, stop it.Â
When heâs mere feet from you, you lift your chin defiant and angry, mouth opening in a tirade of angry words, as you rush forward in what youâre sure would be a stupid act if you werenât so desperate for him to ignore the children and focus on you.Â
âHow dare you come into my school and threaten my children!â Itâs almost a scream, youâre so angry, so scared, that you donât even think when you pull the yardstick from behind your back and swing with both hands for the hand holding the gun. It connects and for a moment he fumbles, youâre sure the gun will fall from his hands, but he catches it at the last second.
His hand comes up, âYou bitch!â and clocks you across the face with the butt of his gun. One hit, hard enough for your ears to start ringing. You can feel blood drip from your lip which stings as it splits itself open, your teeth clatter together and by some miracle you stay on your feet, swaying back and forth. The children have begun to cry behind you and you can hear the sounds of roaring anger from outside. Dinâs voice, clamouring louder than youâve ever heard it.Â
âYou lay a hand on her and youâll wish you never came to this town!â Itâs too late for that you think, heâs already laid that hand and if Din doesnât get to him first youâre determined to deal your own blows.Â
The yardstick is ripped from your palms and youâre sure for a moment that heâll simply throw it away, out of reach but he doesnât. Whatever anger he is feeling boils over and the slab of wood hits you in the stomach, the ribs, the back. A hit to the face has your nose bleeding, your jaw feels like it might be broken and your only thought is âstay up, stay standingâ. Your only relief is that the attention is on you now and not the children.Â
âNarâsheb!â You spit it out, the pronunciation is awful, but the one insult that Din had taught you tumbles from your lips, hoping to keep his attention on you, hoping the provocation gives Din some time to think, to plan. Even, if you feel like he might actually kill you, like heâs capable of it.Â
âWhat the fuck did you just say to me?âÂ
âI said shove it, you filthy nerfherder!â Itâs enough of a push for him to grab you by the front of your blouse and pull you forward, one arm coming underneath your neck, hand gripping your jaw painfully tight, especially with how broken it already feels, no doubt his fingers are going to leave bruises, while the gun is pressed to your temple.Â
The fear comes back in full force this time as you hear the children crying louder at seeing you being abused, seeing a gun to your head. But you know you have to be strong because they are your children and you have to protect them, thatâs your job, itâs your duty. So youâre almost relieved when he spits at you.
âLetâs go see that sheriff of yours, huh? He seems mighty concerned for you.â It relieves you because youâre beginning to move inch by inch towards the door and you know the older kids will take the younger ones out the back door, usher them quietly out of the schoolhouse and to somewhere safe. You can breathe easy because even if you die today those children are going to be safe, youâll have done your job. The most important one. Keeping them safe.Â
He sees you first, youâre blinded by the light blinking at the midday sun, but, Din? He can see you clear and bright and he has never been so angry in all his life. Your lip is busted open, blood running down your chin, staining your white blouse, there are bruises over your jaw, your nose is leaking more red and he can see by the way you carry yourself that your ribs hurt. The thiefâs dirty hands are on you, one clutching your jaw so tight that he can see the indentations his fingers make even from a distance away, the other holding that damn cattleman revolver to your head. It makes him want to beat the guy black and blue, forgoing guns, just give him his bare hands and heâll ring the guy's neck. Just let him go absolutely feral on the man, let him tear him apart. Din clenches his hand tighter around his gun, the other tightening into a fist, he widens his stance. If it is to be a fight then thatâs fine, so long as youâre not in the middle of it.Â
He looks scared. Thatâs the first thing you think when you see Din. He looks scared and angry, his gun is pointed but you know he wonât trust himself to shoot it, his brow furrowed, wet eyes, and teeth biting into his lip hard enough to bleed. He looks raging and scared and wild. This is a side of Din you have never seen, you are so used to the calm, the quiet, gentle Din. But, this Din doesnât scare you, it fuels your fire again, that this man would make Din feel like that, that he would make this kind man scared and angry. You can feel that rage welling up, shaking you physically. He thinks youâre scared, you can tell by the laugh and little comment âoh donât be scared nowâ, that he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, making you shy away in disgust. It crawls over your skin in a most unpleasant way.Â
âNow, Sheriff, iâm going to make you an offer that I wouldnât refuse, not if you want this pretty little thing to come out in one piece that is.â That name angers you even more, how dare he condescend you, how dare he call you that, itâs worse than being called a bitch or a cunt or any other number of derogatory names.Â
You donât even give him the chance to make his offer. You slam the pointed heel of your boot into his foot, hard as you can, before bringing an elbow back into his stomach and using what little you know about the centre of gravity to off balance him and shift him over your head and in front of you. The gun goes flying and your hands reach for the heavy metal pail you keep in front of the school house for collecting water, thanking God that youâd decided a cast iron one would do better than tin as you heft it over your head and across his face with a ringing smash and a crunch of bones.Â
You stand over him, chest heaving, âYou come near my children again and I will kill you, do you hear me! Iâll show you what a pretty little thing like me can do, sir!â For good measure your swing the pail down again, the man groans and far from being disgusted with your show of violence, you feel better than you have all week at knowing the threat has been dealt with.
You look up breathing heavy, blood dripping from your lip to see the children had made it outside, watching you with wide eyes, almost as wide as Dinâs, but not quite. The gun is slack in his hand and he is watching you with a heat youâve never seen before, it makes you swallow hard.
Dinâs sure heâs in love. Thatâs what he thinks it feels like as he watches you, your chest heaving in anger, your features twisted from their usual soft and delicate countenance. This is love, this feeling like youâve reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in your bare hand. You are the picture of a mother bear protecting her cubs and that part of him that is deeply Mandalorian cries out for you, cries out to grab you and hold you close. You are in that moment more Mandalorian than he is, mandokarla in every sense of the word. You have the spirit of a true mandalorian, the spirit of a mother, strong, brave, prepared to do what needs to be done. Undefeated. The man beneath your feet groans and it spurs him to action.Â
Pulling handcuffs from the back of his belt, Din closes the gap between himself and the thief. Heâs rough as he rolls the man onto his front, pulling his arms far behind his back and locking them together. He knows heâs rougher than he needs to be, but the manâs lucky. Lucky that he canât bring himself to hurt him more with you stood there.Â
âYouâre lucky I donât put a bullet in your head right now, osiâkovid. I should kill you for what youâve done.â He means it too, he wants to just do it, but he knows itâs not right. Not when the man is incapacitated, unable to defend himself. Not when the little ones are watching on, many of their parents having made their way through town at the sound of the disturbance, clutching at the little ones with relief and shock.Â
âThen why donât you, big bad sheriff?â Din hauls him to his feet roughly, presses his mouth close to the thiefâs ear not wanting the others to hear him.
âThe only thing keeping you alive right now is the woman standing in front of you. If she wasnât here I'd tear you limb from limb. Youâre lucky sheâs there.â He means it too. He wonât hurt him, not like this, because he knows you wouldnât approve, because he knows no matter how angry you are youâd never be okay with him hurting an unarmed, handcuffed man. But, god if he isnât close to snapping. All that panic has turned into anger, anger which he focuses on the man as he roughly drags him towards the cells.Â
You think you werenât supposed to hear it, the threat, but you did and it is both scary to see him like this and a mite attractive. Your gentle sheriff is showing a harsher side than youâve ever seen and it should shake you to your core, make you distance yourself, but it doesnât. Did you not just show the exact same side of you? Did you not just consider beating the man to a pulp yourself? All because you loved your children, wanted them safe. You think this anger from Din is a reflection on how much he cares for you and the children, how scared he had been and it warms something inside of you. Your chest aches with a longing that you donât understand as you watch him roughly walk the man away.Â
âAre you alright, Miss!â Itâs Mr Hewitt, concerned for your welfare, but you just wave him off and make your way to the children, hand clutching at your ribs.Â
âIâm perfectly alright, Mr Hewitt, donât you worry about me!â The children, for the most part are with their parents, all of whom have congregated after commotion drew their attention and word spread quickly through town. Theyâre crying into their motherâs skirts and their fatherâs trouser legs and it breaks your heart. They should never have had to witness or experience that, it should never have happened.Â
âChildren!â Their heads snap up instantly, ever attentive to your teacher's voice; they watch you with focused eyes even while they hiccup and sniffle. âI think weâve earned the rest of the day off, donât you? Go home, rest, play and I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning!âÂ
Truth is you need to sit down. You canât even begin to think about teaching right now. So sending them home seems your only option.Â
Parents smile at you, wish you well, tell you to look after yourself as they escort their children home. The only little one left is Grogu who runs towards you with panicked eyes, and despite the pain you kneel on the ground in front of him. The little one wraps his arms tight around your neck before pulling back, little hands patting over your cheeks and hair, as if imitating an adult checking your injuries. It brings tears to your eye because in that moment youâre reminded of what could have happened, what could have been lost. Itâs not fear for your own life that has tears falling, but fear for him, for all the little ones and their youthful innocence.Â
âCabur...caburâ Itâs said to you, little hands framing your face, big brown eyes serious as he looks up at you. It isnât a word you know, mandoâa you are sure, and itâs not a word youâve ever heard leave his lips before. A quiet child he had only recently begun to start talking and often in one or two words only.Â
Thatâs how Din finds the two of you. Youâre kneeling in the dirt, skirt stained probably beyond repair, blouse bloody, face bruised and cut. Grogu is in your lap, your arms wrapped around his little chubby body, his hands cupping your face as he says it over and over again. âCaburâ. Guardian. Protector. It warms him from the inside out, that his ad, his son sees you as such, that his son cares about you so much and that you care about him just the same. He has no doubt that you were prepared to die for those children and it scares him and warms him in equal measure.Â
You hear his footfalls, dirt and gravel crunching under well worn boots, spurs clinking lightly as he comes to crouch next to you. Warm fingers reach out to gently graze your jaw, taking in the dark mottled bruising and deep swelling.
âWhat does it mean?â Wide eyes turn on him and he canât help but smile softly at you, moustache twisting upwards at your curious nature, always so eager to learn, always wanting to engage more with the world around you.Â
âProtector, guardian, caburâika.â You wince slightly when he presses around your nose, checking to feel if it is broken. Itâs not, but it will swell and bruise along with most of your face. The blood has stood spilling from it and that reassures him that it isn't too serious. It still hurts to see you like this, to see you hurt in any way.Â
âIka?â
âLittle.â He can already see your brows furrowing, lips setting into an offended scowl as you glare up at him. At the diminutive suffix, not fully understanding the nuances of mandoâa yet.
âLittle!â
He laughs at your offence, not because itâs funny because it does not mean what you think it means, âItâs a...a familiar term. Itâs not because youâre little.â He hopes he makes sense. He doesn't call you a little protector to make fun of you or tease you, but because it shows familiarity, closeness. You are becoming part of his clan without realising it and the familiarity feels good to show. Just as when he calls Grogu, Groâika.Â
âOh.â The annoyance metals from your features as quickly as it came and he continues his prodding of your skin, carefully assessing your injuries. Your jaw isnât broken, he tells you, but it is badly bruised and he tells you to talk less in class, although he gives you a look that says he understands that is unlikely to happen. A gentle finger pulls your lower lip from between your teeth, you hiss, but heâs gentle as can be when looking at the split lip. Badly split and still bleeding red over your chin and blouse.Â
Din rises to his feet, offering you a hand, âLetâs get you clean up, caburâikaâ. He helps you stand, Grogu letting go and sliding from your lap to instead hold your skirt hem as the three of you walk.Â
Din wraps a strong arm around your waist to help you walk, your pace is slow, careful and it takes longer than it really should to get across town to your small house. Itâs not much, just 2 rooms; the main living area with your kitchen, wash basin, tub and a bedroom separated from the rest. But it is home. Cosy, he thinks, like you. It screams home, lived in, a place to live, not just rest your head.Â
He eases you onto your settee, propping up pillows behind your back as he urges you to lay down. He even plumps a few in his hands like a mother hen, clucking around you as he unlaces your boots and gently pulls them off to make you more comfortable, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. Heâs filling a washbowl with water from your tap, the one luxury you have, being a plumbed-in kitchen sink.Â
âDin...you donât have to do this.â He should be dealing with paperwork, probably writing a telegraph for someone from a local prison to come and collect the man currently in the jailhouse. He shouldnât be here with you, he has better things to do.Â
âYes. I do. Someone needs to look after you, caburâika.â You watch him grab salt from the side mixing it in with the water, just enough to help keep your wounds clean. Watch him decide which cloth on your countertop is the best to use. He feels the fabrics, which is too abrasive, which is softest, gentlest, before deciding on one and dropping it into the washbowl.Â
Grogu is sat by your fireplace watching as his buir shifts you slightly so he can sit on the edge of the settee, washbowl placed on the ground. His fingers are gentle as they rest underneath your chin and urge you to look up at him, calloused but soft on your skin, careful of any pressure that might hurt you.Â
The salt water stings, but the cloth is soft and he hushes you quietly at every hiss or groan of discomfort you make. Carefully cleaning your wounds, wiping the dirt, sweat and blood from your skin.Â
âItâs okay, Cyarâika. Iâm sorryâŚ.iâm sorry.â Itâs more than just a sorry for the temporary pain of cleaning your wounds, itâs more than just sorry that I am causing your wounds to sting. There is a deep pain in his voice that strikes you to your core and you shift, hands wrapping around his wrist as you sit yourself up despite the pain in your ribs.Â
âYou donât have anything to be sorry for, Din. Listen to me,â you tug on the wrist, pull it towards you and hold him to your chest, urge him to look you in the eye. You can feel the guilt rolling off of him in waves, âYou didnât do anything wrong. Itâs not your fault.â
âYou wouldnât be like this if I was better at my job...I got complacent, lazy, I should have been able to catch him before he even got near the schoolhouse! You shouldnât have ever been put in that position, you and the little onesâŚâ Itâs the break in his voice, the tears welling in deep brown eyes that has you wrapping your arms around his head and pulling him to rest his cheek on your chest. Rubbing circles in the back of his neck, twisting dark curls between your fingers.Â
âYou did everything you could. You are not at fault and I will not have you blame yourself for something you had no control over. You are a good sheriff, Din. You are so good. Please donât blame yourself for this, darling.â You scratch careful circles into his scalp with your nails, rub soothing lines over his neck and under his jaw, whisper gentle reminders that he is the best thing to happen to this town. That he provided you with a school. That he has made this town safe. That he is not at fault for this. But, you know, deep inside you that he will carry this moment with him, that he will not forget what happened and what could have happened. This guilt will weigh heavily on him, and will follow him.
âYou could have been killed. The little ones could have been hurt.â He has always been a man of emotions, quiet emotions, but emotions nonetheless. Youâd known from the start that he had a protective streak, that that extended especially towards children. That the mandalorian in him, his upbringing, urged him to keep them safe as much as your own duties did.
âBut they werenât. Keeping them safe is my job, Din. Donât add it to your worries.â But, they werenât his responsibility. When they were in your schoolhouse they were yours. The last thing you wanted was him to take that responsibility onto his shoulders when he already had so much, that guilt. It was your responsibility to protect them and while scared and shocked, none of them had a hair out of place or a scratch on them. They were okay.Â
âYou could have died, caburâika. You could have died.âÂ
âI know. I know,â It hits you. Like being trampled under horse hooves and the wheels of a carriage, like the yardstick to your ribs, full force and winding as you finally understand. You could have died. You could have died.Â
It is your turn to cry as your breathing becomes uneven and your mind tries to make sense of the fact you nearly died today, just doing your job, just in your schoolhouse. That there is so much you have not achieved, so little youâve seen or done and you could have lost the chance to ever do. âDinâŚâ Youâre clutching at him, fingers digging in his back as he pulls you tighter to him.Â
There is a moment where he worries that you cannot breathe, that the force of your tears will choke you in his arms and so he holds you tighter, barricades you in his arms. Walls shielding you from the world. He brings a hand to the base of your neck cupping it to tilt your head up as he presses his forehead to your own. A comforting gesture, a keldabe kiss, he wants you to feel safe again. Wants to impress upon you your importance in his life even if he is not ready to say it yet.
He can feel your breath evening out with the gesture, your lungs relaxing as his presence comforts you. It pleases him to know he can calm you. He is the only thing present in that moment, not what happened, not the wild eyes of your assailant, not the fear, not the kids, not the room around you. Just him. His warm forehead pressed into yours, gentle, but firm enough to ground you. Large hand cupping the back of your neck, the other arm wrapped entirely around you to keep you close.Â
It is a little movement behind your back and two small arms wrapping around your back, unable to truly wrap around you fully that bring you back into the present.Â
Itâs a little voice saying âCaburâ into the fabric of your blouse, little hands gripping at you, trying to soothe you that makes your heart ache in an entirely different way. You pull back from Din, enough so that you can reach around you and pull Grogu into your lap, between the two of you, shielded by you both. It should scare you, how it feels like you have your entire world on your settee, how it feels like family. It should scare you what you would do for Din, for Grogu. What you would do to keep them safe, happy, healthy. Instead it warms you, to know that youâve found somewhere to belong that isnât just a schoolhouse and a classroom.Â
âItâs okay, Adâika. Iâm okay. I promise.â You run a hand through his dark curls, boop him on the nose to make him smile and feel a true smile creeping on your face even if it hurts. Youâre not lying either. Youâre okay. You will be okay. With this little child who cares for you deeply, with his father who is always there to look after you, you know you are okay and will be okay.Â
âOri'haat,â Din says to you, lifting your eyes back to him and the soft little smile playing at the corners of his mouth, âI swear. You said you wanted to learn more.â
âOr-e-haht?â You are back to your little game. The one where he tells you a new word and you try to pronounce it, but the unfamiliar words twist wrong in your mouth, coming out butchered to his amusement. He enjoys it, you know he does. It is easy to see because his eyes always twinkle with humour and his face softens, some of the harsh lines fading away.Â
âOh-ree-haht.â
âOh-e-haht?â You always concentrate hard and it is this fact that makes your mispronunciations cute, copikla, rather than frustrating. He does not mind you making mistakes because you try earnestly to correct them and always practice the words till you have it right. He enjoys teaching you because he enjoys hearing his language from another person, enjoys the familiarity, the homeliness of it.Â
âOh-ree-haht!â This time itâs Grogu who announciates it, loud and clear with a little grin on his sweet little face as he looks between you and his buir as if waiting for praise.Â
âVery good, Groâika,â Din ruffles the boyâs curls before turning his eyes back to you. The boy preens under the praise, little grin growing in size as he sits between the two you. How he always manages to get it right on the first try you donât know, youâre a little envious of the boy's knack for seemingly everything. He is a quick learner in school and out of it.Â
âOh-ree-haht?â
âJate, good.â You smile proud of your efforts and shift a little in your seat, ribs pulling and causing you to let out a pained breath. It's going to be sometime you think before you are fully back to how you were, without pain or bruises. You have yet to look in a mirror but are sure that you look terrible.
âWould you like to stay for dinner?â You extend the invitation, knowing you donât want either of them to go just yet, even though Din probably has things he needs to do and it is selfish to ask him to stay when he has his duties to get on with.Â
âYouâre not making dinner, cyarâika. Iâll make it.â He untangles himself from you, grabbing the washbowl to empty in your garden. The view of you with his son cuddled up to you makes his heart warm, even with the mottled bruising and cuts across your features.Â
âDinâŚâ
âI will not argue about this with you, iâm taking care of you and you will rest, caburâika.â His tone brooks no argument, demanding for the first time, truly, that you listen and do not fight him on this. You should be resting, not standing cooking dinner. You are in too much pain and he would sooner tie you to your bed then let you hurt yourself in an effort to be the hostess.Â
With a heavy sigh, you conceded defeat. âOkay, but Iâm not happy about it, Din Djarin.â
âI know.â He says with a smile.
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Mandoâa Translations:
Nar'sheb - contemptuous comment, like saying shove it.
K'olar! - get over here!
Cabur - guardian, protectorÂ
Caburâika - lit. little guardian/protector, but the ika shows familiarity, making this more of a pet name, friendly term.Â
Haarâchak - damn it
Shebs - butt, ass.
Diâkut - idiot.
Mandokarla - having the *right stuff*, showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mando virtue
Osiâkovid - shithead
Ori'haat - I swear
Cyarâika - sweetheart, darling
Jate - good
Copikla - charming, cute, typically not used for women, but for animals and children. But honestly, I think the reader wouldnât be offended like a typical mandalorian might by being called copikla.Â
Warnings: Sexy, sexy thoughts, but we all know that Sheriff Din is a proper gentleman who would never sleep with you before youâre married. But, a girl can look.Â
Summary: You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasnât there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.
Notes: Oh, hello, is this another firewood chopping fic? Yes. Yes it is. Do I have a thing for big, strong men chopping wood? Yes, apparently so.Â
Jeans were invented in 1873 so yes, Sheriff Din, 100% can wear tight jeans to show off that fine butt.Â
Archiveofourown
You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasnât there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.
Every stove and every fireplace in Navarro was wood burning, gas was still a new fangled thing and hadnât reached your little mining town yet. The metal log burner in the centre of the schoolhouse was no exception and it was on this particular Saturday, when working on marking some of the childrensâ books, that you noticed your store of firewood was rather shoddy. Something that while not an immediate concern would grow to be as the weather began to turn colder and the snow piled up outside. The children would need to be kept warm, otherwise they just simply wouldnât learn right.Â
It had been something you mentioned in passing to the sheriff that morning, you hadnât expected him to do anything about it and certainly not immediately. Just made small talk when heâd popped in to check on you and mentioned that the wood store was getting a little low and that you'd need to sort it soon before the weather turned. You should have known that Din, the mother hen, caring and considerate man that he was, would have taken it upon himself to correct the problem and quickly.Â
Had you known that that wasnât just going to the general store and buying more logs, but instead cutting down a couple of trees near the school house and proceeding to cut them into fire logs, then you...well, you would have definitely still mentioned the problem to him. After all, the sight was definitely an enjoyable one. Not that youâd admit that to anyone. You were supposed to be a respectable lady. A school teacher. You shouldnât have had any thoughts on Din Djarin and how he looked chopping wood.Â
Itâs how you found yourself looking out one of the large windows of the schoolhouse, lip bitten between your teeth and chin resting on your hand as you watch Din lift a large log over his broad shoulders and to a tree stump heâd designated for wood chopping. He managed to make carrying the heavy load seem easy, like it barely phased him, he simply redistributed his weight and stance to make the walk easier.Â
Heâd forgone his many layers. His hat had been placed off to the side, his usual button-up was off, now only stood in a grey union suit unbuttoned, indecently so, showing off pronounced collar bones and dark chest hair and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows displaying his thick forearms. His suspenders dug delightfully into his wide shoulders and the wide planes of his chest were captured fetchingly in the clinging fabric of the undershirt.Â
Your headmistress most certainly would have clipped you around the ear you think. It was unbecoming, unladylike, most certainly not decent to watch him with thoughts of how easily he could lift you over his shoulder. How nicely it must feel to be pulled into those arms and rest your cheek against his chest. How strong his palms look and how delightful the muffled grunts he let out sounded. Most certainly unladylike, improper and you shouldnât have sat there and watched, but you couldnât bring yourself to tear yourself from temptation.Â
There was just something, something about the way his shoulders tensed as he brought the axe back over his head before bringing it down with a sure stroke, cleaving the log in two. Something about the strength of those thick forearms, the scars that littered them from bounties heâd collected and a life of hard graft. Something about the sweat that beaded on tanned skin, that caught your eyes as you followed in down his prominent nose to his perpetually pouting lips.Â
As Reeva would say, Din Djarin was a whole lot of man and you thought perhaps a king among men. He could capture your attention just with a change to his stance or a look, you were sure every unmarried woman in town would happily marry him. He was incredibly handsome, but what made him something special you decided was his nature.Â
He was unfailingly kind, sweet and gentle, he always made sure to look out for others. Every act of service was a sign of his devotion and appreciation to his community, of who he was. He would get birds out of chimneys, sweep the porch for elderly citizens, hunt down a missing pet or build a schoolhouse. You knew that you never had to worry with Din around, the moment you mentioned a problem or difficulty he would be there offering to help without asking for anything in return. A king among men indeed.Â
A grunt brought you out of your thoughts and back to the view before you. Large palms and dexterous fingers twisted around the wooden handle of a heavy axe, feet planted wide to give him a better stance, jeans tight against his hips. Did the man have to own such tight trousers?
âOh, Miss Adams, Iâm terribly sorry.â You canât help but mutter as warmth floods your body, your skin feeling too warm in your heavy skirt and blouse. A itch settling deep in your stomach. Your headmistress would have made you go to confession if she knew, forcing you to admit that your eyes and mind had sinned oh so terribly for gazing so covetously at the sheriff, at Din.
You couldnât help it. You wondered what it would be like. To be married to him, to lie besides him on a cold night, those large palms sliding soothingly over your hips, your belly, your thighs. Wrapped so tightly in him that it would be impossible to figure out where you ended and he began. What would that deep, soothing voice feel like rumbling against your skin.Â
A breathy sigh leaves your lips at the thought and you wonder how youâre supposed to ever talk to him again without thinking about how he looks in that exact moment as fabric clings tight to his body and his dark hair begins to curl at the edges from sweat and the humid air.Â
You decide in that moment that he canât ever know. Itâs as simple as that. He simply canât find out about these feelings you have or the power he holds over you. It just wouldnât do, wouldnât be proper. You shall simply go out there and thank him for cutting more wood for the schoolhouse, offer him a drink of water and be done with it.Â
You rise with determination, hands brushing your skirts smooth before grabbing the glass you use during the school day. The outside water pump is a handy little thing, you think as you fill the glass with cold, clean water. Despite the children often using it for mischief at break times, it does everyone a world of good to have easy access to water at the school.Â
âYou look mighty thirsty, sheriffâ You call out to him, one hand lifting your skirts to help you walk over the uneven ground, the other holding the glass of water out in front of you.Â
When you reach him you offer the glass, he takes it with a thank you and you try not to stare too hard as he throws his head back and gulps the water down fast. His neck extended, Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.Â
âYou know you didnât have to do this...I could have bought some wood for the fire.â There was a small school fund for that sort of thing, the mayor had reluctantly set it up so that you could buy chalk and other things that the school would need and have to replace over time. While wood was certainly not a cheap item, it was something you budgeted for every single year.Â
âCyarâika, thereâs no way I'm letting you spend good credits on firewood when there are plenty of trees for me to cut down. Besides, Iâm not busy.âÂ
âDinâŚâ You want to protest, remind him that he has better things to do that cut firewood for you. Mostly because you worry that youâre taking advantage of his kindness. What possibly could you offer in return to a man who was capable of doing everything himself?Â
A hand reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek briefly and gently, âJust let me help you.â
Itâs the gentle touch and the quiet plead in his voice that has you admitting defeat. There was no use fighting his nature and asking him to stand by if he noticed you in need of something. It just wasnât in him and it was something you liked greatly about him.Â
âThank you. Youâre always looking out for us.âÂ
His hand drops from your face to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a gesture you were beginning to recognise as a sign that Din was uncomfortable or nervous. More often than not when it came to feelings of any sort. âWell, I gotta keep my eye on you, make sure youâre doinâ alright.â
âI...have you...have you ever thought that you deserve someone keeping their eye on you too? To look out for you, I mean.â You rush through that last part to take some of the possible innuendo from your words. Not that your eyes had been anywhere but on Din as of late, but...you didnât mean it like that. You could feel an embarrassed warmth radiating up your neck and into your face at the implication of your words.
Thereâs a tug at the corner of his mouth, âOh, I noticed youâve been doinâ a mighty fine job of that yourself, cyarâika.â Itâs unusually playful coming from Din and it has your mouth drying up as you swallow harshly. Had he noticed you watching him cut wood? Or the other day when he helped carry some of Mr Hewittâs goods into the general store?Â
âIâm...Iâm just looking out for you. Is all.âÂ
He hums, clearly not quite believing you, but lets it slide. Youâre a proper lady and he knows if he teases too much heâll scare you away. Maybe one day heâll let you in on the secret that he caught you peering out of the school window watching him. But, today he lets it go, lets you walk away back into the school house with the excuse that you have more books to mark.Â
If he decides to roll the union suit down to his waist and continue cutting wood with his torso free of clothing, then thatâs not to tease you at all, itâs just because the weatherâs gotten mighty hot lately. If he happens to notice you at the window again watching him then he doesnât mention it and it means nothing, nothing at all.
                     -------------------------------------
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Request from Anon: Hey so I saw your post that said requests for certain characters were open and I was wondering if I could ask for a din djarin x plus size reader with this prompt please? : (19th c) Iâm the townâs school teacher and youâre the gruff wanderer/traveller/cowboy/outlaw/etc. Thatâs come to town. You help me fix the school house and wrangle the little demons I teach. I was thinking the kid could be one of her students! Thank you so much in advance âĽď¸âĽď¸
Summary: When the bounty hunter strolls into your little mining town you donât think much of it, but with a little boy in his wake and your school house in disrepair, he becomes more than just a passing visit, but a welcome constant.
Notes: You know me too well, Western AU/historic AU Din is so good as a concept and ughhhhhh this was so wonderful to have requested and I hope desperately that itâs good!
Reader isnât really specified as plus size just because it didnât really come up in the story? Although she is described as being quite soft and sweet in appearance.Â
Archiveofourown
He comes into town with one hand clenched around his horseâs reins, guiding the bay and white creature with a bounty hogtied swearing and cursing over its rump, and the other hand holding a little boy of no older than six at his hip. Itâs quite the sight, one that momentarily distracts you from your grief at the fact youâre teaching your children out of a saloon now since your schoolhouse was burnt to the ground.Â
Heâs imposing or he would be if the little boy wasnât smiling up at him with big brown eyes. Itâs hard to be imposing when youâre clearly the world of a small child and it makes you smile from the porch of the saloon. Youâd been organising the boxes of donations the townsfolk had put together, since all your books, slates, chalk, paper, pencils, and the like had burnt in the fire, when he strolls past. He glances over at you and tips his head, hat dipping over his chestnut eyes and it flusters you for a second when you finally see his face.Â
Heâs handsome, incredibly so, too handsome to be in your small mining town you think. Deep brown eyes, a prominent nose and plump lips set in a perpetual pout. His jaw is sharp and his beard and moustache are trimmed neatly, despite the bruising on his face and the layer of dirt from the road heâs truly beautiful, a thought that flusters you further. The small boy sat comfortably at his hip and playing with the fabric of his suspenders is adorable, soft round cheeks and large brown eyes, but he doesnât look much like the man and youâre curious what the story is there.Â
The boy is old enough to be in school with you, to sit and learn his letters and to read while the older kids move on to learning about science, history, mathematics and poetry. There are a couple of children his age in your class, Timmy and Mary-Beth, both just getting the hang of gripping a pencil correctly. You wonder if he wonât be joining your class soon or if he and his guardian will be out of town before you can even consider preparing for a new student.Â
You watch the man hitch the horse outside the Sheriffâs office, the one thatâs not got a sheriff at the moment. You hope heâs not looking for quick pay, the lawman that resided in the Sheriffâs office at the moment was just there until they could find a new sheriff. Heâd have to telegram out to get the bounty money. Your last sheriff had up and left after being shot at by a couple of drunk miners, heâd decided that was enough and quite the same day. The town had been a little more unruly since and it was beginning to make you and some of the other townsfolk uneasy without someone to keep the peace. The temporary lawman had been lazy and uninvolved thus far. It was after the sheriff quit that your schoolhouse burnt down and you werenât sure it was coincidence.Â
You watch the man place the boy on his feet and say something quietly to him before brushing his hair fondly. He grabs the bounty off of the horse, and slings the man over his shoulder. Itâs impressive that he doesnât struggle up the steps to the office even with a fully grown man thrown over his shoulder, the little boy follows after him as he goes inside.Â
You return to your organisation. There arenât that many books, not like you used to have. But, while you wait for some of your teaching associates across the country to send you items, they will do. Thereâs enough paper and some slates for all your students to practice their writing and get their work written down which is a relief and even a globe that the general store owner, Mr Hewitt, had found in a back cupboard for you to have.Â
Youâre trying to lift one of the boxes of books when he comes back out again, the little boy still trailing behind him, but this time something shiny is pinned to the manâs blue shirt. You donât think too much about it as you struggle to lift the box, your heavy skirts not helping you move much, hindering your progress and causing you to trip each step forward you take.Â
You hear his boots on the wooden stairs before you see him, he towers over you, as he takes his hat off, more polite than most men in town. You get a better look at the shiny thing pinned to his shirt and realise itâs a sheriffâs badge. The same one the old sheriff used to wear, you look from it to him and then down when you hear a little giggle. The little boy is still following after him, a sweet smile turned on you this time as he leans around the manâs legs to watch you.
âMiss, I can take that.â He gestures to the box in your hand, itâs not a question, and itâs straight and to the point. But, youâre grateful for the offer and hand it off to him without complaint. Heâs stronger than you, thatâs clear to see, his arms thick from years of hard work.
âThank youâŚâ You wait for him to tell you his name, trailing off as you lead him into the saloon that has been set out for the school day. There is a black board at the front, tables and chairs littered around the room, the liquor shelves have been emptied for books to replace them.Â
The fact that Mr Karga had offered the saloon for the school was a miracle and while many in town grumbled about their favourite place of vice no longer admitting them during the day time, most were supportive of the decision to help the kids continue their school. Nevarro wasnât a large town and mining was its main source of income, but the children deserved a chance to do more than just become miners and the school helped them do that. You helped them get into colleges on scholarships, to find jobs as clerks and apprentices in other parts of the country.Â
âDin Djarin.â Itâs a nice name, rolls of his tongue like honey. He doesnât smile, not really, not properly, but thereâs a little crinkle at the corners of his eyes that soften his face and make him seem warmer somehow.Â
âAnd this little one?â You smile at the little boy as he begins to bravely step out from behind his guardian to greet you with a smile. He is a quiet boy, not the usual talkative sort you find with a six year old, but who knows what heâs been through even at this young age.Â
âGrogu, heâs myâŚâ He furrows his brow, clearly thinking hard on the right word. That alone tells you he is not his son by blood, a small fact that makes him even more interesting. Not many bounty hunters would take in a small child. âSon.â he finally says. Deciding it is the best term. Grogu isnât his by blood, Din knows this, but the little boy heâd found all alone surrounded by death, was slowly becoming like a son to him. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Family is more than blood.Â
âWill he be joining my class? I run the school, currently weâre based here...in the saloon. Not my ideal place to teach but needs must.â You gesture around you to the makeshift classroom. You donât like that the place still stinks of liquor or that at night it goes back to being a saloon where people drink, gamble, and fight. But, you donât have a better place right now and the children need somewhere to learn. You can teach in any building, even if you dislike this one.Â
You fit the image of a school teacher he thinks. You look like a respectable young woman, dressed appropriately, all neat and proper. Your hair pulled up and pinned away like itâs supposed to be. Everything about you is proper. Part of him wants to see you become ruffled, stop being so demure. Itâs a thought that makes him frown at himself, the thoughts inappropriate especially towards a lady like yourself.
âYes. Weâll be staying for awhile. What happened to the school house, MissâŚ?â He took on the job as sheriff the moment the lawman offered it, the pay was good, gave him his own accommodation and it meant he could settle down for a bit, give the kid an actual childhood. Bounty hunting was something he was good at but it wasnât exactly safe to do with a six year old in tow. At least this job used his skills catching lawbreakers and put them to use in a place the kid could grow up. It helps that the teacher of the town is pretty too, he thinks.Â
You give him your name before answering his question, âWell, after the last sheriff quit, the schoolhouse burnt down and along with all the things we had in it. Luckily it was at night and none of us were in the building. Burnt right down to the ground, nothing leftâŚâ You say it with a heavy sigh, thinking of that sweet little schoolhouse. The white painted wood, the familiar rows of desks with names carved in them, your favourite collection of university level texts at the back for the older and more advanced kids to explore. You had been teaching in that schoolhouse for the last five years and in a way it had become a second home for you, if you werenât at your own little home, then you were in the schoolhouse marking work or planning lessons for the coming days.Â
âAnyone know what caused it?âÂ
âNo. We didnât exactly have the mind to investigate and if it wasnât an accident it was probably just some drunk who didnât know any better. But, we make do and Grogu,â You crouch down next to the small child, moving your skirts to do so comfortably, âwill fit right in, I think, donât you?â The little boy smiles at you and giggles, before hiding behind his fatherâs leg again.Â
âHave any plans been made to rebuild the schoolhouse?â Sheriff Djarin it seems is very straight and to the point, his tone isnât unkind or aggressive, but his words are clipped, short, brusque as if heâs not quite used to being more flowery or saying much. You supposed a bounty hunter didnât typically need to say much, but you hope heâll become more comfortable with talking, at least to you, as time goes on.Â
âNo...iâve been trying to put some pressure on the mayor to get it done but...he just doesnât seem to care all that much now thereâs a temporary solution.â You say as you begin unpacking the box that he brought inside, exercise books are brought out and sorted into piles, ready for the children to write their names on the covers and start afresh.Â
He frowns, brow furrowing deep, lips turned down at the thought of the schoolhouse just never being rebuilt. Itâs clear to him that saloon isnât the place for a school and itâs even clearer that you are distressed with your new working arrangement, that you miss having a building that is entirely your own and entirely dedicated to teaching young minds.Â
âIâll sort something out. Is class starting soon?â
âYes, not...not long now.â You double check the clock realising the kids will begin arriving in less than an hour and you feel wholly unprepared for the first day of school since the schoolhouse burnt down.Â
You watch him crouch in front of Grogu, hand ruffling his hair fondly, âYouâre going to stay here today, get some learninâ in ya. Iâve got things to do, but I'll be back later, promise.â Youâre surprised and warmed when he puts out his pinky finger for the kid to grab, a little promise that seems to you like something more. You wonder if the boy was scared of being left again, if this was Dinâs way of reassuring his new son that he wasnât going to leave him. The little boy wraps his whole hand around Dinâs pinkie not quite understanding how the promises work yet.
âHave a good day of teaching, Miss Y/N.â He nods his head at you, grabbing his hat as he walks out the saloon with a purpose. The hat is placed on his head the moment heâs out of the doors and itâs that little element of politeness that surprises you. He carries himself like a gentleman but looks like any other rough and tumble man wandering the west. But itâs his treatment of Grogu that confirms the sort of man that he is.Â
Iâll sort something out. You smiled to yourself realising that perhaps the new sheriff would be the best thing to happen to this town in a while. Someone who actually got things done for once.Â
âDo you want to find your seat? Maybe do some drawing before class starts, Grogu?â You ask the little boy smiling at him as he nervously shifts from foot to foot, looking back out the doors as if hoping his father would walk back in. Itâs clear he hasnât had to do this before, be separated from him and left with a stranger, but you put on your softest smile and gentlest voice and wait patiently for him to nod his head before offering him your hand.Â
He takes your hand and you help him get settled into his seat, you decide to put him near the front so you can help him easily and get him settled near you. He only knows you after all, and you think being around all the kids and far away from familiarity might be too much. You give him some paper, scrap bits that you donât need anymore and a pencil leaving him to draw while you get ready for class.
                          ---------------------
The school day goes...well, itâs hectic and your hair is frizzy and falling out of the updo you styled it in that morning by the end. The children are unsettled in this new environment, the older kids, those nearing adulthood frustrated by the younger kids who canât seem to focus or be quiet. Your brain feels too large for your skull and you sigh out a goodbye to your students as they leave out the saloon doors, one or two shoving through the swinging shutters much faster than needed.Â
Grogu is the quietest of your students, sweet and attentive, he doesnât speak a word, but follows your instructions well. He is behind on his writing letters and reading, that much you know from working with him, but heâs a quick learner and applies himself with a determination you rarely see. He doesnât always play well with others. At lunch time youâd noticed him stealing food from the other children. It continued despite giving him your own lunch knowing his father hadnât had time to prepare him something after coming straight into town and getting to work. He doesnât share well either, but seemed to understand when you sat him down and talked to him about it. You suppose that being away from other children and only travelling with your father figure who would share his food with you without a thought, it must be confusing. The manners that he now has to observe, the rules of society that heâs never had to worry about until now. He looks suitably admonished despite the gentle way you chose to talk about it with him, that alone makes you think heâll likely stop stealing the childrenâs cookies and be more willing to share.Â
âDavid, careful!â You call out when one of your older students nearly gets trampled underneath the sheriffâs horsesâ hooves as he runs across the thoroughfare without looking.Â
âSorry, miss!â David calls back over his shoulder, still storming ahead your warning lost on him.Â
You sigh heavily and rub at your temples, stress enveloping you. A tug, swift and sharp on your skirt has you looking down. Grogu has a hand fisted in the fabric, pulling to get your attention. Once he has it, his arms open, hands up towards you, opening and closing, a universal gesture to be lifted.Â
It surprises you, he is...quiet and reserved. You expected time to be needed before he was comfortable with you in any respect, especially after having to tell the boy off. Instead, he lets you lift him to your hip, hands reaching for strands of your hair and twisting them, surprisingly gently between his chubby little fingers.Â
You watch your students run in different directions through town, their books and lunch pails in tow. Some stop on the open green, playing games together before their parents demand them back home for dinner. The warm little body in your arms is a soothing presence and the boy almost looks like he wants to say something, but just makes a soft cooing sound instead.
âNot much of a talker are you, little one?â He almost shrugs his little shoulders before looking up at the sound of heavy footsteps and clinking spurs. The sheriff leads his horse up to you, eyes following David with a shake of his head. Clearly, just as bemused as you at his lack of common sense.
Grogu smiles and giggles happily at the sight of his father, arms reaching out for him. You pass him over to Din, trying to ignore how close you get to the man to do it. He radiates warmth and smells woodsy mixed with some sort of soap he must use. This close you can see little birthmarks dotted across his neck.Â
You step back once the boy is settled in his arms and smile, soft but tired. âSheriff, how was your first day on the job?âÂ
He gives you a humoured smirk, one youâre not expecting, it takes you aback slightly. He looks...charming, approachable. Little dimples at his cheeks that soften his features in a way that makes you want to step closer. With a huff, not quite a laugh, he says, âEventful.â
âThat makes two of us, sheriff.â He notices the tired creases beneath your eyes, the once unrumpled appearance now dishevelled, hair coming out of its updo and blouse and skirt wrinkled and creased. You look like youâd had a rough day and he hopes Grogu wasnât part of the cause. He still hadnât figured out how to discipline the kid, he always turned those big brown eyes on him and he just couldnât tell him no.Â
âDin. Call me Din.âÂ
âThen you should call me Y/N.â Thereâs a moment of silence. You stare at him, at the way his hat casts shadows over his face, at the gentle hold he has on Grogu, the open top buttons of his work shirt and the dig of suspenders into his shoulders. He stares back at you. The gentle softness of your cheek, the marks that make your skin your skin and not someone else's.Â
âWeâre going to start building the schoolhouse as soon as the wood shipment gets here, I sent a telegram off today to get some good lumber in.â It surprises you in the most delightful way. When you said the mayor had been dragging his heels you meant it, but you hadnât expected this new face to come in and make a start on what the mayor had been reluctant to do.Â
âWeâre?â
âIâve convinced some of the men around town to pitch in and I know a thing or two about building.â In truth heâd intimidated more than persuaded. Most of the men were lazy, and had more concern for their own vices than for helping out. But, a mixture of convincing them theyâd get their saloon back and reminding them that he was now the townâs sheriff seemed to get a few of the stronger and more skilled townsfolk to agree to help.Â
âYouâre the sheriff. You shouldnât be building the schoolhouse, Din. Youâve got more important things to do.â You feel bad that heâs doing this, being quite so involved, when heâs starting a new job, one that takes up most of his time. Being a sheriff is a full time job, almost 24 hours a day 7 days a week. He has people to keep in line, criminals to catch, laws to enforce, and building a schoolhouse wasnât on his list of priorities. Itâs sweet and makes your heart ache oddly, but you feel guilty for adding another thing to his plate.Â
âThis is important, Miss...Y/N. The kid canât learn in a saloon forever and you canât work here forever neither.â He can see how desperately you want your schoolhouse back and something in him wants to provide that for you, to care for you. He tells himself itâs also for the kid, that his son deserves a proper schoolhouse to learn in. That all foundlings, all little children deserved a place to learn, like he had growing up in the covert.
âAt least...at least let me and the children bring food and water down once you get started. I...youâve not even been here a whole day and youâre already doing more than anyone else ever has...Thank you, Din.â
âItâs my pleasure, meg ba'jurirâ You do not understand what he calls you, but you recognise that cadence, the rhythm of the language. Can almost see the symbolic nature of the alphabet. It surprises you that he knows what youâre sure is Mandoâa, having only heard one other person in your life ever speak it. Mandalorian family groups were uncommon, but where they were they seemed to keep people in order, to value community. It made sense that he would take on the job of sheriff, adopt a child not of his own blood, if that were the case.Â
You bite your tongue and donât ask, you donât know him and it is too personal to ask about his upbringing, culture or heritage. Perhaps, after you know him better you can ask, but you can almost hear your headmistress at school reminding you about manners and decorum even in a little mining town.Â
âHe didnât...he didnât cause any trouble today did he? Heâs not used to being around others or...weâve been on the road for a long time now.â He looks down at the little boy sitting at his hip, whoâs playing with the metal star on his shirt. He knew that Grogu could be difficult, sweet, adorable, hard to say no to, but undisciplined and not used to the rules that people usually abided by.Â
âI...I did have to have a word with him todayâŚâ You can already tell Dinâs disappointed. He clearly loves the boy, but part of loving a child is wanting better for them and getting in trouble isnât part of that.Â
Din sighs heavily before catching the boyâs eye, âAdâikaâŚâThe boy clearly knows whatâs going on and hides his face in his fatherâs shirt, suitably embarrassed about his behaviour. You think thatâs enough to probably deter him from stealing from other kids in the future. You also think you might bake him some treats and use them as an incentive to work hard. You suspect bribery would work well with Grogu.Â
âHe paid attention beautifully and heâs already doing so well with learning his letters, but heâs...heâs quiteâŚâ You try to think of the best way to say that the boy just canât resist taking other childrenâs food.Â
âYou donât have to spare my feelings, Y/N. You can tell me.â You look Din in the eyes, deep brown meeting your own and sigh out before speaking.
âHe likes to steal the other childrenâs food. I gave him my lunch and he still tried to steal Charlieâs cookies and Mary Bethâs macarons. I know heâs probably used to food being a thing he can just have since youâve been travelling as a family unitâŚâ
âOsik... I forgot to give him lunch. I am a terrible fatherâŚâ Din looks at his feet, free hand rubbing over the scruff on his jaw. You feel the instant need to reassure him.Â
âYouâre not a terrible father. You just came into town this morning, immediately took on a job, and instantly went to work. Youâre not a terrible father.â You hesitate, but reach forward anyway, a hand on his arm giving a quick reassuring squeeze.Â
âVor entye, Y/N. Thank you. Have you eaten?âÂ
âOhâŚâ You hadnât really thought about it, that youâd given your food to Grogu to stop him going hungry and that youâd spent all day teaching with little more than the porridge youâd made yourself that morning to keep you going.
âDonât even think about lying to the sheriff.â You did in fact consider lying to him, but the look he gave you reminded you of an overbearing mother hen who wouldnât let you get away with it. Combined with the fact he was indeed the new sheriff, you felt it best to stick to the truth for now.Â
âNo...I havenât.â You admit, feeling suitably admonished by him and a little guilty for even considering lying about.Â
Din adjusts Grogu on his hip and nods his head behind him towards the street, âCome, Iâll buy you dinner at the cafĂŠ.â
âYou donât have to, Din. I can make dinner at home.â You think back to the soup you were going to make that night, and even though you havenât the energy in truth to make dinner, you canât ask him to buy you it. It is too much and unnecessary. Any good teacher would have made sure their students were fed.Â
âYou kept my ad fed in place of yourself. Iâm buying you dinner.â His voice left no room for argument and so you found yourself following after him across the street towards Reevaâs CafĂŠ.Â
                          ---------------------
Dinâs presence in town becomes apparent very quickly. He does not allow the men to wander drunk through the streets, start fights, or harass women. He does not suffer law breakers or those who cause the peace to break. He is swift, effective, and there isnât a member of town who doesnât respect his authority even if some donât particularly like having to listen to him.Â
For you it is a refreshing change. You donât worry about the children wandering around town in the evenings or about walking out of your home at night. You donât worry about your meager belongings being stolen or a fight breaking out in the saloon on an evening and ruining the few bits you have for the school.Â
He is quiet and polite, not much of a talker, but everything he does shows a man of honour and good morals. He is sweet with the children as well.Â
It had become common place for him, while waiting for the lumber to begin the schoolhouse, to come into the saloon while you were teaching. He said it was because the day time left little for him to do as sheriff, but you think he just enjoys helping with the children. They make him smile. A real smile.Â
Sometimes he just sits with his son on his lap and helps him with his letters, other times he wanders between tables helping those who need it or using his presence to quiet the children after an exciting lunch break. Reminding them to respect you, their teacher, and listen.
Your favourite, and the childrensâ favourite times were when heâd sit down and tell them stories of his travels. For a man who didnât speak much, Din Djarin was a natural born storyteller.Â
Thatâs how you found yourself taking a step back, sitting on one of the saloon bar stools off to the side as Din took your place at the front of the class. He had an ability with the little ones that amazed you, none were ever scared of him despite his height, posturing or the guns holstered at his side and slung over his back. He always managed to make them smile and laugh, always got their curiosity going and inspired them equally. He made it a point whenever he talked to your class to share stories of both men and women heâd met whoâd done amazing things, you could tell he was trying to get the girls in your class to see they could be more than housewives or washerwomen and you appreciated it.Â
âSo there I am standing toe to toe with the biggest grizzly youâve ever seenâŚâ He gestures with his hands, standing at the front, arms out front to show just how large this grizzly bear was. His voice took on a different, more dramatic quality then normal. Grogu clapped his hands from his seat on your lap, the little boy having grown increasingly comfortable around you.
âNow this grizzly has to be 8ft standinâ, and heâs the angriest bear youâve ever seen and iâm sure thatâs the end of me. Iâm about to become a grizzly bearâs dinner, Sheriff Djarin stew!â You laugh along with the kids at the prospect of Din becoming stew for a grizzly bear, youâre never sure how much is fiction or truth in his stories, although part of you wouldnât be surprised if they were all completely true. He was...he always seemed larger than life despite being so quiet. Like some sort of figure out of a western story.
âWhen out of nowhere, charging between me and this mean grizzly, comes the largest bull moose I've ever seenâŚâÂ
âWhatâd you do?â Mary Beth pipes up, big blue eyes open wide.Â
âWell, I got the he-â He stops himself looking at you, you raise an eyebrow reminding him that cussing around the children would not do well for him, â-out of there as quickly as I could! One thing you should never do is stay around to fight a grizzly, never ends well to go toe to toe with one. That moose was being kind and giving me a chance to get away.â It amuses you that he always manages to twist a moral into the story. This time about kindness and helping those weaker than yourself, along with a healthy dose of not getting into situations with angry grizzly bears of course.Â
âWell, I think itâs time I let Miss Y/N, get on with her mathematics lesson.â Groans and grumbling rises up from your students as you place Grogu in his seat and begin making your way to the front. You watch Din frown at them, hands on his belt, leaning into one hip more than the other. He is the perfect picture of a disappointed father. Lips twisting downwards, pulling on his moustache.Â
âHey, now! Miss Y/N always makes your lessons fun so donât you start giving her trouble or else iâll have to stop coming in for story time.â Itâs a threat that promptly has them settling quietly in their chairs and getting their books and pencils out.
You rest a gentle hand on his arm when you reach him, quietly telling him thank you. Itâs heavy with meaning. Thank you for being there for the children. Thank you for providing them with stories. Thank you for always settling them and reminding them to respect me. Thank you for thinking about the schoolhouse. Thank you for settling the town and keeping the peace.Â
He just nods at you with the smallest hint of a smile, enough to make you feel the tiniest bit flustered as you watch him walk to the chair where heâd left his hat, holsters, and lasso.Â
âSay goodbye to the sheriff, children.â You tell them as all of you watch him make his way to the doors. He stops before them and tips his hat at you all with a smile, but the moment heâs out the doors it drops and in his place is the hard sheriff who wonât stand for trouble.Â
                          ---------------------
Once the lumber comes in and the plans have been drawn up and approved by yourself, at Dinâs insistence, the work begins. The schoolhouse design had been run past you because Din didnât want to miss anything that was needed or that would help you teach. He had told you not to worry about size, scale or cost, that the community was pitching in and that the mayor had found a fund tucked away somewhere for the school. The fund miraculously appeared after Din had a long meaningful chat with him.
He wouldnât tell you that heâd made threats against the mayor about digging up some of his dirty laundry, but he had. The mayor had a lot of skeletons in his closet and also a nice stack of credits he was sitting on in his own personal mayoral vault. The fact that the mayor had been so reluctant to rebuild the schoolhouse when he easily could have almost made Din see red, but he didnât think it would look good if he beat the man to the curb as sheriff. He was supposed to be upstanding and law abiding, if he wasnât why would any of the townsfolk be?Â
A few days into the project you decided it was time you made good on your promise to come to the site during lunch time with the children to bring water and some food. You and the children collect pails of water and the baked goods youâd made the night before, trudging through the streets. You held Grogu on one hip, the small child the slowest of his classmates, and carried a heavy pail of water in the other, so heavy your shoulder slumped down on that side to accommodate the weight.Â
The children were happy to help, after all, many of their fathers and older brothers were working on the school site and it was a chance in the school day to see people they cared about. You were also sure they wanted to ask the sheriff a multitude of questions and beg for a story, but youâd reminded them that they werenât there to get in the way or interrupt the work, just to offer food and water.
Youâd reluctantly admitted to Reeva that you found the sheriff attractive, after the older woman badgered you day in and day out about the time you spent with him. You could admit he was handsome. His eyes were deep brown and spoke more words then he often did. He had both a look that could intimidate and also soften into something warm and safe. The beard and moustache he sported made him look ruggedly handsome and his shoulders were broad and wide. He looked like heâd stepped out of a story book or from an illustrated newspaper short story. Rugged but clean, dangerous but kind.Â
You had to admit though that this was your favourite look on him. As you came upon the building site he was busy sawing a plank of pine in two. His shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow exposing his strong forearms and thick wrists. His suspenders had been flung off his shoulders, resting at sides no longer covering the strong back that was tensed as he worked. The top few buttons of his shirt had come undone, almost indecently so to show a pronounced collar bone, strong neck, and dark chest hair and the brown hair on his head had begun to curl from the sweat he was working up. It shouldnât have been attractive. He should have looked like any other man working up a sweat, you shouldnât have wanted to wipe his brow and brush your fingers through the curls of his hair. But you did.Â
Taking a deep breath to compose yourself you look down at the little boy at your hip, âShould we go say hello to your father?âÂ
âPapa!â He clapped his hands at you in confirmation. Youâd slowly learnt that papa was one of the only words he said, you werenât sure if he chose not to speak or simply couldnât. But, given his increasing aptitude with writing his letters, you thought it likely that he simply chose not to speak.Â
The call instantly has Dinâs head popping up from his work like a startled deer and you watch as his eyes roam across the children until he catches sight of his son at your hip. The smile that lights his face is so bright that itâs almost blinding, there is a longing you feel whenever you see his happiness to see Grogu. Some deep part of you that desires that sort of family bond. He loves his son so deeply, it doesnât matter to him that their blood isnât the same and part of you wants desperately to be part of that love and happiness.Â
âChildren, hand out the food and water, will you? But be careful!â You remind them as they run towards familiar faces, it is still a building site after all, and the last thing you need is a child getting hurt in any way.Â
Din finishes sawing the plank before striding over to you, hand pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow. You look...radiant. The summer sun shining over you, causing your skin to glow, your hair to shine. Your smile is as soft as your eyes and you're gentle in the way you hold his son to your hip, like he belonged there. Like the two of you belonged together. Din can admit that he enjoys your company more than he probably should, he can even admit that a part of him deeply desires you, wants you to join his family unit, become part of his aliit. Youâre tender and kind to all the children you teach, your children as you often call them, and youâre incredibly kind to Grogu who you treat with more understanding than most school teachers ever would. You keep order in your classroom through kindness and mutual respect, not through fear or punishment. The maternal shine to you draws him to you in a way that, had he not been Mandalorian, he might be ashamed of. But, family is everything to him, Grogu is everything to him and if he is to put down roots here, he canât help but consider putting down roots with you.
Itâs a silly thought though, youâve not known each other long and he isnât well to do or gentlemanly. Youâre far better educated than him, kinder than him, and it is a pipe dream that he doubts will ever come to fruition. It doesnât help that he struggles at times to even talk to you, let alone make his feelings known.Â
âMiss me, Adâika?â He calls to the little boy, carefully pulling him from your arms when you offer him. If you allow yourself to, you can almost imagine heâs taking your own child from you, that the two of you have formed some sort of family. But, you are just his sonâs teacher and he is just the sheriff of your small town.Â
The boy babbles at him, not real words, nonsense, or attempts at words that donât translate, but you can see that improving. Can almost imagine what settling down here can do for the boy, give him a chance to learn, grow, make friends, and find some stability and safety.Â
âHeâs been itching to come over all day, they all have. I was struggling to get them to focus on their history lesson.â You had 15 children all desperate to get out of the saloon and visit their fathers for lunch. It had been a...very difficult lesson to say the least and you still felt a little frazzled.Â
âHistory?â The boy tugs at his fatherâs hair and you watch him wince as he speaks, pulling little chubby hands from brown curls.Â
âThe fall of the empire and the rise of the republic. Not the most riveting subject for them I'm sure, they much prefer when I tell them about different societies rather than politics.â You want to say like Mandalore and the Mandalorians because you want to draw him in, desperate to have more of his time even when heâs already doing so much for you. You enjoy the odd hour here and there when he takes over your class and becomes the teacher, where you can just sit and listen, learn yourself.Â
âMandalorians believe that our history is our future. We learn it as soon as we can walk.â
âSo it is Mandoâa youâve been speaking?â It warms you to see him open up to you like this. He is a private man, quiet, and insular. While he can yell with the best, and demand attention, can intimidate and even persuade, itâs all part of his job. The face he puts on as sheriff. He is quiet about himself, sharing little and not so often. You revel in the trust placed in you wherever he tells you a little something more about himself.Â
âYou noticed?â Most people donât even know Mandoâa exists, let alone recognise that the words he slips into his speech are such. He finds they slip out more around you, than with others. Heâs comfortable with, he is happy to share himself, his culture with you and it...it is a startling discovery about himself. He has been insular and closed off for longer than he would like to admit.Â
âI canât speak it and I..I donât know it well, but, I recognise the cadence. I grew up in Naboo and there was a Mandalorian there, she used to speak it when I would sit and practice my letters with her.â Atinâa Caivass was a kind woman to you even if she could be hard. She had been one of your teachers, always pushing you harder, to do better. Yet, it had never felt frustrating or like a chore, the Mandalorian had always made it a desire to impress her, but also to prove to yourself that you could. She had always been kind to you and the other children, gentle but firm, like you were one of her own. You saw similarities with how Din treated the children. He was kind and gentle, but never overlooked an opportunity to firmly correct their behaviour or mistakes. A perfect balance. Not too soft and not too harsh.Â
âYou never learnt?â
âShe was very protective of it and I...I was always too afraid to ask.â You confess. You had always been fascinated with it, like any young child when faced with a new language, but you had always believed it something sacred, and had worried that you would offend her if you asked to learn. âAdâika? What does it mean?â
He canât help but laugh at your pronunciation and sounds it out for you, âAh-Dee-Kah, it means little one.âÂ
âAh-dee-kuh?â You are even more beautiful, he thinks when you butcher his language, trying so hard to get it right that your eyebrows scrunch together and your eyes crinkle at the corners.Â
âAh-Dee-Kahâ The little one squirms in his arms and he places him on the ground, only to watch him plunk himself on his bottom and play with the dirt. He had always had a fascination with dirt and rocks, more so than any of the toys he had actually brought or made him.Â
âAh-Dee-Kahâ
âPerfect.â You smile blindingly at his praise and he wonders if he can forgo his job as sheriff and simply teach you Mandoâa every minute of every day. âYou can always ask. If you want to learn. Itâs nice to hear it from another personâs lips, not just mine.â
âI would like that very much...maybe when youâre less busy? Youâre rather booked up at the moment, what with being sheriff, storytime for the children, and building a schoolhouse. Youâre a busy man, Din Djarin.â
âI like to keep my hands busy.â You look down at your feet before looking back up at him, unsure how to respond to what you were sure was meant as a perfectly innocent comment. Din almost swears, osik, once he realises how that sounds, lifting hand to the back of his neck to rub it.Â
The silence that you fall into isnât uncomfortable necessarily, but feels almost solid, like a physical thing and not just the quiet that comes with two people not talking for a moment. Thereâs a tension there that is not wholly unpleasant but hard to describe or pin down.Â
Seeming to remember the pail of water youâre carrying you place it in front of him, âWater, so you can clean off or if youâre thirsty. Thereâs some pastries somewhere as well, to keep you all fed...Canât have you keeling over on us or else weâd never get our schoolhouse.âÂ
You take a step back and cast your gaze around, making note of where each of your 15 kids are. Youâre caught watching Jerome splash water on Annie, about to go and tell him off when you hear splashing much closer to you.Â
You thought he couldnât excite you more than he already had. Thought that Din Djarin couldnât possibly tempt you more, cause your well-mannered sensibilities to crumble further. You were utterly, terribly, ridiculously wrong.Â
Thereâs something to be said about the man pouring half a pail of water over his head to rub away the sweat and dirt from a hard day working in the summer sun. He flicks his head back, long neck outstretched as water droplets fall like mirror glass over his tanned skin. His hair sticks to his skin, kissing it in a way you realise you desperately want to and his shirt clings to broad shoulders with the familiarity of a lover.Â
You spin back around away from him flustered, determined not to look as you march towards Jerome. You decide in that moment that perhaps itâs best not to bring pails of water at lunch time. You might just not survive to see the school built.Â
                          ---------------------
For the next two months your routine features lunch time trips with the children to bring water and sometimes food to the men building the schoolhouse, and the odd afternoon story time hour when Din feels confident enough to leave the others to continue working without his guidance. Each day the schoolhouse comes together more and more and each day you fall a little bit more in...in whatever these feelings for the sheriff were.Â
You also have the startling realisation that Grogu has wormed his little way into your heart in a way that none of your other students have. You have a soft spot for the little boy, especially as he becomes more vocal, begins to say more little words, including the delightful name âMiss Y/Nâ.Â
Din is a temptation in himself, each time he teaches you another word or phrase in Mandoâa and his lips wrap around syllables or every time he works hard to build the schoolhouse muscles pulling taut underneath the weight of wood. He tempts you in a way that no one ever has and you canât quite explain what it is about this man that makes you desire to be in his presence, to kiss him, to hold him, to be close to him both physically and emotionally. You want to know everything about him, to understand him better than you understand yourself.Â
In some ways it is a relief when the schoolhouse is finished and in other ways it feels like a loss. Part of your routine, part of the day where you always see Din was no longer needed or necessary.
When you bring the children over at lunch time, itâs to show them the finished building, the one theyâll be in come Monday morning once you have the time to move all the books and other odds and ends into it. Theyâre all excited as are you, to see it...it strikes you in the heart so badly that you canât move your feet, can only stare at the building with tears in your eyes.Â
Itâs beautiful. Not large, but larger than the old one. Freshly painted white, with a school bell hanging out front. It strikes you that this isnât just a schoolhouse, but itâs your schoolhouse. Din had been adamant about building it for you.Â
âChildren, why donât you go inside and take a look? Youâll be here on Monday!â You wave them all off as they run ahead and up the wooden steps, throwing the door open none too gently. âCareful! We only just got it!â You call out and receive a series of sorries back.Â
âShall we go find your buir?â You look down at Grogu, whoâs hand is holding the heavy fabric of your skirt. He smiles up at you and nods his head with a quick little âpapaâ that has your heart warming.Â
You hear him before you see him, âNow donât go breaking the tables when weâve only just put them together, girls!â Already laying down the law to 3 of your children as you enter the schoolhouse. They had seemingly been swinging on tables in a most ill-mannered fashion that has you putting on your teacher-face and raising an eyebrow at them from behind Din. They promptly stop and return their feet to the floor with an abashed look.
âSorry, Sheriff. Sorry Miss.â They call to you both before scurrying away in hopes of avoiding punishment, leaving you, Din and Grogu alone in the main room for the building. You let it go. It isnât an issue, they need to learn to respect things, and not damage them, but that does not have to come at the cost of punishment when a quick look and a reminder does enough.Â
Din spins at them calling out to you, faster than he seems to have expected, looking decidedly dizzy for a second before the mask of sheriff falls right back into place.Â
âY/N, how do you like it?â He opens his arms wide and gestures to the main room of the schoolhouse. A large blackboard already nailed to the wall at the back, rows of tables and chairs set up so every child could see you. A desk at the front for your things. It is sweet and fits your needs infinitely better than a saloon ever would. You even note the bookcases along the walls, enough space to place many of your books for the children to have easy access for when they wish to learn something more than you could teach them.Â
âItâs...itâs wonderful, Din. Itâs beautiful. I...I canât thank you enough...I...Iâm a little lost for words.â You can feel the happy tears starting to pool in your eyes again, the gratitude making you a little bit emotional. âI donât think I can ever repay you for this.â
âYou...you donât need to repay me, Meshâla. This...you and the children deserve a school, a place to teach and learn. You donât have to thank me or repay me for doing what the damn mayor should have done in the first place.â
You nearly donât do it. Nearly let that fear that wells up inside you and the proper manners, the belief that you were about to be far too forward than was ladylike, stop you. But, you think back to his kindness, his gentle nature, the calm and order heâs brought to town. The son of his that you have a large soft spot for. The handsomeness of his features, the sharpness of his profile. The gentle hand he always places on your back as he helps escort you somewhere. The respect he shows you at every turn and his willingness to share his culture and upbringing with you. You think of all the things that make up the Din Djarin you know and you think of what he has come to mean to you.Â
With a silent prayer and an apology to your late headmistress for being more forward than is ladylike, you push yourself forward and into him. Lips soft and chaste lifting to meet his, only briefly. You do not push for more than a second of contact, but it is enough, you hope, to get the thought and intent across. That he is someone you would like to get to know more, that he is someone you could happily be courted by, even marry one day. Â
He doesnât even have time to blink, it happens so fast. One minute you are standing a few steps away from him thanking him, the next your lips are pressed to his in the shortest sweetest kiss heâs ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. It takes another second for him to realise whatâs happened before heâs reaching a hand out to cup the nape of your neck and drag your lips back to his for a significantly more substantial kiss that leaves you a little breathless.Â
When you pull away from each other you donât go far. Din presses his forehead to yours, hawkish nose pressing into your cheek, a soft touch that grounds you with his presence. The hand at your neck, rubs a soothing thumb across your skin. Your own have chosen to grasp at the suspenders over his shoulders, to keep in close proximity.Â
âIâd very much like to court you, Miss Y/N.â
âI think iâd like that, sheriff.âÂ
                          ---------------------
Mandoâa Translations
 Meg Ba'jurir - roughest way I could get to someone who educates or a teacher with meg being who and baâjurir being educate
Osik - Shit
Vor entye - Thank You
Ad - son
Adâika - Little one, term of endearment for small children
Buir - Father also Mother basically parent.Â
Meshâla - Beautiful
Aliit - Family (Clan)
                          ---------------------Â
Summary: He has always been gentle with the little oneâs but it is nothing compared to the sureness with which he climbs the tall tree and gentleness with which he reassures one of your students that they can in fact make the climb down and theyâll be okay.
Notes: We all love papa Din and is there anything sweeter than this guy being all gentle and kind to scared little oneâs? Pure dad material.
Archiveofourown
Lunch times at the schoolhouse were never quiet affairs. After eight years as a school teacher you had learnt that if something was going to happen, it was inevitably going to happen at lunch time when the children were out of the classroom doors and in the fresh air. Touch wood, you think touching the wall of the schoolhouse, you had yet to have anything too dramatic happen this school year. There had been no fights between the older boys and girls which had in previous years had a tendency to happen as frustrations and teenage angst boiled over. There had been no major injuries, no children had gone missing at lunch time, and no one had attempted to tattoo another child like Davey McDonald that one year. He had definitely been the source of most of your schoolhouse drama. With him having completed his school last year, perhaps, you thought, this year might prove to be uneventful.Â
This year had been rather tame and as you stood on the wooden porch of the schoolhouse watching your children make the most of their hour to run, get fresh air, and eat their lunches, you couldnât help but smile. You watched Grogu, Mary-Beth and Timmy playing at the small pond, more of a puddle really, that rested near the school. Mary-Beth was showing both boys how to skip stones and Grogu seemed impressed every single time she managed to get a perfect skip. Timmy fumbled at his attempt, stone landing in the water with a sploosh!Â
Your eyes drifted to the older kids, eating their lunch and giggling together in groups. The boys had separated off from the girls, no doubt more and more aware of their differences as courting became a new interest in their eyes. Soon youâd have the usual problems of teenage love on your hands, sweet, but always requiring your eyes to be peeled. While the boys would face no repercussions for a dalliance, the girls would, and you always made sure to keep a chaperone's watchful eye on them each year. Much to their annoyance.Â
You spotted Jerome sitting on his own, sketchbook and pencil in hand and carefully walked your way over, picking through the rocks and fallen leaves as the weather began to turn colder. He was wrapped up full, only a little bit of his face visible beneath a large scarf and fluffy hat.
âDo you mind if I sit with you, Jerome?âÂ
âNot at all, Miss.â He quickly goes back to his drawing and despite the desire to peek you resist the urge and wait for him to offer to show you, if that were to happen at all. You pride yourself on creating relationships born from trust with your pupils and part of that was letting them come to you rather than demanding they share things. Jerome had become more willing to share his art bit by bit, preening under your admiration and praise and you hoped that it would be enough to encourage him to pursue his dream of art school. You had a few old acquaintances you hoped would be willing to offer him patronage if they saw his work, but that was a few years off and for now, you were just content to provide him with kind words and support.
He doesnât ask if youâd like to have a look, just shuffles the book over into your lap with a shy look away, not wanting to see your reaction. Theyâre beautiful little drawings of the world around him. The daisies in the grass, the leaves on the ground, the nearly bare trees. A few sketches of the other children playing. Each has careful line strokes, hashing to shade and a style to them that gives them an almost classical look. Smooth, soft.Â
âThese are beautiful, Jerome! You really have a gift!â You praise him, carefully handing the book back for him to return to his sketching. The two of you fall into companionable silence as he draws and you watch the children around you.Â
It is when you go to ring the bell to draw them back into class with a âLunch is over, boys and girls! Time to get back to work!â, that you notice a crowd gathering quite a distance away from the school underneath some trees. With a quick request that Jerome keep an eye on the younger children, you stride your way over, hands lifting your skirt from the dirt.Â
âWhatâs going on? David, why are you allâŚâ You trail off as you look up to see the exact reason theyâre all crowding beneath the tall oak tree.Â
Lilly-Anne is shaking at the very top, arms wrapped tightly around the branch sheâd managed to make it to. The girl is barely ten, and has always been one of your more adventurous and confident children, but in that moment she is clearly petrified and you very much consider climbing the tree yourself to get her.Â
âLilly-Anne, dear, are you stuck?â You canât think of a possible reason but that fact, that she is stuck in some way whether mental or physical.Â
âI-I-I I canât get down! I-â She cuts herself off in panic, clinging even tighter to the branch as a brisk wind causes the smaller branches to shake.Â
âIâm coming to get you! Donât worry, sweetheart! Itâs going to be okay!â You say, sounding much more confident than you actually are about your ability to climb a thirty foot tall oak tree in a dress and heeled boots. You havenât climbed a tree since you were thirteen years old and have never been a particularly fan of heights, but needs must.Â
Youâre planting a foot on a knot in the tree and reaching up for a lower branch when spurs clink behind you and a familiar deep drawl sounds out from behind you.Â
âEverything alright, Miss Y/N?â Youâre in truth rather relieved when you turn to see Din standing there, thumbs tucked into his belt behind the buckle. The worn hat he never seems to be without is tilted back as he looks over you, your gaggle of children and up into the tree. The bemused expression turns to one of concern when he sees Lilly-Anne at the top, immediately pulling his hat and holsters off and placing them on the ground.Â
Before you can even reply to his question he has gentle hands on your waist twisting you away from the tree before placing a boot in the same spot your foot was moments ago. It doesnât irritate you that he has done all this without asking, instead you are relieved. You know you are not dressed for tree climbing nor are you proficient at it, Din is better suited for the task and you are glad that he is here.Â
âLilly-Anne, Adâika, itâs the sheriff! Iâm coming to get you, little one, donât you worry about a thing!â He keeps his voice even, soothing, the same voice he uses whenever Grogu has a nightmare. She might be feet up in the air but even from down at the base of the tree he can see how scared she is, can hear her whimpering and crying out for someone to come help her. Like any scared little kid.
Heâs not really thinking much of anything, in truth, not when he sees the little girl terrified and crying at the top of the tall tree. Thereâs a memory from his past, a small boy at the top of a large tree, his adopted father climbing to get him with gentle words. He remembers the fear of being at the top, of being so confident in your ability to get all the way up that you never considered just how youâd make your way back down.Â
Heâs not scared of heights, not anymore. His adoptive father had made sure of that. Taught him to climb right back down, how to face that fear that makes you freeze. Itâs not a hard climb, and each foothold is easy to find. The tree is sturdy, thick branches and a wide trunk. Old, older than him, older than any of them and he wonders how many children have climbed it only to need a guardian or parent to come and rescue them from the top.Â
âItâs alright, little one! Iâm on my way, you just hang tight, okay?â
âO-o-okayâŚâ He likes Lilly-Anne, she likes his adventure stories the most. The little wild card a born adventurer herself, she always talks about becoming a famous gunslinger, constantly badgering him to teach her how to shoot. Adventurous spirit, stubborn, but heâs never seen her scared of anything. It breaks Dinâs heart to see her usual confidence and fearlessness missing.Â
Youâre worried. Thatâs the best way to describe what youâre feeling in the pit of your stomach and itâs nail biting, stomach churning worry. A part of you knows that Din is competent in a million different ways, that heâll be fine climbing a tree that a ten year old managed to scale and that heâll be fine bringing her back down. Another part of you worries that maybe heâll slip or sheâll slip or both of them will slip. The thought of either of them getting hurt sends you into a pacing sort of panic at the bottom of the tree, eyes on them the whole time, watching Din scale as your feet move you back and forth, to and fro.Â
Heâs at the top before you can even blink, bracing himself besides her and talking to her low enough that you canât hear. Sheâs shaking and youâre not sure if it is the wind or the fear that does it to her. Heâs steady as a rock, it doesnât surprise you, Din has, from the moment he walked into town, been steady, stable, and competent. He brings an ease to everything he does and seems to trust in his own skills beyond a shadow of a doubt.
âHey, Adâika, Iâm right here, okay? Look at meâŚâ He knows this is the hard part, how to convince her to come down even with his help. She is so scared and he can now finally see the tear tracks over her chubby cheeks and the redness of her eyes. This little girl is so terribly scared and it makes his heart ache for her. But, he promises himself, that heâll be the stable presence she needs, that heâll be calm and collected for her even with a thirty foot drop beneath them and you pacing the ground below in worry.Â
Lilly-Anneâs bottom lip is trembling and her knuckles are white from holding on so tight, but she looks at him and seems to calm a little at his presence beside her. âI need you to hold onto me okay, sweetheart? Iâm going to come closer and I need you to hold onto me so I can help you down, okay?â He knows itâs a big ask, knowing sheâd have to pull herself away from the safety of the branch and trust that heâd keep her safe and secure, but she nods her head at him with a little whimper and he knows sheâs brave enough to do this.Â
âYouâre doing so well, Adâika.â Din praises her as he sidles as close as he can, helping her, with one arm, wrap her own around his neck and rest her legs around his hips. Sheâs a little big to be carried normally, getting to that age where her legs are getting a little too long and her body doesnât fit as easily as Groguâs would against his hip, but sheâs light and easy to wrap around him as he secures his own feet and hands getting ready to make the climb down.Â
âYou got all the way up here, Lilly-Anne, you can get back down, okay? Look,â Din begins the climb down, at each handhold and foot placement he points out to her that she could grab here or step there. He wants her to understand that if she could get all the way up, she could have made her way down. While heâs more than happy to help her, he knows her. She is an adventurous child, likely to climb a tree again and likely to need to make her way back down. Just like his buir had done, he was determined to make sure she was never scared of getting back down again. âYou just need to place your hands where they fit best, move them down with you, a step at a time, Adâika. A step at a time.â
âItâs...itâs scary thoughâŚâ
âIâll let you in on a lilâ secretâŚâ He turns his head to give her a meaningful look with a soft smile, stopping where he is just for a moment, âitâs not being scared that matters, itâs being brave enough to do it anyway.âÂ
People think him fearless. The fearless sheriff, cleaning up the town, keeping people safe, facing down men with guns and hunting down criminals. Heâs not. Heâs scared of a lot of things, mostly Grogu, you or the other little ones getting hurt. Losing you from his life. Losing his son. Being a disappointment to his son. That scares him more than any threat to his own body, but still in the face of that fear he is brave. Bravery has never been the absence of fear, itâs doing what you need to do anyway, knowing that it terrifies you. His buir had taught him that and heâd teach Lilly-Anne that, teach Grogu that.Â
As he continues down the tree he can see her process his words. Brain working hard behind big blue eyes before she tugs on the back of his shirt to stop him where he is. Once again he stops climbing. Youâre still pacing below, every time they stop you grow more anxious wondering what on earth could be happening. Did Din lose his footing? Was he faltering in some way? Was Lilly-Anne panicking?Â
But, that isnât the case. When he asks her whatâs wrong, she simply tells him she wants to try and climb down on her own, with his help. He can feel pride blooming in his chest, like a new bud opening up to the world in spring, and so he carefully helps her off of his hip and adjusts her footing and handholds before he moves below her so he can help her ease her way down and catch her if she slips.Â
She takes those first steps backwards, tentatively, scared of where she should put her feet, but each step after becomes more confident until theyâre climbing at a decent pace back down the tree. She is a natural climber.
âYouâre doing so well, Lilâika! I knew you could do it, darlinâ.â Dinâs voice is quiet but now half way down you can actually hear him speaking to her, little praises at every successful step, reminders of how brave she is, how good she is doing. It eases some of that panic within you, warms your chest at the sounds of him, so utterly paternal and kind.Â
She is smiling wider as she gets nearer to the bottom, you can see that the fear has left her, the panic gone, replaced with a bravery that you are thankful to see. She has always been a brave child, an adventurous child, fearless. The thought that she would lose that had terrified you almost as much as the thought that she was stuck at the top of that tree.Â
The moment her feet touch the ground again you are fussing over her like a mother hen, âLilly-Anne, what possessed you to climb such a tall tree?!â You both do not want to stifle her adventurous spirit and at the same time feel a sense of responsibility to teach her to think before taking potentially dangerous actions. It is the one cruelty of being a teacher and not a friend, you must always tell them off for doing something which could have ended with them hurt because no one else would. âYou could have been hurt, sweetheart.â You soften the blow with the endearment, checking her over for cuts and bruises. Her hands are a little rough, but otherwise she is fine and despite your fussing and admonishment she is still smiling.Â
âI got back down, Miss Y/N! I got back down!â You sigh out from your place kneeling in front of her, a small smile making its way to your face. Before you tug lightly at one of the blonde braids of her hair. You want to be stern, but canât find it in yourself to be when she had in fact managed to get all the way back down, when she was so clearly proud of herself. How could you bring yourself to crush that happiness?Â
âYes, yes, you did, well done, sweet girl...now that youâve nearly given me a heart attack, why donât you thank the sheriff and go get sorted for your next lesson?â You can still feel the residual adrenaline running through you, your heart is still beating faster than it should. To think you were going to climb up that tree to get her, in a full dress and heeled boots...you suspected the outcome would have been the two of you stuck up that tree, not just one. What a sight that would have made.Â
âThank you, Sheriff Djarin!â Heâs buckling his holster on as she turns to him, already getting back into sheriff mode as he places that worn hat over dark brown curls. He cuts an impressive figure as sheriff, but you most enjoy him at his softest, when he lets the walls fall for the children and shows you who he really is underneath all that responsibility and posturing.Â
âYouâre welcome, Adâika, you remember how to get down for next time?âÂ
âUh huh!â Like all children she nods her head so vigorously you briefly worry sheâll concuss herself, but know that they always seem to be fine afterwards.
âGood. Go get ready for your lesson.â He pats the top of her head with a soft smile. You only ever see that smile around you and the children, including Grogu, of course. The two of you watch her run off, the other children in the group following her at your insistence that they better be ready at the desks by the time you return.Â
You know you need to move soon, they are waiting for their next set of lessons before the day ends and you have things to teach them. Things you always stress are important. But, you canât ever resist spending a little more time with Din, even more so when it comes to thanking him for his hand in helping you with the children. He is always there when you need him, when his support or involvement is required.Â
âThank you, Din...I...I donât know what I would have done if you hadnât turned up. Iâm sure we both would have been stuck up there if Iâd tried to get herâŚâ Thereâs something about being alone with Din that excites you more than it should. Perhaps, itâs the reminder that youâre an unmarried woman, heâs an unmarried man, and the two of you certainly shouldnât be spending time alone together away from other peopleâs eyes. There is no one here to watch you, to ensure everything is polite and appropriate. It shouldnât mean more than it does. It should just be a moment to thank him, something simple, devoid of any deep feelings, but like everything that happens with Din, there is always more going on beneath the surface. Your feelings are always deep and hard to understand with him.Â
âCaburâika. You never have to thank me. For anything.â Heâs almost bashful looking when he smiles at you from under the brim of his hat, face tilted down just so. You can see the hint of a flush to his tanned cheeks and the dimples pull at the sides of his mouth when he smiles.
âYes...yes I do. I hope you...I hope you understand just how much I appreciate your help, Din. You...you do more for me than anyone else in this town and,â You gently reach for one of his large hands, holding it between the two of your own. His fingers are calloused and rough, his skin warm to the touch even in the autumn air. âI really do appreciate it. I appreciate you. So thank you.âÂ
Heâs at a loss for words. Not just because of your own sweet ones, but because your eyes are so soft and large, staring up at him like heâs hung the moon, like heâs done something above and beyond. When in truth he has just done his job, the right thing. Supporting you as the school teacher will always be the right thing and certainly it isnât all duty. He finds you to be beautiful, sweet and soft, kind, yet strong and fierce. Your treatment of his son, his Grogu warms his heart. Your deep love for your children makes him want to sigh like a lovesick school boy and your treatment of him, your acceptance, open arms to a man who should scare you, makes him want to be around you all the more. From the moment he met you, you had been welcoming and soft. That hadnât changed and everything in him screams at him to do something, say something, hold your hand tighter, kiss your lips, but thatâs too fast and too soon. It would be a dishonour to you, you deserved him taking his time, finding the right words and actions to court you, to prove that he was worthy of your time and affection.Â
So instead he just smiles at you, squeezes your hands tightly, once, twice, before thanking you. There are few parting words, a slow goodbye in which you both are reluctant to pull away from each other, but a call from the schoolhouse porch draws you away from him with a sad little smile.Â
His chest hurts so badly that he rubs at it with a palm. The hurt is a good sort though. Not the blistering pain of a gunshot wound or slash from a knife, but the ache of...of love. Thatâs what it is, he has to admit it to himself, itâs love. New and small, growing larger each day, but love.
                          -----------------------
Mandoâa Translations:
Adâika - Little one
Lilâika - Basically little Lily. The âika is a diminutive suffix and often you take the first 3 words of a child's name like Groâika to make a familiar name.Â
Caburâika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Dinâs term of endearment for reader after âNever Mess With a School Teacherâ because she is a true guardian of her kids.Â
I was always rereading this fanfic on ao3 and lost it. Plot was reader in 1800s was traveling on Oregon Trail inspired route across the country where she meets the mandalorian, a bounty hunter helping grogu across the country. Over the course of their travels fall in love. At one point ready get sick. It gets angsty too.
I usually can find it but now I can đŤ
Iâm hoping Iâm just losing my mind and someone can help me! If you know it please let me know!