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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@kusogeki
Literally how Aerion was sleeping for few weeks after Maegor was born because the boy was ‘breathing weirdly’, Aerion just had a first time parent paranoia.
Baby Maegor is looking at Lady Arryn for help btw.
Art by @/Louis Bach on twt
Don't tell anyone, ever. About the dreams. I will never ever betray you.
DOMINA. (2021-2023)
you know what you shouldnt do? constantly tell your child how expensive they are to take care of. because eventually, that child gets scared of asking for money, and doesnt feed themself at school, doesnt go places with their friends that require money, because she doesnt want to be expensive. it really does get into their minds, that theyre too much money and that they shouldnt do anything.
04/01/18: angry Geno, an alternate angle (x)
the weather's got me down (but like the sun you'll come around) — M.T x Reader (chapter three)
series summary — a straying Aegon finds himself in trouble and nearly dies if not for you—a mystery woman that lives reclused from society—the Anvil, who loathes owing anyone anything, offers you something others would die for, but you refuse?
chapter summary — you wake up in an unfamiliar, strange place. with no memory of how you got there.
author's note — remember im not a doctor so im making shit up believe nothing i say lol — this shit was so fun though giggled a lot writing this.
tags — MDNI!!! tags contain spoilers bewarned: drugs! concussion! maekar suffering, yearning if you squint :)
word count — 2k~
NAVIGATION — MASTERLIST
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
CREDITS: SARADIKA-GRAPHICS (DIVIDER) ALLYRIADAYNE (GIF)
you wake up in an unfamiliar, strange place. with no memory of how you got there.
Pain drove through your head like a sword. If that wasn't a fatal thing you would know that was what ailed you, but alas, your head was swordless.
You sat up with a groan, head in your hands, it felt too heavy. Your bed felt far too comfortable, the sheets too soft, too velvet-like. Uncovering your eyes, you looked around for Bluebell, confused — normally she would've been on you by now.
Slowly you began to realize a number of things. This was not your room. This was not your bed. These clothes were not your own—and this certainly was not your home. How did you get to this strange place? and why… was there a dragon sleeping beside you?
"What the fuck..." you whispered to yourself.
Inspired by [this] post by @bluecarolina
Ghost is hardly a jealous man, he doesn't really care about things enough to be jealous.
Well, except for you.
You, and the bloke who's practically been attached at your arm for the past two weeks. You two talk like old friends, like you've known eachother for years. Ghost knows from eavesdropping that "me and him were always close, you know? Kind of impossible not to miss eachother after I had to move."
The thought of it makes ghost seethe. It's a startling feeling considering he's never felt so territorial over someone before. All ghost wants is a moment alone with you, just to talk, and everywhere he turns your boyfriend is there.
Well. He assumes boyfriend, with the lack of a ring. But it's impossible to know when ghost avoids him and by proxy you. The worst part? Ghost didn't realize he liked you until that dickhead came around.
"Oh, ghost! I've been meaning to catch you!" You smile when ghost finally breaks during lunch, boyfriend sat across from you at the table.
You gesture to him, missing the way ghosts hand pulls his balaclava just above his nose, "this is my—"
Ghost kisses you, both hands holding yout jae steady.
The whole mess hall goes dead silent, not that he'd care. He leans in further, having to bow down at the awkward position, licking into your mouth with a wet tongue. You can't help but melt into it a bit, ignoring the gasp from next to you.
When you finally pull away, ghost is blushing beneath the mask, your own face heated.
"This," you say, all smug and pleased as you point to the man ghost has genuinely considered killing, "...is my brother. He's visiting for the month.
....oh.
....ghost grabs your arm and drags you away. He can deal with an angry brother later, right now he's aching to kiss you more and he knows you are too.
dreamt about a knight coming to you after a battle and getting on his knees in front of you and roaming his hands up your legs and smearing blood across your skin as he rests his cheek against your upper thigh. btw. additionally i would like to add taking his helmet off and hearing it rattle against the stone floor and running your hands through sweaty hair and praising him for protecting your kingdom. anyways.
is this play about akotsk.....??
need him so viscerally
Mandalorian Jedi
Summary: What happens after you, a Mandalorian, use the Force to save an unconscious Din Djarin?
Pairing: Din Djarin x Mandalorian!Force-Sensitve!Reader
Words: 5,477
Warning(s): Mention of injuries to Din (like broken bones/concussions)
Notes: I tried my best to keep this consistent with the lore of Star Wars! Clan Ordo is actually really cool!! I kept the Razor Crest for the sake of the story. This isn't beta read, so sorry if this isn't like the rest of my works!
The first time you realized Din Djarin had stopped asking where you learned to move so quietly, you were already three systems past the last honest answer you had given him.
By then, the habit of omission had settled into your bones so deeply it barely felt like deception anymore. Just survival. Another layer of armor beneath the beskar.
The Razor Crest groaned softly around you as it cut through hyperspace, every loose panel and aging bolt singing its familiar complaints through the hull. Blue light from the cockpit washed faintly down the corridor, catching against scratched metal walls and the polished edges of Din’s armor where he sat forward in the pilot’s chair, silent as always. Grogu slept in his pram nearby, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of engine oil and the sweet broth Din always managed to find for him no matter how poor the planet.
And somewhere along the journey, Din had stopped asking questions.
He never pried. That was one of the things that made traveling with him easier than it should have been.
Din was the kind of man who let silence do the work of a conversation. He asked only what he needed to know.
You noticed it in the way his helmet would angle slightly toward you whenever your instincts reacted before his scanners did. The tiny shift of black visor tracking you after you paused outside a corridor seconds before an ambush emerged from it. The way his hand sometimes drifted nearer to his blaster when you suddenly went still, because he had learned that your stillness usually meant danger. If he caught the strange rhythm of your awareness- the way you seemed to feel ships before they docked, violence before it erupted, fear before it reached someone’s face- he buried the observation beneath the same quiet restraint he buried everything else under.
Then there was Grogu.
The child watched you differently.
Not suspiciously. Not even curiously.
Knowingly.
Sometimes you would look up and find those enormous dark eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus, his little head tilted slightly to one side as if he were listening to something beyond sound. Those moments always made heat crawl beneath your plating. It felt less like being observed and more like being recognized.
As though some part of him already knew.
Every time it happened, Din would simply reach down and adjust Grogu’s blanket or rest a gloved hand briefly against the edge of the pram, patient and calm, seemingly unaware of the tension tightening in your shoulders.
Or maybe aware of it, and choosing not to corner you with it.
So you kept your silence. It was not a lie exactly, not entirely, just a door left shut. A hand braced firmly against the frame whenever anyone came too close to opening it.
You told Din enough to make the shape of your life believable.
You were Mandalorian. That much required no explanation. It lived in everything you did.
In the way you entered a room already cataloguing exits.
In the instinctive checks of your vambraces before sleep.
In the habitual awareness of weight at your hips where weapons rested.
In the economy of your movements: efficient, deliberate, never wasting energy where precision would suffice.
Armor was another language to you. You understood beskar the way mechanics understood engines or smugglers understood hyperspace lanes. Every dent told a story. Every scorch mark carried memory. You knew how to tighten weakened straps by touch alone, how to recognize imbalance in a chest plate before it restricted movement, and how to hear when a jetpack’s ignition cycle sounded wrong.
That part of yourself was easy to share. People saw beskar and blasters and the steady discipline in your movements, and they knew where to place you in their minds. Mandalorian. Warrior. Survivor. The galaxy understood those things. It knew what boxes to put them in.
It was the rest of yourself that stayed buried beneath layers of steel and silence.
Because Mandalorians had long memories.
And so did the Jedi.
History lingered in both cultures like old scar tissue- never fully healed, only endured. Stories of wars fought centuries ago still lived in training chants and cautionary tales. Children on both sides were raised hearing different versions of the same battles. Different villains. Different martyrs.
The Jedi spoke of Mandalorians as fierce, dangerous, stubborn people forever flirting with violence.
Mandalorians spoke of Jedi as arrogant mystics who thought the Force gave them the right to decide the fate of everyone around them.
And somewhere between those histories sat your family, Clan Ordo.
Even now, the name still existed in old archives and older grudges. Buried in war records. Mentioned in fading stories traded between surviving clans around campfires and ship holds. A bloodline remembered not for conquering Jedi, but for standing beside them when the rest of Mandalore sharpened blades for war.
A clan that had once looked at centuries of hatred and decided alliance was not weakness.
To some Mandalorians, that history made your family honorable. Proof that strength meant choosing your own path instead of inheriting old hatred unquestioned. Your clan’s name was spoken with rough respect in certain circles, especially among older warriors tired of endless wars that only left more ghosts behind.
But to others, Ordo was a stain. A family that had allowed outsiders too close to the heart of Mandalore.
You remembered the looks sometimes. The subtle shift in posture when someone learned what blood ran through your veins. The slight narrowing of eyes behind helmets. Questions that sounded polite but carried sharpened edges underneath.
Your father was a Jedi?
As if the word itself explained something dangerous about you.
And the Jedi had not been much different.
Some had viewed your Mandalorian heritage with fascination, others with quiet concern. Your armor, your training, your anger- they looked at those things as if waiting for them to prove an old fear correct. As though violence lived in your bones more naturally than peace ever could.
You had learned very young that people loved contradictions only when they remained distant enough to feel poetic. But stories became far less comforting when they turned into a living person standing directly in front of them.
You learned quickly how uncomfortable that made people: too Jedi for some Mandalorians, too Mandalorian for some Jedi. It lived in hesitation more than hatred. In the tiny pauses between words. In the way conversations subtly shifted around you once someone understood what you were. The realization settling into their expression like a door quietly locking.
You could feel the divide every time a Mandalorian’s posture stiffened after hearing your family name, every time the word Jedi entered the conversation and eyes flicked instinctively toward you afterward.
As though they were checking for signs of corruption.
Or betrayal.
Or weakness.
You remembered one old warrior staring at you across a fire when you were young, helmet resting beside his boots while sparks drifted into the dark between you.
“Can’t serve two creeds,” he had said flatly.
Then there were the Jedi who watched your hands too carefully whenever you got emotional. The ones who noticed how naturally your stance shifted toward defense. The ones who spoke gently, but always with the faint concern of people handling something unstable.
And so you became careful. You learned to ration pieces of yourself out in ways people could digest without recoiling from them.
The Mandalorian side was easier. The galaxy understood armor. Understood blasters and discipline and scars. People trusted visible danger more than invisible power, so you leaned into that, let others see the warrior first.
And then there was the thing you never said at all.
You were Force-sensitive.
Even thinking the words sometimes made something tighten painfully in your chest.
Not because you hated that part of yourself, but because of what the galaxy had taught you those words meant. People heard Force-sensitive and imagined legends. They imagined towering Jedi in flowing robes deflecting blaster fire without effort. Sith with burning eyes tearing ships from the sky. Holovid dramatizations filled with screaming lightning, impossible acrobatics, and destinies so large they crushed everything around them.
That was never what it felt like for you.
For you, the Force had always been quieter. It lived in small things.
A pressure at the back of your thoughts moments before someone spoke your name. A strange pull in your chest before a door opened. The instinctive certainty that a room had changed somehow before anyone else noticed the shift in atmosphere.
Sometimes it felt like standing in shallow water and sensing distant movement before the wave actually reached you. Other times it was almost unbearable- an invisible static humming constantly beneath the surface of the world, brushing against your nerves until sleep became difficult.
You noticed things other people missed.
The tremor in someone’s breathing before they reached for a hidden weapon. The emotional shape of a crowd before panic spread through it. The subtle wrongness in places where violence had happened recently, as if suffering left fingerprints on the air.
The Force did not make you feel larger than other people.
It made you feel open.
Too open.
As though the galaxy was always speaking just beneath hearing range and your mind could never fully tune it out. Like existing with a second pulse layered beneath your own heartbeat: something ancient and immense brushing constantly against the edges of your awareness.
Some days it was beautiful.
You remembered sitting beside your father as a child aboard a quiet transport drifting through hyperspace, eyes closed while he taught you how to listen instead of resist. The Force had flowed around you then like warm current through dark water. Vast. Alive. Connected.
You remembered feeling the life aboard the ship all at once- the steady concentration of the pilot, the restless dreams of sleeping passengers, your mother’s calm presence nearby sharpening a blade with rhythmic precision. For one brief moment, the entire galaxy had felt impossibly close.
And then there were the other days.
Days where crowded cities became suffocating because emotion pressed against your senses from every direction. Fear. Rage. Hunger. Grief. Desperation. So many people carrying pain through the galaxy that sometimes it felt impossible to breathe beneath the weight of it.
And then there was the day you learned the worst part of betrayal was how ordinary the moment looked right before it happened. Just another evening beneath the cold iron sky of Kalevala Station while fuel lines hissed overhead and half-drunk warriors traded stories around burn barrels in the loading district. Armor gleamed orange in the firelight. Someone nearby was sharpening a beskar blade against stone with slow metallic strokes. The air smelled like engine smoke, rain, and overheated circuitry.
You had been younger then. Younger enough to still believe honesty could earn understanding if it was offered carefully.
Your father had warned you otherwise.
“Some truths,” he told you once, “change shape after they leave your mouth. You may speak them with peace and still watch them become weapons in someone else’s hands.”
At the time, you thought he sounded paranoid. Now you understood he had simply survived longer than you had.
The warrior who attacked you had eaten beside your family before.
That was the part your memory returned to most often.
Not the fight itself.
Not even the blood.
It was the memory of him laughing hours earlier beside the fire. The kind of Mandalorian children naturally gravitated toward because he told loud stories and exaggerated victories until everyone around him laughed.
The friendly warmth in his posture was gone now, replaced by something harder. Older.
“You hid this.”
Your father answered before you could.
“They’re still Mandalorian.”
Rav’s helmet tilted slightly.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
The next few seconds lived in your memory with brutal clarity.
Your father stepping forward, your mother reaching for her weapon. And then Rav drew his blaster. Fast.
The Force surged through you violently, raw and uncontrolled, and the blaster bolt twisted sideways in midair with a scream of displaced heat. It slammed into metal behind you instead. The entire station suddenly felt alive with danger. You could feel adrenaline surging through every body nearby. Fear spreading. Rage igniting. Ancient history clawing its way into the present through the simple reality of what they had just witnessed.
Your mother slammed into Rav before he could fire again, driving him backward into the barrel fire hard enough to scatter sparks into the night. And your family fled.
The memory still followed you sometimes when Grogu stared too knowingly at your face from inside his pram. Or when Din’s visor lingered on you a second too long after your instincts reacted before his scanners. So you learned to bury your connection to the Force beneath competence and caution. Learned to pass unusual instincts off as experience, impossible timing as sharp reflexes. Learned to keep your hands still when fear threatened to move objects around you unintentionally.
Tonight, Din stayed in the pilot’s seat a moment longer than necessary, one gloved hand steady on the controls. Grogu stirred in his pram at the change, blinking sleep from his eyes and making a small, questioning sound.
You turned toward the cockpit.
“Are we here?”
Din’s helmet angled, a curt acknowledgment.
“Near enough.”
Always near enough with him. Never a word wasted.
You moved closer, your boots quiet on the worn deck. Beyond the viewport, the planet below looked dry and broken, its surface marked by pale ridges and deep scars where old riverbeds had once cut through the earth. Not a place that welcomed anyone. That made it sound, in your experience, exactly like the sort of place someone had a reason to choose.
Din’s voice came after a pause.
“Local contact says a cache was moved through the settlement two days ago. Could be Imperial. Could be raiders. Could be both.”
“Could be trouble,” you said.
“That is usually what it means.”
Grogu gave a soft little chirp, lifting both hands as if in agreement. Din reached back without looking and touched the edge of the pram with two fingers, an absent gesture so familiar now it made something in your chest ache.
You watched the two of them in the reflection of the viewport glass. The Mandalorian in his armor, all hard lines and silence. The foundling in his floating crib, round-eared and wide-eyed and too perceptive for his own good. There were moments when traveling with them felt strangely like standing at the edge of something safe and impossible at the same time. A place where you could almost imagine being ordinary.
Almost.
The settlement was smaller than the last three you had passed through with them, a scatter of low buildings pressed into red dust and wind-carved stone. No dome. No grand landing pad. Just a rough field cleared of rocks and marked by old fire pits, and a handful of villagers watching the Razor Crest touch down with the exhausted caution of people who had already learned to expect the worst.
Din had not even removed his gloved hands from the controls before one of them approached.
The woman was broad-shouldered, sun-worn, and tired in a way that seemed older than her face. Her eyes flicked to Din’s armor, then to you, then to Grogu, lingering on the Child with a look that was careful and frightened all at once.
“You’re late,” she said.
Din gave her the sort of stare that made lesser people apologize for things they had not done.
“We were told we were expected.”
“We expected someone less obvious.”
You almost smiled at that, almost. Din most likely did not.
He only said, “Then you were given poor information.”
The woman looked at you again.
“You the one they said was quiet?”
Your instincts went still. “Depends who’s asking.”
She exhaled through her nose, which might have been amusement if her shoulders were not so tight.
“Name’s Sera. We’ve got a problem in the western cisterns. Something took up residence there two nights ago. Took two workers already. Maybe more.”
“Took?” you repeated.
She nodded once.
“Nobody saw it clearly. Just shadows. Screaming. A smell like burned metal.”
Din’s helmet turned toward the distant ridge line.
“And the cache?”
“Still down there.”
That was when you felt it. Not the smell she described, not the worry in her voice, not even the tension that spread through the gathered villagers like a slow crack in ice.
The wrongness.
It touched the back of your neck first, then settled deeper, a cold seam opening in the air itself. Your breath caught before you could stop it. The world did that sometimes- shifted, sharpened, as if some unseen hand had tilted it just slightly off balance.
You looked toward the western side of the settlement.
A cistern opening half-hidden between jagged rocks.
Dark.
Too dark.
The feeling pressed harder.
Din noticed your stillness immediately. He always did.
“What?”
You could have lied. Could have said nothing. Could have let the instinct pass as unease over a dangerous mission.
Instead you heard yourself say, quiet and certain, “We should not go down there first.”
Sera frowned.
“Why not?”
You stared at the cistern entrance, every muscle in your body braced against the pull of what waited below.
“Because it knows we’re here.”
Din was silent. That silence was worse than any question.
Grogu made a low, worried sound from the pram as his little fingers curled against the blanket. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward the cistern too, as if he had heard the same thing you had.
That made your stomach drop.
Din’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
“You sensed something.”
It was not a question.
You looked away before he could read too much in your face, despite it being concealed under your helmet.
“Old instinct.”
“From what?”
You should have had an answer ready. You had spent your entire life making answers ready. But the air seemed to press tighter around your ribs, and Grogu was still watching you with that unnerving, knowing stillness, and Din had gone very, very quiet in the way he always did when he had already begun to piece something together.
So you said nothing.
That was answer enough.
The descent into the cistern was a narrow stair of cut stone, damp at the edges, the air growing colder with each step. Din took point, blaster low, armor barely making a sound despite the tight confines. You followed close behind, one hand near your sidearm, the other hovering in unconscious readiness. Grogu stayed at the top with Sera until Din ordered otherwise, which did nothing to ease the pressure in your chest.
Below, the tunnel widened into a chamber lined with old water channels. Most of them were dry now, cracked and lined with mineral crust. The flashlight mounted on Din’s vambrace cut through the dark in a narrow beam, revealing broken crates, torn cloth, and dragged marks in the dust.
Signs of a struggle.
Signs of something much larger than a person.
The Force pressed against your awareness in uneven pulses, brushing the inside of your skull hard enough to make your jaw tighten beneath your helmet. You focused on your breathing instead. On the sound of Din’s boots against stone. On the weight of your blaster at your hip.
The tunnel finally widened into a massive underground reservoir, the ceiling vanishing high above into darkness. Ancient support pillars rose from black water below like the trunks of petrified trees, their reflections trembling faintly across the surface. Most of the cistern had dried long ago, leaving only scattered pools and deep channels winding through cracked stone.
The Force screamed at you.
“Din-”
The water of the closest pool exploded upward.
The creature emerged so suddenly and violently that your mind refused to understand its scale at first. Black water crashed across the stone floor as something enormous unfolded itself from the reservoir depths, towering high enough that its back nearly scraped the ceiling above.
It was massive.
Long-limbed and malformed, covered in slick armored hide that reflected Din’s flashlight in fractured glints. Its front limbs ended in hooked claws the size of vibroblades, while its lower body dragged through the water with terrible weight. Its head was eyeless, split open down the center by a circular maw lined with rotating teeth that flexed and churned as it roared.
Din fired instantly.
Blaster bolts slammed into the creature’s chest in bursts of red light, but the thing barely recoiled. One blast scorched its hide. Another disappeared into layers of armor-like flesh.
Then it moved. Far too fast for something that size.
One enormous limb crashed sideways into a support pillar, shattering stone apart like brittle glass. The next swing came directly toward you both.
“Move!”
You threw yourself sideways as Din fired his grappling line toward a higher ledge. The claw smashed into the ground where you had stood a heartbeat earlier, the impact splitting stone and sending debris exploding through the chamber.
The entire cistern trembled.
Din landed hard atop the ledge and kept firing, drawing the creature’s attention upward while you scrambled for cover below. Red bolts lit the darkness in rapid flashes, illuminating glimpses of the monster’s body twisting through the chamber. You barely had time to shout before one gigantic claw slammed directly into the ledge beneath Din.
Stone ruptured, and the platform collapsed.
Din hit the ground hard enough to crack duracrete. His helmet struck stone with a sharp metallic crack that echoed through the chamber.
Then he stopped moving.
Everything inside you went cold.
“Din!”
The creature turned toward him, toward the still shape sprawled beneath broken stone.
Your thoughts vanished.
Not strategically. Not calmly. Every lesson about restraint and concealment and survival disappeared in one instant beneath a single overwhelming certainty: if it reached him, he would die.
The Force crashed through your senses in a sudden brutal wave—flashes of movement, claws, blood against beskar, Din hitting the floor hard enough not to get back up afterward. Not prophecy. Not certainty. Just possibility screaming loud enough to drown thought beneath it.
And underneath all of that, him.
The shape of his presence in the Force had become painfully familiar to you over time. Steady. Controlled. Quiet in a way that hid exhaustion instead of peace. You had learned the emotional rhythm of him without meaning to. The constant vigilance. The buried grief. The stubborn refusal to let himself break even when every part of him was splintering beneath pressure.
You knew the sound of his footsteps on the Crest.
Knew the slight tilt of his helmet when he was listening instead of speaking.
Knew the tiny pauses before he answered difficult questions.
Knew the warmth of his gloved hand against your shoulder after nightmares he pretended not to notice.
And somewhere along the way, without permission and without safety and without any tactical wisdom whatsoever, your entire nervous system had begun treating Din Djarin’s continued existence as something essential.
The Force erupted through you before you could stop it.
Loose debris lifted from the ground around your boots as invisible pressure exploded outward from your body in a violent wave. The creature roared as something unseen seized it mid-motion.
For one impossible second, the gigantic beast actually stopped moving.
Then it lifted.
Stone cracked beneath its weight as the Force hauled the creature sideways across the chamber with catastrophic force. The monster slammed into one of the massive support pillars hard enough to splinter ancient rock apart.
The creature screamed in rage, claws tearing through stone as it fought against the invisible pressure crushing it backward. You could feel its weight straining against your mind like trying to hold a crashing ship in place with your bare hands.
Pain ripped behind your eyes.
Your knees nearly buckled.
But the creature was still moving.
Still trying to reach Din.
“No,” you heard yourself snarl.
You raised one shaking hand instinctively.
The Force answered. The broken remains of the shattered pillar tore free from the ceiling above and crashed downward onto the creature in a thunderous avalanche of stone.
Din.
You turned instantly and dropped beside him.
He still lay motionless where he had fallen, partially buried beneath broken stone. Panic clawed up your throat as you reached for him, hands trembling despite every effort to steady them.
“Din-”
Your voice sounded wrong. Thin. Fractured.
You pressed gloved fingers against the side of his neck beneath the helmet seal, desperately searching for a pulse.
There. Weak, but there.
Relief nearly made your vision blur.
“You idiot,” you whispered shakily, though your chest ached so hard with fear the words barely held together. “You absolute idiot…”
Your hands hovered uncertainly over him, checking for injuries you could not fully see beneath the armor. The cracked stone around his body suggested bruised ribs at minimum. Possibly worse.
The creature remained buried beneath the collapsed pillar across the chamber, though every instinct in your body warned you not to trust that stillness. Something that large did not die easily. You could still feel it faintly through the Force: a dim, furious pulse buried beneath rubble and broken stone.
You looked down at Din again. The sight of him lying there unnaturally still sent another cold spike of fear through your chest. The crack of his helmet against the stone replayed viciously in your memory. You had seen armored warriors die from impacts like that before. Beskar protected against many things, but bodies inside armor were still flesh.
You hooked one arm beneath his shoulders and hauled him upright with effort. Din was heavy even without the armor damage. With it, dragging him through collapsing tunnels felt nearly impossible.
“You owe me for this,” you muttered breathlessly.
No response.
You tried not to think about that.
The climb back toward the surface became a blur of strain and noise. Several times you had to stop to brace Din’s weight against the wall while dizziness clawed behind your eyes. Using the Force like that had drained you more than you wanted to admit.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
You could still feel the echo of it roaring through your nervous system. The terrible instinctive release of power after years spent locking every door inside yourself shut as tightly as possible.
You reached the surface level just as another deep tremor shook the settlement. Villagers shouted nearby. Somewhere behind you, deeper underground, part of the cistern collapsed with a thunderous roar.
Sera turned sharply the moment she saw you emerge carrying Din.
“What happened?”
“No time,” you snapped.
The words came harsher than intended. Fear was making everything sharp-edged.
“Ship. Now.”
Her eyes widened at the condition of the armor. “Is he-”
“He’s alive.”
You hoped.
Grogu was already racing toward you before you fully crossed the landing field, tiny hands gripping the edge of his pram so hard the fabric bunched beneath his claws. The child made a distressed noise the moment he saw Din hanging unconscious against your side.
“I know,” you said quietly.
Grogu looked up at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time since you had met him, there was no uncertainty left in his expression at all.
Only recognition.
The Force brushed softly against your awareness from him, warm and worried and heartbreakingly gentle. You swallowed hard and looked away first.
The Razor Crest lifted from the settlement only minutes later, engines screaming against the storm of dust now rolling across the desert. You strapped Din into one of the rear bunks as carefully as you could manage, removing damaged sections of armor where the impact had warped the beskar inward.
Bruised ribs.
A dislocated shoulder.
Possibly a concussion.
Your chest loosened slightly once you confirmed he was breathing steadily beneath the helmet.
Grogu sat beside the bunk the entire time, tiny ears lowered anxiously while you worked. He watched your hands with intense focus, following every movement as you adjusted medical patches and tightened stabilizers around Din’s side.
The trip to Tatooine took longer than you liked.
Din regained consciousness exactly once during the journey. You were in the cockpit trying to keep the Crest together through another wave of turbulence when you heard movement behind you. You turned instantly, hand already near your blaster out of instinct.
Din sat partially upright on the bunk, one gloved hand pressed against his ribs.
“You should be unconscious,” you said.
“Tried.” his voice came out rough through the modulator.
You exhaled shakily before you could stop yourself. His visor tilted toward you.
“Tatooine?” he asked.
“Figured your friend owed you enough favors not to ask questions.”
“Boba Fett asks many questions.”
The Razor Crest touched down outside the palace near dusk beneath Tatooine’s endless burning sky. Heat rolled across the sand in visible waves while the old fortress loomed above the dunes like the skeleton of something ancient and territorial.
Before the ramp had fully lowered, you heard blaster safeties disengaging outside.
Reasonable, honestly.
You stepped carefully down the ramp first with your hands visible.
Immediately, a rifle pointed directly at your chest.
“You look terrible,” said Fennec Shand from beneath the shade of the palace entrance.
“You should see the other guy,” you answered.
Her gaze flicked past you toward the ship interior.
“Djarin alive?”
“Currently.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her a moment later as Boba Fett emerged into the sunlight wearing his weathered green armor.
His attention landed on you first.
Then on Din being half-carried down the ramp moments later.
Then finally on Grogu hovering anxiously nearby in his pram.
Boba sighed deeply through his helmet.
“What happened now?”
For a moment, nobody answered him.
Hot desert wind rolled through the landing platform, tugging faintly at cloaks and carrying sand against metal with a dry hiss. The palace loomed behind Boba Fett like something watching the exchange with ancient patience.
You adjusted Din’s weight slightly against your shoulder.
“He got hit hard in a cistern collapse,” you said. “There was a creature.”
“That explains the damage.” Boba’s helmet tilted toward the dented beskar plating along Din’s side.
Before you could answer, Din shifted slightly beside you with a low sound of restrained pain. Instantly, Grogu chirped anxiously and floated closer in his pram.
“I’m fine,” Din muttered.
“You are absolutely not fine,” you shot back automatically.
Fennec snorted softly somewhere to your right.
You swallowed once. Then slowly lowered Din’s arm from your shoulder as Boba stepped forward to take his weight instead.
Din stiffened slightly from the movement but didn’t resist.
The sudden absence of him beside you felt strangely cold.
“I need a favor.” Your voice came quieter than intended.
Boba crossed his arms as best he could under Din’s weight.
“That depends heavily on the favor.”
“A ship.”
“Hangar three,” Boba Fett said gruffly. “Old Firespray patrol craft. Needs work, but it flies.”
Fennec turned toward him. “You’re just giving them a ship?”
“They saved Djarin.”
You stared for a second before nodding once.
“Thank you.”
Then you moved. Fast.
Because if you stopped long enough to think about this, you were not sure you would actually go through with it.
Grogu chirped sharply behind you.
Your boots rang against metal walkways as you crossed deeper into the palace hangars. The sounds behind you blurred together beneath the pounding of your pulse. Someone called your name once- Din, maybe- but you kept moving anyway.
This was the right choice.
It had to be.
You had seen the way people looked at you your entire life once they learned what you were. Eventually there was always distance afterward. Carefulness. Hesitation. Even among good people. Especially among good people.
Because good people tried to reconcile compassion with fear, and sometimes that process hurt more than outright hatred ever did.
You couldn’t do that to Din.
Not after everything he had already survived.
Not after the covert.
Not after Mandalore.
Not after a lifetime spent inheriting stories about Jedi and wars and betrayal.
Your hands shook while entering the launch sequence.
Not from fear. From grief.
Because somewhere along the way, the Razor Crest had started feeling like home.
And Din Djarin and Grogu had started feeling dangerously close to family.
The realization hollowed your chest out from the inside. Because you spent your entire life being the contradiction that made people uncomfortable and you could not survive watching that realization settle into Din’s silence too.
A moment later, the stars stretched into hyperspace lines with the familiar violent lurch that always made your stomach tighten no matter how many years you spent traveling between systems.
Modern au Baelor and maekar 🧎♀️🧎♀️
By: crazy_toma777
No Song for This (1/3)
- Summary: Y/N Targaryen is dragged to the Ashford tourney to get her out from under Aerion’s obsession, only for Valarr to publicly ask for her favor and spark a feud that erupts into a brawl in the royal pavilion.
- Pairing: cousin!reader/Valarr Targaryen
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (There’s no explicit content until Part 3. However, Aerion appears earlier in the story, and there are implications about things he may have done to the reader character.)
- Next part: 2
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @albekstime @idenyimimdenial @human169 @meruchuchu @radiantdanvers @gotham-lady @sambibomb @theoriginalwifeofhanjumin @th3d1n0r3ad3r
To Break a Dragon’s Fall ͙͘͡★ pt.4
pairing: baelor / you / maekar
chapter 1 , chapter 2 , chapter 3
tags: slow burn, love triangle, enemies to lovers, female knight, found family, eventual smut
note: honestly not proud of this chapter as i could be but i just wanted to get this out but i hope you enjoy it anyways! next chapter is gonna be fun to write but perhaps not so fun to read…thanks for sticking with this story!!!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Sweet as Arbor wine
Baelor Targaryen x f!reader x Maekar Targaryen
Summary: As a widow, originally from house Redwyne, you were demanded to remarry and wed prince Maekar against your wishes. But you and Baelor have a history, and he falls for you as well.
Warnings: eventual polyamory, some angst, English is not my first language. For the sake of the fic, Maekar has no daughters, only sons.
You had not wanted to wed again.
That was the first thing you told your brother when the raven came from King’s Landing, sealed in red wax and heavy with implication. You had already buried one husband. You had already stood vigil through fever-slicked nights and listened to the rattling breath of a man dying of pox, watched servants burn his sheets, watched maesters shake their heads.
You had borne two sons for him. Strong, loud boys with lungs like trumpets and fists like little stones. You had done your duty. You had wept, then put your household to rights, then taught your eldest how to hold a wooden sword and your youngest how to sit still at table. Widowhood had been quiet, if not peaceful.
Then came the letter: the fourth son of the king required a wife.
You had known the name, of course. All of Westeros knew it.
Maekar Targaryen.
From the tales told at feasts, he was iron in the shape of a man: hard-mouthed, humorless, broad-shouldered, the sort who split shields at tourneys and skulls in war. The son of a king, yet not close enough to the crown to be gentle. A widower, too. Lady Dyanna Dayne had died years ago, leaving him with four sons and a temper that, rumor claimed, had only worsened.
You had no desire to be a balm for a dragon’s grief. But alliances were not woven from desire.
House Redwyne of the Arbor did not refuse such overtures lightly. Your blood carried fleets : two hundred warships, and five times as many merchant carracks and wine cogs besides. The Arbor’s vineyards fattened half the realm. Burgundy grapes on blue banners snapped proudly in sea wind.
And so you went. The first time you saw him, it was not at the wedding feast. It was in the yard.
He had arrived at the Arbor with a small retinue and four boys in tow. The sea air did not soften him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching his sons spar. His hair was pale as bleached driftwood, his face cut from angles rather than curves. His eyes, violet, unmistakable, narrowed in assessment.
A ROSE'S THORNS II - AERION TARGARYEN
SUMMARY - After the events that went down during the tourney, you are beginning to look less and less like a friend to Taliya.
CONTAINS - direct continuation, reader is a tyrell, reader is evil and manipulative, aerion is aerion, read part one
A/N - got carried away, oops. I'm so open to expanding on this reader or this story in general I'm not ready to let go
"You..." Taliya's voice was barely heard, thick with tears that she was desperately trying to hold back. "He asked for yours. You said... You told me you were trying to help me."
