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frost-queen · 1 year

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Stranded (Reader x Din Djarin)

Requested by: anon, Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22 @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco, @subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine

Summary: You are stranded because the Razor Crest broke down. Bickering like an old married couple, tensions rise even when Din is not accepting your help. Frustrated by him denying your help, you leave, confusing him. When you didn't return he goes looking for you, leading to a cute moment as he was worried sick about you.

You sighed loud, resting your knuckles under your jaw. Staring mindlessly in front of you. Nothing to see but dessert sand and rocks. Quirking your eyebrow up, you looked to your left. Grogu silently waddling over to a rock. Narrowing your eyes, you could tell what he was trying to do. On a rock sat an insect unaware of the child coming closer. Grogu snuck up to it nearly to the rock.

His little hand stretched out. You snickered, thinking for sure he wouldn’t catch it. Grogu flicked his hand up as your eyes widened. The insect was floating in the air, legs dangling for any grip. Grogu guided the insect closer to him, widening his mouth. – “Grogu no!” – you shouted out, jumping up. Din bumped his helmet against the Razor Crest from hearing you shout so loud. – “What is it?” – he asked worriedly, coming in sight.

He stared at you standing close to Grogu. Hands on your hips and a dangerously motherly scowl on your face. – “Out! Spit it out!” – you demanded, pointing at the ground. – “Now!” – you called out when he wasn’t listening. Grogu opened his mouth, spitting insect out. The poor creature dropped to the ground, disorientated for a few moments. The insect fluttered with its wings. You squealed loud, ducking all around as it came flying your way. Din sighing loud at the sight of it.

The insect seemed to keep circling near you, to find the proper direction. – “Ieuw, ieuw get away!” – you freaked out, moving around to avoid that it bumped into you. Squealing loud, you dropped to the ground as it finally flew away. – “Maybe you should’ve let the kid eat it?” – Din said from afar, making you lift your head up. – “Why don’t you occupy yourself with repairing the ship.” – you answered with a sarcastic smile.

He sighed deep, turning around. You got up, going after him. Grogu silently following wanting to be close by. You got onto the Razor Crest. Din walking around in search for parts and tools. You watched him for a few seconds. He groaned loud, searching through the parts. Picking one up yet throwing it back as it wasn’t the right part. – “I told you to check the Razor Crest when we left.” – you said, wobbling on your feet, hands behind your back.

Grogu came joining your side, looking curiously up to you. Din grabbing the edge firmly. – “I am well aware of that.” – he answered grumpy. – “If you had checked everything out, we wouldn’t be stranded now.” – you continued to speak. Din tensed his jaw. – “Y/n!” – he called out annoyed. Looking firmly your way. – “I get it!”

He continued to ruffle in the compartment for the right parts. Groaning frustratingly when he couldn’t find it. You took a deep breath, walking up to him. – “What do you need, let me help you.” – you suggested, hand moving into the compartment. – “No!” – he called out, slapping your hand away. – “I don’t need your help! Just leave it to me!” – you rubbed your hand with a sour face. – “Fine!” – you bit back, moving away.

Turning round, you noticed a tool. You went over to it, picking it up. – “I’ll check the…” – you started, words swallowed back in when Din had stormed over, grabbing your wrist roughly. He plucked the tool from your hand. – “I’ll do it.” – he insisted. You sighed loud. You didn’t mind that he could tell how annoyed you were with him. – “I’m just trying to help maybe it will go faster this way so we can finally leave this forsaken dump!” – you outed with frustration.

“I didn’t choose to be here.” – Din answered setting the tool loudly down. – “Neither did I, but it was your ship that decided to malfunction around this dump.” – you replied loudly. Grogu looking from Din to you and back, blinking confusingly. – “Sure! Blame it on me.” – Din said bothered as you could tell clearly in his voice. – “I wasn’t blaming you; I was blaming the ship.” – you made clear that was the case.

“Same thing!” – Din puffed out with a wave of his hand. You rolled with your eyes, walking off. Grogu squeaked loud, ears flattening. Din took a deep breath, setting his hands down. Lowering his head to compose himself from any further outbursts. It wasn’t personal but the emergency landing just wasn’t something he was planning on.

You opened the lid to the lower compartments, wanting to check there if everything was still alright. – “Y/n no!” – Din called out, jogging over. He grabbed you just in time by your elbow, withholding you from letting yourself go deeper into the hole. – “What?” – you called out confused.

Din pulled at your arm as you were forced to crawl back out, feet dangling in the air. – “I told you no.” – he said loud and clear. – “I heard you.” – you answered sitting down the hole to pull your legs out. – “Like I said I want to help.” – you repeated. Din closed the lid. – “Like I said I don’t need your help. Let me do it alone!”

“What will you have me do then?” – you asked desperately. – “I don’t know, just stay out of my way. Go play with the kid or so?” – he suggested with a deep sigh. You looked down to where Grogu was. Having enough of it, you spun around, walking off. Din furrowed his brows confused as to where you were going.

Perhaps you were going to cool off outside. Muttering frustrated, you walked away from the ship. Needing to be away from him. You loved him, but at times like this you didn’t like it when he wouldn’t let you help around. It would be twice as fast if you helped out. Fine, you weren’t a mechanic, but you weren’t a complete idiot to repairing things. If only he explained a few things to you or let you do simple tasks that would’ve been fine.

No, he rather does everything himself. If he had listened to you in the first place, you wouldn’t even be here bickering over a broken down ship. Puffing loud, you weren’t even sure where you were going. You just needed to be away. Maybe by the time you were back, the Razor Crest would be repaired.

Din looked down at Grogu who had come to him. – “She’ll be back.” – he reassured her. Grogu moved his little hand out to the opening. – “No, you should stay here. I could maybe use your help.” – He picked up Grogu, moving further down the Razor Crest with him. Din looked over his shoulder, wondering if you had entered again. Taking a deep breath it wasn’t the case. He was kneeling down.

Grogu lifted up a tool, nearly falling back from the heaviness as Din took it from him. – “She still can’t be mad right?” – he asked Grogu. Grogu moved his shoulders up with a few babbling sounds. Din sighed, unscrewing a few screws. Sighing again, he lowered his tool. – “It is not like she should be mad. True we bickered a bit, but all companions do that, don’t they?” – he looked at Grogu again for an answer.

Grogu flattening his ears. – “You are right.” – Din spoke. – “I should just apologize like any good man would.” – He was about to get up when he remembered something. – “It is not like she shouldn’t apologize. We both took a part in this act. So…so.” – he swayed the tool up and down at Grogu. – “She should apologize as well. It wasn’t all my fault.”

Grogu looked up and down at the tool, mesmerized. Din grunted, looking away. – “It has to be me, right?” – he asked Grogu who wasn’t even following along anymore. Grogu squeaked excited. Din got up, picking Grogu up with him. He set him in the carrier as it followed behind him. – “Y/n?” – he said stepping outside. – “Y/n are you here?” – he turned round the ship in the hopes of encountering you.

Looking both ways, he went fully round without bumping into you. – “Y/n?” – he called out. Louder as the worriedness slightly rose inside of him. He started moving away from the Razor Crest further into the nothingness. – “Y/n where are you?” – he muttered looking carefully around. The carrier following him as he began his search. He kept a steady pace, making sure he had seen everything. After a five minute walk, his worriedness went through the roof. Quickening up his pace, ready to shout out your name in desperation.

If anything had happened to you, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. He searched further coming to a sudden stop. There you were. He started running up to you, panting. – “Oh Din look what I found.” – you said, showing him the berries. He grabbed your wrist firmly as the berries dropped to the ground. – “Hey! Do you know how long it took me to get those!” – you shouted.

Din pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. – “Don’t run off like that!” – he pressed his hands deeper onto your back. – “Aww.” – you teased. – “Did you miss me.” – pouting your lips, you found it a bit funny. He grunted loud, moving you to arms-length. – “I was worried sick! I thought… I thought you… Dank Farrik Y/n I thought you were dead or something!” – he called out with heavy breaths.

Your smile dropped, seeing how sincere he was about it. Even with his helmet on, you could just see how much it affected him. – “I’m sorry.” – you answered, slightly ashamed. – “I had no idea I was gone for that long.” – He exhaled loud, holding his hands against your cheeks. – “I’m sorry. I apologize for all I’ve said.” – he spoke, brushing his thumb along your cheek. You smiled softly. – “I’m sorry too. I let my frustrations get the better of me. I shouldn’t have projected it towards you.” – you told him.

Din’s shoulders untensed as he took a deep breath. You came closer, one hand placed against his helmet as you left a kiss there near his cheek. He embraced you, holding you close to his chest. You looked down feeling something poke against your side. Grogu sitting in the carrier wanted to join the hug. You laughed loud, picking him up. Holding him, you hugged Din once more. Grogu content as he had a big smile on his face.

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beskarandblasters · 11 days

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Stonecatcher

Chapter One: Working for the Knife

Din Djarin x OFC!Athalia (Second Person POV)

Artwork: The Lovers by René Magritte Gif: @cherubispunk Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Series summary: An up-and-coming bounty hunter and a promising arms dealer cross paths on Dantooine. What starts as a business relationship quickly becomes more. How long can you bury your emotions and be a stonecatcher for someone else before you finally snap?

Series warnings: pre season one of The Mandalorian, instant smut but slow burn romantically, Athalia is able-bodied but other than that has no physical description, angst

Chapter summary: An introduction into our main character, Athalia, the people around her, and the world she lives in. And the fateful night she crosses paths with a certain Mandalorian.

Word count: 3.5k

Chapter warnings: sonic = shower, descriptions of nausea, taking medication, drinking, dub con/consent under the influence, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of birth control (implant)

Gas hangs heavy in the air, permeating the small room and suffocating your senses. Your hands are slick with the thick substance as you fill-up the cartridges, getting ready to load them into the blasters. Every so often you stop and look away, blinking and holding back tears from the fumes. It’s painstaking work, often messy and tedious but you suppose it’s better than working in a brothel or even a cantina like your friend Sheva.

But eventually, you need a break, pulling yourself out of your chair and stepping out back for some fresh air. Your house is located on the edge of Casia, a small village on Dantooine. There’s not much here yet but the influx of travelers leads you to believe Casia will be much more than a primitive village one day.

Your house overlooks the rolling hills and grassy knolls. The rainy season just ended which made the brown grass tinged with a shade of lavender. In the distance, there are a few blba trees, branches shaking in the gentle wind along with the blades of grass. The afternoon sun is shining and the air is invigorating, a harsh contrast to the stuffy gas-filled interior of your home. Moments like this where you’re appreciating the little things are few and far between lately. Your business has consumed everything– your thoughts, your time, your social life.

You take one final deep breath, closing your eyes as you do as if the stress will just melt away. If it only were that easy.

“Are you stopping by tonight?”

You startle with a jolt, turning around to find Sheva, standing with a smile and a hand on her hip. She’s wearing her work uniform, stopping by your place on the way to her shift tonight.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she chuckles.

“You’re fine,” you sigh, “But to answer your question, I think so.”

“You think so??”

“What?” you shrug.

“You should get out more often.”

“There’s not much to do in this town to begin with.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Still, there’s plenty more to do here besides sitting in your house all day, huffing blaster fumes.”

“I’m building my business!” you protest.

“Mhm, sure.”

“Hey, once I gain a more steady customer base I can afford to get those gas cartridges pre-filled.”

“I am just waiting for the day,” she says sarcastically.

“I’ll be there tonight, I promise.”

“Holding you to it,” she says, turning and saying goodbye over her shoulder.

Once you head back inside to get ready for the evening you’re immediately sent into a coughing fit. A pounding headache follows soon after. Maybe Sheva was right…

Fresh air spills in through the windows of your front room as you open them one by one, but it’s not enough. The sonic might help. You turn on the water, shedding your clothes as you wait for it to heat up. The steam fills the small room, alleviating your headache just a tad. But as you wash the gas off your hands, you realize there’s one thing that’ll actually do you some good; a trip to the Apothecary. Medication will quell your headache but a conversation with Sulee, the owner, is perhaps the most healing thing on Dantooine. You’ve known her since you were a child and she’s watched you grow up. She’s been there for you through everything– every test you took in school, every breakup, every fight with Sheva. She’s watched you through every stage of your life and somehow she always knows just what to say when you’re feeling lost and in need of guidance.

Once you’re out of the sonic you dry off and look over your outfit choices for tonight, thumbing through your closet for the perfect thing to wear. Nights out are scarce lately now that you’re so dedicated to the business and it feels like you have endless options to choose from, all outfits from your younger, wilder days. But then you finally settle on one of your old favorites– a simple black dress with matching boots before locking up and heading to the apothecary.

It’s golden hour now and the village is cast in a hazy red glow. Now’s the time when people start pouring into the cantina because there’s nothing else to do. It’ll be a miracle if you get a seat at the bar or even talk to Sheva throughout her shift. She’ll just push you to try and meet someone and you fight back, telling her there’s no one to meet here, that this town is too small for dating. And then you’ll drink too much, filling up on revnog before going back to your fume-filled house, that’ll only contribute to the killer hangover you’ll have the next day. Sounds like a blast.

The Apothecary is located in the center of the village, a modest-looking building decked out in the same earth tones that match Dantooine. Spring is coming to an end but the flowers planted out front are thriving, blooming in a lavender color similar to the blades of grass. Sulee takes pride in keeping the outside of her building presentable, making sure the weeds are pulled and the flowers are cared for. But in her old age, it’s hard for her to get down on the ground by herself, finding herself stuck until someone walks by to help her up. You try to help her when you can but it’s been getting more and more difficult for you to help when the business has occupied all of your time. It makes you feel guilty, flaking out on someone who’s been there for you your whole life. You try not to think about it that much, only letting the guilt eat away at you at night when you’re alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling and telling yourself you can do better, you can be better.

Now’s not the time for guilt.

The Apothecary smells heavenly when you step inside but it’s also impossibly warm. Spring is transitioning into summer and there’s no need for the wood-burning stove to be on. But she’s old so she gets a pass, even though you can feel the sweat already building up on your back.

“You look sick, Athalia,” she says, not even looking up from the pot she’s stirring on the stove.

“I am not!” you say defensively, just as your headache pangs again.

“You don’t go outside anymore,” she sighs, looking up at you from her stool, “You know the sun is good for you, right?”

“You sound like Sheva. You two conspiring against me or something?”

“Just looking out for your best interest,” she shrugs, “Do you need anything?”

“I just have a headache.”

“Knew you looked sick,” she tuts, “Let me get you a pill.”

She goes to rise from her stool but you stop her, helping her sit back down.

“I’ll get it. Just tell me where.”

“Top shelf to the right,” she says, pointing to the shelf behind the counter.

You head behind the counter, glancing at the notepad open on a page with a to-do list on it. A quick glance at Sulee lets you know that her back is towards you still, giving you a moment to snoop. You look over the page, focusing less on the contents of the list and more on the state of her handwriting. It’s shaky and barely legible. You’re reminded again of her declining health and how absent you’ve been lately.

“Did you find it?” she asks, still facing the stove.

“Yup!” you lie, spinning around and scanning the top shelf.

You find the bottle she was talking about, downing a couple of pills before setting it back on the shelf.

“Have fun tonight,” she says, looking up at you as you walk to the door.

“I didn’t even tell you where I was going.”

“The cantina. Where else would you be going?”

“You’re right.”

“There’s nothing else to do in this town,” you both say simultaneously. You share a laugh and start to feel a bit better for once.

“See you later!” you call over your shoulder before leaving the Apothecary.

The cantina is on the other side of Casia, on the side of the village where the river sits. It’s sort of an unfortunate place for the cantina to be considering that many travelers will drunkenly stumble and fall into the river. Luckily for Casia, charging travelers rescue fees is one of the village’s largest sources of profit.

The cantina is just about as busy as you thought it would be. Many of the townspeople are packed into booths lining the outer edge of the room. But there are also a few people you don’t recognize, mainly humans but also a few other species such as a Trandoshan, three Twi’leks, and a Sullustan. The free-standing tables are full but luckily there are two seats left at the bar.

Perfect. You can stay close to Sheva like you had hoped to, enjoy a few rounds of revnog, and turn in early.

You shuffle past the sweaty bodies, the smell of smoke hanging in the air. Being here isn’t too far off from being home, given the smell. The only different thing is the noise. There’s an uncomfortable stillness in your house that’s present all the time.

Sheva spots you at the opposite end of the bar from where she’s at. She makes eye contact with you and stops talking to the customer she’s standing in front of, much to his dismay.

“What?!” she says, raising her hands in a faux defensiveness, “I’ll be here all night. Don’t get all clingy on me.”

She turns and grabs a glass, pouring your first drink for the night. She slides it down the countertop to you, mouthing the words “help me” and gesturing to her overbearing customer.

You take the glass and shrug, shooting her a smirk before taking a sip. Looks like you’re on your own until this schmuck decides to leave.

It takes another three rounds for this guy to leave. And thank the Maker he did because he was occupying all of Sheva’s time. She finally makes her way to you, sighing and slumping against the bar.

“New boyfriend?” you tease.

“Don’t start.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Tatooine. Don’t know what he’s doing here but to each their own.”

“Wow. Left one shit-hole and came to another one.”

“What a sad life.”

“Hey now. He traveled all this way to see you! Don’t be rude.”

She groans again while you erupt into a fit of laughter.

“Hey, sweetheart! I need another round of Spotchka,” a man three seats down from you calls out.

“Duty calls,” she says, standing up straight and putting on her best customer service smile.

“Sweetheart? Is that the best you can do?” she pretend-jokes, grabbing a glass for him.

You nurse the rest of your drink, getting ready to wind down for the evening. It’s a shame you didn’t get to see much of her tonight but it’s the weekend. At least you got to spend time with Sulee, even if it was brief.

Just when you’re setting your credits down on the bar, you sense a presence beside you. You turn your head and startle a bit. It’s a Mandalorian. You’ve only seen less than a handful of them in your lifetime. His helmet is silver but the rest of his armor doesn’t match. Instead, every piece of armor is a different earth tone, peppered with scratches from cycles of wear and tear. His gloved hands rest on his belt and his cape is black, also showing signs of wear.

“...Can I help you?” you ask, starting to feel the revnog. Your face feels hot as you talk to him. There’s something attractive about him even though you can’t see his face.

“I’m just passing through town and I’m wondering where’s the best place to purchase a part for my rifle.”

You don’t care if you’re slightly drunk. You’re not going to miss an opportunity to make a sale.

“What are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

You half expect him to chastise you, a woman offering to help a big scary man with his rifle. But he doesn’t.

“I’m looking for a scope for my Amban Rifle.”

“I’ve got plenty of those,” you say, standing up from your stool, “Follow me.”

You lead him out of the cantina, stumbling a bit as you walk. His hand rests on the small of your back and butterflies flutter in your stomach.

“You alright?” he asks behind you.

“Mhm,” you call out, taking a deep breath of the cool nighttime air as you step out onto the street.

Silently, you walk side by side to your house. But deep down you’re excited at the prospect of a sale and potentially a new recurring customer. Until you remember he’s not from around here.

He follows you inside and your nose is still met with the smell of gas. You hope that he doesn’t smell it. Maybe he can’t with his helmet.

“How much are you charging for it?” he asks.

There’s that hurdle. The price.

You hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. It’s your first scope sale.

“Twenty credits?”

“...That’s it?”

Kriff, that was probably too low. But you can’t go back on your price now.

“...Yup,” you say, closing the door.

“I’ll take it.”

“Great. Can I see the rifle?”

He pulls it off of his back and hands it to you. You take it in your hands and look at the scope he has attached to it currently, checking for the size he needs. The glass of the lens is cracked.

“How’d you manage this?”

“Broke it during a scuffle.”

You look up from the rifle and raise your eyebrow, silently wanting more information. He gives it to you.

“Bounty gave me a hard time.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?”

“Mhm.”

You return your gaze to the rifle, running your fingers down the barrel. It’s… filthy.

“When’s the last time you cleaned this?”

“Uhh.”

“Don’t worry. I got it.”

You turn towards your cabinet behind you and open the door, searching for oil and a pad. Meticulously, you clean his rifle, starting at the barrel and working your way down. There’s an uncomfortable silence looming over you two as he just watches you clean his rifle. You notice he’s shifting between both feet, almost like he’s nervous. His hands clench and unclench at his sides and that’s when you spot what’s making him fidget so much; the bulge in his flight suit.

This man is getting hard watching you clean his rifle. Maker, you’re going to have fun with this.

Once you’re done you set it on your table, getting ready to search for the right size scope. Turning and bending over a box in the corner of your front room, you rifle through the jumbled mess. Bending over while wearing a dress was intentional but not being able to find the scope was not. And now you fear that you look like an idiot, an idiot who’s barely cut out to run her own business.

“Do you need help?” he deadpans.

“Uhh…”

You hear him walk closer towards you just as you’re trying to lift the box from the floor. And before you know it his crotch collides with your ass. You stifle a giggle and he sighs. Kriff, that was inappropriate and you normally wouldn’t laugh. But in your drunken stupor, you thought it was funny.

“Do you have it or not?”

“What if I don’t?”

He lets out another exasperated sigh.

“Are you just gonna let this little trip go fruitless?” you press, wondering if he’ll catch your drift.

“No,” he practically growls, his hand cupping your ass, “I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not taking anything if I’m willingly giving it to you,” you chuckle, backing into him further.

He grabs you by your hips, dragging you over to the table where you do your work. He shoves the rifle aside and you hop up on the table, lying back and hiking up your skirt, spreading your legs for him.

“So eager,” he teases but in a way that actually feels mean. It doesn’t hurt, though.

Instead, you shoot back, “Says the one who got hard watching me clean his rifle.” He huffs as his hand palms your inner thigh and you press further, “What’s the matter, Mando? Got all hot and bothered watching a woman handle your blaster?”

He leans forward, bringing his helmet above your face. You stare into the visor, lips curled into a smirk.

“Shut up,” he says, most likely through gritted teeth.

“Or else what?” you counter.

“Or I’ll make you.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” you say, rolling your eyes.

He jerks his groin into you, bulge pressing against your underwear-clad cunt. You sit up and sigh, doing the work for him and tugging off your underwear. You toss it on the floor and lie back down, telling him, “If you’re going to have your way with me then just do it already.”

You spit in your hand and reach between your legs, getting yourself nice and slick for him. He pulls his cock out of his flight suit and you can’t help but want a look. You prop yourself up on your elbows, inching upright to sneak a peek. It’s as big as you thought but that was a given considering the saunter in his step. But it’s also thick and uncut. Seeing the head of his cock makes you wonder if the shade matches his lips. It doesn’t matter, though. Something about not seeing his face makes this even hotter.

He takes his cock in his hand and strokes it a few times, spreading the pre-cum that’s built up at the tip down his shaft. He hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you into him, thrusting his cock inside you.

Your breath hitches at the sudden girth inside you, his cock buried down to the hilt.

“You can take it,” he says.

“I-I know,” you breathe out, still getting adjusted to his size. You’re not about to let him get a rise out of you, even now when he’s balls deep in you.

His hands move to your waist, holding you steady as he draws his hips back and thrusts into you again. With each one you get more accustomed to him, your pleasure builds and core muscles grow tense. But he’s determined to make a mess of you. He brings his hand by your cunt, thumb rubbing your clit as he pounds into you.

Your moans grow higher in pitch and your front room is filled with the lewd, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. With the noise you remember that you opened all the windows before you left for the cantina tonight, meaning that anyone walking by can hear Mando railing you.

Your back arches and your orgasm spills over the edge. Stars dance in your vision as he fucks you through your release, thumb still rubbing your clit.

“That’s it. Cum on my cock,” he says, keeping the same pace.

You’re too blissed out to come up with a witty response. Your walls clench his cock and the sensation triggers his own orgasm. His cum spills inside you and you panic for a second at the accidental creampie until you remember you have an implant. It’s just finally useful for once.

He pulls out of you when he’s done coming and you sit upright on the table, avoiding eye contact with each other.

He puts his cock back in his flight suit and after a beat of silence you say, “You still want the scope, right?”

“I do.”

You slide off the table and smooth down your skirt, walking over to the box of parts and crouching down. You find the scope and stand up, holding it out in front of you.

“Told you I had it.”

He sighs again as you attach it to his rifle. He reaches into his pocket, grabbing a handful of credits, and placing them in your hand.

“Here’s twenty-five credits. Keep the change.”

“Thanks, Mando,” you say, handing off the rifle.

He nods with a tip of his helmet and gets ready to leave, walking to the door and giving you a final look before disappearing into the night.

That was… hot. And certainly not how your business transactions normally go. It’s a shame he’s not from around here, though.

You close your windows, deciding that you gave your neighbors enough of a show tonight, and head to bed. You’re not one for one-night stands, but for an experience like that… you’d make an exception any day of the week.

End note: Today’s the one year anniversary of my first fic! Thank you to @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @clawdee for letting me talk out this series this y’all + being my beta readers 🤍🤍

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Tag list: @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @freelancearsonist @djarins-cyare @survivingandenduring @littlegrungegirlaf @pamasaur @chiyo13 @pedrostories @schnarfer @burntheedges

#stonecatcher #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin x reader

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ledgersmountain · 1 year

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i will never forget how the mandalorian fandom treated omera in 2019 & 2020, saying that she tried to take mando's helmet off by force when he gave her consent to touch it 😭

i hope to see her this season or the next season to come, she only appeared in one episode and was never mentioned again, not even sorgan 💔

for sure there is more to explore between their relationship and i hope we get more content about them 🛐

the gifs are not mine, credit to the creators! (i love how mando makes his body a shield ❤️‍🩹)

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin x omera #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #star wars x reader #din djarin x oc #the mandalorian x original character #din x omera #omera #sorgan

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justagalwhowrites · 8 months

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Buycika

Buycika - Cradle

You and the Mandalorian spend time with your clan. A Beskar Doll drabble set after the main story, shared in honor of 1,000 followers. Beskar Doll can be found in its entirety here.

Pairing: The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Female Reader (Doll from Beskar Doll)

Warnings: Very mild smut. Fluff fluff fluff. Din Djarin being a dad so protect your ovaries! No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only

Length: 1.1K

“Your children have been in rare form.”

You could almost see your husband smile below his helmet, carcass slung over his shoulder as he walked back toward the Razor Crest from the forest. His beskar shined, glinting in the sunlight.

“Really?” He asked, dropping the animal to the grass.

“Really,” you smiled a little as he removed his helmet, tucking it below his arm. His hand went to your cheek, fingers sliding into your hair as he tilted your head to kiss you, lips soft and warm. “Do you know how hard it is to keep something out of reach of two Jedi? The answer is very. I’m going to kill Karga for telling them he gave us cookies for them, I swear…”

The two of you turned to look at your children playing in the grass. You were certain it was a game that Grogu had invented, a small rodent that he’d found hovering between him and his sister, floating back and forth between the two, almost like they were throwing a ball in slow motion. Aidla’s nose was scrunched in concentration but she was smiling, her long, dark curls - just like her father’s - hanging halfway down her back. She hadn’t wanted to sit still enough for you to braid her hair today and you hadn’t bothered to fight her on it. You’d have to spend a fair bit of time pulling the grass and leaves from it later but you didn’t mind.

“Aidla is getting to be big enough to come along with me for these kinds of hunts,” Din said. “I’ll bring her next time. She’s got a good eye…”

“Buir!” Aidla noticed Din had returned and scrambled to her feet, running for her father, her small arms outstretched. “Can I?”

“Not sure you deserve it, giving your mother trouble while I was gone,” he frowned a little but put his helmet on her small head all the same. She shrieked with glee and he scooped her into his arms. “Mandalorian girls are respectful of their parents…”

“We were just practicing!” She needed both hands to lift the helmet enough to expose her pout. “Mama said we have to practice…”

“I never said you had to practice by trying to get at things you know you’re not supposed to be into darling girl,” you said.

“But Aunt Sosha lets me practice with cookies!”

“Aunt Sosha would let you get away with murder,” you rolled your eyes. “You don’t get to set the bar by what Aunt Sosha lets you do…”

There was a small squeak and you and Din both looked to Grogu, the leg of the creature he and Aidla had been playing with hanging out of his mouth, his eyes wide and ears slightly drooped. You sighed and went to pick him up, carrying him to his father and sister as he swallowed the rest of the creature.

“One of these days you’re going to make yourself sick doing that,” you said, wiping a tuft of fur away from the corner of his mouth. He looked at his sister who let the helmet fall back over her face.

“He says no he’s not, Mama,” you could hear the smile in her voice. “He says it’s good!”

“I’m sure he does,” you smiled a little, shaking your head.

You watched your children play in the grass on the uncharted moon you and Din had first visited together years before. You’d returned here regularly since, never seeing a sign of another person in all your trips. It was the ideal place to bring your children after a round of hunting and visiting family, the two of them always restless after weeks of closely following the rules laid out for them by their bounty hunter parents.

This time, you had four bounties sitting in the ship in carbonite, hunts getting easier now that Aidla was big enough to help. She loved watching for quarries through binocs, loved handing you and Din weapons or binders. She even loved translating things, picking up languages just as fast as you had when you were a girl. Aidla found the whole process fascinating, happy to just be a part of what her parents did for work. Grogu was still happy to play with whatever trinket you’d supply him, he and Aidla often communicating silently through the force both when you were on the job and when you weren’t.

But as happy as they both were to join you and Din, they were even happier to have a chance to run and play and be children. It was something you and your husband could both appreciate, even more so now that you were parents. They were having the childhoods both of you had missed, having a chance to grow into life instead of being thrown into it by war.

That night, once your children were asleep, the Mandalorian took you on top of the Razor Crest. You undressed each other slowly and he held your hips as you straddled him, sinking onto his hard length as the galaxy sparkled overhead. You rode him until you came around him and he moved you to be below him, pressing deep inside you, his large hands ranging over your bared skin as you looked into his eyes, eyes that were reserved for you and your children alone. He moaned as he filled you, his mouth against your neck, his orgasm making you come again.

Din held you close after, the two of you looking at each other and the stars overhead, breathing in night air and each other’s skin.

“Do you ever worry that they won’t survive out there?” You asked quietly, your body against Din’s, your leg hitched over his hip as his hand skimmed the outline of you. “That we’re failing them because we’re not training them the way we were?”

“No, Cyare,” he said gently, kissing your forehead, then down the bridge of your nose before pressing a kiss to your lips. “I don’t.”

“How?” You frowned. “I know the galaxy is different now but…”

His hand left your side and found your cheek, tilting your chin gently so you were looking him in the eye.

“We are raising warriors,” he said, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “They are strong and they are capable. But they are also tenderhearted and soft and that is not a weakness, Cyare, that is, perhaps, their greatest strength. They’ll recognize love better than we did when they find it, and they will protect it well. We’re giving them the best of us.”

You smiled a little, reaching for his face and holding your riduur gently in your hand.

“You’re right,” you said. “The galaxy doesn’t stand a chance.”

#fanfic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x you

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amiedala · 3 months

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SOMETHING HOLY

CHAPTER 6: Pulse

WARNINGS: angst, explicit content

SUMMARY: “If you’re trying to get me to hurt you,” Din grits out, “you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

Her heartbeat, her pulse—both skyrocket. “Why would I want you to hurt me?” But Nova does. She wants to be annihilated by her Mandalorian. She wants pain from him, pain that drowns out the ghosts inside of her, deep enough that she could rise from the depths anointed. Reborn. Renewed. She needs something holy to cling to, to carve her true self out of.

“You need to come back to me.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY SOMETHING HOLY SATURDAY!!! me posting the next chapter within a two week span? WILD! i hope you love this one... it was equally fun and painful to write <3

If you're new here, Something More & Something Deeper are the first installments in this series, available on here & ao3!

It’s not morning. It’s never morning. Not out here, in the crush of space.

They are in a windowless room. They are in transit, in limbo.

Din’s going stir-crazy. He watches Novalise, steady, eternal. He doesn’t need the mask, not in here, not at all, really, not anymore—the woman sleeping by his side is something so much holier than his Creed. But his fingers are still clutched around it. He’s not sure if that still qualifies as religion. If he can pray to the helmet like he used to. If he can truly pray at all.

When Din does pray, it’s not to the Maker. It’s not a vow to the Mandalorian Creed. It’s to the stars around him, above him, the ones that surround him now, that Novalise’s head will be safely returned to her body. That she won’t slip away. Not into the ether. Not into the pinpricks of light she’s so devoted to. She shines in the dark, his Nova. His locus, his temple, his fixed luminous point.

He wants to believe in her the way she does in goodness—steadfastly. Without question. But right now, she’s… altered. Made darker. Flickering around the edges.

He doesn’t think anyone else has noticed. Wedge probably would’ve, at this point, if he were here. He knew Nova before she was Nova at all, and there’s an inextricable thread that loops them together, that is woven as tight as family. Bo-Katan probably knows, from thousands and thousands of miles away, that something is off. Her sharp eyes are always trained on Nova. Her bloodhound nose picks up signals almost immediately. And Grogu, sweet, eternal Grogu—with his father’s steadiness, with his mother’s heart—touches those little fingers to Nova’s collarbone and can feel it in words that none of them can name.

Din takes stock of all of this. The room is still pitch-dark. He can see Nova’s outline, shimmering. He’s not sure if he actually can, or if he’s just memorized her shape, but the semantics don’t matter. She’s sound asleep, a tiny whistling noise coming from her nose. And his heart, how it aches in his chest.

“Nova’s different,” he imagines himself saying. He can’t figure out who. He needs someone like her to take a look, inspect her, interrogate her in a way he can’t. He doesn’t know what the warning signs look like for a Jedi—when they’ve tipped over into another world entirely. But that’s the problem, and that’s why Din can’t ever picture who he’s saying those damning, strange words to—Nova’s always lived in a different world than he has. She’s made of more—of starlight and shine and magic, magic he has never touched, a kind of divinity he used to thrash for, fight for, kill for, and yet—

She’s haunted. But more than that, she’s taken something out of the dark and transfigured it, transfixed it. She’s made it her own.

And yet, there’s nothing in this galaxy or the next that could keep him from this kind of holiness. Din Djarin has spent this lifetime bringing people to their knees. Cutting off heads of hydras, slashing through blood and flesh and bone, and he’d beg for forgiveness over and over and over and over if it meant he could worship at the altar of Novalise Andromeda Maluev Djarin—savior of worlds, star in the sky, and the holiest thing he’s ever held in his filthy fucking hands.

There’s something off about her. Something different.

And yet.

Din presses his hand into his tired eyes. He’s weary. Beaten-down. He wants to shake something, to take it in his hands and make meaning out of it. To grab the thing haunting Nova by the throat and force it out of her. To cut it down to size, into piecemeal. But whatever it is inside of her, and he doesn’t know if this ghost that’s chasing her around is a Jedi thing, or a Nova thing, and he cannot hurt her or he will blame himself forever.

A tiny, terrible part of him whispers: Ezra would be able to fix it. The earlier version of that sentence is Luke would be able to fix it, but Din knows Luke, trusts him, knows what he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in flamboyance and kindness in equal measure. Luke Skywalker, according to Nova, according to everyone else in these circles—well, he’s kind of a big deal. Luke is to the galaxy publicly what Nova is to Din privately, and he knows enough about the man to trust him with his kid’s training and his wife’s heart.

But Ezra Bridger—Din doesn’t know him. Nothing past visions and reverence; mystery and intrigue. He is a man who exists but doesn’t, and he lives in Nova’s head. And as much as Din knows Ezra is the key to fixing so many things, that he’s good, selfishly, irretrievably, he is jealous. It festers inside of him like rusted steel. Like an open wound. He is not proud of it, this enormous, awful feeling, but he cannot tamp it down.

Din wants to be the only man who lives in Nova’s head. And he is certainly not good. Not pure. Not made out of the light. He is a bullet made of beskar, a steel-sharpened blade. It festers inside of him, an open wound. He wants to be good, to be worthy.

To be deserving of the prayers that leak out of his covered mouth.

And yet, this impossible quest is now close to home, to something Nova considers holy—the remainder of the Rebel Alliance, her legacy, her roots, and he cannot let this feeling rear its ugly head. Can’t let it out of the cell he keeps it in. He is both jailer and prisoner, and it haunts him.

Everyone on the Ghost is carrying their own ghosts. And he’s here again, at the intersection of ghosts and religion, of haunting and the Creed. And Novalise, in the middle of it all, in the middle of everything.

Circles. Din’s thinking in circles.

He needs to get off this fucking ship.

Nova inhales—sharply—once, twice, and then she jackknifes upwards, waking up like she’s fighting a war. One she’s losing.

Din is on her in a heartbeat.

“Did I wake you?”

In the dark, Din shakes his head. Nova can feel it. She could even without any part of their bodies overlapping, even though they are right now, entangled like roots. She moves in closer, trying to shake the dreams from her head. To come back down to earth. Pressing her hand to the metal above her head, reassuring herself she’s safe, she’s okay, she’s herself—

“What?”

That word—it’s so soft. Nova closes her eyes, pressing the heel of her hand to her heart like that can manually stop the racing. She wills it to quiet, for everything to sink back down to normal, but panic is still leaking from her like a sieve, running like adrenaline through her veins. “What?” she repeats back at Din, deflecting.

“What were you dreaming about?”

Nova shifts in the vantablack. “That’s always the question, isn’t it.”

A beat. “Novalise.” His voice is delicate, knowing.

It makes her want to kiss him on the mouth and shove him away in equal measure. It shocks her, the violence of that—the intensity. In the quiet secrecy of their hideaway, she digs her fingernails into her palm, enough to draw blood, to gore the rest of the darkness out. Nova takes a steadying, stuttered breath.

“Teeth,” she whispers. “So many teeth.”

Din is quiet. “Is that a metaphor?”

Nova manages a mirthless, tired smile, even though he can’t see her. “Most nights, I hope it is. This one? I don’t think so.”

“Nova,” he says, so quiet.

Nova sighs, squeezing her eyes shut tight. “It comes in flashes.”

“The teeth?”

The sickening thrash of all of it. That’s her answer. But Nova doesn’t know how to vocalize that—that she, child of the light, has been bathed in darkness, swaddled in it. It’s started to become familiar, and she hates it, but she is so tired of fighting an upward battle.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, unceremoniously, praying that’ll be the end of it. She shifts closer to him, burying her nose in Din’s neck. He smells like metal and cinnamon, like always, but there’s something else on his skin—mint, maybe? It smells foreign, like the interior of this ship, and decidedly not the Crest, and not Kicker, and that makes her heart ache even worse.

Din’s quiet. Pondering. Nova wrestles with wanting to tell him everything—Sparmau leaking back into her dreams like poison; Thrawn’s deep, unsettling voice. The ones where she’s fighting the unnamed villains that slice through her head. And the worst ones, the ones that feel so dangerous and raw that it makes her want to claw her eyes out—where she hurts Din. Where she hurts Grogu. Where Nova is not Novalise at all.

“I can’t… speak it aloud,” she whispers slowly, so quietly it’s just a breath. “I can’t even put words to it. It’s just… darkness.” It’s both the truth, and not, and obfuscating it makes Nova feel sick, but she puts a hand over her stomach and presses hard, forcing herself to swallow it down. “I don’t know what to do, Din.”

Seven small words; the weight of the world. They settle around Din and Nova’s entwined bodies, settling in like snow. Lethal and cold and dangerous, blanketing them in it.

Din’s quiet. Observant. Nova can sense it, the feeling of his brown eyes on the side of her face, tracing it from memory. She swallows, trying to keep the tears at bay. She feels—off-kilter. Sideways. Like the version of herself she used to be able to wear like a shield—unbreakable, indomitable Novalise, rebel girl and starchild—was left behind on Mandalore. Like she’s wearing the version of that Nova’s skin, but the second she embarked on this journey, she left her behind. Like she’s possessing herself.

And Nova can’t undo it. She feels wrong.

“You do what you’ve always done,” Din says, finally, and the words that she used to live and die by feel like a knife now. “You fight back.”

“I am,” Nova manages, heavily, angrily, “so tired of fighting.”

Din doesn’t speak, but she can feel his soft exhale in the dark. He moves closer, always closer. Something in Nova flares. She can’t tell if it’s want or anger, and the blurring of that line terrifies her.

“I need you,” Nova whispers, needing the words to be true. She reaches for Din, tracing down the line of his torso, reaching to cup him between his legs.

A hand shoots out to stop her. Lightning-quick. His grip is unyielding. It cuts so deep. Nova sucks in a wounded gasp. “No,” Din says, and there’s no warmth to it at all. “You don’t.”

Nova recoils, blinking back sudden tears. “Din—?”

“You are using this,” he whispers, stroking a thumb over her cheekbone, “me, as a bandage for what you’re feeling. I want you in every way but this, cyar’ika. Something is wrong, and you cannot use me to drown out that feeling. It won’t make it go away.”

Nova feels a knife somewhere through her heart. It surges into her, white-hot panic. “Please—”

“Novalise.” Her name feels distant, like it’s echoing from faraway, a place that isn’t this ship, a place that maybe isn’t even out in space at all. “Stop.”

She sucks in a breath, shattered. “Din,” Nova breathes, ragged, heartbeat thumping off something wild. “Please touch me—”

“No.”

She pulls away from him. Violently. Nova digs her nails back into her bloodied palm, shaking when she realizes this is real, very much not a nightmare, and the glitter and snap of the jaws of darkness begin crooning at her. She is wrong. Something is definitely, decidedly wrong, and she is teetering on the edge of losing it, and she is exhausted, bone-weary, and there’s flames licking down her throat, between her legs, and she wants to be voracious, to feed, to drown everything else out with the thrush of Din inside of her—

Something snaps. From deep inside of her. A low, keening noise, the one she was making—it dissipates, suddenly. Nova feels—strange. She stands up, stick-straight, sweaty, freezing.

“Novalise.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. There’s a low scratching sound, coming from inside of her, gnawing.

“Nova, you need to tell me what was in your dream.”

She doesn’t move. She feels feverish, but this is a different kind of fever than the one she felt when she was slick with need, wanton, heavy. Nova feels—unhinged.

“Me.”

But her tongue—her tongue is not her own. The snarl that rips out of it is something else. Nova can feel it, the taste of it, and it’s wrong and bloodied and so awful that she puts her palm to her hand and screams into it.

Din is on her in a second. “Baby—?”

That word—it is not theirs. Not without danger preceding it. Nova thrashes, once, twice—she is undone and desecrated. Her body is not her own, it is a channel, a conduit, and the Not-Nova, the ones from all of her darkest dreams—she is slithering around inside of her, whispering, crooning, seductive, and Nova cannot grab herself, hold the evil at bay. Bring herself back into the light.

Din surges forward, catching her body, holding her, cradling her.

“Novalise.”

She surges back into her body like a crescendo. A wave. An electric thrum exploding. Nova shudders, and Din flips the lights on, and she looks at him in confusion, because they were not on this ship, her soul was on a different plane, like she was caught between worlds, and Din’s holding her in his arms, his bare hands. He is not a Mandalorian, not protected from her in beskar and bullets, not behind a shield. He is a man, and, Nova realizes, sweat-slick and freezing, he is breakable.

He’s looking at her like she’s—a ghost.

Nova can feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She’s thankful for them, this proof that she is herself. She is emotional and undone, yes, but she’s not unhinged. She does not belong to the darkness. Din wipes the pad of his thumb across her mouth and it comes back bloody.

“What,” he repeats slowly, softly, so gently it aches, “happened in your nightmare?”

“I wasn’t myself,” Nova whispers, “and when I woke up, it stayed.”

Din blinks. Fear is so foreign in his eyes. She looks up at him, half-lidded, through wet lashes.

“I don’t know what to do,” she repeats.

This time, he doesn’t tell her to fight. He doesn’t tell her anything. He just stares, and Nova can tell how scared he is. Unshakable, unbreakable Din Djarin—she’s terrified that she will become his undoing.

“Nova,” he whispers.

Something else snaps. Thunders. Strikes like lightning. She stands up, stick-straight—like she’s just been blinked back into reality. “What just happened?”

His eyes, barely recognizable in the dark, widen at her. “You woke up screaming. I asked what you dreamed about. Then you… Leaped out of bed. Onto the floor.”

Nova stares. “What happened in between?”

He goes to reach for her, and Nova flinches. Flinches. Not because she doesn’t trust Din’s hands on her—because it’s the only thing she trusts right now, the only thing that’ll keep her anchored. “I didn’t—I didn’t touch you?” Something flares low in her stomach. She thinks, this time, that it’s danger beckoning.

Din rears back like he’s been slapped. Nova can’t tell if it’s from her flinch—so loud, so bright, even in the darkness—or if it’s from her words.

“You woke up,” he whispers, “and got out of the bed like it was made of fire.”

Nova swallows. She can’t get a grip on reality. It’s seismic, kaleidoscopic—she can’t make out what’s real and what isn’t, and she clenches her fingers harder down on her hand. “What happened in between?” She’s repeating herself. She’s not making sense.

“You told me you dreamed of teeth. That you were scared of yourself. And then you leapt out of bed, away from me.” His voice is low, strained with something. Anger, Nova realizes, anger, and probably confusion, but he’s schooling his tone to be as neutral as possible.

“Away,” she repeats, “from you.”

Din nods. She can’t see much, but if she could, Nova would be watching his jaw clench, the muscle jumping as Din grits his teeth together.

“And you’re mad at me for that?” She can feel the sick swell of anger taking over her own body, and Nova tries to fight it, shut it out, but it feels—good. Alive. More alive than she’s felt in weeks. Since defeating Sparmau. No—since Din chased her down like prey on Naator. “You’re mad?” Her voice is breathy, low.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.” Nova’s hand reaches out, flicking on the dim light. Din is silhouetted by the bulb behind him, and his face is contorted—with anger, maybe, but also fear. She can smell it on him. She wants to slam herself into him, to have it burn her down, to drown out all of the noise. But she doesn’t move. She just watches him. “I don’t think,” Nova whispers, even-keeled, all ice, “this counts as running from you.”

It’s not fair. That word carries such a weight. She wants to take it back the second she says it. Nova swallows, blinking, that anger de-crescendoing out of her faster than it spreads. She feels sick.

“Din—”

“You want to play it like that?”

“No.” Nova takes a step backward, clenching her nails back into her palm, feeling fresh blood whisper across the new cuts. “No, I don’t want to play at all. I’m sorry—”

“I followed you into the darkness,” Din says, and there’s nothing there, no emotion, and somehow that sluices through her even deeper. The blade of his words is so sharp. “You cannot go anywhere I couldn’t find you. That place doesn’t exist.”

But it does, that monstrous, traitor inside of her whispers, because I belong to something more, and there are places I go that Din cannot follow.

“Din—”

“If you’re trying to get me to hurt you,” Din grits out, “you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

“You need to come back to me.”

She blinks. That cuts, but not with sweet silver blades. With something serrated. Dulled. She steps back as Din steps forward.

“I haven’t gone anywhere—”

“We both know,” Din whispers, “that’s not the truth.”

“Something,” Nova says, “is wrong with me.”

It’s like those words wake him right up—startled out of a dream. Not the one of her sick reflection in the mirror—something that’s held Din equally as captive.

“Nova—”

But her name and haunted look in Din’s eyes is interrupted by three sharp knocks at their door.

The door unlatches with a cold hiss. Hera stares at both of them. Din can feel her gaze hanging heavy on Nova, her sweat-slicked skin, her bloodied lips, her hair raging like a wildfire around her face. She is barely clothed and he is helmeted, half-armored, and he knows what this looks like, and it makes him feel sick.

But Hera just blinks once, twice, then rights herself. She carries herself like both a mother and a soldier. It reminds Din so much of Nova. “I’m sorry,” she says, both crisp and genuine. “I didn’t want to wake you, but we have a problem.”

Din squares his shoulder. Nova wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. She snaps back into herself—Mand’alor, Jedi, Rebel, all in equal measure. Now that it’s back, written into the code of her DNA, it makes it even more obvious that the Nova he was just interacting with was… wrong.

“What?”

Hera swallows, digging her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket. “You need to come to the cockpit.” They file after her, Din feeling naked and undone without the rest of his armor. He watches Nova as she follows Hera up to the front of the Ghost. She plucks Grogu—asleep—off the copilot’s chair and settles down into it, eyebrows knitted down the middle.

“Before I play this,” Hera says, “I need you to know that I trust Wedge Antilles with my life at this point.”

Nova recoils. Din can feel his heart sink.

“Me too,” she offers up. Din nods once. Sharply, in assent.

“Great,” Hera says, “but I am also not listening to the warning he explicitly gave me. So.” A pause. She’s watching Nova closely. “And if you want to heed it, you are allowed to. I will walk into this fire alone. I would prefer not to, but I will.”

Din’s frustrated. But Nova—Nova offers Hera a tiny smile, a spark of something he hasn’t seen in days, and he cocks his head to the side, ready to follow her into the flames. All over again. “I,” Nova says, gently, evenly, “have explicitly ignored many warnings Wedge Antilles has given me for the sake of doing something stupid yet necessary. And the last thing I am going to let you do,” she continues, leaning forward to clutch Hera’s hand, which Din just now clocks as trembling, “is jump into that stupid yet necessary thing alone.” She pauses, squeezing down. “What happened, Hera?”

Hera inhales, exhales. It’s shaky. Din watches her, carefully, through the silent safety of the visor. She leans forward, pressing a button on the screen. Din hears what Bo-Katan and Wedge are saying. He understands the situation—Thrawn’s massive Star Destroyer hanging over Bespin and Hoth like a bad omen—but he doesn’t register how dark it is, how deep. All he can think about is that Bo-Katan—Bo-Katan—is shaking in the blue light, Hera’s hand is cinched so tightly over his wife’s that it’s about to snap, Wedge is telling them it’s a lost cause, and Nova—

Nova’s face is not what he expected. Tears, Din would have predicted—lots of them, silently streaming down her beautiful cheeks. An expression of well-earned grief. For the destruction of a planet she’s considered like home, for the last true active Alliance base, for the people that she’s protected her entire life. But Nova’s face has hardened into resolve—true, unadulterated determination.

It’s the one she wore when she fought Sparmau. It’s the one she’s worn in every act of Rebellion, every time she’s been a savior. She is a warrior at her core, and the face she is wearing is nothing but fight and glory. She looks like that version of Novalise—her true self—is slowly waking up.

There she is. Then, quieter: Thank the Maker.

“I know Wedge said—”

“We’re going to Hoth.” Nova lifts her chin. “We’re going to fight.”

Hera looks at her with fear and relief. Din can’t tell which one is winning. “We need fuel.”

Nova nods. “Then let’s get it quickly.”

“I should mention,” Hera says, slamming her finger down on the hyperdrive button, letting the Ghost thud out of warp, “we’re refueling on Corellia.” All of them lurch in the sudden drop, but they’re braced for impact, fortified with the muscle memory of living out in open space.

Quietly, Din speaks through the modulator: “That’s convenient.”

A smile glitters across Nova’s face. A true one.

“I hope you’re prepared to fight Wedge on his warning,” Hera says, lowering the thrusters as they slowly start to sink onto the cesspit named Corellia. “Because when we land, you’re both going to find him and Bo-Katan.”

Din shifts, refusing to display any of what he’s feeling. He is strong and stoic, a bullet made of beskar. He’s a Mandalorian warrior, and he is not afraid. Except the first time he and Nova were on Corellia, he killed a rogue bounty who would have made shrapnel out of her. And the last time he and Nova were on Corellia, he almost lost her to visions of Sparmau and herself. Death, Din has concluded, is in the air on this stars-forsaken planet.

Corellia and Din Djarin are, decidedly, not friends.

He sighs. Nova gleams. She looks over at him—full of knowing, that look, and something else he can’t entirely place—and extricates herself from the chair with the giddy grace only she has ever possessed, slipping back into their room to don more clothes than secondhand baggy trousers and a barely-there tank top. When he turns back around, Hera’s eyes are on his, dead-on, through the visor and all. She doesn’t miss much, Hera Syndulla. Against his permission, Din shrinks and shifts under her gaze.

“Convenient,” he echoes, finally. “That fuel and the Mon Cala vessel are both down on Corellia.”

She blinks slowly. “I wanted this reunion to be in less dire circumstances. But, for better or for worse, these are the lives that we’ve chosen to lead.” She sighs.

Din observes her. Hera carries herself with the same precision, the same rigidity, that he does. What they lack in magic is made up for in skill. “Do you think this is a good idea?” He can’t tell if he means Corellia, or Hoth, or fighting at all, but the sentiment is the same regardless. Wary, murky.

Hera lifts her chin. “I think this is war, and we can’t play it safe.”

Din nods. “I agree.” Hera holds his gaze, uncanny, those blue, discerning eyes, and he turns away, to go after Nova, to right the wrongness that they both held earlier—but Hera’s soft hand lands on his unarmored arm. He jerks away, like he’s been burned, instantaneously, and she rescinds her touch. Nearly as immediately. Din’s respected Hera from the second she rescued them, but even more so now.

But her eyes—they burn with grief and loss and it hurts him to look at her head-on. He knows his own eyes burn with the same demons. It’s part of the reason he keeps his helmet on for the most part now. Din doesn’t know how to school his expression in the way non-Mandalorians do. But, he realizes, it doesn’t matter, because everyone in his life seems to see right through the visor anyway.

“Din,” Hera says softly, “I loved a Jedi, too. It’s…difficult. I know what their world is like, and it’s full of horror and wonder that we cannot understand.”

He stiffens. “Ezra?”

A small, sad smile dances across Hera’s mouth. “Yeah. Ezra, too.”

He pauses, turning back around to fully face her. “What happened?” His question is low, urgent. Probing. He feels like he’s betraying Nova, but he needs to know. “To your…other Jedi?”

Hera swallows. Her face is written with sadness. That’s not something Din normally notices, but it’s like a beacon, like—like the way Nova feels. Full to the brim of emotion, so big that it overflows. “He fancied himself a martyr, too.” A flash of her eyes on his. “Don’t,” she whispers, “let Nova give into that sentiment. The rebellion will live on without her, but it will never be the same.”

“Hera—”

“You love her?” With the weight of this galaxy and the next, he loves her. But Din can’t speak that aloud. He just manages one terse, fervent nod, and knows she understands. “Good,” Hera says, “then you keep that light alive.”

And with that, she releases him, and the spores of terror that have been festering in Din’s stomach spread and spread.

Nova doesn’t have armor. Doesn’t have anything, really, anything other than her own tank top and the pants Hera lent her, which must not have been Hera’s at all, because Hera’s got curves, but not like Nova’s hips and thighs, and these are belted tight around her waist. Her hair is hanging down her back, braided halfway, the rest of her rogue curls hanging loose out of the elastic. Her skin looks sallow, typical from spending so much time in the vantablack of space. Her lips are puffy, her eyelashes long and tangled, her torso wrapped in a shawl and one of the extra jackets hanging on the back of the Ghost. She smooths her hands over the front of the ill-fitting jacket—cropped above her waist, the sleeves too long—and wishes, for one of the only times in her life, that she did have armor. That she was just a Mandalorian, just the Mand’alor. That her biggest responsibility was uniting a people that had been razed and divided, not given to them in fragments—not this leader that was equal part Jedi and Rebel, with Mandalorian sprinkled in.

Her reflection—it looks like her. Nova hitches in a breath, afraid to peer too close, afraid to see the Not-Nova looking back. In her dream, she had teeth that snapped and glittered, a gaping maw of horror and half-ness. But the only thing reflected is her face, her body, her eyes. Nova smiles, and it’s soft—echoing glories and morning, sunlight filtering through the cracks. No razors. No darkness. She feels relief spark up in her heart like an old friend, and she touches her fingers up to her reflection, willing it to stay.

“Good enough,” Nova murmurs, and then she’s out the door. She presses her lips to Grogu’s wrinkled forehead on her way by, squeezes Hera’s hand with a silent promise, and looks up at Din—obscured, always, but she knows his eyes are locked tight on her like a tractor beam, like a place of worship, like… he’s watching her. Carefully. Steadily. Two things she doesn’t feel. “Ready?” For a minute, before he nods, she’s caught in it, suspended, the way he’s holding her hostage, captive. Safe.

“This goes without saying,” Hera murmurs, and Nova’s reverie is broken, “but please don’t take any risks down there. Get out, find the rest of the crew, and get back here.” She swallows. “We don’t have time to waste.”

Nova nods. “Be safe. Getting the fuel. Corellia is…”

“This place,” Hera says heavily, slamming her fist to disengage the hiss of the ramp, “is the least of my fears.” And the gangplank lowers, revealing the gray slush of Corellia’s crime-ridden, grimy surface. Nova inhales, exhales, grabs onto Din’s gloved hand, and walks down the ramp.

Din has the tracking chip in his hand. Nova walks behind him, out into the abyss. His body is tensed, a steel bullet, a weapon of mass destruction. She keeps her face low, obscured from the light, but she can feel the seedy, dangerous gaze of the people that pass by her. She’s got nothing of worth, no pockets to pick, but her sabers are loud and vibrant on her belt. One light, one dark. There’s a metaphor in that, somewhere, but Nova is too busy watching Din as he dances through the low light of Corellia, powerful and precise as a lothcat.

Once upon a time, she tried to barter with him. Back when he was just the Mandalorian and she was still Andromeda, lifetimes ago, ages back, what feels like years and years. To leave her here. On Corellia. Because she felt guilty—guilty that she wasn’t able to fend for herself, that he picked her up in the Crest, that they were strangers. It feels impossible now. To look at the man in front of her and see anything other than the love of her life, her locus, her true star.

“What?” His voice is low, throaty. It filters through the modulator, slipping off into somewhere deeper, and Nova shivers. They step through an alley, a slice through two walls, puddles and brick littering the ground around them. “I can hear you.”

Her eyebrows furrow. Nova takes one step, two, and then Din’s whirled back around, hooking a gloved hand under her chin. It’s bold and determined and vital, and Nova sinks into the black hole of his grasp. Slowly, Din cocks his head to the right and Nova thrills.

“Hear what?” It’s barely a whisper.

Din sighs, an exhalation, coming out low through the vocoder. Nova bites down on her lower lip, blinking up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Your thoughts,” he grits out, “are so damn loud.”

Nova licks out a line over her split lip, and Din sags. Just for a second. Then his arms snap out, bracketing her on either side. She sinks back against the wall, body slamming into the wall with a sick, satisfying thud. “What am I thinking, then?”

Din doesn’t move. “No.”

Nova blinks. “No, what?”

Din blows out a breath, again, low and languid like a smoker. Nova’s heart clenches, then something lower, wetter. “You’re being,” he grits out, low, almost angry, “a fucking distraction.” His words cut through, like a knife. Nova loves the way it sings through her. “We have a job to do, Novalise. And we need to talk about what happened earlier. We have other things to finish first.”

Nova knows. She knows. But frustration and want are pouring free from her, sluicing through her body, desperate and wanton. Din is the only thing that has ever silenced that panic—that’s ever made her quiet. “I know.”

“People to save.”

Reality floods back in. Just a little. Nova doesn’t put words to it, because it’s awful, it’s horrible, it’s venomous, the thought. That she’s so tired, tired of always being the savior, tired of chasing an impossible reality. That she wants to be selfish, to feel Din’s hands on her like a salve, like a resurrection. Like she could open her mouth and let him whistle in, dirty, filthy things exhaled, sweat dripping down to the steel floor. Like it could make the visions disappear, like it could flood out all of the weight hanging over her head.

“I know,” she repeats, dully, but Din’s gaze is still on her, locked-in, seizing her closer and closer.

“I’m not touching you.”

Nova’s gaze flickers over him, to the arms that are clenched hard against the wall. “Not even a little?”

“A little,” Din hisses, “with you, is everything. I can’t stop once I’ve started. And we have a mission to do. I’ll ask you again, Novalise. What do you want?”

Nova bites down on her swollen bottom lip. Reality is running currents through her. She needs to get her head on straight. To remember what she’s here for—there is a planet at stake, there are people to save, and she is being selfish, so selfish, but the monster inside of her head is purring, and Din’s body is like an oil slick, and she is undone and starving.

She knows—in the back of her mind, where rationality still lives, she is whispering to herself—Din will not touch her. Din will not drown her like she’s begging to be drowned. Novalise is starving. Emaciated—deprived of touch, touch she had hours ago, because Din’s body is both her heaven and her hell, and she is addicted to it. Addicted to the fix that is her husband, her Mandalorian, her weapon, the love of her life—she has a mission to do, she has the fate of the galaxy on her shoulders, and she’s hungry like an addict, and all she wants to do is feel Din sinking inside of her, rhythmic, seismic, pushing her down, deep enough where the only pain that exists is him, the only salvation is his hands, his mouth, his letting her breathe—

“Novalise.”

She blinks. “What I want and what I need,” Nova whispers, shaking and undone, “are two very different things.”

She hears the way Din’s breath catches in the modulator. “Nova—”

“You know what I mean. We’ve been through this already.” She leans in closer. Her breath fogs up his visor. With the strength of a thousand stars, she wrenches herself free, ducking under Din’s arm and moving out into the maw of Corellia, needing to put distance between their bodies before she does something rash, before she gets on her knees, before she loses sight of her mission—

“Nova,” Din calls behind her, his voice sharp and heady—needy—and Nova keeps moving, clutching the tracker in one hand, silently blinking out the correct path to Bo and Wedge, away from that dangerous, razor-sharp desire, because she will slit her throat with it if she stays here. She will give into it, into the plunge, and she will not be able to extricate herself. “Hey—”

His hand closes around her wrist. It’s sweet, sweet relief. She snaps back around, so fast that they almost crash into each other, yanked back into the alleyway. “Don’t hide. Don’t run from me.”

“I am not running,” she whispers, everything faint against the feeling of his touch against her skin, “I am losing.”

Losing time, she means. But losing—grip. On herself. On reality. Like she’s been—drugged. Or like she’s living across different timelines, almost identical, but not close enough to match. She blinks, once, twice, and then Din’s surrounding her again, even as she tries to move forward.

“What is going on?”

Nova stops—almost letting Din collide with her, beskar and all—but she looks at him over her shoulder, sirenlike, dangerous—and catches exactly where she knows his brown, deep eyes are locked on her, laser-sharp. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know, and it terrifies her, because she is muddied and violet, pitch-dark with desire and shame, and Nova has never felt indecision like this before, this terrible seam ripped open inside of her stomach. She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know anything except the basics. She doesn’t want to fight—not anymore. She wants to win. She wants a quiet life with the man she loves, and she wants this galaxy out of turmoil, but the dark thing leaching inside of her stomach wants to be selfish, and it’s terrifying, and she has no idea how to put this into words—to be Novalise, just Novalise, the girl the Mandalorian picked up on Nevarro. Everything flashes before her eyes, lightning-quick, the beats of her life—from sacred touches to low breaths, to commlink calls to tender kisses, to sweat-slick sex to awful rainstorms of tears, to death, to life, to this moment. Can we start over? Nova thinks, reality cold and crisp in Corellia’s mangled air, and then— I feel…wrong—

“I can’t tell what’s real—”

“Wait.” Din steps closer, but the visor is pointed down at the blinking tracker in Nova’s hand, suddenly gone silent. “They’ve dropped off.” He puts his hand to his helmet, and Nova watches him, dazed, shaking, like she’s woken up from a dream, guilt running like ice through her veins. “Bo-Katan? Can you hear me?”

No answer. Static. Silence. Then—Nova hears it, faintly, the incredulous, frigid voice of Bo-Katan Kryze. It’s one of the best sounds in the universe. “Din?”

Din’s body sags, just a little, and Nova feels the same sweet relief coursing through her, overriding the sick sense of awfulness she feels—at letting want overtake need, at wanting something selfish rather than something more—and she swallows it down. This is not the place for want. This is the place for fighting.

Din projects the frequency outward, grabbing Nova and dragging her in close, close enough that the two of them can hear it, but the quickening dark of the heart of Corellia around them doesn’t. “We’re in the middle of the city,” Bo-Katan says, “hiding the best we can. Din, this place is crawling with—”

“I know.” His voice, low through the modulator, vibrates against Nova’s ribcage with her body pressed almost flush against his. “Don’t move, okay? Stay where you are.”

“Not an option,” Wedge cuts in, “there’s troopers and bounty hunters everywhere, and the Mon Cala we were with sold us out.” A blaster fires. “Look, we’ll hotwire a ship and come meet you. Where are you located? Still in hyperspace?”

“No,” Nova says, and there’s yelling and fire through the comm, and panic replaces relief and guilt in equal measure, “we’re on Corellia, we’ll come to you. What’s your coordinates?”

Silence.

“Wedge?”

“You,” he says, sourly, “are a terrible listener.” Someone shouts, and Wedge curses under his breath. “We’re in the middle of Coronet Center. Do not come here—”

It’s too late. Din clicks the radio off, stifling Wedge’s voice, and then he’s grabbing Nova’s hand in his. She looks over at him, silently resolving to figure it all out later, to pull herself together. His hand clenches in hers, and he nods, and then they’re running, entwined, into the heart of the storm.

Din’s thoughts on Corellia hold fast. This place is crawling with unfriendlies—from the stormtroopers armed up to the nines with blasters and weapons to the bounty hunters with blades of steel to the men who keep looking at Nova sideways. The deeper and deeper they crawl, sinking into the pit of Coronet Center, Corellia’s capital city—it becomes clearer and clearer that no one here has good intentions.

His eyes slide over to her. Too much. Enough to take his eyes off the prize. Navigating this city is a hellscape on a normal day, but with their friends trapped in the belly of the beast and his wife unsure, unsteady—Din doesn’t feel in control.

He’s felt like that a lot lately. Out of control. He can’t figure out why. He wants, and that want pulses low inside of him. The desire to get the hell out of here whispers to him, wheedles, croons. It lives under his skin like a parasite. Back on Mandalore, before they left to go find Ezra, before they left for the Unknown Regions, Din told Nova he wanted to just go back to Naator. But that wasn’t possible. That’s not in her nature. She doesn’t abandon things. She doesn’t give into the same selfish haunts. She’s stronger than that. Than anything, really, even while she’s seeping through the cracks. If a woman could be forged from beskar, it would be Novalise.

She’s walking like she’s injured something. Din watches her out of the corner of his eyes as Nova steps—gingerly, carefully��across the grayscale streets, littered with scrap metal and trash and terrible things. Needles. Bones. Corellia is a grifter’s paradise, and she does not belong here. Her hip, he thinks, something’s wrong with her hip. Probably still injured from the starfighter crash, and him sinking to the hilt inside of her hours ago probably didn’t help.

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” Nova whispers, but it’s playful. Lighter.

Din shoots her a sideways look. “I’m not—”

She lifts her chin, swinging her head around to check the alleys behind her. It’s getting darker, and on Corellia, that means more dangerous. Nova’s hand finds her belt, where her yellow lightsaber and the Darksaber hang. She palms her own, then the Darksaber. Din watches this too. “I know where your eyes are at all times, Mandalorian.” Nova smiles, and, Maker, Din’s stomach lights up with butterflies. “Even under that helmet.”

“You’re hurt.”

Her face shutters. Just a little, but Din’s an expert in Nova’s micro-expressions. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Can you please tell me what your dream was about?”

Her face contorts. “It’s not related.”

“Novalise,” Din sighs, “you are the worst liar I have ever met.”

She narrows her eyes. “Me. Okay? Like I told you. I was myself, and then I wasn’t, and I keep hallucinating things, and the reason I need you to keep touching me is because it’s the only real thing I can hold onto.” Nova licks over her lip, tongue lingering over where it split back in the crash. Din wants out. He wants to gather Nova in his arms, jet out of here with the pack strapped to his back, shoot his way to Bo and Wedge from the air. He can feel eyes on them from the shadows, though, and anger flares in his chest.

No. Not anger. Something worse.

Fear.

“Nova—”

“No,” she whispers, but she grabs his hand for a second, squeezing down, “not here. We’ll talk about it all later, I promise—”

He hears it before he sees it. A blaster, drawn out of his holster. Din ducks and yanks Nova down to the ground alongside him, razor-sharp and quicker than breathing. She doesn’t yell—in fact, she goes quieter, and when the shot ricochets off his armor, Din’s already got his own blaster out to return the fire. He doesn’t have his vibroblade, but he wishes for it; to sink between the notches of armor and sear into the trooper’s skin.

They weren’t shooting at him. They were going for Nova.

Her hand is already at her waist, but Din moves faster. He cuts forward, steel toes light against the Corellian ground, and he’s on the trooper before another shot can even hit the barrel of the enemy’s gun. He fires, once, twice, then kicks the dead trooper to the ground. Nova’s watching him, wide-eyed.

“There’s more.”

He whips back around, ready to fire. He doesn’t need to, though.

Nova’s hand pulses over the sabers hanging on her wrist, and without a second’s hesitation, she’s ignited the blade.

Corellia doesn’t glow yellow.

No. It flickers with the angry, pulsing energy of the Darksaber.

The Darksaber used to be heavy. Like it was resisting her. Not anymore, Nova realizes, as stormtroopers pour out of alleyways like ants, storming across the ground around them. Din’s quicker, a soldier—but she has a weapon in her hands that’s meant to be wielded. Once upon a time, killing was a haunting, awful thing. She still aims to stun, to disarm—not to cut down. But she could. With this blade in her hands, Novalise could bring an entire city to its knees. She moves like a Jedi and fights like a Rebel, and she cuts forward like Mandalorian. Simply. Like it’s written into her DNA.

Din, in her periphery, is dropping trooper after trooper. But there’s… there’s more, coming out of the cracks, incessant. Nova knows that something is amiss. She can taste it in the air, heavy and metallic, the tang like blood. Corellia is crime-ridden, yes, but this is different. And then there’s other people, not troopers.

Bounty hunters.

“Din,” she calls, and he turns to look at her, and Nova can feel the panic flash, white-hot through her veins. They’re surrounded. Completely. She feels like she lost time—she was just cutting them down, cleaving through the air like it was nothing, leaving the troopers’ forces scattered. But she blinks, just once, and she’s surrounded, but white masks and evil eyes alike, and Nova feels adrenaline and fear slice her clean through.

“Nova!”

But he’s choked out by the thrush of troopers, hundreds of them. Nova loses sight of him. She tries to cut through, and then a bounty hunter flashes his teeth at her, and she stumbles, the blade of the Darksaber snarling as Nova falters.

“I thought you looked familiar.”

Nova clenches her jaw. “I don’t think we’ve met.” But he looks familiar. His expression does, at least—darkness gathering there.

He laughs, an evil smile curling across his face. She can feel the ranks closing in behind her. Nova lifts her chin, holding the weapon higher in her hand. “Oh, we’ve met,” he says, cocking his head to the side, a sick glint emanating from his eyes. “You’ve done a good job transforming yourself—Novalise, is it now? Come a long way since you were tied up like a prize on that ship.”

Nova’s stomach clenches. “You—”

“Shame Jacterr didn’t like his things to be touched.” He surges forward, hand outstretched to caress her body. “But he’s not here now, is he?” And Novalise explodes.

Fury swings forward, flooding everything else out. Nova screams out, cutting, cleaving, using the Darksaber as it was intended. A weapon fit for a king—in the hands of something more than that. Something stronger. Nova slices and knifes with the blade until there is blood on the ground and pink mist of a man in front of her, and she feels nothing. Just anger, red-hot, pulsating like lava, and she cuts through stormtrooper after stormtrooper, until she can see Din again, surrounded by bounty hunters.

“Hey!” Nova screams, loud enough to echo across the surrounding buildings, “Mandalorian!”

Din’s head doesn’t fully turn—he’s blasting with one hand and choking out another trooper with the other—but the side of the helmet flashes her way.

She holds up the Darksaber, blade still ignited, transfiguring everything into greyscale, and shouts again. “Catch.” She tosses it through the air, high above everyone’s heads. Din’s gloved hand snaps out to catch it. Perfectly. Like it has been his all along, like it belongs to him. Like it’s craved his touch, like it’s breathing a sigh of relief to be reunited with his hand. Nova offers him one radiant, glowing smile, and then she’s ignited her own lightsaber, turning everything to yellow, then to ash.

Together, slowly, Din and Nova clear a path through the thrush of troopers and hunters, cutting fast and hard and away, and then—

Something happens.

She can’t see it. But she can feel it. Nova stutters—like her body stops working. She can’t describe it—this feeling. A shuddering. It rips through her like fire and shutters her defenses, and even with the saber in her hand, she feels—depleted, suddenly. Hair’s standing up on the back of her neck.

And a second later, she knows why. Din cries out, a noise that she’s only ever heard him make when he’s wounded, a soldier cut down in battle. There’s a bounty hunter trying to pull his helmet off, another one gripping his neck, exposed, now, his tan skin a beacon in the dark. And even though Din is allowed to be Din now, Nova’s anger roars through her, the weight of an exploding star. She surges toward him, troopers crawling over her like vermin, like bugs, but she will not let anyone in this world take Din’s autonomy away from him, not again, not ever—

“Novalise.”

It’s her own voice.

She turns. “Not now,” Nova whispers, cutting through white armor with her golden blade, trying to let everything drip out of her, trying to tap into that sense of magic that runs like a current through her bloodstream.

“Novalise.”

She turns. It’s not the version of herself from the nightmares. It’s the version of herself from the future, the one gilded and saintlike, untouchable—holy.

“Help me,” she whispers. Bring me back, she means to say, and this version of herself smiles, reaching out to touch her face. “Get me closer, help me—”

“Novalise.”

Exasperated, exhausted: “What?”

“You have all the weapons you need.” A beat. “Call it by name.”

Nova closes her eyes, and when she reopens them, it’s like lightning has surged through her veins. Back when she was fighting Sparmau, all the Jedi had told her don’t throw it away. This was an echo chamber of that, a repeated cycle, an endless paradigm—call it by name.

It’s one word. Her name. “Novay’lain.” It’s a whisper with the force of a scream. And all the light floods back into Nova’s body. Everything that was dimmed, covered in gasoline, or nightmared into reality—it stands no chance. To radiate. To shine.

She tears through the rest of the troopers and hunters like an asteroid. She is singular, Rebel girl with the Force aerating through her bloodstream. She’s on Din faster than any of the rest of them can, and she’s swinging and cutting her blade through the air, white-hot and gilded. All of the darkness settles into her bones, the light shooting to the surface. She could wield the weight of the sun if she needed to, to get to him. The hunter prying Din’s helmet off is cut through the middle. Sawed off. Torso in two pieces. Nova doesn’t even blink.

“Come on,” she whispers, dropping to her knees beside him. “Let’s get out of here.”

Din spits something out onto the ground, splattering over the armor of the dead trooper at his feet. Blood. It looks like blood. He yanks his helmet back down, the illusion of the untouchable snapped back into place, and then he shakes his head at Nova, sighing. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Electric, white-hot—that’s how she feels. Illuminated, yes. But on fire. Nova is moving with adrenaline that doesn’t feel borrowed. Not anymore. She is supercharged, a yellow blade, surrounded by silver and nettle, divinity and blood.

They’re firing like bullets down alleyways. Din doesn’t have the tracker out anymore. She doesn’t have a hard and fast map of where Bo-Katan and Wedge are, but Nova doesn’t need it. She feels them, can hear their heartbeats, can sense their wounds. She turns, frantic, down another alleyway, and then Din’s hand slips out of hers.

She stumbles, catching herself on either side of the alley’s walls. “Come on,” she whispers, gently, turning around to face him. “We have a mission to complete, remember?”

“Nova—”

“They’re right on our tail, Din,” she says, blinking rapidly, heart hammering a brutal rhythm out against her ribs. “Come on.”

“Wait, no—”

“Din,” Nova says, out of breath—why is she suddenly out of breath? She sags back against the wall, the light inside of her chest rapidly dwindling. Her vision is flickering. “Din—?”

“Cyar’ika,” he whispers, “stop.”

Nova does. She looks down.

Impaled in her stomach is a blade. “Oh,” she whispers. Her vision blurs further, and then her knees are buckling, collapsing—

“Novalise—” Panic flashes through Din’s voice. “No, don’t you dare—”

And then, like a dying star, everything goes pitch-black.

AHHHH I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!! this was such a headrush to write. i am SO excited to share this one, and i hope you're ready for the next chapter. i've already started writing it and man… i cannot wait to share it!!

thank you, as always and eternally, for reading, for being here, and for sticking with me <3

CHAPTER 7 COMING SOON!!! for day-to-day updates, follow me on tiktok @ padmeamydala :)

xoxo, amelie

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dindjarindiaries · 8 months

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Security - Chapter 68: The Pursuit

summary: Astra and Grogu rescue Din and pursue Moff Gideon, once and for all.

warnings: canon-typical violence, references to trauma, anxiety attack, injuries (incl. blood), angst

rating: T

word count: 6.214k

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chapter 68: the pursuit

Din had fought the hardest he could, and he’s still not done.

It was the smartest thing for him to go limp. It ended up with tight restraints on his ankles and his wrists, but it’s left him with only two Imperials to take care of. All he has to do is fake it for a little bit longer. Considering just how much dissociation he’s had to make himself do ever since the ambush started, it shouldn’t be too hard.

He tracks their progress through his visor. Once they approach the next corner, there’ll be enough distance between them and any potential backup for Din to attack. His boots continue to drag along the floor as his helmet hangs between the two Imperials. Just a little bit longer…

Din doesn’t hold back. He pushes off the ground and swings his feet towards the wall to do the very same thing. The sudden action forces all three of them against the opposite side of the corridor. Din slams the back of his helmet against the Imperial behind him and tucks to roll and flip the other onto the ground. He takes the quick moment he has to draw a blade and cut his ankles free.

He doesn’t have time to do more. The trooper behind him has since recovered and starts to fire blaster bolts at Din. He grunts as it hits his armor and knocks the blade from his bound hands. Din stands and takes a few calculated steps towards the Imperial before he rolls again and stands to shoulder the trooper into the wall.

Now, the other Imperial’s also recovered and reached for his blaster. Din takes the hits to his armor while he thinks of his next move, but it doesn’t help when the second trooper adds his flamethrower into the mix. He lowers himself down against the wall and rolls towards the Imperial with the flamethrower, wrapping both his legs around one of the trooper’s to take him to the ground. Din’s momentum continues and gives him the advantage, where he’s able to grab the trooper’s arm and direct the flames towards the other trooper.

Once that Imperial’s had his fill, Din slams his arm against the ground to stop the flames and does the same with his head. The other trooper aims his blaster at Din, but the Mandalorian’s unsurprisingly quicker. He steps to the side to avoid a bolt and takes a hold of the trooper’s arm, slamming it against the wall before twisting it behind him. The pain takes the Imperial to the ground, which allows Din to hook his bound wrists around his neck from behind.

One strong pull upwards is all it takes to snap his neck.

Din’s given no time for victory. A fibercord whip wraps around his neck from behind and pulls him backwards hard enough to make his back hit the ground. Din struggles against the whip, pushing his feet against the ground in a vain attempt to escape it. The Imperial forces him to sit up as he pulls harder. Din’s vision starts to go spotty as he fights for his life.

He refuses to go. Not like this. Not with his wife, son, and daughter all in danger. Not without getting to remind them just how much he loves them.

Din fears he’s lost all the rest of the fight left in him when he hears a relieving voice from just behind him. “No,” IG-12’s voice calls out. “No. No. No.”

“No!” Astra joins him, her voice strained in a way that makes Din’s weakened heart ache. He hears the sound of a vibroblade sinking into flesh before IG-12 severs the fibercord whip from Din’s neck, finally taking care of the last Imperial.

The sound of the vibroblade is constant even as Din chokes and coughs for air. He’s too distracted now to think anything of it, with Grogu inside IG-12 administering a heavy amount of bacta spray. “I’m okay,” Din assures Grogu in a hoarse voice. “I’m okay.” Once he has enough air in his lungs, he speaks again. “Help me up.”

Grogu obeys, using the strength of IG-12’s arms to help Din sit up. Din reaches around his cowl to remove the whip and forces himself to take a deep breath. It’s Grogu’s worried coo that puts Din back in fight-or-flight as he follows his son’s gaze.

It’s focused on Astra, who’s kneeling over the trooper to stab him over and over with her vibroblade.

Din curses under his breath and extends his bound wrists towards Grogu. “Will you cut me loose?”

“Yes.” IG-12’s voice agrees, and Grogu doesn’t hesitate to free Din.

Din’s on his feet in seconds to make his way over to Astra. He’s firm yet gentle with the way he wraps his arms tight around her waist and pulls her away from the Imperial.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Din says to her, over and over again. Astra’s still breathing heavy, her armored chest heaving as she numbly drops the bloody vibroblade from her gloved hand. Din sets her on her knees across from him, his hands reaching for her face as he rests his helmet against her forehead. “I’m okay.”

Astra closes her eyes, her hands taking a tight grasp on his wrist. Din’s gaze gives her a quick once-over, and he aches at the untreated scratches on her face as well as the streaks of blood smeared on her armor. He can see her trying to take a deep breath, but she wheezes instead, as if her lungs are failing her.

“Hey.” Din’s voice is barely a whisper with how gentle he’s made it. His thumbs brush underneath Astra’s eyes as she opens them. “Breathe, cyar’ika. Just breathe.” When Astra continues to struggle and wheezes once again, Din speaks more firmly. “Astra. Breathe.” He takes one of her hands and sets on his cuirass. “With me, okay? In…” Din inhales, getting Astra to do the same, “and out.”

Astra manages to exhale, though the sound is still rugged. Din nods to encourage her.

“There you go. That’s it. Bid dral.” So strong. Din gives her wrist a gentle squeeze to remind her of how his cuirass moves. “See? I’m breathing, too. It’s all right, cyar’ika.”

Astra struggles for her next breath, her gaze pleading with him as she tries to speak. “I thought they were gonna… I thought you were…” She can’t finish the thought and Din can’t blame her.

“I know.” One of Din’s hands brushes over the side of her head. “But it’s okay, now. I’m okay.”

Astra shakes her head as her lips tremble. Her entire body has started to shake like a leaf between Din’s hands as tears spring to her eyes. “Zora…” she closes her eyes and fights back a worried cry, “our baby girl…”

The reminder makes Din want to burn the galaxy, both for making his wife so distraught and for putting his daughter at such high risk. Instead, he stays calm for both of them, fighting every urge that says to do otherwise. “She’ll be okay. She has to be.”

Astra shakes her head again in her desperation. “No, Din. We left her there. We have to… we have to go after her ourselves.”

“We won’t make it in time, Astra.” The truth is just as devastating for Din as it is for her. “We have to trust the Mandalorians who are already with her.” Din nods as he runs his thumbs along her skin again. “Axe is on his way to the fleet right now. He can warn them.” Astra starts to calm down at that. Din smiles at her progress and he wishes more than anything that she could see it. “I’m sure that Bo-Katan and Paz—.”

“Paz is gone.” Astra’s voice is now a chilling whisper.

Din freezes, years and years of memories hitting him like a crashed speeder. “What?”

Astra’s hands knead against his wrist. Her gaze searches his visor, as if she’s trying to become the one who provides him with comfort. Her voice is a bit firmer now, but it still shakes as she speaks. “Paz stayed back to sacrifice himself so the rest of us could get away.”

Din squeezes his eyes closed and forces himself to take a deep breath. His relationship with Paz was complicated at best, but he was the closest person Din ever had to a brother. When he reopens his eyes, all he sees is red. “We need to kill Gideon.”

Astra’s at least able to get a chuckle out. “That’s something we both agree on.”

Din musters a chuckle for her and lifts his helmet from her head. He keeps a tight grasp on one of her hands as he turns his head to face Grogu, who’s knelt beside them. “Thank you for all your help.” Grogu coos and nods at him. Din takes a deep breath and sets a hand on IG-12’s shoulder as he goes on. “Grogu, I’m going to need you to be brave for me, okay?” He gestures with his helmet to Astra. “And for your mother and your sister, too.”

Grogu tilts his head and coos, as if he’s asking for the reason why.

“We can’t keep running,” Din tells him. “If we don’t take out Moff Gideon, this will never end.” Grogu babbles sadly to agree with him. “You with us?”

Grogu nods, a firm action that can’t be mistaken. Din manages a smile underneath his helmet and pats his son’s head.

“Good. You’re a verd’ika.” Din releases a gentle sigh and turns back to Astra. She’s since brought herself closer to him, her breathing much more even than before. Din holds her hand with both of his and runs his thumbs over it. “Are you okay, ner kar’ta?”

Astra squeezes his hands. “I’m trying to be.”

Din’s chest aches as his visor falls to their hands. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Astra lifts a hand to the lip of his helmet, urging his head to rise and meet her gaze again. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.” Her hand finds its way onto his beskar cheek. “You were the one who warned me about coming back here.”

Din tilts his helmet at her. “That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, either.” He forces out a chuckle. “We enjoy taking burdens, don’t we?”

Astra laughs and closes her eyes for a moment. “We do.” She takes a deep breath, and this time, Din’s pleased to hear that her lungs easily allow her the luxury. “We shouldn’t waste any more time getting to Gideon.”

“We’re not wasting time.” Din frees his hands to hold Astra’s face again. “We don’t need to do a single thing until we’re sure you’re ready.”

“I am.” Astra nods and uses her gloved thumb to tug at Din’s sleeve, giving his wrist a quick kiss. “Promise.”

Din searches her gaze and finds only honesty there. “Okay.” He pulls her head to his helmet for one more Keldabe kiss. “I’d kiss that mouth of yours if it wasn’t too risky.”

Astra laughs, a genuine lighthearted sound that convinces Din for a moment that everything’s okay. “Your response was perfect, by the way.”

Din chuckles before he forces himself away from her. “It was hard to follow up what you said to him. You stole my line.” He stands and helps Astra to do the same as she laughs just a bit harder at his words. As he grips her hands, however, she inhales sharply and pulls her dominant hand away from him. Din raises his brow beneath his helmet, a new wave of strong concern washing over him in a cold chill as he points at her hand. “What happened?”

Astra’s gaze averts his visor for a moment as she cradles her hand. “I was trying to break the transparisteel on the blast door.”

Din sighs, the sound thick with worry. He reaches for her hand to ask for it and Astra accepts. He’s gentle with the way he removes her glove, though she still hisses in pain. His heart drops at the rawness of her skin that’s crusted over with blood. “Rid’ika…”

“I know.” Grogu, who’s since stood with them, moves closer in his IG-12 suit to administer bacta spray onto the wound. Astra inhales in surprise, but takes the treatment with composure. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Once Grogu finishes with the bacta spray, Astra takes the medpac from her belt and hands it to Din. He takes a piece of gauze and wraps it around her knuckles. “I understand.” He helps her to slide her glove back on and takes a deep breath, swallowing back the urge to apologize again in favor of moving ahead. “First things first, I’ll let Bo-Katan know the plan,” Din states, lifting his hand to the side of his helmet as Astra nods. “Bo-Katan, come in.”

The response is immediate. “Received. Where are you?”

Din takes another look around the corridor, lowering his hand as he does so. “We’re safe.” He looks down at the trooper he’d choked out before and bends down to his limp body. “Astra and the kid helped me escape. We’re going after Moff Gideon.” Din takes the Imperial’s jetpack and sets it over his back, with Astra coming over to aid him. “Do you have a location?”

“No.” The background of Bo-Katan’s comms rumbles. “We are under attack. I have to get the troops to safety.”

Din nods to himself as he gets the jetpack in place. “Understood.”

“Stay safe.”

Din rushes to add one more thing. “And Bo?” He pauses due to the sudden lump in his throat. His chest goes aflame with worry as he forces himself to push through it. “Please make sure our daughter’s safe.”

Bo-Katan’s voice is just as reassuring as her answer. “I’ve got Woves on it right now.”

“Thank you.” Din finishes the conversation with that, turning to Astra as he thanks her for her help. “Bo-Katan is taking her troops to safety. She said that Axe is aware of the situation and is still on his way to the fleet.”

Astra exhales in relief as she nods. “He’ll make it in time.”

Din nods to agree with her. He has to. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to function any longer. “He will.” He’s quick to steady himself with a breath and take Astra by the hand. “Let’s get going.”

Astra and Grogu follow Din’s lead as they make their way through the hidden base. After turning a few corners, Astra speaks up from behind Din. “What are we looking for?”

“The command center.” Din stops at a corner and raises his fist to make Astra and Grogu do the same. He waits for a small group of troopers to pass by. “Thankfully, we’ve got backup.” Din taps the side of his helmet as he turns the corner. “R5. Come in, R5.”

R5 beeps some sort of response to Din. For the first time in his life, Din wishes he understood Binary.

“I need you, buddy.” Din continues to scale the wall they walk along, his gaze as observant as ever for threats. “You’re gonna have to scomp into the base and get me the location of Moff Gideon’s command center.” Once Din’s sure the way is clear, he relaxes, waving Astra and Grogu forward with him.

R5 beeps at him again, and he sounds hesitant. Din tightens his jaw. If he could speak all of the languages in the galaxy, he would.

“I’m sorry.” Din’s apology is sincere. “I don’t speak Binary. I’m counting on you.”

The conversation ends with that. Astra takes her place alongside Din and smiles at him. “It’s really cute you call him ‘buddy.’”

Din’s face warms underneath his beskar as he busies himself with being the lookout. “He seemed hesitant. I had to… encourage him.”

“Sure.” Astra brushes her shoulder against his. “That’s what the warmth in your voice was.”

After a few more twists and turns through the tunnels, Din holds the group up to let a pair of Imperial troopers walk by. He uses the opportunity to check back in with their droid. “R5, how are those schematics coming?”

Din shares a quick look with both Astra and Grogu before he observes the area once again. R5 beeps something, and just moments later, Din hears his gauntlet chime. He lifts it and sees the schematics appear before them in blue light.

“Got it. Good job, buddy.” Din shows the layout to Astra and Grogu. He lifts a finger and points towards the heart of it. “That’s the command center.” He does some more quick reading. “The communications log says that’s where he operates from.” Din nods at the two of them. “That’s where we’re going.” He powers down the schematics. “Ready?”

Din looks at Astra first, who nods with a small smile. Grogu also nods, his tiny hands holding IG-12’s shift knobs even tighter. Din’s chest flares with warmth as he looks between them. He’ll never stop admiring the strength of his family.

“Stay close.” Din starts to lead them around the corner. “Let’s go.”

Din keeps his pace quick yet steady to make sure Grogu and Astra stay with him, mostly for their son’s sake. Gideon doesn’t have many Imperials roaming, with only a few passing by in groups of two. Din has the path to the command center burned in his mind, and he’s on one of the final turns when he hears the warbling of ray shields. Sure enough, moving closer allows Din a quick glance at the red glowing light.

Din extends his arm over Grogu and Astra and shuffles them along the wall. He faces them and keeps his voice low. “The command center is down there. I need you two to stay here and cover me.” Astra lifts her brow, but lets Din continue. “I don’t have any weapons, so this might get messy.”

Astra shakes her head. “That’s way too dangerous, Din.” She gestures to her armor. “Let me help you.”

Din tilts his helmet at her. “I don’t want them knowing you’re here.” He nods in Grogu’s direction. “And someone should stay with him.”

Astra sighs and looks away from Din. “You’re right.” She finds his visor again and unholsters her blaster. “At least take this.”

Din lifts his hand to cover the one on her blaster. “Trust me, cyar’ika.” He eases the blaster closer to her own cuirass. “I won’t need it.” He gives their surroundings a quick glance. “I’d rather you hang onto it.”

Astra huffs, but she can’t hide her small smile from him. “Be careful, Mr. Big and Bad Mandalorian.”

Din reaches around the back of her neck to urge her forehead against his helmet. “You know I’ll do whatever you say.” He lets her go and nods. “I’ll let you know when it’s safe.” Din moves himself further along the wall and activates his comms. “R5. There’s some barrier shields. I’m gonna need you to deactivate them one at a time.” R5 beeps in a tone of understanding. “On my command.”

Din braces himself along the edge of the threshold. He steadies himself with a deep breath. At the very least, this fight will be nothing short of cathartic for him.

“Deactivate the first shield.”

Din hears the shield disappear before he even sees it happen. He wastes no time lunging around the corner and throwing his fist towards the first Imperial he sees. In a quick step, he kicks the second trooper behind him, knocking him to the ground and stealing the blade from his boot. Din steps up to the first commando and hits the blade against his leg before stabbing it into his ribs.

When the second commando recovers and starts to fire his blaster, Din turns and uses the Imperial in his grasp as a shield, waiting for a break in the line of fire to toss the Imperial aside. He kneels down in his effort to withdraw the blade and throws it at the second commando, landing it swiftly inside his neck. As the commando falls, Din tries to grab his blaster, but he misses just as the Imperial disappears into the depths of the base.

Din curses to himself and reaches for the blade inside the other trooper’s boot. This will have to do. He approaches the next barrier. The commandos in the next section have braced themselves with shields and electrostaffs while Din does the same with his blade. “R5, next shield.”

The shield disappears, and instantly, Din can read their first move. The commando on the right swings towards him and Din steps and spins out of the way, instead approaching the other commando. He shoves Din back towards the first Imperial, who then pushes Din forward once again. Din uses the momentum to drive his knee against the Imperial’s helmet in a move that gives him the freedom to turn and take down the other with his arm.

Din picks up the fallen Imperial’s electrostaff with enough time to counter an attack from the other, blocking twice before he ducks down and hits the back of the commando’s legs. The other Imperial attempts to surprise him from behind, but without missing a bit, Din spins and kicks to knock the commando into the endless depths below. Din’s quick in finishing off the first commando and taking his shield, standing back to his full height and adjusting his grip on the electrostaff. “R5, next shield.”

As soon as the shield’s lowered, Din charges at the commando on the left, forcing him against the opposite shield. Din has to focus on deflecting blaster shots from the other Imperial, but once he’s found his grounding, he’s able to step forward and take out the commando’s leg with his electrostaff. That Imperial falls while Din swings his shield at the other and gets him to join his partner on the ground. A hard hit of the electrostaff upon his visor keeps him on the ground and Din steals his blaster.

The other commando’s since recovered, but Din ducks behind his shield in time to avoid his blaster bolts. Din has no good way to end the rain of fire as he instead keeps taking it, lowering himself to one knee to strengthen his position. He needs more room. “R5, next shield.”

Din prepares himself for the moment the red barrier disappears, but it doesn’t. Even the commandos on the other side of it look confused. Din huffs and tries to counter his attack, standing to his feet to change his position.

“R5,” Din tries with more urgency, “next shield!”

Nothing. Din curses to himself and continues to shoot, the blaster crowding the small area with smoke.

“R5!” When Din still gets nothing, he sighs and tries one more time. “R5, next shield.”

Din’s shots land even in the smoke as he takes down the commando at long last. Moments later, the shield lowers, and Din uses the smoke to his advantage. He runs forward and slides on his knees to catch the last two by surprise, taking out one of them just with his body. Din slides past the other and drops the shield, but keeps the blaster, recovering quickly to stand and blast the commando closest to him dead. All it takes is one shot to keep the other on the ground, but Din fires a few more just to be sure.

Just as he had told himself before: cathartic.

Din takes a moment to catch his breath before he lowers the blaster and looks around. The area is littered with the bodies and weapons of the Imperial commandos, along with remnants of smoke from the blaster fire. Din takes a breath of relief and activates his comms once more.

“R5,” Din praises their droid, “good job, buddy.” He turns off the comms and raises his voice, but not too loud. “It’s clear.”

Astra leads Grogu around the corner, her raised blaster lowering as she observes Din’s handiwork. Din bends down to pick up a second blaster and keeps one in each hand. Astra approaches him with an eyebrow raised and an amused smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. “That was quick,” she says. She gestures with her hand to their surroundings. “And very effective.” She taps the barrel of her blaster against his cuirass and tilts her head up at him. “You could’ve just told me you wanted to show off.”

Din huffs and tilts his helmet back at her. “The only thing I wanted to show was that Gideon messed with the wrong family.” He’s careful with the blaster as he sets his hand upon her back. “Come on.” He gestures with his helmet towards the door behind him. Din allows himself a quick moment to glance at Grogu. “Hanging in there, buddy?”

Grogu nods and coos in the affirmative. Din nods at him with both relief and pride before he takes the lead again with Astra as his faithful backup. They share a look as Din reaches to open the door, both his blasters held up as he eases his way inside.

What they find is what Din had once seen in the Imperial lab on Nevarro. Giant tubes filled with life-sized experiments of some sort, but this time, they’ve at least tripled. Din lowers his blasters and takes a closer look at them, with Astra coming close to his side. He feels sick when the faces staring back at him through the foggy transparisteel is none other than Moff Gideon’s.

“What the hell is this?” Astra questions, her voice a horrified murmur.

Din speaks past the disturbed lump in his throat. “Remember what I said about that thing in the lab on Nevarro?” Astra nods, an action Din catches out of his peripherals. “This is exactly what it was, but… now, it’s Gideon.” He turns to meet Astra’s worried gaze. “I think this is what they’ve been using Grogu’s blood for.”

Astra’s brow wrinkles, her beautiful eyes flashing with mortification. “How?”

Din shakes his head. “Don’t know.” He looks between her and Grogu, who’s just as frightened as his mother. “Wait here.”

He starts to ease his way over to the controls when Astra calls after him. “What are you doing?”

Din grips his blasters tighter in his hands. “I’m putting an end to this sickening shit once and for all.” He relaxes his hands and glances over his shoulder at their son. “Sorry for the bad word, Grogu.”

Grogu coos, though the sound is half-hearted. He’s much too distracted by the horrifying sight in front of him. It only makes Din’s anger grow.

As he steps up to the controls, Din works off every horrifying thing Gideon’s done to his family: Stealing Grogu’s blood, threatening to use Zora as an experiment, and almost killing Astra. As if almost killing me on Nevarro wasn’t enough.

Din doesn’t stop until he sees the warnings flash on the monitors in front of him. When he glances at his family once again, he sees Astra trying to reassure a worried Grogu. “That’s not Gideon,” she reminds him. “These are his clones.”

All of a sudden, both Astra and Grogu jump back in shock, with Astra gasping and Grogu shrieking. Din turns his attention from the systems in front of him and sees the two of them rushing to Din’s side. “What happened?”

“They opened their eyes,” Astra says, breathless in her horror.

“Good thing I did this, then.” Alarms start to blare as the transparisteel tubes shatter. Din gestures to the door closest to him. “Let’s go!”

The three of them make it out just as the lab fully fractures. They release a collective breath of relief when the doors slide closed behind them. Din takes the lead once again, guiding them into the command center. At the center of the room is an enlarged version of the very same schematics loaded on Din’s vambrace, but aside from that, the room is empty. Din anticipates there being at least a few Imperial commandos on guard, but there’s none. The only people inside the circular room are the three of them.

Din stops his advance and turns around when the doors behind them hiss closed. He strides back up to them and messes with the panel, but the doors stay closed.

“Din…” Astra warns. He turns and watches as the blue holographic light fizzles out and the door on the other side of the room opens.

“My clones were finally going to be perfect,” Moff Gideon’s voice echoes from near the threshold.

Din presses himself against one corner of the threshold and Astra leads Grogu to do the same across from him. He nods at the two of them and keeps himself at the ready as Gideon goes on.

“The best parts of me improved by adding one thing I never had.” Gideon pauses before confirming Din’s worst fear. “The Force. I was isolating the potential to wield the Force, and incorporating it into an unstoppable army.”

Din lifts his blasters even harder and shares a look with Astra. Her jaw is set just as tightly as his own underneath his helmet. To Gideon, their son was nothing but a resource. Din’s never wanted to kill someone as badly as he does right now.

“And you smothered them before they could take their first breath.”

Just as you tried to do with my daughter. Din fights the urge to say the words, refusing to give Gideon the satisfaction—but he can’t keep his actions from doing the same. Din steps out and fires his blasters at their adversary, aiming for Gideon’s unguarded head. Gideon manages to block the blasts with his arm and fires a missile in retaliation. Din narrowly avoids it by tucking himself back where he was before. The missile explodes against the opposite wall and Astra shields Grogu from the wave of heat.

Din’s already revealed his place. He needs to commit to this fight, but the other two don’t. He turns his helmet to look at them. “I need you to stay here,” Din asserts.

Astra’s eyes widen at him. “Din, I’m not letting you fight him alone.”

“We need to see if he has any other tricks up his sleeve,” Din insists. “He still doesn’t know you’re here. Once you’re sure it’s safe, you can both come and assist.” Astra opens her mouth to protest, but Din raises his blasters and adds one more thing before she can get it out. “Trust me, rid’ika.”

Din doesn’t have time to wait and see if Astra agrees with him. He’s hit with a pang of guilt for commanding her around, but his protectiveness continues to win over anyway. Din charges at Gideon and fires his blasters until he gets enough momentum to engage the jetpack on his back and fly straight at him. Gideon’s armor is like a durasteel wall, and in just one swift move to the side, Gideon sends Din tripping over his own feet until he practically throws himself into a nearby crate.

Din grits his teeth as he gets himself back onto his feet. This fight isn’t as easy as the last; Gideon’s stripped Din’s people of their resources to make himself as indestructible as possible. Din wants to fight with this anger, but Gideon gets his hits in first, attacking as soon as Din’s stood up. He punches Din’s helmet, stomach, and then his visor, grabbing Din’s neck before he can even think about retaliating. Din crosses his arms over Gideon’s hand in an attempt to rip it away from him, but instead, Gideon reinforces his grasp with his second hand and uses it to throw Din across the floor. Din recovers and rolls away just in time to avoid getting hit with a punch by Gideon so hard that it impacts the floor.

Din’s just made it onto his feet once again when he hears more footsteps. He glances over his shoulder and sees three red-armored guards coming, each with what could best be described as an electro-melee weapon in hand. Din turns his attention to them, engaging them the best he can with no weapons to aid him.

He recalls what he’d learned in his training so many years ago. Mandalorians can become a weapon of their own making.

Din blocks hits, turns, rolls, and kicks in a constant and tireless effort to fight all three guards off. But it was only inevitable that he’d run out of tricks, especially with skill as advanced as these three guards. He gets hit with a weapon on the shoulder and against the helmet, each hit sending a painful shock that makes Din groan in pain before he can stop it. They get him pinned against the floor with a weapon pressed upon his back, making Din’s pain turn to agony as he tries to fight it. He has to.

“No. No. No.” IG-12’s voice calls out from behind Din and the guards, drawing their attention away from him.

“What he said!” Astra’s voice comes next. He hears her blaster fire as the guards leave him alone in favor of charging towards Astra and Grogu. Din’s still recovering from the brutality of their attack, but as he lifts his weary head, he can see the guards running Astra and Grogu into the command center.

The two of them. Alone. Outnumbered by fighters Din couldn’t fight off for longer than a few seconds.

“No!” Din’s voice is nearly unrecognizable in his pure despair as he fights his way onto his feet. He doesn’t care about the fact he’s turning his back on Gideon. He’s tunnel-visioned to the sight of the guards attempting to trap his family. He pays for it when Gideon fires a missile straight into his back, sending Din sprawling to the floor again. Din gets onto his feet with another quick struggle, and after a few more steps towards the closing door, Gideon’s fibercord whip wraps around his neck and pulls him back.

The door closes Astra and Grogu in with the guards, and Din gets dragged away from them. He’s fighting the hardest he ever has to be free of Gideon’s grip, but he still gets pulled further and further back. Once Din’s at Gideon’s feet, he steals a vibroblade to cut himself free, though he’s immediately kicked in the side and blasted with Gideon’s flamethrower.

Still, Din doesn’t stop fighting, and he never will. He stands and lunges at Gideon with the vibroblade in hand, throwing a punch once he gets stopped. Gideon retaliates with a few hits and a final one that sends Din to the floor. Din pushes himself up enough to kick Gideon’s foot out from underneath him and stands to throw a hard punch at Gideon.

It’s stopped by Gideon’s own hand. Din strains to resist his grasp, but Gideon and his armor gain more power as Gideon stands, his fist getting tighter and tighter around Din’s own until he’s the one who’s being forced to his knee. Gideon then throws his armored knee against Din’s helmet and lifts him by his cowl, causing Din to stand on his toes as he fights for a breath. Gideon winds up for a powerful punch to Din’s cuirass that sends him flying backwards.

It’s impossible. Din’s galaxy starts to crumble around him with the fate of his family unknown. He’s now the child he was back on Aq Vetina, cowering away as Gideon approaches him.

Bo-Katan’s the one who comes to his rescue. She uses her momentum to knock Gideon clean off his feet, a move that buys them both time. Bo looks at Din and offers a firm nod.

“I’ve got this,” she assures him. “Your daughter is safe, as is the rest of the fleet.” She gestures towards the room behind her. “Go help the rest of your family.”

Din doesn’t have time to answer. He scrambles to his feet and picks up his blasters on the way, sprinting to the close door as if he hasn’t just taken a dozen brutal hits to his body. He slams his hand against the panel and gets the door open.

The first thing Din notices is Grogu pinned underneath a small pile of metal, with one guard stalking towards him. The other two are fighting with Astra, who’s holding them off with a strength that makes Din swell with pride.

But even her resolve can’t last forever, just as Din’s couldn’t, and Din has to watch it happen. One guard catches her off balance and that allows the other to take their electro-blade and run it through a gap in the armor of her middle. Astra’s widened gaze doesn’t leave Din’s visor once as it happens, the gasp she releases the loudest sound Din’s ever heard.

He's too late.

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#any excuse to put the shields scene into text format is warmly welcomed #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original female character #the mandalorian x original character #security #dindjarindiaries

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celartzee · 1 year

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Happy Valentines Days, folks!💖

📍Naboo

(those are millaflowers)

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winniethewife · 2 months

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Outcaste (Din Dijarin x OC)

Ret'urcye mhi

Last chapter ~ Next chapter

Words: 580

Din went and sat down right beside her on the bed as he gently reached out and took her in his arms. He knew that she was clearly stressed out and he wanted to help her and he knew the best way he could do that was for him to be there for her and to try and be as comforting as he could manage. He could tell that she needed to relax and he wanted to be the one to help her with that.

“Come here, Mesh’la.” Din said to her as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She thought about resisting. But the feeling of his arms around her was just what she needed. She rested her head on his chest plate and took a deep breath. It's a little moment of peace. She just wishes it would last forever.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.” She says softly. Din continued to hold her close as she took a deep breath and he felt her head rest against his chest plate. He knew what she was going through and he understood all too well how hard her life was, he truly wanted to make all the bad things stop for her so she could just live a simple life of peace and happiness like she deserved. She was going through so much right now and he knew that he had to be there for her like she was for him “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, mesh’la.” He repiled in kind.

Earlier in the day they had just caught the bounty and were on their way when Althea got a transmission from Bo-katan. She took the transmission in the other room while Din ties the bounty up. He overheared part of the conversation both of them sound worried. He hears Althea say something that made his blood run cold.

“Aunt Bo, I know this means a lot to our house, clan and you but I can't just leave.” He had heard Althea speak and the sound of fear in her voice He knew that Althea didn't want to leave him, and he knew that she cared deeply for Din, but her family was also a huge part of her life. He really wished that he could take her away from all of that and live normal lives.

“I understand. I just...” she was really conflicted and upset “I'll come as soon as I can. I'll need to talk to Din.” There's a pause as her aunt replies. “But- okay.”

"Can I come with you?" He asked softly. She rubs her arm, She couldn’t look at him.

“Not this time. After we drop this bounty, I have to go. I don't know how long”. A tear runs down her cheek His heart dropped to the floor when he saw a tear roll down her cheek, he walked over to her and looked down at her, taking her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to him.

“Don't cry, my lady” She embraces him. Her eyes full of tears now.

As she gets ready to leave she turns to him one more time, a smile on her face. “Don't do anything stupid without me. I need you in one piece when we see each other again.” She laughs.

“I’ll try my best.”

"Ret'urcye mhi" She says with a sad smile

"Ret'urcye mhi, Mesh'la"

Masterlist

Translations:

Ret'urcye mhi: Goodbye; literally: "Maybe we'll meet again"

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum: I love you."; literally: "I will know you forever.”

mesh'la - beautiful.

Tags: @soft-girl-musings

#din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x original character #din dijarin fanfiction #mandalorian #mando #Althea Kryze #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #star wars #star wars fan fiction #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic

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hunnythebee · 1 year

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Stow Away

Chapter 3: Hiding in Plain Sight

A tense day on Nevarro followed by an evening with a different kind of tension. Is she crossing a line or is he?

Warnings: NSFW, NSFT, mentions of trauma, PTSD, crying, cursing, voyeurism, masturbation

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Masterlist

A/N: So I changed up a few things in this chapter. First, it explores third person omniscient territory, giving us a glimpse into our Mando's thoughts as well as the MC. From here on out I intend to include more glimpses into his mind and emotions as well.

Second, finally diving into some smut. I'm excited for that, but I am also a complete plot-whore so it's definitely going to be plot with porn.

And last but not least, I have officially given the MC a name. I hadn't intended on naming her, but I couldn't help it, it just kind of happened.

Hope you enjoy and I look for to seeing you all next week for chapter 4!

It had been awhile since he left. He took the kid with him so she has the whole ship to herself. She searched around for a good hiding spot, which there really weren’t any. Then she had a brilliant idea. She rooted around in her sack and pulled out her hooded cowl and engineer goggles.

Perfect.

She removed a panel on the outside of the Crest and began to do idle busy work. She tucked her hair completely into the hood and pulled the mask up, with the goggles covering the remaining exposed portion of her face no distinguishable features were left visible. She was deep in the panel when two bounty hunters approached the ship.

“What’re you doing here?” The taller one asked, resting a hand on his blaster.

“Workin',” she kept her words short. “You?”

He laughed gruffly, “Workin’”

The two men boarded the Crest. Her hand was violently shaking, but she hid it by throwing them back into work. The two reappeared a minute later, with the carbonite slabs floating gracefully between them.

“Enjoy your 'work' little lady,” the other said, his voice making her skin crawl.

She swallowed hard and nodded to them. The nod made a small strand of hair peek out from the hood. Her hair was truly her most recognizable feature, it was colored to look like a nabooian sunset, a gradient from purple to orange. The small strand was a blaring siren, begging to be noticed, but lucky for her they’re backs were already turned to her. She quickly tucked the strand back in and shoved her head into the ship compartment. Once their gravelly footsteps receded, she hustled back onto the ship and closed the ramp behind her. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she crumpled to the cold floor, allowing her emotions to pour out. A sob echoed through the quiet hull. She let her tears flow. Mando didn’t remind her of him. But those men, those hunters did. After the tears slowed she took a few deep breaths. Just in time too, because the gangplank lowered, and the Mandalorian boarded the ship. She wiped away at her eyes, hoping her breakdown wasn’t too apparent on her face.

It was.

Mando noticed immediately. Her nose was pink, her eyes were swollen and red. Her cheeks still had faint tear stains on them. He felt a protectiveness come over him. He wanted to ask who had done this to her. He wanted to make them pay. More than anything he wanted to pull her in and make her feel okay. All of this ran through his head as he simply stood there, staring at her.

She can never know. He warned himself.

“H–How’d it go?” She asked, wanting to break the silence.

“The usual.” His voice sounded so distant. Realistically, he was just lost in thought.

“The…usual?” she questioned.

“Got my payment. Got more bounties.”

“Ah. The usual. Got it.” She began to walk towards her cot, but he stopped her in her tracks with his next words.

“I brought food.”

“You… brought food?” She echoed.

He silently held up a satchel, burstin with assorted produce and meats.

“You brought food.” She said once more, feeling a sense of safety nudge at her heart.

He handed her the satchel, and she examined it closely.

“Hmm… I know exactly what to make from this,” and she left for the galley. He remained cemented to the spot. Silently swearing to himself to learn why she had been crying and to never let it happen again.

A few hours later, they were in orbit of Nevarro and she was putting the finishing touches on a roast. They hadn’t spoken since he had given her the food, she had plunged herself into cooking. It was mostly an attempt to recover from the flashbacks of earlier, and it mostly worked.

She shouted out of the galley up at the cockpit, “Food’s ready! Come get it while it’s hot!”

She fixed the three of them plates, and set one plate down at the spot he usually sat in. She and Grogu took the seat that they had been in before, their backs to the seat he would take. Grogu was already finished by the time she heard Mando’s boots hit the floor. She had, unwittingly, waited for him to start eating. She heard his helmet depressurize and she started to eat her meal with him. She nearly choked when she heard a sound from where the Mandalorian sat. He had taken a bite and moaned. He kriffing moaned, and it made her freeze completely. She couldn’t see it, but he had frozen too. Shocked by his own involuntary noise. He knew she had heard it, because he heard her gag on her food. Heat crossed his face and he was never more thankful for the Creed than in that moment.

They ate the remainder of the food in complete silence. He collected the plates when they were finished, and she put the now sleeping child to bed. She was closing the crib when he reappeared. His visor was fixed on her and it sent a shiver through her body.

“I liked it.” He spoke abruptly.

“Hmm?” She asked as she slumped back down into her seat.

“The food. I liked it.”

“I bet.” The tease slipped out before she could process what she was saying. Her whole body tensed.

“What was that?” He asked, taking a step toward her.

She stood and moved backward, “N–nothing. I’m glad you liked it.” The nerves caused her voice to quiver slightly.

He stalked closer. “That’s not what you said.”

She tried to turn, wanting to hide in the 'fresher, but his hand snatched her wrist and pulled her to the wall. Pinning her between him and the cool durasteel. Her heart was thundering in her ears. She should have felt scared but this was different. Less threatening. Probably because he wasn’t holding a blaster to her this time.

“What. Did. You. Say.” He was impossibly close now. He smelled like her blanket.

No… she thought, the blanket smells like him.

She steadied herself for a moment and committed to the teasing.

“I said, ‘I bet.’ As in I bet you liked my cooking. At least it sure sounded like you were enjoying it.”

He hovered for a moment. He was contemplating something. She assumed he was debating whether to smack her for taunting him or not. In reality he was contemplating her. Her body. Her face. How good she would feel when he–

Stop!

His internal voice screamed. And he finally released her, quickly leaving for his bunk. The door hissed shut behind him before she even had a chance to move. She slid to the floor. She was dazed and confused by the bizarre interaction that had just occured between her and the Mandalorian. He didn't seem angry. In fact he had seemed... Excited. A heat settled low in her body, which she elected to ignore.

That's absurd. No way was that what had been happening.

She shook the thoughts out of her head and finally stood up from the floor. She still wanted to shower before bed. The scent of ash and smoke was clinging to her hair and she craved the scent of the soap. She didn't take long, focusing mainly on her hair. She stepped out into the hull and the quiet was deafening. All she could hear was the soft breathing of the child on the other side and... She froze.

She heard a moan. Before tonight she wouldn't have been able to place it but now she knew exactly what she was hearing. She was planted to the spot. Not moving. Not breathing.

Another moan ripped through the quiet.

Her eyes found his door, lit dimly by the light of the refresher. The warmth she had felt earlier returned, this time it was less bearable. Her body moved without her willing it to, and she found herself in front of his door. She wasn't sure what she was doing there. This was a private moment. An intimate moment she wasn't supposed to bear witness to, yet she couldn't keep herself from listening. She chewed her lip for a moment and wrestled with herself internally.

After a moment of contemplation, she pressed her ear to the door. She wanted to hear more. His moans were hot and it had been so long since she had been a part of anyone's pleasure, so she indulged.

The moaning was expected, as were the whispered curses. What she hadn't expected was what he groaned out as his orgasm slammed into him.

"Jomira..."

She stumbled back. That was her name. He was moaning her name. Her heart raced as she rushed back to her cot and quickly climbed under the covers. His voice echoed in her mind.

Impossible. I just imagined it. That's all. Still...

She pressed her thighs together. Her arousal had reached a fever pitch and it was becoming a problem. She reached over and shut the child's crib. Then she slipped her hand below her waist band. She was soaked. Her pussy. Her thighs. Imagined or not, he had an effect on her that she could not deny.

She pressed her middle finger to her swollen bundle, working it in slow, precise circles. She whimpered quietly and covered her mouth quickly with her free hand. She continued working herself closer to release. She could feel it, she was on the precipice. Just as it poured over her the door to the Mandalorian's bunk slid open. She jumped, throwing the hand that had been covering her mouth over her eyes, burying her face in her elbow. The hand that had been working so desperately for her release was trapped between her legs. Her orgasm made her throb against her fingers, the ruined release causing her cunt to clench and spasm.

Neither she nor Mando moved. She took a deep, slow breath, feigning sleep. She prayed to the Maker that he hadn't seen her, that he would just assume she was asleep and leave. After another beat, she heard his boots move. They ascended the ladder, followed by the cockpit door hissing open and then shut.

She let out a sigh and removed her arm from her eyes and her hand from her pants. Her heart rate slowed finally, and her eyes began to feel heavy. Sleep fell heavy onto her body and she knocked out quickly. She dreamt of him that night.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Masterlist

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netherfeildren · 7 months

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter VI : Sisyphus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Blood and Gore; Explicit description of injury; Use of misogynistic language; Threat of SA but none occurs; Ass play; Anal sex

A/N: It's all downhill from here, baby!!!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VI : SISYPHUS

DEATH: Why the bow, if you’re breaking no laws?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

You’re in the dark again, warm and sated, together. He’s propped up on one elbow, practically half on top of you while you lay on your belly, pressed into the soft blankets and the blistering heat of his body; your cheek, smooshed into the ball of his shoulder while you let him explore your skin at will. He’s been biting and licking and kissing all over for what seems like hours after having fucked you halfway to delirium, and you can do nothing more than hum and whimper when his teeth get too hungry, his bite too sharp, listening to the sounds he makes. Low rumbles of appreciation deep in his chest that you feel vibrate into the bones of your back, breathy huffs where he takes in your scent, mingled with the flavor of his own sweat and come. You’re damp and sweaty and a little sticky in the soft crevices between your limbs, and maybe it should be disgusting, but he tastes you everywhere anyways.The tip of his nose dragging down the line of your spine, a soft nip to your waist, a sharper one to the inside of your bicep, that vulnerable and ticklish swell. He rolls you slightly further towards him to expose your breasts to his explorations, and you feel the tickle of his armpit hair on your cheek where your face is tucked into his side. He sniffs below the damp line of your hair at the nape of your neck, mouths wetly at the satiny skin, and you drag your fingertips up his arm, barely there, pulling a shiver from him and a soft moan. “What’s your favorite place in the galaxy?” Your voice barely a break in the silence, the soft song of your breathing.

A wet suck to your nipple, “Balls deep inside of you,” entirely serious in that monotone way of his.

“Disgusting.”

“Nuh uh, delicious,” a long swipe to the other nipple, pad of his thumb brushing over the dip of your navel. A whine of his name, and he gives you a laugh, the sort of laugh that changes the trajectory of a person’s life, the sort of laugh that is so real it could almost be confused as imaginary. He moves up, lets you savor the sound of it, and there is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth. You twist your fingers in his curls, run your tongue behind his teeth, belly pressed to belly. “I’m being serious,” you remind him.

He buries his face in your neck, a soft hum, “Here, on the ship.” With me? You want to ask. “What about yours?”

“I like water.” You always had, had always been a swimmer when the moment allowed.

“Then we shall have to find some water for you, won’t we?” His fingers have snuck down to your bottom, and he kneads your soft flesh, the line of his once again swollen erection trapped between your bodies. Yes, you’d like that, you think, to be in water with him. You dig your fingers into the rock hard muscles of his shoulders as his mouth resumes its explorations.

“I want a loth cat,” you tell him next.

Mhmm.

“Din?” His mouth is once again latched at your breast, and his cock has begun to thrust and grind against your belly, sticky tip drooling against your skin.

“Please, be quiet,” he says with your breast still in his mouth. “I’m very busy.”

You ignore him, twist your fingers tighter in his curls, arching your chest further into his mouth. “Will you get me a loth cat?” Voice all soft and breathy and breaking as you lift your thigh around his naked hip.

Distracted: “A what?”

The man really, really does not listen. “A loth cat. Will you get me one?”

Finally, he pulls his head back. “No. What is that?”

“You’re saying no, and you don’t even know what they are!”

“You’re not bringing any animals on my ship,” and even though he can’t see it, you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s a pet. Not an animal.”

“Explain the difference to me.” He bends his head to your breast again, all teeth now.

“A pet is fluffy, and I will love it.” But he brings his cock back into the mix then, and there are no more allowances for ridiculous requests for quite some time after that.

“Now you’re going to be good and stay here like I’m asking you to this time, right? Where you’re safe.” He’d landed the Razor Crest a conservative distance away from Niima Outpost; didn’t want you too far isolated in the sand dunes while he left you to go out and fetch his bounty, but not so close you’d be easily noticed.

“Oh, you are soooo stern,” you pout up at him from where you’re curled up in your bed.

His only response: a long suffering sigh, hands on his hips. You roll your eyes at him, nuzzling into the pillow that smells just like his hair. “Yes. I promise I’ll stay on the ship this time. Where it’s safe.” He comes to one knee beside your shared bed, he’d never crawled back into that tomb of a bunk again after that last time together, this was your shared place now. He brushes a gentle thumb over the pout of your bottom lip, tipping your chin up to the dark tee of his visor, “What a good girl you can be… when you set your mind to it, little one.” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him again, but feel your cheeks heat and your lower belly go tight and fluttery. Your pussy clenches with a slight twinge, and you feel the slow thick drool of his come seep out of you. He’d taken you hard earlier, savage and rough and without restraint – like he was angry at having to leave you and taking it out on your cunt.

“Only when I try very, very hard,” you tell him. He dips his chin once, and then unfolds to his great height above you, another nod, another paused moment to take one last, long look at you, and you want to beg, so badly, for him not to go. It feels like the first time he’d left, all those weeks ago. Your first experience staying on the Crest without him while he went out to hunt his bounty, and at the same time, all the worse. You know him so much better now, you need him, you… You what? No, you can’t think of it now. It’s a non possibility, something you aren’t capable of. But a pesky, perilous corner of your mind whispers, like the Force healing? A non possibility of that sort? You want to ask him to take his helmet off and kiss you before he goes, you want to beg him to stay, you want to ask him why he’s not called you that sweet name again since that last time, the only time, in the heat and damp darkness of the fresher when he’d whispered it into your skin, cyar’ika, and you want to cry, just a little bit, if you think on it too much. On the fact that he’d not repeated it, at the possibility of it having been a mistake or a slip in the heat of the moment. But you say none of those things, and ask for no kiss, and look after him with regret and an inkling of unsettled trepidation as the broad expanse of his back lumbers down the lowered plank and then disappears with the closing of the hatch into the scorched badlands and marching dunes of Jakku.

The hull is left dark and serene with his departure, quiet, and yet it sends a small shiver up your naked spine, bare and wet beneath the warm covers like he’d left you. He keeps the space meticulously clean, but now it’s littered with small signs of your presence in his life, of your life together. Your tunic thrown over the lone stool where he forces you to sit when you take your meals with him crouched at your feet, obsessively watching to make sure you have your fill, strange and lovely man that he is. He has a complex about the food you consume, as if it’s imperative to him that you eat as much as you can, that you’re always satisfied in the ways he cannot, or will not allow himself to be. He doesn’t eat enough, never as much as you know he’d probably secretly like to, and for a man of his size and brawn, surely not enough as he needs to, and it’s slowly fostered an angry kernel of resentment within you. He should always have all the things that he needs and wants, as much food as he desires, always, and anything that would keep those things from him you’re bitterly coming to detest. It even, in a strangely convoluted way, makes you angry at yourself, that your presence here with him prevents him from freely and comfortably discarding his helmet to take his meals. If you weren’t here with him he could eat as much as he wants whenever he wants without worry of being seen, and sometimes, try as you might, you can’t let go of the thought.

He’d left the pair of his thick socks you’d appropriated for yourself draped over one of the steam pipes that are warm to the touch, so that when you’d put them on they’re nice and toasty for you. The sight of them makes your heart kick and flip and burn in your chest, and you turn over to face the other way, towards the wall so that you’ll not be forced to look upon the empty hull and the warm socks and the Din-less space and remind yourself how much you hate when he goes away. He’d said he’d be back quickly, only a few hours he estimated, and you comfort yourself with this as you tuck your hands beneath your cheek and slowly drift off into a restless sleep.

“Hello, beastie.”

You’re thrashed into wakefulness by an agonizing grip twisting in your hair trying to rip the very strands from your scalp. You screech, disoriented trying to kick out, get your bearings, but the hull is still darkened from the way Din had left you. You feel another pair of hands trying to grasp at your ankles, and you kick out savagely, bracing yourself against the cold floor, and then the sickening crunch of the bones in your hand as a heavy boot slams down on your fingers, agony, agony, what is happening? An alien dialect in a language you can’t discern, rough and grating is spit back and forth between several voices, and then the first voice comes again and an old, hunched female steps into the dim light from the shadows. You recognize her reptilian Thalassian aspect immediately, and your heart drops into your stomach. Slavers. You double your efforts, kicking and screaming and trying to claw at the hands in your hair, to rip yourself away while your crushed hand screams in agony. The old female comes closer, beastie, beastie, we’ve caught ourselves a beastie, she sing-songs in a hollow voice. Another boot to your belly, kicking the air out of your lungs, sending fire through your ribs and bile up your throat, but when you turn your head, you make eye contact with one of the old crones henchmen, another Thalassian, and with a single thought you send him slumping to the ground, brains oozing out of his ears in a melted, bloody mess.

“Murderous little beast!” the female screeches, and she’s unraveling a whip from around her forearm, and before you can even brace yourself, snapping it at you so that it’s splitting open the meat of your cheek. Searing agony spreads across your face, your vision goes in and out, and you try and shake it away, but then more of that guttural unknown language and an order from the crone, and your arms are being jerked forward so harshly it feels as though your bones will be wrenched from their sockets, and they’re clamping something around your wrists. Something cold and sucking and terrible. You slump forward, tangled in the soft blankets of yours and Din’s shared bed, still naked beneath, and you try to reach for the Force, for your strength, for Din’s mind out there in the desert, but there’s nothing. Acute silence, unbearable nothingness. All your strength zapped and stolen away in the blink of an unguarded moment, like an amputated limb.

The female is hunched over the body of the one you’d killed, leaning heavily on a thick walking stick, spitting hissing sobs, and when she turns back to look at you, you can see there are tears marring her ugly, wrinkled face. “You killed him! Creature! Dark creature!” She spits. “Pull her back, let me look at the little whore’s face.” Unforgiving claws in your hair again, and your head is ripped back and angled towards the weak light of the fresher, the blanket covering your modesty slipping to reveal your nakedness beneath. Fear and shame and fury curdle and burn within you like acid. If he comes back and finds you gone, or worse dead, he’ll be devastated, so hurt, so angry, he’ll blame himself. They can’t – they cannot put him through that. You have to think, calm yourself, get out of these binders they’ve put you in, some sort of Force suppression technology at work. The things glow a sickly purple color, nothing like the lovely warm violet of your saber. But before you can even get a firm grasp on your thoughts, collect yourself, the woman slides the walking stick in her grip, and pulling it back behind her shoulder, swings it forward with all her might to hit you in the face with the heavy, bulbous end of it, right over the split from the whip. You feel the very mass of your brain jostle within your skull, a sickening crunch, the vision in that eye going completely dark. Maker, they’re going to kill you if they’re not careful. A terrible sound rips from your throat, something worse than a mere cry, going slack jawed, whacked further into the pit of unconsciousness. One of the others says something to the old Thalassian and turning away from you, she hisses something back. She goes still for a few moments, leaning on her stick heavily once again, the sound of her wet panting breath, and when she seems to have finally collected herself she turns back to you again. In basic she says, “I know what you are. I’ve heard what they’ve been trying to do to your ilk. How they mine you for that sweet little nectar that runs through your veins, through all of us – the Force. There are rumors of you circulating the Outer Rim, did you know? We heard of you and came searching. Received word from our Huttese friends, whispers of a Mandalorian mercenary and his dark pet roaming about the dunes of Jakku, an old gunship spotted lurking where it should not be. We’ve been searching for you, beastie,” she whispers, coming closer to inspect you, voice maniacal with cruel glee. The pain in your face, your head is a numb throb sharpening to acute fire, vision fading and then glowing bright white and burning. Your head, Maker, they’ve knocked it clean off your neck. “There are many clamoring to get their hands on you. Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? The Force,” voice contemplative and disgusted, all the same. “To be worth nothing more but that unseen ether flowing through your veins. How does it feel to be nothing? Look at you – playing the whore to some Mandalorian brute. Pretty thing…” She pushes back at your shoulder with the butt end of her stick, “Before you went and made me angry. Hmm… perhaps, I shall sell you with that same offering, as well? Would you like that? I wonder what will fetch a higher price, your blood or your cunt.” She laughs and her thugs join around her. You can feel the wide split in your face drooling blood, throbbing in agony, the sound of their raucous and cruel laughter creating a painful symphony above the pounding of your blood in your ears. “A magical whore!” She cackles, flashing her rotting grimace. “Yes, I quite like that idea. Stealing you away from that murderer – mercenaries, the lot of them, those Mandalorians. They hide behind the conflated righteousness of their Creed and their failed history, but they are nothing but another murderous cog in the wheel that would subjugate those of us they deem lesser.” The laughter leaves her suddenly, going serious, and you feel such fear in that single pause of silence. He’s going to

be so angry when he finds you gone, and you– you cannot be enslaved again, you can’t, you won’t. You’ll kill yourself before you allow it. “Monster,” she hisses, “This is nothing worse than what a thing like you deserves after the sort of evil your ilk spread. Imperial slut,” she spits at you, and her saliva lands like a glob of acid on your bare chest, burning. “Grab her. We’re going before her Mandalorian brute returns and kills us for taking his pet.” Her underlings say something in that unknown language, gathering to grip you under the arms and around your ankles, and a frenzy ignites in your heart. Through your broken and torn face you begin to howl, writhing and kicking your legs with as much strength as you can muster despite the broken ribs. “No, no! I will not go!” You screech, getting one in the face. He jerks away and lets your bottom half hit the hard floor with a harsh thud. “Let me go! I will not– I will not go!” You won’t be taken from him, you won’t, you won’t. The one holding your upper half shoves you painfully to the ground, your poor, battered head slamming once again, and another brutal kick lands to your ribs. Maker, you’d not missed beatings like this. The crone begins to scream at them, garbled sounds you can’t make out, and you lay your head on the cold floor. You just need a second to breathe, that’s it. You can endure much, much more than this, it’s only the binders stealing your strength, you just need a moment, and then you’ll fight again or break out of these terrible things and kill them all, but your head, Maker, your head feels as if it’s been split open down the middle. Their yelling reaches a crescendo, an added shrillness to it that was not there before, and then one of the henchmen is toppling painfully over your prone form, a heavy knee to your spine as he lands diagonally over your body, but his weight is instantly ripped away from you. More screaming and oh, the sound of blaster fire, the piercing screams of the old Thalassian, you turn your head slowly, slowly to the side and there, through the bloody and matted strands of your loose hair, that bright and familiar gleam, a flash of burnt red. You bring your manacled wrists slowly up to your chest, hunching into as small a ball as you can make yourself, cradling your broken hand to yourself.

He’s here.

He’s here, it’ll all be okay now.

You let your eyes flutter shut and listen to the Thalassian’s screaming reach a crescendo, and it sounds a little like that long ago familiar sound of flesh tearing from flesh. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see him commit atrocities in your name. It’s a funny thing, you think, the nature of his violence. He is a Mandalorian, and like the Thalassian had said, yes, perhaps, mercenary, and so it would stand that he is a man who commits violence, but you’d found – Maker, you hurt – you’ve found… that a thing that commits violence is not always also, or at once, a violent thing by nature. The moment makes of us what it needs us to be, but that does not always indicate our true selves. Violence committed in an instant of necessity, the peril of threat, does not always mean that we are bad or violent in our hearts, and Din… your Mandalorian does not have a violent heart. Beneath all of that uncompromising beskar is a soft heart, a good heart. It’s why you–

The scream stops.

No, no, no, no, no– “Look at me, look at me, cyar’ika. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here now. They’re gone, it’s okay.” You’re a crumpled, bloody, broken heap on the ground. He’d left you. He had left you here alone for this to be done to you. There is something hot and terrifying crawling its way up the inside of Din’s chest, searing his throat, turning it to char. He turns you over with all the gentleness he can muster, his shaking hands slippery with blood, the broken, dead bodies littered around the two of you as he pushes your bloody hair from your face and takes in the way they’d savaged you.

And Din– Din feels a fury the likes of which he’s never felt before in his entire life. And in the wake of a sort of fear he’d never experienced previously either, not even at the sight of his child self watching his mother and father murdered, the image of their crumpled and broken bodies becoming smaller and smaller as he was taken away into the unknown by the Mandalorians who’d saved him, it leaves him unbalanced and of tremulous control as he pulls you into his arms. You’re cupping one of your hands strangely in the other, and when he takes your manacled wrists you let out a painful, garbled sound. Your hand is mangled, fingers darkening already and bent sickeningly in incongruous angles, and he wants, very badly, to look away from the sight of your pain. It causes a physical ache inside of him, nausea and fire and thunder, like a blaster bolt to the belly, a knife to the lung. “Look at me, cyare,” and your eye blinks open, the darker of the two, the one that whispers silently at him when he looks at it too long, the other, the bright one like a scream, is too swollen to open, but you, miracle of miracles, for you are a miracle wrapped in the shape of a girl, give him the tiniest of attempted smirks; something like the creation of myth unfolding before him. The side of your face not broken and bleeding, lifting into a crooked little half moon, and bloody smile full of sharp, menacing teeth you croak, “I knew you’d come.”

Din knows in this instant that he is going to love you for the rest of his life. It is not a question, or an uncertainty. It is simply fact. Truth like his Creed, like The Way.

“I’m here. I’ll always come for you,” he tells you in lieu of saying that which sits heavy on his tongue now, which is that he’d let you eat his very heart out of his chest if you so desired it, that he belongs to you intrinsically. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now.” The hand not mangled grips the fabric around his throat and Din feels a sob in the shape of your name build in his chest. The Mandalorian, on the verge of tears. He gently presses you closer, tries to breathe, tries to swallow his howls. They were slavers, he’d marked them from the moment he’d spotted them through the open hatch of the Crest, dropping the long dead bounty he’d found half buried in the sand to sprint towards you. He’d worried about the possibility of this for some time now, the threat of someone coming for you, recognizing what you were, thought he’d prepared for it. Rumors were difficult to avoid or quell and despite his attempts to keep anyone from getting too close to sniff you out, you attracted attention. It was inevitable. Too beautiful, too alive, too alluring. He’d been afraid of something like this happening, and he’d thought the best way to keep you safe was to keep you here, hidden away on his ship, security system set and impenetrable. He’d been a damned fool.

He takes in the sight of your bare limbs, the beginnings of nasty bruising over your naked abdomen. The idea of someone taking you from him, severing his claim, keeping you away from him… and like this, when you were supposed to be safe here in this place the two of you’d made a home of together, while you were bare and waiting for him as he’d left you, when you were still full of his semen, potentially full of his–

He swallows the thought. There are certain things you believe about yourself that Din is doubtful to agree with just yet…

“Take them off,” you whisper up at him, “I’ll–” a pained swallow, “I’ll heal. It’s okay, Din. Don’t be afraid,” you say with such earnestness, a tiny life of an eyebrow, but he is anyway. You shouldn’t be the one telling him not to be afraid right now, split open as you are, but you do anyway, and Din is deathly afraid – of this, of you, of everything, of not being fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you, to keep you. Din feels more afraid now than he has ever felt in his entire life.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay. It’s not that bad,” and at the same time, your words make him so angry. At what life had made you believe, at what the galaxy had made you believe was okay. This is not fucking okay. Seeing you hurt like this is not okay. He moves to gently, as gently as he can possibly be, disengage the binders from around your wrists, careful to not jostle your broken hand too much.

“It’s not okay.” He looks at your mangled face, the blood running into your hairline, your swollen eye, that lovely and luminous eye that makes his heart feel split into a million different pieces, all engraved with the etching of your name, “This is not okay.” And then his gaze lands on the blood splattered gem of your earring. This sight he must close his eyes to, he cannot bear it. That tiny sparkle, the significance of your relationship made material, covered in your own blood and his failure to protect you.

He opens his eyes again to take in your wet gaze, unseeingly staring up at him, dark and fathomless. It shutters closed, long lashes clumped together in the sticky mess of your blood and tears. “It will be. I’ll heal soon. This is not the worst that’s been done to me,” voice thin and reedy, as if you’re embarrassed, ashamed to say the words out loud. As if you recognize them for the travesty they pose. He has to look away, swallow another sob. Din can’t remember the last time he cried, the last time he felt like crying, but he feels it now. Eyes hot and pinched and uncomfortable.

He should have never left you. He will never leave you again.

Wrapping you in the blanket, he makes sure your modesty is covered, and with as much care as he can, takes you in the cradle of his arms and moves you back into your bed.

“Where’s your bounty?” You croak.

“That doesn’t matter now. Rest. I’m going to–”

“Of course, it matters. It’s–” a pained swallow.

“Don’t talk, cyare. It’s okay. We can–”

But you press on, cut him off. “That's the whole reason we came here. We’re not going to let this be a waste.” This being your savaging, split open, almost stolen. Din feels his heart drop down into his stomach. He nods once, swallows, tries to cough up the knot of agony lodged in his throat.

“I dropped it when I saw them. They did something – fucked with the system and deviated the signal so I wasn’t alerted when they broke in. The bounty was already dead. Beacon signal still going. I found him and came straight back – saw the open hatch and knew something was wrong–” You give a soft, pained moan, brow folding into an agonized frown. Maker, he’s not going to survive this. He feels like a fucking coward. Terrified, sick to his stomach, angrier, weaker than he’s ever been in his entire life.

“Slavers. Thalassians,” you whisper, resting your head against his chest plate, broken hand clutched against your chest. “I need you to reset my fingers before they heal wrong.” Fuck, he’s never had a panic attack before, but he worries he might be having one now. He tries to swallow the scream for you, thinks he whispers something like, alright. Shifting you in his lap, he pulls his blood soaked gloves from his hands, and when he reaches for your hand he takes in the tremor of his own fingers, feels a humiliating wash of shame curdle inside of him. He’s a Mandalorian for Maker’s sake, a warrior, and yet the sight of your pain, your hurt, leaves him unraveled, as frightened and green as a child. He has never experienced the dilemma of having someone he– someone that matters, hurt. Carefully propping your back up against his bent knee he pulls you in close so that your hip is tucked up against him, he grasps your wrist tenderly between his fingers, soothes the pad of his thumb against the soft inner slope of your wrist, the webbing of blue beneath the thin skin is comforting somehow, you’re alive. He made it in time, he’s going to fix this, take care of you. “It’s okay, Din,” you whisper again.

A sharp jerk of his chin, “I know. I’m going to make this right.”

He smooths his thumb up the base of your palm, trying to settle, comfort you, the both of you, he rubs a gentle circle into the center, feels you tremble and jerk against him, and he hums low in his throat, a deep sound to remind you that he’s here, he’s got you. “It’s alright, little one. It’s alright, it’s alright,” keeps murmuring low reassurances in your ear, unsure whether they’re more for you or for himself, as his fingers slide up slow and light and grip your ring finger first, grasping it at the base to hold it securely and pulling on the tip to straighten it out, quick and efficient movements, a muted snap. There’s one. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”. Moves to your pinky next, so tiny gripped between his own large, rough fingers. He has to grind his molars together, bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He holds the base of that vulnerable little finger, the fine bone almost nothing beneath his touch and straightens that one too, listens to the hollow pop of the joint righting itself back into place. That one pulls a swallowed screech from your throat, you turn your face sharply away, and he sees your legs shuffle and kick in his periphery, your breathing fast and shallow.

“Hurt– That one hurt,” you choke, and he watches a single tear squeeze out of your swollen eye and make a slow, devastating track down the slope of your mangled cheek, losing itself to the shredded gash.

“What did that to your cheek?” He grits at the same time that he rights your index finger into place, tenses his knee to keep you steady and upright as you jerk. Panting wet breath hiccupping, trying to swallow back your cries for a moment, he cradles your bruised hand in his, wishes he wasn’t wearing this fucking helmet so that he could kiss the back of it, lick your wounds. He feels like screaming.

“A w– a whip.” You don’t turn back to look at him, and Din feels his blood turn to frost. Something so painful moving through his chest he struggles for breath.

“They whipped you in the face?” He looks at the pieces of Thalassian surrounding the two of you and curses himself for killing them so quickly. He should’ve been smarter, more patient, drawn it out. Made them suffer.

“It’s okay–” voice short, tense. “I’ll heal.” Face still turned towards the open hatch and the hot Jakkuian night, he watches another tear fall.

“It doesn’t matter–”

“I’ll heal. I’ll–”

“That doesn't matter–they hurt you. You can be hurt. Just because you can heal, just because you don’t care about what happens to you doesn’t mean that I don’t.” He cups the back of your head, begs you to turn back towards him with his touch. “You being hurt hurts me, do you understand me?” Voice soft as he can make it go, trying to make you see what he’s saying in the only way he thinks will penetrate the fog of your painful history.

And you do turn back at that, finally, thank you, thank you, he can see the edges of the wound start to knit themselves back together. A girl and a miracle and a myth all woven into one. “Do you understand me?” He asks again, cupping your chin, gathering the wet of your freely falling tears now, pressing the pad of his thumb to the corner of your eye.

“No, no, I don’t understand,” face crumpling, you press your forehead beneath the edge of his helmet. They hurt me, they hurt me, you cry over and over, and Din knows that you don’t only mean the Thalassians. He wishes he possessed the hand of the Maker. That he could reach across to the far corners of the galaxy, the most shadowed depths, the blackest pits, and wipe away any speck of darkness that’s ever touched you, anything or anyone that had ever done you harm. He wishes he could give you his very heart as an offering, anything that would settle the sound of your anguish. But then he thinks that an impossible sort of thing, for his very heart is held right here, sobbing in his arms, living on the outside of his chest.

After he insists on you allowing him to spread bacta along your cheek and hand, despite your protestations that it’ll close on its own, that you’re fine, you remind him that his bounty is still lying dead and forgotten out in the sand sea beyond the ship. He goes out to retrieve the pitiful thing, felled by the wrath of Jakku, most likely, and you make an agonized attempt to stand and dress yourself. Your ribs and back ache, the line of your spine feels on the verge of fracture from the last blow you’d taken, and you shuffle about slowly, trying to force yourself to hurry and get yourself covered before he returns, not wanting him to see the extent of the damage done to your ribs and back. You manage to get on a pair of underwear and one of his shirts before he’s stomping back up the gangway, dead bounty slung over his shoulder. He bends to shuck the thing off, the limp body hitting the durasteel with a harsh thud that snaps your mind into focus for a millisecond so that you’re taking in the carnage surrounding you. The release of gas from the carbon freezer sounds around you as you find the old Thalassian – her head seems to have been ripped clean from her neck somehow, you cock your head slowly, taking the sight in. He’s moving about, dragging the pieces of the bodies and chucking them out the hatch, and your mind feels like a piece of elastic snapping far out and away from you, and then shooting back in a painful reverberation, vision going hyper focused, too bright to bear, and then murky, as if viewed through a broken pane of glass. You hear the whirring, metallic shifting of the closing gangway, and your head swoops, belly twisting with nausea. There are pools of blood coagulating thick and disgustingly viscous on the floor, and you reach out for the wall to steady yourself as your blood rushes in your ears, but he’s immediately there, gentle hand to the curve of your waist and the bend of your elbow to pull you to himself. “It’s okay,” he says again. And he keeps saying so, but seeing this, what he’s done for you, something feels distinctly not okay.

You think of the Corellians who’d attacked you all those weeks ago, the Corellians you'd slaughtered for him. And the memory somehow makes the sight in front of you worse, some sort of horror. You’d turned him into you. You’d forced him into repeating your own horrible actions. In a moment of startling, sickening clarity, you’re confronted with the reality that he is only encased in beskar, he is not made of it. And one day they will go through him to get to you. Because there will surely be more, there will surely be another day, another time, another planet; more slavers or dark siders or someone of equally low measure will come for you again, and he can’t protect you forever, nor you him.

This time, please, let it end differently.

It’s all you ever do, you think, beg and plead for a different sort of fate. The duel of the fates, over and over again, but it is only ever you, alone, at odds with destiny itself. Fighting against what must be, what already is, what always has been. Your own sick ouroboros; eternally destroying and recreating yourself and the things around you.

He leads you back to bed, grabs his socks from where they’d lain draped over the warm steam pipe, and you return his own past words to him while he kneels before you, pulls them over your cold feet, looking over his shoulder the world seems inverted, mirrorlike, the black puddles of blood filled with dark mercury. They would have taken you from him. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.” Your voice sounds hollow and cold, unlike yourself.

He pauses his care of you, helmet tipped down, and you wish you could see his eyes right now, you feel, strangely, like you need them, like it would make everything better, more clear and stable. Taking one small foot in hand, he wraps his fingers around the entire thing. “You’re right,” he tells you, and your stomach flips with bile and fear again. “I shouldn’t have had to do it because I never should have let it happen. This is on me. I shouldn’t have left you alone for this to happen.”

You reach for his wrist, wrapping your fingers around the thick of it to feel his pulse beat against your fingertips. Something furious in the fluttering thrum of it; something of a monolith about him, steadfast, unmovable, the strongest thing in the entire galaxy. There’s a tinge of crimson rage swallowing him, and you can tell he’s doing everything in his considerable strength to keep it under reign for your sake; the proof is in the strew of bodies he’d littered the floor of the ship with. “They’ll always come for me, Din. As long as I’m alive, as long as the dark exists, as long as The Force exists they’ll come for me. They’ll never stop.”

The helmet snaps up, the yawning tee of dark transparisteel whispers its rage at you. “Then I’ll make them,” he grits. “I’ll find a way. I’ll protect you. We’re going to fix this. I’m going to fix this.” And you feel so–so strange. So sad. Devastated. The wave of fate swallows you whole, and that dark red thread crumbles to dust. You feel so unbearably sad for the both of you that your tears are renewed. Sad and old and at the end of your line.

And again: A person without a soul cannot cry. And so this must only be proof of the fact that you still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

It’s his now. Undoubtedly. Whatever of your soul has bloomed back into life belongs to him now. You bring your trembling fingers up to the face of his shining beskar helmet, warring wishes wrapped into a strange tangle for what you know will not be the last time: that it wasn’t there, that you could have all of him, and, at the same time, that you too had something of such strength and conviction to protect you as his Creed protects him. What a comfort it must be. “I know you will.” Lie.

He goes to initiate takeoff and get the ship into hyperspace after that, and you can hear the uncharacteristic frenzy of his movement echoing in his rushed steps as he flits about the cockpit. Settling into your nest of blankets, you face the wall so you’re not made to look at the mess that’s been left, and when he returns, you listen to the sound of him divesting himself of his armor, the rustle of falling clothes, you can feel his panic now up closer, pressing against the confines of your skin like some living thing, trying to sneak its way into whatever break in you it might find. He was frightened, he is frightened. For you. If you weren’t struck stone cold you’d perhaps laugh at the idea of it, but strange memories flash in your mind, highlighted by painful bursts of bright light behind your closed lids, memories of darkness and pain and being so alone another person, a real person, existing in the entire galaxy seemed too far fetched a thing to be true. The sort of loneliness that forces you to forget that other living things exist. You curl in on yourself, still tucking your now halfway mended hand close to your chest, cupping your other palm over your eyes to hide yourself away. Shocked into a subdued, humming terror. A peripheral thing, the reality that you should be afraid or shaken, and you are, kind of, but interrupted by that memory of similar or much worse things that make this small mishap seem inconsequential in the shadow of all the rest, all the past.

You listen to him move towards the fresher to throw the two of you into darkness, and you panic, “Don’t turn the light off, please,” you murmur, still hidden behind your palm. If you cannot see the world, perhaps the world cannot see you either. “I’m sorry to ask – I won’t look, I promise.”

He pauses, silent for a moment. “Don’t apologize. Don’t. It’s okay. Anything you want.” What you really wish he’d say is that he doesn’t care if you look or not, a selfish and rotten and horrible feeling rolling in after the thought.

He crawls in behind you, sliding up against you bare and burning hot; an entire sun held inside the heart of a single man. He keeps his hands to himself at first, and you enjoy the brush of his chest up against your back on every one of his inhalations, the symphony of his breathing, but eventually he braves the salted earth and passes a gentle hand down the line of your spine.

“What do you need?” His voice is the deepest thing in the entire galaxy, you think. Space has nothing on it.

You press your hand tighter over your eyes. “Nothing.”

“You are strong and capable,” he says after a moment, and you worry you might vomit. “But you don’t always have to be. I don’t want you to have to fight when you’re with me. I only want you to be comfortable and cared for and well. Let me help you.”

“Okay,” barely a sound breathed through the part of your lips. And it takes several hours, but eventually that thing they’d come for, the very thing they’d attacked and tried to take you for, heals you. The Force. What is it to hate the very thing that makes you up, the very marrow of you, the sustenance of your life? Agony, madness, bitter, bitter resentment. Loneliness. To be alone within yourself. Terrible pain. Every bad thing that’s ever come to you throughout your entire life has been done in its name. And you’re angry at the fact, you think. For years and years things were done to you to honor that invisible giant, and it built an anger within you that is incoherent, unidentifiable, inconsolable.

You ache like you’re recently made.

But he holds you so gently while you knit yourself back together, seam by seam, so that the possibility of pain is removed entirely from the equation. He holds you like he loves you, and you want to ask him if he does, if he thinks he could ever love a thing like you, even if you do not deserve it. Even if he does not deserve it.

You fold it away instead.

Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? To be worth nothing?

Like spitting salt through an open wound, the agonized phantasma of an amputated limb.

You’re nothing.

And Din? He’s everything.

From behind your hiding spot you tell the quiet: “Sometimes it feels like I haven’t been happy my whole life. But I know I feel it with you. I want you to know that.”

“Do you?” His hand slides up the line of your vertebrae to cup the back of your neck, and you tremble beneath his heat, as if he were anointing you with the power of a sun.

“Yes.” You wish you had the courage to say more, to say everything. A real confession, the cutting sort: I was made to be nothing more than a weapon, but now I am a human, now I am alive. Now I am only myself. And I hurt, and I wish I were a girl again: only half savage, unmarred and free. But despite all of this, I am still only yours.

“I know already.”

Cyar’ika. Cyar’ika.

And so what does it matter if you hurt when he calls to you so sweetly? And yet, a quiet and unused part of you whispers back that it should not be so, that the thought is not quite right. Focus, focus, call them growing pains if you must. Focus only on him. And you realize that there is something about him that makes you fragile in the face of his strength, for some reason and most importantly, in a way that you like, in a way that is appealing to you like nothing else you’ve ever experienced before. Something that tells you that you need him to be strong in ways you’ve never had or needed to be strong before, a strength that is soft, something that is unyielding for the vulnerability you allow yourself with him. You can’t understand it.

“And I will let you take care of me.”

“I’m going to. This means something,” he says very quietly, the words bouncing off the back of your neck, and you know it is true. “This means something.”

It does. Everything. The two of you mean something together.

You finally turn to face him again, eyes closed, seams more securely knitted together and press your forehead to the notch of his throat, cracking your eyes open to look down at the expanse of his abdomen. You run a flat palm down his belly, feel the strength of him. If there is nothing else, perhaps, there can be Din.

“Close your eyes,” he threads his fingers through the back of your hair, “Let me kiss you,” and you feel your heart break and melt into desperation all at once. You press your eyes shut tightly and tip your face up towards him, parted mouth and bated breath, ready to receive the taste of him. He licks into you, pulling a moan from your belly and onto his waiting tongue, and you wish there was something more you could give him, something deeper, more significant that could translate all you feel for him. “I need you to forgive me,” he licks the words into your skin. “I need you to tell me you forgive me for letting this happen.”

“Don’t say that. There’s nothing to forgive. There’s nothing–”

“I should’ve been more careful. Smarter, more prepared. We shouldn’t have wasted time in that fucking desert for so long.” But you’d distracted him, kept him from going out, seeing to his responsibilities.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you say again, tipping your head back to bear your throat for him.

He licks a line up the slope, tasting your pulse, the proof you’re still alive. Plants a kiss at the hinge of your jaw and then presses his forehead there. “I’ve failed you,” he whispers.

“Din, listen to me, listen to me. You could never do that. Never. Do you understand me?” If he only knew all you’ve not told him, all the ways in which you’ve failed him. You’re sure he’d see you in a very different light.

“It’s not going to happen again,” he promises, and you’ve not the heart to tell him again that they’ll never stop. That the life of a hunted creature is the only sort of existence you could ever live. You pull his mouth back to yours, kiss him with a renewed fervency. If you cannot give him anything more you’ll put everything you have into this.

“Just kiss me, please,” you beg, twining your arms around his neck and opening to him. He drags his mouth along the inner slope of your bicep, ending at the dip of your elbow and laving his tongue at the sensitive dip. Gripping the bend of your knee he hitches it against his hip and rolls the two of you over. Settling between the cradle of your thighs, he levers himself up off you, careful not to demand you bear his full weight, and finally, you feel ready for the dark again. With a single thought you submerge the two of you into the almost dark again, a weak stream of light coming from the fresher, rattle of the Crest moving through hyperspace sounding around you. He prepares you to take him softly, slowly, with intention. The gentle pad of his thumb to the slick seam of your cunt, parting your folds to get to the wellspring of your desire for him. A single finger and then another hooked against that place inside of you that seems now branded with his ownership over you. Nothing like this has ever existed, and you press the thought into his mind as he tastes your tongue, brings you to orgasm for him with slow and exploring fingers, the slick slide of his thumb over your swollen clit, and the whisper of your name to the shell of your ear. When he feeds his cock into you, slowly, so that you’re made to feel every curve and ridge and then meeting the end of you, so deep you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, it brings tears to your eyes and all sorts of confessions to your tongue that your more rational mind knows should be kept in the shadows. But very like the sun, he shines a light on all the dark and derelict parts of you better left unseen.

When you come for a second time, thick cock splitting you in half, there’s a screaming desperation for more urging you on. “Remind me–” you beg him.

“Of what? What do you need?”

“That I’m yours. That I belong to you. That I’m alive.”

“Do you need reminding of that?” He squeezes your bottom, presses you tighter to himself, his wet mouth sliding against the slope of your shoulder. “Don’t you know always? No matter what?”

“Yes.” Soft, soft, soft, but you don’t need it like this – you need it more– “Remind me anyways.”

You’re as close as can be, but he tells you anyway: “Come here, come here. I’m going to take care of you.” He pulls out, a wet and sucking sound, and turns you in his arms so you’re back to belly, and pulls you open again, thigh thrown over his hip. He runs his hands over the hills and contours of you, cups and squeezes your breasts, rough fingertips softly at your nipples, and you feel your cunt clench and gape, hungry for filling. He cups you over that soaked, ravenous place, slides his hand back and forth over the wet, swollen mess, and then further back, his fingers pressing and prodding gently at your ass. “I’ll have you here now, little one. Yes?” All you can do is nod back against his shoulder where your head is propped, a tightening so intense it’s almost painful strangling your throat, your heart, your cunt. Nothing more than a knot of abandoned want. A thing that doesn’t know how to take without devouring, and you do, you want to devour him. You think he might even let you. He presses a slow finger into the knuckle, and you go tight, bearing down around the invasion, spitting his name out in the shape of a wail into the quiet hull.

“It’s alright,” he gently thrusts that probing finger, hooking and wriggling it. Making space within to fuck you open on his cock. “You’re so tiny here, little thing. But you’re going to take me so well. I know you are.” He pulls his finger out entirely, and then there are two pressing back in as slow as possible, petting first, stretching second. “How’s that? How does that feel, my sweet girl?”

“I don’t– I don’t know,” moaning and shifting, trying to plead for more with little hitched arcs of your hips. “More, please.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes–”

“How badly do you want it? Tell me–” He twists his wrist, stretching, claiming, all while the hill of his palm rubs against your cunt, so wet you can hear the slick sound of its desperation echo in the quiet.

“So badly,” you moan and sob, “More than anything.” He pulls his fingers from you and grips the root of his cock, fat head at your ass and starts to press in slowly, slowly, stretching you open around the incredible girth of him. Your breath comes in puffs and gasps, an unbearable heat flushing through your body, pulsing in your face and swirling in your belly, tightening the tips of your breasts into painful knots. You moan out his name, please for more, for harder, for faster until he’s buried to the root and you’re strangled into a hiccuping silence. Overwhelmed and overwrought by the feel of him buried in your ass so deeply. There’s no space for anything else inside of you, stretched to the brim and so full you can barely breathe. He’s everywhere. Gripping your hip you feel his breath against your cheek, the sweating, curling hair around your ear ruffled as he pants and groans, gritting his teeth and rumbling deep in his chest as he starts to thrust slowly into you.

“How’s that?” Voice strangled. His other hand comes around to thrum gently at your clit, the swollen mass of bundles pulsing with each punch of his hips. Your cunt leaks down to where the two of you are joined, and he picks up his pace, fucking up into you harder, faster, that strumming thumb flicking more quickly. He flattens his fingers against you, rubs at the length of your leaking sex, and you’re beyond words. Impaled and cock drunk. All you can give in return is an approximation of his moaned name, and he gives a quick, sharp slap to the top of your mound. “I want you to tell me how it feels,” voice ragged, almost broken. You tighten almost impossibly at his roughness, clenching down around him so he’s gasping, shocked ah, ah, ah’s, ending on a ragged groan. He brings his forehead to your shoulder, and you listen to his overwhelmed sounds. The first time you think you’ve heard him so close to the precipice of losing control. “Most perfect fucking ass in the entire galaxy,” he grits. All mine, mine, fucking mine.

“Feels–” His fingers resume their exploration of your cunt, “Feels so– so good,” your voice is nothing but agony made pleasure.

“Yeah? Feels good?” The sound of his hips slamming against your ass, wet and lewd, the press of his heavy balls to the round of your bottom. “What about this?” He begins to slowly press two fingers into your gaping, grasping cunt, and oh, it’s too much, your orgasm hits like an exploding star, singing all coherent thought along the way. You feel your pussy gush, go tight as a knot, and he snarls at the curve of your ear, bites down on the line of your shoulder, not halting the thrusting of his fingers inside of you. “Fuck, yes–fucking come for me. Come for me while I fuck your ass–”

“No–no, I can’t anymore, please, I can’t,” you cry.

“You can–you can. I know you can. My fierce little cyar’ika, soft only for me. Aren’t you?”

And how can you deny a man such as this anything. One that holds you so, one that fucks you like he loves you. You’ll lie to yourself, like so many other lies you tell, and pretend that this is the touch of love, that it’s something you deserve. His fingers, his cock are ruthless within you and they force another soaked orgasm out of you, shaky and weak, before he’s following suit, fucking the searing heat of his spend deep inside of you. He rolls you over onto your belly, levers himself up over you and slows his thrusts until you feel the last spurt of his cock kick inside of you, the low reverberations of his pleasure sounding from his chest. When he pulls out he spreads you apart, thumbs at your swollen skin. “It gapes so pretty for me,” he murmurs as he plays with the milky white drool, smears it into your slick, stretched skin. “This is how you should always be, covered in my come, beautiful thing.” All you can do is bury your burning hot face in the blankets.

When the two of you have finally settled later, cleaned yourselves up, and he’s made sure you’ve had enough water and a snack, when your panic has gone dormant, you remember your earlier request. A sniffle, and then voice broken and wet, just for added insurance: “You’ll get me my loth cat now, won’t you?”

A long suffering sigh, but he squeezes you tighter to his chest, presses a kiss to the crown of your head you feel sizzle all the way down to the tips of your toes. “I’ll get you anything you want, anything.” You smile into his skin, a miracle all of its own, that after everything he still provides you the ability to smile.

But later, right before he falls off the precipice of consciousness into the ebony deep and serene lake of sleep, you whisper into the thrum of his life force right at his neck: “We will take care of each other, won’t we?” Again – the both of you, together.

“Always,” he says, and it rings with such promise, in a way you know only someone such as he could swear, and you’ve always been a liar, but you do not want this to be a lie.

This time, please, let it end differently.

Chapter VII

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