Foreign Brunette

☆ 25 | brazilian | writing-side blog: @mythicalninjas | TMNT content: @roxosupreme ☆

[foreignbrunette]

I would like to share my Transformers OC named Kharoma Mekhit! She is a pitch-black Predacon, older than the original Primes, born before the time we know about Transformers (when Cybertron was ruled by Predacons). Kharoma has two beasts modes (a dragon, like Game of Thrones dragons design/ and a horse) and bot mode (like transformers seem like when they're not in alt mode.)

It's a loooong and detailed story about her and I want to share it with you all as soon as I can ❤️ I have watched Transformers One many times and been thinking how my OC would fit in it.

My OC is original. Do NOT repost/post/use in any other site, or any other way without my permission. I had a hard work planning her beasts modes and bot modes. I had a hard work to plan her backstory (pre-modern cybertron, pre-cybertronian war), and her current life. Unfortunately I have seen people stealing OCs that aren't theirs in years I've spent here on Tumblr, and I'm afraid that it could happen with mine.

[cherrycokeispunk]

Silk and Beskar

by cherrycokeispunk - W.C: 11,143

Din Djarin takes a job from a Hutt-linked merchant on Nal Hutta, thinking it’s just another bounty. But the “payment” isn’t credits: it’s a human girl, held in a palace cruiser full of the kind of moral compromises he usually avoids. When the girl proves she’s smarter, braver, and far more capable than she appears, Din realizes there's things far more valuable than credits at risk.

Or: the story of how Din Djarin lost his virginity.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Content warning: no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader, unprotected P in V sex, grogu isn't here this is like a prequel of sorts, idk what else to mention

Check out my masterlist - read this on AO3

Mando should’ve known better.

He’d been tracking bounties across the Outer Rim long enough to know which clients were trouble, and which were outright suicidal. And a Hutt-linked merchant on Nal Hutta? That was the latter. 

But the credits were too tempting, and the Razor Crest was barely holding together (the hyperdrive couplings had been sparking like fireworks, and every core circuit threatened to go dark whenever he took off). So, reluctantly, Din Djarin agreed.

And now, standing in the merchant’s private meeting rooms aboard a hovering palace cruiser, he remembered why he didn’t accept anything from Hutt associates. 

“This is only half the credits.” Mando said, his voice steady, trying his best to now show any kind of frustration.

“I know, I know, Mandalorian” the merchant, a Zeltron with deep cerulean skin, replied. “Money’s tight, but I am a creature of my word.”

And with that, he stood up, walking towards the end of the room, where he pushed aside a heavy curtain embroidered with stars. Immediately, a wave of strong perfume —spiced with the scent of Corellian hibiscus and Coruscant night markets— hit Mando even through his helmet. 

Din didn’t move. He didn’t have to; he knew exactly what the “payment” would be, and it was not something he wanted.

But, then, he saw it: across the veil of smoke, a faint sparkle caught his eye, and a laugh drifted— light, almost musical, melting into the room like the last note of a flute. 

He stepped forward before caution could stop him.

The merchant guided Din across the wide room, dimly lit by flickering fire candles, the smoke from exotic incense swirling in intricate patterns above Persian-style rugs. The cushions strewn across the floor were deep and embroidered with Naboo silks; they seemed to float above the darkness, inviting yet alien. The air smelled of sin, and the dim lights of the candles drew glowing pale orange shadows on the naked torsos of the ladies. 

Zeltron, Kiffar, Theelin and other human-hybrid females, dressed in silk and linen, laid across the room, spread over the cushions like dehydrated flowers waiting for the dew. Their garments left nothing to the imagination, and yet they covered them enough to leave a man, regardless of his species, intrigued.

“This could easily cover the debt.” the merchant murmured, gesturing toward the figures lounging on the cushions. One of the girls stood up, and without breaking eye contact with Mando, moved to the merchant’s side, giving him a side hug. “More than enough, in fact.” the merchant continued, wrapping an arm across the girl’s slender waist. “My girls ain’t cheap. I am giving you more than what I had offered in the first place.”

Din’s hand hovered near his blaster. Despite being in a room full of women, a few men (some human, most of them Zeltrons and Kiffars) were there… receiving the pleasures they had paid for. 

Everyone’s eyes, one way or another, landed in Din’s figure. He was used to it, at that point, and he knew the lingering eyes of the girls were curious and not threatening, yet Din’s instincts screamed caution. He checked every man in the room for their blasters and weapons, he took note of the guards standing in the darkest corners, and their rifles. He counted the windows (none) and the exits (just one). 

Din cleared his throat, ready to demand the credits outright, when that soft, honeyed laugh sounded again. He must’ve reacted in some way, because the merchant raised an eyebrow, and scoffed a dry laugh. 

“Oh, I see.” the merchant said, waving the figures back into the shadows. “You have… particular tastes, Mandalorian.”

The Zeltron, still holding the girl by her waist, guided Din toward a far corner, where the candlelight barely reached. Shadows twisted in shapes that hinted at hidden treasures —or hidden dangers. Din followed, every step measured, his hand outstretched and ready to blast off anyone if needed. 

Together, the three of them walked towards another room, more secluded. The chamber smelled of spice, smoke, and something faintly metallic —the trace scent of a blaster discharge long past… or perhaps blood. They smelled the same to Din. 

He didn’t know exactly what awaited him, but in his line of work, curiosity and caution walked hand in hand. One wrong step in a Hutt-controlled palace, and it wouldn’t just be credits lost —it would be his head, no helmet, mounted as a warning at the entrance of the brothel.

The merchant stopped before a narrow archway draped in sheer fabric the color of twilight. Unlike the main chamber, this room was quiet. No music. Just the soft crackle of a single oil lamp and that honeycomb laughter he had walked to, like a spell.

The merchant hesitated for a moment, unsure if to say anything or not, but instead he just opened the door and pushed the fabric aside. Inside, there were no cushions scattered across the floor. No perfumed haze thick enough to choke. Just a small table, a low bed against the wall, and a viewport showing the skies of Nal Hutta covered in greenish clouds.

And sitting cross-legged on the edge of the windowsill, was a human girl.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty standard years. Maybe twenty-four. Her long hair fell in uneven waves past her shoulders, clearly cut with a knife instead of proper shears. Her clothes were simple, compared to her co-workers —a loose linen tunic, trousers too big for her frame, sleeves rolled to reveal wrists ringed with faint bruises. Restraint marks.

She wasn’t painted in oils or draped in jewels. She wasn’t smiling seductively. She had something in her hand (the cause of her giggles) but she quickly put it away when they walked in. She looked ahead, and then turned to meet Mando’s gaze, hidden behind the helmet. Somehow, she managed to stare directly at him.

“This” the merchant said smoothly as he took a few steps towards the girl “is special stock. Rare. Fully human. No augmentations. No pheromone glands. No tricks.” He crouched beside her, fingers brushing her jaw as if inspecting merchandise. She didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Fresh acquisition from a man who owed me a lot of money. Claims she’s from some backwater agri-world. No papers. No family.”

The girl’s gaze never left Din’s visor.

“She’s not trained yet.” the merchant added. “Her species makes her expensive, but her condition alone makes her worth far more than the credits I owe you. One hour with her and we would be more than settled.”

Din’s hand slowly curled into a fist.

“How old?” he asked, his voice lower than before.

The merchant shrugged. “Youngest you’ll find of her kind in Nal Hutta.”

Din tilted his helmet slightly. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

The girl's eyes widened. It seemed like Din was the first person to ever speak to her directly, or let alone ask her something so personal, now that she wasn’t a person anymore. But, before she could even stutter, the merchant interrupted sharply, squeezing her arm. “Property designation L-17.”

Din’s visor turned slowly toward him. “She has a name.” he said, matter of fact.

The Zeltron forced a smile, shaking his head, as he put his hands together. “Names are sentimental. And you see, I manage many girls, it’s useless for the stock to remember names and surnames.”

And with that, the merchant took a step closer to Din, and spoke to the girl in the entrance of the chamber, the one who had followed them in. “Give notice at the front desk, L-17 is booked for an hour.”

Din took one deliberate step closer, shaking his hesd. The sound of beskar boots against the metal floor rang heavy in the small room.

“I didn’t agree to this.” he said. “I want the credits.”

“And I am offering you something far more valuable.” the merchant replied, slowly and calm, with a tone as sharp as the blade hidden in his garments. 

Din’s hand hovered near his blaster again— but not out of discomfort this time. He was calculating.

He could demand the money once again, and leave most likely empty handed, best case scenario. He could shoot the merchant and fight his way out of a Hutt cruiser swarming with guards. He could walk away entirely without making a scene.

Or—

“An hour?” he asked, moving his fingers to relax his grip, forcing himself to not grab the blaster. 

“More would be too much. An hour… I understand it is enough time for humans.” the merchant smiled, clearly satisfied. “Assuming, of course, you are human underneath that helmet. I heard most Mandalorians are.”

Din didn’t reply. The Zeltron bowed shortly, and walked to the door. “We’ll see you in an hour” he announced as his girl closed the door, leaving Din and the human completely alone in the chamber.

The door sealed with a heavy hiss. The silence that followed was loud, but it finally made Din relax his shoulders. 

He didn’t move toward her. Instead, he crossed the small chamber, removed his gloves one at a time, and set them carefully on the table. Then, he sat on the edge of the low bed, taking his boots off. After a moment, he leaned back against the wall, helmet still on, arms resting at his sides, trying to get as comfortable as possible. 

He did not look at her. But he knew she was staring, expecting an order. “I won’t touch you” he said at last.

The words sat between them, heavy. To Mando’s surprise, the girl didn’t relax. But she didn’t shrink, either. “You paid for the hour” she said.

“I didn’t pay. The merchant owed me.” Din replied, closing his eyes, though of course she couldn’t see it. 

He could feel her gaze on him, studying him. “You’re Mandalorian,” she said carefully. “That means you have a code.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his eyes, and watched her more closely as she shifted slightly on the windowsill. 

The way she held herself still, the way her breathing evened out on purpose. The lack of fear, or rather her temple-like control of her emotions, made Din raise an eyebrow. Something metallic flashed briefly in her hand before she curled her fingers around it again. Din noticed, of course. 

“Where’d you get that?” he asked, sitting a bit more straight. 

Her chin lifted a fraction. “Get what?” She played fool. 

He tilted his helmet toward her closed fist. After a stretch of measured, skin tight silence, where she realised she couldn’t lie to him, the girl opened her hand. 

It was nothing but a small magnetic restraint clip, bent at the edge and with rough edges— hacked. 

“You’ve been working on that” he observed.

“For three weeks.”

Din nodded, impressed. He imagined most girls, if not all, were held against their will— he had assumed the merchant would’ve had smarter ways to avoid these kinds of situations. And yet, here there was a human girl, with a hijacked clip, waiting for an opportunity to run. 

“That won’t open this door” he informed her, expecting to break her illusion, but her reply surprised him. 

“I know.” She met his visor without flinching. “It opens the service corridor two decks down.”

Now he turned his head fully toward her, standing from the bed. “That corridor leads to—”

“Hangar access.” She finished the sentence. “Or so I’m told.”

Told.

The way she said that, and the slip of an accent —fine and clear like ceramic— made him realize she wasn’t a farm girl. He could hear it in her cadence now, and see it in the straighten of her spine, and the elegant arch of her naked feet. But it was more obvious when you spoke to her, and the way she chose words. 

She was educated, and raised with a purpose much higher than most humans— and definitely not the one the merchant intended of her. 

“You don’t sound like you’re from a backwater agri-world” Din murmured, not sure if he was doing the right thing or not.

She gave the smallest smile. “No, I’m not. And this isn’t my place either— but it’s also no place for a Mandalorian.”

Fair enough. 

Din sat down on the edge of the bed, now closer to the windowsill. “You’re waiting for someone” he said.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

She hesitated, for the first time. But that was just a pause to decide her words. “My people.” She replied at last, something twinkling in her eyes. 

Not family.

Not father.

Not husband. 

People.

That was more than enough to know that she— oh, she was a princess. Or at least nobility. And whatever her heritage was, she was hiding it very well.

“You’re not scared” he said.

She looked at him for a long moment, until she sighed. “I am.” she replied. “I just refuse to perform it.”

Din felt something shift in his chest. It took him a minute to understand it was respect. He hadn’t felt that for someone in a while— truth is, he hadn’t bumped into many people who deserved it. She did, though. At least in plain sight. A noble girl, trapped in a brothel, refusing to break and planning an escape instead of just waiting like a damsel in distress? That deserved respect. 

“Are you going to take me out of here?” she asked, but it wasn’t a plea to be rescued, it was a calculated question, to measure her own plan. 

“No”. Mando replied, and that clearly surprised her. She raised her eyebrows, not a single wrinkle on her forehead as she did.  “I’m not in the business of stealing what isn’t mine.” he found himself explaining— odd for him. 

Her fingers tightened around the clip. “Well, I’m not his property, even if he thinks so.”

Mando swallowed saliva, and nodded. “I know.” He said. She had a point. “I agreed to this” he said finally, voice lower “so I wouldn’t have to kill everyone between here and my ship.” Again, more explanations he wasn’t entirely sure why he was giving— maybe because he hoped she didn’t hate him for not helping her out. “I’ll figure out the credits later. But it was this or bloodshed.”

She studied him, holding herself with her arms. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because if I walk out too soon, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

That earned him the faintest nod. Now she was the one gaining his respect. The Mandalorian was strategic, not hot headed, and didn’t murder for sport.  She liked that. 

Din shifted slightly on the bed, going back to his relaxed pose, resting his back against the bedframe. “You have how long before your people come?”

“It is unknown.”

That made him huff a small laugh. “Then you don’t have a plan.”

“I do” she said, straightening up, holding the chip tight on her fist. “It’s just… delayed.”

Din looked at the bruises, at her clothes, at the bones poking from the hemline of the neck. Three weeks she had lasted, untouched and unbroken, but it was clear her limit was getting closer. If he had been a lesser man, he would’ve been the one in charge to bend that willpower holding her together. 

“You want to get to that service corridor?” Din found himself asking. 

She went very still, her breathing caught on her chest before she spoke. “Yes.”

He sat up. “Then when the hour’s up, you follow me. Don’t run unless I tell you.”

Her eyes sharpened, an eyebrow raised once again. “You’re helping me.”

“I’m helping myself.” he corrected, or rather lied. “I don’t want the merchant to think of me as a partner for business.” A beat of silence followed, and then, once again, Din found himself over explaining. “And I don’t like what this place is.”

That was as close to an admission as she’d get out of him, but it was enough. She slid off the windowsill, stepping closer toward him, but still keeping distance.

“For what it’s worth” she said quietly, “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me— you’re Mandalorian, after all.”

He didn’t respond at that, but his shoulders loosened slightly, almost against his will. Across the hall, distant laughter echoed again. Din glanced toward the door. “We wait.”

The hour did not pass quickly. If anything, they did the opposite. And it got longer with every distant footstep in the corridor that felt closer than it was; with every burst of laughter beyond the walls; with every distant and echoey moan and whimper that reminded them what performance the merchant expected them to be engaging at.

Din checked the time twice in the corner of his visor display. Fifty-three minutes.

She was pacing around the small chamber, not nervously, but thinking. Her linen clothes made a carpet-like sound as they rubbed against each other. “They’ll expect…” She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “They’ll expect signs.”

“I know.” Din replied, although he hadn’t really thought of it. Their gazes landed on the bed, where the sheets laid pristine. Din stood slowly. The mattress dipped as he pressed a gloved hand into it, then released. The fabric smoothed itself almost perfectly.

“Wrinkle them” he said.

She blinked. 

“The sheets.” He clarified. 

She moved without embarrassment now, pulling at the blanket, twisting the fabric, creasing it sharply near the pillows. She tugged one corner loose so it hung unevenly. While she worked on the bed, Din stepped toward the small oil lamp and dimmed it further. The room fell into deeper shadow, making the green clouds on the window glow like emeralds through the window. 

“Your hair” he added, looking at the pale green glow bouncing off of her curls. 

She hesitated only a second before dragging her fingers through it, loosening the waves until they fell more chaotically around her shoulders. But then, she paused, her face contouring into realisation. “I…” She swallowed, with her fingers still tangled on her locks.

“What?” Din asked, turning around to see her composure flickering for the first time.

“They think I’m untouched.”

He said nothing, but he knew her stomach turned just as much as his. 

“If he checks” she continued quietly, more controlled and collected once again, but thinner at the edges, “there won’t be… evidence.”

Silence filled the room again. On his visor, the clock moved a number. Fifty-six. 

Din looked at the sheets. Then at her. Then at his gauntlet. The idea came to mind before he could even process it. 

He stepped past her toward the table, removing one glove. His hands were calloused, scarred with old cuts and burns, many from work, even more from childhood. It took her by surprise to see they were, as least in sight, pure human. 

“I believe this will be enough” he said.

Before she could ask what he meant, he drew the small vibroblade from his boot. He didn’t hesitate, not even a second, when he rested the blade on his skin and made a quick slide across the pad of his finger, shallow enough to heal… shallow enough to bleed. 

She inhaled sharply, despite herself, as she watched how Din pressed his hand briefly against the rumpled sheets, leaving a small, unmistakable stain. It wasn’t dramatic or excessive. It was… believable enough, hopefully. 

He wiped the blade clean against his glove and sealed the minor wound with a small med-seal from his belt. “All right?” he asked.

She stared at the mark on the sheets for a long moment. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Once again, footsteps echoed in the corridor. But this time, they didn’t pass by. 

Din put his glove on and resumed his place on the bed, leaning back against the wall exactly as before —except now the sheets bore their story.

She moved instinctively toward the windowsill again. “No.” Din commanded. When she turned, he nodded to the bed. 

Quickly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, back partially turned to him, hair falling forward over one shoulder. She sat close enough to suggest proximity, but still keeping distance. She clenched the edge of the mattress tightly. Din couldn’t tell if that was part of the acting or not. But before he could ask, the door lock disengaged with a metallic click, and the Zeltron merchant entered with the same perfumed air and calculated smile he had an hour before. 

His gaze flicked immediately to the bed and a smile of satisfaction struck his face. The sheets, the light, her hair, and the stain, all seemed to be doing the trick. 

“I trust the hour was… sufficient?”

Din didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rose slowly from the bed. “It was.” he said.

The merchant’s smile widened. “Excellent. Then our debt—”

“I’m interested in purchasing her.”

Din’s words cut through the room like a blade. Through the corner of his visor, he saw the girl stiffening a bit, still on her spot. 

The merchant blinked for a moment, and then laughed— a short, loud laughter that clearly was the only sound he managed to get out as he processed the request. “I’m afraid she’s not for permanent sale.” The merchant informed. 

“I’m offering triple what you owe me.” Din lied. 

The Zeltron’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “You misunderstand. She is an investment.”

Din stepped closer, voice calm, measured. “Everything has a price.”

Now that wasn’t a lie. And yet, the merchant’s pleasant demeanor cooled by a fraction. “Not this one.”

Din could feel guards shifting just outside the doorway now. The shift was subtle but he picked on it right away, and he hoped the girl was smart enough to pick on it too.  The plan had just tilted.

“She’s—“ Din stuttered, not entirely sure of how to continue, but the merchant interrupted his words. 

“She is leverage.” He informed the Mandalorian. 

Not merchandise, or cargo. Not a gift, or a tool, or a working machine. She wasn’t kept in another room from the other girls because of her price, she was separated… because she wasn’t a girl from the brothel. Hence why the merchant offered her to pay his debt— her abuse didn’t have the goal of a profit for him, but clearly served a function for him. 

Leverage.

Din’s helmet angled slightly. “Against who?”

The merchant’s smile returned to his face, but thin this time. “Now that would be telling.” He said as he gestured politely toward the door. “Our arrangement is complete, Mandalorian. I suggest you depart before additional fees are incurred.”

Din didn’t move. The corridor beyond the doorway felt narrower now as guards grew closer, blasters ready. 

A part of him, a more cowardly side of him, knew he could just walk away with half of a payment and a lot of information. 

Lucky for her, though, he wasn’t a coward. 

Din moved before the guards did.

The merchant’s smile hadn’t fully faded when Din’s gauntlet shot forward and seized him by the collar, dragging him hard into the doorway. The Zeltron gasped as Din twisted him sideways. When the blasters erupted, the first bolt hit the merchant instead of beskar.

Female screams followed.

Din fired with clean, efficient shots. One guard dropped. Another stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, before falling as well. The corridor exploded into chaos. It was clear the guards hadn’t been expecting this, and their hesitation cost them their lives. 

“Move!” Din said, hoping the girl wasn’t waiting for this moment to become foolish. She stepped past the fallen merchant without looking down, and ran to the left. 

Din advanced, firing with measured precision, as he followed her.  They reached the first junction before more boots thundered from the far hall. “Left.” she said. “Service access.”

They slipped into a narrower corridor that was dimmer, colder, and scentless. The decorative walls gave way to exposed piping and maintenance panels. The air smelled metallic— both from blasters and blood. 

As they ran, a bolt scorched the wall inches from her head, making her scream. Din caught her arm and pulled her behind him in the same motion, returning fire without breaking stride. 

“Stay behind me.” He shouted. 

“I am!” She shouted back. 

Finally, they reached the ladder shaft, where two clueless guards awaited. Din didn’t slow, and he blasted before the guards could even draw their weapons. 

The girl took her chip, the hijacked one, and placed it on the door. Her fingers trembled, but it was the only part of her body doing so. And when the door opened, she gasped in relief. “Hangar is forward.” she said, breathing slightly faster now. “But they’ll lock it.”

“Not before we get there.” Mando shook his head. 

They turned the final corner, and ran straight into resistance. Four guards this time. Unlike their previous workmates, these ones were prepared and ready to blast. In a quick move, Din shoved the girl sideways, behind a stack of supply crates, just in time the blasterfire erupted.

The corridor filled with light, his beskar armour making fireworks with each hit of a bolt. One guard went down to a clean headshot. Another to a blast that ricocheted off the wall and caught him in the throat. The third lunged forward, and Din drove him into the bulkhead with a brutal shoulder slam before firing point-blank.

The fourth fled the scene. Din would’ve killed him if it wasn’t for the girl. 

He turned his head to locate her, but lucky for him, she was already moving past the bodies and into the hangar. That made the corners of his mouth lift up as he ran behind her.

They burst into the hangar as the massive bay doors were already beginning to close. And there, waiting, sat the Razor Crest. But blasterfire began to rain down from a catwalk above as they reached the ship. A bolt clipped the edge of the ramp controls as Din slammed his fist against them. 

The boarding ramp began to lower, and she climbed up, but halfway up, a bolt grazed her shoulder.

Din turned and fired upward, forcing the catwalk guards back just long enough for the girl and him to climb up and close the ramp. 

Inside, the Crest felt tighter than ever as he rushed to the cockpit. She followed behind, one hand pressed to her shoulder, though she refused to slow or cry. 

Din dropped into the pilot’s seat and ignited the engines. The hyperdrive couplings screamed in protest, and he silently prayed they cooperated one last time.

“Hangar doors are sealing,” she exclaimed, peering through the viewport.

Din didn’t hesitate as The Crest lurched violently upward, scraping hard along the closing doors. Metal shrieked. Sparks exploded across the viewport in blinding flashes. For a moment —one suspended, endless second, longer than the hour they had endured— it felt like the ship wouldn’t make it. 

And then, they were flying across Nal Hutta’s murky sky. Din steadied the controls, guiding them into thick green cloud cover, and as far away from the brothel as possible. 

That’s when she collapsed. 

By the time you awoke, the sounds of screams and blasters were long gone, and the smell of perfume and incense had faded away. 

The ship was quiet. Not silent —ships were never silent— but quiet in the way the world sounds after a thunderstorm, before birds sing again. Quiet, just like when something stubborn settles after surviving. You noticed the faint clicking of cooling metal, and a low vibration under the floor.

You did not open your eyes immediately, as they were still heavy. That was the first thing you felt. The second was pain. Not sharp and blinding like the moment you were shot-- instead, it was a dull, tight pull on your shoulder. You reached your hand to your shoulder, and recognised the gauze to the touch. As your fingers traveled, you touched something else. A blanket, definitely not soft, or washed, but doing its job.

Your memory returned in fragments, then. The corridor. The catwalk. The bolt. The Mandalorian.

Your eyes opened slowly, at last. Around you, the cockpit lights were dimmed. That surprised you-- the fact that you were still in the cockpit, sitting on the passenger seat, instead of laying on a bed. Outside, the viewport stretched not across the green murk of Nal Hutta, but a velvet, deep darkness, speckled with distant stars.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was. 

The Mandalorian. 

Your saviour.

He was seated on the pilot chair beside you, helmet still on, of course, with an upright but not rigid posture . One gloved hand rested loosely against his thigh, while the other hung near the controls.

You sat upright, straightening on the chair. You shifted your weight, the gauze cold but comforting across your shoulder. Every movement reminded you of the fight, of the corridor, the catwalk, the feel of cold metal under your palms, and the smell of scorched walls. Yet, even with pain lingering, even with the adrenaline fading, there was a sliver of relief that wrapped around you like the coarse blanket still draped across your lap.

The Mandalorian didn’t turn, nor moved. He just spoke.

“You’re nobility.”

His voice was calm, and he didn’t say it like an accusation, just like a fact he had assumed back in the brothel and confirmed a moment ago. 

You let out a slow breath, as a deep weight sunk onto your chest. “Yes” was all you said.

When he didn’t reply, nor ask more questions, you moved, folding the coarse blanket back and swinging your legs slowly off the cot, ignoring the slight pull in your shoulder. The cockpit smelled faintly of fuel, ozone, and oil.

“What gave it away?” you asked, resting your head fully against the chair as you watched the stars. 

“Your accent, and certain words you use--” the Mandalorian explained, his voice deep and rich. Now that you were out of danger and enclosured into the cockpit of the ship, it projected more clearly. “No farmer girl has your vocabulary, and the leverage part… men like the merchant love money more than anything, it didn't make sense he wouldn’t sell you to me. So, I searched databases.”

Your stomach tightened, but not from fear. From inevitability.

“I found inconsistencies.” he continued. “No missing persons report matching your description from any agri-world in the sector. No ransom demand listed through known Hutt channels.” His head tilted slightly. “No public bounty.”

You held his gaze through the visor.

“Yet…” he continued calmly, “three encrypted bulletins were issued through private syndicate networks three weeks ago. Diplomatic bulletins.”

The silence that lingered was deep and rich, and it added more weight to the stone that was oppressing your chest.

“Your father...” the Mandalorian spoke, matter-of-fact. “is the King of Corfai”

“Former King.” you corrected softly, and cleared your throat as you looked away. “He abdicated three years ago, my brother sits on the throne now. But the Hutts don’t care about titles.”

The engines hummed steadily. “The merchant said they took you for leverage” the mandalorian repeated.

“For humiliation.” You corrected, again. Gathering strength, and ignoring the pull on your shoulder, you stood carefully, bracing one hand on the bulkhead. The ship swayed subtly with hyperspace corrections. “They wanted a smuggling corridor across Corfai’s southern hemisphere. A permanent passage with unchecked inspections and protected airspace.”

“For the merchant network.” he said.

“For the Hutt merchant network” you clarified, giving him a look that implied a lot. He is a bounty hunter, you thought to yourself, so he must be aware what kinds of merchandise flows in a Hutt merchant network. Spice, weapons, drugs, and more than just women to feed the brothels. 

“Corfai’s economy is delicate, especially now with these turbulent political times.” you continued. “They believed my father would bend and convince my brother, but he didn’t.” A faint exhale left your chest, although it didn’t lessen the heavy sensation you felt. 

“So they made you disappear” Mando said, but you shook your head. Unconsciously, you found yourself clasping your hands together, behind your pack— an old posture from state briefings. 

“I wasn’t meant to be killed or disappeared. Quite the opposite, in fact. I was meant to be seen, and rumoured about my whereabouts. About my dignity.”

“And then returned damaged” he finished.

Your jaw tightened. “I don’t believe they would’ve returned me, but yes. Hand me back damaged, stained, violated. No longer a princess, but instead a living proof of the Hutt’s power, of what happens when you say no.” 

He paused, and for a moment, you dared to let the heaviness settle without moving. The soft vibration of the hyperdrive hummed through the floor and into your bones. The dim cockpit lights cast long, angular shadows across the panels, glinting off the metallic edges of buttons and switches. Outside, the stars blurred into thin, pale streaks, streaks that seemed to echo the chaos you’d just escaped.

Then he broke the silence. “Are you hurt?”

“Just the shoulder.” You shruggle, holding the injured arm with your hand. “Thanks, for patching me up. And saving me.”

Your manners were not the best, you knew, but it made you feel flustered just to imagine the Mandalorian picking you up, ripping your shirt off, cleaning your wound and then carefully setting you beside him. 

“You’re welcome” he scoffed. “But I meant…” His voice softened, almost low enough to be swallowed by the hum of the ship. “The merchant said you were unclaimed.”

His voice was low, and if he hadn't been wearing that helmet, you would’ve sworn he was blushing as he spoke. “You said you were unclaimed. Is… that true?”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than any blaster bolt had been. You knew what he meant, and for some reason --perhaps owing him your life, or perhaps his religion-- you decided to speak the truth.

“No.”

You looked out the window, into the stars, as you continued. “I was claimed long ago, by a knight who no longer works at the palace. I’ve had many lovers since then.” You didn’t meet his gaze, but through the corner of your eye you saw the helmet move. “The merchant thinks he can tell when a human is virgin or not, when he barely even knows our anatomy.”

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clicks of the ship’s machinery. You hoped he didn’t ask more specific details. 

“Did the lie help?”

“Yes…” you spoke with the truth again. “But it wasn’t going to last long. You came in time.”

You shifted, taking a steadying breath as the hyperdrive thrummed beneath you. The vibration traveled through your chest, soft but persistent, lessening a bit of that heaviness you felt in your chest.

And when you thought the conversation was over, the bounty hunter spoke once again. “Why did you choose the service corridor instead of the main hall to escape?”

“The main hall cameras record to external Hutt archives. The service corridors are internal.” You explained. The smooth, unyielding tilt of his helmet caught the low light, reflecting stars in tiny, fractured patterns.

“You weren’t planning to be rescued” he said quietly, as though verifying a truth he already suspected.

“No.” you admitted, looking back at him. “I tried to keep a low profile, and flee on my own before things could escalate.”

“And now?”

You looked out the viewport at the velvet expanse of hyperspace, letting the stars draw your focus. “Now I need a ship that can move without attracting attention.”

A slight tilt of the helmet, deliberate, made you turn once more. “You’re in one.” he said.

Your shoulders eased slightly. “You realize that if you return me to Corfai, you will not leave quietly, right?”

“I don’t plan to land publicly.”

“And if my father insists on thanking you?”

“I’ll leave before he can.”

For the first time, a small smile flickered across your face, fragile but real. “You could drop me at a neutral system, and erase yourself from this.”

“I don’t abandon assets mid-transport.”

You almost replied back with something silly, like ‘I'm not an asset’, but you knew it'd be pointless. And a lie. You were an asset, a piece of a game, an object for men’s politics. So you just sat down again.

The ship’s hyperspace hummed deeper, steadying the ship’s path, as if sensing the fragile truce forming between you.

“What happens when we reach Corfai?” the Mandalorian asked.

You inhaled, slow, measured, the faint scent of ozone and oil sharp in your nose. “Officially? I was never gone.”

“And unofficially?”

You bit your cheek. “We’ll determine how much of this becomes public. If the Hutts are exposed, it becomes galactic. If it stays quiet… then perhaps we might let it slide.”

For a long moment, the two of you sat in the cockpit, suspended in the silent hum of the Razor Crest. The dim lights glimmered on the smooth curves of metal, on the worn edges of control panels, on the gloved hands resting lightly at your side. Outside, hyperspace stretched, carrying you away from the brothel.

Time moved slowly as the bounty hunter and you traveled through space towards your planet, and the Hyperspace had gone quiet in the way only deep night can feel quiet.

The Razor Crest vibrated softly around you. The lights were dimmed to a low amber glow, shadows settling into corners, the cockpit illuminated only by the wash of blue streaming past the viewport.

You couldn’t sleep.

The Mandalorian had shown you a bed where you could rest more comfortably, the only one in the small ship— his bed. 

You turned in the sheets, trying to pick up the smell left there. The scent, not of his armour, but of his skin. Every time you closed your eyes, echoes of the brothel invaded your thoughts. Long nights where all you could hear were moans and pleasure. Now, those memories mixed in with the scent of what hid beneath the beskar.

You couldn’t sleep. 

You stepped from the bed slowly, your bare feet quiet against cold decking. You took a few steps —it wasn’t a large ship by any means— and found the Mandalorian right where you had expected him, still on his pilot seat, even though the ship was in autopilot. 

“You don’t trust autopilot” you said softly, hoping to not startle him, but he wasn’t asleep. 

“It’s old.” He replied, gloved hands resting on his thighs. 

“So are you.” You joked, taking another step closer. And, to your surprise, he joked back. 

“I’m older.”

You smiled, and stepped into the cockpit.

The air was unperfumed. Nothing like the brothel’s cloying air. And yet, the echoes of the moans continued to run on your ears. You lowered yourself into the co-pilot seat. “Couldn’t sleep” you explained.

“Nightmares?” The Mandalorian asked, making you chuckle. 

“Eh, you could say so” you said with a shrug.

The silence stretched, deep like the black stretching across the galaxy. Not a ship in sight, not a planet nearby. They were so far away even the stars seemed to be out of reach. 

But you couldn't let that distract you. You were on your way to Corfai, to your father and brother, to your duties and responsibilities. To your silk dresses and long hours of work. You had to shift your mind once again, dart it away from the echoes of the brothel, from the scent still trapped on your nostrils. 

“Can I be honest now?” you found yourself saying. The Mandalorian nodded, shortly. “You asked if I was… still a maiden. And I said no. I’d rather we keep that between you and me.”

It took the bounty hunter a long moment to reply, long enough to make you hesitate if the request had been a right call. But he surprised you, at last, when he cleared his throat, and said: “Not my business to tell.”

“Right. But, for nobility, these kinds of things are important.” You replied, perhaps too quickly. You didn’t like the anxiety that was growing on you the closer the ship got to Corfai.

“Why?” 

“Huh?”

When you turned your head, you found the beskar helmet staring right at you, your own face reflected on the visor. You didn’t look happy for a princess that was just rescued. 

“Why is your maidenhood important for nobility?” The Mandalorian asked.  

You had to look away, even if he didn’t. “Well, heritage, I suppose.” You found yourself doubting, even though you knew the reasons. You were taught from birth your body was more important than others, because it had the ability to birth heirs to the throne, to continue the bloodline. That, above all, was your duty and purpose. 

“And… there’s this thing about being… pure. The whole reason I was kept in a brothel and not locked in a cell is because they wanted to take that away too.” 

“But you aren’t pure.” The Mandalorian said, matter-of-fact. 

“No, I’m not” you confirmed.

Your gazes met again. But now, instead of watching your reflection, you forced your eyes to look beyond, to try and spot the human eyes you knew laid beneath the armor. 

You didn’t mean to do it, but your eyes dropped down to admire the rest of the fit-- a big armor, for a big man. Older, he had said. Determined, not hot headed. Respectful. And yet, incredibly dangerous. After all, this wasn’t one of the castle’s knights, this was a bounty hunter who just so happened to bump into you. A man who could’ve abused you if he had wanted to. A man still with the opportunity to do so.

His hand --the one he had taken the glove off to cut his finger for you-- was resting on the control board, but it drifted down slowly, like a snail, to lay on your knee. It was big, heavy, and warm, and his thumb ran soft circles on your exposed skin. 

And when you looked up --to do what? You weren’t sure-- he moved it away, as if he’d gotten a whiplash. 

“Sorry. I don’t want to get it wrong.” he apologized, looking ahead, and straightening his stance --closing his legs, tightening his shoulders, and clearing his throat, his voice more correct now, less warm. It didn’t sound arrogant, nor controlling. 

He was nervous. 

You turned fully in your seat to face him, your legs crossed daintily by your ankles. 

“Get what wrong?” you asked quietly.

The Mandalorian didn’t look at you at first. His helmet remained fixed forward, staring out at the endless streak of hyperspace as if it were the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.

“You” he said after a moment. “I’m a bounty hunter.” he continued, voice careful now, measured in a way that felt more deliberate than before. “You’re a princess.”

The way he said it made the title feel heavier than it had when it came from courtiers and diplomats. From them, it was expectation. From him, it sounded like distance.

“You were taken by Hutt men” he went on. “You were kept somewhere you didn’t choose to be. I’m bringing you home.” His fingers curled once against his thigh. “Wouldn’t be right to...”

“To what?” you pressed, hoping, begging on your mind he’d ask what you wanted him to. That he also couldn't escape the moans echoing on his head, that he was also drunk on your scent --not the incense of the brothel, but your own scent, the smell of your skin.

The helmet turned toward you again. And, once again, your reflection stared back at you from the visor, eyes darker now in the dim amber light.

“Mistake your kindness” he said.

That surprised you. “Kindness?” you repeated, a bit disappointed.

“You’re grateful I got you out” he said simply. “That can feel like something else, to other bounty hunters.”

You bit your cheek, a bit frustrated, and leaned back slightly in the seat, folding your arms loosely across your middle. For a moment you watched the faint reflection of his helmet in the cockpit glass, the broad shape of him filling the small space.

“That’s a very cautious way to live.”

“It’s a necessary one.”

You tilted your head. You knew it was necessary-- it was the way you were raised to. But needs were needs. 

“For bounty hunters?”

“For men who wear armor.” he simply said, and something about the way he said it made your stomach tighten. The odor of his human skin, the one trapped beneath the beskar, still hung on your nose.

You let the silence stretch again, long enough that the hum of the ship filled the space between breaths.

Then you spoke, almost in a whisper. “You’re assuming my kindness comes from being rescued, or because of my manners.” The cockpit felt smaller, if that was even possible, when he turned again. “I spent weeks in a brothel…” you continued, your voice steady but low, your gaze fixed on the visor. “...listening to men think they were irresistible because someone was paid to moan for them.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the armrest of your chair. “Trust me, Mandalorian. I know what false interest sounds like. This isn’t it.”

You could almost feel the way he was listening now and how his body relaxed involuntarily-- shoulders loosening, legs opening up again.

“So, if I were grateful…” you said, standing up, “…it would look like this.”

The pilot seat didn’t move when you slowly lowered yourself to sit on his legs, straddling him. 

You didn’t move until you got a sign, of any kind, that he wanted this. Lucky for you, it came rather quickly— his hands, gloves on, moved to hold your waist, and fixed your posture on his lap to a more comfortable angle, exactly where your hips and his met. 

But when he spoke, his words shocked you. 

“I’ve never…” He began stuttering. “I’ve never been with anyone.”

There was no embarrassment in his tone. He just said it, stating a fact. It made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“You don’t owe me that confession” you said gently.

“I wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t expect something I don’t know how to give.”

That made your smile soften, and relax your shoulders, even if you hadn’t been aware you were so tense. He was a virgin, probably by Mandalorian code, or perhaps due to his own personal experience. A man so correct, so right, so strict, of course had trouble enjoying himself. It didn’t turn your heat off— if anything, it made you feel calmer. And hornier. 

“Sex isn’t about giving or taking— that’s prostitution. That’s what happened in the brothel. We aren’t there anymore.” You explained, running your fingers lazily up and down his arms, moving them up to trace a slow line along the edge of his collar. “You’re very brave in battle” you murmured.

“Battle makes sense.”

“And this?”

The Mandalorian took a pause, exhaling. 

“This doesn’t.”

It made you smile again. “It will. If you want to” you whispered. 

And, to surprise you again, the Mandalorian’s hands tightened around your waist at your words, almost as if he’d been afraid you would’ve stepped away from his lap. 

“I do.”

You smirked. 

The heat pouring off of your core was already too noticeable to ignore it anymore, so you rested your hands on his broad shoulders, holding on to his frame, as you began to rock your hips back and forth. The fabric of his pants made a sharp contrast between the rough linen of your brothel clothing, rubbing you harsh but determined. And the naked parts of your body —yours hands, your arms, and part of your thighs— felt hot against the cool beskar armour. 

But before you could moan, he did. 

His hands grasped your waist stronger, pushing you deeper into his crotch, making the friction more intense. A moan, mixed in with a small gasp of surprise, left your lips. 

You would’ve devoured his mouth now, but he kept his helmet on, your own eyes reflected on them. “Does it break any Mandalorian code—?”

“Leave that to me” he interrupted before you could even finish. His voice sounded worked up, and breath taken. “You… you keep moving.”

That made you bite your lip to hold on a smile. You kept moving, slowly, in a circular pattern. You felt yourself get wet, dampening the linen of your clothes. 

“You feel anything under your suit?”

“I do.” He growled. That made you speed up just a bit, and rub yourself a bit tighter. The Mandalorian didn’t moan again, but you could tell he was swallowing all the noises down his throat.

“And your gloves?” You continued, pushing the edge a bit. You were eager to be touched by real skin, and to get closer to the scent you’d smelled in his bed— his scent, not the scent of the beskar. “You can touch me”

You didn’t expect much, so you smiled when he actually moved his arms from your waist to remove both of his gloves. The cut finger was the first one to land on your waist again, and you felt the small bump of the healing wound against your skin. 

His hands were big, soft, pale white. And they guided you deeper into his crotch. Your linen garments were ruined by your wetness by now, and through his pants, you felt his manhood grow and harden, rubbing you exactly where you wanted him the most. 

“You’re not bad at this” you whispered.

“I’m armored” he replied, making you laugh softly, and the sound broke the last of the tension between you two.

Your hands slid from his helmet to rest lightly at his collar. “If we go further” you said, gently “we go slowly. And we stop if you want to.”

“Yes.”

He looked steadier now. Not overwhelmed. Just focused.

“I don’t want to rush you” he said.

“You’re not.” You replied, a bit surprised. You were clearly the one rushing him, not the other way around. But this man, this Mandalorian, you’ve come to learn, was too well mannered. 

You brushed your thumb lightly along the edge of his helmet, and he pressed his fingers tighter against your skin, pressing on to your ribs. 

“You’re choosing this?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You chuckled a bit, although it was more of a moan than a giggle. “Do I have to explain why I want to sleep with you?” 

“Yes.” He replied immediately. “I don’t want you to do it because you feel indebted.”

“I know i'm not”

“Or because you think you should.”

“I know I shouldn’t”

“Then why?”

You stopped your hips, feeling his cock hard and pressing against you. You felt like you were drowning in your clothes, and seeing him all dressed, helmet on, made the sensation worse. 

“Because I need to get off.” You confessed, and looked down at the spot where your hips met his, where the fabrics had faint stains of wetness. “And so do you.”

That seemed to settle it.

He nodded once, sharp, firm, like the knights of the palace when you gave them orders. “Then I’m yours” he said quietly.

It made you bite your lip. You would’ve devoured his mouth right there, but there was one thing standing in between. 

“The helmet—?”

“Stays on” he cut you off, immediately. 

You sighed, a bit frustrated. “So I can’t kiss you?”

It took the Mandalorian a moment to reply, as if he was measuring his options. But in the end, he shook his head, sharp, but less firm, like this wasn’t an order he was happy to follow. 

You swallowed saliva, the pool of heat on your thighs now unbearable. “Well, lucky for you I can do other things with my lips” you said, and moved. 

He was about to protest when your hips moved away from his crotch when you kneeled in front of him, and worked your way around his belt. 

The Mandalorian didn’t move— he seemed too shocked for it. But when you huffed in annoyance he flicked your fingers off of the belt, and swiftly removed it. You leaned back for a bit to admire it; watching a man take his belt off was a sight you loved to see. 

When he was done loosening the belt, you continued your job. Gracefully, as to not startle him, you moved your hand, cupping his cock before sliding it in to pull it out. 

It was pale, veiny, and you saw a lot of hair at the base. Pretty good length— not too much, not too little. The tip was a soft shade of pink, and you couldn’t help but imagine that was the same color of his lips, hidden beneath the beskar helmet. 

The bizarreness of it all made you chuckle a bit. Here you were, holding a man’s length in all its glory, and yet you were not allowed to see his face as you lowered your lips, and gently sucked off. 

Drowning the moans was too much for the bounty hunter at this point, and his hiss felt like a victory chant. After all, it was the only way to know he was enjoying it. 

You took your time blowing him. He was a virgin, but you weren’t sure if he had ever been given pleasure like this before, so you made the experience worth remembering. 

Your tongue wrapped on his tip all the way through, and sucked hard, making pressure on his nerves. You removed your lips quite often to spat on his shaft, so your hand could slide up and down smoothly. You felt every vein on his cock pump with each stroke of your hand, and by the time your mouth was reaching the base, the Mandalorian was holding your hair, helmet tilted back, and growling like a beast. 

“I—“ he moaned, clearly out of his control. You moved your lips away, holding to his cock but not stroking it. It pulsed, like a bomb, on your grip. You knew exactly what was happening— he was about to come, all the cum gathered right on the tip, waiting for release. 

“Bed?” You asked as you slowly rose. He nodded, and you almost swore you saw him tremble. 

Smiling, licking his taste off of your lips, you took his hand and guided him to his bed, as if this wasn’t his ship and not yours. 

You would’ve loved to ask about the helmet once again, but you knew you couldn’t push it. So, once you reached his bedsheets, you only slipped off of the linen garments, and rested on all fours, chest pressed on the mattress, ass up in the air. 

You didn’t have to explain to him what to do, although it took him a moment to follow. You felt the tip right on your folds, trying to push in— and even though you were wet, the friction made you flinch a bit. 

“Spit on it, and go slow” you told him. You couldn’t help but moan when, after a pause, a wet and cold spat landed right on your ass, sliding down to your core. “That’s it.” 

The Mandalorian moved the tip up and down, parting your lips, before he put a knee up on the bed, and slowly pushed in. The sensation— the first time a cock slides into your womanhood— was as good as ever. But for him? Oh.

The Mandalorian let out a loud huff, something along the lines of incredible pleasure and frustration to not come right away. He stood still inside of you, before he gathered himself and began to rock his hips in and out. You weren’t sure if you needed to give him any more guidance than this, but he seemed like he didn’t need it. 

For a moment, all the sounds on the ship were his and your moans, growing louder, covering the hum of the ship, the sounds of the windpipes on the walls, the drip of the oil or the purr of the engine. That’s why he took you by surprise when he spoke, voice a bit trembling, but holding together. 

“You said let it slide”  

“Huh?”

“Your kidnapping.” He huffed, hips in and out. “Why wouldn't you want to--?

“Take revenge?” You finished the sentence as he drowned in a moan. 

He swallowed. “Claim justice”

You adjusted your hips, raising them up a little. Your chest rose off of the mattress, letting you breathe a bit more, and talk more smoothly. You swallowed another moan. “Some battles are not worth the fight. My planet isn't in the right position, politically and economically, to face the Hutt cartel” you explained as your hand reached down to rub yourself, immediately tightening around the bounty hunter’s cock. It made him hiss. 

“Aren’t you mad?” He asked. 

“I’m—“ you tried to reply, but the Mandalorian moved his own hand off of your hips to replace your own fingers in your cunt. You held them in place, teaching him exactly how to move them, and where. He was a quick learner. “I’m close”

The political conversation ended right the same way it had started— drowned in moans. You moved your hand away, and the Mandalorian kept his movements perfectly paced, synchronizing his thrusts with the circular movements around your clitoris. 

You turned your head, your lips partially open, holding in the tune of the moans, and saw him naked— all except the helmet, of course. 

His torso was lean, strong, covered in hair. Some spots didn’t have hair, though, and instead had scars. He was pale, very much so, but sweat covered every inch of his skin, and you knew underneath that helmet he was blushed and dripping. 

You knew he was making eye contact through the beskar, because he thrusted harder when you turned to face him. “Would you let me do this back in the brothel if I had wanted to?” He asked. 

“No, definitely" you said, although you didn’t sound that convincing as he pounded you in all fours. 

“Then why you let me now?” 

You rolled your eyes. You knew this was important to him— to know that this wasn’t a mistake, that he wasn’t breaking codes, nor your trust. You knew that he, bless his heart, had never done this, and wasn’t totally aware of the subtle, gentle, swift dance around sex. “Consent, reward“ you moaned, feeling your cunt get tighter. 

“Shit” the Mandalorian cursed, loud, as he suddenly pulled his cock out. You hissed at the sudden loss of contact. “Stop that”  he said.

You shook your head— asshole didn’t let you come. Of course, he had no clue what was happening, he only did so because he was probably about to finish as well, just with the grip of your core. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” You apologized, but raised an eyebrow as you saw him kneel right on your core. “What you what are you--?”

“Close your eyes.” He commanded, and you smiled. He was about to eat you out. Biting your lip, you faced the wall again. Then, the sound of beskar hitting the floor, and a deep breath, told you all you needed to know— he’d removed his helmet.  

“I’ve never done this before” he said, voice raggedy but more clear now that he didn’t cover his head anymore. 

“Remove your helmet or go down on a girl?” 

He huffed. “The latter”

You moved a little in place, and used both hands to spread your cheeks wide, but his own hands covered yours in a second. You removed them, and held tight to the sheets. “Give it a long lick, all across the folds first.” You explained. 

It took a second but then you felt it— the soft, cold, slimy tongue right across your burning cunt. It felt refreshing, like sipping a glass of the coldest and sweetest juice you could find in the galaxy when you are thirsty. Your moans made you vibrate, and you felt him smirk on your sex. 

“Now part them apart, and work your way in with your tongue.” You continued explaining, and he obeyed to perfection. His lips sucked on you, drinking in your fluids. “Once you reach the clit you suck— fuck!”

He’d found it, and he had sucked. 

“You alright?” He asked, parting his lips from your cunt as your knees shook.  

“Don’t stop.” 

The Mandalorian obeyed, and went back to eating you out. His tongue explored every crevice, and moved in and out of your entrance just like his cock had done it before lowering to your clit. It moved up and down, sometimes close to reaching your ass. You would’ve loved to ask him to lick it too, but you didn’t want to push him too much— besides, your cunt was tilting by this point. 

“I need a finger” you murmured, nose buried on his pillow as you inhaled his scent. 

“Huh?” 

“In me.” You clarified. “Do it slow, lick it first.”

You couldn’t help but giggle a bit when, suddenly, his hand was right next to your face. He wanted you to lick his fingers. 

You moved your head a bit to do so, and through the corner of your eye, you saw a glance of him— small ears, and brunette short hair with curls stuck by his sweat onto his skull. But that was about it. 

In your tongue, you felt the small dent of the cut on his finger, the small wound he had taken to himself to free you from the brothel, all because you’ve lied about your virginity. And now here you were, sucking on it, helping him claim his own. 

The Mandalorian removed his hand, now sloppy with your saliva, and you smirked. “You’re naughty, Mandalorian” 

“Din. call me Din.” He corrected, but he didn’t pause to let you process the information. “Now what?”

“Insert them, slow, and when you reach the top, hook them up and move them towards you, like you're calling me” you explained. 

You felt the index and middle fingers slowly get in, sliding with no problem. They were thick, and they easily got all the way in, and hooked like you asked him. It made you shiver as he moved them, calling for another orgasm. 

“Now?”

“Keep eating me too.” You sighed, and moaned louder when his fingers moved faster and his tongue went back to your clit. “Oh my—“

It didn’t take you that long to cum this time, now properly riding your orgasm through his fingers. You felt yourself tighten around them, and you knew he felt it too, and tasted the sweet liquid softly pouring out. 

When he removed his lips, you thought he was just taking a break to breathe through, but he moved his fingers away, and held you by the hips. “Keep your eyes closed” he commanded as he flipped you to lay on your back. 

He barely gave you a second to obey, but he was ahead of it— his hand reached your eyes before your back had hit the mattress. You opened your legs wider, setting them on his shoulders. This time, you didn’t have to give him any indications. 

You moaned hard when he slipped in. You were over-stimulated by this point, and the angle on your hips made his cock thrust even deeper, rubbing against your cervix, making you hiss. His hand, big, rough and sweaty, pressed hard against your eyes. 

“Don’t stop” you begged.

“Wasn’t gonna” he replied, and to your surprise, his voice was just centimeters away from your ear. His breath mixed in with yours when you moved your head a bit. And, still with your eyes covered, you leaned into his mouth. 

His lips were chapped, but the moistness of your cunt had softened them. He tasted like you, but they also had a metallic touch to them, probably from the beskar. You were surprised to also feel hair from a trimmed beard and moustache as well. 

Your hands moved to hold him, to run your fingers on the damp curls, to caress his jawline and feel his beard, to hold on to his thick, strong neck. You were lost, lost in his smell, his touch, his tongue, his cock— so lost, in fact, that you didn’t even realize he’d removed his hand from your eyes at one point to hold your waist, and cup your breasts, and run his fingers through your curls too. 

But his hand returned to cover your vision at the same time he broke the kiss apart in raggedy breaths. “I need to—“ 

“Come? Pull out, then” 

You felt it all, but didn’t see it— his cock moving out of your pulsing cunt, and the hot pool of cum dripping into the skin of your belly. It was hot against your skin, and it came out in small intervals, until it was finally over. 

“Keep your eyes closed” he murmured as he softly stood up, removing his hand from your face, and walking away. 

Of course, you didn’t obey. 

You opened them up immediately to see the mess. His cum, white and thick, was creamy and shiny on your skin. You saw the bedsheets were damp as well. And in between your thighs, just before your leg ended and your genitals started, there was a love bite. 

You couldn’t explore it much before you heard footsteps, and closed your eyes shut again. 

“You can open them” you heard Din speak, his voice a bit drowned now— he’d put the helmet on. He was still naked, but now more freshened up, sweat no longer clinging to his skin. He carried a damp towel, which he immediately used to clean his seed off of your skin. 

He did it slowly, and you knew he was admiring it under the helmet, taking in the scene in front of him.

“How you feeling?” You asked. 

He sighed, and dropped the towel aside as he put his hands on his hips. “Tired” was all he said, and then moved to pull his pants up. 

You smiled, and moved to the side, to leave him room. “Sleep with me.” You said, and chuckled when his helmet suddenly snapped up. “We already fucked, we might as well” 

He didn’t move, not speak, but his shoulders relaxed. He crawled to your side, and laid on his back, stiff like a board. 

Rolling your eyes and smiling, you moved to cuddle him. “This is part of the sex too, Din” you explained, and that made him loosen up, loosely draping an arm around your waist as you drifted off. 

dividers by toastray - pics from Piterest - DO NOT copy, reupload, translate or steal pls

[cherrycokeispunk]

The bar where we met

She didn’t hate Joel, not really. He had given her Sarah, and now baby Seth on the way.

Joel was perfect, when he wasn’t drunk on anger. He was sweet, when he wasn’t high on adrenaline. He was romantic, when he didn’t abuse her. In the end, she didn’t want to hurt him, and taking Sarah would’ve been a death sentence.

Or: you’re Sarah’s mom, and this is the story of why you left.

Pairing: dark!joel x reader • WC: 1,645

Content warnings: verbal violence, short non descriptive physical violence, pregnancy, mentions of drinking and blood, no use of y/n, an OC baby boy (Sarah’s unborn brother), she/her pronouns for reader, this is angsty af

Authors note: this has been sitting in my google docs for a while, I always thought it could be a long fanfic but my plate’s kinda full rn with the long content (I’m 3/4 through writing a new fic, I have one I almost finished and then hated it and now I have to rewrite it, and I’ve got another very early WIP as well). So, I decided to just post it as a one shot. If you guys like it I might turn it into something longer

read on AO3 ────୨ৎ──── check out my masterlist

The sound of the sink woke her up from her dreamless night. Slowly, she blinked, and looked over her clock on the nightstand. 2 A.M.

She walked downstairs, her thin pajamas stuck to her sweaty skin in the hot Texas night, and found Joel leaning on the counter. He was washing his knuckles, over and over again, although the blood didn’t stop pouring out.

She sighed, and leaned beside him, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Sarah—“

“She’s asleep, in her bed. I tucked her in.” She replied, shortly, before he could say anything else.

He swallowed saliva, and tasted iron.

“Are you alright?” She asked after a moment of silence. He just nodded, holding onto the sink, making his knuckles bleed again. She leaned in, to look at his face, but he moved it away before she could see.

She uncrossed her arms, abruptly, and held him by the jaw to turn his face around. Under the moonlight and the dim light coming from under the cabinets, she saw his nose bloody, and swollen. She huffed, but before she could talk, he grasped her wrist, hard, moving it away from his face.

“Jo—“ she tried to speak, but her words were cut short when he smacked his lips on hers. She tasted whiskey, Marlboro and blood. It would’ve turned her on a few years ago, before they used to play house. It would’ve turned her on back when her own mouth would’ve had the same taste, instead of toothpaste and prenatal vitamins.

She pushed him away, panting. “Joel” she warned, but she didn’t even know what she wanted to say to him. That he had to step up? That he should start caring? That she wasn’t going to be able to handle two kids by herself? That he couldn’t keep getting in fights, or listen to his brother anymore?

Instead, all she did was walk to the bathroom and get the first aid kit.

Without words, she walked back to the kitchen, and sat on the counter, so her head would be at the same height as his. He leaned his head back, and she got to work on it.

Silence overpowered the house, letting all the small, insignificant noises of the night be heard. The faucet dripping slowly, the crickets, a car driving by the road outside. It was so quiet she was sure she could hear Sarah’s soft breathing upstairs.

“What happened?” She asked. Joel didn’t answer. She clenched her jaw, and stopped her movements. “Joel.” She warned, again.

He exhaled through his nose, feeling the thick, semi dry blood moving on his nostril.

“Some guy at the bar said something ‘bout Tommy. Didn’t like his tone.”

“You never like their tone.”

He gave a dry chuckle, no humor in it. “That obvious?”

“You’re getting predictable.”

That made him look at her for the first time since he walked in. “You were never predictable.” he said quietly. Almost an accusation. And she agreed.

Yeah. She used to be wild, very. But then she got pregnant. And then she got pregnant again.

She continued cleaning his wound, her fingers softly caressing his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. “You look like shit” she murmured.

Joel’s lips lifted up barely enough to be considered a smirk. “Still better than the guy I hit.”

She rolled her eyes, but it felt tired, not angry. When she finished taping the last bit of gauze, she let her hands fall to her lap. Neither of them moved.

“Do you even want this?” she asked suddenly, and her voice cracked mid-sentence.

Joel blinked. “What?”

“This. Us. Me, pregnant. Sarah upstairs. All of it.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. So she answered for him.

“Because I feel like you don’t, when you come home reeking like that awful bar you love—“

“The bar where we met” he reminded her, but she didn’t stop talking.

“When you show up with a new cut on your face or a bruise on your torso. When you’re so hungover you can’t even wake up the next morning to take your kid to kindergarten—“

“That happened once.” He said, looking at the sink.

“That’s not the point. Joel, I… I don’t expect us to be the little house on the prairie. But you can’t still live like you’re twenty anymore, like there’s no responsibilities here, like Sarah isn’t real, like we don’t have another kid on the way—“

“We didn’t plan another kid” he growled, and she pushed him just enough to stand up.

“No, we didn’t plan shit. We didn’t plan Sarah, we didn’t plan Seth. That don’t mean we ain’t responsible for them” she said, and that made Joel laugh dryly, humorless.

“I can’t believe this”

“What?”

“You” he said, finally looking up at her. “Talking about responsibilities.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Joel? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you think it’s hypocritical?” He asked, shrugging. “When I met you—“

“Five years ago.” She cut him off. “You met me five years ago, I hadn’t even finished high school”

“And did ya finish high school?” he asked, with a sarcasm meant to cut deep. “No, because you got knocked up and dropped out”

She just laughed. “You say it like it wasn’t you who did it. Like that ‘knock up’ isn’t your daughter sleeping upstairs! Like I wasn’t seventeen!”

“No” Joel corrected her. “I say it like you never complained about me not wrapping it up, like you didn’t sneak into my truck every night—”

Before he could continue talking, her hand landed on his face, barely moving it. The impact didn’t hurt, it just stinged against his hot skin. When he did the same in return, the effect was the contrary.

Wasn’t strong enough to make her fall, nor to leave a notable mark. It was just strong enough to break her trust.

A thin needle of pain right in her belly made her react. Without looking at him, she walked upstairs. As she stormed off, she heard Joel turn the water on again.

She acted mechanically, methodically: clothes, underwear. Despite the fact that it was scolding hot, she packed winter clothes too. Toothbrush, hair brush, prenatal vitamins. She took her passport, even if she wasn’t going to use it. She would just probably go to a motel, anyway. She didn’t stop to look at her face in the mirror, or else she would’ve broken down.

When she was done packing, she headed to Sarah’s room, to get her bag ready. The only light came from the moonlight and her night light, glowing soft yellow stars on her pink walls. Her three-year-old was completely out, sleeping peacefully. Her hair was tangled in the pillow, and her stuffed bunny was sitting on the floor. Slowly, she picked it up, and rested it beside her daughter.

She didn’t hate Joel, not really. He had given her Sarah, and now baby Seth on the way. Joel was perfect, when he wasn’t drunk on anger. He was sweet, when he wasn’t high on adrenaline. He was romantic, when he didn’t abuse her. In the end, she didn’t want to hurt him, and taking Sarah would’ve been a death sentence.

And she also had to be realistic, and responsible. Where would she go and what would she do, alone, with a toddler and pregnant? She had worked so hard, every single day, to give Sarah a good life: kindergarten, soccer, playdates, cuddles, books, a little brother. Taking Sarah with her would also be a death sentence for her little girl.

The ardor on her cheek made her doubt for a moment about her decision, but in the end, she just leaned in to pull Sarah’s sheets up, tucking her daughter in, and then walked out the room.

“Where you goin’?” Joel asked when she climbed down, and his eyes opened wide when he saw the duffel bag on her shoulders. “Wait, wait, wait, wait!” he repeated with each step he took towards her, grabbing her arm. She flinched, and turned around, but he didn’t let go.

“Don’t fucking touch me—!” she muttered through her teeth. If it wasn’t for Sarah, she would’ve screamed.

Joel didn’t let go. He just shook his head. “What about Sarah!? Baby, you can’t leave Sarah. Shit, leave me, but not her! Ya really walking out right now?”

“You hit me” she stated the obvious, the drop that made her glass overflow. Joel felt his face on fire, but pride overtook him.

“You hit me first”

“That’s your excuse? Seriously?” she huffed, and finally jacked off of his grip. She continued talking as she made her way to the door. “She’s got soccer on Tuesdays and Thursdays, her lunch bag is in the freezer—”

“Baby, wait”

She took the door handle, and held it tight. Once she opened that door, something would inevitably be broken forever, so she thought carefully about her last words to him.

“You are a good father, Joel. Just not a good husband.” She said, looking at the door handle. “I wouldn’t leave Sarah here if I didn’t trust you with her. You would never hit her.” She swallowed saliva, already feeling the tears building up. “I can’t say the same about me.”

“Baby, please. I can’t do this alone” Joel pleaded, begging. “What about Seth? What about our boy?” He asked, trying to touch her stomach, but she moved.

“If I could, I would also leave him here as well.” she confessed, and that was the last string she had to pull to make her eyes tear up.

Joel didn’t follow her as she walked out of the house. A younger Joel would’ve pulled her back by the hair, or chased her on his truck. But there was no room for that man anymore. Not with Sarah sleeping upstairs.

Dividers by @toastray - pics from Pinterest - DO NOT copy, reupload, translate or steal pls

[skyesdelight]

Kalevala: Episode One

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Summary: All you wanted was to escape the planet keeping you enslaved. You find your chance when a bounty hunter tears apart the fortress where you're kept, but when you sneak onto his ship as a stowaway and accidentally see his face, your freedom and life are at risk once again.

Warnings: explicit language, reader is a slave (it's mentioned a few times sex is part of that but there's nothing graphic or explicit described, just woeful resignation), some canon typical violence, slow burn

The chains around your ankles and wrists jangle as you shuffle behind one of the stewards. As usual, he's unforgiving; tugging on the chain when you fall behind, causing you to stumble, and then scolds you sharply when you fall, reminding you bruises and cuts are unacceptable given your job.

That job being a... companion. Often times you're required to just serve food, clean up, and look pretty while doing it. But then other times, more is requested of you, and it appears today is one of those times.

Thankfully, you never had to service the army who imprisons you. They don't seem like the sexual sort of creatures, whatever they are. You and the other two girls have figured out by now that they're an army for hire. They're primarily put on this planet to train and defend. But in the past, they have occasionally made you available to any guests or visitors who stop by, either as a way to create an alliance, or to act as payment for some service rendered.

The steward tugs you forward but stops you before opening the door. He inspects you up and down, curling a thick lip at your ratty excuse for a dress. He sniffs you to make sure you're clean and you flinch away—they don't usually hit you where it can leave a mark, but you're still timid.

When you're deemed acceptable, he straightens up and knocks politely on the door. He doesn't wait, just pauses before gently cracking it open. You follow behind with your head bowed, mostly so you can watch where you're walking, but also as a sign of respect. When you lift your chin, the steward is standing in front of you, blocking your view.

He makes a series of clicks and grunts in his native language, one you haven't yet mastered but have figured out bits and pieces based on context. You catch the words for food, night, and sweet. Then he steps to side, revealing you to... a droid?

At least, he looks like a droid. While the steward unchains your hands and feet, you stare at the shiny metal man sitting on the couch across the room. He looks comfortable but also like he's ready to spring into action at any moment. His knees are spread wide, arms spread even wider across the back of the couch, and he watches silently. Or, you think he watches. It's impossible to tell because he's wearing a helmet. The longer you look, the more details you take in. Hardened steel plates cover most his body. His cape is tattered at the end. Gloves are a thick, worn leather. Boots are heavy and lined with artillery.

What... is this man? You've never seen anything like him before. Stars, you hope he's human.

The steward then excused himself, leaving you alone with your droid-man. He doesn't move a muscle, doesn't make a sound. You fidget nervously and glance around the room, eyes snagging on the feast that had been laid out for him. As if on cue, your stomach growls, but you quickly clear your throat to cover the noise and focus your attention back on your quiet client.

"I hope you're enjoying your time on our planet," you murmur with a smile. Typically this is the time when the other person responds, but apparently your droid-man isn't very good at conversation because he continues to just stare you down through his pitch black visor.

You take a few steps toward him, sandled feet sinking into the plush carpet. It's so soft and so much nicer than the hard, cold cell you're used to. When you get a foot away from his knees, you stop and fiddle with your dress.

"Would you like me to rub your shoulders? Or bathe you?" you offer sweetly. A long minute passes where yet again, he says nothing. "That armor looks so heavy, you must be strong," you try again before slowly stepping between his spread knees. "Would you like to take it off and show me?"

You're giving him your flirtiest smile. You're batting your lashes and subtly inching your dress up to expose more leg. Your nipples are even poking through the thin material... how is he just sitting there, not doing anything? Are you... doing something wrong? Does he speak Basic?

Your smile wavers with a flicker of insecurity. What is this? Why isn't he doing anything? If he ends up rejecting you, you can only imagine the sort of torture you'll have to endure from the master. Fear trickles down your spine as your mind races to think of something, anything, that will get him to relax.

Well, there's one thing you know a man can't resist. With a sultry smile, you stare right into his visor as you sink slowly to your knees. You think you see his helmet shift but the movement is so minuscule that you wonder if your eyes are playing tricks. Both hands carefully rest on top of his bent knees, then you begin to slide them up, over the cold steel covering his legs until they stop right at the apex of his thighs. Your gaze breaks away to look down at his lap and relief floods through you when you see it.

"Ah, so you are human," you grin before reaching for the noticeable bulge in his pants. Before your fingers even come close, he's snatching your hand away and hauling you up. It all happens so fast that the pain doesn't even register until you collide harshly with his chest plate and you cry out a soft curse.

"I—I'm—I'm s-sorry—"

His helmet tilts. The grip around your wrist is still too tight. The way he has your body stretched upwards is causing one of his plates of armor to dig into your ribs and all you can do is wince because there is no getting out of his hold.

A choked sob gets lodged in your throat and tears fill your eyes. "P-Please, I-I-I'm sorry... the—they'll hurt m-me if I—I'll d-do anyth—anything you w-want—"

"How many are there?"

The filtered growl in your ear is entirely unexpected because, honestly? You still kind of thought he might have been half droid. But from the four words he's offered you, it sounds like he's all man under there.

"Ho—how many—wha—who?"

His grip tightens and you whimper in fear.

"How many soldiers?" he snaps, and it takes you a minute because you truthfully don't know, nor do you understand why he wants to know, but most importantly if you don't give him a good answer, you're afraid he might break your arm.

"Um, we—we don't g-get out—I'm kept—" A ragged sound rips from your throat and to your dismay you realize you're shaking. "—I've never c-count—counted, but... right n-now? At least... th-three hundred."

It's a reasonable guess. The army rotates in shifts—when one or two are disbanded to other planets to fight, the third battalion remains here, to protect their home, rest, and train new soldiers. And to the best of your knowledge, the last ship you heard that left was two weeks ago, roughly a month after the first ship. You manage to tell him all of this and at last, he seems pleased.

Droid-man releases you and you fall to the floor, clutching your wrist and murmuring your gratitude as you try to steady your breathing.

"Do you have somewhere safe to hide?" He stands and strolls across the room to the food, leaving you a trembling pile on the floor.

"Uh—we ha—have. Cells. They're reinforced so we can't escape."

You watch him pick at a pile of fruit with his gloved hand, but then he pauses and slowly turns his whole body in your direction.

"Escape?" he echos. He's holding a green fruit in his hand and your stomach grumbles again.

"Yes." Your answer is short. There's a silence between you for a stretch of time, long enough for your wrist to stop hurting and for you to haul yourself up from the floor onto the couch. He's impossible to read with a helmet on, so you don't bother trying. Instead, you subtly readjust your dress and fix your hair, hoping to salvage the reason you were sent here in the first place.

"Come here."

Even through the modulator, his voice is low and firm. You rise to your feet and give him a soft smile, doing as your told despite the fear that lingers in the back of your mind. You watch your reflection in his helmet as you get closer and closer, then stop when you're near enough to tilt your chin up and look at him. He's tall and broad. He commands a room with his stature, no doubt leaving his enemies quaking, and his silent nature just makes him that much more formidable and... interesting.

"Would you like me to feed you?" you ask with practiced sweetness.

There's a long pause then and you're beginning to think he enjoys making you squirm, but you continue to bat your lashes and gaze up at him with complete ease because after the way he just manhandled you, you don't want to give him the satisfaction of your discomfort.

"No," he finally says, then lifts the hand with the fruit. "Open."

Your face falls. You blink at his hand a few times before you find your voice.

"What?" you breathe.

"I said—" He brings his hand closer so the fruit is just barely grazing your lower lip. "—open. You need to eat."

You shouldn't. They don't like it when you eat the food designed for their guests. But your stomach twists and your mouth waters from the sweet scent of the fruit and then your jaw drops obediently. Your gaze flickers back up to his visor and you don't dare look away as he slowly slips the fruit into your mouth. Your lips wrap around his leather bound fingers with a moan. Before he tears his hand away, you notice the brief shudder rolling through his shoulders and you have to hide your smirk behind your hand.

"You're so generous," you purr when he offers you more, but this time on a plate, "would you allow me to repay your kindness in another way?"

His weight shifts and he shakes his head. "No."

You're disappointed. For the first time, you actually wanted to hear the other man in this room say yes. But what truly worries you more is the steward standing just outside and what he will do when he finds out their guest wasn't satisfied with their offering. Giving your thoughts away, your gaze nervously flickers to the door and your companion reads your mind.

"They won't know. It won't matter soon, anyway."

Slowly, you turn back to your droid-man. With a curious tilt of your head, you study him for a moment while you slowly chew on the delightful fruit plate.

"What do you mean?"

Something lights up on his gauntlet and you don't get your answer.

"You said your cell is reinforced?" he asks with his focus still aimed down to his wrist.

"Yes..." you say slowly before taking another bite.

"Good. Stay there. You should be safe."

Then he whips around, cloak snapping in the air from the force as he stalks towards the door. Fear grips you then. With wide eyes, you call out and to your shock, he skids to a stop.

"You can't," you tell him, "it's only been a few minutes. They—they'll know."

"They won't." His back is still turned to you from where he stands. Your feet move quickly and quietly across the floor. When you get close enough, you set your plate down and gently glide your palms over the broadness of his shoulders.

"Just stay a little longer," you coo, "I can make it worth your while."

"I told you, no." Yet he still hasn't stepped away.

"Hm, I don't know about that." Your hands drag down his back, slowly, and even though there's a thick layer of steel separating your hands from his skin, he shivers. "From what I saw earlier, you seemed very interested," you tease. It's a risk—he might not like that. He might even turn and strike you. But you want to test him. You want to humanize him a little bit.

The helmet pivots left. "Knock it off," he tells you sternly. With a pout, you reluctantly drop your hands.

"Maybe you are half droid, after all," you grumble as he marches towards the door once again. His hand falls on the knob but pauses to address you over his shoulder.

"Not a droid," he says, the last word laced with disgust. "Mandalorian."

And with that, the door whips open and he's gone, leaving you standing alone in the lavish guest room.

"What the hell is a Mandalorian?" you say to yourself right before the steward barges into the room to retrieve you, chains in hand.

***

Rocks, debris, and blaster beams fill every corridor, it seems. The explosions started shortly after you were returned to your cell, then one of the walls took heavy damage and left a crack just big enough for a person to squeeze through. The other girls were too terrified to leave, but some flash of bravery struck you and before you could give it another thought, you just... did it. You fucking did it. You ran. But now that you're by yourself, struggling to find your way through a literal active warzone, you're beginning to wonder if you made the right choice.

Of course you did, you remind yourself just as another bomb goes off nearby. You stumble to the ground with a cry, but no one hears you. Screams and commander orders in a series of clicks can be heard all around, but it's impossible to see through the smoke and rubble.

When you stand, you take three steps and slip, falling in a puddle of... blood? It's sticky and thick but it's blue. You try not to dwell on the smell of death as you push yourself to your feet and keep going.

You don't have a plan. Once you escape the fortress, then what? Hide on this planet? You don't even know what planet you're on, let alone if anyone else inhabits it.

It doesn't matter. It's better than being a slave, you think as you scramble over a fallen stone pillar. It's rough on your hands. They're scraped and bleeding and covered with dust and sand, but you don't stop. You can't stop.

To your right, there's clear air. You'll need to climb through destruction and over dead bodies, but it's there—freedom.

With one more fearful glance around, you run. You run towards your best chance at survival. Bruised and battered feet carry you over the broken walls and glass. Weak, dirty fingers clear your path. You keep your focus on the sliver of night sky you can see through the smoke and dust. Over the pile of thick stone, slide past three dead soldiers with their black eyes still wide open, shimmy through the broken window and don't stop when you dress tears on a shard of glass.

And finally—finally—you're outside.

You take a very brief moment to breathe the fresh air in deep. When was the last time you were outside? Stars... you've lost count of the days.

Another explosion and more blaster fire erupts somewhere behind you and you break out into a sprint, into the darkness. You have no idea where you're going. Anything could snatch you and kill you out here. You might be running full speed into a huge body of water, for all you know. But you don't care because it's better to die free than live and be a slave.

You run like never before. Your feet pound the dirt, your breath comes in short bursts, your hair flies wildly around your face. Your lungs burn and your hips are starting to ache but you can't stop smiling because you're free. The smile dissolves into laughter which eventually becomes happy tears streaming down your face. You slow down then because it's hard to see, and that's when you realize you're deep in a forest. Leaning tiredly against a tree trunk, you take a few minutes to desperately drag more oxygen into your lungs while looking around.

The plant life isn't anything you're accustomed to seeing. Everything is so thick and lush. The trees have branches that extend upwards for miles. The shrubs are bright orange and softer than silk. When you curiously touch one, it shrivels up, but you find after a while, it unfurls itself once again, fanning its leaves out to bask under the bits of moonlight from... three moons? Yes, three that you can see through the branches.

Fortunately, you don't hear any creatures. The forest is silent, except for the soft sway of leaves in the gentle breeze. If you hold your breath, you can still hear blaster fire and buildings crumbling in the distance.

Good. You must have made it very far.

Food and water will be a concern soon, but you aren't too worried. This forest wouldn't be so lush if there isn't a water source around. If you keep walking, you'll find it.

And that's exactly what you do. You start walking, stepping carefully over shrubs and rocks and uneven ground as you explore the forest until you find it—a small waterfall tucked discreetly within the trees. Looking up, you hardly see any night sky. The branches hide this little oasis perfectly. Maybe this will be a good place to call home base for a while.

With shaky hands, you kneel down to cup the sparkling clear water in your hands. You drink and drink and drink until you have your fill and then you sit back happily to gently clean yourself—Maker, when was the last time you had a proper bath? The steward lets you take a sonic shower before seeing guests but it's nowhere near as clean and refreshing as actual water.

After slipping your torn dress back over your head, you decide it will be a good idea to find a place to sleep. It's hard to see in the dark, but you move and feel around anyway, determined to find somewhere safe. What you don't expect is to run smack dab into something very hard, big and metal.

"Ow!" you exclaim, rubbing the spots on your body that came in contact with the foreign object. With a frown, you squint into the darkness to decipher what could be hiding out in the woods like this. You walk and feel around until it dawns on you and you gasp.

It's a... ship. A ship!

Are you a pilot? Absolutely not. But it's worth a try to get off this death trap of a planet.

It's easy enough to open the hatch. That's a good sign, you think. You close it behind you, then feel around for a light. There's a panel a few feet away from the hatch and, after trial and error, you find the button for the lights. You blink and close your eyes when the harsh cold lighting flickers on. It hurts from how bright it is, especially compared to the darkness of the forest. It takes a few minutes, but your eyes adjust and you slowly reopen them to look around.

It's a decent sized ship. Not terribly big inside. In far corners there are some crates covered by netting, which is bolted to the walls. You make a mental note to search them for food later before you keep looking. Straight across from the telescopic gate you just walked is huge slabs of what looks like silver resin built into the wall on hinges so you can flip them like pages in a book. You're hypnotized for a moment, inching closer and closer as you grow more curious. There must be a hundred different buttons for each slab, along with a bright green square screen.

"Emergency release... instant freeze..." you murmur to yourself as you scan the controls, "... thaw... refill..."

What is all this? Too consumed with curiosity, you push two of the slabs apart with a grunt. Stars, they're heavy, you think before they finally spread. Panting for breath, you start to examine the slab, but suddenly stop with a petrified scream.

You have to clap your hands over your mouth to muffle the fearful whimpers that refuse to stay inside. Tears fill your eyes and your stomach churns with disgust but you can't look away—

It's a creature of some kind. A species you haven't seen before, but it's certainly a living thing... encased in metal.

Terror grips your throat. Every alarm in your head is screaming at you to run. And once you're able to collect yourself long enough to slow your breath and dry your tears, that's exactly what you plan to do—run.

Unfortunately for you, as you spin around to open the gate, you hear metal grinding against metal as it begins to unlock on its own and your eyes go wide.

Shit! Whoever owns this ship and has tortured these people is coming back... and all the lights are still on.

Somehow, you smack the wall and turn off the interior lights half a second before the gate starts to open with a metallic groan. You blindly stumble around until you wedge yourself safely behind a large stack of crates in the corner. With your mouth covered to quiet your shaky breaths, you peer through the tiny crack between two crates and watch.

Slow, heavy footsteps echo inside the hull of the ship, growing louder the closer they get. You curl in on yourself even tighter and wait, trembling, for whoever it is to show themselves.

"Mando, I swear! I wasn't hiding! The Vowclan, they kept me captive!"

The lights flash on, illuminating the droid-man—or, the Mandalorian—along with a man you immediately recognize.

Druk.

Druk being held captive? Fat chance. Even though he's human, Druk got the best bunks, the best food, and free rein over the entire fortress. He looked down on you and the other girls like you were cattle. There's a zero percent chance he's telling the truth right now and it's burning you up. Especially because the Mandalorian seems to be hesitating.

"None of my business," comes the familiar, filtered voice, "take it up with the one who put a bounty on your head."

Druk continues to beg but you don't pay attention because there's something else you've noticed. The Mandalorian—he appears to be injured. Even though he has one strong arm guiding the shoulder of his bounty, his body is bent ever so slightly forward, as if he were in pain.

When you watch his free hand come up to swipe the side of his neck, your suspicions are confirmed: blood is smeared across his leather palm.

As if angered by this discovery, the Mandalorian straightens up and shoves Druk forward—hard. He disappears behind a slab but you can hear him begging for his life, for mercy.

"Shut up," Mando snarls, then heaves forward to smack a big red button. He holds himself upright with both arms pinned to the metallic slabs and watches while plums of gas erupt instantly around Druk. His screams are instantly silenced and you squeeze your eyes shut to keep the panic and fear at bay. If he finds you, you'll have the same fate.

Finally, the sound of the gas being released stops. You open your eyes just to close them once again—the room is filled with smoke from the gas, you can't see anything even if you wanted to. Then, you listen to his tired, heavy footsteps scrape across the metal floor. They come to a halt and then there's a slight pause before you hear the gate being lifted and closed.

Stars, you're trapped.

Well, maybe not. Maybe you can hide as a stowaway until he reaches another planet, then you can sneak off and start a new life. Yes, maybe this isn't so bad after all.

The gate latches shut. You heard the metal click into place. You swallow thickly and listen—you hear sounds of metal clanging together again, but it's lighter. Then there's a loud, heavy thud followed by a slight roll—something heavy being dropped to the floor. You hold your breath and wait, too terrified to move a muscle. There's quiet shuffling and the sound of softer materials being shifted and torn, but you don't open your eyes until you hear him curse loudly in agony.

You expect to still see the room filled with smoke, but no. What you see changes your fate forever.

The Mandalorian is standing just a few feet away, hunched over a first aid kit. His gloves are off and discarded next to his feet, along with some trash from whatever items he selected from the kit to tend to his wound. But that's not what draws your attention.

His helmet is gone, lost somewhere on the floor after he ripped it off so he could inspect his wound. What remains now is a mess of chocolate brown curls falling limply every which way. When he shifts and slightly turns his body, you see he has a short beard, too. It dusts nicely around his chiseled jaw and plush lips. Before you can stop it, your gaze sweeps up to his strong, angular nose and lingers for a beat on his deep, rich, dark brown eyes.

Maker... he's handsome. Why would he ever want to hide in a helmet?

It takes you longer than you care to admit to realize his expression is one of great pain. He's still tending to the wound on the side of his neck—it's wrapped up and he's about to inject himself with a large needle. You watch from your spot behind the crates, eyes wide and curious now as the needle gently pierces his tan skin. The low grunt he lets out has your heart skipping a beat against your will, then the needle clatters to the floor. His eyes squeeze shut and he breathes deep for a few seconds as whatever he injected himself with courses through his veins and helps ease the pain.

When his eyes reopen, he looks healthy again. Strong. You'd never had known he was doubled over a minute ago, gasping for breath. Now his breaths are slow and shallow. He's regained control and now that his head is clear, he looks around. With one arm he scoops up his helmet and then stands to push the slab containing a frozen Druk back into the wall. The motion creates a sudden cloud of residual gas that infiltrates the air. The Mandalorian coughs gently into his closed fist before pivoting to hurry up the ladder, which happens to be located right next to your hiding spot.

It's fine. He can't see you from here. You're well hidden behind the crates, even from the side. And he's rushing to get off this planet. There's no way he would—

But then you feel it. Your throat... it tickles low, then squeezes. The fucking gas—it's drifted over to your side of the room and you inhaled too deeply and now... well, now you're about to get yourself killed because you're fighting the urge to cough and losing... badly. Your eyes water. Your lips press together so tightly they feel numb.

Just a few more seconds. Just a few more, and he will be up in the cockpit, and then you—

It's soft. It just barely slips out. And if it were anyone else, they wouldn't have even registered the noise. But you'll soon discover that the Mandalorian isn't like everybody else. Nothing gets past him.

Including your cough.

Everything is a blur. The helmet gets jammed back on at lightning speed, then the crates get shoved aside as if they weighed absolutely nothing.

You can't look. Your eyes clamp shut and you curl in on yourself, as if doing so will make you invisible. Your entire body trembles in a ball when you hear him curse loudly and punch the metal wall above you with so much force you feel it in your feet.

When you hear a soft metallic click, a jolt of fear shoots down your spine and your eyes open.

The reflective metal helmet is staring down at you, unreadable of course. He's not moving an inch, just... staring as tears begin to stream down your face because it takes you a second to realize the click came from the blaster currently aimed right between your eyes.

"P-Please," you beg quietly, "I-I won't—won't tell..."

"Shut up."

But you don't. You can't.

"I pro-promise I w-won't say a-a word," you continue through the steady flow of tears. Panic seizes your throat when his finger wraps around the trigger on the blaster and then your hands lace together as if in worship.

"Please—"

"Shut up! Fuck! I need to... to think!"

You whimper on the floor at his feet, heart just about pounding straight out of your chest. Every muscle is tense, your body unsure whether to run or fight. Both are fruitless but you can't just sit here and let him kill you. You need to at least try to survive.

The gate is up. There's a blaster two inches from your face.

Okay so running and fighting maybe aren't the best choices.

Back to begging, it is.

"I did-didn't see an-anything," you plead, imploring up at him with big watery eyes and a trembling lip.

"You did!" he roared, stepping forward to press the blaster tightly against your forehead. You cry out, body absolutely convulsing with terror at the press of cool steel against your sweaty skin. Sobs constrict your voice and pour openly from your mouth. It's impossible to remain calm now, absolutely sure that you're moments away from death.

"You did," he repeats, slightly more somber this time, "y-you saw... you saw my face."

His voice breaks on the last word, as if it pained him to admit it out loud. As if his entire world had just shattered.

"Not r-really," you blubber, "not... not enough t-to—I won't be able to... identify you. I s-swear it."

"That's not—" The Mandalorian curses under his breath before flexing his fingers around the grip of his blaster. You flinch but keep your eyes pinned on his dark visor—if he's going to kill you, he's going to have to look into your eyes when he does it. "—Nobody can... identify me. That's the fucking problem," he growls through the modulator.

If you weren't moments away from death, you would have asked him what he meant, but right now you don't care. You don't care one bit.

"I'll do an-anything," you continue through the tears, "p-please. Please. You can—you can do wh-whatever you want, I won't f-fight. Just—please—all I w-want is to get off this fucking planet."

He's so quiet and still for a moment. All you can hear is the faint sound of his quick breaths filtering through his helmet while he decides your fate. You swallow and shift forward a little on your knees, sensing that he's considering your plea.

"J-Just take me wherever you're going," you say softly while your hands slowly rise to his belt. "Take me there and—I'll go. I'll go and... I'll forget this ever happened. Please..."

Shaky fingers work on undoing his pants because, truthfully? You don't have much more to offer. But this? This, you're good at. This is something that might prove to him you meant what you said, that he could do anything.

"Stop."

The edge is gone from his voice. You've heard men like this before. They say stop, but what they really want is to walk away knowing they tried to do the right thing.

"I want to show you," you say, "what I can offer. If it's not good, then shoot me."

Right as you're about to reach inside his pants, his free hand grabs your wrist and you're in the same situation as you were two hours ago.

There's a tense few minutes where he just stares at you on the floor, fingers like steel around your arm and blaster still aimed directly between your eyes. You swallow thickly and don't move a muscle. You just stare right back with tear soaked cheeks and a quivering lip.

"It's not that simple," he finally says. "I can't just... let you go."

"Why?"

There's a pause. Then—"I swore an oath."

You blink up at him, slowly.

"...What?"

Something on his forearm starts to make some noise, and when you look down, you notice a red light blinking. His chin drops to look at it too and he curses before dropping both hands to his side. A shaky sigh of relief slips past your lips when the steel is no longer pressed against your skin, but it's short lived because a moment later, he has a pair of binders in his hand.

Your heart sinks.

"You don't need to—I won't do—"

"It's either this or the carbonite."

He points to the giant slabs of frozen metal and you audibly gulp.

"O-Okay, fine."

You present your wrists and flinch only a little bit when they tighten around your skin, an unfortunately very familiar feeling.

"We need to get off this planet," the Mandalorian tells you while leading you to another part of the hull. You sigh inwardly when you realize he's buckling your shackles to the wall, preventing you entirely from wandering around the ship.

One gloved hand grasps the ladder and then he stops, thinking about something for a second before stepping back and pulling something dark from a closed cabinet near the fresher.

"Here."

He tosses you a blanket and you could cry with relief because the cold metal floors you're currently kneeling on with your very thin and ratty dress is already causing your bones to ache.

He's about halfway up the ladder when you boldly ask a question.

"Does this mean you're not going to kill me?"

He comes to an abrupt halt. The shiny helmet on his shoulders turns to the right and you hold your breath, waiting. But then after a beat he begins to climb again, closing the door firmly behind him, leaving your question unanswered.

Taglist:

@marty-mccunt

[evandriafleur]

A Crown for a Bounty Part 6 - Din Djarin

Summary: The princess could sense the danger long before she could see it, and knew she was being watched; hunted.

It wasn’t long until she was confronted with a bounty puck, and the person carrying it.

Tag list: @windsweptarmadillo

Warning: light smut, sickness, language

When Evandria mentioned she was getting tired, Din couldn’t help but feel concerned. The red marking was more evident on her shoulder, and he wondered if it was already infected. He waited until after Evandria made her bed by the fire before digging in her bag and looking through her book. She had said earlier that there was no mention of that particular creature that bit her, but perhaps there was something else that could give him guidance.

Soon he had found it, a chapter dedicated to cuts, bites and scratches. Din flipped through the pages until he landed on illustrations of bite marks, each one looking slightly different than the one on her shoulder but still very similar.

He found the one that looked the most comparable and read through the chapter:

“If patient does not get the bite properly disinfected, patient could become ill with fever. To properly disinfect wound, its best to use lavender oil, rosemary or lily. For stronger dosage, calendula and mint. If patient’s fever goes over 100, seek medical treatment immediately.”

Din rifled through the bag until he found the bottle he was using to disinfect her wound earlier, frowning when he saw that it was only dandle oil and not any of the things listed in the book. But how accurate was her book? He wondered.

 

Thinking this, he looked over to her and watched as she slept, shoulders shaking as she took each breath. He gently crawled over to her, removed his glove and felt her head. It felt warm – but 100 degrees warm? How would he know?

“I’m cold,” she suddenly murmured, startling him for a minute, unaware that she was awake. He watched as she continued shivering and he nudged her lightly.

“Let’s get you closer to the fire,” he said, pulling her up by the arm gently. She felt limp as she sat up and he could see that she was covered in sweat. “You’re soaked. You need to change.”

“No,” she said, pulling back. “I’m too cold.”

He left her there as he dug through her bag again, only to realize there were no clothes in it. “You didn’t pack anything else?” he was surprised more than anything, and realized she was serious when she told him she escaped the palace on short notice.

Evandria didn’t reply, and instead curled up tighter into a ball, shivering once again.

Din stood up and walked into the ship, digging around to find something – anything – to keep her warm. Unfortunately, he usually ran hot and preferred the coolness over everything else, but he managed to find a heavier blanket, and an old shirt of his. It was worn and a bit bigger, but at least it was dry.

When he went back, he found her still curled up in a ball, her knees closed to her chest as she shivered on the ground. Very gently, he kneeled beside her. “Can you sit up?” he asked her.

 

“Yes,” she whispered, her teeth chattering. “Just bring it to the maids. I’m sure they’ll enjoy it.”

 

Din paused for a moment before feeling her forehead again, and wondered if she was dreaming or just simply unaware of her surroundings.

“I’m going to lift you,” he told her, but she didn’t respond. He gently sat her up anyways. She felt wet and sticky, and he wondered how a person who felt so warm could be so cold. Very carefully, he peeled the dress she was wearing off of her, which wasn’t unusual to him as he’s seen her without her dress before. But something about this felt…different. More intimate – wrong almost? But perhaps that was because she was unconscious.

Whether Evandria felt it was wrong or not, she didn’t protest as he strategically pulled his shirt over top of her and suddenly her chattering seemed to ease up.

He then wrapped the thick blanket around her and put her closer to the fire.

“We’ll see how she is in the morning,” he said to Grogu, who was staring intently at the two of them now. “If she’s not better, I’ll go back into town tomorrow morning.”

Din Djarin stayed sitting up by her side, nodding off here and there, but mostly watching Evandria sleep through the night especially when the coughing started. It started off small, but as the night when on her coughs became loud and harsh. Every so often he would reach over and feel her forehead, but still, he could never tell what should feel normal.

“I’m going to leave,” he told Grogu when he woke up. “Watch her for me, alright? Don’t leave her side. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Grogu seemed to agree, and when Din decided that it was safe to leave, he took off quickly using his jet pack and was able to make it to the markets just as they started opening, which was ideal, as he wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible without hassle.

He browsed the endless number of medicines, unsure of which ones to get. Each one more complicated than the last.

“Can I help you?” the worker, a short round orange guy standing at the till had been watching him, much to his discomfort. But in that moment, he really did need help.

“My…friend…got bit. We don’t know by what, but now she’s ill and I need to help her.”

The worker moved towards him and looked around on the shelves beside him. “What are the symptoms?”

“Fever, I think. She feels warm to the touch but is always cold. She also started coughing this morning.” Din hoped he didn’t need to say more than that, feeling paranoid that the worker would somehow guess who he was with.

But the worker didn’t seem to be doing any guesswork, instead, he went over to various shelves before returning to Din, items in hand.

“This,” he said placing a blue jar on the counter. “Is for the chest, it will help with the coughing and the breathing. And this,” he placed a bottle next to it. “Is a strong disinfectant, use it on the bite twice a day, making sure the swelling goes down. What was her temperature?”

“I – I don’t know,”

The worker bent down and placed a thermometer on the till, as well as another tall bottle of liquid. “Check her temperature and get her to drink this, it will ease her pain. If her temperature goes over 100, you’ll need to bring her in.”

This is what Din was afraid of, it was just like the book said, but he hoped it didn’t have to get to that point. Din said nothing more as he paid for the supplies and prayed that it would be enough.

As he walked out of the shop, something caught his eye in the adjacent store window. The streets were still quiet and he knew now would be his only opportunity to purchase anything without being noticed.

Taking a chance, he quietly entered the store, feeling his heart race as the store worker greeted him, this time a very tall woman with jet black hair.

He quickly grabbed what he was looking for, searching through a few aisles before finally bringing everything to the counter. The worker didn’t seem the least bit interested in him or his purchases, much to his relief. He was quick to stuff everything in a bag before leaving, hoping once again that everything would be alright and that he wasn’t seen.

When Din finally arrived back at the camp, he was surprised to see the child asleep beside her, a lily culched tightly in his hand, the same one Evandria had given him days before.

Din stood over them a few moments, feeling a twinge of something in his chest, like an overwhelming sense of worry. Now that the sun was rising, he realized just how pale Evandria looked, even in the morning light.

Needing to distract himself, he put down his bags and quickly re-lit the fire, hoping to make some food that she would eat. He couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, was it the day before? Or longer?

 It wasn’t long into his cooking that the sounds of coughs roused both Grogu and Evandria awake, and she continued to shiver and wheeze as she did so.

Din kneeled down before her and took out his thermometer. “Open your mouth,” he directed, looking into face, trying to determine if she was really awake, but her eyes appeared to be glazed over. He sat her up anyways, holding her limp body against his chest as he checked her temperature and was relieved to see that it was only at 95 and not at 100. However, he knew that it could change very quickly if they weren’t careful. He felt the ground, realizing it was damp beneath her and decided to hold her in his arms and on his lap where it was at the very least dry.

Almost instinctively, she leaned up against his chest, pressing her cheeks up against his armour. They stayed like that for a moment, Din staying still as he watched her take shallow breaths, until the coughing started again.

She sat up and he very gently started rubbing her back, wanting desperately to help. He pulled off his gloves and reached into the nearby shopping bag, until he found the chest rub. Something about the smell of it seemed familiar, and he wondered if perhaps it was used on him back when he was a child.

“Put this on,” he instructed her, passing it over to her, but she rolled over on her side, ignoring his gesture and curled up into a ball, shivering once again.

“Lily,” he whispered softly moving the strands of hair out of her face. She began coughing again and he slowly unwrapped the blanket from her shoulders which made her brows furrow as the cool morning air hit her chest. “Either you apply this, or I will.” He meant it more as a threat, however Evandria didn’t seem to care, because she lay completely still, trying to even her breathing.

Very carefully, he placed the cream between her breasts, waiting for her to pull away. But she never did. He did as the bottle directed, rubbing small circles on and around her chest. He watched her chest rise and fall beneath his fingertips, and when he momentarily paused, could feel her heart beating against him. Something about this moment made him freeze, and for reasons unknown to him, he felt completely safe in her presence. Everything had somehow felt natural.

This thought was interrupted when the child latched onto his arm suddenly with a small cooing noise, startling Din as he almost dropped the botte of medicine onto the ground.

“Grogu,” he gasped, fumbling with the cap in his hand. “You don’t need to worry about her, alright? She’ll be okay. Go pick us some wild berries.”

The child looked up at him with his wide eyes before hopping away to the nearest set of bushes. Din watched him for a moment before turning his attention back to Evandria, who was still leaning against his chest. There were the sounds of thunder in the distance, and Din began to wonder if they should head inside.

“I’m holding you back,” Evandria suddenly mumbled so quietly that Din almost didn’t hear her.

He leaned in a bit closer, unsure if she was really talking to him or if she was still dreaming.

“You’re not holding me back,” he finally whispered back to her, removing the hair from her sticky forehead.

“I’m usually not this needy,” she simply replied, eyes still closed as she shivered again. Before he could reply, Din remembered the bite mark on her shoulder and reached into the bag beside them for the stronger disinfectant that he had bought earlier.

“I need to put this on you, ok?”

Her eyes opened slightly and Evandria stared at the bottle before slowly nodding. “Alright.”

He slowly sat her up, steadying her as he did so and allowed her to slump against him, feeling her shiver against him as he removed the cap from the bottle.

“This might burn,” he warned her, but he already knew that she was aware of the side effects. He just wanted to warn her anyways.

Very gently, he put the droplets over the bite marks and could feel Evandria tense up against him with a sudden gasp for air. Almost instantly, he reached over with his other hand and held the back of her head, smoothing out her hair. “I know,” he mumbled back to her. “Just one more.”

This time Evandria gasped louder, and Din could see that she was holding back tears now. “It’s done, it’s done.” He soothed, laying her back down into his arms as he tightly wrapped her up in the blankets once again.

Soon Evandria quieted down, and the shivering stopped. Din held her close to him again, and watched as she began to fall asleep.

They laid like that for a while, Grogu soon joining them before the three of them drifted off into a deep sleep, the only sounds heard for miles were from the light rain in the distance and Evandria’s snoring.

[ivysentry]

Happy Mando Monday everyone!

I'm gonna try and write a short drabble every week in celebration of Mando Monday!!

Summary: After a particularly muddy incident, you’ve been tasked to give a bath for Grogu while Din cleans his helmet inside the privacy of the refresher.

Authors Note: enjoy this domestic fluff owo

Mando’a translation:

Cyar’ika - Darling / Sweetheart

You let out a surprised sound as Grogu splashes you with his bath water, the child in the basin giggling at your misery. You hear Din let out a chuckle in the refresher.
“Kid, be nice.” He chastises lightly.
Grogu lets out an indignant sound but he stops splashing the soapy water. You wipe the soap off your eyes and frown at the child, Grogu looks at you with his big innocent eyes, absent of any mischief. However, you noticed one of his hands remains under water and you’re not going to fall for that a second time. You glanced at the refresher, the sounds of running water and aggressive scrubbing could be heard from the other side. It seems Din is having trouble cleaning his helmet, a devious plan begins to emerge in your mind.

You look around until you found the small compartment where Din keeps a small stash of nevarro nummies for Grogu, you hear the sounds of splashing stop as Grogu hears the familiar sound of a bag being opened. You turn around and show Grogu the silver bag, he watches you take a blue cookie out of the bag and waves it in front of his face.

“If you behave, I’ll let you have one.” Grogu’s eyes dart between your face and the cookie in front of his face, he reaches out to grab it but you pull away.

“Ah-ah Grogu~” Grogu pouts but he settles down. You put the cookies away and pick up the soapy cloth.

By the time Din comes out of the refresher, Grogu is freshly dressed in a new robe and he watches you wipe away the last drops of water from the kid’s face.

“There you go! Nice and clean.” The kid makes a happy sound, finally feeling fresh and mud-free.

Din notices you grab an open packet of nevarro nummies and give one to the kid, “Okay little buddy, as I promised.”

The kid immediately takes a large bite of the cookie the moment you hand it to him, the crumbs sticking to his once clean robe.

“Keep spoiling the kid like that and he’ll want one for every little thing.” You jumped and turn to the sound of Din’s modulated voice.

He’s in his flight suit without the rest of his armour, but the helmet is spotless, without a trace of mud on it. You roll your eyes at him, and he huffs at your indigence.

“Cyar'ika.” Oh no, he wants something. You watch as your Mandalorian leans against the doorway of the refresher, his bare hands held together twiddling his thumbs, and his head tilted to the side.

“Help me wash the rest of my armour while I make dinner.”

You groan, it’s hard to say no when Din acts like this. So you make your way towards the refresher, he puts a hand to your cheek as when you get close. The warmth of his hand a welcome respite on your cold skin, his thumb traces your cheekbone and he rests his helmet on your forehead. Just as you raise your hand to meet his, he pulls away and heads towards your supplies. You feel heat bloom across your cheeks as you quickly rush into the refresher and began sorting through which piece needs cleaning first.

Din has a large grin under his helm as he listens to you fret about inside the refresher.

[djarinova]

din djarin x reader. modern au, no warnings, just me rambling.

one thing i love about the movie is that it really furthers my modern!din stays up way too late working in his garage/shed/workshop agenda.

this is a guy who could absolutely stay hidden away for ten hours without taking a break, too busy working on the second hand car he insists will run again soon or the endless number of garden tools he has plastered all over the walls. he doesn't even realise that he's skipped two meals by the time the sun sets, hell he didn't even notice the sun setting!

he always feels guilty when he realises, it's like a wave of nausea comes over him, clouding his head until he can't see straight.

sometimes it makes him hide away for even longer, tucking his head back down and turning his music louder in an effort to drown out the nasty plague of guilt. the pit in his stomach only disappears after a further few hours, when he's certain that he could walk into the house and find you fast asleep, the remnants of your busy day scattered around the house the only evidence you were ever awake.

he likes to tidy up on nights like this, even when it's one, two, three in the morning. he'll spend an almost unnecessary amount of time working through each unoccupied room in the house, taking the bins out, emptying the fridge of old food and wiping every surface imaginable until he's happy.

(but even then, the guilt only fades away when he wraps an arm around your sleeping figure and feels your body respond immediately, curling closer to him and burying your head sleepily into his chest.)

but, most of the time you go out to find him long before any guilt can set in. it's not like you don't keep track of the last time you saw him, it's hard not to notice his absence at mealtime. so, when the sun begins to get low or you're itching to have what would be your second meal of the day without him, that's when you usually head out to see what he's doing.

more often than not you'll take a cup of tea with you, although din's pretty good at keeping himself hydrated while working. you always knock on the door lightly before calling out to him as you step through into the overcrowded space. the smell of sawdust and oil hits you immediately, followed by the slight aroma of burnt wood.

it's always hard to spot din when he's hidden in his workshop, so you navigate your way to the spot he keeps perfectly tidy on the counter—your spot—and wait for him to come to you.

he never leaves you waiting long.

you're the beacon of light that guides his ship home, he's always quick to find you even in the busiest and brightest harbours.

[simpingforjoel]

in honor of mando and grogu coming out soon: what are your favorite din djarin fics??

hiiii nonnie friend!! 👋🏼 thank you for this ask, I’m soooo in love with our fave beskar clad space dad and his green little baby!! there are so many good fics about din around and I’m always in awe of the talented writers who share their work with us. here’s a random selection of some of my faves:

🌌 Stars fading by the talented @bergamote-catsandbooks

🌌 Touchstone by the talented @sawymredfox

🌌 It’s getting tight by the talented @queenofslowburn

🌌 The Long Way Round by the talented @din-cognito

🌌 locked out of heaven by the talented @quinnnfabrgay

🌌 Sight Unseen by the talented @reedispunk

🌌 Brown Eyes by the talented @thedivinereverie

🌌 long gone and found (two parts of the same story) and Meet the Teacher by the talented @burntheedges

🌌 Surgar, Spice and, Starlight by the talented @lamentationsofalonelypotato (link to first part of the series)

🌌 Best Kept Secret by the talented @lincolndjarin (link to first part of the series)

this list is by no means exhaustive and please feel free to drop your fic recs in the comments too!! 💫

[galaxy-siren]

All That Matters

Chapter 1: The New Assignment

Pairing: Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: After the man you have been arranged to marry is targeted by Imperial remnants, your parents ask the New Republic for help. Colonel Ward enlists Din Djarin, along with his young apprentice Grogu, to protect you.

Chapter Summary: Din receives his new assignment from Colonel Ward and makes his way to a new planet.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: slow burn(ish), strangers to friends to lovers, fluff series, original planet, reader is in an arranged marriage

AN: I AM IN LOVE WITH DIN DJARIN AND I DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS IT!!!!!! I have so many Din ideas running through my head, but a series idea came to mind, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and write it! A huge thank you to @spider-starry for being my beta reader and listening to all my Din rants as of lately. You're a true friend! Anyway, I am still in the process of writing this series, so bare with me. I am hoping to stay on a somewhat regular schedule with posting, but I have another series I'm working on, and Flufftober prompts were just announced, so I'm starting to work on that too. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and let me know if you would like to be tagged!

The Razor Crest landed on the sands of Adelphi with a low mechanical hum. With a deep sigh, Din Djarin powered down the ship. His most recent assignment for the New Republic on Naboo had been taxing and a bit messy; he had been hoping to get a few days off, but Zeb had informed him that Colonel Ward had a new job for him, and that she seemed pretty adamant that he take it.

He turned around and unbuckled Grogu’s seatbelt, “You ready for a new assignment, little guy?”

Grogu let out a series of tired coos, his ears drooping in exhaustion.

“I know, I’m tired too,” he picked him up and cradled him in his arm as he descended the ladder from the cockpit down into the hull, “you can sleep on the ship when we head off to wherever Ward needs us to go.”

Grogu moved to Din’s shoulder, letting his head rest against it. He was still getting used to using the force more, and while it didn’t cause him to pass out anymore, if he used it a lot, it made him sleepy, and his father’s shoulder was a perfect place to nap.

Din strolled into the cantina, not caring about the stares he received, though he did sometimes wonder why they all still continued to gawk when he’d been working for the New Republic for quite some time now. It just came with the territory of being a Mandalorian, the beskar called for attention.

Colonel Ward sat at a booth towards the back of the cantina; without looking up from the screen of her datapad, she said, in an authoritative tone, “Sit down, Mando.”

He did, taking Grogu from his shoulder and setting him down next to him, “Zeb told me you have another assignment for me.”

Grogu perked up when he saw the bowl of food in the middle of table, and Din silently slid it towards him.

“I do,” she set the datapad down, “one of great importance to the New Republic.”

“Who’s the target?” Din asked.

“No target this time,” she pulled up a hologram, “you know who this is?”

Din inspected the hologram, it was a human, average looking, maybe somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years old, with the emblem of the New Republic Senate on his jacket, “Is he a senator?”

“Yes,” she pulled up a new image of the man, “his name is Senator Lar’is Jodmall’e, from the planet Nat-hura, located in the Outer Rim. He is spearheading a new program for planets recovering from the Empire.”

“Isn’t Nat-hura under the Empire?” Din asked.

Colonel Ward gave him a stern glare for the interruption, “It was, but the senator played a big part in getting the Empire out, and now Imperial remnants and sympathizers are after him. There was an attempt on his life yesterday.”

She brought up a video hologram. Senator Jodmall’e stood at a podium delivering a speech, “The Empire may have fallen, but there are still those who slither in the dark. The only way we can truly unite the galaxy is—” He was cut off by blaster fire; one shot a fellow senator standing next to Lar’is and another barely missed him. Din tilted his head slightly as he watched the hologram, guards grabbed the senator and rushed him off the stage as screams came from the crowd.

“So, what’s the job?”

Colonel Ward turned off the hologram, “Security.”

“You want me to act as a security detail for this senator?” Without looking away from Ward, Din slid Grogu’s snacks away from him, earning a disappointed sigh from the child.

“Not exactly, the senator has been placed in hiding, he doesn’t seem to want any assistance,” she brought up a new hologram image, this time of you, “you will be protecting her.”

“Who’s this?”

“This is the princess of Nat-hura. She is engaged to the senator. Her parents are concerned that due to her engagement she will become a target. You will be acting as her bodyguard. You will receive her from Nat-hura, take her to a safehouse location on Coruscant, and keep her safe until her wedding.”

“I’m not a personal bodyguard,” Din stated, his tone held an edge of annoyance, “I’m a bounty hunter.”

 “Nothing wrong with expanding your resume every now and then, Mando,” Colonel Ward pulled a decently sized stack of credits from her pocket and slid them across the table to Din, “this is half of your payment. You’ll get the rest once the job is finished, and you’ll be getting an allowance every month to cover anything you or the princess might need.”

Din stared at the hologram, he couldn’t get much from the image of you other than you definitely looked like a princess, regal and elegant, “Exactly how long would I be on this assignment?”

“The king and queen said the wedding is in six months.”

“So, you expect me to stay put in one place for six months?”

“We can give you local assignments that are on Coruscant, so long as you make sure the princess understands that she can’t leave the safehouse and give her means to contact you if she’s in danger. But she will be your number one priority,” Din tensed, his hand balling up into a first, and Ward fixed him with a raised brow of exasperation, “Mando, I know it’s a lot, but you are the only person I can trust with this.”

Din considered for a moment, while it wasn’t ideal, he and the kid would get to rest for a while. Though Din’s idea of resting was to take a day off, maybe two, not six months. He looked at the image of you again. He knew you were probably scared, as were your parents. His gaze then shifted to Grogu. He knew he would be worried sick if his son was placed in a similar situation.

He let out a sigh, “When do I leave?”

The corner of Ward’s mouth quirked up ever so slightly into a small, satisfied grin, “As soon as possible.”

~

The journey to Nat-hura was quiet. Grogu had fallen asleep in Din’s arms as they made their way to the Razor Crest on Adelphi, and he tucked him into bed before climbing up to the cockpit and putting in the coordinates for Nat-hura. Journeys without Grogu sitting behind him in the cockpit were becoming few and far between, every day the kid grew stronger and more attentive, and while it was nice to not have to pull him away from all the buttons, he did miss having the company.

Din wasn’t entirely sold on this assignment. He’d never been in one place for so long, not even at his own home on Nevarro. Spending half a year on the same planet, stuck playing babysitter for some princess was not going to sit well with him, but Ward made it clear he had no choice.

Just before entering the planet’s atmosphere, Din heard Grogu waking up. He always let out a series of little babbles followed by a loud yawn.

“Come up here, kid.” Din called down to him.

The excited pitter-patter of tiny feet echoed in the cockpit as Grogu jumped up the ladder. He hopped up into Din’s lap with a little giggle.

“This job is going to be a long one. We won’t get to travel as much as we usually do,” he paused letting Grogu respond with a nod, “I have to meet with the king and queen, so I need you on your best behavior, okay?”

Grogu nodded again, this time with a more serious expression.

“Good.” Din gave Grogu a pat on the head, earning a delighted hum from the child.

The ship descended into Nat-hura’s atmosphere. The air was thick with fog, almost silver in color, shrouding the whole planet in a shimmering haze. Through the fog, Din could see trees, giant trees to be more exact. He’d never seen trees that big before, they were almost as tall as the buildings on Coruscant. Their leaves were the most brilliant shades and green and blue. As they drew closer to the surface, the palace came into view. While the trees stuck out against the fog, the palace blended into it, only becoming visible the closer they got. Set on a cliffside, the palace consisted of tall, thin towers that stretched up into sharp, needle-like spires. A small river flowed through the base of the palace leading to a waterfall. It was a beautiful planet, vibrant and regal, like something from an ancient myth almost.

Din landed the Razor Crest gently, being guided by the guards on the ground. He picked up Grogu and allowed him to crawl up to his shoulder before leaving the ship and following the guards into the palace.

The palace was cold; Din could feel it even through all the beskar. While it was quite the site to behold, once inside it was not very inviting, though that may have been brought on by what Din assumed was extra security. The halls were filled with guards, humans and droids alike, and they were all armed, heavily. Even Din thought some of it was a bit overboard, and he was practically a one-man arsenal.

Two guards led him to the throne room. The symbol of the Empire, while faded, was still visible on the door, a reminder of the planet’s dark past. Din walked inside and approached the king and queen, kneeling before them, as was a Nat-hurian custom.

“Rise, Mandalorian,” the queen said, “I trust you found your way alright.”

Din gave a nod, “Yes, your excellency.”

“Leave us.” The king commanded.

With a bow, the guards followed their orders, the doors echoing through the throne room once they shut.

Din took in the king and queen. They looked like most royal couples he’d come across in his travels, though they didn’t have the air of arrogance all around them, or at least not as much as most monarchs.

“I assume Colonel Ward told you what’s happening,” the queen looked at him with urgency and anxiety, “every day I grow more worried that our daughter is in grave danger.”

“There haven’t been any attempts on her life as of yet, but as Lar’is continues his work in the senate, the more enemies he makes.” The king took hold of his wife’s hand in a comforting gesture.

“I understand that you’re both worried. Rest assured, while she is with me, no harm will come to her.” Din stated.

The queen smiled, “Your confidence eases me.”

“She is our only child,” the worry on the king’s face had yet to ease, “you promise you can keep her safe?”

“Yes,” Din answered without hesitation, “there’s no one else in the galaxy who she would be safer with.”

Grogu chimed in with a delighted coo.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” the king called for the guards to return, “get the Mandalorian his payment, and tell the princess to come to the throne room.”

“Colonel Ward already gave me part of my payment. I was under the assumption that I would receive the rest after the job was over.” Din eyed the droid that approached him with a large stack of credits with confusion, though no one present could tell.

“Consider it extra incentive to keep our daughter safe.” The queen looked at Din with pleading eyes. He gave another nod and took the credits.

The doors to the throne room opened once more. Din turned around and was surprised to find his breath getting caught in his throat. You walked in with that regalness and elegance that he saw when looking at the hologram image of you, but it truly did not capture just how beautiful you were. Din watched as you made your way further into the throne room, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You smiled at him, a gentle smile that let him know you had a kind heart; your smile grew even wider, even brighter when you saw Grogu. Grogu let out a cute little babble which caused you to stifle a laugh, though it didn’t quite work. You quickly pulled yourself together and curtsied to your parents.

Your mother got up from her throne and wrapped you in a hug, “Please be careful, listen to the Mandalorian. He will keep you safe.”

You returned the hug, “I will, I promise.”

Your mother gazed at you with tears in her eyes, you knew how nervous she was about all of this, but you both knew it was for the best. You gave her a reassuring smile, in hopes it would help with her worries.

Your father joined you, and placed his hand comfortingly on your shoulder, “We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” You gave your father a hug, your own tears starting to gather in your eyes.

Din averted his gaze, wanting to give you and your parents a moment of privacy to say your goodbyes. Grogu watched on with an empathetic interest. He looked at Din, knowing if he had to say goodbye, he would be sad as well. His little heart went out to you.

“Everything will be alright. I’ll be back before you know it.” You stated reassuringly.

“Yes,” your mother gave a watery smile, “just in time for the wedding.”

You schooled your features as best you could, not wanting to show either of your parents anything other than contentment towards your upcoming nuptials, “Yes.”

Din caught the ever so slight stiffness in your tone, but he didn’t think much of it, figuring it was due to anxiety and tensions being so high.

With a final hug to both your parents, you, Din, and Grogu left the palace and made your way towards the Razor Crest.

The walk was silent, and while you weren’t opposed to silence, you were eager to distract yourself from the anxious thoughts cluttering your mind.

You turned to Din with a smile, “So, do you often work as a chaperone?”

“I prefer the term bodyguard.” Din answered after a brief pause.

You let out a small chuckle, “Apologies, do you often work as a bodyguard?”

“No.”

The briefness of the answer made you believe that he was not in the mood to talk, so you remained quiet until you reached the ship. When you did, Grogu jumped down from Din’s shoulder and excitedly walked up the hatch. He looked at you and said what sounded like gibberish. You figured he wanted you to follow him, so you did. You watched on in delight as Grogu pointed to various things around the ship and would babble something you couldn’t understand. The idea that he was showing you around made your heart swell. You found the little green child to be quite charming and adorable.

You turned to Din as he walked up the hatch and directed a droid where to place your trunks, “What’s his name?”

Grogu waddled over to Din and held up his arms. Din scooped him up and answered you, “Grogu.”

“He’s very sweet.” You waved at him in Din’s arms; he reached his hand out towards you, and you reached yours out too. Grogu took hold of your finger and let out a small, happy coo. He had taken an instant liking to you.

Din motioned towards the ladder to the cockpit, “You can go sit.”

You nodded, letting Grogu’s hand fall from your finger, and climbed up the ladder.

The cockpit was small but not cramped. The whole area was lit up with various buttons and switches that you could not even attempt to identify. There were two passenger seats located behind the pilot’s chair, and you took a seat on the one behind the pilot’s right.

After Din dismissed the droid and made sure your things were secure, he climbed up the ladder with Grogu close behind him and noticed where you sitting, where Grogu usually sat. He looked you over, but all you saw was the helmet move down slightly. He continued to look at you, and you began to squirm, unsure why he was just staring you, and while you couldn’t see his eyes, it felt scrutinizing. The child gave out a small coo, catching your attention.

“Perhaps this is where he sits.” You thought to yourself. Why the Mandalorian couldn’t just say that, you weren’t sure but you decided to move anyway. You went to stand, but before you could get up, Grogu jumped up into your lap.

Din let out a sigh, “Grogu, get down.”

“I don’t mind,” you allowed Grogu to take hold of your finger again, “truly.”

Din didn’t say anything, just moved to sit in the pilot’s chair and start up the ship. You settled into your seat with Grogu sitting happily on your lap. Honestly, you were grateful for Grogu being there; you knew you could use the distraction. You’d only been on a ship a handful of times, and you’d never gone off planet before. You didn’t get out of the palace much, and while it was an exciting, new experience, you weren’t sure how you would fare traveling through hyperspace. As the ship slowly rose off the ground, you braced yourself, Grogu squeezed your finger in comfort, sensing your unease, and you looked down at him with an appreciative smile. You looked out the window, saying a silent goodbye to your home. The lush green and blue landscapes looked so beautiful from above, the only part that made flying enjoyable was seeing your home planet from a new point of view. As the ship flew further into the dense silvery fog, you felt a lump begin to form in your throat, but you kept quiet, not wanting to disturb the Mandalorian. A few tears managed to escape, but you remained silent, and Grogu continued to hold onto your finger tightly.

~

When the ship entered hyperspace, you felt butterflies lurch into your stomach. Din had warned you that it could be bumpy, but you still felt you weren’t fully prepared. Grogu had fallen asleep in your arms, how he could sleep when it felt as if the ship was being jostled around you didn’t know. You tried to keep your focus on him, but it wasn’t helping your nerves anymore.

Din looked over his shoulder at you and noticed your eyes were shut tight and your body was tense, “It will be over soon.”

“Is it always like this?” You asked, opening up one eye.

“You get used to it.”

“I can’t imagine,” you let out a soft, but slightly nervous chuckle, “I suppose you travel a lot?”

Din turned his head, so you saw the profile of his helmet and the shifting blues of hyperspace reflecting off of it, but he didn’t respond to your question.

“You must get rather lonely traveling around all the time,” you looked down at the sleeping child in your arms and smiled, “though you do have this little one to keep you company.”

Din turned back in his chair, facing forward.

You continued to talk, “I’ve heard Coruscant is beautiful.”

“Depends what part you’re in.” Din said without turning around.

“You’ve been to Coruscant before then?” you were met with silence, “not one for conversation, are you?” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it slipped out.

Silence again, Din adjusted in his seat but remained facing forward.  

You wanted to stop talking, you really did, but your nerves go the better of you, “I’ve never been to Coruscant before. I’ve never been anywhere before, actually. When I was a child, I would dream of getting to travel around the galaxy, going on adventures, seeing planet after planet,” your voice went soft, quiet, “but that is a life unbecoming of a princess…on Nat-hura at least. Every night I would sit out on my bedroom terrace and gaze up at the sky, wishing that someday I would get to see all the other worlds. Imagining what it would be like to…” you trailed off, remembering you were in the presence of a stranger who didn’t need your life story, nor did you think he would want to hear it. You looked out the window, focusing on the beauty of hyperspace.

A beat of silence filled the air. Din waited for you to continue. When you didn’t, his curiosity got the better of him.

“What it would be like to what?”

His question surprised you. The Mandalorian seemed so stoic and aloof, but there was edge of intrigue to his tone.

“I wondered what it would be like to be an ordinary person,” you stared down at Grogu, still fast asleep in your lap, holding your finger, “but I know there are far worse lives to live than that of a princess.”

The ship fell silent again, only for the Mandalorian to surprise you once more with a shrug and a quiet response, “It’s natural to wonder.”

That was all he said, then the ship returned to silence. You smiled, happy for what you interpreted as reassurance. Perhaps he wasn’t as cold as he made himself out to be.

~

Coruscant was even more beautiful than you had imagined it would be, so bright and bustling with life. You didn’t know buildings could be so tall, or that there could be so many one after another. You looked out the window with wonder in your eyes. Din caught a glimpse of you, and it caused the slightest quirk in the corner of his mouth. Not a full smile, but an amused grin. You gently shook Grogu awake, telling him that you had arrived. He yawned, curling up into your lap more.

Din landed the Razor Crest on a small landing bay outside the apartments you would be staying in. The two of you walked off the ship, Grogu in your arms, starting to wake up from his nice long nap. The safehouse Colonel Ward had sent you to was not exactly what Din had been expecting. It was a luxury apartment, almost four times the size of his house back on Nevarro, with large, curved archways, marble floors, and a vast terrace overlooking the city planet. It was beautiful, but not really practical, at least Din didn’t think it was, though he figured the New Republic wanted you to feel at home, and this was as close to a palace as you could possibly get for a safehouse.

“This is beautiful,” you walked through the doorway, taking in all the art that lined the walls.

Grogu cooed in your arms, almost as if he was agreeing with you. He began to wiggle around, so you placed him down on the ground. He waddled into the apartment excitedly.

“Hey. Looking, no touching.” Din warned with a gentle voice, and Grogu gave a little nod.

“He really is very sweet.” You watched the little green child look at his new lodgings with wonder.

“You haven’t seen him eat yet,” Din said dryly and you chuckled lightly.

~

The sun had begun its descent when you finished getting settled in your room. You arranged everything as closely as you could to how it looked back home, something to give you comfort. You looked around at your work and gave a satisfied smile.

A firm, but controlled knock sounded from the door. On the other side was Din, with Grogu clinging happily to his shoulder.

“We’re going to get some food. We’ll be back shortly,” he handed you a comms device, “if anything happens, use this to contact me.”

You nodded, “Alright.”

Din gave a quick nod in acknowledgement, then turned to walk down the hall and out the door. A series of loud clicks could be heard as he locked each of the newly installed locks that he had added to the door, “extra security” is what he had referred to it as.

The whole apartment fell quiet. You were alone. You’d never been truly alone before. The palace was always full of people, and even in your room, there were servants coming in and out all throughout the day, and there were guards posted right outside your door, always. There was a sense of freedom to it, but also a rising loneliness.

You sat down on your new bed and looked around. Tears began to gather in your eyes, as the weight of everything finally sunk in. And it wasn’t the threat of being harmed that scared you the most, it was that in six months’ time you would be married to a complete stranger. You thought you had more time. More time to change your parents’ minds, more time to make peace with your fate, but it was all happening so fast.

And in that rare moment of solace, you allowed yourself to fall apart. To cry as loud as you needed, to curl up and wish for the impossible, for a miracle, but knew in your heart neither would happen. The only thing to quell your tears was the sound of the Mandalorian returning with his young apprentice. You stood from your bed, wiped your tears, and walked out to greet them with a smile that did not quite meet your eyes.

[silksaddle]

Masterlist

all works are 18+ only!

Agent Whiskey

The Traveler (series masterlist)

Whiskey thots ask

Din Djarin

Forage (series masterlist)

Potter!Din (series masterlist)

Allowance

Kneel, Knight

Yours for the Taking

Frankie Morales

Love Interruption

Lullaby

On the Clock

[silksaddle]

Forage: Masterlist

gif: @trashcora

Din Djarin x F!Reader Series

Summary: A scavenger working under Nevarro’s trading post, your discoveries are scarce, until a Mandalorian finds you in a somewhat compromising position. Post season 2.

Rating: E/18+

Art | Inspo

Part 1: Gathering

Part 2: The Foxhole

Part 3: Raiders

[silksaddle]

Drifter

gif by @perotovar

Din Djarin x F!Reader One Shot

Summary: Life is normal, working as the librarian in Nevarro’s new holorepository — until a Mandalorian seeks your help with an impossible query. (Post S3, but fits anywhere before or after TMAG)

Tags/Warnings: E/18+! (Some) violence, a lot of blood, a tiny bit of drinking, swearing, weapons, a dead body, fingering, unprotected piv sex, naked female/clothed male, reader is shorter than din but otherwise written as inclusively as possible, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, porn with plot (?)

Words: 20.3k (listen... it's a novella)

Restoring each page of a thick, ancient tome would be preferable to troubleshooting this stupid thing. This, being an updated search function for Nevarro’s holorepository. A way to scan an object in front of you and pull any related data.

Huffing, you arch your back and stretch in the uncomfortable chair, then cross your arms and spread out across your desk, forehead nestled in your elbow. You blindly search and tap your datapad with a finger, turning off your work session. The holographic screen floating in front of you disappears, letting the golden glow of the library take over. 

Sunlight filters through the small rectangular windows on each side of the front door. It shines over the stony center pathway, lined by rows and rows of tall shelves. But the mid-afternoon rays aren’t long enough to reach your work station at the end of the main aisle, leaving you in the dim twinkle of the ceiling pot lights. Occasionally, the spines of the holobooks flicker, a brilliant electric blue.

Silence. You could count how many visitors you’ve had in the last week on your two hands. Hunters, soldiers, pilots, even plain old civilians… they don’t have the time or interest for research. No time for pleasure reading either—but does anyone? 

At least you have a job. One that revolves around archiving military reports, for the most part. 

Stationed in the heart of Nevarro City, the library was ordered and built in collaboration with the New Republic. In exchange for funding the collection of holobooks, you’re tasked with creating an archive on the New Republic’s business in the Outer Rim. 

Your datapad pings several times a day with messages from colonels and commanders at ranger outposts, passing along reports on missions, prisoners, and Imperial remnants. You store the information on a data stick in a private back office, away from public access. Once in a while, you also aid the closest neighbouring base on Adelphi by researching planets of interest and crime syndicates. 

There’s a handful of other repositories like yours; the New Republic established one in each galactic region, creating an expansive network of information. You share the filing duties remotely with other librarians, each constructing an archive on the Core Worlds, Inner Rim, Mid Rim, so on. The arrangement allows inactive records to be stored separately from ranger outposts, while providing a few lucky cities like yours with social development.

Still. The contract doesn’t make much of a difference with in-library patronage. The people who do come in are nine-times-out-of-ten looking for help with configuring their holoprojector so they can talk to their friends on some backwater planet you’ve never heard of. The other time, it’s someone convincing you the Death Star was a hoax and that Alderaan is going strong. 

Eyelids fluttering, fingers drumming, breathing slowing–

The rumble of a throat clearing snaps you out of your reverie.

“Librarian.”

Your palm slaps against the surface of your desk as you whip your head up, your wide eyes falling upon a stock-still, shiny wall of armour. One that you might’ve seen before, stalking through the market streets. Just never up close.

Swallowing, you straighten your back and fail to come up with a reason as to why you’d just been lazing about on your desk.

God, he’s tall. And broad. You might find him slightly more terrifying than you already do, if it wasn’t for the green baby.

The Mandalorian’s silver armour glints in the low light of the library as he shifts his weight onto one foot. A pair of enormous eyes watch you from over his shoulder, leathery ears flapping against his helmet. For a short, mortifying moment, you can see your face reflected in his chestplate, and what you find is a pretty dumb expression.

So, you stand from your chair and put on a smile.

“Hello,” you greet them both quietly, hiding the timid quiver of your vocal chords. “Can I help you find something?”

“Yes.” It’s one word and yet, devastatingly, it’s so raspy and deep and… The baby blinks at you as one of its claws reaches further up the Mandalorian’s pauldron, then its nail catches on the wooly cowl underneath, tugging the fabric. The baby slips a few inches down Mando’s shoulder, constricting the fabric around his neck.

“Ah,” he hisses, casually reaching behind him before the baby slides all the way down his back and plops into his palm.

Then– “Yes,” he repeats, “I’m looking for information about my apprentice.”

He maneuvers the green and beige bundle to the front of his body, then holds him there against his stomach. His helmet tilts up by the chin in a proud manner, and you let yourself just stare at the baby, all swaddled in a too-large sack of a coat.

“Well,” you finally respond, eyes drifting back to the Mandalorian’s visor, “what is it that you’d like to know?”

The baby reaches its claws out for you, which are immediately restrained by the Mandalorian’s gloved thumbs and tucked back into his hold.

Faintly, you can hear him mutter something to the child.

“I want to learn about his species. I… do not know what he is. I’d like to know how to train him better.”

It makes you feel small; this unconventional request is likely too big for your little library, and never in your life have you seen a creature like this one. 

The last time someone needed research help, you had but to refer them to an almanac. Identifying a mysterious alien species? You pause, calculating your response.

“I want to be honest with you,” you start, trying to make your voice confident, “the repository is newer. We’re still rebuilding after the whole, you know… Although I’m working on acquisitions, there’s a slim chance I have information on your little friend here.”

The helmet tilts again, this time to the side. And he doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, shining at you, as big as a Bantha.

You take a deep breath, noticing how much of his body is covered with weapons. In fact, right now, he’s holding the baby against a bandolier of ammo. There’s a red splotch on his right glove that you’re certain is blood. Your exhale ends with a shiver. More silence. A challenge to see who will speak first.

Would it be worse if you could see his face, in all this quiet nothingness, and stare at each other blankly? Probably.

“I can try.” You cut through the stillness, just above a mumble. Your shoulders relax a little when the Mandalorian makes a quiet hum of approval.

“Good.”

Good. Twist my arm, you think, not missing the continued raspiness of his modulated voice.

“But I’m not a scientist,” you add, attempting to make your face into something severe, but since he won’t take no for an answer, you doubt he’ll hear out your concerns.

After a beat, “Excellent sleeper, though.” 

Your breath catches in your throat.

You shoot him a weak glare, unsure if that was humour or contempt in his voice. Was he judging you? Of course, he picked the one time you decided to take a five-second snooze to barge in with this baby and demand help. An impeccable first impression on your part.

“You just caught me at a bad time.” You grumble, then curse yourself for taking the bait. Why would this clearly seasoned Mandalorian still want a dozing librarian’s help? The desire to prove yourself creeps along your shoulders, pools in the bottom of your stomach.

He takes another step toward the desk.

“Yeah?”

Fuck, why is it so stuffy in here?

After gaping at him for a few more seconds, not knowing what to say, you shift. He inhales, like he’s about to rag on you further. “Or are you always—”

You cut in.

“So, what can you tell me about him already? I’ll need some time to find proper resour–” Your gaze flits back to the creature, who is currently making your cup of caf float in mid air.

His little hand stretches out, eyes closed in a deep focus as the mug moseys towards him, a full foot above the desk. 

“Hey, kid–” Mando reaches to wrap his fingers around the mug at the same time that you do. His hand gracelessly closes around yours, and out sloshes the caf, dripping onto the counter. He withdraws his hand lightning quick, as you, stupefied, set the mug back on the surface.

What the fuck?

“Suppose we can start there,” a nervous laugh bubbles out of you, and Mando heaves a sigh, humbled.

He reprimands the baby by shaking a finger, but it’s a half-assed attempt. Those big, shiny eyes crease with laughter.

“Sorry, he’s… still learning his manners. But I don’t need to learn more about his powers. I want to know what he is. What planet he came from.”

“I see,” you nod, reaching for a tissue, but the Mandalorian is already wiping away the liquid with the edge of his cape. 

***

Turns out, the baby’s name is Grogu. He’s fifty, and an absolute pain to research. But, as it also turns out, you’re able to import certain holofiles from repositories on other planets. It grants you a welcome respite from tinkering with the new search function and lets you work on some much needed acquisitions. The repository will ideally grow into a grand hub of knowledge for the New Republic, so, if that means importing several hundred files to the database to help figure out what species the green baby is, then… fine.

A few days after your initial encounter, the Mandalorian brought the baby back in with him to check for an update. Graciously, he’d let you take Grogu to test with the new search function, in which you’d taken a scanner and held it over the baby for a good five minutes before the system spat out some results. The Mandalorian leaned against a tall shelf and crossed his arms, somehow managing to look like a concerned father even with his casual stance and lack of a visible face.

“Careful,” he murmured, as you held the baby still under the scanner’s undulating blue light.

“He’s okay. I’m a librarian, not a Wampa.”

“I see that,” came his flat reply. 

His discomfort permeated through the armour, though he remained unmoving. 

“Would you prefer I stop scanning him?” You glanced up from your control panel, ceasing to press any more buttons.

A grumble. “Keep going.” 

The scan worked, to a certain degree.

It pulled up all creatures with big ears and anything to do with the colour green. Nowhere near as specific as you’d hoped, which meant the scan-search function was going to need a lot of refining. 

To your surprise, the Mandalorian didn’t show any signs of disappointment. His brief combativeness died once the baby was back on his shoulder. Instead, he told you he could pay handsomely for your continued efforts, to which you replied that it was simply part of your job to connect people with information. Besides, you didn’t need the New Republic on your back for accepting money under the table.

It’s the first proper query someone has brought to you in an age, and it’s effectively made you question both your sanity and choice of career. Even with all your determination, you find nothing. Nothing, nothing. Not in the holobooks, not in the research databases, not even in the searchable catalogues of other repositories on the holonet. You curse the authors of the galaxy for not writing a guide on identifying green, floppy eared babies with bottomless pits for stomachs. 

You try not to let it eat away at you. Finding answers is what you do, and you want to give an answer to the mysterious hunk of beskar. 

***

Two weeks later, you have zero leads on the species, but a good deal of information on the Jedi.

After another day of adding New Republic documents to the data stick in the back room – and getting nowhere on the Grogu case – you switch the library lights off and make your way to the entrance. 

Unsurprisingly, one of the few patrons you welcomed today was a grumpy Quarren who wanted a holobook on how to fix a speeder. He then proceeded to ask you to read it so you could fix it after your shift.

You reminded him that you could help to locate information, but you were not a teacher, nor a mechanic, which resulted in you being yelled at for refusing service and the Quarren storming out. You whispered curses under your breath as he bellowed his own.

Now, you slip out the door and into a purple, dying sunset. Once the bolt clicks in place and you key in the secondary lock’s passcode, you swivel on your heel, turning smack into another wall.

Gasping, your key — a silver rod — clatters to the ground.

“Anything yet?” The Mandalorian questions you, visor tilted low. Even though he hadn’t trapped you in a corner, the sheer size and proximity of him gives the same effect. Hiding his face must have an impact on his idea of personal space.

Heat blazes across your cheeks in embarrassment; you’d been hoping for a breakthrough before the next time he decided to check in. Now he’s (somewhat) cornered you, demanding answers after giving you a perfectly reasonable amount of time to have found something. Anything. 

Your mouth opens to say hello first, then you remember he hadn’t the mind to greet you properly either. Why he insists on stealthily materializing behind you instead of saying hello like a normal person is beyond you. If he means to scare you, it’s quite effective.

“Still no…” you draw the last syllable out as you try and think of how to explain it. Well, why would he care if you were the best keeper of knowledge in Nevarro if you can’t find anything on where his sorcerer baby came from?

He sighs, and the sound slices your ego in half. The plaza behind him is nearly empty, street vendors packing away their tents and wares, a few people headed for a drink at the cantina.

“There’s nothing, not even in the remains of the Coruscant archives.” You scrape the toe of your boot along the thin layer of dirt covering the step, avoiding him.

His eyeless stare bores into you, your skin. Had you angered him? What was he expecting, for you to find a birth certificate?

Steeling yourself, you cross your arms, waiting for him to lash out the way other patrons do at the tiniest, inconsequential things. 

The silence stretches for long enough that the flagstone street outside the repository has now fully emptied, leaving you alone with the Mandalorian, who is once again swimming in weapons. It only occurs to you now that you should probably start begging for your life. Sure, he had been rather well-mannered during your two previous meetings, apart from making a jab at you sleeping, and not knowing how to make his presence known without giving you a heart attack. Your soft heart reminds you he’s just a father trying to understand his son. Ward. Apprentice — whatever it is. Then again. There is a warrior standing not two feet away from you, in a vacant street, while you tell him you failed at his one, simple request. Another glance at the blaster on his hip gets your mouth running.

“I’m serious, I spent hours looking everywhere— believe me, I wanted to, I appreciated the challenge, but there was just—”

“Thank you.” 

“I–”

What?

“Thank you,” he repeats himself, and all the rising fear inside you fizzles out.

“I’m not sure I follow.” Your arms fall from their crossed position to rest at your sides. Looking down, you notice the baby is here too, wrapped around the Mandalorian’s boot. He wags his fingers to make a tinkling sound with your key that he’d picked up off the ground.

The Mandalorian’s voice comes soft and steady as he kneels down to take the key from Grogu. “You’re the only one who’s agreed to even try.”

His helmet comes rather close to your face as he rises back up, his palm open.

You pluck the rod from his hand, fingertips grazing the smooth leather glove. You had almost refused him; you knew it was a shot in the dark as soon as he asked you for help. But who else had he tried talking to anyway?

“Did you try a xenobiologist?”

“Five.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Another librarian almost tried but it fell through when Grogu… made a mess of their repository.”

You snort. Apparently, stealing your caf was nothing compared to what this baby is capable of. It makes you feel a little better, knowing you weren’t the only one stumped by it.

Your meek voice mumbles, “Your friend is just…”

“Rare.” Mando visor tips down to Grogu, who has now detached himself from his father’s boot, and is gazing up at you. Lovingly, almost.

You reach into your pocket, recalling your unfinished snack from this afternoon.

“May I?”

Mando nods, hands on his hips. You toss the remainder of your cookie to the grabby hands at your feet. Grogu swallows it whole, gulping.

It’s probably nothing, but you offer it anyway: “I did find a lot of information about the Jedi, though I guess you probably know a thing or two already.”

He stills. “Tell me.”

***

Ten minutes later, a server droid thrusts a Bloody Rancor into your right hand.

Grogu slurps a bowl of soup, caged in between you and Mando, who eats nothing, drinks nothing.

You’d been stunned by his suggestion to come here. He shrugged, said it was just a comfortable place to talk about your research. You stifled a laugh, doubting he knows much about comfort based off of his everyday attire – but you said yes, despite your nerves.

You hadn’t visited the cantina since its relocation after the magistrate fashioned the old one into a school. To be fair, there was a lot of the city you hadn’t explored since its makeover, always skittering between your home and the library. Now, there’s yellow fabric streamers, multicoloured mood lighting, more server droids, and considerably less scowly faces going around. Along the walls are small booths nestled in private alcoves, each glowing a different colour. 

There’s even softer music, you noticed, washing over your ears when you stepped foot into the cantina. Heads turned, conversation halted. Your cheeks burned so hot with the attention you thought they might catch fire. Then, lightning zipped up your spine as the ghost of a hand brushed your back, leading you to a booth. You wanted to think it was gentlemanly, but considering the stares, it was just protective. A shield. Hardly a touch. It hit you again just how intimidating he was when he wasn’t asking for help with his baby in your quaint community library. Even then, he had you cowering a little.

The chatter and drinking resumed as the Mandalorian took a seat across from you.

And it’s weird. It’s really, properly weird to sit across from this giant, metal stranger. His presence fills the room with talk, with whispers of awe and fear and you — you are so unlike him. Your soft edges and flowy clothing are a stark contrast to his gleaming suit of armour, the bandolier, the holster. Oddly, his fearsomeness is the same thing that gives you a sense of security. He could take on anyone in this cantina without breaking a sweat, but no one is brave enough to approach your table in the first place, leaving you in utter peace.  

Perhaps he is more like a giant, metal… acquaintance, now that you’re settled in together.

The alcove you share glows a deep pink. Beskar reflects the warm colour as you quietly relay your findings on the Jedi. Some of it he claims to know, some of it is new. Some of it he plans to incorporate into training his apprentice. He watches you intently, one hand resting on the table. Occasionally, he uses his cloak to dry Grogu’s chin. 

Multipurpose, you think, wondering how many mysterious liquids are trapped in the fibers.

“How did you two…” You trail off, unsure whether to take the conversation from business to personal. You then consider the hours and hours of work you put into this. “...Meet?”

They look at each other. It’s sweet, how the tiny creature leans closer to the Mandalorian, watching him with adoring, crinkled eyes and a wide smile full of soup cracker crumbs.

An answer doesn’t come. You shift awkwardly on the cushioned leather seat. What, was that the wrong thing to say?

“Well, I highly doubt you’re his biological father, so. You must have met at some point.”

An exhale. Whether amusement or annoyance, you don’t know. You’re hoping it’s the former, and that hope is satisfied when he finally replies.

“Grogu was a target of the Empire.”

Frowning, you turn to Grogu, who could be mistaken for a pillow in that coat. “Him?”

Crumbs line his collar. You study him for another moment; his big flappy ears, his fuzzy white baby hairs. His claws – you remember your mug, floating above your desk. “Oh. Of course.”

“They wanted to… extract his powers. I spared him.” A beat. “It was messy.”

With a little more convincing, he tells you how he shot up the Guild to save Grogu, then how he’d lost him to the Jedi. How upon reuniting, he’d formally adopted him as an apprentice.

You lose focus halfway through the story, the mention of the Guild perking you up.

“That was you?” You ask, an incredulous smile spreading on your face.

There was hardly a repository at that point; there was simply a credit-operated kiosk where citizens could access information on the holonet. You’d been scavenging to make ends meet, trading for money at the junk dealer. There was the shootout between the Guild members, then a full-fledged Imperial siege of the town, explosions and all. You should honestly thank him. Once it had all blown over, the town was made anew. New paint jobs, new amenities, resources – and the construction on the repository was finally finished. “Messy indeed.”

“I thought we were talking about the kid.”

“Yeah, okay,” you laugh on the rim of your glass, citrus zest wafting up your nose. “The kid.”

He wipes Grogu’s messy chin again, managing to look resigned even under the helmet. “I’m not going to get anywhere with this, am I.”

It’s not a question. Just a tired remark.

“In my honest opinion, no. Especially not if you’ve already tried five xenobiologists.” 

He goes quiet again. He’s pretty and shiny to look at, if a little stunted at conversation, so you turn to the side, watching the rest of the cantina bustle about. Under the low lights, a few pairs of eyes are still trained on your companion — the bounty hunter, you presume. Unless parenting has become his full time job.

The buzz of your drink encourages you to turn back to him and change the subject.

“Do you get tired of the staring? From, like, everyone?”

The helmet tilts, barely. “Like you?”

You hiccup.

Stars, he makes this booth look tiny. He fills his seat and then some, miles between his pauldrons. Your face burns for the third time today as you look down into your lap.

“Sometimes. But not from librarians.”

His voice is so low you’re certain you imagined the last part. Whatever it was you thought about him being poor at conversation vanishes in an instant. Is he flirting with you?

You snap your gaze back up to find him leaning ever so slightly over the table. The look you share is charged, electric, even though his eyes are invisible. You swallow thickly, throat dry. 

Mando relaxes back against the cushion of the booth, slinging an arm across the top edge, thighs spreading. The hand that was resting on the table finds purchase on his knee. His position taunts you, invites you to say something. It takes you a moment to remember how to form words into a sentence.

“My point is, you must be used to getting what you want,” you muse, “considering how spooked everyone is when you walk in a room. How they stare.” 

It’s all too true. You gave him exactly what he wanted once he walked into the library, and all he had to do was stare at you until you agreed. But you don’t find him as frightening now as you did the first time you met, or even earlier when he appeared outside the library door. You’re glad to admit that the Mandalorian has a decent sense of manners, for the most part. He says his pleases and thank yous, but you get the sense he’s likely as violent as he is courteous.

“Or I take it by force,” he replies. At your vaguely horrified expression, he continues, “I’m a bounty hunter. No one is happily running into my arms.”

You wiggle your finger at the baby, who’s already finished his second bowl of soup. “Except you. You’re always running into his arms, isn’t that right?” Claws gently close around your finger as you turn back to Mando. “Who do you work for now, with the Guild gone?”

“The New Republic, occasionally.” His fingers tap on the counter.

You brighten. “Oh, so I’ve probably filed some old reports about you.”

“Yeah? What do they say?” The lilt in his voice is rousing, a teasing kind of curiosity. 

You bite the inside of your lip, emboldened by it.

“That you need to stop tormenting poor librarians with difficult questions.”

Glinting in the magenta haze, Mando leans back in, fixed on you. The baby watches him with wide, puzzled eyes.

“Am I tormenting you by buying you drinks?”

The Mandalorian did pay for you earlier, slapping credits onto the table as the server droid handed you the beverage. 

You take a swig. The alcohol is fire on your tongue, his unyielding, black gaze fire in your belly.

“No.”

He hums, satisfied. “Good.”

The Mandalorian escorts you home after a second Bloody Rancor slips down your throat. He waits in the darkness until you’re inside with the door locked, then saunters away with the sleeping baby in his arms.

You’re not certain just how long you sat there with him, explaining away your life while he gave little snippets of his. He told you little else of himself, other than that he occasionally takes breaks from hunting and settles in his small home on the Nevarro plains.

You’d also discovered that no, the helmet does not come off.

It’s funny, how much more human he seems after sitting with him in that booth. How surprisingly gentle, you think, watching him through the window, cradling the bundled baby.

***

The Mandalorian is unpredictable. Human, yes. Gentle, somewhat. But unpredictable. And it’s definitely on purpose, you think, that he can’t help himself from startling you, whether in the street or in the repository. You’d think he was stalking you, but it’s just infrequent enough that your meetings are plausibly accidental.

Over the months, he flickers in and out of your life. Hunting, then not hunting. Creeping up on you once in a while, seemingly just to watch you quiver.

Two months ago, as you shopped at the market, he appeared from behind a stall’s red draping. 

“Hungry?” 

“Fuck, Mando!”

Four weeks ago, as you dropped off holofiles containing textbooks for the school, he was there, dropping off Grogu. 

“Your kid goes to school?” 

“Just when I need daycare.”

When you finally decided to give the cantina another visit, he happened to be leaning outside the entrance, his back on the wall and his hands clasped in front, a heel resting on the toe of his opposite boot. A smear of blood ran down his chestplate, dried to the colour of rust. He beckoned you toward him with two fingers. 

“Buy you a drink?”

It’s annoying, how big and fast and debilitating your crush grows, despite not knowing his name or what he looks like. Despite not really knowing who he is, other than the fact that he loves his child and hunts Imperial remnants for the New Republic.

Despite not knowing whether you’ve graduated from acquaintances to friends. 

You want to say you have a friendship together, because you’d finally gotten over the remaining dregs of fear in your belly when he’s around. The absence of that fear had made room for something else, something like admiration. Excitement. 

***

As another morning turns to afternoon, you wander through the aisles on a hunt to locate a particular book on droid mechanics for a technician. You slide your fingers along the edge of the shelf, the holobooks glimmering with light. Some of them are out of order, you notice, until you spot the one you’re searching for. You pull the tablet out and carry it to the waiting technician at your desk. The device comprises of two screens folded together, the outside cover reinforced by sturdy metal. The spine, where the screens hinge, emits the bright blue light of electronic data within. 

“Page seventy-eight is all about fuses,” you call, approaching the Twi’lek. You work the holobook open. The two screens sputter to life, text forming in flickers, until settling down to a steady glow. You slide a finger across the right-hand screen, scrolling through digital pages until you land on the fusing section. “Try starting with this, and good luck repairing your droid.”

The purple Twi’lek wordlessly takes the tablet and hurries out of the repository. Even without an expression of gratitude, it was still the most decent interaction you’ve had this month. She didn’t even ask you to read the book and fix the droid.

You return to the disordered section to start re-filing the holobooks. By no surprise, Old Republic history books have somehow weaseled their way into mechanics. You gather a stack of misfiles in your arms and take them around the corner. The first book in your pile, on the Seventh Battle of Ruusan, belongs on the top shelf. You huff. You can still see a gap on the ledge where it was taken from.

Your calves pull tight as you rise to your toes. Your wrist strains, and the top edge of the holobook barely scrapes the underside of the shelf. A frustrated groan rumbles in your chest before you catch sight of someone in the corner of your eye.

As you turn, you find the Mandalorian standing at the end of the aisle, perfectly centered between the two rows of shelves.

Heat pools in your belly at the familiar sight of him; tall, shiny, decorated in weapons. You slowly lower back to your heels, the history book still in your hand and the rest of the misfiles tucked in your other arm.

He walks to you, lowering his visor the closer he gets, keeping his gaze trained on your face. A hand, with fingers wrapped in orangey leather, plucks the holobook from your grasp. 

Mando briefly studies the book. Then he reaches the top shelf, effortlessly slotting it in with the others. His visor tilts down in your direction before he’s finished tucking it all the way back.

“I need to brush up on my Rodian.”

He leaves his hand up on the ledge, the other resting on his hip. 

Your heartbeat picks up. A coy smile separates your lips. “Say hello first and then I’ll help you.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you raise your brows.

“Bright… suns, librarian.” It sounds like it pains him, obeying your frivolous demand. His flat tone coaxes a giggle out of you.

“That’s a bit dramatic, but thank you.”

He sighs. You attempt to peer behind him, but fail to see past the silvery breadth of his shoulders. “Where is the kid?”

“He’s with his friends.”

He leans just an inch closer, hand still braced somewhere above your head.

It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him — you’ve gone a lot longer before — but it’s hard to hide your excitement. Stars, are you always this shaky around him?

“Why do you need to practice your, uh, Rodian?”

He exhales, retreating slightly from your personal bubble, miffed by the reminder of his duties. “I have some New Republic business with a group of Rodians. They don’t speak Basic.”

You could almost whine at the way he straightens away from you, then — you realize he’s just granted you an opportunity to prove you are capable at your job, seeing as his last request went south almost as soon as he’d asked. For a split second, you reason that it shouldn’t matter what he thinks of you and your abilities. His kid is a flat out enigma, and he understood that. Then again… you look up at him, shining in his armour. 

“Follow me.” You step forward. Mando drops his hand and turns his body to let you pass, then trails closely as you lead him to the language section.

You crouch down, sliding a finger across the spines until you land on a Rodian instructional book.

“Will this do?” You pass the tablet to him. He opens the device, screens sputtering to life, then scans through some pages.

“Good enough.”

It might as well be praise.

While Mando settles down in the corner at a carrel that is two sizes too small for his body, you check the communications log at your desk for messages from the ranger outposts or the Head of Repositories on Chandrila.

Nothing.

You could go back and finish putting away the misfiles, but you can’t conceive of focusing while the Mandalorian studies nearby.

Instead, to your complete and utter dismay, the Quarren returns.

He stomps up the central aisle, fuming, sandy-toned tentacles whipping around the bottom of his grim face.

“You are going to fix my speeder.” His seething voice scrapes your ears, and you’re already shrinking into yourself.

“Sir…” Your nails dig crescents into your palm. “Surely you have some time to read the instructional—?”

You cut yourself off when the Quarren’s eyes darken even more, his laboured breathing growing faster and faster. In your defence, it had been a good few months since the first time he yelled at you, yet he still hasn’t solved his problem. What has he been doing this whole time?

“It’s broken again, and I do not have the patience for any scalper mechanics this time.” His words burst with venom. You might feel sorry for him if he wasn’t spitting in your face. 

Desperate, you glance to your left in search of Mando, who is no longer sitting at the carrel.

Fuck. 

You probably shouldn’t, but… “Again, just so we’re clear. You expect me, a librarian, to read a manual for you and fix your speeder?”

A bitter laugh. His hands fly up in exasperation. “You got something more important to do?” He squints at your tidy desk, then he gestures to the aisles, the carrels, void of other people. He regards you with an air of contempt, pinning you as some sort of imbecile for not doing him a favour well outside your jurisdiction. “Thought you were here to help the community.”

You power through the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes.

“Sir,” you try again, “You misunderstand. I have told you already, I can show you how to find the information you need, but I am not—”

You stop yourself. Exhausting as it is, you try to form an understanding with each of your patrons, even when they’re exploding in front of your face. You wonder, maybe he can’t read? Perhaps his anger is just insecurity—

Your seedling of sympathy is squashed when the Quarren stomps one foot closer, his arm raising as if he’s going to smack the holobooks out of your arms. The first syllable of a derogatory name forms on his lips, but he fails to get the whole word out before a calmer, raspier voice overpowers him.

“Quit.” The Mandalorian emerges behind him. Bigger, taller, scarier. The Quarren chokes on his unspoken wrath, then slowly turns, revealing his palms in a placating fashion. You like it a little too much, how fast he crumbles at the sight of the towering Mandalorian. “Leave. Take your speeder to the Anzellan shop down the road.”

Mando tosses credits at the squid-like agitator, who barely manages to catch them all.

“Now.”

A gloved hand hovers near the blaster on his hip.

The Quarren scrambles, crashing a shoulder into the side of the automatic door on his frenzied way out.

You stare at the door for a few seconds, gathering yourself, then cross your arms. “That is not how we deal with angry people in a library.”

Paying the man for being a nuisance? It was effective, you can admit that much. You could also admit that the display of sheer power made your knees weak. But you won’t tell him either of those things.

“It didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon.”

True.

“I took care of him last time. I could have done it again.” Another truth – but were you secretly hoping the Mandalorian would save you from the trifling Quarren? Yes. Were you going to pretend like you wanted to handle it all by yourself? Absolutely.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!” You guffaw, incredulous, trying to ignore the effortlessly sultry tone of his voice.

His helmet and shoulders start to shake as if he’s chuckling, but the vocoder doesn’t pick anything up.

“I believe you,” he says, not without a trace of humour. “Let’s just say I sped up the process.”

You frown at him, although it’s becoming harder and harder to conceal your smile. “You’re not a security guard.”

Mando tilts his helmet in a lazy shrug.

Your semi-feigned frustration morphs into gratitude, but you manage to maintain your displeased expression as you tell him, “Thank you.”

You’d learned how to de-escalate situations like this in the library — namely, patrons who want to get in a yelling match and call you names — but it nags at you that you probably wouldn’t know where to start if someone like Mando was that displeased.

You must be wearing the thought on your face, because he slices through the silence with a blunt, “What.”

“Nothing, I’m just… imagining how to get rid of you.”

He slants his head in such a way that you can feel the exasperation coursing through him. “I just helped you.”

“No, I mean… if someone like you came in here, all angry and ready to pick a fight.”

“You get a lot of people like him? In here?” He gestures around the emptiness, just like the Quarren had.

It’s borderline serene right now. But you don’t feel like explaining the woes of librarianship and all its intricacies – the fact that it’s not always this quiet and you’re most often acting as a community therapist for patrons with emotional issues. Holobooks are seldom your concern.

“More than you could imagine,” you mumble.

Mando shifts his weight to the other foot. “You said you’ve handled him before. And I believe you.”

Your brows lift. Before you can speak, remind him that he handled it this time with credits, he adds, “He was berating you.”

A spark flies from the top of your head, down to your toes at his protective lilt. Your knees wobble. He’d intercepted not because he didn’t trust you, but because he didn’t like it. As if he couldn’t help himself from shutting the Quarren up. 

When the spark fizzles down to a dull zap and you regain a sense of composure, you huff, arms crossing over your chest. “But the Quarren, he’s not like you.” 

He steps closer. 

It’s the same as when he’d appeared outside the door to check if you’d found anything out about Grogu’s kind. He’s not cornering you, but it feels like he is, the spread of his shoulders crowding your view of the library behind him.

Your eyes widen.

“Not like me?” He’s toying with you now – just wants to hear you stutter out the obvious: that he's big, he’s strong, whatever else. You start to squirm, shifting your feet and rolling your shoulders.

“I think you know what I mean.” You turn your gaze from him, finding the fold of your arms very, very interesting.

“Librarian.” 

He says it carefully, like a prompt; he won’t let you avoid him. You want to shake your head at him, but you bask in it – how he sometimes uses your title instead of your name. It makes you feel like you’re equals, makes you forget that you still don’t know his name. Mandalorian. Librarian. 

You take a while to croak out a shy response, cringing at each word that exits your mouth. “You’re… big. And sort of scary.”

“Sort of.” Fuck, you can tell he’s smirking with that tone.

“Well, very.”

He must be enjoying this, under all that metal.

You clarify, “Because you’re covered in weapons.”

“They’re part of my religion.” He speaks plainly, a thumb tucking under his utility belt.

“I’m aware. But they’re still there.”

“Uhuh.” 

You tear your eyes from your own body to find his visor slowly shifting down, then back up. Studying you. Almost… admiring you. 

“Guess you have a point.”

You drop your arms. “What?”

Mando stalks across the floor, retrieving the holobook from his carrel. He offers it to you.

“I don’t think you could handle me either.”

***

Another month passes, each morning the same.

Except this one. 

The eerily vacant streets draw tension in your shoulders as you walk to the repository. It’s not just the lack of people, but the fact that the merchant tents flap in the wind, wares laid out on shelves, with no one staffing them.

Slowing your step, you make your way past the empty stalls, past the silent school, past the lifeless cantina. A hanging flower basket lies crumpled in its own dirt, petals strewn across the street. Not even the leaves on the trees are rustling. The alley is still in the absence of any life form but you.

Unease fills your lungs. You crane your neck, finding the spires and stony white roofs stark against an ordinarily sunny sky.

When the repository comes into view across the main plaza, your jaw slackens. Your hand claps to your mouth.

What used to be the door is now a yawning, jagged hole, sizzling with the embers of a blast. Your legs turn to jelly, but you force them to take you wobbling to the crumpled mess of rubble that used to be the entrance.

Heart in your throat, you step through and peek inside. To your relief, all the shelves and carrels – even your desk – appear to be untouched, except for a few holobooks scattered on the floor that must have been knocked from the blast.

Creeping further into the dark building, you ignore the voice in your head, clawing and screaming at you to leave, to get help first. You tip toe towards the back room where the data stick is kept, holding the New Republic archives. You bite the inside of your cheek when you find its door slightly ajar. You bite down even harder, stomach going hollow, as you spy into the room. No data stick.

“Wha–” 

A red, searing bolt of plasma erupts from somewhere in the corner of the back room, whizzes past your shoulder, then explodes on the wall behind you.

Your hand slaps to your chest, clammy fingers clutching and pulling the fabric of your shirt. You hold your breath, paralyzed.

“Who’s there?” Comes the muffled, crazed voice of an anonymous man hidden behind the door. From your position, you see only the toe of a white boot on the stone floor. Another voice responds, equally as muffled as the first. At the sound of them shuffling, you bolt away from the back room with tears forming in your eyes and your heart beating so hard it dizzies you. The stomp of boots follows somewhere behind you as you careen through the bays of shelves.

Just as you reach what is left of the front door, another shot from the blaster rips through the air, a hair’s breadth from grazing your calf. It crashes and fizzles into the debris at the entrance, pebbles skittering to the ground. 

You scrape through the hole and stumble across a heap of jagged rubble from the wall. A sharp, rocky edge slices across your palm as you grasp it for balance. Rivulets of blood swim through the creases of your hand, mimicking the tears rapidly slipping down your face. 

Your thigh muscles strain in protest as you sprint back through the ghostly, abandoned street. Parts of your vision blur, the buildings and alleys turning black and distorted, but you don’t look back. The only sound in your ears is that of your ragged breaths and heavy foot falls as you lose speed.

You fight against the adrenaline pounding through your veins, threatening to make you vomit, and compel your legs to keep moving until you find someone. Anyone. 

Soon, a jog is all you can manage. Sobs break out of your throat. You wipe at your face with a forearm, trying not to collapse there in the middle of the road at the feeling of failure weighing you down. Trying not to think of what they’ll do with the information on the data stick that you’d so easily let them get away with.

You trudge through the arch at the edge of the city, sleeves wet. The solid grey plains of Nevarro spread out wide in front of you. With a shuddering breath, you shield your eyes from the sun and scan for any signs of life. Nothing, nothing, and…

There.

A land speeder coming your direction. Before long, you make out the Mandalorian’s helmet and his cape, whipping behind him. You trade your sobbing for a sigh of relief. He brakes. The speeder screeches and swerves to the right as he comes crashing out of it. He lands on his feet, steady, Grogu clutching his shoulder. You stumble toward him while he closes the distance with a determined sprint, his armoured body clanking.

Gloved hands stabilize you with a firm grip beneath your elbows.

“Are you alright?” Mando asks, hoarse and intense. The visor raises and lowers rapidly as he looks you over.

You stutter, mind fuzzy. “There was– the library. Tw–two men. The data stick–”

“I know. Adelphi base received a breach signal. Colonel Ward paged me. Are you alright?”

Adelphi, breach signal? How does he–?

Your thoughts slog through mud.

Bounty hunter. New Republic. Adelphi – the closest outpost.

“I’m… yes, I’m just– scared.” Your bottom lip quivers and your teeth chatter as you try to get the words out. “They missed.”

He stiffens under your tight grip on his forearms. You don’t have to say anything more for him to understand. 

Pathetic. You feel pathetic and embarrassed and… what were you supposed to do? It’s not as if you show up to work everyday with a blaster, ready to defend the building from Imperials. 

Mando’s voice softens as he says your name, bringing your focus back to him. His sudden tenderness lets loose another well of tears. “Can you get yourself home?”

“What about–”

You must be bleeding on his vambrace.

“Go home. Stay inside. I will take care of it.”

The finality sobers you a smidge. You blink away some of the saltiness in your eyes. The teasing, the laughter, the natural ease from your previous encounters – none of it is here. There’s a methodicalness to him. He’s rigid and focused – like he’s flipped a switch, like he needs to hunt down the cause of your tears. 

“You’re taking a break, aren’t you? It’s not safe, a–anyways. But the data stick, I need to get–”

He shakes his head, bright morning sunlight dancing across the silver helmet. He loosens his grip on your elbows, ensuring your stability before letting go completely. Then his palms rest heavy on your shoulders, squeezing and grounding you.

With bold conviction, “It will be done.”

***

Puffs of steam curl out of the kettle’s spout as the water boils. The room is dark, the only light a golden glow from the lantern on your tiny kitchen table. Your bleary eyes sting, your palm now haphazardly bandaged in gauzy white strips. A patch of dried blood marks the center.

It’s been hours since the Mandalorian caught you at the edge of town. Hours since you watched a yellow and silver gunship chase a pair of TIE-fighters out of the atmosphere.

Hours since Kallu, the head of the New Republic repositories, contacted you through hologram from Chandrila, her miniscule blue figure alight in your palm. You were expecting one of three things; to be severely reprimanded, suspended, or fired for not protecting the data stick. But she had no end of employment notice to relay. Instead, she confirmed your safety and informed you that it would be a few days before you could return to work. A group of New Republic builders would soon arrive to repair the site and install improved security equipment.

She would not take your apologies nor your shame for the situation, but her reassurance did little to calm your nerves; Imperial remnants now had access to loads of New Republic intelligence on the Outer Rim.

She passed on Colonel Ward’s statement that an independent contractor was working on retrieving the data stick before ending the call. This, you already knew.

Your thoughts drift to the Mandalorian as the wireless kettle sings. The way he carefully held you up as you sobbed, how he told you with such confidence that he would take care of it all for you. Amidst the storm raging through your head, the memory of his heavy, warm hands on your shoulders provides a faint relief.

You pad across the cramped kitchen and grab a sachet of tea from the cabinet.

If anyone were to ask, you could not describe this feeling. To say that your insides feel hollow and black, that your limbs weigh sluggishly, that your heart beats only to pump more shame through you, is an understatement.

You pour the boiling water into a mug and drop the teabag in. The water darkens with the herbs, swirling and rippling, reminiscent of your palm, wet with blood. Every muscle in your body draws tight in discomfort.

You trudge from the kitchen, through the tiny living space, and sweep away the jewel-toned curtain and beads separating your bed from the rest of your home. You set the mug beside your mattress then plop onto the covers with a groan.

Eyes on the ceiling, your mind bursts with worry. What could you have done? What was going to happen now that Imperials had captured tons of New Republic information? Or could the Mandalorian intercept them before they accessed the data? 

You sit up, reaching for the tea. The minty water burns your tongue, but you hardly notice as the questions dance tauntingly, around and around. You close your eyes. 

***

It’s humiliating. With your job on hold and the rest of the villagers shaken from the intrusion, all you can think about is him. For the week that New Republic contractors work on repairing the entrance door and the surrounding wall, the Mandalorian is wrapped around your every waking thought.

It’s been months since you’ve had the time to read a holonovel. A stack of them perches lonely and untouched on your bedside table, the teacup from the other night next to them, half drunk. Yet you find yourself incapable of slogging through even just a paragraph without the beskar-clad man interrupting your focus.

A trashy holodrama should work. You curl up on the mismatched mound of cushions on your living room floor and flick one on. A terrible mistake, really. Watching two people kiss dramatically makes your stomach constrict and your heart swell with longing.

Sure, you’d been harbouring a crush on the Mandalorian for the past several months. You’re not going to pretend like this is the first time he’s been stuck on your mind. You’d spent afternoons wondering about his face, picturing what features went along with his short but strangely caring nature. You’d guessed at his eyes – brown, you decided. Not blue. They had to be warmer than his silver exterior. Deep and vast. And his nose would be prominent, his lips contrastingly pillowy, but you could never figure out how they all would come together and make his face. 

It was all a fanciful daydream. Now, with him gone fighting Imperials Maker-knows-where, no indication of when or if he’ll return – it’s a worry-stricken frenzy.

“I’m being ridiculous.” You blurt out loud, frustratedly shutting off the holodrama with a thwack. He’s dealt with much worse if the tales he’s spun at the cantina are all true. This should be a piece of cake. 

So why does it feel like you can’t breathe, won’t be able to breathe until he makes it back safe?

You still don’t even know his name. It’s a fact that hurts you more than you thought it could, and right now it stings particularly strong in your eyes. This was New Republic business. He wasn’t just doing it for you.

You like to think that you could have prevented the Imperials from snatching the data stick had you been there. That you could have stealthily plucked it from the back and snuck out a hero. In reality, you probably wouldn’t be breathing, blinking, thinking about Mando right now if you were.

They might have destroyed more than just the door. And perhaps, that’s the only thing keeping you sane right now – that they didn’t take away your library, not entirely. They didn’t trash everything. Just blew down the door and took the data stick, which, with any luck, will be returned along with Mando.

***

The day Kallu calls and gives you permission to go back to work is the same day that you find a green baby in your chair.

Just as she’d said, a New Republic officer is waiting for you just outside the building to pass along your new key, which is twice the size of your old one. 

After admiring the refinished doors – now double layered, fashioned in a stronger metal with more locks and alarm systems — you hurry down the center aisle to get the library prepped and open for the day. Even with the new security measures, you arrive at your workspace with a sprinkle of dread. The memory of your last time here flashes in your mind, makes you feel like you’re not alone.

Which… is technically true. Grogu is in your chair, using his powers to spin it around and around, a silver rod in his hand. 

“Oh, thank the Maker, you’re alright.”

Your heart swells at the sight of him, and you scan through the building in search of Mando. You don’t find anything. You peek around the corner towards the archival office in the back, still nothing.

“What are you doing here by yourself?” You crouch down to his level, bracing your hands on the seat to stop it from spinning.

Grogu has a big, fat… frown on his face. Not what you were expecting from a baby in a spinny chair. Your expression mirrors his own. 

“What’s wrong? Where’s your buddy?”

You check him over, patting his fuzzy head, rubbing his back. You notice the rod in his hands is in fact the data stick.

You yelp. Then you squeeze Grogu in the gentle grip of your palms, raising him up and down, up and down. “Thank you, little guy. Thank you so much.”

You fit him in the crook of your elbow as you take the data stick to the back room. You punch in the passcode, walk through the sliding door, and insert the stick back into its proper home. You press a few buttons on the control panel, and the contents of the data stick light up the room with a blue holographic interface.

You swipe through some folders, some files, images, all intact. Nothing corrupted. Everything, just as it was. Relief crashes through you like a wave in a storm, so strong it threatens your balance.

With a heavy exhale, you exit back to your desk and flop into the chair, the baby in your lap. The sensation of relief leaves you as quick as it came.

Grogu’s face is still scrunched up, in the worst of ways. He trembles in your hands, looking left, right, skittishly.

“Grogu?”

He throws a little arm up, pointing to the entrance.

You point, too. “Go?”

He nods twice.

“Where?” You ask, panic fluttering up your spine, down your limbs. “Is it your dad?”

His bottom lip juts out, his eyes even bigger than you thought possible. Fuck. Where is he?

You tuck the baby back into the crook of your elbow and race out the front door, locking everything back up. Outside, it takes less than ten seconds for the sun to start weakening your body with its oppressive heat.

“Now where?” 

Grogu gazes up at you, then turns his head downward. You follow his eyes to the ground, where a tiny speeder seats four greyish-blue critters about the same size as Grogu. Their wrinkly faces are half covered by goggles, chins sprouting fuzzy little beards. Taupe stomachs peek out of their utility belts. They each throw their arms up in unison, chanting, “Baby! Baby!”

You crouch down, bringing Grogu to their height. “Um, hello?”

Grogu skitters out of your arms and climbs onto the mini speeder. He rolls over the outer ledge and plops in without a sound.

The creatures greet you with a series of “Heys” and other noises you can’t pick out.

“You know where the Mandalorian is?” You interrupt the chatter, bracing your palm on the ledge where Grogu had just flopped over.

They bellow affirmative sounds, their voices gurgly. You make out the word “house” amongst the four of them.

“Well,” you say, rising up from your crouched position. “I can’t come with you on that thing.”

“No, no! That one!” The creature in the driver’s seat points further down the road to a red, regular-sized speeder bike, parked beside the cantina.

“I’m not going to steal a speeder.” You shield your eyes from the sun, studying your surroundings. Yellow banners stretch across the street, attached from one roof to another. They billow in the wind, their shade traversing back and forth across the ground. The creatures jump up and down in the vehicle, their tiny bodies flitting between sunlight and shadows.

“Not steal! From our shop. You bring it back.”

You eye them, unsure whether to grant your trust. But then you think of the Mandalorian.

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath, jogging toward the speeder bike. With another brief scan around the street – rather empty, you suppose – you straddle it, toggle a few buttons, and engage the repulsorlift.

“Okay, guys,” you call back, and the baby-sized speeder takes off in front of you. You follow them close, through a cramped alleyway and out to a wide backroad, the wind drying the perspiration on your forehead. The cool breeze calms your nerves only slightly – your heart is still hammering away, dread shrouding over you like a billowing cloak.

Grogu and his companions continue past the docking bay at the edge of town, traversing the rocky plains. The horizon ripples with heat, breaking the ground into wavy ribbons. You ride long enough to cross a small cropping of lava streams, and then the rough terrain starts sprouting with spiky green leaves and other widely dispersed shrubs.

They slow to a stop once they reach an enclosure with two rotund beasts. Beyond it lies a quaint, white cabin with a wooden chair at the front. You recognize the ship resting on the rocks behind it– the one that chased the TIE-fighters away when the data stick was stolen.

You screech to a stop behind the creatures and bolt off of the bike, gravelly rocks crunching under your boots. Grogu follows, but his friends stay behind.

Nausea churns in your stomach when you notice a body – a dead one – laying in the distance between the house and the ship. It’s a man in a cheap suit of white armour. The handle of a blade juts out of his abdomen, the sliver of space where the armour couldn’t protect him. But you can’t bring yourself to study him any further. The Mandalorian clouds your thoughts as you barrel through the open doorway and into a singular room. 

In the center, there’s a small counter with a pack of turquoise cookies on top. In one corner, a dwarfish kitchen, in the next, the fresher. You spot a twin bed, a baby pram, some propagating plants. You circle the counter and come upon the Mandalorian, sprawled out on the floor, unmoving. Puddles of almost-dried blood accompany him, staining his clothes and the tile beneath his body. His blaster is a few feet from his outstretched arm.

Grogu climbs on top of his chest and pats the beskar plate. You watch, frozen, while he turns his head to look up at you. His eyes are pleading, expectant. He points at his father again. Claws tinkle against silver. The sound spurs you to action.

You lurch to your knees and ease your fingers under his cowl, wishing you were touching him under any other circumstance. It takes a moment to find bare skin. When you do, it sears you. Your fingers glide over his neck, searching, until you find a weak pulse.

You groan in relief, slipping your hand away. “Grogu, what happened?”

You know it’s futile. If you could communicate with the baby, Mando wouldn’t still be splayed on the floor.

Your fingers tremble as you brace them on Mando’s bicep, steadying your nerves. You squeeze. Calculate. You’re not going to remove his helmet. Out of the question.

Instead, you study his torso. There’s a gash– or there was one. His flightsuit gapes, blood crusting down the curve of his body. So much of it, in fact, there’s a gummy, congealed layer of blood on top of what’s already dried. But whatever wound he had is already closed up and healing into a fresh scar.

Brows furrowed, you rise to your feet and call out to the little creatures. They amble into the cabin, distracted by the body out front.

“Do you know where they just came from?” You gesture vaguely behind you at the pile of the Mandalorian and the baby on the floor.

When they notice Mando, they give sad, knowing sighs, like they’d already seen this earlier. Then they shake their heads in unison, all speaking at once. You parse through the jumble of words, stringing together something along the lines of “Baby no speak, know nothing.”

You didn’t expect much, but your heart still drops. It beats too hard, as if sinking and settling against your diaphragm.

You kneel by the Mandalorian again, slipping your fingers back underneath his woolly cowl. His neck still pulses against your fingertips. 

Grogu squeaks as you push your palms against Mando’s blood-smeared chest. “Mando,” you croak, “wake up.”

You press rhythmically against him, leaning your weight into your wrists, but it’s not accomplishing much — you’re just sort of nudging the chestplate into his ribs and smudging the streaks of blood. Grogu slides off and pats his chest along with you.

“Mando!”

You stop, then give the hardest push you can muster. Your hands ball into fists as you give one brutal pound to the chestplate, hurting yourself more than him. A dull metallic thud is all you hear before your hands are flaring with pain. You recoil, shaking them out. 

And… he’s not moving. Not doing anything. Nothing. You sit back on your heels, heaving raw breaths and shaking down to the bone. Grogu frowns.

What are you missing here?

Your eyes flit back to the red scar on his side. 

A cough. Mando’s chest rumbles, barely. The movement is so minute, as if the effort might kill him.

“Mando?”

You grab him by the shoulders and shake him again, or try to. He’s too heavy for you to truly jostle.

Your name brokenly scratches through his vocoder.

You lean over him, easing your hands under his head, cradling his helmet. “Are you alright? Can you hear me? What happened?”

He groans. Doesn’t move a finger. It scrapes at the back of your mind that he should have startled awake and reached for his blaster, or grabbed you, or thrown his arms up in defence before recognizing you— but no. He just lays there, utterly frozen.

“Data st– stick… on a ship… tracked me.” He coughs again. “Gone now.”

Your gaze flits between where you imagine his eyes are, behind the black visor. Although he can’t feel it, you stroke your thumbs softly over the helmet, over his covered jaw. 

A silver pin glints. You pull back and notice a dart lodged in his other side, opposite the knife wound. He doesn’t even wince as you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger and pull it out. A dollop of yellow liquid slips off the sharp end.

“What is this? Can you move?” Something roils in your stomach at the sight of the unknown substance that is clearly running its course. 

“S’okay… Senf-f-lax. Not… lethal…”

“Not lethal?” You repeat, anxiety warbling your voice. “Then what is it?”

“Watch the k–kid. I’ll… stay–” His whispers crackle out, and so does he. But his shallow breathing continues.

*** Every muscle in your body aches after somehow shoving the Mandalorian on his bed. Even with the help of Grogu’s powers, you probably pulled something. You considered removing his armour first, but figured he’d prefer not to wake up with half his wardrobe missing. So you hoisted him up with your hands under his armpits, dragging him with all your might to the mattress in the corner. Grogu closed his eyes in focus, easing your burden.

You double checked his injuries, still baffled by the fresh scar over his rib cage– there was so much blood on the floor, on his armour, in his cape — yet it was almost as if he’d never been cut. Then you scrubbed away the rusty, dried blood on the floor, and tucked the blaster back into his holster, trying and mostly failing to keep positive.

Not lethal, he’d said. It does little to ease your worries.

Now, with Mando asleep on the bed, you pick up the baby and mount the speeder bike with him in your elbow. Grogu makes his dislike of leaving the house abundantly clear. He whines and scratches at you with his nails, but it’s decidedly gentle.

To be fair, you don’t like it either. You feel like a fool, leaving Mando here, but you need to head back to the repository so you can figure out what Senflax-something means and fix this stupid, horrible fucking mess. You can’t just lug his body to the repository with you. He should be fine. Totally fine. His wounds had already been tended to, by whoever or whatever it was. You’d just have to hope no other Imps show up while you’re gone. You’ll find out what’s wrong with him and come right back here to fix it. Everything is fine. Not lethal, you repeat in your head. 

“I’m not going to leave you here alone,” you murmur to Grogu, engaging the speeder. Alone is technically untrue — unsupervised is more applicable. Either way, you’re not leaving him with a sleeping Mando and a dead body.

Not lethal.

The creatures in the mini speeder follow you back to the library, the sun hanging higher than before. Graciously, they allow you to keep the bike for another day. You thank them for helping you find Mando, then creep into the repository with Grogu. You leave the door locked, only intending to stay until you’ve figured out Mando’s condition. No time for Quarrens.

Grogu sits patiently in your lap while you scour the holonet, the bright interface painting your clothes blue in the dark room.

“Senflax…”

You swipe through articles. Cadannia. Jungle planet. Toxins. Plants. Senflax.

“Oh,” you whisper. You switch gears, taking Grogu with you to the botany section.

Your shoulders relax for the first time since this morning as you read about the Senflax plant, native to Cadannia. A neurotoxin that paralyzes the body’s major muscles while leaving vital organs, cognition — and judging by Mando — the ability to speak intact. As for healing, the effects can only be waited out.

“Paralytics such as this are often used by hunters to capture prey.” You read to Grogu, who leans curiously over your shoulder, gazing at the text on the holobook’s screen. “If only you coulda told me that, hey?”

His velvety ear brushes across your cheek, and you sigh, leaning against the shelf. 

If it’s just a muscle paralytic, it doesn’t explain why Mando was knocked out, nor why it took a pounding to the chest to wake him up. Blood loss? The thought twists in your stomach.

He spoke to you. That was good. Then he passed right back out. You could determine the state of him much easier if you could just… look at his face. But you won’t, you’ll just — you’ll just hurry back and keep watch.

***

You spend the evening in Mando’s hut making dinner for you and the baby. He’s nestled between his father’s chest and bicep. It feels intrusive, what you’re doing, but you’d rather be here watching over the two of them than anxiously twiddling your thumbs at home.

You set a steaming bowl of soup on the island in the center of the hut. Grogu peeks at it from the comfort of his father’s arm, then soars, flipping through the air and landing on the counter. 

You stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as he slurps up the broth. He clutches the bowl in his hands, which is about half the size of his body, and finishes it up in less than ten seconds.

He lets it go with a clatter.

You laugh, “More?”

While Grogu works on his second bowl, you work on your own. It’s a simple, salty broth, a few veggies thrown in. Mando didn’t have much to work with. 

You think of sitting by him on the edge of the mattress, then decide against it and sit cross-legged on the floor.

When your bowl is empty and your belly full, you consider moving the body that’s still laying outside, then quickly squash that thought when your soup threatens to come right back out.

When he’s ready, Mando can handle it. You have nowhere to take it, anyways.

He hasn’t moved an inch since you shoved him on the bed, which tracks, given the Senflax, but his extended slumber is troubling you. He should at least be awake. 

Guilt washes over your face, your shoulders. It heats up your cheeks. 

All this for the data stick.

As night falls, you flick on the lantern hanging above the counter. It casts a warm glow around you, the plants, the baby, and the sleeping Mandalorian. 

You check his pulse a third time, his neck warm as ever. It’s stronger now, but still slow. Then you check his wound again and decide to set about cleaning it. It may be healed – how, you have no clue – but it’s still dirty. You locate a medkit by the fresher and settle next to the mattress. 

“I’m going to clean you up,” you murmur to him. No response.

Carefully, you reach into the tear of his flightsuit, holding the fabric up, and pass an alcohol wipe over the bloodied area. He doesn’t stir.

It didn’t hit you then, but it does now – his skin. You can see his skin; tan and soft, yet blemished by scars. It’s as warm as his neck was– but you didn’t get to look at it. Even this tiny glimpse of his bare body is overwhelming. Swallowing, you quickly swipe bacta gel over the wound and pack up the medkit. As good as it feels to touch and admire the warm tone of his skin, it’s also so wrong – him, unconscious, unknowing. 

Fingers trembling, you toss the medkit back in the cabinet by the fresher and plop down, your back against the wall. You debate whether to take Grogu home with you for the night. It feels too much to stay here without the Mandalorian’s knowledge, yet unsafe to leave him defenseless. What if he didn’t want you here, staying in his private space?

You fight with yourself long enough to fall asleep like that, sitting on the floor with your legs spread out before you, your back digging into the wall.

***

You wake with a start against the floor, the urgency of getting to work spinning your head. Blinking, you recall where you are— the night before. You scramble to your knees and peer across the room to find the Mandalorian as still as ever. Grogu snores in the crook of his elbow.

Now. He should absolutely be awake by now.

You stumble toward the medpack, this time in search of the stimshot. You slip it out of the package and, bleary eyed, move Grogu from the bed to his pram.

“Mando,” you sigh, “say something.”

You stand over top of him, staring into the nothingness of his visor.

“Say something, or I am going to give you a stimshot.” 

You press a hot palm on his chestplate, leaving a sweaty, temporary imprint. You push. 

Nothing.

You crouch down and raise the needle, finding the sliver of skin through the gash in his suit.

“Mandalorian.”

You hold it an inch shy of his side, radiating heat. You don’t even poke him before he jolts awake, his hand closing around your wrist, and gripping it hard.

A startled, ragged grunt fills your ears. It fills your whole body.

The leather of his glove squeaks with the intensity of his hold. The stimshot clatters to the floor.

You gasp. 

The helmet turns toward you with the grace of a malfunctioning droid, then he relaxes. Your name is a quiet sigh of recognition, floating from his helmet, his fingers still wrapped around you.

“Librarian.” His voice softens. It’s one word, yet it carries so much relief. Warmth. A glint of humour. He releases you, fingers slipping off your skin. His hand drops against the mattress. “Didn’t think… still here…”

You murmur, low. “Are you okay?” 

He shifts his legs, testing his mobility, then plants his palms on either side of his body, pushing himself up. His thigh brushes your fingers as he moves. 

Slowly, he looks down at you, kneeling by his side. You swallow, removing your hand from the bed. His next movement is so small, you could have missed it – but you don’t. You don’t miss the way his thigh twitches forward, chasing the trail of your touch.

He chokes a dull sound.

As if you’d been poisoned yourself, your own body goes rigid as you gaze at each other. His helmet drops down without severing your stare, and you notice he’s panting.

You wait for an answer to your question, heat spreading everywhere. 

But he whips his head around, breaking each of you out of whatever trance had just enveloped you. He calms, finding Grogu still asleep in the pram. Then he glances toward the counter, probably eyeing the bowls from last night’s dinner.

“You took care of him,” the Mandalorian declares hoarsely after a moment, his breathing slowing. 

You situate yourself on the floor. “Of course. He came and found me.” 

You don’t know how long he’d been unconscious before you got here. How long Grogu had sat with him, trying to wake him up.

“He’s smart,” Mando murmurs, shifting higher and groaning with effort. “He trusts you.” 

He’s still looking at the baby.

The words dance around your head – glittery, special. Pride shimmers in your chest. Hearing him say it is like receiving a heavy, golden medal.

Mando turns back to you, studies you for a long moment. You try not to shrink yourself.

“Thank you.” It’s weighty, meaningful, charged.

You shrug, mostly to soothe the shiver creeping up your spine. “Least I could do. Thank you for getting my data stick. I feel… kind of terrible.” You laugh, gesturing at his body, the state of him.

He shrugs back, winces, and collapses on the bed. 

You clamber onto your knees once more, hand on his forearm. It’s breathtakingly solid under your touch, his muscles flexing. “What is it?”

He shudders. “Hurts.”

Your brows furrow. “Everywhere?”

His chuckle is ragged, scraping out of his throat. “Something like that.”

“You slept for a long time,” you whisper, “like… really long. I think you stopped being paralyzed quite a while ago.”

“Yeah, well…” Another grunt. “Hit my head on the way down.”

You picture the dart piercing his skin and his whole body freezing, and — he had a long way to fall.

“What do you need?”

He replies faster than you expected. “Water.”

You set a glass beside him and step outside, giving him the privacy to remove his helmet and drink. It's a cloudy, drizzly day. The raindrops lift a fresh scent out of the dry rock and steam rises from the lava fissures in the far off distance. 

You peer out the other direction, and the body is still crumpled over by the ship. You cringe at it— him. Whoever he was. Though you have yet to witness Mando use his weapons, you know he’s grossly capable with them. And here you are, staring at the aftermath. A conflicting blend of remorse and relief fill your chest. Is it so terrible to be glad that because the Imp is dead, Mando is okay? That because he killed him first, Mando is drinking water next to his sleeping kid?

After a few minutes have passed in torn reflection, you knock as a warning, then slip back inside.

He’s sitting up again, the baby in his lap.

“I have to get back to the repository.” You cross your arms, leaning by the door. 

They both lift their heads. You smile at their coordination, the way they watch you together. You notice Grogu’s small claw wrapped around Mando’s thumb.

“You’ll both be alright?”

“I’ll send Grogu back to you if I find myself paralyzed again.” 

You laugh at his deadpan tone. “Okay. Put that baby to work.”

The vocoder crackles with a sigh. 

You take one more peek around the cabin – the tiny kitchen, and its shelf with Grogu sized-mugs nestled inside Mando-sized mugs. The plants, which surprised you. You hadn’t thought of him as a plant person. Then again, he didn’t look like a baby person either. You glance again at the cookies on the counter. 

“Should I, um, check on you later?”

You’d yet to establish whether the Mandalorian was actually comfortable with your presence in his house, or whether he was just grateful you’d looked after his kid.

“No need,” Mando says, and it suddenly becomes hard to hide the disappointment on your face.

You turn to leave, once more recalling the Imp in the rain. You don’t know what exactly went down, what Mando remembers. Could he have forgotten, in the foggy haze of paralysis, that he’d killed a man who is still laying out on his property? There’s so many questions, so much you need to know – but he’s only just woken up. 

“Mando, there’s… a man outside…”

He shoots to his feet, the baby rolling onto the mattress with a gleeful sound. Mando shuffles a boot forward, wavering slightly as he fingers the handle of his blaster.

“The dead one…?” You clarify, eyes shooting to the floor.

His shoulders drop. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.” He falls back on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Just… try to be more specific next time.”

***

You ride back to town and return the speeder bike to the little creatures. You’d never noticed their miniscule shop before; it’s tucked away in the basement of a round building, the entrance about three feet tall. You finally piece together who they are when you catch a glimpse of a squid-like man crouched inside by a worktable covered in wires, retrieving his land speeder. The Anzellans.

You skitter away to the repository before he can spot you.

It’s midmorning now. There’s a few people waiting outside the library who grumble at you for not being open yet. A mother and her child frown at your clothes as you unlock the door. You glance down – blood on your knees, a little more on your hands. The capacity to mind has escaped you. You shrug it off and walk inside.

You spend the rest of the day like that, sprinkled in blood, a certain absence in your mind as you think about Mando. He doesn’t come in, nor does Grogu – which is a good sign, you suppose. 

After arguing about the library’s right to keep holobooks on various religions with a disapproving old woman (“Ma’am, the library is here to reflect the viewpoints of all its users, not just one”), you close early and head home.

You flop onto your bed in your bloody clothes and fall asleep.

There’s no sign of Mando the next day, nor the one after that. You grow annoyed with yourself and the incessant bobbing of your knee, anxiously wondering whether it will be weeks or months before you see him again. Every ten seconds, you imagine him walking through the door to rescue you from your constant agonizing over whether you’d dually succeeded in damaging his trust and violating his privacy. Grogu was the one who took you to the house – he trusted you to help his father. Mando had even seemed relieved to see you when he awoke, but the way he’d denied your offer to check up on him left you – admittedly – spiraling.

By the third day, you almost wonder whether you should just go back – perhaps he really wasn’t okay – then you find the sliver of reason left in you. Grogu would come and find you again if he needed to.

On the fourth day, your nerves begin settling down. You busy yourself with researching Nar Shaddaa for a commander from Adelphi base. Once you finish gathering resources and notes on its atmosphere, you send them off and work on re-shelving holobooks.

There’s more than you expected in the return bin. The cart’s squeaky wheel sings as you roll it around to your starting point: the microscopic fiction section.

You trudge through the shelving, the remainder of your shift dragging as slow as it ever has.

***

The Mandalorian is waiting across the street under the leaves of a tree when you lock up the library. He leans against the white bark, his hands resting politely at the front of his body, one atop the other. 

Everything inside you floods with warmth as you take him in. It’s like the edges of your vision turn all pink and dreamy, the anxieties you’d piled and fussed over the last few days melting away. It’s like… nothing happened. 

He’s here, standing tall and strong and clean, beckoning you forward as he nods in greeting. Your limbs go numb as you walk to him. 

He manages to look handsome without a sliver of skin on display. Perhaps it’s the freshly polished armour and how he gleams in it. Or the way his helmet makes attractive angles over his hidden face. Maybe it’s the size of him, from his big heavy boots to his wide shoulders and the slim waist in between. How a sense of safety envelops you just looking at him. Whatever it is – your heart is fluttering a mile a minute. 

Words catch and pile in your throat.

“Dinner?” He pushes off the tree, nodding towards a market stall a few metres away from which a mouthwatering steam curls.

“Please,” you breathe, all at once conscious of the intense hunger roiling in your stomach.

He pays for your food, and you walk comfortably alongside him as you eat, your face warming at the occasional stares from other villagers. Once you step out of the main plaza, he leans into your side, bringing his helmet closer to your ear. “Thank you for watching the kid.”

“Oh.” You swallow a bite, taken aback. “It was no problem.”

He straightens his back, voice suddenly slashed with guilt. “It could have been. I was there for a day before you came.” 

A day. You recall Grogu’s trembling little body when you found him in the library. A fissure forms in your chest. You want to reach out, place your palm on Mando’s shoulder and comfort him, but you keep your hands to yourself.

The road thins here and there with the spread of other street vendors and their lineups, interrupting your conversation. Mando fits himself in front of you when the path squeezes, reaching behind to gently hook his fingers around your forearm and guide you through the swarms. Your heart trips, as if over a boulder. You almost drop your napkin.

You return to his side when the crowd dwindles, taking two steps for every one of his long strides. 

“What… happened?” You have no clue whether it’s up for discussion, and a bolt of adrenaline zips through your body as the question leaves your lips. “You were gone for a week, and then I found you paralyzed and covered in probably not just your own blood.”

He doesn’t pause or sigh. He merely seems to take notice of your doubled footfalls and relents, slowing his pace.

You pass a fiber artist’s booth, a jeweler, and several more leafy trees before he responds.

“I tracked the Imps for a few days,” he offers, cutting the quiet. “Found a covert operations unit on Coruscant. Took a little while to take it down.”

“The whole thing?” You blurt. 

“Whatever they’d already accessed from the data stick had to be compromised,” he answers, plain. “But I was sloppy. A couple strays followed me home.”

You lift your eyes from the flagstone paving to him, a casual sway in his shoulders as he walks. “I thought there was only one body outside the house…?” 

“Uhuh. Rest of his crew didn’t make it that far.”

You chew your last bite and toss the napkin into a receptacle on the side of the street.

He shot down their ship, he explains. It crashed miles out from the house in the lava flats. “I was going to bring you the data stick when he… showed up.”

He says no more, the rest of the story forming easily in your head. 

The guilt hasn’t fully washed away yet – it’s still nestled somewhere within you, stirring as you contemplate the magnitude of what he’d gone through to return your stupid data stick. He spent a week taking down an entire Imperial unit on your behalf, and when he got home, his reward was a knife in the ribs and a nasty paralytic dart wedged in his other side. He swung violently between sleep and consciousness while you watched over him – was he awake when the kid healed him? Did he try to move, comfort him, and find himself utterly incapable?

And – there’s still a missing piece.

“When I got there, you had this… cut on your side. There was blood everywhere but the wound had already closed.” 

“Grogu,” he mutters. “Like I said, he’s smart.”

You hum, in both astonishment and agreement. 

It hadn’t quite occurred to you that Grogu could have done it, even though it was the only probable explanation. Healing capabilities never came up in your research all those months ago. But thank the Maker for that. You don’t really want to entertain the alternative — but without Grogu’s strange, wondrous abilities, you wonder if Mando would be here, walking alongside you and just barely brushing the back of your hand as your arms swing back and forth. If the gash in his side would have killed him, had Grogu not forced it closed. 

Something builds in your chest, makes you stand a little straighter. The kid had been strong enough to heal his father’s wound, but when he still didn’t wake or stir, when Grogu no longer knew what to do, he gathered his friends and came to find you.

When you open your mouth to thank Mando, your voice barely coasts above a whisper. “It means a lot to me, everything you did. I know you were trying to take a break, but… I guess it just worked out that you were so close.”

The hand plate on his glove skims your sleeve. “I could have said no.”

Just like that – your heart is leaping again. “What do you mean?”

“They could have sent someone else.”

Your head swims, vision blurring. Your pulse tingles in your fingertips. You want to ask who, you want to ask why, but an understanding is taking form. It blossoms in your chest, delicate but sure. This wasn’t about a contract. This was about you.

Another silence passes over you.

You keep walking in tandem, his admission hanging in the evening air. You crest the town’s border where the buildings end and the rocky terrain takes over. 

It’s quiet here, under the city’s white arch, the crowds having thinned to nothing. The orange sun hangs low over the distant grey bluffs. A few silvery ships rest in the docking area to the left, dwarfing the lone land speeder parked at the boundary. 

You’re still processing what he said, absently admiring how the sunset shimmers across his pauldron when he stops, perching his weight on one leg. He seems to eye the docking bay, calculating, before turning to face you. The attention pins you to the spot. Your feet cement to the ground. Holding his gaze is a challenge – one that you lose when you avert your eyes and focus instead on the way his cape rustles in the slight breeze. 

“You know, the kid misses you,” he murmurs. “Think he wants you to come back.”

You choke on nothing. Is he joking? “He wants me to come back. To your house.”

In fairness, that would be understandable. You did make a pretty good soup. But what is this? 

“Did he tell you that himself?” You cross your arms over your chest, tilting up your chin to meet his dark visor. 

Mando huffs impatiently. “I can tell.”

You almost feel bad, giving him a hard time. But watching him get a little ruffled, hearing the slight irritation in his voice – it’s exhilarating.

“And what about you,” you say, a certain boldness mixing in with your nerves. “You miss me? Do you want me to come back?” 

A step forward brings you toe to toe.

His chestplate caves like you’d stolen his breath with that simple question. But he doesn’t look away. You watch his fingers roll against his palm. Is he… fidgeting?

Finally, a gruff murmur. “Yes.”

Yes, I want to take you home, now. Not “if you want,” not “I guess you could.” Yes.

Your pulse is a drum throughout every vein in your body. You waver on your feet and fall silent, no longer trusting your voice to come out as sure and as steady as it was mere seconds ago. First, he admits to putting himself through this whole debacle for you – not the New Republic – and now he’s inviting you home with this aggravatingly sultry yes. You think your knees might give out.

The helmet angles closer into your face, as if he’s narrowing his eyes at you beneath the visor, waiting.

“O-okay,” you blink, eyelids fluttering as you fight to maintain your composure. By some miracle, your next words come out casual and collected. “Only if you got rid of that man outside your house.”

He pulls away, no longer crowding you so closely. There’s remorse in his grumbling. “I wouldn’t invite a lady home if there was still a dead body at my door.”

It’s so… ridiculous, how a sentence like that sets your whole being on fire. He’d called you a lady, and it makes you feel precious, like some coveted, sweet thing. Then he’d referred to a man he killed, probably quite easily, the bloody image of it playing in your head. Instead of making you recoil from him in fear, there’s a heat that sears through your abdomen, a pulse that sings in your core. You sober yourself with a deep, deep breath.

His fingers find your wrist once again, and he swivels on his heel, stalking with you toward the docking bay.

“Get in the speeder.”

***

On the outside, the ride to his house is breezy and peaceful – inside, you’re anything but calm. The wind rustles your clothes, tussles your hair, and dries the sweat collecting in your palms. Anticipation prickles across your skin. It doesn’t feel real, sitting beside him and watching his hands guide the speeder. That question – what is this? – echoes in your mind. It couldn’t just be a friendly kickback, not with the way his voice dragged low when he asked for you to join him. But you’re not sure what else to expect, and you don’t want to hope. You lace your fingers together and try to squeeze out the shakes. 

You’re vaguely aware of his gaze on you as you cross the hot springs, the landscape now sprinkled with green shrubs. The sun has dipped behind the bluffs on the horizon, taking the warmth with it. Pink and blue swathes in the sky slowly meld into one purple blanket.

When you climb out of the speeder, the familiar racket of Anzellans floats from the ship behind the house. You squint, making out the shape of Grogu’s ears through the window of the cockpit.

“Repairs,” Mando grunts, already trudging away from the speeder. “Come on.”

You chortle to yourself. The kid misses you, Mando said. He’s not even waiting for you.

Mando points you to the front door while he approaches the enclosure housing the two round-backed beasts. You watch from the small porch as he reaches into a large barrel beside a tree, tossing what looks like flaky cubes of dried grass over the wired fence. They each take a block in their gigantic mouths, swallowing without a single bite. You think of asking him what they are, why he has them, but that curiosity dies when he turns in your direction, observing you from a distance.

Your heart quickens when he begins striding to you with purpose. A shiver runs through you. Here you are – alone. 

He stops just short of your body, closing you between himself and the front door. 

“You’re nervous.” It’s almost satisfied, the way he says it. 

Fuck – he’s so close, you can hear his breathing under the helmet without the vocoder having to pick it up. 

You force your voice to carry some semblance of flirtation and not betray the way you’re burning up inside. “Should I not be?”

His arm reaches past your face, caging you, as he presses a button on the wall. The door slides open.

“Go inside.”

Lightheaded, you swivel and walk towards the counter. You place your palms on the smooth surface, letting it cool them down.

The door seals with a hiss. It’s dark; the hot air consumes you. You’re painfully aware of his presence somewhere behind you, but you stay there, hands braced on the ledge of the counter.

Seconds pass. They feel like hours.

“When you were here,” his voice is scraping, so low you can almost feel it vibrate at the base of your core. “You took care of the kid. You fed him. You cleaned the blood off the floor.”

Mando is still standing by the door when you look back. His body takes up the whole archway. It feels like he takes up the whole room, really – he’s nearly as tall as the ceiling.

He approaches you at the counter, taking slow, careful steps. 

You’re trembling. He steadies you by grasping your upper arms.

The warmth of his palms seeps through his leather gloves, through your shirt, onto your skin. Your pulse races, beating violently against his grip. You want to speak, ask him what his point is, but the words aren’t coming. Your mind is lost to his touch that is somehow blazing through layers of fabric.

“You cleaned the blood off of me,” he says. “You touched me.”

Your backside presses against the counter. Fear tugs weakly at the back of your mind at his severe tone, but it’s nothing to the intensity of the arousal warming between your thighs.

“I–I’m sorry,” you plead, blindsided. Perhaps you really shouldn’t have. “You were paralyzed, I couldn’t just leave you there, filthy–”

“You could have waited.”

And – oh, fuck – this is exactly what you were hoping for, isn’t it?

He’s panting, just like when you’d tried to give him a stimshot. So are you, you realize, air puffing rapidly out of your nose. Another shiver knocks through you.

“I wish you would have waited,” he groans. “Then I could have felt– ngh–”

A wrecked gasp tears through your lungs when he presses himself against your thigh, rutting his hard cock against you. It’s harsh, lacking control – he shudders at the sensation. Your head falls back and he instantly invades the space, letting his helmet rest in the curve of your neck. 

Something strains in him as he rumbles brokenly through the modulator. “Would you have touched me if I was awake? Or were you scared?”

He rocks against you, giving another soft grunt that makes your head swim. When you don’t respond, he lifts his head from your neck and pinches your chin between his fingers, holding you at attention. “Would you?”

There’s truly nothing computing in your mind right now. It’s blank. You just watch him dumbly as his thumb presses to your bottom lip and grazes your teeth.

“I–” You hear a pitiful little whine, and you realize it’s yours over the blood pounding in your ears. “I don’t know… I – oh, please, let me touch you now, I wanna feel you.”

Your hand slips downward, and his whole body goes rigid when you give him a squeeze. The sheer size of him is so much more apparent in your hand, although still covered by the canvas texture of his suit. As you look into his visor, hand pushing against his hard cock, beskar pressing into your thighs, he rasps, “Go to the bed.”

He pulls off of you and your body slackens without the support. He stays by the counter, watching, as you walk to the single mattress and settle on the edge of it. The sheets are crisp and fresh – he’s washed them since you were here last. 

He follows, taking a knee at the side of the bed. His palm smooths down your thigh, dipping under your calf, then he lifts your foot onto his raised thigh and starts pulling off your boot. He tosses it to the side and grabs your other foot. When the second boot slips off, his gloved fingers work into the flesh of your calves, massaging and loosening the tight muscles. 

Your head lolls to the side, resting on your shoulder as you watch him deftly work his way up your leg.

“Take off your shirt,” he demands, hands now resting on your knees, his voice full of want.

Slow– so awfully, frustratingly slowly, you lift the hem of your shirt. Maybe you take so long because you’re shy. Maybe you just want to tease him. He doesn’t care – his fingers dig into your knees all the same when he catches sight of your bare skin, the soft swell of your breasts.

You let the fabric fall beside you, adjusting yourself. 

He stares. And he stares. Finally, his hands coast up your thighs, his fingers find your torso–

“Wait—” You cover his hands with your own. They’re butterflying over your ribs, painfully close to where you want them – but they’re gloved.

You sigh, “Please, can you take those off?”

At that, he tenses, gripping your torso tighter. The tips of his fingers dig into your skin. He looks up at you for a prolonged moment, chest heaving. Then he releases your torso and offers his hands up, holding them steady for you to take off the gloves.

Oh.

Not what you expected.

It's almost too much, the image of him kneeling before you with his hands raised, as if pledging fealty, waiting for you to start undressing him. Your hands shake as you start pulling off one glove. His tan, veiny hand is slowly revealed. You work on the other, then hold his wrists up as you admire his strong, calloused fingers, the thickness of his palms. He lets you look for a few more seconds before he breaks out of your hold.

A breathy moan is stolen from your mouth at the sensation of his hot, bare touch as he cups your chest. He massages around your curves, gentle at first, then with a slight, impatient roughness. He takes your soft noises as encouragement, sliding his thumbs over your nipples. They harden at his touch, and your thighs squeeze with need, and you force yourself not to beg for his mouth.

You cry out for him, “Mando, fuck–” 

It must be the wrong thing to do. He stills, and his hands drop from your chest to brace on the edge of the mattress. Your skin prickles over the plushness of your breasts at the loss of his touch. Your eyes snap open to find the helmet turned down as if he’s pondering something, and your heart starts pumping anxious adrenaline through your veins as you wait for him to spit it out.

“If we’re gonna do this,” his thumbs slowly find your skin again, stroking at your sides. You start to quiver. “I don’t want you to call me that.”

Fuck, what does that mean?

You don’t know what to say, so you just tilt your head at him like he’s done countless times to you. Your stomach does obnoxious little flips. His helmet lifts, finding your eyes. Then his whole body lifts too, as he comes to stand between your spread thighs.

His rough hand catches under your chin, guiding your eyes back to his visor. He’s exceptionally big from this angle, and it makes you squirm under the rigid hold on your jaw.

What is he doing?

“I’ll give you my name,” he says. “Do you want it?”

And… white. Your vision goes completely white, no matter the darkness of the room. It’s just pure nothingness for a moment, a blankness you’ve never known. You don’t even bother stuttering out some helpless form of nonsense to fill the quiet.

“Do you want it?” He repeats huskily, pulling your chin up a touch higher, forcing you to finally think.

It doesn’t escape you – how you’re sitting half-naked before him as he offers you a deeper form of intimacy than anything you could imagine. More intimate than his soft grunts as he’d rutted against you, more intimate than his own bare hands brushing your naked chest. More intimate than it will be, when he slides himself inside you and curses out your name.

It’s barely audible when you whine out a simple yes.

“Fuck– come here.” He pulls you up off the mattress, supporting you and your jelly limbs by wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you to him. He releases you once you find your balance and fits his hands underneath the fabric of your pants, squeezing your ass. Your lip slides between your teeth as his hands go lower, working the fabric off of your body, and you step once, twice, out of your last piece of clothing. He kicks the garment to the side with a boot.

He undoes the strap of his utility belt. Your chest constricts at the way his fingers work the leather, just above his straining erection. It falls, along with the bandolier, slapping against the floor.

He’s still covered head to toe, except for his bare hands. But you’re perfectly naked, and it’s perfectly fair that way, when he’s giving you something so much more than his skin and his body.

“I won’t take anything else off,” he murmurs, dark and hoarse and full of desire. “I’ll give you my name, and you’ll just – you’ll let me have you. Okay?”

You nod, anticipation knocking against every bone, arousal burning white hot between your legs.

It’s like your heart itself knows what’s coming, and it stops for a few seconds. The noise of your blood pumping ceases to fill your ears, just so you can hear the way he whispers his own name to you.

“Din.”

Din.

Your heart kicks back on after a few more seconds, thrashing against your ribs as you process his name. It’s short. It’s simple. Easily spoken; a press of the tongue against the roof of the mouth, a push of air, a petal soft close.

“Din?” You fit his name in your mouth, tasting it for the first time. It’s just a weak murmur when you say it. Din. It feels strange yet right to call him by his name instead of his creed. Din. Unembellished. Entirely him.

You’re hardly aware of how he falters at the sound before your mind starts racing. What do you say now? Do you thank him? But he’s already laying you down on the bed with a new sense of urgency.

He fits himself beside you on the tiny mattress, the armour cold against your skin. In your delirium, still reeling– Din, Din is his real name – you absently murmur something about not getting his boots on the bed. He just grunts dismissively, to the effect that the sheets are going to get dirty either way – fix it later– while his fingers skate down your torso and dip between your thighs. 

This time, his name is an urgent plea, a heavy moan on your lips. “Din–”

“That’s right,” he sighs alongside you, fingers sliding easily over your clit. “Fuck– you’re wet.”

He continues whispering under his breath. Words like pretty and need and soft slur together as he circles your clit, finding only more and more of your dripping arousal.

Your back arches off the mattress. You might have felt embarrassed at the ridiculously soaked state of your cunt– it’s borderline pathetic – but he just groans louder in your ear, and his hand moves lower, shallowly dipping inside you. It’s almost too easy for him to sink his knuckles deeper. Din shifts, perching himself slightly more upward on a supporting elbow. He angles his hand so that his thumb can press against your clit while his fingers massage against something achingly sweet inside of you. That spot – you didn’t really know it existed, until now. You thought you’d brushed against it yourself before, but it didn’t feel like this. It didn’t knock the breath out of you like it’s doing now, as Din rubs circles against it.

You reach out, finding purchase with a hand on his shoulder. Your muscles pull taut. You tense your stomach to mitigate the overwhelming sensation of Din’s fingers working you open. Your core pulses around him — and he doesn’t miss the way you hug his fingers tighter.

“Good?”

You make some sort of desperate noise at him, reaching for his waist, searching for his cock. It’s even harder than it was minutes ago. He rolls his hips against your touch, letting you blindly unzip the trousers of his flightsuit and pull his devastatingly hard, thick cock through the opening.

You stroke him, spreading the bead of arousal leaking from the tip. You fit your fist around the head and slide down. He shudders, ragged breaths punching out of the vocoder.

“Fuck, you want it? You want me to fuck you? Tell me you want me to fuck you.” He pushes forward, urging his cock through the tightness of your fist. “I bet you feel– I bet you feel good.”

He’s on top of you before you’re even aware that you’re nodding, bobbing your head profusely against the pillow. A whine breaks your lips open when he slides his fingers out of you. 

Faintly, you feel his cock twitch on your thigh, but he catches your wrist when you reach for it again. His gaze doesn’t break from yours as he gathers your other wrist in the same hand, holding them both to his chest.

He crowds your vision like this — his helmet, his wide shoulders and chest making up your whole world.

“Din,” you whine again, his name already tasting familiar. You feel his thighs stiffen against yours at the sound. 

“Tell me.” He tightens his grip around your wrists as if you might slip away from underneath his body.

You suck in a breath, then your mouth starts running before you know what you’re saying. “I want you, Din, I’ve wanted you for months, please don’t make me wait any longer–”

“I won’t, fuck, I won’t,” he hushes you, your name slurring wantonly somewhere amongst his hurried promises. He releases your wrists, dragging you down the mattress by the hips.

“Open your legs,” he orders, though he’s already using his palms to shove them apart. You obediently let him spread them wide, reaching for his shoulders.

Din slides a fist down his cock and holds it at the base before notching the head at your entrance.

The need is no longer a dull beat in your abdomen. It’s a violent strike, a painful throb.

“Hurry up– hurts–” You’re mewling at him, and it sends his hips jerking forward in answer. One second, you’re so empty it hurts, and the next, you’re full of him.

The sound he makes… is the sound you imagine he would have made when he was stabbed. It’s tattered. It’s a low, broken moan that ends on a hiss of pain. But it’s so beautiful, too, because he keeps moving, and more sounds tumble out of him, softer than the last. Sounds that aren’t so pained. Just sounds of pleasure – and that’s what’s tearing out of your lungs as the initial pain burns away, blooming into a blissful stretch.

“Fuck, I knew you were– you’re perfect–” His voice lands somewhere between a whimper and a growl as he adjusts.

He cradles your jaw in his palm and slides his thumb back between your lips. You run your tongue over it, holding it between your teeth. Then he pushes his cock further, taking another inch, and another.

“Shit,” you cry around his thumb.

The stretch might have been painful if you weren’t this soaked – but it only soothes the ache. He fills you, his cock sliding against that sweet spot, and then he fills you some more.

His thumb falls from your mouth. 

“I thought of you,” he rasps, his palm travelling further down and pressing against the base of your stomach. It transforms the stretch of his cock into something more. “On Coruscant, I thought of you like this– ngh– to keep me going–”

You must be soaking the fabric surrounding his cock already. His flightsuit chafes against your skin each time he sinks himself into you, but the rough sensation is wholly overpowered by the way he’s moving against that point of pleasure inside you.

“And then I– fuck, I make it back home, and the next time I see you, I can’t fucking move.”

He’s increasing the pace now, rolling his hips upward each time he bottoms out inside you.

“You were like a-an angel when I woke up, but I blacked out ag–again–”

You wrap your fingers around both of his biceps, between the pauldrons and vambraces. The muscles are hard beneath your touch, working and flexing to hold himself over top of you.

“–and ngh– I fucking missed it when you cleaned my– fuck– I c–couldn’t feel you.”

He sounds desperate and frustrated even now as he’s working you open on his cock. You don’t think he’s ever talked this much, or so freely – he hardly ever talks, even with prompting. But now, it’s like he’s baring all of his inner thoughts to you in place of his skin, and it’s working a certain kind of magic; his raspy voice worsens the pulse between your thighs.

“You can feel me now, Din,” you reassure him, purposely tensing your walls around him, “I’m here, you can have me as long as you want.”

The pressure on your stomach disappears. He stops moving. Your brows raise in the middle, your bottom lip threatens to jut out. You squirm, refusing to look away from the visor, your cunt squeezing around his cock that’s buried, now motionless inside you. You're sure he’s meeting your eyes with his own as he pants above you. 

Then he reaches underneath you, taking your body with him as he leans back on his knees and gathers you into his lap. 

He wraps his arms around you, hands grabbing at your ass as he guides you back down his length. Your thighs cage his kneeling frame, and your hands lock over his traps, clutching at the gathered wool of his cape.

At this angle, the underside of your clit slides against his cock as he bucks up into you. 

“Din.” You sigh his name. Again, and again, and again. A lightning strike thunders in your ribcage every time you say it, and your voice stumbles with each bounce, “Din, you f-feel, fuck, you feel so big.”

“Yeah?” The cold beskar of his helmet presses against your shoulder as his hips stutter. His vambraces dig into your sides. He fucks you like that for a while, an absurd display of strength – he could fuck you however he wants to, but he elects to kneel on the bed with you on top of him, using his arms and hands to help you bounce on his cock. “God, you’re fucking tight, ngh– and soft–”

Soon, he lets you just grind against him, stimulating your clit against the coarse dark hair at the base of his cock. He must notice when you’re getting close – your head falls back and your eyes shut in pleasured focus, and your walls seize around him – then he’s stammering, “No, no, no, hang on,” into the vocoder.

You’re dizzy with pleasure when he eases you onto your back again. A whimper catches in your lungs when you lose some of the friction on your clit, the dull ache of your building orgasm fizzling away. 

One of his hands travels up underneath your spine, and his fingers slide through your hair at the nape of your neck before he closes them in a fist, pulling. Your scalp tingles as his other hand grabs the underside of your thigh to hike it up higher against his body. It only slightly alters his angle but it’s doing something, causing your eyes to shut tight and your cunt to drench him with more of your already excessive slick.

He slows, milking it, admiring how your wetness makes his cock glisten. “Shit, how are you–? You’re soaking.” 

You take his brief pause to try and roll back on top of him and gain some control — you want to lay him down, use your mouth, show him just how grateful you are for all he’d done. But you can’t move, can’t get him to yield to the weak pushes at his shoulders.

He says something that is lost between his concealed lips and your ears; you’re too busy squirming helplessly under his body. He tightens his grip in your hair, forcing you to look at him. 

“Hey— relax,” he soothes, albeit a tiny bit rough and gravelly. “What?” 

You clench your jaw under his grip, struggling against the feeling of fullness, battling the words out of your mouth. “Please let me back on top. You did so much for me, let me do the w–”

He cuts you off, although your words clearly affect him, judging by the strain in his voice. “Fuck, it doesn’t matter. I’d do it again. Just– just let me fuck you. Just stay there for me.”

Din starts to move again, a new pressure building in your core. It sings with every thrust he gives, and you can’t form a single argument. 

“Then just…” you cry, “don’t stop until you c—come. Please, I’m close enough, I'll g–go with you.”

He chokes out a torn sound when you wrap your legs around his back, bringing him closer and locking him against you. 

His hand moves to rest possessively on your neck, but he doesn’t close it around you or choke you. He just lays it there, adding a pleasant weight, and holds you like that as he starts fucking you harder, your legs squeezing his waist.

“–Needed you, I needed you,” he rasps, hardly audible above the sound of him pounding into you. It’s rough. Every part of him is digging into you, beskar no doubt leaving temporary dents in your skin. But it’s all an afterthought to his thick girth, his wrecked moans. 

“Wanted to fuck you since, ngh– since I took you to the c-cantina, ‘nd you looked so fucking pretty–”

He’s losing rhythm now, just helplessly rutting his hips against you, sliding his cock back and forth through your soaking entrance.  “You st–stared at me for s-so long and then you f-finally smiled and fuck– I wanted to – oh shit, I would have taken you out back and fucked you right th—there.”

His words make your walls pull tight around his cock as he grinds against you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders — or you try to – he’s too fucking broad to hold the way you want to and bring him close.

He slides his grip from your hair and rips off a pauldron, then the other, tossing them to the floor with a loud clank.

“Better?” He grunts. 

You snake your arms back around his shoulders, enjoying the lack of the cold, hard armour against them. You don’t have the mind to tease him that he said he wouldn’t take anything else off.

“Yeah– oh fuck, Din…” 

His hand slips between your bodies, palm pressing once more to your stomach and his thumb extending down over your curve to put pressure on your clit.

Your whole body is hurtling back towards the orgasm he’d delayed. “I’m gonna–” 

“Can feel it,” Din strains, fighting to regain a sense of rhythm to coax it out of you. “Come on, give it to me.”

His thumb slides through the wetness on your clit and you hear another hiss slip from the helmet before the ache in your core becomes a shattering, white hot release, spreading through your limbs, tingling in your fingertips. It knocks the breath out of you and holds you there, shaking beneath Din’s body as he continues to fuck you through it. 

“Fuck– good girl…” He’s not so much talking anymore as he is breathily moaning out praises, drawing out syllables like he can hardly think of what word comes after the next. “You get t-tighter when you— fuck, I might—”

You’re still coming, neck straining against the pillow, and he’s panting in your ear like he might collapse.

“Wh–where do you–?”

Before you can form an answer, he’s giving you one last deep push and then dragging himself out of you to come on your stomach. It spills warm and thick on your skin, trickling down the curve of your belly.

“Fuck, you’re so…” 

Without thinking, your fist closes around his cock, pumping out the rest of his cum. Your grip slides easily up and down his length with the mixture of both your orgasms, and he twitches hard when your thumb passes over the tip. Gently, he guides your hand away, too sensitive to withstand your touch.

Stars blanket your vision in the aftershocks. With your trembling figure still bracketed by his, you place your other hand on the caved cheek of his helmet. He sinks into the touch he cannot feel, gasping. Your breath fogs over the beskar. His own is caged by it.

Metal skims your forehead when your eyes flutter closed, the cool touch fleeting — gone as soon as you open them again.

“Din?”

At the sound of his name, he tumbles beside you. He works an arm under your limp, pliant body and pulls you onto his armoured chest.

“Sleep here,” is all he says before his arms close around you and his breathing evens out.

***

The next time the Mandalorian – Din – returns to the holorepository, he’s not there to brush up on an alien language. He’s not there to pester you about researching his baby. No, he stalks toward you through the shelves, corners you until you slip backward into the archival office. Then one hand covers your eyes while his other lifts the helmet. He kisses you, and it’s more. More than sex. It’s more than knowing his name, when he trusts you won’t try to peek between his fingers.

His lips are warm and soft and searching, a moustache prickling your skin. 

Going on a hunt, he says.

Could be days, he says.

Need you first, he says.

[djarins-wife]

"Aliit be Ehn (Clan of Three)"

Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader

Word Count: 3,432

❗This post contains mature content intended for adults. Do not interact with this post if you're a minor.

read on ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Your husband is trying to help you cope with the labor.

Warnings: pregnancy, mentions of detailed childbirth and labor, severe pain, mention of blood and body fluids, mention of newborn baby, established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy and childbirth

Reblogs and comments much appreciated! Please let me know what you think or if i missed anything!

Ten hours, you mumble it in your mouth.

It has been ten hours since the contractions started with slight cramps and are now causing you to writhe in pain. With each passing hour, the pains grow, but you know that the more you suffer, the closer you are to your little baby.

“Haalur, ner ka’ra,” Din says as he strokes your aching belly. Your belly is distended, swollen, and full of budding life, and with each new pain comes a sudden and terrible tremble, your soft, supple flesh hardening to stone beneath his hand. And he feels it again, your muscles clenching like a vice against the squirming child within, and with each crescendo of your ragged, tearful voice, he feels a pang deep in the pit of his belly.

Since the day this little light came to life in you, he has always been with you. The sparkle in his eyes when he first heard the news was still in your mind; it was a sparkle that eclipsed the lights of all the stars.

He has taken care of you throughout your pregnancy, supporting and caring for you when you couldn’t even drink water because you were nauseous or craved the strangest fruit in the universe. And he knew that the birth would not be easy, but he could not have imagined it would be so difficult.

You hold on to Din’s broad shoulders as another wave of contraction sweeps over your body; the pain is so excruciating that you don’t realize you’re screaming. “Easy, sweetheart,” Din croons, his voice low and soft. “Easy now.” Your tears come faster now, washing over your face, and you chant your pain with almost desperate want, your voice a thin, high wail. Finally, the pain releases you, and your legs go loose; your sore body trembles with strain.

Din rubs your back, whispering, “Just a little longer, mesh’la, and then we’ll be done.” You try to relieve the pain by making circles with your hips; your fingers are buried in Din’s shoulders, almost trying to tear the fabric of the flight suit he is wearing.

When the contraction fades away, you let go of your grip on your husband and begin walking and squatting around the bedroom, remembering the doctor’s words: the more active you are during labor, the better.

The next contraction burns you in such a way that you lose your breath and feel your knees weaken. When you realize your knees fail to carry you, Din rushes, grabs your arms, and holds you tight even before you say his name. “Got you, cyare.” He waits for the contraction to end before he lifts your face into his hands so that you are looking at him, your eyes puffy and red from tears.

“My love,” he says, kissing you on the damp forehead. “I know you’re tired, but you’re so close now.” You try to smile, looking at him and running your shaky hands through his soft curls. Every word he says and every look he gives you fills your heart with warm love. You smile in pain and say, “I can’t wait to meet her.” Din takes your face in his hands and looks at you like he’s hinting at something. “Her?” he asks, and you answer with a giggle, “Yes, my love, mothers always sense.”

When the next contraction wraps your belly and back, you feel an immense urge to push. You writhe and squirm, and your hands hold Din tighter for purchase. As you’re standing, you can’t help pushing little by little with the contraction; you moan into Din’s chest, chanting prayers. You try to catch your breath and talk as soon as the wave of pain is over.

“Din,” you say, almost in a crying tone. His anxious brown eyes find yours, and he holds you tightly, knowing you’re tired of standing up. “I need to push.”

He knows you are at the final stage now; the passages he has read in the datapad help him understand the process you are going through. “Let’s call the midwife, then,” he says softly, and you nod. Before he grabs the comm, he helps you get the bed, laying you down on the pile of plush pillows.

Din quickly grabs the comm and returns to your side; he sits on the bed and rubs your thighs while talking to the med facility on the comm. “The midwife will be here in a few minutes, mesh’la,” he says as he glances at you with both anxious and thrilled eyes. “Are you excited, Mr. Djarin?” you ask him with a smile while trying to distract your mind from the excruciating pain tormenting you. He leans and kisses you while rubbing your baby bump. He coos against your cracked lips, “I can’t tell you how excited I am, my pretty girl.”

Din Djarin has never shown himself before you. You were the one who exposed all of his anxieties, weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and, most importantly, his precious heart. To him, the universe came to a halt when it came to you. You were everything to him, from the very breath he inhaled to the soul he carried. And having a child with you was the most wonderful feeling he could have imagined. He was so desperate to have a child who’d carry a piece from you that you knew he prayed to Maker every day until you told him you were expecting.

You are being ripped apart from this state of mind with a mammoth contraction. This is different from the others; it is as if your bones are splitting apart like you are being divided in two, as you go stiff and rigid. “Oh, please. Oh, please, Maker, not again.” You moan in pain as you hold on to Din’s hand, squeezing him like you are trying to break every bone or tear apart the nerves in his hand. “Take a deep breath, cyare; it’ll be over soon,” he assures you as you spread your legs apart and cry out a little before automatically starting to push. Din rubs your thigh and helps you put your leg back down when it is over. “My lovely doll,” he croons as he leans into you and gives you a kiss on the lips. “You’re doing so well.”

Din leaves your side for a moment to bring the necessary materials to the room before the birth starts: absorbent towels, clothes for the baby, and a med bag, just in case. He left nothing to chance, as he always did. He was also concerned about the birth: you intended to give birth at home, but Din was against it, arguing that a full-fledged health center would be a preferable option. He didn’t stop worrying until you and he discussed it with your doctor and received her assurance and approval.

At the next contraction, Din is right beside you, holding your hand tightly as he tries his best to coach you through it. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers, his other hand slipping down to your belly. He feels how hot your skin is—how rigid and taut. “That’s it. Give it all you’ve got.” He gently caresses your damp cheekbone to encourage you when it is over. “Our baby will be here soon, mesh’la,” he says. “Just a little longer”.

The midwife enters the room into the mid-contraction through the entrance door that Din had left ajar earlier, and she can tell that you are getting close by the way you push through the contraction. When it is over, the midwife gives you a warm smile as she settles her stuff, preparing for delivery.

“Are you feeling the urge to push?” She asks, and you nod, spreading your legs out and rolling onto your back, knowing that she will have an examination. Din rubs your hand delicately as you moan softly, and he encourages you with sweet words as the midwife examines you. You wince and take a sharp breath at the discomfort. When the midwife’s hand is out, she removes the glove and gives you an assuring smile. “You’re nine and a half centimeters. If you feel like pushing, then go for it. Your baby is very low down; it won’t be long.” You breathe a sigh of relief, and Din gives his thanks to the midwife as she prepares you for the delivery.

“No, I don’t want the bed,” you protest. “I want to give birth on the floor,” you say as the midwife is about to lay absorbent towels on the bed. “I’d like to lean on my husband’s chest.” The idea of giving birth in a soft bed scares you; you feel the need to be supported and something to cling to, and you know that in Din’s arms is the greatest place to be.

She nods and lays the towels near the bed, giving you space to lean on. She also puts one of the pillows over the towels to protect your lower body from the stern ground. You know it is time to get up to settle down in your little birthing bed, but you’re too weak and delicate to move. Realizing that Din goes into action helps you get off bed. “Take your time, mesh’la,” he says as he slowly puts you on your feet. He supports your back as you kneel down to your place. “Here we go, my love,” he says, placing a kiss behind your head before scooping up to your behind. He settles behind you by taking you between his legs so you can lean onto him. He puts your hands on your belly and rubs you with the utmost care, like trying to end all of your pain. "Gar bid dral bal kandosii'la, cyar’ika."

You’re overwhelmed with pain and Din’s sweet words; your heart swells with affection and love. Like the deserts that stretch on forever or countless stars, his love for you knows no limits. You can’t help but feel tears fall from your eyes as you breathe shakily. “Never let me go, Din. Never”. You lean onto him and press your head into his chin to show your endless gratitude. And he replies softly, finding your hand and squeezing it gently. “I’ll be on your side forever, my sweet girl.”

The midwife takes her place between your legs and puts her hand on your knee to encourage you. “My beautiful mama,” she says, “your baby will be in your arms very soon; all I want from you is to bear down all your strength when the contraction comes, okay?”

When the next bone-shattering contraction hits, you howl like a wounded animal as the pain moves further down, contracting and squeezing your womb so that the baby can move down. As you start to push, Din holds your leg with one hand and your hand with the other, holding his breath with every push you give. “Just like that, sarad, keep going.” Din praises you and rubs your sore legs softly to ensure you’re doing well. When it is finally over, you pull your gown up and put your hand on your burning belly to feel the baby moving inside you.

You barely have one minute before the next contraction hits, and you push again, holding your breath and bearing down until you have nothing to give. When the pain fades away, you let yourself fall into Din’s body; he immediately embraces you, giving you a soft hug. His hand reaches your forehead and wipes the sweat off. “You’re so beautiful, darling, and so brave,” he murmurs against your cheek.

After almost 2 hours of pushing, you start to feel the baby’s head; you know you have begun to crown. The midwife helps you down there with every push you give, making the process a little easier. Every push you give, the sensation of burning down there tears you in two. “I can’t-” you pant, “I can’t push more; it is burning,” as tears fall from your eyes. Din holds your hand tightly and rubs your back to give you courage. “I know, baby girl, it hurts, and I wish I could do something to put you out of your pain,” he whispers softly, trying his best to coach you. “But you’re so strong, you know that?”.

He continues to praise you as you lean onto him, closing your eyes to rest, even if it’s for a few seconds. “Our adi’ka needs your help, my love,” he whispers in a low tone. You open your eyes as you feel wetness on your cheek, realizing it is a tear. And you see Din crying; oh, he is crying. He can’t bear to watch you writhe in pain.

You hold on to his words and wait for the next contraction to give you all you have in you. When it comes, you bear down again with your might, and the baby’s head slips out of you. “She’s almost here,” the midwife coos, supporting the baby’s slippy head with her hand. “She’s almost here, baby girl,” Din praises, pressing his face against your cheek. His heart rumbles with excitement and fear in his ribcage. “Almost, almost here, darling.”

“Do you want to feel the head?” the midwife asks, and you manage to utter a weak yes. The midwife takes your hand guide down there, and your fingers meet with the head of the baby. “Oh Din,” you gasp, “Oh, she’s almost here”. “That’s right, my love,” Din encourages you, “Feel her”.

“That’s her?” You ask in awe, trying to ignore the pain for a second. You feel the baby’s hair on your fingertips, and Din leans forward to kiss you. “That’s our baby.” He clarifies in a shaky whisper as your foreheads meet. “Alright, my sweet girl,” the midwife says as she puts her hand on your swollen belly, gives a smooth touch, and says, “Come on, let’s relieve your pain and have you hold your baby in your arms; I want you to push as hard as you can for the last time.” As the cruel contraction creeps up to your belly, you push with all your might; the midwife frowns and guides the baby out of you. “Here we go, love,” says Din, feeling you go rigid in his arms as soon as it begins. “Here we go, we’re in the final stretch.”

As the pain eases, you whisper in a crying tone, “C’mon, my beautiful girl, don’t tire your mom anymore.” The midwife reassures you, knowing how tired you are. “One more push, and she’ll be here.”

“You’re doing it, my cyar’ika; she’s right there.” Din embraces you tenderly and murmurs. And without a break, one last pain of waves takes control of you; you push push push again, and she comes.

You holler out as the baby is gently pulled by the midwife, and just like that, a brand-new life enters your world. You collapse against Din’s torso and try to get your breathing steady as Din looks at the newborn baby dumbfounded for a second. His emotions boil over, and he can’t help but cry as the midwife places his little girl on the puffy white sheets and pats her back.

The midwife announces you have a baby girl, and you and Din burst into tears. “Is she okay?” he finally manages to choke out, and once the midwife suctions out the gunk from her nose and mouth, the baby’s lungs fill with air, and the midwife doesn’t even have to answer his question. Before placing the newborn in your arms, the midwife hands Din the scissors to cut the umbilical cord. He cuts the cord with shaky hands while gazing at the beauty of the baby.

The midwife puts your little baby on your chest, and she leaves the room for you two to have time together for a while. You sob as you hold your little angel in your arms.

“Welcome, baby girl, my little one. Welcome.”

You’re so overjoyed with the happiness that your throat goes dry and stutter, “We’ve been waiting for you so long.” Reaching out to the baby, Din gently caresses the baby’s tiny head and whispers, almost crying, “Su cuy’gar, ad’ika.”

Din finds your hand, holds you tightly, and whimpers, “I am so proud of you, sweetheart.” He takes a deep breath before continuing, “You did so well, my cyare.” You lean into him as an answer, feeling his warmth in your aching back.

“I love you so much, mesh’la,” Din whispers against your cracked lips, and you sob with him, your tears falling together as you manage to croak a reply.

“I love you too, my sweet riduur.”

You pull your head back and reach it down to kiss the top of your little girl’s skull. She is covered in blood and gunk, but that is the last thing you care about. Both you and Din’s hands rub over her brand-new chubby body, and your faces breathe against hers as she calms down and finds a little comfort in the hands of the people who love her unconditionally.

“She’s perfect.” Din breathes as his face rests against your shoulder, and his finger gently strokes the droopy skin of his daughter’s cheek.

You close your eyes and use one hand to hold her brand new baby against her while the other rubs the back of your husband’s head. Your heart is so full that you can barely stand it, and you can’t help the constant sobs escaping from you.

The midwife does not want to ruin this lovely moment, but the birth is not finished; you still need to deliver the afterbirth. Your heart aches as the midwife removes your tiny baby from your arms and places her in her cradle. You don’t like the sense of emptiness in your arms. “It will be a short separation, my beautiful girl,” she promises. “She will come back to you as soon as I clean you up.”

Once more, you rest on Din while the midwife massages your belly with her hands. The midwife hears your sharp gasp as the cramps become painful and rushes to help, saying, “Push with the cramps, my strong mama, just like you gave birth to the baby.”

Wishing it your final push, Din gives your back a gentle massage. He soothes you, saying, “Hang in there, darling, it’s almost over.” And when you release a deep breath, the afterbirth slides out of you. The midwife confirms and congratulates you, and it is now time for you to clean up.

After a long cleaning and examination process, the midwife leaves the house, leaving you two and your newborn alone together. The bed have become your best friend because your body is so tired that you couldn't get up from the floor after birth. Without even saying a word, Din immediately realized and lifted you up, supporting your saggy belly, and then helped you to bed.

And now, Din is lying beside you on the bed, looking at you and the baby sleeping on your bare chest. “She looks just like you.” You breathe as your heart expands when you see the giant brown eyes on your daughter’s face; it is like staring into your riduur’s eyes. Din smiles against her, and he reaches his face up to kiss her head again.

“I’m so proud of you,” Din mumbles against his adi’ka, unable to fully comprehend how she managed to get his tiny little love into the universe, and you just kiss Din’s stubbly face in response before you both go back to admiring your little one, who is squirming against your warm, naked chest.

“I love you, my little ka’ra,” you whisper against your baby’s squished-up face, and Din chokes back more tears, his whole being overflowing with love for his girls.

As he keeps his hands around you, Din’s cheek nestles back into your exposed chest, and he stares at his baby as her hands grasp onto your sweaty skin. He just cannot comprehend that this perfect little girl in front of him is theirs. She is perfect, and she is his. He doesn’t understand what he did right in life to deserve two girls who are so breathtakingly beautiful.

You mumble softly, “I think we are a clan of three now.” Din answers, “Yes, cyare, there are three of us now,” with a great smile on his face.

“Aliit be ehn,” you say, looking at the sleeping babe.

“Aliit be ehn,” Din confirms as he looks at you with love and gratitude.

--

Hi everyone! This is my first work ever and I am so happy to share it. Please bear in mind that I am not a casual fic writer, I am a reader + English isn't my first language. So, please don't hesitate to share your comments and ideas :)

--

Mando'a Translations

Haalur, ner ka'ra: Breathe, my stars

Mesh'la: Beautiful

Cyare: Beloved, loved

Cyar'ika: Darling, sweetheart

Sarad: Flower

Riduur: Partner, Spouse, husband, wife

Adi'ka: Baby, child under 3

Gar bid dral bal kandosii'la, cyar’ika: You’re so strong and amazing, darling.

Aliit be ehn: Family/Clan of three

[dinsriduur]

"Good job, buddy" - Din Djarin to Grogu after doing the opposite of what Din told him to

[kimboboombloom]

signs of great parenting for real. So many can learn from Din.

[karindara]

there will come a time when we all must say goodbye.

[azertyrobaz]

Din Djarin's just a misunderstood guy.

[epicallyepicepicosity4]

riiiiight

[jobean12-blog]

Not Anymore

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader/The Mandalorian x reader

Word Count: 300

Summary: Mando makes sure you know exactly how he feels

Author's Note: This is for June 28th of @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles and the song: 'Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan (with Hoizer)' and the lyric: "you're feelin' lost." Thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-in-darkness thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: it's soft and raw but tense and sexy with a pinch of smutty spice

June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist

“You’re feelin’ lost.”

It’s not a question, the words hanging in the quiet stillness between you as you rest along the rocks just outside the cabin on Nevarro.

He shifts, moving closer and when you turn your face toward his your next breath catches in your throat as he begins to lift his helmet.

“Not anymore,” he finally says, the admission coming from lips you’ve memorized. Your gaze lingers before you drag your eyes upward, taking in every feature of his face.

A magnetic energy simmers between you, and the intensity of his stare makes you feel like the only person on the planet. The unspoken desire that lurks on the fringes of the night air thickens, making your heart stutter.

He reaches for you, tentatively, with fingers stretched until they find the soft curve of your cheek.

“Not anymore,” he repeats, lips seizing yours.

The kiss is slow, his mouth sliding over yours, exploring and tasting as his hands drift to the small of your back to drag you closer. Even though you’re still lying on the ground, dizziness threatens to sweep over you, heat surging beneath your skin.

Calloused palms slide down your neck, his rough thumbs brushing across your cheeks as he deepens the kiss and moans against your mouth.

He releases you only to take a breath, staring down at you while his hand caresses dips and curves with a maddening patience. His fingertips drift lower until they reach the softness of your inner thighs.

Your legs spread apart, an invitation, one you desperately hope he accepts. He licks his lips, and the moment his fingers find the wetness between your legs, his eyes shutter closed.

Clutching his biceps, you exhale a shaky breath, whispering his name.

“Should I stop?” he asks.

“No, please. Don’t stop.”